I see her from time to time. Over the fence. We don't have much to say to each other. Not these days. I can also see her from my kitchen window. Out by her pool. On a lounge chair. Reading a magazine. And I’m not going to deny it. She is looking good. Trim. Toned.
The established rules were if our 'thing', the thing we had going for a few months, during the warm summer afternoons, got anywhere near to being discovered we’d break it off. Then and there. No hesitations. Like throwing a switch. On a guillotine. Cut it off. So, one afternoon, that's exactly what happened. A family friend turned up. We were in the bedroom and all of a sudden there was someone knocking on the front door. She told me to keep quiet. Not a peep. I could see she was freaked out. She pulled on her robe. This was a totally random pop-in. So okay. I kept quiet in the bedroom. Listening. Looking at the door. At the ceiling. And I could hear her talking to this 'family friend'. And when she got rid of him, she comes back and goes, why would he just show up like that? Out of the blue. And she sat on the edge of the bed chewing her nails. Something I'd never seen her do before. And that was it. As agreed, it was over.
Thinking about it now, seeing her over the fence, now that things have settled down, now that everything has slotted back onto it predictable track, I was thinking that maybe, I might suggest that we have another go. After all, our schedules coincide. So that makes things easy. She’s over there and I’m over here. Two people with extra time on their hands. Hot, empty afternoons stretching out into languid evenings. Moths bumping against the veranda light. Nothing but a single fence separating us. So what the hell?
And listen, when we had our 'thing', we didn’t lay around for hours on end. In each other’s arms. It wasn’t like that. It boiled down to quick and efficient physical gratification. No illusions. No creeping affection. No ‘what ifs?’. None of that ‘let’s run off to Queensland together in the hope that this feeling lasts forever’ because guess what? It won’t. It would fade and become something steady. Reliable. Life support. Like I already have with my wife. Like she has with her husband. And she was fine with that. It’s very rare to meet a woman like that one next door. A woman who is truly not prone to these fairy tales.
She never complains about her husband. Not once. Fact is, we barely talked. Our thing was contained inside a sunlit afternoon bubble of sex. Our real lives were one thing and our sunlit bubble thing was another. And listen, her husband is an alright guy. A top bloke. Really. I wish him no harm. No ill-will. The man has a garage full of toys. A jet ski and some kind of souped-up racing car. Illegal modifications by the sound of the engine. He even has some of those little remote control cars. He uses that nitro fuel. A combination of nitromethane, methanol and oil. Runs them up and down the street on the weekend. The remote control in his hands. A little childish if you ask me but hey, each to each his own. His kids go to some private boarding school. Only come home on the holidays. The husband is a carrot top. A Ginger. Same as his kids. The husband told me once that all his toys help him relax on the weekend. Called them his ‘stress busters’. ‘This is an investment' he said. 'These 'toys' will keep me from having a heart attack at fifty’. He told me this one day when we were standing out front. On our respective driveways. And I could see the logic in that.
