The Black Sea Patrol Boat Captain
The Least Thing You Want
And They All Went To Heaven In A Little Row Boat
- Why do they wait so, said Marie.
I removed my head from between her legs, turned to look at the news on TV. – Their ways are strange and alien, I said. Now, when I do this, how would you rate it, on a scale of one to ten, one being worse, ten being best.
They started calling it an Armada. Surfers flexed their bronzed muscles and rode their dagger-shaped boards out to them. Skinny old women pushed them away with long poles. The men on the boats laughed and made obscene gestures involving much grabbing of the crotch. Headlines grew more declarative.
STOP THEM
WE ARE US
THEY ARE NOT US
- Marie, I said, the penis is not just an over-large clitoris. You can be more forthright with it.
She stopped. She wanted to know about their spirituality. Did they have codes, restrictions, rules handed down from time immemorial? Were they circumcised? I admitted I did not know, but it was a good question.
I beckoned Cherie over. – Kiss her, I said. Kiss her like Aphrodite kissed Europa.
No, Do Not Bury Your Head In The Sand
- I don’t normally catch the train, Akesh said.
- Now, Walter continued, The steam engine is a good example. It was developed by mechanics who observed the relations between volume, pressure, and temperature. This was at a time when theoretical scientists were tied to the caloric theory of heat, which later turned out to be a conceptual dead end.
Akesh was watching the woman with dreads and an angry blank look in her eyes return to her seat.
- The success of the steam engine, Walter said, contributed to the development of what you and I would call classical thermodynamics.
- Shut up you sluts. Sluts. Why don’t you go suck some cock.
- What I want to know is, said Akesh, is what does this mean for democracy?
- Do you see a bad moon rising over the democratic world? Walter asked.
- In this age of communicative abundance, Akesh said, watching two South Korean schoolgirls film the woman on their glittering iPhones, who will protect the public interest against the abuse of corporate and private power?
- It's a networked world my friend. And when communication is no longer housed within a territorial state, it’s hard to humble the arrogant.
- That’s right, scratch your head, Scratch those nits. Nithead!
Akesh looked at his reflection in the night-darkened window, spots of light bleeding past outside. - I can’t fight the bullshit, he said.
The schoolgirls got off at the next stop, one of them shouting in polished English that she hoped the woman fell under a train. The people applauded.
Groove Is In The Heart
- You were touching her thighs on the dancefloor, said the big lady from downstairs who had slimmed down but was still quite big. She handled customer complaints.
- How do you plead?
- Not guilty, he said
- Are you sure? We have several witnesses. Some not drunk. One girl has only had one Pepsi all night.
It was true. He’d tried to get her a glass of wine, but she’d declined. He dragged her onto the dancefloor instead, convincing her she could not not dance to “Groove Is In The Heart”. Sadly, she found it very easy to not dance, and returned swiftly to her soft drink. That’s when he bumped into the girl in the red dress, the graphic designer from upstairs. It was just a gentle, inadvertent bump, part of his shimmy, but it almost made her boobs fall out of her dress.
- I’m sorry, he said, trying to look like all he’d done was tread on her toe. Which, come to think of it, he had also done.
She pulled her dress back up, in time to the beat. - No problem. I won’t hold it against you.
- That’s funny, he said, because I was just about to say –
He never did finish the line because “Love Shack” came on and it was her favourite song ever, and even though he had never thought of it as a song one could grind to she showed it was very possible.
In The Heat Of The Night
He re-read the message, watched the clock. Sweat-slicked guys spilled mouthfuls of Hungry Jacks, followed by sleepy-eyed girls wobbling in highheels. His blood was beating harder when he stood up, walked out of the station and spotted a cab.
– Coogee, he said.
He couldn’t remember the address, not exactly. The city was filled with laughing people. He wondered if he was tired. The air changed, grew cooler, and he peered at street names, buildings.
– Here, he said, hopeful.
The ocean was near, he could feel it off in the dark. He walked down a street, backed up, took another turn. Few lights were on, and none he could see in the house he chose. No answer to his knock. He looked around, up at the stars, silent and faint behind the yellow streetlights. He could have been half way home by now.
– You came.
She was standing in the doorway, a candle flickering somewhere in the house. She wore a tight white singlet and little knickers that made a sharp V between her legs.
– Of course, he said, smiling.
