I was bewildered and even a little frightened with Colm’s final exclamation. What’s going to happen tomorrow? How does he know that something is going to happen tomorrow? What is he going to do? He must be involved with it in someway. What the fuck is this substance thing all about?!
The cab driver was watching me through the biggest moustache I had ever seen. It’s volume made it cover half of his nose and I could barely see two slits that could form a mouth. He looked at me like he knew something that I didn’t. A secret that everyone was keeping from me. I glared at him to stop looking all knowledgeable and such. He smiled and threw his eyes on the road.
When I reached my apartment I left the coins that Colm had thrown along with some gold of my own and left the cab. He honked his horn at me as he sped off.
The red light was blinking on my answering machine when I entered my apartment. I saw no point in rushing these things so I lit a cigarette and made a coffee before sitting down next to the machine to have a listen. Once I had smoked half of my cigarette I pressed the play button. Nothing happened. I pressed it again, nothing. I then pressed it about twelve times within two seconds and still nothing. Red light. Blink, blink, blink, blink . I didn’t need this right now. I told the red light to go fuck its self and sat down for a bit of late night Lettermen. The TV turned on to a tampon commercial with young girls flailing around talking about how this particuller brand was all about “their” style. There are some thing us men will never understand.
When Lettermen began I was disappointed to find out that Paul Schaffer was hosting the show tonight because David was feeling unwell. Not that I have anything against Paul Schaffer and his sunglasses, but when I needed something that was familiar, Paul Schaffer and his sunglasses just wasn’t going to cut it.
I turned my televsion off and thought that some Jazz might be in order to slowly lull myself to sleep. Not some crazy Coltrane stuff but maybe a bit of ‘Some Kind of Blue’ by Davis. Yeah, I could go to sleep to that. I lit another cigarette.
Miles had began playing the first few notes of his trumpet as I eased myself in to bed, pondering the very nature of Colm. His hysteria was completely unexpected and left me feeling on edge. For this reason I was having a hard time going to sleep and I was still awake when Miles was going for the first repeat of the album.
I pushed myself out of bed to have a another coffee knowing that it wouldn’t help me sleep but since I wasn’t going to go to sleep for a long while yet due to this Colm incident, I thought why the hell not. I took out Miles from the CD player and put on a Coltrane ‘Best Of’ CD on random. The first song to play was his reworking of “My favourite things”.
I went back to the blinking light of my answering machine and tried to stare it out hoping that the machine will give in to my idiotic concept of sense. It won the staring competition.
Coltrane…shhhhh...time for bed time.
Thinking about all the pretty things in life. The rain, the sidewalks, the empathy of people, their smiles and their frowns. Blowing in the wind. Thanks Dylan.
It was 4am when I checked the alarm clock and I had yet to go to sleep. It was one of those nights where you over think about going to sleep so you fail at the task miserably. It was rather shit.
I think I got about an hours sleep in the end. I woke up feeling ordinary, tired and confused. I woke up to find out what substance was all about.
Sunday, November 23, 2008
Saturday, August 30, 2008
The substance riddle
For some reason I ignored my intuition that this guy was not quite right and exchanged phone numbers anyway. When he was trying to recite his numbers he would continually leave one number out and it took him about four attempts to spit out all of the eight digits in the correct order.
I walked back home once we parted ways thinking that I had an interesting night but that was all.
Two days later I was at work unenthusiastically pushing my fourth sale of the day when I received a text message.
‘Hey Ioju, it’s Colm here. We met a couple of nights ago at sheesh. Let’s hang soon.’
I was surprised to get a text message from him but I couldn’t just ignore the message. I’m not like that.
‘Sure Colm. Let me know when your planning to go to the sheesha bar again’
Two minutes later.
‘Tonight’
Should I go? I had nothing planned tonight. Then again, this guy was super eager to hang out again which was thoroughly suspicious but, hey, I found that interesting. I replied back that I’d see him at 9PM.
I got that fourth sale by the way.
--
I found him sitting in the middle of the bar where he could be easily spotted and where the front door was easy for him to see me. He waved me down.
‘Ioju, over here man’
‘Colm’ We shook hands. ‘How are you mate? On the peach variety tonight?’
‘Yeah man! Thanks for coming tonight. I’m normally here by myself.’
‘That’s cool mate, I had nothing on tonight.’
There was a brief uncomfortable silence.
‘Have you been waiting long Colm?’ He passed me the sheesha pipe.
‘Na man, about fifteen minutes. So…. Have you thought about what I was asking you about the other night?’
I had no idea what he was talking about. I told him that.
‘Substance’
‘Substance?’
‘Substance’
I took a drag from the sheesha pipe at that point for two reasons. Firstly, I hadn’t been thinking about that conversation since we last met so I needed time to come up with something plausible and two, for the wonderful dramatic pause that smoking something can create like in the old black and white films of yesteryear. My mind was racing for a response but all I could think about was the stale taste of the cheap tobacco that they had sold Colm. The apparent peach flavour tasted like smoked road kill. I came up with an answer as I passed back the sheesha pipe.
‘No’
‘Ohh’
He became quite and despondent for a brief moment, his disappointment etched all over his face. I thought I’d better come up with something to bring us back from the glum.
‘Well hang on, we’re obviously not talking about substance as in drugs since that’s not what life’s all about right?’
‘Yeah…’
‘Well… you said substance was all that mattered the other night…’
‘Correct’
I paused for a moment to collect my thoughts. ‘Perhaps what you mean when you talk about substance is something substantial happening to you, to make something out of life, to be someone, to make an impact, to BE substantial. To yourself, to your family, to your friends… to the WORLD!’
He looked at me with a silly grin on his face and smoked some more. I grinned back thinking that I had cracked his substance code.
‘No’, he said.
I sighed and leaned back in my chair. He laughed out loud.
‘It’s OK. You’re not going to figure it out today. It takes time’
Did this guy think he was Yoda or something?
We talked about other insignificant things throughout the night. Films, music, books, woman, over three tobacco flavours ordered over the course of three hours. It was finally time to part ways and apart from this issue over ‘substance’ we had a pleasant time together. We agreed that we should meet again next week at a place where I normally go.
---
The Monkey House was not a place that I would take anyone to. Not many people would enjoy its dankness apart from myself so I chose The Grape Vine, a horrible name for a rather nice wine bar. I will get to figure out this substance question over a few bottles of red, easy!
He came fifteen minutes later then planned and was apologising frantically.
‘I’m so sorry man, my bus was late and then this car accident down to road slowed everything down.’
‘It’s ok, it just means I have been able to enjoy a glass of wine over my book, relax.’
It turned out that for an Irishman, Colm couldn’t drink if his life depended on it. He was on his way to paralysis by his third glass! Call me mischievous but I’d thought it was now the appropriate moment to get to the bottom of this substance talk once and for all.
‘Ahhhhhhhhh…. You wait until a man is at his weakest Ioju to pounce. Ha! That’s clever, and naïve to think that I don’t know what your doing. You want to know about substance like it’s the great mysterious key to the lock of the riddle of life that you and I live in? Will it answer some of your questions Ioju? About yourself perhaps? Do you have any lifelong secrets that you are keeping inside of you? Substance is not going to help that! But… it is what life is about after all… so maybe it will? Who knows? Not me, haha! I have my own demons to deal with, as you your own. No barrette wearing Dubliner is going to help you out there but maybe you can help yourself? I can’t. Help yourself. Go on. DO IT!!!!’ He screamed out the last sentence and all of the bar turned around to observe the raving mad Colm. His friendliness had turned to bitterness and anger so I knew I needed to get him out of this bar in a big hurry.
‘Colm, relax buddy… Maybe we should finish off the night at your place or something?’
He grunted something in agreement so we both walked out of The Grape Wine. We caught a cab back to his house not saying too much to each other. Just before we reached his place he apologised for his behavior, noting that he had not been out drinking in months. I told him that that was ok but that I needed to get home as well, so I was going to continue on with the taxi ride once he got dropped off. He agreed that that was a good idea since he needed some sleep.
When we reached his house he threw me some coin for the cab fair and departed for his home.
‘Hey Ioju, you never did get to the bottom of substance did you. Hahaha!’, he yelled out as he was walking toward his door. I was still in the cab waiting to make sure that he got into his front door. Upon reaching the front door he fumbled in his pocket for his keys for what seemed like a good hour, finally finding them and opening the door. I motioned to the taxi driver to make a move. As the cab accelerated into first gear Colm screamed out, ‘THAT’S OK IOJU. YOU WILL FIND ALL ABOUT IT TOMORROW!’
I walked back home once we parted ways thinking that I had an interesting night but that was all.
Two days later I was at work unenthusiastically pushing my fourth sale of the day when I received a text message.
‘Hey Ioju, it’s Colm here. We met a couple of nights ago at sheesh. Let’s hang soon.’
I was surprised to get a text message from him but I couldn’t just ignore the message. I’m not like that.
‘Sure Colm. Let me know when your planning to go to the sheesha bar again’
Two minutes later.
‘Tonight’
Should I go? I had nothing planned tonight. Then again, this guy was super eager to hang out again which was thoroughly suspicious but, hey, I found that interesting. I replied back that I’d see him at 9PM.
I got that fourth sale by the way.
--
I found him sitting in the middle of the bar where he could be easily spotted and where the front door was easy for him to see me. He waved me down.
‘Ioju, over here man’
‘Colm’ We shook hands. ‘How are you mate? On the peach variety tonight?’
‘Yeah man! Thanks for coming tonight. I’m normally here by myself.’
‘That’s cool mate, I had nothing on tonight.’
There was a brief uncomfortable silence.
‘Have you been waiting long Colm?’ He passed me the sheesha pipe.
‘Na man, about fifteen minutes. So…. Have you thought about what I was asking you about the other night?’
I had no idea what he was talking about. I told him that.
‘Substance’
‘Substance?’
‘Substance’
I took a drag from the sheesha pipe at that point for two reasons. Firstly, I hadn’t been thinking about that conversation since we last met so I needed time to come up with something plausible and two, for the wonderful dramatic pause that smoking something can create like in the old black and white films of yesteryear. My mind was racing for a response but all I could think about was the stale taste of the cheap tobacco that they had sold Colm. The apparent peach flavour tasted like smoked road kill. I came up with an answer as I passed back the sheesha pipe.
‘No’
‘Ohh’
He became quite and despondent for a brief moment, his disappointment etched all over his face. I thought I’d better come up with something to bring us back from the glum.
‘Well hang on, we’re obviously not talking about substance as in drugs since that’s not what life’s all about right?’
‘Yeah…’
‘Well… you said substance was all that mattered the other night…’
‘Correct’
I paused for a moment to collect my thoughts. ‘Perhaps what you mean when you talk about substance is something substantial happening to you, to make something out of life, to be someone, to make an impact, to BE substantial. To yourself, to your family, to your friends… to the WORLD!’
He looked at me with a silly grin on his face and smoked some more. I grinned back thinking that I had cracked his substance code.
‘No’, he said.
I sighed and leaned back in my chair. He laughed out loud.
‘It’s OK. You’re not going to figure it out today. It takes time’
Did this guy think he was Yoda or something?
We talked about other insignificant things throughout the night. Films, music, books, woman, over three tobacco flavours ordered over the course of three hours. It was finally time to part ways and apart from this issue over ‘substance’ we had a pleasant time together. We agreed that we should meet again next week at a place where I normally go.
---
The Monkey House was not a place that I would take anyone to. Not many people would enjoy its dankness apart from myself so I chose The Grape Vine, a horrible name for a rather nice wine bar. I will get to figure out this substance question over a few bottles of red, easy!
He came fifteen minutes later then planned and was apologising frantically.
‘I’m so sorry man, my bus was late and then this car accident down to road slowed everything down.’
‘It’s ok, it just means I have been able to enjoy a glass of wine over my book, relax.’
It turned out that for an Irishman, Colm couldn’t drink if his life depended on it. He was on his way to paralysis by his third glass! Call me mischievous but I’d thought it was now the appropriate moment to get to the bottom of this substance talk once and for all.
‘Ahhhhhhhhh…. You wait until a man is at his weakest Ioju to pounce. Ha! That’s clever, and naïve to think that I don’t know what your doing. You want to know about substance like it’s the great mysterious key to the lock of the riddle of life that you and I live in? Will it answer some of your questions Ioju? About yourself perhaps? Do you have any lifelong secrets that you are keeping inside of you? Substance is not going to help that! But… it is what life is about after all… so maybe it will? Who knows? Not me, haha! I have my own demons to deal with, as you your own. No barrette wearing Dubliner is going to help you out there but maybe you can help yourself? I can’t. Help yourself. Go on. DO IT!!!!’ He screamed out the last sentence and all of the bar turned around to observe the raving mad Colm. His friendliness had turned to bitterness and anger so I knew I needed to get him out of this bar in a big hurry.
‘Colm, relax buddy… Maybe we should finish off the night at your place or something?’
