That Can't Be Good

I saw a guy jogging on the road, as I was heading over to a friend's place. He had an athletic build and muscular legs in dark blue shorts with white stripes down the side, which I thought looked good on him. 

But, he had work boots on his feet. 

WTF?, I thought.

Then I realised it was Jethro.

I slowed down next to him and rolled down my window. “Hey, Jethro, what you got on your feet, boy?”

“I gotta keep runnin’ if I want to make the team.”

“Yes, but Jethro what have you got on your feet?”

“I gotta make the grade this season, that way Inga will go with me to the end of year ‘do’.”

“That’s all well and good, Jethro, but what are you runnin’ in?”

“I like Inga and Inga likes footy players, so Arnold tells me.”

“Yes, yes, Inga the blonde, very nice, but what the hell are you runnin’ in those shoes for?”

“I like Inga, so I gotta keep runnin’”

“Jethro, where are your runnin’ shoes, boy?”

“My runnin’ shoes?”

“Yes, your runnin’ shoes? Where are your runnin’ shoes?”

“Oh, you mean me Nike Airs?”

“Yes, Jethro, where are your Nike Airs?”

“Oh, Billy-Ray’s got them.”

“Billy-Ray’s got them?”

“Yes, Billy-Ray’s got them.”

“Why has Billy-Ray got your runnin’ shoes, Jethro?”

“It's all about training and Rita Row.”

“Rita Row?”

“Does the catering at the footy with Inga.”

“The dark-haired one?”

“Yep, with the pretty smile.”

“Does she like footy players too?”

“Why do you think she does the catering?”

“Is this also according to Arnold?”

“Yeah, how did you know?”

“Oh, just a lucky guess, I, er, guess,” I said. “But what’s with the shoes?”

“Oh, Billy-Ray couldn’t find his trainers?”

“So, why does he have yours.”

“Oh, you know.”

“Ah, no, I don’t know.”

“For training.”

“But don’t you train with him?”

“Yeah, I do.”

“And he’s got yours?”

“Yes.”

“So, how’s he off for jocks and socks then?”

“Yeah, he wears my socks & jocks too.”

“You guys will be sleeping together next?”

“Oh, come on, let’s not have any of that talk…”

“When he’s getting into your undies…”

“Yeah, but I’m not in them at the time.”

“You seem to be getting very close.”

“Yeah, Billy-Ray and I are, and you know if I was gonna go gay for anyone…”

“It would be Billy-Ray.”

“You know, lots of folks would tell you he’s a good sort, you know, the girls mostly, but I’m sure not always… er, girls…”

“Anyone in the footy club?”

“And ya know, I could do a lot worse than Billy, but you know hairy arses, and kissing a stubble chins, I just couldn’t see it.” Jethro laughed. “Not that I have ever thought about kissing Billy-Ray.”

“So why has he got your trainers?”

“Oh, he thought they were his, it was all a mistake. He took mine thinking they were his, for training Monday arvo.”

“So, what are you doing out here jogging in your boots?”

“Oh, I just felt like a run, clear my head.”

“I bet you cursed Billy.”

“Oh yeah, there was some cursing involved, but what can you do, what’s done is done.”

“Why didn’t you go and get them?”

“He’s out with Rita Row.”

“So, he’s got past the 'interest' stage then?”

Jethro looked at his watch. “He may well have got past first base by this time.” Jethro laughed.

“So, you and Inga then.”

“Yeah, me and Inga, we’ve got a date Saturday night.”

“So that’s got past 'just interest' too?”

“Yeah, first step towards the end of year ‘do’ for me and her. The date Saturday night.”

“Yeah, I knew what you meant.”

“I was dateless last year…”

“I see. You’re putting in some planning for this year.”

“So, anyway, I’d better keep running, working on my boyish figure for Saturday night.”

“Well, be careful in those boots.”

“Yeah, Josh, sure will.”

“That can’t be good for you.”

“You gotta do what you gotta do.”

“I guess.”

You Thought What Was Bad?

You know what is worse than men in lycra? Men in lycra that is too big for them. Especially in white. And shiny. They look like an egg that has been painted by Dali. The physical embodiment of the melting clock standing before you.

“Come on Toby, me love, time to go,” says David.

“Oh, yes, David, just a moment while I get up.”

“Give me your hand, old man,” says David. “Alley oop!”

“Oh, yes, that makes it much easier,” says Toby.

“I’m getting my bike.”

“I’m paying the bill.”

“Straighten you suit,” says David. “It’s all hanging down…”

“What?”

“At the back.”

“What?”

“The back, mate, the back,” says David. “Pull it round, or tuck it in.”

“These suits aren’t what they used to be.” Toby gives his buzz saw laugh.

“Not only the suits…”

“What’s that?”

“I said not only the suits.”

“Not only the suits?”

“It’s not just the suits,” says David. 

“Oh.”

David puts his knuckles to each side of his head. “Clean them out, Tobe.” He twists each hand. “Clean them out.”

“Are you saying we aren’t what we used to be?” says Toby.

“Well, your arse is beginning to resemble Madeline’s from back here.” David laughs.

“Not just the suit,” says Toby. “We should ride under that name.”

“Not, Madeline’s Arse?” says David.

“Not Madeline’s arse,” says Toby. “You look like your balls are hitting your thighs.”

“That’s not just the suit…”

“What?”

“That’s not the suit.”

“What’s not the suit?” says Toby.

“My balls are hitting my thighs these days,” says David.

“Oh, tell me about it,” says Toby.

Both men laugh.

They clack out to the footpath in their riding shoes to where their bikes are secured to a bike rack.

“Now, what’s my combination,” Toby says out loud to no one in particular.

“Hang on,” says David. “I’ll need to have a piss before we go.”

“Oh yes, good idea,” says Toby. “I can’t do two teas like I once could.”

They both clack back across the footpath together and back inside the café.

The convivences are a modest affair out the back of the café, actually, in a separate building, even if it is adjacent to the main building.

Toby pushes the door open and it swings quickly to the wall with a crash. “Oops,” says Toby. “Got a mind of its fucken own.”

