Osborne was generally, a deflector more than a reflector but on this night he was the latter.

Past dinner, a simple fare of fried, thick, pork sausages with Melisa’s home made bean stew,  topped with a poached egg and parmesan cheese, paying due compliments, Osborne excused himself from the table and took his favourite seat out on the balcony. The forest could be felt, smelt and heard but not seen. There was no moon. The sound made no sound but gave itself away anyway with a cold humidlessness. Melissa’s careless, clattering in the kitchen fuelled Osborne’s determination. He had half expected Monty to turn up and was still not sure he wouldn’t. He smouldered on a few cigarettes he retrieved from a secret stash in a garage draw. He was suddenly not sure of what his wife, Melissa knew about him.

It was by chance that Osborne met up with Maud in the city all that time ago. As Monty had said he was there getting his kidneys tested. The problem started out as a back ache thing about which he complained so often that Melissa suggested a visit to the local locum (should really be visiting locum, Ed.) who then referred him on to a specialist in the city. Nobody actually mentioned a kidney problem to Osborne and it was only when he received a written report from the city doctor a few weeks later that he realised, in fact, it was not a back problem, but instead pending kidney failure. Undeterred Osborne cracked open a new bottle of bourbon and passed out a few hours later on the couch where Melissa was used to covering him before retiring herself.

Getting back to the situation at hand; The imponderables of travel time to and from the city due to countless things that may or may not go wrong (road works, accidents, laden lorries etc.) a journey of ninety odd kilometres had Osborne leave his house in good time. But then, having an unusually clear run found himself at the hospital an hour before his scheduled appointment. He decided to buy cigarettes (a guilty pleasure we have already encountered) and a cappuccino at the take away across the street. Dragging lustily on a Camel (not sure that’s a reference anyone gets anymore. Ed.), his lust found his loins when a woman of obvious charms seemingly, hastily stopped cars before the pedestrian crossing slightly left of the café where Osborne was yet to sip his first sip of coffee.

A man, any man would watch with intent a woman who could command so much traffic even if it meant or he risked being offensive in his stare. That’s what didn’t go through Osborne’s empty head at that point. She seemed so at home in the dress she wore. It was not hounds tooth but it was white with uniform black bits on who knows what fabric. Gathered at the shoulders it cupped her, good grief, tits, as tits of that calibre should be cupped (and I thought he was going to use the well-worn, but more acceptable ‘ample breasts’ thing here. Ed.). A black, wet looking sash, tied, unevenly on the left, separated them from her lower and equally voluptuous torso before swishing off her hips and walk like a gay tomorrow. Her shoes were black stilettos with a metal sheath at the tips of the toe and the base of the heel like tap strands. She wore dark sun glasses and a bandanna the same material as her dress. Her hair, though Osborne, for some reason, thought it was long and blonde, did not, in reality, protrude beyond the bandanna. (Coma use. Ed.)

Osborne tried to pretend he had not been ogling the woman as she neared his table. He took his first sip from the dark, texturally, variegated, cardboard coffee cup he had been sold and lit another cigarette. Just as his nose caught sight of the confusing aroma of musk as the woman swayed past he heard, exclaimed;

“Osborne!”

He looked beyond his coffee cup and raised his head. It was Maud.

‘Maud!”

“What are you doing here?” they both asked in unison.

A settling or unsettling silence ensued.

Eventually both confessed to having a doctor’s appointment in an exchange too to and fro and convoluted for this humble scribe to replicate. though neither gave anything away about what their appointments might concern. Osborne invited her to sit. She was about to but then remembered she wanted coffee.

“I need coffee,” she said, “I’ll be right back.”

Osborne shifted uncomfortably in his chair. Should he have offered to get her coffee and not left her standing he wondered? No, he concluded. He had come across her, Maud, but a few times in their small village, they had barely spoken and while he did know of her and that she was married to what’s-his-name, and that she obviously knew of him, there seemed no rite to familiarity in this circumstance. He felt his behaviour was within the realms of expectation. His rationalisation, however, did not comfort him. His back ached and he felt glum as he awaited her return.

Maud did not choose to seat herself in the chair opposite Osborne as he expected she would when she returned but rather chose the one next to him and to his left which is the most intimate chair to be sitting in for a right handed male.

The vagaries of Maud’s choice occupied Osborne for a few moments and so when he answered reflexively “Yes,” to something she had just asked he did not really know to what he had just committed himself. But he was not one to trouble himself with details in his outward life so pushing on asked why Maud had reason to come to the city and specifically the hospital.

“I expect that’s a bit forward Osborne. It may be only coincidence that we are meeting at this location.”

“Perhaps,” a careless Osborne pursued sucking in and puffing out his smoke like a carbon tax exempt and slurping on his coffee. “But is it?”

It was only a small city in a regional part of the country. The hospital stood high on a hill and overlooked its entire surrounds. A good position for a fort had there been a need for one. The café was on the north side of the hospital and so had better sun in winter than it did in summer, especially in the morning, which was a good thing because winters were cold and summers were hot. On the morning that Maud sat east and Osborne sat north a tempered sun hampered Osborne’s view and nurtured Maud’s back.

Osborne was not to know that her troubles were great, that the telling of them was greater and that her desire to speak them out loud was greater still.  Ignorant of what he was working with he continued on with his flippancy and innuendo while she welled her tears and considered what or whether she should contrive. Ultimately she decided against contrivance. Silly Osborne had flattered her instep of all things throughout her turmoil, Even she had trouble figuring out what he meant by his architectural appreciation of what he called ‘her steely, red slippery slide.’ (The soles of her shoes were red, not that that makes the leap any easier. Ed.)

“I have a tumour in my brain that is likely to kill me within a year and I am here for more tests.” Maud said, or blurted.

“Really?” said cold Osborne almost stunned. “I am sorry to hear that,”

”Are you?” She asked presenting a steady turquoise gaze and a quivering lip.

