Toys

I found a tiny doll head in a toilet once. Someone had tried to flush it down a number of times by stuffing the bowl with toilet paper but the head was too buoyant. I found it bobbing on top of the water, swathed in wet white paper, eyes peering out from under the transparent layers in frozen desperation. I pulled it from the depths and continued cleaning.

Sanitation officers are charged with the task of making public facilities sanitary. As I scrub the blood, shit and cum off the seats, bowls and walls of the local public restrooms, people will often follow me – choosing to use the stall I have just cleaned; they must figure the fresh-smelling bowl will provide a more pleasant experience than the one I’m about to embark on. Oftentimes I want to tell them, ‘If you saw them before, you wouldn’t use them after’, but they wouldn’t listen and they wouldn’t care. Sanitation officers are invisible – invisible in high-vis. 

Being invisible has its perks – I can watch people move around the parks and interact with each other. Last summer I saw a gargantuan father playing soccer with his pintsize son. What pintsize lacked in size he gained in agility, running rings around the muscle-bound ork who guarded the goal. After three unsuccessful attempts to block point-scoring kicks, Dad got desperate. The slide tackle wiped the boy out completely, leaving a tangled mess of wiry limbs on the ground, covered in grass stains and blood. “Get up,” Dad said. “And stop Hollywooding.”

The hot-chip eaters are the best people-watching fodder because they’re so easily classifiable. There’s one I call the impatient beaver – they’ll pick up a chip, blow on it to cool it down, and then move their front teeth like a jackhammer, cooling the chip as it disappears into their gob. There’s the obsessive stacker, who will find three chips of the same length, line them up and eat them in carefully even bites. Then there’s the cold chip magician, who talks and gesticulates with such fervour that no one in their group notices the remaining chips evaporate before their eyes. 

Sanitation officers make a game out of what they find on the grounds of parks and in the restrooms. There are points for dollar value – watches, sunglasses, iPods – and there are points for weirdness. I am well ahead on the weirdness leaderboard thanks to one set of women’s restrooms I look after. An ornamental deer, a basketball with boobs drawn on it, two light-sabres taped together and jammed into a cistern. I find a lot of toys. After finding the doll head, I found a clump of rainbow nylon and plastic – it was slapped against the back of the bowl like it had hit it with much force.

People do see me, but mostly they take one glance and go about their business – their business of running or walking or picnicking on the grass. They may not spend time looking at me, but I spend time looking at them, and I know what happens to their business once they’re done with it. There’s this volleyballer who comes to the park – he has a killer spike on him that’s the envy of all his opponents. This skill doesn’t translate to the bathroom, however – whenever I see his feet wriggling in his fluorescent toe-shoes from under a stall door, I know I’m going to be cleaning something up off the floor. 

As summer draws to a close and the crowds start to wane, my spot on the leaderboard drops. The kids and their toys go back to school, leaving nothing but wet receipts and stray sanitary pads to pick up. Sanitary. Last winter however, the steady stream of toilet-bound items continued throughout the colder months – Barbie shoes, fluff from inside a soft toy, scraps of coloured paper, buttons and coins; all stuffed into the same bowl. I kept all the pieces in a shoe box and hid them in the women’s cleaning cupboard, all the while wondering who was using one of the toilets as a trash can.

By spring, I had upsized the collection to a ten-litre bucket and had almost reconstructed the doll – both arms, both legs and the head were accounted for, as was a lot of the stuffing from inside it. I was lovingly looking after all these pieces – I thought to myself that maybe one day I’d reunite the destructive kid who was trying to flush away their youth with all the trinkets they had so easily discarded. Maybe they’d be happy to see all these memories again; maybe they’d sit and discuss each piece with me. I conjured up many an image of my future with the toy parts, until I found another piece.

At first I didn’t realise what I was looking at, and nearly flushed it on instinct. I thankfully hesitated and looked a little closer. What on first glance appeared to be another unflushed piece of shitty toilet paper was in fact a shit-stained piece of material – I could see a tiny fruit salad embroidered on the front that still held some of its colour. Plucking the material out of the water with two fingers, I squeezed out the remaining water and held it to the light – it was a doll’s dress. I quickly wrang the sopping mess out, gagging as brown water seeped out of it.

Clutching the dress, I ran to the bucket in the cupboard. I laid out the doll parts on the floor and held the material up to them; it was a perfect fit. Suddenly it dawned on me – I had been holding a vigil in a cleaning cupboard for a creep. A creep who didn’t have the common decency to live out their sick toy-eating rituals at home. Eating and shitting out children’s toys – how fucked up can you be. I scooped up the doll parts into the bucket and marched to the trash compactor in utter disgust. As I marched by, the auburn-haired, salad-eating woman from the park bench by the restrooms laid down her fork and swished by me, leaving her half-eaten meal behind. I glanced at the container of beetroot and feta and noticed something blue poking out amongst the chunks – the head of a plastic toy Smurf.

The next morning, as I scrubbed the beetroot-coloured murder scene off the bowl and added the Smurf head to my burgeoning collection, thoughts raced through my head. Should I confront her with the bucket of toys and tell her to fuck off home? Should I leave a note on the door that says “Please do not flush any children’s toys”? Questions filled my head for the remainder of the day. By the evening, I had my script ready and muttered it to myself over and over. I was practicing in the mirror when she walked past and entered her favourite stall; she had tears in her eyes. I walked out and cleaned the men's room instead.

Summer was just around the corner and the parks began to fill up again. The chip-eating brigades returned. The volleyballers and soccer players came back, sluggish and fatter than last summer. I claimed a new spot on the lost and found leaderboard after finding a laptop and a Cartier watch. My auburn-haired friend still came every day to eat her salad on the park bench. Throughout the spring I had grown fond of her – I would watch her from behind recycling bins, noting how she tucked her hair behind her ears slowly and carefully before tucking into her lentil-and-teddy-bear meals. She had a delicate nature when she walked to the restrooms – slow and fragile with a hint of desperate urgency. Each day I would take in a different part of her – the freckles on her arms, the mole on the back of her right knee; her sunburnt shoulders. All the parts of her began to resemble doll parts – each wonderful imperfection a part of one very broken adult doll, held together with the compulsion to consume other toys.

I began to take bigger chances to see her up close – popping up from behind bins, peering around trees and even sitting on the park bench that faced hers, watching her run her fingers through her hair. She never saw me watching her – sanitation officers are invisible. I would follow her into the toilets as she did her daily deed – the sound of her heels tapping along the concrete would send me over the edge. Toy ponies and Kinder Surprise treats were on her menu that spring, each piece carefully collected and displayed on my cleaning cupboard altar.

As summer really took hold, she traipsed in, sunburnt from head to toe, leaving one of the doll’s shoes behind. Then she disappeared. Every day I’d peer around trees or pop up from behind bins to find her – nothing. I would sit in the stall next to hers and wait for the sound of those heels, only to be met with the sounds of children’s feet slapping against the floor. Now I was both invisible and lonely. Each night I lay in bed, unable to sleep from the heat and the stress, picturing her running her spindly fingers through her hair and tucking it behind her ears. I brought my toy collection home and lay it across one side of my bed. I began to sleep better. My bed smelled like her.

The morning after my first night with the collection, I trudged to work, heavy with depression. Knowing I wouldn’t see her, I didn’t even look at her bench all day. I hardly cleaned anything. The boss received two complaints about the shit on the walls of the men’s. I didn’t care, I just sat in the stall next to hers with my head in my hands, wondering if she’d finally seen me and had been scared off coming to the park for good. Just as tears started streaming from my eyes, I heard the clip-clop of her heels enter the restroom. My heart started racing as she closed the door behind her. I peered under the stall to see two perfectly pointed feet sitting on the toilet. She was quicker than normal – in and out in just a couple of minutes. She didn’t flush. As I heard the clip-clop of her feet disappear outside the restroom door, I stumbled out of my stall and straight into hers. There in the bowl was the last I would see of her – the day's deed with a tiny doll shoe poking out of the side. I tugged at my gloves and threw them on the floor, dropping to my knees in front of the bowl. I grabbed at it with both hands and devoured it all.

48 Hour Magazine and the case of the big hustlin' mound

Last week I took part in an experiment called 48hrmag. It's a project similar to the 48hour Film Festival, but instead of the film model - in which a group of people submit a themed film - the 48hr Mag team announced a theme, gave contributors 24 hours to submit work, then spent the next 24 hours designing, editing and printing the magazine to ship.

So on Saturday 8 May at 7am (which was 12 noon PDT), I awoke to find an email from the 48hr Mag team detailing the first theme: hustle.

"Hustle is where the quick-witted trickster meets the Protestant work ethic. It's virtuous labour and the con artist's graceful swindle. It praises the ratty and rough morality of making money, and the glory of giving it all you've got.

Hustle is the aging athlete who replaces ability with sweat equity. The reporter who beats the world to break a story. The entrepreneur living on credit cards and couches. It was also a popular folk dance in America at the end of the 2nd millennium.

Most hustles straddle the border between the legal and illicit: the grey market, the game, The Kennedys. The people clawing their way up or clambering down.

Hustle is Janus-faced, holding together meanings that want to fly apart. It still echoes its original 18th century usage, when it referred to "the act of shaking together" (usually dice in a game of chance). And that's just what we're doing now.

48 Hour Magazine bounces collective ingenuity against wild improbability, hoping for a hot roll. And yes, we also chose the theme because we've got two days to make a magazine that's worth a damn and the only way that's going to happen is with raw, ruthless hustle.

We want you to get right to the marrow of the word. Let's do it."