Saturday 28 July 2018
Monday 23 July 2018
Catnip
Fly in for a week. That’s enough for me. Plenty. Got a nice place with a pool. Four-star. Kitchenette. Don’t bother with the bar girls. I don't. Not my thing. No way. Can’t be bothered with all that fooling around. It’s Tinder all the way. For me. You have any idea how many lonely women are wandering around this island? Pick'm off like low hanging fruit. That's what I do. They call me the ‘Big boned baby’. Admittedly, I got an oversized toddler's body. So what? More to love. That's what I say. Weightlifter tits gone saggy. And a belly. A sure indication of good living. Fat legs. Fat hands. A tattoo that doesn’t mean anything to me anymore. Used to...but not now. Things change. The tattoo was a youthful indiscretion. I tell people different stories about this little indiscretion. The deep meaning behind it. Make shit up. Keeps life interesting. Everyone loves a good story while you're sitting poolside sucking down a few cold beers. Passes the time. Anyway. 'Boned’ because, well, I’ll leave that one to the imagination. What I’m saying here is that there have never been any complaints. In that department. No female has ever lodged a formal complaint. This is a fact. Whatever. You work with what you have. My point is....the female tourist s where it’s at. For me. I can’t be having with the locals. Mine is a niche market and I don’t deviate. I don't. I won't. I’m on the Tinder soon as the plane touches down. In line, shuffling through customs, getting scrutinised by the officials, I'm swiping left and right. Cathy, Kelly, Francesca, Laura....the list goes on. All gagging for it. Sporty, sexy, flirty, fun....whatever. Insert any adjective you like in your profile it doesn't matter. Not to me. Women, just like us men, when exposed to all that sun, warm water and booze....are you kidding? They want a piece of it. They do. And fair is fair. They’re human beings. With needs. Just like us. Just like all the perverts you see on this plane. The men, I mean. Look at them. Chomping at the bit. Clawing to get out. Even before we hit the tarmac. Gagging for that first whiff of local talent. Not for me. No thanks. For me....it’s the tourists. For me, it's a turbocharged week. Believe what I say. I'll have something different planned every single day. And it does wear you out. It does. My hectic pace. The humidity and the beer. All that running around. A week from now I'll be exhausted. Mark my words. Never ceases to amaze me. As a white male, I'm nothing special back at home. I get off the plane here and my marketability goes straight through the f'ing roof. And you can honest. Look at me. I know what your thinking. You can say it. Go on. Back home I'm some kind of middle age lump. I am. But here? Here I’m catnip. Women who wouldn't give me the time of day....soon as they got off the plane, soon as that wall of warm air hits them, I'm worth a second look. Hello! What do we have here? That's what they think. They'll start coming out of the woodwork. And what kind of fool wouldn’t take advantage of that? Tell me. Get it while you can, right? Who knows? I shed a few pounds, live long enough, hit the old Stairmaster, maybe I’ll end up one of these old guys you hear about on a cruise ship. Tripping the light fantastic with all the old widows. And that’d be okay. With me.
Followers
I bought some special, new equipment for this trip. Bengie gave it to me at the airport. A new tripod-selfie stick special kind of attachment. ‘This will help you’ he promised. I travelled wearing streetwear by Shinsuke Takizawa and Coach sunglasses. Bengie said there is too much content of me sitting on planes, wrinkling my nose over plane meals, bopping to J-Pop. So I don't film anything inside the plane. Just some clouds. And the wing. Through the window.
On the first morning, my phone woke me in the hotel with digital songbirds. And I went to the little convenience store and filmed myself buying the drink that my main sponsor makes. It comes in four fruity flavours and gives the body power while centring the mind. And then, after that, I filmed myself down on the beach squealing with delight when the waves came rushing in, threatening to wet my limited addition white Onitsuka Tiger’s. Which would have been a disaster. There was a great deal of plastic pollution in the water and on the beach. I filmed the washed-up plastic and made a sad face. In the sand. With a stick. This will show my followers that I am unhappy about plastic. And even at that early hour, there were semi-naked Europeans in the background of my footage. These people had bodies that were not ideal for public display. Too much hair. The sun was getting very hot so I went to Starbucks and ordered an iced Americano with cream. (My dream was to get Starbucks as another sponsor). Later, I make a funny video of me eating a crab dish with noodles in a recommended restaurant. And I took footage of some Engish football hooligans terrorising people in a loud tourist bar. All were singing Oasis songs very loudly. And then I took more footage of me walking around inside a sad market. Sad because it was full of knockoff merchandise. And even though these handbags were perfect replicas down to the last stitch they were not the real thing. Which made me sad. Then I shot more footage of me sitting in the lobby of my cool hotel looking at the hexagonally shaped pool, listening to a J-Pop band I only pretended to like. And then finally, after my long day, I uploaded all the footage to the cloud so that Bengie could edit and post it. My followers have a large appetite for new content so I must be productive. Everyday. And that night I filmed myself sleeping with the automatic timer on. And I reviewed the footage the following morning. And at first, it was very beautiful to see my face at rest. But then my eyelids began to flicker and I began to cry out in a way that was not very pretty. And then, sadly, I roll out of shot and filmed 5.5 hours of an empty, indented pillow. And the dream I had that night made me very nervous although I didn’t remember what it was about. Only that it left me feeling sad and unhappy.
