Night of the uber frau (in progress)

It’s 10.25pm, Thursday, on a mild spring evening. I’m sitting outside Dee Bee’s at Double Bay, bored senseless. Inside there is one of the tackiest collections of sporting and entertainment memorabilia ever assembled. Mounted everywhere on the walls are photo’s of famous athletes and celebrities posing with anonymous fans.

This overwhelming marketing of success gives way to a sugar craving, an urge for chocolate and hazelnut gelato that the body does not need. While spooning slowly through both flavours, a feeling of guilt pulses through the mid-section making me feel sluggish.

A common cross section of tourists and trendy Mediterranean’s sit outside. Gaudy, over dressed women with too much make up sit with men wearing jewellery to enhance their libido’s. Together they smoke and laugh angrily like animals who are perpetually unsatisfied. At the next table, US and British boomers on vacation soak up the opulence in expensive polo shirts, and conservative pants and skirts.

Luckily, a table of middle-aged Italian men going bald display some grace. They do not fight against gravity or the passage of time, instead they embrace it with neutral but elegant coats and leather shoes. Unfortunately they are a minority and something feels horribly wrong in this hub of style and fashion tonight.

There is a shiver up my spine, and an odd premonition about an indefinable force approaching. Something or someone is watching and observing the antics outside the café. I look across the street at the massive black and white poster of a Germanic model and her eyes stare back at me. Slowly her face morphs into human form. There is a loud muttering of obscenities in German followed by a shattering of glass and cracks in the sidewalk opposite the café. 2 long, lythe arms reach out of the ground and she pulls herself up, crouches on all fours then crawls out of the boutique that enslaved her.

People sit or stand in complete shock as she rises. She is 12ft tall in modest heels and a perfect, short black dress . Watching her gather her senses and preen herself is a site to behold. Once composed she looks across at the crowded café then down at the row of toppled, headless mannequins that were skittled by her awakening. Lifting one of the mannequins up she strokes it and shakes her head in disapproval. As she turns towards the café I sense what is coming and squat behind my table. The first mannequin doesn’t reach the cafe and puts a dent in a parked Maserati, but the second almost knocks a man and 2 women to the ground as it lands on their table.
The third mannequin spirals slightly and its head is dented after hitting the timber above the cafe’s entrance door.

The handful of young macho men sitting outside are ill equipped to confront this Uber Frau’s sudden bout of rage. They stand in a ridiculous huddle like schoolboys, completely unprepared to handle the towering imposition of feminine hostility looking down at them and other customers.
The giant model suddenly strikes a classic hands on hip pose, hitching her left hip and sticking her pelvis forward before making an announcement.

“If any of you unfashionable people move or make a noise, I will put you on the runway.”

She tip toes across the street and picks up what appears to be a huge Prada handbag then quickly struts back. Glaring provocatively at everyone she suddenly bursts into a manic fit of laughter and asks,

“Do any of you have a light?”

One of the macho guys reaches into his pocket and holds up a lighter. The model motions him forward then pulls out a cigarette that looks about 8 inches long. She crouches down and bends her face within his reach. He holds the lighters flame to the cigarette but it takes almost 10 seconds to burn enough for the uber frau to take a drag. Dropping to one knee she places an arm behind him and drags him closer towards her body. He looks terrified and powerless.

“Do you find me attractive?”

“I..ah….yeah but it’s kind of….”

“Ja, it is difficult when a woman has the power. We are all vulnerable. It’s so silly to pretend to be tough or cool. Go back to your woman, I understand.”

The crowd remain silent. I sit back in my chair, motionless, paralysed by the presence of this monstrous beauty. Readjusting her posture and stretching the right leg, she accidentally dents a parked Porsche with the heel.

“Oops, I have a poor record with sportscars. They are such fragile little toys and so expensive, Ja.”

The Porsche’s car alarm starts pulsing and its high pitch annoys her immensely.

“Oh shit, who owns this? Please shut it up now or your mechanic will not be able to help you.”

One of the middle-aged Italian men rushes towards the car and presses a button to stop the alarm. Flicking her hair to one side in relief and smiling, she peers inquisitively at him, her nose suggesting she has smelt something pleasant.

“Hmm, you are the only person here who wears a pleasant cologne and you dress quite sensibly, Ja. I like Italian men once they go bald. Young men try too hard. Signore, you should tell these boys not to wear jewellery or lift such heavy weights.”

The Italian gentleman grounds himself and stares disapprovingly at her. There is a long and uncomfortable pause before he speaks.

“What do you want and why are you making a drama outside my café?”

“Ah, finally a man with enough balls to question my actions. This is quite refreshing, Ja.”

“I’m not here to play games young lady. Who are you and what are you doing here tonight?”

“Unfortunately I am the collective manifestation of your fashion addicted customers. All these years of people fantasising about some larger than life model, and boom, I suddenly appear.”

“That is not possible. I am going to call the police if you don’t leave.”

“Signore, what will you tell them. Hello officer there is a 12ft German model who never quite became a supermodel and she has a bad attitude and attacked my cafe with mannequins.”

“Lady, I will inform them that we have trouble, so when they arrive they’ll know won’t they?”

“Of course, I was only joking. Lets be honest, if my entrance was not dramatic I would not get noticed. Such de-sensitised little people, this is what they want, a stunner having a tantrum.”

“Please pay for the damage you have caused and move on.”

“Please, I am not here to hurt or kill people. Ja, sometimes I am a bitch who lacks subtlety, but it was the people of Sydney’s vanity that helped create me. Oh, by the way, your phones won’t work for a while.”

She digs into the giant handbag and pulls out a wad of fifty and hundred dollar notes and places about $10,000 dollars on a table. I notice that all the lights nearby seem to have dimmed slightly.

“Nein, nein, I am not a drug dealer. I only carry a lot of money because my mistakes are usually quite expensive.”

A few people in the crowd begin to realise that this Uber Frau merely wanted to make a scene, a dramatic point to herald her arrival. She lowers herself onto the sidewalk and sits cross legged then nods casually, trying to appear less threatening.

I can’t help but notice those striking green eyes. Everything else is well proportioned and balanced like a 6ft model, but those eyes defy time and space. Wow, this might be the one opportunity I have to film and sell my own exclusive story. Me, another unsatisfied journalist on crap money looking for a break. What a towering whirlwind of publicity this babe is.
Crikey, she even seems to understand irony and have wit. This could be my lucky night. Hmm, but why would she want to divulge her story to an average punter who has no fashion sense. Ah fuck it, I’m romantic and interesting in my own way. Well, sort of.

In time she notices me caught up in my own heady monologue and stares curiously. Sucking back a huge breathe of that cigarette she leans slightly forward and blows smoke up into the air. Her eyes do not lose focus of me and her gaze intensifies until all is released with a girlish smile.

“Why do you doubt so much?”

“What do you mean?”

“I know what you think. All things considered I can empathise with your viewpoint, though it is a little cynical.”

“Well, yeah I guess. You’re pretty perceptive.”

“Thanks. Perhaps we need to discuss this more intimately.”

“Ah…okay. Maybe somewhere less crowded?”

Nobody in the cafe can comprehend or cope with someone having a chat with a 12ft model. Their faces suggest a profound lack of trust and a chronic inability to think outside their comfort zones. The model stands and stretches, then waves me to follow her. Tonight is probably a night I can get away without paying, but I leave $10 on the table anyway. Even at a very slow stroll my legs almost need to run to keep up with her.

“I think the cops might be here soon.”

“Nein, I created a little electrical disturbance when I arrived.”

“That is not cool, and highly illegal.”

“Nobody will be hurt unnecessarily. Besides, I only have one night in this town darling.”

“Okay, two questions 1) Why? 2) Can I interview you?

“1) The life of a top model can sometimes be short lived, a bit like the cicadas you have sometimes in spring.
2) Ja, but you may experience some discomfort.”

“Wow, trippy. Nobody is going to die are they?”

“Of course not, but my presence may cause pain to some people. The truth when told precisely can hurt sometimes, Ja?”

“Oh Yeah, I’ve been a journalist for 14 years, I think I know what you mean..What was your name? I’m Brendan.”

“I have no name, Brendan. Unfortunately names would limit my purpose.

“So you’re a healer and a warrior trying to fix problems?”

“Ja, sort of. Do you mind if I change into something more practical? It is quite chilly.”

”Okay but where are you going to get dressed?”

”In a dark alley, just like in the movies. I’ll disappear then re-appear in a more subtle form. This little alley looks convenient. You wait here and make sure nobody sees me.”

”Okay. I still can’t believe this happening.”

I watch the street and alley for about a minute and it appears to be empty. Even though it’s fairly late, it seems eerie, perhaps ghost like. Nobody has followed us, though I suspected they wouldn’t because the morons were all scared out of their wits.
She taps me on the shoulder and I almost shit myself. When I turn around she is only 6ft tall. It is her, but in normal human form.

“I’m not really 12ft tall, I’m just good at projecting energy and creating illusions.”

“How did you throw those mannequins so far?”

“I didn’t, that was just an illusion using sound and light projection. Kind of an advanced 3D surround sound and light show. There is no dent in the car, just a few broken coffee mugs.”

“Fuck, that was so hectic. It felt unreal but I also felt a bit stoned.”

“Ja, just a bit of energetic work,”

She reaches out and gently massages my shoulders. In less than a few breaths most of the tension and pain in my body has subsided. A giddiness and an all encompassing flow of gentle electricity pulsates through me. She runs her hands down my arms and holds my hands. Looking into my eyes she presses a few trigger points on my face, steps back and presses her palms into Namaste.

”Your energetic healing is now complete sir.”

”How the hell did you do that? It felt great. I couldn’t explain it if I tried.”

”Thanks. I am very experienced at shifting and moving energy. I just detoxed 50% of the toxins in your body by purifying water with very subtle electricity.”

”Whoa, is that why you are here tonight?”

”Ja, that’s more or less it. I have to go to an icon of consumerism and heal people. Some may react unpleasantly, but ultimately they will receive what they need in order to have a paradigm shift.”

”I don’t think my head can cope with all this. I ain’t doubting your intelligence or strange powers, but it’s gonna be hard to document this mission you are on.”

”Your honesty will shine through. Record only what you are capable of perceiving. Let us walk to Kings Cross together, we have work to do.”

”Oh no, why there? Surely some places and people are beyond saving. You’d need a tsunami to clean it up.”

”Such cynicism. Nein, nein, nein. Where vanity and depravity dance side by side there is a rare opportunity to see through the superficial and experience beauty.”

”Fair call, it has happened a few times, just not there.”

”Well remove your head from your ass and be more open.”

”Wow, your directness is easily your most redeeming quality. I can’t wait to see how bouncers respond to you.”

”Ja, bouncers huh, the gorilla’s of necessity in the jungle of intoxication. Such gentle creatures if you feed their egos the right way.”

”Is it okay if I describe you as an Uber Frau in my article?.”

”Such flattery, you are close to becoming a gentleman. However, we have to get you some better clothes.”

”Preferably something expensive to help me get over my resentment of rich Sydneysiders.”

”Okay, if that’s what you want. Now drop the sarcasm and walk faster, we have 20 minutes to get to the big Coke sign.”

Walking along New south head road feels effortless, even as we walk uphill, because her stride is perfect, just like her posture. Walking beside her I feel more flexible and balanced. Her rhythm seems to be re-programming my own.

I’ve never walked so fast in my life, nor felt so fit. All my life I’d listened to various people proclaiming that a tiny minority have factor X, but I rarely believed it, until now. I should feel aroused, but all I feel is a surge of energy and a weird sense of awe and detachment.

Utopia Shores (in progress)

Gene Bond swayed slightly as he approached the lectern on the small stage of the leagues club auditorium. Holding a bourbon in his left hand, he raised his right like he were taking an oath, thinking he’d get the audience of 150’s attention.

He was 45, skinny, balding, and wore cowboy boots and an akubra. Most of the community knew he’d never done physical work or ridden a horse in his life.
The gold members of Utopia shores leagues club looked at him with blank faces and frowns.
Now that alot of the audience was also half-drunk, Gene thought it’d be easier to rant and drum up some parochialism due to recent events. He leant in and accidentally bumped the microphone with his lips then moved his head back 2 inches and began.

“You can’t change a society. It is what it is and most of us prefer our own, but so do those who label this part of the nation racist and backward. Some really bad stuff has gone down lately. An underage thief was shot and killed, and 2 backpacker girls had spiked drinks from a sleazy French rapist, and not long after a lockdown.
But, if ya think about it and forget those 2 Sydney boys were Arab lookin, you realise that like all criminals, ownership went awol. So, I don’t think the cops did wrong by shooting one of them. The cops thought they saw a weapon and took a shot. How did the cops know they were only 17.
No perspective in media because media don’t care about taxpayers or jobs in regional oz. Personally, I’m way more concerned that business might go down this summer and banks won’t fund the project for the estate behind the lagoon because paradise constructions employed a French rapist during covid. They wouldn’t have known. But again, he wasn’t local.
It’s unfair on the community to suffer from bad seeds. Backpackers love the resort and easy access to the reefs and rainforest, but how do we stop youth, domestic or foreign, from binge drinking, drugs, and being too sexual?”

After receiving no more than a cynical murmur amidst the cringing crowd, Gene had a sudden surge of acid reflux in his throat as the bourbon and hot Madras curry he’d had for lunch, repeated heavily on his breath.

“Excuse me, folks” he said, and poured some bottled water into a glass.

A few people whispered to each other and tried not to laugh.
As he paused and sipped the water, 4 very attractive waitresses, 2 Czech and 2 Brazilians, carried in some trays with pakoras, samosas, and entree sized portions of lamb madras and chicken tikka with coconut, basmati rice. The new Indian chef had changed and added a few things to the menu. In just 3 months the clubs dining section had a 25% increase in profit. As the acid subsided, Gene continued.

“There’s quite a few locals who can’t even find work or afford to live here, so we also need to employ them. When paradise constructions only has 30% locals on it’s books, we know we’ve been sold out.”

Being mostly wealthy boomers or gen x business owners, the gold members all knew that the local community mindset was dated rhetoric. They continued ploughing into their entrees, savoring the rich spiciness. Gene waffled clumsily for another minute about a community being relegated by city folks and globalism, but everyone had completely tuned out.

Gene struggled not to look at the backpacker girls as they served the tables closest to the stage. With perfect postures and strong, toned thighs, they moved so confidently and gracefully around the tables that they broke Gene’s train of thought. He suddenly felt self-conscious.

“Everything all right, mate.” jibbed a man at the nearest table.

“Thanks for your time, folks. I’m Gene Bond and I’m for Australia first.”

“Any relation to James Bond.” hollered an elderly man at another table. There was a short outbreak of guffaws from several tables.

Several minutes later, Gene stood at the main bar alone. He downed a double shot of bourbon on ice and began reminiscing about the club and seaside village as it was in the mid 90s.
A tanned gent about 60yo with silver hair wearing a polo shirt and loafers, sat next to him and smiled.

“Mate, you don’t really believe all that shit you waffled, do you?”

“Mate, I’m Aussie and proud. I’d employ an Aussie first if I could.”

“So if you were the boss here, you’d hire a local alcoholic or druggie as the chef and those skanks at the local pub rather than a reliable Indian chef and hot backpackers?”

Gene struggled to answer.

“What do you want?”

“You and your brother are accountants, right?

“Yeah, we are.”

“I here you’re struggling because you only do business with locals.”

“We do alright” said Gene, defensively.

The man smirked. “I hear you’re close to bankruptcy because your brother has a gambling problem.”

“Wow, you don’t fuck around.”

“That’s why I’m successful. Do you have many interstate or overseas clients?”

“None”

“Geez, you really do live in the past.”

“Are you going to make some sort of deal or just take the piss.”

“I know a property developer who’d like to use a local accountant.”

“Where are they from?”

“Hawaii is their HQ.”

“Ok, so they’re yanks, yeah?”

“Well, US and Japanese. They have a presence in Hawaii, California, Mexico, and now QLD.”

“Where in QLD?”

“Here at Utopia Shores. They’ve bought paradise constructions.”

“Fuck, so that’s why they don’t hire locals anymore.”

“Aww cmon, you see a few Pacific islanders and Irishmen on site.”

Gene felt a sudden urge to go to the toilet.

“I’m Rob, Rob Swan.” said the man, handing Gene his business card.

“I’m Gene. We’ll talk later.” he said, taking the card and hurrying to the toilet.

Rob walked slowly out of the Leagues club, amused and confident because Gene seemed as gullible and naïve as other coastal folks he’d met.

At 7pm, families and middle-aged or elderly couples slowly filled the club. Alot of them were from the most recent wave of residents and holiday houses in the newer estates at Magenta cove or Serenity bay. Except for the staff on working visas, Utopia leagues club was too sterile to attract more travellers. The iconic, fluoro-lit, pink barracuda mounted above its main entrance looked like a misshapen dildo from more than 200 metres away.

After downing 2 more bourbons, Gene walked 300m down the gentle gradient of constitution ave from the leagues club to the reef bar. In just 5 years, 2/3 of the old shops and eateries had closed and been replaced with franchises like nandos, coffee club, Wendy’s, or fancy fashion labels that Gene had never heard of, and that most local women were angry they couldn’t afford.
Even the pub couldn’t just be a pub. They’d separated the front bar and deck from the sports bar and gaming rooms, and renamed it “the reef bar” using a Tiki theme. You couldn’t walk between bars anymore and the price of a schooner had gone up 40% since corona shut things down.

He approached the old beach bar but walking into a bar full of young, happy backpackers felt surreal, even though it was his local before some of them were born.

Approaching the bar, he locked eyes with Tasha from high school days.

“What the fuck are you doin in here?”

“Yeah, Hi Tasha, well thanks and you?”

“Git next door with the other ole grubs and fishermen.”

“Felt like a beer on the old deck.”

Tasha laughed in mockery then automatically poured a schooner of XXXX.”

“Don’t be a purve, Gene. You were always a bit sleazy.”

“Manners go nowhere round here.”

“All the guys with manners left town or are still married.”

Gene laughed, unable to provide a rebuttal and handed Tasha a five dollar note and 2 dollar coin.

“It’s 10, Gene.”

Gene pulled 3 dollars out of his pocket, put it on the beer mat, picked up his beer and zig-zagged through several groups of backpackers and out onto the deck. He went to the farthest corner and moved a stool from an empty table, closer to the balustrade.

Despite the faint glow of street lights from Magenta cove, 4km north, and the slightly more pungent smell of Utopia creeks mangroves at low tide, the view remained the same. Looking at the channel lights from the marina heading out to the reef, he reflected on fishing with his grandad and relaxed. A tall very buxom blonde appeared beside him.

“Sir, sorry you have to have your beer on ze table.”

Her thick German accent sounded very formal.

“Ok, ok” he said, moving the stool back to the empty table behind him.
“Just in case a beer falls to ze footpath.”

Gene found it almost comical that she had to explain that the top rail of the balustrade was only 2 inches wide.

“To ze nanny state.” he smirked, raising his glass .

“Its just OH&S.” she replied, with no expression.

Although she seemed a bit dour, Gene liked her no nonsense directness almost as much as her powerful natural curves. He thought about how Tasha was once similar and a good swimmer in her youth, but that 2 bad marriages, 4 kids, and 25 years in hospitality would make anyone bitchier.

“Ah, fuck it. I can’t judge.” he whispered before sculling half his beer.

“Maybe I’ll talk to Wazza tomorrow and see what he thinks about meeting this Swan bloke.”

A slim Slavic looking lad with a crew cut asked Gene for a light.

“I don’t smoke, mate.”

“Ha, I knew you were an Aussie.” said the lad.

Another slavic guy and 2 girls at the next table motioned for Gene to join them.
Gene moved his stool 2m across to their table and introduced himself. They all shook his hand and
Without subtlety the hotter girl pouted and advised that their wallets were locked in the youth hostels safe and they couldn’t get money out til tomorrow.
Being half-drunk and feeling loose, Gene didn’t care that they were taking the piss. He pulled out a 50 and a 20, smiled, and told the girl to get him a schooner of XXXX and whatever they were drinking.
She scurried off and came back with 3 beers and 2 white wines. While talking to the lads about fishing locations and less touristy diving spots, he overheard the prettier girl complaining that they couldn’t have cocktails. When he finished his beer he excused himself to go to the bathroom.

When he came back out they’d gone and a Eurasian woman of about 30 was sitting alone at the table. She was short but very toned. When she caught him checking her out she invited him to join her. Gene was slightly shocked.

“I’m, Julia.”

“Gene. How’s it going. You from Sydney?”

“Yes, originally, but I’m in Melbourne now.”

“Ah, a corporate girl up for the summer hols.”

“Not quite. I’m still studying marketing and PR.”

“Ah, I see.”
Gene was struggling to remain composed and unaffected by her toned body.

“What do you do in Melbourne now? I reckon you could be a personal trainer.”

“Close. I’m a pole dancer, stripper, and yoga teacher..”

Gene steadied himself and took a sip of his beer.

“Wow, that’s awesome.”

“Shall I be honest?”

“Yeah, fire away.”

“Shall we leave now?”

Gene felt suspicious but her directness and sexual confidence overwhelmed him.
“Can you at least walk me over the hill to my motel?”

“Yeah, love, of course.”

“You country boys are refreshing sometimes. You don’t hide your appreciation of women by being fake like city boys.”

Gene blushed.