He grunted something in agreement so we both walked out of The Grape Wine. We caught a cab back to his house not saying too much to each other. Just before we reached his place he apologised for his behavior, noting that he had not been out drinking in months. I told him that that was ok but that I needed to get home as well, so I was going to continue on with the taxi ride once he got dropped off. He agreed that that was a good idea since he needed some sleep.
When we reached his house he threw me some coin for the cab fair and departed for his home.
‘Hey Ioju, you never did get to the bottom of substance did you. Hahaha!’, he yelled out as he was walking toward his door. I was still in the cab waiting to make sure that he got into his front door. Upon reaching the front door he fumbled in his pocket for his keys for what seemed like a good hour, finally finding them and opening the door. I motioned to the taxi driver to make a move. As the cab accelerated into first gear Colm screamed out, ‘THAT’S OK IOJU. YOU WILL FIND ALL ABOUT IT TOMORROW!’
Monday, July 14, 2008
Concerning an Irishman
The resemblance was certain. It was the point of his life where he thought he was at the outlook looking towards a shambolic rusted train station. This was his escape. His vacation. His vulnerabilities all rolled in to one. He was the Messiah, Jesus, Buddha all encapsulated in one body.
He was a thin man with a pin moustache always dressed in chequered clothing. The first time I met him I didn’t think much of him. We were at the Sheesha Bar as we had often done back then. A haze of smoke clouded the large bar as if it was awaiting impending doom. He was also wearing a barrette.
We sat next to him since he was by himself and the rest of the bar was filled to the rim. He didn’t say much at first. Just puffed away on his hookah (water pipe) quite contently. It was a good half hour before he decided to say anything to us.
‘Hello’
‘Hi, how are you?’ we asked warmly, always interested in meeting new people, hearing new stories, learning things about someone and therefore learning something about your own self.
‘I’m great. Say, you people come here often?’ His accent seemed to be Irish.
‘Yeah of late. We dig the atmosphere. You?
‘Yeah I’m here every second day of the week of late’ and laughed nervously.
This man did seem odd but there was something curiously interesting about him. Firstly, as noted earlier, he was wearing a barrette so we knew that he thought much of himself and that we shouldn't take him too seriously. Anyone who wears a barrette is not worth the attention that they seek. You don’t wear a barrette to NOT get noticed, do you?
He was wearing a dark shirt with purple pants that clashed revoltingly, and then he began to talk about ‘substance’. I will explain.
Once he realised that we were enjoying his company he began to open up and open up he did. He couldn’t shut the hell up! He rambled and ranted, segwaying through four different subjects within the one dizzying sentence. Hair, Russian literature, football, hashish and then ‘substance’.
When he began his whirlwind tour of information that was ‘substance’ we knew we were in for a ride. He crept uncomfortably close to all of us and would rub his thumb and forefinger together, like someone does when they are talking about money and he would say that what he was doing, that very act, was something of substance and that was the only thing that mattered.
We asked him what substance was and he would then rub his two fingers again whilst glaring into our eyes like we should know the answer already. How could we not get it?!
It took four long months to find out.
He was a thin man with a pin moustache always dressed in chequered clothing. The first time I met him I didn’t think much of him. We were at the Sheesha Bar as we had often done back then. A haze of smoke clouded the large bar as if it was awaiting impending doom. He was also wearing a barrette.
We sat next to him since he was by himself and the rest of the bar was filled to the rim. He didn’t say much at first. Just puffed away on his hookah (water pipe) quite contently. It was a good half hour before he decided to say anything to us.
‘Hello’
‘Hi, how are you?’ we asked warmly, always interested in meeting new people, hearing new stories, learning things about someone and therefore learning something about your own self.
‘I’m great. Say, you people come here often?’ His accent seemed to be Irish.
‘Yeah of late. We dig the atmosphere. You?
‘Yeah I’m here every second day of the week of late’ and laughed nervously.
This man did seem odd but there was something curiously interesting about him. Firstly, as noted earlier, he was wearing a barrette so we knew that he thought much of himself and that we shouldn't take him too seriously. Anyone who wears a barrette is not worth the attention that they seek. You don’t wear a barrette to NOT get noticed, do you?
He was wearing a dark shirt with purple pants that clashed revoltingly, and then he began to talk about ‘substance’. I will explain.
Once he realised that we were enjoying his company he began to open up and open up he did. He couldn’t shut the hell up! He rambled and ranted, segwaying through four different subjects within the one dizzying sentence. Hair, Russian literature, football, hashish and then ‘substance’.
When he began his whirlwind tour of information that was ‘substance’ we knew we were in for a ride. He crept uncomfortably close to all of us and would rub his thumb and forefinger together, like someone does when they are talking about money and he would say that what he was doing, that very act, was something of substance and that was the only thing that mattered.
We asked him what substance was and he would then rub his two fingers again whilst glaring into our eyes like we should know the answer already. How could we not get it?!
It took four long months to find out.
Monday, July 7, 2008
SMS
Dear Ioju,
The doctor says that you will be making a full recovery over the next few days. I’m sorry I’m not there with you but I’m too scared to be involved in whatever you’re mixed up in. I hope your well when you’re reading this. Your luggage is still at the hotel.
Love,
Samantha
---------------
That was the note I found lying on my hospital bed side table when I woke up from my four day medically induced slumber. I threw up after reading it.
The doctor let me check out of the hospital after a week. I was heavily bruised and missing a few teeth but they were able to stop the internal bleeding which was the critical thing. The doctor advised me that I probably should go see a dentist right away. I waved goodbye and smiled at him showcasing my mangled mouth. He smiled back uncomfortably.
I walked over to the pharmacy to get my prescription of pain killers. The pharmacist, an elderly man with spectacles that were too big for his face, looked at me up and down apprehensively. He studied the prescription and eyed me up and down once more. I tried to appear that I didn’t mind what he was doing but it was starting to become uncomfortable. I smiled at him so he could hopefully relax. He looked back repulsively and then vanished to fix up my script. While I was waiting I observed the various brochures on the front desk with all the helpful hints you may need for whatever illness you may have. I started to think what the best one would be. The most manageable of the lot. I went with Tinea. Tinea would be my chronic illness of choice.
He came back five minutes later with my prescription ready in his little white tub. He didn’t say how many I should take, he just told me how much they would cost and he never smiled once.
I walked back to my hotel and tried to find my belongings. The concierge who was visibly agitated by the way I looked ran to find my stuff before ‘I shot a cap in his ass’ or whatever he thought I was going to do to him. Fair enough too. My suit was still stained with dry blood and dirt. I had missing teeth and my face was swollen to a pulp. I wouldn’t fuck with me either.
When he found my suitcase he handed it to me with another envelope. I thanked him for getting my belongings and hired another room for one more night. He asked me if I needed a double bed but I told him a single would be fine. I walked up three flights of stairs, found room 307, went in, swallowed three of the pain killers and went to sleep.
My dream revolved around a small pigeon. I was sitting in front of it asking him where my shopping was. The pigeon said that it was behind me. I would turn around and then find my groceries a metre behind my back. The pigeon smiled. I smiled. We both smiled. He then got onboard a gold carriage that was parked nearby and rode off into the sunset. It was a weird dream.
I woke up feeling pretty groggy but at least I wasn’t in any pain. I lit the last of my stale Dunhill Reds and tried to recount what had happened to me. Although my memory was blurry I could remember that Samantha and I did go to the funeral together. We then went to a restaurant for some lacklustre Thai food and then went back to the hotel. That’s it. I couldn’t remember how they were able to take me, where I was or when exactly it happened.
I was also upset with Samantha although I understood why she left. I would have as well.
All this didn’t leave me in the greatest of moods so I put on the TV to entertain myself for a little while. It was about two thirty in the morning so my viewing consisted of infomercials for the latest thigh fat burning blaster, phone sex adds, SMS sex adds, horoscope SMS adds and any other advertisement that you can think of that included the acronym SMS in it. Oh and something about Jesus loving me for who I was if I donated fifty dollars to the church. I would burn in hell if I didn’t, obviously.
I suddenly remembered the other envelope that was handed to me by the concierge earlier. Another note from Samantha? Maybe! I opened it in a rush but realised that it wasn’t from Samantha and no, it wasn’t from Catherine because I know that that’s what you were thinking. It was from someone that I hadn’t spoken to in five years. It was someone that I had shared the best of times and the worst. It was someone I didn’t want to hear from ever again. That moment five years ago was now coming back to haunt me. I must admit, I haven’t been telling you the whole story.
The doctor says that you will be making a full recovery over the next few days. I’m sorry I’m not there with you but I’m too scared to be involved in whatever you’re mixed up in. I hope your well when you’re reading this. Your luggage is still at the hotel.
Love,
Samantha
---------------
That was the note I found lying on my hospital bed side table when I woke up from my four day medically induced slumber. I threw up after reading it.
The doctor let me check out of the hospital after a week. I was heavily bruised and missing a few teeth but they were able to stop the internal bleeding which was the critical thing. The doctor advised me that I probably should go see a dentist right away. I waved goodbye and smiled at him showcasing my mangled mouth. He smiled back uncomfortably.
I walked over to the pharmacy to get my prescription of pain killers. The pharmacist, an elderly man with spectacles that were too big for his face, looked at me up and down apprehensively. He studied the prescription and eyed me up and down once more. I tried to appear that I didn’t mind what he was doing but it was starting to become uncomfortable. I smiled at him so he could hopefully relax. He looked back repulsively and then vanished to fix up my script. While I was waiting I observed the various brochures on the front desk with all the helpful hints you may need for whatever illness you may have. I started to think what the best one would be. The most manageable of the lot. I went with Tinea. Tinea would be my chronic illness of choice.
He came back five minutes later with my prescription ready in his little white tub. He didn’t say how many I should take, he just told me how much they would cost and he never smiled once.
I walked back to my hotel and tried to find my belongings. The concierge who was visibly agitated by the way I looked ran to find my stuff before ‘I shot a cap in his ass’ or whatever he thought I was going to do to him. Fair enough too. My suit was still stained with dry blood and dirt. I had missing teeth and my face was swollen to a pulp. I wouldn’t fuck with me either.
When he found my suitcase he handed it to me with another envelope. I thanked him for getting my belongings and hired another room for one more night. He asked me if I needed a double bed but I told him a single would be fine. I walked up three flights of stairs, found room 307, went in, swallowed three of the pain killers and went to sleep.
My dream revolved around a small pigeon. I was sitting in front of it asking him where my shopping was. The pigeon said that it was behind me. I would turn around and then find my groceries a metre behind my back. The pigeon smiled. I smiled. We both smiled. He then got onboard a gold carriage that was parked nearby and rode off into the sunset. It was a weird dream.
I woke up feeling pretty groggy but at least I wasn’t in any pain. I lit the last of my stale Dunhill Reds and tried to recount what had happened to me. Although my memory was blurry I could remember that Samantha and I did go to the funeral together. We then went to a restaurant for some lacklustre Thai food and then went back to the hotel. That’s it. I couldn’t remember how they were able to take me, where I was or when exactly it happened.
I was also upset with Samantha although I understood why she left. I would have as well.
All this didn’t leave me in the greatest of moods so I put on the TV to entertain myself for a little while. It was about two thirty in the morning so my viewing consisted of infomercials for the latest thigh fat burning blaster, phone sex adds, SMS sex adds, horoscope SMS adds and any other advertisement that you can think of that included the acronym SMS in it. Oh and something about Jesus loving me for who I was if I donated fifty dollars to the church. I would burn in hell if I didn’t, obviously.
I suddenly remembered the other envelope that was handed to me by the concierge earlier. Another note from Samantha? Maybe! I opened it in a rush but realised that it wasn’t from Samantha and no, it wasn’t from Catherine because I know that that’s what you were thinking. It was from someone that I hadn’t spoken to in five years. It was someone that I had shared the best of times and the worst. It was someone I didn’t want to hear from ever again. That moment five years ago was now coming back to haunt me. I must admit, I haven’t been telling you the whole story.
Thursday, May 22, 2008
Stevie Nicks
‘What the fuck are you here for?!’
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about???’
‘Bullshit!’
And then he punched me again, this time breaking my nose.
Samantha and I tipped the taxi driver for getting us to our motel in a relative short amount of time. He amused us with his blatantly racist remarks towards his fellow taxi driver comrades. He thought we were laughing with him. It was a nice way to forget about what we had to attend to later in the afternoon.
‘PLEASE STOP. I don’t know anything!’
‘Where is the fucking money!’
‘What?!’
This time his punch opened a cut to the top of my eyebrow, my face now a palette of bright red under a black and blue canvas.
We put our bags down next to the bed and lay down. We set the alarm clock to wake us in a couple of hours. It was siesta time for Samantha and I. It was what we liked to do when we were together in the mid afternoon. You might call it boring. We called it nice.
‘So are you going to tell us where the money is you filthy fucking cunt.’
I had lost the ability to speak by this stage. His last hit was with the blunt end of his revolver breaking most of my teeth on the left side of my mouth.
