Riley F. Sinclair. That's my name, the one I was born with. It's a common enough name...or at least common enough for there to be six of us out there in cyberspace. Six Riley F. Sinclairs including me. And I probably wouldn't have given this little coincidence much thought had it not been for the fact that Riley F. Sinclair in Sweden began contacting us all through Facebook. In other words, precisely the kind of time wastage activities the internet spawns.
I live in Sydney and I work from home. I edit online content for a number of websites and I get relatively well paid for my efforts. In essence, this means that I coral other people's written meanderings into something worth reading. I make these stream of consciousness cowboys and cowgirls look good. Or at least better than they would have if left unfiltered. Because of this fact, I've spent the last decade of my working life in old t-shirts and shorts. I have probably worn a tie a total of five times in as many years. I like my routine. I get up each day around eight. After consuming medication and an ever-changing array of vitamins, I sit at my kitchen table with my coffee and lightly buttered toast and typically I'll work until 11. This happens every day without fail, weekends included.
At 11 am, I get up and go to the gym which is located down near the local shopping centre. I'll work out and then I'll return to my apartment to continue working for the rest of the afternoon. If the weather is good, which more often than not, it is in Sydney, I'll go next door and sit in the garden which is part of the church rectory. The priest doesn't mind me being there. Sitting there, in the garden, it occurs to me from time-to-time that this friendly priest can see into the all the windows of my building like the eye of God. I have some pretty rowdy neighbours. You can hear them bickering through the walls. He is probably witness to all our mundane sins.
In any case, on sunny days, I work in the garden and I am close enough to my building so that I can still connect to my apartment Wi-Fi. Sometimes, when screen fatigue sets in, I'll go to the cafe on the corner. I'll have an afternoon caffeine hit. After knocking off, my free time is typically taken up with movies, online social groups, a fairly ambiguous relationship with a woman I'd met online, an annual visit to my parent's place in Queensland. The odd trip to Bali. Shopping. I would almost be able to convince myself that I was happy. Content. Plateaued out and gliding through what amounted to a pleasant enough life that presented little in the way of obstacles.
As I say, there was a Riley F. Sinclair in Sweden. There was also one in California and one in the UK. There were two in Australia, including me, and one in South America. And I'm not talking about a variation of my name. I mean the full name: Riley Franklin Sinclair.
Once Swedish Riley F. Sinclair got the ball rolling we formed a sort of informal group. Look, you remember what I said before about being happy and content? If I'm being honest here, beneath it all, I had a stirring awareness that something was missing from my life. I'm a Gen X'er so I do remember how things were before technology made our world smaller and ironically....lonelier. I remember when people actually spoke to each other. Way back, before we were all connected in our little boxes. Before all these narcissistically glib public displays performed at the end of a selfie stick became the norm.
In this last decade, I have burrowed down deeper and deeper down into my own solitary existence. It was very easy. Easier than trying to maintain real-world relationships. And it happened gradually so that I didn't really notice at first. Not having kids or being married, I missed out on a lot of the prefabricated societal steps that keep most people distracted. I got on with what needed to be done. I threw myself into my work. And that was fine but then, one day, you turn around and find yourself this lone entity, artificially connected to all these other online people. Take my situation: I live in the middle of a major urban centre and I "talk" to people everyday yet I don't really know anyone. Not in a face-to-face capacity. Everything is filtered and controlled. Framed in a little screen. Human life cocooned in the cold blue glow of technology. And now that we're being honest....if I put aside the carefully selected photographs which promote the exaggerated, preferred version of my life, along with the inane and endless updates....when you pair it right down to actual quality interactions, then I would have to admit that recently this has become an issue for me. And perhaps this is the reason I join any new group almost reflectively. Like an addict looking for that long lost high.
Riley F. Sinclair in California and I started chatting away without much prompting. He was obviously an easy going guy. We exchanged information, talked about our lives. He was into rock climbing and going to concerts. He 'lived for the weekends'. Already a vegetarian, he was debating going vegan. The photographs he posted depicted a man in his mid-thirties surfing, mountain climbing and dune buggy riding. By all accounts, an active and fulfilling life in that Californian outdoors way. The kind of life that many of us, in less exciting parts of the world, try to emulate in our fashion choices and leisure time mimicry.