“Well, at least everyone knows where we are.”

“That is if the bike cleats haven’t given away our position already.”

“I do hope grandma isn’t taking her afternoon nap behind that wall.”

“Lazy bitch,” says Toby.

“I could possibly do with a nap myself.”

“I’m only jealous of the old girl, you know that don’t,” says Toby.

“This way me love,” says David. “We’re on a mission, after all.”

They clack through the doorway of the toilet. “Nothing a little fucken air freshener wouldn’t fix,” says Toby.

“The trough lollies aren’t really keeping up with the stale piss,” says David.

“You take the stalls and I’ll do standing room,” says Toby.

David clacks into the stalls but leaves the door open. Toby starts the tai chi moves to extract himself from his Lycra suit. “This ain’t fucken easy,” says Toby.

“Do you suspect the guy who invented these outfits never had to piss a day in his life?” says David.

“Do you think it was Kim Il Sung, the grandady dear leader of Joseon invented them?” says Toby.

“How so,” says David. Then he exclaims, “Oh dear god, I just pissed down my leg.”

“The North Koreans don’t believe their leaders piss, or shit, for that matter, like ordinary people” says Toby.

“What?”

“True? Too good for, or some shit.”

“Well, he’d be the obvious culprit for these bunny suits, then,” says David. “Just another reason to liberate the poor bastards.”

“Oh, ah! There you go, that feels good.”

“Tell me about it, better than sex," says David. "Oh, yes, lovely.”

“Ah!” says Toby. “How many times are you getting up in the night?”

“Oh, just the one, generally. You?”

“A couple,” says Toby. “Just a couple.”

“I hear it gets worse,” says David.

“Something to fucken look forward to, hey?"

Both men laugh.

“There you go, that’s a good job done,” says David.

“Oh yes, much relieved.”

There is the sound of a flush, then the sound of a second flus directly after it. The clacking of the bike shoes starts up again. The two men meet up again in front of the faded mirror over the dual wash basins.

“That’s seen better days,” says Toby. He turns the tap to 'on' and the water starts to flow.

David turns his tap to 'on' too. “I find it rather comforting,” says David. “I don’t need my,” he circles his face with his finger. “Visage bought into too sharper focus now adays.

They both reach for the soap dispensers attached to the wall. They each rub their hands together under the flowing water.

They both flick off their taps at the same time.

“Oh, er,” says Toby looking around.

“Yes, quite,” says David. “No…”

“Not ever a flannel.”

“Nothing.”

“Drip drying seems the order of the day.”

“Yes, quite.”

“Well, there you go.”

Their shoes once again clack on the hard floor. David grabs the door and holds it open for Toby. “Age before beauty.’

“Shit before the shovel,” says Toby.

“After you,” says David.

Toby clack, clack, clacks through the door first. David clack, clack, clacks through after him. They perform the same ritual at the café door.”

“After you says,” says Toby.

“Yes, okay, sure,” says David.

David clacks into the café.

“Haven’t you two left yet?” asks Melissa behind the hot food display.

“Just been to the little boy’s room,” says David.

“Spending a penny,” says Toby.

“What are you two like,” says Kelly?

“A couple of teas, like we had could be diabolical on the road, says David.

“How do your wives cope with you,” asks Melissa.

“What do you mean?” asks David.

“We’re always standing around waiting for them,” says Toby.

“You gals spend more time in the little gal's room than us blokes,” says David.

“That’s rich coming from you two when I was sure you left half an hour ago,” says Kelly.

“Any way, got to hit the road now,” says Toby.

“What are you blokes like,” says Melissa.

“We bid you lovely ladies adieu,” says David.

David reaches the front door of the café and swings it open. As he steps through, he says, “Cheerio.” As he exits outside.

“Thanks for the good food,” says Toby. He heads outside too.

The sun shone outside. The two men clack, clack, clack to their locked up bikes. 

Toby reaches for his combination bike lock then stops and ponders. “What was my pin number again?”

“Do you call combination lock numbers PIN numbers?” questions David.

“No, I guess not,” says Toby. “But that’s not, actually, helping, now I am thinking of my banking number.”

“6125,” says David.

“Why, yes, I believe that is it.” Toby unclips his bike lock.

“I’ve been riding with you for 10 years.”

“Ten years, is it?

“That’s what I am saying.” David unlocks his bike lock.

“Hard to believe.” Toby secures his bike lock to his bike frame.

“Long enough for me to remember your combination lock number,” says David.

“Ten fucken years since my heart attack?”

“That’s when we started,” says David. “Straight after it?’ David secures his boke lock to his bike frame.

Toby stops and looks at his mate. “You’re a mate, David, you know that don’t you?”

“Yes, you silly old fuck, I know it.” David throws his leg over his bike.

“You silly old fuck?” 

“You silly old fuck.”

“You are a right fucken cunt,’ says Toby. He throws his leg over his bike.

“I wouldn’t have it any other way.” David is sitting on his bike.

“No, you are a mate, David.” Toby is sitting on his bike.

“Oh stop.”

“You got me through all of that,” says Toby. “I’m never sure if I have told you enough.”

“You’ve told me.”

“Enough?”

“Yeah, you have.”

"Thanks."

It is a bright sunny day. The blue sky is one single blue tile over their heads.

“Well then. Let’s go,” says David. He peddles across the car park.

“Let’s go,” says Toby. He peddles after David.

Another Day

Wasting my life with another day in front of my computer. I should really look at this, my computer addiction. 

Nah, there is always tomorrow.

Ha ha.

So, how badly do I want to do something about it? Nyr? I don’t know. It would just be nice to be more successful, but is that my computer addiction, or is that just me? My self confidence destroyed by my poisonous 6th grade teacher Arthur Batson. Every day we went into battle, he’d belittle me and tell me I was no good. I would always get the better of him, which I think fuelled his anger at me. The point here is that I was an 11 year old boy and he was an adult.

What with? Oh, I don’t know, for being a lousy teacher… and for being a miserable old cunt. Whatever? Don’t we have legal professionals for that sort of thing?

My old school even named a building after him, more recently. The Arthur Batson memorial whatever. Reprehensible! I’m sure I couldn’t have been the miserable old closet case’s only victim.

