For Argument’s Sake: Ten Stories

By Gilbert Cheron

The run-of-the-mill characters in these stories inhabit small indistinct worlds, away from the limelight.

They are shaped by personal events and their environment and view the world from that vantage point.

Some are flawed yet loving and stoic in their acceptance of their fate—with an uncanny sense of humour.

Some are very much aware of the reason for their fate; others aren't and stumble blindly through various situations oblivious of their impact on others.

They are determined in their attempts to stay relevant in a modern world that is driven by technology and media as they navigate and negotiate their trials and tribulations.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: May 27, 2019
• ISBN: 9781925952100

Book preview

Easter Break

So what’s your story huh?

No answer

Everyone’s got a story, son so what’s yours hey?

I dunno. Tom affirmed flatly

You don’t know? Detective Majors demanded.

No answer

Maybe I could start one for ya and you can tell me if it fits ya.

No answer

Dead couple down at the farm, how about we start there, hey!

He eyeballs the detective

You know it was murder suicide, detective so lay off my case.

Yeah but who caused him to do that.

Fucked if I know.

Detective reached across the table and smacked him across the face

See if that jogs your memory.

Blank stare

Nothin’?

I’m getting up and getting out of here now. You touch me one more time, mate, I’m gonna fuckin kill ya. Now the whole world knows it was a murder suicide incident. Now get out of my fuckin way or else.

Or else what?

Don’t press your luck little man, don’t think you can hide behind that badge. I could kill you right now and walk out of here without anyone in this shitty little town knowing about it till I’m miles away. You ain’t gonna beat the blame you’re dreaming of out of me. And I personally don’t care how you get your kicks but the media might.

Are you threatening me?

Am I? All I’m doing is getting up and getting out of here.

Tom Starling got up from his seat, swung open the doors of the private booth that was situated at the back of the Chinese restaurant reserved for ‘special customers’, walked out into the main part and made his way towards the cashier, paid his bill and stepped out onto the footpath.

He wasn’t going to be in someone else’s made up story. He walked with his eyes and ears open and mouth tightly shut; he knew the score; he knew it too damn well and anyway he wasn’t sure himself if what had happened was real or just some cheap and nasty 2dollar shop story. It was obviously real; it just had all the traits of a cheap novel; far-fetched yet believable enough and heart wrenching.

. . . . . . . .

Jordan absentmindedly tapped on the screen and thought about reading it then thought better of it. It looked like it could be a slightly interesting read but a little too contrived for his liking.

He decided not to buy it; it wasn’t what he had thought it’d be about. It was a modern take on the ‘Ghost Story’ genre written in a noir style, but not to his taste.

He cancelled the order and put the kindle back in his manbag, reflected for a second how all of his life he’d been sheltered.

Right now he couldn’t concentrate on anything anyway; he was reflecting on his current predicament; 31, single and about to meet Amy from an online dating agency.

They agreed to meet down at the Cock and Bull in the Rocks where revellers and fallen angels in disguise congregate.

Jordan was 177.8 cm tall and slim with a pronounced chin; from the side he bore a resemblance to the portrait of Arthur Streeton by Tom Roberts. He was no Adonis but he was no Quasimodo either; just your average bloke living an average life, working in an average job. He rode his bicycle everyday from his flat in Epping to Parramatta where he worked.

His favourite reads were Ghost stories of the Victorian Era, 1920’s and 30’s classic novels. He also had an interest in Australia’s non-residential colonial architecture. He felt torn between a feeling of great admiration for the majestic beauty of their stature and a feeling of guilt for the heavy price the original inhabitants had paid for their very existence.

He was 31 but felt much older as though he’d miss every opportunity that had presented itself to him. His musical taste was also older, thanks mainly to his parents who loved the music of their time and played it incessantly.

He felt a lot of things but didn’t do much to alleviate them.

He was a man out of sorts with the modern world but not with his thoughts and ideas.

They had emailed each other and made small talk; small but important and somewhat revealing none the less.

They both had felt it was time for a meet and greet session.

They would have a drink and, maybe depending how each other felt after the initial encounter, they would perhaps grab a light meal and take it from there.

Amy walked in dressed in dark blue jeans and your typical shiny viscose psychedelic paisley top that comes in all sorts of colours that every woman in their 30’s onwards tend to wear these days, denoting a hint of the sheltered Suburbanite in touch with their femininity; keen observers and participants of the modern version of the Human Condition with extensive power of self-awareness. Her paisley motifs were done in pale and dark blue with specks of mustard, soft yellow and gold all through the patterns against a black and grey background all designed and purchased to bring out one of her many prominent features, her pale blue eyes.

She wore black flatties and a black shoulder bag; nothing out of the ordinary but something in the way she moved attracted him; at first glance she appeared gentle and nervous, slightly self-conscious; Jordan stood up and caught her attention. On closer inspection, she had no makeup except for eye liner and light mascara.

Sorry I’m late. She said smiling nervously, rummaging around for a space to lay her bag on so as not to have to look him in the eye. She finally put it on the spare chair and sat herself to its left, opposite Jordan.

I’m just early, that’s all. Can I get you a drink? As he stood up.

Ohh, I’m not fussed. Whatever you’re having.

No, come on, you must have a favourite drink.

I warn you I have expensive taste. She said jokingly. And an impeccable sense of humour to go with all her other attributes, he thought.

He didn’t answer; he just smiled affectionately.

Oops, maybe I better not.

No, come on, whatever your heart desires. He insisted.

Really? she replied light-heartedly.

He looked her in the eye and reaffirmed Really.

Okay then I’ll have a black Russian, that’s what the women at work have.

But what do you have?

As I said I’m not fussed, I’m a simple gal I am, with simple needs.

Oh now I’m confused, before you said you had expensive taste. He grinned.

Yes but simple. I think that makes it much more fetching, don’t you think? She claimed puckishly and they both laughed.

