67 Ford

He had a bronze 1967 Ford Falcon. It was his pride and joy. He bought it from the original owner, a fact he was clearly chuffed about. That meant something, that did, only the second owner. He said it proudly. It meant the car had clearly been loved. It was no accidental purchase this car. 

"Only people who really love XR Falcons, drive XR Falcons," he said.

She knew she was meant to be impressed, that much she knew.

"So, you love XR Falcons?" she said.

"They are my favourite car ever," he said.

He looked at her expectantly. She was used to boys looking at her expectantly because they wanted something, but this wasn't quite the same look as those boys who wanted her to show them her knickers.

"She runs like brand new," he said.

She got the distinct feeling that he wanted her to ask him to let her hear it run, so that is what she asked.

"Go on, let me hear what she sounds like."

She wondered what made this car a she, but she decided not to ask.

The engine roared into life with a single turn of the key. “Bwup, bwup, bwup, bwup,” was the sound the engine made.

The only thing she could think to say after he started it up was, "Is this a V8?"

"Yes," he said. 

"Oh jeez," she replied.

"Nervous?" he asked.

"I am now I know it is a V8."

"Don't stress," he said. "I'll be gentle."

"Please," she said. "This is my first time."

"We don't have to," he said. "Not if you don't want to."

"Oh no, I wanna," she said. "I just didn't expect to feel it quite like this. Through…"

"Through the seat?" he asked.

"Yeah, I didn't expect to feel it, um, er, that way." She looked down at her lap.

"Oh," he said. He laughed. "It's nice though, isn't it?"

"Yeah, I guess."

"It is the cylinders."

"Oh," she said.

He gunned the accelerator.

She squealed.

He laughed. He gunned the accelerator.

She giggled.

"Should I spit me gum?"

"Dunno…"

"You'd know better than I would," she said. "I don't wanna choke on it."

"You're not gonna choke on it."

"You sure?"

"Only if you inhale on it."

"Am I gonna inhale on it?"

"Dunno."

"Are you gunna make me inhale on it."

"No, I don't reckon."

"Well, I don't know what its gunna feel like."

He suddenly pulled his left foot from the clutch, and pushed his right foot to the floor. The car raised up at the front and took off.

She shrieked.

The old Falcon sped across the field at a cracking pace. He whooped and hollered.

She screamed out, "Yes! Yes! Yes! Yes! YES!"

Back To The Call Centre

"I don't want to go back to the call centre," says Kevin.

"Nobody wants to go back to the call centre," says Justin. "You should have studied harder in school, Kev. You should have studied harder."

"Fuck off," says Kevin. "You know..."

"Oh, let's no go back over that," says Justin. "He touched you, we all know he touched you." Justin punches Kevin on the arm. "But we all leave school early for one reason, or another."

"I sooooo don't want to go back to the call centre."

"Come with me and soon you won't even be thinking about it."

"Call centre hell!"

"Ah, call centre hell," says Justin. "Let’s not think about it now."

“That bitch Treena, she thinks she is the fucken boss,” said Kevin.

“Kevo, she is the boss,” said Justin.

“Yeah, but, she doesn’t have to act like it.”

“I think she does,” said Justin. “To be the boss.”

“She shits me soooo much,” said Kevin.

“Kev, she’s the boss, so she should act like it.”

“She cut my shifts.”

“Did your call ratios go down?”

“Nah, I called her a bitch…”

“You called her a bitch?”

“Yeah, she made fun of something I didn’t understand, in front of the other girls, you know her,” Kevin made parenthesis in the air, 'special group', fucken bitch…”

“Sheena, Kaley, and Chloe.”

“Yeah, you know the ones,” said Kevin. “Ever since then… no shifts.”

“What did she make fun of you about?”

“My stats were out,” said Kevin. “And I always struggle with my stats, she knows that. And I couldn’t find the problem. She told all those girls I was slow, and she’d have to go and help me, again, and they all laughed.”

“Has she done that before?”

“Wha?”

“Made fun of you in front of her,” Justin made parenthesis in the air,” her group?”

“Yeah, sure, she does it all the time.”

“All the time?”

“Yes, and I hate it.”

“Are you sure about that?”

“About wha?”

“That she makes fun of you all the time?”

“Yes, always, her and her slags, they think it is really funny to make fun of me. The dumb kid. They call me the dumb kid, they don’t think I hear, but I do. It hurts, you know. Like they’re so fucken smart.”

“Could you record it on your phone.”

