by Bill Day
I sigh; things are getting out of hand. BBC Arts gave Andrea’s project a big spin and we have been inundated by media ever since. They called the festival “The Woodstock of Visual Arts”.
Their photo of Andy was a winner. Her look of blank panic translates into a contemplative artist considering the ills of the world. It has even made a few magazine covers. From my point of view, the media hype has been unhelpful.
It is one day to the big opening. There is a power of work to do but streams of people arrive early and hamper us. Cars park on both sides of the street for miles. Trucks can’t get through, our deliveries are sporadic, and surrounding building activities have ground to a halt. Tents are springing up but many have just a sleeping bag. Brian and Celia work hard to keep everyone in one place. Thanks to them we still have site access. but it gets harder the more people flow in.
Andy is excited. She sees people pouring in as a measure of the event’s greatness. I’m unconvinced.
The bulk of events and displays are organised. There is space to display paintings, a body paint area, a strange installation of Andy’s that consist of dozens of wooden rectangles, Matthew is ready to ignite, there’s a stage for anyone who cares to perform, a huge screen allows a crowd to watch artists at work, and wet areas for clay and stuff. Banks of halogen lights will light it up at night.
“Can you get the hippies out of my building?!”
“What’s that? I was daydreaming.”
“You're an idiot. Can you get the hippies out of my building?”
“I’ll give it a go.”
I walk towards the partially finished building. It’s huge and close to complete. I walk inside and see half a dozen people sitting in what will one day be the dining area. They may not be hippies but they certainly look the part. They are dressed in Indian style pants, cheesecloth tops, long batik dresses, and beads. Not a bra among them. A few wear circular “John Lennon” style sunglasses. They look pretty cool.
“Um, you can’t stay here. Why don’t you come over to the camping area?” Brian and Celia have set up a small area for tents. It’s not enough and Celia is panicking about toilets.
A relaxed-looking hippie with long, dirty blonde hair answers, “Camping area’s full man, anyway we have permission.” He points lazily down the hallway. I set off to investigate. Turning into the future main bedroom I find another knot of people. Mike the electrician sits on a dodgy foam mattress surrounded by a group of young hippies, mostly female. His arm is around a heavyset blonde girl with bright blue eyes. Helen and Trotsky lay amongst them like sultans. Traitors.
“Mike?”
“Hey, Monty isn’t it? Pull up a mattress.” I look at the state of the mattresses and decline.
“You can’t give permission to stay here Mike. Your boss is outside having kittens.”
“Yeah, I can Monty. I can’t get any work done because of White Fang here, so fuck it, I’m hanging with Julia until I can at least get my ute out and head home.
Julia smiles at me. “Mike is going to make me a bracelet.” She holds up a mess of insulated wire. I assume he is going to strip the wire and weave a copper bracelet for his new love.
“Helen, her name is Helen. He’s Trotsky.” I feel the need to claim my traitorous dogs. I give Helen the “come” signal with no response. Trotsky gazes at me for a minute then rolls onto his back for stomach scratches.
“Look guys, the builder is pretty pissed off. I think he will call the police if you don’t move on.”
“The police? How will they get in here Monty? Have you seen the chaos out there?” Mike has a point.
Hurting from Helen and Trot’s callous disregard I make my way back home. The hippies aren’t moving until they want to. I see Brian and Celia wrestling with a single portable toilet.
“Monty, we’ll be knee-deep in shit if we can’t get more toilets. Do you know anyone?”
I call Fingers. “Uh-ha, yeah I can get some. How many do you need? Leave it with me.” Fingers is the go-to man for shit-houses.
Within minutes Fingers appears with a wad of cash and helpers he has recruited from the growing crowd. He leads his troop of labourers out and down the street. I head off looking for Lucky. I need to discuss tomorrow’s events with him.
“Muscles have you seen Lucky?”
“He was heading to the roof last I saw.”
