by Peter Marks
Paul was 19. His last name was Manx (short for Manxoloulis, a name Paul’s father had shortened on arriving in Australia so the locals wouldn’t call him a Wog. It worked too. They called him a Dago). Wire thin, he was gaunt and malnourished it appeared (even though the evidence suggested otherwise, another half a packet of Twisties disappearing into him) with a large clump of jet black hair that bounced off his forehead when he walked.
Cheerful but painfully quiet, he was a plumber’s assistant who lived in Altona with his two parents, five brothers, two sisters and thirteen ferrets all squeezed together in a small fibro cement house (aside from the ferrets who lived in a two storey mansion two blocks away).
When he was on leave from his mother’s coddling, Paul drove a rust bitten Datsun 180 his brother Harpo had sold him. Sunrise orange with a bold black stripe down either side, it had acres of chrome at either end and was in dire need of urgent repair. It was Paul’s pride and joy (and Harpo’s idea of a tidy profit).
Paul loved that car. He loved the freedom it gave him and the exhilaration he felt when he drove with reckless abandon at gravity defying speeds, his veins pulsing demon adrenalin. And his head full of alcohol.
He refused to let Ali drive his orange joy even when he was more blind than he was.
She hadn’t, as yet, managed persuade him to hand over the keys. Even when he was pissed a one of his father’s ferrets, she’d not been able to cajole or threaten them from him.
The funny thing was that it wasn’t her blindness that kept Paul from handing her the keys but a more (to Paul anyway) rational reason: because she was what she was. She was a she. He refused her access to his car because she was female and Paul believed a woman’s place was in bed, or against a wall, or wedged on a couch, anywhere but behind the wheel.
Stupidly, Paul believed girls were more dangerous behind the wheel than between his privates.
Paul was naive. Paul would learn.
Ali felt for him, sent foraging fingers forth to find some portion of the deluded one, finally locating his left ear and began whispering a few obscene suggestions at the space she imagined he filled. Then she pounced. Hugged air not Paul unfortunately as he escaped, still munching, from her lusting clutches. He scuttled crab-like to the end of the couch telling her to wait for an ad. Ali got surly and asked Paul when some-one would invent braille television so she could join in such a mindless pastime.
Paul thought for a moment. ‘When you give up sex,’ he said, knowing this was a date with infinity.
Ali nodded and gave up any hope of TV in her lifetime.
________________
Upstairs, Wright gave up to mope. He was alone, locked in and left out so left to entertain himself. He was wandering the carpet, treading lightly over the green rug trying to think of something to amuse himself with. He thought of painting the room, or Serepax, or Jenny’s car bright lime green with purple polka dots. Too dangerous and too energetic. He paced and considered masturbation.
Then blindness.
When he was about fourteen, he’d read some-where that wanking sent people blind. Wright smirked, thought that in that case Alison must be a champion; A Genital Genius, an All Star Self Stroker, a Majestic Masturbator. He sniggered and made a mental note to write an anonymous letter to the local newspaper exposing her vile practices even though he knew the rumour was utter crap.
Had it not been Nathan would have been more in the dark than Alley was.
________________
Gazing out the window forty minutes later, he surveyed the trees. He was so bored. The trees were boring, the wood-worm were boring, the whole world was boring so Wright started playing games again. Decided, standing there still unable to decipher Kelly’s current distress with him and her again absence, that her irrational behaviour surely qualified her for the Shrink Olympics...
“...tonight’s 10,000 couch relay event proved a controversial affair. Originally won for a record breaking fifth time by the Doris Stochovitz Psychiatric Centre (led by Doris herself, doyenne of the deranged and hysterical heiress) these finely detuned retards, winners of this event in every Olympic’s since 1928 were later disqualified for nobbling the couch and the gold hypodermic was presented to the Kelly Grace Mood Swings.