“Yeah, sure, I guess, but I don’t want to record it. Why do I wanna hear that? I don’t wanna hear it the first time, let alone play it back at any time…”

“If you record it, you could play it to HR…”

“Oh, why would HR care? Jus?”

“Because it is HR’s job to care, Kevo. They’d have to do something about it if you have it recorded.”

“Really? HR do something.”

“I could talk to Steph…”

“What, next time she is under you…”

“No, Kev, seriously. If Treena is making fun of. You, well, that’s just not right.”

“No one’s gonna do nothing, Jus, no one cares about me.”

“Just record it, Kev, just record it, and worry about what comes next, later.”

“Okay, if you reckon.”

“And Kevin?”

“What?”

“I care about you.”

The DJ Blew My Mind Again

The DJ blew my mind, it was sublime, dancing under the flashing lights, floating on the good vibes, with sweat dribbling down my face, and my neck, even down the back of my leg. I'm inside my head, the world has disappeared, floated away when I close my eyes. The beat is fresh, beating in my heart, and my ears, and my chest, beating deep down in the depth of my soul. 

My eyes are closed for the longest time. I'm alone. Even if I can feel the bodies floating around me. It's how I imagine it would be like in space. What a place.

I'm in the zone. you know where you get to at 3am, after all of the chemicals have done their thing, when your body has gone to the groove and almost seems to be working despite yourself. It is belief. It is relief. Better than sex in so many ways. It is floating on the groove with no anticipated stop. Just dof, dof, dof. My feet are moving by themself by now. I can't get enough of it, and I never want to stop. I never want to come down. This is living, right here and now.

Just me... and 100 of my closest friends.

Communing together on the latest tune.

Thank you Stephen, thank you Phil, thank you Guy, thank you sexy Gill, dancing shirtless behind the desk all covered in sweat.

Then another track. I love this song. Big breath.

One tune slides so easily into another, like butter. The beat beats, the vocals soar, "Yeah! Woo! Hoo!" Spin around. Raise my arms to the roof. Doof, doof, doof.

The DJ blew my mind again.

There we all are right to the end, until the last note is played and we all wind down and stop. I feel spaced out. My feet still want to move. I can get the smile from my face, not that I want to, I’m not sure I ever will.

We’re all standing around afterwards, yeah sure, we’re buzzing, all of us above, some of us are still dancing, even if it’s just in our own head.

We all get together for the unofficial postmortem of the party, that’s never really intentional but happens in due course. My own intention is just to find each other, before we all head home. The conversation starts and we start telling stories of the night. Who was the best DJ. Who did the best set. Who danced with who. Who lost their minds and at what time of the night. Who had an adventure in the toilet, with whoever they may have met there.

I stand with Gill and his shirtless sweat, his olive skin is glistening, his muscles are shiny. He is a solid boy, stocky, muscly, a good look for sure.

We talk a lot all of us. Some might say that our speech is enhanced, ha ha, that’s how we danced. While the sun comes up, and the morning air turns bright and the sun becomes life. I look over at Gill in his old blue jeans, and shirtless attire.

People take stuff, the little plastic bags come out. Everyone drinks water. The water gets passed around. Some of us are smoking furiously, even the ones who never smoke. The cigarette packets get passed around with the water bottle.

“Did you see Harry? What did she come as?”

“Post stroke Bette Davis, by the look of him.”

“Was Christian there?”

“Sure was, he was getting his arse licked in the bogs by all and sundry at the end there.”

“Tim?”

“Yeah, I danced with him for a time.”

“Did anyone see Paul?”

“He was on the hunt for more pills for most of the night.”

“Who saw Jack and Nick?”

“I did,” says Alex. “I’ve got a catch up with them later on.”

“Greedy boy,” says Liam.

“You say it like it’s a bad thing,” says Alex.

“Just jealous,” says Gill.

“I know I am,” says Liam.

“What are you doing, Joe,” I ask?

“Lachlan.” Joe smiles like he’s the cat who got the cream.

Everyone “oo’s” at that news.

I wasn’t sure we were ever going to get the smile off Joe’s face.

Everyone was still kind of dancing, shaking and twitching, even just sitting still. I think everyone thought they were smiling, but really, they all just look kind of strained.

People start to wander off, in due course, one by one. I mean it was all over and we all had to get going.

The large group becomes a small group, we just seem to be standing around for the sake of it, too fucked up to move, perhaps none of us wanted it to end, we never want it to end. Except, I’ve got plans, which involved the shirtless DJ to my right.

I’ll look over at Gill, he gives me a look, you know that look, squeeze his eyes together, lift an eyebrow slightly, and I know it’s time to go, I know I want to go. We leave a few minutes later.