If I had, actually, been writing something, it would be okay, spend as much time in front of your computer as you like, I tell myself. But, when I want to write, and I think right before I start I’ll just check the news to see what is going on in the world, and hours later I am looking at French Provincial chairs, you know it’s not working.

I think I should, of course I do? Spend less time glued to my screen. I think it would probably be good for me if I did? Again, of course. But? Isn’t that what all addicts say, certainly initially? When questioned, or when self checking… denying.

What is it they say about addiction? That addictions don’t really exist. Addictions, or what we call addictions, are really just unchecked bad behaviour. Because if we had a true addiction, we could never give it up. And we give up, what we call, addictions, every day.

So, we have to give up being addicted to our addiction first, before we can give up our addiction.

I don’t know if that is, actually, true? But it is interesting to think about.

I don’t want to change my bad behaviour, because really, I like it, it gives me satisfaction, you know. 

I, probably know I should, but… 

What the hell did we used to do with our lives when we didn’t have screens? How did we fill our day? I can’t remember now, it has been so long.

I used to sit at my desk in my bedroom and daydream. I used to write plays for people who lived in apartment buildings, soap opera style. I used to design cars. I used to design houses. I used to take houses and renovate them. I'd draw out floor plans, before and after. I used to write stories. I used to write poems. I still have all the poems. I’m not sure why I don’t have the stories anymore, but I don’t. I think the poems were small and easy to keep in a folder, where the stories were written on old pads that just kind of got lost and discarded over time. I used to make up stories about being a rockstar. I made up brothers, and spouses and children and movies and record names, and label names. All of that, for some reason, I managed to hang onto, I think because I used to think it was, in a sense, a bit weird and I kept it hidden fearing people would think I was weird. I still have all of that to this day. In fact, a number of years ago when I had time off work and a big bag of pot, I transcribed all of it into a word file. I used to make up the names for plays. I used to write, I guess you’d call them, synopsis for those plays. I used to write dialogue for two voices.

When I was at school, I’d do anything but school work. My fantasies were much more appealing. And, I guess, they could never really be wrong.

I’ll just have a quick look at the history of the Renault 4, then I will write something, I promise, myself, I am promising myself. I’ll get right down to it and write something spectacular, you wait. It will be great.

You’ll see, I’m going to be a bloody great success, Sadie Shelton. I am, if only I could concentrate long enough to write my masterpiece. The problem is that there are so many distractions. Everything is trying to pull me away from my main focus. Everything. Absolutely everything. The world is now designed that way.

Me? No, I don’t think it is me?

Well, I guess, it has to be me in some small way, of course.

Very small… way.

It is everything else, can’t you see that. The whole world is against us. 

Totally!

Against us.

No, it is.

I’m surprised you can’t see that.

Not even a bit? 

Really?

I am surprised.

Really.

Really!

I’m just going to open a new document, clean and fresh. I am going to make a fresh start, that is clearly what I need to do. A fresh start. Just open a new document, and start again. Something new. That’s it. That’s what I need to do. Open a new document. I'm opening it now.

Start at the top.

Something new.

Start a fresh.

A blank page.

A fresh blank page.

Here we go.

Starting now.

I’m going to write something.

It is going to be great.

You wait.

It is going to be great.

Fresh and new.

The likes of which no one has ever seen before.

Even if I do say so myself.

Here we go.

Perhaps a coffee would help. I’ll get a coffee. And perhaps a piece of cake. That carrot cake, I made this morning, when I couldn’t think of anything to write.

I’ll get a piece of that.

Get me in the mood.

Of course, I was going to ice it. It would be nice with some icing. Cream cheese icing. I’d have to go and get cream cheese. That wouldn’t take long. I’d just have to duck down to the supermarket. Quick as a flash.

Now, where did I put my car keys?

So, that only took an hour, no bad really. I told you it wouldn't take anytime. But, now I have this cake and a pot of tea, perhaps I might just watch a movie, you know, for inspiration and it will get me in the mood. Get my creative juices flowing, as they say. 

Oh, yes, I think that is perhaps a good idea.

Now, what movie will I watch?

I guess I can look at the movie program online?

I should just clean the icing bowl and spatula before it attracts ants.

Then I’ll check the movie guide.

Green floral bed spread

Covering my bed.

It makes me think of spring

And all those good things

It sends me off to dreamland

As I lay down my tired head

It's the safest place I know

In this big, wide world

Future

Everything will end, everything we know will one day cease to exist, everything has it's time, which is finite. Nothing, and I mean nothing, lasts forever, even the memories of us when we are long gone, will one day drift off into the distance, until they become so small and unrecognisable by anyone.

At that thought, I touched the chair, the cat, my skin and I sniffed at the air just to remember what it smells like. All of this, one day...

…will be gone. Every last thing I can see. Including me.

I stick out my leg and touch my toes, and think about the time when all this goes.

The stretch in the back of my thigh, making me feel like I want to die,

shows me that this is all very much real, and with extermination I don’t have to deal, not today, as they say, not today. 

But one day, maybe it will be me, and maybe not. Maybe by that time, my last days I will have got, and I’ll no longer even be a jot, a blip, a candy tip, you know, the size of a sugar grain, no blame, I’ll be gone, somewhere where the end of the world won’t reach, a speck of sand on a beach, a waft of dust, as such.

I look at the palm of my hand. I watch the creases there and think they are grand. Papery skin, the folds do get in. Some people can read them and tell me my life story. Can those palm readers tell me when all of this will be over? Are they that clever? Whatever? Who can see the future? I guess they’d have all cleared out, if they saw it coming. But where would they go? Do we even want to know? Ignorance. Bliss.

I look up at the tressure that is the blue sky? I wonder when that will die? The birds and the bees? The great ocean seas? What will take their place? Empty space? Will the seas empty out into the universe? Like Earth has sprung a leak. Can you imagine the sky above, delete, just that checked pattern where it used to be. The dry valleys of the oceans like open landfill once the water is gone?