He wasn’t, stunned that is, if the truth be told. He did not really know or care about Maud and the only reason he was giving her time was because secondly, she noticed him and approached or made her self known to him. Thence moving to firstly, it is not often that some apparent stranger who impresses you in the street turns out to be someone you know. Impressions by people you don’t know can, later on, inspire invented fantasies you can’t know for real but which you may still embrace, tweak and hold close to your heart, possibly forever. But if, by chance, known and unknown meet, as in the case above, everything is voided because you cannot decry the person from that which you know to be true about them.  Osborne tried to steer away from the quivering lip.

“I am here because my back aches,” he said returning a not so classy brown gaze. “I don’t do anything; the doctors are trying to find out why.”

“You drink,” she said with a full stop and as if she was God. “It’s your kidneys.”

“I drink a bit.”

“You drink a lot according to Snake (Alexander Adams. Ed), the bottle shop guy at the local pub. He boasts that he has to get Absinthe in for you. At least half a dozen bottles a week and he says that’s on top of the beer, bourbon and the other stuff you buy.”

“Snake, as you call him, has a big mouth.”

“It’s a small village and most of us do the usual thing….”

“Unlikely,” Osborne uttered at that juncture ignoring the rest of her comment.

“And yet, despite you waning interest, you agreed to meet my wife at Restaurant 14 overlooking the river at 7:00 pm that night since neither of you planned to return home that day and, curiously, were staying in the same Motel but a few minutes away.”

“Too true, so you know my every thought too.”

“But you didn’t turn up.”

“No. I changed my mind and drove home.”

“Why?”

“Old man here Monty. Leaving out the mechanics of the likeliness of the thing you seem to wish happened happening, the emotionality in situations like that are rarely what a man of my age is after.

‘I am gone.”

“Be nice if it stayed that way.”

"I got nothin' man." Andy replies, speaking on Skype to his friend Frank in Rock Hampton.

 

"What dyu mean, nothing, man you're in New York, for Christ's sake, there's gotta be umpteen stories out there".

 

...Andy met Frank at school and became good friends. They both played guitar and Frank, ever the ideas man asked Andy if he wanted to start a band together and Andy, ever the agreeable, of course agreed.

Not much came of it; babe in the wood was our Andy. They lost contact in 76 but Andy still kept thinking about Frank every now and again, in his quieter moments, and about all the stuff that went down. He tracked Frank down on Facebook and started up the friendship after having lost contact for over 30 years. Frank, still ever the ideas man asked Andy if he wanted to start up a blog, and of course Andy, ever the agreeable one, agreed. So it started; a new adventure and Andy felt inspired about everything once again.

 

They now have about 15 stories posted up on their blog under the pseudonyms of Gilbert and Jon...

 

"Yeah you'd think so, maybe there are but I can't think of any," Andy utters despondently, "inspiration seems harder to find than beef sausages here. I mean what are the children of Israel eating; they sure as hell can't eat pork sausages."

"Well there you go, write a story about that." Frank answers encouragingly.

"Ahh it's lame, man. I want something a bit more interesting, dark in texture, you know."

Dark? Whatcha gotta be dark about? You're in NY for your hols, you got a steady job, got a nice girlfriend, come on man. And anyway there's enough darkness around; doesn't make you a more intelligent or thoughtful writer just coz you're being dark you know?" Frank hopes he hasn't offended Andy in any way or made things worse by showing that melodrama isn't always a good thing. To his delight he hears Andy sing a tune

"Bad luck girls need lovin too

If I don’t love them who's going to?"

"New song?"

"An old, obscure one."

"No pun intended, I'm sure," jokes Frank,  "but no point in being the patron saint of the down and out, you know those people will suck you dry of everything you got, man ,that's what they do, they can't help themselves."

"I guess; then it must be just me, I must just like writing stories that are dark in nature."

"And yet you hate watching movies that are dark in nature, weird isn't it?" Frank's trying to point out something to Andy but it's too cryptic for him.

"Gurls love a good sob story."

"Are you writing for them?"

"I don’t know who I'm writing for? For myself I s'pose."

"Then?"

"Dunno" 

"Surely there's gotta be some dark 9/11 stories." Frank responds, keeping up the enthusiasm.

"They've all been written, surely and anyway nobody seems to be talking about it. And there's not even any residue from the Osama killing celebration 2 weeks ago."

"Really? That's strange; maybe they're trying to get on with their lives."

"Maybe they're not even thinking about it. They're too busy being New Yorkers. Must be tough having to be a New Yorker; lots of reputation to uphold."

Frank senses a glimmer of brightness and jumps on it.

"See, you should be writing about that stuff. It's funny man. Those new Yorkers got to be plenty of inspiration for millions of stories."

"Hhmm, I don't know. They're a strange lot. They're obviously part of that so-called New York buzz that resonates throughout the world but I don’t think they're aware of it..." Oh-0hh thinks Frank; lost it again... "They're all caught up in their world, either busy talking to themselves or giving out their opinions about the world yet they didn't even know where Australia was when I asked a man about getting a phonecard for Australia; he thought it was in Europe"... then just as suddenly as the sun can shine its light on a windy cloudy day, Andy comes up with, "Hey remember that Richard Clapton song 'passing trains'?"

"Yeah!" Frank answers apprehensively.

 "That bit about 'people always talking to themselves' in New York city is so right. It must be a New Yorker thing cos he wrote that in the 70's...  Anyway you could write a whole story about them in a few lines... They're trying, that's for sure; they're hanging on to the last vestige of a world long gone. I guess that same diversity that causes so much friction will also see them through." 

"You're right. You're exactly right but that's been going since forever. It'll all take care of itself." Frank agrees and advises, like a big brother to his sibling, consoling, trying his best to help his little brother find his muse.

"Hey how about the conspiracy stuff?" Asks Frank.

"Oh just go on the web for that crap or watch Hollywood movies; they're big on that stuff too." 'Andy's in for long haul here', thinks Frank, nothing is shifting him from that stubbornness of his. Frank keeps racking his brains out to come up with something that will get Andy out of his doldrums.

"Hang on here buddy", Frank suddenly exclaims "I got it, I've got the perfect story. Write a story about two characters where one is in New York and the other in Sydney but use our real names, Andy and frank instead of our pseudonyms Gilbert and Jon. The blog readers don't know our real names so use our real names as characters."

