White Knuckle Ride Page 10

  (From Harmless, a novella, 2013.)

  ADAM MORRIS

  REUNION

  He had been kidding himself. Professional musician. He would bandy the term around to convince himself as well as others. He wondered if Zappa had ever had to mark assignments on what fourteen year old illiterates think of Grecian urns. Was Bono ever a teacher at Mountjoy Prison? Professional musician my balls. It wasn’t until his meeting with an old schoolfriend that Saul truly realised what a stretch it had been. He was sitting drinking with Pat, who Saul had run into at one of his gigs. Saul was on stage in a small pub playing with a bass player on his right and a mandolin player on his left. The gig was going all right; the place was half full, about a dozen people up dancing. And out of the corner of his eye Saul saw Pat sitting at the bar. He looked well; he had lost quite a bit of weight since high school. Saul was glad to see him, glad to see him from the stage; he was glad his old friend was seeing him in such good form too, on stage, a professional musician.

  After the set was over he headed over to say hello. Pat gave him a smile, he looked happy, genuinely happy. He told Saul he looked the same as he did when they were in school. Saul repaid the compliment but added a mention about Pat’s weight loss. Mentioning weight loss was always difficult for Saul, especially with women. He basically felt like he was saying you’re not such a fat cunt anymore. He generally avoided it with women altogether. Pat was drinking vodka. Vodka and lime. The last time Saul had seen him was the year after high school and Pat wouldn’t go near anything but beer or those horrible creamed liqueurs. Those drinks that bastards poured down teenage girls’ throats with the intention of raping them when they pass out. Nasty stuff. At least Pat wasn’t drinking that now. Maybe that was the key to his weight loss. Saul would learn over the course of the evening that Pat had many strategies in place to keep the wolf of his weight at bay.

  Over the next twenty minutes Saul and Pat chatted in that way old friends who haven’t seen each other in years do. Subtly dropping in evidence of achievement without clearly declaring anything outright that suggested they’d turned into a self-obsessed egomaniac. ‘Turned into’ was the phrase that made Saul laugh. Pat was working as a fashion photographer in much the same way as Saul was working as a musician. Pat also worked on the side. One of his regular jobs was for a community paper taking pictures of new shop owners or business initiatives, such as a new local dog wash outside the vet clinic or the fundraising efforts of a couple of eleven year old girls who raised enough money selling homemade scrunchies to buy an elderly neighbour (who was recently broken into, who Pat also photographed a few weeks before) a motion sensitive spotlight for her front porch. And once a week Pat would teach a beginners course in photography at a local TAFE college. He worked with a camera for a living the way Saul worked with his guitar. Sometimes he used his camera to take photos, sometimes those photos ended up on billboards and glossy magazines, sometimes they ended up in a community paper advertising a steak night for a local tavern and sometimes he just took it out of its box and showed people how to turn it on. Professional photographer. Saul had to head back on stage for the last set. Pat said he’d stick around and they could have a drink after and catch up some more.

  Saul finished up the last set; it was a pretty good one, the bass player had gotten himself drunk, but not spastic drunk and the mandolin player was always brilliant no matter what state he was in. Saul was fairly drunk himself and enjoyed the end of the gig. He packed away, got paid from the manager and paid the other two musicians. The last set they had played for longer than they were supposed to, the pack-up had taken awhile, and by the time everything was in order the pub had called last drinks, the lights were getting turned on and the bar staff were cleaning down the place in a hurry to get home. So instead of staying they decided to go back to Pat’s house.

  Pat lived in a shithole. This immediately made Saul feel better about himself. He realised the fault in this way of thinking, but enjoyed it anyway. They walked through the front door and it looked like someone had robbed the place. Saul didn’t say anything, he was half-expecting Pat to start jumping up and down and calling for the cops. Pat just kept on walking, threw his keys down on a hallway table that had ashtrays, cups, magazines, an old shirt and what looked like half a chessboard. No robbery, no cops. There were boxes in the hallway like somebody was moving in, or out. Keyboards, an electric guitar, a set of hand weights, photography magazines and hardcover books. Old, old carpets, brown running from wall to wall into yellowed stained bedsheets that hung from the walls as curtains. They moved on down the hallway passing two bedrooms as they went. Ratty single beds, like teenagers’ rooms, one after the other. Maybe Pat had kids. Maybe these were their bedrooms and they had just taken over the house. The lounge room was no different, ashtrays everywhere, film posters stuck with blutack on the wall, an old TV with wooden panelling, a PlayStation on the ground littered with a few games, even a milk crate with a candle in a saucer sitting on top of it. If this wasn’t Pat’s real house, he had created one hell of an installation.

