It's funny, when I talk to one of my mother's friends on the phone, I could be talking to Katherine Hepburn.
Now blind Joan – macular degeneration, who still manages to live at home, on her own – talking about Lottie going into care.
"She's better off, Christian," she boomed down the phone. "Better off. You have done all you can do."
I don't get the association in person, but on the phone, it is uncanny.
I feel like I want to call her up some days and ask her to talk about Spencer for a bit.
Beck said to me last week that she wanted to take Monday off instead of today, as it’s her mother’s birthday on the weekend and she asked me if I could work. Sure, I said. Then today we were talking about stuff for next week that we’d get done on Tuesday.
“Am I working Tuesday?”
“Aren’t you going to be here?” She had that look on her face.
I just thought since I was working Monday that I’d take Tuesday off. Silly me. “Oh... I can be.”
“It’s the end of the financial year, you know, I’ll need you to work as much as you can.” Still that look and that tone Beck gets when she is stressed.
“Sure, okay.” I tried not to feel pissed off, but, you know, I was. So you're having your day off, but some how, I'm not. Beck has been complaining about people who only think of themselves all week. It was the end of the day and I left as soon as I could.
Never ceases to amaze me how funny... odd, people can be.
Then I walked out of the front door, putting a cigarette in my mouth as I exited, still fighting feeling pissed off. It was raining quite heavily, bouncing in big drops on the bitumen of Bourke Street. There was a heavily pregnant woman who jumped at the sight of my cigarette.
“Disgusting,” she said at me.
It’s just rude, really. The licence some people think they have. The fresh wind was blowing all around us, what did she think was going to happen? A birth defect because of my cigarette, quite possibly?
You know the type, thinks she is making a grand sacrifice to the world by reproducing, acts like she is the only woman who has ever been pregnant. Me, me, me, me, as pregnant woman so want to do now a days.
Oh, settle down, I thought. I walked passed her and lit it. I waited for her to complain, as I watched the rain fall. I was ready to laugh at her, if she did. But she didn’t and I didn’t look back.
Oh, maybe I was just tired, you know, end of the week and all. But...
Sam stayed last night, for only the second time. He came over after work and hung out for the night. We watched teev and ate Vietnamese and cuddled on the couch. Shane got more and more pissed, Sam thinks he's funny.
Shane likes Sam, I can tell. When I asked late if Sam wanted to go home, (the driver to the non-driver) Shane said, before Sam could answer, “You should stay, it’s too late to go now. Stay. Stay.” Or should that be, Shane slurred?
I don’t usually like sleeping with anyone... actually, that’s not exactly true. I don’t like sleeping with just anyone, but with Sam, it’s kind of nice. We fell asleep our heads touching on the same pillow. That must be saying something, huh?
He kissed me bleary-eyed this morning. "See ya, gotta get to work."
I rolled over and looked at the clock one-eyed, it was 8am. My day off.
It felt good, you know. Nice.
"See ya handsome."
He smiled his sweet smile. I pulled the doona up to my neck and could feel sleep coming for me again. Sam waved from the door.
I looked at my cat, Missy, just as I was heading out the back door with a million things to do, with her one paw out stretched, over the blanket she was snuggled up to, the winter sun shining in through the window forming the proverbial pool in which she was lying, as if in her very own spot light, one eye closed, one lazily half-open and I thought, you don't have a care in the world.
I wanted to be her.
I did spend morning tea in Brunettis drinking coffee and eating crème brûlée and afternoon tea in another establishment drinking tea and eating chocolate chip biscuits.
Sam text me eating brûlée or chocolate biscuits and said he was jealous. He came over last night and shared in our Sunday night dinner – I made a flourless French chocolate cake, because some of the gang have decided recently that they are gluten intolerant, as is half the world, so it would seem, now a days. I made it up to him for neglecting him last week, you know, with pats and licks. The way to a boy's heart, food and sex. I said I was sorry, as I gazed into his eyes and he said he was sorry too.