Only onedollar onedollar onedollar!
- If they’re not marked, they’re $3.
- And the ones that are marked? She’s looking directly at me, her eyes lifeless, waiting for an answer.
- Then, I say, they’re the price that’s marked.
- Oh, she says. She looks at the book in her hand, as if wondering how it got there. She drops it back in the box, casts a critical yet somehow still dead-eyed look over the rest of the goods on display, then turns and shambles off.
I’d be more indignant, but I’m wearing an ill-fitting sombrero to protect my head from the malevolent sun. Bad enough. But it is blue, and painted as an Australian flag. It was $5. Only because I will never, ever see any of these people ever again am I wearing it. And even then I feel as if a little bit of my spirit has been crushed.
At the end of the day, I make back the money I spent on the hat. The lady with butterflies tattooed round her wrist wanted to know if I had any real-life books. She was holding Frankenstein. I told her it was based on a true story. Her husband, drinking a can of Passiona, looked over and said yeah, that’s right, he thought he’d heard that.
- How much? she asks.
- You can have it, I say, for $5.
And The Horse You Rode In On
As part of a new global initiative, the company had assigned all staff a DIC™. Steven’s, a dumpy little fellow named Bob, had arrived at his home last night. Bob slept on the floor. When Steven woke the next morning. Bob was dressed in an unflattering purple jumpsuit emblazoned with the motto “Be Yourself: There’s Nobody Better Qualified.” He was doing callisthenics.
Bob made a disappointed sound when Steven didn’t grab a seat on the train. Bob repeated the sound when Steven accepted his coffee in a cup that was too hot to hold. And now Bob appeared to disapprove of the conciliatory tone he had struck in emails. “That was a personal email,” Steven said. “Is there a problem?”
‘Personal life is work And work life is personal,” said Bob. “We’re here to help you in all aspects of your Assertive Happiness Screening®.”
AHS® was also one of the new CEO’s latest brainwaves. In a web address that played every time a browser was opened, the CEO stated he was worried staff weren’t grabbing happiness with both hands. He wanted to fix that. Our DIC™s, who had already achieved a 34% rise in satisfaction and contentment amongst the Latin American affiliates, would be our “third hand, so to speak.”
Steven gave Bob a long look, “Bob,” said Steven. “How about you fuck off.”
A hush fell over the floor. All the DIC™s were shocked. Like the Buddha achieving nirvana in an instant, Steven had just ascended to the seventh and final stage of Assertive Happiness.
The Angel and the Thunderstorm of God
This made me look up. The grey-haired lady at the other end of the carriage had been droning for the last twenty minutes that God is love and we should all reapply ourselves to the Ten Commandments if we wanted to save our souls. Her robotic monotone never faltered; not when she introduced herself as an angel, not when she described heavy metal music and astrology as false idols, not even when the elderly couple snapped at her to shut up. That personal note stood out, precisely because it was delivered in the same washed-out tone.
She said it as she shuffled along the aisle, then disappeared down the stairs. We smiled at each other, acknowledging that she might have been crazy, but at least she was harmless. We’d got off lightly. That’s when her God squad partner appeared to take over the show.
He strode up like a showman and talked to us directly in a boisterous voice. He wanted to know if we were happy because we had jobs and shiny cars. Did we think spending time on the internet would lead us to heaven? He laughed that he could get tatttoos and piercings and become a hippy, but where would that get him?
“Sir, why don’t you be quiet,” said a blue-haired goth girl. “Each to their own, isn’t that how it should be?”
"No!” he said. “Would you tell a thunderstorm to be quiet? No! I am the thunderstorm of God!” He was no longer friendly with us. He shook his bible, flung a few more warnings at us, then joined his companion in another carriage.
“All this, for $2.50,” said the elderly man to his wife, and we laughed.
Life In A Toilet Police State
“In case any of you are wondering, we most certainly do not employ toilet police.” She told us this with a smile that was also a challenge. “Anything you may have heard was simply a few overeager supervisors taking the law into their own hands. I can assure you it is not company policy. Okay then. Any other questions?”
Everyone remained silent. Our induction as call centre employees of Waggle!, supplier of ergonomically designed pet toys, was almost over. Why did they even need a call centre, I wanted to ask, but didn’t.
Finally, I raised my hand. “Um, what about the news that a 25th Waggle! employee has just committed suicide?”