The next morning I walked around the hotel filming myself with the new self-stick but it was very boring footage so I trashed it. Which is sad. And frustrating. Because my footage is supposed to be bright and cheerful. After the complimentary breakfast, I went back to the beach and shot myself pointing and laughing at some seagulls. And then sitting next to a handsome foreigner who looked like Chris Hemsworth. God of Thunder, Thor from the action-superhero movies. And I put on my trademark paper mask. 'Famously incognito' is my brand twist. As developed by Bengie. And after that, in the hot afternoon, I checked on my main rival Ms Peacock. On her Instagram account. On her number of followers. And I could see that, once again, her followers exceeded my followers and I was unhappy. So very unhappy. And angry. But I make a video of me roaming the streets looking happy and curious and a little bit crazy. But really I was thinking about Ms Peacock’s growing popularity. And her growing list of major sponsors. And the dream I had last night that had soured this beautiful day with its aftertaste. And as contractually obliged, I bought my sponsor's drink and consumed it in a colourful and lively location. In front of some cool antiglobalisation graffiti. That had been done by a famous German graffiti artist. In the lobby of a Luxury American hotel. That was now owned by a Chinese billionaire. I hit the record button and I drank my drink (dragon fruit and blueberry....I think all the Gingko Biloba, Guarana and caffeine in my super drink was making me a little extra crazy today). Then, after taking care of my contractual expectations, I posted a photo of the lead singer of my favourite band (not really), the image frame crowded with cartoon love hearts and other emojis. And then I took footage of some local people flying past on loud mopeds. All clinging to each other. No crash helmets for the children. In the mists of their busy lives. Hurry, hurry, hurry! Good footage for Bengie to use for cutaways and local colour. And then I got stuck in the hotel elevator which is mirror lined and I could see myself repeated in four directions. Forever and ever. A cold echo down into nothing. Infinity and beyond! I make a quick video of this nervous event. And I am lucky because I captured the moment when the hotel people pried open the door and rescued me from my mirrored lined coffin box. And later on, after I start to crash from the elevator drama and the Dragon Blueberry drinking wearing off, I chillaxed by the pool which is only 1.5 metres deep and surrounded by cheerful landscaping. All plants have been made symmetrical and uniform as if cut by a giant nail clipper. And European and Australian hotel guests drink and laugh and burn, burn, burn in the sun. And I fall asleep on my lounge chair and re-enter my dream. Which is an unhappy place. A place that exists inside me. Like a glass-lined elevator. Going down forever. Like a battlefield. Full of terrible 18th-century blood spurting violence. And I feel my heart beating in my chest. A drum. A thousand drums. And the sky is as red as the blood in the mud. Swords are clashing. As I hack and slash. Gouge and stab. And fight against an army of my enemy's 90,000 followers.
