Troy’s Possibilities

by Rodney Strong

  In keeping with the workout mode, her long brown hair was loosely held in a ponytail. Coloured, manicured nails sat on the end of ringless fingers. And underneath the well-maintained exterior was a warm, funny, caring woman who loved trashy reality shows. Despite having a job that allowed her to afford better accommodation, with a better class of roommate, she stuck it out with me.

  She disappeared into her bedroom while I chopped vegetables for dinner. Emily had many wonderful qualities but she was a shit cook, so I did most of the dinners – and the dishes, and more than my share of the cleaning as well, if we’re honest.

  By the time she reappeared, wearing her at-home clothes of tracksuit pants, faded T-shirt and fluffy slippers, the vegetables were sautéing.

  ‘Anything exciting happen today?’ she asked casually as she snagged a piece of carrot that hadn’t made it to the pan.

  ‘Like what?’ I responded innocently.

  She poured herself a glass of red wine from the bottle that lived on the bench, a 2013 Merlot – apparently a very good year, though since I was a non-wine drinker that meant nothing to me. ‘I don’t know,’ Emily said. ‘Did you win Lotto? Meet a new girl? Invent a self-cleaning toilet?’

  ‘Some girl came to the front door this morning.’ She tensed and I stifled a smile. I badly wanted to play a bit but decided to let her off the hook. ‘I think she was selling something, so I slammed the door in her face. Apart from that, just a normal day. What about you?’

  I caught her relieved look reflected in the microwave door. She spent the next twenty minutes telling me how she’d nailed a presentation at work in front of her boss, her boss’s boss, and some new guy called Austin.

  It was a safe bet we’d never talk about what almost happened. Since I hadn’t let Cat into the house I wasn’t technically supposed to know about the arrangement, so I couldn’t say anything without a lot of difficult questions. You can see how this sort of existence can mess you up.

  I figured there would be a few days’ grace before she moved on to the next grand scheme to fix me.

  Brushing my teeth before bed, I paused to stare at myself in the mirror. I don’t know why I told Cat the story about the sun and the moon. It was the first thing to pop into my head.

  Only maybe I did know.

  In my bedroom I sat on the bed and studied the canvas leaning against the corner wall. It was thirty by forty centimetres – big enough to be visible, not so big it automatically drew your attention when you entered the room. It should be in the closet, or the rubbish, or at the very least turned to face the wall. But I couldn’t do any of those things. It was penance for thinking there could be a happy ever after.

  The one where I went for a walk

  I’ve always been fascinated by hills. Sometimes I’ll look at a hill and get an overwhelming urge to find out what’s on the other side. Wellington is surrounded by hills – in fact the whole of New Zealand is never far from a pile of dirt. When I step outside my front door the first thing I see is a hill taunting me with the mystery of the unknown. Or at the very least providing an obstacle between me and a decent hot chocolate.

  Most of the time I ignore the taunts, but a few days after Cat’s visit I went for a walk. The house down the road was half painted in bright green. Because I’d never left the flat that morning the decision had obviously gone the other way.

  When I got over the first hill there was another one, so I kept going. But over that hill was another one, so my feet kept moving. And when I got to where I should have stopped I didn’t. And suddenly it was early afternoon and I was thirty kilometres from home with sore feet, and a stomach protesting louder with every step further away from breakfast.

  When I stopped, it was on the side of a motorway, traffic hurtling past at bone-crushing speeds, each car seeming to snatch away my discarded thoughts. I was debating whether to turn back or keep going, but ultimately it was more than that. One way represented acceptance of my life, for what it was, the other way the unknown. Of course my whole life is unknown but I could either go looking for it or wait for it to come to me. Every passing car took with it a changed decision.

  Whoosh – turn back.

  Whoosh – keep going.

  Whoosh – turn back.

  Whoosh – keep going.

  In the end the police officer made up my mind. She spotted me a hundred metres out, flicked on her lights and pulled onto the shoulder of the road. I waited as she got out of the car and approached in that openly friendly but slightly guarded way the police have as they’re trying to figure out if you’re a lunatic or not. I put on my best I’m-not-crazy smile but she stopped a few feet away.