Or would it just be us? The weakest, but most destructive link? Flesh and bone first to sink. Then it would just be evidence of us having been? Something obscene? Before, it too, would be gone. What would be beyond? The cold winds of time, blowing across the land, before big bang in reverse. A lot of sucking noise, like an enormous inhale, then black, on a miniature scale. Minute, is what we are saying.

You could pick it up and slip the whole universe in your pocket, at that moment, except there would be no you, pocket, or not, and it would be too heavy anyway, I presume. If it let out a yodel at that very moment, it would be the very embodiment of that fat lady, don’t you think.

I, for one, hope that is the way it goes? In the end.

A godsend. Like he had something to do with it. It is to laugh. It is just good to be alive, though, for now. Let's hope it doesn't end… anytime soon. Amen.

Big Eyes

The windows to the soul,

I see plate glass picture windows

Almost wearing his soul as skin

We can see in

I hope no one ever hurts him

So bad

I hope he is always kept safe and warm

And is adored

For his entire life time

That's what I hope for him

Stressed

I have a sense of anxiety with everything I do. It's like I'm perpetually sneaking about. Being where I shouldn't be. Doing what I shouldn’t be doing. I can pull myself up, and stop, and even feel it, a nervousness pulsing through me. It’s more like a buzz, actually, a cellular thing, bzzzzzzzzzzz, bzzzzzzzzzzz, bzzzzzzzzzzz…

I never used to feel that. No, I did not. I’m not even sure when it started. Sometime as an adult. I never felt it as a kid, no, I did not. Being a kid was free and easy and calm with always a bright day on the horizon. I don’t know when that changed? I guess when adult things happened to me, getting retrenched, told I’m shit, had my heart broken. You know, adult things. 

I seem to have lost my inner calm. Perhaps, I am just shit as an adult? There is a good chance?

What would I call it? Imposter Syndrome, except I think there is already a condition called that – oh, wait, blah, blah, blah, blah, amongst high achieving individuals. Don’t make me laugh, that’s definitely not me. The only high achievement I’ve managed was on a couple of e’s on a Saturday night.

Weirdly, I have never doubted my intellect. I have an IQ of 140 – my mother had me tested, and then someone I knew who did IQ tests tested me again, and 140 again. I’ve always been smart, I know that, but have always questioned how it has done me any good.

But I would call this new syndrome self doubt, but more self doubt about place and action. Should I be doing this? Is this the right time to do this? Is this the right action? I’ve often had that sense that I’m going to get found out? Eventually. It’s kind of a non-specific kind of getting found out. It is just a general sense of it. One day, they will find me out. What is that about? Oh, it’s not an all pervasive kind of thing, just a feeling, at the edges, that I often feel.

The self doubt, it is not so much a mental affliction, but a physical one. And, in fact, I may even argue that it is the conflict between the two. My head tells me what to do, but my physical well being casts doubt over it, and I feel it in a bodily manifestation. 

Does any of that make sense? Oh, I guess not, what makes sense in this world anyway? What makes sense? Really, what?

Does being an adult make sense? Being a kid makes more sense, everything is new, everything sparkles, tomorrow is going to be even better, I can’t wait to discover the next thing.

Adulthood sucks. Cholesterol, blood pressure, obesity. Stress, Anxiety, Responsibility. Too old to be cool, too old to be sexy, too old to stay out late. No longer one of the cool kids, like you enjoyed for so long. The music has all changed. The clothes they are wearing are a mystery to me. Dear god, it is only 10 years later? What the hell happened? I’m not ready to be an adult. I’m not at all sure I am any good at it.

“Hey Gus, how are you?”

“Why, what have you heard?”

“Nothing, should I have heard something,” says Roy. “I was just asking how you were?”

“Oh, you know, never enough hours in the day, I never get to the end of the list of things I need to do? What happened to my youth?”

“Good to hear you are doing okay?”

“Oh Roy, thank the universe for you, you always put a smile on my face,” says Gus. “How are you?”

“Me? Run off my feet. Far too much to do. I’m always busy, never enough time for a break. I’m not sure how I am going to get through everything I have to do.”

“Good to hear everything is okay with you.”

“What can you do?”

“What can you do?”

“You know, the other day I saw a guy wearing a t-shirt with the words, Shhhhh…. Nobody cares. I asked him where I could get one.”

“Can you get one for me too?”

“I find that all I am doing is complaining about my lot.”

“You and me both.”

“I think that t-shirt is the perfect antidote for what ails you.”

“I couldn’t agree more.”

“I might get two.”

“Oh my god, you make me laugh.”

“It’s the best medicine for what ails ya.”

“Shall we have a breakdown together to celebrate?”

“Let’s.”

"Fuck the world!"

"Fuck the world!"

“Fuck responsibility!”

“Fuck the bullshit!”

“Fuck being an adult!”

“Fuck everything!”

“Fuck it all!”

“OMG! I think I am going to cum!”

“Steady on, Tiger.”

The Moon

You know, it is made of blue and red cheese

Fermented in the breeze

Handfuls of bacteria thrown in with ease

Shrinking the curd, that just sounds so absurd

Dripping the whey, I hear you say no way

Pressing and ripening the colours hey hey

Until we have the colours of the rainbow

With a perfect night time glow, 

As the cow jumps right over in one go

Perhaps?

Perhaps, I need to go back to uni? Learn something new? Get the brain thinking again? Get inspired.

I should have done it years ago, when I first started studying part time, when was that? The year 2000. I should have finished it then. 

Gone all the way. Kept going, not stopped. Why did I stop? I'm not really sure now. Stupid me. What was I thinking?

I should have kept going. Just done the creative writing degree. Gone all the way and not stopped at diploma. Proved something, if only to myself.

I loved it. Loved the feeling. 

I wasn't stupid after all. I could do it. I did do it. Finally. Why did I stop? Stupid me. I should have 2 degrees.

But, I always stop. Always. I never quite finish anything, or, at least, when I do it has been one almighty struggle. Yeah, sometimes I get there, on the rare occasion, I manage to finish something. There is no rule, there are no indicators as to what. It is random, annoyingly so.

