Two Old Men

"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?