"Huh?"

"Well use our real names as characters in a story. And it's going to be so weird coz if you use our pseudonyms they're going to think it's a true story coz the readers know us as Gilbert and Jon. But if you use our real names they'll think it's a piece of fiction. Are you with me, Bud; are we on the same page here?"

 

"You're getting too weird for me now."

 

"Well you could start the story by having Andy ringing his mate, Frank and what conspires from that, you know, use what we're talking about now, as a basis for your story except use our real names, Andy and Frank."

 

"But they're only names anyway, why choose our real names I could use any names. Nobody knows our real names from a bar of soap; they only know us as Gilbert and Jon." There's no pleasing some people; Frank needs to think fast before Andy relapses into his misery.

 

"Okay, maybe you're right no one knows us as Andy and Frank anyway. Problem solved, kiddo, we use our pseudonyms. It'll make it more interesting coz the readers won't know if it's a story or if it's an account of truth."

Andy is feeling less depressed now, he can see a light at the end of the tunnel. "Good idea again, Franky boy, I'll use our pseudonyms, Gilbert and Jon. But you realize of course nobody reads them but our friends."

"That's okay, mate we'll mess with their brains." Frank replies jokingly but exhausted from the constant propping.

"Thanks, I'll work on that."

"Anything to help an old buddy," Frank jokes, relieved.

"Well on that note I better go, Amelia's still sleeping, it's 6a.m New York time. I've been up since 3:30. Thanks for taking my call, much appreciated."

"As I said anything for an old friend, just don't make it a habit." Frank laughs as does Andy.

 

Andy hangs up and goes to his laptop and tries out his new story:

 

"I got nothin' man." Gilbert replied, speaking on skype to his friend Jon in Rock Hampton.

 

"What dyu mean, nothing, man you're in New York, for Christ's sake, there's gotta be umpteen stories out there"

Gilbert and Jon met at school...

 

Andy stops and casts his mind to the day before; walking the streets, observing the passers-by, trying to find something to write about. It's just another city, he remembers thinking, he could be sitting on a park bench in Sydney, observing the young, the old, feeling just as alienated and being just as absurd for trying to connect with the world.

 

'The whole world is already connected,' he reflects, the old are set in their way, just as he is, and the young have their own idols to emulate just as he did when he was young.'

 

'The world is a shopping spree; it's a fashion parade; it's a world full of tourists acting out like pilgrims either referencing their lives to movie back-lots or something from their childhood. We have our freedom but all we do with it is shop till we drop. What happens when you're feeling empty and uninspired and shopping or tourism won't satisfy or inspire you? When someone else's pride in their history or heritage and the impact that it radiates upon them only depress you and make you feel more alienated?'

He decides he can't write that tripe; not entertaining enough, so he reflects on other matters to try and counter balance the initial thought. He can't help himself; he errs towards the moralistic and melodramatic.

 

'But that's what New York represents in a way, he thinks, trying hard to be serious and informative; trying to close the story on a positive note. New York is people running away from their heritage/history/past and starting over in a new world; a new chapter in the book of History to be written.

History is a dynamic organism.'

 

'Nothing is real; everything is permitted.' He remembers reading somewhere in his youth and had found it relevant but they don't really apply to History; people have suffered at the hands of history-making acts and they were definitely real to those people. Still he'd like to use those words in something one day.

 

How will the historians of the future view our world, how will they speak of us?

 

Things are being created all the time even if they seem to be just for show as compared to 'the old days when things were created for a purpose'; he read that on the wall which was part of the 'Preston Singletary: Echoes, Fire, and Shadows' Exhibition at the Museum of the American Indian. So does it matter if it's only for show? No, because it may be just floating about on show today but finds itself attached to a new place tomorrow, Andy muses, but the main thing is to keep creating things so as to feel relevant and needed. A little like the economy; gotta keep it going no matter what or else we'll die. It's a matter of survival; self preservation, now that we're living in a connected high tech environment. He thinks maybe he could use the term 'Nothing is real; everything is permitted' here in conjunction with the act of creating...

 

Andy is jolted from his thoughts by some noises in the bedroom; it's Amelia waking up from a good night sleep.

 

It's now 6:32a.m, he's been up for 3 hours, he makes some small talk and goes back to his laptop, saves what he has written so far and checks out the weather for today.

 

Central Park or the Bronx?

 

 

"Hey what's the difference between New York and Sydney?" Allen came out with it out of nowhere. I looked at him suspiciously and shook my head and kept walking. Was it one of those stupid 60's laugh-in jokes coming back into vogue like so many other things or was he leading me somewhere else.

When I didn't respond he came back with;

"Well?"

"Well what?"

"What's the difference between New York and Sydney?" This time he uttered it slower and with more emphasis like I was a little simple.

I responded simply by saying "If that's a bad joke, I'm not interested, if it's not I'm even less interested."

Them there are fightin' words to someone like Allen.

"So you're happy to just lead this shallow oblivious life and not want to know anything."

"Yes, I'm happy to be living this shallow life and not wanting to know anything that's deep."

This time it was my turn to be patronising. I knew what he was trying to achieve. He wanted to make me feel like I was this ignorant soul walking the surface of this earth not aware of anything beyond what was in front of my eyes.

"So you're not interested?"

"Nope!"

He kept throwing me daggers, I kept dodging them as we kept walking and looking just like any other tourist.

He was chomping at the bit to tell me;

"Well suit yourself."

"I will."

I knew I would have to come up with something so I just reiterated "Hey man if you want to get all deep and mysterious that's fine, I'm not interested. That's all there is to it."

"You're not interested? Anyway it's not 'deep and mysterious'" he parodied, trying to show me up as though I was stupid. I kept looking ahead, slightly irritated and as a result was unable to enjoy the scenery.

"The answer to my riddle is that there is none." He couldn't help himself; he had to come out and say what it was he was dying to say.

"None what?" I knew that response would get to him.

"What do you mean, none what?"he asked, in agitation.

"I don’t know you said it."

 "There is no difference."

