Words

All words are copyright and my right to be recognised as the author of this work is invoked.

I Sleep In Haysheds and Corners.

Sid has lost his people, or they have lost him. It has been days now. He is hungry and it is getting colder. He pads the streets. He tries to keep clean but he is bedraggled. He has become a matted grey thing, the type others despise.

Sid prowls the city, searching for the dream of a memory of home. The skin on his feet is hardened to crust.  When it rains he whimpers. He curls up in the earth to sleep. He remembers what it was like to be dry and warm, when he would fall asleep indoors in front of a heater. Dogs trot past and sniff the crying tangled mess in interest. Sid can hear the sounds reverberate through his throat like a motor, but he can’t stop it. As the rain dies down he shivers and sleeps.

He remembers drinking warm milk so fast his body ached afterwards. He remembers sleeping for twelve hours a day. He remembers stretching out in the sun, the pink pads of his feet reaching up to the sky. He remembers rolling in warm sand like a snake. Vaguely, he remembers that he was loved.

The days blend into one, a haze of hunger and fear. He searches in rubbish for food. At the back of a restaurant he finds a bag of cold fish and chips. He claws through the plastic and eats until he wants to vomit. Then he skulks to a corner, his sSidach doing aerobics. Another time he spies a rat under a parked car. His long-forgotten blood-borne hunting skills kick in and he pounces. He is too fast to startle her. That night he feasts.

The city is grey in the morning, grey in the evening. The sky is grey and the buildings and the streets. There are red cars and noisy people. Most of them walk past Sid as though he does not exist. The city sleeps at night and bustles in the day like a heaving monster. If Sid had the energy, he would fear the city.

Sid is still walking. He’s not sure where he is going or what he is looking for now or whether he will ever stop walking. He has almost forgotten his people, although occasionally a scent – Bepanthen, motor oil, cut grass – will trigger a memory so visceral he stops to savour it. The city turns to country and there is less shelter. He sleeps in haysheds and corners, under tractors, hidden in long grass. It is quiet out here although somehow it also feels more dangerous. The city kept him company but out here he is truly alone. All places are not alike to him.

One day, he is walking on a clay road. The city is a distant outline behind him. He is facing the future. As he walks, he can hear a car coming up the road. Unconcerned, he moves slightly to the side, walks in the prickly dry grass at the edge of the road. The grass is almost taller than him and he feels like he can hide here. But the car pulls up beside him and a man gets out.

“You alright, son?”says the man. He smells of motor oil and Sid remembers love. He stares at the man.

“We’ve been watching you for a while. Want to come up to the house? We’ll get you cleaned up.” The man looks deep into Sid’s eyes. Then he holds out his hand. Sid reaches out and shakes it slowly.

“I’m Gus,” the man says. He clicks his tongue. “You know, my missus was right. You look just like the boy on the milk carton.”

Sid touches a hand to his matted head.

“Come on, kid,” the man opens the car door for Sid. There is kindness in his face. “Come with me. We’ll call your mum and you can go home.”

Sid speaks for the first time in days from his parched mouth. “Gus, I’m Sid.”

“I know, kid.” The man kicks the battered car into gear. “We gonna get you home.”

The story of Miguel, who was exceptional.

Every day as his alarm cut the silence and the fibres of his body cried out in pain, Miguel thought “I need to get a new job.” Then he hit the clock and rolled out of bed. He stumbled into the bathroom and showered, washed the dry groggy sleep from his body. Every day he put on the same clothes: shirt, tie, suit. In the kitchen he shovelled muesli into his mouth and browsed yesterday’s paper.  He made a cup of tea for Samantha and took it into the bedroom. She woke and he kissed her on the temple, then left.

Every winter day he put on a scarf and coat and every summer day he put on his sunglasses. In Autumn and Spring he would sometimes put on all three; sometimes none. Every day he had to sprint to the tram because he refused to set his alarm two minutes earlier so that he would be on time.

On the tram, he sometimes sat but mostly stood. He felt uncomfortable sitting when there were polished women in heels who had to stand, but he felt even more uncomfortable offering his seat when he had already sat down. He feared haughty feminism, but most of all he feared the awkward dance as he got up, she sat down, and the tram lurched. It was safer to stand for the entire trip. While standing, he would listen to grunge on his iPod. Every time he heard Kurt Cobain sing, “I swear that I don’t have a gun” he would think, “Well, he’s lying isn’t he.” Approximately 80% of Nirvana fans have the same thought.