“Hey bud, you’re coming to my place,” says Gill?

“Yes,” I say. That’s the only place I want to be, I think.

“Did you bring a car,” he asks?

“No,” I came with Joe.

“Good show,” says Gill.

I ask Gill if he’s right to drive, and of course he says yes. It’s not the same as alcohol, we all say, that’s different, you can’t drive when you’re pissed.

Gill's car is in the car park with the rest. He gets behind the wheel I get in the passenger seat, of course.

Gill pulls out a small plastic bag and offers me some pills. “For the ride home?” He smiles. So, we top up before we get going, before Gill starts the car.

We cruise home to Gill's place. We’re really peaking again when we get to his front door.

We fall inside the house. We lie there in the entranceway laughing. It’s like we can’t move. It’s because we don’t want to move.

“How are you feeling,” asks Gill?

“Like shit,” I say. “But fabulous shit."

Gill laughs.

“How are you feeling,” I ask?

“Like fabulous shit too.”

“I’m really high,” I say.

“Woosh!” says Gill.

“Fucking woosh,” I say.

“They are great pills,” says Gill. “Fucken great,” he slurs.

“They are blowing my mind,” I say.

Furious

She stepped out of the shop, in her pink dress and her lime green cardigan and her yellow shoes, and stood directly in front of the door like she gave anyone else coming through that door no thought. She dialled a number on her phone, clacking her nail extensions on the screen. She held it to her ear, the palm of her hand gripping the phone, seemingly just by the skin, her claws sticking straight up in the air.

Someone clearly answered. "Oh, I'll ring you later. I'm furious. Can you ring me later… Yes… Furious."

She pushed end on her phone, her fingernail parallel to her phone, just so the pad of her pointer finger made contact with the button.

I wondered how she got anything done with those nail extensions?

She could see it was raining. She reached down into her sky blue bag, sitting on top of her mauve shopping jeep, and got an electric blue umbrella from one of the small compartments with the tips of her fingers.

She undid the strap with the edges of her pointer finger and her thumb. Gave it a shake. She pushed the release button with the pad of her thumb.

The umbrella made a click sound and then a whoosh sound.

She held the umbrella with one hand. She reached into her bag, out of which she pulled a cigarette with the tips of her fingers. She held the cigarette in the corner of her mouth. 

She reached back into her bag and pulled a lighter out with fingers that looked as though they thought they were holding a fine tea cup handle. 

She held the lighter with her fore finger and her thumb, flicking it with the shaft of her thumb. 

When the flame lit, she tilted her head sideways and sucked until her cheeks appeared concave, at which point I noticed her eye lashes were almost as long as her finger nails, also clearly fake. 

She dropped the lighter back in her bag. 

She removed the cigarette from her mouth with the shafts of her pointer and middle fingers. 

She blew the smoke dramatically into the air, her lips puckered like duck bills in a way that I could only think was painful.

She stared at the sky as though she was contemplating how to destroy it.

“They wouldn’t buy my stuff,” she said.

Was she talking to me? I thought. If I looked around, I would be engaging in the conversation we weren’t having, didn’t want to have.

“They didn’t believe me,” she said.

I knew I shouldn’t, but I couldn’t help it, I looked around in her direction.

“They think I nicked the stuff, or something. Nicked the stuff? Seriously.”

She was talking to me. I don’t want to talk to you, I thought.

I could feel my mouth open, almost against my will, I made a satisfactory noise of acknowledgement, sort of an inhale and an ‘ah’ sound all at the same time. “Oh I’m sure…” already more than I wanted to engage with her.

“They said they couldn’t take my stuff without receipts? What do you think that says?”

I didn’t want to say it said anything.

“Who has receipts for things they have had for years?”

“Oh, no,” was all I could manage, all I was willing to manage.

“It was all my dear, late husband’s stuff, may god rest his soul.”

Did my face say I was interested in anything she had to say? I must check it in the mirror to see what it says.

“I just wanted to clear the stuff out and perhaps make a couple of dollars in the process.”

I could feel my eyebrows rise up, I could feel my lips purse, almost despite me.

“Is that so bad?”

“Ah.”

“Who does he think he is…”

Who are we talking about? I could feel my eyes widen.

“It is very upsetting, that’s what it is, upsetting.”

Not unlike this entire conversation, seriously. I wondered if I could just move.

“Very upsetting,” she said. She stepped on her cigarette with one of her yellow shoes.