As he said that an African American guy dressed in his homey gear, walked past us muttering some hip hop lyrics to a beat only he could hear, so I took the opportunity to press on with his argument.

"So that guy there walking around in his own world, thinking about how to rhyme those words together so he can come up with a song that will show us his perspective is the same as you and me walking around here looking at buildings all day."

"Yes he's just like you and me."

"Duh!"

"I'm not talking about individuals, I'm talking about the cities. I mean all the cities are shells of what they used to be, caricatures, tourist destinations. Nothing's happening anymore. We're no longer localised, we're globalised, homogenised and categorised." Said purposely in a hip-hop fashion, which I ignored categorically.

"And?" 

 "There are no differences anymore."

"Well there is to me, NY is like Gotham City. Sydney is bright easy on the eye and out to please."

"Where have you been for the last decade? Sydney's not out to please. Sydney is a sheep like the rest of the world."

"Well who cares about cities, I'm more interested what the people in those cities do and I think we're all different."

"Not anymore we're all the same, we're all one big family, some happy, some shitty but there's nothing to prove anymore; we're just all actors. There are no differences anymore.

"That's your prerogative. I want to believe in differences. I see differences everywhere."

"But it's only superficial... He-llowww!" Allen said like some character in those American sitcoms

"Now who's being a sheep." I pounced but he didn't seem to catch on.

 

"Sometimes you have to be just to make people see," he pounced back, "the West has no more history to make. All it's doing is to try and convince the rest of the world that it is still viable by calling upon its once glorious past and trying to re-enact it, to instil some sort of moral, honour and responsibility in all of us but there aren't any; we've surpassed all morality and scruples. It's 'dog eat dog' just for the sake of it. We're on the dark side of all those virtues; we're fundamentalists. We're defiant because the books and movies tell us to be but most of the time we don't deserve to be; we got to earn that right. It's all just an act for the rest of TV land. The only differences between all cities or between 'individuals' as you're so inclined to dwell on, are superficial."

I didn't dare interrupt while he was on his soap box as he tends to get louder and more frustrated and it can be quite embarrassing when you're in a crowd with him so I let him have his little rave and put in my 2bob's worth.

"Aren't all differences on a 'superficial' level? I mean there's Human nature then there's differences, so shut the f**k up and let me be a sheepish tourist, awroight." I had no idea why I said that; I'm not even sure it made sense but at the time it felt the right thing to say in response to his idiotic theory; for all I knew I could have been way off the mark.

 

Allen was getting irritated and I wanted him to be, he spoilt my day so why not frustrate the crap out of his.

"Tony, Tony, Tony, you kill me, mate. You can't be that shallow, can you?"

"Uhuh! I sure can." That would get to him, for sure. He shook his head and looked straight ahead but what he really wanted to do was to give me another serve but he obviously thought better of it.

 

Truth be known, Allen had gotten to me. He did make me feel like I had missed some point somewhere that he had detected and that I was oblivious to. I hated that. I felt like this little butterfly fluttering about from flower to flower while he was deep in his dungeon, like Igor, reflecting upon all theories that allure most of us. He continued with his explanations why there was no real difference between Sydney and New York but I didn't allow it to faze me, the way his theories and observations of everyone's action, including mine, used to when we were younger.

 

Well this time I wasn't going to agree with him. I could see differences in everyone whether it'd be as a result of having been in contact with someone else and taking on parts of that person's demeanour; it was still a variation from the other person.

 

I read in the weekend paper sometime back that every event had been declared a work of Art; a story, a show, a picture to be written, an act to be performed, to be displayed in such a way so as to make the creator seem clever and agile.

Art, they asserted, was no longer the sacred cow; it had been knocked off its colluded pedestal and was now on every street corner where it truly belonged.

 

'One man's Art is another man's tripe', was the title of the article.

 

The purists stood steadfast and shouted on virtual demonstration sites that Art was dead while the post modern 'revolutionary bums', proud and defiant, argued that it was alive and kicking arse.

The purists firmly believed that Art gave them an identity, a raison d’être, a sense of power and if every Tom, Dick and Harriett was allowed to submit their mundane activities as 'works of Art’ then they’d lose the prestige and the singularity of their existence.

"There'd be no more differentiality, just another battler in the game of life trying to connect with the world...and in this world of connectivity...Well! Need I go on?" The head purist complained. 

 

A 60's rights activist took this opportunity to go off on a tangent, venting out his frustration about those comedians 'dressed in character' who believed it gave them the prerogative to be politically incorrect after what his generation had gone through in order that we could enjoy a world of justice and equality. The comedians claimed to be merely mirrors to a society that had lost its way. "I feel the whole world is clutching at straws and desperation is strangling us all." The 60's activist responded.

 

'Of course, that claim about everything being Art gives every two bit punk an excuse to commit atrocious crimes and call it ‘Art'. Exclaimed a baby boomer artist.

 

That last piece got my attention and took me back to the time when I was 18 or so. I was going out with a girl called Narelle and our encounter with this guy who saw himself as an artist, and claimed that, as a result, everything he did was a work of art.

 

Simon was his name, he was from out of town, a surly good looking kid; the weight of the world on his shoulders but good with it. He was unreadable and detached yet he remained undeterred from all the curiosity targeted towards him.

 

He was a non conformist to the point of being self destructive. Once he wore an outfit that someone had found to be pleasantly befitting; he turned up the next time, foul smelling, unshaven, hacked hair, dirty finger nails, loud t-shirt with purple pants and wore holey socks with dirty thongs. 

 

He had a chip on his shoulder and was out to prove to the world that he wasn’t putting up with any of its demands. He was a well-read man, with a photographic memory and a hyperactive imagination that he would find pleasure in putting into action.

His blinkered mind took him places no ordinary men dared to tread. No ordinary man had the gumption; the type of unwavering single mindedness to keep going no matter what the cost.

He affirmed that he was an artist from the get go.

 

I didn’t know any of this at the time; I thought he was just a bad actor like the rest of us; all talk, no action.

But no, he was living the dream while I was biding my time in a factory, sorting people's garbage and pulling out paper to be recycled.

I'd gotten myself in a jam and couldn't think my way out of it.