Writers, photographers, artists and designers from all over the world submitted their work to the 48hr Mag office in San Francisco; I was among the first 400 submissions, most of which were prose. When I last checked the 48hr Mag twitter, something like 1283 submissions had been received; God knows how many were received all up.

Following is the piece I wrote; I hope you enjoy it. I didn't make it to print, but to be honest, I don't care. I'm just happy I got to contribute at all. A+++ idea, would trade again.

God it feels good to be writing again.

Hannah

PS: My friend Amie over at amieweexxx sent Hustle an artwork. Check out her piece HERE.

--------

Mound


Mound.
Take.
Outdoors.
Table.

Do these seem like random words to you? They are. But what do they mean to you? What other words spring to mind when I say them aloud?

For my brother Cameron, “mound” changed his life. Well, “mound”, and me.

Cameron is a very boring, very stuffy man who works as an advertising creative. I loathe advertising creatives – their overblown egos offer me precious little in terms of intellectual stimulation, and their topics of conversation leave a lot to be desired. On my regular lunch dates with Cameron, conversation tended to revolve around the next big project, pitch or swindle; I had taken to packing a magazine into a leather-bound file and reading it while he prattled on. This magazine proved fortuitous when I one day looked up from my file to find Cameron yelling at me.

“Are you even listening? Give me a hand here, Ethan. Give me a hand!”

Sensing he knew I hadn’t been listening, I had to think fast. I glanced back down at my magazine, spotting a word in the middle of the page. A devilish grin grew across my face, but I masked it before glancing back up at Cameron. I stared directly at him with an intensity that was almost comical, then leaned across the table. With wide eyes and a booming voice, I shouted,

“MOUND!”

Cameron returned by glare with an incredulous look. “Mound?”
“Yes, Cameron! Mound! What comes to mind when I say the word mound? Play with me here.”
“Mound? Okay, mound. So like, pitcher’s mound. Ground. Dirt. Soil.”
“Good,” I replied matter-of-factly. “Soil?”
“Soil. Growth. Plants. Trees.”
I couldn’t believe this was actually stimulating conversation with this hapless git.
“Trees?” I said. “What do you think when I say trees?”
“Trees. Life. Green. Breeze. Air. Breath!”

With these words buzzing around his head, Cameron went away and created the most successful advertising campaign his company has ever had. That campaign turned a small local car company into an international success, and Cameron into a millionaire. Spurred on by a word – just one tiny spark of inspiration – I helped Cameron and his company turn the recession into a success, almost overnight.

You’d think my work here would go unnoticed. You’d think that one innocuous conversation couldn’t change this everyman into a modern-day success. Well if you thought that, you’d be wrong.

These days, people hire me to make them think. I make the uncreative creative. I bring business to business. I make executives executive. Hell, I even advise the advisers. My words change lives. That’s not arrogance, that’s fact. I guarantee that after two hours with me, I’ll have you walking out of our meeting with a notepad full of ideas and a head so packed with inspiration that you’ll be left wondering why you’ve squandered your talents for all these years. I make your inspiration my business – it’s my job to wrangle it out of you.

Cameron was good to me. After that nauseating little tree-hugging ad campaign of his went global, he made sure his company knew where he got his inspiration. I began working with the creatives at his firm, shouting words at them and having them shout ten back. I’d pick any page in my magazine – grab any word that I saw fit – and bark it at them. I couldn’t believe what came over these people.

The word “take” fuelled one of the biggest tourism campaigns our country has ever seen.

The word “stretch” brought a small home wares company untold wealth.

I once threw the word “arch” at a female client and had her vibrating in her seat with excitement. She went on to lead not one, but six specialty campaigns involving beauty products.

You can’t even begin to imagine how “behind” has changed the shape of advertising.

For Cameron’s company, the pull of my words was carnal. These seemingly random magazine phrases seemed to awaken some sort of primal urge in their creatives; by the end of our sessions, they’d be banging on tables, climbing on furniture and screaming. Each word I proposed would induce a slightly different response.

Shape.
“Square! Triangle! No, no! Round! Smooth! Soft!”
That campaign sold half a million dollars worth of furniture.

Cavernous.
“Dark! Unknown! Uncertainty. Black! DAMP!”
Home ventilation systems.

Excited.
“Thrilled! Amazed! Stimulated! Aroused!”
See? Now we’re getting somewhere.

I played these people like instruments.

I began to get more boisterous. I built up a portfolio of references from the people I helped, and began approaching other advertising agencies to consult them on matters of inspiration. I had no education or training in consultancy, no previous job experience that pertained to the world of advertising, and no overt rhyme or reason why I was so successful at what I did. I relied solely on my track record and gift of the gab to get in front of these people; to get in front of their board of directors and drum up a bit of excitement.

Silk.
Outdoors.
Table.
Party.

These seemingly innocent words produced the most salacious response. Normal people became ravenously excited – shaking their colleagues by the shoulders, punching the air like they’d just scored a touchdown; scrawling notes on whiteboards like they were writing for the first time. Words became my currency with these people, and this currency soon translated into real life remuneration.

Word spread around town; people started to take notice. I became known as the man who would turn your company around with just a few well-placed words. People called me the word hustler – the guy who would swan in, open his leather-bound file, pluck words from a random page and have you reeling with ideas in minutes. These people’s heads were full and pockets were empty before they even knew what hit them. I was a sensation.

I carried my file with me everywhere. I’d spend my days in the CBD meeting creatives for lunch and stopping well-known CEOs in the street. The work was easy, fun and rewarding – and best of all, it wasn’t even mine. The words on these pages? I didn’t write them, I would just bring them to life and watch men in suits turn into raving lunatics within minutes.

Ridge.
Handsome.
Tremble.
Supple.
Juicy.

I’ve since branched out from business – I’m now hired by influential people world over to solve their inspiration blocks. I love helping the musicians struggling to write that difficult sophomore album. I work with charities to drum up interest for their next fundraising push. I aid senators with presidential dreams. I hold seminars for struggling writers that start out as speeches and end with fully-grown men hurling ideas at each other like teenagers throw food in a cafeteria – their ties loose around their necks, shirts untucked and eyes wide. They are my orchestra, and I, their conductor.

If only they could read the sheet music.

I’ve read the magazines, I’ve seen the newspapers, I’ve read the blogs. They call me the hustler, but they’re only half right. Sure, I muscle inspiration out of people like a swindler in a card game, but I’m not the hustler in this equation; not by a long shot. You only have to look to my leather-bound file to know that the real hustler here brought these companies the words needed to fuel their business. These words that provoked such carnal responses.

Behind.
Juicy.
Mound.

Thanks for everything, Larry Flynt.

My mother was an Olympic gymnast trainer

My father was a very famous, very wealthy hotellier - he owned a large chain of hotels around the world. My mother travelled the world, training gymnasts for Olympic games. They met in the lobby of his hotel in Prague. Together they served a very practical function in each other’s lives – they were each other’s travel partner and red carpet accompaniment and second lofty income; they were not, however, each other’s love. Not once in the nine years I knew my father did I see them touch, kiss, hug or laugh. It was as if this was a life of transactions, and they were content with living it.

I was one such transaction, and a poorly managed one at that.

In the face of such dry practicality, I acted out. Often asked to sit quietly and read at the dinner table as they organised their accounts and their meal simultaneously, I would draw pictures on the table using peas and gravy. I would wet my serviette in my glass of water and throw the sodden mess at the roof, where it would stay for months. I would finish my meal, then tear sections out of the novel I was reading and eat it, page by page. “Stop being such a child,” they would say.

Special occasions were much the same. Generally they would be jet-setting, with father opening new hotels and mother playing the happy wife beside him, or mother posing with a collection of lithe and limber Ukrainian gymnasts as father watched on in the background. On the odd occasion however, they would be around for my birthday or Christmas, I would receive small, practical gifts with small, practical cards.

To: Agnes
From: Mother and Father

Handkerchiefs were hardy perennials on present-giving days, as were new ribbons for my typewriter. By the time I was eight, I had enough handkerchiefs to cover one of father’s hotels when it rained, and was precocious enough to say this to him. He grew increasingly tired of my behaviour, and not ten minutes after present giving had occurred, retired to his study to drink whisky and smoke from a pipe. When father retired to his study, he was not to be disturbed. All we would hear was the occasional instruction yelled at my mother, who would ignore him, stare at me, and then retreat to her own haven – the exercise studio – leaving me in the living area alone.

On my tenth Christmas Day, I disturbed father in his study.

Storming in with all the grace and charm of a wildebeest, I startled father and made him spill his drink. “This handwriting is YOURS!” I screamed. “Yes, dear, I always write the cards,” he replied. “Why the devil are you acting this way? Calm down.” Thrusting two identical cards in his face, I shrieked, ‘THIS one is from you and mother, and THIS one is from Santa. It is YOUR handwriting, father! There is no Santa! I hate you. I HATE YOU!” Mother was standing in the doorway, dressed in her pink exercise clothes. Her lips were pursed in muted anger and her gaze was fixed on father. As I left the study, I dropped my voice to it’s lowest point; to the pair of them, spat, “As you have left me with no further childhood to enjoy, I will stop acting like a child. Thank you mother, and thank you father.” For the first time in my life, mother looked suitably upset.

The next day, father left.

As was the way of my family, neither my mother nor I shed a tear. We did not speak of my father again and removed all memory of him from the home; the study became a storage and sewing room. We would eat dinner solemnly and silently, with mother doing the accounts and me reading quietly at the table’s opposite end. Sometimes I would look up to find her staring at me with a sadness in her eyes that I had not seen before. I would smile awkwardly and return to my book.

