War/Peace: South Side Story

By Matthew Vandenberg

Before the nuclear attack on Sydney at the end of 2011, a war breaks out between Protestants in the north of Sydney and Catholics in the south.

These former high school students want no part of it.

Follow their lives as they seek shelter in a house in Bondi.

This is littered with references to pop culture and scholarly articles. But, remember, it's only 2011. This is/was just the beginning of an epic story spanning over a decade and counting.

Read this if you liked DAWSON'S CREEK, SKINS, SOUTH PARK, BEVERLY HILLS 90210, THE SECRET DIARY OF A CALL GIRL, or HUNG.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Tablo Publishing
• Release date: Feb 3, 2022
• ISBN: 9781649695628

Book preview

PART I: 2011

An alternate history of late 2011.

This is a work of fiction and the author does not intend to offend anyone. Furthermore, please do not act on any advice offered by this book without first consulting a professional and conducting your own thorough research. Creative license is employed regularly. Just because the author cites scholarly articles and the like does NOT make this story scholarly itself.

Celebrities mentioned herein were not consulted and the associated events did not really happen. Please don't sue me.

 Further, many of the links provided are no longer accessible but are kept in the lists as evidence that I was indeed referring to sources back in 2011.

JACKSON CURTIS - 10:30am - December 30 - 2011

My feet hit the ground, like fingers the keys of a grand piano, and from a crouch I rise slowly.

‘You turn to see the window fall. Sure, she slams it, but you hear only the pitter-patter of rain on metal, applause. You’ve taken your bow and you now exit the scene stage left.

‘My name’s Jackson Curtis, BTW. And, yeah, I talk to the camera. I know none of my mates do this but I’m a little different to them. Um...’ – I scratch my head – ‘I’ve always been a bit of a loner, hence this solo performance. And when I speak it will usually be in soliloquy. You don’t really care though, do you? You just wanna know what’ – I point a thumb back – ‘all that was about.

‘Ok, see my hand? See what’s in it? They call ‘em dead presidents in America. I’ll give it to charity when I get the chance. I’ll hop on the train to Central station soon and once I get to Sydney I’ll probably hand it all to a guy selling The Big Issue. But the day’s still young so I’ll probably walk around here for a bit. I’ve gotta fill you in on my life first anyway.

‘So, the money ain’t stolen. It’s my payment. Yeah, nightwalker. That’s what they call it, right? I’d say I do more running than walking but . . . never mind.

‘I’m the guy behind the scenes, the guy whose job it is to remain invisible, the guy who’ – My cell rings and I flip it open as though it’s a c@#$t – Hey babe, cum again? Tomorrow night, same time same place? – I nod and flip the cell shut. – ‘Where was I? Yeah. I was telling you about where I was, right? It’s best I start from the beginning:

‘Now picture this, if you will, reader, viewer, and prospective director. She’s a beautiful girl, her name Isabella. You might have read about her in Adrian’s and Jamie’s stories. She’s pretty damn fine. Fine dining is when I’m sipping the sweet wine from the cup between her thighs, know what I’m saying? So, anyway, I was in the passenger seat of her car when she first told me she loved me. She didn’t say it, per se, just as Adrian doesn’t really ever say this to Shelly, but she didn’t have to; with her lips alone she was drawing me into her life; her radiance was fine, bright and a spectacle, the colors – of her face, eyes, lashes; a brush so fine that lines the lips of her eyes like coke – all right and perfect and if romance is an art form and the artist is immersed in her work you don’t disturb her. And once life begins to imitate art you don’t need to be an artist to produce art.

‘Such was the preface to this act of adultery. The location was a dull, grey station wagon: she sat to my right, hair a fine veil over her creamy face, the tinted window her eyelashes were wiping. And I wanted to kiss her lips right then but knew I had to wait just a little longer. The girl’s boyfriend was no stranger to me. I’d known him almost as long as I’d known her. She had known him for around 15 months and told me – only now – that her palms no longer became wet when they fucked. Ok: basically what she said was that he was no longer novel. We’re taking a low skin conductance – are you getting the picture? A dry scene. So immediately I picked up a pen and began to write. For I suspected I was the novel stimulus. Ha ha. She could have drawn the front line, I’m sure, on the battlefield with her gaze at this point in time. I know I smiled. The sky cried, then the boyfriend climbed into the car and she pressed one cool, calm, and dry heel against the accelerator, as though her foot was a body slumping against a wall, bored, sad, and apathetic. She spoke with a fine, raspy voice – one which could be a figure running a marathon, out of breath but sexy nonetheless – when she told this guy her breasts were fine. I agreed; performing, metaphorically, a first lunge at this guy, my new nemesis. I liked him though, still do. But the girl is a babe – did you see her just now?, behind the pane, behind the fine veil of glass, a face even more enigmatic when clothed in glass. So all warning signs were present. A break-up was imminent. So I decided I would make a move: I decided I would speak fluently, I decided I would attempt to convince this girl that I was the real object of her affection, if she was not already convinced. But the knowledgeable adulterer will only move slowly and only when no one but the object of his affection is watching, and even then only when she is about to make a move herself. You never make the first move, simple and plain. You do not choose who you fuck, she – or he, perhaps - chooses you. Sometimes you get lucky, and other times you still feel proud. With Isabella I was definitely lucky. And I knew she would eventually make a move. And she did.’