Swedish Riley F. Sinclair was covered in tattoos, some of which were excellent whereas others seemed to be the work of less accomplished, less skilled tattoo artists. In the past, he was depicted sitting on various chunky motorcycles, looking mean, and in numerous wild drinking situations. In more recent updates, Swedish Riley F. Sinclair had begun to look like a guy who was about to hit fifty and who was trying to figure out how to age gracefully, reconciling his rock and roll lifestyle against a delayed maturity. He was still going to concerts but now he was standing at the back and maybe he wasn't hanging around for the encore. He was also going grey, had begun to tone down his wardrobe and he was beginning to wear long sleeve shirts to cover up some of his more confrontational tattoos. Although his online status was single, he had a son, a blonde boy, from a previous relationship. He worked as an IT consultant in downtown Stockholm. Swedish Riley F. Sinclair's group of friends seemed equality as grizzled and obliquely decorated by their death metal lifestyles.
UK Riley F. Sinclair was a bit of a dead end in that he didn't really have much of an online presence. These kinds of people annoy and intrigue me. It's their smug 'take it or leave it' attitude that gets under my skin. The whole luddite aloofness bit, right? You can just tell they pride themselves on living in this obscure way. Based on UK Riley F. Sinclair's Facebook account, there was very little to go on. He had posted one or two drab photos and that was about it. Nothing moments. UK Riley F. Sinclair sitting in an English garden sipping from a glass of white wine. So what? In another photo, he was blowing out candles on an overloaded birthday cake. You scroll back to the beginning of his online life and his profile information was equality bare bones. His marital status (single), the college he graduated from (Bristol), his date of birth (1972). And that was about it. In 2003 he seemed to have disappeared. He just whimpered out of existence and stopped posting. Why do they do it? These cyber hermits. Was it simply a matter of jealousy on my part? What did they have going on that the rest of us don't?
Riley F. Sinclair from Melbourne and I started communicating on a regular basis. It made sense because we were practically neighbours. You know when you meet someone and in a relatively short period of time, you realise you just don't like them? Well, that's what happened with Riley F. Sinclair from Melbourne. Within perhaps five or six exchanges, we went from a general, friendly getting-to-know-you chit-chat based on the novelty of sharing the same name, as if we were estranged siblings, to a spikey antagonism born I suspect from the reality that we were two very different people. To my way of thinking, Riley F. Sinclair from Melbourne was a complete asshole. I mean he seemed to be incapable of having a normal conversation. Everything thing from his end was barbed and bitchy. Right away, he pegged me as a Sydney snob. My intention was never to come across this way or to irritate him but that's what happened.
From his Facebook account, I could see he had some sort of connection to the art world, although I don't think he actually produced any art. Mainly, I think what he did was show up at gallery openings to socialise with his annoying looking arty friends. I also got the impression that he had money from somewhere because there was no real indication that he worked. No photos of Melbourne Riley F. Sinclair in a conventional work environment, no mention of a career and no TGIF updates with drunken co-workers. There was nothing on Linked-In and his biographical information bore no evidence that he'd ever actually held down a job. After university, Melbourne Riley F. Sinclair's life seems to be a continual series of daffy escapades and travel experiences. For me, he brought to mind a character from a Preston Sturges movie. Perhaps even Clare Quilty from Lolita.
Anyway, Riley F. Sinclair from Melbourne and I started slagging each other off. And maybe it started out simply as a joke. I don't know. Regardless, this antagonism went back and forth and the insults became more elaborate and venomous. Basically, we were trolling each another. And I'll admit it: after a while, I became totally obsessed with the whole thing. Sometimes it took me a week to respond, to draft up my replies. I felt a great sense of glee sending off my own retorts. A jolt of satisfaction, if you will.
A short time would pass and then Riley F. Sinclair from Melbourne would reply with an equally cutting response. We were a good match, both pithy and clever. It was sad really because this back and forth bitchiness became the highlight of my week. Looking back on it, I feel quite embarrassed by my behaviour. At the time, I loved it. I thought I was so clever writing up these detailed, verbose insults. I never included any expletives mind you. I felt that if I did use foul language, it would have been a sign that he was getting to me. All of our insults were spun off what we were seeing on our mutual Instagram and Facebook accounts. In other words, it was all speculation and conjecture.
After a few weeks, the whole thing became a double-edged sword. I mean, I still got a kick out of tearing him down but I was also beginning to feel terrible. Why had I become so absorbed by this ridiculous online tennis match? Why was I so hell-bent on hurting this person I'd never met before? This is when I began to realise my life was pretty fucking empty. I came to the conclusion that my sparring match with Riley F. Sinclair from Melbourne has to end. It was getting out of hand. As I say, it was like a drug which I'd become addicted to. I'd see the little notification symbol on my phone or I'd feel my phone vibrate and I'd think, 'is that you Riley F. Sinclair from Melbourne? You bastard.' I'll read his latest insult with a swelling sense of indignation and anger, my heart beating in my chest, my scalp tingling. Love or war; it is the act of being acknowledged that counts, right? Of being noticed by another human being in a significant way. Of finding yourself singled out amongst all those anonymous lives struggling for their tiny share of attention.
