My Writing

Finding Truths

stormcloudsi.
If I knew it’d be like a light going out, that one moment there’s everything and next there’s nothing and darkness, I think I’d do it, I really think I would.  But since I don’t know that, since stories of damnation and shit have fuelled my upbringing, I just lay in bed, knowing I should get up, but instead stare at the ceiling, thinking about everything I have to do today and how I don’t want to do it.
     The light seeping through the blinds covering my bungalow windows, as well as the sounds of neighbours, suggests it’s about nine.  Maybe later.  My body’s in agreement, my head cloggy from sleeping in, like somebody flipped it open and poured sand into it. 
     I roll onto my side and look at the clock radio on my bedside drawer.
     9.17.
     I try to summon the will to get up, like the day’s a freezing pool I have to build the courage to leap into.  Once I do, there’s no getting out, not until I go back to sleep, although that’ll be late tonight since I’m meeting Ash and Dylan at The Back Room for drinks.  Dylan says he’s got an announcement.  Ash has joked that Dylan’s announcing he’s going inside for having a seventeen-year-old girlfriend.
     I push myself out of the cosiness of my bed and undergo my morning routine: pull on my sweats and socks, turn on the computer, open the blinds, put on the electric kettle, drop a chamomile tea bag into a cup, and dart into the bathroom.
     My antidepressants wait for me in the medicine cabinet, an unwanted neighbour there’s no getting away from.  I pop one into my palm and dry swallow it.  There was a time I’d get side-effects: dizziness, stomach cramps, thumping heartbeat – emergency room stuff.  Not that I went.  It was bearing through the meds or facing the shit.  I bore through.  Since, the symptoms have faded to a bit of morning dizziness.
     I leave the bathroom, open the door of my bungalow, and stare across the yard at the house.  I should go inside and make myself breakfast – some toast maybe.  You’re meant to eat something with antidepressants because they’re so rough on your stomach.  But it’s too early to deal with my parents and their everyday recriminations about being thirty, not married, and living in a damn bungalow.
     At the foot of my door I spot a clothes peg.  It’s split in two – one of my mum’s victims when she’s in a hurry to pull down the clothes.  It saddens me looking at it.  It has one purpose, and now it’s done.
     I go outside, pick up the halves, and hunt around for its hinge, even as I hear my kettle whistling.  I’m just about to give up (at least for now) when I see the hinge resting by the garden.  I pick it up, reassemble the peg, and clip it back on the line.  There.  All better. 
     I return to the bungalow as the kettle shuts itself off, so I fill my tea cup, sit at my computer, and open my emails.  There’s a pile already there, including the one which came yesterday from Samantha.

    Hey! It’s been a long time.  Hope you don’t mind me emailing you.  Got your address from Facebook.  It’d be great to catch-up.  Get back to me, huh?

Samantha’s a girl who chased me all through high school, but depression and life (like there’s a separation between the two) got in the way.  She got married to some dick, which might be unfair, but I remember hearing at the time that he was a dick.  Suburbia swallowed them into domesticity, and I’d heard they had a couple of kids.  Her email is a surprise.  I don’t know how to answer it, other than to say something noncommittal, which isn’t answering it at all.
     I have other emails, which I don’t read, but I can guess what’s in them depending on where they came from.  There’s the usual circulars people send when they’re killing time at work; some from Advanced Business Solutions, as well as Healthy Plus, for whom I copywrite on a freelance basis; as well as a couple from fiction anthologies to which I’ve submitted.
     I stare at the emails from the anthologies – Collected Works, and The Bold Writer.  They’re two of the country’s premier journals.  You get published in them, you’re making a name for yourself, which is something I’d like to do – especially after ten years of trying.
     I nurture a quiet expectation that when I read these emails, they’ll be acceptances.  No, it’s not even an expectation.  I know they’ll be acceptances.  I don’t mean to build myself up.  I always tell myself not to, because it makes the fall further.
     Of course, over the years, I’ve submitted my work hundreds of places, if not bordering on a thousand, and I’ve had this feeling a lot, with little return.  The handful of stuff which has been accepted was stuff I didn’t give a chance, and had even forgotten sending out.  Journals are notoriously slow.  Publishers are little better.  I just sent my book out and am sure it’ll be months before I hear anything about it
     My mobile rings.  It’s Ash.  I answer it.
     ‘Hey, filth,’ he says.
     ‘Filth.’
     We don’t mean anything by ‘Filth.’ It’s like ‘buddy’ for us.
     ‘What time tonight?’ Ash asks.  ‘Nine?’
     ‘Yeah.’ I go through the emails from Advanced Business Solutions and Healthy Plus.  They’ve got a shitload of notes there and want brochures – usual stuff.
     ‘Okay.  I might be a bit late.  Stuff happening with Cindy.’
     ‘Okay.’ I don’t bother asking about Cindy, Ash’s wife.  Cindy’s great.  She would’ve made somebody an awesome wife.  Just not Ash.  Over the years, he’s mentioned her less and less, and we’ve seen her less and less.  It’s like Ash is making her invisible, or at least erasing her from his social circle, although that’s probably not surprising given the way Ash behaves.  It’s amazing their marriage is still going.  And strong, too.
     ‘I’ll see’ya later, filth.’
     ‘Filth.’
     He hangs up and I go through the circulars, working out what I’m going to recirculate and what I’m going to delete, but I’m really just holding onto the anticipation before I check the responses from the journals, because while I hold onto the anticipation, the unopened emails remain possible acceptances, and my dreams could still be going somewhere.  Life could still be going somewhere.
     Finally, I look.
     Rejections.
     I delete the fucking things.