When the alarm went off we woke up face to face, only centremetres apart. We gazed into each other’s eyes for a long, long time.
They had tied me back up onto the chair. How many of them were there? Three, maybe four. No, there was a fifth person to the side watching but not moving. I couldn’t make him or anyone out. Only silhouettes to my eyes.
We had an hour before we had to attend the evening funeral. The will stated that his funeral was to be held just as the sun had set. It was approaching five pm so we still had another hour before we had to head off. I kissed Samantha as I started to cry.
What could I hear? A radio? Stevie Nicks? I’m going to die whilst listening to Stevie Nicks? Where the fuck am I?!
Samantha told me that it was going to be OK. I told her that I wasn’t crying because of my friend. Something had changed in me during my nap. Is there such a thing as The One? Your perfect soulmate after all? Is this the feeling that they always talk about? I lost my friend. I couldn’t lose Samantha. Never. Knowing this brought meaning back into my life. I smiled and told her that I loved her. She started crying. She didn’t have to say anything back. She didn’t have to.
I started spitting blood from my mouth. That blood wasn’t from my mouth. Internal?? Oh fuck!
We made love. It was the first time it meant anything. It was the first time it meant everything.
The last thing I heard before blacking out was a female voice telling the statue figure in the corner that I was unquestionably the guy with my friend at the bar that night.
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about???’
‘Bullshit!’
And then he punched me again, this time breaking my nose.
Samantha and I tipped the taxi driver for getting us to our motel in a relative short amount of time. He amused us with his blatantly racist remarks towards his fellow taxi driver comrades. He thought we were laughing with him. It was a nice way to forget about what we had to attend to later in the afternoon.
‘PLEASE STOP. I don’t know anything!’
‘Where is the fucking money!’
‘What?!’
This time his punch opened a cut to the top of my eyebrow, my face now a palette of bright red under a black and blue canvas.
We put our bags down next to the bed and lay down. We set the alarm clock to wake us in a couple of hours. It was siesta time for Samantha and I. It was what we liked to do when we were together in the mid afternoon. You might call it boring. We called it nice.
‘So are you going to tell us where the money is you filthy fucking cunt.’
I had lost the ability to speak by this stage. His last hit was with the blunt end of his revolver breaking most of my teeth on the left side of my mouth.
When the alarm went off we woke up face to face, only centremetres apart. We gazed into each other’s eyes for a long, long time.
They had tied me back up onto the chair. How many of them were there? Three, maybe four. No, there was a fifth person to the side watching but not moving. I couldn’t make him or anyone out. Only silhouettes to my eyes.
We had an hour before we had to attend the evening funeral. The will stated that his funeral was to be held just as the sun had set. It was approaching five pm so we still had another hour before we had to head off. I kissed Samantha as I started to cry.
What could I hear? A radio? Stevie Nicks? I’m going to die whilst listening to Stevie Nicks? Where the fuck am I?!
Samantha told me that it was going to be OK. I told her that I wasn’t crying because of my friend. Something had changed in me during my nap. Is there such a thing as The One? Your perfect soulmate after all? Is this the feeling that they always talk about? I lost my friend. I couldn’t lose Samantha. Never. Knowing this brought meaning back into my life. I smiled and told her that I loved her. She started crying. She didn’t have to say anything back. She didn’t have to.
I started spitting blood from my mouth. That blood wasn’t from my mouth. Internal?? Oh fuck!
We made love. It was the first time it meant anything. It was the first time it meant everything.
The last thing I heard before blacking out was a female voice telling the statue figure in the corner that I was unquestionably the guy with my friend at the bar that night.
Thursday, May 8, 2008
A death in the family
Samantha had booked a taxi to take us to our motel. She commented on how good I looked in the suit and that I should consider wearing it more then three times in my life.
The second time I had worn a suit was at my cousin’s wedding two years ago. I remember getting delightfully drunk and dancing all night to bad music.
The first time I wore one was at my father’s funeral when I was fifteen. He was diagnosed with hepatocellular liver cancer, which in almost all cases is terminal within a year of diagnosis. When the specialist first told Dad what the blue blobs were on the MRI scans I was told to leave the room and wait outside. I may have been young but I knew that this meant bad news according to the movies on television.
Mum and my older brother Sam used to pick me up early from school so we could meet Dad at the hospital just before his weekly chemotherapy sessions would begin. He wanted his family around during that process. I didn’t understand why at the time.
We would then take him home and he would seem relatively healthy throughout the remainder of the week.
Life went on like this for about six months. He was always sick but never worse then he was the week before. It seemed like the therapy for the time being was a success. The cancer was not aggressively developing at all.
On the seventh month he became very unwell. The cancer had metastasised to his bones causing him excruciating pain throughout his legs and at times he was unable to walk. The specialist gave us a wheelchair for him to get around on when walking was too hard. The pain in his legs would come and go in waves. He would be relatively painless for two days and then incapable of moving the next. On these days it didn’t seem like the morphine tablets were helping at all.
On one particular week when he was doing well, I decided to take the wheelchair for a spin in the house whilst Dad was sleeping. Mum was working and my brother was at university so I was home by myself with Dad. This was fine since I knew which tablets Dad had to take when the pain would become stronger.
I tilted the wheelchair back so that it’s back would be almost touching the ground and I was balancing the chair with all my strength with my arms. You do these things when your fifteen and bored. Dad had just woken up to go to the toilet and I tried to hold the position of the wheelchair hoping that he was gong to be impressed with my physical aptitude.
When he opened the door and saw what I was doing in the lounge room, something broke inside of him. He fell to the floor in a heap crying and screaming about a new pain that he had not felt before on the right side of his hip. I ran up to him to help but all he kept on yelling was, ‘Why did you that!? Why? Why do you have to be such a silly boy? Why? Why?’ At fifteen you don’t realise what your terminal father, who only has months to live, would feel when he sees his youngest son playing on what will be his last form of transportation.
The next appointment with the specialist revealed that the cancer had also rapidly spread to his brain and that there wasn’t much time left. He was in the hospice within the week. I was always filtered away so that I wouldn’t see much, to make it easier on the young one in the family. I was normally never allowed to be in Dad’s room by myself except on one occasion. Mum and Sam needed to go outside for a smoke and they let me stay in Dad’s room by myself for the first time. I stood up from my chair once they had left and slowly started walking towards my father. He was always in and out of consciousness. A cd was in the corner of the room playing sound effects of ocean waves breaking. As I walked up to him I looked into his eyes and knew that he could see mine. He tried to sit up for a brief moment but it was too hard so he laid straight back down. He started to speak.
‘Ioju… could you… no… the car has the ignition… the birds…
‘Dad, what do you want? What do you want me to do for you?
‘The birds… it’s the car… the red one.. Ioju… don’t forget to get me the birds… In the car…’
‘I don’t understand you Dad. What birds? What do you want me to get?
He was getting terribly frustrated with himself. He began to cry as he was speaking.
‘The birds…. Where are the birds… In the car… Ioju… birds… Ioju…’
I ran out of the room to find a quite place to cry. I now understood that there wasn’t much time left.
A week later when I woke up to find most of my relatives at home, I knew that he had died.
Sam took me for a bike ride at the BMX track to get us away from home. We rode those bikes as hard as we possibly could, taking on all the little hills and gullies with absolutely no sign of fear. We then rode up to the famed viewing spot of our town and sat there for a good hour. All my brother said to me was that if I ever needed a cigarette all I had to do was ask. At that stage I was still a non-smoker.
The funeral occurred three days later. I didn’t feel anything. It seemed too much like a movie to me. Not real. All of these people who I had never seen before had come out of the woodwork to attend. Complete strangers were crying over my father. It was surreal. My auntie came over to me and said that it was ok to cry, to let it all out. I stared back, numb and emotionless.
That night when we got home my mother made us all chicken soup. We watched the television for a little while and then we all went to sleep.
And for some reason, that night, it hit me… hard. I thought about the fishing trips that Dad and I used to go on. The way his hands smelled of oil when he got home from work. The silly way he used to run. His amazing lasagne. His very liberal use of the word ‘bullshit’ when he was watching the evening news. His strength. His smile. His forgiveness.
I was never going to see him again. It was the longest and most painful night of my life.
I gripped Samantha’s hand tighter once we entered the taxi and looked at her. She looked back at me with unadulterated love and compassion. I couldn’t reciprocate that look Samantha. I wish I could. I really do but my mind goes back to that long and lonely night in my room that funeral night. Love is a wonderful thing but I can’t loose someone that I love again. I can’t. I just can’t.
The second time I had worn a suit was at my cousin’s wedding two years ago. I remember getting delightfully drunk and dancing all night to bad music.
The first time I wore one was at my father’s funeral when I was fifteen. He was diagnosed with hepatocellular liver cancer, which in almost all cases is terminal within a year of diagnosis. When the specialist first told Dad what the blue blobs were on the MRI scans I was told to leave the room and wait outside. I may have been young but I knew that this meant bad news according to the movies on television.
Mum and my older brother Sam used to pick me up early from school so we could meet Dad at the hospital just before his weekly chemotherapy sessions would begin. He wanted his family around during that process. I didn’t understand why at the time.
We would then take him home and he would seem relatively healthy throughout the remainder of the week.
Life went on like this for about six months. He was always sick but never worse then he was the week before. It seemed like the therapy for the time being was a success. The cancer was not aggressively developing at all.
On the seventh month he became very unwell. The cancer had metastasised to his bones causing him excruciating pain throughout his legs and at times he was unable to walk. The specialist gave us a wheelchair for him to get around on when walking was too hard. The pain in his legs would come and go in waves. He would be relatively painless for two days and then incapable of moving the next. On these days it didn’t seem like the morphine tablets were helping at all.
On one particular week when he was doing well, I decided to take the wheelchair for a spin in the house whilst Dad was sleeping. Mum was working and my brother was at university so I was home by myself with Dad. This was fine since I knew which tablets Dad had to take when the pain would become stronger.
I tilted the wheelchair back so that it’s back would be almost touching the ground and I was balancing the chair with all my strength with my arms. You do these things when your fifteen and bored. Dad had just woken up to go to the toilet and I tried to hold the position of the wheelchair hoping that he was gong to be impressed with my physical aptitude.
When he opened the door and saw what I was doing in the lounge room, something broke inside of him. He fell to the floor in a heap crying and screaming about a new pain that he had not felt before on the right side of his hip. I ran up to him to help but all he kept on yelling was, ‘Why did you that!? Why? Why do you have to be such a silly boy? Why? Why?’ At fifteen you don’t realise what your terminal father, who only has months to live, would feel when he sees his youngest son playing on what will be his last form of transportation.
The next appointment with the specialist revealed that the cancer had also rapidly spread to his brain and that there wasn’t much time left. He was in the hospice within the week. I was always filtered away so that I wouldn’t see much, to make it easier on the young one in the family. I was normally never allowed to be in Dad’s room by myself except on one occasion. Mum and Sam needed to go outside for a smoke and they let me stay in Dad’s room by myself for the first time. I stood up from my chair once they had left and slowly started walking towards my father. He was always in and out of consciousness. A cd was in the corner of the room playing sound effects of ocean waves breaking. As I walked up to him I looked into his eyes and knew that he could see mine. He tried to sit up for a brief moment but it was too hard so he laid straight back down. He started to speak.
‘Ioju… could you… no… the car has the ignition… the birds…
‘Dad, what do you want? What do you want me to do for you?
‘The birds… it’s the car… the red one.. Ioju… don’t forget to get me the birds… In the car…’
‘I don’t understand you Dad. What birds? What do you want me to get?
He was getting terribly frustrated with himself. He began to cry as he was speaking.
‘The birds…. Where are the birds… In the car… Ioju… birds… Ioju…’
I ran out of the room to find a quite place to cry. I now understood that there wasn’t much time left.
A week later when I woke up to find most of my relatives at home, I knew that he had died.
Sam took me for a bike ride at the BMX track to get us away from home. We rode those bikes as hard as we possibly could, taking on all the little hills and gullies with absolutely no sign of fear. We then rode up to the famed viewing spot of our town and sat there for a good hour. All my brother said to me was that if I ever needed a cigarette all I had to do was ask. At that stage I was still a non-smoker.
The funeral occurred three days later. I didn’t feel anything. It seemed too much like a movie to me. Not real. All of these people who I had never seen before had come out of the woodwork to attend. Complete strangers were crying over my father. It was surreal. My auntie came over to me and said that it was ok to cry, to let it all out. I stared back, numb and emotionless.
That night when we got home my mother made us all chicken soup. We watched the television for a little while and then we all went to sleep.
And for some reason, that night, it hit me… hard. I thought about the fishing trips that Dad and I used to go on. The way his hands smelled of oil when he got home from work. The silly way he used to run. His amazing lasagne. His very liberal use of the word ‘bullshit’ when he was watching the evening news. His strength. His smile. His forgiveness.
I was never going to see him again. It was the longest and most painful night of my life.