We began to attract an audience. Friends and friends of friends and then even friends of friends of our friends. People from all over the world began to follow and add to our thread. It was like a huge poisonous jellyfish trailing out countless tendrils in the black depths of an ocean, the thread taking on a life of its own, with annexed conversations and debates running parallel to ours. Conversations about conversations, communication streamlined and compressed through the use of acronyms, emojis and gifs. And while this surrounding chatter persisted, Riley F. Sinclair from Melbourne and my own insults became so much more detailed and extravagant, perhaps because we'd become aware of our audience. Perhaps because we were becoming susceptible to the pressure of putting a good show.
As a result of all this, other things began to shake loose. South American Riley F. Sinclair turned out to be a con man. Once an audience to our squabbling had been generated, South American Riley F. Sinclair rather skilfully inserted himself, introducing an opportunity for any interested parties to invest in a time-share project he was in the process of finalising. He began to post photographs and even an architectural 3D tour of what the complex would look like once completed in 2020. All that potential investors need do, those who were smart enough to get in on the ground floor of this exciting opportunity was put down a deposit. Once this was done, they could select from one of the many stunning beachfront condos currently under construction. Luxury condos mind you, situated on an amazing stretch of virgin coastline in Costa Rica.
It was Swedish Riley F. Sinclair who identified the scam. For a time he'd been seriously considering investing in one of these condos (Sweden is fucking cold, he'd mentioned on several occasions) but, after a little digging, he unearthed some rather unsavoury facts about South American Riley F. Sinclair. It seems that South American Riley F. Sinclair had no claim whatsoever on this section of coastline nor was he finalising the planning stage of the project. The entire operation consisted of doctored photographs, fictionalise testimonials and bogus design plans. South American Riley F. Sinclair ran his so-called international property development company out of a seedy bar in Uruguay. It also turned out that his profile picture was as fake as was the rest of his available online information. Who knows what South American Riley F. Sinclair was really like.
Finally, after a great deal of back and forth, I broke Melbourne Riley F. Sinclair. I am not proud of this fact, I am simply stating it for the record. The general consensus was, towards the end, my responses had him against the ropes. This is not ego speaking. This is based on the echo-back from our audience. Figuratively, I'd pummelled him hard in the guts and the ribs. Maybe he'd just grown tired of the game. Maybe he was running out of pith. whatever the case, in our last real exchange, instead of his usual well-considered comeback, Melbourne Riley F. Sinclair simply responded that he was going to get in his car and drive from Melbourne to Sydney. That very night. Melbourne Riley F. Sinclair told me that he'd had enough and that he was going to 'fuck me up'. He said he would probably wear adult incontinence pants like that astronaut's wife wore.....to keep roadside stops to a minimum. He wrote that he couldn't wait to roll up to my front door for the 'big showdown'.
I was stunned, truly stunned. Suddenly it was like high school all over again. I just couldn't understand how the rules had changed so abruptly. This was supposed to be limited to verbal badgering yet somehow the whole thing had gone nuclear. Physical fighting and adult incontinence pants? Really? I couldn't really see the need for the adult incontinence pants. Melbourne was only a fourteen-hour drive from Sydney and of course, there are rest stops along the way. I could only speculate that Melbourne Riley F. Sinclair was trying to communicate how unhinged and angry he was. Had I really pushed him over the edge? I could only assume that I had. The whole time, had I unknowingly been dealing with some sort of abject nutcase?
Reading these words put me on edge. I had to decide if I would take this threat seriously or treat it as a joke. Californian Riley F. Sinclair waded in at this point, advised me that I should err on the side of caution. At first, I took his advice with a pinch of salt. I suspected that Californian Riley F. Sinclair was merely a product of his paranoid, trigger-happy culture. The truth of the matter is, there are just so many more authentic weirdos wandering around the United States of America. Look at the population. The degree of diversity. Weirdos who could feasibly turn up at your front door with a concealed weapon. With this in mind, I understood why Californian Riley F. Sinclair would jump to such a conclusion. Having said that, even though his advice seemed a little extreme, I was still worried. My life of technological solitary confinement had ruptured. Like it or not, the real world was about to come flooding in.
