James Anderson. In memorandum of Edan John Barnett

The wind picked up and blew across the brown empty plains. James Anderson stood and looked out across it. Open fields, empty and devoid of anything, except for the occasional vacant house in the distance. He stood, looking like a scarecrow, or a weed, shot of the ground. Dust blew in his face and everywhere else, in shallow brown waves that stung his cheeks. He could make out a house, standing in the midst of it, tiny on the horizon, and the tiny figure of a man, riding on a tractor. Thought, for a moment, about approaching him and begging for a meal, offering to lend a hand, but changed his mind, looked back at the highway.

The same old languid tongue, fleeing into the distance. He turned and trudged it, his body slightly stooped from the exhaustion of walking, his clothes sagging, his shoes nearly worn down.

A blue sky had turned grey and there wasn’t much light left on the horizon. His steps were tired mechanical. He looked up and saw that the light had almost eclipsed on the horizon and with it, the land, and, all of a sudden, everything had turned dark. He kept walking, the wind loud in his ears. Heard the roaring of a car from behind him, got off the road and held out his thumb in a useless gesture, that he knew would get him nowhere, then tripped and fell off the road and landed in the embankment, hard.

The hissing of cicadas and the sound of toads squawking. James, lay there, looking up at the stars, the diamonds in the night sky, then closed his eyes, and knew that there was nothing else for it, that, like every other night, this would be where he would sleep.

Dreams of his life, before this life. Sitting in a classroom, full of other children his own age, all dressed in uniform. An old man seated at the front of it. Curly hair, swooped over a bald shiny head, an oversized black moustache that made him look comical. And then, the man was summoning him to the front of the classroom where he was told to pick up a piece of chalk and answer simple maths problems that were written there. White chalk on a blackboard, perfect handwriting. He tried to copy it, but the letters came out scrawled and illegible. The man sat, observing him and his struggle, a smile curling at the side of his mouth, told him to sit down. And he remembered walking that seemingly long aisle, back to his desk, and hearing the laughter of the other children, at his failure, then sitting down in disgust, for it was nothing new for him, but only a long line of defeats that seemed to had become the theme of his life.

And then, the dream that he always had: his last day of living at home: the blows hitting him in the face, and in the head, the wood from his precious, worthless guitar, smashing on top of him, scaring him more than anything for the sound of it, hitting him in the head; the sound of it, crashing on top of him; his mother’s face, twisted into a hideous mask, the teeth, like a monster’s; some horrible giant serpent from another realm, come to life. He remembered running away and escaping it, opening the door and running down the street in the heat of the afternoon. Bougainvillea swaying in the breeze. The silence of the neighbourhood. The road before him, and the house and his mother and his family, standing behind him, already a remnant, a diorama, filled with memories. The long road before him. The last look at the streetlights and the surrounding houses; green lawns, iron fences, houses with lattice work and gardens.

He woke to the sound of a car roaring along the highway and cicadas hissing, then sat up and winced at the pain that shot down his neck, dusted himself off and stood and looked around at the empty plains that stretched out for miles, then started walking the road, again.

He stuck his thumb out. A car roared past, blew hot air at him. He trudged on. Could feel the clothes on his back sticking to him and starting to sting his skin. A truck roared past and then skidded to a halt, blowing dust everywhere, a hundred metres from where he stood. He ran up to it, fearful that the driver would change his mind, came to the side of a giant tire and looked up at the hull. A woman’s voice came from high up inside: ‘are you gonna get in or what?’

He climbed a set of metal stairs and stood, looking at a woman, deep inside of it, sitting behind a huge wheel and gear stick. A woman with curly red hair, tied up in a pony-tail. They looked at each other and then, he climbed in and slammed the door and she adjusted the gear stick, and the truck started moving. He looked down at the road, amazed that he had found some reprieve from the heat, the cool of the cabin and the tinted window, all constructed. The truck started to pick up pace and the woman turned and looked at him.

‘So, where are you from, kid?’

‘Around.’

She looked at him.

‘Around’s not a place.’

He didn’t answer and she turned back to the road and kept driving, kept the truck at a steady speed. After a while, they turned into a petrol station, the sky coming down in thick clouds, everywhere turning dark.

‘Listen, Kid, I’m gonna pull in here for a couple of hours, get some kip. You can do whatever you want. Just don’t rob me, ok?’

He looked at her, and she looked back at him. A woman wearing oversized glasses, looking younger than her years. He was getting hungry but thought it rude to ask, so let it be, looked around at the hull of the cabin, watched the woman regress into sleep, then decided to do the same.

When he woke, he could smell meat. He opened his eyes and saw that he was in the cabin of the truck and that they were moving through the night. The outline of the woman’s face and arms were lit by the dash and there was a tiny light in the cabin which she had turned on. He looked at her and suddenly felt ashamed of himself that he hadn’t been more polite to her, but there was nothing for it. He looked at her and didn’t know where to start. After a while, the silence became uncomfortable, and so, he just blurted out the first thing that came to his head:

‘What’s your name?’

She looked at him for an instant.

‘It’s Patty. What’s yours?’

‘James.’

‘You from around here, Patty?’

She looked at him, hard, for a second, then turned her eyes back on the road.

‘That’s a pretty big question for a little kid, isn’t it?’

The comment made him angry.

‘I’m not so little as you might think.’

‘Well, Mr not-so-little, I could ask you the same question.’

He looked back at her, resigned, then saw that there was a burger on the seat, fries, and a bottle of coke.

‘Go on, take it. I bought it for you, anyway.’

He picked it up and it was heavy in his hands. Unrolled the paper that it was covered in and took a bite. His stomach rumbled. Sumptuous meat melted in his mouth with bits of lettuce and tomato and cheese. He kept eating and soon devoured it, then went onto the bag of chips that was lying open, then twisted the lid off the coke and took a sip. Let it wash through his mouth.

‘Looks like someone enjoyed that.’ Said the woman.

He devoured the coke and burped and she turned the light off in the cabin.

‘James, I don’t mean to be rude or anything, but shouldn’t somebody know about you? I mean, aren’t you a little too young to be just rolling around?’

He looked at her and didn’t know what to say, except that it was none of her business, and that is what he told her, and it brought on a silence between them. He watched the road, watched the lines of the road disappear under the truck, wished that he could stay right here with this woman, but recognised that that too, would come to an end. They drove through the night and she snapped the radio on, asked him if he needed to the toilet and he said that he was ok, told him that they would stop at the next petrol station, anyway. They listened to country music and, after a while, he fell back to sleep.

When next he woke, a hand was shaking his shoulder. He opened his eyes and saw a new day through the windscreen. The woman was looking at him like a mother would a child.

‘You need a pit-stop? I do. We’ve been going for a while. That’s one trained bladder, you got there.’

He looked up at her and then, out the window of the truck. A world within a world, and far away and devoid from his parents and, for that reason, it gave him hope. He opened the cabin door and was hit by the cool of the morning, walked down the stairs and landed on the hard ground. The woman was standing next to him and he looked up at her and she led him into the diner and pointed to the toilet door. He walked into a passageway that had a red tiled floor, walked past a mirror and saw a child’s profile, for a nano second, a child with a shaved head and a downturned mouth. A big man with long grey hair tied in a ponytail was standing at the urinal and he walked past him, and opened the cubicle door, before the man noticed him. A fluorescent light above his head flickered on and off and he heard the man turn the faucet taps on, then his shoes clacking on the tiled floor. James gratefully relieved himself, then stepped out onto the floor and washed his hands, looked at himself in the mirror, his head, making it above the edge of it. The face and head of a child, which he was, though he saw that it was caked in dirt. A bar of soap lay on the faucet. He turned the tap on and lathered it and washed his face, turning the lather brown, washed it all off and looked back at himself in the mirror and saw that his face had turned a lighter colour, then walked out of the toilet and saw the woman, sitting at a booth and sipping a plastic cup.

He walked over to her and sat up at the booth, opposite her, and looked at her and she looked back at him. Looked down and saw a burger, sitting in front of him and a paper bag full of hot chips and a hot cup of coffee in a plastic cup.

‘Listen kid, I can only take you to Taree, cause that’s where I stop off myself. You could come and stay with me for a while, if you wanted to. I got a spare room, and we could take it from there.’