” Yeah, ah, we try to appreciate a good woman in our own way. Yeah, up here, we do.”

Gene couldn’t remember any of the conversation during the 700m walk to the motel. The rush of possibly having sex with Julia posessed him. despite suspecting she was a prostitute he was willing to oblige. They arrived at the door to her room and she turned around, smiled, and grabbed his hand.

“Just sit on the bed while I get us a drink. Scotch and dry ok?”
“Yeah, fine.”
She poured and mixed the drinks, handed him the tumbler then went to the bathroom.
Gene took several sips and stared at a tacky and faded print of a cowboy riding a bull, mounted on the wall.
Julia came back into the bedroom in a blue floral bikini. The compactness of her frame and the muscle tone of her upper thighs, waist, and back, made Gene gulp and try to straighten his posture. She sat beside him and put her hand on his thigh.
“So, are you a cowboy? she whispered into his ear.
She pushed him back and straddled him. The powerful sedative started to take more affect.
“Ah, you fucken sly bitch.” he mumbled, seconds before passing out.
“You rural dumb ass.” she hissed, springing back off the bed.
She undid his trousers and put her hands in his jocks to check if there was any semen and plucked a few pubic hairs. Her mobile phone rang and she answered.
“How’d it go?” asked a mature Aussie male voice.
“Easy. Too easy. This guy is so stupid I almost feel sorry for him.”
“Don’t feel guilty, it limits success.”
“Yeah, but I’m a stripper and a student, not a criminal.”
“Just go through the motions and you’ll get almost enough for a deposit on a house. This guy won’t take legal action. He and his brother will pay and be shit scared because he’s considered a local loser anyway.”
“Ok, Rob, I’ll be cool.”
“Good girl, I will be round in 10 mins to take a few photos and we’ll make it seem like it was you who was drugged.”
She looked at Gene lying there like a vulnerable dork and the gravitas of things started to sink in.

Gene awoke to an intense throbbing sensation and giddiness in his head. As he lay on his stomach and peered at the narrow slit of light shining through the gap between the curtains, he quickly recalled what had happened and where he was. He looked at his watch and it was just after 10 a.m. He rolled over onto his back and instantly felt like vomiting. Although he knew he mightn’t make it, he foolishly tried to get up and rush to the toilet. Just before he was upright, a violent spray of liquid in a long arc, covered the wall, carpet, and the front of his collared shirt. There was a knock on the door and an Asian woman’s voice. He walked into the toilet and knelt before the bowl and vomited twice more. The entire core tightened to help purge his burning and toxic gut. The heavily acidic scent of lamb madras, alcohol, and the powerful sedative, repeated on his breath.

The knocking resumed so he quickly washed his mouth and face then walked to the door and opened it. A tiny Asian woman in her fifties stared at him.
“You make a mess, sir?”
“Yes, sorry, I’ve made a fucken mess.”
She stared blankly “ok, but you pay extra clean.”
Nodding and squinting in irritation due to the sunlight, he asked
“yes, yes, how much?”
She walked into the room and looked at the stain on the wall and the moist patch with small chunks on the carpet.
“Need also dry cleaner $200.”
“Ok, I will go to the ATM and give $200 to reception.”
What happen to your woman?”
Genes mind couldn’t process an honest answer.
“I don’t know, I guess she’s pissed with me.”
The cleaners left eyebrow raised slightly as she walked off to inspect the next unit.

Almost on auto-pilot, Gene walked 200m up the street to the nearest ATM, withdrew $300 and returned to the Hotels reception. A woman in her sixties glared at him over the rim of her glasses.

“Ah, it’s the gentleman from room 11.” she said, deliberately avoiding eye contact as she entered a few numbers into the till.

Looking up, smirking, she asked

“You’re a local aren’t you?”

“Yeah, I’m Gene. My brother Wazza runs Bond accounting.”

“Right, so you know Ms Choi well?”

Gene straightened his posture and leant his right hand on the reception desk.

“Look, it was consenting and we’d both been drinking.”

“Consentual. Ah good, so it was consentual. That’s reassuring. Odd that she left before checking out.”

Gene felt like telling her to fuck off. She was more than his parched throat and aching head could handle.

“Fair enough. Are we good?”

“Yes, you’ve paid.” she said, then walked off into a room behind the reception, showing no emotion.

“Fucken, old mole.” he whispered to himself.

He walked down the motels shaded driveway and back into the streets harsh, morning sunlight.
He walked back into town and bought a 1 litre bottle of water at the IGA. Although he mightn’t hold it down, his parched throat and gut craved fluids. Just before the leagues club, he turned left into view st and stopped near the corner.
Without sunglasses or a hat, the 35 degree heat was excruciating for a post sedative and alcoholic cocktail. He sculled half the bottle and his head felt a bit clearer.

The mostly uphill, 2km walk to work, enhanced the giddiness, but surprisingly only mild nausea. The walk took more effort than expected, and all the houses on their biggish blocks blended into a very slow moving tunnel vision.
At the top of the hill, Gene drank the rest of the water and walked the last 100m to the office.
A red Mercedes coupe reversed out of the office driveway then slowly drove past. The tinted windows revealed only that the driver was male.

As he walked through the office door, his brother glared at him while rubbing his left palm against the crown of his head. Laying back in his plush leather business chair, he looked up at the ceiling fan and was silent for a few seconds.

He closed his eyes then asked

“Gene, how the fuck are we going to deal with Rob Swan?

Gene stood almost motionless, expecting a rant, but his brother was surprisingly composed.

“I’m beyond anger. this is so fucked up it has pushed me through stress into numb. Some arrogant, silver haired, fake tan fucken boomer who’s as dodgy as fuck, walks in and tries to blackmail us.

I know you’re gullible sometimes, but mate, for fucks sake, hot young women from Sydney or Melbourne don’t wanna root average middle-aged guys from up the coast.”

“Yeah, I fucked up. I thought she was maybe a hooker.”

“Ooohhh you think…you look like a zombie. Go have a shower and I’ll call Trevor for some legal advice.”

River valley blues

Simon, a 65yo retiree, sat outside his favorite cafe by the river on a cloudless late November day reading the guardian online with his iPad and relishing the progressive wisdom of his favorite scribes. Unlike most folks in the valley he enjoyed reading about the environment and other political issues. Although he’d never used his master’s degree in sociology, after a strong coffee he liked to discuss and reinterpret new-age references, current political issues, or literary classics, comparing them with the talking points of his preferred intellectual warriors.

But on this idyllic Friday there were no wealthy retirees, professionals, or uni students to converse with. His wife, Sandra, was in Hobart at the funeral of their daughter, Jess’s, friend Lisa. Sandra had given up on the media and politics and only read fiction or focused on gardening.

A new Ford Ranger pulled up and parked right in front of his table, blocking the view of the rivers gentle outgoing tide and interrupting his train of thought. 2 tall, lean but broad 40yo women in blue jeans, boots, and flannelette shirts got out and nodded in acknowledgement. He forced himself to politely nod back. It was Bekky, aka Water hen, and Stacey, aka Cold Blue, both of whom were high school friends of his daughter, Jess.

They walked inside and ordered then came out and sat at the next table.

How’s things on the farm? asked Bekky

“Oh, it’s just a big garden really. Sandra loves her organic veges.”

“What about the 180 hectares and horses.”

“We sold them 2 years ago. Jess doesn’t ride anymore.”

“Shit, time flies. I never knew. Who’d ya sell em to?”

“Nobody you’d likely know.”

“A wealthy foreigner. We get it. That’s just the way the country is goin.” Stacey said.

Stacey smirked at Simon and he tried to remain expressionless.

“The way the country is going. That sounds a bit judgemental.”

“Nah, most people sell out for more money. Not just here.”

Simon straightened his posture and adjusted his reading glasses.

“That’s your summary of modern economics is it?”

“Hit a raw nerve?” Bekky smirked.

Both Stacey and Bekky stared at him

“Ah, got it, you’re calling me a hypocrite and a sellout.”

Stacey glared at him.

“You’ve slandered half the valley for years and I got word about what you’ve been saying lately.”

“My political views warrant disapproval of mining, commercial fishing, and the excessive drinking in this regions toxic pubs and clubs.”

“Ahhh, you’re just blaming us for Jess’s recent divorce and depression because she used to party with us. Been ages since we had a drink with her.”

“Stacey, we know bikers used to sell drugs at the pub you now manage.”

“They’re long gone now.” replied Stacey folding her arms.

“I thought your new-age greenie days were over and real estate is your new hobby”, said bekky

“I’ve always been a non-religious spiritualist and an environmentalist.”

“Easy to be picky if ya haven’t worked hard, Simon. But ya call us morons and bigots cos we don’t want too much immigration and our hubbies work in forestry and commercial fishing.”

“You’re damaging the nation and world by selfishly living in an unsustainable, right wing paradigm.”

“Gee, thanks, but we knew you always thought we were bogans. But…you’ve got; heaps of designer furniture, 3 expensive cars, 2 touring bikes, a big heated pool, a 38ft cabin cruiser down the marina, and a massive shed full of power tools our hubby’s would be jealous of.” retorted Stacey.

Simon shook his head.

“And ya inherited heaps of good land up the coast, then sold it all to a Pommy bloke for way more than market price.”

“Yet nothing illegal occurred, Stace, nor was the environment damaged. Oh, and he was half Welsh and Spanish and is an accomplished intellectual and horse breeder. Predictable bigotry on your part.”

“So easy to judge if you’ve never had to work hard.”

“I worked for council til Jess graduated uni when I was 51.”

“Never worked on a farm or with your hands. Inherited a great stable of good horses but never rode one. Never had your job taken or lost. A hard life eh, Simon.”

Bekky nodded then joined in

“Yeah, we and our hubby’s had to work cos we didn’t get into uni or inherit shit loads.”

“I think attitude more so than aptitude was the limiting factor, ladies. Bit of a valley tradition.”

“Wow, thanks professor.”

“I may not have used my masters in sociology in a professional capacity, but it’d be embarrassing for you to compare resumes.”

Stacey’s jaw tightened. They stared for 10 seconds then she exhaled. Her bright red hair made her pale skin look even more flushed.

“Yep, ok, my list of fuck ups is fairly long….. but at least I can have a chat to my daughter when she’s down.”

Simon went beet red and almost bit his lower lip. He picked up his iPad and held it close to his chest. With his immaculately groomed hair, designer shorts and polo shirt, he peered back, snarling.

“I have a candid and healthy relationship with both my kids. How dare you!”

“Lots of books but ya were never good with people. Maybe you should be in politics.” jibed Stacey.

Simon almost winced then rose his voice, almost yelling, “not mingling with criminals boosts my confidence though.”

The girls stood their ground as he quickly rose and hurried down the street towards his new, sky blue, C500 Mercedes.

15 minutes later, Simon was sitting on his verandah still feeling flustered and angry about being  ambushed by Stacey and Bekky. He looked at Joe Biden’s book of presidential speeches “promises to keep”, that he’d borrowed from the library but felt too stressed to read, so he went to his stereo and put on ABC classic FM then went to the fridge and took out a cold bottle of Chablis.

“Fucking uneducated sluts” he whispered, while pouring a large glass.

He slowly sipped it for 5 minutes, peering at his wife’s immaculately spaced and maintained vegetable garden and the river just beyond. His phone started ringing. He glanced at the screen and realised it was his daughter, Jess, calling from Hobart.

“Oh, perfect bloody timing” he muttered before answering.

“Hello Jess, how was the ceremony?”

“Formal and depressing. Quite a few faces that didn’t want to be there.”

“To be expected when illegal drugs and alcohol were key contributors to the crash.” he said, with no emotion

“Yeah, but it doesn’t make it easier.”

“Of course. Terrible circumstances. She was doing 135km/h on a windy back road. The family and friends also suffered from her flawed decisions and recklessness.”

Jess stood outside the reception centre on it’s outdoor deck. She was a slim 40yo brunette, 5’8 tall in an elegant, plain red dress and modest black high heels. She swayed slightly and let her fathers comment sink in.

“Yeah, but that’s such a simple and cutting judgement.”

Simon breathed deeply as he uncrossed his legs in his chair.

“I never wish people ill but I don’t condone victimhood or abuse, and that includes self abuse.”

Jess put her left hand on the balustrade of the outdoor deck as her right hand unconsciously tightened her grip on the iphone.

“Ah, it’s that cut and dry is it? We don’t walk in others shoes, Dad. You knew her history.”

“Yes, a history of several chances but repeated bad relationships and behaviour.”

“So that’s why you didn’t come. Thought so.”

“I’m not going to argue with you, Jess. I didn’t like either of her parents or her brother. You knew that 20 years ago.”

Jess scrunched her face up and threw her left arm backwards in anger, losing her balance. She staggered 2 paces backwards from the balustrade and her lateral left thigh, just below the hip, hit the corner of a soild wooden table. She almost fell onto the table but had enough strength and balance to stay upright despite the pain.

“Oh, fuck.” she gasped.

“Jess, don’t be a drama queen.”

“I just bumped my leg. For fucks sake.”

Simon slammed his left hand down on his table and the wineglass fell off and shattered.

“Aaarrgggh” he groaned

“What is wrong with you?”

“I’ve broken a glass. Dammit.”

“Good to hear you actually express emotion though.”

“Jess, I won’t be bloody provoked. You’ve had a few drinks and you’re upset. We will chat tomorrow. Goodbye.”

Simon hung up abruptly.

“Yeah, thanks Dad. Thanks for fucken caring eh.”

Jess limped across the outdoor deck and back into the reception centre. Her head throbbed from the cheap chardonnay. She looked around the room and only saw some of her deceased friend, Lisa’s, younger work friends and relatives. All of the parents, relatives, and friends over 40 had sensibly left the venue.

Jess went over to the bar and ordered a double Jim Beam and coke. The barmaid was a short blonde woman with a fake tan in her mid 50s who moved rigidly and was painfully slow making the drink. When she placed Jess’s drink on the bar, her arthritic knuckles and wrinkled, sun damaged skin became more apparent. The younger barmaid in her 20s was a rabbit by comparison, darting around the bar and out to clear tables as well as serving drinks. Jess turned around and saw Trish, another high school friend, standing and talking to 2 younger guys in their mid to late 20’s. As she walked toward the group, the taller, leaner lad, with long blond hair and tattooed forearms, eyeballed her briefly.

“Baby, Jess, let’s get on it. Ya know she’d want us too.”

Jess noticed that Trish was swaying a bit.

“This is Jed and Walt.”

Jed extended his hand and smiled at Jess.”Great dress, real elegant eh.”

Jess smiled and quickly got a whiff of Jed’s copious application of aftershave. It was Davidoff Cool water. They stared for several seconds and Jess noticed he was quite broad despite his slim legs and narrow waist.

“Walt.” said Walt, sheepishly extending his hand and briefly maintaining eye contact.

“Walt’s just finished a masters in IT and starts a job on the west coast next month. Proud of my little cousie.” said Trish, putting her arm around Walt.

Walt was about 5,10, fairly slim and had an honest, clean cut face and eyes, but kept fidgeting with his hands and couldn’t maintain a good posture.

“Oh great, good onya. Good money, eh.” said Jess, pretending to be interested before quickly turning back to Jed.

“You a bit of a surfie, Jed?”

“Ah, only half the year. A mate on the Sunny coast said to move up there. Not much bloody rona up there either. I’m thinkin of it, eh. I’m having another bourbon. Want one?”

“Nah, I will wait til the next round.”

As Jed walked off toward the bar, Walt walked out towards the balcony.

“He’s only 26, babe.” said Trish

“Mind reading bitch.”

Trish put her arm around Jess and whispered in her ear.

“I’d fuck him if he wasn’t my cousins friend.”

“No secrets in this social circle.”

Jess laughed and Trish cackled at high pitch, drawing the gaze of a few middle-aged guests.

“How’d he know Lisa?”

“He did her gardening and….other things sometimes.” said Trish, raising her eyebrows.

“What, she was rooting Jed during the divorce?”

“Yeah, but Don was a screwing a younger woman in Glenorchy.”

Trish stared at Jess with a scrunched forehead and opened her eyes wider.

“Babe, seriously, I’ve reached a point where I don’t give a shit. Too many people break rules for me to have standards. If nobody is getting seriously abused, I just let it go.”

Trish swayed and rested her right hand on Jess’s left shoulder.

“You know what I’m saying. I know you do, babe. Most families and people are at least a bit messed up.”

Jess drew Trish’s body towards her and they hugged for about 30 seconds. Being only 5’2, Trish’s right ear pressed just above Jess’s breasts.

“Yeah, babe, I get it. It’s too shit to think about at the moment.”

Trish stepped away and pointed towards the entrance.

“I’m gonna go get somethin outta my car.”

“Ok, babe.”

Trish walked out of the function room and Jess walked over to the bar and stood next to Jed. He scanned her whole body then smiled.

“Gee, that was subtle.”

“Subtle doesn’t work.”

“Neither does being so obvious.”

“At least there’s no doubt now.”

Jess stared at Jed’s broad grin and tried not to smile back.

“I’m a cougar and it’s a wake, not a wedding.”

Jed nodded confidently and sipped his bourbon.

“Yeah, but Trish has gone to get some coke and we’re all going into town.”

Jess laughed. “Oh, okay, so I won’t be staying in the hotel with Mum tonight?”

“Because you don’t want to. Lisa would want us to party like demons. You know it.”

“Fuck you’re cocky. I’m 40 and recently divorced.”

“So, so was Lisa, but you don’t have any kids.”

“Ahh, so it’s true, and you’ve done your research.”

“Yeah, but her hubby was also seeing someone else.”

Things had happened so quickly that Jess felt she might be more drunk than she realised. The cool breeze from outside, brushed her slightly sunburnt legs and arms. She stared and then pointed to the door someone had left opened.

“Fuck it, let’s drink outside, surfie boy.”

As they got close to the door, Jess noticed haw taut Jed’s ass looked in stretch jeans and thought he was an attractive distraction. Every cell of her being felt like having a catharsis and unravelling. She adjusted her step and pivoted her left heel slightly then slapped Jed’s left butt  with her right hand. Jed didn’t even flinch.

“Yes, mam.” he casually replied, almost as if expecting it.

They went around the corner out of sight from the reception room and stood near the balustrade then peered out towards the river. Walt self consciously hovered to Jed’s right and Trish arrived with a small tray with 8 shots of Sambucca.

“Fuck, babe, I can’t.”

“Nah, after these we won’t be drinking because we’ll all get a bit high.”

Jed nodded and smiled. “Where’d ya get it?”

“My neighbour knows a couple of bikies.”

“Hmm, ok, but do you know them?”

“Don’t be paranoid, Jed, if it’s as good as the last batch, you will be flyin.”

Jed laughed and Walt awkwardly mirrored his laughter and body language. He looked at Walt and asked “Ready to fly, champ?”

“Yeah, business class baby. Fuckin Cruisin.” replied Walt, almost as intensely as a teenager in a locker room.

Trish tried to subtly glance at Jess. She then took two very small sealed plastic bags out of her dress pocket.

“For the boys.” she said, handing one to Jed, “and ours” she said, putting her arm around Jess and waving the bag close to her nose.

Jed walked over to the tray of shots then handed everyone a shot.

“To Lisa.” he toasted, raising his shot with a devious grin and eyeballing everyone individually.

“To Lisa” they all said in unison.

Walt downed his shot without a pause. He was trying to hand out the next 4 shots before the girls were ready. Jed glared at him and raised his hand to signal him to slow down. Trish looked at Jess and started crying. They hugged and Jed walked over to Walt and whispered in his ear.

“Dude, be lower key and don’t rush things.”

Walt reluctantly nodded in agreement then frowned.

“Yeah, but you know you’ll probably get laid.”

Jed put his hand on Walt’s shoulder. “Maybe. But if you chill and don’t hit the wall, there will be some chicks in town later.”

“Yeah, ok, ok, I won’t be like last time.”

Jed nodded and stared out at the river, knowing that Walt’s Asperger’s would, as usual, restrict his ability to flirt with female strangers. Jed found it challenging that he was a landscape gardener who was average at school yet more capable than Walt in almost every situation. If it weren’t for one of Walt’s uni lecturers having a soft spot for him, and contacts in the mining sector, Walt would probably still be unemployed.

Trish had stopped crying and gathered herself a bit.

She slowly handed everyone the last shot. They all slowly raised their glasses and Trish looked at everyone.

“To one of the best chicks I’ve met.”

Walt observed everyone else and made sure he downed his shot in unison.

“Righto, let’s head into town. This place has an ok view but it’s closing and is ffaarrrkken boring.” 

Nobody spoke during the short uber ride into town. It was a fairly quiet Saturday for late November. The air cooled very quickly as the sun set over the western hills. They all realised it was only due to Covid restrictions easing recently that whatever was open, wouldn’t be jam packed or open as late. The reception centre they’d left was just a big hall with a verandah and a good view. The cab pulled up at the waterfront bar near Salamanca. Trish handed the young Nepali driver a 20 dollar bill as a tip.

“Thanks, miss.”

As they got out and walked to the bars entrance, the bouncer eyeballed them suspiciously then smiled when he noticed Jed. It was Tommy, Jed’s school mate who used to be chubby but was now an MMA gym junkie.

“All under control, champ?”

“Yeah man, we’re not gonna be a hassle.”

“Enjoy, folks.” replied Tommy, relaxing his posture and stepping aside.