I shrug – ‘That’s how I play. It’s a beautiful game. This is an art form no doubt. Speaking metaphorically, to summarize the situation, you skate on thin ice, along her slippery body, until you fall in. Then you just gotta hold your breath for as long as you can, remain silent while she and her boyfriend argue over who she gave head to first [10.] . . . I mean . . . while she and her boyfriend argue over this and that, and remain silent, resisting the urge to write about your plight and post it up on the face of a social network. Ha ha. Say, do you ever check out the relationship status of your friends on the FB? Of course you do, who doesn’t? Ever wonder how many will remain married? If 50% of marriages end in divorce then, no doubt, many more high school couples split. Think about that for a second. Adultery ain’t a crime when you’re young, no way. It’s an experience every teen should have. And ever wonder why the 50% of women who are still married don’t file for divorce? – for we all know true love is a myth, don’t we? I like to think I’m the reason: a nightwalker that runs into your life just when you’re lost and alone, just when you need someone to listen to, just when you want someone to love you for who you are and expect nothing from you in return. I’m not the bad guy, girls. They are ;D

‘Did I ever tell you the story about my history teacher in the ninth grade? Oh, another day I guess. ‘Til next time, my name’s Jackson Curtis and I’m here when you need me. XXX."

******

References

Just A Little – Liberty X

Love Today – Mika

Double Vision – 3Oh!3

Sex And Candy – Marcy Playground

Work It – Missy Elliot

Time Of My Life – Black Eyed Peas

We R Who We R – Ke$ha

Hot Tottie – Usher and Jay-Z

Heartbeat – Enrique Iglesias and Nicole Scherzinger

The Real Slim Shady - Eminem ["Shit, Christina Aguilera better switch me chairs, so I can sit next to Carson Daly and Fred Durst,

and hear 'em argue over who she gave head to first"]

JACKSON CURTIS - 11:00am - December 1 - 2011

'I hate this.' - I look around and then shrug – 'Not really. I feel good. But I also feel like an arrogant prick. I'll praise someone and people will think I'm being sarcastic: I'll call someone else a prick and they'll take me seriously. I'm yet to master the art of communicating to fellow students. But I'm a bright spark and my bling speaks volumes.' - I flick a gold chain with a naked nail, then I slide the nail down the chain as though it's a pick and my bling the strings of a sexy guitar: the nail the sexy, smooth body of a femme fatale. Needless to say the sound is music to my ears. - 'So, yeah, I'm a little dressed up. Yeah, I'm wearing my brass knuckles, gold chains, and necklaces, more bling than Fiddy. And, yeah, this is a little over the top for a fuckin' class at high school, but I play ball like Bieber and it's game on.

'I don't know.' - I shake my head – 'It's hard to describe the vibe I get when I step into the room and their eyes are wet, it's like I make a bitch cum as I sigh and stare, It's like I make a bitch numb just by standing there, but it's the weight of my fame not the silent stare, if you wanna get laid just demand a fare. Ha ha! This is sooooo fuckin' sweet. Ok: so it's the first day back at school after my first night workin' at Kings. That's the deal. That's why I'm in such a good mood. You can say all you like about those with low self-esteem becoming sex-workers, and you'll probably have a point. Though, in my case, the job was a remedy as much as a resort. One day you receive an e-mail from a job search site: it alerts you of a job opportunity in Sydney's black spot and stimulates the g-spot in your mind and suddenly you feel you have self worth, suddenly you feel as though somebody somewhere might actually like you as something more than a friend, might need you, just as much as you her. It's a damn good feeling.

'Look, I'll be honest. It's not always glamorous. But . . .' - I nod. - 'Sorry. I'm talking in class. I'll fill you in later: right now I gotta listen and try and not let this shit rush to my head and make me cocky, faster than blood to my . . .'

******

References

P.I.M.P. - 50 Cent

JACKSON CURTIS - 11:40am - December 1 - 2011

'Hey Jerri, maybe you should just give up,' Adrian yells. 'You ain't intelligent, ain't beautiful, maybe you should just throw in the towel. Ever read The Sorrows of Young Werther [3.]?'

'Ok, I ain't talking to you anymore,' Jerri says. 'You're a real bastard, you know that Adrian?'

'Whoa,' I say, shaking my head. 'What's wrong with this picture? It might be better if you follow me outside for this one folks.' - I stand up and follow the cameraman to the nearest door. He's rolling the camera backwards and I'm chasing it: I flick twice the chain on the lip of my jeans and kiss the naked air with a wink. - 'Ok. There we see a typical High scene. It's like many you might see in the average chick flick, average teen drama, or' - I shrug - 'any high school around Australia. You've got the guy who's sour, and the girl who rejected him. Guys listen - and listen well - the trick is to run fast, as though your legs are fingers ripping an adhesive bandage from a beautiful breast of naked skin. You'll forget about the former when the latter is pressed firmly against your thighs. Am I clear enough or are you not seeing the girls behind me, the multitude of feminine figures which roam your and my fields of vision like the babes in that OutKast music video for The Way You Move [4.]? Clear your eyes, make sure they're fuckin' open and take a look around. It's been said before by guys like Alfie [5.] but I'll say it again: never commit. Ever. Never propose to someone either in reality or mentally, so you never limit your horizons. Or you'll regret it.

'Did you hear what Adrian said in there? Now, Jerri's an average looking girl but she ain't ugly, she's no child prodigy but she ain't thick. Even if she was it wouldn't matter to me: I don't discriminate. I'll fuck any girl, within reason. There are some who turn you on, and others who make you feel warm inside, with whom you empathize. Every girl deserves love. Now the problem here is, Adrian's pissed. Suddenly he's trying his hardest to play with her self esteem as though it's an independent variable which needs to be manipulated, because he wants to bring her down to his level. Shameful. Some would say the guy's a full prick. I'd say that his heart rate has just slowed a little, its tempo the perfect backing to a song by 98 Degrees rather than one by a cocky rapper. He's attacking those close to him with an attitude he can't even keep in check. So, when I say you gotta move fast' - I twirl a finger in the air and the cameraman follows me with the camera, swinging the gear lever on the tripod, and suddenly it appears as though I'm walking in fourth - 'I mean you gotta find another girl quick. It's easy when you’re in my profession. They come . . . cum . . . to you. Never become obsessed, never become attached. Tell her not to either.