He excused himself while he went to buy the drinks.

Amy was 33, average height and weight, youthful appearance with an old fashioned oblong slightly blotchy face juxtaposed against smooth mousy brown shoulder length hair, weak chin, grey eyes, nails bitten to the quick though you could tell she was desperately trying to grow them by the thick application of nail hardener that must taste awful.

She currently lived with her mum in Girraween while her off-the-plan ‘apartment’ was being built.

She walked around feeling guilty about everything; never rebelled against anything as a result; it was her catholic upbringing, she’d say. She felt a sense of duty towards her mother and two brothers who no longer lived at home. She went to Uni and shared a house with other students.

She didn’t end up working in the field she majored in. After Uni, she worked as an Accountant with AMP, just to save enough money to travel to London. She ended up working in London for two years. She loved the independence away from all the guilt that tends to come with every family; she just wanted to live her life the way she saw fit; it’s hard to escape though; ‘families know how to make you feel guilty and when there’s nothing else in your life you tend to go back to them with your tail between your legs. The internal conflict eats you alive’.

She presently worked for the Public Service as a systems co-ordinator.

She travelled to a different country every two years to give her a sense of purpose.

Photography was her favourite pastime.

She liked what she saw in Jordan and hoped she wouldn’t be disappointed the way she had been when viewing websites of various businesses with their promises of reliability and trust and transparency only to find out that they were shameless shonks; she may not have been a glamour puss but that didn’t mean she would settle for what she could get and put up with any nonsense; she’d seen enough heartache and strife.

Then she thought about the affects websites could have on their initiators, as she chuckled, ‘build it and they’ll come’; by presenting yourself in a certain way to the public through your website, you’ll end up behaving according to that public perception.’ She had a quiet chuckle.

Right you are, then. Jordan quipped as he handed her her drink and sat down, oblivious to what she’d just been thinking about.

Thanks.

So what’s your story?

That seemed a little forward to her mind but he did ask in jest.

Story?

Well I read somewhere that everyone has a story.

She shrugged at his remark and claimed playfully,

Yes well funny you should say that; I heard on the radio on the way here that this woman who had squandered her life away on drugs and prostitution, trying to be famous and wanting to be loved for her musical talent ended up finally getting all the accolade she strived for with a book she’d written about her failures. How’s that for a story?

Ha-ha, that’s funny. Well it goes to show it’s better late than never; if you happen to get through your ‘fractured journey’.

Yeah, right, if you can’t get hold of the whole loaf, then the pieces of crumbs must make do. So will a confession do instead of a story?

He didn’t think he’d have time to digest what she’d just blurted out, so he tried to make light of it.

Oh the plot thickens.

This is my first ever Black Russian.

Oh really what do you usually drink?

I’m not much of a drinker, truth be known, a glass of wine with dinner, if I’m out with the girls only as a relaxant.

Yeah I’m not much of a pub goer, that’s my confession.

You should have said.

I didn’t want to seem too girly.

She smiled and picked up her drink and sipped it reluctantly.

More of a latte drinker are we?

He liked the way she made everything seem so light and familiar.

Yeah I’m a bit of a nerd, you could say. I’ve never understood the attraction to the ambience of sitting around in those bistros, eating pub food and drinking overpriced cocktails.

I think it’s called being social, she smirked.

Oh?

Uhuh.

Well it gets worse, what I didn’t tell you in my emails is that I like staring at old buildings.

Oh my God, should I leave now? she quipped.

He didn’t know how to take that and it showed on his face.

I’m joking. I photograph old buildings; I find them startling; they’re amazing works of Art. She reassured him.

Phew! he grimaced.

She detected a touch of vulnerability in that reaction and felt a little put off by its intention; it brought back some unpleasant memories.

Do you wanna walk along the harbour foreshore, after this? he asked obliviously.

If you want to but what about our drinks?

You don’t have to drink it if you don’t want to.

No I‘ll finish it first.

She drank the rest of it in one gulp, put the glass on the table and gave him an eager look.

He downed his scotch and coke. Let’s go.

She felt a little more relaxed and ready for anything. She felt she had the upper hand after that puny remark of his.

They walked out into the warmth of the late afternoon passing other people out for the night, appearing slick and almost cruel.

Being Good Friday, the city was quieter than usual with a lot of Sydneyites having taken trips to the various popular holiday destinations.

They made their way past the MCA, past the jetty landing where pontoons bumped and sprayed, and past your typical touristy street entertainers, through to the Romeos and Juliettes sitting and drinking on those concrete seats with a commanding view of the Harbour Bridge now reserved for paying patrons only.

Once, it had belonged to the public.

What’s YOUR story and are you a hard person to read? There’s a pun somewhere in that if you’re so inclined

Amy asked, for something to say as they walked east towards the Botanical Garden. Her head still light and dreamy from the drink she had gulped.

Jordan was taken in by her easy-going demeanour as he gazed in the direction of the Heads and noticed a ship sailing off. He related the metaphor to his own situation but only as a passing thought and not serious enough to cause him any anxiety; his spirits were high and he was bathing in enjoyment, walking on sunshine.

Dyu like daytime soap operas or reality shows?

Is there a difference?

Ahhh!! I see your point. Jordan admitted drolly.

"Those the only choices?’

Afraid so!

Was she in for more than she bargained for? Did she want to be going out with a reflection of herself? ‘Okay I’ll see where this takes me; nothing to lose, I suppose’ she thought.

Oh, maybe I shouldn’t have asked.

You’re right we’re getting too deep here, so what shall we discuss? World politics?

Oh Christ no.

Okay tell me about your hobby.

You’re not getting away that easy. Story please.

In a nut shell. Old fashioned romantic fool dreaming his life away. He muttered faintly

That’s your story? she exclaimed.

With a touch of the dread.

Not a hard person to read at all then? she smirked.

Not at all.

All Talk No Action Man?