“I’m a lover, not a fighter.” said Walt, thinking he might get a laugh.

“Our next Errol Flynn, bro.” said Tommy, keeping a poker face.

Trish and Jess looked at each other, trying not to laugh.

The bar was a bit under half full and the crowd were mostly uni students, workers on visa’s, or Hobart’s millenial professionals. Jess could see that in 10 years, a Melbourne vibe had crept in to Hobart, the waterfront, and Salamanca. Although she just wanted to unwind she knew Lisa was an old school country girl that didn’t want more multi-culturalism or mainlanders, and thought most modern bars sucked. Some of the bar staff looked Latin and the 2 guys in the kitchen were Indian. Only the manager and 2 bouncers were Aussies. Despite covid and travel bans, the Aussie govt was still adept at exploiting foreigners with visas.

The music was a mellow, generic Latin dance mix, but not yet loud and bouncy enough to inspire people to dance. Jess’s phone rang and it was her mother, Sandra. She let it ring a few times but didn’t answer. She sent a text saying she was with Trish and would stay with her. Her mother quickly texted back advising her to be at the motel before 10am tomorrow.

“Who was that?” asked Trish.

“Mum. I told her I will stay with you. I can’t speak to her or Dad right now. Both into me about being unemployed. Dad’s got loads of money but won’t give us anything til we’re 50.”

“Oh babe, it’s been a fucker of a year. Deadset ruined things this fucken Chinese flu.”

“Our govt are also shit. How many people have died. Seriously, so over it.”

Trish swayed her hips and rolled her shoulders.

“Yep, but lets just focus on getting wired…right….now”

They both looked around and noticed Jed at the bar but couldn’t see Walt.

“Ahh, where is he?” groaned Trish.

Jed caught their eyes and gave a thumbs up then pointed to the mens bathroom. Trish pointed to the outside tables and a minute later they all sat at the table furthest away from the indoor tables and dance floor.

Jed sipped his beer then said “He’s just powdering his nose.”

“Give him much less than you, though.” insisted Trish

“He’s had coke a few times. He’ll be ok.” Jed assured them.

“No more booze for him either. I love him but I…”

“I get it Trish, I’ve know him since high school.”

“Ok, ok, chill.” said Trish, sensing Jed’s irritation.

A few minutes later Walt came back out and handed the small bag back to Jed. Trish eyeballed Jed intensely. They all could see that Walt had taken half a gram in one go. Jed quietly asked Walt why he took his half in one go. Walt peered around at everyone with a confused look.

“I thought it was half a bag each?” he asked, naively.

“I told you we’d spread our half over several hours, not all at once.” Jed said, trying not to seem annoyed.

“I thought you meant it would last several hours.” replied Walt, self consciously.

There was an uncomfortable silence for about 30 seconds. Walt then smiled and pulled out a tiny bag with 8 pills. Everyone looked at each other with mild shock.

“Walt, wtf?” hissed trish

“These are xanax 0.5mg. If this batch is too speedy, the chill factor is on standby.”

“Dude, why didn’t you fucken tell us?” asked Jed, pressing his palms to the side of his head.

“I didn’t think it’d be an issue, but now that you’re worried, I’m saying I had a plan B.”

“I’m not even gonna ask where you got them. Probably through a med student. Whatever. Go to the bathroom and take one or two now, Walt.”

“I feel fine.”

“You won’t in a few mins. Just do it, discreetly, in a cubicle.”

Walt stood up and shuffled off to the bathroom, struggling to realise he’d made such a bad decision.

“You said he’d done this before.” spat Trish at Jed.

“Ok, ok, my bad. I chopped some lines for him but that was a few years ago. Sorry.”

“If he loses it or does anything uncool, you’ve got to get him out of here.”

Jed exhaled and nodded. “Yep. I know.”

Walt returned within 5 minutes and sat at the table, pale and with his eyes lit up.

“You right champ?” asked Jed.

Walt looked at everyone and felt a surge of adrenalin in his chest. He couldn’t stop his hand shaking and soon felt short of breath as his heart rate almost doubled.

“Champ, we’ve gotta go. Now.” said Jed

As he tried to lead Walt away from the table, Walt was trembling with mouth agape and complete panic on his face. They made it to the door and Jed tried telling Tommy and the other bouncer that things were cool, but they knew Walt wasn’t drunk and made him sit down then called an ambulance.

“Get rid of your coke bag, Trish.” insisted Jess.

Trish quickly went to the toilet and flushed it. Outside as he sat next to Walt, Jed reached into his shirt pocket and took out the xanax tablets and coke bag while Tommy was focused on calling an ambulance. The other bouncer had gone inside and was quietly warning others about drugs, and reminding people to relax and be cool.

“I’m calling his family, Tommy.” said Jed,  pacing away from the entrance and walking between two parked cars.

He stood over a drain and dropped the coke and xanax down it. Luckily there was a bit of water trickling through and it flushed the bags out of sight. When he walked back, Tommy was telling Walt to breathe deeply. Walt’s right nostril started to bleed a bit and he stared at Jed with a look of sadness and desperation.

Tommy hung up his mobile and gazed at Jed. His face hardened and his eyes almost squinted before he grit his teeth.

“Dude, the paramedics are only 5 min away. What did he take, man?”

“Nothing, bro.”

Tommy shook his head in contempt.

“This is fucken serious, Jed. He’s in bad shape. What did he take?”

Tommy, at 6’3, stood closer and looked down at Jed who was 5’11. Tommy’s shoulders tensed almost like he was about to get physical but his face appeared more worried than angry. Jed’s eyes couldn’t conceal his own panic as adrenaline pulsed through his body and his mind went into over drive, thinking about his criminal record for dealing a bit of pot and cocaine 3 years ago.

“Some Coke, bro. I thought it was just some coke. I, I gave him a bit earlier because he was drunk.”

“Oh great. You sit with him.”

“There’s none here bro. None on me or the ladies.”

“That’s between you and the paramedics, bro. As long as you didn’t take any here…..and if cops find out, I will have to tell the truth. This isn’t personal but…”

“I get it, bro.”

“No, you don’t, otherwise this wouldn’t have happened.”

The other bouncer approached them and looked at Tommy, wanting an update. Tommy quickly assured him the drugs weren’t taken onsite and that he would check the CCTV.

Jess approached Jed while Trish, despite her own anxiety, sat beside Walt to try and support him. Walt’s breathing became even more strained and his face looked terribly pale.

“We are in shit now. I’m gonna lose my job and get a criminal record. Shit he looks bad.”

“You’re cool. I’ve already told Tommy I gave him some coke. I just don’t want him to die”

Jed’s eyes welled up and he struggled not to cry..

“Walt’s had such a shit life. Bullied through most of high school, fuck all friends, nasty parents, and now…….”

Jess put her hands on Jed’s shoulders.

“Breathe champ. He will get through this.”

Jed looked at Jess’s face and despite her watery eyes and panic, felt a sweetness emanate from her blue green eyes. The ambulance sped down the street and stopped right outside the bars entrance. A paramedic about 6ft in her mid 30s and a younger guy just slighter taller approached Walt. The male paramedic and Tommy lifted Walt to his feet as the woman positioned the stretcher.

“Jed, you go with em.” ordered Tommy.

“What’s he had?” asked the senior female paramedic.

“Some coke. I gave him a few lines.”

” Do you still have any?”

“No, he had the last bit. He took too much.”

“Ahhh great, just get in the back.”

Trish came and leant against Jess as the ambulance drove off. Tommy glared at them and they knew they had to leave. Tommy and the other bouncer walked back inside and reassured other patrons that Walt’s drugs were not consumed on premise and that illegal drug use won’t be tolerated.

20 minutes later, Jess sat on Trish’s sofa. They both sipped on bottles of lime flavored mineral water, anxiously awaiting an update from Jed. Jess’s thoughts fluctuated between fear for Walt and the likelihood of her father finding out and making things even harder. Jess covered her face with her hands and moaned.

“Fuck, Walt’s parents will find out and they’re gonna let our parents know. They got the group email for the reception invite.”

“Nah Jess, not if Jed takes the heat or Walt says he was spiked.”

“Nah, Jed already told Tommy and the paramedic that it was his fault. He’s been in shit in the past but took the hit for us.”

Trish shook her head and took out a pack of cigarettes and lit one up. Her hands were moving almost robotically while her face was deep in concentration. She lit up, inhaled, sank deeper into the sofa and very slowly exhaled.

“Everything in the last 18 months has been wrong. Wrong people gettin in too much shit for fuck all and proper criminals and politicians getting a wrist slap for doing whatever they want. That pig property guy who owns the new estate, flew to party on some island in QLD on a private jet during last years lockdown. I get fined for driving out of range to drop off groceries to my 87yo aunt. I didn’t even go into her house. We just sat in the backyard wearing stupid masks.

“Ah, the primary carer bubble. You weren’t in it?”

“Nah, but I’m not gonna ignore an 87yo who’s lonely and depressed. Govt can go fuck em selves. Yeah, Jed’s a bit of a bad boy and will do almost anything for a root, but he often puts others first and always helps. 2 years ago, some wannabe on roids pushed me and a friend aside, so Jed jumped over a table and elbowed the dude in the head.

“Yeah, I can see he’s a wild boy but also has a heart. Won’t Walt’s folks just blame Jed?”

“Nice thought. They’ll know we were with them because people saw us get in the same uber and leave.”

Jess scratched the crown of her head. “Shit. I will be in shit too.”

Jess stared at Trish while processing the next thought.

“They will test Walt’s blood and see Xanax in it as well.”

Trish frowned. “Shit. shit. shit…let’s just wait. Out of our control now. Anyway, I thought your ole man was into yoga and was less judgemental these days.”

“Pppfff….the people I’ve met who do yoga by the river are snobs with too much money and time on their hands. His Latina instructor, Marcia, is 55 and separated from a hotshot lawyer in Melbourne. She’s probably the most stuck up bitch I’ve ever met. “

Trish laughed, easing the tension a bit.

“Geez! I bet Marcia is pretty hot though.”

Jess snickered “Of course, she still has an almost perfect ass.”

“Haaaaa haaa.” said Trish with a big grin.

Trish’s phone rang. “Jed, please fucken tell us it’s good news.”

“He will be ok, but he had some sort of panic attack in the ambulance. His blood pressure and heart rate are still nuts. It’s probably meth you bought.”

“Oh no. We’re in even more shit.”

“You’re not supposed to take drugs or heaps of booze soon after or before the covid vax, or any vax.”

“What, when did he take the vax?”

“He had his 2nd Pfizer, 3 days ago. Didn’t tell us though. He bullshitted that he got it off a stranger. His folks won’t believe it. His Dad knows I’ve done drugs before and will dob on us.”

“What, even though you’ve looked after Walt for years.”

“That’s the only reason he tolerates me.”

“Fark, he might reply to our oldies on that email invite.”

“Might? He will. He’s a hard core evangelical christian. When we were 9 he made Walt wash his mouth out with soapy water for swearing. How do you think he’s gonna react to Walt being hospitalised for meth.”

“That’s so hectic.”

“Anyway, I gotta go. Tell Jess you and her will be ok. Don’t stress, cousie.”

“Luv ya champ. Bye.”

Trish looked at Jess and shook her head.

“He says we will not cop any heat but I reckon we might.”

Jess peered back and gently bit her lower lip.

“Simon will punish me in some way if he finds out. Even without proof it will be guilt by association. He acts intellectual and spiritual but is so tight and judgemental.”

“Wasn’t his Dad a religious nutter?”

“Yeah, Grandad was old testament and had no friends. Soon as someone wronged him or wasn’t perfect they were goneski. So Dad had no friends until he left school.”

“Shit. My folks were just a bit useless and lazy. Kind of the opposite. When I failed the HSC, Dad went onto the verandah and lit up a joint and casually told me that I chose to fail.”

“Fuck, listen to us. We sound like depressed soap stars.”

They both smiled at each other and laughed in synch.

“I’m going to crash, babe.” said Trish, slowly rising from her chair.

“Am I okay crashing in the spare room?”

“Yeah, of course. Good night.”

Trish exited the lounge room and Jess slowly got up and headed to the spare room. After she lay down on the firm but narrow single bed, her mind raced through the potential scenarios and consequences. Although she was tired from the alcohol and stress of Walt’s drug drama, she didn’t fall asleep for 2 hours.

Just after midnight at the hospital, Jed sat near reception. The doctor was a Scottish woman in her late 30s, accompanied by a male Asian nurse in his 20s, The doctor said that Walt’s condition had stabilised and that the saliva and breath test revealed the presence of meth amphetamines and cocaine, but that Walt had also told the doctor he’d had Xanax. Jed sensed the doctor was suspicious as she stared intensely at him.

“He also has aspergers and had his 2nd pfizer shot 3 days ago.”

Jed tried not to change his posture and sat still.

“Even without the drugs, what were you doing getting him so drunk shortly after his covid vaccination?”

“He never mentioned it. Nor did he mention he had drugs. I thought it was only the same day as the jab we weren’t supposed to drink.”

“I find it hard to believe he’d buy drugs off a stranger . You’re his friend?”

“Yeah, yeah, I am. It’s hard to know what he’s thinking at times. He gets stressed that he can’t enjoy himself or communicate as freely as others.”

“I’m aware of that because I worked with autistic kids before I left Aberdeen. They don’t tend to go and score and usually dislike harder drugs where they aren’t in control.”

Jed gulped and shrugged. “He doesn’t have a history. I know that. Are cops involved here?”

The doctor smirked and the nurse just stared at Jed with a blank expression.

“No, not unless he worsens or dies. I’m sure they are almost as busy as us.”

“Look, I know this sort of thing annoys you because there are people who are dying thru no fault of their own, but I 100% respect the work doctors and nurses are doing.”

“Thanks. He’s sedated enough to sleep now, so you can go home, sir.”

The doctor didn’t look at Jed and abruptly walked off looking at her notes while the male nurse gave him a fabricated, formal smile.

Jess and Trish awoke at 8am on Sunday morning with hangovers. They sat in silence on Trish’s verandah drinking black percolated coffee and orange juice with soda. As the sun rose higher in the cloudless sky, they were wrapped in blankets and wearing sunglasses as a crisp southerly blew across the Derwent river.

_________________________________________________________________________

Meanwhile at Rosevears, Simon peered out the big eastward facing window of Marcia Ortiz’s private yoga studio. He and 3 other students, all women in their 50s, prepared to do their final salute to the sun. The river was almost perfectly still at high tide and several rabbits played below the window on Marcia’s lawn.

With a background in jazz ballet and salsa, Marcia had more compact and muscular thighs than other yoga teachers Simon had studied with. At 55 she still possessed more spring and agility than most younger women. When Simon was in down facing dog, she instructed everyone to relax in the pose and gently assisted everyone to go a bit deeper. Simon loved having Marcia stand over him and press her palms into his lower back, making his hamstrings and glutes stretch and open up more.
After a 10 min guided meditation, Simon couldn’t relax and still felt alot of anger and tension in his jaw, neck and shoulders. He politely said goodbye to the other 3 women as they left. Marcia stared at him and could see the rigidity in his jaw and shoulders.

“Some stuff coming up?”

Simon exhaled.
“Oh yeah, I’m so angry with Jess and her toxic friends. She should have done way better at uni and married a guy with more ethics and class. This valley is full of losers still living in the 80s or 90s.

“Wow, I’m sensing you need some deep tissue work. Judgements like these get more embedded than we think.”

“Well, yeah, I’m thinking of distancing myself.”

Marcia put her right hand on his left shoulder and smiled. Simon felt a gentle surge of electricity in his neck and spine. Her long slender limbs and US Panamanian accent aroused him. Her facial features were sharp and her skin was an unblemished olive and caramel color.

“I have an hour now” she said, gently leading him to the door of the massage room.
Simon offered no resistance and walked into the room. There was a very large wooden massage table with a small tray of exotic oils beside it, and a double glazed window with a north facing view of the river and the small vineyard next door.

“Lie face down in your jocks or boxers and I will be back shortly.”

2 minutes later Marcia re-entered in Lycra pants and was topless.

“Marcia, I’m married and um…”

Marcia cut him off, “Simon you’re married and miserable and never spend any money. This isn’t a relationship, it’s a transaction.”

“But you’re not a prostitute?”

“Simon, I’m a seperated woman who will massage and screw you properly for a certain amount of money. Ive been around. I pleasured a few diplomats and rich tourists in Panama before I married and divorced that asshole lawyer from Melbourne.”

“Technically that’s prostitution.”

Marcia laughed at the seriousness of Simons response. She then took off her lycra pants, playfully threw them at Simon, then gently pushed him down on the table.

“Yeah but I shouldn’t.”

Marcia leant her body into his. Despite some fear and mild shock, he was overwhelmed by her physicality and guilt free prowess. She was the exact opposite of his wife in every way, and they both knew he only studied yoga to perve on her.
He took off his boxers quickly and clumsily and lay back on the table. She stood beside the table and slowly massaged some oil over her naked body.

“Gosh.”

Simon watched and admired Marcia’s body as she slowly and meticulously applied the oil, occasionally glancing at him with a furtive smile. After a few minutes, Marcia then applied oil to Simons body.

“God, what a surprise.”

“I prefer, Goddess!”

“Yes, indeed you are.”

For the next hour Simon tried to relax and not feel guilty as Marcia applied the perfect amount of pressure and alternated the tempo and positions as if she were reading Simons mind.
At the end of the session Marcia left the room, put on a bathrobe, then prepared green tea. Simon got dressed and walked out feeling a bit sore in his abs and deep pelvic floor. Marcia pointed to the plastic chairs and they both sat down.

“How do you feel now?”.

“Im a bit sore but my whole body feels recharged.” answered Simon, with vigor and enthusiasm.

Marcia just smiled and nodded.

“You’re a bit skinny but you’re still lean and fit for your age. Abs and back could be stronger but I’m happy with your flexibility and stamina.”

“I try to be the opposite of men in the valley.”

“A bit of snobbery there?”

Simon knew he couldn’t lie to Marcia. She saw mental and emotional kinks just as well as postural ones. She sat upright like a beautiful, observant cat.

“Yeah, I’m bored and rarely meet people who are intelligent. Thing is, I don’t like the uni arts or academic scene either.”

Marcia shrugged. “I didn’t like LA or San Francisco’s arts scene, nor the rich expats of Panama. I had fun but they were such arrogant wankers.”

“But half the valley can’t even read and are alcoholics.”

“Hmm, but they’re more honest than big city folks. You need to release the disappointment. There’s no perfect community or neighborhood. Quit looking or expecting it.”

“Quite right.”

Simon mulled over a few things and felt conflicted about how much money he’d pay Marcia. He felt so good that he’d consider paying thousands.

“Ah, money, I will let you decide.”

“Just relax and make up your mind after the next few sessions.”

“Oh Marcia, I can’t. “

“I was thinking 3 more before Christmas will help you be less judgemental. You’re so in your head.”

Marcia giggled like a school girl to help Simon lighten up. Simon adjusted his glasses.

“Wow, you’re not shy. Ok, ok, just let me know. I’m out of my depth here.”

“I will. Just relax and don’t judge.”

Marcia looked at the clock on the studio wall.

“Oohh, I’ve got a client in 10 mins.”

“Yes, of course, I will be off then.”

Marcia gave Simon a gentle hug and held both his shoulders.
“Relax, Simon. Don’t judge, and keep releasing.”

Simon smiled and walked out of the studio towards his car. His body felt more upright and oxygenated than it had for many years.

Back in Hobart, Trish dropped Jess off at the hotel her mother, Sandra, had stayed in.

“See ya, babe. Our secret, remember. Unless Walt’s Dad tells someone, say nothing.” said Trish, staring at Jess before she got out of the car.

Jess walked over to her mothers car as Trish drove off. She got in and sat in the passenger seat and her mother stared at her. Jess took off her sunglasses and looked back at Sandra.

“What, mum?”

“You’re 41 soon and you got completely drunk and took drugs after a funeral and a wake.”

Jess’s head throbbed and her chest flooded with anxiety.

“I didn’t take drugs and neither did Trish. I have no idea what that Walt kid and Jed were doing.”

“Well, you left the venue with them and went to a bar. The boy is a bit autistic. You’re supposed to keep an eye on some people. Your father..”

Jess folded her arms and exhaled.

“Dad always assumes the worst. So Walt’s Dad has emailed everyone?”

Sandra shook her head and raised her voice a notch.

“So would most parents. Even if you didn’t give him the drugs, it’s unacceptable. He could have died.”

Jess sensed that arguing was futile. Sandra’s face was flush and her throat was hoarse. Even with the seat all the way forward, her tiny frame and waif thin arms looked too small to be driving a subaru forrester.

“Want me to drive, Mum.”

“Jess, don’t take the piss. You’re hungover.”

“You’re more angry because dad found out.”

“Yeah, no shit. He’d boot you out if he had his way. I know its fucken harder gettin work than those pollies say it is, but he thinks the whole valley are just lazy morons.”

Jess snickered sarcastically.

“But he’s never done hard work. Such a snob.”

“I’m not arguing, Jess. I’m just listening to the radio on the highway. I don’t even want to talk.”

“Righto.”

Sandra slowly pulled out of the hotel and put on ABC classic FM. Jess reclined her seat slightly and stared out the window for almost 3 hours as they drove out of Hobart’s hilly and bland outer suburbs, then up the gently meandering highway through the valley between Hobart and Launceston. Jess couldn’t sleep or relax and felt a tinge of guilt about stressing her mother, but anger and anxiety about the inevitable confrontation with Simon.