In fact, my creative writing diploma is the only thing I have really finished. Creative writing is what I always wanted to do. Well, truthfully, the only thing I have ever really done.

My business degree doesn’t count, that was a struggle, and I did it in broken up years. 1 ½ years and then I dropped out. I went and lived in London, and completely wasted those two years living there. I worked as a barman off The Strand. I came back to get qualifications and to return permanently to London. I did another year of business two years later, then a couple of years part time after that when I worked as a barman, the best job I ever had.

Then I’d finally finished that degree, which bought me no joy. I hated it. I hated uni, it was never the great time of discovery. It was always an enduring time of loneliness and isolation. I have no friends from those uni days. And I was so disillusioned by it that when I was offered a job of managing bars, I jumped at it, never wanting to be an accountant. Turning my back, as I liked to say working on the 40th floor of the Rialto.

My favourite great Aunt died and left me money and I bought a house in the inner eastern suburbs.

I loved managing bars. Working nights. Starting around 4pm, finishing around midnight, or before on quiet nights. None of this 3am bullshit. Going out with the guys after work. Sleeping in, getting up around 10am. Heading out for breakfast. Hanging out with my Rottweiler, Oliver. I flirt with the wait staff, sleeping with two of them.

Life was good. I studied creative writing part time until I had my diploma. I was going to be a writer.

My 20s years slipped away. 

My dog died. And, I met my forever partner who encouraged me to stop working nights. So, I got a job in finance.

My forever partner wanted more things, new cars, a house by the sea.

I worked harder, got promotions. We got a beach house and a two Range Rovers, which my forever partner thought was ‘cute’. We got friends who had beach houses and Range Rovers who talked about self manged super funds and their success on the stock market.

I worked on the 40th floor of the Rialto in a management accountant position. We bought a house far too big for us in the inner north.

I was well into my 30s when my forever partner started working late. Just occasionally, at first, then more frequently. We were both busy.

I walked to work and I began to realise the most enjoyable part of my day was the early morning walk through a semi deserted city. I left home early, as I woke up early, then I could leave work early. I wanted to get another dog but my forever partner didn’t want dog hair on the furniture.

We stopped having sex. We were both too tired.

Then, on my 35th birthday, my forever partner shared the reason for their many hours of working late at work, and left me that day for one of our friends with a Porsche 4WD and a bigger house than ours.

My forever partner got our house, I didn’t really fight, I never really liked its marble and pretension. If your house has more bathrooms than bedrooms, you are officially a wanker. The tenants moved out of my inner suburban terrace, the same one I bought when I was managing bars, just as it turned out, at the same time, and I packed up my stuff and moved there when my no longer forever partner was away from the house, without telling them.

I didn’t share my plans, and my now not forever partner never asked. We never saw each other again. Our lawyers finalised the details. I didn’t really ask for anything particularly, so ‘we’ were wound up pretty quickly.

So, I never really finished all of that. I just walked away, well, drove away in my now unmatched Range Rover. I thought of selling it, but I didn’t.

The first morning of walking to work from the inner east, I decided that I couldn’t do it any more, didn’t want to do it any more, so I resigned that morning when I got to the office.

I gave four weeks notice, then when I had two weeks to go, I decided I just couldn’t do another minute, and an old barman work mate of mine who’d since become a doctor gave me two weeks sick leave and I used 2 weeks of my sick which I had never used before that, so I never really finished my 40th floor job.

I bought a puppy, I called him Rudi. I take him to training classes in Bulleen. I take him to the same coffee shop I used to take Oliver and eat breakfast. I even flirt with the wait staff, although it is now just fun, something to do. I don’t have any intensions behind it. The owner’s wife looked at me the other day and asked, “Have you been away somewhere?” I opened my mouth but no words came out.

I have money saved. I got a casual bar job just to pay the bills.

I am just about to turn 40. And perhaps I’ll apply to do my creative writing course back at the same city uni. Perhaps, I could finish it this time. Do the degree, finally. If for no other reason, just because I can.

Watching the World

I sneaked some of my house mate, Jack's boyfriend, Simon's pot. Not that Jack calls Simon his boyfriend, which is one of the great mysteries in life. 

Simon is almost perfect. I wish he was my boyfriend. I’m not sure what Jack is thinking? Simon is handsome, blond hair, blue eyes, which is the opposite to my type normally, however. He is smart. He is funny. He is out going. He is interested in people. He brings his own pot. He and I chat away. I could talk to him all night. But no, he shares a joint with me, then Jack whisks him away to his bedroom. I might get to see Simon again before he leaves, all sweaty and ruffled, if I am lucky, but more often than not, no, he just leaves. Jack’s bedroom is by the front door.

I'm smoking pot and drinking coffee on my Juliette balcony, as my ex likes to call it, because it is small, only taking up one side of the front of the house, first thing on this beautiful morning. Soon, I won't care about the world, or will I care more? Care, in as much, as am-so-relaxed-that-nothing-will-be-bothering-me, not want-to-exit-as-soon-as-I-can, you understand.

I mean, the sky is blue, the sun is warm and there is a gentle breeze on my skin. My palms look healthy, that’s the plants sitting next to me and not the other side of my hands, you understand. I must water them before I go indoors. My plants, not my… ha ha, I’m sure you understand.

A jogger in small, white, shorts and thick, hairy, thighs runs past. He's a fit lad, broad shoulders, narrow waist. His feet go thomp, thomp, thomp on the foot path.

I take another puff on my joint. He must be a baker, I say out loud. That makes me laugh, ‘cause did you see the muffins on that. My throat catches with phlegm, and I cough.

A mother and her 3 year old son, (I don’t know kid's ages, he looks kind of three) who is in wonder at the plants protruding through my front fence, head in the other direction. She has a tight grip on his hand, his extended arm extended towards the leaves, as he looks around.

A man stops, shields his hand, lights a cigarette and walks on. 

Mum pulls her son away from the smoker. Her son looks back, as though fascinated with what the man is doing.

The man looks at the kid and exhales, then he blows his cigarette smoke towards the sky.

The sun touches my bare toes for the first time, they curl instinctively and a tingle rushes up my spine, as the man with the cigarette walks one way, and the mother and the child walk the other way, the kid looking back at the man as his mother leads him away.