Truthfully, I didn't really think I had any thing to apologise for, it was extraordinary circumstances, last week. But, I was sorry that his feelings had been hurt. And, hey, an apology doesn't cost anything.
And he's got beautiful brown eyes.
The winter sun shone down all day and it was all quite lovely. Sunny winter days in Melbourne are really gorgeous like warm honey trickled over you, or fur lined slippers around your toes.
Missy was quickly wrapped around my ankles, when I got home late, meowing, meowing, meowing. Oh yes, I thought, now you've got a care, hey?
I went out to chop some wood for the open fire. The axe hit the first piece and that 'thwunk" sounded through the earth underneath me and I heard someone say, "Go on ruin the environment."
The voice was kind of at a distance, somewhere over the fence and far off, so it seemed. I didn't think much about it. Oh, that old peanut, I thought, if I thought anything at all.
I chopped some more. It was followed by, "Keep going you idiot, polluting the atmosphere."
I wondered where it was coming from.
I chopped the last pieces and the voice said, "You're a wanker, you are destroying the world."
I wondered who he was talking to? I picked up my wood and realised, he must have been talking about me.
He sounded angry, possible deranged. I thought it was some nutter. But who?
I laughed to myself, as I headed inside, imagine if he confronted me. I felt a chill up my spine, I have to admit, as I got closer to my back door, as whatever if was behind me got bigger and darker.
"Mate, I don't have any kids to leave anything to, let alone the world. I don't care about the environment, because nobody else does. Did you see what happened in Copenhagen?"
I wondered if he was unhinged enough to punch me for that comment? You know, the argument you shouldn't have. I wondered if he was one of those toothless types, who didn't understand any of it, but believed it all wholeheartedly?
"Yeah, but what about me fucken kids!!!!" (I kind of picture being held up against a wall with his spindly hands around my neck, spitting small droplets of spittle on my face as he shook)
I wondered if he'd buy,
the wood lets off just as much carbon if you burn it or if you let it rot on the ground. Which is true, I believe.
Or,
Australia's carbon emissions are negligible, so my open fire isn't effecting anyone.
It's the kind of confrontation where the dumb commit murder because they are passionate about something because the world has told them they should be. Understanding not required.
He sounded dumb.
I went inside and used two fire lighters to get my fire going. No, I didn't.
I thought that the deal was, that as long as we generate power from burning brown coal, burning wood actually pollutes less, or the same, or something?
Whichever, it's not so bad.
Sam is pissed off with me. It is to be expected. Well, I did, pretty much, ignored him all week. It's true. I looked after my mum, but ignored him. Oh, I didn't mean to. I didn't do it on purpose. I had lots of things to think about and lots of things going on. I had to make all of the decisions, which is fine, but it left me with little energy afterwards. It was all swirling there for a few days and I had to snatch at the information and make decisions fast. I was exhausted at the end of each day and just wanted to shut down, afterwards.
Problem being, I don't think he is really buying it. Oh well, best I make it up to him today. Or smack him one? Now which? I suggested that I might slap his arse, which he didn't respond to, which he normally would. That was an easy one to pick.
I've been very gentle so far, but he just wasn't sounding like he was in a forgiving mood, not entirely. I mean, he said that he understood, but his tone, kinda, said something else.
Grrr!
He wants me to stop smoking pot, too, which is probably a good call. And, you know, I don't mind boyfriends telling me what to do, it is a part of their charm, the tussle between their wants and my wants, but they have to make it to boyfriend status first. Don't you think?
I do like a good mandarin selection in the supermarket. Yesterday there were Imperial, Clementine and Nova. I was very happy.
I got Imperial, because I'm a bit of an Imperial boy and Novas, as I'd never had them before. I used to have this conversation with Tom. He was strictly an Imperial boy. Sigh.
The Novas are good, I can recommend them.
Although, not much goodness in a mandarin, apparently, they taste so good, but are inferior fruit to Oranges, which have lots of antioxidants that mandarins don't have. How could this be?
They taste pretty good, but with no depth. A bit like a blond.
Maybe, they are good to juggle with? Maybe?
