Toys

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.

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.

The tourist

Ethan, Chrissy and Ruth were all appropriately dressed for the day, all sun protected and carrying expensive, lightweight day packs and water bottles as they moved along the hiking trail in a single file line. Bringing up the rear, Ethan was not a happy man. Several weeks ago he had almost talked Ruth, his current girlfriend, and Chrissy into having a three-way. Showing no small amount of guile, he instigated several key conversations about sexual relationships being porous and mailable. People should do what they want to do, insisted Eithan. After all, isn’t monogamy just some old fashion construct? Shackles. A definition of what physical intimacy should be like...imposed on us by society? Ethan really sold it. In his earnest appeal, he managed to make it all sound so reasonable. To increase his chances of success, he made sure to include the current buzzword 'polyamorous' whenever he could. Such an appealing word to the female ear: Poly sounding very much like a girl's name. Poly meaning many, as in there is something on offer for everyone at this new love buffet. And amorous? Forget it. Latin for love. Amour. That's poetry right there. Pablo Neruda. Lorca. The ladies lapped that shit up. The word projected a complete narrative. Poly, who represents females in general, is now being encouraged to explore all avenues of her sexual satisfaction. Viva la sexual revolution.

After much debate, Ethan fully expected to find himself in bed with these two women in the not too distant future. Ruth had come around, eventually, saying she would be open to the idea of experimentation. On one condition: having done all the groundwork, Ethan would need to leave Ruth and Chrissy alone to work out all the remaining details. So, although he didn't like it, Ethan would be forced to hand over all further negotiations to the two women. The women talked about the practicalities and emotional repercussions of exploring this new and exciting sexual dynamic. And the more they talked the less viable it all became. And Ethan's beautiful idea had fallen apart right in front of his eyes. The woman had talked themselves out of it. After all, they were friends and it was all too emotionally messy. Seriously: was it really worth putting their friendship at risk just to satisfy a man's desire for some silly pornographic fantasy? Ruth definitely had bisexual urges but not with Ethan breathing down her neck like some rabid dog. And not with her childhood friend.

Ethan made one last-ditch attempt, saying ladies, let's just concentrate on the physical mechanics of this situation. I say we must do ourselves the service of acknowledging these natural urges. The two women reacted with an incredulous lack of conviction and then Ruth had come back saying, alright then, Chrissy and I will have a go first, see if we like it. Yeah? How does that sound? No way, said Ethan, not without me at least in the same room. That would be akin to cheating. And that was it. Because Ethan had been caught out. All this talk of sexy polyamourous exploration went right out the window as soon as it didn't directly involve Ethan. The deal is off, said Ruth. You can get your jollies the old fashion way. Eyeballing hardcore pornography on a laptop.

Ethan was totally crestfallen. For fuck sake! He knew they should have acted while the idea was still exciting and fresh. Before they had a chance to second-guess themselves. With every bloody conversation, they had moved further and further away from this three-way becoming a reality. It was tragic. These negotiations had taken up weeks of Ethan's time. All for nothing. As things stood, they had all been demoted back to friends. How utterly devastating, thought Ethan as he watched the two women move ahead of him along the bush track.

The hike was a 10k loop. You get off at one train station, entered into the bush, walking along the track and then, 10 kilometres later, you would loop back, though the national park, arriving at the train station one stop down the line. Forty minutes after setting off, they stopped at the waterhole to rest. At this time of year, the water was too stilled, too murky to have a swim. Clouds of nats hung in the air. They sat on flat sections of large, overlapping stones surrounding by cascading bushland. From the surrounding mass of gum trees and spiky shrubs emanated a steady drone of insect noise. They sat in silence. Ethan was still consumed with how close he'd come to the golden chalice of the three-way when a man came down the trail and appeared on the edge of the waterhole. He was a middle-aged Asian tourist. He was dressed in grey and white schemed leisure clothing and lightweight shoes. He wore no hat. He looked far more suited for a day on the golf course. Although Ethan was absorbed with his own inner turmoil, and therefore only paying minimal attention, it did strike him as odd that this man was alone and so ill-equipped for the hike. The tourist paused for a moment, looked around and then continued along the path. One of the girls may have looked up at him and smiled but this detail was lost in a haze of unreliable recollections. The next time Ethan looked back, shielding his eyes from the sun glare, the tourist was gone. Ethan took another gulp of his water and returned his attention longingly to the scene directly in front of where he sat. The girls. One of the girls was down by the water, eating a tangerine, stacking the sections of peel carefully on the rock. The other was laying flat on her back, in the shade, swatting something away from her face. It might have been fatigue or wishful thinking, or a combination of both, but Ethan's mind began to get woozy with lazy erotic possibilities. Images of maidens shedding their clothing and sensually bathing each other in the waterhole overtook him for a time. Perhaps because of the setting, these fantasies assumed a corny ladies-in-the-lake pornographic theme with Ethan's swollen member as an obvious stand-in for Excalibur. Ethan had no special affinity for this kind of sword and sandals foolishness. He could care less about the latest season of Games of Thrones. Yet here he was, dreaming up sexy scenarios which centred around mythological humping in broad daylight. Why couldn't this happen in real life? It was so unfair. Eventually, Ethan's hot little fever dream was interrupted by the obtrusive reality of their situation. Ruth was calling him, Ethan. Ethan! ETHAN!
What? he replied.
We should get going. We still have a fair way to go. Are you coming?
Okay, okay, said Ethan. Considering he was still brandishing Excaliber beneath his beltline, this was going to prove easier said than done.

Ethan, Chrissy and Ruth resumed their hike. They were in no particular rush. They had hiked this trail a few time before so they basically knew what to expect. Sometimes the girls would stop and examine things along the way. The spiky head of a Xanthorrhoea. A particularly gnarled and beautiful ghost gum. The trail wound on through the bush, cutting through rocky gullies, across more sections of tabletop rock, occasionally breaking out into clearings which afforded views of the city in the far distance. The topography was consistently flat so these vistas were not exactly breathtaking, more a reminder that the city was never too far away. The main point of the hike was the 10-kilometre effort. Determined black flies zoned in on them like angry fighter pilots, seeking out the moisture in their eyes, mouth and ears. Occasionally a lizard would scurry across the trail, spooked by their approach.
Sometime later they came across a digital camera laying in the dirt. A nifty little piece of technology with a retractable telephoto lens. The sort of equipment that would appeal to someone who had photographic aspirations beyond the point-and-shoot capabilities of their iPhone. Ethan picked it up, brushed it off and turned the camera over in his hands. It was simple enough to figure out. He pressed the button that activating the display screen on the back of the device. The little machine chimed and the screen lit up revealing an image of some trees. Flick back and there were more images of Sydney. It was Chrissy who suggested the camera most likely belonged to the Asian tourist who had passed them back at the waterhole. They had seen no one else on the trail that morning.

Ethan, Chrissy and Ruth pushed on. They assumed that they would catch up with the tourist shading himself under a tree or that he would return this way having discovered his camera was missing. Think about it now, it occurred to Ethan that the tourist didn't even have a water bottle. Ethan held the camera in his hand, expecting this encounter to happen within ten or fifteen minutes. They plodded on and eventually, Ethan put the little camera in his daypack. The women talked on, about the tourist, recalling that he really hadn't been dressed for such an arduous hike. Maybe, they speculated, he was unaware that the trail was 10 kilometres in length. He might have mistakenly thought this was more of a sedate walking track with regular bathroom facilities along the way. Maybe even a kiosk where one could purchase a cup of coffee. This was not the case. This trail needed to be taken seriously. Things could go wrong. Ethan was only catching snatches of this conversation. Even though he couldn't quite hear what the women were saying word-for-word, he understood the gist. Once again it occurred to Ethan that the tourist had been alone. Which was sort of strange. Ethan wouldn't want to generalise but come on....usually, tourists from Japan or China travelled in packs. Typically you would see them at the Opera house or at Bondi Beach being shepherded around by some company who specifically catering to their needs.

The trail snaked on through increasing rugged terrain, the last three or four kilometres becoming an uphill slog between dusty boulders and dried out branches that snagged and pulling at their clothes. They crossed a dried waterfall. The ground hummed with its own baked in heat. Later on, they passed the blackened ring of an old, extinguished fire pit. This was a sanctioned camping site. In the ashes, there were a few tin cans and beers bottles. With only a few warm gulps of water left, Ethan made a mental note to ration out the rest of his supply. He would probably grab a cold beverage from the vending machine on the train platform. The women were now chatting about various people they knew. About holidays. Places they wanted to go. Vietnam. Cambodia. Suddenly the trail ended and they came out of the scraggy drag of the bushland and onto a section of well-maintained gravel road. They had basically reached the end. They crossed several small, linked paddocks and arrived at the train platform: civilization appearing out of the spiky heat haze in the form of safety messages, corrugated tin roofing and train tracks. The well hammered vending machine swallowed Ethan's coins and spat out a cold drink. He'd been thinking about the healthy option, ie water, but fuck it. He decided he needed some sugar. The women had lulled into a silence and had slumped onto a bench to cool down and examine their phones now that cellular coverage had been reestablished. Ruth wandered over to swipe some of his drink. I'll buy you one, he said. I don't want a whole one, she replied. Yeah, but I do, he thought. He had completely forgotten about the camera in his bag.

Later on, Ethan was waiting for his coffee at his local cafe and he happened to flip open a newspaper, something he never ordinarily did. There was usual detritus of celebrity gossip, suburban hoon antics and dumbed down political coverage. In that order of importance. Even the international stories had a fairly provincial spin so as to establish relevance for the paper's national audience. Ethan was leafing through this happy bullshit when something familiar popped out. Later on, it would occur to Ethan that people get lost in all kinds of ways. In the media. In real life. On bush trails. They point is, they get funnelled down into obscurity. They drop off the face of the earth and no one knows where they end up. Sometimes you might catch one last glimpse of these souls just before they slip under. Sometimes not. On page 7 Ethan saw the tiniest of stories about a Japanese businessman who had disappeared last weekend. Apparently, this guy was a big deal back home in Japan. The head of a global tech company. Japan's answer to Mark Zuckerberg. The NSW authorities were just now scaling down their unsuccessful search. They had scoured the bushland south of Sydney on foot, on all-terrain vehicles and in helicopters, searching the locations where he'd last been seen. Nothing. Not a trace. Ethan took his coffee and reread the article. Instantly, Ethan felt in some minor way responsible for the man's disappearance. Or at least for impeding his rescue. The camera. The camera had been totally forgotten about and had remained at bottom of Ethan's backpack since last weekend. Seven whole days, for godsakes. They could have, should have, done something at the time but how were they to know? Thinking back now, the camera might have marked the spot where the tourist had wandered off the trail. Maybe. One thing was for certain: the trail was not clearly marked out in places and if you weren't familiar with the area, you could easily wander off in the bush and get lost. After getting his coffee, Ethan returned to his apartment and dug out the camera. What had he been thinking? He'd his head so far up his own ass that day he'd forgotten all about it. He turned the camera on and began flicking through the images, this time being more thorough, going back to the start of the memory card. And, as he scrawled back, the strobing images made a crudely animated movie chronicling events in reverse order.

37. An unintentional image. The tourist's squashed shadow on the dirt hiking trail. There seems little reason to take a photograph of this section of ground other than to capture his own shadow. It could be anywhere in the world.

36. The Waterhole. Ethan, Ruth and Chrissy reclining in the shade around the edge of the murky pool. Sunlight pricing through the surrounding tree cover. Ethan is caught in mid-motion, turning towards the camera. At that moment, Ethan has just become aware of the Tourist's presence and is pivoting around, shading his eyes from the sun, trying to see who is behind him. The women are positioned as Ethan remembers them. Although crisp in terms of focus, the shot looks off centre indicating it was hastily taken. In all likelihood, this is because the tourist is aware he was being voyeuristic.

35. Trees on the trail. Ghost gums against the blue sky.

34. The sign at the head of the hiking trail. Tourist information about the loop and the protected status of the flora and fauna in the area.

33. A monstrous lobster on a white plate. Claws limp, multiple legs dangling, dead eyes on stems. Metal devices for digging out the cooked flesh set up on the table next to the plate.

