Capricorn Moon

‘The moon rotates on its own axis a hundred times slower than the earth.’

‘Really,’  she says. 

She seems interested, but logic tells the selenologist that he has insufficient experience with women to correctly determine her level of engagement. He continues because he’s afraid of silence. ‘The dark spots are craters filled with basalt which is a very dense material.’

She picks up the salt shaker and jiggles it. ‘Is basalt like table salt?’

Hoping the smile he squeezes out does not reek of condescension, he answers, ‘Basalt is a dark-colored, fine-grained, igneous rock composed mainly of plagioclase and pyroxene minerals.’

With no response, other than a quizzical stare at the salt shaker, to guide his next words, he’s lost for a moment. He resorts to knowledge because he knows that knowledge is interesting, powerful, even intoxicating. Intoxicating? Really? Whatever its effect, he has a plenteous supply, and he knows he must play his strong suit. Before he speaks, she asks a question. She’s hooked. She must be.

‘How big is the moon?’ 

Although he knows the exact figure, he doesn’t want to show off so he says, ‘The moon is roughly 3.8 billion hectares’ He lets the words float in the aromatic air between them. He’s an expert on the moon so he knows what he’s talking about. There’s no question of his superior intellect, nor any doubt that she will yield to its force. But she’s so beautiful he can hardly breathe and he fears his normally irresistible attempts to assert himself via intellectual assault will fail. Shipwrecked by the storm of his emotions. The lighthouse of her eyes pulling him closer rather than warning him away from the rocks. He feels, and it’s like the first time he has felt. What is it exactly? Extraordinary. He wants to be wrong. Why? Will she seize on his vulnerability? Will she be seduced by his weakness. He wants her to.

‘What star sign are you?’

She’s leaning forward across the table but he doesn’t know if it’s because she wants to be closer to him, or because she can’t hear properly over the noise of the busy restaurant. Her blonde hair falls around her face and onto her shoulders in soft fragrant curls. The question she asked is backed by bright green  reptilian eyes which grip him and cause him to tremble. He doesn’t want to talk about pish posh astrology. It’s so unscientific, it’s positively offensive. Yet he’s compelled to answer. Her liquid voice is truth serum. Her sexuality overwhelms him. She radiates seduction.

‘Capricorn.’

The woman bounces in her seat and her head moves around. She’s smiling, tittering. She’s excited by him being a Capricorn. This is so stupid. Insulting, but dammit if beauty was brains she’d make Einstein sound like Britney Spears after a night on the tiles.

‘Okay.’ She takes a melodramatic breath. ‘Let’s see. Moon in Capricorn means you don’t like taking risks so you plan ahead, and you feel safe when you organize things, and try to cover all eventualities.’

Apparently, she’s waiting for the selenologist to respond in awe to her astrological sagacity. He’s amused rather than awestruck, so he holds his tongue.

‘You come across as a bit cold because you aren’t comfortable with your feelings, and especially avoid sharing them with others. You also don’t like others pouring their hearts out to you. It’s just way too messy.’

He realizes, as he watches her elegantly sip her cocktail, that he doesn’t know her name. She asked permission to sit with him, and he consented out of courtesy. Despite feeling the onus was on the woman to initiate conversation due to the fact that she had invaded his space, the selenologist had spoken first. That had surprised him. This astrologer was right when she identified his need to control situations. That was why he started talking to her. He couldn’t stand the awkward and potentially embarrassing quiet. She had seemed perfectly at peace, and he found that disturbing. Remembering the onset of their discourse, he realized he had forgotten the pleasantries: simple greetings, introductions and mandatory small talk concerning the weather. The selenologist had dived straight in to his comfort zone: his area of expertise.

‘Look, Miss…?’

‘Call me Angel.’

He reaches for his glass of whiskey and recklessly empties into his mouth. It burns his throat and he coughs. When he feels confident that he can speak, he can’t bring himself to call her Angel.

‘I…’ he begins but can’t continue.