I gripped Samantha’s hand tighter once we entered the taxi and looked at her. She looked back at me with unadulterated love and compassion. I couldn’t reciprocate that look Samantha. I wish I could. I really do but my mind goes back to that long and lonely night in my room that funeral night. Love is a wonderful thing but I can’t loose someone that I love again. I can’t. I just can’t.
Monday, May 5, 2008
Jet
The flight was only going to take forty minutes. We got there an hour before take off, checked in and waited patiently for boarding to commence. I was sitting next to a family of three children and hoped with all my might that they weren’t going to be sitting next to us. The children’s relentlessly grating laughter might have just driven me off the edge.
The newspaper had a story about the abnormally freakish weather we have had been having of late. As always, global warming was the devastator according to the journalist, yet another aspect of humanity that we should all be proud of.
I looked at Samantha sitting next to me. The only spec of colour she was flaunting were her much favoured gold rimmed sun glasses. She had a long dark dress on covered by a long black overcoat. Her shoes happened to be the new ones she bought a couple of weekends ago but I’m sure that she didn’t suppose, at the time of purchasing, that this was going to be the first type of outing that she was going to be wearing them. She bought the shoes because they were on special and knew that she didn’t have any shoes to go with that black dress of hers she was wearing now. She looked effortlessly elegant for such a solemn occasion. I was glad she was with me.
I was wearing my one and only cheap suit I own. I bought it when I was travelling in South America from a tailer who made it for me for the price of a walnut. For a cheap suit it oozed style and class, something that I generally don’t have the time for. I’m normally a person who dresses very simply. Ioju doesn’t go out of his way for he feels like he doesn’t need to. I look at pity at all the suits that walk around town these days. I’m sure they look at me when I walk past in my tired cross trainers, jeans and t-shirt with the elitist mindset of the queen bee in a hive of millions. They will understand how wrong they were someday but it might take a good while. Feeling important by wearing a suit is something that you could get quite used to I’m sure. Ioju on the other hand knows that the suit should only be worn at weddings and funerals. This was the third time in my life that I was wearing one.
The children next to me screamed in delight when they heard the announcement that boarding was about to begin and ran towards the terminal entrance with the vigour and excitement that only children know and understand. Samantha and I walked towards the terminal, hand in hand. She smiled at me with the reassurance that everything was going to be OK and I was happy that she could convey that message with just a smile.
We boarded our tiny aircraft, threw our overnight bags in the storage compartments and made ourselves somewhat comfortable in the somewhat uncomfortable seats. The children were in danger of being treacherously ear-splitting but the parents deserved a medal for being able to contain the children before take off.
We took off and half an hour later we landed at our destination.
The newspaper had a story about the abnormally freakish weather we have had been having of late. As always, global warming was the devastator according to the journalist, yet another aspect of humanity that we should all be proud of.
I looked at Samantha sitting next to me. The only spec of colour she was flaunting were her much favoured gold rimmed sun glasses. She had a long dark dress on covered by a long black overcoat. Her shoes happened to be the new ones she bought a couple of weekends ago but I’m sure that she didn’t suppose, at the time of purchasing, that this was going to be the first type of outing that she was going to be wearing them. She bought the shoes because they were on special and knew that she didn’t have any shoes to go with that black dress of hers she was wearing now. She looked effortlessly elegant for such a solemn occasion. I was glad she was with me.
I was wearing my one and only cheap suit I own. I bought it when I was travelling in South America from a tailer who made it for me for the price of a walnut. For a cheap suit it oozed style and class, something that I generally don’t have the time for. I’m normally a person who dresses very simply. Ioju doesn’t go out of his way for he feels like he doesn’t need to. I look at pity at all the suits that walk around town these days. I’m sure they look at me when I walk past in my tired cross trainers, jeans and t-shirt with the elitist mindset of the queen bee in a hive of millions. They will understand how wrong they were someday but it might take a good while. Feeling important by wearing a suit is something that you could get quite used to I’m sure. Ioju on the other hand knows that the suit should only be worn at weddings and funerals. This was the third time in my life that I was wearing one.
The children next to me screamed in delight when they heard the announcement that boarding was about to begin and ran towards the terminal entrance with the vigour and excitement that only children know and understand. Samantha and I walked towards the terminal, hand in hand. She smiled at me with the reassurance that everything was going to be OK and I was happy that she could convey that message with just a smile.
We boarded our tiny aircraft, threw our overnight bags in the storage compartments and made ourselves somewhat comfortable in the somewhat uncomfortable seats. The children were in danger of being treacherously ear-splitting but the parents deserved a medal for being able to contain the children before take off.
We took off and half an hour later we landed at our destination.
Wednesday, April 23, 2008
Dr. Phil
‘What do you mean?! What happened?’
I had called the number that he had left me on the answering machine. He explained to me that he was in a head on collision when he was driving back from the train station, after dropping me off. My heart sank. Daniel was finding it hard to talk without his voice breaking.
‘The paramedics said that he wouldn’t have felt a thing. He died instantly.’
‘I… I just don’t know what to say… I’m so sorry.’
‘Yeah’
We were silent for about two minutes. I was taking in what he had just told me and I’m sure Daniel was thinking about the tragedy of having outgrown his own son, something that he was going to have to live with for the rest of his life. All I could do was apologies again and again, more to myself then to Daniel.
‘We’re holding his funeral in three days time if you wanted to be there.’
‘Yes of course. Is… there anything…anything I can do to help out?’
‘No we will be ok, but thank you for your offer. The funeral will be at the monk house on clive street at one pm. We will hopefully see you then’.
If you suffer from insomnia and have a bad nights sleep you may get a couple of hours of shuteye. I didn’t sleep a wink that night. Time slowed to a standstill and that night felt like an eternity.
I called work to tell them that I would be taking personal leave for a week. I called Samantha to tell her what happened at five past eight in the morning knowing that she would have just turned on her computer at work.
‘Are you OK?’
‘Um, I think so. I didn’t really sleep well last night but yeah I’ll be ok. The funeral is on Friday so I’ll need to go back there.’
‘Did you want me to come with you?’
Typically I would have said no but I couldn’t go to my friend’s funeral without support. I never met any of his friends or family. We originally met at chess club and we only ever hung out by ourselves. He never got to know my friends nor did I with his friends. It was one of those relationships where we both knew our mutual friends would never get along. It was never spoken about but we both knew this. He used to live in the city here but had recently moved back to be closer to his parents, his mother being chronically ill.
‘Yes, that would be… very nice of you if you could do that.’
‘Of course, of course. I’ll organise the plane fairs for you if you wish.’
‘That would be great. Thank you so much Samantha. I really do appreciate it.’
‘Shh, don’t mention it. Did you want me to come over tonight after work.’
‘Sure, if you like.’
‘I do.’
I sat at home watching daytime television for the rest of the day waiting for Samantha to come home after work. Dr. Phil didn’t help matters.
She was very careful around me when she got home. She was affectionate but let me have my space when needed. Caring but not over bearing, which was what I needed at this point of time. She stayed at my place for the two nights before the funeral. I didn’t say much during that time.
I had called the number that he had left me on the answering machine. He explained to me that he was in a head on collision when he was driving back from the train station, after dropping me off. My heart sank. Daniel was finding it hard to talk without his voice breaking.
‘The paramedics said that he wouldn’t have felt a thing. He died instantly.’
‘I… I just don’t know what to say… I’m so sorry.’
‘Yeah’
We were silent for about two minutes. I was taking in what he had just told me and I’m sure Daniel was thinking about the tragedy of having outgrown his own son, something that he was going to have to live with for the rest of his life. All I could do was apologies again and again, more to myself then to Daniel.
‘We’re holding his funeral in three days time if you wanted to be there.’
‘Yes of course. Is… there anything…anything I can do to help out?’
‘No we will be ok, but thank you for your offer. The funeral will be at the monk house on clive street at one pm. We will hopefully see you then’.
If you suffer from insomnia and have a bad nights sleep you may get a couple of hours of shuteye. I didn’t sleep a wink that night. Time slowed to a standstill and that night felt like an eternity.
I called work to tell them that I would be taking personal leave for a week. I called Samantha to tell her what happened at five past eight in the morning knowing that she would have just turned on her computer at work.
‘Are you OK?’
‘Um, I think so. I didn’t really sleep well last night but yeah I’ll be ok. The funeral is on Friday so I’ll need to go back there.’
‘Did you want me to come with you?’
Typically I would have said no but I couldn’t go to my friend’s funeral without support. I never met any of his friends or family. We originally met at chess club and we only ever hung out by ourselves. He never got to know my friends nor did I with his friends. It was one of those relationships where we both knew our mutual friends would never get along. It was never spoken about but we both knew this. He used to live in the city here but had recently moved back to be closer to his parents, his mother being chronically ill.
‘Yes, that would be… very nice of you if you could do that.’
‘Of course, of course. I’ll organise the plane fairs for you if you wish.’
‘That would be great. Thank you so much Samantha. I really do appreciate it.’
‘Shh, don’t mention it. Did you want me to come over tonight after work.’
‘Sure, if you like.’
‘I do.’
I sat at home watching daytime television for the rest of the day waiting for Samantha to come home after work. Dr. Phil didn’t help matters.
She was very careful around me when she got home. She was affectionate but let me have my space when needed. Caring but not over bearing, which was what I needed at this point of time. She stayed at my place for the two nights before the funeral. I didn’t say much during that time.
Monday, April 21, 2008
Faith, hope and love
I went to Samantha’s house not long after that. I had not seen her since arriving from the land that doesn’t pronounce their i’s correctly and it had been three days since I had been back. She was glad to see me when she opened the door. She lived in a terrace house by herself. About a year ago she decided to move out of the share house she was living in so she could concentrate on her own life. She got sick and tired of counselling her flatmates when they broke up with their partners, lost their jobs or talking to them when they were drunk, high or both.
When she got this inner city house she had dreams of renovating and selling it for a massive profit but didn’t take into account the amount of elbow grease that you have to put in, so you can make the renovations somewhat affordable. None of this bothered me one bit. I was used to living in run down shacks next to freeways so this was pleasant even if a few cracks were appearing on the walls.
It had been a couple of weeks since I had been here and I noticed that she had begun work on the spare room, making a start on painting her feature wall a dark purple. She had her first coat done and I applauded her on it. She said that she got bored whilst I was away and she didn’t like watching DVDs by herself. I jokingly thought to myself that we should spend less time together just so she can get more done on her renovations but then thought that that was slightly nasty so I withdrew my wry smirk. Samantha noticed this and asked what was funny.
‘Nothing’.
‘Yeah right’
I tried to cover myself up ‘I’m serious! I’m just happy to be back that’s all’
She knew I was lying but let it go. She asked me how my trip was and I told her about my little journey but left out the part about Catherine.
‘So did you pick up any ladies while you were away?’
‘Shit yeah, I was king of the town. They were thinking of making a bronze statue of my face and placing it in the town centre with the words: Ioju, the two-week procreator extraordinaire. I have to except the designs first of course.’
‘Of course you do babe. I’m going to put the kettle on.’
‘Excellent. That’s what the last girl said as well’.
‘Oh really? Did she tell you to fuck off at some point as well?’
‘Oh you bet.’
That night in bed I kept on thinking about why I didn’t tell Samantha about Catherine. There was no reason why I shouldn’t tell her cause nothing happened or was going to happen. In the same respect however why should I tell her everything? What if she did take it the wrong way? How do you go about telling your girlfriend that some coke crazed girl who makes a lot of money in a brothel (apparently) hit on you at a bar and that you saw her a second time by chance hundreds of kilometres away from where you first met her. What was Samantha supposed to say? “OK, I’ll go put the kettle on? Keep on telling me about your time at the bordello while this Jasmine tea is brewing. You need to speak up though cause I’m in the kitchen!”
Perhaps I was over thinking the matter since I wasn’t getting to sleep in a big hurry. Samantha was next to me quietly snoring. I concentrated on her snoring instead and eventually got to sleep.
We both woke up at about seven am so we could both go to our respected workplaces. She kissed me goodbye as I lay in bed. I didn’t have to leave for another hour. I watched her drive away through the window. It seemed like a nice day outside which wasn’t a good thing if you were going to spend the majority of your day in an office with minimal natural light filtering through. I’m not going to bore you with how my day went, as you already know what I do for a living. It was yet again uneventful.
When work finished I decided to walk home instead of catching the bus. The setting sun was still surprisingly bright and lovely. A light breeze was coming though for the night which made it the perfect weather for a stroll. I walked past a flamenco guitar busker playing his instrument masterfully. I wondered if I should start learning the guitar so I could serenade random people with my nylon strings for twenty cents each. I romanticised about all the lovely Italian woman (and I don’t know why Italian and not Spanish or Latin American woman) that I would meet and fall in love with as they passed me by but I then thought about the years of training and practise I would need to master the guitar, which put me off the whole idea quick smart. Also, there is no such thing as love, right?