  ‘Hi, there.’

  ‘Afternoon, officer,’ I replied politely.

  ‘Everything okay, sir?’

  I appreciated the courtesy but it seemed wrong to be called sir by someone older than me, even if it was only a couple of years.

  ‘Fine, thanks. Just out for a walk.’

  A large truck whipped past fast enough to rock her on her feet, and she raised her eyebrows at me. ‘Not the best place for a walk, sir,’ she offered.

  I didn’t answer, waiting to see which way this was going to go.

  ‘Can I ask where you’re heading?’

  I considered the question, and discarded Fucked if I know. ‘North,’ was all I could come up with.

  ‘North is a big place,’ she replied.

  ‘It’s only a walk, officer.’

  She nodded slowly. ‘Could I see some ID please?’ she asked in a polite way that wasn’t really asking.

  I pulled out my wallet and handed over my driver’s licence. She sized me up against my photo, then asked me to wait. A car shot past, teenagers in school uniforms yelling something out the window that was instantly lost on the wind. I waved anyway.

  The officer returned and handed me back the licence. ‘It’s not safe on this stretch of road, Mr Messer. Can I suggest you think about an alternative route if you’re going to continue your journey…north?’

  She said the last word with a hint of a smile. It seemed like she was mocking me.

  I decided to continue walking. ‘Thank you, officer.’

  I waited until she’d driven away before pulling out my phone and texting Emily. Otherwise she’d worry even more than normal.

  About thirty minutes later I saw two figures in the distance. As the metres between us diminished I could see they were both women. One of them was bent over doing something with her backpack. The other was tall, slightly overweight, with short dark hair and a pretty face that was made less so by her mouth working at a piece of chewing gum. She saw me approaching and said something to her friend who straightened up and turned around.

  My stride faltered for a moment. It was Cat.

  It wasn’t the first time I’d come across people I’d met in a Possibility. I don’t know what the statistical probability is, but the real world term for it is ‘shit happens’. Still, it seemed strange to come across her again so soon. Her expression said she recognised me but wasn’t sure where from. Even so, I was preparing to walk past when she stopped me.

  ‘Do you know anything about backpack straps?’

  ‘I haven’t had any professional training, but I’ve seen several documentaries on the subject.’

  Cat grinned. Her friend obviously didn’t share her enthusiasm for my humour.

  ‘Can you take a look at this for us?’ she asked. ‘There’s some’ – she dug around in her jacket pocket and pulled out a chocolate bar – ‘slightly warm chocolate in it for you.’

  I held up my hand. ‘As a non-professional I’d have the unions down on me like a ton of bricks if I accepted payment. But I’ll take a look for you.’

  She gave me the smile I’d spent a whole day admiring. Her backpack was old and worn, and had so many patches I wasn’t sure if they were decoration or holding it all together. One of the strap buckles hung by a thin piece of material. There was no way it would support any weight, especia
lly not the stuffed-to-overflowing load the backpack currently contained. I set to work trying to fix it.

  ‘So where are you heading?’ her friend asked.

  ‘North.’

  ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘It doesn’t mean anything,’ I informed her. ‘It’s a direction.’

  Cat laughed. ‘Emily warned me about your sense of humour.’

  Her friend grabbed her arm. ‘Wait, you know this guy?’

  Cat winked at me. ‘Not really, but from what I saw he does have a pretty big penis.’

  I winked back at her as her friend choked on her gum. Cat smacked her on the back a couple of times until a small clump launched from her throat, missing my head by millimetres.

  ‘Christ, E, are you trying to kill me?’

  ‘Sorry, Trace. I mean, I didn’t see all of it but it looked pretty big.’

  ‘Can you stop talking about the man’s penis!’

  ‘Show her, Troy.’

  ‘Please don’t show me, Troy.’

  ‘If I had a dollar for every time a woman asked me not to show her my penis…’

  ‘You’d have a dollar?’ Cat quipped.