  They were heading for the kitchen. That’s where Pat did his entertaining. It was like an old Tom and Jerry cartoon: plates and pots and pans nearly to the ceiling, empty jars, open cans of food, rubbish bin overflowing. This was worse than Ralph’s shed. Pat was living in squalor. And apart from the other bedrooms it looked like he was living alone. It was hard to assign ownership to rubbish. Was all this shit possibly Pat’s? Was this how he really lived? How could he bring people back to this? They finally made it to the table, Pat poured some cheap wine. After those months in Ralph’s shed, Saul felt fairly comfortable.

  They talked about how Saul never played music at high school, just like Pat never took photos. They asked each other about their brothers and sisters and about their parents. They had had sleepovers as teenagers at each other’s houses, they went on camp together and now here they both were, drinking only the wine they could afford.

  By all accounts Pat should be as miserable as Saul but there was a difference that Saul noticed with Pat. Although neither had bought a house, got married or had children and neither had really anything to show for himself, Pat did have that smile. It wasn’t as powerfully joyful as the minister’s, but it was definitely there. He had a lightness about him. He didn’t seem to mind the squalor. And the way he talked suggested that he didn’t seem to worry the way Saul worried. He didn’t seem to think about things the way Saul found himself thinking about things. Saul couldn’t imagine Pat filling out a negative thought diary. In his face was evidence of that happiness that Saul had never seen in his own life, at any stage of his life.

  Saul and Pat ended up drinking into the night. Saul fell asleep on the couch. By all accounts it had been a good night.

  Saul woke early the next morning and headed out without waking Pat. The early morning with little sleep and two or three bottles of red wine the night before made the worst hangovers for Saul. Beer had nearly no effect on him at all the next day. A night of whisky drinking left him feeling stoned until the next afternoon, coupled with the worst breath imaginable and the occasional blood in his shit. Whisky shits were simply dreadful, but the ability to walk around and function the next day was almost pleasant. However a few bottles of red wine, cheap red wine at that, coupled with an early morning and no sleep, left Saul a wretch.

  He climbed into his car and drove off to his apartment, he had enough time to go back and at least brush his teeth, maybe make some fried eggs, maybe vomit in the shower. The shower was unlikely. As he drove the short distance to his apartment he began to think about the daily time log, about the multiple required signing-ins, everything that lay ahead for him for the day. A feeling of overwhelming despair suddenly filled him. He saw in the adjacent cars clean people who probably hadn’t spent the night up drinking, driving cars they took the time to vacuum and wash, wearing pressed shirts. Saul could see the whiteness of some of these guys’ shirt collars through their tinted windows. Fuck me tho
ught Saul, here he was wondering if he should tint his own windows a few shades darker.

  As Saul reached his apartment he climbed the stairs. He was using the hand rail, he was actually holding on. He needed it. He was like an old man pulling himself, willing himself not to fall over and break his fucking hip. What was he going to be like when he was sixty? Again he imagined every other musician in the world who played a gig last night. Was Bono getting up at six in the morning, three hours sleep behind him to go to work in an office, holding on to a hand rail to climb a few steps? Even local musicians, they would be in bed, asleep, recovering. Not Saul though, he was off to work, he was off to put his exhausted foot in his other world.

  Saul made it to his door. He saw the woman upstairs walk down her own steps and pass him by without looking up. She was off to her work, she wore a dark blue dress suit. It was ferociously blue, it had black trimming. It made her look incredibly dumpy. She looked like a bulldog or a tank or an English pillar box, only blue, and with arms and legs and a mean face. She walked like a bulldog too, her right shoulder dipped a little and held forward. Her heels clapping off the ground as she strode on. A jet black handbag with gold trim hung over her left shoulder. Maybe holding napalm, or poison or batteries. Wherever she was going, she looked as if she was going to make someone very unhappy.