The hundred metre dash for the clinically paranoid was also held this evening; the start anyway, for the race wouldn’t actually finish for several days. None of the stunningly fearful would move more than one step every few hours for none of them was foolish enough to lead (the competitors were too busy looking over their shoulders to move at any speed. No-one was going to get them while their backs were turned!).
Meanwhile, at the Sports and Chiropractic Centre, the Valium gymnastics was won by Vera Ruminova who scored a perfect 10 mgm. in three out of the four doses.
NIGHT THREE
The much talked of Megalomaniac’s mile was won by Australia’s Jennifer (Always) Wilde by a short half (decapitated) head from the pre race favourite President S. Hussien of (whatever bits he could hang onto) of Iraq in what was possibly the most closely contested running since Hitler V. Mussolini in that classic contest of ‘36.
As expected the Pole (& Cech. & various Baltic Republics) Vault was again won by the Soviets while the U.S. ran an outstanding race to clinch the small but not terribly threatening Central American countries hurdle.
NIGHT FOUR
The eagerly awaited hundred metre dash for professional phobics.
This, the blue ribbon event of the games, was a race which invariably produces the most outstanding performance. (The winner always achieving faster times than the current world record held by any ‘normal’; Carl Lewis, Ben Johnson, those suffering with rampant diarrhoea etc.)
The rules are quite simple; each contestant has a second who stands behind the blocks and, at the crack of the starters pistol, yells words of encouragement to their respective charges. Encouragements like: ‘Daphne, there’s a bloody great spider an inch from your ankle’, or ‘Fred, there’s a whopping great python slithering up the back of your leg’.
Jesus, you should see ‘em go!
In the afternoon it’s time for the Schizophrenics Relay - each contestant doing a lap then handing the baton to themselves.. “
________________
Nathan was anguished. And probably depressed. He was feuding with Kelly so she wasn’t around to amuse him for she was sulking some-where suburbs away, sitting there organizing her anger.
This left him little option but to continue with these mental Olympics to keep himself from thinking too much about her.
And her absence.
________________
“....NIGHT FIVE
As usual the Claustrophobes are causing problems. Refusing to change in the confines of the small dressing rooms, they complete all their events wearing a suit and tie. The monophobes were also creating a scene and refused to compete in any sport involving less than two hundred participants, so formed soccer teams of vast size and played amongst themselves until one side scored the winning goal three days after the opening kick off.
In the stands, the manic depressants sat refusing to cheer (....up or the athletes). The Agoraphobic Boxing was a non-event, the dozy bastards all hid under the ring and refused to come out of their corners.
The Baseball Final was decided in overtime when the favourites, the French Kleptomaniacs stole three bases to clinch a stunning victory.
NIGHT SIX
Highlight of the day was the Hypochondriacs Shot Put. Five thousand contestants, all with bared behinds chased about the field pursuing the loaded hypodermics hurtled from a cannon several kilometres away. The winner, Vlad the Constantly Impaled of Albania, three time inmate and professional pin cushion, won gold when his end ended the event with the most needles protruding from it.
As usual the 5,000 metres for Pathological Liars turned into a complete farce when at the finish line each and every contestant claimed victory....”
/> ________________
Turning from the desk, he walked to the wall where he stared into the mirror, looking deeply into the ice plane within its pink frame hanging flatly on the sky blue wall. It was large and forever veiled in dust. Wright preferred it that way. He kept it purposely dirty, feeling it was less forbidding.
And less revealing.
‘Mirror, mirror on the wall, Nathan’s here so now you can shatter ‘n fall’.
He stood there waiting for the mirror to crack and splinter. It didn’t, so he taunted it. Stared it straight in the eyes. Saw himself, saw the black stubble blossoming from the darkness of unkempt growth, noticed the neon signatures of dormant or recently abolished acne rushing from these shadows; grim red reminders of a juvenile skin which refused to grow up.
Wright impatiently awaited maturity. He hoped that one day Clearasil could dismiss his acne. His skin was soft, and youthful, and adolescent and Wright was fifteen years too old for such custard corpuscles.