32. The tourist in a group shot. Men of different nationalities in a restaurant. Large fish swim in a huge, bubbling tank in the background, fins and claws scraping against the glass. The men sit around a large white-clothed table. They all face the camera, waiting for the photographer, who might be a waiter, to finish taking the shot. They all wear clip-on name tags. The sort you might see at a convention. Beers bottles and clean cutlery await.

31. The tourist in the bland, oversized interior of a convention hall, attendees and staff in the background. Tables and booths. The tourist is caught in front of his own camera, smiling little conviction, wearing a name tag that says, 光暖.

30. Similar to the previous image: people milling about at the same conference. This time the tourist is not in view.

29. Similar to the previous image: people milling about the same conference.

28. Bondi Beach. Distant waves tumbling into shore. The Pavillion. Tourists and locals on bikes and on foot. People walking through the shot carrying surfboards. Flags snapping in the breeze. Sun.

27. Similar to the previous image: Bondi Beach.

26. A view from the top of a hop on-hop off tourist bus. Shops along the side of a busy road. People. Cars. Advertising.

25. The tourist in downtown Sydney. Buildings thrusting upwards into the sky, the exaggerated perspective caused by the angle and the camera's slightly fisheye optics.

24. A plane window. A downwards, compressed view of clouds, the plane's wing, the engine housing, as the plane descending into Sydney to land, flying over The Harbour Bridge. The harbour water a swath of dark blue, scored by the wake of an occasional boat or ferry.

23. Similar to the previous image: The plane landing, the ground getting closer.

22. A young woman in a sexually provocative position on a hotel bed. The tourist is engaged in a sexual act with this woman while operating the camera at arm's length. His body is elongated and unnaturally stretched by the camera's optics. Their bodies are both bleached by the harsh flash.

21. Similar to the previous image: more explicit, slightly different angle.

20. Similar to the previous image: more explicit, different angle.

19. The young woman in a restaurant, the table cluttered with beer bottles and plates. She is checking her phone which is sheathed in a plastic, bejewelled phone cover. She looks irritated.
18. The young woman standing on a cracked street corner, a marketplace in the background, dirty plastic yawning tethered to the side of a peeling building with mix-matching pieces of rope. Sunglasses conceal the young woman's eyes.

17. The young woman now laughing into the camera, not in a particularly friendly way, her teeth white, faint acne scars on her cheeks. She is sitting at a bar with a thatched roof, the tranquil blue of hotel resort pool in the background, surrounded by manicured landscaping, temple themed paving stones, a restaurant area spilling into the foreground. Staff. More tourists.

16. Similar image to the previous one, from a slightly different angle.

15. Similar image to the previous one, from a slightly different angle.

14. The young Filipino woman, looking quite beautiful, is naked on the clean white linin of the hotel bed. The starburst of the camera flash is caught in the black rectangle of the television screen. The woman looks hesitant, somewhat at uneasy at being photographed. A can of beer is evident on the nightstand. The woman wears luminescent contact lenses, an unnatural colour, perhaps only intended for the sake of fashion. The camera flash is reflected back in her lenses, making it seem as if white light is emanating out of her eye sockets. Her shoes, strap cork wedges, sit nearby on the tiled floor.

13. The ceiling of the hotel room (most likely an unintentional shot).

12. A white sand beach. The tourist sits by himself in a restaurant. A meal is spread out on the table in front of him. Several small lobsters or large prawns curled up on the plate in their pink-red shell. Garnish. The tourtist is now in front of the camera, smiling with grim determination, not making a particularly good show of it. Someone, a waiter perhaps or another guest at this resort, might have insisted on taking his photograph.

11. The same beach. A large sign made of cartoonish lettering reads welcome to El Nido, Philipines. White sand, rental umbrellas stretching off into the distance, roughly hewn deck chairs for hire. More tourists.

10. The same beach. Ragged palm trees and whimsical thatched buildings running along the distance curve of the beach. Tourists milling about, sunbathing, shopping and relaxing. People caught in middle step and mid-conversation. People drinking beer. Modified motorcycles with sidecars and muddy vans. Blue skies and equatorial sunlight smashing down on green limestone islands in the distance.

9. The bland decor features of the luxury seaside hotel suite with balcony. Flatscreen TV, minibar, decorative artwork, the corner of a bed. In the image, the tourist is caught partially reflected in the room's mirror, a black outline. His suitcase, complete with airline luggage tags, is on the bed indicating he has just arrived.

8. A seaport. Docks and Boats. Cranes in the background. A shed. People waiting. The ocean. Other people loading backpacks and luggage into a boat.

7. Passing landscape: vibrant green fields and telecommunication towers. Shot through a minivan window.

6. The tourist is in what looks like a tropical, third world city. This image was taken from a hotel balcony. Below an insane amount of traffic moves past on a mammoth causeway which crosses countless smaller streets. Each one of these streets is a universe unto itself with makeshift business, food stalls, people in doorways, plastic furniture, welding torches, open sewers, disassembled automobiles, roosters in cages, piles of garbage, exposed wiring, construction...etc.

5. A busy street in the same country. Broken pavements, lush vegetation creeping in through the cracks and hairy clusters of cable infrastructure and unfinished concrete construction. A city built a neck-break speed and without the money required to finished off the rough edges.

4. The interior of a plane, rows of seat backs receding off into the distance, bunching up in the nose of the craft. The back of other passenger's heads. Movies playing on tiny screens. Finding Nimo. Superheros. Romantic comedies.

3. The Japanese tourist with a woman and a little girl in a domestic setting. An apartment with quite a plush interior. Lots of glass and quality furnishings and expensive looking paintings. Obviously, the man would have been quite wealthy to afford something with this much square meterage in a major Japanese city. Judging from the casualness of the tourist, the woman and the little girl's interaction and the level of intimacy this was likely the man's wife and daughter.

2. Similar to the previous image: wife and daughter. Different angles.

1. Similar to the previous image: wife and daughter. Different angles.

It was nothing to do with Ethan, not really, yet being in possession of the camera slowly became a burden. It weighed on his conscious incrementally and over a long period of time. When he became aware of this gathering weight, Ethan wanted to throw the camera in the garbage yet for one reason or another, it remained in his apartment, conveniently out of sight in a drawer containing one giant tangle of brightly coloured electrical cords. Time marched on. Time was the problem. If they had acted on the day, if they had called somebody from the train platform, this whole situation might have been avoided. After all, isn't that what they say about finding people lost in the wilderness? Time is of the essence. You need to act quickly.

On those occasions when Ethan dug the camera out, he would look at the images and speculate about this man's life, trying to connect the dots. One night, when he'd had a few too many, Ethan erased images 15-21. He intended to sanitise the tourist's journey from Japan to Sydney via the Philippines. Obviously, the woman in the Philippines had been a prostitute. The plan was, after erasing the explicit, incriminating images Ethan would send the memory card back to the widow in Japan thus resolving the matter. At the very least Ethan felt responsible for the poor woman's lack of closure. For the unanswered questions. Sure, people just disappear. Everyday. But if you know something, you should speak out and not be indifferent. To throw the memory card away would be terrible. Ethan found himself looking at the remaining 29 images several more times before the camera's lithium battery died. He took the memory card out but never got around to finding the woman's address. In real life, it would have been a mission to get this kind of information. Where would you start?

The more time that went by, the less important it all seemed. People get on with their lives, reasoned Ethan, even when something as tragic as this happens. That said, having the camera around still made Ethan feel anxious. It was that slow accumulation of guilt, incrementally weighing him down. Ethan was in possession of what amounted to a black box containing the final record of a human life. The tourist was dead: even though they hadn't located his body, that much was certain. As time passed, Ethan found himself in an impossible situation. He felt like holding onto the camera was eroding his good luck yet throwing it away would bring even worse luck. Moreover, he was scared that, for the first time in his life, he had become heavily invested in superstitious thought. How had this happened? How had he embued an inanimate object with what amounted to magical properties? For god sakes, he told himself, the soul of the dead tourist was not trapped in the memory card of this camera. That all sounded very reasonable when he said it aloud and in a firm tone of voice. Still, lingering doubts persisted. Before he knew it, Ethan had lost his girlfriend and things had become rocky at work. He was being performance managed. Another way of putting was, he was hanging by a fucking thread. Then he was injured in an electrical accident. He had been overseeing the viewing a rental property in the city and he had plugged his phone into an old wall socket. Zap! Old wiring. Completely illegal. He was badly burnt and lost part of his finger. When it happened, it felt like his skeleton had been hit by a large tuning fork. A cold vibration ran up his arms. His teeth were rattling and he could smell burning flesh. Later, lying in a hospital bed, numb on drugs and his arms heavily bandaged, Ethan was able to conveniently trace this shift in his luck back to the moment he found the camera. This is what the mind does under duress. It ties nice, neat bows on messy events.

One day, after being released from the hospital, Ethan returned to the national park. He walked the track until he found what felt like the right spot. And then he left the camera, complete with memory card, for someone else to find. If you could, you would move back from the precipice. It's only natural. It's human. You would back away from the thing that is going to kill you. But, there is no way of knowing so all you can really do is try to take the necessary steps to move forward.

Symbiotic relationships (1st draft)

Flynn was an uncomplicated guy, a country boy at heart. He liked the little translucent lime-green frogs that congregated around the plumbing in his latrine. There was a symbiotic relationship between man and frog that he could appreciate. He had built the latrine, providing shelter for these little creatures and in turn, they hunted insects for him. You scratch my back, I scratch yours. Flynn liked to stand barefoot outside under stars at night. There was very light pollution in that part of the world so the night skies were always full of stars. He liked to think about the mathematical certainty that there was life on other planets. He had done his own research into these theories. He had read somewhere that in all likelihood, according to the laws of probability, there was another Flynn on another similar planet doing pretty much the same thing he was doing. There would be variables of course. This other Flynn or multitude of Flynn's perhaps, wouldn't be exactly like him. In any case, it was mind-boggling to contemplate. 

Fynn also liked his boat, a deep sea fishing vessel powered by twin outboard motors, a 25 footer with all the latest gadgets, which he kept docked down at the marina. He liked his construction company. Flynn built houses for the mining company. He would bid for contracts and then, once secured, he would tack new houses onto existing developments. Construction against the vast and harsh Pilbara landscape could be a daunting undertaking, each house a mere drop in the ocean. It was difficult to maintain the illusion that civilisation could actually take hold when considering the scale of the task. At times, you felt more like a beetle struggling under the cruel sun. Still, it was well-paid work when things went to plan. Once completed, each house would be occupied by an engineer or a geologist working for the company. Their families would follow. There was some small satisfaction in that. 

ln terms of scale, Flynn understood that all this importance placed on human activity was ultimately insignificant. Life up there functioned according to natural cycles. Both large and small. Even the machinery of the economic prosperity would one day grind to a halt when China's thirst for iron ore ran out. Flynn was conscious of how hippy-dippy it all sounded but....the economy was a manmade system. And all men, like blind tadpoles, had come from the muck. It all went back to cells splitting apart and things crawling out of the sea. All of it. Besides, Flynn had driven through other communities in the state which had once prospered but now had sand drifting through their open doorways and broken windows.   

Flynn liked his Indonesian wife and his little daughter. He liked the house he had built for them. Flynn prided himself on the fact that he kept things simple. It was a philosophy he always tried to live by. This approach informed his attitudes and perspectives, in both his conversation and his code of behaviour. He was a gentleman that kept things simple and cheerful. Flynn talked in a slow draw and often paused to look off into the heat soaked distances as if to extend the conversation or gather his thoughts. He used a lot of homespun wisdom and relied extensively on his own common sense. Flynn knew what he knew. Having said that, he never bragged about his limit repertoire of references. Not like some. He was humble. Flynn felt there was no point in complicating things for other people with a lot of elaborate 'what if's' and double-dealing masturbatory reasoning. This being the case, he kept his public persona and many of his private ideas separate. 

Flynn got a new construction crew on board. An Englishman and his American mate. They just turned up out of the blue one day. After a brief interview over instant coffee, they signed a contract to build one of the steel frame kit houses. A 3 x 2 with a carport out in the desert. 450 square metres. On that particular site, the roads had already been laid out, fresh black asphalt and concrete curbs, waiting for the construction of new houses to catch up. The framework construction was simple enough, sort like a giant Erector set held together by thousands of bolts. Having said this, you did need some construction experience to keep everything plumb and level. It worked out quite well with these lads. They were eager and ready for serious work. After signing the contract, Flynn got out of their way and let them at it, checking in only periodically to make sure everything was running smoothly. He could see they were committed to their work. 