'Ok, so you're probably ready for your first night at the Cross, should you choose to pursue this occupation. But you don't have to, it's just a suggestion. Perhaps you'd rather dwell in your own self-pity for a couple hundred years. Ha ha. No, look: it's my goal to paint an objective portrait of this profession so I must ensure I tell it like it is. I must tell you about my good experiences and also my bad ones. That's why I won't tell you about my first night at the Cross just yet. Instead, I'll tell you about a time when I was standing on the side of a road, one rainy night, with a hand out, and a thumb in the air, waiting for a ride. Now, those who hitchhike, especially in the states, will tell you that the person who picks you up will belong to one or more of three categories: the Christian, the client, or the sexual predator. The Christian wants to spread the good word of God and to help you in whichever way he can, the client needs someone to talk to, and the sexual predator wants only to fuck you . . . if you're lucky. Oh - class is out. I gotta get to my next. I'll fill you in later ok?'

******

References

She Will Be Loved - Maroon 5

Cum On Everybody - Eminem

The Sorrows of Young Werther (1774) by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe

The Way You Move - OutKast

Alfie (2004)

JACKSON CURTIS - 12:01pm - December 1 - 2011

'I'm a cunt,' I say, shrugging. 'I don't deny it, never have, never will. I don't claim to be saint, I don't claim to be a role model. I am just offering you a solution to your problem, if you're a shy, depressed loser who ain't never had a girlfriend. Make like me into employment at the Cross, make out like me with three to five divas a night, drown your sorrows in the grasp of the hands of a bitch just as fucked as you've never been, and see the type of shit you ain't never seen. Fuck it: I go freestyle with this shit harder than I go with an attractive chick. I ain't even making sense no more. These are the fucking rantings of a lunatic. I'm thinking I should keep my voice low just in case my friends are listening, but since my salary is so fuckin' high, my confidence through the fuckin' roof I really ain't givin' a fuck unless I'm paid. Get it? I get laid and paid in the same sentence and it ain't a prison one, and I am one prism you can see right through if you concentrate hard enough. Color me with your stories, color mine, split your thoughts into a spectrum and lay them like a naked babe, smooth as drapes, across my naked thighs for all I give a fuck, coz in the end all I give is a fuck. That's right, Psych 101, give it a try. The lounge is my bed, the session a triple X scene that you ain't seen since the 60's. And if you don't like it you can fuck off. Check the FB status - does it look like I want friends? They're as disposable as condoms. So that's the low down, but it gets me high when I break it down like this and you break down hearin' me speak these words.

'But look - seriously - I ain't no angry guy. You want angry then read Adrian's shit. He's a self-absorbed little swine half the time, but still half his lines are to your sight what coke is to your night with 5 girls standing in the breath of starlight. Ha. But did Adrian get the girl? Fuck no. When I spit this shit it's coz I'm bored: each speech is a soliloquy that takes off like a G6 when I ain't in one, but instead strolling across the quad of my High. My life is so fast that I can be running and still feel like I'm sleeping, dreaming, and that's why my speech is fluent to a certain degree, coz my mind is so blank in between the nights I spend on the sexy streets of Sydney. Putting it simply: I ain't putting no balls in no bitches' mouths while I'm in school so I'm talking in order to keep myself awake. Yeah, I go to school coz I want to learn about Physics, Math, Chemistry: I love this shit. It's intellectual stimulation. But when I'm walking from one class to the next or I'm on my lunch break, like I am now, then the stimulation is insufficient. That's why I'm talking to you now. In the brief time between two fine women. Ha. I run this leg fast, you know. That's why I talk fast. You should live life in the fast lane: never tie yourself down. I know I've said this before but I'll just keep on saying it. You're only gonna end up mentally ill if you develop a crush on a girl and then the bitch don't want nothing to do with you, or, heaven forbid, a friend passes away from some kind of illness. Speed, people. Life is too short for funerals, too short for mourning. It's not your obligation to give a damn if someone you don't know passes away, and it probably ain't your obligation to have friends or even know people in the first place. Sure, you have colleagues, and friends with benefits, and your family but who the fuck needs friends?

'Yeah, I was gonna tell you about some of my bad experiences wasn't I? Wasn't all bad. When you see the look on someone's face when the guy's coming and you know that he's feeling that good because of you, you kind of feel good too. You kind of feel that someone actually gives a fuck about you. Ha ha. Ok, fuck this: let's introduce you to my office, if that's what the conventional term is these days. I'll tell you about two people I met a while before I hit the streets legitimately.

'It's a cold night, the rain strings that whip me, fingers that simply try to touch me but are falling too fast. It's past midnight and I'm standing on a street just shy of Bankstown in the western suburbs of Sydney. I'm standing there for only five minutes before a van pulls over, dark grey like the color of smoke. I ask the driver where he's headed, and he tells me out of the rain and so, just like that, I hop into the van to escape from the rain and disappear from the scene to the rough contours, and deep, sour tone of a blurry, grey puff of smoke. It's a strange office, but it's mine now.

'Meanwhile, on another day, I'm in Campsie, I have a large Biology textbook under my left arm and with my right fist I'm tapping on a white door, shiny like a sweet tooth, on the second floor of a quaint apartment block. I can hear the voice of one young boy, two, three: coarse like the screech of the tires of a car caught in a donut. And now I'm caught in this loop: I can only describe an unsatisfactory experience when I mix the description with that of a pleasant one. But the similarities between the two experiences are profound. Anyway, she opens the door for me, just as he did. She smiles, just as he did. But her smile is a little warmer, her demeanor a little more relaxed. But perhaps I only think this because she's someone I actually want to fuck, she's someone I'm actually attracted to. I smile also and walk into what will henceforth be my office so long as I am seeing her.

