A Wrong Turn at the Office of Unmade Lists

by Jane Rawson

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘Where was it you were looking for?’

  ‘Dromana.’

  ‘Never heard of it. This is Shadow Storage and Retrieval.’

  ‘Sorry?’

  She spat again. ‘You’re an apologetic guy, huh?’

  ‘Sorry? I mean, no. Look, um. Am I in Prague?’

  ‘Did you lose your tour group or something?’

  ‘No. I’m traveling alone.’ Tour group? Ray tried to get his brain back in working order. Not Dromana. Not Prague. Not Narnia. Fairly sure it wasn’t a Fuzzy Felt mine. He was out of options. Stay calm, man. Try not to look dangerous, insane or in any way lockuppable. ‘But yes. I’m lost. Do you have a map I could look at?’ Oh, nice one. Maps have names on them!

  ‘No map, bud. Look, this is Shadow Storage and Retrieval. Head over that way,’ she pointed left, ‘and you get to Suspended Imaginums. Past that, Imaginum Incubation. To your right, Odd Socks, then Tupperware Lids, the coffee shop and gift store, then Partially Used Pens, then Remotes, then Lost Oddments. Unmade Lists have just set up their own Office, but they’re still waiting on funding for equipment and a branding redesign, so for now you’ll find them just inside Suspended Imaginums.’

  Damn that stupid soldier to hell.

  ‘Is this hell?’

  ‘No sir, this is The Gap.’

  ‘The clothing shop?’

  ‘No sir, that’s spelled all caps: GAP. We’re The Gap, initial caps only. I know it’s hard to hear it in pronunciation.’ She slid a business card over to him.

  Department of Shadow Storage and Retrieval

  The Gap

  www.thegap.gov/dssr

  ‘If you have any further questions, you can check the online FAQ.’ She tapped the card. ‘I’ve got work I’ve got to get on with.’

  She swiveled her chair so she was facing the back of the booth, and just sat there.

  ‘Miss, can I …?’

  She waved her index finger at him, all admonitory, but she didn’t turn around.

  ‘Can you just …?’

  ‘Look, bud,’ she still wasn’t turning around. ‘There’s a couple of terminals in the coffee shop. Check the online FAQ.’

  ‘Is that …?’

  ‘To your right, past Odd Socks and Tupperware Lids.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Thank you for visiting Shadow Storage and Retrieval. If you have any comments you’d like to make about the service you’ve received, please use our online feedback form.’

  Ray felt a little bit like he was going to vomit.

  He walked in the direction she’d pointed then, once he was out of sight of the booth, he sat on the ground and buried his head between his knees.

  ‘Oh fuck. Where the hell am I?’

  He knew, of course. He was in The Gap. Maybe he’d used the maps too much. Maybe they were wearing out and he’d slipped in between the coordinates or something. God. If only he had the faintest idea how the maps even worked, he might be able to figure this out. He was such an idiot sometimes. Could he not just occasionally say, ‘No, thank you, I won’t do that risky and outlandish thing, it could be dangerous, expensive or unpleasantly surprising. I’m quite happy sitting here watching civilization slowly tumble into the abyss. Pass me another vodka and tonic, will you?’ Couldn’t he say that? Well, no, he couldn’t. And there was no point starting now: he was in The Gap. Whatever the hell that was.

  What had she said? Suspended Imaginums? That was just weird. Yeah, not like shadow storage and retrieval, that wasn’t weird at all.

  Alright, he could sit here crying, maybe vomit a bit, then lie down and go to sleep till he died. That was option one. He could go try to pash the chick in the shadows booth. That was option two. He could get up, go to the coffee shop and try to figure out what this place was by looking at their goddamn online FAQ. Option three. Maybe they had booze at the coffee shop. Option three was looking best. Maybe he’d start with three, then move on to two, and if they both failed, go for one.

  He checked in his wallet. Plenty of cash. Australian dollars, US dollars, euros and renminbi. What kind of currency did they take in The Gap, anyway? He put the wallet back in his bumbag, stood up, shook his head around a bit, stretched his shoulders, did a little run on the spot, took a deep breath and gave himself a mental pat on the back. ‘You can do this thing, Ray.’

