Thirty Days of Text – Day 6 – Rota
September 7, 2009 at 0:59 am (Short Stories, Thirty Days of Text, Writing) (beer, Christmas, conversation, country town, D&M, Great Ocean Road, pub, Short Stories, strangers, Thirty Days of Text, Warrnambool)
I was stumped again with this word but again, a flash of inspiration in the shower. A friend of mine told me about a theory that has something to do with the ions in flowing water stimulating the brain and the creative mind; I don’t know whether that’s true or not, but I seem to get my best ideas when I’m in the shower! Shame we’ve got water restrictions or I could be a genius . . .
Anyway, hope you guys don’t mind a bit of Australiana tonight – it’s just where my mind was.
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The Wheel
“What can I get for you, mate?” The young girl leant over the bar, eyebrows raised.
“I’ll have a Carlton, and . . .” Dave looked over at the woman beside him as she finished the last mouthful of her beer, “what can I get you, young lady?”
The woman next to him laughed heartily – a full-hearted and booming, raspy laugh. “You’re lucky I’ve got a sense of humour, mate. But if you’re buying, I’ll have a pot of Coopers, thanks.”
For a moment they both returned their gaze across the pub’s bar, past the rows of bottles and glasses and past the tables of families and young people out on the balcony to the glistening sea beyond. It had been a scorching hot day but the breeze coming off the Southern Ocean had cooled the evening down and as the clock passed eight thirty the sun slowly started to set.
The girl behind the bar brought over the beers and Dave took a twenty from his wallet. They both took a deep drink and Dave turned to his drinking companion: she must have been around his age, early fifties or so, with a face as gentle as it was hard, olive skin worn by the passing time and too much sun. Her green eyes held a mischievous glint and her hair fell down her shoulders in a shock of wiry curls, flecked through with grey she’d made no attempt to dye or hide. Around her neck set a little square pendant of a curious painting with a wheel and strange figures wrapped around it; Dave squinted, trying to get a better look at it. “ROTA . . . TORA . . . Interesting pendant you got there,” he nodded. “Sorry, not that I was checking out your tits or anything.”
The woman laughed heartily again. “Nah, you’re alright, mate, been a long time since anyone wanted to see ‘em anyway.” She lifted the pendant so he could get a better look. “It’s a tarot card. The Wheel of Fortune.”
“Oh, I’m not really into that stuff much myself, you know . . .”
She shrugged, giving him a wry smile. “You don’t have to be to appreciate what it means, it’s just a reminder of how the world works. Doesn’t matter what religion, what philosophy, whatever you believe in, it all boils down to the same thing: fortunes change; life’s not a constant. You could think things are fantastic then something comes along and trips you up or you could think things are terrible, the worst they could ever be but then they get better . . . it’s all just the wheel turning, mate. Just the wheel turning.”
“Yeah, I get you,” he nodded. “I’m Dave, by the way.”
“Terri,” she offered him her hand and gave him an enthusiastic handshake, “pleased to meet you. You here for the tourist season?”
“Nah, just passing through. Heading over to Warrnambool,” he replied, swallowing the last of his beer. “You?”
“I run a little café just off the main drag. Shame you’re just passing; you should drop in sometime,” she said. “Not that I’m trying the hard sell on you or anything,” she added with a wink and a quiet laugh.
“Oh, so you’re a local?”
“Pretty much, guess you could call me that. Been here nearly ten years and they still haven’t been able to get rid of me.”
“So what brought you out here?” Dave asked, nodding over at the girl behind the bar again. “Another round?”
“Why not? But my shout this time,” she said, wagging her finger at him in mock sternness. “Oh, but it’s a long story. I guess I just realised after a while, back when I was living in the city, that you gotta be true to yourself. Not just for your own sake – sometimes denying yourself can hurt others more than you realise, if you know what I’m mean.”