When they arrived home, Jess could see Simon inspecting the expensive shrubs he’d planted along the fence beside their dirt driveway. He turned around to look at them as they drove past and peered at Jess with no expression then nodded at Sandra. Sandra parked just outside the garage and got out without saying anything then walked onto the wooden verandah and through the front door. Jess looked in the rear vision mirror and saw Simon walking towards her side of the car.

“Ah, fuck it.” she whispered, just before Simon reached the open car window.

“We will discuss things tomorrow. No doubt your mother is exhausted and so are you, but for the wrong reasons in your case.”

“If you’ve already decided to kick me out or punish me, just say it now. I’m not sleeping on it.”

Simon stepped back a step and put his hands on his hips. He looked at Jess and slowly shook his head then held his left thumb and index finger to his temples.

“I’m not going to argue. It’s not even debatable. A year of bad decisions and no respect for your mother or I.”

“We didn’t give him drugs Dad. There is no argument. His Dad is a religious nut.”

“What the hell were you doing getting drunk with him, an autistic lad, and that other surfie bum.”

“Trish needed to unwind. I just kept her company.”

“You’re almost 41 and they are in their mid 20s. Grow up for fucks sake.”

Simon threw his gardening glove and weeder on the ground in frustration. Despite his anger, Jess almost felt like laughing about how easily stressed he was.

“Dad, unless I gave an autistic lad drugs, which I didn’t, it was just another stressful and sad day with a few drinks to unwind.”

“Unwind? I’d say unravel and avoid accountability. After chatting to Walt’s father, Patrick, I was informed about Trish and Jed, the drug dealing surfie’s, sordid history. Yesterday, I also had the misfortune of copping a mouthful off Stace and bekky.”

“Ah, so that’s also my fault.”

“I gave you a good education and all you’ve done since just scraping through uni is hang out with ignorant losers, marry and divorce a lazy salesman, and work part-time.”

“I don’t look down on everyone like you. You live in this bubble of snobbery where nobody meets your expectations.”

“Rubbish, absolute rubbish. Just a bit of discernment and discipline would’ve made all the difference.”

Simon abruptly turned away and strode off with his shoulders slightly hunched. Jess just sat back in the car seat thinking about who else she could stay with. Sandra might also want her to move out, despite having more empathy than Simon and knowing that the job market was way worse than media heads and retired boomers claimed it was. Jess couldn’t hack being lectured about her lack of professional success and ambition when Simon had never worked hard.

Jess’s mobile rang and it was Trish. Jess didn’t feel like talking but answered thinking it could be important.

“Yeah, babe.”

“Take a seat, I’ve got really bad news.”

“Fuck, we’ve been through enough the last 24 hours. What’s up?”

Trish started crying and sobbed for about 30 seconds then stopped and regained her breath.

“Jed has drowned at Clifton beach.”

Jess almost froze and took about 10 seconds to process it.

“How? He’s lean and surfs.”

“He went for a swim with Walt but Walt got swept into a rock and broke 2 ribs and Jed got smashed into rocks after saving him.”

Trish breathed deeply and paused before continuing.

“The paramedics and clubbies said Jed drowned because he was knocked unconscious. He helped Walt get onto a tiny rock platform but then got washed into some rocks.”

“How did Walt get out of the water?”

“The surf club managed to rescue him with the rubber duck just in time.”

“Who told you?”

“Walt just rang me from the hospital. Jed picked him up this morning because he was afraid to go home and face, Patrick.”

“Does Walt’s dad know? He will contact Dad.”

“Yeah the hospital doctor has told Walt’s parents. The doctor is fuming that Walt went for a swim.”

“What the fuck were they thinking?”

“Walt said Jed swam way out the back and it was a solid 2m. Then Walt went in too far and the rip dragged him towards the rocks at the Eastern end.”

“Fucken boys, just can’t control themselves sometimes. I’m so sorry babe. I dunno what to say.”

“He’s dead. That’s it. Surf club said they didn’t see Walt until Jed waved and swam towards the rocks.”

“Dad thinks guys like Jed are losers yet he put himself in danger to save a mate. Fuck I’m angry babe.”

“I know, I get it. I’m cooked. I don’t wanna talk to anbody for a few days.”

“Just chill, babe. I’ve gotta deal with Dad and may need to crash at a friends. Just rest, ok.”

“K, babe, Speak soon. Bye.”

Trish hung up and Jess felt completely drained and sore in her head and shoulders.

Jess got out of the car and walked towards the house. Simon was pacing around on the verandah with his mobile and glaring at her. She knew who he was talking to.

“So sorry to hear this, Patrick. Yes, I agree it all could have been avoided. I hope Walt’s okay. Take care. God bless.”

Simon hung up and stared at Jess in disbelief. He spoke with almost no emotion.

“I’ve nothing left to say. I will give you a week to move out. It’s a bloody miracle they didn’t both die.”

Simon turned away and walked around the back of the house and through the garden towards his shed. Jess walked into her room, took off her high heels, and lay on her bed feeling numb all over.

The next day, just after 7am when he woke to do his yoga routine, Simon noticed a text from Marcia:

“Hi Simon, twas a great yoga session 🙂 Lets have coffee and a chat. See you at the Riverview cafe at 9am.

At 9 a.m he arrived at the cafe and saw Marcia sitting outside, smiling with her designer shades on. Simon approached the table and sat down. He smiled flirtatiously.

Marcia played a video file on her phone and held it up so Simon could see. Within several seconds Simon’s whole body tensed with shock. Marcia had secretly recorded their sex session and edited it to only include the most explicit and provocative parts. It appeared that Simon was dominating her and only included the positions where he was on top.

Simon stood up and paced around, struggling to control his anger. His mind accelerated through how Sandra and others would respond if they knew of his infidelity.

“I can’t believe this. Why didn’t you just ask me for money?”

Marcia smirked “Ah, Simon, that’s not what I really want or even need. I don’t even need the video. I know other things way more compromising.”

“Well why did you record us screwing, making me look like I’m dominating you…you manipulative bitch,?”

“Certain sources of mine have made me aware that you don’t use your considerable wealth to help your kids, and that neither your wife or kids know about some of your assets.”

Simon reeled back almost horrified.

“What…what, do you know my accountant or hedge fund manager?”

“Yes. I do. I also know you’ve not been paying much tax. Of course, none of this is in writing and is just word of mouth.”

“But if I go down, so will they, and you.”

“No, the authorities will just be tipped off anonymously.”

Simon shook his head in disbelief and stared at Marcia.

“You’ve got me all wrong. I was going to give Jess, and Luke who’s in WA, a million when they turn 50.”

“Don’t bullshit me, Simon. You’re a nasty, tight fisted asshole who never worked hard and inherited millions. You strut around as some sort of pious intellectual. For fucks sake, your daughter made a few bad choices and can’t get a really good job, but you don’t even help her. Your son doesn’t even talk to you because you live in such an arrogant bubble that you don’t even have empathy for your kids. I saw it more than a few times in Panama. Too much dirty and easy money.”

Marcia paused to regain her composure and resumed speaking more slowly while emphatically pointing at Simon with a snarl.

“I may be a manipulative ex whore but I also have a psychology degree and know too many men who’ve inherited money and never worked, yet they think most of society are peasants. Pincha pendejo, you remind me of my uncle.”

Marcia sat back and brushed her hair back over her shoulder.

“What do you want, Marcia? You’ve got the upper hand. I get it. I’ve been a bit too stern with Jess and also Luke.”

“Wow, only a bit stern.”

Stacey and Bekky appeared on the other side of the street and walked over to the table.

“Que pasa, chicas?” asked Marcia, playfully.

Stacey and Bekky beamed at Marcia and then stared gleefully at Simon.

“Oh, fuck, this has been some sort of team effort has it?”

“You can’t shit can the whole valley, be dodgy, and get away with it, Simon.”

Simon held his left hand to his forehead and exhaled.

“How much?”

Marcia took off her designer shades and leant towards Simon.

“Set your kids up, Simon. A house would be a nice start.”

“Oh, and 100k to upgrade the community centre. Since you’re a socialist at heart.” said Bekky, grinning.”

“Alright, alright, you win, ladies.”

Simon got up and walked slowly back to his sky blue, Mercedes. His posture was slightly stooped as he awkwardly got in his car and drove off.

Stacey stared at Marcia and smiled with gratitude.

“A year ago I thought you were a rich foreign snob, but your a fucken class act, Marci.”

“Thanks sweetie. I’ve been around a bit and been through shit, so I try to help others in my own way.”

20 mins later, back at home, Jess sat on the front porch feeling flatter than she had since her divorce 2 years ago. She watched Simon’s Mercedes coming up the driveway and her heart sank even deeper as gloom fogged her mind. Simon walked towards the house and up the stairs. He pulled up a cane chair and sat next to Jess. His body language seemed out of character but Jess still anticipated the worst. Simon put his hands on his knees then gulped.

“Look, I won’t waffle on. The last 2 days have been difficult but I realise I’ve been wrong in my actions and should have supported you and Luke more in recent years. I need to go for a drive and clear my head. I might be gone for a couple of days but I’ve decided to release some of the trust now, rather than when you and Luke turn 50. I should have helped you with real estate years ago. I will chat to Sandra this afternoon.”

Jess couldn’t believe Simon’s apology and complete change of heart. Simon walked back to his car and drove off. Jess’s head throbbed despite the sudden good news. For several minutes she felt like she was in a dream just before waking up. She cried with relief and released some of the pent up emotions and sadness about Jed’s death and Walt’s terrible parents. At 5pm that afternoon, her phone vibrated and a text from an unknown number appeared in her queue:

“Hi Jess, it’s Marcia, your fathers yoga teacher. I’ve had some recent discussions with your father about various things like family, politics, and wealth. He has had an amazing change of awareness recently and may have already spoken to you about this. I’ve also been spending a bit of time teaching yoga to Stacey and Bekky. Stace gave me your number. If you want to have a few wines with us at the community centre tonight, we’d be glad to catch up.”

Jess smiled then burst out laughing. She couldn’t wait to catch up and decided to walk the 5km to the centre to loosen up. She told Sandra she was catching up with the girls and set off in jeans, trainers and a T- shirt.

The crisp afternoon breeze and sunlight lit up the gently undulating walking trail from the river to the back of town. Jess was eager to catch up with the girls and to meet, Marcia, whom she historically viewed as a snob. She powered along feeling surprisingly energised despite recent dramas.

Entering the main bar at the community centre with her mask, she caught Stacey’s eye at one of the pool tables. Her face lit up and she raised her schooner. Jess had almost forgotten how tall and broad Stacey was. Stacey opened her arms and hugged Jess.

“You can take off your mask, Jess, alot of people in here think Omicron isn’t that dangerous. So fucken over being stuffed about when fuck all young people have died.”

“Yeah, I get you babe.”

Bekky walked over and wrapped her long arms around Jess.

“I’m not anti-social distancing either, little chicky babe.”

Marcia walked over with a smile and extended her hand.

“Hello, Jess, how are you?”

“I guess I should thank you. I got it all wrong.”

“Ah, you thought I was an arrogant Latin bitch?”

All the ladies laughed as Jess blushed slightly.

“Guilty.”

“Well, the girls have been updating me for a few months now. Your father has been working through his own stuff recently and agreed with me to be more generous and tolerant. I’m confident that will be benefitial to you too.”

“Gee, thanks so much. I need a drink. Need a refill?”

“Tell the barman it’s on my tab, Jess.”

“Thanks heaps.”

Jess walked to the bar feeling happier than she’d ever recalled being. She ordered 3 chardonnays and a bourbon and coke. returning to the table she looked at the ladies and raised her glass.

“To the toughest 2 chicks I’ve ever known, to a lady I underestimated, and to a surfie called, Jed.”

“Jed?” asked Marcia, curiously.

Jess tried not to cry but some tears welled up as she spoke.

“I’ve had the worst 2 days. I met this younger surfie guy, Jed, at Lisa’s wake, and his autistic friend, Walt, got rushed to hospital for having some coke that had too much meth in it. The next day they had a swim and Jed drowned trying to save Walt. Walt had had his second Pfizer only 3 days earlier but didn’t tell any of us. It’s so fucked up.”

“Fuck babe, that is hectic.” said Bekky.

Stacey and Marcia paused and nodded as Jess composed herself.

“I was shocked by Dads change of heart. Thanks, Marcia. He was gonna boot me out.”

“It’s okay, chica, things will improve for you.”

“To a surfie called, Jed!” said Stace.

All the ladies then raised their glasses and toasted in unison.

“To a surfie called, Jed.”

Close to the bone

Warwick sat in his grey 2013 Ford Falcon ute, staring through the dirty windscreen at the long, rectangular sandstone and timber convention centre and members bar of Sanctuary Shores golf club. With the exception of several staff cars, the big car park was empty at 8.30a.m on a windy spring Monday. A 1.5m high, pruned hedge surrounded the car park. On both sides of the main entrance there were 2 metal statues of pelicans and some intensely colorful flower beds.

“19.5 million bucks for this joint. Fucken nuts.” he mumbled.

His forehead throbbed due to dehydration, and the acid reflux of bourbon, coke, cheese burgers and fries, filled his throat and sinuses. He lowered the driver and passenger windows a few inches and let the crisp air purge the musty odor of last nights binge.

He’d been binge drinking and eating crap for 7 weeks and hadn’t worked for 6 months.
He looked at his watch, realizing his job seeker appointment at Pathways was only an hour away. He saw a tap about 10m diagonally to the right, almost hidden within the hedge. Getting out of the ute, both hip flexors felt tight and inflamed as he walked over to the tap, knelt, then turned it on. After 10 seconds of gulping the cold water, he paused and splashed his face a few times. He resumed gulping for about 20 seconds then turned off the tap and rose to his feet. His head and stomach felt cooler, providing some temporary relief.

A red Audi A7 entered and parked two rows in front of his ute. It was Brent Patton, the club manager who’d had him and his workmate Matteo banned for a month, 9 months ago, after arguing with a group of wealthy boomers about real estate.

Brent got out of his car wearing a charcoal grey, Hugo Boss suit. He turned around and stared, smirking at Warwick.

“What are you doing here? The bar doesn’t open til midday.”

“Just doin some reading before an interview.”

Brent put his hand on his hips, straightened his posture, and tilted his head slightly upwards. He’d been gifted the job due to his father being the former chairman and a huge club donor.

“A job interview with no suit, just jeans and a casual collared shirt. Righto, good luck champ.”

As Brent projected his loud nasally voice, Warwicks neck and upper back tensed with anger as he visualized breaking Brent’s pointy nose with an overhand right or ripping into the ribs of his tall, lanky torso. But even the slightest amount of aggression could compromise things. He needed membership to get easier plumbing jobs and quotes for cash in the over priced, gated communities that surrounded the golf course.

As Brent walked up the stairs and disappeared through the main entrance, Warwick felt a strong urge to vomit. He walked 50m to a dense cluster of bushes and trees behind the car park and vomited, safely out of sight. He stuck his fingers down his throat to purge himself and some partially digested beef patty and fries came out in a chunky, acidic, bourbon and cola infused sludge that burnt his throat. He’d only driven to McDonalds 3 hours ago and still wasn’t sober enough to legally drive.

Feeling confident about holding down water, he returned to the tap and gulped slowly for about 30 seconds. When he sat back in the ute, his legs, hips, and mid section all felt sluggish. Although being 29, 6’2, and broad, helped him carry some extra weight, putting on 11kg in 4 months, post operation, had intensified everything. He stared in the rear view mirror at his shaved head, pale face, goatee, and fatigued, bloodshot eyes. His stomach felt toxic and slightly itchy and there was heat in both kidneys.

“Fuckwit”, he whispered.

He looked at his watch and had 40 mins to kill. Almost by reflex, he drove 4km to the BP and McDonalds near the freeway exit and ordered 2 sausage McMuffins and a double espresso. The tiny Indian girl who served him had terrible acne and struggled to listen because her tubby, overtly camp, Anglo-Chinese supervisor was giving all the staff a roaming guilt trip. Warwick caught his eye and stared the supervisor down before he self consciously turned away and went over to nag the tall Sudanese girl serving drive thru customers. While eating and ignoring the social distancing stickers, a mixture of several tradies and 10 office worker types came in, all looking stressed or disengaged, followed by an obese Anglo-Samoan woman in a tight pink tracksuit with 2 kids aged about 7 and 9 whose bodies were heading in the same direction. A spasm in his gut moved up his spine. He looked around and saw Melanie, a girl he dated 5 years ago, standing at the counter. She looked even better now. Years of yoga and cross fit had perfected her posture and tone. As she walked to the door, he realised she wasn’t a skinny peninsula chick anymore, but a strong and elegant professional woman. She strode through the car park with a take away coffee, then got into a new, metallic blue Audi A3.

Warwick drove on auto-pilot, 8km down the freeway to the office of Centrelink and Pathways. He could smell his own bad breath and suddenly realised his collared shirt was damp on the collar and smelt a bit. He parked on the street about 200m down from the job centre, took a can of deodorant out of the glove box, then sprayed his shirt and armpits excessively. The intense chemical fragrance almost made him want to puke again. Walking down the street into the slight southerly breeze felt better than sitting. After entering the automatic door of the centre, a tall Italian looking security guard who was almost 60 and had a slightly hunched back, approached him.

“Morning sir, I have to ask you a few questions.”

“No worries mate.”

“Have you been diagnosed with Covid?”

“Nah.”

“Have you been in any high risk areas in the past 14 days.”

“No, just a few local bars and maccas.”

The guard stared blankly at him and continued.

“Have you been in contact with anyone who has been diagnosed with Covid?”

“Nup.”

“Do you have any flu like or other Covid symptoms?”

“Nup. Just a hangover.”

The guard nodded with no emotion and Warwick noticed he didn’t have much lateral movement with his neck and that it was probably due to a spinal injury.

“Do you have an appointment sir?”

“Yeah, with Jane in Pathways”

“Please walk over to the left and through to the Pathways office.”

“Thanks mate.”

As he walked across the faded orange and red carpet beneath the overly bright fluoro lights towards Pathways, his forehead and temples throbbed. In just 20 seconds he saw and heard a little Filipino boy crying as his mother snarled and whispered to refrain from snapping; an elderly, rake thin Indian man pleading with a middle-aged, African woman because the process lacked compassion for errors; and 2 early 20’s anglo-aussie lads that were angrily chewing gum and had probably taken meth recently, cursing at low volume as they waited for their number to be called.

He opened the door to Pathways reception and a lean, striking looking Slavic woman of about 55 glanced at him and politely nodded.

“Hi, I’m Warwick. I have an appointment with Jane.”

“Ah yes, Warwick Maclean. A Scottish name but you look a bit Italian?”

“Spot on. Dad’s side is Scottish and Mum’s is Sicilian.”

He looked at her name badge.

“Dragana, that’s a popular Serbian name, yeah?”

“Very good, yes. My father was Polish but my mother is Serbian.”

She stared at him and smiled. Despite her age she still looked really fit and had that lean slavic bone structure. Her posture was good and her eyes weren’t dead like most of the other customer service agents.

“Ah, today you will have chat with Len, not Jane. Jane had to isolate for 14 days.”

Warwick sighed and wiggled his jaw. Jane was good, so dealing with another unhelpful automaton would be intolerable with a hangover. The thought of having to explain things yet again made him feel like walking out.

“Ok, it is what it is.”

“Sorry about this. The covid processes have impacted our resourcing. Her son might just have a cold but she is waiting on a test.”

The door to the small suite to the left of reception opened and a waif thin, effeminate looking guy with dyed black hair in his mid 40s, with nose, forehead, and ear piercings, walked out.

“Hi Warwick, I’m Len. Let’s have a chat.”

They walked in and Warwick sat in an odd looking, carpeted green chair and Len sat in an ergonomic black office chair.

“Ok, I got your file up and it says you’ve only been looking for admin jobs in trades or construction. Why is that?”

“Well, I had hip reconstructions but they didn’t help much and I might need hip replacements plus I waited heaps and didn’t have private health cover.”

Len kept staring at the computer and read the notes with a peachy tone that irritated Warwick .

“Ok, but it says you are able to do any work that doesn’t involve heavy lifting or bending through the hips. Ssoooo, this means you could be a driver, machinery operator, do light physical work, or do any type of office work.”

Warwick waited for Len to make eye contact again. He deepened his voice and spoke slowly to ground himself.

“Yeah, but I can’t stand for long periods or walk more than 5km a day.”

Len replied in a defensive, hurried tone.

“Well, it’s obvious you aren’t looking outside the industry you know, soooo, it’s time to re train and get new skills.”

Although Warwick knew this was just the process and law, the mere thought of working in an office made him angry. He paused and remained still as a warm surge of blood in his back and shoulders rose to his head. Calmly he told Len.

“Champ, Im feeling a tad off color. I know you have to follow the rules.”

“Ok, you do look a bit stressed. Maybe some counselling would help.”

Warwick looked at Len and nodded.

“Yeah it might.”

No matter how much Wazza tried to seem rational, Len could sense his anger and discomfort.

“I have to put in a note that you haven’t applied for recommended jobs. You didn’t apply for the telemarketer or call centre jobs 3 weeks ago. If this happens again they can suspend payments.”

“Of course they can, they make the rules don’t they.” he said, without hiding the sarcasm.