  I laughed and continued trying to fix the bag. Eventually I stood up. ‘All done.’

  ‘You fixed it?’ Cat asked hopefully.

  ‘Nope, I’ve got no idea how to fix it, but I’m done.’

  She nodded. ‘Well, at least you met my expectations,’ she said.

  ‘I do have two options for you though,’ I told her.

  She waited.

  ‘Number one, get less stuff.’

  She shook her head. ‘What’s number two?’

  ‘Use the other shoulder.’

  ‘Thanks, you’ve been a great help.’

  ‘My pleasure, Cat.’

  She looked at me quizzically.

  ‘Who the hell is Cat?’ her friend piped up.

  I glanced at her friend, then back to Cat. ‘My mistake,’ I shrugged.

  ‘Good luck with north,’ she said.

  I started to tip an imaginary hat, like a mysterious cowboy from the Old West, then realised that would look dicky so instead turned and walked on.

  ‘Freak,’ I heard her friend mutter.

  You have no idea, I thought.

  Cat hadn’t reacted when I called her that. I knew she wouldn’t, as it was me who’d come up with it in the Possibility, but I still thought there might have been something. I’ve never met anyone like me. Or maybe I have and didn’t know it.

  I looked over my shoulder, they were about thirty metres behind me, getting into a beat-up white Ford. An old white guy with a neatly trimmed beard and glasses was driving. Absently I took note of the licence plate number. Cat waved as they drove past. I waved back and watched them until they drove around the corner.

  Laughing at myself, I zipped up my jacket, took a step forward and blinked…

  And the police officer put my licence into my outstretched hand. ‘It’s not safe on this stretch of road, Mr Messer. Can I suggest you think about an alternative route if you’re going to continue your journey…north?’

  I stared at my hand, waiting for memories to click back into place. Then put my licence back into my wallet, and watched as she walked back to her car, indicated and pulled out into traffic. I pulled out my phone and texted Emily. She was used to me disappearing every now and then but I always tried to let her know what I was doing.

  About an hour later a beat-up white Ford passed me with Cat in the passenger seat and her friend in the back. Like I said, nothing is ever exactly the same.

  Sometime later I side-tracked into a rest stop; my feet, unaccustomed to continuous walking, were starting to make me regret the rash decision of this morning. Every step sent little signals of pain to my brain. The rest stop was empty, so I sat down at the single wooden table and watched the traffic for a while.

  A few minutes later a car pulled in and came to a stop a few metres away. Two kids spilled from the back, while a man climbed from the driver’s seat and stretched his back. On the other side of the car a woman got out and opened the boot, pulling out a picnic basket. She looked around her, then over at the table. I flashed her a grin, pulled myself up, and gestured for them to have the table. She gave me a grateful look before going back to wrangling things from the boot.

  I wandered over to the wire fence separating the rest stop from a field of cows, leant on a fencepost and thought about the simplicity of being a cow. Where all you needed to be happy was some grass, and occasionally have your teats pulled. I became aware of another presence. She was young, more than six and less than ten. She wore black shorts, a white T-shirt with a horse on it, and a faded blue baseball cap.

  ‘What’s your favourite song?’ she demanded.

  ‘I don’t really have one,’ I responded.

  She seemed less than impressed.

  ‘What’s yours then?’ I asked.

  ‘“True Colours” by Cyndi Lauper,’ she said firmly.

  I was surprised. ‘Nothing by Beyoncé or Katy Perry?’

  She shook her head. ‘They’re good, but my absolute favourite, the one I love more than any other song in the history of songs, is “True Colours” by Cyndi Lauper.’

  ‘Why?’ I found myself curious.

  She shrugged. ‘It makes me feel good about myself.’

  ‘Good for you,’ I replied for lack of anything else to say.

  She came up to the fence and looked into the field. ‘They’re cows.’

  ‘Yes,’ I said.

  ‘I thought you were looking at something interesting.’

  ‘I like cows. They know who they are, there’re no surprises in life.’

  ‘Until someone shoots them and turns them into McDonalds,’ she reasoned.

  ‘I suppose.’