Dave nodded slowly, taking in what she was saying. “Yeah, that makes a lot of sense, love. Really makes a lot of sense. So you came here from Melbourne? Seachanger?”
“Nah, not really a ‘seachanger’. I mean, I grew up in Mt. Gambier so this is more like home, really. But yeah, left Gambier when I was still a kid, really. Hitchhiked a bit – gawd, I think about that now and how dangerous that shit is, I’m still amazed I didn’t end up dead – anyway, I hitchhiked and went a bit wild for a bit. Ended up in Byron Bay, Nimbin, spent some time in Sydney. You know, it was the seventies, you did those things back then.”
“Oh, love, story of my life right there. Did the same thing. Went from Perth got as far as Adelaide and kinda tanked from there . . . crazy days, mate, crazy days . . .”
“Yeah, so you know what I mean, right? Anyway, I settled down for a bit, ended up with this fella and we moved down to Melbourne. Got a job, got a house, had a son. Lost the man, lost the house . . .” Her eyes glazed as she stared out over her beer, looking at the sea. “Lost the son . . .”
“He not talking to you? Doesn’t call, yeah? My daughter did that too, we kinda had a falling out but, I mean, I’m lucky. We’re on speaking terms again – that’s where I’m heading now. She’s gunna meet up with me at my Mum’s place over in Warrnambool – our first Christmas together for sixteen years . . .” Dave stopped, catching himself getting carried away, and he noticed Terri was still staring out past the bar: it wasn’t the sea she was looking at but the table of young men, drinking and laughing with each other.
“Dave, you enjoy that time with your daughter for ever minute that it’s worth,” she said, eyes fixed out the window. “Wring all you can out of those days and tell her how much she means to you, yeah? Just promise me that, mate? ‘cause – and Heaven forbid it ever happens to you – but remember that wheel and take every opportunity with both hands while it lasts, yeah?”
“Wh . . . what happened? You know, with your son?” he asked. “Well, not that you have to tell me if you don’t want, you know. Oh, shit, sorry, love, I shouldn’t have . . . “
She looked over at him with a sad smile. “It’s alright, mate. I’m at peace with it now. Sounds cliché but it’s true. But yeah, my boy had troubles growing up, you know? Never quite gave life the chance to settle down and he decided in all his wisdom, aged all of twenty-one, that it was all too hard. Do I blame the drugs? The booze? His friends? My ex? Myself? Yes, sometimes, but you know,” she took a deep sigh, “although it still hurts, I’ve accepted what happened. And it taught me something and although I’d give anything to have him back, the whole thing really brought home how you gotta be true to yourself. If your situation’s not working out and you’re not happy – and I don’t just mean things aren’t going your way but if you’re truly, deeply, spiritually unhappy – you’re gunna be hurting those around you just as much. Doubly as much.” They both stared down into their empty glasses as the sun sank lower and the street lights switched on. Around them were the sounds of people laughing, drinking, enjoying their time with their friends and family. “Ah, sorry mate. I’ve gone and brought the whole mood down again. It’s just Christmas, you know? I don’t really celebrate it myself but it does get you thinking.”
“Nah, you’re alright, love. Sometimes it’s good to talk. Another one for the road?” Dave asked and Terri nodded, eyes still glazed. “So are you doing anything for Christmas?”
“Not really,” she shrugged. “I’m sort of semi-pagan so it doesn’t mean that much to me, but I go volunteer at the old folk’s home, give them a nice Christmas lunch. Some of them don’t have anyone so I make an effort for them and they love it. Makes ‘em feel special.”
“You know, if you’re not doing anything – and, I mean, I don’t want to freak you out or anything if you think I’m being too forward or that it’s just the beer talking – but if you want you can join us over in Warrnambool,” he asked. “Mum won’t mind and I’m sure Teesha won’t either. She’s a good kid; she’s gunna be a mum herself soon. Just think: I’m going to be a granddad! Never thought I’d live to see the day . . .”