Len raised both his palms as if to say stop, then gulped anxiously.
“I’m not feeling comfortable and need to remind you I’m legally entitled to a safe workspace.”

Warwick was taken aback at how easily threatened and offended Len was.

“Whoa, buddy, no threats here, just some sarcasm. I apologise.”

“I can also smell alcohol so I’m ending the discussion.”

Warwick realised that smelling of booze was a big black cross and a stupid mistake on his part.

“Fair enough, I respect that but am sober now. I’m not having a dig at you champ. I will reschedule.”

“I won’t tolerate bullying.”

“Ok, point taken Len. Not bullying, I’m just a tad stressed and am leaving.”

Warwick walked out and Dragana stared at him.

“That was quick.”

“I wasn’t having a go at him. It’s the system that’s rooted.”

Dragana peered at him and held her index finger to her lip to signal silence, then nodded affirmatively as if she knew what might have happened.

He walked outside and felt relieved by the cold air. When he got to his ute there was a parking fine on the windscreen and he could see a tiny guy aged about 60 issuing a ticket to a car 25m away. He had bowed, arthritic legs.

“Life ain’t ever a safe space, Len. Sorry to disappoint you but look around pal.” he uttered to himself.

Warwick got back to his 2br unit still feeling toxic and tired. He took a cold shower for a few minutes, relishing the slight sting of cold water before switching to hot water. Despite the waters soothing effect, he knew his liver and other organs were cooked and would take way more than a few days to detox. As he toweled down, he looked in the mirror and noticed that most of his definition had gone and that his waist, mid-section, and legs, were bulkier. Even his face looked thicker and beefier. He stepped on the scales and weighed in at 103kg. He thought about how classy Melanie had looked and that he’d gone the other way.

The follow up consult with his Orthopaedic surgeon, Ivan Whiteley, was at 5pm, so he could sleep a bit before driving into Richmond. Lying in bed during the minutes before dozing off, he looked at the kickboxing trophies and photos on his shelf. there was a photo of his mate Zoran and others who trained with Harry, aka the hurricane, Hatzis, as part of the national team, and one of his father, Jimmy, who passed away when he was 16, with his sister Jen at her law graduation. Part of him felt like crying but the anger stopped the tears.

He awoke feeling slightly less cloudy and put on looser fitting blue jeans and a clean black T shirt. The toxic feeling and agitation remained constant. Driving down the freeway to the Westgate bridge on a cool but sunny Spring afternoon, reminded him he hadn’t left the western suburbs during the long lockdown. Despite restrictions easing, the traffic was pretty light. As he got to the top section of the bridge and took in a full view of the CBD, Docklands, and Port Melbourne, anxiety arose in his chest. He couldn’t process the sudden flood of thoughts and memories about good times with the union and winning every bout until losing the national title 5 years ago. Tears flowed freely for about a minute, then he turned on the radio and tuned into a channel that played pop music, hoping to distract the mind. About several blocks away from the surgeons rooms near the hospital, he noticed a homeless man with a laundry bag in a shopping trolley, standing on a median strip and talking to himself just as Katy Perry’s song, “Roar”, reached it’s first chorus on the radio.

“Fuck, bro, seen better days.” he whispered.

He parked a block parallel to the surgeons rooms, near a rendered 3 storey Victorian heritage building. He’d upgraded the plumbing there 2 years ago. It was now the head office for the Dept of Health where most senior managers were based.
He remembered how expensive the furniture, art, and facilities were compared to the predictable concrete and brick boxes of most govt offices. The minister, Con Kouros, was an overweight, failed Greek lawyer that people called the “unfair pear” because of his massive ass and how he vocally advocated diversity but was more brutal and condescending to subordinates of other ethnicities. He recalled the evening his office manager called him because he’d complained that the toilet in his offices ensuite wouldn’t flush, and his threats to sack Wazza when he advised water wouldn’t be available on the top floor for another week.

Walking into the surgeons rooms he went over to the receptionists. A peachy young Muslim girl, Ruby, wearing a Hijab, smiled and said.

“Please take a seat Mr McLean, Doctor Whiteley will be with you in 10 minutes.”

He noticed there were a few plants and some flyers about real estate and an investment company to the right of the reception desk.

“What are these about?”

“Some of the doctors here are shareholders in a property development firm and this is the sales section for the units they build.”

Warwick nodded robotically, not being the least bit surprised.

“Oh, and the other flyer is for one of the doctors brother who was a popular stockbroker but now helps some of the private hospitals clients with their portfolios.”

“Ah, of course, medical specialists are now taking care of VIP clients health…..and wealth.”

Ruby didn’t detect his sarcasm and her eyes shone with enthusiasm as she spoke.

“I’m in 3rd year of radiography and the doctors here will help me get work in the new imaging lab next year. Some say it’ll easily be in the worlds top 10.”

He managed to politely smile because she was innocent and well meaning, but also in a fortunate minority, having influential people to improve her work prospects.

“Wow, the worlds top 10 eh. It was only 7 years ago Melbourne was voted the worlds most liveable city. She’s lost a bit of her charm this year though.”

“Yes, but I’d rather be here than in Abu Dhabi. We left there when I was 12 and I started high school here.”

“How did you find the lockdown?”

“It was weird and quite depressing and scary but I trust all the doctors here. I got 80% of my wage but other students I know couldn’t get more work and some got evicted.”

“The whole city doesn’t feel right. The Rona has become more important than everything else but it’s hurt more people mentally and financially than physically.”

Ruby just nodded politely in agreement.

The doctor, Ivan Whiteley, opened the door to his consulting room and walked out chatting with a couple in their 70s then smiled at Warwick.

“I will see you next year Patricia, all the best with the farm. Warwick, come on through, sport.”

Warwick walked in and sat at the doctors desk. Ivan frowned. He was about 6’3 tall, 60yo with silver hair, narrow shoulders, and a long, distinguished chin.

“You’ve put on a bit of weight eh! You look a tad pale, too. What’s your recovery and rehab been like?”

“You got me doc, I’ve been eating crap and drinking too much. This lockdown and winter haven’t helped but I’m inflammed and depressed a fair bit.”

“Have you considered counselling?

“Yeah, but I know why I’m pissed off all the time and can’t accept that I can’t keep doing physical work or being self employed.”

“You gotta look after yourself. Ruby has details of some good psychologists. They work with Richmond and collingwood footy clubs.”

The doc looked at the scan on his white board.

“Your MRI shows some inflammation, but there is still a fair bit of cartilage left so it’s unwise to consider anything like a replacement for at least 6 months.”

“Ive only had the private cover for 3 months now.”

“Well, my waiting list is now 6 months in the private system anyway. Bloody Covid delayed alot of people and lost us money. Luckily you saw me just before non emergency procedures were put on hold. You’d wait over 2 years to see myself or a colleague here in the public system.”

Warwick peered at the golfing trophy and photos of the doc with various professional athletes. He realised the doctor was as much of a businessman and celebrity, as he was a surgeon.

“Yeah, doc, I realise that. The anti inflammatory does bugger all at the moment.”

“If you cut out the booze and burgers, it will be better. Only do the light stretches and a bit of walking and swimming. There’s a small chance the cartilage might repair more than expected. Lad, you need to be more disciplined and improve your rehab. In a way, you need to think a bit like an athlete.”

Warwick was furious at the docs condescending tone. No doubt he’d seen worse patients who were in more pain, but his body language and demeanor conveyed no empathy.

“I was an athlete 5 years ago, before the accident. Ok, I was also 20kg lighter.”

“Who did you play for?” replied the doc defensively.

“I was a kickboxer and ranked 2nd in Australia at Light Heavyweight.”

The doc paused and shrugged, appearing completely unimpressed, then raised his voice slightly.

“Well, you should understand the importance of stretching and rehab shouldn’t you. Terrible sport for hips though.”

Warwick paused and gulped because he was uptight and wasn’t breathing properly.

“Yeah, true, but how have other athletes you’ve operated on reacted to their loss of strength, mobility, and incomes?

A vain near the docs temple became visible as he almost snarled.

“They probably get a bit down and angry but they harden up and move on. In fact, so do most patients .”

Ah of course, but they are already wealthy and aren’t going to have their mortgages fold.”

“You’ve no right to make any personal judgements about my clients. This conversation is over and if you continue with the attitude, you will need to consult another surgeon.”

“Point taken, doc”

He wanted to throw the chair at the doc and break a few things in his office. None of his wealthier clients had to worry about paying the bills or losing their jobs, because they could also afford new units or the thrifty commission of ex stock brokers.

“Ok, doc, it is what is. Thanks for your time.”

He stood up and the doc remained silent, staring at him like a principal dismissing a student from a pep talk.

Warwick walked out to the reception desk and payed Ruby $200 for the 5 minute consult with Doc Whiteley. She smiled nervously then issued the receipt, noticing the anger in his jaw and shoulders. He looked at her flawless, light brown Arabic face and complexion, noticing a clarity and sweetness in her eyes; a crystal clear purity that only comes from healthy living and a good attitude. She was a bright lass from a decent family who’d probably had little or no drugs or booze, he thought.

The tension in his jaw released a bit and his eyes softened as he exhaled.

“Thanks. I won’t be making another appointment yet. Good luck with your radiography.”

“Thanks, Mr McLean. Have a good evening.”

Near his car, people queueing outside a small supermarket were visibly confronted and agitated by a rake thin, African lad with sunken cheeks and dyed blue braids, begging for money. As Warwick moved closer, he could see that 2 of his braids had a maroon tinge 2 inches behind the right ear. The blood hadn’t fully congealed and the wound still seeped and probably needed a few stitches. As the lad frantically begged, a middle-aged woman scolded him for almost touching her shoulder with his shaking arm and bony fingers. A suit in his late 20s sternly insisted he be mindful of social distancing. But social distancing took a distant second priority as the words; dancer; pedophiles; drugs; hungry; and sorry brah, fell out of his mouth in broken sentences until he paused, hunched a bit, then backed away.
With arms twitching because his mental faculties and co-ordination were already limited, what urgency could a virus that most would easily survive add to the burden of his daily existence. Shortly after, the store mgr ushered him away from potential customers. In a pure act of social distancing, he crossed the road and went into a phone booth then picked up the handset and pretended to have a conversation.

Warwick got in his car feeling guilty about recent indulgences but even angrier about being powerless to change some things. He did a U turn and sped off. Merging onto the freeway a few minutes later, he felt a surge of resentment in his gut. Not having much power in his hips, legs, and core made him feel violent. Thoughts about hitting Ivan and a few others swarmed in his head for a few minutes until Melanie entered his mind again.
He gripped the steering wheel and screamed a few times. A few minutes later a feeling of calm arose as he realised that seeing Melanie was a gentle reminder he’d been acting like a victim.

As Warwick got closer to the Westgate bridge, Toby O’Shea, his former foreman and union rep, entered his mind. He took an exit ramp to Port Melbourne and drove down Bay St to the Pier Hotel, hoping Toby might be there. He needed to speak to someone he trusted who might share the angst about the lockdown and other things.

A 20 knot southerly swept across Port Philip Bay and the beaches choppy 1ft waves looked unappealing beneath approaching rain clouds, coloring the bay in its predictable shade of grey. Walking from the car to the hotel, the crisp wind felt cleansing so he stood on the cycleway opposite the pub and stared at the bay and some ships unloading at the container terminal about 2km west. A small white lump of bird shit splattered on the path a metre in front of his shoes. Looking upwards, a lone seagull floated 10m above with its wings fully extended, utilising the strong wind to elevate and descend almost effortlessly. A flock of about 100 seagulls landed on the beach 50m further down. The gull gently dipped its right wing and let the wind carry it back to the flock in a fast graceful arc, only flapping its wings just before landing.

Walking across the road to the pub, he saw Toby reading a book, sitting at a table near the big windows on the corner of Bay St and Beaconsfield Parade. There were only a few suits on the other side of the bar and several boomer couples in the restaurant. Toby liked the table furthest away from the bar and entrance. As Warwick walked closer, the sound of his boots and vibration through the old wooden floor boards, broke Toby’s concentration.

“Christ, lad, you’ve put on weight and look shite. What the fuck have you been doing?”

“I had hip reco’s after the accident and spent most of the lockdown eating crap and drinking.”

“Well, dat will certainly do it.”

As he stared at Warwick, Toby’s bright blue eyes shone through his reading glasses and above his broad, ex boxers, shovel nose.

“What are you reading?” asked Warwick

.”Triumph of the nomads. It’s a Geoffrey Blainey book about indigenous history. But we both know many of the real historians and their history have been lost or murdered.”

Warwick nodded and Toby put the book down.

“You working again or still on compo?”

“No compo. The accident wasn’t at work so the hips aren’t compo.”

“Fuck, lad, that’s terrible.”

“I can now do cash jobs that don’t require too much bending, but my flexibility and core strength is crap.”

“What does the doc say?”

“He couldn’t give a shit. There’s only a bit of inflammation on the scan and he reckons enough cartilage might repair to avoid hip replacements. He and other docs refer some clients to their property developer or stockbroking mates. If I hadn’t argued with him, I’d still wait 2 years to see him again because I only got private cover a few months ago.”

“Been the case for a while but happens more now. All about leveraging and helping certain professions but paying the majority fuck all. A surgeon is a much harder job than a nurse. No doubt. But 30 times the salary. Takin the piss”

“Toby paused and stared at Warwick more intensely.

“You feelin alot of anger and depression at da moment.”

“Yeah, I’ve been unravelling a bit. I’m lucky not to have been arrested or gotten into a fight.”

Toby nodded knowingly and Warwick felt consoled by how present he was. So many others had leant on Toby. At 5’6, 63, and of wiry build, he was tiny compared to most men in construction, but he’d lived and breathed solidarity for over 40 years.

“You’re not planning to do anything extreme?”

Warwick paused and looked out the window for about 10 seconds. He almost felt like crying but was too angry.

“Nah, I don’t wanna die but my rage and depression scares me.”

Toby remained completely still as he spoke.

“Everything is happening at once isn’t it?”

“Yeah, I’m shittin myself I’ll never be self employed again, and the thought of working for some arrogant suit or nerd depresses me. I’m 2 payments behind on my mortgage and this corona has fucked with so many things. I feel like training again or beating someone up but can’t.”

Toby’s eyes brightened as he sat upright and straightened himself. When he slowly raised his right hand to emphasize things, he looked more animated and spoke very deliberately, like a man of higher rank.

“Tis tough, lad. You’ve a right to be angry but have to work with your limitations. I liked a drink too much but cut back to twice a week, plus I am almost retired and financially independent, so me telling you not to drink or worry bout money is hypocritical……but, despite that, you just can’t afford to be boozing mentally or physically.”

“Never been good with my limitations, yet alone other peoples or the govts.”

“To be honest, so are most folks. Alot of people are bullshitting and acting polite to avoid drama in life.”

“Yeah, people are getting angrier but pretending that things are good. It’s fucken nuts.”

“Tis getting worse because the media and social media is fucking with peoples minds.”

“I had some skinny middle-aged guy with lots of piercings end my jobseeker pathways interview just because I was sarcastic. He waffled about a safe space and feeling intimidated. The pathways office is so depressing you could argue it’s not a safe space anyway.”

“Happenin more and more. People falling apart or playing silly games. I get tired of explaining that I’m trying to get people better pay and work conditions, regardless of their ethnicity and sexual orientation, but the govt and media keep portraying the unions as criminals and chauvinists so it’s almost impossible to win.”

Warwick paused and exhaled then rotated his head and neck to release some tension.

“That’s the feeling, that it’s now almost impossible to win. I don’t like feeling powerless. I hate it so much I could almost kill someone.”

“That’s why you have to stay off the drink and eat less crap, lad. You cant be fightin nobody , particularly when you are fightin yourself. Who’ve you been hanging around lately? You with a woman these days?”

“I’ve been a hermit since the last operation 5 months ago. I couldn’t drive for 6 weeks after surgery and met my sister and Matteo a couple of times at the shops, which was illegal anyway. Nobody visited me during lockdown and I only did my first job 2 weeks ago.”

“Why didn’t you give me a call?”

“I just went into my own shit world. Other states have handled this fucken bug better than Andrews.”

“Yeah, seems that way. I loathe Dick Andrews for other reasons but this bug has fucked people in the ass in many other ways.”

Toby’s mobile rang on the big wooden table for 2 seconds and suddenly stopped.

“It’s Diane. I gotta go. Where are you going tonight?”

“Just to the golf club to try and see if I can get some work or quotes.”

“I thought you hated the tossers there.”

“Yeah, I bought in the wrong area. Overpriced and over-rated but I did loads of plumbing for those McMansions at Sanctuary Shores.”

“Ok, gotta go. Call me next week and stop eating McMansion burgers and eat more fuckin veges.”

Toby stood up and patted Warwick on the shoulder then walked briskly out of the hotel. Warwick looked at the drinks and food menu then groaned softly.

“Fuck, 14 bucks for a glass of red. Suck my balls. I’m outta here.”

Warwick drove home feeling relieved. Toby was capable of discussing almost anything and had helped countless others. Despite being fiery at times, he could quickly assess where someone was at and help them clear their head a bit. So few he’d worked with posessed the same balance of being empathetic and stern.

2km from home, Warwick pulled into Sanctuary shores shopping centre to buy some fruit and veges. As he walked through the malls entrance, the late teens twins that lived in the housing commission on the other side of the creek, walked past. They were a brother and sister with identical hare lips, often dressed in oversized blue jeans and matching nike track tops, and had the slumped shoulders of elderly folks. Some of Warwicks neighbours had recently complained to council about seeing them walking through the wealthier side of the creek. He’d disappointed his neighbors by joking that it’s not a crime to be a zombie or ugly, even in Sanctuary shores.

Just after he exited the car park and waited at the traffic lights, two rake thin meth addicts stood near the sidewalk, shivering in the wind before suddenly crossing as the lights went green. A few horns honked in vain at the inconvenience, but they were too focused on escaping the elements and their senses too eroded to proceed with care. Without the scabs of rampant scratching, their gaunt faces would almost camouflage beneath approaching grey clouds. Their jaws snarled and they squinted in agitation when the high beam of an impatient 4WD, brightened their eyes like wild dogs in a spotlight.
Except for the cheap, damp tracksuits that covered their bony frames, and the burden of carrying plastic shopping bags, Warwick thought that they could be convicts who’d stumbled through a time portal.

After getting home and showering, he called Matteo.

“Waz, what’s doin?”

“It’s been a long day and I want a drink. I shouldn’t but I’m gonna.”

“At the golf club or hotel?”

“Golf club, mate.”

“Righto, it’s 7 45 now so I will be there at 8 30.”

“Ok, catcha then.”

“Cool. See ya.”

Warwick put on a clean, denim collared shirt and walked 500m to the golf club.
As he entered, he noticed some of the locals in their late 40s, standing near the clubs entrance and talking about their new cars. The main bar and the restaurant were a bit less than half full due to the rona restrictions. He signed in with the QR code because the barmaid was watching, then sat at his favorite table in the corner.

2 of the locals sat at the next table and nodded in acknowledgement. Several sentences into their conversation he knew they were already half drunk. The shorter guy with dark black hair, Evan, motioned for him to join them.

“Maaate, don’t be a stranger. I’ve seen you around.”

“Thanks but I’m waiting for a workmate.”

“Ahh he can also join us. No worries. Actually, I remember we were talking about religion in March, before lockdown.”

Warwick suddenly remembered how annoyed he was after talking to Evan earlier in the year.

“Yeah probably. I’m Catholic but your Evangelical.”

“Yeah buddy I’m Evan….gelical.” he replied with the cheesy tone of a drunk salesman.

Warwick smirked but already felt like telling him to fuck off. The other local, Rod, just sat there grinning in his suit.

“The offer still stands. I’m a man of my word because I honor the word of the good book.”

“What are you going to try and sell me tonight?”

“Nothing champ. I’ve never charged anyone to baptize them.”

“Do you have any idea how arrogant you sound?”

Evan looked at Warwick and raised his eyebrows.

“Ok champ, a bit touchy, I will leave you alone.”

Rod stood up and tucked his collared shirt into his pants, staring at Warwick with a creased forehead.

“Buddy, Im not a Christian either but I..you know.. try to be more broadminded.”

Warwick shook his head.

“Really. What part of offering to baptize someone when you’re half drunk, is normal or broadminded?”

“No need to get angry champ. Relax.” said Evan.

“Yeah, yeah, always someone elses shit to own.”

“Meaning?”

“You’ve got zero self awareness dude.”

Rods face became slightly flushed and Warwick could feel his anger as he pointed at him.

“We’re paid premium members and have never had problems here before, so guess what….your agro ain’t on the menu son.”

“Clearly yours is on the menu because your sunburnt golf face is as red as the lobsters in the restaurant.”

“It’s so typical of your millennial attitude.” replied Evan, trying to seem composed.

“You’re right. Your generation are so wise and industrious but we’re all soft and lazy.”

“You think your tough but if you do anything stupid you will never drink here again.”

Warwick nodded in silence and felt his whole body tense as he visualized ramming their heads into the wall next to the bar.

“I know. I know. God and management are on your side.”

The cute young barmaid caught Warwick’s eye and subtly motioned with her hand for him to tone things down. He knew she was a nice girl and that management would eject him if he got angrier. Warwick walked out of the bar and out to the entrance stairs to take a few deep breaths. Even with reduced mobility, only one of the bouncers could possibly overpower him.
He looked at his watch and realised Matteo was still 10 mins away.