'In the van the most prominent object is the gear lever, stiff like his speech at first. He tells me about the time he was denied entry into Canada when he was living in the States. He tells me about the contraband he was carrying in the boot, and later about the child he allegedly attacked, about the film of her which the customs officers viewed with suspicion. But first he tells me about some marijuana he was carrying in film canisters. He knows that it's best to talk about soft topics first. I'm a good listener, too good perhaps. I listen to every word he says. We're just inside a small, moving room, and he's lying on a seat, with one foot pressing an accelerator, another resting against a brake, and one hand on a wheel. There is no visible clock. The session will not be timed, and a fee not requested.

'In her apartment she introduces me to her four children. She is probably 35, with a smile just as sweet as any I have seen on girls half her age. When she talks it is not about soft topics but in a manner so soft, her tone seductive, her gaze focused on my face, and as concentrated as the cocktail she will mix. She talks also about soft drugs, placing a soft palm on my arm as she directs me to the nearest lounge with her free hand. She thanks me for bringing the text book to her place and places the token of her appreciation, the cocktail, on the small table between her and I. Ok, I'm a little nervous, perhaps more nervous than I was inside the van, because now it ain't a gear lever which is stiff. And ok, I have no idea whether I am a therapist or a client. But isn't that how all great relationships begin? We are both so very similar, and we both want the same thing. We're inside a large living room, and she's lying on a lounge, with one foot wrapped around the naked ankle of the opposite leg, and the other stationary, and one hand around the spine of a cocktail glass. There is no visible clock. The session will not be timed, and a fee not requested.

'Oh, dude, it's gettin' late in the lunch hour. I gotta be going. You get the picture, right? My name ain't Frasier Crane but I can talk smoothly when I need to. And I'm listening [11.]. Always.'

******

References

Confessions Part 1 - Usher

As Long As You Love Me - Backstreet Boys

Superman - Eminem

Do You Realize?? - The Flaming Lips

Meltdown - Rob Thomas

Let Go - Frou Frou

Thong Song – Sisqo

Fucking Perfect - Pink (to the female)

Shut Up And Drive - Rihanna

Like A G6 - Far East Movement

Frasier (1993-2004) [I'm listening. - Frasier Crane / Kelsey Grammer]

JACKSON CURTIS - 2:01pm - December 2 - 2011

‘Dude, it was this year,’ I say, shrugging. ‘Ok – so you want me to tell you ‘bout it? Here’s an idea: why don’t you try doing this for yourself? But you don’t got the skill, do you? In fact, why the fuck you listening to this shit anyways? Or reading the transcript of my rantings? Live your frickin’ life. Let me tell you something, if you can accomplish this one task, this one thing, then you’ll be able to accomplish anything you happen to set your mind to in life.

‘GCH call it Scandalous Scholastics*, I call it a schoolyard romance. It’s simple: through several weeks you work in collaboration with a female teacher of your choice on a diabolical performance. You and her are on the stage together and your fellow students comprise the audience. The performance takes place over several weeks. And let me tell you, you wouldn’t even fit ‘em in the Acer Arena.

‘Ok: so it ain’t so simple. Just like how one doesn’t draw a sellout crowd by sitting on his arse all day writing, ha ha. But it’s achievable. What was it Martin Luther King said: I have a dream something something. Well, at 4:17am on the 17th of March I had a dream, it was about my science teacher. Her name is Holly, she’s 35 with a figure finer than the detail in the science reports I submitted to her. A figure finer than the description of her which I’m providing right now: eyes like waves which lap at the shore of my gaze every time she enters the peripheral of my field of vision. And I couldn’t even swim several months ago. That is to say, I was a pretty shy guy. I hardly spoke to girls in my year, and hardly went to parties where people consumed strange liquids that enabled them to do so. What people find it hard to understand is the adrenaline rush I now get by imitating my former self. No doubt, I now have more confidence than most people I know but it feels so fuckin’ great to simply stand by a desk, the same shade of cream as any desk in the science labs of my High, and roll my gaze off the surface, down to the floor, my feeble feet, and climb it up again to the surface: as I metaphorically submerge my head in a cool pool of water and then resurface. It feels great to play the shy guy. That is to say it feels great to re-enact the play which got me where I am today, to re-enact the performance – prolonged, intense, and simplistic in its immense beauty – which lasted for several weeks, spanning a pinnacle stretch of my life like panties her thighs . . . getting ahead of myself there though. Because this story is so frickin’ awesome I can’t even hold it, so to speak; can’t even figure out whether to tell it from the beginning or from the end, coz this shit’s as volatile as a babe in the throw of an orgasm.

‘Well, it’s December so I guess I’ll be telling it from the end. But I’ll need some time to gather my thoughts. For now, just know that this is how it all began, that this is how my life changed for the better, that this woman was my first, that my time in year nine at the high school I attended on the Central Coast was so brilliant and so perfect that I cannot stress enough how school is so essential to one’s personal growth. So, essentially, I state that you shouldn’t quit the High ‘till you’ve completed a year like my year nine. Shake me and I’ll tell you more. 

Trust me, I like it. Peace out.’