'Shit is about to get real' chimed in British Riley F. Sinclair, adding to the thread. Yeah, I thought, thanks for that British Riley F. Sinclair. Super helpful. Are you fucking kidding me? Miserable bastard. This was typical of British Riley F Sinclair. We'd not heard a peep from him for the duration of this ridiculous battle but in actual fact, chicken-shit that he was, he'd been paying attention the whole time. Safely from his conscientious objector position in the wings. A fucking ghost with his droll, safe, single dimension existence out there in cyberspace. Voyeuristic yet unwilling to participate. Until now. British Riley F Sinclair was the type of guy who would, with trembling hands, order himself a life-size rubber sex doll from Japan. The type of man who would hold up in his drab little British house all weekend long, doing nasty things to that complaint lump of rubber.
Anyway, when I re-read Melbourne Riley F. Sinclair's threat, my worry intensified. If he was serious, if he really was going to drive to Sydney and confront me, the clock was running. And that only gave me 14 hours to figure out what to do. I paced around my apartment. I watched a few UFC bouts on YouTube. Could I do that to another human being? I wondered. Could I throw someone on the ground and beat them in the face with my fists, pulping the cartilage in their nose and filling their eyes with blood? I couldn't quite convince myself that, when the moment of truth arrived, I would be able to follow through. I just wasn't sure. I was relatively fit from attending the gym on regular basis and all the salsa classes that Susan, the woman I was sort of dating, insisted we attend once a fortnight. But then again, Melbourne Riley F. Sinclair wasn't going to ask me to dance when he showed up, was he? He was going to engage me in a fight.
Somehow, the next time I looked at the clock, two more hours had gone past. Just like that. So I had 12 hours left. And this included getting some sleep if I want to be fresh for my showdown. I still needed to get myself mentally ready but how? What if it did come down to physical violence? Returning to the internet, I found a few simple, realistic instructional videos on how to defend yourself. I practised some of these moves, shadowboxing in the church garden next door. The priest came out and asked what I was doing. He'd only ever seen me tapping away on my laptop. Now, seeing me fight an imaginary opponent under the jacaranda tree, he became curious. I filled him in on the situation and of course being a priest, his advice was 'turn the other cheek, my son'. And while I agreed with him in theory, I still had very real lingering concerns about the mental stability of Melbourne Riley F. Sinclair. Judging from his online escapades, there still seemed to be the very real possibility of violence. We had really wound each other up.
Ten hours remained before his scheduled arrival. Sure enough, using his iPhone, Melbourne Riley F. Sinclair checked in at various rest stops, posting photographs of himself in front of scenic vistas as he moved up the coastal highway. This being the case, I was able to track his progress as he drew to Sydney. 'Psyched for tomorrow, man!', 'Rumble in Sydney! Stay tuned!' and 'Very shortly, you-know-who is gonna be weeping in a pool of his own piss and blood.' These were some of the comments he posted. Of course, I didn't sleep well that night. Every little sound in the building wormed into my already troubled dreams.
The next morning I woke up bleary-eyed and unsettled. As usual, I got my coffee down at the cafe. I was aware of people as they came and went. Melbourne Riley F. Sinclair's ETA was 11 o'clock. I started to get myself mentally ready. Well...as best I could. You can do this, I muttered under my breath. You can do this. Don't be a pussy. Face him. Tell him to 'fuck off'. My resolve faltered as I switched back and forth, unable to decide if I should confront him directly or simply ignore him, call the police if things got out of hand. There was no law stipulating that I had to 'man up' and confront him. I imagined myself saying something along the lines of, I'm not going to fight you man. Being stoic about it. Like it was my choice. Like I'd gone all Gandhi and decided that physical violence was not the answer.
Eleven o'clock came and nothing happened. No knock at the door, no text message to square off on the street. Obviously, Melbourne Riley F. Sinclair was taking his sweet-ass time about exacting his revenge. The next time I looked at my phone, he'd checked into an air B&B near the CBD. A move I had not anticipated. An apartment in a glass skyscraper near Darling Harbour. He posted a video of himself walking through this apartment, investigating the different rooms, looking in empty drawers and cupboards, the uninterrupted camera footage flashing past his reflected image in mirrors and floor-to-ceiling windows.