Walking next to me at this instance was a middle-aged man in a dark suit who was talking to himself. I tried to catch what he was saying and noticed that he had his head down, like he was reading a book of some sought.
‘Work hard and become a leader; be lazy and never succeed.’
Was he reading a self-help book of some sought? He kept on reading quotes out loud.
‘Weeping may endure for a night, but joy cometh in the morning’
Yeah, I don’t know about that one.
‘I know the plans I have for you, declares the Lord, plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future.’
I just realised that what I had next to me was a Bible pusher of the strangest kind. Normally you see them sprucing on the side street with a megaphone but this guy had some style and pizzazz. You think he’s quietly reading to himself and only naturally, you want to hear what he is reading too so you listen in carefully and then before you know it, BAM, you receive quotes from our apparent one true God on how to seek his loyalty and forgiveness. In hindsight though this tactic could be used as a marketing tool for any organisation. Word of mouth from the one that heard the word from the mouth of the loud reader. Cheaper then a mass billboard promotion too!
‘Love is patient; love is kind
and envies no one.
Love is never boastful, nor conceited, nor rude;
never selfish, not quick to take offense.
There is nothing love cannot face;
there is no limit to its faith,
its hope, and endurance.
In a word, there are three things
that last forever: faith, hope, and love;
but the greatest of them all is love.’
The timing of me coming up to my house could not have been greater. Things could have gotten violent with the Bible pusher and I if he had a few more quotes under his sleeve.
I walked in and turned on my computer. This was a natural habit of mine so I could check if I had received any emails for the day. I quickly made a cup of tea and checked my mail. A mass email from a friend who was overseas was waiting for me. I’m one of those strange people who actually takes the time to read those emails. It’s called escapism via someone else’s reality. My friend Tom was just hitting his strides in South Africa and was telling me all about his time in Johannesburg. He also had attached about a dozen pictures of himself in random bars with random people. A bottle of Castle lager was in his hands in every picture.
I made some stir fry for the night and turned on the television to find some mind numbing entertainment. I watched a reality show and then another reality show and then another reality show with a little more swearing in it. By that stage it was about eleven pm and I was ready to go sleep. I started to walk towards my room but noticed that the little light on the answering machine was blinking. Who would call me on my home phone? Everyone just either emails me or calls my mobile. Hmm. Clicking play. The recorded message was from someone who I had never spoken to before. His name was Daniel and it turns out he was the father of the friend of mine I was staying with a few days ago. Daniel had called me to let me know that my friend had just died.
When she got this inner city house she had dreams of renovating and selling it for a massive profit but didn’t take into account the amount of elbow grease that you have to put in, so you can make the renovations somewhat affordable. None of this bothered me one bit. I was used to living in run down shacks next to freeways so this was pleasant even if a few cracks were appearing on the walls.
It had been a couple of weeks since I had been here and I noticed that she had begun work on the spare room, making a start on painting her feature wall a dark purple. She had her first coat done and I applauded her on it. She said that she got bored whilst I was away and she didn’t like watching DVDs by herself. I jokingly thought to myself that we should spend less time together just so she can get more done on her renovations but then thought that that was slightly nasty so I withdrew my wry smirk. Samantha noticed this and asked what was funny.
‘Nothing’.
‘Yeah right’
I tried to cover myself up ‘I’m serious! I’m just happy to be back that’s all’
She knew I was lying but let it go. She asked me how my trip was and I told her about my little journey but left out the part about Catherine.
‘So did you pick up any ladies while you were away?’
‘Shit yeah, I was king of the town. They were thinking of making a bronze statue of my face and placing it in the town centre with the words: Ioju, the two-week procreator extraordinaire. I have to except the designs first of course.’
‘Of course you do babe. I’m going to put the kettle on.’
‘Excellent. That’s what the last girl said as well’.
‘Oh really? Did she tell you to fuck off at some point as well?’
‘Oh you bet.’
That night in bed I kept on thinking about why I didn’t tell Samantha about Catherine. There was no reason why I shouldn’t tell her cause nothing happened or was going to happen. In the same respect however why should I tell her everything? What if she did take it the wrong way? How do you go about telling your girlfriend that some coke crazed girl who makes a lot of money in a brothel (apparently) hit on you at a bar and that you saw her a second time by chance hundreds of kilometres away from where you first met her. What was Samantha supposed to say? “OK, I’ll go put the kettle on? Keep on telling me about your time at the bordello while this Jasmine tea is brewing. You need to speak up though cause I’m in the kitchen!”
Perhaps I was over thinking the matter since I wasn’t getting to sleep in a big hurry. Samantha was next to me quietly snoring. I concentrated on her snoring instead and eventually got to sleep.
We both woke up at about seven am so we could both go to our respected workplaces. She kissed me goodbye as I lay in bed. I didn’t have to leave for another hour. I watched her drive away through the window. It seemed like a nice day outside which wasn’t a good thing if you were going to spend the majority of your day in an office with minimal natural light filtering through. I’m not going to bore you with how my day went, as you already know what I do for a living. It was yet again uneventful.
When work finished I decided to walk home instead of catching the bus. The setting sun was still surprisingly bright and lovely. A light breeze was coming though for the night which made it the perfect weather for a stroll. I walked past a flamenco guitar busker playing his instrument masterfully. I wondered if I should start learning the guitar so I could serenade random people with my nylon strings for twenty cents each. I romanticised about all the lovely Italian woman (and I don’t know why Italian and not Spanish or Latin American woman) that I would meet and fall in love with as they passed me by but I then thought about the years of training and practise I would need to master the guitar, which put me off the whole idea quick smart. Also, there is no such thing as love, right?
Walking next to me at this instance was a middle-aged man in a dark suit who was talking to himself. I tried to catch what he was saying and noticed that he had his head down, like he was reading a book of some sought.
‘Work hard and become a leader; be lazy and never succeed.’
Was he reading a self-help book of some sought? He kept on reading quotes out loud.
‘Weeping may endure for a night, but joy cometh in the morning’
Yeah, I don’t know about that one.
‘I know the plans I have for you, declares the Lord, plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future.’
I just realised that what I had next to me was a Bible pusher of the strangest kind. Normally you see them sprucing on the side street with a megaphone but this guy had some style and pizzazz. You think he’s quietly reading to himself and only naturally, you want to hear what he is reading too so you listen in carefully and then before you know it, BAM, you receive quotes from our apparent one true God on how to seek his loyalty and forgiveness. In hindsight though this tactic could be used as a marketing tool for any organisation. Word of mouth from the one that heard the word from the mouth of the loud reader. Cheaper then a mass billboard promotion too!
‘Love is patient; love is kind
and envies no one.
Love is never boastful, nor conceited, nor rude;
never selfish, not quick to take offense.
There is nothing love cannot face;
there is no limit to its faith,
its hope, and endurance.
In a word, there are three things
that last forever: faith, hope, and love;
but the greatest of them all is love.’
The timing of me coming up to my house could not have been greater. Things could have gotten violent with the Bible pusher and I if he had a few more quotes under his sleeve.
I walked in and turned on my computer. This was a natural habit of mine so I could check if I had received any emails for the day. I quickly made a cup of tea and checked my mail. A mass email from a friend who was overseas was waiting for me. I’m one of those strange people who actually takes the time to read those emails. It’s called escapism via someone else’s reality. My friend Tom was just hitting his strides in South Africa and was telling me all about his time in Johannesburg. He also had attached about a dozen pictures of himself in random bars with random people. A bottle of Castle lager was in his hands in every picture.
I made some stir fry for the night and turned on the television to find some mind numbing entertainment. I watched a reality show and then another reality show and then another reality show with a little more swearing in it. By that stage it was about eleven pm and I was ready to go sleep. I started to walk towards my room but noticed that the little light on the answering machine was blinking. Who would call me on my home phone? Everyone just either emails me or calls my mobile. Hmm. Clicking play. The recorded message was from someone who I had never spoken to before. His name was Daniel and it turns out he was the father of the friend of mine I was staying with a few days ago. Daniel had called me to let me know that my friend had just died.
Friday, April 11, 2008
Spaceman
The Villa vs United football scores were being shown on the bars fuzzy television in the corner. Villa had beaten United 3-1 and were now on top of the ladder. If I was a football fan then I’m sure that would have meant something to me but I was more interested in raiding the jukebox. Someone had put on, out of all things, 10cc’s ‘I’m not in Love’ and whatever you think of the song, its place is not in a run down pub. You expect AC/DC’s Back in Black or Welcome to the Jungle from Guns ‘n’ Roses if you were from that side of town but not this. Granted, it’s production value is still fantastic for a song produced in the mid seventies but still, no place for a drinking hole. If you indeed need to get your fix of 10cc they will be appearing at Retrofest, August 30-31. There will be no more mention of 10cc in this tale ever again.
The end of the song was coming up so I made my way over to the jukebox to start selecting. It was unfortunate therefore that I found out that someone had put two dollars in the jukebox to give them three songs, not one. I flipped through the jewel cases on display to find CD’s that were once popular in the grunge movement of the early nineties and some obscure pop compilation from 1996. One of the songs was Bablylon Zoo’s ‘Spaceman’ and I thought about how popular one song can get for absolutely no reason. I put in my dollar and picked the song for a bit of a laugh.
I walked back to my table passing by a person who looked out of place in this particular establishment. He was wearing a black suit jacket, white shirt and skin tight black jeans which were gripping onto his ferociously skinny legs. He had wavy blond hair up to his shoulders and a two day stubble. His face was chiselled like an American soapy TV star and he had seemed to smoke half his pack of cigarettes in the bar according to his ashtray next to him. He seemed out of place since he wasn’t watching the football, wasn’t hanging out with his work friends and he wasn’t just people watching like I was.
It was more then that though. He seemed to be drinking at a rapid pace. His pints of beer were merely lasting him half the time they should have been and he was only getting quicker. Another cigarette lit, another pint down. Another cigarette lit, another pint down. It was mesmerising. The Last Goodbye by Jeff Buckley was now playing on the jukebox. Dark jacketed man had now begun to quietly sing the lyrics to himself with even more enthusiasm for his beer. This enthusiasm that I speak of was not one of glee, joviality or merriness. No. This man was drinking to forget something that had happened to him not long ago. Ioju’s brain began to calculate. I began to believe that the last few song choices were inspired by this very man. Looking into his eyes I started to understand that was had just happened to him was the pain of loosing someone that you love.
Or the fantasy of it. Most of us have come up with some conclusion in our minds from all the fairy tales that we see as children and all the books that we escape ourselves in as grown ups that we are born to find our Mr Right or our Sweet Princess. That somewhere out there in this world we will find someone that will magically go ‘click’ together with you and make everything that was bad seem all right. The notion of love is a fairytale. You will find people that you are attracted to and that you want to be with it. That is nature’s course and chemistry. They are purely biological reasons to continue our existence as human beings. There is no such thing as love. It’s a myth, which shouldn’t be told anymore although I wasn’t about to say all that to the gentlemen smoking and drinking away right this very minute.
Nor should you think that this comes from someone that is bitter and twisted about ones own loneliness. Alas, Ioju is not like this. In fact, you may not be aware that I do have what you call a girlfriend, Samantha, who I enjoy her company very much. We are six months in and doing quite well thank you. I met her one day when she was doing her own bit or people watching at a café down the road from this bar. Once I noticed what she was doing I wrote down on a napkin ‘Stop watching the people I’m watching, there’s enough people to watch between the two of us’ and gave it to the waiter to give to her. The rest is history.
Samantha and I see each other about three times a week. It’s enough time away from each other so we don’t feel too bored of each other. You may judge that as a relationship that will not work but we have never had a fight and we genuinely LIKE spending time together. Why meddle with something that works? There is no pressure from her to say ‘I love you’ as we both have discussed the meaninglessness of this comment and that makes me happy and comfortable. Enough said.
Where do I think things will go with Samantha? I don’t know? How can you tell? ‘Don’t you want to spend the rest of your life with her, Ioju?’ How can you answer that? We as human beings change from day to day. I like Samantha right now and she likes me right now for exactly who we are right now. I can’t say the same for two years time because I don’t know how I will be in two years time. Can’t you see that making such a leap of faith in a partner, that by letting them know that you love them, by telling them that you will be together forever and ever is a promise that you just can’t keep due to the nature of our evolving beings, which brings us to this little mess of our friend who likes 10cc and Jeff Buckley.
‘It must have been love’ by Roxette was his final song on the jukebox. His eyes were weltering up and seemed ready to burst but this chisel-faced buck was not going to let go so easily. He had mustered enough courage to sink five pints and a pack of smokes away in world record time. This is a fact that he should relish in! He turned to my direction for an instance. It was brief but we connected. I tried with all my mind to tell him telepathically that he had done a heroic job on the beer and the smokes, that there is no such thing as love, that there is a woman out there that will like you for who you are right now, that I feel his pain but now that he knows that love is false he can go out there in to the world and be happy. Be happy! And no Roxette, you were wrong about it must have been love. Annie Lennox, you should no better. My man with the suit jacket, it mustn’t have been love and how fucking good does that make you feel!