On Christmas Eve that year, an airmail envelope addressed to me was delivered. In the envelope I found ten photos of Athens, a cheque for a sizeable amount of money, and a note typewritten on hotel letterhead:

To: Agnes
Merry Christmas, child
From: Santa

The years went by and the letters kept arriving – the locations grew more exotic, the photos more beautiful and the cheque’s sum more generous. The photos were so inspiring that I began charting them on a map, and hung each shot on my wall. When photos of paintings inside The Louvre arrived on my sixteenth Christmas, I spent the cheque on art supplies and began painting the scenes delivered each year. I kept each painting in mother’s storage room, hoping that one day my father would return from this jet setting and have a collection of his travels on canvas. I dreamed of the day he’d return, when he would see what I’d made of his generous presents – and myself. I knew he would be proud to reinstate his study and have my paintings in there with him.

On my 35th birthday, I signed a deal with a gallery to have my work exhibited. I arrived late for dinner at mother’s, and found her dead on the floor of the dining room. A lavish meal was steaming on the beautifully set table - no novels or accounts were to be seen.

Weeks later, I cleared out mother’s storage and sewing room. She had stowed away her sewing machine and set up my old typewriter. Next to it I found a box of old travel photographs, and a stack of various hotel letterheads.

The long drive home

I feel like visitor to this skin. Like this body is something foreign, clunky and cumbersome to use. I’m hit with waves of blurred vision and unexplained sweating every 15 minutes. My arms feel like logs and my fingers feel like jelly – both of which have rendered me too useless to get this fishbowl off my head. Ha, fishbowl. I’m like an underwater astronaut. Who swims the waves of nausea. I'm going to be sick or fall asleep. Do I have allergies? Sneezing, coughing, wiping-eye allergies? There’s this one thing I missed out on doing and now it's manifested itself in all these other ways; it could have been so easily solved. Like a puzzle. An inside puzzle for my face. I love the small mirrors in the backs of spoons and in cell phone screens. I like to check my face in the camera to see if my bags have turned blue yet. I think my tie is too short. Did I just say recession? I probably shouldn’t be driving. Is that oil on the ground or hallucinations in my eyes? Who am I asking all these questions to? I’m scared of getting stopped by police but it’s not like I’ve been drinking. Hah, drinking what? I am a caffeine master with a black belt in black juice. Riddle me that, Officer. This is a massive unspoken drama that only I’m a party to. I am my own director, cast, audience and reviewer. And I’m doing a damn good job of getting home. Every corner’s like a party I haven’t crashed yet. Every traffic light a rave I’m invited to. Jet lag is for the weak. Boy George sleep is going to feel awesome. Just as soon as I can remove this fishbowl.

--
Sent from my iPhone

The Seamstress

When I ran away, I was wearing a simple summer dress and flat white sandals with gold clasps. I sold the clasps to pay for the dress that you see me in today - the woman at the thrift store was feeling sorry for me, and felt that she could on-sell my fasteners for more than the yellow shirt dress. The dress was so faded it was almost white, but I loved it. With its crisp collar and deep pockets that reached from the hips to the thighs, I said, this is the only passport I need.

I started work at a factory - repairing and recycling sails for a boating company. The work was tedious but precise - I enjoyed the feeling of finishing each one. As I'd test the strength of my stitching with my hands, I would stop to admire how strong my fabric suturing made each piece. These sails could win races, I thought. I made friends, each with a face hardened by their history; I felt at home amongst the stories of broken homes, broken relationships and severed friendships. If only we could stitch them back to life as we did with these sails, I thought. Then we'd all win races.

A new, delicate job required a new, delicate look. Pocketing some leftover material as I left the sail factory meant that I was able to give my white dress what it needed - pink piping around the collar, cuffs and hem. I hid my rough hands behind white gloves, also fashioned from sail-factory off-cuts; they were perfect for working with the softer fabrics at the lingerie factory. Like the women at my previous job, their faces did not match their disposition - soft and well-presented on the outside, these supple faces hid cold, hard contempt. They would scoff at my gloves and snigger behind my back. They'd say the piping on my dress looked like entrails; I'd think up garments I could make with theirs. After months of back-stabbing and whispers, work became a burden I could no longer bear. Each stitch - each rise and fall of the needle, each puncture of the material - was a slow reminder of how far I was from the end of my shift. The only thing that kept me sane was the precision with which I worked - each garment was a work of art; each pin prick a stroke of my brush.

The day I carelessly struck my hand was a blessing in disguise. On the way to the hospital I tugged at the piping - my dress' entrails - and removed my worst memory of that place. When I arrived in emergency, I was so woozy from stress and confusion that when the orderly called me forward I assumed I was to be fixed up; it was only when I was handed the needle that I realised what I was required to do. I straightened my skirt, adjusted my gloves and did what I do best; stitched. And mended. Repaired, wrapped and sent the finished product on its way; the doctor said it was the finest work he'd ever seen. I created seven works of art that day, and have made hundreds more since.

Hospital work is hard, but working with any new material requires a bit of adaptation. I take pride in my precise, efficient work, and know that every face I see - hard or supple - is grateful for the work of art they leave with. Sometimes I wonder if they'll find out, and if I'll have to run again. But I rely on the few meagre things this drifter requires. A firm hand, a crisp collar and deep pockets that reach from the hips to the thighs. They're the only passports I'll need.

Brain Machine

I knew I was different when mother banged on the table. Everyone was laughing, and mother was banging on the table. Mother bangs on the table when I am wasteful with my food or if I am not listening to her and watching the television instead. Mother was banging on the table, but everyone was laughing. I started crying and apologising, Mother laughed even louder and banged on the table harder. Everyone was laughing and I was crying. Later when I was put to bed I asked Father why everyone laughed when Mother banged on the table, Father said it was an added thing people do when they find things very very funny. But it is not very very funny when I am wasteful with food or watching television instead of listening to Mother. Father said that was a different kind of banging on the table and that's how I knew I was different.

Last month in gym class, Kate Bishop looked crummy and when Mr Nelson asked if she was sick she pointed her thumb to the sky. Then Kate was sick on the floor and Mr Nelson was very angry with her. He got a big bucket to clean up her sick and the school nurse had to call Mr Bishop to come and get Kate from school. Mr Nelson asked for someone to help clean up Kate Bishop's sick. I didn't want to clean up the sick so when Mr Nelson asked for help I pointed my thumb to the sky like Kate did when Mr Nelson asked if she was feeling crummy. Then Mr Nelson made me clean up the sick and the boys laughed at me and called me a "sick lover". When Father picked me up from school I asked him why Mr Nelson would make me clean up Kate Bishop's sick even though I pointed my thumb at him like Kate Bishop did when he asked if she was sick and she was. Father said that the sky thumb is called Thumbs Up and it means "okay" or "I agree with you" or "that's a great idea" or "I am fine" or "yes". Father said that people do not think like I think. He said people say things they don't mean to make jokes or lie about things or to compare things to other things or to try and not be a burden to other people. I said I say things to say things. Father said people sometimes smile and say they are feeling great when they are feeling crummy. When a person asks me how I am and I am feeling crummy I say I am feeling crummy, but now when they ask me if I am feeling great I give them a Thumbs Up because I am saying "yes okay I am fine".

My Grandma is a nice old lady and when Mother takes me to see her she gives me biscuits and fruit juice. Mother doesn't let me have biscuits and fruit juice at our house because she says I will gain weight and have too many fat cells for a young boy and have trouble when I am old because I will become a fat man. Mother says I have to have a balanced diet of carbohydrates, protein and a little bit of fat and exercise sometimes if I want to become a normal man and not a fat man. Grandma is a fat lady and when last time I went to her house I told her that Mother says biscuits and fruit juice will turn me into a fat man like she is a fat lady. Grandma looked at Mother and then started moving very quickly and taking plates from the table to the kitchen. Mother looked at me for a long time while Grandma made a lot of noise with the plates. Grandma was moving very quickly in the kitchen, scrubbing plates and putting things away and stacking things back on the shelves in her huge pantry. She was sweating on her shirt and I could see it on her face so I went into the kitchen. I touched her sweaty face and told her that she is good for getting exercise because it will stop her from being a fat lady. I don't go to Grandma's house any more and Mother says it is because fat ladies don't like being told that they are fat even though they are. Mother said that all ladies don't like being told what their weight is and I got angry because I was trying to be nice to Grandma and wanted to have more biscuits and fruit juice at her house. I made fists with my hands and told Mother that she was a skinny lady, but she laughed and said she liked being called a skinny lady. I went to my room and cried but decided to not talk about ladies and their weights any more just in case I got it wrong.

Sometimes I don't understand words like normal people do, and Father says that's because I have a special brain that means I think about things differently. When I was little I would read words and if they didn't make sense to me I would get very angry and cry, but now I can sometimes look at words as silly. People are funny when they use them and don't know that their words can mean two things. In English the other day I wrote a story about a very sad tape dispenser who cried a lot because its tape was tearable. I laughed and my teacher Miss Pike didn't because she said my story would not be funny unless I read it out to the class because tear and tear sound different but look the same. Father told me that my special different thinking brain will help me write great stories. Today I wrote a story about a machine that makes brains like mine and gives them to people so they can think differently like me.

My birthday wish

Here's a little somethin' somethin' that I threw together for a friend's birthday last week. I think I'll work this up to something larger later, but for now, here'ya.

