War/Peace. Matthew Vandenberg
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you know?’
‘You guys have the earphones, right?’ I ask. ‘Put ‘em in. It’s the only contact we got with the outside world. If the guy who just spoke to me is even outside.’
‘I ain’t wearing earphones all day!’ Shaun states. ‘You can be the conduit. What do you say?’
‘As though I’m relaying a message from God or something?’
‘Did you say “massage”?’ Chloe asks.
‘Ha ha,’ Shaun says, shaking his head. ‘God’s gonna massage Jackson’s ears and he’ll have to pass the massage on as though we’re plying Chinese Whippers!’
‘Tag, you’re it!’ Chloe yells, flicking Shaun on the left ear. She leaps up from the chair and runs into another room.
The lids of my eyes slowly descend, like curtains falling after a show. I had little sleep last night. I can see white snowflakes, dancing in pairs, in slow tangos. They become the eyes of street lights. The strong piercing gaze is being passed – as though a baton – from one street light to the next as the train runs along the track. I’m inside this late night commuter, on my way to Gosford from Hamilton. Above me a light flickers. I’m listening to a song on the radio but it sounds like a rendition of a Morse code message by a choir the way it keeps fading in and out accompanied by the sound of rustling leaves. And as the train lets out a horrifying wail two officers walk into the carriage:
‘I’m afraid the train has been hijacked,’ one officer announces. ‘We’re trying to find a way into the driver’s compartment but until we do I’m afraid the hijackers are in control. We’re asking passengers to alight.’
‘What?! Hijacked? What do you mean you’re “asking” passengers to alight? You mean the driver’s still making all the stops?’
‘So far,’ the officer affirms.
‘But . . . we can stay on if we like?’
‘Don’t see why not,’ the other officer says, shrugging. ‘It’s pretty hard to de-rail these things. Think of it like this: you’re simply leaving your life in the hands of the public.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘That’s who are in the driver’s compartment. Several teens, drunk as fuck. The general public. – The officer shrugs.
‘Awesome,’ I say. ‘Have they got any weed, coz this ride sounds dope?’
‘How the hell would we know? We can’t gain access to the cabin. We told you.’
‘Oh yeah.’
I place two feet on the seat in front of me. I glance out the window: the scene exterior to the train is as blurry as a cloud. One as thick as paste, now just a poster of some smoke on the pale pane of glass.
‘So you ain’t getting’ out?’ the officer presses. ‘This could be the last stop.’
‘Dora Creek?’ I say. ‘C’mon. Why would I want to get off here? There ain’t nothing interesting in this suburb.’
‘Dude, this train reaches speeds close to 300 an hour in between stations! Pretty soon we’re all getting off. But it won’t be as pretty as Dora’s Creek. Get the picture?’
‘So I’m guessing the safety culture for CityRail ain’t up to scratch, huh?’
‘We got teens behind the controls, dude. Need I say more? They’re probably fuckin’ each other instead of paying attention to the control board.’
‘Hmmmm. Any girls? Are they hot?’
The train pulls out of the station and the officers each take a seat: ‘Hold on! This’ll be a bumpy ride . . .’
I open my eyes.
I’m alone on a lounge in the center of a room that looks oddly familiar. The scent of salt water wafts on a breeze darting through an open window. A seagull squeals.
‘Wha . . . where am I?’ – I look around. – ‘Oh. The beach house. Right.’ – I shake my head.
******
References
1 Millennium – Robbie Williams
2 World Of Our Own – Westlife
3 The Dope Show – Marilyn Manson
JACKSON CURTIS - 2:06am - December 10 - 2011
‘I’ll be jogging down at Cronulla Beach. You’ll run into me. Hopefully,’ I read. Then I hold my small Samsung black up to the camera so that you can read the message yourself. I shrug, switch the radio on, and begin to jog. It’s a cool day and the air tastes salty – almost Smith’s cheese and onion if it’s possible that product placement can enhance descriptive language. Waves lap at limp rocks like tongues and I can feel the chilly breath of Cronulla on my arms – the cool, minty breath of Beverly Hills, not the Sydney one but 90210. No doubt the jogging strip by Cronulla beach is as sexy as any you’ll find in Cali. I can almost taste the salty skin of the girls who pass by.
‘There’s only one girl I’m interested in right now. She tells me she’s got a joint here in Cronulla. Just by the beach, clean, pristine, perfect, like the face behind every set of shades I see as I look about. It’s the perfect place for my new club, a perfect joint where we’ll be smoking the salt from the clean, crisp air on the sunny side of Cronulla.
JACKSON CURTIS - 3:03!pm - December 11 - 2011
‘You look lost.’
I smile: ‘Don’t know why I’m here. I know where I am but I don’t know why. So I guess you could say I’m lost.’
‘So where are you then?’
‘Coniston.’ – I turn to the camera – ‘Boring old Mount Drummond as some might know it, or South Wollongong. So it’s basically part of Wollongong I guess, if you got blurred vision and a bird’s eye view of the place. But I got no idea why I’m here, in the middle of nowhere.’ – I turn to face the girl again – ‘Guess I’m real bored, just waiting for a girl to come up to me and tell me I look lost.’
‘You look lost,’ another girl says, crossing the road, walking away from the small corner store that stands on one shy corner of Coniston like a sweet little oasis: they sell Weiss bars and it’s usually pretty damn hot here. ‘You also look familiar.’
I look again into the camera lens: ‘This is when it hits you: you’re an ambassador now for the north. I used to wander through these south streets like a stray dog, wondering whether the people around me could tell I was from up north: did I look different, dress different, smell different, talk different? I used to hope so. I’ve always longed to stand out. That’s why I want to travel overseas. And I can totally tell that these girls know that I’m a north-side writer from the north-side strip. They know I’m not from the ‘Gong. I saw the collective glint in their eyes just before they caught my gaze. I heard the beating of their racing hearts, loud as though a motorbike passed between us. I caught in my attention a lock of hair as it ran, streamlined, through a corridor of air, firm and fine like a waving branch of a prime palm perched on this southern plain.’
‘We’re your sisters,’ the first girl states. ‘We’ll come into your story soon. Once the people from the south side begin to write.’
‘Sisters?’
‘Think about it. Coniston’s practically the sister city of Point Clare. It’s just a stop away from a large town. It’s one stop south shy of a large southern town while Point Clare is the nearest southwards suburb to a large northern town.’
‘Yeah,’ I say, nodding. ‘But I'm from Gosford. Say: do you go to Bondi much? I figure that’s the place where south-siders and north-siders meet to mingle. I’ll have this club there soon.