That’s interesting. The roof is a mystery to me. It is always locked and I don’t have the key. Intrigued I make my way upstairs. The door’s unlocked so I push through and go up the last short set of stairs. I spill out into a sunlit expanse of green. There are raised beds of herbs and flowers of many kinds. There are loads of different herbs and many plants I don’t recognise. There is also a bed of opium poppies and marijuana plants. All of this is watered by an elaborate system of drippers and mist sprays. This garden receives loving attention from at least one skilled gardener.
Lucky lays naked on a deck chair sunbathing.
“Monty! Welcome to our pharmacy. Everything we need is here, well almost everything. Mandy looks after the plants with help from others. Are you here to talk about tomorrow? I am a bit sick of it, can you manage it, Monty?”
Of course I can. I am intrigued and look about the garden.
“It is a wonder isn’t it Monty. Mandy usually looks after it but she’s a bit unwell right now. We have the weed and opium for pain. The liquorice, lemon, and garlic are for colds. This is foxglove. Mandy makes a concoction for heart complaints out of it. It’s poisonous.”
“So you guys never go to the doctor?”
“Of course we do but mainly for a diagnosis. Some get influenza jabs every year but mostly we look after ourselves.”
I walk over to the railing at the edge of the building and look down. Below I see a group of people carrying something large and blue. A builder’s toilet! They stagger up to Brian and he shows them where to put it. They immediately set off down the street again. Fingers is being creative. I leave Lucky to his garden paradise and head back down.
Fingers and his crew have disappeared down the street. I find Brian. “Are they raiding the building sites for those?”
“Yep, I reckon they might be. I wouldn’t fret though. The roads are blocked and the building sites are empty so there’s no one to complain. Anyway, there’s no way for police to get in.”
Oh yes? I turn my gaze to the street and see two mounted police picking their way through the chaos. Let’s hope they are not investigating stolen toilets. They ride past our gate and trot down to Mike’s building. The horses pull up and the riders dismount. Mike and his hippies snake out the back door and stealthily squeeze through a hole in the fence that wasn’t there yesterday. They disperse into the general crowd and become invisible. Downcast, the constabulary canter away up the street. Within minutes the squatters filter back into the half-completed building and continue as if nothing happened. I admire Mike’s organisational skills.
The second toilet is being delivered. It looks like a blue millipede as Finger’s workforce carries it along. It teeters and makes slopping noises as the conveyance team stagger under the substantial weight. They drop it into place and head off for another. Pretty soon there are a dozen portable shit-houses.
Celia is happy. “It’s enough Monty, we already have the five that you hired.
Andrea emerges from a half-day of interviews. “Monty, are there any vacant units? I need more room for journalists.”
“Andy, there’s three and you have people bunking in all of them.”
“I need somewhere for Leah Alcock, from the Australian Contemporary Arts Journal. I put her in your room for now. You had better grab some stuff before she moves in.” Andy disappears as if through a mystic portal.
Disconsolate, I hurry to my unit. I’ll be damned if I am leaving my cheese and olives for some arty journo arsehole to scoff. My mood goes from mildly annoyed to totally pissed off as I alight the stairs and walk to my front door. It’s unlocked.
I push the door open and find
Leah curled in my recliner, eating cheese and olives. She is dressed casually in keeping with the mood of the day - contemporary hippy. She has shoulder-length gold-brown hair, held out of her eyes with a rather childish mermaid hair clip. She stands. She is short and a little plump. She has dimples and bright hazel eyes.
She glances at me and yells, “What are you fucking looking at?”
13
Matthew and the Colliding Hippies
After a few minutes, Leah yawns, walks into my bedroom, and shuts the door. I curl up in the recliner. My phone pings at 3.00 am and wakes me from a deep slumber - SMS from Andy. “The crowd is massive already. It’s getting ridiculous. I am going to open early.”
My phone rings immediately, “Monty, did you get my text? Who is setting up all the feed and lights and stuff? Get them here. We light Matthew this morning. Where’s Raymond?”
I head downstairs, ringing Enrico as I go. He has the laser lights, he has my cannons, he has Sonia and Mary, he has the drones I told him he couldn’t use, and he is on his way.
“Enrico, the roads are congested. How are you going to get in?”
“Don’t you worry about that Monty, my friend. I know a few tricks.”