Wright and his zits were inseparable.
For as long as he could remember his skin had erupted. He’d tried lotions of all colours and chemicals, he’d washed and bathed in every exotic substance in existence and undoubtedly would have tried slug saliva or aardvark snot had they been commercially available. Desperate, he’d tried face cleansers and mud packs, engaged in prayer, dabbled in black magic. Sandpaper hadn’t helped, Draino was useless, battery acid suggested. Nothing worked. Not even age.
So much for the miracles of modern medicine, Wright sighed, staring more deeply at the reflection. Closing his eyes, he prayed that when he opened them all spots would have left for Africa. Prayed they’d go find a suitable leopard. No luck.
So he screamed. Hollered curses at the unchanging twin confronting him then collapsed on the floor arms spread-eagled, legs kicking, loudly praying for a plastic surgeon.
Wright looked like an angry mantis.
________________
Today was a bad day. Today Nathan hated himself. He hated his obscurity, loathed the inertia which seemed to have swallowed his destiny. Felt that fate and circumstances had woven him static into this richly embroidered world which had rendered him flat and grey and incomplete into the vibrant dimensions where others moved, others progressed. Where others were happy.
Where he wasn’t, so remained in a vicious state of perpetual envy.
Life never altered, never fulfilled his ambitions, or married his fantasies, or provided the excitement or fame or wealth or new youth he so wanted. Life continued to concrete him in kryptonite sheets of pale resignation so he waited for the thaw.
Which never came.
Nothing seemed to change, nothing kept him happy. He was ambivalent toward life and considered death more frequently than was healthy, sometimes wondering if it would be easier to attain an afterlife and start the process all over again.
Call this effort a false start and begin again with a clean sheet.
________________
Wright ran a limp hand through the worn white fabric of the sheets on his bed before bending his nose to them, sniffing the thin cotton tarpaulin. He was relieved, though somewhat surprised, that he wasn’t immediately suffocated by the usual strong stench then remembered that, for a change, these particular sheets had been replaced recently. Wright recently anyway, which in reality was about as recently as the Titanic turning submarine. Dropping the sheet back to the bed, he looked about the room in vacant search for some clue to the meaning of it all.
Kelly. What was wrong? What was she so annoyed about? Why had she taken to wearing a nightdress when they slept together. Why had she stopped laughing?
Questions. No minute escaped them, they littered life like beer cans after a football match.
________________
Nathan sighed, took a deep breath and wiped an imagined droplet from his cheek deciding he was depressed. So decided to write off the gloom and headed for the typewriter again. Christ what a mess. He looked about the room, thought about clearing the debris from his carpet but noticing that nothing was moving, nothing was gagging, no encrusted underwear or soiled singlet was making a dash for freedom, he ignored this Hiroshima and crept to the corner where he sunk into the stool to gather his dark, dazed demeanour and reviewed the desktop.
Another bloody mess. It looked like Soweto on a bad day.
It was littered black, policed white with leaves of handwritten or typed or finger painted pages surrounded by broken erasers, virgin rubbers, crippled pencils, amputated rulers and exhausted pens which siesta’d on beach towels of used Kleenex. Letters and post cards and intended replies lay strewn about. A carton of spent Mars Bar wrappers huddled in caramel bliss. There was more garbage here than the local tip. Wright couldn’t work for the mess so took steps to disperse the crowd, shed a tear, broke wind, claimed tear-gas.
Nothing moved so violence erupted. Wright cleared the desk, cleaning up by sweeping the whole lot onto the floor then turned to the typewriter and began to hammer out a few pages. Continued his stupefacient autobiography.
“......my parents have much to answer for. Me for one, my name, as I’ve previously said, for another. I am Never Wright.
And no smartarse, I don’t have, nor to the best of my knowledge ever have had any relatives by the name of Maybe Wright, Occasionally Wright, Wibur or Orville Wright.
I can though, lay claim to an idiot Uncle. Uncle Max.