 

My girlfriend at the time was treating me like a yoyo; one minute we were meant for each other, the next I should be going out with other girls; not her fault; she didn't know what she really wanted, I guess. Most people don't.

We have a vague idea but when it becomes unattainable we drift onto other things. That was okay with me. I figured that was just Life.

I would drift from one situation and into the next without attaching too much thought to any of my actions.

 

Narelle wasn't really my type, I knew that from the start, but I was young and open to circumstances like so many others my age.

 

Somebody who actually fancied Narelle but obviously thought she was out of his league told me in passing that she was one girl I couldn't get. I had a reputation of being a nonchalant kid and might have seemed arrogant and cocksure to others; I obviously must've acted that way for them to perceive those traits but I wasn't, I was just stoned most of the time and saw life as a bit of a comedy act.

 

So to show him that she wasn't that out of reach, I asked her out. I figured it would've been just for a date and we would then go our separate ways. I was only doing it for Graham. I was out for some fun and so was she, obviously, except our idea of fun differed from each other's.

 

I loved to watch while she loved to perform.

 

She was engaged to a Peter Lewis. When she had told him she was leaving him for me, he asked if he could have a talk with me. I can see his face now, his big sad doughy eyes; his 'John and Merivale' gear, looking like those rock stars from swinging London time but it was all just an act to try and attract a girl. He was shy and couldn't look you in the eyes for too long. He almost cried when he told me how much he loved her and the thought of being without her was unbearable. I shrugged my shoulders as though it wasn't my fault and conveniently explained that those things happen and no one was to blame, really.

 

Usually I wasn’t one to participate in people’s schemes; I liked to watch from afar; I found it to be more entertaining, watching them act out their childish cruel games. I saw everything as an act; even sex was just an act to me but I wasn’t a good actor; I was nervous and felt claustrophobic in every situation I found myself in. I much preferred to daydream so I panicked slightly when I found myself in a relationship with her; it hadn't meant to be like that.

 

I didn’t need challenges to make me feel alive or to get the juices flowing, to use an obscene term. My challenge was to stay put and not panic while everything else was going on around me; that sudden feeling of being alone and alienated from everything around you.

 

Narelle, on the other hand, was easily bored and loved playing games; she was a performer; she was young and full of herself so I would step forward and put a stop to her conduct by verbally abusing her and making her feel worthless every time she got on her pedestal or tried to steal the show.

She always had to be the centre of attention.

She had no idea about what I was about and she didn't want to know; long as she had company, she was okay. Mind you, looking back, I didn't know either what I was about; I was just following footsteps like everyone else.

 

And those footsteps had led me into something outside of my comfort zone.

 

So to cut a long story short, the three of us somehow started hanging out with one another.

It used to really annoy me the way she'd always try and win his attention.

He was always coming up with ridiculous contests for us to participate in; I went along with them just so I wouldn't look like a fool to Narelle.

I just didn’t feel comfortable whenever he came around with his ideas that would excite her; I felt inadequate, knowing that she’d be impressed by them, knowing I couldn’t come up with an alternative. Well I could but she wouldn’t have appreciated it and would’ve found it boring.

I’d be standing there fuming and thinking about what I’d do to her once we got home, watching her gloat in the situation, almost flirting, forgetting I was even there and putting her two bob worth into the mix.

“What do you think, Francis? Isn’t it just a fantastic idea?” she’d say to me almost dismissively, slightly turning her face towards me, while keeping her eyes on him and grinning from here to Timbuktu, where I wanted to hurl her to.

 

The challenge he suggested was to target an area and break into houses that were far enough away from each other to avoid connection. We were to steal something insignificant like a piece of fruit or a jar of peanut butter and leave a note hidden inconspicuously which promptly and proudly claimed 'you’ve just been robbed.'  

 

The challenge was not to wake the people up and of course not get caught in the process.

 

I didn’t think it was that impressive but Narelle seemed to be beside herself and almost defied me to do it, while still grinning and looking straight at him; she had an alibi now, wouldn’t matter what and in what tone I flung verbal put-downs at her when we got home; I’d look cowardly and foolish even if I ordered her to put a stop to that nonsense and to call him and to tell him that she wouldn’t be in it.

 

"Are you in or out?" Simon asked defiantly.

I didn't answer.

"It's Performance Art, you know" he said as though I should've known this all along, he looked away somewhere then corrected himself  "it's actually Realism Art" he said with a nauseating smirk on his face.

"Wankerism more like it." I thought; I didn’t want to seem to be the odd man out.

Even though Narelle wasn't my type, I didn't want to lose face in front of her; I was losing my grip on her and I couldn't afford to lose anymore; it was just a pride thing, I guess.

 

The next week when we met at Simon's and I was wearing a light coloured t-shirt, he sighed and looked away in disbelief.

"Mate, why don't you just bring a whistle with you too so you can blow it every time we get near a place." He knew how to make you feel small. He went to his bedroom and got me a black t-shirt.

I could feel Narelles's eyes burning right through me.

She could've told me before leaving but why would she; that was her chance to make me look foolish. He; they expected me to be up on everything they were doing; it wasn't my idea of intrigue and so I wasn't interested. Of course, because of my lack of interest in everything, it made me look like a bumbling idiot, never up with the latest goings on and expectations. That was my biggest mistake. If I've learnt anything in life it's 'don't stay in a place where you don't belong'. I was just there for the ride; to try and be a man for Narelle; a man for someone I didn't really get on with but felt stuck.

 

It was as if I was outside my own body and watching myself, looking like a clown with a stupid grin on my face all the while trying to stay one step ahead of a total breakdown and embarrassment.

 

First of all it had to be a moonless night, a house with no burglar alarm, with no hint of undesirables lurking about in the dark in the form of a canine and it had to be on a quiet street. We had to approach it in a certain way so as not to disturb anything; obvious, idiotic rules designed to impress idiotic fools.

   

He played with the backdoor lock and we all shuffled inside in the half dark lit by his dull flashlight. He found a bowl full of fruit and pulled out a banana from the pile and replaced it with his manifesto at the bottom of the bowl. In other words the people living there wouldn't find it till they emptied out the bowl; big deal.