He looked at her and couldn’t think what to say, then thought about it for about half a second and agreed, picked up the burger and took a bite into juicy meat.

‘You don’t say much, do you. Well, fair enough.’ Said the woman. They sat and he ate in silence and it was about the best meal that he had ever eaten in his life, that was, aside from his mother’s cooking. He looked out the window, at the day, and saw an empty road, and felt the grief that he may never see his mother’s cooking again, and didn’t know what to do about that either. They finished all the food on the table and the woman ordered two more cups of coffee and they sat and looked at each other.

‘Well, kid, you about ready to leave?’

He looked back at this woman who might have saved his life.

‘Yeah, sure. I’m gonna pay you back for the food, by the way.’

‘Sure, kid.’

The woman walked to the counter and paid and then stepped out into the sunshine and got back in the cabin and they were on the road again. A new day and suddenly good things seemed possible. She snapped the radio on to an easy listening channel and he pictured himself playing all the tunes on a guitar and standing in front of an audience. They drove all day and stopped a couple of times and made it into the town called ‘Taree’ where she slowed the truck down and drove through the small city. Buildings and promenades. Suburbs sprawled across the horizon. Houses with gates and fences, much like where he had grown up.

She pulled the truck into one of the houses and stopped it and turned and looked at him, then opened the door and disappeared from out of the hull and he climbed down, himself, and landed on a cement driveway, looked around and saw a one-story house, standing at the end of it, a place that was half falling down. Overgrown brush, the roof, semi collapsed. She called out to him and asked him if was just going to stand there, and he made his way around the front of the truck.

A yellow light came on in the front of the house and the door opened. A man appeared in the entrance. They said something to each other and she turned and looked in his direction and the man turned his head slightly and looked at him and he couldn’t make out the man’s expression. And then he disappeared back into the house, and the tall woman turned and walked up the path and stood over him, looking like a giant.

‘Come in, kid, it’s been a long day.’

He looked up at her and was wary of the man, looked back at the house and could feel the danger inside, danger that he knew. But he was tired and she seemed to be appealing to him. They exchanged some silent communication, as though she was saying to him that he could trust her, and he took it and followed her through the door.

Before he even stepped inside, he could smell it, the unholy odour inside the house, like dog s**t mixed with human body odour, the smell of a bear, a human male’s domain.

The place was carpeted and there were burn marks in it, and it too smelt rank, as though it were damp. He followed her down a darkened hallway which opened up to a lounge area where the man sat, staring at a television set. He was big and semi bald, with strands of black hair swooped over a pale head, wore glasses, and it somehow seemed obvious that this was part of his persona, a well-constructed and deliberate feature. James took one look at the man and despised him immediately. For this was just the sort of person that he had escaped from, the same sort of person that he had been forced to grow up with, which meant that he was humiliated on a daily basis. And here was another one, and in that moment, he wondered why he simply didn’t just turn around and leave and get back on the open road. 

The woman looked down at him and seemed to sense his fear, then patted him on the shoulder and looked at the man, but he only sat there staring at the television and the woman walked over to the man and bent down and whispered something to him, and, after a moment, the man yelled ‘what!?’ and got up and turned and looked at the kid. The man started yelling at the woman and the two of them started screaming at each other, and he turned and left them to it and walked back down the hallway and the smelly carpet. Opened the front door and was hit by the wind, the cold going right through him.

He started walking, the voices that sounded like two dogs barking at each other, disappearing on the wind, just as the door slammed of its own accord. Voices from the past, voices he hoped that he would never hear again, voices that echoed like his dull memories.

He walked out onto the road, surrounded by other houses that all looked the same, in a cul-de-sac that looked just like the one where he grew up, kept walking in the night, looked around for somewhere to sleep. But there was nothing. Only the road and the traffic and the suburbs and the rain that started in spats, then came down hard.

It came down so hard that it became hard to see where he was going. He crossed a road and came to a park, could see a building in the distance. Ran across the park and stepped inside of it, saw that it was high school building, and that there was no-one there. He tried one of the doors but it was locked, then settled for a bench, lay down and fell into a sort of a sleep, the white light of the overcast day in his eyes, at least, safe from the rain.

When he woke, the rain had stopped and it was dark all around. He couldn’t make out anything, then slowly stood and saw the street-lights on the horizon, miniatures, illuminating the road. He started walking and felt an ache in his bones, an ache that only the elderly understood, walked through the park and couldn’t see anything, then spotted a girl about his age, a girl in a red jacket walking a small white dog. The girl saw him and waved but he kept walking.

He came to the street and followed it, and, after a while, came out onto the main road. Cars going up and down. White and red lights. He followed it, walked past a brewery, could smell the hops, the red beer sign radiating out into the night, kept walking and could see the city itself, then saw that there was a river, and so he followed it, the water looking like oil, reflecting the lights from the city.

He came to a bike track and walked alongside it, then stopped and rested, decided to walk down to it, get off the road, his stomach aching for food, walked further down to the river and a mud-bank that was cool all around it, then couldn’t go any further, stepped into a thicket and lay down and rested, looked up at the night sky for a few moments until sleep came. Dreams of his family, his brother and his sister.

He woke to the sound of insects hissing in his ears, cars, roaring along the highway, the river, gurgling.  Sat up and had the need to relieve himself, took off his shoes and rushed down to the river and pulled his pants down, then dove in and swam out in into the brown water, waded out into it and looked up at the sky. Perfectly blue with only the occasional cloud.

A dingy drove passed him and then a girl’s school rowing team. He looked up at them, but they didn’t notice. Blonde hair and spandex. Couldn’t have been any older than him. He floated on the water and looked up at the buildings and wondered what he was going to do for food, waded back to shore and sat on the bank and put his shoes back on, stood and started walking the path.

After a while, he came into the city, stood at a set of lights and wondered again what he was going to do for food, then remembered someone telling him that churches often put on free food, then went looking for one.

The streets were full of people. Many, dressed in suits. He kept walking and came to a church and saw that it was open and stepped inside. A welcoming silence. People sitting in pews. He walked down one of the aisles and spotted two fat elderly women, in a rear room, then walked toward them, and one of them smiled and ushered him in.

‘What have we here?’ said one of them to the other.

‘Looks like someone could do with some tucker…sit right down there, young man.’

James looked at the women and sat down at a table, and one of them handed the other a plate and she served him up a hot roast that lay on top of a stove, put the plate in front of him, and he ate one of the best meals he had ever tasted, gravy and the meat melting in his mouth.

‘Somebody smells like he could use a shower,’ said one to the other. ‘And I reckon a new set of clothes and a bed…But, isn’t he a bit too young to be out on his own?’

James looked at the lady and could see where it was going, didn’t want the authorities brought in.

‘Thank-you, but I can take care of myself.’

They looked at each other for a moment.

‘We’re not saying you can’t, dear, it’s just…well, you look as though you should be in school, that’s all.’

‘I can take care of myself.’

They looked at each other.

‘We could send him down to ‘the mission,’’ said one to the other.

He looked at them.

‘The mission, that sounds, ok.’

With his belly full, he thanked the two women and stepped out into the heat of the day and started walking the streets. He followed the directions that the two women gave him, walked down alleyways and came to an old building that was another church. Stepped inside an empty building, saw a sign that said ‘office’, walked to it and knocked on the door. A voice came from deep inside of it and he opened a door and came to a room with a woman, seated behind a computer. The woman looked up at him, then seemed taken aback for an instant, then recomposed herself.

‘Can I help you?’

‘Uh, I was told to come here, that you could help me find a place to stay.’

She looked at him from behind a thick pair of glasses, then closed her computer.

‘Son, how old are you?’

‘Never mind how old I am, I was told that you could help me.’

She looked at him hard in the eye.

‘What’s your name, son?’

‘It’s James.’

‘Well, James, we don’t usually help minors.’

‘I’m not a minor, I’m eighteen.’

She leaned forward in her chair.

‘Is that so, is it? Well, we have dormitories for the homeless, here James. We can house you, but only temporarily. Cattle call is at five. In other words, be in line outside the church be five and we can give you a bed. There’s a free breakfast at 9am, sharp.’

With that, she looked back down at her computer, and he looked at her and resisted the temptation to stand up and kiss her. For James, all of his Christmases had suddenly come at once. He started making his way out of the office and the woman suddenly called out to him.