Flynn wasn't opposed to having a few beers with these boys back at the yard once the working day was over. The new crew were just like all the other construction crews that had passed through. First and foremost, they were hungry for the big pay cheques. Their plan was to work around the clock, six or even seven days a week right up until Christmas. Go hard or go home. Flynn had heard this all before. The problem with this approach was that the working conditions out here would eventually wear you down. The heat and the flies and being so far away from your loved ones: it would all start adding up. And the drinking didn’t help either. Heavy drinking would quickly bring about the decline of an operation. No two ways about it. Right away Flynn could see that these boys had a thirst. At the end of each day, they wanted relief from the heat and their aching joints. A few beers in the shade would definitely do the trick. However, the consumption of too many beers, over an extended period of time would catch up with you. Dragging your hungover ass off to work in forty degrees heat was not a great long-term strategy. Evident from the mounting pile of empties in the yard's recycling container, these boys were certainly capable of knocking a few back. 

Personally, Flynn kept the drinking to a minimum. When he showed up at the cabin, the place where he housed his crews, a room with a few beds, a microwave and an AC, he always brought his own beers. Mid-strengths. Barely any alcohol in them. He simply couldn’t drink the way he had as a young man. Time and time again, he saw men his age pounding down the grog in the pubs like there was no tomorrow, their eyes dull, their lives a disheartening redaction of who they had once been. Again, not a great long-term strategy. Not if you wanted to make it make something out of yourself or for that matter, make it to Christmas in the Pilbara. Liver, wallet and mental outlook....it all suffered.  

Despite the fact that Flynn didn't really want to cast doubt on something that seemed to be working, at least in the short term, one night he did attempt to give these boys some advice. He told them to go easy on the drinking and basically take care of themselves because the environment was harsh and brutal and working at such an accelerated rate would only lead to premature burnout. He also requested that they not leave beer caps around in dirt because inevitably he was the one who would have to pick them all up. 

The new crew decided to bring in additional subcontractors to speed up the process and receive a bigger piece of the pie. Mark, the Englishman was cagey that way. Undeniably he had an entrepreneurial streak and he was interested in growing his end of the operation. Flynn had no problem with this whatsoever. Why would he? The more houses they finished, the more money for everybody involved. Sure Flynn's end would be slightly reduced but so what? When it meant he didn't have to organise the other trades to come in after the framework had been put up. It was preferable for Flynn to have less moving parts to worry about. The simplification was worth the money. And if they could sign off a house every two weeks, as Mark had promised, they would all be doing okay.

During the working day, Flynn worn clean King Gees work clothes and an Akubra hat. He spends the majority of his time in his office, at the yard, making calls and dealing with emails from the mining company and suppliers. Sometimes he would have to troubleshoot, driving out to the building sites, speaking with the foreman but generally, he could run things from his office. He had another business as well. When he had time, when things were slow in the construction game, he took Japanese and Chinese tourists out on the Indian Ocean in his boat. He knew all the good spots. Spanish mackerel, cobia, tailor, a variety of tuna species, drummer, blackfish, groper, kingfish, and even marlin. These visiting sports fishermen paid top dollar for the experience of hauling in a big fish. They also wanted to eat and drink well. One client flew his own chef in on a private plane from Osaka. Back home this client was some sort of industrial giant. In Australia, he was perpetually shadowed by a toadie interpreter. The chef he flew in was a good bloke. A Malaysian dude. He had been the one who had first introduced Flynn to the idea of sashimi. Some fish you could just cut open and eat raw, a dab of wasabi, a little soy sauce, absolutely delicious. 

Mark, the Englishman, brought on a welder, a burly Australian named Bill, who came into town in a smoking white Land Rover. Bill was a bit broken down himself but basically a good guy. Then another dude showed up. Conner. Conner was a character alright. And like all interesting characters, Conner had a number of personal problems that soon came to the surface. For one thing, he's done serious time. And he'd left a broken family in his wake; a wive and kids who were now protected from him by a restraining order. Although he swore otherwise, Conner had ongoing alcohol and substance abuse issues. It became apparent almost immediately that Conner's sense of humour put people on edge. He seemed to enjoy causing riffs. Conner was the sort of man who thrived on disharmony because he saw social cohesion as something that ultimately would exclude him. Commonality and the rules required to maintain it made him paranoid and angry. Conner was a hard-luck story told over and over again. An outcome and attituded endlessly validated by the psychological wounds Conner himself kept tearing open.  

Seeing all this from the sidelines, Flynn continued to maintain his distance. Crews often came apart because of personality clashes. It really wasn't his problem. Not at first. Then, one afternoon when they had knocked off early, he experienced what Conner was like first hand. The boys were out in the yard drinking, listening to music, sitting around on plastic chairs, and Conner just walked into Flynn's office, planted himself in a chair and kicked back, putting one foot up on the desk. A dust caked boot. Flynn looked up and smiled. Obviously, Conner felt a chat. It was also glaringly evident that Conner liked to dominate situations, putting the people he interacted with in the subordinate position. Maybe even unknowingly so. Maybe this was just part of his nature, an unconscious response, something he had learnt in prison. Top dog and all that. 

I have been watching you mate, said Conner. I gotta say, you have a pretty good life here. A business, a nice wife. House. The whole package. And correct me if I'm wrong but....while we are out there...slaving away in the heat. You spend most of your time sitting around in this comfy office. The air conditioning blasting and the fridge full of beers. Is that right? 

If you are asking me.....do I run my business from this office then....yep....that'd be correct mate. You're right. I spend quite a bit of my time in here. Absolutely. 

And Flynn proceeded to tell Conner about the emails and phone calls. The logistics and shipping orders. And as he rattled on, Conner glazed over, leant back in his chair and started looking around, at the framed business licences on the wall, at the photos of people holding up big fish. At the Chamber of Commerce business award. It was apparent that Conner wasn't listening because he didn't give a shit. One day, he interrupted after belching loudly in the middle of Flynn's drawling speech, I want to be on the other side of this desk. You know? Why can't I be the fat cunt who sits there all day, running the show with clean hands? I mean it's impressive...all this....shit you've acquired, you know? The business, your little Asian wife, the boat...all of it. Very impressive. Probably through hard work but who knows? Maybe you just inherited it all? Anyway...let's just cut to the chase. Let me ask you, straight from the horse mouth....do you think you deserve all this? And he gestured towards the wall of photographs, a bemused, incredulous smirk on his face indicating that he had doubts. 

"Do I think I deserve all this"? repeated Flynn.

Hello? Hello? Is a fucking parrot in here, laughed Conner, forming a pretend phone out of his thumb and pinkie, jamming it against the side of his head and speaking into it. A bit of improvised comedy to either break or intensify the tension. 

I do..." deserve all this," Flynn continued. And he kept talking as if he were unaware that he was becoming the butt of the joke. Just a simple country boy. It was fine. He was taking a passive role in this exchange. For now at least. Conner maintained his pressurised and hostile badgering for another ten minutes or so. His game was peekaboo, show and tell with his barely masked aggression concealed beneath a stupidly friendly veneer. As if he were happy to speak down to Flynn in his own native tongue, the language of the simpleton. Flynn played his part, answering accordingly as if he were slightly out of his depth. A simple country boy running up against a character he had not encountered before. It was okay. For now.     

Overall Conner caused so many problems in the crew that eventually  English Mike had to drum up the nerve to kick him out. Conner was a gnarled and imposing figure. Life had chewed him over. Predictably there was a big confrontation. Conner certainly didn’t like being fired. Not in the least. He hung around camp and won't leave, making things incredibly awkward. After that, sometimes he'd show up at the gate in his truck, just sitting there behind the wheel, engine rumbling as he watching them come and go behind the compound's cyclone fence. It was a public road. The was no law against it. And at other times he'd turn up at the building site. Things got stolen, vandalised. Then he instigated a fight in the pub. Then another one the following weekend. From Conner's point of view, they still owed him money. And not just for the work he'd done but also for the work he'd been promised. English mark was out of his depth. The stress was appalling. He'd never encountered such a viciously disgruntled employee. Usually, they faded away sooner rather than later. Conner didn't seem to be going anywhere. He was dug in. Maybe this was the battle he'd been waiting for. English Mike had no idea how to deal with a bad apple like Conner. 

What fascinated Flynn was the patterns and control behind all the seemly random events in this life. Everything was connected in ways most people could not see. Or would not allow themselves to see. This was how reality worked. And he understood it. The connections. How this creature eats the next and so on. How a person or even a supposedly inanimate object can travel through time and space to be in just the right place. To fulfil a specific purpose. What people sometimes referred to as destiny. It was strange and wonderful in its predictability and order. Flynn had been aware of these patterns throughout his life. Nothing was left to chance. Even as a child he'd understood how the universe worked. As a child, he had been withdrawn, introspective, especially after the car accident that killed his older brother and his drunken father that evening out on the highway. Flynn had been stuck inside the smashed up car, pinned under all that twisted metal and blood, waiting for someone to pry him out. Hours he spent in that position, leaning against his brother. Long after the gurgling in his brother's throat had subsided and the life had drained out of his eyes. Flynn was in shock for what seemed like years after he'd been rescued. They called it grief. They expected it from him. A simple label stuck to your chest. Hello, my name in grief. Becoming a simple definition made the world itself a simpler place in which to exist. On the outside, uncomplicated expectations were promised and delivered. This was the camouflage he had perfected. You knew where you stood with an individual like Flynn....or at least that is the way it seemed. Internally speaking, he was much more like his father than he would ever let on. He shared his internal life with no one. Well, almost no one.

The last person had been back in 2008. The woman hired to run the boarding house in Karratha. She was a friendly little blonde with big opinions about life. She ran a tight ship. She hadn't done anything that especially warranted her demise but that was beside the point. She slipped away with a look of complete surprise on her face. The gurgling and drainage of the spirit from her eyes occurred. Same as his brother. The face retaining that expression of cold wonder. There were the two in the 2000's. A young guy, quite arrogant, who kicked a dog down at the beach. Then another man was just wondering along the side of the highway trying to get to his court appearance in Karratha. In the finals moments, they had gone down without a peep. There had been a woman in 1996 whose face he couldn’t even remember anymore. Flynn never intentionally tortured any of these people or used them in a sexual way. He just snuffed them out. And usually as quickly as possible. They came to him out of the blue. He had learnt to have to read the signs, the things that pointed you in the right direction, right to the crucial moment where everything just clicked into place with aching certainty. Rather than take pleasure from these acts, he saw them simply as natural's culling. He was merely the agent of this culling. An employee. If it wasn't him it would be something else. A cyclone, a disease or a traffic accident. He knew when the time was right because what people referred to as 'fate' placed the weapon in his hand and the victim at his feet. When most people found themselves in this position, they would move back away from the precipice and rejoin the herd. They would play by the rules. Flynn was different. Whatever these opportunities present themselves, he took them because he was just another part of the larger scheme. Just like a mountain plays its part in the natural order. Or a frog. Or a cloud, Flynn had a role. He's read somewhere that, some men in his fraternity could go years without succumbing to their impulses. Other adhered to a more bloodthirst schedule. They usually got caught. Some of them even desired getting caught. Flynn just waited for the signs. Sitting in his car, looking at the vast expanses of the Pilbara, he understood he was part of the cycle of creation and death. Nothing more, nothing less. 

All told, Flynn had done five over the course of his life. Conner was probably next and he didn't even know it. There was no need to plan. At first, Flynn wasn’t even sure how it was going to happen. This was usually the way. He did know the method of disposal. It was either the desert or the sea. Two options. In this case, Flynn got the boat ready. Then it came time for his wife to go home, back to Jakarta with their daughter to visit her relatives. Again, Flynn found himself being nudged into the executioner's position. This was one of those years that Flynn was not required to accompany her. When he dropped the ladies off at the little airport, unloading their luggage, he began to get that sensation, the buzzing clarity of mind, as if things beyond his control were lining up, getting ready to deliver Conner to him. Neither of them had a choice in the matter. They were both passive agents, actors being led through the darkness, onto an elaborate stage where they would be asked to perform their parts. 