She honed in on me with a look as cold a monitor lizard’s. “Where did you get those figures?” she asked. “It doesn’t matter. It’s not true.”
We all stood watching her.
“Three of them survived,” she said. “And their stay in hospital is being subsidised by Waggle! Which is very generous, I think, and shows generosity by our new owner, Randall X. DeLeon, to our staff. Especially since no proof has ever been established in a court of law that we were in any way responsible. Some of them had family problems. Two were clinically insane. And one man, I believe liked to dress as a panda bear. Wearing a nappy.” With that, she wrote something in her folder, and strode off.
Do Not Mistake The Dream For Reality
“I’m not sure,” she said. “I only just joined it a minute ago.”
I looked at my watch; there was time to wait. I stayed in line.
What was I going to have for breakfast? I’d already lied three times this week that I wasn’t relying on coffee and a muffin to give me the right start to the day. I should have stayed home longer, eating toasted muesli with sliced banana and perhaps some bio-active yoghurt. And green tea. Now I was hungry. I feared I would not have the correct level of glucoses and carbohydrates to get through the morning. Was the line even moving?
There was a young guy in front of me now, his short, already thinning hair sculpted into a glistening mountain range down the middle of his skull. “This is the ticket machine line, right?” I asked.
He jerked out his iPod earphones and ripped off his sunglasses. “What’s your problem mate? Can’t you see we’re standing in line?”
I took that as a “yes” and went back to waiting. If we didn’t get a move on though, that pile of work would have grown by the time I got in. I should have stayed back last night and not left in time to watch that TV show everyone is talking about. I can’t think of the name of it just now. Why didn’t I pack an apple, at least.
People were crossing through the line on their way somewhere else. The largest number of them always seemed to pass directly in front of me. When I stepped up to close the gap, a woman with dark roots and pyjama-clad children holding each hand was in front of me.
“Can you see how far we are from the ticket machine?”
“Does it look like I’ve got time to be doing that?” she said. “I’ve got my hands full right here.” With that she raised her hands, which left her two small children on tippy-toes as they tried to regain their balance.
“Does anyone know if there is a ticket machine anywhere in the vicinity?” I shouted. “I’m hungry and I need to get to work!”
“Honey, honey, “ came the reply. “You’re dreaming again. Go back to sleep, it’s 1am”
But I knew I wasn’t dreaming. They teach you that as early as primary school, that you don’t end a story with “it was all a dream”. Of course I knew that.
Like The Deposed Russian Autocrat?
They gave me a clipboard and said “Congratulations, you’re the new transport czar.” I said “Why me?” They informed me that the minister formerly in charge had abrogated his responsibility by running off with the skirt from a variety show. I meant, I wasn’t qualified. “Have you ever ridden a train?” “Every day for 20 years, there and back.” “Son, you’ve got the job!” If I wanted a whiteboard too, it would have to get signed off by Accounts. “Knock yourself out.”
I told my wife about my promotion. She said the problems facing our city’s transport system included ageing infrastructure, poor patronage and random threats from over-individualised youth with contempt for authority. Did I think I could solve all that, and still maintain the lawns? “Would a whiteboard help?” I asked.
My first press conference went well, I thought. “More trains, and more people riding them” was my theme. I could only take half an hour off work, so I had to skip questions, but I laid out a vision of the future consisting of a dozen bullet-points and two artists-impressions designed by my daughter, the trainee hairdresser. Later, Accounts told me any cost overruns would be garnished from my wages.
I got my brother Craig, a part-time desktop publisher, to pencil in a couple of new lines. We photocopied the plans on stationery I snuck out of work and distributed them at the stations, asking people to add their comments and mail them back to me. The newspapers started describing my efforts as amateurish. I called a press conference to ask their specific complaints. They said an unnamed source had accused me of taking bribes, and held up one of my bank statements. I said that was the fortnightly payment from my job. I blamed Craig. He was pissed because he’d wanted to laminate the plans but I said it would cost too much.
“Darling, have you made the trains run to schedule yet?” asked my wife one night.
“57% of the time I have,” I said, “It’s a losing cause. No-one wants to be where they’re going, but they hate being late getting there.” I looked in the mirror. My hair had gone grey and my skin sallow. My boss said I was wasting valuable man-hours.