My birthday wish

I am the second oldest child in my family of six, and when we were younger, our great-aunt Paula would make us the most sumptuous cakes. A chef by trade and a baker by interest, she would make the largest, most exquisite cakes for me, my brothers and sisters - they were the talk of the town. Her tasty layered sponge cakes were always fashioned into a six, seven or whatever age we were turning, and tended to feature whatever we were obsessed with at the time. My space-obsessed brother Jason got rockets and stars and little marzipan astronauts for his seventh birthday. Susan got a pink Barbie-themed eight. Kelly has always played instruments and received a beautiful treble clef design for her ninth. Peter - the eldest – was the first to lose out - he turned 12 and Paula decided that creating double-digit masterpieces for those 11 and over was too much. And then there was me. Obsessed with television since the day I learned to flick on the tube, I always had TV-show themed cakes. Paula had made a beautiful Bert and Ernie ensemble for my sixth birthday, Alvin and the Chipmunks for my seventh, a Transformer for my eighth and a Fraggle for my ninth. I remember remarking ungratefully that the marzipan Fraggles looked “a little messy” on my birthday - you should see my face (and the faces belonging to the Fraggle) in the photos; it wasn’t good. My mother very calmly took me aside and told me to be kind to my Aunt, who was starting to have “senior moments” - I didn’t understand what she meant. The next year, my tenth birthday rolled around and I had all but forgotten my mother’s scolding- I told every child in school that my tenth birthday was going to be fantastic. “Paula gives everyone a big cake for their tenth, come along!” I shouted as I handed out Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles-themed invites, much to the scorn of a few jealous peers. On the day, around 40 of my school friends and family gathered around the unopened cake box, waiting in dramatic silence. I slowly opened the box, and just in time to catch my expression, the cameras started flashing. There in front of me did not sit a Ninja Turtles cake in the shape of a 1-0. No Donatello, no Leonardo. Instead, the Fraggle was back, as was the number nine. I vowed never to have a birthday party again.

By the time I got to high school, I had amassed a number of very lovely, but very geeky friends. I started college rather nerdy, but looking back I do know that I became slightly more chic, slightly more stylish and slightly more aloof than the calculus kids – even the popular kids seemed to like me. I would swan around the schoolyard with bouffant hair and perfect skin, wearing scarves and brandishing a delicious swagger - they would all wave. “He’s got that dreamy boy band look”, they’d coo. “He’s pretty cool for a geek,” they’d say. I had cast off the awkward shackles of my preteen years and had blossomed into a unique flower. So it was with horror and disgust that I found, a week out from my 15th birthday, that my friends had organised not only a surprise birthday party for me, but a surprise birthday party at a BOWLING ALLEY. Here was a party with geek written all over it. Mortified, I kept my cool and tried to avoid their advances to “just hang out on Saturday night” – their obvious ruse for getting me to that elderly-invested alley. My parents had been away for some weeks by the time the big day rolled around, and in their absence I proceeded to drink the contents of their liquor cabinet and throw it up, all before 4pm. When two friends came to the door wanting to “just take me out”, I was done with fighting and much too drunk. By the time we got to the alley I was wondering if I was going to need my stomach pumped, but due to the fact that these children had never seen a drunk person before, let alone tasted alcohol, they were blissfully unaware of my inebriation. Fitting me with shoes that hideously clashed with my outfit and handing me a very heavy ball, I was shunted to the front of the line to play the first ball. Stumbling towards the lane, I went to throw my ball but stepped too far. With all the grace of a wildebeest at a muddy watering hole, I slipped on the buff wood, letting go of the bowling ball, which fell after me, onto my foot. Later at the hospital, as they me with a giant pink cast that went right up to my knee, I vowed never to have a birthday party again.

Of course, they haven’t always been so bad. There was my 21st, when I came down with glandular fever just days before the party, and had to watch my friends eat all the wonderful catered food and drink expensive parent-sponsored liquor. There was my 23rd birthday, when I was travelling around India and spent the entire day on the toilet, doing what felt like giving birth to little balls of fire. There was my 25th birthday, when my friends decided to surprise me with a potluck dinner at my house, but left me in a very hungover state to clean up after the 35 guests the next day. And then there was last year, when my very special and very lovely Grandmother died.

So this year, I’ve had enough! I’m going to completely ignore everyone. The oven bake pizza and fries are bought and waiting in the freezer, the passionfruit cheesecake was delivered last night and is chilling in the fridge; the DVD has been collected and rests next to the television next to a large set of headphones. My phone is off, the curtains are drawn, the computer is being turned off presently – and me? I am blissful, doing what I have always wanted to do to celebrate this day. Nothing.

Samantha and the cigarette

I was enjoying the sun from our lounge's day bed when Samantha slunk in the room, treading heavily and scuffing her heels on the floor. Startling me as she slumped into my armchair and lit up a cigarette, she cocked her head and gave me a forced smile, neglecting to remove the fag from between her lips. This was the kind of belligerence that I had come to expect from this youthful wiseacre who had been hanging around our home of late. Samantha had recently started sleeping with my housemate Ben, who was currently asleep. This morning was no different to every other time she stayed – she would awake two hours before Ben to perform her usual routine, which consisted of her eating our food, smoking his cigarettes and walking around our house in a blouse and underwear.

She was a pig around the home, and thought nothing of leaving empty soda cans, half drunk coffee and clothes, clothes, clothes all over the house. She never seemed to wear shoes, probably on account of the large stash of them that was accumulating around our bookshelf and coffee table – beautiful leather boots from Italy, open toe high heels and strappy sandals littered the floor. In spite of her nonchalant attitude towards footwear and bottom half attire, Samantha always took great pride in brushing her hair – I would often walk past the bathroom to find her combing out the wiry mess at the back of her head – knotted up from all the vigorous fucking I could hear through the walls at night and in the early morning.

As she sat across from me, I remembered how this vociferous little nymph got to be here, sitting in my late grandfather's most prized piece of furniture, smoking and rubbing her dirty heels into the velvet. She and Ben had met at a film school party – he assumed that she attended the school he had graduated from; she hadn't assured him otherwise. It turned out from the few snide encounters we'd had since she all but moved in three months ago, that she was unemployed and uneducated – she was a very well-read young lady but had dropped out of school at the tender age of 14. She had been kicking around smoky bars with literary types for years – smoking cigarettes and drinking liquor long before her age permitted her to, but speaking in a way that allowed her to pretend she was ten years her senior for quite some time. She was pretentious, arrogant and oh-so-self assured, and me? I wanted her gone.

On this particular morning, as she sat in my grandfather's armchair, I decided to forgo my own routine, which involved awkwardly offering her a coffee just as the kettle's whistle broke the silence of our now-regular meetings. This time I just let her sit there and wait, choosing to continue reading rather than even acknowledge her. I got the feeling that this guttersnipe was used to being looked after, and I didn't want to make a habit of waiting on her.

"Aren't you having coffee this morning?" she chided.
"No actually," I replied with eyes still firming attached to the page, "Today I don't feel like making it."
"Have you got a problem with me?" she offered. Now was my chance.
"Well Samantha-" I faltered. If I turned to her and told her exactly what I thought of her, I could be certain that me and my beautiful chair would be out on the street, and I would be without Ben in my life.
"Well Samantha," I continued smugly. "It just seems like we spend an awful lot of time together, but we don't really know each other. Who is Samantha, eh?"

"Well, what do you want to know?" she said.

Truth be told, I wanted to know anything I could about her – anything that would make me hate her even more than I already did; anything I could use as evidence in the court of Ben. This woman had such a hold on him – appearing so free-spirited to him and yet so methodical and calculating in her dealings with me. I hoped that she was jealous of me, but someone who clearly thought as highly of herself a Samantha did would probably never give me a second thought. I gave myself a few seconds to compose myself by looking out onto the street and taking a deep breath, but was again startled by loud footsteps. Ben stormed in, carrying his bank statement.

“Two thousand and fifty dollars!?” he bellowed, thrusting the statement under her nose. “How long have you been using my card?” Samantha pulled her knees to her chin and buried her face between them, then started to stutter “I… I… Ben, I’m sorry.” Grabbing her shirt violently, he pulled her to her feet. He held her by her shoulders, then pulled her in close. Staring intently into her eyes, he calmed his breathing and spat out three words very slowly. “Get. Out. Now.” Samantha started sobbing and wiping her nose. Pleading with him she cried, “Ben, I can explain.” Ben was silent as he spun her around and lead her downstairs to the front door. “Just, get out.”

I looked down at a pair of boots on the ground. Italian. Leather. Size 40. I heard her at the base of the stairwell, crying and pleading for her belongings. Ben screamed back at her – “They belong to me now, you fucking bitch!” Just as Ben slammed the door, the kettle in the kitchen started to whistle. Chuckling to myself, I scooped the boots up from under my grandfather’s armchair, then rocked onto my lower back and slung them on. Samantha was on the lawn, staring up at the window. I looked down at her. I smiled and waved with my fingers. Shocked at the sight of me in her boots, she made two fists, closed her eyes tightly and began to shriek. I kicked my feet gleefully, then sat up on my knees. Holding a curtain in each hand as the sun streamed down on my face, I mouthed “Goodbye”, and swept the drapes closed.

Haiku

An oldie but a goodie. This one's for Aimee:

I don't think those birds
who drink awful protein shakes
know what they are for.

"And she stood to fly away"

She was never confident with driving, but was getting better every time she got behind the wheel.

