Fiction

This all happened a little while ago. I was at the Shed on a Thursday night and Kiz was giving me a Steven Spielberg between sets about how he hates when people’s socks don’t match their shoes. ‘I’m a repeat offender,’ I said to him, lowering the barbell down to the rack. Well, if I’m being honest, it started earlier than that. My boss took me out to some underground whisky bar in the city and when she saw my socks she goes, ‘You know only paedophiles wear white socks and black shoes?’

The tour guide is the first to notice I’m unwell. He hands me a fresh water bottle from the cooler then folds himself back into the front passenger seat to watch. Condensation drips down the sides, leaving washed islands in the fine dust covering the van floor. The bottle has no label and easily crumples as I squeeze the plastic between my fingers; probably filled up from a local tap and resealed, like the travel blogs all warn. Still, I twist the cap off, not wanting to offend Prak, who has kind eyes and seems to be tracking the sweat beads rolling off my chin.

Perfect bodies, young bodies, no signs of illness, the dead moved to the fringes and they can be forgotten once there. Upward, upward, improving, this is no time for rest. Instructions are from the TV: how to eat, how to date, how to sing, how to mate. The more we act like each other, the more we understand each other, the less likely we are to be left out. All emotions medicated: nothing too exciting, nothing too upsetting, nothing too stressful and if in doubt, source some pills, a glass of water... forget, forget. Nothing is created. It is planned, it is organised. Above all, go ahead and play because no one takes life seriously anyway.

The children’s cubby has the look of a big top. It’s the sort of blanket that is cotton-waffled, woven, and when the light shines through it, it looks holey, like surgical mesh. This morning the sun is coming through the windows on the east side of the lounge room, just like it always does, honeyed on the floorboards. There used to be ankle-thick shag pile carpet on this floor, mustard coloured. We pulled that furry scab and revealed the shiny underneath. The floorboards are beautiful, waxed but spotted with white paint. In places there are white footprints, handprints smudged, the ghostly remnants of people. I like the paint spots; it means the kids don’t have to worry, the floor is not precious. They drop paint on it, too.

Where are my keys? I’m always losing my keys. Don’t slam the door. Off we go we’ll just drive down here a ways it’s a nice day isn’t it grand altogether not a bother on it, do I turn right or left I can never remember I suppose you have signposts in your country, right I think we’ll be turning right today there’s a young one out with her red suitcase I wonder where she’s going, move along mister, probably just walked out on her husband, they’re good workers mind you, wouldn’t even take a cup of tea when I had them round doing a job for me, I wouldn’t mind doing that get a lovely red suitcase hope she’s packed some warm things are you hot?

Every Saturday Mrs Fine walked to the corner store to pick up a bottle of milk. The milk came in a tiny glass bottle, never enough for a full week’s worth, not with the kids and the amount of cereal they consumed, but Mrs Fine liked the ritual of picking up milk all the same. On these walks Mrs Fine admired the sky. It opened up, expanded.

I am the black silhouetted man on the signs in your town. I didn’t plan for life to pan out this way. But life just happens, doesn’t it, and before you know it, you’re at the mercy of a higher power. The first signs were simple enough. I was desperate for cash and responded to a vague ad in the newspaper looking for ‘Signage representatives. No experience required’.

On Sundays I wait for Lou at the street corner near the house, a wedding cake of a home. I hear the whiny hinges of the metal gate, scraping a wide arc on the driveway, my heart lifts like a boy’s. But we keep our eyes down, and it is just as well, because there is a death in this. Every Sunday a death. A mutual disgust, a ‘who is this dog I’m waiting for’, and ‘who is this dog I’m walking towards’. And this ritual, I wonder if it’s a chore for her. More servitude. Because it is increasingly clear I need Lou more than she needs me.

Lou thinks no future document will ever be able to capture the truth as we see it – ‘because’, and Lou gets a tone when she says this, an impertinence that I can barely stand, ‘how we see the world will never be of any importance again. Besides,’ she always adds, ‘from the moment truth exists, it begins to spoil.’ She is quoting me, a cruel look in her eyes, which obviously I can barely stand. We used to do this, tear strips off each other’s work, particularly the most acclaimed. It was a necessary humility. A way of ensuring that yes, we were mere dumb animals even if the world outside our door was fawning.

You’re a dead thing now, but you keep telling me that I should smile more. You can’t speak (your unfortunate throat), so you mime these things with your hands and your eyes. This tires you out and so your throat deconstructs. Your eyes become more insistent, even as your throat yawns wide and red. If someone else ever saw you, I am certain they would scream.