I can feel a shadow behind me. I glance around. “You seem important. I’m going to follow you for a while. My name is Leah.”
I don’t answer. I need to delay Andy until Enrico arrives with the gear. I have generators and lights but I need an electrician to hook everything up. Mike the Unfortunate Electrician is around somewhere. I search for him.
“So, is this place like a commune?”
“What? Yeah, something like that.” Leah has decided now is a good time for an interview.
“So did you get a grant or something? Who funds all this?”
I give a vague grunt. “Look Leah, I am really busy. Why don’t you go find Andrea?”
“I want background.”
“Leah, I am flat out. Go talk to Lucky.”
“So where would I find this Lucky? Is he the head guy?”
I see Lucky emerge from the ground floor exit and stride over to where Andy is fussing over the height of the stage. “There he is.” I point toward Lucky, who is now in a heated argument with Andy. As I watch Celia breezes up beside me.
“Hello Max, introduce me to your friend.” She never calls me Max anymore.
Leah turns on me, “I thought you were Monty!”
“No, he’s my son Max. Monty is around somewhere though.” This conversation is getting a bit strange. “Let’s go look for him, my dear.” Celia gently slips her hand under Leah’s forearm and steers her away but Leah rolls from her grip and slips into the crowd. Strange behaviour - I resume my search for Mike.
I find Mike. He sits on the partially lit stage. An adoring crowd surround him. He hits two sticks together and recites some bizarre poetry.
“I am the emu.” Click-click-click. “You are the night.” Click-click-click. I look upon the moon to give me sight. Click-click-click.
“Mike!” No response. I get closer. “Mike!” He stops mid click and squints at me for five seconds. His fan club stirs with irritation.
“Monty! Everyone, this is my friend Monty.” They cheer. Right now, he could shit on a biscuit and they would cheer.
“Mike, I need a favour. Can you hook up the lighting?”
“Sure thing Monty.” He turns to his fans. “Come on guys I’ll show you some electrical stuff.” They flow away with a cheer and hubbub.
This is not what I had in mind. I ring Lucky. He is still talking to Andy. Brian has joined the argument as well. “Lucky, stall Andy for a while. I need time to get everything set up.”
“Monty, is that bloody reporter still with you? Don’t let her out of your sight.”
“Leah? Nah, she scampered when Celia tried to show her something or other. It was weird.”
“Find her Monty, now.”
Shit. I have no idea where she is. I look around blankly and expect some sort of visual miracle. Instead, I see Enrico as he careens down a thin back alleyway. Branches of ivy festoon his van and a roll of fencing wire drags behind. Stuck in the wire are three wooden fence pickets, a child’s tricycle, and a dead cat.
These old suburbs have back laneways where, in times past, dunny carts rattled along to collect the poop pans. Most of the dunny cart lanes are closed and built over but Enrico has found enough open laneways to forge a way through. He drives through the back fence and pulls up right beside me. He toots the van horn. It plays La Cucaracha.
“Monty! I have all the stuff. I have my beautiful daughters. We are ready for you.” Enrico wrinkles his nose at the cat smell.
Mary and Sonia leap out and start unloading my paint guns, which look nothing like the prototype. The girls unload plastic cases about five feet long. Mary bends over and flamboyantly throws one of the cases open. It reveals what looks like a purpose-built assassin’s rifle.
“We got into building these Monty. Aren’t they beautiful?”
My mouth hangs open. I shamelessly stare down Mary’s blouse at her beautifully formed breasts.
Sonia spies me and screams. “What are you fucking looking at?”
She round-arms me across the back of the head. I go down face first. That’s the second time in twenty-four hours I’ve heard that phrase.
I stand and mutter an apology. Mary smiles and gives me a sneaky wink. I find woman confusing.
Sonia unloads several crates of paint canisters. It looks like they expect war. The laser light gear is unpacked. Enrico finds some willing helpers to carry the cannons and canisters. I direct them over to the doghouse.
There is a whirr of generators and the grounds light up like daylight. Way to go Mike and friends!