‘James! One more thing.’

She reached into a draw and handed him a piece of paper.

‘It’s a fifty-dollar food voucher. Valid for two weeks.’

He looked up at her and wanted to weep, and she sat back down to her computer and he walked out of the office and the church, staring at the piece of paper.

For the rest of the day, he went shopping and took his time with it. He bought a pre-made pizza, a ham and cheese roll, and some orange juice, and had plenty of change left over on the card, then sat in a park and watched the day expire. The sun, hot in the sky, the occasional worker on a break, trams and cars moving. He watched it all and something like hope began to well up inside of him. After a while, he took a bite into the roll and it was about the best thing that he had ever tasted, then looked up and watched a cloud sitting in the sky and wondered to what extent he was innocent or guilty of his circumstances.

Then, made his way back into the city, pigeons crowding in the streets, people in suits, walking. He looked up at and saw a clock-tower, saw that it was 4.30, and so, he made his way back to the church, and was confronted by a line-up of people.

Old men in brown suits, younger men in jeans and trainers. He stood behind them and waited in the hot sun, saw that a woman stood at the front of the line with a clip-board. At five-o-clock sharp, she began admitting people, and he looked behind him and saw that the line-up had grown to down the street, then realised that not everyone was going to be allowed in, that they only took in a certain amount of people. The woman at the front of the line, slowly began admitting people, and, as it drew closer, he hoped that he was going to be allowed in, then breathed a sigh of relief when it came to his turn.

The woman looked down at him and studied him and he looked up at her and she nodded and he walked back into the church and was ushered into another room where there were beds stacked up on top of each other. The light coming down into the room in a white prism. He looked back at the woman and saw that she was a holy vessel and then she was gone and he wondered back out into the main hall.

People sitting next to each other, shoulder to shoulder, sitting behind benches, looking like giant stooped sacks. The room murmuring with conversations. He found a spot and felt relief wash over him: here it was: a place to live.

People were getting up from their tables, then formed a line-up and he did the same. The smell of cooked vegetables and mincemeat, hot coffee. After a while, he came to the front of it, where there was food in metallic serveries. He looked at it and saw vast quantities of soup, vegetables, and mincemeat. A man in glasses and an apron looked at him and smiled, held a plate, and asked him if he’d like some and he said yes. The man made him a full plate and stood it on the counter and he put it on a plastic tray and moved along the line. A woman asked him if he wanted coffee and bread and he said yes, then took the full tray and walked back to the tables where people were sitting and eating, squeezed in on one of the tables. He sat between two large men, then started eating and one of them looked down at him.

‘Look at this one, his eyes are bigger than his belly.’

The comment sent a murmur of laughter around the table, but it didn’t stop him, he devoured the whole plate, went onto the bread and slurped at the coffee. They looked at him a moment longer then went back to their own meals.

James looked at the man next to him, and the other, and at the other people around the table and wondered about this life, what it all meant, how he was supposed to feel about being here, and didn’t bother judging anyone, for it seemed to him that there was a secret place inside of everyone that was private and sacrosanct and didn’t belong to anyone else, no matter how much they insisted that it did, and that this hall was somehow an extension of that place, something holy and beyond reproach and best kept secret.

He took a pot of sugar from the table and put two spoon-fills in his coffee, sipped it and sat and looked around at the hall where he now lived, the last of the light sifting through the room through stained glassed windows in rays. He looked at the others who had made it here for the night. Worn out badgers, in clothing that had holes in it.

He stood and handed his plate back and walked outside, sat in a court-yard where people were seated, smoking. Someone offered him a cigarette and he took it and it made him cough, gave him a head-ache, and he wondered what anyone saw in it, put it out and watched the sun go down. An old lady sidled up next to him and laughed, told him a tale of defeat, visions of a long-lost son who had died of alcoholism. After a while she became silent, drew heavily on a cigarette and coughed, looked at him as though content that she imparted some deep wisdom and they sat, together, watching the sunset that was a band of peach melting into the horizon.

It became dark and more people sat around in the courtyard, smoking cigarettes. He looked at them and wondered if people actually lived this way, night after night, congregating on this little strip of ground, saying some silent vigil to who knew what? After a while, he stood and turned around and walked back into the hall, saw a sign up that said ‘bedrooms’, walked over to it, followed a large figure through a passageway and came to another wing of the church.

Rooms in the passage way. He looked inside of one and saw that it was full of wooden bunk-beds where people were sleeping, walked further down the passageway where a musky scent grew deeper, looked inside another one and saw an empty bed, walked over to it and got in and fell to sleep, even as an old man was snoring, directly above him.

The next morning, he woke at dawn, looked up at the foot of the bunk-bed above him, and forgot where he was for an instant, then remembered, and it gave him delight that he had found a bed and an evening meal for as long as he wanted, then suddenly realised that he could stay here forever and there would never be any threat to his person and it gave him such intense delight that he suddenly felt like crying, then got up and walked down the passageway and that too, gave him delight, that it was empty. Came back out into the main hall and saw that the tables were empty and that there was a sign up that said ‘breakfast 7am to 9am’, then, again, felt like weeping that another daily meal was put on.

He checked his watch that said five thirty am, then looked around for a shower and found one down another passageway: a large communal white tiled room with multiple shower heads in the middle of it. He undressed and turned the hot water and stood underneath it, the hot water heavenly on his skin, found a bar of soap in the holder and washed himself, then found a towel folded up in a pile and dried himself, then put his shorts and t-shirt back on, his worn-out trainers, and suddenly realised that he could do with a change of clothes, maybe even a second or third pair, but where to store them?

He walked back to main hall, saw that a group of men and women, dressed in aprons, were standing behind the servery, walked up to them and asked them if he could eat early and they agreed, then gave him a bowl of cereal, coffee and toast and he sat down to eat, relishing the food. When he had finished, he brought the tray back to the counter and, upon having a sudden flash of inspiration, asked the old man where he could find work. The old man looked at him from behind heavily magnified spectacles.

‘Well, I suppose you would have to look at the daily paper, look in the employment section…But aren’t you too young for all of this? I mean, shouldn’t you be in school?’

James looked back at the man and remembered his experience at school, all the taunting and the homework and his homelife, and his reliance on his parents, and knew that he had had enough of all of that, that there was no place for him, there, and anyway, didn’t he already know enough about drudgery.  

‘I’m just asking you a question, mister, anyway, I’m done with school.’

The man looked back at him more heavily.  

‘Well, it’s like I said, you need to get the daily paper, look in the employment section.’

James thanked the man and went on his way, walked out into the streets with a new mission. A bright sunny day, people on their way to work, a sea of dark suits, cars lined up in traffic. He walked amongst it all, tiny and insignificant, then came to a park and a seat and sat down and enjoyed the sunshine, then thought about his mission to get a second pair of clothes. He stood and looked around for a bin where someone had thrown away the daily paper and it didn’t take long to find a copy, then walked back to the bench and turned to the back where the employment section was.

‘Wanted, brick-layer, $25 an hour.’ ‘Carpet upholsterers, $25 an hour.’ Carpenter’s apprentice, wanted, Sheet-metal workers, apprentice rates’

  

James looked at the ad and felt himself come alive. Suddenly, he saw himself with a home and an income, with actual money to burn, and something deep inside of him was unleashed. He held the newspaper like a talisman and sat in the park, enjoying the sunshine, dreaming of all the things that he was going to buy, walked further through the park and found a river, walked to its edge, and saw himself reflected in the water. A skinny kid with a short haircut, wearing a red t-shirt and shorts. Sheet-metal worker didn’t sound too bad.

He walked back to the bench, clutching the paper, then folded it up and put it in his pocket. Waited the time out, then headed back to the church for the evening meal, considering, how he was going to make the phone call, who was going to lend him the fifty cents.

Standing in the line-up, behind the others, envying the ones in ratty brown suits, the smell of meatballs and vegetables. When it came to his turn, he looked on, once again, with amazement at the full plate of food that was ladled up to him, walked back to the tables and sat down with the others and ate with relish. When he had finished, an old man with long white hair and a bulbous face, sitting next to him, turned to him and smiled.

‘Well, you ate all that down, didn’t you, cobber!’ said the man.

James looked back at the man.

‘So, did you!’

‘Yeah, I guess I did. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going out for a cigarette.’