This charade went on twice a week for about a month. On the second house of the last week of the month just as we were about to get away with a silver spoon, we were startled by the ominous sound of a light switch and the brightness it yielded, followed by an old sounding wavering voice " What are you doing?"

We turned around and found what we had expected; an old man in his pj's standing in the doorway, unafraid but mindful of the situation.

 I remember admiring his gall.

"It's alright, old man go back to your dream." Simon whispered mockingly and patronisingly.

"I beg your pardon."

"It's okay, old man; we don't have time to explain. It's okay we didn't steal anything. Just relax and go back to beddy-byes and dream about the good old days, unless you want trouble" Simon said like he was talking to a naughty child.

The old man was getting furious and wasn't going to take any of Simon's nonsense; he'd been through hell and back and he wasn't going to take it lightly.

"Don't talk to me in that tone, you little punk, now get the fuck out of here before I call the cops, you no good little cowards" the old man yelled as he came towards us like he was going to hit us.

Simon pushed him backwards and the old man hit his head against the table as he fell heavily. We all looked down at him and he looked like he had lost consciousness so we left him there and ran out; quietly of course.

In the car, Simon blurted out "You always have to know when it's time to stop something and I reckon it's the right time to stop now."

Narelle and I didn't say anything; we just stared at the yellow light in front of us as we felt blurred objects swoop past us. Simon was raving about the irony of it all. 'That's what Art teaches us you know; the irony of life.'

Narelle didn't respond. I never did; so he wasn't bothered by my silence. Narelle though, usually carried on like a wind up doll but not that night; she wasn't herself or maybe she was; maybe the incident had jolted her back to being her true self; just your run of the mill, suburban girl biding her time till the inevitable caught up with her; a family of her own to give purpose to her life.  

When we arrived at our flat, Simon said "Okay, well I'll see you around and hey don't worry too much about what happened back there; that's life, remember that. He was in the wrong place at the wrong time. That's irony for you."

I opened the door, got out first then Narelle, while still holding the car door I turned to him and growled through gritted teeth. "Wrong place at the wrong time? It was his fucking house, arsehole. Someone could be dead as a direct result of our actions. What's friging ironic about that?" I stared right into his piercing blue eyes waiting for an answer.

"Our intent wasn't to harm anyone. It was to make people aware of their complacency. Yet it was his awareness that caused his demise."

"You insane prick; it was our action that caused his demise."

"That's right, that's what I'm talking about you thickhead."

 

I had nothing more to say to him and slammed the door in his face.

 

Narelle and I didn't speak to each other; we just went to bed and woke up feeling the same way. I went to work, it was Friday.

 

On the Saturday while reading the paper, I came across an article about an old war hero meeting his accidental lonely tragic death and what a cruel irony it was that a man who had fought and survived two great wars and was, according to his neighbours, conscious of safety around the house should meet his death in such a way. He was only 62 years old but looked older.

 

I passed the paper to Narelle; she read it and looked back at me. I didn't want to say ' I told you so.' It was more complicated than that.

I just said "I don't want to be with you anymore. Either you leave or I will. I don't really care but I don't want to spend a minute longer here with you."

She hadn't expected me to say that; she froze from the unexpected shock.

"Where will you go?"

"I'll find somewhere. Maybe you'd rather be with Simon; you could move in with him and I could stay here."

She knew exactly what I meant by that and I knew she knew.

"I never wanna see his face ever again. I hate the bastard. What are we gonna do about this?"

"A bit late for your concerns isn't it?" I answered clinically and reiterated "well what's it to be you go or do I go?"

"Is this the right time to be discussing this? I don't wanna go and I don't want you to go either."  I should've felt like I had won the battle but I felt miserable and ashamed and worst of all, hypocritical. 'The irony of life', I found myself pondering over as I glared at her.

I just wanted out of there. I was standing my ground. "WHAT'S IT TO BE?"

"Oh please let's not talk about this now" she pleaded in a quivering voice.

"I'm going then. I'll just pack my bare essentials and go. You can keep the rest."

I had never felt so strong and determined in my life, yet it all seemed futile compared to the reason for me feeling so.

She started to cry and I just got up and packed my bags, gathered my albums, stereo and other essentials, put them in my station wagon, took off and never looked back.

 

It took a nasty incident to sort out my life and it was a lesson well learnt.

 

I'm now part owner in a viable removalist business. I also dabble in writing short stories; my friend and I have a blog site where we post our stories. It's just a bit of fun.

I'm in a healthy relationship and all in all my life has turned out okay.

I don’t know what has happened to Simon or Narelle. They’re just vague images to me now; they’re not part of what is currently within my frame of reference.

Even that ghastly incident seems like a bad dream. I’ve either talked myself into thinking that or truly believe that it had nothing to do with me; after all it wasn’t my idea.

I’m guilty of being weak but not of directly causing the demise of an innocent victim.

Well as I've said before, I've somehow convinced myself that I wasn't responsible.   

 

The irony of life, indeed!

 

 

 

 

 

 

Most folks have, at one time or another, thought that they caught sight of someone out of the corner of their eye when they entered a room they expected to be vacant, or empty and which, in fact, was. Some have continued to feel that presence long after the initial feeling though without ever witnessing anything or being able to talk about it plausibly with their friends. The author does not guarantee that this tale is plausible.

Osborne Flank, a short, sure, and bald, retired fellow carrying only slightly more weight than he should began to see things, or thought he saw things, people mostly, many, many years before we find him on this day collecting his wife from the local municipal library. His wife, Melissa, a chatty and popular librarians assistant who was aware of her husband’s visions, if they could be called that, as well as his ways, and whose interests included the Tarot, Runes and other things ominous and supernatural noted her husband’s uneasiness as he followed her down a flight of wooden steps. He had arrived a little early that Friday afternoon to pick her up and take her home and had agreed to accompany her to the archive store in the basement of the building just before they departed. “Are you alright,” she asked without turning back to look at him. One of Melissa’s talents was a spectacular peripheral vision or possibly, simply female intuition. But whatever it was she was not one to miss any nuance in any situation especially where her husband was concerned. He told her he thought he saw someone, to which Melissa did not reply. She continued clip clopping down the stairs with a slightly jittery husband hard on her heels.