Terri turned to him again and smiled. “You sound proud as punch, Dave, and I’m so pleased for you.” There was no jealousy in her eyes, and she seemed genuinely happy at his news. Dave looked down again, confused: it had been a long time since anyone had been interested in his life or his meagre achievements and it made him a little nervous. “You know, I’d really love to join you but some of those old dears really rely on me and they’re hard pressed for volunteers as it is. I can’t pull out now. But, I really appreciate the offer and I’ve really enjoyed talking to you, mate. If you get the chance, pop in on your way back. I’ll make you the best steak sandwich you ever tasted and there’ll be a cold one in the fridge with your name on it.” She slowly pushed her bar stool back and hopped down, rosy-cheeked and a little unsteady. “Right, I’m outta here before they get that karaoke machine going. You take care, alright? Have a good trip and you give your mum and your daughter a big hug and tell ‘em you love ‘em. It’ll do you all the world of good.”
She patted him on the shoulder and tottered out past the tourists and into the warm summer night’s air. Dave watched her disappear down the street, his mind swirling with many emotions he hadn’t felt for a long, long time.
Thirty Days of Text – Retire
September 3, 2008 at 22:40 pm (Short Stories, Thirty Days of Text, Writing) (country town, disability, footballer, retire, romance, Short Stories, Thirty Days of Text, worth1000, Writing)
Matt didn’t want to retire, but he had no choice. The car accident saw to that. Then the police investigation . . . it wasn’t like he was over the legal limit, but the club didn’t care about that. The papers had a field day: Rising Football Star Paralysed in Drunk-Driving Accident. That wasn’t fair. They took it all out of context. He wasn’t drunk at all, just a bit tired ’cause he hadn’t slept for days and the speed was starting to wear off . . .
But now, Matt’s life was over, as far as he was concerned. He’d gone from a teenage hero to disgraced-ex-footballer cripple in one career-killing flash; but it hadn’t been about the football for some time. He was enjoying the perks way too much when he hit that tree. And he’d only just turned 20 that week. But the worst part? He couldn’t look his Mum in the eye anymore. The woman who raised him, washed his socks and jocks after training in on the school’s dry, dusty oval, who took time off from work to drive him over to Mildura or Horsham or Adelaide or Melbourne for workshops and football camps . . . he was meant to make her so proud and now she was back to washing him and dressing him like a baby again.
Matt wheeled himself down the newly-built ramp at his Mum’s house and down to the park by the creek; he couldn’t stand the atmosphere in the house anymore. It was still early, and the air was slightly moist with the dawn’s dew but with the veiled threat of more heat in the afternoon. But it was spring and there were still patches of green around. Matt wished he could take his shoes off and feel the wet grass around his toes once more but he wheeled on, ignoring the stares and comments as the town’s discredited golden boy passed through the main street.
Wheeling down to the artificial lake, Matt stopped and let his mind go blank, trying not to think of anything but failing. If only he could get a run up down that little incline and let himself run straight into the lake . . . it was deep enough . . . Looking over his shoulder to find a good spot to start his fatal last run, he spotted a girl, about his own age, sitting atop the picnic tables, reading a book. He didn’t recognise her, but he noticed she didn’t recognise him either. As he maneuvered himself around to her, she looked up and he noticed she really didn’t know him at all.
“Hey, how’s it going?” Matt asked, and the girl put her book down. She was short but slender, sort of plain and daggy, but in a sort of elegant city-daggy way, like what he imagined a librarian to look like. But to her, he was a nobody and she was just what he needed right then.
“Yeah, alright,” she put her book down and swivelled to face him.
“You’re not from ’round here, right? Like, I don’t recognise you,” he said, wondering why all of a sudden he felt so embarrassed.
But instead of being offended she laughed, “why, is that a problem?”
“Hell no! Just don’t see new faces ’round, you know.”