Undeterred by his sudden dysphasia, Angel leans forward once more and says, ‘Moon Signs help define our emotional development. They express the unconscious side of our personality. It explains why we do what we do.’ 

The selenologist musters his resolve and decides to attempt to regain control. ‘The moon is a satellite which orbits our Earth in twenty seven days, seven hours, forty three minutes and eleven point six seconds.’

‘Moon signs are a very accurate description of what a person is like,’ Angel counters. ‘People born under a Capricorn moon are usually very intelligent, with a deep respect for knowledge, and are adept at using it for their own benefit.’

‘If you could drive a motor vehicle to the moon, although obviously you can’t, it would take one hundred and thirty days of continuous driving.’

‘Authority and knowledge help you to feel more in control. You are afraid of rejection, and rarely at peace with yourself.’

With a stalemate thus established, the selenologist and Angel gaze into each other’s eyes, and are swallowed by the poignancy of the moment. He’s aware of blood rushing to his head and experiences breathlessness, so he looks for any similar signs of discomfort in Angel’s pretty face. He warns himself not to lower his eyes but the warning itself is enough to cause the action. If Angel notices his quick peek at her chest, she manifests no awareness. The war within him is exhausting. There is no sensible reason for him to resist her commanding charm. The pleasure he feels is terrifying and Angel offers nothing to suggest she means him any harm. Quite the contrary. Every word she said about him was true yet her tone is devoid of implied criticism. He could infer it if he wishes, but Angel completely lacks malice. He knows emotional vandalism: God knows how many times he’s been on the receiving end. This beautiful astrologer is the epitome of enigmatic. The selenologist intuits the significance of his next words so he chooses them carefully: editing and revising in his head as Angel persists in holding his gaze. It seems as though she worries that if she releases him, he will fall and shatter on the floor.

Finally, as the suspense threatens to detonate his conflicted mind, Angel averts her eyes and fumbles for her handbag which sits beside her feet. The selenologist slowly releases the breath he has been holding. He suspects every patron in the restaurant hears the hurricane howl as he exhales. Angel rummages in her bag and he watches, wondering.

She’s holding a business card which she places on the table in front of him as she stands. Smoothing down the front of her blouse draws his attention again to her chest but she’s not looking at him anymore. The spell is broken. Free of the enchantment, the selenologist reaches for his glass but he’s forgotten that it’s empty. He clings to it nonetheless. He glances at the business card then at Angel. Although ready to leave, she waits. What’s she waiting for?

‘We should talk again sometime. I’ve really enjoyed it,’ she says. ‘Call me.’

The selenologist watches her leave. He’s dazed. His head spins as he picks up the business card and reads it. He’s drawn to the large font overlaying a photograph of a full moon. It says Capricorn Moon. He orders another whiskey and stares at the card. An unfamiliar rumble inside his heart shakes him and produces a strange sound which he hopes no one else hears. He recognizes the sound now. He’s heard other people refer to it as laughter. 

Top End Angel

(contemporaryartbychristine.com (image used with permission of the artist)

There was a bombardment of crocodile jokes when I started sharing the news I was moving to Darwin. I didn’t know anything much about Darwin, apart from Cyclone Tracy and a vague awareness of the bombing of Darwin by the Japanese. I knew it was the capital of the Northern Territory, and that it was our smallest capital city, smaller by half than my hometown of Wollongong. I also knew I wouldn’t be encountering crocodiles roaming the streets of suburban Darwin, any more than I met kangaroos bounding free, left, right and centre in the suburbs of Sydney and Wollongong. I also knew Darwin was a hot place.

With my marriage over, and the demise of the substitute relationships I got involved with afterwards which caused trouble in my family, particularly with my children, I felt like it might not have been a bad idea to get away. I’d become very good at making bad decisions which had unpleasant consequences for me and those I loved. My hope was that this was a good decision: a strategic move to help me and those I’d hurt recover.