  He stepped out into the shimmeriness. It made his eyes hurt. He fossicked in his bumbag and found his sunnies. To the right, right? He headed to the right. It seemed like there was nothing out there – any sign of the coat-check booth vanished within a few steps – and there was no way to get his bearings and know he was going ‘right’, but he pushed on. After a while he saw one sock on the ground in front of him. Then there was another. Soon, sock after sock after sock, and they began piling up on each other. Walking became more difficult. From under a drift of socks, he could hear someone singing to himself. As he came level with the drift, he could see a boy at a desk half buried; behind the boy, socks piled upon socks in a mountain that became the whole horizon.

  He seemed to be singing ‘Wake me up before you go-go’.

  ‘Excuse me,’ said Ray.

  ‘Wot’s happening, guv?’

  Great, an urchin.

  ‘Could you point me in the direction of the coffee shop?’

  ‘Coffee shop, me old china? Take a butcher’s over to your right, you’ll see Tupperware Lids. Keep going past that, you’ll be at the coffee shop in two shakes of a lamb’s whatsit.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘Right you are, guv.’

  Ray ploughed on, the socks diminishing from knee depth to ankle depth, to a scattering that turned into a complete absence as he stepped back into unadulterated shimmeriness.

  Of course, it wasn’t long before there was a Tupperware lid cracking under his foot, then another, then more and more. He pushed on past the automated touch-screen greeting booth at the entrance to Tupperware Lids, continuing right. The Tupperware lids began to clear then disappeared altogether, and he was standing before a high street shop, gauze curtains in the windows, a vase of fake roses on each windowsill and a painted sign on the window: ‘The Gap Coffee Shop and Gift Store’. A chalk board out the front said, ‘Todays Specials: Try our Internet special! 15 minutes plus a cup of tea or coffee, only 7 credits!’

  Ray didn’t have credits. Still, no point going back now. He pulled the door open and stepped between the ribbons of coloured plastic. Deep in the shop, a jingling sound and a man in apron emerged.

  What can I do you for, sir?’

  ‘I’d like to use the internet please,’ Ray said, hoping politeness would help him through the awkwardness that would no doubt arise when the question of credits came up.

  ‘Certainly, sir. The internet special is it, sir?’

  Ray nodded.

  ‘Tea or coffee? We have a lovely Earl Grey that we just got in, and some nice North Queensland coffee that we’ll do you in one of those French presses.’

  ‘Coffee would be nice, thank you.’

  ‘Right you are, sir. Anything else? Scones? Eccles cake?’

  ‘Um, no thank you.’

  ‘Alrighty then. You just pull yourself up one of those internet terminals over there and I’ll be back with your coffee in a minute.’

  ‘Would you like me to pay now?’

  ‘Oh no, sir. We’ll put it on your tab, like always. You can pay when you come back permanent-like.’

  Why did everyone in this place talk like someone out of a Dickens novel? As Ray had the thought, he felt a little proud. Ray liked to remind himself every now and again that he’d read a little Charles Dickens.

  Wait a second. Did that guy say he’d put it on the tab, ‘like always’? Ray’s relief at not having to come up with the mysterious credits turned back into the little-bit-vomity feeling he’d had pretty much since arriving at The Gap.

  He slumped down at one of the two computers – they looked like maybe 2012 models – p
ropped on school desks in front of a fake log gas fire, and started up a browser. The home page was headed, ‘The Gap: policies and procedures’. Great reading. He typed in the address the Jackie O character had given him and found himself partway down a FAQ page, at the section headed ‘Shadow Storage and Retrieval’. The first question was ‘What types of shadows does Shadow Storage and Retrieval accept?’

  All shadows must be permanently dislocated from their originator. Shadows will not be accepted if their originator is extant. Evidence of dislocation may be required and if so required, must be provided in original form or in a copy certified by a Legitimate Certifier. For categories of Legitimate Certifiers, please see Annex 12A XXIb.

  Originators may be any of the subsets of organic matter. Shadows manually dislocated from inorganic originators will not be accepted.

  Condition of shadows will be recorded at the time of storage. Maintenance of shadow condition is not the responsibility of Shadow Storage and Retrieval; all risk lies with the storer.