On the first morning, my phone woke me in the hotel with digital songbirds. And I went to the little convenience store and filmed myself buying the drink that my main sponsor makes. It comes in four fruity flavours and gives the body power while centring the mind. And then, after that, I filmed myself down on the beach squealing with delight when the waves came rushing in, threatening to wet my limited addition white Onitsuka Tiger’s. Which would have been a disaster. There was a great deal of plastic pollution in the water and on the beach. I filmed the washed-up plastic and made a sad face. In the sand. With a stick. This will show my followers that I am unhappy about plastic. And even at that early hour, there were semi-naked Europeans in the background of my footage. These people had bodies that were not ideal for public display. Too much hair. The sun was getting very hot so I went to Starbucks and ordered an iced Americano with cream. (My dream was to get Starbucks as another sponsor). Later, I make a funny video of me eating a crab dish with noodles in a recommended restaurant. And I took footage of some Engish football hooligans terrorising people in a loud tourist bar. All were singing Oasis songs very loudly. And then I took more footage of me walking around inside a sad market. Sad because it was full of knockoff merchandise. And even though these handbags were perfect replicas down to the last stitch they were not the real thing. Which made me sad. Then I shot more footage of me sitting in the lobby of my cool hotel looking at the hexagonally shaped pool, listening to a J-Pop band I only pretended to like. And then finally, after my long day, I uploaded all the footage to the cloud so that Bengie could edit and post it. My followers have a large appetite for new content so I must be productive. Everyday. And that night I filmed myself sleeping with the automatic timer on. And I reviewed the footage the following morning. And at first, it was very beautiful to see my face at rest. But then my eyelids began to flicker and I began to cry out in a way that was not very pretty. And then, sadly, I roll out of shot and filmed 5.5 hours of an empty, indented pillow. And the dream I had that night made me very nervous although I didn’t remember what it was about. Only that it left me feeling sad and unhappy.
The next morning I walked around the hotel filming myself with the new self-stick but it was very boring footage so I trashed it. Which is sad. And frustrating. Because my footage is supposed to be bright and cheerful. After the complimentary breakfast, I went back to the beach and shot myself pointing and laughing at some seagulls. And then sitting next to a handsome foreigner who looked like Chris Hemsworth. God of Thunder, Thor from the action-superhero movies. And I put on my trademark paper mask. 'Famously incognito' is my brand twist. As developed by Bengie. And after that, in the hot afternoon, I checked on my main rival Ms Peacock. On her Instagram account. On her number of followers. And I could see that, once again, her followers exceeded my followers and I was unhappy. So very unhappy. And angry. But I make a video of me roaming the streets looking happy and curious and a little bit crazy. But really I was thinking about Ms Peacock’s growing popularity. And her growing list of major sponsors. And the dream I had last night that had soured this beautiful day with its aftertaste. And as contractually obliged, I bought my sponsor's drink and consumed it in a colourful and lively location. In front of some cool antiglobalisation graffiti. That had been done by a famous German graffiti artist. In the lobby of a Luxury American hotel. That was now owned by a Chinese billionaire. I hit the record button and I drank my drink (dragon fruit and blueberry....I think all the Gingko Biloba, Guarana and caffeine in my super drink was making me a little extra crazy today). Then, after taking care of my contractual expectations, I posted a photo of the lead singer of my favourite band (not really), the image frame crowded with cartoon love hearts and other emojis. And then I took footage of some local people flying past on loud mopeds. All clinging to each other. No crash helmets for the children. In the mists of their busy lives. Hurry, hurry, hurry! Good footage for Bengie to use for cutaways and local colour. And then I got stuck in the hotel elevator which is mirror lined and I could see myself repeated in four directions. Forever and ever. A cold echo down into nothing. Infinity and beyond! I make a quick video of this nervous event. And I am lucky because I captured the moment when the hotel people pried open the door and rescued me from my mirrored lined coffin box. And later on, after I start to crash from the elevator drama and the Dragon Blueberry drinking wearing off, I chillaxed by the pool which is only 1.5 metres deep and surrounded by cheerful landscaping. All plants have been made symmetrical and uniform as if cut by a giant nail clipper. And European and Australian hotel guests drink and laugh and burn, burn, burn in the sun. And I fall asleep on my lounge chair and re-enter my dream. Which is an unhappy place. A place that exists inside me. Like a glass-lined elevator. Going down forever. Like a battlefield. Full of terrible 18th-century blood spurting violence. And I feel my heart beating in my chest. A drum. A thousand drums. And the sky is as red as the blood in the mud. Swords are clashing. As I hack and slash. Gouge and stab. And fight against an army of my enemy's 90,000 followers.
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