Two Old Men

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!