Now you’re getting personal. As he gently smiled.

She didn’t reply.

He pounced on the silence.

Okay, tell me more about your hobby now. All you told me in your emails you took photos. Her mind was still masticating over what he’d just spilt about his ‘story’.

Oh just taking photos, that’s it. She underemphasised.

Wow!! Really!

She sensed a patronizing tone but let it go. She didn’t respond, waiting for him to lead the way.

I wish I was creative; all I do is reflect on life. And before she had a chance to mull over his little Tony Abbott gaffe, he asked rather enthusiastically, for effect, What is it you’re trying to show in your photography?

She was caught unawares but appreciative of the interest and of the chance to give her opinion on something she almost lived for.

I like to show association or reference in my photos; I’ll take a photo of, I don’t know, an old gramophone for example and entitle it ‘the beginning/stuff of life’ she explained humbly.

Almost Magrittesque. He injected.

Yes. I guess so. She was impressed. "But with a sense of the Monty Python.’

Oh?

She acted smug.

Yes well I’ve taken a photo of a huge shredded tyre tread lying there by the side of the road and called it ‘Road Kill.

I like it. She wasn’t sure if he was being sarcastic but she liked the fact that he seemed interested so she tried another.

I took a photo of the same scene on the 1st day of every month for 12 months and called it ‘same same but different’.

"That’s funny. Are you having a go at Asians, though? He joked.

No, I’m being modern, thank you very much, she affirmed theatrically, Modern take on the principles of Buddhism, you could say, with all its modern contradictions and barnacles attached along the way.

Amazing. Do you feel strange coming up with those ideas?

What do you mean?

Well, like as though you’re caught up in someone else’s world, someone else’s idea as though it’s not really yours, like you’re just aping someone else’s ideas or mannerism? Do you ever feel like an imposter? Am I making sense?

Not really, no. Nothing is totally your idea, so what. We’re all connected, long as you know that, it’s okay to carry on with your piece of the action..

She was aware of pitfalls and quicksand. She had given much consideration to her artistic position and felt reconciled with it. More than could be said for Jordan who felt like a piece of driftwood no sooner had he heard her analysis on the logistics of implementing one’s ideas

Yes you’re right. Have you ever exhibited your work? he had to try and outrun those thoughts.

Yes and I have a website/ Facebook page where I upload and post my work.

Ahhh the inevitable website.

What do you mean? She asked infuriatingly.

He sensed her annoyance and decided to tread carefully It’s a doorway to one’s destiny.

I don’t understand.

Well it opens up doors for you whereas before you had to work so much harder to achieve your goals.

Are you saying I’m taking the easy way out or that everything is trivialized because of it? Because there’s still a lot of work that goes into every piece of work, whether it is in a gallery with walls or a gallery without walls. And just having a website doesn’t cut it, you know, if people don’t know about you and your status.

He needed to get out of this little mess as quick as possible.

Ye shall know them by their deeds!

The grimace on her face made sure he felt her disgust.

He realised fairly quickly that flippancy was not the way out especially when the topic held such an important and personal place in a person’s life.

He curbed it down a little.

Oh of course there would be a lot of work going into it, and I don’t think having a website trivialises anything, on the contrary it gives everyone access to everyone’s thoughts and ideas which is a good thing. It’s an open book full of ideas and potentials. It starts conversations. It can spark a wildfire. It magnifies things, everyone is under the microscope. It turns anyone into a journalist, critic, artist, ah you name it you can finally be who you’ve always wanted to be without having to wait or go through various out dated rituals; it’s instantaneous and ephemeral.

He pronounced framing his monologue with a touch of sarcasm, which thankfully went unnoticed by her.

Well!!! ‘ephemeral’, aren’t we the little intellectual, then? to try and diffuse the euphoria she was feeling about the commonality between two souls.

Jordan burst out laughing, thinking he’d just been made fun of, not realising the reason she said what she said, oblivious to what she’d just gone through in her mind, when he had frivolously uttered those throwaway gems and came back jokingly with, but it’s twue I tell you, it’s twue..

All’s well that ends well at the end of the day; both sides unaware of their impact on the other.

Hmmm, why don’t I believe you?

He grinned, it was his turn to try and be funny,

Don’t know, you must be from the Weary-ar-we tribe.

Yes and your totem must be the Mocking Bird. She sprouted.

The only thing is though with social media the so called professional artists and journalists don’t like everyone having an opinion. They’re always harping on about opinions hiding behind the veil of anonymity, unresearched tribal voices. What makes those journalists’ opinion so informed; just because it’s their occupation or because they’re academics or intellectuals? I mean their so-called researched articles are often loaded or bias. I think they’re feeling threatened by the fact that everyone’s opinions are as valid as theirs. We’re living in a 24/7 mobile information environment. He hypothesized.

Valid? Don’t know about that. she suggested.

More personal emotive opinions maybe, you think?

Uhuh!

Fair enough then well then Yeahhh.

He looked away towards the horizon, a wry grin on his face, he loved the fact that she didn’t agree with him; it just went to prove his point about everyone having an opinion and in their eyes it was valid.

Don’t let the facts get in the way of a good story.

She’d be right from her side and he’d be right from his till they’d be one too many mornings and few miles behind.

So why bother with arguments; there’s no arguments at all. If you don’t hear from someone it just means they’d prefer not to or vice versa.

He left it at that and let his silly little musical association wash over him.

In case you’re wondering the name of the site so you can look it up, it’s called ‘Offyourface.’ She skited playfully.

Really!!! Wow you’re a genius, you. Offyourface as in Off your Facebook, like Off- Broadway, well a modern take on the term. Facebook being a modern Broadway and a play on ‘being out of it’; stoned or alternative.

She nods her head proudly

so do you get a lot of hits?

I have other people’s works on it as well, links to various galleries where I’ve exhibited in and believe or not it’s a Facebook page too.

Ohh you little sneak you!!!