A group of 3 men and 3 women in their mid to late 40s, all wearing business attire, stood just to the left of the clubs entrance and their conversation quickly caught his ear. They huddled in a very close circle, reassuring each other that they also couldn’t understand why a mutual friends very bright, 17yo son, had committed suicide.
They reminded Warwick that the common tendency to disconnect or deny serious issues was a big contributor to mental health issues, and that due to recent binge drinking, he was also guilty of it. As painful as some subjects are, why people couldn’t or wouldn’t relate, angered him. His mind wound back to his 4th kickboxing bout and the rage he felt towards a cocky opponent that had evaded a rape charge. Then he quickly reflected about a high school class mate who’d taken his own life, and about Toby sometimes saying everyone is vulnerable and capable of terrible things. A pang of anxiety suddenly swelled in his chest; a reminder that the mind was still in overdrive as several organs were detoxing.
He saw Matteo’s new Toyota ute pull into the car park and felt relieved he’d be able to talk freely with someone else after such a shit day.

He sat back inside at the same table and noticed Evan talking to Brent Patton. Matteo smiled as he approached the table.

“Fuck bro, lookin a bit rusty.”

“Yeah, I’ve got to tone it down. The drinking and fast food. Fark.”

Brent peered across until he caught Warwick’s eye, then walked over and put his hands on his hips then eyeballed them. Warwick instantly thought that Brent was close enough to punch in the balls.

“No trouble tonight eh boys!”

Matteo flashed Brent a fake smile.

“No trouble Brent, we know how it works.”

“How what works?” asked Brent defensively.

“The Sanctuary Shores class system.”

Brent straightened his posture to look taller and tried to sound official.

“Well, yes boys, other members money matters more than your opinions. There’s a function tonight and some surgeons and other doctors who are new members have booked the main bar. Everything else is closed.”

Matteo and Warwick smiled at each other knowingly.

“Doctors, eh! I saw mine today.”

“Don’t take the piss, Wazza.”

“I’m serious. Ivan Whiteley’s his name.”

“Great, thanks for sharing.”

“We will be in the back bar shortly after they arrive.”

“Good. Just don’t get too pissed.”

Matteo and Warwick nodded and Brent walked off.

“What’s with his swagger. It’s fucken childish when he tries to act like an army officer.” said Matteo

“There’s a spike in false cases of alpha-males.”

“There was well before fucken covid. Suits bro. We can’t hit em though.”

Matteo smiled and his broad, swarthy, Roman Italian face lit up slightly. He was 6ft but a bit thicker set and solider in the legs than Warwick. He’d played 2nd grade rugby in Randwick but wasn’t big enough to be a forward or fast enough to be a competitive back. he’d just finished a civil engineering degree and recently gotten a job with Grocon in Southbank.

A guy about 5’10, wiry, with receding hair and a mullet, walked upto the bar and peered around. He looked about 40 due to his rough leathery skin and acne scars, but was probably younger. Matteo paused and stared. Wazza turned his head around sensing that something had broken Matteo’s train of thought. The man stood at the bar for 20 seconds, almost like a statue, staring slightly upwards at the bottles on the top shelf. The barmaid walked across.

“What would you like?”

“I can’t afford that, so I will just have a beer.”

His lack of expression confused the barmaid and she smiled awkwardly.

“Ok, What beer?”

“VB. A Pint.” he said, nodding towards the beer tap but avoiding eye contact.”

The barmaid poured the beer and he handed her $10 then walked away before she could give him a dollar in change. He walked robotically but didn’t appear drunk or high, and sat at a table at the other end of the bar to Wazza and Matteo. He stared out the window at the lights of expensive McMansions on the opposite side of the small lagoon that separated the 18th hole from Sanctuary Shores most exclusive gated community; Port Philip parade. He took a big sip then picked up a beer coaster and folded it in half, then a quarter, and clenched his fist around it and casually tossed it at the window. The 3 middle-aged couples sitting between the man and Wazza and Matteo’s table didn’t even seem to notice the man.

The man stared through the window for several minutes then took another gulp of beer. He seemed to occasionally talk to himself while staring at his reflection. Even 15m away the darkness of his eyes and the tension in his jaw were visible from his reflection. He stood up then finished the beer with several large gulps. As he walked out of the bar, the group of about 20 doctors and their wives, arrived in expensive suits and dresses. He stopped 3m away from 2 couples who were blocking the doorway and stood motionless for about 10 seconds. He then slowly shook his head until one of the 2 women noticed and sarcastically said

“Excuse me.”

The man just nodded affirmatively with a smirk. His skin looked clammy but his eyes were wild and on fire. Both the men stared at him and shook their heads.

“Is there a problem here?” asked one of the men.

“No, I just wanna leave.” said the man, with an unusually deep, gravelly voice.

“Well, fuck off then you weirdo.” hissed the shorter of the 2 women.

“You’re blockin the doorway, not me.”

“Listen, I expect manners. Ask politely.”

The man stood motionless and his upper torso and shoulders tensed. Several of the men in the larger group gathered around. After an uncomfortable exchange of glances one of the men decided to resolve the stand off.

“Folks, just let the idiot pass through.”

After a brief burst of whinging and criticism about the mans lack of respect they all walked away towards the main bar and the man disappeared through the bars only access door and out of the club via the foyer. The barmaid looked over at Wazza and Matteo and raised her eyebrows.

“Yeah, he’s a strange dude, but they’re typical Bayside boomers.” said Matteo.

Wazza noticed Ivan Whiteley at the back of the group with his wife. She had dark brown hair and refined elvin features, and was easily the most elegant of all the doctors wives. The smell of expensive perfume filled the air. Matteo looked at Wazza and they both laughed.

“Yeah, time to move into the plebes bar. It’s a dollar cheaper for a beer, too.”

As they walked around the group of surgeons and their wives to get to the back bar, a tall lad with a familiar face approached the main bar. Wazza glanced at the guy and instantly knew he was an elite AFL player. The young, suited up star approached one of the other doctors in the group and shook his hand. 15 seconds later, a stunning 6ft blonde with a perfect tan entered the space with Brent Patton, then introduced herself to some of the doctors and their wives. Ivan Whiteley caught Wazza’s eye but didn’t react or acknowledge him.

“What an arrogant prick.” muttered Wazza

“Which one?” asked Matteo.

“My surgeon, Whiteley. He stared through me. He and his missus are part of the surgeons group.”

“Bit weird eh, you only saw him this arvo.”

“Not really, he and his mates probably belong to all the VIP wanker gold clubs.”

“Rhys Bignall and his missus have rocked up.”

“Ah, that’s him. I knew he was a footy star.”

“He won the Bronlow last year.”

“Couldn’t give a shit. Most of them are spoilt and overpaid.”

They sat at a table by the window in the back bar and Matteo looked at Wazza and nodded.

“Struggling a bit mate?”

Wazza just exhaled and put his left palm on the table to prop himself up on the bar stool.

“We’ve worked for a living and are struggling to get into the market. I probably won’t be able to be a plumber, or any trade, because of hurting my hips and pelvis…..”

“I know man, I’ve only just got my first decent job and will struggle to get into this market they all talk up. It’s an ongoing robbery.”

“I’m a dumb fuck for investing around here. Now that I’m not working full-time and will lose my business, I’m rooted.

“There might be stuff in Grocon you can do. The general manager likes me. He’s a good old fashioned wog with parents from the same part of Italy.”

“Sign me up…as long as i don’t have to be flexible or lift really heavy shit.”

Matteo stared out the window for 10 seconds, then back at Wazza.

“Look bro, you can’t go hard on the piss too often…and stop eating McShit.”

Wazza nodded in agreement then smiled. “Maybe I got the McCovid strain and craved junk food and booze.”

“Hah! Well, you ain’t the only one in Melbourne to have put on weight or felt crap. It felt depressing in the city last week. Nobody around. No colorful weirdos or hot chicks around, just a few workers and the odd cop.”

“Feels weird, eh! Driving over the bridge earlier, it looked too modern. Some of the new buildings look like they are out of a sci-fi movie. Even 3 years ago it felt different.”

“Yeah, my oldest sister is moving to Ballarat. She says it’s getting too corporate, like a world city, not an Aussie city.”

“I know I shouldn’t but I’m gonna have another pint.”

“Just stay off spirits and coke.”

“Yeah,ok. What do you want?”

“A pint of the Carlsberg.”

Wazza walked to the bar and could see the surgeons and the AFL celebrity couple on the other side of the bar. He breathed slowly and observed them all for about 30 seconds and felt completely futile being resentful or jealous. Rhys Bignall caught his eye, smiled, raised his beer in acknowledgement, then asked

“What are you drinking mate?”

Wazza smiled back in surprise “2 pints of Carlsberg. Thanks.”

“It’s on us. The barmaid will be around in a few minutes.”

“Cool. Appreciated.”

Ivan Whiteley then noticed Bignall was talking to Wazza. He quickly waved hello before turning back towards the group. The barmaid bought the 2 pints around with a big beaming smile.

“Rhys Bignall just tipped me $300 and said you and Matteo’s next few drinks are on their tab.”

“Ok, give the champ our regards.”

Wazza sat back down with the slightest of smiles.

“Seems I was wrong.”

“Bout what, Waz?”

“AFL pretty boy is shouting us free drinks and Whiteley waved hello.”

“Well, that’s universe telling you not to be so cynical bro.”

They both laughed and Matteo proposed a toast

“To Peninsula chicks who do yoga and a better job.”

Just as Wazza was about to raise his glass, the sharp crack of a gunshot sounded in the main bar. The shattering of a bottle was followed by the thud of a bullet embedding in something wooden. They both froze before the adrenaline kicked in. There were a few female voices shrieking and then a woman crying before one of the doctors spoke. He almost stuttered but he managed to speak clearly.

“Let’s be rational here. We don’t have any issues with you. We’re doctors?”

There was a long silence with a bit of weeping. Wazza saw the intense looking guy with a mullet that they’d seen a bit earlier, standing at the entrance to the main bar, then motioned for Matteo to duck down. Once on the floor, Wazza whispered

“Mate, it’s that weird lookin dude from earlier.”

“Fuck, he’s got a gun?”

“Yep.”

The barmaid crawled into the back bar via the toilet that separated it from the main bar. She was trembling and her face looked drained and she had a bit of vomit on her chin. Matteo put his fingers to his lips and motioned that she walk on all fours with them to the fire escape door which couldn’t be seen from the main bar. When they got to the door they realised it was locked and made of metal, thus impossible to kick open. They moved back to the bar, hidden from the gunman’s view. Wazza and Matteo looked frantically around and quickly assessed that they could only exit by breaking a window. But if they did, there was a 7m drop down onto the grass near the 18th hole. Wazza gently put his left hand on the barmaids right shoulder to try and ease her trembling and shock.

Some indecipherable yelling and ranting could be heard from the gunman then he spoke loudly and more clearly.

“Fucken boomers eh! The economy is fuckin booming for ya. Boom boom boom.” he said, waving the pistol in the air.

“I can help you. I’m a psychiatrist.” pleaded one of the doctors.

“Nnooo, you can’t. You can’t help me. Help and support like yours isn’t affordable for most people.”

“Well, well, yes it is, or it can be arranged.”

“Nah, I’ve crossed the line. I wish the economy was booming for me but it ain’t doc.”

The gunman paced around the entrance to the main bar, peering at the group of about 40. Feeling intoxicated by his rage and contempt for his wealthy, professional captives, he scanned the group for responses. Their earlier attitude of arrogance and privilege had been stripped away by a single shot and they looked almost like frightened children in a classroom. He noticed Rhys Bignall, sitting still and trying not to establish eye contact.

“Wow, there’s a champ in the room. Farrkk, the Brownlow. Fucken incredible man, I can’t even get a job, but you’ve won the Brownlow. Winners and losers, winners and losers. That’s this neighborhood. “

The guman paced around frantically for about 30 seconds muttering “winners and losers” repeatedly. His eyes were almost popping out of his head.

Rhys Bignall looked up and sat more upright. He stared at the gunman with a neutral look, trying not to aggravate him.

“What do you want?”

The gunman stared intensely at Rhys, trying to summon an answer. After a long pause he nodded.

“Good question, champ. The problem is I can’t have it anyway.”

“I get you’re angry.”

The gunman stood closer to Rhys and pointed his left hand to the gun in his right.

“Nah, you wouldn’t get it. You couldn’t get it. I’ve crossed a line. There’s no help or forgiveness for losers, champ.”

The gunman walked over to the big lobster tank between the entrance to the main bar and the entrance to the bistro, and stood staring at it for a few seconds.

“Reminds me of prison and death. What are your thoughts, folks ?” he said, addressing the group almost formally.

The group remained silent and the gunman shook his head in contempt.

“So many intelligent professionals with uni degrees in modern Melbourne, yet life has become more shit for most people..it’s fucken worse than 5 or 10 years ago. I got no degree but i can see. I know parts of melbourne you ignore. They give air time to people who say everything is cool like TV celebrities, and rich folks like all of youse. I’m part of the noise they filter out.”

“I need my medication” pleaded one of the ladies, trembling and on the verge of tears.

The gunman approached her chair, snarling.

“I know a few people who can’t even afford the meds they need. You need to be more resilient. That’s what people with uni degrees and on good coin like you, often tell me.”

“Please. I haven’t hurt you….I need”

“You’re not gonna die, but I might. This won’t last long. The cops are already on their way to protect and serve wealthy bitches who married doctors …..from people like me.

With the gun pointed at her he said “You treated me like a piece of shit before.”

The woman sobbed and her husband put his hand on her back. The gunman walked back to the lobster tank and seemed to mutter a few things to himself then spun around with a maniacal smile.

“To get a go, first you have to have a go…like fat cat Scomo. But most of us aren’t gonna win. It’s the lies that hurt most. Cunts!”

He fired two shots into the lobster tank and everybody else braced or jolted. The glass shattered and the water and the 3 lobsters spilled onto the floor within 2 seconds. The lobsters didn’t seem to move and looked surreal on the horrible green and blue carpet. They then crawled slowly through the door into the empty bistro.

“Wow, they’ve given up. It’s like they know they’re gone.”

Rhys Bignall thought he might be able to cover 5m fast enough to tackle him but the gunman turned around. Rhys’s girlfriend sensed this and pressed her hand into his leg and stared at him to repress the impulse.

“No seafood tonight folks. Maybe they will die of fucking covid. I’m not gonna die of covid but i will go to jail because I haven’t socially distanced from important people.”

The sound of something being tapped or hit in the men’s bathroom caused the gunman to pivot around.

“What the fuck was that? Some smart ass has snuck into the dunny. Move over there.” he said, motioning people to move away from the tables near the toilet entrance.

He walked cautiously toward the door with a pained frown. The tapping continued and he slowly opened the first door then walked towards the second door. To his surprise, Wazza was on his knees, looking under one of the basins.

“Who the fuck are you?” hissed the gunman. His eyes bulged like he was being slowly electrocuted and his hands shook.

“Whoa mate, ease up. I’m the plumber here but I’m off duty.”

“Fuck off, where’d you come from?”

Matteo launched himself from one of the cubicles and tried hitting the gunman in the back of the neck with his forearm, but was so full of adrenaline he missed and got the upper part of his back below the neck. As he jolted forward and winced in pain, the gunman fired a shot and the bullet hit the wallet in wazzas right pocket, just below the hip socket.

Before he could aim another shot, Matteo was using his legs and forearm to drive the gunman forward and the second shot hit the porcelain basin beside Wazza. The gunman’s wiry body thudded against the bathroom wall and he slumped to the ground, winded by the impact. Matteo kicked the dropped gun away into a cubicle then stood over the man and screamed.

“You fucken grub. Get up. Get up.”

The gunman’s eyes watered and Matteo realised he was still winded.

“Oh fuck that was so hectic, bro.” said Wazza rising to his feet.

“Let’s drag him out, Waz. Grab his other arm.”

They both lifted the gunman by putting their arms beneath his arm pits and lifted him almost to his feet. Matteo opened both doors with his left arm while holding the man with his right arm. They carried the man into the main bar and the groups shock soon turned into angry outbursts and brief applause as Matteo placed the man on the ground against the wall. The gunman’s left arm twitched and he stared around the room with a pale face and watery eyes.

“You win. You people always win.”

“Just shut up and stay still. You’re in enough shit.” said Matteo.

Everyone in the room knew the gunman was now incapable of challenging anyone. His slumped posture and twitching arm made him look pathetic. Ivan Whiteley walked over to Wazza and very politely asked him to sit down. Wazza felt confused then noticed the patch of blood around the top of his quadricep just below the right hip.

“Ah, damn.”

The pain came on stronger but wasn’t as intense as expected.

“Get down on your good leg then lie down on that side and roll slowly onto your back.”

He followed the docs instructions. The doc then gently reached into Wazza’s pocket and slowly pulled out the wallet. There was a hole in the wallet and blood on the side that faced Wazza’s thigh.

“It’s gone in so you will need to go to hospital.”

“Righto doc. I didn’t feel that much pain.”

“Adrenaline and a delayed reaction, son.”

Several police in overalls briskly entered the room with one of the other doctors in the group and cuffed the gunman, then silently removed him from the building. 2 paramedics assisted Wazza to get on the stretcher and Matteo walked with them to the ambulance.

“See ya tomorrow, champ. Well done.”

“You knocked him out. Not me” said Wazza, almost laughing.

“Please stay calm and try to breathe slowly, sir.” said the petite, younger, female paramedic.

The paramedics gave Wazza some pethadeine and within a few minutes, the trip to the hospital felt blissfully surreal. Waking up the next morning, Wazza couldn’t even remember going under anaesthetic before surgery. He noticed a large bandage on his upper thigh and a dressing near his hip.

Doc Whiteley walked in and smiled.

“Seems I owe you a favor champ. Nice work. You and your Rugby mate may have saved a few lives. That guy was crazy.”

“Thanks doc. How bad is the wound?*

“You’re lucky that it hit you at an angle and only caused a flesh wound. There are only 11 stitches. I know we didn’t end our consult well yesterday but I will do your next few procedures, ops, or whatever else, gratis. Its been a shit year and I probably have neglected less wealthy patients.”

“Thanks doc.”

“No worries, Warwick. Oh, and I spoke with Rhys Bignall about work opportunities with the footy club. He knows a few good business people and sends his regards.”

“So it was close to the bone but not too close.”

The doc laughed.

“Well, yes, literally….yesterday was that kind of day; a bit too close for comfort. I’ve gotta visit some patients across the road then I have to see a shrink. All part of the process. Rest up.”

“Thanks doc.”

Wazza stared out the window, smiled, and spoke to himself.

“Close to the bone, bro, close to the fucken bone.”

Meat Pie

Just after midday, Damo parked his car on the main street of a tiny town called Bumpton. It had been isolated by the highway bypass that’d been built 5 years earlier, thus had lost most of its tourists and weekend drivers. He walked into the only cafe and sat at a table by the window. A short woman about 55yo came out a few minutes later.

“Why didn’t ya ring the bell. There’s a sign on the front door.”

“Oh, okay” he said, wondering why she seemed so put out. She turned and pointed to the board and said “menu’s there” then disappeared again. He noticed her hands were arthritic and heard her mumbling to someone else out in the kitchen. She came back a minute later wearing an apron. 

“Do ya know what ya want” she asked.

She looked even uglier with a frown on her forehead. He felt like walking out but was hungry, hungover, and needed a caffeine fix for the drive ahead. 

“An espresso and a plain meat pie, please.”

She nodded with no expression then went back out to the kitchen. He looked around the place and realised it wasn’t a cafe. It was just another old convenience store that made burgers and had a few tables. They probably hung up a sign saying Cafe because it appealed more to city folks. Places like these stuck in his mind because although the customer service was non-existent, the staff and customers didn’t have the strained politeness of the modern corporate world.

A door behind him opened and a tall, broad shouldered truckie about 50yo walked out of the toilet, said Hi, then sat at the opposite table. The truckie had a smirk on his face and peered at Damo.

“Don’t go in there for a few minutes mate.”

Damo had a delayed reaction and took 5 seconds to get what the truckie meant.

“Ah, okay. Thanks mate.” 

They both smiled and there was a long pause. ‘Where you headed?”

“To Robe, and then Adelaide tomorrow.”

“Oh yeah, not a bad drive round there. I’m from Millicent meself.”

“Ok, not too far from Robe. I only passed through there a couple of times.”

The truckie stared blankly into space for a while then yawned and looked at his watch.

“Gee they’re slow. Taken over 15 minutes to make a burger.”

A skinny lad in his 20’s with a mullett and a cap with a Ford logo walked out with a pie and a long black. He put it on Damo’s table and turned to the truckie and said

“We had to refill the gas to cook ya burger. Be bout 5 minutes. Sorry eh.”

The truckie stared intensely at the lad, smirked, and said “I know.”

Damo noticed how hairy the young mans forearms were. Although he was skinny, his stooped posture and disproportionate forehead looked slightly neanderthal. He then realised this was the woman’s son. The truckie looked back over at Damo.

“I know most folks need to work but these 2 couldn’t get a job anywhere. Only place for miles off the highway, otherwise they’d be rooted.”

