Today opened bright as blue and clear as perspex. Fucking disgraceful. I was against it from the start. I pushed through the cloudless, optimistic morning in my dad's old woollen beanie and scarf, head down, scowling. My head began to itch as the wool heated up, that elevated my mood slightly, until, as I walked up onto the platform the train arrived. Don't they know that I want to do bird watching? and where was I going to anyway? It was intolerable, I was furious, sitting on that train, all the graffiti painted out, all of it gone, what was I supposed to look at? They'd painted it out - bastards - who's they? I'll tell you who they are, they're the bloody thought police, wild horses couldn't drag their names out of me, but I know who they are, and I know where they live. They should watch out, I know a thing or two about them and their preoccupations.
What a bitch, I thought, a perfect public transport day, and me without a destination, without visual stimulation. We passed Fassifern and the track was free, straight through without track work! What's going on here, the bloody Olympics?
I don't know why today is sucking so bad, some people might say it's to do with my intake, that it's dietary, or organic, or chemical - have you taken your pill love?
Like bloody likely, like eating toast and jam's going to make or break your day, like dropping a Zoloft is going to make mine. Nup, same breakfast yesterday. Short and black with porridge on the side. No frills and still a ripper. It's not breakfast that sets my mood.
I loved, yes loved, yesterday. Yesterday, all my troubles seemed so far away, my main trouble is them. Yes you heard me. Yes I am talking to you, you huge arsed, badly dressed excuses for old age pensioners, Yes I saw you getting your tickets, and you don't look that old to me. Hmmph.
Yesterday was bloody fantastic. It was a ripper. One of those blustery, mean-spirited wind all over the shop, the end of the world is nigh kind of days. It had rain and rude cafe staff too, but yet there I was: stuck in a spectacularly good mood. I skipped. In my exuberance I cleaned the house, well the outhouse, out. The result was an orange box, you know the ones with the reinforced sides, full of dusty old books. I took them to the book exchange, to the second hand place down the street.
The wind was pushing me around like crazy, and blowing the book dust into my face, up my nostrils, into my hair. But I hoiked them along.
I gave them to the guy behind the counter, making lame jokes about them really being third hand, since I'd bought most of them off him in the first place. He jokingly pretended to not want them, said he was a 'second-hand' bookstore, not a third-hand bookstore. I said what do you suggest - that I take them to the council recycling depot?
Wha'dda I want with third-hand books? he said. Wha'dduz it say in me winda?
I laughed, he was trying out one of his accents, thank god he wasn't wearing a hat today. It doesn't say quality books either but I thought I'd take a chance, I said, I thought you'd be sick of the crap you've got in here. I said it, I was feeling good. I was ready to spar, to take him on.
Ow. I got good books too honey. Remember you got most of that box off've me. But fucked if I'm taking a box of Nietzsche and that gloomy shit back.
He giggled like a computer geek. Hee, hee, hee, hee.
I was wearing my second favourite Black Sabbath shirt, black jeans and a pink mohair cardigan that my ex had left behind - that must've been the trigger. I told him - Have you never heard of black humour?
Mmmm, he said, he was eyeing the mother of pearl buttons on the cardie, but Maitland hasn't honey. Black humour here it's when the Knights beat the West's Tigers. He thought that was the funniest thing ever: hee, hee, hee, hee. I laughed too, then turned serious.
Well, I don't have any Nietzsche, I said.
What I had was a box of Penguin classics, some biology textbooks I didn't need anymore, and a bunch of novels. I had a Ben Okri, a Martin Amis and Tom Wolfe, Umberto Eco. And I had his attention. I had them all. He was on the verge of fingering the buttons, I could see his left hand crabbing forward nervous, while his right hand rifled through the box. Defensive now, (you know you want it sugar) he pulled out a thin book. Poetry. I didn't know it was in there. He said - I don't take poetry. I didn't say anything. I wanted to grab it out of his hand, but had to wait. No, no I don't he said. I'm sorry, he said. I don't do it. I just don't do poetry, and this - he was trying to steady his voice - this is poetry.
He handed me the book. You're a pleb, I said, it's Phillip Larkin, don't you know - They fuck you up, your mum and dad.
Yes I can see that. He says.
You know, I said, like a fucking ocean shelf? Get out as fast as you can and don't have kids yourself!!! Cornelius had taught me that as we cut back the dogwood, my arms still burning from the stinging nettles. They were up to our shoulders like bloody triffids. You think it's funny do ya? Whipped on the bare bum by stinging nettles? Well Cornelius did too, until they found him hanging in the shrine room. Don't look at me!
He was lookin' at me funny.
I don't have any kids, he said. The flames of anger were wafting in my loins, I cannot lie. Well what would you have done in my case? Greed, ignorance, blasphemy, sanctimonious thoughts, self rightous arrogance; don't push me, motherfucker! I wished him tied to the taxation law section with a rubber hose.
My fingers drummed out a little rhythm on the formica counter, some Michael Hutchence tune and I noticed the wet patches forming under his arms.
Poetry, he swallowed hard and fidgeted. Nope.
If a brick was made of polystyrene, was a cube and oozed a kind of rancid orange goo, would it still be a brick? If Jesus hadn't been able to do all his goody goody shit cause he couldn't get out of bed in the morning cause he was too rat arsed, would we still have Christmas? If the world makes no sense, and you're part of it, are you nonsensical too ?
His eyes grew large and he reached across. He reached across and he reached out to me. He reached out and he touched the pink cardie.
'Nice.' He said quietly.
'Go fuck yourself.' I said and started laughing like a madperson.
'Yes, I guess I will,' he said. 'First things first though. How much do you want for these books ?'
'50 bucks,' I say.
'20.'
'35.'
'Ok.'
We conducted the rest of the transaction in silence and I walked back out into the wind with my cash. Thirty-five dollars was exactly what I'd wanted. I went immediately and exchanged it for a case of beer, the Herald and some food for my cat. I lugged my shopping home with the wind behind me, lifting me with every step. That was my day. Perfect.
Back to the here and now, however. (Thud). The pensioners are still staring at anything that's not me, with deliberation, with all the concentration their addled minds can muster. Anyone would think I'm talking out loud! But there's no need for that. You're here. You're all here.
The train stopped at Central and I stepped out onto the platform. A bum asked me for money in the tunnel under George St and I growled at him like Cornelius had taught me to. Things were looking up. With any luck I'd be able to work out what my mission was and get home before the city grated my soul raw.