I'm sure they'd be good to throw at cockheads, you know, people who drive everywhere at 40k's, or talk loudly on their phone, but, why, when you can have mandarin juice running down your chin instead.
Oranges are great, don’t get me wrong, I am just exaggerating for dramatic effect. We’re lucky, we can have both, everyone would have to agree.
How sad it is when you get to the end of your life, it’s of no consequence. There is no great fanfare, no great party, just the possible end of somebody else’s burden.
That’s what it becomes and it’s not right. A comment on the current population is how they treat the elderly.
And she lived in the golden age of the planet. No one to step forward even with a cursory congratulations.
Just a declaration of confusion and I’ll send you the literature on the different places.
In the end, I could no longer make it right for her. Sorry mum. At least I still make you laugh.
I went to mum’s assessment. She didn’t go so well, pretty much solitary confinement, not too much doubt there. It's bread and water from here on out. Funny, no matter the education, no matter the wealth, we all end up the same... needing someone to wipe our arses.
I can’t stay here, said mum.
Why not, asked the assessment lady.
I might, I might, I might get to like it.
I, not only got the neighbour to feed the cat indefinitely, she's even going to go in and change the lights around. Whoo hoo! I just straight out and asked her. Although, apparently, I do have certain allure over middle aged women. I find I can charm, even just on half strength charm, not even the full throttle. They give me that look
... it's to do with the fluttering of the eyes, be it briefly and a certain smile...
and more often, than not, they respond to my requests. It's a recent power, I've noticed over the last number of years.
Life's like the TV series Heroes, more powers just seem to keep coming. (I'm sure, said by Forest Gump, on my sound track, anyway. I thought that was such a woefully bad movie, that it would, actually, keep me on my toes, you know.)
OMG! Life is precious. Don't get me wrong, foetuses aren't precious, there is a never ending supply of those. I mean real, place to be, a home where I belong, with family and friends who adore me, kind of life. People with lives. Because once it's gone, it never comes back.
I cried on my way home in the car. Is that what boys do?
Actually, I cried when I took my brother's call. I didn't think I was going to, but I did. No getting around it, couldn't hide it, sob, sob. Not exactly what a straight brother wants to hear when his gay brother answers the phone, probably worst nightmare stuff. He was cool, I called him back.
My dad and mum have now done their bit; the rest is, now, really up to me. Yikes!
I took a big breath and thought, so far, so good. Not bad. I backed the car out and headed into the day. I had to get out, as the cleaner had arrived. Eek! I hate that. Those sorts of things should just happen, I don't have to see it. Good thing I wasn't... hand movement waist height. I was off day.
I'm sure she changes the positions of the cat's bowls around when she comes. She does it on purpose, she knows I don't like her. Every time I got on the phone, she seemed to get on the vacuum. Well, not her exactly, she's very nice, it's just the idea that creeps me out. I'm cleaner phobic, but it could be construed otherwise. David says I'm incorrigible. Anyway, I've just realised after she's gone, I'm always dumping Madam's chow in her water bowl. Right, left?
I hooked back into my sound track with Patti Austen and The Ability to Swing, in the car in Victoria Street. Every thing felt better after that song.
Onward!
I haven't felt like thinking about Sam, not since all the drama unfolded. I've kind of shut him out. That's hardly fair, huh? I guess I should text him?
Just one problem at a time, I just haven't had the energy to deal with something extraneous. Grimace. I mean that in the nicest way. Just getting through.
I go to the nursing home, there's Lottie taken up with a blind and deaf woman, she said she was telling her what was going on, on television. She said it was very nice there, despite the fact she was still going home after a week. Even if it was more of an enquiry than a demand, almost fading in it's intensity. Perhaps, it was my imagination, wishful thinking. But, she's already not quite sure how long she has been there. I guess it was all a very big drama for her, too.
She let go in the hospital, when she realised that the decision had been taken away from her. I saw a part of her fail as she gave in. My feisty, beautiful mother chose the better option meekly, she did not want to stay in that hospital. And I felt sad.