Damo tried not to laugh and cut into the pie to find a greyish, luke warm interior. There was no smell or odor and hardly any noticeable chunks of meat. Damo sighed and gently pushed the pie to the side and sipped the long black. They didn’t know what an espresso was and served a short black coffee. The taste was obvious. it was just instant coffee out of a jar and wasn’t made with beans or a machine.

“Is the pie still cold mate?” asked the truckie.

Damo handed the plate over and the truckie eye balled it quickly and shook his head in disgrace.

“Mate that’s fucked. That pie ain’t right and wasn’t even cooked properly. I’m gonna say something mate. That’s unacceptable. Fucken unacceptable.”

“I just won’t come here again.”

“Mate they have to learn. We ain’t talkin fancy but it has to be edible.”

The truckie propped one arm on the table then stood up and walked over to the counter with the meat pie. he leant over the counter and the boy walked out. the truckie pointed at the meat pie and stood looming over the boy.

“What’s wrong” asked the lad with a frown and gaping mouth.

“You tell me son. You served the man. Take a look.”

The boys jaw tensed, but despite being twice his age, the truckie was 3 inches taller and still looked very strong. The boy picked up the plate and said “okay, okay I’ll heat it up.”

“No son. You’ll serve the bloke another pie. A fresh one that hasn’t past it’s used by date in the fucken freezer.”

“Ya don’t have to swear. I’ll change it, okay.” 

Damo felt awkward and didn’t want to hang around for another pie that would be average at best. The lady and her son were incompetent and didn’t care but there was a menacing tone in the truckies’s voice. He walked back to his table and sat down.

“Taking the piss. 15 mins to cook a burger and a bad pie. I bet your coffee was shit too.”

The woman walked out with a burger on a small plate and placed it on the truckies table. She was silent but looked like she could snap. They had a small stare off and the woman ended it by walking off. The truckie opened the top half of the bun and inspected the burger closely. He placed both hands on the table and exhaled slowly.

“There’s no beetroot or tomato. A plain burger in Australia has tomato and beetroot for fucks sake.”

He looked over at Damo with a flushed look on his face. “Am I a mug or should a plain burger have tomato and beetroot?”

“Yeah it should” said Damo, hoping to pacify the truckie a bit.

The lady walked out and almost threw the plate and new pie on Damo’s table. The truckie reacted instantly.

“What’s with the attitude, Jackie?  That other pie was terrible. It looked rotten.”

“Yeah, I gave him a new one. What’s it to ya. How do ya know my name?”

The truckie folded his arms and shook his head. Middle-age aside, his back and upper torso looked formidable as he flexed and straightened his posture.

“I know your name because my daughter went to school with your son 7 years ago. Her names Josie and she owns a little farm 17km north near the reservoir.”

The woman struggled to stay composed as her limited intellect stalled to provide a coherent response. 

“What’s that got to do with this fellas meat pie?”

The truckie replied in a deliberately slow voice. 

“Weellll, my daughter ate here a few weeks ago and got food poisoning. It hit her quite suddenly when she was riding her horse. She got off the horse but was that sick she only just managed to walk home and call a doc. Where’s your son? Has he run out the back has he?”

“You can’t prove nothin. My son ain’t smart but the pies we serve aren’t off. Please leave or I’ll call the coppers.”

The truckie laughed and with angry gusto, slammed the palm of his left hand on the table, causing Jackie to wince.

“I thought I’d check the place out to see how shit your food is before speakin me mind. This blokes pie and the pie I bought 2 weeks ago says it all.”

Jackie’s face was beet red and she scowled defensively. She knew they couldn’t challenge the truckie physically and repressed her anger.

“I am a small business owner and no inspector has fined me in 27 years.”

“That’s because health inspectors couldn’t be arsed coming to a dump like this.”

Damo stood up and said “Look I’ll just pay for my pie and coffee and head off.”

The truckie shook his head and said “Nah mate, you’re not paying for that. The coffee is on the house for the fucken hassle.”

Jackie held back tears but her pride inhibited her from walking away. A car could be heard outside and an old VK commodore sped off. They could all see it was her son.. 

“Oh there he goes. Now why would he hurry off like that?”

Jackie sat down and her arthritic right hand was shaking as she reached into her pocket for some pills. The truckie sat back down and it was clear he wanted a confession or apology. Jackie started to tear up. The truckie sat there relishing his revenge.

“I wouldn’t serve nobody a bung pie or nuthin else if I knew it was foul, nor would me son. This business and that bloody kid’s all I got. I’m real sorry if ya daughter got sick but I had no idea.”

Damo looked over at the truckie and he appeared to have calmed a notch.

“Mate, I think she’s genuinely sorry eh.”

The truckie glared at Damo, annoyed by his response. “Son, my daughter almost died and you could have gotten sick too because there’s probably a bunch of bad pies.”

“Look you’re probably right but she can only apologise.”

“Are you some kind of poof? Men in this country used to throw down or get fired up about stuff like this. Nowadays even the laws gone fucken soft.”

Damo knew an argument might lead to violence. Although 20 years younger, Damo was 20kg lighter and a primary school teacher. The truckie stood up and walked toward Jackie and stood over her. 

“Your son needs to be real careful. There’s no excuse and if I have my way I’ll shut this shit hole down.”

The truckie casually walked out the door and got in his truck and drove off with a stony look on his face. The woman sat in the chair looking shocked and her hand was shaking.

“I’ll just pay and head off.” said Damo as he slowly rose. 

“Don’t worry bout it luv. Sorry bout this. Please don’t tell the coppers.”

“I won’t. See ya.”

Jackie just nodded and stared into space looking fatigued.

Damo drove without stopping until he reached his friends place in Robe at 6pm. To his surprise, his mate had baked a big meat pie. Damo politely said he didn’t want any meat and had eaten something a bit rough earlier. Even though he didn’t eat the pie in Bumpton, he decided it wouldn’t hurt to quit processed meat pies and leave them for truckies to risk consuming.

The bus stop

It was 11pm on a cool, windless, Thursday night in early September. Jack stood near the bus stop and a young drunk couple were sitting together in the glass and aluminium shelter. Jack heard footsteps to his rear. He turned around and noticed the young Sikh who worked in a nearby bar and restaurant. His turban was the first thing that became visible as he walked through the unlit car park. His body was a slim silhouette or shadow until he got closer to the bus stop and the streetlight revealed his form. The young drunk couple got a fright by his sudden appearance but said nothing. The girl stared at the Indian lad. He nodded politely, looked at everyone then said “Good evening”.

Jack replied but the girl sighed. She and her boyfriend snubbed the Indian. The Indian was in his mid 20’s, about 5’8, with a tidy beard and of very slim build. He was carrying 2 plastic bags with plastic containers of food. Jack smelt the meaty and spicy fragrance and smiled at him.

“Leftovers?”

The family will have this tomorrow for lunch.”

The couple peered at Jack with expressionless gazes. The girl tensed her lips as if she were about to speak, then looked away and shook her head. Her boyfriend glared at Jack. He was a biggish lad, about 6’2 with a solid frame, but not athletic. Jack was 6ft and still lean and fit. The couple looked mentally and physically dense. Their ruddy complexions and big boned, round faces, had no redeeming features. They both had small mouths and beady eyes, disproportionate to their big heads. The couple started whispering to each other and the Sikh knew exactly what it was about. The boyfriend was trying to pacify her drunken ego by distracting her with his Iphone. The Sikh maintained an air of pride and straightened his posture like a soldier on parade. The girls eyes locked with the Indians and they stared for several seconds.

What are you lookin at” she spat. She was even less coherent than they expected.

How have I offended you, lady?”

The girl shrugged in outrage. Her forehead creased and her jaw tightened into a snarl.

What the fuck is your problem.”

I’m being insulted for no reason. That’s my problem.”

The girl leant forward and stood up. She swayed slightly and her flustered and creased face made her mind and body look more out of synch. With a literal beet red color, she looked in pain and distress. Jack sensed what was coming and stepped between her and the Sikh.

What’s your problem, cockhead?”

Be cool, nobody’s having a go at you.”

She swayed more and pointed at the Sikh.

Why are you defending him. You are an Aussie even though you look a bit abo.”

Ah, a racist.”

Nah, I just don’t like Musi’s and Curry’s taking all our jobs.”

The Sikh moved 2 paces forwards and the lug of a boyfriend stood up looking ready to fight.

Both youse fuck off or I’ll smash youse.”

Yeah, go home home Musi” she hissed.

I’m a Sikh. My family come from the Punjab. You don’t even know anything.”

You are shit and your food smells shit too.” The girls anger was almost inconsolable.

Jack didn’t want to fight but the girls venom, and her pathetic lug of a boyfriend, were testing his patience. Jack sized the guy up. Despite being alot heavier, he looked cumbersome and half-drunk.

Having had a shit day and copping attitude all week in the call centre, this was not the kind of Friday night Jack wanted. He wanted to unwind and chill but the girls expletives and hissing had become intolerable. The young Sikh remained at a safe distance about 5m away. Jack knew he wasn’t a violent or confrontational man. Jack and the Indian lad both needed to catch the last bus. Walking away was not on. Jack thought he’d try to diffuse things even though it may escalate the situation.

Look, be fair okay. We all have to catch the last bus so be cool.”

The dumb boyfriend walked towards Jack looking ready to explode. Jack’s adrenalin surged and he stood side on in a boxers stance. Luckily the guys punches were even slower than he’d anticipated. He threw several rigid jabs, then threw a predictable haymaker which jack slipped with ease. The lug tried to push jack but only just brushed his shoulder. Jack pivoted off his right foot and landed a firm right hook on the guys left ear. His head shook and he winced and staggered sideways. With no form or balance at all, the guy tried to throw another haymaker that could have dislocated his shoulder. The guy walked straight into Jack’s counter right hand and it jolted his thick head. If it weren’t for the curb, the guy may have managed to stay upright but he fell backwards and hit his head on the side of the bus shelter.

Jack’s hand and wrist were a bit sore after landing just 2 hard, flush punches. The lug had dense bones. As the lad slowly got up, Jack knew he wouldn’t continue. He stood there looking humiliated and ashamed, knowing that his girlfriend would be disappointed. Jack felt a tinge of pathos because the guy was just a dumb fool.

I didn’t wanna fight ya, bro. Let’s leave it at that.”

The big lug looked at the ground and mumbled “Ok”. He appeared to be on the verge of tears. The girl was furious but her rage temporarily imploded, knowing she was now powerless.

The young Sikh approached Jack and extended his hand, his face beaming with gratitude.

I’m Kapil”

I’m Jack”

To their surprise, the girl started mouthing off again.

You blokes will cop it. My brothers will sort you out. I know where you work, Musi.”

Jack laughed in mockery.

Kapil is a Sikh. and yes, I’m part indigenous. What is your problem with everyone. You have issues. Deal with them.”

The girl then broke down in tears, acting like she was the victim. She went into a rant about not being able to get work because Musi’s and boat people were selling Aussies out. It was all so unfair and immoral according to her. Her thick, ruddy head was quite a disturbing site and her lack of awareness and self control amplified it. Jack looked at Kapil and shook his head in dismay. It wasn’t just alcohol. They both realised she was drunk and ignorant. She made another random comment about her sister being sacked from Woolworths and replaced by Indians and Asians. Her life was shit because everybody had sold out.

The lug slowly walked off. She followed him, mouthing that he was a faggot, and a sell out. They walked up the road and after a hundred metres her voice faded and they disappeared. Jack felt tired as the adrenalin faded. A long week had caught up with him.

The bus swung around the corner then slowly drifted to a halt. As they boarded, Jack was greeted by a solid, 60yo man who was also a Sikh. It was a fortuitous end to an otherwise unpleasant evening and week. The quiet bus ride felt slightly surreal as they zig-zagged for 6 kms through the dark, suburban streets to the terminus opposite the train station. When Jack got off, both Kapil and the driver bid him a respectful farewell. Seeing Kapil’s smiling face and raised hand as the bus drove away, pleased Jack. As a group of 10 drunken teens passed on the other side of the street, Jack realised that some fights need to be fought.

Last coffee with Cheryl

Derek drove up the windy dirt road from the valley to the beautiful, rural homestead of Cheryl’s new partner, Roland. On the way up, a few eastern grey kangaroos hopped across the road in the late afternoon sun. He parked on the long grass driveway below the big carport at the front of the house. As he walked up the stairs and onto the outdoor deck, it’s south westerly aspect of the approaching sunset was spectacular, particularly on a cloudless evening. The combination of sandstone foundations and timbered walls and floors were impressive at last light. He entered and gave Cheryl a hug and she stepped back and gestured with her arm and proudly said “just take a few minutes to soak it all in.”

There was a mixture of custom made wooden furniture, ceramic vases, and watercolor paintings of landscapes in the massive living room that would make most wealthy, arty city folks, envious. The house and location had the vibe of an exclusive rural retreat. It was literally one of these dream homes that featured in magazines or lifestyle shows. Although he was almost 60 and a pathologist, Roland’s woodworking skills and artistic flair stood out as soon as people passed through his front door. Derek found the place had a meditative quality, as did the bush and valley all the way inland from the coast.
Cheryl had resumed boiling some coffee on an old iron stove. He hadn’t seen her for 5 years and was hoping she’d have detoxed some of the angst about Sydney and her ex-husband. Seconds after he sat down, the scent of marijuana wafted into his nose.

“How was the drive down. Did you find the turn off easily?” she asked while pouring 2 cups of freshly ground coffee.

“Yeah it was easy. I just used google maps.”

“Oh, duh” she said smiling, and walked over with the 2 mugs.

She’d put on a bit of weight and was closer to a healthy size, but her face looked as pale and haggard as it did when she was almost anorexic and had been doing coke. He’d hoped things may have changed for the better, but she immediately announced that her 16yo daughter, Sierra, would arrive tomorrow.

Derek only intended staying 2 nights, but was annoyed she’d changed plans without telling him, so he thought he’d leave the next morning. Her skittish mannerisms and frequent subject changes showed that the cumulative affect of too much binge drinking, pot, and cocaine, had diminished her faculties. Within minutes she went into a long rant. The resentment about various men and women she’d slept with, quickly arose. She rapidly dissected various people’s individual and collective failings. In one breath she managed to brag about how sexually liberated she was and gloated that Roland was the only man who’d ever pleased her. In her mind she’d prospered and evolved through courage and discipline, yet she was financially reliant on her ex-husband and Roland, and hadn’t worked for 3 years.

She’d become more intense and it was almost intolerable listening to her, particularly after a 7 hour drive from Sydney. She kept saying “I’m over that” and using the word “unconditional” while discussing various dramas and comparing them to her current relationship with Roland. Derek felt like getting up and leaving, but it was 7pm and an hour to get back to Merimbula on a dirt road and a hassle to find a motel just for 1 night in the Christmas peak.

“You’re almost 40 now Derek, you’ve gotta get your shit together darl” she said after exhaling a long puff of her joint.

“Yeah, yeah, time to invest and settle.” he replied, straining to seem polite.

“It’s not attractive when a guy hasn’t got his shit together. I’ve been seeing a therapist down here. I think you and a few others would also benefit from seeing one.”

“Yeah, true. Most people have a few issues.”

Derek felt some pleasure imagining how others who knew Cheryl would think she’d lost the plot. Working part-time in retail and hospitality in Sydney couldn’t pay the rent and put 3 kids through school, and everyone knew that. Derek felt he’d made the wrong decision to catch up, yet alone stay a night in her idyllic new escape. He thought it’d be pointless arguing or challenging her as she might become volatile and ask him to leave. However, he didn’t mind Roland and admired the old boy for his intelligence and patience. There were other women far more sane than Cheryl, albeit closer to Roland’s age. Nobody really knew why Roland put up with her just on the basis of her libido and being adept at erotic massage.

Cheryl mentioned how rebellious and ungrounded Sierra was, but most 16 year old girls would rebel with a mother like Cheryl whose moodiness and indiscretions were widely known. Derek noticed Cheryl was uncomfortable sitting still or pausing. She stood up and ushered Derek to a small sunroom adjacent to the living room.

There were quite a few framed, black and white photographs showing parts of Cheryl’s body, but none of her face. Derek felt awkward even though he and Cheryl had no sexual chemistry or history. Like many provocative people she was compensating for respect and love. The nude photos were overly self-conscious and unflattering. Cheryl had no curves, and was quite bony looking in some of the recent shots. Her attempt to be expressive and erotic via studded collars and latex, weren’t working. Her friend, Katrina, posed beside her in some photos. They looked like a pair of bogan dominatrix.

The words of Erica who used to work in the same café as Cheryl, popped into Derek’s mind. “Don’t screw the crew”.
Cheryl and Katrina had enticed a few cafe owners and staff into compromising scenarios. Mostly men but also 2 married women.

Cheryl paused and stared at Derek before a smug smile spread across her mouth. He sensed what was coming.

So how’s your sex life ? Ahh fuck, you could have had sex with Katrina but she’s too confident and intense for most men. She’d have fucked you and your tall Irish flatmate, Kevin, into heaven.”

Cheryl laughed for about 20 seconds at her own vulgarity.

“Australian men are terrible lovers and so few are willing to learn. Roland is the only man to teach me anything, and he’s still fit. His pilates studio is upstairs, plus he’s artistic and academic. That’s the key.”

Derek felt like telling Cheryl to fuck off and reminding her she was a bogan who got lucky, but he just nodded politely and said “Yeah, Katrina certainly was original.” Like hurricane Katrina in the US, he thought.

Katrina was a 6ft, brunette, bogan rock chick who was also a nympho and occasional coke dealer. She was Cheryl’s only social drinking and drug taking friend. She’d managed to get herself and Cheryl banned from quite a few bars and cafes in Sydney and moved to the gold coast in 2010.

To Derek’s relief, the sound of a 4WD could be heard coming up the hill and its headlights suddenly appeared at the end of the driveway. Derek was glad Roland was home. Cheryl would be distracted and her ramblings wouldn’t just be focused on him. Roland walked in and straight after he’d shaken hands with Derek, Cheryl went on a rant about Sierra coming down the next day. Derek helped Cheryl make a lamb stew and collected some fire wood. For 40 mins Cheryl almost said nothing and then served dinner. Not much was said over the meal and it was obvious Roland had the shits with her for letting Sierra fly down without notice. Cheryl cleared the table and went outside for another joint.

Roland looked at Derek, yawned, then asked “What time are you leaving tomorrow?”

Derek knew this was his chance to escape early. “I’ll leave a bit before 7 so I can be in Melbourne by 4pm”

Good idea” replied Roland.

He got up and turned on the TV. Cheryl walked in and Derek joined them and watched 15 mins of an annoying film with Adam Sandler as the lead. Cheryl excused herself and went to her bedroom and retired for the evening. 10 mins later Roland had dozed off on the sofa, so Derek went to bed in the upstairs room Cheryl had prepared.

When he woke up at 7am, he dressed quickly and walked out the door. As he drove his little Toyota down the long driveway to the valley road, he felt a huge sense of relief. Kangaroos hopped everywhere and could be heard thudding through the bush near the barbed wire fences lining the road. How someone could be so discontent in a rural paradise like this was beyond him. This was the last time he’d ever visit Cheryl. Never again he thought as the car crossed a tiny, shallow stream. He wound down the window and exhaled a sigh of relief into the cool, winter air.
The Sydney chapters of his life were over and Melbourne now seemed more appealing.
Kevin was right that it would be best to give Cheryl and her dramas a wide berth.

The Block

It was a balmy summer evening in Bronte. As night approached, a few people in the block sat on their little balconies. Those on levels 4-6 had the best views and could see a bit further down the gully toward the beach. The block was a big concrete L shape built in the early 60’s. One wing faced east and the other north. The building comprised of 72 studio apartments. There was a big Moreton Bay and a few small gum trees out the back. Everyone entered and exited through the carpark and driveway
at the front. Two ramps divided the block, the ramp down to level 3 and the ramp up to level 4. Most owners lived on levels 4-6 and the majority of rentals were on levels 1-3.

Max had rented on level 3 for 5 years and had seen quite a few people come and go. His neighbours on either side had recently moved out. Emma, a fit blonde accountant had returned to Auckland, and Suzie, a manic pilates teacher with a phobia of body fat, had returned to the Gold coast. It had been ages since the police had visited the block and there’d been a vibe of comparative harmony for almost a year. No drunk 21yo boys fighting in the communal garden as their stereo blared, and no dysfunctional, obese couples who were addicted to energy drinks, shrieking at each other between sugar hits.

Max and his neighbour, Dene, a Samoan bus driver 3 doors down, were in the communal laundry having an historical chat about previous toxic neighbors, and celebrating their recent 55th birthdays with a longneck of Reschs pilsener.

“Hey Max, do ya remember when that Lee guy downstairs locked his missus out of the unit?”

“Oh yeah, the recovering junkies and their chair throwing. Shit that was full on.”

“I reckon she was more agro than him. She’d get nasty over nothing but he’d only fire up if
someone gave him attitude.”

“True, both of them could snap at times though. Proof that certain drugs can fry peoples brains.”

“Oh that meth is bad stuff bro, it really fucked up their internal wiring. At least with the piss you know what you’re in for eh.”

“Yeah, yeah that’s true.”

“There’s a new fella down in 209 who seems a bit on edge.”

“Really, I haven’t seen him around, what’s he look like.”

“Ah, he’s Brazilian, so from Latin America. He has longish, braided hair, and looks a bit crazy. He must’ve said something bad to the Korean girl in 208. 2 months after his missus Silvia moves in , the Korean student moves out. Bit suss don’t you reckon?”