Spaceman began to play as my friend was about to leave the bar. Weight fell of his shoulders as he stood and he turned to me again and nodded at me. I nodded and smiled back. Nothing needed to be said. Let Spaceman be the soundtrack to your day JacketMan. Let it be your rocket to fuel you into your new world. He left The Monkey House with a smile. I don’t remember if it was during the normal part of the song or the really sped up bit but I don’t think that really matters.
The end of the song was coming up so I made my way over to the jukebox to start selecting. It was unfortunate therefore that I found out that someone had put two dollars in the jukebox to give them three songs, not one. I flipped through the jewel cases on display to find CD’s that were once popular in the grunge movement of the early nineties and some obscure pop compilation from 1996. One of the songs was Bablylon Zoo’s ‘Spaceman’ and I thought about how popular one song can get for absolutely no reason. I put in my dollar and picked the song for a bit of a laugh.
I walked back to my table passing by a person who looked out of place in this particular establishment. He was wearing a black suit jacket, white shirt and skin tight black jeans which were gripping onto his ferociously skinny legs. He had wavy blond hair up to his shoulders and a two day stubble. His face was chiselled like an American soapy TV star and he had seemed to smoke half his pack of cigarettes in the bar according to his ashtray next to him. He seemed out of place since he wasn’t watching the football, wasn’t hanging out with his work friends and he wasn’t just people watching like I was.
It was more then that though. He seemed to be drinking at a rapid pace. His pints of beer were merely lasting him half the time they should have been and he was only getting quicker. Another cigarette lit, another pint down. Another cigarette lit, another pint down. It was mesmerising. The Last Goodbye by Jeff Buckley was now playing on the jukebox. Dark jacketed man had now begun to quietly sing the lyrics to himself with even more enthusiasm for his beer. This enthusiasm that I speak of was not one of glee, joviality or merriness. No. This man was drinking to forget something that had happened to him not long ago. Ioju’s brain began to calculate. I began to believe that the last few song choices were inspired by this very man. Looking into his eyes I started to understand that was had just happened to him was the pain of loosing someone that you love.
Or the fantasy of it. Most of us have come up with some conclusion in our minds from all the fairy tales that we see as children and all the books that we escape ourselves in as grown ups that we are born to find our Mr Right or our Sweet Princess. That somewhere out there in this world we will find someone that will magically go ‘click’ together with you and make everything that was bad seem all right. The notion of love is a fairytale. You will find people that you are attracted to and that you want to be with it. That is nature’s course and chemistry. They are purely biological reasons to continue our existence as human beings. There is no such thing as love. It’s a myth, which shouldn’t be told anymore although I wasn’t about to say all that to the gentlemen smoking and drinking away right this very minute.
Nor should you think that this comes from someone that is bitter and twisted about ones own loneliness. Alas, Ioju is not like this. In fact, you may not be aware that I do have what you call a girlfriend, Samantha, who I enjoy her company very much. We are six months in and doing quite well thank you. I met her one day when she was doing her own bit or people watching at a café down the road from this bar. Once I noticed what she was doing I wrote down on a napkin ‘Stop watching the people I’m watching, there’s enough people to watch between the two of us’ and gave it to the waiter to give to her. The rest is history.
Samantha and I see each other about three times a week. It’s enough time away from each other so we don’t feel too bored of each other. You may judge that as a relationship that will not work but we have never had a fight and we genuinely LIKE spending time together. Why meddle with something that works? There is no pressure from her to say ‘I love you’ as we both have discussed the meaninglessness of this comment and that makes me happy and comfortable. Enough said.
Where do I think things will go with Samantha? I don’t know? How can you tell? ‘Don’t you want to spend the rest of your life with her, Ioju?’ How can you answer that? We as human beings change from day to day. I like Samantha right now and she likes me right now for exactly who we are right now. I can’t say the same for two years time because I don’t know how I will be in two years time. Can’t you see that making such a leap of faith in a partner, that by letting them know that you love them, by telling them that you will be together forever and ever is a promise that you just can’t keep due to the nature of our evolving beings, which brings us to this little mess of our friend who likes 10cc and Jeff Buckley.
‘It must have been love’ by Roxette was his final song on the jukebox. His eyes were weltering up and seemed ready to burst but this chisel-faced buck was not going to let go so easily. He had mustered enough courage to sink five pints and a pack of smokes away in world record time. This is a fact that he should relish in! He turned to my direction for an instance. It was brief but we connected. I tried with all my mind to tell him telepathically that he had done a heroic job on the beer and the smokes, that there is no such thing as love, that there is a woman out there that will like you for who you are right now, that I feel his pain but now that he knows that love is false he can go out there in to the world and be happy. Be happy! And no Roxette, you were wrong about it must have been love. Annie Lennox, you should no better. My man with the suit jacket, it mustn’t have been love and how fucking good does that make you feel!
Spaceman began to play as my friend was about to leave the bar. Weight fell of his shoulders as he stood and he turned to me again and nodded at me. I nodded and smiled back. Nothing needed to be said. Let Spaceman be the soundtrack to your day JacketMan. Let it be your rocket to fuel you into your new world. He left The Monkey House with a smile. I don’t remember if it was during the normal part of the song or the really sped up bit but I don’t think that really matters.
Monday, March 31, 2008
Electrical fire
‘Hello?’
‘Hey it’s Ioju’
‘Oh hi. How was your train ride home?’
I began to explain to my friend over the phone what had happened.
‘Really? You sure it was that girl from the bar we were in a couple of nights ago?’
Maybe. Now I wasn’t so sure. It looked like her but the brothel was about fifty metres down the road from the train station. I was looking through the train window on a rainy day. It could have been anyone but still, something inside of me knew it was her and that I needed to do something about this. Fill my role in her story.
‘Right, so apparently Catherine works at a brothel…’
I interrupted him.
‘She just walked into the place. I don’t know if she works there.
‘…quite a few hours away from the town where we met her.’
I understood the nonsensicality of it all. I also had no idea why I was feeling like I needed to do something about this. She was a stranger that we met on a big night out. What business was it of mine to find out more about her? Why was it that I was surprised about the apparent lies she said about what she did for a living particularly when I was the one not paying much attention to her that night. It made no sense and this irritated me to no end. I ended up agreeing that it wasn’t her to my friend to make sure that he didn’t think I was a complete loony. We also both made an agreement to never sleep in a car ever again.
By that stage I needed to go to work. I worked in telesales, selling portable fire extinguishes over the phone. The job was as good as it’s description. My boss Michael felt that he was doing himself a public service by preying on the elderly who are the only ones home during the day and pretending to be some bogus fire authority checking up on the fire safety of their respective dwellings. The pitch went something like this:
‘Hello?’
‘Hi this is Ioju calling from (towns name you were hitting on that day) Fire Safety Authority. How are you today?’
‘Oh… yes, quite fine thanks. How are…’
‘That’s great. We were just checking (towns name you were hitting on that day) residential fire safety today and we were just wondering how many smoke alarms you have in your home?’
‘Oh deary me… two actually. One in the hallway and one near the kitchen.'
‘That’s fantastic! And do you know when you changed the batteries last?’
‘Darl, we always check them when daylights savings changes over. That’s what they say we have to do. In fact little Bobby came over the other day to help us change them. You know it’s quite hard climbing up the ladder if you are an old lady like myself.’
You always knew they were going to mention that they were old in someway or the other during the phone conversation. That’s what old people like to do. I’m looking forward to doing it myself in a few more years’ time.
‘That’s great to hear that your following the recommended safety procedures in regards to your smoke alarms. Now, could you let me know how many fire extinguishes you have in your home as well?’
‘Oh… Well we don’t have any. We would just use water if a fire broke out.’
We would then break out the fear tactics.
‘But what if it was an electrical fire? Throwing water on an electrical fire would possibly kill you in the process! What would you do then?’
‘Well, I don’t know. I never thought about that have I! Oh dear. How much did you say your fire extinguishes were?'
‘Thirty dollars or two for fifty. Now I can get them sent straight out to you if I could just get your credit card number.’
‘Oh wait, I’ll have to ask little Bobby first to see if it’s the right thing to do.’
‘Mrs. Miller, I’m sure Bobby wouldn’t hesitate in the slightest to make sure that your safety is well taken care of. In fact, you could surprise him by buying two for that special price and giving him one as a present. I’m sure he would be most thankful.’
And there you have a sale. Highly unethical. Probablly illegal to claim you are representing a fake organization as well but it was my job and unfortunately, I was good at it. I was consistently on top of the sales ladder board and I never really had to try too hard. When you spend a few years working at a place, everything you do becomes a repetition of the previous day, the previous month, the previous year. My pitch was nothing more then an actor saying his lines in a stage show on a ten year run. Sure, audiences still love the actors portrayal of said character but the actor has no real thought process going on inside; the spunk that once carried him through the show, long gone. My greatest pride in my working day was to see how many squares and circles I could draw between the gaps of each phone number from the ripped out phone directory page we were working off. Sometimes it would be a work of sheer beauty.
I left work early because I had made enough sales that day and went to The Monkey House for a drink. The Monkey House was probably named after the novel of the same name by Kurt Vonnegut, but besides the name it was just your run of the mill drinking hole with football being played 24/7 on the television in the corner. It was normally frequented by tradespeople who were having a few drinks after work. You didn’t have to make an effort to be in here and I enjoyed that fact immensely. When I was younger I would go to fancy bars with overpriced drinks to be part of the cool crowd. To be in the scene. Amateur photographers from the local street press would ask for your photo if you were deemed hip enough and when the street press would come out, you would be hailed as royalty in your respective scene… for a week at least. I feel ridiculously sorry for the people that haven’t grown out of that stage in their lives and if you, the reader, are still in this depravity of social order, well there’s still hope you could get out as well.
‘Hey it’s Ioju’
‘Oh hi. How was your train ride home?’
I began to explain to my friend over the phone what had happened.
‘Really? You sure it was that girl from the bar we were in a couple of nights ago?’
Maybe. Now I wasn’t so sure. It looked like her but the brothel was about fifty metres down the road from the train station. I was looking through the train window on a rainy day. It could have been anyone but still, something inside of me knew it was her and that I needed to do something about this. Fill my role in her story.
‘Right, so apparently Catherine works at a brothel…’
I interrupted him.
‘She just walked into the place. I don’t know if she works there.
‘…quite a few hours away from the town where we met her.’
I understood the nonsensicality of it all. I also had no idea why I was feeling like I needed to do something about this. She was a stranger that we met on a big night out. What business was it of mine to find out more about her? Why was it that I was surprised about the apparent lies she said about what she did for a living particularly when I was the one not paying much attention to her that night. It made no sense and this irritated me to no end. I ended up agreeing that it wasn’t her to my friend to make sure that he didn’t think I was a complete loony. We also both made an agreement to never sleep in a car ever again.
By that stage I needed to go to work. I worked in telesales, selling portable fire extinguishes over the phone. The job was as good as it’s description. My boss Michael felt that he was doing himself a public service by preying on the elderly who are the only ones home during the day and pretending to be some bogus fire authority checking up on the fire safety of their respective dwellings. The pitch went something like this:
‘Hello?’
‘Hi this is Ioju calling from (towns name you were hitting on that day) Fire Safety Authority. How are you today?’
‘Oh… yes, quite fine thanks. How are…’
‘That’s great. We were just checking (towns name you were hitting on that day) residential fire safety today and we were just wondering how many smoke alarms you have in your home?’
‘Oh deary me… two actually. One in the hallway and one near the kitchen.'
‘That’s fantastic! And do you know when you changed the batteries last?’
‘Darl, we always check them when daylights savings changes over. That’s what they say we have to do. In fact little Bobby came over the other day to help us change them. You know it’s quite hard climbing up the ladder if you are an old lady like myself.’
You always knew they were going to mention that they were old in someway or the other during the phone conversation. That’s what old people like to do. I’m looking forward to doing it myself in a few more years’ time.
‘That’s great to hear that your following the recommended safety procedures in regards to your smoke alarms. Now, could you let me know how many fire extinguishes you have in your home as well?’
‘Oh… Well we don’t have any. We would just use water if a fire broke out.’
We would then break out the fear tactics.
‘But what if it was an electrical fire? Throwing water on an electrical fire would possibly kill you in the process! What would you do then?’
‘Well, I don’t know. I never thought about that have I! Oh dear. How much did you say your fire extinguishes were?'
‘Thirty dollars or two for fifty. Now I can get them sent straight out to you if I could just get your credit card number.’
‘Oh wait, I’ll have to ask little Bobby first to see if it’s the right thing to do.’
‘Mrs. Miller, I’m sure Bobby wouldn’t hesitate in the slightest to make sure that your safety is well taken care of. In fact, you could surprise him by buying two for that special price and giving him one as a present. I’m sure he would be most thankful.’