They both laughed nervously and continued on their walk, feeling the ancient sea breeze against their bodies, enjoying the feel of the place and of each other’s company.

That same ancient breeze, which nobody seems to remember or care about anymore, swallowed up by the ever changing currents of our modern world. It had carried in its wake the violent and bloody start of another colonisation, which brought on the tragic end of a complex and fully operational ‘civilisation’ and its impact is still felt today.

They followed the soft curving path along the harbour and ended up sitting on a bench bathed in the vastness of the unstained light of a clear blue sky overlooking Farm cove and chit chatting about various aspects of life in general.

The perfect afternoon was tapering off in a serenity of still and delicate brilliance with the sky slowly turning from blue to soft pink as it neared sunset when they decided they should head back before it disappeared into total darkness and maybe grab something to eat before catching the train.

Jordan asked her if she was hungry, she replied ‘not overly’,

‘Are you sure, ‘cause we could just stop by and have a bite to eat at Rossilini, overlooking the harbour, if you want to.’

Amy thought about it for a while; she really wasn’t that hungry, ‘Hhmm! Maybe.’

She got up first, took in a deep breath while gazing straight ahead at the horizon, then turned to him, smiled and said, ‘come on, we’ll decide on the way.’ He got up and they both made their way back towards the station.

Jordan was hoping she would feel like eating; he didn’t want this to end just yet. He’d been taken in by her charm and hoped she’d feel the same. He felt they’d gotten on so far but you never can tell.

When she suddenly came out with How do you feel about women who are forward, being an old-fashioned fellow and all., he felt a huge weight being lifted off his weary shoulders.

She sensed she had the upper hand in this ‘friendship’ from his previous subconscious gaffe when he showed his vulnerability in that one throwaway word, ‘phew!’.

For some reason Amy saw it as weak and unmanly, which at the same time gave her confidence.

He said he preferred them to someone who was backward trying to make light of the situation, now he was feeling a little relieved.

She didn’t quite find it funny as she shook her head in disgust.

Oh I’m sorry. Please go on. He jumped in, noticing her impatience towards matters that were important to her; he felt she would be one of those who could dish it but wouldn’t take it from anyone; he didn’t let it take over his current state of delight; it was just a passing thought.

Well it’s like this, we’re not young lovers; we’ve been around or I should say we’ve been on this planet for a little over 30 years and we’ve probably learnt a few things…. Jordan had an inkling of where this was leading to and was enjoying the ride, she could also sense his playful insolence and decided to just blurt it out. …maybe I could stay the night at yours, if that’s okay.

He smiled at her and reached over and daringly kissed her on her lips, Of course it is. She enjoyed his playful audacity.

I may be 33 but I still need to text mum to tell her of my whereabouts, can you believe that?

He didn’t say anything.

She texted her mother as they walked up the escalator onto the train platform full of commuters from different paths of life. They sat close together on the seat, each in their own world, reflecting, immersed in the wonder of the new, now and then glancing and casting distant smiles at each other, quietly excited, uttering sentences about nothing much, anticipating the eventful night ahead.

They both laid there in the afterglow with ‘Daddy’s gonna make you a star’ playing in the background as he drifted away into the ether relating bits of the song to his current situation.

She wasn’t really enjoying it but didn’t say anything; it was soft enough not to bother anyone displeased with it but loud enough if you knew the song by heart.

He asked her if she felt like a pizza, she could have carried that on and take it somewhere ‘naughty’ but she didn’t want to spoil the ambience, so she just answered yes. He ordered a vegetarian family to deliver; it arrived and was devoured within 10 minutes.

The euphoria made her feel intimate and open to sharing events of her life with him. She was certain that it would bring them closer and that he would understand; in this ambience anything was possible; love could last forever; a dream could be started and maintained till death do they part; in this ambience…, in this ambience, no risk was too great.

"So are you ready for my story? She asked lovingly.

Oh that. I thought you’d already told me; you’re a photographer. Jordan was not as interested now that the sex was over, somehow all interest had run out the door. The desire to know her story had faded away; he was ready to just lie there and reflect.

Did I?

In a roundabout way. You mean there’s more.

Her face turned slightly away from him, had she misjudged the situation?

He was sensitive enough to notice her disappointment; it wasn’t that he was not interested, it was just that he preferred reflecting on life situations straight after a good bonk.

I’m joking, silly.

Oh you’re such a hard person to read.

Was that a pun?

Ha ha. Noooo. She uttered mischievously.

He reached over and kissed her with the intent of assuring her that everything was fine and that there was no need to be constantly on tender hooks.

Amy sighed a little melodramatically as she seemed to focus on the ceiling as though she could see the re-enactment that she was about to relay to him.

About 6 years ago, I met this guy at someone’s party. He seemed alright, quiet and uncomfortable, staring at the ground, smoking and drinking. I was feeling a bit out of place as well so I could feel what I thought he was going through…

Don’t tell me! He turned out to be a real bastard…you never know what you’re in for, hey.. He interrupted childishly oblivious to the seriousness and sensitivity of what she was about to say.

She became a little upset by his dismissive interjections and just glared at him.

Sorry, go on, I’m listening. Trying to be cute with it.

Doesn’t matter. As she went to turn her back on him.

Oh come on. he pleaded and pulled her back towards him.

Maybe I should go home?

What ‘cause of what I said; you’re being a little dramatic here aren’t you, come on continue, I beg of you. He smirked.

She gave him a disconcerting glance. I can’t tell when you’re joking or being nasty.

Ooohh!!! That’s a bit nasty. He scoffed.

See!!!

He kissed her head in a paternalistic manner and beckoned her to please continue.

It’s not important, really.

Sometimes she thinks it’s better not to ask.

He was growing tired of her little girly performances. She could sense his impatience so she continued but with less enthusiasm and an added dose, now, of disappointment.

Anyway, long story short… She emphasised the word short and glared at him rather displeasingly but impishly.