Now, there is a certain resignation. A definite bunnies-in-the-head-lights look about her.
Makes me sad.
I looked back at mum's cat gazing down at me from her back porch, like how many cats had done before her? I can count five, a tabby and a lot of black and whites, always black and white.
I thought, as we locked eye balls, Well, I guess your tenancy is up too, little Squirt?
I’ve got all my friends worded up, if they think of my mum’s cat, they should text me and remind me, you know, just in case. You just can't forget those things, you know.
The house stinks, Shane will be impressed.
7am. Alarm. Up, coffee on, muesli in bowl. Next problem ticked off, the nurses.
I called my sister at 7.30. She was driving to work. We briefly spoke finances. She wished me luck.
The hospital called, just as I was finishing my muesli. Good thing they did, I never know the etiqutte of these things. I’m just about to leave. Could I bring clothes. Yes, I could.
Detour to mums.
Lottie’s very agitated when I get to the hospital, but I get her laughing. The age care professional comes and has a word with me, tells me the process. Lottie can’t go home. We hear that mum is getting dressed and leaving. One thinks she has caught on.
She’s getting dressed and leaving, she was determined.
We sat her down and had a discussion about why she couldn’t go home. She protested a lot. So when it was eventually decided that she had to stay in the hospital, she finally piped up, in the silence of her stubbornness, okay, I’ll go to the other place to be assessed, but just for a week. But it wasn’t ego, it was defeat. She said she would do it for me.
We were in, she had agreed. The assessments would be less rushed in respite than what necessitates assessment combined with the running of a busy hotel. It made sense. She got that, she agreed.
I guess Lottie’s worst nightmare came true at around midday today, as I lead the poor little lamb in by the hand to a pale pink, with dark pink high lights, old age care facility.
The very nice lady running the place, said, you are cold. (not me, mum, you understand?) You should have a nice cup of tea and some lunch, to warm you up. And she took her away. I heard mum being introduced to the other inmates, as I stood at reception filling out the paperwork.
And there was my mother, sitting up drinking tea and eating lunch, chatting away. There she was, playing lady, the same eye flicks, the same round mouth when she was asked if she liked sausages. Oh no. The same finger twitches. The napkin was tucked in to her oldest gardening jumper.
She didn’t see me watching her.
She was off and chatting, as the sun shone in through the tulle’d windows.
She then just kissed me good bye, no tears, no glance back. Distracted with new things, so quickly. She thinks she is staying a week. Five days, as she counted out.
And I got a park right outside my hairdresser early afternoon and I had a haircut. I bought two pork salad rolls. I came home wrote blogs and smoked pot in between fielding calls from an assortment of health care professionals. I was beginning to fade by 18.30, I could hear it in my voice.
I called work. Poor Beck is hating to hearing her say she is going to resign for the very first time. So, with that on the cards, I gave her my sob story and asked for the rest of the week off. She agreed but I could hear it was what she didn’t want to hear. She hesitated before she said it was alright.
I don’t know if I’m terrible, but I got home and thought, Well, that wasn’t so hard, quite relaxed, really. Of course, it’s not done yet – raised open hands – not by a long shot, but so far so good.
And I rolled myself a great, fat j. And lit a fire and wondered what Shane was going to provide for dinner.
Next step meet the insurance assessor.
Actually, the next step is, put wood on the fire and then food. Safely home again.
Shane bought home healthy, organic take away. And wine. And we got shitfaced.
Sam woke up frisky. I tell you, a twenty nine year old is a walking hard on. So we fucked awake. We’d smoked an awful lot of pot and hadn’t slept much.
He slapped my hand when I reached for the pot bowl. I made coffee. There was a glow, a day off.
I called mum, we were chatting. She was rabbiting on about something, I was rolling my first joint. I excused myself to close the machine up. Where's the lighter? Full attention back on her, Puff. Puff.
Mum started to pick up the conversation where she left off.
Puff. Puff. I heard a loud beeping noise in her back ground.
Mum had pick up the thread and was continuing full steam ahead.