Later on, there were more posted videos and photographs of Melbourne Riley F. Sinclair walking around Sydney. Melbourne Riley F. Sinclair in Surry Hills, in front of the Opera House, basically doing the tourist thing before he beat the crap out of me. I felt justifiably nervous with anticipation. Why was he drawing it out? To taunt me? If that was his goal, I have to admit, it was working. He began posting comments about his 'mission'. And that made the whole thing even more daunting. Great, I thought, pseudo-military speak indicating a truly psychotic individual. Stalking me in my own city. Perfect.
When he started posting exterior photographs of my apartment, taken from across the street, near the cafe.....understandably that's when I really started to freak out. As soon as he posted these images, I'd rush to the window or go outside, trying to locate him. All I saw was parked cars on the road. Houses and telephone poles. Because I had been programmed by a lifetime of paranoid American movies which dealt with voyeurism, my mind galloped off with all the unnerving possibilities. Movies which included Alfred Hitchcock's Rear Window not to mention numerous stalker flicks from the 1980s. The accumulated weight of all those deranged characters began pushing down, suffocating me, tainting everything that was familiar and good in my life. Especially when I went into the second and then the third day of Melbourne Riley F. Sinclair hanging around Sydney, drawing out the confrontation.
Finally, I decided to bite the bullet. I called him in an attempt to put an end to the whole thing. However, when I did, my call when straight through to the message bank which played a cheesy electro-pop version of 'Don't go Breaking my Heart' by Elton John and Kiki Dee. Right before the beep.
'This is Sydney Riley F. Sinclair', I said in a clear voice, 'look I think this has gone on long enough, don't you? I think we should talk it. I think we should resolve this before someone gets hurt. I think.....' And that was as far as I got because the call was cut off.
While all this was going on I had been in contact with Californian Riley F. Sinclair. On his invitation, I impulsively decided to make my escape. I bought a ticket, intending to fly over to the US for a visit. I packed one carry-on, my laptop and found my passport and that was it. I was gone. Uber to the airport. Automatic check-in. Through security and into the departure lounge. A beer while I watched planes taxi across the runway, waiting to board my flight. I was only able to truly relax once the plane peeled away from its shadow on the tarmac below. It felt a little bit like I was running away from my own life but so be it. Another part of me felt liberated and worldly as if I had out-maneuvered Melbourne Riley F. Sinclair. I decided to stay quiet on social media for the foreseeable future. I really needed a break from it all.
I landed at LAX the following day. I felt well rested and relaxed. Californian Riley F. Sinclair was waiting for me at arrivals with a little cardboard sign that said ' Welcome Aussie Riley F. Sinclair'. It was strange meeting the real Californian Riley F. Sinclair in that throng of anonymous people wheeling baggage carts around and pressing up against the barricade. We shook hands and went out, through a concourse to the parking structure. The plan was I would stay on his sofa. We hadn't discussed for how long.
On the drive back to his apartment, we talked about this bizarre confluence of events. We got on in person just as well as we had online. An hour after my arrival we were strolling along Venice Beach. I drank good, strong American coffee and ate an over-sized breakfast. A Denver omelette. The place stuck of incense and weed. Californian Riley F. Sinclair did most of the talking. Californian Riley F. Sinclair worked a baggage handler at LAX. In fact, he'd just finished his shift when my plane arrived earlier that morning so picking me up hadn't been a problem. I knew this from Facebook but I didn't know that he'd worked as a stuntman when he was younger. His father and his grandfather had both been stuntmen. According to him, they were Hollywood royalty in so much as they had performed major stunts in many seminal movies from the 1940's up until the 1970's. They had crashed Roman chariots, jumped off buildings, wing-walked crop dusters, been dragged through the dirt by their cowboy boots, rolled cars in high-speed chases, fought off giant rubber sea creatures. You name it. The problem was that Californian Riley F. Sinclair was prone to serious injury and therefore, he had not been able to continue the family tradition. An accident-prone stuntman does not bode well for insurance companies.
Californian Riley F. Sinclair decided to show me some of his stuntman skills the morning I arrived. He attempted to throw himself off the first-floor balcony of a small building near his apartment. I was completely exhausted by then so it was all rather surreal.
'Are you sure this is a good idea?' I called up to him from the alleyway below.
'This won't hurt at all,' he replied confidently. 'Don't worry. I am trained. This is nothing for me. Stand back!'
Californian Riley F. Sinclair launched himself over the side of the balcony, tumbled through space and landed in such a way as to break his wrist. Crunch! The snapping of the bone was audible from where I stood. Californian Riley F. Sinclair stifled a scream and then proceeded to hop around in pain, clutching his broken wrist as he swore and shouted through his gritted teeth. You could see the place where the broken bone jutted out at an angle. I was quickly learning that Californian Riley F. Sinclair wasn't the smartest knife in the draw. His confidence and friendly disposition when a long way to concealing this fact.