James looked at the man and had a sudden flash of inspiration.

‘Say, Mr, you wouldn’t have fifty cents I could borrow, would you?’

The man looked at him and laughed.

‘Fifty cents, you say!’ He leaned in close, smelling of tobacco. ‘Tell me something, son, do I look like I’m made of money to you?’

James looked at him. Blood-shot irises ready to burst.

‘No.’

‘No? Well…’

He suddenly reached into his pocket and dug up a bundle of coins from his pocket and threw them on the table, looked threw them and handed him a dollar coin, then stood and departed. James put the coin in his pocket and followed the old man, took a cup of tea from the kitchen onto the outside courtyard and watched the sun go down with the others, then went back to his room and slept.

He woke early the next morning, then made it to the bathroom and took his shower, walked out into the kitchen and saw the workers preparing the meal, took a tray and got a bowl of cereal handed to him, and toast. Then made himself a cup of tea and ate it all, walked back to the bathroom and cleaned his teeth, looked at himself in the mirror, saw a skinny kid with a shaved head staring back. Eyes with murky whites, that said something about him, something he would have rather not known, then walked out into the day.

A bright sunny day. Bright enough for a career in sheet-metal work. He thought lovingly about the acoustic guitar he had once owned, then vowed that it would be one of the first things he would by with his wages. He walked the streets, watching the other adults walking around, most looking as though they were heading somewhere important. Some strange world. He kept walking, noticed people sitting in cafes and restaurants, a man and a woman, sitting, eating behind the glass. One table among many. She wore a white dress that showed off a curvy body. James looked at them and tried to imagine what their life was like and it seemed to him like a heaven he could barely comprehend. Just then, a waiter looked at him and sneered, shooed him away from the glass and he dragged himself away from the scene and started the street, vowing that, one day, it would be him sitting at that table, and able to by anything that he wanted, and with money left over. Plenty of money.

He kept walking, and finally found a phone box, stood and put the coin in the slot, carefully dialling the number that he had memorized, careful not to lose the coin. A man shouted from the other end and there was a screeching noise and he had trouble making out anything at all. James tried to speak into the phone but there was too much noise at the other end and he couldn’t make out anything. A loud voice at the other end screamed ‘hang on!’ and then there was a silence, and he tried again.

‘What!’ screamed the voice, again.

‘I said, my name is James Anderson, and calling about the sheet-metal workers’ position!’

‘The what!’

‘The sheet-metal workers’ position!’

‘Oh, right. Meet at 55 Grub road, tomorrow morning at six am.’

With that, the phone reverted to the engagement signal, and he realised that the man had hung up. He put the phone down and turned around and looked out at the day. From what the man said, it suggested that he already had the job. It must have been that on-one else, maybe even wanted the job. Who knew, maybe the job itself was too tough for most people? Who knew? He walked around for a bit and thought about it. Something about it didn’t feel right. After all, he should have been elated, shouldn’t he? Maybe, he was something to do other things, but what? He kept walking. Well, anyway, it was money, wasn’t it? And it meant that he could move out of where he was living, maybe get his own place. But how much were they paying? That was the question. If the carpentry one was twenty-five dollars an hour, surely, they would pay him that, wouldn’t they?

He sat down and thought about it. If it was full-time, then that would be a forty-hour week, and on twenty-five dollars an hour, then that was one thousand dollars a week! Easily enough to rent his own flat!

Elated, he kept walking. He would try it, if he didn’t like it, he would do something else. He walked back to the park and sat and watched the sky and watched the clouds and thought more about his predicament. It still didn’t feel right, but what did he know about feelings and intuition? What did he know about anything? Enough to know that he was usually right about most things concerning himself.

He got up and started walking the streets, went back to his people watching. Studied them to try and get some ideas about who he wanted to be. But nothing fit. One thing he did know, though, was that he missed his guitar. He made it back to the city. Looked up at the clock tower.  Two Pm. Still too early to go back. He found the main outdoor mall and walked it, then saw a music shop, and, delighted, walked inside. Wall to wall, guitars, hanging on racks, some of the beautiful things he had ever seen.  He looked around for a moment, then summoned the courage, and took one down, found a stool and sat down and started playing it. He couldn’t believe how smooth the neck was. Much smaller than the classical guitar that he had learned on. He sounded a chord with his hand and the strings ringing out, and he was in love it, everything about it, then shuddered to think what it would sound like plugged in. Just then, a sales clerk was approaching him, a big guy in a uniform.

‘Listen mate, you can only play these guitars if you’re intending to buy on.’

‘But I do intend to buy one.’

‘Listen kid, just put the guitar back on the rack, will ya?’

James looked at the guy and wanted to punch him. One day he would she him, one day he would show everyone…

He put it back on the rack and walked out of the shop. Outside, the afternoon had turned cold. The wind had picked up and the clouds were covering the sun. He started walking, wishing that he had a jacket that he could pull close to him, then thought more about the what was coming for him. It was the unknown of it that frightened him. And yet, it was money, and that was something that he had barely seen, and the idea of earning a thousand dollars in a week seemed unheard of, and yet, it was what grown-ups seemingly did, day in, day out. It was how that guy got to take that woman out to the restaurant. He rubbed his arms to get warm, hoping that he wouldn’t get a cold, made it back to the mission early.

The same old half dilapidated building, standing on a slab of concrete by a church. He looked at it and wondered how much longer he would be here, possibly only a fortnight, until he got paid by the sheet-metal workers.

He stepped inside. The place was empty, except for a couple of workers, dressed in white, standing behind the counter, doing food prep. He walked past them and out into the courtyard, got the idea that he could bot a cigarette from one of the locals, that smoking it, and getting a habit would make him look tough. His mind lit up at the prospect of being able to buy his own packets, thoughts whirling around like a hurricane, about all the things that he would be able to one day buy. And so, he sat on the step and watched the sunset with the others, awaited the evening meal. Gold coloured light, radiating through the trees and the other homes. The sound of car horns and engines. He turned and saw a woman sitting next to him, who looked older than her years. Blond hair tied up and in dread locks, creases around her mouth.

He looked at her and asked her for a cigarette and she pulled out a pack and offered it to him, lit it. He coughed at first, but then, after a few draws, was able to inhale it, felt that it gave him a kinship with the others, made him look older than his years and possibly tough. They smoked together, and didn’t say anything, and he took it as a sort of a badge of honour. The light started to fade around them and there were people shuffling inside, as though to some call to something safe, so long as it was secret. Which is what this place was, and he suddenly felt grateful for it again, knowing full well that he could possibly die out there, and yet he had his big dreams, knew instinctively that with them, he would have power of those who had shunned him, and it drove him on.

Inside the smell of cooking vegetables, people gathered around and sitting on the tables, all behaving, waiting for the food. He sat with them and enjoyed the revelry, these strangers in rags who had become his family. Hot food on plates, fish and vegetables and sauce and salt and pepper, and yet he wanted more, wanted to be the big man and to be able to look down on others, just once, knew that it was coming.

The next morning, he woke in the dark to the alarm that he had set the night before. All about him, the sound of adults snoring. He got out of the bed and took his shower, cleaned his teeth, and put a change of clothes on, that they had given him in the op shop, looked at himself in the mirror and spiked his hair up and made his way out into the dawn. They had worked out how to get him to his address, the night before, and he had it written down in his pocket and memorised it. 

When his alarm had gone off it was still dark. He opened his eyes on turned it off and got up and got dressed and took his shower, made his way out into the morning air, grateful for a jumper that they had given him. The sun was coming up on the horizon by the time that he made it to the train station. He caught a bus and then, after a short walk, found the address. It was a big warehouse building that stood in a cluster amongst others. He walked up a driveway and approached it, walked through a doorway that was open and came to the centre of it. Two men were walking around gathering things. After a while, one of them looked up and spotted him.

‘Beat it, kid, this is a work site.’ Said the man, then went back to his business. James looked at them both and could suddenly see his wages disappearing right before his eyes. Felt his temper flare.

‘But, I’m James!’

The man looked back at him.

‘James? I don’t know any James.’

‘I’m the guy, that you hired, over the phone.’

The man looked back angrily.

‘I didn’t hire anyone over the phone.’

‘Yes, you did, you hired me! Told me to be here, and now here I am!’