“Um?” Mum? Hang on?”
“What dear?”
“What is that noise?”
“What noise?”
“That high pitched squeal?”
“Hang on.” Clunk goes the phone. She's gone for a moment. Back she comes, “It’s the smoke alarm, I can’t turn it off.”
“The smoke alarm?”
“It’s alright, though.”
“Alright? It’s not bothering you?”
“I’ll fix it when we finish talking.”
“You could go over the road and ask the male partner of the neighbours, live in boyfriend, to look at it, if you want it done right now.”
“No it’s alright.”
“I’d better come over and fix it before you go out for the afternoon.”
Then she said something about fluff.
I said fluff?
"Yes," she said. "In my eye."
"Not smoke?”
“No, no, don’t be silly. I had something in my eye. I’ll go and ask the neighbour.” And she hung straight up, as she has a tendency to do. Clunk.
I looked at Sam. I looked down at my smoking fingers, I threw the joint in the ash tray in disgust. What? I looked around. My head spinning. I said to Sam I had to go. I picked up my keys and left.
Fluff? Smoke? Fluff? Smoke? I tried to push out of my brain. No, couldn’t be. I’ll get there she’ll be fine.
There were two fire engines in the street as I turned the corner. Mum was on the front veranda in an oxygen mask. A lady walking by with her son, I gather teaching him about sounds and life in general, heard the fire alarm and she and her son investigated and they saw smoke inside the house. She called the fire brigade.
Inside. It was like a war zone, there were men in suits appearing out of no where in the smoky mist. But, fortunately, it was mostly just smoke.
And a hunking bunch of firemen they were too. Goodness. My joint was hitting, after all. The handsomest fire man said, afterwards, that I looked completely shocked... in the smoky kitchen. Trying not to blush at him, most likely.
I was shocked that I’d made a call and, in all reality, it was the wrong call. Smack bang. I was looking at a burnt kitchen full of smoke. It felt weird, as I don’t call shots wrong, generally. But, I just had. There it was.
Mum had put a crumpet in the toaster and it must have got stuck and it caught alight. Then it caught on the cupboard above. The problem is that she didn’t react quickly enough, she didn’t react to the fire alarm until I asked her what it was. And she tried to beat the fire out with the rolled up newspaper, making it twice as bad.
The brigade are the nicest bunch of guys, I have to say. One had found the insurance policy. They made sure I understood what it was I needed to do. They were really nice.
Mum was taken to hospital, because she had burnt the end of her finger when she tried to beat the flames out with the rolled up newspaper.
Then everybody was gone.
Breathe.
Silence.
I called the insurance company and made the claim and got someone to come and repair the burnt power point, and to put the power back on. I didn’t have my glasses, I was blind without them.
Thank goodness the man over the road offered me a pair and a nice cup of coffee afterwards and a rendition of all the best coffee houses plus in Melbourne, with the history of coffee thrown in too. He made such a par larva about making the coffee with his machine that by the time he’d made his, I’d finished mine. I decided it was either me, or him, so, naturally, I won.
Oh, I shouldn’t say that. I just didn’t want to be talking about coffee, as my mind was reeling. What the hell was I going to do? He really is the nicest neighbour, would do anything for me, I couldn’t ask for better. I’m just terrible. I’ll go to hell.
“Cheeze, thanks for the coffee, that was great. Got a few thing to attend to – I’m not sure if I actually pointed, or if the metaphorical mean was enough – head flick, or not, to the burnt house over the road, it was a blue-chip reason for cutting and running, after all. Not every day...
It would be a couple of hours before the "make safe" man calls to say when he's coming.
I drove home and got my glasses. I just didn't feel I could be certain of tackling every job without them.
The hospital called me, as I hit the Victoria Street car park, and mentioned something about respite care, or staying just one night was possible, anything to help.
Sam text to say he’d get going soon. He’d been at my place all that time, I thought? I just thought he would have left when I did. I just text back, ok. I was on my way home, but thought he'd be gone by the time I got there.