In the city, he would scan the Herald Sun as he waited for his coffee. The barista, Alex, an affable Macedonian, would greet Miguel with a warm handshake and sometimes give him a discount on his extra-hot-skinny-latte-with-one. If asked, Miguel said that he read the Herald Sun because its size made it easier to hold than the more highbrow broadsheet The Age, but really it was because he couldn’t digest long words at this time of morning.

At his office, he sat at his desk every day and pushed paper and pens and staples and teacups around. He read the news online and drank tea and checked Facebook hourly. In between all this he did some of what he was paid to do, which was help his clients make money. He was mediocre at this, largely because he was not passionate about it.

Here are some notable moments from Miguel’s News Feed this morning:

Samantha Reynolds (love of Miguel’s life) is eating three-week-old birthday cake from the fridge; if I’m not in tomrrow you know why

Emma Szubanski (a girl Miguel once ill-advisedly had sex with and who is now going through a messy breakup with a man she dated for approximately three minutes) you get told "at least you have your memories" when someone walks out of your life, but what if it is those memories which are the ones that keep breaking your heart?

Christa Von Miracle(Miguel’s best friend from high school; now an office manager moonlighting as a drag queen. Fond of exclamation marks) is on at the Corner Hotel tonight! Anyone who turns up in support earns cupcakes and my eternal lurrrrrrve!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Carolina Ferrera (Miguel’s sister; currently in Europe on the backpacking trip of a lifetime) OMG got caught up in Oktoberfest, awesome! Tristan drank so much we had to carry him home and now going in search of Vegemite to tackle the hangover! Wish you were all here, bis bald!

Just before lunchtime, something happened that happened every day. Miguel’s boss Katherine came round to his desk. He quickly minimised Facebook and pretended to be sourcing online promotional material for a client. She looked down her overlong nose at him and told him using an insidious tone of voice rather than words that he was both incompetent and remiss in his duties. Up until this point, it had been like every day. But you can never tell when your mind will decide to do something different.

“I’ve had enough,” his mouth said, though his head had not quite caught up and was still nodding sagely as though her vitriol was justified. “I don’t have to take this.” And he did what he wanted to do every day: he got to his feet and walked out the door.

There was no applause from his colleagues. It had happened too fast. Katherine did not even have time to respond. Miguel himself did not realise what had happened until he had left the building.

Once outside, he did not know what to do. He walked steadily away from his office.  He liked the walking, his lungs were full of air and his brain felt electric. He walked towards the tram stop. As he passed his regular café, Alex threw him a wave. He waved back. When he reached the tram stop, he decided not to wait for the tram and he kept going. It felt good to be walking, his tie flapping in the wind, his jacket falling open. He pulled his phone from his pocket and called Sam.

“I’ve quit my job,” he said, and suddenly it felt real.

 “What? Why? Where are you? What are you going to do?”

“I’m walking. I think I might. Just keep walking.”

“What?”

“I’ll call you later.”

He hung up, put on his iPod and kept walking.

He walked to the next suburb. His work shoes were rubbing. Skulker was angry through his headphones, but he did not feel angry. He felt powerful. There was a missed call on his mobile from work. He stopped to buy a sandwich for lunch which he ate as he walked. He went into a surf shop and bought a pair of thongs. He put them on and carried his work shoes in one hand for some time, until abandoning them in a trash can. They were later found by a tramp, who gave them to a cobbler in exchange for fifteen dollars, which he used to buy a cheeseburger, a longneck, and a packet of cigarettes. This made him the happiest tramp in Melbourne.

Miguel kept walking. After several hours his face was feeling windburnt and he had thrown away his tie. His work had called him twice, but he had no intention of ever answering his phone again. He was beginning to feel that he could walk forever. He was not walking towards his house anymore; he was walking through unchartered suburbs with clean lawns and polite mailboxes. He felt calm and tranquil.

Sam called him. “Where are you?”

“I’m not sure. I think I’m heading west.”