The different ages of man, I think. “Cute,” I say out loud.

The street is quiet again. My eye lids are heavy.

I like the way marijuana makes me think, I always have.

I puff on my joint and try to think what I am going to do for the rest of the day? Nyr? What? Except, the marijuana has already hit me and just sitting still with the sun warming my skin seems as good a thing to do as anything else.

Jack and I have an agreement, well, not so much an agreement, more of an understanding. Well, we do in my mind, anyway. Not that Jack knows about our understanding, you understand. I can help myself to his pot when I want some. Well, you know, ‘help myself’ is such a complex statement. Jack lets me smoke his pot, he’s very generous with his pot. I can help myself in the evenings. Why should the fact that I go into his room after he’s left for work and take it from his desk draw change any of that? I don’t think it does. 

I roll him joints all night, he hates rolling. And I’m good at it. Well, not so much good at it, as keen. Okay, I’m a pig with it, and Jack isn’t.

At the moment, Simon brings it over anyway, kind of a gift to the house, so I am just smoking my share, pretty much. Okay, Simon brings it over for Jack, yeah, sure, that is true. But Jack doesn’t mind, wouldn’t mind, you know, if he knew.

I wonder if Simon will be over tonight?

A car pulls up. It is Simon. “Ask and you shall receive,” I say out loud.

“Hey, Simon,” I say.

“Jacob,” he says. “Watcha doin?”

“Oh, you know, enjoying the day.”

“Yeah, I know,” says Simon. “Lucky you.” 

“What are you doin’?”

“Oh, I just came over to drop this off for Jack.” He holds up a bag. I have no idea what it is.

“Oh, okay, Jack’s at work.”

“Yeah, I know,” says Simon. He flashes that killer smile of his. Secretly, I’m hoping the next words out of his mouth are, I came over to see you. The thought gives me a thrill, up my spine. “Are you not working?” he says.

“No, I… you know, I’m between jobs.”

“Oh,” says Simon. “Lucky you.”

“Yeah, lucky me,” I say. We’d spoken about this, and us both being accountants, I thought he’d remember.

“Is it lucky you?” says Simon.

“Yeah, sure,” I say. I can’t help but feel a little disappointment.

“The bitch boss, suffering from anorexia, losing her mind, I remember, you told me,” says Simon. “Jogging up and down the stairwells after work. My mood is instantly lifted.

“Hang on, I’ll come down,” I say.

“No, it’s okay, I can’t stay,” says Simon, “I’ll just leave it on the front veranda, as I was going to.

“Oh, okay,” I say. Should I run down, I think?

I barrel to the front door, opening panting just as Simon is straightening back up from leaning the parcel against the front of the house. 

“Hey.”

Simon bends back down and picks up the parcel and hands it to me. “Give them to Jack, will you.”

“What is it?” I ask.

“T-shirts and undies,” says Simon. “My sister in-law works for Calvin Klein.”

“I’d like to see you modelling them,” I say. It just comes out, that last joint was kicking my arse. The run down the stairs had sped it up somehow. Lack of oxygen, I think.

Simon laughs nervously. “You want me to model t-shirts.”

I laugh with him.

“They are just white,” says Simon.

“Rightio,” I say. I am left standing at the door wondering where rightio came from.

Simon turns and heads back out to his car.

Jack comes home normal time. 

“Simon left these for you.”

“Today?”

“Yeah, around midday.”

“Oh, they must be my…”

“Jocks and t-shirts.”

“Yeah.”

I hand him the package.

“Simon told me.”

“Hey listen?”

“Yeah?”

“I may have made lurid suggestions to Simon.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, I may have suggested he’d look good modelling them.”

“T-shirts?”

“Undies?”

“May have?”

“I was kidding, it may, or may not, have come out that way.”

“And what did Simon say?”

“He kind of blushed and looked uncomfortable.”

“Really,” said Jack. “Proud of yourself, are you?”

Jack was taking this way more seriously than I had anticipated.

“I guess that is back paddock stuff?”

“You know it is.”

Jack and Andy and I have had an agreement that partners, short term and long automatically go into the ‘back paddock' zone once one of us has, you know, spat on them, and they are no longer available to the other two for dating, or other purposes.

Jack and Andy and I have lived together for quite a few years and in the beginning, it started to get awkward quickly at the breakfast table when we essentially were playing musical chairs with trade from the night before. That was when we set in place a few rules, that of ‘The Back Paddock’ being a central plank.

“And why would you suggest that Simon strips down to his undies for your perusal?"

“I was very stoned.”

“Blame it on the drugs.”

I decided that if I was coming clean, I should get it all out. “Which brings me to another admission.”

“Go on,” says Jack.

“I’ve been taking pot from your room to get stone during the day.” There, I’d said it.

“Jesus Jacob, you really do need to get yourself a job…”

“Or at the very least, a boyfriend and a pot dealer,” I said. Oh, I’d had a spliff before Jack came home, I can’t deny, and it was kicking in.

“Is everything a fucking joke to you?” says Jack.

“No.”

“Well, it really appears that way…”

“Oh, I…”

“You embarrass Simon and you are stealing from my room. Jesus!”

“Steeling is a really ugly…”

“Jacob, you really need to have a really long hard look at yourself and your life,” says Jack. “You know, I’d hate to have to find,” he made parenthesis in the air with his hands, “new living arrangements because I no longer feel like I can trust you.”

There was silence. I was surprised by Jack’s reaction, but I guess I had it coming.

“Oh Jack, I’m sorry, really I am,” I say. “I don’t know what I was thinking, how can I make it up to you, really, how can I?”

Jack just stared angrily at me.

Then Jack’s face broke into a smile. “Wow, you are really easy to windup, aren’t you.” He started to laugh. “You should have seen your face just now. Fucken priceless!”

“What?”

“I can’t wait to hear what Simon has to say about your clumsy pass at him.”

“Huh.”

“Oh Jacob, Simon, the ill gotten pot, it was all worth it just to see the look on your face just now.”

“You’re not pissed about Simon?”