And there you have a sale. Highly unethical. Probablly illegal to claim you are representing a fake organization as well but it was my job and unfortunately, I was good at it. I was consistently on top of the sales ladder board and I never really had to try too hard. When you spend a few years working at a place, everything you do becomes a repetition of the previous day, the previous month, the previous year. My pitch was nothing more then an actor saying his lines in a stage show on a ten year run. Sure, audiences still love the actors portrayal of said character but the actor has no real thought process going on inside; the spunk that once carried him through the show, long gone. My greatest pride in my working day was to see how many squares and circles I could draw between the gaps of each phone number from the ripped out phone directory page we were working off. Sometimes it would be a work of sheer beauty.
I left work early because I had made enough sales that day and went to The Monkey House for a drink. The Monkey House was probably named after the novel of the same name by Kurt Vonnegut, but besides the name it was just your run of the mill drinking hole with football being played 24/7 on the television in the corner. It was normally frequented by tradespeople who were having a few drinks after work. You didn’t have to make an effort to be in here and I enjoyed that fact immensely. When I was younger I would go to fancy bars with overpriced drinks to be part of the cool crowd. To be in the scene. Amateur photographers from the local street press would ask for your photo if you were deemed hip enough and when the street press would come out, you would be hailed as royalty in your respective scene… for a week at least. I feel ridiculously sorry for the people that haven’t grown out of that stage in their lives and if you, the reader, are still in this depravity of social order, well there’s still hope you could get out as well.
Sunday, March 23, 2008
Dunhill Red
It was twilight by the time we got to the train station. I was to catch an overnight train back home that would take approximately eight hours. My friend parked his car on the side of the road, said his goodbyes and off he went. I had about an hour to kill before I had to jump on the train and as I was out of smokes my first point of call was going to be a tobacconist. The train station was surrounded by a small number of timber-clad stores that were built around the station back in the late 1800’s, when this town struck gold. Eventually the gold ran out and today it was nothing more then a town that you pass by in dispositional belief, before you arrive to your port of choice.
There were three open stores within its eleven-store precinct. One was a small corner store, one was a shoe store and one was a brothel. The other eight vacant stores had seemed to be deserted for some time. One, whose sign was surprisingly still hanging strongly displayed, ‘Jack’s Rubies’. This store was situated next to the brothel and I couldn’t help but wonder whether Jack was actually the man who ran the brothel, as well as the one time jewelery store with a name like that. Perhaps not, but sometimes that’s the way Ioju’s mind can work.
I walked into the corner shop to find a middle-aged man with a thick beard going through one of the dirty girly magazines. I walked straight past him to get to the counter and asked for my favourite tobacco to the elderly shopkeeper.
‘Nah, we don’t stock that one’
‘Oh, could I get some Drum then thanks’
‘Got none of that either’
I couldn’t see any packets on the shelf so I was beginning to wonder if he actually did have any tobacco at all. Normally when a proprietor of a store tells you that they are out of something, they normally give you a recommendation for an alternative product, which then, hopefully, produces them a sale. Not this guy. He was just looking at me with dead eyes that have seen too many days without any care in the world. For a brief moment I wondered how a person could get this way and that if I would get that way if I was doing the same monotonous tasks, day in and day out for the majority of my life, which saddened me a little. I needed a smoke more then ever.
‘So, what do you stock then?’
‘Dunhill Red’
‘Uh huh…’
‘That’s it. Just Dunhill Red’.
Just Dunhill Red! He only had one brand… wait not only one brand, one strength from one brand and he still kept on looking at me with those dead eyes of his not looking too perturbed by this incongruous situation. I looked around to the other items on sale in his shop to come to terms with this bizarre circumstance. One item on his dusty shelf amongst the cat food was an old tomato sauce dispenser from the 50’s with the tag line, ‘No Muss, No Fuss, No Cuss’. I looked back at the shopkeeper and noticed his blue name badge for the first time. Jack.
Since I knew that today was my payday, I asked Jack if I could buy his tomato sauce dispenser and a pack of Dunhill Reds. I gave him a twenty-dollar note and told him to keep the change. He seemed delighted at this and thanked me kindly, so much so that he then took out a packet of his own Dunhill Reds and offered me one. He lit his cigarette using a match, which he then shared with me. God only knows how old that cigarette was but along with the benzene, formaldehyde and rat poison that they pack those tailored cigarettes with, it tasted fucking dreadful.
We smoked in silence for a while not really knowing what to say to each other. Normally I would have left as soon as he had lit my cigarette but I wanted to find out if my previous thought about Jack being a brothel owner was true. His dead eyes had found some life ironically whilst having this cigarette and seemed up for a chat. I still didn’t know what to say to him. I had finished half of my smoke before I had the courage to say anything.
‘So Jack, how long have you been in this shop for?’
‘Oh, about, ohhh, let’s see… three… five… twenty one years.’
He nodded in agreement with himself. I was waiting for the old man to continue talking about the good times, the hard times, the war; the old man ramble; but Jack was not a rambler. I figured that I was going to have to work very hard if I was going to find out anything about this old man.
‘What were you doing before that?’
‘Ahh I was the last of the miners before they closed shop here. We were goin’ under and comin’ up with nothin’. Thems suits had enough and went off to Africa… Asia… or somewhere like that. Don’t know. No good with all this geography stuff. Had some cash so I bought this little place. That’s it. I’ll be sixty three in ten days times and I reckon in ten… twenty years time, I’ll still be here selling this stale Dunhill Red smoke to lads like you. Say, what are youse doin’ here in this little town of ours?’
I told him about my train ride home and that this was the closest station from my friend’s house.
‘Hmm, that’s all peoples come here for these days.’
Sensing that this conversation was going in the wrong direction, I thought I’d jolt it by going straight for the jugular. No point in procrastinating the issue more when my train was about to arrive.
‘So I noticed that the only other establishments here are a shoe shop and a parlour.’
I ended that sentence there to see how he would react. He began to laugh.
‘Lad, there are a few necessities in life for men. Two of those happen to be keeping your feet from getting bloodied from the ground and women. Even for a small dying town like ours, both these stores… no establishments, do very well for themselves. Look, how long till your train ride comes? I’m sure if you have fifteen minutes you could walk in for some relief, yeah?’
Ioju needs to clarify one point here to you. I have no opinion about people who frequent these establishments or who work for them. It is the oldest profession in the world so who am I to judge. It did make me wonder why Jack all of the sudden was pushing the towns services. Maybe I was correct after all.
‘I’m OK thank you.’
‘Yeah, sure you are. Look, I hear a quick blowjob is only twenty bucks if your in and out in ten.’
He was smiling at me with the notion that he had been there before, his two gold teeth shinning cunningly. Now I know what I have just told you, that I have no opinions of people who go to places like these, but the thought of this old man either running this place or just frequenting this place disturbed me. For all my inquisitive nature I found myself now not wanting to know anything. I told Jack that I was sure I was OK, left the store and lit another one of those stale cigarettes to put my mind off things. It began to rain lightly.
I walked towards the train station passing the shoe store, which was now closed and the brothel. Two men exited the brothel as I walked by. They were dressed in cheap rags and talking about how they were going to steal a greyhound, from someone called Chris, by using industrial strength pliers on it’s chained collar. If the dog was going to be any trouble at all, they were just going to use the pliers to smash the dogs face in, either way, they were going to get their payback on Chris.
I didn’t want to hear anymore and I needed to get away from this town NOW. I put my iPod on random as an attempt to clear my mind from everything and hopped on the train. Lou Reed’s, ‘Take a Walk on the Wild Side’ started playing and as the train departed slowly, I looked out of the window. I noticed a person in the distance walking in to the parlour, someone familiar. It was Catherine.
There were three open stores within its eleven-store precinct. One was a small corner store, one was a shoe store and one was a brothel. The other eight vacant stores had seemed to be deserted for some time. One, whose sign was surprisingly still hanging strongly displayed, ‘Jack’s Rubies’. This store was situated next to the brothel and I couldn’t help but wonder whether Jack was actually the man who ran the brothel, as well as the one time jewelery store with a name like that. Perhaps not, but sometimes that’s the way Ioju’s mind can work.
I walked into the corner shop to find a middle-aged man with a thick beard going through one of the dirty girly magazines. I walked straight past him to get to the counter and asked for my favourite tobacco to the elderly shopkeeper.
‘Nah, we don’t stock that one’
‘Oh, could I get some Drum then thanks’
‘Got none of that either’
I couldn’t see any packets on the shelf so I was beginning to wonder if he actually did have any tobacco at all. Normally when a proprietor of a store tells you that they are out of something, they normally give you a recommendation for an alternative product, which then, hopefully, produces them a sale. Not this guy. He was just looking at me with dead eyes that have seen too many days without any care in the world. For a brief moment I wondered how a person could get this way and that if I would get that way if I was doing the same monotonous tasks, day in and day out for the majority of my life, which saddened me a little. I needed a smoke more then ever.
‘So, what do you stock then?’
‘Dunhill Red’
‘Uh huh…’
‘That’s it. Just Dunhill Red’.
Just Dunhill Red! He only had one brand… wait not only one brand, one strength from one brand and he still kept on looking at me with those dead eyes of his not looking too perturbed by this incongruous situation. I looked around to the other items on sale in his shop to come to terms with this bizarre circumstance. One item on his dusty shelf amongst the cat food was an old tomato sauce dispenser from the 50’s with the tag line, ‘No Muss, No Fuss, No Cuss’. I looked back at the shopkeeper and noticed his blue name badge for the first time. Jack.
Since I knew that today was my payday, I asked Jack if I could buy his tomato sauce dispenser and a pack of Dunhill Reds. I gave him a twenty-dollar note and told him to keep the change. He seemed delighted at this and thanked me kindly, so much so that he then took out a packet of his own Dunhill Reds and offered me one. He lit his cigarette using a match, which he then shared with me. God only knows how old that cigarette was but along with the benzene, formaldehyde and rat poison that they pack those tailored cigarettes with, it tasted fucking dreadful.
We smoked in silence for a while not really knowing what to say to each other. Normally I would have left as soon as he had lit my cigarette but I wanted to find out if my previous thought about Jack being a brothel owner was true. His dead eyes had found some life ironically whilst having this cigarette and seemed up for a chat. I still didn’t know what to say to him. I had finished half of my smoke before I had the courage to say anything.
‘So Jack, how long have you been in this shop for?’
‘Oh, about, ohhh, let’s see… three… five… twenty one years.’
He nodded in agreement with himself. I was waiting for the old man to continue talking about the good times, the hard times, the war; the old man ramble; but Jack was not a rambler. I figured that I was going to have to work very hard if I was going to find out anything about this old man.
‘What were you doing before that?’
‘Ahh I was the last of the miners before they closed shop here. We were goin’ under and comin’ up with nothin’. Thems suits had enough and went off to Africa… Asia… or somewhere like that. Don’t know. No good with all this geography stuff. Had some cash so I bought this little place. That’s it. I’ll be sixty three in ten days times and I reckon in ten… twenty years time, I’ll still be here selling this stale Dunhill Red smoke to lads like you. Say, what are youse doin’ here in this little town of ours?’
I told him about my train ride home and that this was the closest station from my friend’s house.
‘Hmm, that’s all peoples come here for these days.’
Sensing that this conversation was going in the wrong direction, I thought I’d jolt it by going straight for the jugular. No point in procrastinating the issue more when my train was about to arrive.
‘So I noticed that the only other establishments here are a shoe shop and a parlour.’
I ended that sentence there to see how he would react. He began to laugh.
‘Lad, there are a few necessities in life for men. Two of those happen to be keeping your feet from getting bloodied from the ground and women. Even for a small dying town like ours, both these stores… no establishments, do very well for themselves. Look, how long till your train ride comes? I’m sure if you have fifteen minutes you could walk in for some relief, yeah?’
Ioju needs to clarify one point here to you. I have no opinion about people who frequent these establishments or who work for them. It is the oldest profession in the world so who am I to judge. It did make me wonder why Jack all of the sudden was pushing the towns services. Maybe I was correct after all.
‘I’m OK thank you.’
‘Yeah, sure you are. Look, I hear a quick blowjob is only twenty bucks if your in and out in ten.’
He was smiling at me with the notion that he had been there before, his two gold teeth shinning cunningly. Now I know what I have just told you, that I have no opinions of people who go to places like these, but the thought of this old man either running this place or just frequenting this place disturbed me. For all my inquisitive nature I found myself now not wanting to know anything. I told Jack that I was sure I was OK, left the store and lit another one of those stale cigarettes to put my mind off things. It began to rain lightly.
I walked towards the train station passing the shoe store, which was now closed and the brothel. Two men exited the brothel as I walked by. They were dressed in cheap rags and talking about how they were going to steal a greyhound, from someone called Chris, by using industrial strength pliers on it’s chained collar. If the dog was going to be any trouble at all, they were just going to use the pliers to smash the dogs face in, either way, they were going to get their payback on Chris.