“I suppose. How do we know for sure?”

“Silvia and her 4yo daughter, Ursula, seem very shy, a little too shy for my liking. I’m keeping my eye on him mate, I don’t trust this bloke at all.”

Max politely nodded in agreement because Dene seemed sincere about his observations. Max usually found Dene’s character assessments contained common sense accuracy. Except for a couple of women whose cats were agitated by his fox terrier, Dene was a genuine communal watchdog, liked by all.

“Oh, dinner time, bro.” said Dene, looking at his watch.

“Later, champ.”

Max walked back into his unit to defrost a piece of blue eyed cod he was given by a local cafe owner. At about 9pm, the dance music from the biggest of 3 houses below the block was getting progressively louder. It was a modern designer home with huge glass windows, a beautiful pool and a big paved courtyard with wooden benches out the back. A group of about 30 teenagers were celebrating their high school graduation with a BBQ and pool party. They were wealthy kids with P plates driving their parents Audi’s and Porsche’s, partying because someone’s parents were away. Max had done similar things at the same age and accepted their drunken rite of passage. In comparison to the nicer homes and apartments, the block seemed like a replica of housing commissions in rougher
suburbs. It was the only affordable place in a suburb with houses around the 3 million dollar mark.
Normally, nobody said anything because 2 elderly women in the block would often call the police if neighbours got too loud.
An irate voice suddenly yelled through the warm summer night air. It was the Brazilian.

“Hey you assholes, turn your music down.”

A few teenage girls voices echoed back in protest. Some broken sentences with words like wanker and whinger filtered through the stereos bass.

“I fuckin tell you, turn the music down.”

Max walked out onto his balcony and noticed several others peering across at the Brazilian. He was standing barefoot in boardies and a singlet, gripping the railing so tightly that his sculpted arms and veins looked pumped, as if he’d just worked out . His face was not fully visible as he began slowly rocking his torso back and forward for a while, paused, then threw his right arm in the air, more like a wild slap than a punch.

“Hey fuckin idiots, shut up.”

A few more people watched from their windows or stood on their balconies. The Brazilian began to notice his audience and looked diagonally upwards at a middle-aged lady smoking in her dressing gown.

“That’s a real dirty habit. Smoking is disgusting.”

The woman froze momentarily before replying in a strained, defensive tone.

“You are a very angry man, Paolo. You better be careful we don’t call the police.”

“Oh okay, so this shit down there is cool but I’m bad guy now. Fuck is that shit.”

“No, I think you are over reacting.”

“I’m just tired of taking other peoples shit. I’ve had enough bullshit.”

“Fine, fine, I won’t get in an argument with you.”

The lady walked back inside and seconds later Paolo swore in Portugese and slammed the
balcony door so hard it could have shattered the glass. The voices of kids from the pool party could be heard as the volume dropped slightly and a mellow RnB beat came on. Max turned off his lights and went back onto the balcony with a chair. Even though he’d never seen or heard Paolo, his impression was that he was volatile.

A bit of a rucus could be heard in Paolo’s flat. It was mostly his voice but occasionally Silvia’s voice would flare a bit and retaliate, but after several minutes things quietened.
Only minutes later, Max saw the silhouette of someone walking and carrying something through the bushes at the back of the communal garden. Through the trees Max could just glimpse Paolo standing near the fence, observing what the teenagers were doing. He stood there for almost a minute until the faint noise of a portable stereo could be heard. It was obvious what his
intentions were. 2 teenage boys stuck their heads over the fence and queried him.

“What the fuck are you doing, dude?”

Paolo appeared to be swaying side to side in a mock dance, holding the portable stereo by its handle.

“I’m partying guys, is that okay.”

Two girls heads popped up over the fence. Paolo continued dancing and started wailing an incoherent song. Even from 30 metres away on Max’s balcony he seemed unpredictable and volatile. One of the girls, fired up.

“Mate, just fucken go away and mind your own business.”

Paolo laughed angrily and threw his hands into the air before hissing at the teenagers.

“My business you spoilt assholes, is the music. You keep me awake fuckin rich kids.”

One of the boys felt obligated to respond.

“Calm down, the music isn’t that loud man. Nobody complained before.”

“Calm down asshole. Is that it. Maybe you apologise and turn music down, then I go away.”

“Nah mate, you’re the one being unreasonable.”

Paolo went into a swearing fit that could barely be interpreted. Some of the teenagers on the other side of the fence were instructing someone to call the cops. None of the boys were game to jump the fence and confront Paolo. He stepped back several paces and flung the portable stereo over the fence into the party. It crashed against something solid but didn’t hit any of the kids. For a while he stayed in the bushes, whacking plants and shrubs with a stick. As he walked out of the bushes and into the communal garden he received his 3rd audience for the evening.

Before he reached the stairwell back into the block, Dene confronted him.

“Hey buddy, I’d settle down if I were you.”

“Shut up. I didn’t ask advice man.”

“Someone’s already called the police. Don’t make things worse.”

“Oh thank you asshole. Blame the fuckin brazilian eh.”

“It’s not racial bro, it’s your attitude.”

Paolo halted and pointed up at Dene, then shook his head in denial.

“Fuckin no, I am just a man who wants better job… and fuckin sleep.”

Silvia leant over the railing and began angrily lecturing him in Portugese.

Nobody understood the words but everyone knew that she’d had enough of his bullshit. He didn’t even reply as he headed towards the stairwell and disappeared. People continued muttering to each other about his behaviour. A few people mentioned they’d already called the police.

Max heard a knock at his door and saw Dene wave through his kitchen window. He opened the door and Dene stood looking like he was ready for a confrontation.

“The cops are on their way mate.”

“Yeah, its a bit hectic. He’s a real loose unit.”

“He’s gone up the road to his car. She’s locked him out.”

“Oh no, he’ll go troppo.”

Max followed Dene along the communal balcony and up to level 4. They stood just above the 2 entrance ramps waiting for Paolo to return. Other people stood just outside their doors anticipating an escalation of violence and the arrival of the police.

Paolo came striding down the driveway gripping a large wrench. His lean arms and
broad upper back looked pumped and ready to do damage and his eyes were glazed.

“Oh fuck, he could kill someone with that wrench. How can we stop him” said Max.

“We can distract him for a while. I’ve got a steel security door. He won’t get through that.”

In his single minded fury, Paolo didn’t even see Dene and Max standing above the ramp
down to level 3. Without even asking Silvia to open up he commenced kicking the security door. Silvia could be heard pleading and trying to reason with him in between his bursts of screaming and kicking.

The noise of Ursula crying due to the trauma and stress, triggered some anger in Dene. He looked at Max with a mixture of disgust and malice on his face then walked half way down the ramp and yelled at Paolo

“Hey, knock it off you’ll hurt someone.”

Paolo span around, surprised anyone would interrupt the rampage. He was in such a state
he couldn’t talk and his anger temporarily imploded. He stood there shaking with a snarl on his face.

“Leave your missus and the girl alone bro. Stop being a coward.”

With almost no emotion, Paolo responded.

“Fuck you Aussie, mind your business.”

“I’m Samoan bro and you could go to jail eh. Leave them alone and walk away.”

“Fuck you, I am not going back to Sao Paolo. No fuckin way.”

A desperation was starting to overcome him as his facial expression fluctuated between anger and sadness, as if he was fighting off tears. The noise of squelch on a police walkie talkie made him start pacing back and forth in front of Silvia’s door.
Two tall male constables appeared behind Dene in overalls and pointed down towards the 2nd floor. The mere sight of the police sparked a self destructive reaction in Paolo as he
began repeatedly banging the railing of the balcony with the wrench. He didn’t seem to
hear any of the officers rational warnings. Dene walked back up the ramp and shook his head
with concern as the noise continued. He looked at Max with disappointment on his broad Tongan face.

“It is a real shame eh! Poor bloody kid.”

Max just frowned and nodded in agreement.

One of the officers pulled out a canister of
capsicum spray and gave Paolo a good squirt. The banging ceased and the wrench dropped to the ground. It took about a minute for the officers to handcuff Paolo. His howling protests and resistance continued for a while as he lay on the ground writhing in pain until he ran out of energy. When the kicking and screaming died down the police lifted him to his feet and led him up the driveway.

There was a vacuum of silence in the aftermath, a point of stillness more noticeable than the drama that had unfolded. After the door of the police wagon slammed shut, the rage melted and his voice cried out for Silvias help and forgiveness.
The onlookers, almost everyone present, felt a shift from anger to pathos as the man who
behaved like a monster became a frightened child. While a female constable gently consoled Silvia, Paolos desperate pleas faded as the police wagon drove slowly down the street.
The constable asked if Paolo was living with her or visiting, and Silvia said he was only living with her til he found a new job but was angry because his visa had expired anyway. She wept heavily for about 30 seconds and then apologised to the officer and several neighbors. Her face looked drained of energy and her usual smile and olive radiance was absent.
Quite a few tenants overheard her confession about Paolo and everyone quietly returned to their units. After the sounds of doors closing, the evenings drama was replaced by a gentle southerly breeze.

A swordsman and a boy

A Swordsman stood on top of a large hill. Below, lay a beautiful valley, perfectly sculpted by a fast flowing river, full of force and energy from recent rain. The way it cut through the land so efficiently made the tired warrior marvel at its graceful power. Had his dead clansmen been so swift and constant they would not have lost their last battle. He’d been wandering aimlessly for weeks. They were ambushed while he’d been sent to visit an allied chieftain, trapped and picked off in a narrow gully. He carried the weight of defeat through nearby villages, noticing the cautious fear of humble farmers and servants. People were afraid and timid around him and other swordsmen. To them he represented only death and suffering. In past battles he felt a sense of purpose and righteousness about his training and the outcome of his swords fury but now he was lost and had no leader, no kinsmen, no cause to fight, defend, or keep the fire flowing in his blood.

His mind and heart felt even heavier than the uniform and sword he’d been carrying through the scenic countryside. He walked mile after hilly mile, straining and sweating, searching for something to ease the lingering loneliness. The valley and the river were so serene and calm. An incredible feeling of dread and despair filled his stomach and began to swirl upwards, seizing his body in a tight grip. But nothing was attacking, there was no enemy, no external threat. His heart screamed in agony but his pride tried to resist this dishonourable state of panic.

He’d only ever heard two older warriors talk about the internal demons that can limit the speed and strength in a man’s hands, steal self-mastery, and reduce warriors to the status of ordinary beings. To console himself he remembered the subtle nature of his mother, a woman who had both strength and kindness in her heart. His only experience of love in his lifetime was through her unassuming grace. Her wisdom and beauty was stolen by the blades of ravaging bandits when he was just 12. No amount of blood or victory in battle could ever heal the loss. His father was almost a myth, and disappeared before he could even form a memory.

In the background he could hear faint footsteps coming through some small trees to the right behind him. A small boy about 5yo stepped into the clearing, met his eyes then raised his tiny hand in playful salutation. Approaching the soldier he seemed shy but not scared. His face was unbelievably pure and open just like the valley below. The soldier could not look away. The boy stopped then turned and observed the scenery. He seemed infinitely wise, unburdened and at ease with all he encountered. The swordsman had forgotten about innocence and all he felt was a longing to be free again, to drop the duty and desire to fight. The boy was like the river whereas he had become like a rock that had barely changed.

“Isn’t it beautiful”, said the smiling boy.

The soldier nodded then dropped to his knees and breathed deeply for what felt like minutes. He tore the chest plate from his body and hurled it down the steep hillside. The boy had not moved, the sweetness and openness of his face didn’t alter. He knelt before the boy and offered him his sword, his greatest asset in life so far. The boy shyly nodded no, his gaze remaining innocent. The soldier stood and drew his sword. He took a deep breath and screamed. With every bit of strength he thrust it down on a rock, blunting its sharp edge with repeated blows before throwing it down the rocky hillside and collapsing.

The swordsman was only 24 but had been a soldier for 6 years. He had suffered greatly and had been trained since he was 8 in the arts of swordsmanship and war. His war had ended now and it was only in the presence of a young boy, free of judgement, that he could now face and surrender his greatest pain.

Sunburnt Cougar

She sat alone beneath an umbrella in the beer garden, her sobriety slipping with each Semillon. Her generous, sunburnt cleavage caught the eyes of the crass, mid-afternoon mob. Predictably and selfishly they dominated the outdoor deck – a bus load of sales and finance types on a golf day booze up. Cherie was a leggy, broad shouldered woman of 45. Although her curves retained alot of her past athleticism, recent drinking binges and a messy divorce had diminished her fitness a bit.
Some guy about 55 with dyed black hair and a fake tan approached her. He mumbled something about her being too classy to be drinking alone. She smirked and raised her glass without a reply. He chuckled and waffled something indecipherable to conceal his embarrassment then headed back indoors. She’d thrown away most hope of romance after the divorce and now viewed many men the same way they viewed her; as a bitter sweet challenge. The nearest group of 5 golfers on the deck made an obvious move for the vacant table beside her. They sat down and a couple of them kept glancing at her cleavage.
She hadn’t had sex in 6 months and was more afraid of her own frustrated lust than the posse of status obsessed tools around her. Being half drunk and dressed in tight jeans was a bit risque, but she felt safer knowing the 2 bouncers and most of the staff.
For 10 minutes she listened to them laugh at each others phallic jokes and sexual references about balls, holes, and teeing off. Most of them appeared reasonably fit for their age but one of them stood out because he was leaner, younger, and better mannered. He gazed briefly and smiled. She sensed he was being apologetic about their antics. The men’s conversation turned to real estate and the stock market, triggering thoughts of her ex-husband, Gary, bragging about the same dull subjects to hide his lack of depth and intelligence.
Her friend Tina had suggested she go to the Mordy beach bar on a Friday mid-arvo to catch a slightly younger guy before the place got jammed with louder millenials, unravelling after work on Friday. She needed a soda water to clear her head and parched throat. She stood up and walked around the edge of the deck to avoid passing through the cluster of about 50 golfers. In modest heels she was almost 6’2 and her broad shoulders and strong back made her waist and glutes look slimmer. The tight jeans accentuated the length and shape of her legs, capturing most of the golfers attention. She was hoping there’d be one attractive guy that wasn’t a crass, predictable wanker, who might approach her.

A minute after standing at the bar, the guy who’d smiled appeared next to her. He was probably her age but could have passed for late 30s due to his muscle tone and posture.
“What are you drinking?” he asked politely.
“Just soda water” she replied, noticing his accent and trying not to seem surprised.
He paid for the drinks then said “cheers, oh, and sorry about the guys ruining the vibe.”
Although he wasn’t as solidly built as most men she’d had sex with, he was way more handsome and tactile.
He extended his hand. “I’m Marek.”
She straightened and shook his hand firmly. “I’m Cherie”
He smiled “You were a swimmer once, yes?”
She nodded “Thanks, but that was a long time ago.”
“Yes but peoples history shapes the way they move.”
She smiled again and laughed. “Yeah it probably does. So what’s your background?”
“Polish. Shall we?” he said motioning that they move outside to continue the discussion.
Although she knew he was hitting on her and things were moving fast, his attention was arousing. She noticed that all of the golfers politely ignored them as they returned to her shaded table.
“So are you in Sales, Marek?” He tried to appear subtle but smiled like a proud cat
“Yes, I’m the Asia pacific sales director”
He took a sip of his drink and she noticed how his movements were so measured and efficient.
“Ah, so you are the boss?”
“Not directly, but I report to their CEO as a strategist. Corporate life is quite boring though.”
“So what’s your passion, Marek?”
“Sculpting and martial arts.”
“Ah so you’re an artist at heart?”
“I like sculpting because you work with your hands to create. Martial arts I love because it makes the body strong and efficient.”
She peered at him trying to see chinks in his armour and body language.
“So how can you be successful if you aren’t really interested in what you do?”
He nodded affirmatively.

“I was an engineer and am very good at seeing patterns or trends, but getting people to perform at a higher level is my focus now.”
“So what do you think of this lot?”
“Ah, good, you’re also a straight shooter.” He took a big sip and looked around at the national sales crew.
“A few of them are reasonably good communicators, but most of them are just ambitious and greedy. That’s sales though.”
“Are any of them as intelligent as you?” grinned Cherie.
He smiled, not at all offended by the sarcasm. “No. I’ve spoken to all of them at least several times. Believe me it’s tough to flatter sales people.”

“Wow, you don’t lack confidence do you.”
“I find success and arrogance are often close friends.”
They locked eyes and she’d already decided he was hot, but was a bit insecure why he’d hit on her rather than younger women more impressed by his physicality and status.
“So why me Marek? Is it because I’m dressed like this, or the only woman here?”
“You look a bit provocative and, yes, there aren’t many other women here, but there’s another reason.”
“Enlighten me.”
“It’s because you’re a strong woman, and a former athlete who’s probably been through something similar to me in recent years.”
“Wow, I’ve told guys to fuck off for less.”
“I know, but you’re not actually an unromantic, bayside type. You drink a bit too much but are open to new experiences. I’ve also had a terrible divorce and even had a coke problem for a while.”
She laughed to break the awkwardness of feeling completely transparent.
“I have to round things off with these clowns but would like to meet for a drink later.” He handed her his business card then smiled and walked back inside.

Marek joined the nearest group of golfers standing in a circle. They all shifted their focus to him and almost completely blanked the Victorian Sales manager, Rob.
“How are we gentlemen?” asked Marek casually. They all gave generic, cliched replies and Rob went into a macho spiel about how they anticipated the next quarter. His usually loud manner was subdued in Marek’s presence and his jaw and shoulders became more tense. The other salesmen could sense Rob’s resentment and fear around Marek, but secretly enjoyed watching the arrogant ex footballer give lip service to a sophisticated foreigner.

Rob had been a protected species for years under the old CEO, but with a new CEO and Marek as his watchdog, Rob’s mediocrity would soon be exposed and sunsetted.
Rob noticed Cherie walk out the exit on the other side of the bar and tried to flatter Marek.

“Gee mate, you’re a smooth operator. She might eat you alive with those thighs, champ.”

As crass as they were, even the other salesmen cringed, knowing it was dumb to remark about a senior mgrs sexual prospects. Marek wasn’t offended. Even after 10 years in Australia, he still found the way many Australian men defined women or sex amusing, albeit juvenile.
He appealed to the groups collective ego by raising both palms in jest like a preacher.
“Gentlemen, a cougar with powerful curves could be what we need in the next quarter. Unfortunately I wont talk about it in the next memo.”
All of them laughed except Rob who forced himself to smile as anger pulsed in his forehead. Rob was now a vulnerable legacy and part of a shrinking boys club. Marek raised his glass in salutation and said in an exaggerated Polish accent

“Let’s kick our competitors asses. Later, men of leisure.”

Cherie scurried to her car, took off her heels, then walked 500m barefoot to the local surf club and got changed into sports shorts and a t-shirt. She kept the bikini briefs she was wearing beneath the jeans, on. She hadn’t felt this excited since her early 30s. The waiting game was pointless because she’d already made up her mind and didn’t care if an encounter with Marek led nowhere else than her swimming pool or bedroom. She couldn’t drive for at least 2 hours and walked briskly home to her beachside house 2.5km north of the bar. Once inside, she went on an hour long cleaning spree then had a shower and gently applied some aloe vera to her sunburnt cleavage and breasts. The sun had just disappeared behind the wall of her discrete swimming pool and spa. Despite the craving for another drink to settle her nerves she was determined to enjoy an attractive stranger, sober. She tried relaxing by skinny dipping in the shady end of her little pool. After 30 mins she felt the increased nerves and adrenalin of sobriety in her lungs and lower spine.
As she lay on her deck chair, she texted Marek. “Arrive anytime after 6pm, preferably in board shorts. Address is 50 beach av, Parkdale. We’ll discuss dinner when you get here. Cherie x.”

Marek wasn’t surprised she contacted him. He ruffled through his clothes and put on some boardies and a navy blue, designer T shirt. He sat on the balcony of the bayside suite the company had paid for and had a shot of lemon vodka on ice. Usually he focused on women 10-15 years younger who were impressed by sports cars and upmarket bars, but he sensed Cherie had a strength and confidence beyond most younger babes. He tried to relax and not anticipate what the evening held in store, but gave in and let his mind undress various scenarios. As he drove along Beach Rd to Cherie’s address, he noticed almost every attractive woman on the way. 15 mins later he parked in her driveway and the heat of a 33 degree day made him slightly dizzy. He buzzed the intercom and 10 seconds later she answered.
“Hi Marek. Can you get into the pool until I’m ready. I’ll only be a few minutes.”
“Ok, cool” he replied.
Marek walked up several steps and noticed the pool to the right side of the house and main entrance. He took off his shoes and t-shirt then slowly lowered himself into the shaded end of the pool. About 3 minutes passed and he heard the sound of heels on a wooden floor before a sliding door opened. Cherie smiled and walked out to the edge of the pool wearing a figure hugging, silk robe, stilettos, and sunglasses.
“Wow, what can I say.”
“It’s a bit early for dinner, unless you’re really hungry.”
Marek tried to react casually but gave in to the moment.
Cherie smiled and very slowly undid the silk robe and threw it away from the pool. Marek gazed up and took in every detail of her tall curvy body. He knew earlier that she was strong and a former athlete, but the power of her naked upper thighs, butt, and shoulders, surpassed his expectations.
“What’s on the menu?”
“Sunburnt cougar and a few drinks.”