One night Flynn found himself driving along the highway without a clear destination in mind, just driving, insects smashing against the windshield as the headlights ate up the cracked blacktop. It was like he was being drawn down the highway into a dream. Then he saw a figure standing on the side of the road next to a broken down vehicle. It was Conner. Of course it was. Conner turned and raised his hand to shield his eyes from the glare of the approaching headlights. They had barely talked since that afternoon in Flynn's office. Flynn pulled over, got out and ambled back. Conner had the same shitty, arrogant attitude as before even though Flynn was there to help him out in his moment of need. As always, it seemed like the world owed Conner something. Flynn just went with it, the cheerful country boy that he was. Then Conner was down on one knee, trying to figure out why the jack wasn't working properly, why the scissor mechanism was frozen, cursing under his breath as he worked the iron. And Flynn was standing over him holding the torch, one those heavy Mag lights like American cops carry around, a tube full of thick batteries. 

When Conner regained consciousness was bound and gagged. He seemed to be inside some sort of large plastic box, dirty water pooled at one end, sloshing about. It was an ice chest. A very large one. He could also feel the low vibration of an engine and the chop of the bow breaking over the occasional wave. Eventually, the engine was cut and the lid of the ice chest was lifted, and there was Flynn looking impassively down at him. Conner was completely confused. He had no idea what the hell was going on. It was still night. Flynn yanked him out of the box and dumped him hard on the deck. Conner had a terrible headache. He could taste blood in his mouth. Conner managed to wiggle around so he could see what was happening. Flynn was working, spilling the contents of a white bucket over the side of the boat, talking on in his drawl, explaining how, mathematically speaking, there was another Flynn and another Conner out there, walking around on a different plant. And maybe that Conner, on that other plant, was doing something useful with his life. Not making it hard for other people to live. And maybe that Flynn didn't have the ghost of his ancestors in his head. Maybe he is just a normal guy and not part of the scheme. Which could be a burden at times. Maybe he was the one who died in that car accident with his father and not his brother, Flynn mused with genuine wonder, some of the blood from the bucket spilling on the deck, getting on his rubber apron. This might be of comfort for you...in these final moments, he said thoughtfully. 

What are you talking about? moaned Conner, straining against the nylon ropes that bound his wrists and ankles. Flynn threw the remaining blood and offal into the ocean. The sky was just beginning to pale now as several black fins broke the surface of the water, drawn in by the cloud of chum. 

When Flynn got back to the marina, he hosed the boat down with a beer in his hands and then he drove home. He was dog tired, his eyelids heavy. He dropped his car keys on vanity and slept for the rest of the afternoon, waking up sometime after dark, the blinds drawn pointlessly against the night windows. 

A couple weeks later there was someone else sitting in his office. A young police officer Flynn had never met before. Immediately Flynn understood that his young man was sharper than the other cops he knew in the area. The young man had just been transferred up from Perth. He was sitting in exactly the same place Conner had sat several weeks before. They had found Conner's truck abandoned on the side of the highway. Where he'd gone was a complete mystery. 

He worked for you, didn't he? the young copper asked. 

He worked for one of my contractors, said Flynn. So he didn't work for me directly. 

I see. Now I understand there had been some problems? Prompted the young cop. A disagreement? Can you tell me what happened? 

Flynn put on a face that indicated his serious consideration of this question before continuing. Mainly I leave the men up to their own devices, he said. I try not to get involved. It’s better that way. Now from what I understand, from what I have heard, he didn't fit into the group. So yes, he caused problems. He wasn't a team player. 

I see....but didn't you also have...issues with the Conner? 

I wouldn't say I had a problem with him, said Flynn, putting just a little edge into his voice. Most people get a bit testy when they are questioned by the police. You want to avoid just sit there, looking too collected, too detached. You end up drawing suspicion displaying that kind of behaviour. 

A few days later, Flynn sent up his new drone, his latest toy, high above the industrial estate. He could see it all unfold and spreading out below, on his laptop screen. Amazing what you can do with technology these days, he thought, as he toggled the craft, increasing altitude. He was sitting in his office, flying a tiny plastic aircraft, looking down at all the rusted chain link fences, the tin roofs, the sheds, the weed riddled lots and in the distance, the refinery, a tangle of metal platforms and tanks, all of seen through the drones hi-def camera lens. And then he noticed a white vehicle in amongst all this rust and earth, a cop car sitting on the next street over. He moved closer, hovering above it, but still, he couldn't see who was behind the wheel. You had to wonder though, didn't you? Why was the cop there? Was it the new kid? It seemed likely it was. Who else would have come out all this way without a specific reason? Maybe the boy was trying to crack the big case? Was that it?  

One hot afternoon, Flynn caught up Murray in town. The street was crowded with miners in high viz gear, all going to the bank to deposit their wages. Being the most senior officer in the area, Murray was a stable influence because he was corrupt in a number of different ways so he tended not to want to disturb the status quo. You would quite literally need to show up at Murray's front door holding a severed head for him to get off his fat arse. Flynn asked how the big investigation was going and what was up with all the questioning. Yeah, sorry about the kid's gusto, said Murry. He's just a bit overeager, just trying to cover all bases. And this was the way the conversation concluded. Nothing to worry about. Just following procedure. All good, assured Murry. Okay then... if that was the case, why was Murry unable to met his eye? Why was he backing away, attempting to untangle himself from their exchange while they were still in mid-conversation? 

They invite him down to the station for another little chat. They sat on the other side of the desk, with their arms crossed, looking at Flynn. The questioning had become more directed. Forceful. Flynn answered as he had before, gauging his responses, introducing a slightly defiant tone as if he were nervous but also annoyed at having his privacy invaded and his reputation tarnished. This is how normal people behaved, he reminded himself. The key was to show emotion in the way a person under these conditions would. He could sit there for hours if he wanted to, cold and introspective, unaffected by their staredown tactics, but he knew what kind of impression that would leave. He didn't feel like he was in any real danger of discovery yet the young lad was closer to the reality of this situation than anyone had gotten in years. Interesting. 

They came around to examine his boat, his truck and look through the compound but there was nothing to find. Still, the boy cop just wasn’t ready give up. Maybe it was a case that he wasn't buying Flynn's brand of bullshit? Although it was a rare occurrence these days, Flynn did run into exceptional people from time to time. The kid was very intelligent and clear-headed in his approach to his job. Flynn did a little digging himself. The boy had completed a masters in forensic psychology down in Perth yet here he was working as a police officer in this remote town. It didn't make sense. 

A week later Flynn flew down to Perth to pick up a consignment of fishing equipment, Shimano reels and rods, and to go shopping for his wife. He could have had these items shipped up north but he wanted to get away, have some time to think. He had a beer at the airport before they called his flight. The younger copper had a wife down there in Perth. She was pregnant. It made Flynn wonder why she wasn't up in the Pilbara with him. Did they not usually house the wives of these cops? She lived on a small street in a suburb near the city. She was blonde and good looking. Athletic. After the baby was delivered, Flynn suspected she would bounce right back to work. Young people had that ability these days. 

When he got back to Port Headland, he went to Murray's house, showing up unannounced with a bottle of whisky. He got Murray drunk out by the pool and then the truth came out. Conner had finally become the important man he'd always suspected himself to be. He was a witness in a case against some powerful people the state government wanted to be put away. They had relocated him up here, away from the city. All he'd need to do was stay in the house they had provided, keep a low profile and he'd be fine. After a week, the idiot had gone AWOL. And they needed him back. The conviction hung on his testimony. Hence the wonder boy and his probing questions. 

Flynn was out at the tidal pool with his family. There were other people down there. Off-duty mine employees having a good time, trying to relax, drinking beer and listening to music. They swam off the sandbank, their eskies close at hand. Flynn was kicking back, working on a six pack of light beers and some of the turkey sandwiches his wife had prepared. His daughter was in the water, on an inflatable object purchased from Target. A giant colourful doughnut. At a certain point, Flynn noticed a glint of light up on the hill, the sun bouncing off metal, amongst all those red boulders that resembled oversize coffee granules. He knew the area quite well. On that particular headland, there was a lookout, a place where the road ended with enough space for three or four cars to park. Teenagers usually drove up there to drink and screw. Flynn caught the glint again, a hot burst of light. He got up and stood at the edge of the water. Sometimes sharks got stuck in these tidal pools, cut off from the ocean. Was he like that? Being unknowingly cut off? Was there something out there, trying to hem him in. He told his wife that he needed to piss and went off behind some bushes. Once out of sight, he began to quickly work his way through the underbrush, keeping himself concealed from view, tracing the line of mangrove trees that bordered the water before cutting sharply up the hill. He passed a pile of guts and bones on the shore, a large fish that had been butchered, probably the work of a croc. Then he was scrambling up through the brush, over rocks and loose sediment, his breathing hard but controlled in his chest, his clothes already drenched with sweat. He could feel his heart rate getting faster. When he turned to check his progress, he could now see the min employees and his own family, down below in the place where he'd just come from. He was making good progress. Only four minutes to get this far. Form this point on, he made sure to keep the noise of his movements down to a minimum. 

Finally, he came out of the bush and crossed a dirt road, perhaps thirty metres downwind from the lookout. Careful to make sure he was still concealed from view, he plunged back into the bush, moving along in a semi-crouch, hooking up and over the top of the lookout. He came in from behind, down the slope, his feet dislodging little pebbles. It couldn't be helped. He snapped a look at his watch, his heart beating violently from exertion in the heat. Pretty good for a man his age. He had been away from his wife's side for just over seven minutes. A long time to take a piss but not so long that you would be missed. Down in the lookout area, he could see a lone white car and there stood the young cop. The wonder boy. He was lending against the front bumper of his vehicle, his back to Flynn. The young cop had a pair of binoculars pointed down in the direction of the sand dune, presumably hunting for Flynn. He had no idea Flynn was standing directly behind him. Flynn could have crept up on him. A voice in Flynn's head said this is not ideal. This is not the right time. Flynn retreated, moving back the way he'd come. 

An open window around the back of the house. Silent rooms traversed in clean work boots. Something very bad, a chemical, a neurotoxin, was introduced into the young policeman's life without his knowledge. It was odourless and tasteless. It was mixed into milk. The milk in the plastic container that resided in the door of the young cop's fridge. A hand sheathed in blue latex did this, using a small syringe to squirt the liquid in. The whole thing took only a couple of minutes. The tainted milk carton sat there for days and might have reached its expiration date and been chucked out but this was not to be. The carton waited patiently. The young cop would feel no pain. On his last day, he came in, dropped his car keys on the hall table and made a beeline to the fridge because he'd been out in the heat all day. He opened the fridge door, felt the cold air. Drink me, said the milk. The cop didn't even hesitate. He took a long, deep slug directly from the container and then wiped his mouth. Then another. The cold, creamy liquid worked its way down into his gut. Milk was not an ideal thirst quencher but the fridge was almost completely empty. He dropped his belt and gun on the kitchen counter with a thud, and then he went to lie down on the sofa, to looking at his phone. Ten minutes later a wave of fatigue like he'd never experienced came crashing over him. In a distant part of his mind, he began to panic because this wasn't normal. Mercifully the fatigue was so overwhelming that it also began to soothe him even as it pulled him down. He was gone before he even knew it. 

After the investigation had settled down, Murray put in for long service leave. He packed up his house, disconnected the batteries of his two cars and then, one morning, caught a taxi to the airport. It had been some bad business, that young investigator from Perth dying so unexpectedly. He was the pain in the arse but you wouldn't wish that on your worst enemy. A pair of senior detectives had flown up. They had gone into the house after the boy had been discovered. They found him in the living room. He was in a bad state: the heat had got to him. They scoured the place, top to bottom, concluding that things had been tampered with, evidence had most likely been removed. The wonder boy had been working in isolation so whatever he's documented electronically would have been on his laptop, which was now gone. 

They asked Murray a lot of questions. There were a few hairy moments when Murray actually felt a bit uncomfortable. As if he might get pulled into this mess. It benefited him greatly that he did not need to work hard to be perceived as a bumbling and mainly incompetent cop.  