“Where are you going?”

“I think I’m going to just keep walking. See what’s out there. I feel good, Sam. I feel free.”

“What?”

“I think it will be a while before I come home.”

“Why? What are you doing?”

“I have to go now.”

“Wait –“ Her voice sounded strangled. “I love you.”

“I love you too. I will see you again.”

He hung up the phone and slid it back into his pocket.

He passed a bunch of people standing at a bus stop. One of them was a bored-looking teenager slacking off school. He pulled the iPod out of his ears on impulse and handed it to the teenager.

“Here,” he said. She looked mistrustful. “I don’t want it anymore,” he said. “I don’t need it. You should have it.” She took it in her fingerless-gloved hands. “Educate yourself. Put on Nirvana. You’ll love them.”

“Thank you…”

He walked on.

His phone rang. It was Chris, his best friend from school. “Sam called me. She’s worried about you. Did you really quit your job?”

 “Yeah. I don’t know why. But it felt right.”

“What are you going to do?”

“I’m walking. I don’t know where. But I like it.”

“Where are you?”

“Possibly Sunshine. Or Spotswood. I’m not exactly sure. I’ve never been out here before.” He thought for a second, then said, “It’s just like everywhere else.”

“I guess you won’t make it to my gig tonight then.”

“I guess not. Hope it goes well.”

“Miguel? You are going to keep your phone on you, aren’t you? Sam is beside herself.”

“Of course.”

When he hung up, he abandoned the phone on a brick wall, next to a happy cat. When Sam rang again, the cat jumped up and knocked the phone into a flowerbed, where it remains.

Miguel kept walking as the suburbs gave way to open paddocks. When he needed food he bought it or begged it. When he needed sleep he lay down. When he needed a rest he sat, cross-legged, on the earth. He passed through towns, where he bought postcards to send to Sam. Each card said, “I am safe. I miss you. I love you.”

At Ballarat he bought his last coffee. He savoured it, then he tore up the credit card to his joint account with Sam and threw his wallet in the bin. He took the last remaining cash from his wallet and put it in his pocket: a crisp $20 note, a crumpled fiver.

The farmland and towns gave way to desert. In the desert, he did what he had to in order to survive. He stopped walking for some time and hitched a ride with German tourists or a truckie named Brendan with strident political views or a couple of teenagers from Bathurst who were driving to Perth. They gave him water and conversation and accepted it when he told them, “I’m walking across Australia” as though this were the most normal thing in the world. But he preferred walking to the mindnumbing isolating experience of sitting in a car. He liked to feel the ground under his feet.

He became sunburnt and at night he was bitterly cold. But he kept walking. With each step he felt calmer, with each outdoor sleep he felt fitter and more alive. He thought of Sam and relived every memory he had with her. He remembered meeting her at that barbeque four years ago and how everything had suddenly fallen into place. He remembered the engagement ring he had hidden at the back of the cupboard for months and then taken back to the shop because she had said she didn’t want to get married. “Marriage is an archaic institution,” she said. “I don’t need a piece of paper to prove how much I love you.”

He thought of his childhood in Chile and how he had lost everything he knew and didn’t know then. He thought of his early school days in Melbourne and how Chris had instantly accepted him when the other kids had made fun of his accent. He thought of how he had instantly accepted Chris when other kids were scared they could catch gay. He thought of Cari in Europe and how going to Europe with $5 000 was nowhere near as adventurous as walking out of your job and never going back.

Then, one day, he reached the sea. The road gave way to dirt, which gave way to grass and dunes and the cold, clear, perfect ocean. He ran towards it, shedding thongs and ragged work clothes and sunglasses as he went. He dived into the water and came up spluttering. He lay on his back in the waves. He rode the surf in, using his body as a board. He chased seagulls and built cities of sand and lay panting on the beach glaring up at the sun. He cooled his burning body in the ocean and warmed his freezing bones in the sand. Then he took his crumpled $5 and his just-as-crumpled-now $20 and he paid money for the first thing since Ballarat: a sweet, cold, vanilla ice cream cone. He hitched a lift into Perth and spent the crumpled $20 on a bed in a youth hostel. He begged change from the girl at reception and called Sam.

“I’m coming home.”