Oh I love short stories set in small places where nothing much happens; short attention span and all that. Forget the big picture; let’s get small.

Silence; though she wanted to say ‘a bit like your own life’.

Spike was his name…

It took all of his strength not to just burst out in laughter; the name ‘Spike’ conjured up so many smart arse comments but his little inner voice interjected just in the nick of time.

He seemed gentle and a little nervous. Anyway we got together and after about 6 months or so we bought a flat together and we moved in. That’s when it all started. He became volatile. Cunning too. He had everyone believing he was a victim of circumstances. He tried to convince me that it was my fault that he was violent towards me; I was the instigator. ‘Oh you go out three times a week and don’t come home till the next morning or you don’t come home at all’, ohh then came the accusations of me sleeping around; I’m a slut blah blah blah… I went out because he was unbearable; with his constant suspicious interrogations and shoving and pushing me around, yelling in my face. He was in the army and did a tour of Iraq.

Recipe for disaster right there. He interjected offhandedly.

She eyeballed him.

Oh sorry,

She continued, He’d go off for no apparent reason. He was paranoid and would just start accusing me of things I didn’t even think about, let alone, do.

"Well, he must have been suffering from shell shock. Didn’t he seek help?

Yes he saw his psychiatrist once a fortnight but I don’t think it was doing any good. He wanted me to go with him but I couldn’t. I guess I should’ve

Silence.

I know what you’re thinking. She remarked.

Yeah I know you think you know what I’m thinking ‘the same old, same old and why didn’t you leave etc, but I’m not thinking that. He became reflective, absentmindedly drew her closer to him.

"Who knows why people stay with each other? My boss who’s only 40, she‘s the manager of my section so she has loads of cash, it’s her second marriage. She has two lovely kids but apparently hubby is a bit selfish and still wants to do what he used to as when they didn’t have any kids. He treats her like shit, never does anything she wants him to and she always picks up the pieces and gives in to his selfish wants. So I said to her once ‘why don’t you leave?’ She says ‘well the kids; they so love their dad and that’s my second marriage and I don’t want the stigma of being a single mother with two kids. It wasn’t the money; it was something else in her head that only made sense to her but that was enough to not leave her husband. You do what’s right for you at the time, I guess…

I won’t judge long as you don’t still harbour any ill against all men and judge us all to be the same.".

She ignored his little dig because she figured his heart was in the right place even though his foot might have been in his mouth.

She sighed and continued on with her little confessional rave.

We were together for four and a half years. I hate myself for staying so long. You hear about this sort of thing and think I would never let this happen to me and the next thing you know you’re up to your neck in it and you can’t move. Now I can’t relax as much as I’d like to. Haven’t been with anyone since but the thing I wanna tell you about is this. I was in the kitchen and he just lashed at me and grabbed me by the throat and I just couldn’t breathe, he wouldn’t let go this time. He kept yelling at me and accusing me and blaming me for his moods. I grabbed the stone pestle on the kitchen table and smacked his head with it. It fractured his skull and sent him unconscious. He was okay. I called the cops and they came and took statements. He was charged and had to go to Court. He went to rehab for a year. I sold the flat and gave him his share. He’s not allowed to come within cooee of me.

Well that’s good then.

It wasn’t too late to call the thing off, after all it had hardly begun but he’d fallen for her inadequacies.

Bad luck girls need loving too, though wise men will tell you otherwise.

Ah but he wasn’t wise; he was a fool for love in a black and white Frank Sinatra movie world where everything was or seemed simpler and paternalistic, when the world was a stage and nobody derided you or judged you for it. Men and women had specific roles.

Then his mind shifted to an ‘Insular melodramatic Middle Class Bogan Days of Our Lives’ affair.

In that world he’d be considered to be some kind of freak; aloof and tyrannical, a little too effeminate and not physical enough.

But the ark was built for two; Conversations about nothing in particular but purposeful nevertheless.

At the end of the day it’s all boils down to loving and being loved.

She sensed a change in his mannerism.

Again she wondered if she had misjudged the situation.

Oh well now the ball is in your court; better now than later. Don’t want to waste your time. We could see this here as a little memory to reflect on sometime in the future.

"You will like my story after all, it seems you have a flair for the dramatics. Read a lot of Shakespeare, do you?" He grinned.

She looked at him sheepishly and cuddled up to him and decided to say nothing more for the rest of the night and he seemed happy with that.

The next morning he woke up and got out of bed, softly closing the bedroom door behind him, leaving it slightly ajar, went into the kitchen and proceeded to make breakfast.

When he walked back in with the tray, she was lying on her back, pensively staring at the ceiling. She looked at him and smiled,

Here you are.

She pushed herself up and leant against the bedhead, he set the tray on her lap.

Thank you.

My pleasure.

He hopped back into bed and took the tray from her and laid it on his thighs.

Dyu sleep ok?

I did, yes. I’m sorry for pouring my sob story to you last night.

No damage done.

After having had breakfast they had another romp in the hay; nothing beats the feeling of the new. They showered together. He dropped her home. They both had things to do and he would ring her later in the afternoon.

Easter Saturday brought a dreamy breeze along and all through that day Jordan reflected on various things, including what Amy had said about her relationship with Spike.

Was he ready to take on someone with such deep scars? He was no giant; he was just one of the minions.

He was just another cog in the wheel of life and life was being wasted with useless thoughts and ideas fumbling in the dark like shadows in the endless night.

‘Those giants who once roamed the Earth are all gone now, they showed us the way, opened our eyes and ears to the roar of the brave new world and left us to our own devices for the times are changin’. Someone else moved in from far away, took charge and lead us all astray; it was now tit for tat for just about everything, mostly just for the sake of it.

Politicians pumping out the piss, treating us like idiots because that’s what we is.

Will the wind remember the names of those giants it had blown through the ages?