Let us not get banal here. The building had no record of a murder, a rape, a death of any kind or any sort of traumatic event ever happening there unless you count Mrs Morton’s hysterical outrage when a drunken Frank Forte mistook the alcove where Mrs Morton was perusing the gardening books for the male toilets, or that’s what he slurred, and began a copious watering of the books on the lower shelf until startled by Mrs Morton, jerked left and finished the job on her favourite, green shoes. Not even its original curator who had quite a history according to local legend could have possibly been present. He drowned in a nearby sound when the boat he was in, returning shortly after dark from a day’s fruitless fishing [how could they know? ed.], had its hull ripped open by a submerged something-or-other and sank. He was not a swimmer and nor was his companion, the boat owners brother and the local farrier. The curator’s relationship with the farrier’s may have been suspicious in that instance and in those circumstances but even if it was it has nothing whatsoever to do with where we are going here.

“Who did you think you saw?” Melissa asked opening the front door of their house.

“Monty Greenwald”

“Really? How strange?”

“Yes,” said Osborne, “I thought he was still alive.”

“He is,” said his wife. “He borrowed ‘Boots, Bras and Life at Twenty’ by Gosford South earlier this afternoon. Said he was going to have a quiet week end at home because his wife, Maud, was visiting her sister in Wattford for the weekend.

“Strange,” observed Osborne.

His wife thought about suggesting he drink a little less but then thought better of it. While she did not approve of his taste for bourbon he was not belligerent or aggressive when he drank, unless challenged and he left her alone in matters where she preferred to be left alone.

They both sat down to dinner shortly after walking through the door. The slow cooker had produced a succulent lamb stew in their absence. It was a magical thing that cooker. It went about its business while they both went about theirs. Osborne’s wife just had to feed it with something in the morning and turn it on before her husband drove her to work. She completed their fare with a little instant couscous seasoned and minted.

Dinner went in the usual way. Osborne’s wife talked about her day and those petty grievances she faced to which Osborne would nod, offer condolences, encouragement, whatever while complimenting her on the food. He had little social contact himself and so had nothing he could realistacally share. Realising this, his wife sometimes tried to solicit a conversation that concerned his day.

“Are you sure it was Monty?” Melissa asked.

“Certain,” said Osborne, “he was wearing that same dirty, pale blue baseball cap that he always wears.”

“There are probably plenty of dead folks out there with dirty pale blue baseball caps,” replied his wife without morbidity.

Osborne thought that a bit inane but he was not one to criticise his wife unduly so he did not. But then he did go on to describe the apparition, if that’s what it was, as wearing the same equally dirty grey work pants that Monty might, the same red flannel shirt that Monty might, smoking the same odorous pipe that Monty smoked (did she not, momentarily, smell the smoke that Osborne reckoned he did?) and sported, for lack of a better word, the same flaming red hair and beard that Monty did.

“Oh,” said his wife. And then after a pause and before going off to wash the dishes she said, “maybe he had come back to the library.”

Osborne did not comment further. What he saw was fleeting. And if it was Monty then it also wasn’t. He was perplexed but not disturbed.

*

Osborne’s day since retirement had become routine, not that it wasn't before. He awoke each morning at 7.00am exactly without an alarm clock, made tea and toast for his wife and himself, putting out the honey for her and the marmalade for himself and then waited while she did her thing before driving her to work at 8:20am. It was a ten minute journey. On his way back to their home he stopped off at the local convenience store and bought a paper and any other supplies he thought he might need on any given day but more often than not he bought just the paper.

After returning home Osborne then spent 2 hours on the deck overlooking the sound in which the first curator drowned with the paper - one hour reading it, the second hour doing the two crossword puzzles enclosed therein. It was a ritual for him. There were things to be laid out on the wooden table before he started, a mechanical pencil, a mechanical eraser and then there were a combination of refreshments to prepare, on demand, as he progressed through the various sections of the paper - two teas, one coffee. By the time he finished the sports pages he had one quarter of the only cup of coffee he drank in a day remaining in his cup. This was always cold by then and discarded. Osborne was so enslaved by this ritual that if it was not performed with cold meticulousness his day was ruined and he did not come good again until the ritual could be reinstated, usually on the following day. His wife knew this about him.

Two days after the incident at the library, Sunday, Osborne was unable to buy a newspaper at the local store due to some industrial disruption in the city by delivery drivers. In a word or four, he was beside himself. The Sunday paper was his favourite paper and something he looked forward to from Monday. It was different than the daily’s in that it had news, magazines and a completely different crossword puzzle. Good grief in a Sunday paper three or four weeks ago Osborne read that Jesus and his brother Ouriki [who knew Jesus had a brother? ed.] were in fact buried in Herai in the Aomotri Prefecture on the Northern Honsiu Island, Japan. You don’t learn stuff like that in the daily’s. Osborne paced up and down the news stand for a good fifteen minutes touched by a mauve scowl and stifling a perpetual growl beneath his breath before deciding to leave the store. He considered buying a crossword book, he considered buying a magazine but left frustrated and forthright without buying anything. The girl behind the counter, who was new, thought his behaviour strange and considered calling the police.

When he arrived home his wife, foolishly watering the marigolds by the drive noticed his agitation and was about to ask him what was wrong when she saw he was empty handed.

Osborne knew that his wife knew that he was not happy and bowed curtly in her direction in the hope of staving her off. It worked; she could not possibly fathom the depth of this breach in his usual routine and wanted to be left alone to work with it by himself.

Osborne continued inside and set the table as he always did. A mechanical pencil, a mechanical eraser and then made tea for his wife and himself. Leaving his wife’s cup by the kettle he took his to the table and set it in the usual place, to his right as if to leave room for a newspaper. He did not know what to do with himself. It was a warm sunny day but that was something he did not normally notice until returning from making his second cup of tea having already read that in the paper.

Shortly, his wife joined him with the tea she knew he made for her.

“No newspaper,” she said tentatively.

“No,” said Osborne.