We spent the remainder of that first day in the Santa Monica Emergency Room waiting to get Californian Riley F. Sinclair's broken wrist set in a purple fibreglass cast.
In the days to follow, Californian Riley F. Sinclair and I went to a museum and hung out at the beach. It was a great backdrop for our conversations. He knew a lot of people down there. Transient types who spent their days under the palm trees. I became his chauffeur because he couldn't drive properly. Beneath all the bullshit, Californian Riley F. Sinclair was a good man. He didn't have a bad bone, broken or otherwise, in his body. I think the price he paid for this innate goodness was his lack of intelligence. Not that they are mutually dependent on each other. And I am aware that saying these things might sound snobbish or ungrateful, especially considering his hospitality, but I felt it was true. The stuff Californian Riley F. Sinclair came out with. My God! He was like a child in a state of permanent wonder at the world around him. And he never stopped talking. His enthusiasm was undeniably contagious but it was a superficial way of looking at things, a one-note mantra that completely ignored the complexities of the world. In another way, I wondered why couldn't I be more like him? More outgoing, more receptive to new experiences. More innately good. More American. He made me want to base jump off a tall structure holding a go-pro on a stick, hoping for the best.
When I asked him why he'd allow me to stay in his spare room, Californian Riley F. Sinclair had replied, 'What the hell! It's not every day you have yourself, your namesake, as a house guest, right?'
Over the following week, we discussed my predicament in a fair amount of detail. Of course, we did. Then, one hot, smoggy afternoon, I went with Californian Riley F. Sinclair to his Muay Thai dojo in Santa Monica. Basically, it was an empty hall with rubber mats on the floor and mirrors on the walls. Encouraged by Californian Riley F. Sinclair, I decided to spend the rest of my time in California training with his Muay Thai instructor. The instructor was a small, intense man named Chakrii which means 'King' in Thai. At that point, I still had most of my three-month tourist visa left so time was not an issue.
I trained five times a week with Chakrii. It was exhausting and expensive but I was still doing my freelance work so I had money coming in. Anyway, it was good to have a goal. A purpose. I needed to challenge myself after scampering away for the big confrontation. it was hard work. The worst bit was how Chakrii would harden my shins by repeatedly bashing and kicking them.
I had my first and only amateur fight in Marina Del Ray. It was another surreal experience. I was standing there, under the lights, facing a nervous looking man who was about my height and weight, in the opposite corner of the ring. We were both dressed in flashy shorts with tassels, our hands bound and gloved as we bounced up and down on the spot, getting pumped, getting ready, waiting for the bell to ring. I was shitting myself, the adrenaline banging through my system. The ref wore blue latex gloves. I remember he clapped his hands together and my opponent and I advanced to meet in the centre of the ring. Suddenly it was on.
I don't remember much of the actual fight. Californian Riley F. Sinclair was behind me the whole time, shouting in my ear, acting as my support crew, splashing water over my head between rounds and towelling me down. Three rounds later, after receiving and delivering a flurry of hits, I'd won on points. I was in a daze as the ref thrust my hand up high into the air and the small crowd cheered. it felt amazing.
The following day we drove off on one of Californian Riley F. Sinclair's spontaneous 'missions'. I was beginning to think about returning to Sydney. I didn't want to lose any of the confidence I'd gained from my experiences in the ring. Unlike our previous 'missions' Californian Riley F. Sinclair didn't explain where we were going. We just got in the car and headed out. He was trailing his hand in the slipstream and sunshine, a big gulp within reach in the cup holder and an unlit cigar in his other hand. He was giving instructions: turn left here, take the next right. Follow that car.....
We got on the freeway in Hollywood. The freeway flowed upwards, over the hills, past the Capitol Building and on, passing through the less desirable neighbourhoods on the outskirts and into the encroaching desert. Past oil pumps and dung coloured mall outlets. It was hot and dry. My body ached, each bruise communicating a message of dull pain back to the centre. I asked him a few time where the hell we were going but he kept saying the same thing: you'll see when we get there. Which was odd for him considering that usually he never shut up.