‘Some enchanted evening’ was playing in the background goading him to take the chance, he stretched and yawned and made himself an espresso which drove him to giving the place a quick tidy up then googled some recipes for tonight.

In the early afternoon autumn light, he read Thoreau’s ‘Walden’ and found it a little too primitive though some of the proses were quite alluring, when he finished it, he rang Amy.

"Are you allowed to go out two nights in a row or will mum be angry?

Very funny.

Dinner for two at my place?

Sounds good. What time do you want me there?

They say the night time is the right time but for me any tarme is the right tarme. He swanked theatrically.

Right and there’s no tairme like the right tairme!!! she responded, playing along.

Oh yeahhh baby, say nomo’, I’ll see yaw at around 6 then.

Okay, bye.

He put a couple of bottles of white in the fridge then prepared all the ingredients as his mind wandered from this to that, talking to himself, losing himself in his own little world, not noticing the neighbour from the unit across standing on his balcony staring right at him.

He felt exposed, like some madman unaware of his environment drifting off in some fantasy land till he realized the neighbour was actually gazing straight through him; he was also in his own little world thinking about something far away from here.

The knock on the door was a little louder and more urgent than he would have expected.

He opened it to someone he sensed looked slightly flustered

"You okay?

Yes, yes, why?

You look like you’ve just seen a ghost.

That bad huh?

No but I thought you were going to knock the door down. He replied playfully

Ohh I’m so sorry.

Hungry?

Famished!

Drink before dinner?

Okay, white wine, please.

Ahh that’s what I like; a woman who knows what she wants. Anything you don’t eat?

Hmm I like pretty much everything. I do like my meat. She inferred coyly, he sneered back at her and left it at that. They both took it for what it was; a piece of theatrics.

He poured them a glass of wine each and handed one to her and lead her to the open living area where they sat with indistinct music playing in the background, chitchatting about their day.

He excused himself and checked on dinner.

There was nothing out of the ordinary in his flat, just the usual stuff someone finds in an open living area. Neutral wall colour, stuff on the wall, his had framed photos of old buildings. Entertainment unit with TV, and media player on top and few cd’s in the glass cabinet, dining table with place mats and cutlery.

He walked back and sat himself down next to her and kissed her on the lips. She responded with much enthusiasm. His ears pricked to the music being played as it showered him in total rapture. He pulled away and gazed at her with faraway eyes, then pulled her back to him and hugged her tightly.

"I better go and check on dinner. Are you ready to eat?

I’m ready for something. She replied playfully.

He summoned her to the table as he walked to the kitchen and came out with two plates of stuffed mushrooms with asparagus done in mustard and sweet and sour tomato chutney.

For mains they had lamb cutlets in a red wine sauce with steamed string beans, Dutch carrots served in an olive oil and balsamic vinegar and mayo sauce and fried potato straws sprinkled with chilly salt.

The evening wore on softly and playfully as they kept drinking and chatting about nothing specific.

Subjects touched on those supposedly complicated and enthralling TV series with those ‘oh so predictable dark complex tear jerking characters’ and how he can’t seem to get into them; too contrived and too long; no patience maybe or just short attention span. Haha!

Property prices in Sydney and how impossible it is to buy anything East of Strathfield.

Living back at home after having moved out. That sucks!

Travels abroad; she’s yet to visit India and where had he been? Nowhere that reminded him of corruption, hypocrisy, poverty and injustice.

A little fragile are we?

Burst of laughter.

More wine, coffee with cheese and fruit platter.

She, being a shameless avid reader of trashy novels, yes ‘50 shades of grey’ included; no time for those supposedly intellectual reads all about the ‘ordinary’ made philosophic and heroic or reading about some misfit’s grumpy cynical view on the world; been done to death; ‘and if I want philosophical life advice I just watch ‘800 words’, it’s all there in a nice humorous easy to digest bites’.

He, displaying a perplexed look, not one for having to put up with so many ads on those commercial TV stations; no show is worth that amount of ads in his eyes, but yes, agreeing that these days the ordinary is contrived to make it seem extraordinary in every aspect of life and Art and hard to distinguish which is which; which? Art and life! Oh I see! Yeah just the other day they caught some politician plagiarising word for word a speech of a fictional politician in some movie.

How funny!! How strange!! More burst of laughter.

He, preferring the old classics novellas or short stories and one of his all-time favourite movies, ‘the age of innocence; ‘Oh my God, you’re so old, that is so lame! Really!’ ‘Oh it’s to do with rituals and being trapped in a situation and having to deal with it’, ‘yeah but what about the costumes, really’, ‘that aside it is still relevant’; a little smirk, another gulp of wine with a view to wash down that piece of verbal diarrhoea coming out of his mouth; OMG! Is he for real! She smiles and shakes her head, ‘you’re such a sook’.

Then onto each other’s hobbies, people’s obsession with romanticism of a past darkly that is now essentially dead other than in Art and theatre, the current state of the budget and does it really matter, intergeneration report and how will the world really look like in 50 years; artificial Intelligence, rise of various tribal groups, intellect relegated to the dark side of the moon, give no quarter, take no prisoners…oh too scary to think about on a night like this, till the conversation came to a gentle stop waiting for the next piece of situation.

For some reason subjects never touched on any types of sport even in times of silence.

So you still haven’t told me your story. She asked dreamily

He sighed, It’s nothing out of the ordinary, you know.

I like ordinary, I find it extraordinary, as you now know.

Another burst of laughter

I’m adopted.

Oh. She replied almost disappointed.

Told ya.

Told me what! That must be so sad.

Not really. Just another one of life’s soap operas.

No 50 shades then?

OH GOD, NO!!!That’s for those trapped in a suburban traditional Christian upbringing sheltered life, you know, and haven’t got the nerve to step outside their little garden so they turn their curiosity to what they think is forbidden fruit and think they’re being oh so salacious. This stuff is so old and yet everyone is so taken in by it. What’s with that, I don’t understand the interest in it. Have we gone backwards in our thinking?