I didn’t want to hear anymore and I needed to get away from this town NOW. I put my iPod on random as an attempt to clear my mind from everything and hopped on the train. Lou Reed’s, ‘Take a Walk on the Wild Side’ started playing and as the train departed slowly, I looked out of the window. I noticed a person in the distance walking in to the parlour, someone familiar. It was Catherine.
Sunday, March 16, 2008
Neon in the morning
It was early Sunday morning when we awoke with the sun blaring through the small empty gaps in the semi undercovered car park. My toungue felt like sandpaper and my breath was pushing the upper spectrum of offensiveness. My mind was hurting and was screaming at me that it needed some water. My friend woke up at the same time and in the exact same state. I took it upon myself to go hunt for some sport drinks from the local shops down the road. Anything to pick us up from where we were at.
The local cafes had begun to fry up their eggs for the early morning rush. It was 7.30am and the smell of fried eggs almost made me throw up with each and every café I walked past. I must have looked like death walking through those quiet and quaint streets, a look of disgust from each of the local passer-byes. We were in the posh end of town and dishevelledness was not the normal around here. I didn’t care though. I needed my sport drink.
I walked and walked peering into all the coffee shops to look for that magical blue, green or orange fluid in their small bar fridges with no success. It was clear that this town was empty of sport drink. What’s with that? I sat down on the kerb to ponder this and somewhere along the lines of looking at a 4WD Mercedes being parallel parked and the sun sneaking through it’s windshield, I passed out.
I dreamed about the girl that I saw at the Art Deco Festival. She was young, maybe sixteen, wearing a red dress and busking with her violin on the street corner. I didn’t think much of her when I first saw her earlier in the day. I walked straight past her to go visit the local bookshop and to find a quite café to hide in for the rest of my day. Then after finishing a delightful dinner at the local Lebanese institution I went for another walk and she was still there, busking away. She looked at me perplexed.
A local fruiterer whose shop was just opening woke me up. Apparently he wasn’t interested in having a man sleeping on the front of his gutter on a Sunday morning. He was also speaking a language that I didn’t quite understand so I wasn’t about to have an argument with him, although we did exchange some hand gestures. I remembered that I was on a mission of extreme importance and my friend was relying upon me to return to the car with some goods so I picked myself off the ground and off I went.
Bright fluorescent lights were slowly diminishing with the early morning sun but I could just make out in the distance that some of those lights were coming from a supermarket sign. I smiled and then laughed maniacally. This mission was coming to an end! After a five-minute walk I came upon my goal; this life mission; where x marks the spot; gold, jewellery, treasure! To my utter dismay it was closed.
This place really had something against me! First Vietnamese mint, then this! Why? What I had done to them? It was at that point that I aborted my mission; the resignation of pathetic defeat; such a simple task unaccomplished. There had been times that I had been lower in my life but at that exact moment I remembered none of them. I wished the fruiterer would pass me by with a shovel for me to start my own dig.
I know it’s pathetic but I just realised at that point that water would pretty much do the same thing as a sport drink. Don’t ask a visitor to a strange land for some kind of common sense for he would be to busy looking at a bright light in the distance and skipping towards it singing, ‘Sports drink, here it comes, just for me, none for you’. Ioju knows that you have done it yourself so don’t judge.
I walked into a café and ordered two bottles of water, again trying not to throw up. Who eats eggs for breakfast for crying out loud? I grabbed the bottles and ran away from the shop with haste, for I had realised that I had been away for some time, and my friend would be getting concerned. Not that it mattered. When I found him he was snoring away in the front seat of the car. I sat on the bonnet and waited for a while painfully listening to the evil sounds hundreds of birds can make. He finally woke up ten minutes later. I recalled my story to him and he grunted something incomprehensible to me, which somehow seemed to sum up the mood quite nicely. We started to drive back to his place. Not many words were said to each other on the drive home. There were a few grunts though.
The local cafes had begun to fry up their eggs for the early morning rush. It was 7.30am and the smell of fried eggs almost made me throw up with each and every café I walked past. I must have looked like death walking through those quiet and quaint streets, a look of disgust from each of the local passer-byes. We were in the posh end of town and dishevelledness was not the normal around here. I didn’t care though. I needed my sport drink.
I walked and walked peering into all the coffee shops to look for that magical blue, green or orange fluid in their small bar fridges with no success. It was clear that this town was empty of sport drink. What’s with that? I sat down on the kerb to ponder this and somewhere along the lines of looking at a 4WD Mercedes being parallel parked and the sun sneaking through it’s windshield, I passed out.
I dreamed about the girl that I saw at the Art Deco Festival. She was young, maybe sixteen, wearing a red dress and busking with her violin on the street corner. I didn’t think much of her when I first saw her earlier in the day. I walked straight past her to go visit the local bookshop and to find a quite café to hide in for the rest of my day. Then after finishing a delightful dinner at the local Lebanese institution I went for another walk and she was still there, busking away. She looked at me perplexed.
A local fruiterer whose shop was just opening woke me up. Apparently he wasn’t interested in having a man sleeping on the front of his gutter on a Sunday morning. He was also speaking a language that I didn’t quite understand so I wasn’t about to have an argument with him, although we did exchange some hand gestures. I remembered that I was on a mission of extreme importance and my friend was relying upon me to return to the car with some goods so I picked myself off the ground and off I went.
Bright fluorescent lights were slowly diminishing with the early morning sun but I could just make out in the distance that some of those lights were coming from a supermarket sign. I smiled and then laughed maniacally. This mission was coming to an end! After a five-minute walk I came upon my goal; this life mission; where x marks the spot; gold, jewellery, treasure! To my utter dismay it was closed.
This place really had something against me! First Vietnamese mint, then this! Why? What I had done to them? It was at that point that I aborted my mission; the resignation of pathetic defeat; such a simple task unaccomplished. There had been times that I had been lower in my life but at that exact moment I remembered none of them. I wished the fruiterer would pass me by with a shovel for me to start my own dig.
I know it’s pathetic but I just realised at that point that water would pretty much do the same thing as a sport drink. Don’t ask a visitor to a strange land for some kind of common sense for he would be to busy looking at a bright light in the distance and skipping towards it singing, ‘Sports drink, here it comes, just for me, none for you’. Ioju knows that you have done it yourself so don’t judge.
I walked into a café and ordered two bottles of water, again trying not to throw up. Who eats eggs for breakfast for crying out loud? I grabbed the bottles and ran away from the shop with haste, for I had realised that I had been away for some time, and my friend would be getting concerned. Not that it mattered. When I found him he was snoring away in the front seat of the car. I sat on the bonnet and waited for a while painfully listening to the evil sounds hundreds of birds can make. He finally woke up ten minutes later. I recalled my story to him and he grunted something incomprehensible to me, which somehow seemed to sum up the mood quite nicely. We started to drive back to his place. Not many words were said to each other on the drive home. There were a few grunts though.
Thursday, March 6, 2008
It's somewhere that way
We are not alone my friends. You are not alone for you have me, your humble narrator for this, my ongoing adventure. I am glad you could have made it.
She said it didn’t matter…
You see I was in this little town for a week, sheep a plenty. A town where if you had the television and radio switched off, you could almost feel like you were back in the 30’s. Pastille coloured art deco buildings lined the streets along with visitors from far and wide to appreciate this town’s festival, which was happening this very weekend. A festival where the prerequisites, apparently, was to frock up in your finest tuxedo with suspenders whilst the ladies gowned up to show off to no one but themselves. A swing band was playing in the amphitheatre whilst children threw volcanic sand at one another on the ocean shore to the annoyance of their mothers. It was there I saw her.
Everyone talked funny in this town. It was similar but jaded. A lacklustre attempt at pronouncing their i’s. It wasn’t enough to make you think you were in another country but definitely enough to make you think you were an outsider. Not that I cared mind you. They seemed nice but really, who where they? What was their purpose? I came to this thought when I was trying to buy fresh mint from the local supermarket. All I could find was Vietnamese mint, not your normal run of the mill variety. Great for a spring roll, sure, but not in your favourite golden rum waiting to be drunk, alone. It was at that point that I became suspicious.
On the second night I drove down to one of their larger towns, a few hours drive from where I was staying. I went to a gig there to pass the time. The band apparently had been going strong for decades and decades but their lead singer seemed to defy the age of age and looked like he should have been attending his first year of college. This confused me.
To compound this already confused state, Ioju, your humble narrator, was sitting down in a bar with his friend, after the gig, discussing out of all things the nature of bird flight paths when a girl came up to us for a chat. She said that our apparent relaxed nature invited her to join our conversation. We said that that was fine as long as she understood that the only way to join the conversation was to be able to intellectually contribute to our banter about the flight of birds. We had had a few drinks by this stage. She laughed as if we weren’t being serious and introduced herself as Catherine.
Catherine liked to talk about herself. She was very good at it too. I found out that she recently tried to be a journalist but found the going tough so she fell back to her old job as a financial consultant. She advised me that she made oodles of money and she liked to dabble with cocaine here and there but she was definitely not an abuser of it. It just made her feel better about herself from time to time. She found out nothing about myself.
My friend at that stage started walking away which made me anxious. You see, the one thing that I hadn’t told you was that we were planning to sleep in my friend’s car that night since both of us were too broke to afford the $30 hostel dorm prices. I had $20 and no one was going to tell me that I wasn’t going to be spending it at the bar. The problem with my friend walking away was that I realised I had no idea where I was. If I lost him, it would have been an arduous task telling a cab driver, ‘It’s somewhere that way’, pointing straight ahead of me, thinking that that would be north which was my only clue to where the car was. I had had many many drinks by this stage. I was thinking about this as my friend started drifting away and as Catherine came in for the kill to fuck a boy for the night, that boy being your humble narrator. I panicked, shoved her aside and went to find my friend who just went around the corner. I found him pissing in the alleyway, which made no sense to me when we were in a bar that obviously had facilities. Once asked, he looked at me in puzzlement and admitted that it made no sense to him either. The rest of the evening was uneventful and blurry. We caught a taxi. We found our car. We got in and I slept a dreamless sleep…
She said it didn’t matter…
You see I was in this little town for a week, sheep a plenty. A town where if you had the television and radio switched off, you could almost feel like you were back in the 30’s. Pastille coloured art deco buildings lined the streets along with visitors from far and wide to appreciate this town’s festival, which was happening this very weekend. A festival where the prerequisites, apparently, was to frock up in your finest tuxedo with suspenders whilst the ladies gowned up to show off to no one but themselves. A swing band was playing in the amphitheatre whilst children threw volcanic sand at one another on the ocean shore to the annoyance of their mothers. It was there I saw her.
Everyone talked funny in this town. It was similar but jaded. A lacklustre attempt at pronouncing their i’s. It wasn’t enough to make you think you were in another country but definitely enough to make you think you were an outsider. Not that I cared mind you. They seemed nice but really, who where they? What was their purpose? I came to this thought when I was trying to buy fresh mint from the local supermarket. All I could find was Vietnamese mint, not your normal run of the mill variety. Great for a spring roll, sure, but not in your favourite golden rum waiting to be drunk, alone. It was at that point that I became suspicious.
On the second night I drove down to one of their larger towns, a few hours drive from where I was staying. I went to a gig there to pass the time. The band apparently had been going strong for decades and decades but their lead singer seemed to defy the age of age and looked like he should have been attending his first year of college. This confused me.
To compound this already confused state, Ioju, your humble narrator, was sitting down in a bar with his friend, after the gig, discussing out of all things the nature of bird flight paths when a girl came up to us for a chat. She said that our apparent relaxed nature invited her to join our conversation. We said that that was fine as long as she understood that the only way to join the conversation was to be able to intellectually contribute to our banter about the flight of birds. We had had a few drinks by this stage. She laughed as if we weren’t being serious and introduced herself as Catherine.
Catherine liked to talk about herself. She was very good at it too. I found out that she recently tried to be a journalist but found the going tough so she fell back to her old job as a financial consultant. She advised me that she made oodles of money and she liked to dabble with cocaine here and there but she was definitely not an abuser of it. It just made her feel better about herself from time to time. She found out nothing about myself.
My friend at that stage started walking away which made me anxious. You see, the one thing that I hadn’t told you was that we were planning to sleep in my friend’s car that night since both of us were too broke to afford the $30 hostel dorm prices. I had $20 and no one was going to tell me that I wasn’t going to be spending it at the bar. The problem with my friend walking away was that I realised I had no idea where I was. If I lost him, it would have been an arduous task telling a cab driver, ‘It’s somewhere that way’, pointing straight ahead of me, thinking that that would be north which was my only clue to where the car was. I had had many many drinks by this stage. I was thinking about this as my friend started drifting away and as Catherine came in for the kill to fuck a boy for the night, that boy being your humble narrator. I panicked, shoved her aside and went to find my friend who just went around the corner. I found him pissing in the alleyway, which made no sense to me when we were in a bar that obviously had facilities. Once asked, he looked at me in puzzlement and admitted that it made no sense to him either. The rest of the evening was uneventful and blurry. We caught a taxi. We found our car. We got in and I slept a dreamless sleep…
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