******

References

Let Me Blow Your Mind – Eve and Gwen Stefani

*Scandalous Scholastics - Gym Class Heroes

Fight For This Love - Cheryl Cole

Battlefield - Jordin Sparks

Thong Song – Sisqo

Dialogue from Travie McCoy, accessed on the 12th of November 2010 from: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=I8lG3vQ_MBg&feature=related

JACKSON CURTIS - 1:02pm - December 3 - 2011

‘Chin up. That’s the first thing I wanna say. Keep your chin up at all times when you’re trying to pick up, and even if you’re not. If you ain’t confident, then just pretend to be. This attitude will get you anywhere. Anywhere at all. Here I am now in the sunny streets of Sydney Central one day in December. I’m several hundred steps shy of Central Station. The scene is a little brighter than a charcoal sketch, and my demeanor brighter than ever: sparks fly from my gaze as I scan with it the pavement and the people who pass by. I think I know why I’m here.’ – I take a sip of an EasyWay Kiwi ice tea and then place the container on a stone wall. The wall runs like the line of my gaze, dispersed like a line of coke, towards a small high school, stone walls as old as those of a canyon, grayish to a mystic degree, draped fully in the demeanor of Hogwarts. – ‘I’ve never seen this joint before. This place looks pretty awesome. Anyway, here’s the scoop: I’m in Sydney again, as I am almost every day. I decided to wander around the central area for you always see the most fascinating things when you lose yourself in a stretch of urbanity. So this is where I ended up.’ – I skip back and land my feet on the snaky stone, moving as though my legs themselves are pythons caught in the throw of some kind of trance or hip hop dance. – ‘I like it here. I’m standing just to one side of an old high school, around since the 19th century. Some English school. Namely: Cleveland Street Intensive English High. But whatever they teach here I’m thinking this would be the perfect setting for our stories when they hit the big screen.

‘So it’s simple, I’m here playing the promotional officer for Ford. I’m thinking it won’t do any harm to spread the word about our stories, wet the whistle of a school outside the coast. A few words of advice: if you wanna be someone then pretend you already are, and if you already are then pretend you’re not: you get kicks either way. But there are times’ – I catch a young Asian girl with my gaze as she leaves the school, passing through the teeth of an old, torn, steel gate – ‘when you gotta use fame to your advantage. Excuse me.’

‘Huh?’

‘Hey. Sorry to startle you. Do you go to this school?’

‘Yeah.’

‘What’s it like?’

‘It’s . . . good. You know someone who want go?’

‘Here’s the thing,’ I say. ‘Me and some mates, we’re into writing. We’ve put our stories up on Facebook and they’re kind of popular. But we wanna promote them to schools around Sydney. Do you have a Facebook page?’

‘Um . . . yeah . . .’

‘Excellent.’

‘Because I assume you all love writing, given you go to an intensive English school . . .’

‘We go . . . to learn language,’ the girl replies. ‘They teach us English.’

‘Oh,’ I say, nodding. ‘You’ve got to be kidding me! Oh. Can’t believe I didn’t figure that out. Do you like writing though?’

‘Sure. I like reading more. I read some good Australian books.’

‘Cool,’ I say. I glance at the building and then again at the girl. ‘Well: the name’s Adrian Ford. If you wanna check my profile out on Facebook then go ahead, you might like some of the stories. Have a good day, yeah.’

‘Yeah. Bye. I see you again?’

‘Maybe,’ I say. Then I smile, grab my EasyWay and back down the path, watching the girl as she watches me. I’m frozen but I’m walking. Damn she’s fine.

‘Ok,’ I say, turning to face the camera. The cameraman still has the girl in focus and so I need to click my fingers to get his attention. ‘Whoa. Dude. Back to me. Ok. So let me tell you a little something about figures. You play with them when you’re a mathematician, right? You take them and arrange them into equations, and generally you end up with something solid, something which is universal, static, pure, simple and mythical almost. Something which stretches beyond the fine, tiny, confined dimensions of time and space and into dimensions one cannot define, into the realms of a heavenly ethereal dimension. Ok: such a place is where the perfect figures lie, when in the perfect entanglement, when within the perfect equation. And there are some females who have this figure. Ha ha! Bet you didn’t grab the punchline immediately then did you? But – ok – it’s girls like this who just look so fine that you almost feel as though discrimination is justified. Ok, I’m a slut, I’ll fuck anyone, but sometimes you see someone who really makes you feel like you never have before. Suddenly, you forget about morality: say you see a young woman smoking a fag on the side of a street and she does this with style, just fine, as though she is sipping champagne from a delicate wine glass made of this same ethereal fabric the aforementioned seventh dimension is made from. Suddenly smoking isn’t such a bad thing anymore. She has style, no doubt, and the smell of her breath after she has taken another drag is analogous to that of a perfect perfume: no doubt hers has a Fan Di Fendi flavor. And she looks as innocent and mystical as Ria Vandervis and suddenly you know that there are some figures which simply fit into an equation and some which just don’t. Let’s be honest, image is everything. So if you’re gonna roll with me then don’t check your style at the door. Shit! There are so many true figures here in the city. Sometimes I don’t know why I waste any time with the girls back in the High. Ha ha.’

******

References

This Ain’t A Scene, It’s An Arms Race – Fall Out Boy

EasyWay Ice Tea website: http://www.easywayarabia.com/menu.htm

JACKSON CURTIS - 1:02pm - December 4 - 2011

‘Yeah, I don’t know if I should even talk right now while she’s lookin’ right at me, starin’ me down, strickin’ me down with the gaze of a goddess. It’s a light-bulb moment when I see the whites of her eyes, bright like lamps left on in an otherwise dark room, bright like a white dress, bright like the space between the words in the transcript of my thoughts. She takes my hand in hers and smiles. This is when I get a little nervous.

‘Note the two of us, posing like daisies, note the tone, the contours of the room, the beat of the drums in the songs we sing. Note the expressions on our faces, note the notable things and then take two. It’s a beautiful picture or a beautiful scene, and she’s one of the most beautiful girls I have ever seen. She’s the one – none other – that Adrian spent a lifetime writing about, she’s the one who remained in Jamie’s thoughts as he traversed the globe like a ‘trotter, and the first fine girl he ever thought he had a chance with, she’s the one I can only warn you about, the rosy cheeks, a cherry blossom in the clasp of her shiny hair, fine like the string of her concentrated gaze.