“Sometimes I think I should just make the trains run backwards. Then people can think more about where they’ve come from, and less on where they’re going. And arriving would be a pleasant surprise.”
My wife finished brushing her hair. “Darling,” she said, “you work too hard. Come to bed.”
The Revolution Will Be Printed In Four Colour Process
It was time. My cadre came out onto the streets carrying A1 duo-tone signs printed in Helvetica Bold.
‘LEFT ALIGNED, NOT JUSTIFIED’
‘PANTONE IS POLITICS’
‘KERNING FOR THE QUALIFIED’
Allex Tonkin had returned from exile. Tonkin, the genius behind the minty-fresh mouthwash viral advertising campaign featuring mincing albinos in blackface. Tonkin the pariah, described by the Prime Minister as a far, far greater threat to the nation than midget submarines.
Three long years working as a signwriter in Dunedin had not broken his spirit. Apprentices had smuggled his lino-cut manifestos (screen-printed on hand-pressed paper) into the country. Now, the man himself in all his be-satcheled glory was here to lead us.
The graphic designers were on the march.
The advertising agencies were the first to cross over, then the TV studios. The newspaper editors held out for three days, but fell when their online staff viciously turned on them. The Prime Minister was flown out of the country under the skirts of a touring popstar. One week, and the halls of power echoed with the Converse-clad sound of illustrators, artists and typesetters.
And then we started The Brainstorming.
Some Of You Here Today Will Not Be With Us Next Financial Year
Exiting the concourse we split into three columns. Dan looked nervous in the grey morning light. It wouldn’t end like that team building exercise in Bundeena, I’d reassured him, and gave him two thumbs up as we quickened our pace. By the time we hit the zebra crossing, halting a taxi and a Star Casino courtesy van, there were hoots and cries from the lead suits.
We fell upon the homeless with the wrath of vengeful forefathers. Richard’s plan, transmitted to our Blackberry’s the night before, was a work of genius. One old Creole woman raised a garbled warning in French, but she was cut down by two former derivatives traders before the vague huddled shapes could stir.
I looked for Dan. He was wrestling a white-haired old man who had his teeth clamped on Dan’s left ankle. The sock was too silky to offer any protection. Five six seven times Dan hit the old man on the head with a collection box, but it was no good, the cardboard was rain-softened and the coins were flying loose.
That’s when Richard lifted up the last of the milk crates and threw it into the road and all the fight went out of them.
The park was ours.
Doldrums
I’m standing in the doorway telling Lauren about the eviscerated chicken in the front yard but she’s not listening. She wants to talk about her dad. Lauren’s old man won a 16-footer off a property developer/commission witness, and has a notion to sail solo around the world.
“I'm worried,” she says. “How is he meant to survive all those nights on the wine dark sea?”
I admitted I didn’t know. “Teenagers have been known to do it,” I say. “As young as 14. But she was Dutch.”
This only made Lauren angry. She didn’t like teenagers; she found their haircuts strange and their hugging inscrutable. “What do they know! Besides, he invited me to travel with him. Have you ever been to Patagonia? It’s beautiful this time of year, apparently.”
I said I had not had the pleasure. “How will that affect his plans to sail solo?”
“It won’t,” she says. “There’s plenty of room to hide, and I can come out at night.” I agree it sounds like he's thought of everything.
“Chicken wire. That’s what you need, ” Maurice says. “It’s not Stalag 17, but it will do the job.”
I’d mentioned Laurens’s chicken-killing dog, a blue heeler/border collie cross. Maurice was writing a book about half-track vehicles of the German Army, circa 1939-1945, and spent most of his time in the print room collecting manuscript drafts. “The Wehrmacht was the finest fighting force ever assembled. They weren’t all Nazis, you know.”
Maurice elaborated on how it wasn’t the fence so much as the example you made of the first guy tried to escape that counted. I collect my spreadsheet and thank Maurice for the advice. He was going through a messy divorce, and I didn’t want to bother him too much with my troubles.
“Can you catch tetanus from anodized steel?” I’m showing my sticking-plastered hands to Lauren. Puncture wounds from poorly cut chicken wire bleed profusely, but the holes themselves are so miniscule they evoke no sympathy.
Lauren is looking at the new fence doubtfully. I feel she is being too judgmental. “Isn’t that on the neighbours property?” she says, finally.