She reached into her bag and pulled out another cigarette. She lit it again awkwardly with her over sized talons appearing to make handling anything difficult. I wondered what the purpose of them really was? Are they like high heels, supposed to make her look sexier than she otherwise was? She was too old for anyone to find her sexually attractive, I thought. I know, the hair on the backs of post middle-aged necks everywhere just bristled and none of them really know why.

She dragged on that cigarette like every frustration and disappointment was held between her claw like fingers. She exhaled like she was releasing the anguish of entire life time, it was pageantry, it was a performance, known, or not.

Smoke billowed around her head. “I’m guessing you don’t care?”

“I guess he has his rules.”

“What are you some bleeding heart liberal.”

I wasn’t sure what my political leanings had to do with this conversation, but fuck it, I thought. “Yes,” I said.

“Yes?” she repeated.

“I am a bleeding heart liberal.”

“Oh yes, good onya,” she said. “You’re everything that’s wrong with the world today.”

“And what do you believe in?” I ask. “Nothing, like most conservatives?”

“Nothing?” she repeated.

“What do you believe in?” I asked.

She dropped the cigarette to the footpath and ground it out with the sole of her daisy cup shoe.

“Clearly not anti littering,” I said. I looked at the remains of her cigarette ground into the concrete.

“I don’t have to stand here and listen to this,” she said. “I’m not going to be spoken to by the likes of you, and him.” She indicated the guy in Cash Converters with a nod of her head.

“And what is the common denominator in both those conversations?”

“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean?”

“Oh, a common denominator means a characteristic, or attitude, that is shared by…”

“Don’t be a smart arse.” She took the handle of her mauve shopping jeep with a big hand gesture and stuttered off down Smith Street.

The Black Car

It had been raining for the last few days, but it had just stopped for a short time. It was a momentary relief, for it seemed to have been raining continuously, forever. And, indeed, it nearly had. There had been just constant rain and it seemed to dull the senses, and tire the spirit making one feel dizzy with the damp and less keen on life, because of it.

Amy sits at her desk reading her emails. An email circulating around the building said, ‘If you happened to have been parked in the Flinders’ Lane car park last Friday, at around 7am and you saw a black sedan with the license plate quite possibly JM 0 something, or JN 0 something, or possibly YJM something... could you please call the number supplied. You may be able to assist with an inquiry regarding a woman who allegedly parked in the car park at around the same time.’

Amy is taken back a little, as she had seen the car in question. Jeremy Marshall’s car. Her Jeremy. His BMW had the number plate JM 030. She had parked behind it, as she had on other occasions. Amy's car had been parked in the underground car park from 6am on the morning in question. Amy had been one of the first people to arrive, but she hadn't seen anyone else in the car park as she exited through the back stairwell. The back stairwell was the closest to her office and it gave her a reason to walk the five flights of stairs, rather than being lazy and taking the lift. Of course, she could take the lift and just go back to the gym. Or suspend her membership, at the very least. But, using the stairs gave her a sense of, actually, doing something healthy, you know. Gym membership, or not. No further action required.

Had she seen anyone that morning? She didn't think so, she couldn't quite remember now, as she really hadn't take that much notice, as she struggled with her two bags and her leather coat – it’s all very well having a briefcase with wheels, but the stairs? Was she talking on her phone and therefore distracted, as she was so often as she arrived at the office? Yes, Jeremy had called her to discuss the two of them, she thought as she gazed at the number plate. 

Would anyone else remember the two door car? She only remembers because the car meant something to her. Of course, the car isn’t a sedan at all, as it said in the email, it is a coupe. She feels relieved and then wonders straight after that thought why she should feel relieved at all.

In hindsight, that was the tactical phone call to sure up the proposal, later that night. She is a bit hung over from the night before, she remembers she was concentrating that morning, more than usual, her head ached, and she didn't want to forget anything. She must have looked a wreck. She laugh, at the thought, more of a defence mechanism than because she thinks it is humorous. Lucky there isn’t any security footage attached to this email. She wasn't hung over on alcohol. She's realised lately that she can't smoke anything, if she wants a clear head. Although she hasn't stopped, it is Jeremy’s influence, so it was vagueness she was battling. 

I don’t want to call anyone, she thinks. I don’t want to get involved. What did she care, Jeremy had asked her to marry him, just out of the blue? Well, clearly not just out of the blue for Jeremy. Amy’s head spun with every bridle picture she’d ever seen, as she found herself saying yes. She deleted the memo and then emptied the trash.

She wonders if she should call Jeremy.

What inquiry could this be assisting with, she also thinks?