She had always been hesitant about it, mostly on account of her revered Grandmother’s own reluctance to learn. Ever since she could remember, she’d watch her Grandmother climb happily into the front passenger seat, whilst her silent and stoic Grandfather took the wheel. At first, she found the idea of being driven around very chivalrous, but as she grew older, it saddened to think of how stranded the poor woman would be if - and when - he died. It horrified her to think that she would one day too be stranded and helpless, reliant on public transport or trapped in her own home, so at the tender age of 19, she got behind the wheel.

She continued life in the passenger seat long after she learned to drive - putting it down to a lack of confidence in her own skill, as well as her somewhat anachronistic desire for a fedora-topped man to drive her smiling, headscarfed self around the countryside. Besides, she never felt like a driver – she was too distracted by passing people, buildings and landscapes, and loved nothing more than to fold herself up in the passenger seat with the window down and her arm outstretched, feeling the wind rush between her fingers. She was conscious of the fact that she rarely drove her own vehicle – especially on cross-country expeditions – but preferred to let those around her take the wheel while she took care of the stereo; they never seemed to mind.

Today was different -he’d never been through this part of the country before, and she decided to show it to him with a longer route. With him in charge of their arsenal of music and her in charge of the wheel, they wound themselves around coastal roads and up into the foothills of the peninsula. Conversation whipped around tales of previous travel and sights seen, whilst the music weaved the story of the crane wife around driving drums and rousing strings. As she twisted the wheel through the many arcs of the long country road, rain appeared on the horizon. Normally too nervous to drive on the open road in bad weather, she continued ahead as both song and terrain reached their peak. Smiling to herself, she entered the oncoming rain, feeling fearless, and free.

Good planets are hard to find, think before you print

I do it all day every day, and when I’m not doing it, I’m thinking about it. When I do it, I feel calm, and when I don’t do it I feel sick – these days I feel like I do it because I need to allay these feelings. No one knows I do it, because it’s costly for them and hard to understand. If they ever ask I’ll never tell them why. But I’ll tell you why. And I’ll tell you when. I can pinpoint the very moment – 2.33pm on Friday March 30; exactly one month from my 17th anniversary at Baird, Cleve and Parker Accountancy, and the day before the end of the financial year.

I had to choose the biggest day on the financial calendar to be late for work. It was close to 8.30am by the time I got into my car and pulled hastily out of my driveway. I hate being late at the best of times - stress physically manifests itself in my gut and in my sweat glands. So on this balmy autumn morning, I drove with the air conditioning on, sweaty from rushing around home looking for a clean shirt and tie. The drive to work wasn’t long, so I didn’t have time to cool down – as I approached the building I could feel the drips of sweat running down my spine and collecting at the small of my back, which was sandwiched to the chair, as well as a line of perspiration on my belly, which turned my light coloured shirt translucent. Fretting that I was going to get bollocked by one of the partners on the busiest day of the year, I started fossicking around in the passenger seat footwell, trying to find my mobile phone to call them. Taking my eyes off the road for a split second, I looked up to find traffic backing up behind a vehicle that was stopped in the middle of the road and blocking the entrance to our car park. I slammed on the brakes just in time, and found myself instantly panting from the shock. Poking my head out the window, I could see steam billowing out of a bonnet up ahead and the driver was clearly in distress. I was stunned to note that the most other drivers were doing for the woman was exercising their horns. Sure, I was annoyed that I was going to be at least five minutes later to work than even the most conservative of estimates, but I wasn’t going to sit there and make the woman’s day even worse, so I got out of my vehicle and approached hers. When I got to her passenger window I could see that she was crying, so I made sure to only knock lightly on her passenger window so she wasn’t startled. She smiled appreciatively and wound down the window, but gave me nothing more than grateful silence as I asked, “What can I do to help you miss?” She released the handbrake and got out of her door, then, motioning me to do the same, started pushing the long vehicle off the road and into a bus stop. As soon as there was enough room for cars to squeeze past the end of her vehicle, they started speeding through with scowls on their faces or disbelieving hands in the air.

We managed to get the wagon completely off the road, so I ran back to my own stranded vehicle to rescue it, bringing it to a stop in the car park driveway and turning off the engine. As I walked back to the woman’s car, a bus came screaming into the stop, honking at the woman and gesturing that she move on. I quickly approached the bus and explained to the driver that she was in distress but a tow truck would be ordered immediately; the driver was kind enough to radio his company to warn other busses. The woman was overcome with grief when I bent down to the driver’s window to talk – she was sniffing and sobbing, and the front of her blouse was stained with tears. When I offered to call a tow truck, she said, “thank you, but you’ve already done enough”, choking out each word. “I really appreciate your help, I can’t believe no one else came to my aid. Why wouldn’t they stop?” “I work in this building ma’am, it’s really no trouble,” I replied. “Well thank you very much,” she said. “What is your name?” “Alan Thompson, from Baird, Cleve and Parker,” I replied, pointing up at my floor. “Well thank you very much for that Alan.” We gave each other an earnest smile, before David Cleve’s horn cut through the silence – “Alan, move that bloody car!” he shouted with his head out the window. “We’ve got a busy bloody day ahead of us!” My morning’s excitement was well and truly over – it was time to get some actual work done.

Baird, Cleve and Parker Accountancy moved to its current site in 1994, when it was still known as Parker and Baird Accountancy Services. David Cleve and I were both juniors, there two years. Nothing much has changed around here since – certainly not the décor. Quentin Parker’s first wife designed this place to match what I remember to be her dress sense back then – pinks, floral prints, and gold. The round backed armchairs in the foyer are a dusky pink, client chairs in our offices are floral with gold framing, and the reception is a vision of very early 90s chic – a warm brown wooden hub, with matching gold fixtures and fittings. Every morning I turn a gold plated door handle, smile as I walk past Jeanette and her gold plated name tag, pick up my mail from the gold plated letter sorter, look up at the black and gold plated calendar clock, and down at the gold plated “Employee of the Year” trophy and its matching photo frame, at which point the smile leaves my face. The photo frame has been empty since March 2001, when Jeanette’s then partner Lawrence left the firm – and her – abruptly and without warning. She removed the photo from the frame instantly and it’s been idle ever since – I think everyone’s forgotten about the accolade; everyone except me.

Every March I pull the longest hours. I work from 7am til 10pm some days, come in all weekend, meet with clients and file forms with the IRD left, right and centre. It’s hard work, I’m always here alone and it can get really boring around here, but it’s work that needs to be done. At the beginning of every financial year my clients thank me for the service I provide, and Quentin Parker always mentions how grateful he is for my diligence, but outside of the mandatory inflation-adjusted pay rise, I’m never rewarded. I even knew when I saw the gold plated signage out the front being removed that day and the “New Millennium – New Partner” flag hanging in the window that they were going to appoint David Cleve, but I never once said a word. Every year when March rolls by, I turn that gold plated doorhandle and greet Jeanette with more enthusiasm as the days inch closer to year-end. I scan over our garish reception at the nameplate, the calendar clock and the trophy, hoping that the next thing I see is my chubby face starting back at me. April inevitably rolls around and the cycle starts again. If only they knew how happy it’d make me; how it’d make all of this worth it. But I could never tell.

Friday March 30 was memorable because it was so different – I was off my game and completely unfocussed on my work after the stress of the morning, and I couldn’t get that poor woman’s face out of my mind. She was so happy to see someone help her out, even someone like me – the way she looked at me made me feel like a knight in shining armour; like a saint. I can’t remember the last time I felt so gratified in my workplace, so I let myself revel in it for a couple of hours before checking the clock and finding that I had around seven hours of work to do in the space of three. I set about frantically getting my work done as quick as I could, when Quentin Parker walked past the glass frontage of my office and knocked on the door, holding a piece of paper folded in half in his hand. I was sure it was going to be some sort of complaint from a stressed and waiting client, but from the look on his face I could tell it wasn’t negative.

“So I hear you’re a bit of a star Alan!” he exclaimed, loud enough so Jeanette in reception looked up from her screen, smiling. “This here lady’s pretty happy that you came to her rescue this morning, she sent through a commendation email.” I smiled as he handed over the piece of paper and said, “Well, how lovely of her, she didn’t need to do that.” Quentin pointed at me, cocked his head to the side and in a fatherly tone said; “Now don’t go saying that Alan, it sounds to me like she did indeed need to do that”. I started to feel uncomfortable and gestured towards my computer – his compliments sounded condescending, and the work was actually piling up; I did have to get back to it. “Well yes, I will let you do your job,” Quentin said, “but just remember Alan, you’re the star of the show here on this day… this month… this year!”

As soon as he was out of sight I unfolded the paper and hurriedly rushed through the text. She’d sent it to the generic office email, hence why it hadn’t reached me directly; this was probably also the reason Jeanette was grinning so readily. The woman from the car’s name was Melanie Simms, and she worked in marketing for a natural gas company – “what a nice job,” I thought. Her email was short but confirmed everything I’d been thinking about myself that day – it was magic.

From: Melanie Simms
To:
Date: Fri, Mar 30, 2007 at 2:23 PM
Subject: Deepest thanks and gratitude
To Whom It May Concern:

This morning whilst driving to work, my vehicle broke down outside your building. I was stranded, helpless and completely upset by the lack of help from the drivers around me. A man by the name of Alan Thompson was the only driver who actually approached me to help get my car get off the road and into a nearby bus stop safely, and he did so quickly and politely. He even stopped a bus driver from screaming out his window at me. My car has since been towed from outside of your building and is at the mechanic’s, but I honestly think that I would still be in the middle of that road if it had not been for Mr. Thompson. I hope this email finds him or his employer, as he should be thanked and praised for the help he gave me in my time of need. I am truly grateful.
Yours Sincerely,

Melanie Simms

The email warmed my heart. I read over it six or seven times, letting her words fill me with glee. “I hope this email finds him or his employer, as he should be thanked and praised for the help he gave me in my time of need”. I thought to myself, “Surely this would gain me the Employee of the Year award,” as I folded the email back in half, placed it in my top drawer and went back to my hasty, hurried work.