For a couple of weeks after this had happened, Murray was jumpy and nervous of his own fucking shadow. For a long time now, he had the ghost of a theory about the true nature of certain individuals in his jurisdiction. What these individuals might be capable of and what they have done in the past. The trouble was Murray was too wound into his own compromises to ruffle feathers. How long had he known? Suspected? For all these years? it was amazing what you picked up without trying. Yes, he was an effectual cop but even a stopped clock is right twice a day. He avoided town while he waited for his leave to be approved. The whole time that ominous feeling just would not subside. The shadow moving over you. The predator. Once in the taxi, heading to the airport, Murray felt like he could finally breathe a little easier. He was going to Bali for a month and then back to visit with his daughter in Perth. He would reassess the situation from there. He knew he was done with this part of the world. He was only travelling with a small bag. He would pick up what he needed along the way. 

When he got to the airport, once he had checked in his bag, he went for a beer at the bar. This was part of the ritual. A holiday didn't feel like a holiday until he saddled up to the little-overpriced bar and had a few cold ones. He wished there was a straight run to Bali but that wasn't the case. He would need to go down to Perth then bounce back up to Denpasar. Something materialised in his peripheral vision, became solid. A face. He thought maybe it was a miner also on his way out but it was Flynn. Happy-go-lucky Flynn. Flynn who he'd been avoiding for a while now. Murray tried to keep cool, to be casual but within seconds he was having a physiological reaction, his heart beating too hard in his chest, his blood pressure up, his mouth gone dry. Flynn was Looking at Flynn's face he saw the deep acne scars and the dead eyes that were usually so good at counterfeiting life. And once again Murray knew the truth. What he had suspected for quite some time now. How long had he been turning a blind eye? 

Flynn said he was there to met someone but that sounded like bullshit. They were playing their old game, pretending everything was alright, skirting around the obvious topic, chatting away, just two acquaintances at the bar. You'll have to send me a postcard from Bali, said Flynn. Where are you staying? 

Nothing booked yet, Murray replied.

Playing it by ear, are we?

Yeah, I like to move around.

Murray knew this was the last time he would see Flynn. It angered Murray that, right up until the very end, he needed to reassure this fucking monster of his complicity, his loyalty, in these matters of community secrecy. Because that's exactly what he was doing, wasn't he? Signalling that the status quo would be maintained. Murray didn't want to know what he knew but there was no going back. During their conversation, which was about nothing and everything all at the same time, Murray opted to leave his full beer untouched. Then, thankfully, it was time to board. They shook hands because that was the thing to do. I'll see you when I get back, lied Murray before he went through the gate and boarded. He was up in the air about twenty minutes later, the plane banking over the desert, pivoting the sun through the cabin and trailing a small shadow across the red earth far below. 

The Lifeguard

And suddenly we were beholden to this man, the older lifeguard at the pool. He picked Emily out of the crowd, saw her floating face down amongst all that reflected sunlight. He saw her in the clutter of bodies and the high pitched mayhem of childrens' voices. I am utterly ashamed to say that I was distracted by my phone while this was happening. It started with a work-related email. Then a message from a friend. Then a link to something else. You get swept away so easily these days. Insidious how this little device diverts us away from what is important.

Anyway, when I looked up, the lifeguard was already pulling Emily out of the water and a crowd was gathering around on the wet concrete. I came forward, through the rubberneckers, my panic sharpening as all parents will do when they slowly realise their child is the centre of the gathering drama. I was terrified and furious and sickened with myself. I should have been watching. Then again Emily is a good swimmer. It is difficult to reconcile these things. Especially when you consider what could have happened.

The lifeguard saved her. He performed CPR while I stood there freaking out. The pool water came out of her lungs as she began gulping for air, sputtering and shaking. It was amazing. This man, this lifeguard, had literally brought my daughter back from the dead. While it was happening, the whole thing felt like an out of body experience for me because I was powerless to do anything. All that paternal instinct was crashing through me and I was powerless.

I invited the lifeguard over to our house for dinner. I had to do something, right? I made pulled pork on brioche buns with salad. Em's favourite. This would have never happened if Em hadn't strayed out of her depth and become surrounded by all those overexcited older girls. Behind the sunglasses, the floppy safari hat and the zinc sun protection, the lifeguard was a fairly conventional looking middle-aged man. He was bald. Not exactly in great shape. Didn't they have strenuous tests for lifeguards? To maintain a fairly rigorous level of fitness? There was something a little off about him. His eyes were always skittering off into the corners of the room. Or up to the ceiling to contemplate the crown moulding. As soon as he arrived he was in the way, hovering in doorways as if waiting for permission to enter the room. Given the chance to talk, he didn't spare any time launching into his conspiracy theories. He didn't have anything personal to say, even when we tried to steer the conversation back to the topic of his life. He did have a hell of a lot to say about the Twin Towers coming down, ISIS, the CIA, the Freemasons...to name but a few. The tenuous links were exhausting. And according to the lifeguard, everything was subject to suspicion. No matter how innocent or innocuous it seemed. Everything was controlled beneath the surface by the tentacles of this conspiracy. So our little thank you dinner took an unpleasant turn right about the time I brought the food to the table. This was not the kind of thing I want my six-year-old daughter listening to. The abundant ugliness of this world would find her soon enough. I had no intention of speeding that process up.

Anyway, we got through dinner. Eating and drinking helped because he stopped talking for awhile. But then he wouldn't leave. He just sat there even after we'd cleared away the plates. Even after Peter and I started unhinged our jaws yawning and moaning about getting up early the following morning for work. Maybe this was all my fault? I had wanted this man to fit into a nice neat box. I wanted him to be a hero. But he was too puggy and thick-lipped to fit comfortably into that container. He pressed up grotesquely against the glass and spilled out over the sides. Underneath it all, I was still so angry with myself. How had I become so distracted? And why couldn't it have been one of the younger lifeguards? If it had been, I'm sure this scene would have been far more palatable. Far more wholesome. Why couldn't it have been one of the nice, clean-cut university students you saw down there? One of those guys with straight teeth and a positive attitude?

I did not want Emily to associate an act of heroism with someone like this. Someone who was so narrow-minded, so paranoid about everything. Someone who never smiled or laughed. Someone with no real personality. Just a list of statistics and theories to justify his isolated existence. Finally, I had to make Pater say something. By that point, we'd migrated into the kitchen and we were having one of those whispered but highly animated conversation while he remained rooted to the spot, at the table.

It was a great relief when the lifeguard finally left. We continued to go to the pool on hot days after school, paying our money, buying ice creams and going in through the turnstile. And there he was. The lifeguard would drift over to where we'd set up and start talking. His eyes blank behind his mirrored sunglasses, his mouth going up and down. At first, I didn't really know how to handle it. I wanted to relax. I didn't want to hear about explosives being detonated by shadowy government agencies. Then I began to gently but firmly redefine the boundaries and push him away. I put my phone or a magazine up as a shield. I'd look up periodically and say, what? I'm sorry...I'm not following you. A normal person would have picked up on these clues. Not this guy. Anyway, when that failed, I made a complaint to the centre management. An email. I told Peter about it in the mirror one night as I applied moisturiser to my throat, saying, when you think about it we don't owe this man anything. I mean he was doing his job, wasn't he? And after the complaint was made, the lifeguard backed off. A sharp word from his supervisor pushed him back into the anonymous playdough of faces and bodies at the pool. You have these little emergencies but then things tend to correct themselves. An order is re-established. Life goes on.

The 18 lives of Leo Erickson

Irish Coffee (Jamesons Irish whisky, coffee and cream)

I just came from down south, from my little painting shack down there on the coast. It's unavoidable: sometimes you have come to the city to make a buck. I'd rather not but there you go. I had eleven new canvases in my van, ready to sell. The usual stuff. Oils. Coastal landscapes. Crumbling headlands, beaches and waves. The Pacific Ocean. I make 'em look moody and craggy because that's what sells. As a commercial artist, the sad reality is, you find your niche and you stick to it....if you want to survive. That morning, I was waiting for Carmella to pick up her phone. And I dropped into the bar for one drink. There was this young guy there, in the corner, by the jukebox, minding his own business. I think he was drinking beer but I can't remember for sure. I do remember he was wearing sunglasses. Those Top Gun aviator style shades. I was more focused on staying within arms reach of the pay phone, waiting for Carmella to get back to me (I don't have a cell phone). And I was worried that my van was gonna get ticketed in the alleyway behind the bar. I didn't want a ticket cutting into my profit margins along with all the other needless expenses I seem to ensure each time I come here. The city giveth and the city taketh away. Suddenly this guy I was telling you about pulls out a pistol. And he puts the business end to his temple and pulls the trigger. Click! Nothing. The guy looks down at the gun in his hand, fumbles with it and bang! The gun goes off. The bullet travels the length of the bar and hits the cat in the face. You know Leo the bar cat? The mascot? Where he usually sleeps? Well, he was up there, curled up on the little ledge, his usual spot, in a patch of morning sunlight. Now the cat was killed instantly, blood and fur and brain matter going everywhere. He popped like a pinata full of meat and blood. John....I think it was John....gets the drop on the young guy with the gun, tackles him to the ground. Everyone is shouting and freaking out. Then the police turn up. Lights flashing, radios squawking. And in all the confusion, not only do I miss Carmella's call, I also get a ticket. Eight-five dollars. I swear to God sometimes I think those bastards can sniff out my van, even when its parked down the most concealed alleyway in Chinatown.

Miller Genuine Draft (bottled)

I'd been there all morning. I'm always the first one in. I can't sleep past 4 am these days. It's just not possible. I am usually at the door by 6, waiting for the kid, the bartender, to open the place up even before he arrives. I drink Miller. In the bottle. It's better for my stomach. I can't handle hard liquor anymore. No sir. Those days are well and truly over for me. Anyway, after the kid opens up, I come in, sit in the same place every morning, at the elbow of the bar, under the light. Routine is important to me, always has been. I do the same damn thing every morning, seven days a week. At my age, I don't want change. No thanks. At my age, you pray things stay the same for awhile. Change becomes something to fear. At my age change usually means loss. And I have lost enough already. Anyway, that morning, the kid with the gun came just after me. I don't remember much about him. I'm not there to keep track. People come and go in that place all the time and, truth be told, I really need to see the eye doctor about getting a new prescription for my glasses. I'm pretty much legally blind now so don't rely on me for your star witness. Anyway, it was a normal morning, the sun slowly warming the buildings outside, coming in through the bar window. By the time it happened, some of the other regulars had turned up. I was just sitting there, a new beer in front of me when suddenly there was all this commotion and this asshole, this young kid, pulls out his gun. He starts waves it around, all dramatic like, before putting it to his head and pulling the trigger. Nothing. Click. At this point, I remember someone shouting, he’s got a gun! No shit Sherlock, I thought. Anyway, the kid starts fooling with the gun, checking the cylinder and bam-o! It goes off in his hand: a misfire followed by the weapon being unintentionally discharged. Nice work genius. The bullet whips across the bar, killing Leo the cat. The thing that got me was that bullet was heading in my direction. And who knows? A little lower, it might have caught me in the forehead. A neat little hole right there. Anyway, the cops came roaring in and took the kid away and that was pretty much the end of it. Presumably, the kid was taken off to the nuthouse. The cat gets stuffed and mounted. The thing that gets me is, I survived one heinous war only to come back here, to the country I defended only to catch a bullet in my regular watering hole? If that had happened....are you kidding me? Boy, I tell you, I would have been pissed off if that little shit had blown my brains out. I mean, I look back at my life, at some of the crazy shit I have done and man...I definitely got dealt nine lives. And I know I have already used eight of 'em up jumping out of helicopters and running across rice paddies, mortar shells and bullets flying in every direction, men dropping all around me. Even after all that bullshit, I figured I still had me one life left over from Nam. One more chance. For a rainy day. But now? After the kid? I ain't got shit. I must have used them all up. Being in war makes you superstitious. And now I gotta sit here every morning looking at that idiotic stuffed cat. To remind me. Of all my used up luck. All my last chances.