  Ray read on.

  From whom will shadows be accepted?

  All shadows lodged with Shadow Storage and Retrieval must be lodged by agents of the Sub Department of Shadow Collection and Distribution. As of financial year XXIID, shadows will no longer be accepted from freelance collectors. Please see Bulletin 1812, section 17C for further information. Agent identification may be required by officers of Shadow Storage and Retrieval.

  This kind of crap was the very reason Ray had never got an office job. He tipped back in his chair and blew the air out of his lungs. Nothing was any clearer. He thought about taking some notes, and searched through his pocket for a pencil. Shoved deep in a corner he found a square piece of cardboard and pulled it out – too small to write on. He turned it over and realized it was a check stub from Shadow Storage and Retrieval. Neat. He dropped it into his bumbag and tipped back in the chair again, ran his eyes over the souvenirs hung from the coffee shop’s walls. A large white T-shirt proclaimed in bright red letters, ‘I don’t mind The Gap!’

  ‘Here you are, sir.’ The man, still in his apron, placed a coffee plunger, mug, bowl of sugar and jug of milk next to Ray’s terminal.

  ‘Thanks. Excuse me, can you tell me where I could get a map?’

  ‘You could have a look on the website, sir. Perhaps on the online FAQ?’

  ‘Thank you.’ Ray sighed again. He thought he might check his email, see if there was any word from Caddy on how her Friday night had gone.

  He typed in www.mail.google.com, and the computer informed him that the page could not be found. He tried www.google.com. Same. www.news.com.au? Nope, nothing. OK, he needed to get out of this place.

  He went back to the FAQ, scrolled to the top this time for general information.

  What facilities are available to visitors to The Gap?

  The Gap Coffee Shop and Gift Store provides light meals, coffee and a range of teas. Souvenirs are available, including t-shirts, mouse pads and novelty aprons. The internet may be accessed from one of two terminals at a cost of seven credits per sign-in.

  This was no bloody use. He poured a cup of coffee. ‘Aw crap.’ Ray remembered he’d wanted a beer. What the hell; it was all on credit.

  ‘Excuse me,’ he called out.

  Apron man returned. ‘Sir, I found this out the back. Do you think it might be of use?’ He was holding a photocopied line-art map, probably hand drawn. It even looked like it might have been folded lots and lots of times.

  ‘That looks just great,’ Ray said.

  ‘What was it you were after?’ the man asked.

  ‘Oh, um, never mind. Oh, actually, do you have beer?’

  ‘We have port and sherry sir, and a mighty fine Madeira. Can I interest you in a glass of port perhaps?’

  ‘Ah no, thanks. Can I hang on to this map?’

  ‘Consider it yours.’

  ‘Ta! Do you mind if I move to one of the other tables?’

  ‘Take any table you please, sir.’

  Ray took his coffee to the closest of the tables, spread with a gingham tablecloth topped with a plastic doily, a plastic carnation in a plastic vase set in its centre. While he finished off the plunger he investigated the map. There was a severely worn patch on the edge of Suspended Imaginums, back past his friend at the shadow stand. He wondered briefly if he had time to put option two into operation. Then he wondered what kind of time he had at all; what if he got home and it was fifty years in the future or something? Never mind that, getting home was the main thing. He fished in his bumbag for the map of Hanging Rock, grabbing some chewie while he was at it. It had never worked before, but it seemed worth a try. He chewed the gum, and used it to stick the two maps together. Then he drained the last of his coffee and stepped outside.

  UNDER AND AWAY

  It was the softest bed Caddy had ever slept in, and she slept and slept and slept. The rain turned into hail, a storm pelted against the window. Caddy dreamed.