"Touched a raw nerve there did I? Remind me not to mention that book again." Amy beamed.

Read that somewhere too. He declared jokingly.

You read too much, so how did you find out?

"My adopted parents told me when I was about 8 but assured me that they loved me as their own. You know the usual stuff and I must say I never felt as though I wasn’t. I have a younger ‘sister’ and we get on like house on fire. When I was 18 I asked them if they were okay with me contacting my biological mother. They said of course they were, and in fact asked if I wanted them to come with me. I said yes and we went to the Adoption place.

Oh My God. What was that like?

Found out that my biological mother had written a letter every year on my birthday to the Department, addressed to me.

REALLY!!!

"Yeah I found out she was only 16 and the boy she slept with didn’t want anything to do with it so her parents advised her to adopt me out. They stayed together for a while longer but things didn’t work out so they split up.

She wanted me to know that she loved me and thought about me every day and that she understood if I didn’t want to see her and anyway she had no right to interfere after so many years…"

Oh my God!! she uttered with a little too much enthusiasm.

He carried on.

"My ‘parents’ were very good about it. Anyway she got married and moved to England in her early 20’s.

I wrote to her and we started emailing each other.

She invited me and my family to spend some time over in England. I ended up going by myself and had a great time. I’ve been back a few times, last time was about 3 years back."

And your father?

He didn’t treat my mother very well. He played around behind her back, called her names and just made her life hell. He hung around for another 2 years, then just up and left.

So did you meet him?

I called him and introduced myself. He didn’t seem fazed by me calling. It was weird. He wasn’t rude but kind a let me know that he wasn’t really interested in connecting but if I really wanted to meet in person, he would…I never followed it up….

Do you regret it?

No, not really. My adopted father is my father. We’re close.

And your mother?

Same with mum, I see my biological mother as though she’s my mum’s sister or something, you know my god mother, if that makes sense.

Wohhh…

As I said it’s no big deal. It was never a traumatic experience for me. Maybe it was for my biological mother, but in the end, she got to meet me and we get on so well you know, all’s well that ends well, I guess. We email each other often. She sends me stuff on birthdays and Christmas

You’re very keen on that ‘all’s well…’ stuff aren’t you… she replied startlingly, he didn’t respond he just looked at her dreamily and nodded, his mind drifting away somewhere euphoric.

…Oh my God, you’re so…. I don’t know…uhm…

…clinical? he questioned

She didn’t say anything, just shook her head in disbelief.

He tried to explain his viewpoint.

For some people the tiniest thing can trigger some great trauma in their lives and make them feel so inadequate while others, well nothing seems to rub off on them.

Which one are you then?

In the middle. Seriously it’s no big deal. So another wine? he grinned.

No big deal? Come on, that’s huge. You could write a book about that.

Haha! Too old hat, been done to death, that one… Cry and the whole world cries with you; laugh and you laugh alone, but there’s a limit.

Amy stared at Jordan with a baffled expression on her face

I won’t even bother with that one. Ohh I’m so drunk.

Oh good, have some more.

Why not? We’re a real pair aren’t we? she jested

Send in the clowns…

Huh!!!

Nothing.

Oh, I’ll just ignore that then shall I?

Yeahh!

He’d never told anyone about this; he has no one to tell it to; Jordan’s longest relationship with anyone was with someone from England. They had met on his third visit. She came over with him stayed for a month, he went back the next year for 6 weeks. All in all they saw each other 5 times with him going over 3 times. In the end she called it off; nothing seemed to be happening; no decision was being made about their future.

He’d had a few others before and since but nothing too serious; they’d always leave after a few months or so.

James Reyne was singing away about ‘Mitterrand’s last meal’, then Mia came on with ‘the Judgement song’, ‘cool world’ would then follow before, ‘already lost’ and so he would immerse himself in this little musical, floating from scene to scene, in love with the feeling, in love with his current vulnerability.

They made their way to the bedroom and did what lovers from time immemorial have done and will till the end of time.

Afterwards they fell asleep in each other’s arms and were woken up at 9 a.m. by the constant barking of a concerned dog way off in the distance.

They both felt a little worse for wear but quite pleased with themselves. There wasn’t as much talk as last night but the silence wasn’t offensive. No time for breakfast or a shower, Amy got dressed, kissed Jordan and was out the door by 9:30, promising to ring each other later in the day; Easter Sunday and Amy’s mother expected the family to get together and have lunch in celebration of the resurrection of Jesus who died for our sins and if for whatever reason you could not make the lunch you would be made to feel guilty for the next few weeks and it just wasn’t worth the grief.

Amy remotely unlocked her car as she walked towards it, opened the back door, absentmindedly threw her overnight bag on the seat, still reeling from ecstasy, closed it and opened the driver’s side and got in.

She wasn’t sure last night when she thought she saw someone looking like Spike in an old beat up 90’s car behind her at the lights but as she saw him getting out of his car this morning, slowly walking towards hers in her rear view mirror, she realized it was him. She grabbed her mobile from her handbag and rang Jordan

He’s here.

What?

Spike is walking towards my car. Quick come down.

Lock everything, start the car and get out of there.

She had also inadvertently thrown her keys on the back seat when she threw her overnight bag on it. She turned around to search for them when a knock on her window stopped her in her tracks.

Why?

Get away from me or I’ll call the cops.

Just answer me, why? What have I ever done to you?

OI! GET THE FUCK OUT OF HERE.: was what Spike suddenly heard as Jordan rushed towards her car.

Spike turned around and stood there and waited for him.

LISTEN MATE YOU FUCKING BETTER GO.

I don’t mean no harm mate. I just wanted to know why, that’s all.

Okay, okay just take it easy. He turned to Amy and asked her to go and that he’d ring her later. She wound down her window and stared at Jordan angrily I’m calling the cops.