The sun was shining when I got home. I gave Shane the low down. I rolled two joints. I got my journal, no electricity, no laptop and my haiku.
I got back to mums around 4pm to wait for the electrician.
I smoked both joints. Ah, fuck it, I thought. I even went outside, to smoke them, despite the smell of the house.
I decided to concentrate on fixing everything just one problem at a time. Just think about the next thing you have to do, that's all you have to do. Get the power point fixed, get the power back on. Then, at least, the house is liveable, if need be, again.
Waiting for the call, I sat back in the peace of my mother’s, oh so familiar, lounge room. I got my breath. The joints had both hit.
Two hours had passed so I called the electrician. He’d been given my wrong phone number. He’d been given the wrong street number.
Another couple of hours, no doubt.
I was hungry, I hadn't eaten anything all day. There was only ice cream and fruit juice, everything else kind of needed heat, so I ate a Cornetto and drank two giant glasses of grape juice. I had such a wild sugar rush, it was too much and it made me feel nausea's.
So, I wrote haiku by the fading light, but it was no good and I had to go and lie down for an hour, or so. Because I was so stoned? Yes? I got horny thinking of Sam. I lay on my sister’s bed, mum had long since given my childhood bed away, and thought about him. (Ed note - in hindsight, it's a pity I didn't think to text him) And the world seemed calm.
Then I called the electrician back at six, as the light faded away altogether. He said he’d be there in an hour. No problem, as long as you are still coming.
Standing in the dark house, there was a cacophony of footsteps parading across mum’s roof. I went out once, or twice, to check, two cats and a possum’s beady eyes spied down at me. Two living creatures that share this planet, right there, eye balling each other. It seemed bizarre, not sure why? Each one of them sounded like a heard as they scuttled across the roof. No wonder mum was beginning to think there was people in the roof. Oh yes, that was new, just this last week, or so - everything I was hoping that the new care person would take care of... you know, with the three hours a week.
Hands in the air, raised eye brows.
The hospital called, as I smoked on the front step, in the shadow of the portico. Yes they could keep her over night. Another problem crossed off. The street was silent, still. I was nearly done.
The small gas heater worked in the sitting room and I found two candles, so at least I was warm and could see. Some people were scratching for water in dry river beds.
Then a lovely nuggety little smiley chap arrived with a bloody big torch and a tool kit. He was straight into it, smile, we’ll get this fix. Oh yes, that’s melted, isn’t it. He asked if I could get him a stepladder as the fuse box was high up,
"Not made for little blokes like me, mate, old houses like this."
I’d taken not two steps out to the garage and the lights all started to flick back on, one by one. And then he was gone. And there I was standing alone in my mum’s burnt kitchen, on my own.
Click, next problem is cancelling the nurses, 7am. Nothing to do until then. The house is safe and sound. I'd fed the cat, I could go home. Day done.
I closed up the house, as the street lights twinkled in the sky. I shut the front door. Silence. Calm.
The sound of my exhaust starting up echoed in the trees. There was icy dew on the windscreen.
I was home for pizza with Shane and Mark W., who I flirted with. I think I’m doing it on purpose now. It's a kind of a challenge, to get eye contact and then that look, small smile. Somebody stop me. I was just in time for MasterChef.
I taught Sam how to smoke joints. He's never smoked before in his life, come over to the dark side Sam. I laughed to myself, that must be a record, what is it, two weeks? Then I say after that, what am I talking about, I've never had a non-smoker before, all who come before him came pre-broken in potwise.
I wasn't going to mention it again, after I found out he'd never smoked before. I didn't think is was the healthiest thing to do to someone new in your life, just weeks after meeting. But, you know, I got pot for the long weekend, just a one off treat, you understand. We weren't going out any where all weekend. And Sam was keen.
He took to it like a duck to water. One splutter, maybe two. He kept saying that he didn't feel anything, so I just kept feeding it to him, one puff at a time. You can always have more, and you don't want to go to too much, oops, vomit. Trust me. The only thing he has to compare it to is e's two years ago. Maybe he thought it would be more. I kept saying to him it's not called the chill out drug for nothing, you know.