It was early in 2016 and I had been working for Mission Australia in Wollongong for three and a half years. I’m an English language teacher and as all teachers in this sector know, the availability of work relies heavily on the number of students we have enrolled. When enrollments started to dry up, and classes were being collapsed, I could see the writing on the wall. I needed something stable in my life and work had been that one thing during an incredibly difficult four year period. Had I lost my job at that time, it would have been devastating so I decided to take matters into my own hands. With nothing tying me to Wollongong, and a feeling that it might be good if I removed myself from everything and everyone familiar for a period of time, I applied for teaching positions all over the country and around the world.

In July of 2016, I treated myself to a holiday in Alice Springs; my first venture into the Northern Territory. I had wanted to experience Uluru for as long as I could remember so I booked a tour to ensure I got maximum bang for my tourist buck, and that I did. Whilst in Alice Springs, I received a job offer; the only one out of all the applications I had sent out. Due to the desperation of the company looking to employ me, I was able to negotiate a very attractive salary which included my airfare to Darwin.

There was one other stumbling block to me leaving Wollongong. My dad had been recently diagnosed with stage 4 mesothelioma (lung cancer). There was every chance that, although he was relatively healthy at that time, he could rapidly deteriorate. I was moving thousands of kilometres away from him. If he went downhill, how would I get to him? I asked him how he felt, and he unsurprisingly told me to go for it. Whether he thought it was a good move for me or not, he told me it was, and his confident assurance sealed the deal.

I was excited at the prospect of a new job in a new state. I was confident God was again directing my steps and that this was indeed the right move for me at the right time. A few months after I left Mission Australia, they lost the government contract which had kept me and my fellow teachers employed. My colleagues all lost their jobs, but I had already moved on to bigger and better things.

Darwin smacked me in the face, (the heat was a fiery wall of welcome as I left the airport terminal) then embraced me like a long-lost brother. Australia’s northern most capital felt like a big country town. I quickly lost myself in the new job, and finding somewhere to live, and learning how to get around on the buses. I enjoyed the lack of traffic, the friendly vibe, the lack of pace. I quickly found my groove and was too busy and too enthralled in exploring my new life to miss anyone back in Wollongong. Sadly, I never saw dad again. He died in December, and I was unable to return in time to say goodbye.

Finding a church enabled me to quickly make new friends. I took a gym membership and settled into a very happy routine. After a failed attempt to breathe life into a dying relationship back home which involved the person in question moving to Darwin and us renting an apartment in the city, I began to feel like I needed one more very important piece of the puzzle to be put into place. I did not want to live alone so I commenced a very serious search for love; a relationship which I hoped would lead to marriage.

In January 2018, after three months of using the eHarmony website, I was ready to cancel my membership. The novelty of searching for a life partner online had well and truly worn off, and I was disappointed at the lack of results. At the very end of the month, I saw a new profile on eHarmony and I sent a message. I believed then and still do, that God had sent me an angel. Thus began a great romance which we believe had God’s fingerprints all over it. After a couple of months, I decided I had to meet this amazing woman who I had been chatting to. At Easter I flew to Vietnam to see if the chemistry I felt online with her would translate into real life magic.

She was so nervous about meeting me, she had not slept the night before, but I knew immediately the magic was there. As soon as I embraced her at the airport and kissed her cheek, I knew I would marry her. I held her sweaty hand as we walked away to her friend's waiting car and all the way to a nearby restaurant where we had our first meal together. He friend joined us to save my angel from her oppressive shyness. Later she relaxed a little, and we walked alone on the streets of Ho Chi Minh City, stopping for a quick game of imaginary tennis on the sidewalk.

And so began a series of trips to Vietnam which thrilled my senses and made my heart swell with love. When my angel came to the Top End for her first visit in August 2018, I had been living in Darwin for two years and was excited to show off the charms of the Territory. Despite being a little overwhelmed, particularly by how quiet it was compared to Ho Chi Minh City, she spoke enthusiastically about our future life together in the Australia. On August 18, we got married at Cullen Bay in front of a small group of family and friends, at sunset.