“Spewin’,” she articulated.

“Indeed,” said he. “There is a delivery driver strike in the city.”

“Spewin’,” she said again as if to comfort him.

Melissa knew that she could not alleviate her husband’s anxiety at that point and so did not even try. They sat in silence. She, sipping her tea, he letting his grow cold, staring into the forest beyond their balcony and fidgeting as if in need of a cigarette.

After a while, unable to contain his angst any longer Osborne told his wife he was going for a walk in the forest and got up and left without waiting for a response. She had no intention of replying anyway. She watched as he crossed the yard below the balcony to the back gate and thought that maybe if he mowed the lawn, which definitely needed it, he might get over himself. But in her heart of hearts she sincerely doubted it - her husband was a slave to chancelessness who did things in his own time.

Osborne strode with determination along the forest path to the bluff where there was a bench on which he could sit and survey all that was his world. Something he suddenly felt he had to do. It was not cold but his hands were thrust deep in his pockets. His head was bowed so that he looked no more than two or three feet beyond his leading toe noting only the ruts and roots crossing the clay path. His mind was a mess. The pines and the gentle breeze bid hush to any that thought of disturbing him, though it was not necessary. Every bird, wombat, snake, echidna, waratah, wallaby and kangaroo in the forest could have stood at the edge of the track he trod and cheered him along his way but he would not have noticed. He was elsewhere.

He did not even raise his head, at first, when he arrived at the bluff and took a seat on the bench. It’s hard to say exactly where his mind was at the time but it was probably with the large colony of bull ants to the left of the bench that thus far had not breached his personal space. The bluff was created years ago by a quarrying company who harvested sandstone in the region and was a perfect suicide venue though not a popular one. One or two people had died jumping off it over the years – the farrier’s brother for one – they were an unlucky family, but so far there had been no jumpers, as far as any locals knew, where the reason had been that transport had been disrupted in the city.

Osborne thought he was dreaming.

“1 down, 5 letters – aids in a crime.”

“Abets,” he said complying.

“3 down, 5 letters – fables.”

“Tales,” said Osborne.

“Wrong, try again.”

“Myths”

“6 down, 5 letters again – lovers meeting.”

“Tryst.”

1 across, two words, 4 letters then 3 letters – Insect

“Army ant.”

“Very Good.”

At this point Osborne awoke or joined the real world again only to find that perhaps it wasn’t the one he expected. Sitting beside him on the bench was Monty Greenwald puffing on his pipe. Osborne feigned a start though he was not actually startled but he definitely had not heard Monty approach.

“Monty, what are you doing here?”

“Those are a few of the clues from the crossword you are missing today Osborne.”

“Really?”

“Yes.”

“I say again, what are you doing here Monty?”

“I am not actually here Osborne but I did come to talk to you.”

“In all the time that I have known you Monty we have uttered, perhaps, three dozen words in greeting each other at close range and nodded toward each other in greeting perhaps two dozen more from long range. Why, today, now do we have to have a conversation?”

“You flirted with and encouraged my wife about two years ago but then, when the time came, you didn’t follow through.”

Osborne contemplated Monty’s remark for a few moments while he reacquainted himself with the profile of the ranges to the west beyond the sound. Then turning briefly to face Monty said, “Tell me Monty, which part of that upsets you the most? That I flirted with Maud or that I didn’t sleep with her.”

“You don’t deny it?”

“Would it make a difference?”

“No.”

‘What do you mean you are not actually here?”

“I am, at this point, lying beside my wife on our bed at home,” said Monty, “and have not left her side for 43 hours.”

“You must need to pee pretty badly ‘round about now then,” said Osborne.

Monty said nothing.

“Melissa said you said Maud was going to Wattford for the weekend.”

“My wife, as you know is dying,” said Monty, “And you know because while my wife was attending the hospital in the city for chemotherapy treatment you were also attending the hospital to have some tests done on those kidneys you abuse. My wife is embarrassed by her circumstance and I am mortified. She bravely, manoeuvres through her day job during the week but it extracts much from her physically and so on weekends she tries to recover. We use these excursions as an excuse not to be seen anywhere.”

“And you are not here telling me this.”

“I am not here telling you this.”

‘How?”

“When my wife learnt she had an inoperable cancer that would ultimately kill her and sooner rather than later she began to spend nearly every hour away from work and commitments simply lying on our bed. If I wanted to spend time with her, which I did, then I had to lie with her. It appeared to me, or appealed to my vanity, that somehow or other she gained strength from my close proximity.

“When we first tried this I jiggled and jostled until I found some comfortable situation where I could sleep. But it was not right for Maud. My restlessness and my sleep aggravated her condition rather than eased it. Eventually I learnt that I must lie in a certain way and not move at all until Maud roused herself, strongish and ready to face the next day.

“Initially they were relatively short periods of non-movement because she eventually fell asleep but as time went by even in her sleep she could detect the slightest movement from myself which would wake her and reinstate her pre sleep, screaming headache status.

“So I learnt not to move for hours on end. And in learning to keep my physical self still over a year or two I learnt something else – I could present my metaphysical self, if that is the right term, anywhere I pleased and to whom ever I pleased as if there in person.”

“Bullshit.”

“I am here aren’t I?”

At that his outline, silhouette, whatever, lit up like a sparkler hovered right, in an arc 90, 93 degrees, featureless, in the sitting position he was in until he was positioned opposite Osborne but on no bench and suspended above the bluff.

“I have a plan,” he said.

Osborne was about to ask what it was but realised, after uttering the first two syllables of his question that he was addressing dissipating smoke. Sitting quietly for a while, as he first thought he would do throughout; he pondered imponderables, the unusual milkiness of the water in the sound below, for one, a ghost that was not a ghost ultimately for another. A crow cawed as it flew past. Nothing else seated so eventually Osborne headed home.

Upon his return Osborne did not tell his wife about his meeting at the bluff and of his own accord mowed the lawns that afternoon after a lunch of deep fried oysters done in the Chinese way with a macadamia nut batter and wilted iceberg lettuce with oyster sauce and Melissa’s own secrets.

 

To be continued.....