Greyhound (Smirnoff, grapefruit juice, salt-rimmed glass)

Don’t talk to me about pussy man, that’s all I got. I'm up to my ears in pussy. I need a snorkel to breath I'm so deep in the pussy. All night I deal with perverts pumping coins into slots, pay'n to catch a glimpse of that pussy in a mirrored room. Me? I’m out back, in my office, doing the books and payroll. I seen so much damn cooch over the years it ain’t even funny. Young guys always say to me....man, you have the best job. You are so lucky! My response: are you kidding me? Spending night after night in a jerk of convention? You think this kind of work is something to be jealous of? Think again. Those girls, when the lights go up, most of them ain’t much to look at. You don't get supermodels gravitating towards this line of work. Forget about all that 'paying for my college tuition by moonlighting as a stripper bullshit'. That's for the movies. All these girls...they got problems. Bad boyfriends or girlfriends. Or both. Car payments owing. Medial bills. Legal problems and drug problems. Problems, problems and more fucking problems. That's all I hear about: pussy problems. Trying to make these cooches pay off like the proverbial golden goose comes at a price. You gotta be their psychiatrist, their social worker and their daddy rolled into one. You gotta listen to that shit all day long. And....what that now? Good God...see? Do you see what I just did? I need a vacation man. There I go again. I got pussy on the brain. No. The cat is....this guy was in here one morning and he pulls out a gun. A regular old pistol. Small calibre like the one I got in my office. He sat over there in the corner for a while, thinking about things I guess and then he stood up, pulled out the pistol and tried to off himself. He bungled the job and he shot the cat by accident....the cat was the bar mascot. At the time this happened, he was sitting right up there. The same place he been sitting for years, sleeping, cleaning himself, keeping an eye on the comings and goings. I always hated that damn cat but I would never say so. Leo the cat was something of an institution around here. It got so that you couldn't say a word against him. To speak ill of Leo was sacrilege. Don't ask me why....it was a cat for godsakes. The point is, I am not a cat person. I don't like cats and cat fir makes me break out. So I always kept away from the little bastard. Anyway, one of the regulars....John it was.....gets the gun off this young guy and the police intervene. End of story. The cat gets stuffed down at the funeral parlour. Not a great job as you can plainly see. Especially the eyes. Murphy, the mortician, will be the first to admitted that his work wasn't exactly lifelike. Old Murphy stuffed a few pig cadaver back in mortician school but a cat ain't the same thing. Not by a long shot.

Fernet Branca (straight up, in a nervous glass with a beer back)

I heard this guy robbed a bank. Or maybe a couple of banks...up north. That's what Ron told me. Ron's brother is a cop. Anyway, none of us had seen this kid around. To me, he’s looked sorta...fucked up. Which isn't really saying much because a lot of space cadets show up on the morning shift. The neighbourhood is one giant freak magnet. And where else are these people gonna go at that time of day? Anyway, at first, the kid keeps to himself and drinks his beer. I actually forget all about him. I was reading the paper, seeing how this latest president is screwing up the planet. I was ENJOYING the silence. I was ENJOYING having a few QUIET drinks to get the chill out of my bones. More people started showing up. The usual crowd. The regulars: some of whom I like while others, I have little time for. Then, suddenly, this kid jumps up and pulls out a gun which he proceeds to wave around like a madman. He puts the barrel to his head like, this is it! Goodbye cruel world. Sayonara! And he pulls the trigger. Nothing happens. I'll tell you....this latest generation....they really are a bunch of fucking numbnuts. This kid probably failed at everything else in his miserable life and now he's failing to shoot himself in the head. I just sit there, the paper in my hands, my specs down on the end of my nose. I'm of a mind to go up to him, take the fucking gun out of his hand and beat his ass with it. Just so we can resume the state of calm established prior to this ridiculous outburst. But that doesn't happen. No. Because next, the gun goes off by accident and he kills the bar cat who is up on the ledge, up there. One lucky shot. Lucky for the kid in the sense that no one got killed. Not so lucky for Leo the cat. I found that cat in an alleyway years ago, in the backstreets, on the edge of Chinatown. He was a kitten then, crying behind a pile of garbage. He was lucky a rat didn't eat him. I put him inside my jacket and brought him back here. To the bar. I didn't know what else to do with him. I couldn't leave the little bastard out there in the cold. And this is where he has remained ever since. And let me tell you: not a single mouse or any other kind of vermin has flourished in this bar since his arrival. Leo was a good cat and he was good at his job. He earned his keep. A lot of people around her had an emotional attachment to that cat, including me. Anyway....me and Lance came running around the bar, intending on jumping the kid but John beat us to it, tackling him to the floor first. I'm really angry by this point. I’m sorry, I’m sorry, screams the kid. You will be, I thought. I used to work the door in social clubs right here in the city. I know how to fuck people up without it looking like that is my intention. So I got a few shots in. I'll admit it. I make it look like I was simply trying to restrain him. I was angry about Leo. The police followed. It was a hell of a morning. A few of us exceded our usual quota after the cops had dragged the kid away. I guess it was the adrenaline. Or maybe it was an improved wake for Leo.

Michelada (Budweiser with clamato juice).

I wasn't there. Not when he came in. Jerry said he turned up shortly after the place opened. The kid was young, maybe in his mid-twenties. Sunglasses and denim jacket. I came in around 7 am. I do remember the kid's face. I have a very good memory for faces. I could have been a sketch artist for the police department if I could draw. Anyway, this kid was clean shaven, intense eyes, light blue or green, a good strong jawline, a wispy little moustache. He has thick black hair, the kind that begs to be cut into a crewcut, only he was wearing it long and shaggy. The kid was obviously in his own little world, kinda muttering to himself. Not all the time. On and off. When the thing with the gun happened, I was listening to Carl bitch about how the woman who usually buys his paintings wasn't picking up her phone. Look, I tolerate Carl. Just. I didn't say to him, its fucking 8 am you self-centred prick. It was none of my business. So anyway, I was facing away from the kid so I don't see the gun come out. I didn't see him try to blow his own head off. I did see Carl's reaction and then I heard the others shouting. After that, we all froze in place for a few moments, watching, expecting that once the kid has fixed the gun, his brains were gonna get plaster all over the wall but not how it went down. On his second attempt, the kid accidentally shoots the cat in the face. Better a cat than a person, I guess. It happened too fast for me to react. It was John who got the gun off the kid. John drives a cab at night. He's seen a few things, you know? In the Tenderloin, in the Mission. The others will tell you they were close behind, ready to tackle the shooter but in reality, no, they were all hiding behind the bar, too stunned or fearful to do anything. I miss that fucking cat. I didn't realise it until he was gone. He was a big part of this place. He still is now but in a different way. I don't think they should have put him up there. Personally, I think its a bit morbid.   

Kahlua and cream (double, over ice)

Poor Leo. Just sitting there minding his own business. It just goes to show you how dangerous guns are. I wasn't there. I never go to the bar that early. Heavens no. I came in just as the police were dragging this crazy man out the door in handcuffs. I thought he was a drunk, you know, but then I realised what was going on inside. I saw how upset everyone was. And poor Leo! Dead! I burst into tears right then and there. Leo was a real character, you know? He would walk the length of the bar, tail swishing, prowling past everyone like he owned the place....which, in a way, he did. Oh, he was the definitely the boss of this place, always checking things, having a look-see. He was the bar mascot. I used to talk to him, tell him my problems. There's nothing wrong with talking to animals. In my opinion, animals are very tuned into human feelings and emotions. Leo was a very good listener for a cat. So that morning.....what I heard was this guy pulled out his gun and shot the Leo. Now why would anyone want to do that, I don't know. Then Jimmy told me it was a suicide attempt gone wrong. The crazy guy came in here to have one last drink and...well, you know the rest. Now, how you can miss your own noggin when you are the one holding the gun....is beyond me. Apparently, the gun went off in his hand when he wasn't ready and instead of ending his own life, he shot Leo. Tragic. Really tragic. A bar needs a cat.....in my opinion. I remember when we first got Leo. This was...well, it must have been 16 years ago....how long do cats live for, anyway? I'll have to look that one up. What happened was....Daniel turned up here one morning with this scrawny little kitten under his arm. I remember playing with Leo on my lap. He was only a little ball of fir back then. Back when I first started working here. At that time I thought this job was only going to be another temporary thing....to pay the bills and whatnot....but here I am....all these years later....still working. I tell the other girls who come through here to watch out....those years can slip by. You think they won't but the clock keeps on ticking. I can think of a few people that bullet should have taken out instead of poor Leo...people that I wouldn't mind seeing the back of....is that a mean thing to say? I guess it is. My point is, there are some people here who have worn out their welcome. That's all. And besides....we all have to go at some point or another, right? And for some of these....people.....it would have been a mercy killing. Believe me.

Black coffee

A bullet to the head is not my idea of a good exit, especially in a public place. No. It's most disrespectful in my opinion. Think about it: chances are some if not all of the witnesses will be traumatized and will forever associate your selfish final act with a place they frequent. Maybe even love. Your misery will taint the walls forever. I don't believe in ghost but I do believe a place can be unhappy. That it can retain the energy of the human activities that have transpired there. Both good and bad. Why would you want to do that to other people? Scar them like that? Make them see such a terrible thing? Anyway, what business has a young boy with his whole life ahead of him got being that low? Did he live through a war? We don't know. Was it drugs? Probably. That would be my guess. It's usually drugs. Anyway, he puts the gun up to his temple, like this and pulls the trigger. Click! He looks around confused because his worthless ass is still alive. What happened? Did the gun misfire? Or maybe the hammer fell on a dud bullet? Or maybe there was no bullet in the chamber to begin with? The police did not share this information.  So we don't know. Anyway, the boy fools with the gun. The gun goes off in his hand, the bullet misses him and hits the cat on the other side of the room. The cat they named after my friend, the long-dead owner, Leo Erickson who died in '69. Being an old timer who actually remembers Leo, I always thought this was a little disrespectful. I wouldn't want a stray cat to be named after me. I am old now and everything hurts. Alcohol is out. It is simply not an option. I got nothing left. I come here, to this bar, to spend a few hours away from my room. This is what I mean by the 'retention of human energies'. This bar has always retained all the good times that have happened here. I don't need to drink to feel it. I feel it in the wood grain of the bar. In the brass railing. In the linoleum beneath my feet. There are voices and laughter from years ago when we were younger and didn't care. We used to throw away the days and nights. Like they were nothing. Like they didn't count. Shame about the cat but these things happen. Still, I'm glad that boy didn't make too much of a mess. You don't want that kind of negative energy around here.

Screwdriver (double, Greygoose, in a tall glass, over ice)

This guy comes in the bar. He tries to kill himself but fucks it up. Simple as that. He shoots the cat instead. Idiot. Probably a 'cry for help' or whatever they call it. He was a young guy, obviously had a few problems. I was having a cigarette outside. They changed the law, didn't they? And maybe that's a good thing. it certainly has cut down my daily intake. I used to be a two and a half pack a day man. Now I'm smoking on average one pack. That's it. Anyway, it was cold outside. I was standing there, looking down the street, toward the financial district. The traffic was just beginning to thicken. With all the commuters coming in, the bridge and tunnel crowd, and I heard this bang! I turned and looked through the window. I could see something was going on inside. People were up off their bar stools, reacting to something. I dropped my cigarette and went back in. I'm originally from the UK, from Cheltenham you see, so I don't naturally associate a loud bang with someone having just shot off a gun. It isn't second nature to me like it is with most yanks. When I got back inside it was all over. They had the kid pinned to the ground. In the scuffle, the gun had been kicked across the floor, under my barstool, and I picked it up. This was the first gun I have ever handled in my life. Even after living in this country for all these years. For such a small object, it was bloody heavy. It turns out the young guy had killed the cat. I mean it was an accident but what kind lunatic executes a cat in a bar at 8 am in the morning? John, the taxi driver, the big fellow, was on top of the boy, holding him down. Hank and Daniel ran over to assist. The boy was shouting out a stream of nonsense. Crazy jibberish. It was all quite dramatic and tiring... especially at that time of day. I went back to my place at the bar and took a sip of my drink. I wasn't quite sure what to do with the gun so I put it on the bar and waited for the police to show up. Some of the cat's skull fragments and blood had splattered across the television screen and the walls. There wasn't much of it but you couldn't deny...things looked pretty grim for the cat. Eventually, the cops took the gun off me and hauled the young guy away. We all had to give our statements, explaining what had happened. I had work to do back at my apartment so I didn't hang around. A week later I broke my leg on the stairs. A compound fracture. I think the cat's death was a bad omen. I'd spoken many times to Mrs Rodreguez about her son leaving his bloody toys trains on the apartment entranceway steps.