The next Monday I was right on time for work, 8.30am on the dot. I turned the gold plated handle quickly, swung the door open with fervour and beamed at Jeanette. “Good morning, hero man!” she laughed. I did a small bow before collecting my mail from the golden letter sorter and checking the calendar; Monday 2 April, 2007; my day to shine! Darting quickly from the calendar to the trophy, I saw the frame behind it, still empty. “Jeanette?” I enquired. “Yes Alan?” she replied. Turning my head away from the frame but leaving my eyes affixed on the wall behind it, I raised an inquisitive finger towards it. “Just wondering, is there a reason why-“ I froze. “A reason why what Alan?” My palms suddenly got sweaty and I could feel the agitation of stress crawling under my skin. “Ne-never mind,” I said, shrugging my shoulders and heading to my office, devastated.

I sat at my desk and gave the reception area a cold, unflinching gaze; I was furious. How could they not give me the award? I was a hero that day! I was fucking Hercules! Even if they weren’t going to recognise my accountancy efforts, the least they could do was give me the bloody Employee of the Year award, it was early April after all! Sick with rage and consumed with such stress that my glasses were fogging up, I reached into my top drawer for my handkerchief to clean them, only to find Melanie’s email, only this time I noticed her email’s footer. It had her company’s logo and her contact details, then below it, a logo of a small green tree and the words “Good planets are hard to find, think before you print”. I grabbed my hankie, cleaned my glasses, mopped my brow and took a deep breath. Think before you print. Quentin printed the email – he must have at least recognised the importance of Melanie’s sentiments enough to print it. I felt a calmness fill me from the feet up, and when it got to my mouth I shouted, “He must actually appreciate me!” I was loud enough for Jeanette in reception to look up at me, puzzled. I thought to myself, “If this is the only victory I’m to achieve here in my 18th year, so be it”. I folded the email in half and placed it in my briefcase; this one was coming home with me.

That night, as I lay in bed, still positively fuming over Quentin Parker’s decision not to give me ANY sort of end-of-year accolade, I thought of the one person who appreciated me. I got Melanie’s letter out of my briefcase and read it over and over again.

I was stranded, helpless and completely upset by the lack of help from the drivers around me.

…and he did so quickly and politely.

…he should be thanked and praised for the help he gave me in my time of need.

“What a beautiful woman she was”, I thought to myself. It had only just occurred to me how stunning this woman was – piercing green eyes, long blonde curly hair; a fetching blue blouse… I shouldn’t have just moved her car, I should have asked for her number! Not that she’d go for me anyway, she was far too beautiful and clearly focussed on moving her car out of harm’s way to notice me. I could never ask her on a date, and part of me didn’t want to pursue it either – I had this perfect little pocket of Melanie memories that didn’t involve money squabbles, they didn’t remind me of how messy and undomesticated I can be, that didn’t remind me that they’re getting too old to have children. In my head, she was perfect, and that’s where she was going to stay. I pulled a postcard my brother sent me from Costa Rica off the wall and replaced it with her email.

The next few days of work were the absolute worst – I was so overcome with cold, focussed rage that I couldn’t do my work adequately; I thanked my lucky stars it was April. On the phone to the IRD every ten minutes kept me busy, as did their positively dire hold music – Phil Collins’ “Holding Back The Years” was the poorest of choices… “I’ll keep holdin’ on, I’ll keep holdin’ on”. The feelings of rejection and hurt were triggered by this slew of easy listening, and I was angered every time I heard Jeanette’s voice or my email notifier showed that Parker or Cleve had been in touch. “DEL-EEETE!” I said aloud before I even had the chance to read whatever it was they had to say. If only I could delete these bastards from my life. I wish I could show them.
The days started moulding into one – the turning of the handle, mail collection, calendar date recognition – everything felt stale, horrid and disgusting. Then, on April 23, the end-of-year thanks started rolling in. The design firm two floors up sent me an e-card.

From: Pickles Design
To:
Date: Mon, Apr 23, 2007 at 11:07 AM
Subject: FWD: You have been sent an e-card
Dear Alan,
Your friend PICKLES DESIGN has sent you an e-card, thanking you for YOUR HARD WORK THIS LAST FINANCIAL YEAR ALAN THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR ALL YOUR HELP. Please find your e-card attached.

<>

A rabbit wearing spectacles beamed back at me from my picture viewer – “we’re hoppin’ along nicely thanks to all your help ALAN”, it read. They liked my work! I was so pleased, especially given the fact that I’d cost them more money than first expected. And the rabbit! He was too cute for words. I thought about taking this memento home, like I did Melanie’s email. Instantly, the words of her email came back to me. Think before you print. So I did. And I printed it.

Before long I had five emails on my wall.

A kind and personable accountant.

Alan is a real asset to Baird, Cleve and Parker.

Our firm has really reaped the benefits of Alan Thompson’s hard work.

thanking you for YOUR HARD WORK THIS LAST FINANCIAL YEAR ALAN.

he should be thanked and praised for the help he gave me.

They made me happy, they made me grin; they made the frustration of my firm worthwhile. Did I ever think to write back to commend them on their commendations? Plenty, I just didn’t have the time.

As winter started washing over the city, the emails waned. Like the other 17 years I’d been at the firm, people forgot the duties of a diligent accountant all too quickly, and the fan mail stopped. I would go home at night, stare at the five emails that so often brought me joy and validation, and felt flat. What was I to do now that the love levy was dry? Clients went about their days. Jeanette never looked up from her desk. Quentin Parker never stopped by my office to give me motivational truisms from behind an extended finger. I hadn’t received a legitimate email in two days. I was back to the doldrums. Then a message came through from our old office supplies chain; the ones we’d dropped back in 2004 when we found a cheaper source.

From: Sales
To:
Date: Wed, June 27, 2007 at 04:31 PM
Subject: Please update your details
Dear invoicing,

We recently sent your office our new catalogue, but have had this envelope returned to us. We have not received any recent orders from your company, so we would like to ask that you reply to this message with your full contact details including website URL and fax number. At City Office Supplies, we aim to bring you the best, most affordable office products, and hope that our great range and superior service will bring you back to our in-store and online stores again soon.

Thanks again for choosing City Office Supplies – we look forward to continuing custom with your fine company in the future.

Yours faithfully,

Norman Burrows
Customer Service Representative
City Office Supplies
Auckland

We look forward to continuing custom with your fine company. Your fine company. I imagined what it would be like if it were my company. Thompson, Baird, Cleve and Parker even had a good ring to it. I printed the email instantly and took it home. I had run out of drawing pins, so my newest e-conquest was left on the floor. My next batch of flattery, accumulated over the next few weeks, was inevitably placed on top of it. When that pile fell over, I started another. When that pile spilled all over the floor of my room, I started another on top of the deluge. Every day I would scour my emails, looking for a commendation of any sort – thank yous from clients became kind regards from fellow accountants or old friends. Every day I printed positive emails and took them home. Once they covered my bedroom floor, they became my new bedside table, then a coffee table, then something to rest my shoes on. Soon my emails became bookends, then took over the entire bookshelf. The more emails I printed, the better I felt about work, the better I felt about the name on the door, the better I felt about the empty employee accolade frame. Every printed morsel brought me another small piece of comfort – another tiny moment of gratification where I got to feel like the star. Think before you print.

You’ve been an enormous help, thank you.

Your work is great, thank you.

Awesome stuff with the accounts Alan, you’re a star.

Thanks heaps BCP.

Let me know what to do next and we’ll go from there; I can’t wait!

I haven’t heard from you in a while Alan, do get in touch.

Thank you for your generosity.

Yours sincerely.

Kind regards.

Cheers.

Last week I noticed that my bedroom is now in perpetual darkness – no sunshine can seep through the mounds of paper I have stacked six feet high, but their crisp white brilliance brings enough light for day and night. Now, they line the hallways. There are stacks of them up against the mirror in the bathroom. All over the coffee table. Next to the gas hob. Think before you print. I did and I do and I will. I’m becoming increasingly fearful of paper cuts – some days I can barely make it to my kitchen because the hall is blocked by white A4 paper. My sofas wheeze under the weight of the mail. I cannot cook on my kitchen bench with the piles stacked high. Cupboards are unusable; so are saucepans. You don’t have to reach further than arm’s reach to find something beautiful around here, because it’s everywhere. This is my home – here with every piece of gratitude I could ever want.

There’s something on at church on Sunday, could you please come?

Isn’t it a great day in the city today?

Thanks for calling yesterday; I just needed to talk to somebody normal.

Each little piece of earnest prose is a sign that I’m a good person, and that I’m appreciated. At night, I can hear them telling me that it’s going to be okay. They appreciate me. Baird, Cleve and Parker don’t worry me at all any more. When I feel at my worst, I find more commendations and print them. Days when I don’t do it are either spent at home or pouring through archived messages at work, searching for something; anything. Every day I’m a little calmer, a little nicer and a little more tolerant of Baird, Cleve and Parker; even Jeanette. Our stationery bill is on the rise, but Norman Burrows at City Office Supplies is a good man who is full of praise for my work, and I run the account. Your fine company. This week I bought a second briefcase, from City Office Supplies of course. Every night I open it and remove the day’s findings.

We appreciate your custom.

We thank you for your payment.