Eventually, we came to a turn off: a two-lane highway that veered away into the desert. We drove through a lot of remote scenery. We drove past an ostrich farm. We stopped at a gas station where Californian Riley F. Sinclair bought groceries and bottle of whisky. Forty minutes later we arrived at what appeared to be a wild west town in the middle of nowhere. It was a movie set: a town comprised of fake buildings, many of which were just facades that had been neglected, left to rot in the elements. A place where once, long ago, they had filmed old cowboy movies. There was a saloon with one swinging door still intact, a bank, a jailhouse, a hotel....all the businesses and amenities that would have likely been included in a frontier, gold rush era town. It even had a graveyard with a steer skull mounted over the gate post and wooden crosses marking phony graves. We parked in the shade of one of these fake buildings. I killed the engine and there was a moment of silent, the hollow rush and vibration of the road settling, fading out.
'You know what Dr Joseph Campbell said?' asked Californian Riley F. Sinclair, as he climbed out of the car, breathing heavily.
'No', I said, 'I don't'.
'He wrote that the hero must go on this....lone journey.'
'Okay', I said, a bit thrown by Californian Riley F. Sinclair's sudden earnestness. I was tired. The fight, the heat and the road trip beginning to add up.
'I have this quote I wrote down. I was thinking it might help you.....but now.....I'm not so sure. Maybe it is more relevant for me. Anyway, it is something to keep in mind as we move forward from this point.' Californian Riley F. Sinclair cleared his throat and began to read from a piece of paper he removed from his pocket.
"They thought that it would be a disgrace to go forth as a group. Each entered the forest at a point that he himself had chosen, where it was darkest and there was no path. If there is a path it is someone else's path and you are not on the adventure."
'So', said Californian Riley F. Sinclair, putting aside the little piece of paper, 'my next question for you is....are you sure?'
'Sure of what?' I asked.
'That you are the hero of this particular story?'
'I just won a fight with someone', I pointed out. 'I mean....and correct me if I'm wrong....but that seemed pretty heroic'.
'I'm not talking about that. I'm talking about the situation with this guy back in Australia. I am talking about how we all relate to each other.'
'Oh yeah...', I said, 'him....'
'Yes him. I mean.....is this his story or yours? Or mine....for that matter?'
I came around and leant against the front fender of the car, folding my arms across my chest. I looked down the empty cowboy street, at the phony buildings and beyond, my gaze drifting out to the wrinkled mountains in the distance. It was easy to do this here: to lose your focus and drift out to the horizon line.
'Why are we here?' I asked.
'We are here because this is where my grandfather died'.
'What....right here?'
'Yes, right about here', he replied, pointing at the ground. 'My grandfather...he did a lot of pictures in his time as a stuntman. He wing-walked without a safety harness.....if you can believe that. One plane to the next. Just him, way up there, walking on canvas stretched over the wooden frame of a wing. He jumped off moving trains and he fell off buildings. He walked away from spectacular car wrecks. This was before they had proper safety regulations and decent rigging and airbags. He was self-trained. He just went out and did it. He made it through all that peril and danger. After all that...towards the end of his career....he was shooting a small cowboy picture right here. Real B grade stuff. It was supposed to be an easy show but unfortunately, he was crushed by his horse in the stampede scene. The studio left the footage of his death in their movie. Or at least the footage of my grandfather coming off his horse, seconds before he went under the hoofs of the stampeding livestock. The picture has been forgotten, like this place', he said. 'You can't find it anywhere. I have a copy on VHS. I have seen that footage many times. Alive one minute, dead the next. As I say, it happened right here so, every once and awhile, I come out here to....honour him, I guess. Maybe to reset my own compass, think about my direction'.
I looked at the buildings again. I could imagine the film crew milling around and the lighting rigs. The actors. Basically, we were in a box canyon and even though it was still relatively early, already the sun was beginning to slip behind the hills, filling up the canyon with elongated shadows.
'So what I was asking, before....Riley.....what I was getting at is...who is Sancho Panza in our relationship?'
'I don't know who that is', I said feeling a bit dumb because even though the name did ring a faint bell, I just didn't have the energy to hunt down who it was.
'You know....the sidekick of Don Quixote...'
'Ah, now I know who you're talking about. Windmills. The Knight-errant...'.
'Exactly. So...with this in mind...which one of us sees the world for what it is and which one is chasing dragons disguised as windmills? Who is the hero here? Me? You? The guy from Melbourne? And is that person a hero trapped in his own delusions?'