No need for that yet.

Spike kept staring straight ahead; he wouldn’t look at her. He was waiting with empty dead eyes staring far off into the horizon. Time was on his side; he had nowhere else to go.

He shouldn’t be anywhere near me, Jordan. Whose side are you on? Honestly. She whispered sternly, her face red with anger and frustration.

It’s okay, please just go I’ll get rid of him.

She started her car, pulled out from the curb and hurriedly stormed off.

Jordan turned to face Spike.

Spike reached for a cigarette, lit it and dragged the guts out of it and let the thick grey smoke out till he had cleared his lungs of the whole shemozzle, took another drag and let it out slowly.

What’s the story, mate? Dyu wanna grab a coffee? Jordan asked as he checked his watch; 9:42.

Spike kept looking straight ahead. He wanted to say yes instead his head just nodded slightly towards what could be construed to be a maybe, not sure, what would be the point, but if you insist.

Wait here, mate, I’ll go get my wallet.

When Jordan came down he noticed Spike walking towards his car

Wait mate, as he ran towards him.

Jordan breathed out a heavy sigh and looked at Spike for the first time. His eyes were lost hazel, his skin; smooth, slightly puffed and tanned or dirty, hair; greasy dirty brown, brushed back, flat, parted shabbily to the left, face; gentle and weary. He was slightly stooped, arms locked behind his back, though no longer buffed he would have once been quite defined. He looked a little like Johnny Depp on a bad day.

Come on let’s go.

Spike starred at him and confessed vaguely it was my fault but it was also hers. I just wanted to talk to her that’s all.

Okay you can tell me all about it when we get there, it’s not far.

Neither of them was concerned with the ambience of the café; they had other more important things to deal with.

They sat down away from the madding crowd where a young man in his late teens; early twenties, with shoulder length uncombed blondish hair was playing a nylon string guitar singing ‘The boxer’, deadpan as you like, yet it evoked an emotion that took you to a scenery of a narcissistic mid-morning quietness all alone in your bedroom, half dreaming half awake, playing out the events of the day, of the recent past, of your life. It was as if the singer was in his bedroom singing the melody while trying to work out the exact tempo or rhythm but it didn’t really matter if he couldn’t; he was losing himself in the exact melody and meaning of the lyrics, imagining himself to be playing for someone dear to his heart or to some invisible like-minded crowd somewhere (but not the crowd he was actually playing for) while the musical accompaniment was implied; and it worked. It was non-intrusive and pleasant. Jordan found his vain audacity, vagueness, or lack of ‘professionalism’ pleasing to his mind.

Jordan ordered two coffees and asked Spike to go ahead and tell his story.

Story? Spike snarled as he shook his head, that’s the second time you’ve said this. Is that some kind of joke?

Oh I’m sorry, I just read the other day that everyone has a story.

Is that right?

Yeahhh you know a metaphor or an analogy, I don’t know.

Spike just stared at him with a baffled look on his face..

What the fuck!

Jordan didn’t know how to respond so he came out with It was part of a story I was reading actually, so I guess….

Well my life ain’t no story; it’s real and I can’t distance myself from it and turn it into a story to enjoy, and anyway if I told you my whole story as you call it, you would weep…

‘Really?’ thought Jordan, ‘and a tad melodramatic and maybe even self-serving.’

Sorry, you’re right. I’ve had this ‘story’ thing on my mind ever since I read about it in some novella. I suppose, as you say, if you can’t distance yourself from your own circumstances then it must get tough.

Some things are too real, too raw, I guess, to turn into some piece of entertainment. Though to tell you the truth, my story would be the same as any other person thinking they’re the centre of the universe with their great big stories to tell but we all become nothing in time…so I guess that’s why you hear philosophers tell you ‘there’s no time like the present, hey. He emphasised, trying to be funny.

Jordan felt as though he had behaved immaturely. He couldn’t believe what he had just heard; that, from a person who’s supposed to be crazy and volatile. There sat in front of him, a thinking man who maybe had overthought everything in his life.

Jordan felt a little depressed thinking about Spike’s life.

Was Spike wasting his life or did his state of mind give his life meaning and purpose? Who was he to judge Spike’s life to be wasteful? What was he doing with his life that was much more fulfilling? It doesn’t matter in the end; how you live your life; long as it gives you purpose and meaning within your little world. That said could he live with someone like Spike? How did Amy? ‘She’s obviously stronger than me.’

Spike saw through his silent yet animated repentance and decided to humour him.

But that doesn’t mean stories are bad, it’s just not in me to see my situation as a story; my bad, I s’pose. Anyway I’ll spare you the sordid details and give you an overview… Spike whispered distressingly.

No, it’s okay, I just wanted to know a bit about you, that’s all. For no other reason than what just happened earlier.

I know. And you deserve an explanation, not that there is one, but I know what you mean... I did a tour of Iraq; let’s just say the movies, Internet, Xbox and books, all that stuff don’t prepare you for the real deal. You think you know but you don’t…

….It was your choice though… Jordan interjected callously but spike was prepared for his simplistic criticism; he’d heard it many times before.

…Yeah I know; ‘You knew what you were getting yourself into, mate, just like a cop or a teacher or an enquiry officer in a call centre, so stop your whinging’…

No, no I didn’t mean that…. Jordan replied sheepishly.

Spike rolled his eyes, You hear it all the time, ‘them athletes, carrying on about their afterglow depression like we should be caring more about them than everyone else who’s going through hard times…

Jordan concurred albeit a little insensitively, Well it’s kind of true isn’t it? It’s like everyone else’s hard times is their own fault but God forbid if an athlete should be suffering then we should all sympathise with them…I mean everyone should be treated the same, I guess… Jordan spat out viciously.

Yeah but we don’t know everyone; that’s all, but we do know those stars and they draw attention to the issue, which can’t be a bad thing.

"Yeah you’re right I feel like such