Cheers Alan.

Ta.

The other day, I came across The Email again. Subject: Deepest thanks and gratitude. I read it aloud and felt her words dance out of my mouth and around my house. He did so quickly and politely. I propped myself up on a stack of late 2007 commendations and shouted her words into the top of the hallway mirror, which was peeking out under a telephone table stacked high with February 2008 tidbits. I HONESTLY THINK that I would still be in the middle of that road, IF IT HAD NOT BEEN FOR MR. THOMPSON. The next day I printed it in full colour gloss. I took the proof from the printer, blowing on its colours as I attempted to dry the ink quickly. A small green tree from a natural gas company. Think before you print. Think.

I mounted it in a gold frame.

I like to suck in smells

My first ever memory is triggered by the very particular smell of sweat, cigarettes and deodorant mixed together; it's the smell of my father. I'm three and he's holding me in his arms, my back flush with his forearms and my head cupped in his hands; I can feel the wind rushing past my dangling legs as he looks me in the eyes and repeats, "I'm sorry baby, I'm really sorry. I'm so, so sorry." His large hands almost completely envelope my head, and his brunette, blue-eyed and mildly weathered face, which I dare say is starting to match my own these days, stares at me with such intensity and earnest that there is no way I could ever forget it. He's circling my grandparents' house where my mother and I lived, because behind him I can see the underside of the long white-stained deck; the sun is shining through in streams that now remind me of jail bars. He rounds the corner and I can see the clothesline and the un-pruned fig tree fly past, then it's out to the driveway as mandarin, lemon and grapefruit trees pass by my periphery backwards - like riding on the local bus service's disorientating seats. I can hear the cicadas chirping in the family bougainvillea creeper above the front archway, which is flowering in the summer sun. My father looks over his shoulder and picks up the pace, keeping my mother's angry and shrill voice in the background at bay. "I'm sorry baby, I'm really sorry," he repeats once again, before pulling me close and burying my head into his shoulder and neck with his enormous hand. Twenty-two years later, I can be at bars or on the street at the pedestrian lights or waiting in line at the post office - if a man that smells like sweat and cigarettes and deodorant is in close proximity, I am three. Eight years ago, I found out from my Grandma that this was the day my parents finally split; I was horrified. He thinks my first memory is of a foil balloon at my second-ever Christmas; I pulled that idea from a photograph.

I used to truly devour the smell of play dough. Whether it was the homemade kind that my mother would make up in batches, or the store-bought, trademarked crap that Jane next door had, I remember grabbing it with both hands, shoving my face into it and inhaling with all my might. It was so intoxicatingly good that I can still remember being six years old, and looking down at my tiny hands and the large red glob clutched between them, imprinted with two small nostril marks from inhaling so fervently. Mum's stuff always smelled the best - I could smell it long before she made it. The Domestic Purposes Benefit never allowed for Skellerup or other such iodised luxuries, and I remember the excitement I would feel when I smelled her open the salt in the bulk section; she always tried to hide it from me but I knew exactly what she was doing. Later that day, I would be jumping around the driveway, my Skip-It scraping on the concrete, or double-bouncing Jane on the trampoline, when a sweet and smoky smell would waft past my nose. She'd be inside, up to her elbows in red food colouring, giving me something to occupy myself for as long as it took me to either get it dirty, leave it to dry out, or eat it. Jane's stuff never tasted as good, nor did it feel as good to play with, but these days you'll still catch me knuckle deep in it at Christmas time with my cousins, sucking in its pharmaceutical aroma like some sort of nostalgia junkie who is wishing for simpler times - being six and making playdough dinners with Jane's PlayDoh Spaghetti-O. Last time I saw her, we had pupils as big as dinner plates, and not a shit show of eating anything; we avoided eye contact.

Geoff always smelled like hair product and Jack Daniels, because Geoff wasn't like the rest of us. We - the unwashed, unkempt masses - smelled like grease and Jim Beam. Jim Beam was heavenly and disgusting, amazing on the night but never the next day, and ready and waiting for such grand occasions as Wednesdays, Thursdays, Fridays and Saturdays. Work or university would finish, bottles would be purchased, coke complements were procured, and the ripped-jeansed, barefooted, Pantera-tattooed masses would descend upon the basement bedroom we all seemed to call home. Reeking like roll-your-own cigarettes, spilt beer and that indefinable boy's bedroom stench, we would pile onto stacks of mattresses, fold ourselves into oversized and overused armchairs and start guzzling down the devil's nectar. The smell - so buttery, so smoky and so tantalising - still warms me in ways that my current friends do not understand. The first glug of the 40-ounce pouring brings joy to my heart; the foam on the top of the glass caused by carbonated deliciousness still makes my eyes smile. Back then, I would sit there, thin and smoking, holding my brew like a bible, wondering how I so swiftly morphed from poptart to grunger, from jock's favourite to groupie; Jim Beam was to blame. We'd down vessel after vessel, each less precise and more potent than the last, and laugh, cheer, jam and sing. Often we'd be kicked out, and en route to the neighbouring beach, I'd bury my face in my cup and inhale the sweet scent of Kentucky's finest. I'd smile a wry smile that due to a covered mouth, few would notice. I'd finally found people who I liked - people who liked me, who liked being themselves; one sip, one sniff, and I'm there again, accepted. Most of the great unwashed live in Melbourne these days, and no amount of Jim will ever bring them, or that feeling, back.

I used to be so good at smoking. I showed real promise; had real talent. I was such a dab hand in fact, that even years later my very presence still induces irrepressible cravings in those who have known me longest. Those were the days, sitting in that office with the windows wound up and the door closed, sucking down each special filter like a precious flower that blooms for one day in every million. Every day, each new packet purchased would provide the same series of pleasures - the overbearing aroma of cracking open the box, the twiggy smell of each stick as they were pulled from the pack, the first strike of a new box of white-tipped matches; the potency of the soon-to-be-secondhand waft that would escape off the end of each shaft. Hell, I even loved the smell of my ashtrays - of which I had many - thanks to the work of many discarded vanilla Coke bottles, fresh from the vending machine downstairs. Every morning, my office would smell a little worse than the last - latent smoke would hang in the air and in the sofas. Unlocking the door would be like releasing the devil's potpourri into the atmosphere; I loved it. And the closer it got to deadline day, the more likely I was to suck in the stench of the place than I was to actually smoke- money was tight and contributors were generous, giving my poor office a two-hour reprieve from my chain-smoked tailors twice a week. If the walls could talk, you could've put money on their want to cough. It was par for the course back in those days - we thought young writers were supposed to be disgruntled chain-smokers with a penchant for curse words and self-destruction. I quit six weeks after my contract expired.

There are smells I suck in for pleasure, smells I inhale as if ingesting them, smells that make me feel warm and nice inside and smells that make me six again. Then there are triggers. Triggers and smells differ in my mind. Smells hark back to fonder times, they're nostalgic; they're fun. Triggers are like that last drink that blows you into oblivion - that last moment before tunnel vision and hatred beset you, leaving you in a crumpled heap on the floor of her bathroom with the door locked. For me, smelling miso soup, coke zero or the chew of Winterfrost-flavoured gum are triggers; put more than one of them together and I'm doomed. One whiff of this unholy triumverate and I'm 23, working on a magazine I have no love for and swiftly wasting away. The three-packet-a-day Winterfrost habit, the odd colouring of a cup used for coffee, coke and miso without being washed inbetween, the 500-calorie but 90-minutes-exercise rules I would place on myself; these triggering smells bring back the memories of that disastrous year. I wouldn't eat for half the week - between Monday morning and Thursday after deadline, my life would consist of those three food items - one to kill cravings, one for what I believed to be sustenance, and the other to mask the awful smell of ketosis that would escape from my depths like a rotting corpse; in many ways, I guess I was. Each day I got a little closer to disappearing - each packet of that candy-cane-tasting gum brought me one more visible rib, a little more visible collarbone, another notch of my belt; each number that melted off the reading on the scale brought me a little closer to perfection, a concept that to this day I grapple with both understanding and shaking off. It wasn’t the first time these behaviours had surfaced, but I like to think they were the last. These days I'm doing better - Winterfrost got discontinued, full-sugared Dr. Pepper is too good to deny, and Cruskits beat miso hands down, but those smells - those triggers - always leave me fantasising, idealising and remembering what it was to be that person. She was unhappy, confused and an emotional wreck, capable of lying to all around her without so much as a blink, but she sure looked good in photos. Sure, last week I asked a friend who took my picture to delete it, on account of my thighs looking like 'a burst sausage', and sure, this week I bought a lot of gum, but I rescinded on my photo request. And I still have most of the gum.

Recently I've realised that I love one of my favourite smells with such regularity and exhilaration that it's impossible to attach just one memory to it. Of all of life's little pleasures - those raindrops on roses situations that make even the hardest of hearts skip a beat - new stationery is on top of my list. It's the whole experience that makes it - creasing a new staple-bound workbook for the first time, the neatness of page corners not tainted by my cack-handed writing, the promise of what will follow after I press pen to paper - and the smell. New workbooks, new diaries, new jotter pads - they all pop with a crisp brilliance that makes me want to fill each page with sparkling prose, witty commentary and bizarre lists that I will surely leave somewhere for another ephemera aficionado to find. For me, this need for the new and dazzling in life permeates both on the page and off. On the page, my desire for this fix shows itself in my room full of unfilled moleskines, visual diaries pored over and forgotten, and list notepads craving for a new morsel of organisation; discarded. Off the page I'm much the same - launching into new projects with untold fervour, inhaling my love for new places, people and things like lines off a table, and discarding old, boring or undeveloped ideas at breakneck speed. I wish I could follow through with these things I so readily douse myself in; I wish I had the passion and drive to always inhale life deeply, with both nostrils and a full chest's load. I want aftershaves to encompass me, restaurants to entice me, and intoxicants to reel me in so that my words may envelop me. May I have the smell of baking with cinnamon, polished wood furniture, peeled citrus fruit and freshly washed hair around me for years to come. May I be drunk on the world's bouquet evermore.