By this time, I was housesitting full time, and loving life in Darwin more than ever. The plan was to save money and pay off some debt in preparation for my wife and children to move to Darwin. We put in the visa application in December and so began our long wait, scheduling holidays as frequently as we could; the first of which was to her hometown, Buon Ma Thuot where we had a traditional Vietnamese wedding ceremony. On February 26 the wait ended with the grant of the visa, and now our dream to live together in Australia as a family has come true. For this we thank God, and we’re also grateful to the laidback, tropical city of Darwin and her people.

I’ve seen plenty of crocodiles in my four years in Darwin, but aside from the Adelaide River residents who amuse tourists, I haven’t seen any outside of the zoo. I’ve learned more about Darwin too: her proud and resilient history, and her culture, but most importantly I’ve learned a lot about myself. Counterintuitively, coming to live in this remote, and oft maligned frontier city, a place which many call a wilderness, full of ruffians and runaways, has tamed me, calmed me down. It’s also true that my Top End Angel has done immeasurably great things to being me some peace. You could say she is a miracle: the answer to my prayers. I say that and I believe it.

by D.A.Cairns

A Sympathetic Interlocutor

A Sympathetic Interlocutor

by

D.A.Cairns

Decorated was the word that first came to mind when he noticed her cheeks. Breaking eye contact only very briefly because he wanted to hold her gaze as long as possible, the strange patterns on her cheeks caught his attention. They might have been scars, burn scars or, had they been located somewhere else on her body, the kind of scars left after a surgical attempt to remove tattoos. The thought intrigued him and suspended the moment of greeting in time.

Suddenly aware of her soft hand inside his, he let go and stepped back gesturing for her to take a seat. When he had settled himself opposite her, he saw that she was watching him and he instinctively stiffened. Her eyes were huge, round and dark chocolate. Adorned with lid liner and shadow, her lashes were spruced and unnaturally thick, and she would have elicited a comment in his mind about her being overdone had she been someone else. Had they been somewhere else. Everything seemed different. He felt different. She shifted her weight slightly and tilted her head to the right, apparently waiting for him to speak.

Embarrassed, he cleared his throat and summoned sufficient strength to concentrate on what he was supposed to be doing. But even as he spoke, those funny marks on her cheeks wrestled for his attention. They could have been freckles, although they were lightly coloured in contrast to her olive complexion, but not single freckles gathered together in clumps. More like thousands of them packed into adjacent rooms for all night dance parties. This thought amused him, and his accidental smile was returned warmly and sincerely. This woman was breathtaking. Not classically beautiful because of her cheeks and the way her thick black hair was held away from her face in a clumsy ponytail -she looked like she had spent all her preparation time on her face and not left enough to do her hair properly. She was indisputably stunning nevertheless.

‘Why are you here?’ he asked her. ‘Why have you come here today?’

‘Well,’ she began slowly, finally looking away and thus releasing him from the spell she was casting over him. ‘I think I need to improve my reading and writing.”

A perfectly constructed sentence delivered in a languid Middle Eastern accent. Improve, he thought, how could you improve on perfection?

‘Yes,’ he replied. ‘Is not being able to read and write as well as you would like to stopping you from doing something you want to do. Like further study, for example?’

She thought for a moment, averting her eyes and thus giving him the chance to study her more closely. From her full lips dressed in red, over her chin and down her slender neck, his eyes stopped when they reached a golden angel sitting astride her cleavage. The line of the thin chain which suspended the angel matched the low vee cut of her white dress.

‘I would like to go back to work now that my children are older.’

He loved the way information was revealed slowly during these interviews, morsel by juicy morsel, peeling away the layers of protection, the walls people built around their personal lives. Those walls invariably crashed to the floor as the interview progressed. Whether verbally, in their speech or their writing, or non verbally in their body language, they communicated their lives to him, their hearts and minds and he was an avid reader.