Now there was an Uncle. There was an idiot. This was a man whom, with a certain grudging respect, was described by all who met him as the consummate fool. A moron even greater than moi.
Which doesn’t say much for Uncle Max. Or moi!
Uncle Max, my mother’s sister’s husband’s brother, was a boyhood hero and although we never actually met, his reputation within the family was enough to earn my childish respect, my adulation, and finally, or so it seems, my mimicry.
I thought I understood Uncle Max though I’m deadly sure he wouldn’t have understood me. (Max, like so many others, was an idiot).
As a kid I believed that he, like me, was simply misunderstood. Perhaps misrepresented. Perhaps not, for now that I’ve grown up, matured physically if not mentally, I must admit that from the numerous tales told from behind closed doors by harsh relatives ever ready to sink the boot, Max was certainly a mite unusual. Peculiar even. Yet another Wright family skeleton best left dangling in the dark recesses of the same closet as weird Uncle Charles. Notorious Weird Uncle Charles who’d spent most of his life as Aunt Beryl.
Apparently, though as intelligent as a lounge sofa, Uncle Max was quite a character. He was a six foot two inch marvel of lumbering insanity, likeable enough if you could dismiss his strange ways and could afford to be charitable but most of my relatives couldn’t even afford electricity so charity and Max were out of the question. Auntie Beryl used to say that Uncle Max was alright, pleasant enough if one ignored his ignorance and affable enough if ignored totally. (Which most did, she’d add with a wink or rather, to be historically and gender accurate, HE did.)
Even so, all this animosity, all this neglect didn’t deter dear Max. He didn’t seem to notice, it didn’t seem to bother him that no-one bothered with him. Max was as thick as a brick as the saying goes (and it certainly went every-where Max did).
Here was the consummate simpleton, stupid beyond belief, a man who understood little if anything that was ever said to or about him (even idiots enjoy some advantages). Don’t get the wrong idea and excuse or feel any sympathy for my Uncle Max. He wasn’t retarded, just stupid.
That this cretin was destined for lesser things became more apparent the older and less wise he became though this had not always been the case. In fact, as a mere babe Max had been hailed a medical marvel.
He’d been hailed a medical marvel entirely due to his use of what is charmingly called here in Oz, “The Outback Dunny”. He exercised his genius with this device from the age of six months without aid, or assistance, and invari
ably toilet paper. This was some feat apparently, a spontaneous outpouring never before mastered by one so young and all sang his praises for all were in awe of young Max. Clever Max, junior genius, seventh wonder of the sanitary world. Brilliant Max, the performing abolitionist, a mere six months on this planet and already housebroken; the neatest bowel shifter in the nursery and gurgling wonder of the sanitary world. Ah, such early promise, such incredible talent, such amazing virtuosity and grasp of social convention. They cheered, they applauded. Max was a child prodigy.
But he soon grew out of it.
What happened to spoil such early promise? Stupidity happened that’s what. Minuscule Max, devoted decent defalcator and post natal prodigy had simply gotten the whole procedure arse about for immediately on turning ten the boy Max promptly regressed, suddenly spurning the toilet seat he’d been using so miraculously since birth to begin shitting on a regular basis - in his trousers.
Just like your average three year old.........”
________________
Wright felt hot breath on his collar. He asked the hot air what it wanted. My sister, it reported gruffly.
‘I don’t know where she is Fi. Last time I saw her she was ravishing some adolescent on the couch.’
‘Well she’s not there now..’
‘Did you look under the table?’ he asked, leaning back to light another fag to consider the possibilities.
‘What about the oven, she’s not roasting herself is she?’
Nathan was clipped over the ears and reminded that this was serious.
‘I told you I don’t know. Where can a blind, pissed, nymphomaniac go? To the optometrist? Not bloody likely. She couldn’t have gone sight seeing or to Buggary ‘cos they don’t have braille maps. Maybe she’s poking about in the closet with her cane. Or just being poked in the closet ...’