  Saul closed the door behind him, threw his keys on the kitchen table. The curtains were all closed, it was dark and cool inside. Instantly his head seemed to ease a little. His guts gave an inch or two. He opened the fridge, took out two eggs. Brought the toaster up from under the cupboard, bread in but not pushed down. Saul had become a master at cooking a well-timed breakfast. He made his fried eggs a special way, a way which he was quite proud of. First he would dice an onion, brown, white or red, but preferably red, until he had about a full saucer’s worth diced up nicely. He would put the onion on a small frying pan with olive oil. He would cook the onions for about a minute sometimes adding a little garlic or chopped chilli. Then he would crack an egg on top of the onions. The egg would spill in between all the tiny gaps between the diced onion and cook slowly, the onions themselves would crisp slightly and stick to the egg, these would go on the toast which was spread with avocado, some cracked salt and pepper, and Saul would go to heaven.

  He watched his onions cook in the pan. He was glad he had run into Pat, he hoped he could learn more about that smile of his. He reached for an egg, tapped it on the side of the pan. When he cracked it over his precious onions the egg spilt like mucus and spittle and ran bloody red and rotting over the pan. He felt old cheap cabernet fill his throat, he ran to the bathroom and emptied himself into the toilet. As he did he thought about the woman upstairs, he thought about the Russian sailors and their choreography, the creeping orange feeling of the warm sick crawling back up his throat, the taste of bile in his mouth and that rancid bloodied egg.

  Saul stood up, flushed the toilet. He called in sick.

  He awoke about five in the afternoon, the phone was ringing. It was Pat. He was doing a photo shoot later that night for a hat company but the model had pulled out. Pat asked Saul if he would fill in, he was mainly going to be in shadow so he wouldn’t have to do much. Pat just needed someone with a similar build. Saul was very nervous around cameras. He had a fear of something being caught for eternity, something he could never talk his way out of or say didn’t happen like that because it would be on film. They would have proof, the world would have proof of who he was, and that was something Saul believed they should never have.

  Pat said they were going to pay the model $300. Saul told Pat he got very nervous around cameras, Pat said he’d be fine. Saul agreed, Pat said he’d pick him up at seven.

  It was 6:30 p.m. Saul was getting nervous about the photo shoot, he wasn’t sure exactly what he was going to have to do. He imagined being dressed up in ridiculous hats being asked to do stupid poses, smiling poses, smiles which suggested the hat was the very source of the happiness. What the fuck was Pat thinking asking him to do this? He had had a few beers while he was waiting. Generally if he slept all day, which was rare, he would wake with a feeling of anxiety. A wasted day. Adding the photo shoot to this was making Saul feel very uneasy indeed. The first sight he had seen when he got up was the mess he had left in the kitchen. He couldn’t risk even looking at the egg again, he picked the pan off the stove and threw it in the bin. He drank a few more beers, had one shot of whisky and put two bottles of red wine in a carrier bag to take along.

  Pat beeped his horn outside. Saul took another slug from the whisky bottle, took six beers in his coat pockets and another six into his wine bag. He hurried down the stairs; the booze had settled his nerves a little. The cool air of the evening laid a soothing pass over his whole body. He jumped in the passenger side. Pat gave him a little side glance. Saul drank. Pat drove.

  As they drove Pat told Saul the nature of the shoot and why it was at night time. They were heading a little distance out in the hills areas. They were going to be shooting an ad for the Akubra Hat Company. Akubra was the hat of cattlemen, jackaroos and boundary riders. So they were going to go a little out bush. Pat had the costume in the back of the car, the full regalia, checked shirt, denim jeans, knee-high boots, long brown oilskin coat and of course an Akubra hat. They would be meeting up with the brother of the ad agency who owned property out in the hills and who also would be providing the long barrelled shotgun that Akubra insisted be used. The plan was to dress Saul up, load him up with the shotgun, then put him in front of a ten foot tall grass tree and then set it on fire. All Saul had to do was stand in front, put his head down a little, and the costume, fire and shotgun would take care of the rest.