  She was with Harry. They were in the backyard of their house. It was early evening, the sun about to set and the air still sweetly warm. She was in shorts, weeding around the tomatoes and the basil plants. Harry was lying back in the hammock, playing ‘Swing Low, Sweet Chariot’ on the mouth organ. Just one phrase. He played it over and over and over and over. Three notes, over and over and over. She was digging into a weed with her trowel and her hand got tangled in the roots. She tried to pull them off, and her other hand got tangled too. The harmonica was like a dog, howling. A small dog. She looked over at the hammock and Harry was lying there, poking a dachshund with a knitting needle, making it howl a tune. Swing Low, Sweet Chariot. He smiled at her and asked, ‘Do you want custard?’ She tried to pick up the bowl but her arms were gone, turned into straggly dry roots. ‘You’re no good to me like that,’ Harry said. He was lying back in the hammock, the dachshund in his arms grown sleek and long, almost human sized, its snout shrunk to a perky nose. It was nuzzling the side of his neck. ‘Go sleep in the dog house,’ Harry said to Caddy. ‘Go on.’ He and the dachshund were walking into the house, and he was locking the door behind him. He dismissed her with a wave and pulled the curtains closed.

  Caddy woke crying, her hair sticking sweaty to her face, blood from her nose caked dry, and pulling at the skin on her upper lip. She wanted cold water. She rolled herself out of bed and crawled to the fridge, opened a bottle of icy Salveation water from the minibar and drank the whole thing in one go. Then she crawled into the bathroom, turned on the bath taps and lay back on the cool tiles to rest.

  She dreamed that she saw the table from her humpy floating away down the river. She tried to run after it, but she was up to her hips in water. Her pillow floated past, and the photo of Harry she kept in her wallet. Harry was in a boat, pulling things from the river, saving her table and her pillow as the water swept her under and away. He watched her go.

  She remembered the bath and pulled herself awake, but it was only one third full. She must have been asleep for about thirty seconds. She pulled her singlet and underpants off and hauled herself over the edge of the bath and into the water. When the water was up to her chin she turned off the taps and listened to the wind shake the glass in the windows, the water pound the roof above her head. She slid down, let her head sink under the water and wondered how hard it would be to get back into that dream.

  THE FABRIC OF YOUR SHORTS

  At Suspended Imaginums, Ray was trying to figure out exactly where on the map he needed to be. It seemed like they might have plonked Unmade Lists right down on top of the worn patch of map Ray was hoping to wander over.

  A man with a ponytail, shiny slacks and an Essendon football club dress shirt was shifting from foot to foot, tapping his pen on a clipboard. Ray peered at the name tag he had stuck to the front of the shirt.

  ‘Is this the Bureau of Unmade Lists?’ Ray asked. The name tag was hand lettered and impossible to read.

  ‘Office of Unmade Lists.’ On the bottom of the man’s tie, Homer Simpson was reach
ing into the air for a giant, pink doughnut.

  ‘Sorry.’

  They both stood and looked at each other for a while. The man continued to tap his pen on his clipboard.

  ‘Are you very busy?’ Ray asked.

  ‘Very,’ he replied.

  ‘I see.’

  They both stood a little longer.

  Ray looked around. There was an expanse of carpet, about five by five metres, with nothing on it. It was bordered with a wall of office dividers covered in grey material. On one, a laser printed sign in Comic Sans font read, ‘Welcome to Suspended Ims! You don’t have to be crazy to work here, but it sure helps’.

  ‘So, can I see the lists?’ Ray asked.

  ‘They haven’t been made,’ the young man replied.

  ‘Oh.’

  Standing. Looking. ‘So what exactly do you do here?’ Ray asked.

  ‘I can tell you about the lists.’

  ‘The unmade lists?’

  ‘Yes. The Unmade Lists.’

  ‘All of them?’

  ‘You don’t have time for that.’

  ‘Yes, you’re probably right.’

  They both waited a little while. Ray thought the man might have been worried that things were getting a little too friendly between them. Once the atmosphere had cooled somewhat, the man said, ‘Would you like to hear about Smells Now Extinct?’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘It’s a list.’

  ‘An unmade list?’

  ‘Yes. It’s called Smells Now Extinct.’

  ‘Oh.’

  There was a short wait. Ray realized the man was still waiting for an answer to his question. ‘I’d love to hear about that list,’ he said.

  ‘It’s a list of Smells Now Extinct,’ the man said.

  ‘For example?’

  ‘The list is unmade.’

  ‘Ah.’

  The man looked left and right, then leaned confidentially over his clipboard. ‘I can tell you some of the things I think would be on it. But you mustn’t tell anyone.’