One young guy, sick of the toilet queue, crouches in the pitch black near Muscles’ garden. The lights switch on and he finds himself squatting in near daylight. Not ready to defecate in plain view he springs to his feet and tries to hitch up his purple striped pants. He is too slow. Trotsky is close by.
Like an arrow, Trots goes in with his cold nose. There is an “eek”, then a squeal as Trotsky’s nose connects. Purple isn’t a dog lover.
In a panic, Purple Pants thrashes around and falls to the ground. Trotsky takes this as an invitation to lick Purple’s face. Purple blubbers in fear, reaches into his pocket, and pulls out an aerosol can. He squirts pepper spray into Trotsky’s face. The effect is immediate.
Trots yelps then falls onto Purple’s chest. He wipes his burning face back and forth to dislodge his attacker. Purple screams like a baby in a beehive. Trotsky rubs and yelps. Purple tries to stand but Trotsky’s full weight is on him. He collapses in a heap - dog and man yelp and cry in fear and pain.
A bellow of vengeance rises clearly above the hubbub, “Bastard!” Mandy strides out of the crowd, stomps over to the writhing duo, and snatches the pepper spray from Purple’s hand. She empties the entire can over Trotsky’s assailant. She delivers a swift kick and hurls the empty can into Purple’s forehead.
Mandy - superhero - defender of dogs. She soothes Trotsky then slips a lead over his head. Like two shadows they melt back into the crowd.
Purple Pants writhes in agony. Helen, irate by the ill-treatment of Trotsky, sinks her teeth into his thigh. He panics and jumps to his feet. He runs frantically. At first, he does well for a blind man, then he smacks straight into Muscles.
Muscles drops the bundle of painting easels he carries and looks at Purple Pants. With a sneer, he picks him up and hurls him into a nearby rosemary bush. Purple writhes amongst the branches and continues to scream. The spectators cheer Muscles display of strength. Muscles picks up his easels and strides away.
Helen, not satisfied with Purple’s fate, waits patiently for him to emerge.
Muscles walks on. His path takes him close Enrico’s van. He sees the dead cat, cries in anguish, and falls to his knees: “Tatters? Who has done this to Tatters Brown?!” He scoops up the dead cat and holds it out to Enrico.
“Enrico, who has done this? Such a beautiful cat.”
Enrico recoils from the smell and backs away. “No Muscles, it is just an old dead cat.”
Muscles stares at Enrico. His face distorts with confusion. It dawns on Enrico that Muscles is unhinged. He jumps in his van and locks the door.
Muscles turns and shouts to the crowd. “Who killed Tatters Brown?”
One imprudent hippy in orange flared jeans calls back. “That cat’s been dead for weeks Grandpa!”
Muscles considers this an admission of guilt, charges the hippy, and circles his massive hands around his neck. Orange Flares splutters and his eyes pop out with the strain. I think Muscles is going to kill the imprudent hippy but at the last moment, he lets go. He reaches to grab Orange Flares again but Orange leaps up and runs in panic. Muscles roars and runs after him.
“Come back, cat killer.”
No, I didn’t, I didn’t.” Orange continues to run.
Muscles waves the dead cat above his head and shouts to the watching crowd. “He killed Tatters Brown!”
The crowd murmurs: “He killed the old guy's cat!” “The bastard.” “Fucking weirdo.”
With Muscles otherwise engaged, Purple Pants creeps from the rosemary bush. Helen crouches low out of sight. Purple stands and begins to pick rosemary out of his hair. Helen launches out of her hiding place and lunges for his pants leg. Purple shakes free and sprints away. Helen is hot on his heels.
He cries in panic, “Ahhh the dog, the dog.” The crowd turns.
“Hey, leave that dog alone!”
“The bloody thing bit me!” He yelps as Helen sinks her teeth into his calf. “Get it away from me!”
Orange appeals to the crowd. “I didn’t kill the cat. Look at it! It stinks. It’s been dead for weeks!”
Muscles charges and swings the long-dead cat at the unfortunate hippy. Orange turns and scampers away. He spies a tall scarecrow statue and runs towards it.
Muscles chases behind and leaves a trail of stench as he waves the dead cat over his head.
Purple gains speed. “Shit! It bit me again. Help.”