He looked at the other man and sighed and mumbled something under his breath.

‘Alright, kid, get over here.’

James stepped forward and walked around various tools and paraphernalia and came to the two men. Big men, both wearing moustache, had bald heads. They looked at each other and seemed exacerbated by his presence and he looked back at them defiantly. The older of the two looked down at him.

‘Listen, kid, this is a tradesman’s job. We need someone who can work sheet-metal all day.’

He looked back at them.

‘I can do it!’

‘Look, kid, I’m not doubting your enthusiasm. It’s just…’

‘I can do it!’

The man sighed.

‘Alright kid, start over there, Mick will show you what to do.’

They walked over to an area in the shed that was full of machinery and the man showed him about lifting metal sheets and cutting them in a grinder which made an enormous sound cutting the metal when in use. They wore ear muffs to muffle the sound but still the screeching sound of the metal was apparent. After the first few demonstrations he let the noy have a guy and after a while he got the hang of it, and worked through, repeating the same movements until the man was smiling and tapping his watch, signalling lunch. James took the ear muffs and went and joined the two men who were sitting on eskies. The bald man, the older of the two smiled at him.

‘Don’t look so happy, son.’

James looked back at him and didn’t know what to say.

‘Here, grab a sandwich.’

He stood and opened the lid and handed him a sandwich wrapped in foil and he ate it, savouring the cheese and tomato. It wasn’t long before the break was over and they handed him a glass of water and he was back to work, cutting the sheet-metal, for 5 more hours until the clock said 5pm, when suddenly all the noise stopped and the man yelled out, ‘that’s it happy! It’s time to go home.’

They started packing up tools and in the next moment the sheds lights were off and the two men had dispersed, leaving him to wonder where he actually was. And then he remembered the directions that he had taken in the morning, and looking around, made his way back to the train station and then back to the mission.

By the time that he made it home it was dark. He followed the street lights, and then remembered the curfew and was suddenly worried that they would shut him out, but, knowing him, the woman on the gate let him in. He made it into the kitchen and helped himself to a meal and sat down with the others, then felt suddenly too tired to even eat, finished the food and made his way to bed.

The next day the same and the same after that, until he made it to Friday, and finally finished his shift, and bashfully asked for his pay, to which the man with the moustache turned and looked down on him and he suddenly felt frightened.

‘The pay week is next week, happy.’

James looked back at him.

‘What day next week, sir?’

‘Don’t call me, sir. Call me by my name. It’s Redge. And you’ll get paid on Friday.’

‘Please, Redge, I was wondering can you tell me how much?’

The man looked angrily at him again.

‘You’re an inquisitive little bloke aren’t you, happy…’

He looked down at him and leant over and this time James really thought that he was going to hit him.

‘Apprentice wages are two hundred dollars a week, minus tax, is a hundred and fifty. It’s the same Australia wide.’

James looked back at him, dumbfounded, and suddenly furious. He wasn’t that good at maths at school (or maybe he was), but he knew enough to know that it wasn’t a lot of money. It certainly wasn’t the thousand that he had counted on. He saw his dilemma, his arms so tired he could barely lift them, and too tired to pull another fifty-hour week, he looked at the man and made a decision.

‘Yeah, well you can stick it.’

Suddenly feeling exalted for the first time in his life, he walked off and made it to the train station and jumped the train for free as he had done all week, too broke to be able to pay, then made it back to the mission, once again, penniless. Ate his meal, almost crying with exhaustion and frustration. Found his way into the rooms and collapsed on the bed and fell instantly asleep.

The next morning, a peculiar peace came over him. He woke and sat on the bed and looked around. The room was empty and he must have slept in. He checked his digital watch and saw that it was past lunch time! He thought about the week and something sunk into the pit of his guts, something that changed things, that he wasn’t going to tallow himself to be treated like that, and not by an employer, ever again. He stood and looked around the room, at the square of sunlight on the floor and wondered if it was so bad being here, then made his way out onto the floor and took his breakfast and his place at the table and ate. Just then, the woman that he had met earlier put down a newspaper, in front of him. There was an advertisement circled in red biro in the ‘employment section’. Suddenly, her smiling face had taken up his field of vision, a caricature of herself: buck teeth, sticking out at him.

‘You should have a look at his, they’re hiring, it could be good money, I’m gonna call up, myself.’

James looked at the ad and felt himself come alive, for there was something in it, and he had a hunch that he couldn’t explain: memories of selling fish out the front of his father’s truck, when he was a child, the thrill of selling all the fish that his long lost Dad had bought in the parking lot; speaking to people he had never met before and making a deal, holding the cash at the end of the day, putting it in his pocket.

That day, he held the newspaper like a talisman and sat in the park, enjoying the sunshine, dreaming of all the things that he was going to buy, walked further through the park and found a river, walked to its edge, saw himself reflected in the water. A skinny kid with a short haircut, wearing a red t-shirt and shorts.

He walked back to the bench, clutching the paper, then folded it up and put it in his pocket. Waited the time out, then headed back to the church for the evening meal, considering, how he was going to make the phone call, who was going to lend him the fifty cents, and where he was going to get a suit from for an interview.

Standing in the line-up, behind the others, envying the ones in ratty brown suits, the smell of meatballs and vegetables. When it came to his turn, he looked on, once again, with amazement at the full plate of food that was ladled up to him, walked back to the tables and sat down with the others and ate the food provided with relish. When he had finished eating, an old man with long white hair and a bulbous face, sitting next to him, turned to him and smiled.

‘Well, you ate all that down, didn’t you, cobber!’ said the man.

James looked back at the man.

‘So, did you!’

‘Yeah, I guess I did. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going out for a cigarette.’

James looked at the man and had a sudden flash of inspiration.

‘Say, Mr, you wouldn’t have fifty cents I could borrow, now, would you?’

The man looked at him and laughed.

‘Fifty cents, you say!’ He leaned in close, smelt of stale tobacco. ‘Tell me something, son, do I look like I’m made of money to you?’

James looked at him. Blood-shot irises looking ready to burst.

‘No.’

‘No? Well…’

He suddenly reached into his pocket and dug up a bundle of coins from his pocket and threw them on the table, looked through them and handed him a dollar coin, then stood and departed. James put the coin in his pocket and followed the old man, took a cup of tea from the kitchen onto the outside courtyard and watched the sun go down with the others, then went back to the room.

 

*

He woke early the next morning, made it to the bathroom and took his shower, walked out into the kitchen and saw the workers preparing the meal, then took a tray and got a bowl of cereal handed to him, and toast. Then made himself a cup of tea and ate it all, walked back to the bathroom and cleaned his teeth, looked at himself in the mirror. Eyes that with murky whites, which said something about him, something he would have rather not known, then walked out into the day.

A bright sunny day. Bright enough for a career in sales. He found a phonebooth, then put in the one-dollar coin and pressed the buttons on the phone, fearful of getting the number wrong. A moment later, a man with an overly friendly voice answered.

‘National tiles, how can I help?’

At first, he was shocked by the tone of the man’s voice. How could anyone sound that upbeat? As though, he was somehow indomitable.  He had an image of a man in a suite with more money than he could possibly spend.

‘Uh, hi, my name is James Anderson, and I’m calling about the sales job.’

There was a silence, for a moment, and he heard a shuffling of papers.

‘You got a pen?’

He memorised the address that the guy gave him. To report at in the morning: another job interview.

The guy hung up the phone and he hung up the payphone and looked around. People walking around. Everything as normal. Except that, for him, the world had irrevocably changed. He started walking the streets, found the park where he always sat, watched the sky turn grey, then started making his way back to the mission, nervous, and yet excited.

He made it back to the line-up and stood in it, some kid behind a group of men, all wearing clothes with holes in them.

Barely able to contain himself, he woke early the next morning, stood on the linoleum in bare feet, and suddenly realised that he didn’t actually have anything to wear for the interview. Made his way out to the kitchen where they were setting up. An old man looked down at him from behind the counter.

‘Well, if it isn’t the young squire.’

James looked up at him, asked him if there was anywhere that he could find himself a suite, and the old man pointed to a doorway behind him, told him it was the op shop and that he could find something there.

James followed the man’s giant pointing finger, and opened a door, stepped inside another room.