ii.
The Back Room is a third-storey bar which sits on top of an Italian restaurant (Agostini’s – overpriced, but awesome pizza), and a floor that’s been vacant for as long as I remember.  I think now Agostini’s use it for storage.  You get to The Back Room through a stairwell so narrow it must violate fire-safety regulations.
     The bar itself is split into quarters: there’s a lounge with couches and little tables, like you might see in a coffee shop; there’s a dance floor, where some nights they’ll have a band – usually Incandescent X, this awesome three-piece acoustic ensemble headed by a woman with the most amazing blue eyes; a hall with rows of pool tables; and one corner out in the open with tables and chairs, like an overblown terrace overlooking the street, although you’d freeze going out there tonight.  A circular bar sits right in the middle, like an axis, accessible to every quarter.
     We’re in the lounge, draped over the couches – me, Ash, Dylan – and drinking Coronas.  Since it’s a Monday night, there’s not a lot happening in The Back Room.  The place started as a nothing bar years ago, and had its regulars every night.  But then it developed a nouveau trendiness, the way places do.  Now, it grows busier the deeper the week goes, and overflows Fridays and Saturdays.
     ‘So what’s happening, filth?’ Ash asks Dylan, but Ash has his eyes on a blonde at the bar who’s wearing tight, faded jeans which shape her butt like a pear. 
     Dylan sits on the couch opposite us, rocking, Corona between his hands.  The way his shock of already-receding hair stands up defying gravity makes his contemplation almost comical.  He takes a drink, gazes up at us, then shrugs.
     ‘Come on,’ Ash says.  ‘Otherwise, I’ve got something to say.’
     Everybody’s got something to say.  I wish I had something.  I think of the rejections from the anthologies.  An acceptance would’ve been something to talk about.  Maybe I could tell them about Samantha, although it’s hardly newsworthy.  That’s something you’d mention as a throwaway.
     ‘It about Lauren?’ I ask, as Ash’s attention drifts back to the blonde, who’s ordering drinks.  One of her friends – a brunette in a tight skirt – has joined her to help her carry.  It’s not going to be much longer before Ash’s dick becomes his rudder.
     ‘It’s not Lauren,’ Dylan says.
     ‘Why didn’t you invite her?’ Ash says.  ‘Oh, that’s right, she’s underage.’
     ‘Ha ha.’
     ‘You idiot,’ I tell Ash.  ‘It’s obviously past her bedtime.’
     ‘How brave,’ Dylan says, which is our way of wry condemnation.  It’s all mocking, in its own way – and Lauren’s great mocking material given her age.  It’s weird, because Dylan isn’t much to look at – not like Ash, who’s rugged and sporty – but he’s never had trouble with women.  Lauren’s his first relationship which has become serious.
     ‘Okay, if you don’t tell us your announcement,’ Ash says, ‘then I’m going with mine.’
     ‘I’m getting transferred for work,’ Dylan says.  ‘Interstate.’
     We’re quiet.  It’s not like Dylan’s told us he has cancer or something like that, and we should be happy for him, but we’ve been friends a long time – Ash and me twenty years; Ash, me, and Dylan ten years.  The dynamic between us meshed from the start.  It’s the way friends work.  It’s not about interests and shit.  That stuff comes later.  You click or you don’t.  But that’s relationships in general.  Life in general.
     ‘They do that in construction?’ I ask, because Dylan’s a roofer for BusyBuilt Construction.  Surely it’s not like needing a neurosurgeon, no disrespect intended.
     ‘Transfer-promotion,’ Dylan says.  ‘Boss likes my work, and recommended me to head office, so they offered me a foreman’s position on-site for some townhouses they’re putting up.’
     ‘Are you shitting us?’ Ash asks.
     ‘This is for real.’
     ‘You take it?’ I ask.
     ‘Had to for the money they’re offering.  It’s like twice what I’m getting, and they’re setting me up with a place to live and everything.’
     ‘When?’
     ‘Six months.  First thing in the new year.  That’s when this townhouse project starts.’
     Again, quiet.  Maybe it is like cancer – the killing of a friendship.  You take them for granted.  You really do, thinking they’ll be around forever.
     ‘What about Lauren?’ I ask.
     Dylan shrugs, and it’s like he wants to be blasé about it, but it must be on his mind because he doesn’t laugh it off the way he usually would.  ‘It’s six months away,’ he says without conviction.  He takes a drink from his Corona, then lazes back on the couch, trying to relax.  ‘What about you?’ he asks Ash.  ‘What’s—?’
     ‘Cindy’s pregnant,’ Ash says.
     ‘Really?’ I say.
     ‘Yep.’
     ‘No shit?’ Dylan asks.
     ‘No shit.’
     ‘Who’s the father?’
     Ash laughs.  ‘How brave.’
     ‘You’re going to be a father?’ I ask.
     ‘What?  I’ll be a good father,’ Ash says, but his eyes rove the lounge until they target the blonde on a couch in the corner.  I walked into the toilets once and Ash was banging a redhead in a cubicle while a crowd of onlookers watched.  Whatever loyalty he’d had to his vows, debauchery and drinking have beaten senseless.  Not that Cindy knows, or even suspects.  She’s the model wife living her model suburban life.  Ash, though, cheats, gets in fights, and goes on drinking and gambling benders.  He can be a prick, which is an awful thing to say, but you still couldn’t find a better friend.  Most of the time.
     ‘Well,’ Dylan said, leaning forward on the couch and offering his Corona, ‘congrats.  To your baby.’
     ‘To your job,’ Ash said, thrusting his Corona forward.
     I thrust my Corona forward and can think of nothing to add.