“I’m just visiting with my family. My uncle lives here and he hasn’t been so well so we came up to see him. We leave on Sunday.”
“Oh, is that Gerry? Your uncle? Yeah, he’s been bad a while,” Matt suddenly realised what he was saying. “Oh, shit, sorry, I didn’t mean it that way . . .”
She laughed again. “No, it’s ok. Like, Uncle Gerry’s my Dad’s step-brother and they barely sort of know each other but you know how it is with family things.”
“Yeah, know what ya mean . . . So, what’chya reading?”
“Just an art book for uni,” she turned the cover to show him but it all meant nothing. “Got to write an essay for when I get back.” She rolled her eyes like essay writing was a chore.
“Cool, is it hard work?” he asked, but she only giggled again.
“Sometimes, but I’m only second year!”
“Oh. Right. Sorry, I just dunno ’cause I never had to write an essay or whatever ’cause I never finished school . . .”
“Oh, I’m sorry,” she said, her face falling quickly. “Was that ’cause of your . . . “
“My accident?” He shook his head. “You really don’t know who I am, do you?”
“Should I?”
“You never heard of Matt Gerning?”
“Um, no? Sorry . . .”
“Where are you from?”
“Melbourne.”
“Melbourne?! And you never watch the news or read the papers or go to the footy or anything?”
“Sorry, it’s not really my thing!” she spluttered, and Matt realised he was probably being a bit aggressive.
He laughed to try to calm her down, “Nah, it’s cool, it’s cool . . . I’m kinda glad, really.”
They both fell into an awkward silence, neither knowing what to say next. Matt wheeled himself back and forth in a tiny swaying motion. “So . . . are you an artist, then?”
“Me? No, I just study it. I’m doing a double major in history and art history.”
“So, like, where does that lead you?”
“I’m hoping to get into a gallery, become a curator or something. It’s a bit of a pipe dream but what else can you do but try, really?”
“Nah, I reckon you should fully go for it. Like, I don’t know nothing ’bout art but if that’s what you want to do then you should fully do it. I’ve never been to a gallery or nothin’ but you’ve never been to the footy so it doesn’t matter. You just gotta be true to your path, know what I’m sayin’?”
She cocked her head, and he could feel her eyes examining him, every inch of him. “You know, you don’t have to know anything about art to like art. You get wankers who try to tell you something is great, but if you look at a picture, or a painting, or a photo or street art or whatever, and something inside you just goes ‘click!’, then that’s what art’s all about. You could have the intelligence of a peanut or be the smartest guy in the world, but unless you feel that click then it’s not really worth it no matter what people say. You could look at the Mona Lisa or whatever and feel nothing or you could look at some really twisted portrait some 16 year old’s sprayed onto the side of a factory and be totally moved.” She sighed and paused. “Sorry, I’m just crapping on about art here, boring you to death. I get like that . . .”
“Nah, it’s cool. I get what you mean, though. It’s like sometimes everything that’s going on kinda . . . I dunno . . . comes together and you feel it. Like everything in your life is going right and you feel like you’re doing the right thing. But then you lose that feeling and everything turns to shit . . . It’s like what you were saying with art – if you don’t feel that but you pretend you do, then you’re damaging yourself and others, if that makes sense.”
She smiled, and Matt felt his chest tighten a little. “Yeah, that’s totally it!” she said, before being cut off by the tinny, techno bleating of Matt’s moble.
“Yeah, hi Mum. Nah, I’m in the park. Oh, alright. Nah, it’s cool, I can get back on my own. Yeah, no worries, see ya Mum,” he flipped the phone closed and sighed. “Hey, look, I really liked talkin’ to ya, sounds funny but you’ve really cheered me up ’cause I was feelin’ pretty shitty before. Wanna catch up before you head back to Melbourne?” To his surprise, she blushed but agreed. He flipped his phone open again, “Hey, what’s your number and I’ll give you a call . . .”