“No, he’s a big boy.”

“The pot?”

“Seriously, do you not know me at all,” says Jack. “Smoke the pot, don’t smoke the pot, I don’t give a fuck. Simon bought it over for all of us. I’ll leave it on the coffee table in future.”

Josh, You Have So Many Friends

 

People say I have lots of friends.

"Oh Josh, you have so many friends."

I feel like I have got few. I feel like I'm losing them at a fast rate. So many. So many cool people, missed once they are gone.

The trouble is that I like my own company too much. No, I do, how else am I going to get intelligent conversation?

I'm not really sure I "get" this life any more. I've had great loves and great relationships, but now mostly I feel lonely. Is there more to understand? Is it just a secret that I haven't been let in on yet? Or do I have to do all of this all over again? Did I think I'd done it, only to discover that I'm only half way there?

I day dream about suicide, well, not so much day dream, no, but sometimes when I hear about it, I find myself thinking they are the lucky ones, you know, before I catch myself. I find empathy welling up. If there was a palatable way of doing it, I might just give it a go. Of course, I probably wouldn't, tomorrow may just be the best day of your life, and all that, but I'm sure it can't be healthy to be thinking about it.

There would be a certain freedom. A one ticket shot at it though, hey?

Still, I don't know why we don't have euthanasia laws, you know, for the bored and the tired. Why do you have to be terminally ill and in pain? It's not like we are short of human beings. Why is it anybody’s business? Because they don't want you to do it to them. Bugger you, Jack! Just don't make them feel pain, take this you’ll be okay... and then we’ll be okay too.

"Last thing I remember, I was running for the door

I had to find the passage back to the place I was before

'Relax,' said the night man, 'We are programmed to receive.

You can check-out any time you like, but you can never leave!"

Ah, this thing called life? What does it mean? Just when, from all outwardly signs, I look as though I have it sorted, nice house, good job, money in the bank, I'm mostly left feeling there must be something more.

Funny thing, I got the first part done, did well even, but am I going to be left feeling the elusive 'something more' for the rest of my life? Am I?

Let’s face it, the first part is easy, in your 20s, with all that enthusiasm for the new things you are discovering, driven by indefatigable amounts of testosterone. The whole world opens up with infinite possibilities, and you have the drive to fucken kill it all. Take it by the horns and smash it. You are the discus player in your own narrative.

Life is an open book and Josh, you have so many friends, is true.

But, pretty soon the pages are yellowing, just around the edges. Your 30s roll around, and life is great. You’ve sorted what you want to do in life, or more to the point, it has sorted you. But what the hell, it’s given you money in the bank. You look great, and you feel great. Somehow, you have grown into your quirky looks and people notice you when you enter a room. It’s true, you have a possie of friends. Close mates, comrades, party friends, fuck buddies. People want to be with you and they want to have you. And you indulge all of it. You’ve loved a few, you have fucked a lot. Wine, sex and song.

But, then your best mate starts to struggle.

One of your good friends unexpectedly dies. Cancer. Another you never saw coming, unexpectedly chucks a rope over a tree branch.

A couple of people move interstate, or overseas.

Another friend’s new partner whisks them away.

Your 40s lurch into view and your circle has diminished.

And all that partying you’ve done, has lost it allure. Finally. And if you don’t have a nose full of powder and your dick out in a dark room how are you supposed to make new friends? Seriously, I ask you? If the lights aren’t flashing, and the music isn’t pumping, and you haven’t got you tongue down some chick’s throat, and your fingers inside her panties, how are you supposed to replenish your friendship circle? Seriously?

It all just suddenly gets a little harder.

Josh, you have so many friends, I think my mum was the first person to say that to me, when I was having a bad day. Other people have repeated it after her.

And then there you are, your 40s.

You’ve learned that just working hard for a company doesn’t get you rewards. You know, if you haven’t licked the right taint along the way, working hard doesn’t always cut it.

You’ve learned that, no, friends aren’t forever. Life long friends are as rare as hen’s teeth, as my grandmother used to say – that’s the grandmother that made money from property development right up until she was 92, and not the grandmother who took to the brandy bottle for the rest of her life when her husband, my grandfather, died young and left her heart broken at 50.

You’ve learned that members of the human race aren’t looking out for each other in life, and, in fact, the opposite may well be true.

You’ve learned that the good die young, may well, in fact, be fucking true, which, of course, leaves you wondering about you?

Josh, you have so many friends, rings in your ears, when you look around at 50 and wonder where they all went.

Nine Doors

Nine Doors

The number 9 shows you've lived and learned; you're engaged with living your life in a meaningful, conscious manner and you're setting rewarding goals.

Of course it does, once you've got out of all those fucking doors.

Open, close.

Open, close.

Open, close.

Open, close.

Open, close.

Open, close.

Open, close.

Open, close.

Open, close.

Enlightenment.

Saturday Night

“I never thought I'd be sitting alone in my room wondering what to do on a Saturday night?” 

“I would never have thought it either.” 

“I guess it must be me, raise my eyebrow, think che.”

“After all this time and all that's come before this point.” 

“You are supposed to deny it.”

“Oh, am I, okay.”

“You know, when I think about it. Wow! Life catches up eventually, hey?”

“Yeah, apparently it does.”

“I guess, I should head out and see who I can see? Fuck for a friend, that’s how I’ve always made them, pretty much.”

“That's how you make friends, hey?”

“That's how most of my other friendships started. I just haven't been going out enough. Must break this hermity stage, it gets in the way.”

“That’s what ‘they’ would say.” He made parenthesis in the air with his fingers.

“Saturday night's alright, ‘they’ say.” He made parenthesis in the air with his hands. “Saturday night is alright.”

“The great hope, Saturday night.”

“Good thing I like being ‘with’ me. Some people can’t, you know, can’t abide themselves.” 

“I’ve never understood why?” 

“How else do you get intelligent conversation for the night?”

“I’ve always said that.”

They both laughed.

“Pass us the remote?”

“I thought you were going out to fuck a friend?”

“Yeah. Nah. I’m not sure I’ve got it like I used to.”

“I can’t believe what I am hearing.”