Californian Riley F. Sinclair looked off into the sage and scrub. Something creaked in the wind. After that, we started drinking the bottle of whisky and ate sandwiches with slices of processed cheese and ham. And we built a fire out of a rotten hitching post and sage bush. We really got that thing blazing. As it got dark, the flames flicked upwards, illuminating surrounding building facades, casting out waves of heat. It was like a scene for a Gene Autry movie....if Gene Autry had somehow time travelled into the apocalyptic future. Those sandwiches weren't doing much to soak up the whisky. I was getting drunk. And I was beyond exhausted, dreaming with my eyes open, the darkness squirmed with hallucinogenic energy. Eventually, I had to go to sleep in the back of the car. There was no way I was going to sleep out in the open with the scorpions and snakes. The last thing I remember was the smell of smoke, trapped in my clothes, lingered in the car. And Californian Riley F. Sinclair's voice steadily droning as he talked to himself.
I woke up the next morning, blinking against the harsh sunlight, my head thumping from the whisky. It is at times like this, waking up in the back of an already overheated car in the middle of nowhere, crucified on a brutal hangover, that I'm reminded that whisky is not the best thing to consume in such a hot, arid environment. My brain felt like a dried up walnut rattling around in a dusty cupboard. Californian Riley F. Sinclair was nowhere to be seen. Why had he done this to me? I looked around the movie town for a bit. Still, there was no sign of the man. I waited until noon. Still, no Californian Riley F. Sinclair to be seen. I spent the rest of the day driving around looking for him, trying not to get lost on dirt roads, my hangover making me edgy and paranoid. I drove into 29 Palms, got some water and a date milkshake which I puked up about thirty minutes later, after emptying the oversized polystyrene cup. Then I drove back out to the movie set. I kept wondering if Californian Riley F. Sinclair hadn't pulled a Jim Morrison on me and taken some sort of psychoactive substance. Maybe he was wandering out in the desert tripping balls. I kept expecting to see him bedraggled, waving me down from the side of the road. I started getting really worried by the time three o'clock rolled around. That night I drove back alone the desert highway, toward the thin crust of lights that comprised 29 Palms. I checked into a shitty motel with a very cold swimming pool. Climbing into bed was something of a miracle after all that punishment I'd put my body through. The following morning, I went to the police. I told them exactly what happened. I gave my statement.
I drove back to Los Angeles and parked in front of Californian Riley F. Sinclair's apartment. I went inside. I waited for a couple of days. Nothing much happened. I couldn't very well take off, leaving him out there, possibly in some sort of trouble. I had no idea what sort of network he had here in Los Angeles. He seemed to know a lot of people but not so that they'd come to his aid. Sniffing around his apartment didn't help. I found a few old photos of people who may or may not have been significant but there was no way of telling. Then the cop from 29 Palms called, told me there had been no further developments or sightings.
'He can't have just....disappeared', I said. 'I mean....he was right there'. 'Sir, it's the desert', replied the cop. 'People disappear all the time out here. Believe me'.
I just hung around his apartment as the days began to slip by. In one sense I was very concerned for Californian Riley F. Sinclair's safety. Of course I was. Then again, the more time I spent alone, the more I began to realise that I didn't really know this guy. I wasn't responsible for him. You drift into other people's orbits and it can become all-consuming, an entire world into which you vanish for a time but then, one day, you cut them loose or they walk out the door and you remember who you are again. You return to yourself.
Every day, I drove down to the Mexican chain restaurant by the beach for frozen margaritas and burritos. I wanted to leave, to book my ticket back Sydney but in good conscience, I didn't feel I could just take off, leaving the man in this situation. He could still be out there, in the desert, chasing fucking windmills or the ghost of his dead grandfather or whatever.
I spent time out by the pool of his apartment complex, becoming increasingly unaware of the planes that took off over the rooftops of the surrounding stucco mansions and the mini-malls. I hadn't planned to stay that long but that's what happened: me waiting around for Californian Riley F. Sinclair to show up somehow turned in me living there fulltime. It was pretty easy seeing as how, legally, my name was....well, you know all about that. I just picked up where I'd left off, working online. It didn't matter that I was in California. I forgot about the other Riley F. Sinclairs for awhile. I stayed in California, in that little apartment under the airport. I told people that my father and his father had been movie stuntmen. It was easier that way. It made sense. Why hadn't I hadn't followed in their footsteps? I just didn't have the danger gene. Anyway, it was the kind of story people in this town understood. The other business, about being six people with the same name living simultaneously in different parts of the world seemed to make people glaze over. Even though their smiles remained fixed in place, hearing this version of events made these same people start to slowly back away. I could understand why. It was the kind of thing you might hear from a lunatic at a bus stop talking into a dirty plastic toy phone.
Or maniac who just wandered out of the desert one day.
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