‘She’s the one you could fall for if you ain’t careful. Check yourself, don’t trip. It’s a cool climate where she dwells and if you know anything about thermoregulation then you should know that you’ll freeze, experience shock and your knees will go weak, if you gaze into her eyes for too long. And should she gaze into yours her soul might just burn to a crisp. It’s simple really: you too hot, she too ethereal. Wiki this shit if my point ain’t crystal clear like the space between her and I. Listen to the soundtrack to the scene, rewind, repeat, and rewind again, type a couple thousand words on why she’s too nice for you, run away and find your refuge in the sleek, sick streets of Sydney, or on a silver screen, or behind a typewriter as you typecast yourself by typing another typical text that defines and refines your personality in just the way the way her fingers swim through her hair defines her personality, her mystique, and the presence of this apparition you now see before you.

‘The light above you dies. Flashes first – like the light on the roof of a police car – then the scene’s as dark as a diamond. You take one deep breath and then another: never before have you touched a virgin. Electricity runs through your body. No doubt energy is being transferred from your body to hers already, and this you can do nothing to stop: the first law of thermodynamics states that the flow of heat is a form of energy transfer. She shivers so you’re sure she’s still cold. But sparks fly and you bow your head in shame.

‘You begin to feel weak, but you feel fine. You drop to your knees as she pushes one, two fingers into your naked palm. Her intent, to exorcise some vile fluid from your body, and yours not too dissimilar. She recites prayers from a book of God, calmly, speaking in a manner only an angel can, presses her fingers into your skin just a little harder, and takes a deep breath. The lights flicker, now red, and a wave of this new light sweeps over the skin of the scene. You begin to weep and so does she. The ground begins to shake. But she doesn’t let go.

‘Her grip on you is intense: the grip of a lord you’ll never meet, her gaze so intense as it’s in present, her movements succinct, controlled and completely coordinated.’

I sigh, retreat, pulling my hands from the grasp of her fingers, smile, and then run from the library. I keep my balance as the ground splits between my feet. Running like Kanye I escape into the night.

‘Bye.’

******

References

Hold My Hand - Michael Jackson and Akon

She's So High - Tal Bachman

Good Girls Go Bad - Cobra Starship

Runaway – Kanye West

JACKSON CURTIS - 3:03!pm - November 30 - 2011

‘Artarmon. It’s a suburb on the lower north shore of Sydney. It’s a suburb where people live, work, and the home of that Special Broadcasting Service known as SBS. It’s where a Bunnings factory lies, one just south of a site in Chatswood where an even larger one sits, its back straight and all confident-like. That’s where I work. That’s why I’m here, in Artarmon, today. But it ain’t the reason why I’m quickening my pace just a little as I near the freeway overpass, it ain’t the reason why I’m rushing towards the railway station, having left the large Artarmon Bunnings store, the reason why my thumbs are inside my pockets like the heads of two curious turtles. The reason why I’m here is because I like it here. I like this area, the people, the trees, the restaurants, and also: she just called my name so I’m running over to her now.

‘Who is she? I’ll fill you in later with the name and all. Just keep up with me for now as I'mma speed through the back-story. It was the day I discovered I knew how to talk to girls, one shy July afternoon earlier this year. I was here, right where I am now, and that’s why – as the sunlight illuminates the ground beneath me – I find inside my mind a snapshot of that time, that day, and that scene, as smooth and delicate as the contours of this girl’s body. That’s why every step I take I’m hearing a click, as though I’m wearing high heels, and with every click I’m viewing another shot of the scene as it was laid out before me just 5 months ago as I wandered through this shy suburb on a day just like today.

‘The day before this day was the first time she touched me, and I mean for real. I wanted to tell this story from the beginning but I can’t think straight – not that I have tried to since the day she told me how she felt. Now I should tell you just who I’m talking about: one girl and one woman. The girl stands just across the road from me right now, the woman is my 9th grade history teacher. Ok. Are you following? Good. The day of interest – which will serve as some kind of point – was the day right after she . . .

‘Ok, can’t think straight. Wait. Bring the beat back. Not Stay The Night, Shake It. Ok. That’s good. Where was I? She kissed me. In July of the current year she kissed me, my 9th grade history teacher. I’ll tell you heaps more about that later on, but let’s view a few shots of the following day. Now hopefully you get the pictures, so picture this shit: I’m walking down this very path after having been to a group interview at the Artarmon Bunnings. It’s an interview for a position at the as-yet-unopened Chatswood Bunnings, where I currently work. The teacher ain’t with me, she never is outside of school. But I’m a new person. You see, in school, by day, and around my peers I’m a shy guy who does well academically, a brilliant mathematician, a perfect physicist, or an avid history student. When I’m alone with her I’m confident, alert, cheery, and something far better than what I once was.

‘So on the day after the day she kissed me, and I swear I’ll tell you more about this later on, I was feeling just how I do when I’m with her. Artarmon a stage, the sun a disco ball, the movement of cars on the freeway a reflection of my own, and my proximity to this girl who now stands right before me ideal like the glaze on her eyes when she first focused her gaze on me:

‘Excuse me,’ I said, slowing my pace just a little. ‘Were you just at the interview?’

‘Yeah.’ – With one hand she moves some hair behind one ear. With one eye, and for one instant, I gaze at her face.

‘You were great. Seemed really confident.’

‘Oh, thank you. I know they say you should always be the first to volunteer for any activity but I just couldn’t . . . You were great though. You were so enthusiastic . . .’

‘You know what,’ I say to the camera. ‘This is boring. I would rather be picking up for real than writing about it . . . Bye.’