A pint of Guinness

This guy comes in the bar. He's a squirrelly little fellow, you know? Erratic like. I noticed this because I still had me freak radar on. You need a good freak radar when you drive a cab in this city. Anyway, I had just come off my shift so I wasn't planning on staying long. Basically as long it takes to drink a few pints. Then home. You can get stuck at that bar all day if you're not careful. It's happened to me on several occasions. I had more than enough of that kind of thing back in me thirties. It starts out as fun but always leads to bad things. Especially if you're like me and enjoy a drink or two. No one has to twist my arm when it comes to getting on the sauce. Anyway, I had me yellow legal pad out and I was jotting down a few recollections from my shift. People I met, some of the stories they come out with and so on. You'd be surprised how honest people become during a ten-minute taxi ride. They want to spill their guts, get their problems out in the open and off their chests. A rolling confessional, if you like. And I understand. Look, I was brought up Catholic. There is value to that release mechanism. The pressure builds and you need to release it. Sometimes a stranger with a sympathetic ear is just the ticket. From my perspective, more often than not you will get more truth outta a stranger in ten minutes than you will from your own flesh and blood. It the narrow window of opportunity combined with the anonymity of the situation. Anyway, someday, all this was gonna end up in the novel I was writing. That was the plan when I first start driving a cab. But then the novel kept growing and growing like barnacles on the belly of a rudderless ship floating in the ocean. That old story. And right there is my main problem. The tangents. I love going off on the tangents, you see? Anyway....back to the morning in question, this fella had a beer or two. He didn't move much. Just sat there. I could see him in the corner of me eye. He was huddled over. At a certain point he pulls out a gun but instead of shooting himself, which I assume was the intention, this idiot shoots the bar cat. Bang! Right between the eyes. So, I got him down on the floor. Used to wrestle in college, you see. Anyway, all the others all made a big deal out of the cat but the truth is the cat was on his last legs. To my mind, it was mercy killing. And if they all really cared so much, they would have done something in his honour. I'm the one who took the dead animal over to Murphy at the funeral parlour in a plastic bag. For stuffing. They all just shrugged and said, not my problem. What do you want us to do about it? Too busy with their morning drinking, sitting around playing tough Bowery bums. So....I did it. Put the dead cat in the passenger seat and drove him over. These days, especially in the mornings, Murphy looks like one of his dearly departed customers. Pale and waxy. I always joke with him, asking if he has been nipping at the old embalming fluid, having a wee sip now and again, if you know what I mean. Hense the parlour. Hell....Murphy will probably outlive us all. Murphy brought the animal back a few days later. Glass eyes and everything. Not his finest work. We put Leo back up there, on the ledge above the bottles. A fitting place for the little prick. And not for the first time, Murphy told me to get myself cremated when the time came. You don't want people stuffing you like a turkey on a slab, he said.

Two shots of Stoli, chilled, straight up

......and so this morning I'm in my usual spot, reading the paper, picking tobacco out of my teeth (I smoke filterless). And I get up to take a leak. And I'm thinking about this young band I heard the other day. They were okay. Better than the electronic shit you hear on the radio. These days I mainly produce. I mean, I will get up there on stage but I try to avoid the whole nostalgic touring bit. I can't bare seeing all those old farts in the audience. It makes me tired. Anyway, I went downstairs and I did a bump off the porcine. It was nothing. A tiny bump. The equivalent of two cups of coffee. It balances out the vodka...that's all. After all these years I know my body. I certainly know my limitations. While I was down there I didn't hear anything out of the ordinary but when I come up the stairs it was mayhem. You had people out of their seats, shouting and freaking out. I thought there had been an earthquake. Big John had wrestled this guy to the floor, this kid who I just walked past on my way down to the head. What happened was, the kid had tried to kill himself. Or maybe he was going shoot up the place....I mean, who knows what he was intending? Anyway, he ends up accidentally killing the cat. Bullseye! Right through the left eye. Blew the cats head clean off. It wasn't a particularly large calibre gun but then again....it wasn't a particularly large cat. So relatively speaking, it might as well have been a .357 Magnum. Anyway, magnum or not, it made a mess. That cat's head popped like a.....well, you get the picture. So...I'd just come up the stairs......for awhile there was a lot of screaming and they lost track of the gun but then Jack found it under his barstool. I was at Altamont. So I know what public panic and the potential of violence and perhaps even death feels like when it's lingering in the air. The vibe, I mean. This was on a much smaller scale for sure but it felt exactly the same. In a perverse way, the whole thing made me pine for the old days when we used to tear this joint up. Man, I have seen some wild shit in this establishment. I mean it loses a lot in the telling like I run the risk of being some old codger sitting around, reminiscing about good old days but it was all true. It used to be gangsters and showgirls and longshoremen and artists coming through here. Men and women. Now.....it's just tourists and fucking boy hipsters. People with pretty tattoos. Sometimes I get the feeling us older guys are gonna end up stuffed trophies on the wall.

Black and Tan (Guinness and Anchor Steam Ale)

So there was a knock on my door at 10 am. Someone had shot the cat. Dead. Apparently, this guy meant to shoot himself but he screwed up and blew the cat's head off. The end result being....I had a dead cat on my hands. As a favour to Lucy, who has allowed my tab to creep up and down over the years, I could not say 'no'. After phoning Tony who was absolutely no help at all, I started working from some veterinarian illustrations I found online, trying to make a resin skull while the deceased animal rested downstairs in the preparation room. I am trained to work with human beings, not felines, so it proved to be quite a challenge. Anyway, I make the skull, getting the contours and general shape correct to the best of my abilities....and then I wrapped the whole thing in quick-dry polyurethane and mock fir. Comparatively speaking, this proved to be the easy part. The thing was the eyes....I had a colleague at university who had drifted into the movie business so I call him and he shipped two glass cat eyes up to me from Los Angeles. The body itself was in okay condition. I went through the usual processes, removing the innards, treating the skin with chemicals and making a form. And all that was fine but the head and the body and the eyes....once assembled was...problematic. It was like one of those animals you see in the older natural history museums. A cross-eye buffalo. An unintentionally startled mountain lion. An embarrassed gazelle. Leo the cat looked like one of those animals. ie. unintentionally comical. And it was annoying because my professional reputation was on the line. The overall effect made people laugh, you see? From certain angles, the cat looked slightly cross-eyed. Some described it's expression as 'deranged'. Others claimed that the eyes, which were over expressive, designed for an animatronic puppet, followed you around the room. Now if this young guy had plugged himself (or one of the bar regulars for that matter) it would have been much better for me, you see? I could have put a human being back together without encountering these problems. I have received clients who have expired in every imaginable way. The quality of my work has always been beyond reproach. But the cat? Perhaps you have heard the joke about the village mayor who had sexual relations with a goat? This country mayor accomplished numerous philanthropic projects in his community over the course of his life. In the set up for the joke, he bitterly wonders if he will be known for all these selfless acts, listing each one, but then decides that no, ultimately, he will be known as the guy who fucked a goat. This one act of bestiality had eclipsed everything else he has done. I was in a similar situation. I had dealt with many, many clients during my career but what had I become known for? A stuffed cat.

Brandy (straight up, water chaser)

我在Bings先生的会议上走过街道。我有四个独立的信封，哈利的钱。两条信封放在我裤子的前袋里，另外两条信封放在我的夹克里面。我只在酒吧喝了一杯。就这样。我知道这不是一个好主意，但我觉得我应该得到一杯饮料。我有一万多美元。当我站在那里时，我可以感觉到我的口袋里有钱。我点了一杯白兰地，喝了一口。我很疲倦。起初，我认为那个带着枪的家伙会抢劫我，但他却开枪打死了这只猫。如果他试图抢劫我，我将别无选择;我将不得不与他战斗。我在脚踝皮套里有自己的枪。我会画它。也许他会被杀死。也许我。你永远不会知道。也许别人会死的。他亲近死亡，相信我。我几乎在那里，低头看着那个疯子。我已经吸取了教训。如果我失去了这笔钱，那肯定会是我一生的终结。而我的家人也会遇到麻烦。一旦他被那个大出租车司机约束，我就离开了。处理警方对我来说不是一个好主意。警方提出我无法回答的问题。我陷入了混乱之中。我仍然不知道为什么那个疯子在脸上射击猫。在生活中，你无法知道一切。这是唯一的道理。

(Translation: I came up the street from the meeting at Mr Bings. I had Harry's money in four separate envelopes. Two envelops in the front pockets of my pants and two more inside my jacket. I only stopped at the bar for one drink. That's all. I knew this was not a good idea but I felt I deserved a drink. I had over ten thousand dollars. I could feel that money budging in my pockets as I stood there. I ordered a brandy and took one sip. I was very tired. At first, I thought the guy with the gun was going to rob me but instead he shot the cat. If he had tried to rob me I would have had no choice; I would have to fight him. I had my own gun in an ankle holster. I would have drawn it. Maybe he would get killed. Maybe me. You never know. Maybe other people would have died. He came very close to getting killed, believe me. I was almost there, reaching down, keeping my eyes on the crazy boy. I have learned my lesson. If I had lost that money, it would have been the end of my life for sure. And my family would also be in trouble. I left as soon as he was restrained by the big taxi driver. Dealing with the police was not a good idea for me. The police ask questions I can not answer. I was able to slip out in the confusion. I still don't know why that crazy man shot the cat in the face. In life, you can't know everything. This is the only truth).

Virgin Mary (extra spicy, all the trimmings, salted rim)

The bullet is lodged up there, see? Behind the stuffed cat. I thought someone was gonna come back and dig the bullet out but then again...why? Evidence or something? No. The police just left it there. This place already has a tonne of history on its walls. All the great west coast poets and writers used to hang out here. I was only a girl went they came through, so I don't remember. My mother told me I sat on Jack Keroack's knee once. I have no memory of this. Besides....the way he treated women? Let's just say, I never saw why he was such a big deal. Getting high on speed and writing continually for two weeks? It was never my thing. Basically, this place is a museum, isn't it? All the photos and artifacts. And the cat? Well, you see, this guy came in one morning and he shot the cat. It was a terrible business. The bartender working at the time called me and I drove in. Immediately. Everyone was very shaken up. All the guys were playing it tough...you know....but I could tell they were all shaken up. Someone fires a gun in your vicinity, you're going to be a bit jumpy. Anway, I got the full story. Being one of the owners, I need to know what happens in here for insurance purposes. The police told me he'd been wandering around for days. He'd been down at the beach, with this gun tucked in his jeans. He wasn't right in the head. Of course not. His parents had tried to find him. I called them once I found out who he was. They were very worried. He'd been living in some sort of commune situation out in the woods with these hippie types. They had influenced him to 'go natural' you see....to stop taking his medication. So that's what he did. He went off his meds and that's when he got into trouble. Now, I understand how those commune people can mess with your head. I do. I was a hippy before I bought into this place. I went through a lot of ups and downs. I went from a party girl to a hippy lifestyle, living up there in Oregon. I was in love with this guy. Ah...we all ate up what he was selling. He was so charismatic. So handsome. But in the end, it all turned out to be the usual stuff: male ego disguised as progressive living and thinking. I just left. I'd had enough. Ironically it was this place that stabilised me. This bar. Once I became an owner, or a part owner, only then did I stop messing around with the drinking and the partying and all that. It took me owning a share in this bar to become a teetotaler. Anyway, you see these faces? Lining the bar? Remember what I was saying about this place being a museum? Well, I don't like to say it aloud because....because I like everyone here and in some cases this is all they have....but the thing is....well, they have all become part of the museum display. Of course, they have. Look at them! They're just like the old photographs and bric-a-brac on the walls. They are history. And this is what happens when you don't embrace change. When you don't evolve. You grow roots in the past. You get stuck back there.