If Jeremy was on the phone to her? What time was that? What could he have to do with another person? A woman?

She decides to call him.

“Jeremy, there is an email circulating around our office about anyone seeing a black car with the number plate something like your number plate last Friday morning in my parking lot?”

“Really,” says Jeremy. “Funny hey? But… but… I didn’t park in the parking lot, last Friday. I was at a clients all morning.”

“Oh,” says Amy.

Amy hadn’t really thought that the memo was referring to Jeremy’s car at all, she suspected that she was being a drama queen, open to salacious gossip as we all are now a days, that was until Jeremy had just obviously lied to her. 

“Oh?” repeats Jeremy into the phone.

Still, he probably wouldn’t be stupid enough to park in the car park in the immediate future, whether he has, actually, done anything or not.

She feels relieved, of sorts. Her mother’s words came into her head.

Stop mothering that boy, he’s more, um, worldly than you give him credit for. He’s more… Her mother shook her head.

Amy gets up and goes to the door of her office.

Tim, Amy’s PA, was dutifully at his desk.

“Morning,” he says, as he did every morning. “When do you want to go through your schedule?”

“Oh, give me a moment,” replies Amy. “I’ll let you know when I am ready.”

She closes the door to her office and sits at her desk and switches on her computer, hoping that work would replace the troubled feeling she has.

She can’t get Jeremy out of her head.

She decides to go and make coffee.

She gets up again and heads out of her office.

“I’m just going to make a coffee.”

“I could go down stairs and get you a real one,” says Tim.

“No, it’s okay, I’m in the mood for instant.”

Tim looked perplexed.

She wants to be distracted. 

In the kitchen they are discussing the email and the rumour of what it all might have been about.

“What’s it about?” asks Amy.

“Oh, some girl got her bag snatched by some whack job,” says Dave from IT. “Apparently, the whack job took off in a black Holden Commodore. That’s why they are asking for witnesses, to collaborate the story.”

“A Commodore, you say?”

“I said Holden,” says Dave. “But yes, I believe it was a Commodore.”

“Oh, a Commodore.”

“Yes.”

That let Jeremy off the hook, thought Amy. But why did he lie? Why would a man lie to his girlfriend, she thinks?

She can't stop thinking about it all afternoon. By 3pm, she tells Tim she is leaving for the day. 

She heads to the local gadget shop and purchases a GPS tracker. It is the magnetic type. The nice sales boy says she could just attach it under Jeremy's mudguard on his car. Once she had done that, it was simple to track where Jeremy has been.

“If that’s what you really want to do,” says the nice sales boy.

“Why? What are you saying?”

“Well, people aren’t always happy with what they find out.”

She isn't really sure, she knows that, but she wants to know why Jeremy told her a lie.

Jeremy's BMW was in the car park when she got down to the basement carpark of his apartment building. Amy felt a chill run up her spine as she looked at the black car. She walked to the back of the coupe. She looked up and down the driveways, they were clear. She opened her bag and slid her hand in. She stopped. Hesitated. Looked up and down the driveway again. She slipped her hand out of her bag, clicked it shut and turned and walked back down the driveway to where her car was parked, far enough away from Jeremy’s car, just in case... She chuckled to herself, just in case of what? She thought.

She stops. Looks at her car for a moment. Now is the time, don’t fumble it, she thinks.

She walks directly to the back of the black coupe once again. She looks around for a final time and then reaches in under the rear mudguard and attaches the tracking device. Then she just casually walks away. Her stomach is in a knot, belying the whole scene.

Later that evening, she had just pilled the corn (actually, I love that image) er, pulled the cork from a bottle of chardonnay and had poured herself a glass. She sits on the bar stools at her kitchen bench. She sips her wine and remembers her phone. She retrieves the phone from her bag on the kitchen island bench. She unlocks her phone and scrolls to the tracking device app.

Jeremy’s car hadn’t moved. She isn’t sure what she expected. 

She puts her phone down on the bench and drink her wine.

Why did she think Jeremy was lying? What possible reason could he have for saying his car wasn’t some place it was? Why would he say that?

She sips her wine.

Because he wants her to think he was somewhere else? What possible reason would he have for wanting her to think he was someplace else?

If that was the case, it was a rather clumsy lie, as she had already proved, she’d seen his car in the car park.

It was therefore a rather half-arsed lie. And for Jeremy to be telling a half-arsed lie, it pointed to him being rather desperate about something. Really out of options as far as it was concerned.

Why would Jeremy be in such a position that he had to seemingly tell a rather desperate lie?