******

References

Double Vision – 3Oh!3

Just Lose It – Eminem

Shake It – Metro Station

Stay The Night – James Blunt

JACKSON CURTIS - 3:03!pm - July 4 - 2011

I do a double take with my gaze, capturing the entrance to the Bunnings car park twice, then thrice.

'The station? Is it back this way?'

'Yeah,' Nina replies.

'Well that's the way I'm going. Anyway, good luck. I think you went really well. Might see you at the Chatswood store.'

'Yeah, bye.'

I check my watch. It's 4 past 3. At 5 past 2 I was standing inside a hallway, twiddling my opposable thumbs. The atmosphere was weak and I was weaving a web between the people around me with my annoying gaze, letting it roam freely like a stupid spider might. ~ It's that time when you're waiting your turn to be called into an interview room: people graze the hall floor like sheep, and the stage is yours if you choose to accept the invitation. It's hard to know, of course, whether the people are employees already, perhaps managers, planted among prospective employees to spy on them, to study them, and to judge them. One – perhaps Nina – studies instead the notices on the notice board, another, Clark, checks his watch. Soon you and the others are invited into a small dining room, but you're sure – practically positive – it's a coop: it's a pen and you and the other prospective employees have been rounded up and directed into it so that others can spy on you. You're performance will be rated on a scale of 10 to 50: your social skills, your sense of humor – while Everybody Hates Chris plays on the television, a perfect backing track - , your demeanor, the way you direct your gaze, your posture, your enthusiasm, and your manners. You don't mind. Never before have you not given a damn but now you confidently take a seat beside some employee and apologize for your intrusion. Yeah – this is your room now, the desk your stage, the laughter track playing on the sit com your cheering audience. If you can kiss a fuckin' high school teacher when you're only in the ninth grade, like you did just yesterday, then you've got heads up on anyone, anyone anywhere any time. The world is your oyster.

Needless to say, the interview which followed was practically a theater production. I probably wasn't the star performer but this didn't concern me one little bit. When a starlet, with ginger hair like a sun-kissed rainbow, and a stare which holds your gaze in the same manner the best superglue Bunnings sells holds together two sheets of wood as though they were wings of angels, walks into the room you don't think of her as a competitor. I didn't. She was the star performer and I was an audience member. I sat back, relaxed, smiled, and turned the whites of my eyes on her as though they were spotlights, and my heart, an excited guard, did not stop moving.

I'm not an idiot. I was confident, cool, calm and collected throughout the entire interview, I was sure I'd be called back for the two on one interview which would follow for successful applicants and, furthermore, I was sure I'll be working at the new Bunnings in Chatswood when it opens. I also thought I might have a chance to talk to this starlet a little later on, but I wasn't going to go out of my way. Instead, I decided to talk to another girl, one who sat just opposite me during the group interview. And now I've left her side. A momentary glance down a street to my left reveals to me, almost hidden behind a car, the diva who drew my attention – a perfect work of art in its own right no doubt, especially when drawn by her – in the interview room, so Joss Stone: a perfect figure, intoxicating personality, cheerful gaze, and fine, flawless skin. So that's settled then, I won't be talking to her, not just yet. I'll see her again someday I'm sure. But now I decide to play the game in just the way John Nash might: there exists a fine girl and two fair, to seek the fine is to invite rejection, but to seek a fair is to play fair, and fairly soon you'll find yourself in a fairly good position.

Somehow I know that a third girl is making her way to the railway station just like me. A quick mental statistical calculation tells me that since the majority of people at the interview were female, since the purpose of the interview is to source people for job positions at a Bunnings in the suburb of Chatswood and not Artarmon where we now dwell, and since there are not too many shops in this suburb, there is every chance that one of the girls who attended the interview will be on her way to Artarmon station right now as I think and walk.

I break into a slow jog which I keep up until I arrive at a crossing: in front of me stretches from left to right one leg of a freeway overpass and across the pass, sure enough she stands, idle like a dandelion, stiff, shy, and still with a real illusory sexy gait. Sure she's plain, but she's the type of girl you can roll a conversation off. You can utter several words, and she'll spill a sentence, utter ten, and she'll spill several. Through years – I mean, hours – of practice I've learnt that some girls are eager to talk to guys, just as many guys are eager to talk to girls. It's easy enough to assume that a chick will tag you as a stalker, pervert, or creep if you walk to close to her and attempt to start a conversation. Many will. But many won't. And believe it or not, if you play your cards right, you can target with your speech just the right type of girl, at just the right time, in just the right suburb, when you have just the right amount of words in your naked, available vocabulary to string together a perfect conversation starter. Just as you memorize notes in preparation for an exam, so too can you memorize pick up lines, but it's best to memorize templates. In this case I decide that I can re-use a template I only just utilized: you were so great in there. You're fishing for a compliment of course. When you say someone was great then they'll tell you that you were too, unless she's a complete bitch, which can be fun, so play that conversation for all it's worth young man. Anyway, I clear the road, and the footpath across a bridge, I arrive at a second pedestrian crossing and she's standing right beside me:

'Excuse me, were you in the interview just then?' - An English accent rings from my tongue: I must be summoning the power of Jude Law or Russell Brand as I speak, speaking syllables as though they are notes played to the backing track of pompous conversations held between English comedians and professional pick-up artists. And sure enough their lines, whatever they might be, are present in my implicit awareness.

'Yeah.'

'You were great. Good job.'