He fucked like a stoned boy, for hours and intently, not too many hours later. In the morning too, not normally my favourite, but he seemed keen.
He told me not to have any more, as I reached for the mull bowl in the morning, so, you see, still a little catholic boy guilt. Not a total lush, although... he said he liked it.
The phone rang, late yesterday morning, it was Mark. When are you coming up, he asked.
I'd got up late, I think I was waiting for the coffee to brew. Go some where? Do something? I knew that I should understand these words.
Lolli and Adrianna are coming up, a girl's night. You said you'd come?
Did I?
Yes, I checked with you at the time?
Did you?
Don't tell me you're not coming now, they both wanted to see you?
No, I'm not saying... er... um - think, think - no, I'm not saying that.
So you are coming?
Actually, when I thought about it, I had no other plans, anyway. Good thing I filled the car up with petrol. And, I went to the country.
We drank red wine, we smoked pot, we laughed. People who you know very well, and not seeing each other for a while, it just kind of flows, from where you left off. Lol's kids have grown. Well behaved kids and you don't notice, it's never a problem.
There was a Seinfeld marathon on. The entire Seinfeld series, one after the other. I'd forgotten how good they were. Candles burned, the open fire glowed red.
Shane got really plastered and flirted with Rob, as Rob was saying good night. It was meant to be funny, quite possibly Shane was too pissed to pull it off, but it fell short of humour. It was a clear hit. Rob took it graciously and he and Lol headed to bed.
Shane passed out, we all raised our eyebrows.
When the wine the pot and Seinfeld started winding up for Sunday morning, I had to put down the first glass of red, no, I've got to drive. Then Luke ambushed me for a momentary lapse and we smoked a joint. Then I had to watch two more hours of Seinfeld and trays of food coming out for lunch. Everyone in the kitchen was Italian, or a non-Italian cooking Italian.
All other pitfalls avoided, no wine, no dope, I left later in the afternoon than I expected. Nice though, what a lovely distraction. Fresh air, big skies, a sense of freedom just in your surroundings.
The traffic was heavy on Burke Road, two lines halfway up the hill from Toorak Road. Do any of these governments that build these freeways have even the slightest understanding how freeways, actually, increase traffic, not the other way around? When are they going to realise that they have to start putting money into public transport rather than roads.
There were two huge trucks, at the end of the two rows of traffic, like apartment blocks, in the middle lane, as my dwarfed car slipped next to them on the outside lane, as the whole conglomeration inched forwards at a crawl. What did I really care anyway, as I was turning off to my mum’s at the next side street, which was now in sight and in reach? But it was the principal that mattered, and even though it wasn't affecting me right at this minute, it was going to increasingly affect every driver into the future.
Without another thought, I pushed my blinker stick down and turned the steering wheel to the left. Ah, the relative quiet of the side streets, nothing but an empty road in front of me. The only cars in sight were parked. Freedom was laid out in front.
Cough, cough. My engine missed a beat as though it was running out of petrol. That's strange, I though, as I glanced down at the petrol gage nonchalantly to see that the orange needle was bending passed the letter E.
Eyes out like boiled lollies on sticks in the best tradition of Bugs Bunny cartoons.
What? Oh crap! How have I not noticed that? I've never run out of petrol in my life. In fact, I always tend to be a little OCD about it and go the other way and fill my car up once it even looks like it is heading towards a quarter of a tank. Strange that I hadn't noticed. I usually fill it up before I head to the country and as I hadn't been up to the country for the last few months, I guess I hadn't had reason to look.
Cough, cough, the engine missed again, as I turned the next corner. Should I head straight to the service station now? Oh, maybe that was being just a touch dramatic. Or is that my usual complacent self? I always get confused between those two.
Cough, cough, it sounded again as I headed up my mum’s street and parked.
“Come on mum, let’s go have lunch. Are you ready?”
“Yes,” she said.
“You better put your walking shoes on, as you may need to push the car.”
“Oh why?”