‘How old are your children?’

‘I have three. Thirteen, eleven, and nine. All girls.’

It was impossible not to stare as the enchantment grew, filling the room like fog. He had thought she was probably aged in her early thirties. It was hard to tell sometimes, especially with women who were able to hide their age so much more efficiently than men. However with children that age she was more likely to be in her late thirties, even early fortes though that was scarcely believable. Desperately curious to confirm his suspicions that she was older than she looked, he selected a piece of paper from the pile on the desk which filled the space between them and placed it in front of her.

‘Please fill in this form.’

Date of birth was the fourth question so he watched eagerly as she wrote, his eyes glancing occasionally past her hands with jewelled fingers, to her breasts which seemed to have risen higher, threatening to spill out of her dress. Maybe it was the way she was sitting, leaning forward with her arms pressed tight into her sides.

She wrote 11/9/64. He wanted to tell her how surprised he was that she was forty three and how beautiful she looked but he couldn’t. How could one compliment a woman without her thinking that you were a pervert at worst, or a sleaze at best? The words would always be construed as flattery with intent, no matter how politely you phrased them. How could one be sure in himself that the words were merely a genuine compliment and not expressions of desire, or worse: lust? How could he be sure? There was a place, an inside world where he could be alone with his thoughts and feelings, where he could sift through memories and adjust them as necessary and use them however he wished. A place to fantasize and twist reality to feed his insatiable lust.  It was a place of both refuge and repression. A haven and a hell.

The interview proceeded normally; she answered questions, did the tasks, the reading, the writing and the mathematics while he filled in forms, ticked boxes, interpreted and analysed both her and her work, made her laugh, made her blush, made himself blush with his boldness, noticed the delicate chain around her ankle and her painted toenails, and averted his eyes when she needed to adjust her clothing to recover what was being gradually, conspiratorially revealed. All the while he wondered whether the chemistry he felt between them was real or imagined, and whether the way she tilted her head and played with her hair was flirtatious or merely absent minded. He even went so far as to suggest they could go on talking for the rest of the day, and she had agreed, and although the exchange was light hearted he felt the words expressed genuine sentiment. He really did enjoy her company. This admission was followed by a fist of guilt jabbing him in the ribs a few times. He was married and so was she.

‘The interview is finished now. You can go and have a nice cup of coffee. Thanks for your time and good luck,’ he said, slowly standing up.

She smiled as he took her soft hand in his and he wished her well a second time.

They stood behind the door in the small interview room savouring a ridiculously long good-bye. The truth was he did not want her to go and she was in no hurry to leave. In the pregnant silence, he began to feel dizzy and was still holding her hand when he opened his mouth to speak. Nothing but air escaped his nervously dry lips, and soon he felt as though he was drowning, like he had fallen into the deep, deep pools of her eyes and they had magically stolen his ability to swim. Seconds passed recklessly into what felt like long minutes as they stood there. Still, no words were spoken and the door to the outside world remained firmly shut.

Finally he released her hand, more from the carelessness of drowsy enchantment than deliberate action, and she looked away. The moment was over. The spell, shattered.

‘Goodbye,’ she said quietly as she opened the door. ‘Thank you.’

He swallowed and managed a very faint, ‘You’re welcome. Good luck.’

Then she left the room and walked away down the corridor. Away from him, away from the mysterious connection they had just undoubtedly shared. He smiled. She was now a new resident in his inside world. A traveller who had landed on his planet and not been allowed to leave, despite wanting to. A fellow prisoner, though not consciously aware of the fact, or even vaguely impacted by the reality of her incarceration.

‘Liliane,’ he breathed wistfully. ‘Goodbye Liliane.’

He sat down, and when he had completed the paperwork and written in his comments and recommendations, he collected all her papers and placed them neatly together inside a red manila folder. He closed the folder and read her name one last time.  