  The drive out to the property was about one hour and twenty minutes. Saul was getting more nervous and a little drunk. Every time he opened another beer he offered one to Pat, Pat kept saying no, and each time his answer was shorter. They eventually rolled and banged up the driveway to the property. Pat beeped his horn again, Saul thought it a little rude, he had done it at his place as well. When the light came on closer to the house, they could see the farmer, he waved them in. Saul put the last five beers in his pockets, grabbed his wine bag and got changed.

  ‘Okay,’ said Pat, ‘let’s get this thing done.’

  The farmer didn’t say too much, he shook hands with Pat and talked a little, pointing off into the distance while Saul was getting changed. Saul appeared from behind the car in his full outfit. He looked remarkably like the farmer, except for the oilskin. The farmer gave him a broad smile, a wink and stuck out his hand.

  ‘Now that looks the part, let’s have a quick drink before we get out there, it’s a short drive to the spot and she’s more than likely going to drop down to freezing along the way.’

  They all headed into the farmhouse. It was quite modern inside. Big open living area, a roaring pot-belly stoked with wood; the floor was half-marble half-slate. They followed the farmer into the kitchen. There was a wine bottle nearly empty sitting next to a single glass. The farmer disappeared into a small room off the side of the kitchen. Pat was unpacking his cameras and was setting up. Saul stood in the kitchen sipping away on his beer. The house was very quiet; the thick brick kept out all sounds from outside. There was no one else in the house. The farmer must live here alone.

  The farmer was gone a little while. Saul opened another beer. Pat was playing with some light meters and testing his flash. Saul was feeling a little uncomfortable around Pat at the moment, he seemed to have been irritated by Saul’s drinking. Fuck him thought Saul. Drag me up here to do something I’m not comfortable with and then start giving me the cold shoulder. Saul picked up the half-glass of wine from the farmer’s table when Pat wasn’t looking and necked it. The farmer drank good fucking wine. The farmer reappeared into the kitchen. Saul noticed his legs were slightly unsteady, he seemed to misjudge the turn from the other room. He corrected himself expertly but Saul had seen it, and it relaxed him. A warm soothing fog started to swell up
inside. The farmer was holding another bottle of wine.

  He grabbed three glasses from a cupboard and put them roughly down on the table, announcing he had been saving this particular bottle for a special occasion. The farmer didn’t notice the empty glass Saul had finished or if he did he didn’t seem to care. Saul listened as the farmer told the obligatory story about where the wine came from, where he found it and how long he had been saving it. The farmer’s face looked older in the light of the kitchen. Saul could tell he was excited to have the photo shoot up on his property.

  ‘I hope you boys both enjoy good wine.’

  ‘He’s not drinking.’ Saul gestured to Pat who was now finished setting up and was approaching the table.

  ‘I’ll take a half-glass,’ said Pat politely.

  Mother-fucker thought Saul, here is a man opening up his prized bottle with a giving heart and this little prick asks for half a glass. Saul felt like picking up the near-empty bottle and smashing it across Pat’s face.

  Saul watched as the farmer took a long draught from his wine. If the farmer wasn’t drunk before, he was now. Pat had not spoken to Saul since they pulled up out front. Saul listened as Pat tried to engage the farmer on a professional level.

  ‘I’d imagine the landscape here lends itself beautifully towards photography during the daylight hours?

  ‘Were you always from the hills or did you come out here for work?

  ‘What sort of farming is it that you do out here exactly?’

  The farmer looked disappointedly at Pat and gave him the stock answers required of the questions. The farmer looked terribly lonely. He looked like he wanted to talk about where he found his wine, how long he had been collecting wine, which wine he first fell in love with, how did it make him feel. He looked like he wanted to share his thoughts and sorrows and dreams, if he had any left, with someone, especially these two young men who came up to see him tonight. He was trying to find some magic left in him and share it, but Pat was making it very hard.