On plane trips, scarves and feeling wistful

Cruising altitude had long passed the ten thousands, and the rain and low-lying fog of his hometown were all but forgotten as the plane sailed just high enough to let the sun shine over the wing and onto the clouds. He aimed his lens out of his window and thought to himself, “Why can I always see the wing, no matter where I sit? And why do I always take the same photo, every time?” Today the view was stunning – clouds as fluffy as whipped cream licked upwards and onwards, sun-kissed by soft rays that no one on the ground today would believe existed. He put away his camera and pulled his jacket sleeves over his hands, tugging at the cuffs. The thick blue elastane had long faded to grey, and the fibres, brittle with age, were tattered and pulling. He thought of how his trouser legs were doing the same, and how he never thought to allow himself the luxury of new clothes, but didn’t give the holiday in Wellington a second thought.

The stewardess had only just come around with the sauvignon blanc and cheese platter - two pieces of waxy cheddar and a few green grapes. He had just begun to enjoy this light pampering when the seatbelt light flicked back on and descent into the windy city began. Hearing the clink of the drinks trolley fast approaching, he slammed back the rest of the wine and held the cheese in his hand. Upon receiving an odd look from the hostess who offered to take his empty cup and plastic platter, he plucked up his best Down Country Bloke accent and chuckled, "Well I could've bloody travelled with that Branson bugger but I didn't - your free cheese is just too bloody delicious love." She smiled awkwardly and moved on. “Now she knows I’m a weirdo for sure,” he muttered, staring out once again at the wing.

It was late afternoon as the wheels extended out in anticipation of tarmac - he could already see from Lyall Bay's windsock welcoming party that the day was going to be as wily as home. He had escaped nothing, but knew by now not to count on the capital's weather. He thought of how bitterly cold windy days could be in this city, and how cold his exposed skin tended to get. He reached down and realised he’d forgotten his scarf; he always forgot his scarf. Chuckling at his own foolishness, he looked out the window to see airline baggage handlers holding their hats as the plane trafficked in; he was already on his feet when the seatbelt light blinked off.
He rescued his bag, the second on the conveyor belt, just in time for the suited and serious to start swarming the track. "If you all stood back just a little bit," he thought to himself, "you would all be able to see whose bag is coming up next and wouldn’t have to crowd; simple." Swinging his bag over his shoulder, he shuffled outside behind a slow-moving and bewildered tourist pushing a rickety trolley and peering at a city map; he pulled his cigarette pouch from his pocket and made use of the time presented to him. "The bus doesn't leave for another 20 minutes brother, you stroll on," he said, assuming the man – who promptly sped up –could not understand him.

The trip into town on the airbus always made him wistful. As always, the wind was rushing through the bus tunnel, and the assault of sideways rain was waiting at the other end. The combined efforts of 40 pairs of lungs and one opportunistic tagger left the inside of the bus windows looking like unintelligent cave drawings; RUKA WUZ HERE - how very insightful. He loved how bleak everything seemed from in here, and how starkly different he felt once out on the street. He smiled awkwardly and looked out the window, clearing the condensation with his jacket sleeve. "There is so much paper in this town," he thought to himself as the batteries on his discman died. Posters, leaflets, post-its - any kind of paper expression you can think of lines the streets in this town. It was as if, he thought, the closer you are to the Government, the more likely they are to read your pasted-up anarchistic sentiment. He began to feel worried about how disinterested he was in politics, literature, art; everything. He'd spent his entire adult life chasing a liberal, passionate and creative ideal that he had now realised was constructed out of rote learned, lecturer-poached beliefs. He scanned another passing wall, and noticed a large statement in graffiti: THINK FOR YOURSELF – DON’T TRUST THE INSTITUTIONS. Did the paranoid anarchists of post-it-note fame have it right?

The bus soon reached the city, and he alighted near Cuba Street. His friends were set to finish work in 30 minutes and he had time on his hands. Soon he had re-juiced his music, and began to walk with the spring in his step that comes from having a beat to bounce to. He loved this part of town, and always felt calmest, happiest and free when walking by himself, taking in the colours and smells of this vibrant area. The Irish pub was alive with music, laughter and the clinking of glasses; men with yellowing teeth and burgeoning bellies cackled at each other’s jokes and kept one eye on the telly. Across the way a Chinese health store was closing - the owner was delicately moving medical sculptures to make way for the sliding security gate. Four school-aged girls in headscarves and singlets huddled together and ran as one, screaming about the cold and giggling infectiously. He was again in love with this city of meagre dreams.

The diner where he met his friends was as cheap as it was charming; kitsch as it was catastrophic. Retro thermoses lined the walls, each something to behold and something to examine individually. Many were traditional tartan, others shone in stark 70s yellow, but the Charles ‘n’ Di wedding commemoration was the biggest treasure. Settling into his green leather chair to wait for company, he looked out the window into the wet – he hoped they weren’t going out tonight. They arrived and plied him for news of home instantly. “Is she still going out with him? Have you seen my mother? Is the weather as shit as it is down here? Who are you living with now? Is she hot?” The way they’d all meet up and instantly start finishing each other’s sentences loudly reminded him that the more things change, the more they stay the same; that old chestnut. His friends informed him that there were to be drinks at their flat tonight in his honour. “All 15 of our friends are coming!” they laughed. “Not your usual party back home, but enough to keep someone like you interested.”

The hill leading to their house was large and confusing to him; he’d been to flats a million times here but always in the valley. As the city lights faded into twinkles and the taxi wound ever higher into the tight windy roads of Hataitai, he leaned over to the driver and enquired – “We can barely fit through ourselves, what happens if a car comes the other way?” The driver sped up without looking back at him and said coldly, “They give way to me”. If he were more honest with himself, he’d say that this flat was like any other flat, that these rooms were like any other rooms, that the view was just like the one in his old place last year, and that the girls were just as pretty. Instead this villa was a palace – equipped with rich wooden floors, a long sheltered deck and a view of the city that made him audibly sigh. His friends’ rooms were large with high ceilings and thick curtains, resplendent in maroons and browns. Both rooms were home to a number of discarded vintage shirts, piles of university readings and Polaroid photos; he felt artier already just being here. The girls here were great too – they wore floral prints and dainty shoes, and liked posters with sparrows and Matryoshka dolls. Two boys and two girls lived here – how wonderfully nuclear.

Before long the lounge was full of interesting, interested people who he swore had been handcrafted for his enjoyment and emotional fulfillment. He mingled for a while before taking a particular liking to a spritely blonde who was studying linguistics and played French horn. He was sipping on red wine and telling wry, self-depreciating jokes whilst she giggled away, scrunching up her nose and flinging her head back with glee. Her bubbly persona was absolutely infectious, and as soon as he had finished his third wine, his usually closed-lipped smile was reborn as a grin, saved mostly for when she gave him a post-joke pat on the arm. His friends left him to it, but often gave him knowing smiles and winks from their respective corners; she was too busy maintaining eye contact and re-crossing her legs to notice being noticed.

Four hours later, she followed him to the deck, where he lit up a cigarette. There were no lights, but as he sank into the comfort of the outdoor couch, his eyes adjusted and he was able to see well. Lingering back a few steps, she followed his lead and slunk down beside him, resting her head in his armpit. He put his arm around her and nestled his nose into her hair. They sat in that same position and chatted into the night, long after the party had wound down and weary drunks had headed into the night. Thanks to a very political upbringing, this girl was well travelled, knowledgeable and astute, and conversation with her was easier than he ever thought imaginable. She was funny and delicate, friendly and affectionate, and best of all, she was ladylike. He loved how she repositioned her legs onto the couch so gracefully to bring herself closer to him– there weren’t many ladies back home, and this one’s grace was as intoxicating as his near-finished bottle. When he told her how ladylike he thought she was, she lifted her head and kissed him on the cheek, then pulled his arm further around her. “I need to work in the morning, so I’m going to leave here soon, but I’ll be around tomorrow, and I’d like to see you again.“ Part of him was disappointed she couldn’t stay, but he comforted in the knowledge that she was also that kind of lady.

Walking her down to the road to wait for her taxi, he noticed that she was shivering from the cold. Her slight little body was covered in goosebumps and her arms were crossed, frigid in the night air. “I hope you don’t find me too painfully chivalrous here, you can take my jacket tonight if you want,” he said. He pulled at the sleeves and looked at the ground, stuttering, ‘It’s tatty, old and gross though, so you don’t have to-“; she stopped him with a kiss on the lips. Smiling, he took the jacket off and helped her into it. She scrunched up her nose, grinned and pulled the sleeves over her hands; “it feels lived in and loved”, she said, “and I like it”. He crossed his own arms to brave the cold, just in time to see the taxi pull up next to them. He gave her a kiss on the forehead, then her lips. She grabbed his hands and squeezed his palms through the cuffs on his jacket; “thank you, for all of this”, she whispered. As she got in and disappeared down the hill, he thought to himself, “If I get nothing more out of this weekend, this will make it all worth it”.
As he skipped inside for one last drink, he sighed, and to no one in particular he said, "Man, I love this town".