Clothes everywhere, paraphernalia. A woman amongst it all, sitting at a table, hunched over, sorting out clothes. He told her his predicament and, after a while she found a small white suite that would fit. He walked into a small changed room and tried it on, then stepped out and promised to pay her for it, then put his own clothes in a plastic bag, and stepped out into the street, ecstatic about events.

*

James Anderson. Working in an office. The leader of the sales board. A leader in his field, and grown overnight.

Standing, now, a tall man, and earning a tall man’s salary, and yet still not eighteen, and unbeknown to all those around him. Wearing a three-piece suit and a head-set. Closing yet another deal, building a savings account. Looks around the partitioned walls of the office he has worked at, these past few years. A big man with a bigger past. Checks the sales board which he leads and is content, looks up the clock that registers three-o’clock and the end of the office day, picks up his jacket and begins making his way out, determined to do better, again, to eventually run the place. Runs into one of the workers on his way out: Otis. Short, fat and stocky, wears glasses. A good salesman, looks up and apologises.

James looked down at him and smiled, congratulated him on the sales week, and the two walked out together, then made their way down the elevator, stood and they looked at each other and laughed, lit cigarettes and smoked together.

He looked at Otis and wondered about his background. Saw that he would have come from a middle-class background, would have studied business at university and didn’t know where else to go but a career in sales.

Otis, wearing a prefabricated broad tie, clutching a briefcase with hand-written notes in it that only he could understand. 

James finished his cigarette and butted it out, his tenth for the day, turned and looked at Otis and smiled.

‘Well, good buddy, I’ll say you next week. You stay cool.’

Otis looked at him and agreed and watched him walk off, picked up his brief-case and did the same.

James stood and checked his watch, had the usual argument with himself whether or not to take a cab or the train home from work, decided to get a cab, because he couldn’t wait to get home and play his guitar.

From the very first moment he saw one, he was completely besotted. Not the least for which how they looked, which was gorgeous, but the sound of the strings resonating. Playing a chord, gave him chills. He was so in love with the instrument that he barely even had time to study other musicians, though he did: Jimi Hendrix, Stevie Ray Vaughn, Eric Clapton… But soon his tastes widened to other forms of music, other styles; some retro, some old and camp, virtually everything, except, anything mainstream.

Every afternoon, he would spend time with his guitar. First thing, crack a beer, then sit down and play, and practice, and for hours on end. And, soon, he was developing his own style, coming up with his own intonations that he couldn’t wait to one day try out with a band.

Now, he stood and lazily walked down the steps, took one last look around at the afternoon, and, contented, got into a cab and picked up a carton of beer on his way home.

He paid the driver and grabbed the carton and made his way up the steps of the flat that he now rented, marvelling that life could be this good. What did he want that he didn’t have? He had money, a passion, and the basics, virtually everything a man needed, even a savings account that was becoming quite a nest egg, almost enough to buy that property that he dreamt of, and yet there was something missing, wasn’t there.

He opened the door with his key and was happy to find everything just as he had left it: the lazy-boy chair, the leather couches, the small glass set table, the spotless kitchen. He cracked a beer, then sat down to his afternoon of playing. His fingers were becoming lithe, easily travelling up and down the neck, repositioning, playing fast changes, had long ago formed callouses.

Now, he was trying out his own inventions, and they were sounding better all the time. He took another sip on the beer and lit a cigarette and looked out the window at the view that he had single-handedly created and suddenly dreamed of more, of actually owning a place: but not yet, there was too much fun to be had yet, too much sweet music to be played.

He swigged the beer, finished it and got himself another one, lit another cigarette, kept playing, perfecting the latest blues run that he had concocted, tried something new, and, after a while, pieced together yet another composition that he suspected would work well in the Friday night, after-work jam.

Every Friday night, he would get together with his work mates, and a couple of others, and form a band. It wasn’t much chop at first, but lately they had found a groove, and he had taken to bringing his four-track recorder and listening to the whole bit, studying it, after the sessions.

Friday night came and he hung up the phone and called the others to make sure that it was all in place: the weed and the beer, the instruments, everyone ready to go; then charged out of his cubicle. He made his way out of the office, nearly running into one of the women workers on the way, made it out into the lift, barely able to contain himself: here it was, Friday afternoon, what it was all about, and he had them all lined up…

A crisp afternoon. Clouds on the horizon like giant grey cotton balls, but what did it matter? He had his apartment and his four-track recorder and his mates coming around to help make the sound that he craved. Inventions that he dreamed would one day be fleshed out.

He ordered the cab to his usual ‘bottle-o’, picked up the carton and made it back home with time to spare. By the time that he made it up the steps, his mates were due within half the hour, time enough to shower and get changed.

The others had shown up just as he had cracked his first beer and lit up a cigarette. The door-bell rang and he walked to it and opened the door. A man that looked like a yeti greeted him, a wry smile hidden behind long brown hair and a matching beard - one of his co-workers, who had become a mainstay, with surprisingly similar musical interests, came in carrying a drumkit.

Next, a guy with short hair, tall and lanky also, carrying in a guitar and amplifier - Edwardo, one of his old school mates.

It wasn’t long before a full three-piece band was set up, within the modest kitchen, and after clinking beer bottles, they had plugged everything in, and he finally got to play the blues riff that he had been working on all week.

What started off as a mess, soon gelled, and within seconds the band was playing a music that was raucous, comedic and intelligent, just as he had planned.

He looked up for a second, amazed with what they had done, then took a sip on the beer and the band took a break. He cracked another beer and passed two around, pleased with what they had done, said: ‘what do ya think, boys?’ Then, suddenly, put his beer down and started cranking another riff, to which they all started playing, again. Another raucous tune, giving him a chance to practice his blues solo.

*

No-one saw her come in, and would later, wonder, how, in fact, she had got in, for usually he closed the door and was careful with security: he’d be damned if he would give anyone a chance to steal his beloved fender guitar… But there she was, appeared as if from nowhere, and looking perfectly at ease, sitting on his leather chair, as though she, somehow, already had propriety over the place. The song finished with a crash and he looked up from his playing and there she was, eyes locked on him, like a cat stalking its prey, her mouth half smiling, as though, she was already familiar with him as well. He looked around, and wondered who this person was, and how she got in, and then she raised an eyebrow at him, as though he should be embarrassed with himself somehow, as though she was hiding something extraordinary, that she should really know about. He looked around at the band and they looked back at him, as though he should have an explanation, and he finally gave up and addressed her: ‘I’m sorry, you are?’

She was tiny, and at first one, might have taken her for a much younger person. But then she pulled her slip up and crossed her legs, flashed her underwear.

‘Don’t you know?’ she said.

James looked back at her, perplexed.

‘I’m sorry, no.’

‘I’m your neighbour, silly, your sexy neighbour from downstairs.’

The others laughed, but she was holding her gaze, and in that moment, there was something familiar about her, and he had a sudden premonition that this was going to be his girl, and he couldn’t tell if that was a good thing or not, to which he heard the nervous laugh of one of his band-mates. Suddenly the room went silent and he became embarrassed for her, but she didn’t seem to mind, and there was something ominous about that, and he was aware of it.

‘Say, who’s up for another beer?’

She suddenly stuck her chest out and bellowed ‘I am!’ and the room became quieter still. 

James looked around, embarrassed, but suddenly knew how it was going to play out, how it all was going to play out, including his life, then felt a shudder go through him, and had the feeling that a lot of life was unavoidable, despite what people say. He went to the fridge and pulled out another six-pack and handed it around, then came to her and, looking at her, handed her a bottle.

‘I’m sorry, you are?’

‘Andrea.’

‘Andrea, pleased to meet you.’

He handed her the beer and she never took her eyes off him, to which she said ‘the pleasure’s all mine’, and it suddenly somehow sounded like a threat, and the uneasy feeling came back over him again. He asked her if she wanted a glass and she said yes and he fetched one from his tiny adjacent kitchen and came back and saw that she had left the beer on the small coffee table beside the chair that she sat on, again, suggesting that she somehow owned the place, and he felt that uneasy feeling return. She handed him the bottle, smiling and he poured her a glass and set it down next to her, suddenly feeling like a waiter in his own home. She smiled at him and took a sip on the beer and kept staring at him, and it had a strange effect on his ego, for he was attracted and repulsed at the same time and equally. He turned around and saw that his band mates were all smiling at him, as thought they had had a part in bringing her to his home, and he couldn’t think how that was possible. One of them whistled, and the drummer crashed the drums, as though something special had happened, but he couldn’t see it. Suddenly, the drummer piped up:

‘Uh, are we gonna have a jam, or are you two love birds gonna need some space?’