  ‘I mean, someone coming up and shooting you with a gun would be pretty surprising.’

  ‘I expect so.’

  She lapsed into silence, having exhausted her opinion on the life and death of cows. ‘Do you think it hurts?’ she asked.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Dying.’

  That’s a pretty deep question,’ I told her.

  ‘Do you?’ she insisted.

  I thought about all the times I’ve died. There was no simple answer. ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Of course you don’t,’ she dismissed me.

  ‘Do you often have these types of conversations with complete strangers?’

  ‘Debbie! Leave the man alone and come and eat your lunch.’

  We turned to where her mother was waiting at the table, a slightly anxious look on her face. Debbie’s father and a boy of about four sat at the table already, faces screwed up in concentration at the food in front of them.

  ‘Am I bothering you?’ Debbie asked.

  I shook my head.

  ‘What’s your name?’

  I told her.

  ‘Troy doesn’t mind,’ she yelled across to her mum.

  ‘I think your mum wants you to stop talking to me.’

  ‘She’s okay. If you try anything she’ll tell Dad and he’ll get his cricket bat from the car and beat you up.’

  ‘Oh,’ I said, bemused.

  ‘Only Dad has never been in a fight before so I don’t think he’d actually do it.’

  ‘Good to know.’

  ‘I’d be more scared of Mum,’ she said matter-of-factly.

  ‘She’ll beat me with a cricket bat?’

  She laughed. ‘No, that’d be silly.’

  I pretended to be relieved.

  ‘She’s a nationally ranked mixed martial artist.’

  I glanced across at Mum, looking properly for the first time. The way she moved was confident, deliberate; I believed the girl. ‘So what’s with all the questions about death?’ I asked.

  ‘I’m nine,’ she replied. ‘That’s what we do – ask questions. How old are you?’

  ‘Twenty-five,’ I replied. ‘I think.’

  She looked at
me mockingly. ‘You don’t know?’

  ‘It gets a little hazy sometimes.’

  She stared out into the field of cows. For a moment I thought I’d frightened her off. A soft sound floated out to the world and I realised she was humming. It took me a while to figure out the song, and then I joined in on the chorus, our voices drifting out to our bovine audience.

  She stopped singing and I turned to see her smiling. ‘Most people your age don’t know the words.’

  ‘Most people your age don’t know the song,’ I pointed out.

  ‘I guess we’re not most people,’ she grinned.

  Kid, you have no idea.

  ‘So why aren’t you working?’

  ‘I’m taking the day off,’ I replied.

  ‘What do you do?’

  ‘I work in a bank.’

  ‘Do you like it? It doesn’t sound very exciting.’

  ‘It’s okay.’

  She scrunched up her face. ‘I’d be bored. I hate maths.’

  ‘What are you going to do when you grow up?’

  She looked at me like I was an idiot. ‘I don’t know, that’s tomorrow’s problem. Where’s your car?’

  ‘Don’t have one.’

  ‘Then how will you get where you’re going?’ she asked, puzzled.

  ‘You ask a lot of questions.’

  ‘I’m nine, remember?’

  ‘Debbie, lunch, now!’ her mother called.

  She gave a lazy wave of acknowledgement. ‘Do you want to have lunch with us?’

  Hell, yes, said my stomach. ‘No, thanks, I’d better get going.’

  Not bothered either way, she skipped back over to the picnic table. I looked at the field but the cows no longer held the same attraction. With a sigh I turned to leave. Debbie was standing right behind me.

  ‘Here,’ she said thrusting out a chocolate biscuit. Before I could say thanks she turned and ran back to her family, who were doing their best not to study me intently. I tipped the chocolate biscuit at them by way of thanks, felt like a complete nob, so took a bite and continued on my way north.

  I got twenty metres.

  Behind me a commotion broke out. For several more steps I ignored it. Then Debbie’s mum screamed her name. Spinning around, I captured the scene in one blink; Debbie slumped over the table, mother shaking her, her father rushing around the table, terror on his face. Instantly I was on the move, covering the distance in seconds.