She wasn't too bad. I'm not lying. For one thing she looks like a beautiful princess, shy albeit, and a little withdrawn but beautiful nonetheless: the type of girl you could hold in a kiss for the entire fourth of July – ha ha – or new years, as fireworks fall like rain around you both, twinkling like fireflies, these tiny Tempah crystals licking your lips, illuminating the perfect contours of her red, pink lips, her shiny white teeth, and her loose tongue. And she was well spoken and I truly believe she deserves a part in the soap opera of Bunnings Chatswood 101, starring Jude Law as me, Joss Stone as diva chick, and Jessica Mauboy as chick who I'm currently talking to.

'Oh thanks. Wow. You were real good. They always say you should volunteer first to speak and all. I know I should have. You were so confident.'

'Thanks. You think so?'

So there it was, confirmation that the kiss just yesterday was life changing, confirmation that I was now a new man, confirmation that a relationship with a beautiful female teacher is something every young shy guy needs.

'Yeah. Wish I could have been like that. I'm really not sure about this one. I've applied for so many different positions, K Mart, Coles, Officeworks, I really hope I get one.'

'Have you worked before?'

'Nah. Straight out of school. I'm 18.'

'I'm 14,' I say, shrugging. 'I feel so young now.'

'14! Awww. Wish I applied for a job here when I was that age. It's so much easier to find work when you're young.'

Think treelined streets, think plain smooth footpaths, think a clear crisp voice, skin with a perfect shine, hair that falls like arms limp, a beaut gait, posture, and stroll: she's so fine and I'm thinking I'll surely see her again after today. Each word I throw out is another card and I'm starting to understand the rules of poker.

******

References

Poker Face – Lady GaGa

JACKSON CURTIS - 7:03am - November 24 - 2011

'I'm at . . . the suburb where I live!'

'Where?'

'I ain't tellin' you where. Think I just give out my address to anyone? Look, I had a real nice night. It was great, excellent. You're a beautiful girl but . . .'

'When will I see you again?'

'I don't know. Actually, to be honest, probably never. I'm just that traveler who came into your life for a night. Look, could you not call me . . .'

I flip my phone shut: 'Ok. Call block. Never really had to do this before. Ha. Kind of cool, I guess. Um' – I glance at the camera – '. . . that was my . . . uh . . . ex? No. No, what do we say? One night stand girl? That was the girl I fucked last night. Simple. Yeah, she was a babe but she was just a babe, emphasis on the indefinite article, and let's also draw an analogy between the girl and this type of article shall we? Yeah, we shall. And now she's practically stalking me. It's never the ones you'd expect, is it?

'Let me set the scene, I'm at Gosford. This is where I live, nowhere special. It's early morn. And I'm well enough to walk home on my own because I was totally sober last night. I don't have a choice anyway, I'm always alone. In fact, that got to me last night when this chick asks me just who my friends are. I lied of course, told her I've got a whole heap of mates who go to Ourimbah University, and some more who go to some High Schools on the Coast. She left it at that because she don't live on the Coast, she lives in Beecroft – more on that sorry suburb in a minute. Anyway, I'm thinking about this on the train back, I'm thinking: do I want friends? Do I need friends? Like permanent, non-transient friends? BFF's? Friends for life? Probably not, but it would be cool. I'm very hedonistic, I don't deny this. I enjoy the pursuit of pleasure, having a great time, and live by the theme and title of that old N*Sync album: No Strings Attached. Heck, I even walk like JT when I'm high, no kidding. I got the stroll down to an art form, I write cursive on the pavement, thoughts the same pitch as the whiny voice of MJ singing Can You Feel It?* And when you have friends then you have commitments and not as much freedom. Maybe you gotta be in Sydney by noon the next day, at a party by dawn, and you gotta buy gifts, of course, every second week. Don't get me wrong, I love it when friends talk to me about their problems, makes me feel like I'm some psychologist or something, like I can make a difference, like I can help. And I love helping, I love empathizing with others, and the feeling you get when you've done something nice for someone, the feeling which I also get after I fuck some poor bitch, especially if I was never actually attracted to her . . . or him. Little off topic here, because the girl I fucked last night was totally fine, but I'll stay on this line of thought for a bit longer, on the train even though I've stepped off the platform and I'm walking across the car park, but bare with me. Ok: so I love it when I get to play doctor, I like the feeling you get when you're with a good friend, and I've had many – past tense. But I also like freedom just as much as GM, and I also happen to think that all you haters are probably just as hedonistic as I am but won't admit it.

'Gluttony – excessive eating or drinking. I'd say that really refers to excessive stimulation of any of your sensory organs. Those who don't fuck, taste, sniff, and watch things, or fantasize about watching things, in order to get high. But who gives a fuck anyway? We're all sinners.

'Look – there's a reason why, right now, I appear to be having a go at people who are morally righteous or, rather, those who act as though they are, for only Buddha or Jesus can really say they were totally morally righteous, yeah? By the way – just as an aside – I believe that Jesus would have been a prostitute if condoms were around in his time. Know what – maybe he was. Anyway – I shouldn't go there. This is why I refuse to accept friend requests on my FB page, coz I don't want no shit to hit the fan. But the reason why I'm having a go at all you young Christian or Moslem guys and girls is because Beecroft is such a boring place . . . Ok, this argument's weak, I won't deny that. That's coz I am not really against religions or the practice of them, but basically just hate being bored. I have to speak at at least 200 spa, syllables per minute, as I'm doing right now, whenever I ain't doing something interesting because otherwise I'm bored as fuck. I've totally got ADHD big time.

'So, back to the spine of my story: I met her at Macquarie University on November 23. I went back to her house in Beecroft on November 23. I left this house on November 24. Right now it is November 24. I was at the house for one night and we fucked once. Hence, I believe such events satisfy the conditions for what is commonly referred to in chick lit and popular culture as the one night stand. What can I say, the girl is obviously a Christian. She's calling me more often than that guy calls the Shakaya singer, and she's telling me we're meant to be together. When I left the house, a quaint little dwelling in