I look at the fence. The dog is marking each post. “Some of it is,” I admit. “But I can’t move it now. It would confuse the dog.”
Keeping a drunk middle-aged man upright is no joke. Not when he’s had six seven eight longnecks, you’re casting serious looks at the dog and twitching your head at the door, while his drunk lady partner’s got the other arm saying “s’okay, he’s just epileptic.”
He’s already fallen face first on the floorboards, thrown off balance by his grand gesture at Lauren’s dog sprawled on their couch, saying she was welcome there anytime. Luckily, his face looks well-used to breaking falls.
Now my back is twingeing from hoisting him to his feet. The dog lays there watching us. On TV they’re talking about a tea that makes you lose weight, which may or may not be related to the tea-drinkers also eating less at the time. I make a choice. I let him go, lunge at the dog, and shout thanks as I chase her out the door. There’s another thud. I forgot to ask if they keep chickens.
Maurice wants to help. “Improvise. Adapt. Adjust to the changing situation.” He rips the heads off half a dozen Equal packets and dumps them in his coffee. “And reinforce that fence with anything you can find.”
I have a new respect for Maurice. He does not let circumstances get the better of him. For instance, Tony, our boss, often asks Maurice (Maurice sits across from me, behind a purple partition) if he has signed those compliance forms yet. Maurice usually ignores him. I pretend I can’t see Tony standing there, because it’s awkward. But lately Maurice has replied that the forms are an infringement of his rights and an insult to his 20 years of service. “It’s just a form that HR need,” says Tony. Maurice goes back to ignoring him. Eventually Tony shrugs and leaves.
That takes courage, in my mind. Although I fear he is not endearing himself to HR. He says he doesn’t care. “Next round of redundancies and it’s auf wiedersehn.”
The fence has turned into a mini Berlin Wall. I spent the whole weekend blocking up the holes with unused household items and unwanted birthday gifts. From where I stand I can see a waffle maker, a pizza stone, a foot spa and some slippers that are too small. Next came the books – The Fountainhead, Lauren’s mother’s forgotten copy of Gone With The Wind, three editions of Jane Eyre - slipped into the gaps to create a barrier with no weak points. I’m fairly sure this now represents a suitable deterrent to the dog.
I’m cleaning up inside when I ask Lauren where her dog is. She has been studying up on sailing. “I think you left the front door open,” she says. “Did you know “the doldrums” is a nautical term for the low-pressure area around the equator where the air goes dead calm and you can’t sail. At all?”
I can’t believe I left the front door open. I start to walk out, then stop and turn. “But what about the boats with engines?”
Lauren isn’t sure, but thinks they don’t travel there.
Maurice is on the phone to his ex-wife. They are having a dispute about their 13 year old son. The son, apparently, wants to change his name. Not the first one, just the last two. Maurice gives in on the surname, but draws the line at the middle name. His son’s middle name is Maurice. “And what does he want to change it to? Peter? Who the hell is Peter?”
I’m waiting to hear who Peter is when Tony appears at Maurice’s desk. Maurice holds up a hand. Everyone is waiting. “Oh. Okay then,” says Maurice, and puts the phone down.
Tony asks about that form. Maurice says of course, he’ll bring it to him in a minute. Tony goes back to his office, confident all those hours of management training are finally paying off.
Maurice gets up and heads towards the office. The screams start a couple of minutes later. By the time I get there, Tony is cringing under his desk, bleeding from a serious head wound. Maurice stands with a green recycle bag hanging limply from his hands. It’s almost empty now, but I can see the contents sprayed around the room from his vicious beating of Tony: a tin of coffee, three bottles of milk (two skim, one full fat), a couple of frozen meals, cereal boxes and a handful of plates and cutlery.
Maurice doesn’t resist when he is restrained by the IT guys. An ambulance is called for Tony. The police for Maurice. I hear later that Peter is the name of his ex’s new partner.
It’s no use. The neighbours, who are only ever a blur behind their windows, must be coming out at night to steal my stuff. Holes keep reappearing in the fence. The dog roams free. I do not collect her from the drunkards’ house.
Lauren says I have not been making an effort. “I hope this time apart makes you realise some things,” she says.
“What things?” I say.
She says it’s sad that I even have to ask,
She leaves, carrying a duffel bag, which was all her father would allow onboard.