James turned around and saw them, smiling, all holding their instruments and looking at him, and he suddenly felt annoyed at how well she had played the situation, and who the hell was this chick, anyway?

He stood in his usual spot and picked up his guitar from the stand and strapped it on and looked at her, but she wasn’t intimidated, but simply sat there, smiling, amused at him. A little annoyed, he turned on his amp and tried out another blues riff that he had been working on, through the week, to which the band immediately picked up, and he had to marvel, at how tight they were.

In the next second, the base came in, playing a perfect intonation, and he harmonised with chords, and then a solo, then went back to the riff, while Johnno held a steady beat, and when the song came to a crescendo, he knew, as he always did, that he was done for the night, and it was time to pack it down.

As per usual, they finished off the beer and toasted to another successful Friday night, and then he looked down, and saw that she was still there, and it got up his nose a bit, but the others giggled and smiled and looked at him, as though something miraculous had happened, but he still couldn’t see it. Johnno nudged him with his shoulder and started to laugh, but he didn’t get the joke. She simply remained where he was, staring at him, and he was starting to actually feel a little uncomfortable.

It wasn’t long before they had packed up and said goodbye and were out the door, but he was conscious that she was still sitting there, on his leather chair.

As per usual, he helped them get their stuff into a cab, then made his way back up the stairs, and wondered what he was going to do with this strange looking woman.

By the time that he made it back to the lounge, he saw that she wasn’t there anymore, that the chair was empty. He looked around, then felt two arms grab him from behind, and he turned around and saw her, saw that she had taken her clothes off and was standing there in her underwear, looking up at him, with that same smile that suddenly struck him as somehow sinister.

‘Well, aren’t you going to kiss me?’

He looked down at her then realised that it would be pitiable to ask her to put her clothes back on, so did what she asked him to do, then followed her to his bedroom, wondering at her deftness, that she already knew the way, and yet,  he was excited and expectant of a woman’s embrace.

The next day, she was there, making him breakfast, in her underwear, wishing him luck at work, and the day after that, and the day after, until, he looked around and realised that everywhere there was something of his, there was something of hers, also. Was this what it was like to be in a relationship? He couldn’t tell, he’d never been in one before.

*

The day came that he bought a house. Some old ramshackle place in the outer suburbs of Sydney, where they now lived, where he was given the task of heading up a sales office. The place was a toxic black dump, but it was his. They had moved their stuff in an old car that he had failed to register, at the time, but got it there in one piece.

The day came when he got out of the car and walked through the old black rusty gate, then loaded up with their stuff, got his leather chairs in the living room and collapsed on them. Looked over and saw her sitting there, doing the same, and suddenly wondering who the hell she was. And yet, he marvelled at the fact that, despite everything, she was one of the most stable forces in his life, for everywhere he turned, she was there, and he suddenly wondered what it would take to get rid of her, then felt something like a chill run up his spine, at what he imagined, the difficulty of that task would be.

‘Well, babe, we’ve arrived.’

She didn’t bother looking back at him or answering, but looked around at the place, suddenly appearing to eye it off, and then he realised that she saw herself as the co-owner, and it miffed him somewhat, knowing that she was never going to put anything into it.

‘Tell you what, babe, I’m gonna go and get a beer.’

She smiled at him and he looked back at her and suddenly wondered what she was thinking, then considered the possibility that he hardly knew anything about her, at all, but what was there to know, really? He walked the floorboards, taking note of all the rot - half the reason he had managed to bargain for the place, then stood on the collapsed veranda that was now his.

The afternoon sunlight fell on his beloved Holden premier in waves. He got in and drove it to the bottle-o, taking note of his surrounds. He drove on and suddenly realised that he had left his band behind, that moving to Sydney might have been the wrong thing, then brushed the thought aside and pulled the car into the bottle shop, ordered the beer, paid the kid working on the register, then loaded it in the back-seat, then got back on the open road.

A clean road with clean white lines, houses standing next to it, on either side; respectable places with white picket fences and manicured gardens.  He drove on, enjoying the fact that there was hardly any traffic about, then pulled it into his street, and marvelled at the place that now belonged to him, studied it.

He cracked a beer and sipped it, kept it low under the steering wheel, pulled the car into the driveway �" his driveway (their driveway) �" then got out and grabbed the carton and made his way into the house, plonked it on the bench in the kitchen, found it empty.

‘Babe?’

The place was deadly silent, eerie even. He walked out to the backyard and found her there, sitting on a cane chair that he had never seen before. She turned her head and looked up at him, as if from a dream, and he looked at her, couldn’t get rid of the idea that he had caught her at something, something that she didn’t want him to see.

‘Hey, babe, I got some beer, you want some?’

She looked back at him, and saw anger flash in her eyes for a moment, and he wondered, what that was all about. She looked away, resignedly, and agreed, and he went and poured her a glass, brought it back, found an old wooden chair that they had bought together at one of their garage sale rummages, then sat next to her.

‘You know, it really is quite beautiful,’ he said.

He looked at her and the comment melted his heart, brought all the love back that he had for her, for the project, for what they were doing, and he stood up and went to kiss her, but she looked back at him with a sharp look, warning him away, and he wondered what he needed to do to get any affection out of her, even just the slightest embrace. It was more like living with a cold snake...  

They sat and sipped on the beer and admired the lawn and he saw the contentment in her face, the same contentment that he felt, contentment that she had done nothing to earn, and he could feel his resentment rising again, and she suddenly looked back at him as though sensing it.

‘Tell you what babe, we could hit the town tomorrow night, what do you reckon?’ she said.

He looked at her and felt his anger burn. Surely, she knew that he was a homebody, that he liked to be left in peace to get on with his projects. And what was the meaning of it, goading him like that? He looked back at her and tried to find some redeeming feature but there was none, all that he could find was her dogged commitment to stand by his side. But after all, that meant something, didn’t it?

‘No, babe. But you go out, if you want to… Paint the town red…Think I’m gonna just stay in, enjoy the house, potter around, you know…’

She looked back at him, suddenly baring her teeth.

‘Well, maybe I will then!’

She suddenly got up and stood, as though he had really offended her, which seemed to be happening more and more these days, then walked off, and was gone for a few seconds then came back with her cigarettes, sat back on the chair and lit one. He looked over at her.

‘Well, aren’t you going to offer me one?’ He asked.

She looked back and sneered, told him to ’go buy his own f****n smokes’ and he suddenly wondered if she would even share his bed, suddenly saw a time when she would not.

He got up and found his own pack in the kitchen, got himself another bottle and went and joined her, again, on the lawn, lit up and sipped the beer, looked out at all that he owned with her, and suddenly saw what they had in common and it made him shudder. It was greed and nothing more. But surely, she thought more of him than that, didn’t she? He put his sunglasses on and looked at her out of the corner of his eye. Who the hell was she, anyway?

He watched the sun go down and the shadows climb up the lawn, and, as always, marveled at the seeming contentment they somehow had with each other, the fact that neither had to say anything to fill in the gaps. But didn’t it stem from the fact that she was now co-owner of a house? And, was that really all that hope could hope for, a resignation?

And yet, the beer told him that it was enough, and he listened to it. God knew how hard it was out there, in the world, and then, he suddenly thought about how nice it would be to have some weed to stir his pallet, knock the edge right off, and he suddenly wondered where he could get his hands on some of that.

The sun started to come down and he went and got himself another beer, came back out to see if he could fire her up, try and get her in the mood but she was gone, and so he sat back in the chair and drank, could hear the tv from somewhere deep in the house, suddenly felt a little lonely and for the first time that he could remember, frightened. But what did he have to be frightened about? After all, he had everything that he needed, didn’t he?

He lit another cigarette and drank some more and saw that he was sitting in the dark, thought about finding her in the house, but sensed her mood and thought better of it, looked back out at the yard and the fence that was falling apart, listened for the sounds of the neighbours, heard other televisions in other houses, the faint sound of voices in the night and wondered about them: the other property owners, then went and got himself another beer. Realised that he hadn’t eaten, and wondered what she had done for food. He finished the bottle, and, nearly drunk, stumbled back into the house, but it was dark and he couldn’t see a thing.