iii.
I stand on the terrace, looking at the street three-storeys below.  Traffic whizzes by, people moving obliviously on with their lives.  I sip on my Corona.  The night’s freezing, and the barrel of the bottle threatens to stick to my lips.  The beer’s not going down well, and it’s not a night for big drinking, but that’s exactly what I want to do.
     Taking a swig, I look back into The Back Room.
     In the lounge, Ash sits on the couch with the blonde.  She throws her head back and laughs at everything he says.  Give it an hour, and Ash will be fucking her.  His magnetism is inexplicable.  I wish I had it.  An ounce of it.  It makes you wonder why he got married.  I think he was hoping to find somebody to save him, and Cindy did, for a little bit at least.
     Dylan’s playing pool with Lauren, who showed up about half an hour ago.  Sometimes they card her, but most times they don’t.  Bars are always stricter on guys than girls.  Girls are good décor, while guys are a hazard.  It’s obvious which you’d prefer given the choice, and Lauren’s gorgeous with her blonde hair and dimpled smile.
     I turn away from them, gaze back down at the street, wishing I had a Cindy, or even a Lauren, not that Ash knows how good he’s got it, and maybe Dylan’s just finding out.  I wish for anything, but realise I have nothing.
     I know now what I want.
     And what I don’t want.
     I don’t want this life.
 


 
Credit and Genesis
This story appeared in issue twenty-three (2012) of fourW, the anthology of the Booranga Writers’ Centre.

This story is actually a prequel to a screenplay I wrote back in 2004, which one day I’d like to turn into a book.

LZ.

2 Comments

  • melthoid serendipity

    Beware…the following is an immediate response to the above words read and may constitute comments seen as obscene, offensive and just a little bit naughty! It is, however, the truth – the whole truth and nothing but so help me S.O.S)

    I found myself having an Adaptation (film) experience while I was reading this…fuck I hate fiction and this is why! The first thing that came to mind was you should send it to Jewel because she’d turn the entire story into an album…I wanted to kill the narrator, originally because he was so whiny (the whole ‘all I own is in this room, all my thoughts are bound by plaster’ blah blah fucken agoraphobic blah). I found it excruciating to get through because it blueprinted my life for the first thirty years and each of the characters could have represented someone from my own life and it awoke a buried memory I never wished to relive. But then there are moments of genius with which to treasure the horror of the experience…the peg – just beautiful…probably just a fleeting and disposable moment for you but that’s the wonderment of storytelling…one man’s treasure etc. Speaking of fucken agoraphobia…a personal point which I’m keen to discuss…written superlatives are the equivalent of oral expletives…you’re so far above ‘amazing blue eyes’…hit me with the Les bedazzler please! I’m interested in where you’re going to take this…at the moment NONE of the characters have any likeability (the narrator clearly hates his life but because it’s in the first person it’s difficult to tell whether they all hate their own lives or if it’s the narrator’s perception) nor any hint of foreseeable glorious futures…maybe the inclusion of drugs, sex, murder, an alligator and the inclusion of Gerard Depardieu will help…but that’s me…the general populace will love it…sorry if I haven’t been helpful and/or offensive in my comments…I do get immersed in your stories and they trigger emotional outbursts even when I have problems with the subject matter

    • Les Zig

      At least it seems you hated it for perhaps mirroring your own life (and perhaps a lot of lives leading up to that age, including me), rather than just because. The bit with the peg was something I put late into this story, but which I did for reasons that relate to the eventual greater story that the narrator feels that everything has a purpose in life.

      The follow-up exists as a shoddy screenplay (read it the other week and couldn’t believe how shoddy it was) but I have it relatively mapped where everything goes in the end (or at least where it should end up — the journey might evolve differently).

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