“Oh, I’m low on petrol…”
“We’ve got a tin for the motor mower, in the garage, perhaps we should go and get petrol in that, first.”
“Nah, come on, we haven’t run out yet.”
I started the car expectantly, you know, expecting it to go, what is it they say about the power of positive thinking? The car accelerated up the hill and around the corner without any protests. I turned onto Toorak Road and headed up the incline of the busy carriageway.
“Don’t want to run out here?”
“Oh, don’t even give it any thought,” mum replied.
We came up and over the rise. Cough, cough said the engine. The petrol station was in sight.
“We can roll from here.”
In we slipped next to the bright, white bowsers. Of course, they didn’t sell 98 octane, so I only put $10 in.
“We’ll have to go to the other petrol station now,” I said.
“Oh why?”
I attempted to explain the difference between 92, 95, and 98 octane petrol on the way to the next petrol station.
The car coughed and coughed and coughed as we headed out of the petrol station. I wondered, momentarily, if there was, actually, something else wrong with it and not a lack of petrol at all. But then he coughed his last and returned to purring like the kitten he normally is.
Note to self – I think that was really, fucken, close. Don’t do that again.
We parked the car in the far corner of the Camberwell car park. There was a bleach-blonde chick, desperately still trying to look in her thirties, in a Toyota Prado, wrestling the steering wheel doing a sixteen point turn to get her urban warfare vehicle parked. I don’t know, I thought as I strummed my fingers on my steering wheel, why do they drive these trucks?
We headed to our old favourite cafe for lunch, Cafe Moravia. The beautiful shaved-headed man, with the dazzling eyes, was still taking orders. He's amazingly good looking, just gorgeous. I melt just a little bit more every time I see him. We chose club sandwiches as they are a favourite of mine. Mum agrees with what I say. We sat in the window, so I can gaze outside. It's hard perving, though, with mum sitting opposite, as she watches me intently. She kept talking to me with her mouth full of sandwich crumbs, ugh!, so that I couldn’t understand her. I’d watch some cute man walk by to look back to the Muppet mouth with tumbling bread crumbs.
I gazed out the window, as much as I could. It's not that I'm not interested in what my mum says, but sometimes with everything being, them, that, those and you know what I mean, sometimes I need a respite.
There was a guy who came and stood outside the café, who had on a pair of light blue pants, that you would have had to have seen to appreciate, that fitted him so perfectly, his perfect arse and his perfect legs. You know, kind of chunky and curvy all at the same time. He looked a bit South American, Brazilian maybe; dark, black wavy hair, black eyes, white, white whites, dazzling smile... just beautiful. You know what they say about Italians and Brazilians… or is that just what I say? The two most beautiful races on earth. He was clearly waiting for someone, as he looked up and down the street and then made calls on his mobile phone. And when he turned around and looked back up the hill, the perfectly round plump bulge in the front… you know what they say, IQ over 100 and there is no fucken god.
Eventually, another good looking guy came up the hill to met him, who also looked Brazilian, maybe, and they smiled coyly at each other, reached out to touch but stopped short. They both stood and gazed momentarily. Did they want to embrace, but were being stopped by years of heterosexual oppression? Or was that just my imagination, my story writing brain – good to know I've still got it, if it is. They both headed into our café. Mr Cutie Pants ran his hand down the back of Mr Late in such a gentle caressing way, as he guided him to head through the door first that I rather decided that maybe I was not imagining any of it.
I looked passed them as they came in through the door and there was Carey Grammar boy walking up the footpath – cute, floppy-haired, blemish free, probably year eleven, or twelve. Now, I can tell you, the way his eyes looked intently, following at least one of those hot arses, he’ll have something to tell his mum and dad in the foreseeable future. He wasn’t just checking out the jeans Mr Cutie had on, you can tell, with that intensity of look and the way he looked back almost despite himself.
“What are you looking at?” asked mum as she tried to crane her neck around.
“Oh… um… just life. Guys being guys…”
Mum smiled, said something about that being nice and continued speculating about when my brother might be coming to visit next, crumbs plastered across her lips.