‘Babe?’

He could hear the tv on, then turned the kitchen light on, realised that he would have to get something delivered, called up a pizza delivery, hung up the phone and put it down, wondered what it was that he was so glum about.

Within minutes, the pizza had arrived, and he paid for it and found her in the dark, sitting in one of the rooms (their rooms), then turned the light on and put it on the floor, opened the box - piping hot pizza inside.

‘There you go, babe, dinner is served!’

She said nothing and hungrily grabbed a slice and started eating.

‘Steady on, babe, leave me some!’

She looked back at him and told him to f**k off and he suddenly wondered whether or not he was right about her; whether, with her, he had bitten off more than he could chew; but then again, most of the time, she left him wanting, and with nothing much to show and less to chew on. Not much to chew on; in fact, barely anything at all. And who the f**k was she, anyway?

*

Days passed without incident. And it was possibly this fact that had started to get him down. He would wake early of a morning, then get the tram to work. The office, full, and working. Like a well-oiled machine. Under his guidance. And then, home, back to his girl and his grog, and his beloved guitar. Which was closer to a mistress than anything else. For hours he would practice, stooped over the guitar and honing his skills, writing progressions that were really starting to take shape.

The day came when he called up his mates and invited them over, but he couldn’t get it happening. Try as he might, he couldn’t get them over. It seemed that, in the main, it was just too far to travel, plus, they had lives of their own: girlfriends, wives, kids, and the band just didn’t exist. Out of frustration he put something together where he lived, but it just wasn’t the same.

And so, he worked on, and on, and on.

And the days passed, until they became years.

The two of them would fight and then somehow make up, but try as he might, he couldn’t get any affection out of her. In the end, he gave up, and took solace in drink, but it was an uneasy truce.  The more insistent he became, the angrier she got. He tried everything: chocolates, roses, gave her expensive trips, sent her away for periods, but nothing worked. She was a dead root, but not even that, frigid, but not even that. At times he wondered what exactly they were doing together. Every day, he would go off to work and she would go off to university. God only knew what she was studying. One thing that he did know: her studies weren’t contributing to the mortgage.

His fortieth birthday came around. She agreed to let him see his friends, so he went. What perplexed him, though, was that she insisted on going, also. And then the strangest thing happened: he saw that the closer they got to the gig, the nicer she became, until he wondered what game she was playing at.

They stepped off the plane, and he looked around, at the tarmac, then realised how far he had come. For all intents and purposes, he had made it. And yet, he had a spouse who hated him. (And was able to morph into a completely different person). He looked at her and had to scratch his head, then suddenly felt very weak and very mortal. Years of smoking and drinking had taken their toll. Nowadays, he moved a fair bit slower, was content with a fair bit less, took doctor’s orders into account, then ignored them.

They arrived at his mate’s place, and it wasn’t long before the band started up. Guitars and drums, all set up, his mate pulling out a digital recorder.

They slipped into their old routine. In a few seconds, he pulled out one of his progressions and the band picked it up right away.

The track ended with a drummer’s crash, and they all cracked beers, his girlfriend included, and he could see her suddenly come to life, being around them, and he suddenly realised what she craved, what made her tick: it was the attention that she so loved, the fact of her being the only woman in the vicinity, and, therefore, doted on by the band. It was the camaraderie, but more, it was the power.

He put the beer down and picked up the guitar again, strapped it on, and turned the amp back on, busted out a funky riff, one of his better ones; again, the band slipping straight into gear.

The song built, and then broke down, breathing its own life, as it always would, and he pulled back, let the base take over, then came back in with yet another variation which delighted them all, then took another break, and looked at her, sitting on another lazy-boy, beaming. Just like when they first met. And he kept realising, more and more, that it was the stage that she craved, then suddenly saw, that in her mind, it was she that they were playing to, that they were all trying to impress, and wondered, all of a sudden, if he could find a way to replicate it all, when they were back home, but couldn’t come up with anything. Then realised, like a lightning bolt, what he needed to do: it was create another band, back where he lived.

But that was impossible �" they had been playing together for years, and where was he going to find another band like this? But, looking at her, he realised that his relationship hinged on it, and he marveled, for a second, how life worked, for it was possibly what he himself, also needed.

They played on, and drank and smoked, and days later, they left, with the usual hangover, but excited to see what the recording would sound like.

And then, he saw her mood descend when it was all over, as though it was, she, that was making the music and not him, and looking at her, he suddenly saw her as strange. They got on the plane that night, but she slept through the journey, and had barely anything to say to him.

Monday morning came and he went back to work with his usual headache, and she went back to her university. And they started to fight again, but worse this time. Now, she would yell and scream and slam doors, or flat-out ignore him, leaving him perplexed.

The following week, his mother called him up on the phone and they agreed, reluctantly to go to dinner. They met at a restaurant in town, and there were other members of the family there, members that he hadn’t seen in years.

They sat down in a dimly lit room, and he looked at them all with mixed emotions - a strange sense of pride, mixed with love and anger, all at the same time.

When they were all assembled, he saw that she was sat next to his mother, and it made him uneasy. He quickly ordered beer to take the edge off. And saw that she did the same. His mother was gushing and overcome with emotion, but he saw that Andrea sat silently, and didn’t bother contributing to the conversation at all, as though the whole thing was beneath her, and he suddenly realised that he had just about had enough.

Months past and his drinking got worse, as did her behaviour, until he couldn’t stand her in the end, and nor could she stand him. In the end, she started marching around the house, claiming that it was hers, and soon, they would have screaming matches over who owned the place.

Finally, she moved out, and he woke, one day, with the house to himself, and didn’t know what to think. The silence, without her, was deafening. And yet, perversely, he missed her, or at least, believed that he did. He had his freedom, but the drinking remained. Like some cruel mistress that always left him wanting more.

His life force was waning, and he could feel it waning, as though he was some lame dog that had been poisoned, which, probably, was a reasonable description.

His sister would come and visit him, and he would, in turn visit her. They took to meeting in cafés in the mornings, but deep down they both knew, that his health was waning, and that it was irreversible. His skin was pasty, had been so, for a long time, the colour drained from all the drinking that he had done. His lungs were shot from all of the smoking, and day by day, he felt as though he was becoming weaker. It was as though she had drained the life force out of him and had somehow managed to rape his very soul.

And yet, they held out hope. She started teaching him how to like himself, and other things, like how to cook for himself. He started to see the error of his ways and considered a complete overhaul. She even started getting him to AA meetings, and he was even considering attending a church: getting it all straightened out.

And then, one day, his old mate, the base player, blew into town like a hurricane, and blew his head off with some stash, like he always did.

They sat together on his couch, reminiscing, even listened to the last jam, on his stereo, over drinks, when, all of a sudden, his mate turned to him, and opened the palm of his hand, and showed off two over-sized pills, told him that they were ‘eight balls’. And then, they swallowed them down with the beer, and that was when the world went hay-wire.  

The ceiling started to rotate, and he saw stars. White explosions went off in his brain like fireworks, and suddenly, all the memories that he ever had, landed on him, colliding against each other, in a waterfall, or on a reel that was played before him in hyper speed.

He saw glimpses of it all: saw his Andrea, holding him like she used to, the dazed look in her eyes when he’d play, the band playing their best songs; his early life with his siblings and his parents. It all went in reverse and picked up momentum, until he became a mere toddler again, then reverted right back to the beginning of his life, then saw some cosmic apparition that he couldn’t begin to describe, all to the soundtrack of the best music he had ever heard, and that was when his heart gave out and everything went black.

*

The blonde man looked at the dead man sitting next to him, on the couch, and couldn’t help but smile. ‘At last,’, he thought to himself, ‘the mother-f****r’s dead’.

He stood and looked around at the house with one last look of disdain, then sent a text message to Andrea, telling her that the job was completed, and that it was now safe for her to come and take over the house, which she did within minutes. 

Outside, it was dawn. He looked around at a whole new world. Everything suddenly seemed so beautiful. He had killed his best friend and had gotten away with it. Everything planned and executed perfectly. It was the greatest day of his life.

And that was all that there was to be told, of the short and peculiar life, of the late great James Anderson.