Gin and Tonic (well gin with a hunk of lime)

I had a eureka moment. I was writing a new poem in my room, on my little manual typer like I always do. The manual is better because it makes you think about every word. Anyway, my poem turned out to be a very interesting assemblage of words, five pages long. Like a fucking Pollack it was, only instead of oil paint, I was using words. I just kept going and going, revising and adding. And then, once the sun had come up, I was on my bike, cutting down the hill and through the streets. I needed air. I needed to sit in the sun, to warm up a little. I wasn't even tired. I had work that evening but I could catch a few Zs during the day. It felt like my head was busting with endless creative potential. Then I made a stupid mistake. I went to the bar. And once I got to the bar, my poem started to feel a little shit. And that's the thing about these creative jags. It can all become a little too...hermetically sealed. You lose perspective. Anyway, after re-entering the world, what I'd been working on all night started to seem a little too....contrived. At least compared to what had happened in real life. I'm talking about the thing with the gun and the cat. Let me explain: I was listening to the guys, the regulars, tell me the same story over and over and over again, analysing the shit out of what happened. And it was a real Rashomon type affair with everyone having a slightly different spin on what went down. And it really inspired me. And this is another problem with the creative process. You get something down but then something else happens...something that changes or alters your outlook. And that needs to be factored in somehow. Because every new experience changes you in some way. And the question becomes how do you capture change? Or put another way, how do you honestly capture the world and all its endless possibilities? Is a poem or a painting sufficient? What might you have missed? I should never have gone into the bar that morning. I should have gone to the cafe and sat on the steps of the church in the sun. And that's it. Anyway, the effect of this layering, this stacking of their accounts was very interesting to me. You had all these voices. There were the first-hand witnesses and those who came later. And it all fit together in a series of concentric circles.....like when you drop a stone into a pond and the ripples emanate outwards from the centre. Shit man, over the next couple of weeks, I must have heard about the crazy kid and the gun and the fucking cat fifty times. I'm a bartender so I understand. I do. A story like this needs to be told and retold. It needs to work its way out of collective mind like a splinter working its way out of your foot. It needs to bounce around and be processed through the gossip mill. And like I say, the accounts were all a little different. The story changed and caused arguments because not everyone can be right. And the retelling of the story fractured the peace in the bar for many weeks to come. Because I'll tell you, these old guys already have many unresolved, only half-buried grudges. They sit next to each other all day long, elbow to elbow at the bar but they don't necessarily like each other. There have been problems in the past with money, women and personality conflicts. In a place like this its natural. Anyway, they all started playing musical chairs with their roles in the story: who was the hero? Who was the coward? Again, it put me in a quandary. What is truth? I mean, can it ever really exist in a work of art? And art without a core truth is....to my way of thinking....worthless. Anyway, I started to doubt myself. Was there any 'truth' in my voice at all? Was there anything authentic in what I was saying? Should I just go back to Vermont and be content writing nice poems about leaves and trees and shit? As it stood, my poems were detailed and ornate things but what did they say? When you scratch down through the veneer of imagery, through all the allusions....what did they actually say?

Margarita (rocks, Cointreau, lime juice, salt rim)

This guy walks in here one morning and shoots the cat in the face. Or so the story goes. Believed it or not, that thing up there used to be a real living cat. Anyway, this was all before my time, before I started serving drinks here. Personally, when these guys tell me this story, sometimes I can't help but think, yeah right. I suspect one of them picked up some weird looking stuffed cat from a garage sale, stuck it up there and then though, shit, now I gotta come up with a story to explain this monstrosity. You know why I think this? Because they all embroider the truth. And the more they drink, the more they embroider. They're like a little sewing circle once they get going. Don't get me wrong: I like these guys. I like them a lot. Well, apart from went they get a little leery looking at my boobs and on those occasions when some of them get a little too friendly with their hands. That when you have to be firm. You have to tell them to cut it out or they will get cut off. And the thing they most fear is being cut off. or even worse, 86'ed. Left out in the wilderness to fend for themselves. Look, underneath it all, they are all little boys. And like little boys, they try it on. And that means sometimes I have to be like a school teacher. I have to get a little edge in my voice. Hands to yourself, I say. Keep your voice down. There is a good boy. Well done. I tried dating one of them once. One of the younger ones. Oh, brother, that was a bad idea. I spent time with him outside of work, going to the beach and the movies but then I kept seeing him at the bar. It was too much. I do not recommend mixing your personal and working life together. I had to treat him like a customer when I was here and he didn't like that. He felt he deserved special treatment. I said look, if this is not going to work, you have to choose. Its either your precious bar or me. I can't have you sitting around here while I'm working. I can't police your bad behaviour when you should know better. Besides, there are other bars in the neighbourhood. I gave him an ultimatum. I guess he valued his bar more than me.

Ice water

I used to drink but not anymore. I don't tell that story because I find it has a tendency to define me. People hear it and they get this look of pity on their faces like I am someone that they can look down on. Someone that needs to be lifted up by their gracious feelings of moral superiority. I don't. Believe me. I got my life sorted out. Look, drinking don't bother me anymore. You could set a beer down in front of me on the hottest day, in the middle of the Sahara desert, with the glass sweating, all them little bubbles racing up to the surface and that head creamy and white, like a soft heavenly cloud... and I still wouldn't drink it. I just had enough. I clean windows for a living now. In the city. It's alright. It keeps you moving. Keeps money in your pocket. At the bar, the cat always used to press up against the window, batting his little paw as my blade wiper went up and down the glass. A black cat. Then, one day he wasn't there anymore. I didn't think anything about it. I got plenty on my mind other than a cat. Then I came in for my payment about a week later. I like to keep my payments delayed as long as possible so I have a decent sum of money. I keep accounts in a little spiral-bound notebook; a notebook I keep on my person at all times. A man who doesn't know what he is owed is a man who will never get ahead. That's what my father used to say. Never got on with my father but as you get older, your parent's words come back to you. That's what I found. Anyway, I came into the bar and got me a glass of water while the manager lady was counting out my money. I knew some of those guys who drink in there from around the neighbourhood. I seen them. Staggering down the street at night. Drunk. And they want to drink their lives away, I think they should. I think everybody should do exactly what they want to do. Live and let live, is my motto. Anyway, the manager lady told me about the gun incident. Man, that poor cat! Right in the face! I pocketed my money and passed on my condolences. Cleaning windows in like that...you're always missing out on things or getting only half the story. It's like watching TV with the sound turned down. Or missing entire scenes so the story doesn't make any sense. You're always on the outside of all these little dramas and never really part of them. That's okay. Anyway, I thanked the manager lady and left. I had a few more clients that afternoon. And don't get me wrong. Not for one minute am I'm saying that I have no drama in my own life. Ms Q is still at me. You know how they get. She insists-no green card, no more boom boom. And let me assure you: I like a little boom boom in the afternoon with Ms Q. So that is a situation I'm going to have to address.

Scotch and soda (a few chips of ice).

Beneath the benevolent rays of the sun
the rats have eaten all the cheese
and the maze is laid bare.
The glass eyes of Ra remain locked
on eternity
a ball and socket creature
guardian of the afterlife
black and ready to spring
like a bullet from a gun.
Dear Father Death on high
his pickled vital organs pulse and tremble
inside his chemically preserved body.
He is a stealthy and patient arbiter
deboned and cotton stuffed
mummified in a bottle of rare spirits
waiting
while outside, the dawn garbage trucks ferry human souls
one piece at a time
down into the underworld
and the alleys run slick with slaughtered animal blood
their eyes rolling like liars dice, their tongues gone slack
as the abattoir hammer falls and falls and falls again
and the clicking of ice cubes keeps time
for the galley slaves below
who drink to their lifelong surrender
while remaining firmly chained
to their escape.

Milk 

I'd been down in the office. Looking around. It was fairly nice down there. It is warm and dark. I have very good night vision so I can see down in the basement. The woman who feeds me has all the bottles locked up in a cage as if they were treasure. Also, they have arranged the silver kegs of beer along one wall. There are machines that make ice and purr in the dark, their motors making the air warm. Sometimes they will open a hatch and more kegs of beer will be lowered down by men on the street. The kegs feed the beer to the people above, through a network of tubes. That morning, I was down on my haunches, belly on the ground, scanning the dark. I was tuned into the subterranean space, looking for movement in the corners and under the supply shelves. Down here little creatures forage for food. Behind the pipes, down in the cracks. If I caught something, I wouldn't really eat it. I might just play with it for awhile. The soft food that comes from the factories makes one lazy. Anyway, I got bored so I came up the stairs and slowly went over to the big front window, the one with the neon beer sign hanging in it. Red and blue cursive lettering. Buzzing in the dark.

Outside on the street, a Mexican family was collecting flattened cardboard and putting it in a truck. This cardboard would be taken to a recycling plant for money. I have been in a motor car twice. Both times to see a doctor who is trained to treat animals. They call this doctor a 'vet'. I was put in a box. This box had a cage door and lock. The box was then put inside the motor car. We drove across the city to the vet. It was not a pleasant experience. I am not a chicken. I don't like being cooped up. I do not like being put inside a box.

I sat there, by the window, looking at the street. Something moved in the corner of my vision. I turned my head, attempting to lock in on this movement. It was nothing. The ghost of a mouse I'd eaten once perhaps? An afterimage from long ago when I was still young. Back when I still ate mice. I looked back at the street view. I looked at the street lamps, the traffic lights, the road, the pavement, the buildings and the windows in those buildings. At the sky. The sun would begin to rise soon. I like the sun. Living indoors, the only thing I wonder about is the birds. They are very intriguing. When I lock onto one, sitting on a telegraph line, his little head ticking nervously away, it is very....well.....very difficult for me to concentrate on anything else.

I sat there at the window for a very long time, watching the sky lighten. Then I heard the keys jangling in the front door lock and I felt a draft of cold air. This man who came in is the bartender. He has various duties but his main responsibility is to provide the people who come in with the beer I previously mentioned. I break from my position as soon as he appears, walking down the length of the bar, slowly, looking left and right. Despite myself, I curled around the bartender's leg. This contact sends waves of electricity along my spine and into my brain. I am a tactical creature. I did this once, twice, three times. For my efforts, I received a nail scratch on my head, between my ears, that eventually travelled down the length of my spine, between my shoulder blades towards the cluster of nerves above my tail. It was extremely nice at first but then I began to get irritated. My mood can change like that. Despite the fact I was purring like a small well-tuned engine, I was getting ready to go for his hand. This bartender knows my limitations and stopped just in time, thus avoiding a flip-attack. And lucky for him.

Then Jerry arrives at the usual time. Jerry likes Miller Genuine Draft. Millar Genuine draft. Later on, Carl arrived. Carl made a phone call and then sat at the bar with his Irish coffee. I cleaned my ears with one paw. First the left, then the right. While I am doing this, I remain expertly alert and aware of everyone's movements. The bartender had made some coffee in a steel urn. The smell of the coffee permeates the air. He had carried up some ice in a plastic bucket up the stairs. Then he cleans things and cut up limes. I do not like limes. Limes overwhelm my sense of smell. This is a very predictable routine. Suddenly, my whiskers go tant like piano wires. I sensed something behind me. I get ready to pounce, turned and....nothing. I'm feeling edgy this morning. I stretch, trying to work out the tension, feeling my spine pop silently as I arch my back, my muscles flexing. Then I stare, fixating on an invisible point in the middle distance, hypnotised for a moment. At times, you can almost see things beyond the physical world. If you stare long enough. After that, I sat on the window ledge, by the free newspapers. A new guy comes in the bar. He is young and intense looking. There is something bad about his aura. Something off. He purchases a beer and sits in the corner. I will stay away from this man.

I licked my left paw. Then my right. My tongue is covered with tiny pink hooks. My claws are neatly folded away inside my paws. When you bother me I will come at you like a malfunctioning sewing machine. I will hurt you. I will remind you that I am closer to the animal kingdom that you are. I often marvel at the way I am designed. If I were bigger I would probably hunt human beings. Probably. I often dream about this. In my dreams spring off buildings and overwhelm my prey. I trap and stun you in my dreams. Death is a slow and considered thing. You don't stand a chance.

My whiskers twitch again, picking up a signal from the invisible world. What is it? This morning I am very jumpy. I get up, pad across the floor. Jerry won't let me near him. Some old men are like this. Once they are finished with the women and the children, they have no use for animals. All they want to do is sit and drink beer. Outside people begin to move past. Commuters. I yawn, exposing my little pink cave lined with needle teeth. A single shiver travels down my spine. I make my way up the stairs and along the railing to the high ledge, the one above all the bottles. This is a good vantage point. Soon a beam of sunlight will come in through the window. The beam will be coloured by the stained glass. Up here, there are no clodding feet to crush paws or tails. Up here it is safe. Human beings become strange when they consume alcohol. They clump around like giant angry children. Up here I can keep track of them. I like the sound of the old men's voices as they drifting up. I have been listening to these voices for many years. I lay down and stretch out. The sun begins to come through the window. The sun is warm. There is nothing better than the sun.