“Believe it, buddy, I think I’d rather just stay home and watch teev.”

“I never thought this day would come.”

“Me neither.”

“But here we are.”

“Not twenty anymore.”

“Oh, you poor old man.”

“It’s true.”

“Come on…”

“Don’t you see it, when you go out, there is this whole new layer of kids under us.”

“Yeah, I see it.”

“All doing what we used to do.”

“Yeah, I know, it’s, it’s…”

“Creepy is too stronger word, but it’s not natural, it should be us…”

“It was us.”

“And if it’s not us now, I’d rather just stay home.”

“Seriously?”

“Yeah. Seriously. I don’t want to see that.”

“See, that?”

“All that hope for the future. All that sunny forever.”

“We used to have that.”

“Yeah, we used to have that. What happened to that?”

“What happened to that?”

“I’ll tell you what happened to that. The truth, that’s what happened to that.”

“The truth?”

“That life ain’t all of that. Life isn’t all happy ever after.”

“It’s hard work.”

“It’s a shit load of hard work.”

“Who’d have thought at 30 something?”

Silence fell between them.

“Pass us the remote.”

He picked up the remote and tossed it over. “But Saturday night?”

The TV made a clunk sound as it started up. “I’ve got some frozen dinners in the freezer and some beers in the fridge, it’s the best I can do? Are you interested?”

“Yeah, sure.”

“There’s pot in the box on the coffee table.”

“I’ll roll.”

“I’ll put the food in the oven.

There was silence as they each got busy with their respective jobs.

“Chicken and apricot, or beef and black bean?”

“Do you remember the snow pea diet?”

“Ah yes, the snow pea diet.”

“You’d snort speed, old school, for three days, Thursday to Sunday, and on the fourth day you’d fill up with a snow pea...”

"And go to work."

"And go to work." 

“Those were the days.”

“Good times.”

“Apricot bullshit, or black bean crap?”

“I’ll take the black bean crap, thanks, I reckon I’m sweet enough.”

“That leaves the apricot bullshit for me.

“I feel sick already.”

“Have you rolled that joint yet?”

“Does the Pope shit in the Vatican?” Is a frog’s arse watertight? Is a pigs pussy pork?

“Huh?”

“Voila.” He held up a perfectly rolled joint.

“Well, don’t stand on fucken ceremony, light the fucker up.”

He put the joint in his mouth and flicked the lighter several times, he dipped the end of the joint into the flame.

“Is the food on?”

“Heating as we speak.”

“Die Hard is on.”

“I love that movie.”

He handed him the joint.

“Saturday night in.”

“How did we used to do it?”

“Back then.”

“Yeah. Thursday, Friday and Saturday nights.”

“Sunday too. How much fun was it?”

He handed him back the joint.”

“Not sure how good I was on Friday. How did I get away with it.”

“Not sure how good I was on Tuesday. Some weeks I could barely communicate.”

He handed the joint back.

“How much fun was it.”

“What happened to those days?”

“What happened to those days?”

“Yeah, we never thought they’d end.”

“My friend…”

“Isn’t that a song?”

“Yeah, but they did.”

“Passed into the ether…”

“Like everything should.”

“Does.”

“Will.”

“And nobody notices…”

“Until it is too late.”

“Until it is too fucken late.”

They both looked at each other.

The evening hummed, like the world was contented with itself.

“Roll us another joint, I’ll go check on the food.”

The End of The Day in April

I'm on my own. The emptiness is all around, breathing in the shadows, I can feel it. Watching. (Waiting?) What am I going to do with my night? My life? What about my life? It is still, quiet. I could do anything. Anything is possible.

I look around and wonder what to do?

The garden is green, outside, through the windows, beyond the walls, as the last of the day light fades. Nothing moves, still, silent. Leaves caught in suspended animation. A moment. The room is frozen, my skin shivers. I feel the walls at my sides, tapping at me, closing in, but they feel like friend not foe. I feel protected. Safe, I feel safe.

No plans. No friends calling. I've been out to lunch, now nothing. Silence... into the night. My skin tingles, a shiver runs through my bones.

Silence. Blink, blink.

I stand and stare. What to do? I don’t know how long I stood there.

I felt a tap on my leg. I look down. My dog is sitting looking up at me.

“What?” I say.

He runs off. He returns with his lead in his mouth.

I laugh. “Yeah, sure, why not,” I say. "We can do anything."

I click his lead onto his collar. He stands up wagging his tail. We head to the door.

The light is lovely outside, the dusk is gorgeous. We step out the gate onto the footpath. Rudi bounces with excitement. We head up the street, Rudi padding along next to me. He looks up at me with his big brown eyes.

The light is diming. I feel safe. We set our own pace. Rudi sniffs everything, of course. That’s what he does. I let him, it’s his time, and mine. The footpath stretches out in front. We walk, the two of us, the night starts to fall all about us. Me and him. We walk it out. Rudi leads the way sometimes, sometimes I tug at his lead when he gets too in his own head. The padding of both our feet. Street. Street. Street. We do the block, we always do the block. It’s a big block. I admit, I like routine. Me and him. We walk for an hour, it gets it out of our skin. 

Sometimes we do the big black. Sometimes we go to the gardens. Sometimes we do the dog park, where Rudi’s off his lead, and he runs about with the other good boys. Then I whistle, and we head home. 

Togetherness, the world’s a mess, as they say, but who gives a crap, with my best friend next to me.

Sometimes, I let him off his lead when we are in our home block and there are no more roads to cross. But, he can put his head down and sniff, sniff, sniff like he is a sniffer dog and those last few metres can take as long as the walk. My next door neighbour says they are just checking emails from other dogs, and the closer to home we get, the more important the emails get.

He’s always at the gate ahead of me though, as if that is his job, getting to the gate first.

That big, pink tongue lolling out of his mouth, slobbery ooze dripping from it. But, that smile, that huge goofy smile is unmistakable. A good job done, we had lots of fun. He slobbers from his water dish inside when we are done. I pour myself a glass of juice. We both get on the couch and watch the TV. He puts his head in my lap, of course, he is too big for that really, but we manage.