Flight. Fight. Fix. Part 3

Part 3: The Fix 

by D.A.Cairns

Rhys had never told Rhonda why he had perpetually resisted pushing her to go all the way with him. She didn’t understand him, and that was his fault. He’d never told her that he wanted to wait. He had said that, but never in such a way as to make it plausible or acceptable. It didn’t make sense to her. The culture clash left her crippled, bleeding but unrelenting. He chugged on his beer draining half the bottle. It was cowardly the way he had handled this relationship. Rhys saw that now, felt the sting of remorse, of self-recrimination. He had not been honest with her, but that was not the worst of it. Rhonda had loved him despite his unwillingness to tell her the truth. What was the truth?

The sun began to set over the sea brightening the room, making it glisten here and there, throwing random slivers of blinding light into his eyes. Rhys stepped out on to the balcony and looked down to the pool below. He could see Rhonda in the water. Gliding, diving, surfacing, shining. What was the truth? She was beautiful. A beautiful person; so full of life and irresistible positive energy and so full of grace. That word again. It was an irritating quality to those who lacked it. An aggravation born from subconscious envy. The truth was he was a bloody idiot.

Dashing for his suitcase, rummaging for his boardies, stripping faster than he ever had, after a few frantic minutes, Rhys was ready to hit the pool. Ready to dive in. Ready to quit the stupid game he’d been playing. Ready to be the man Rhonda had fashioned him into courtesy of unrelenting patience and love without strings; without visible limits. Once he left the room, he began to rehearse his apology en route to the elevator. Several versions came to mind, but in the end he was left with a choice between exuberance and humble contrition. Both of these were out of character for Rhys and when this realization struck him fully, he panicked. Pressing buttons on higher floors to reverse his course, to give himself more time, but the lift proceeded stubbornly to the lobby. The doors opened. There were people waiting to get in, waiting for him to get out. He was stuck.

‘Coming or going mate’, said a man with a large rose coloured and unshaven face. He stopped the door as it began to close and entered without waiting for Rhys to answer or move. Others followed. Among them was a fragile looking woman who appeared to be with the redneck Aussie. The doors closed and up they went.

‘Are you scared of water or sunlight,’ said the man without looking at Rhys. ‘Or both?’

For reasons unknown to Rhys even years after this moment in his life, whenever he regaled audiences with the magnitude of the moment, he said to the man; ‘Neither. I’m scared she won’t accept my apology.’

The man turned his huge bull head and stared at Rhys as though he might be insane. ‘Well you’re not gonna find out by riding up and down in the bloody lift, are ya?’

Rhys held the man’s gaze, marveling at his temerity, envying his conviction. ‘I guess not.’ He shifted his gaze to briefly meet the eyes of the man’s wife who smiled knowingly. She smiled from her eyes and it was genuine; simultaneously warm and wise. Rhys looked away, embarrassed by the attention.

‘What’d ya do?’

It was too late to escape now. Rhys wished like hell he had simply strode confidently out of the lift as soon as the doors parted. Marched to the poolside and quickly do what he had come to do. Damn the theatrics. No more charades. Just straight up, sincere remorse which was exactly what he felt. He could have been in the cool clear water now, playing around with Rhonda working up his appetite, stoking the fire which would eventually lead them exactly where they both wanted to go. Instead, he had baulked and now he was trapped. These were not the kind of conversations he had with anyone, especially not with complete strangers in elevators. Yet, some weird compulsion pushed words from mouth. ‘I’ve been acting like a dick.’

The woman laughed politely; self-assured, but not arrogant. ‘Pretty standard behaviour for boys, isn’t?’ Surprisingly, nothing happened in the deliberate vacancy she left at the end of her question. ‘Care to be more specific?’

‘Playing around with other girls?’ suggested the man.

‘Ignoring her for the sports feast on satellite TV?’

‘Planning the whole holiday around what you want to do?’

‘Drinking too much?’

‘Okay,’ said Rhys, raising his hands in surrender. ‘Okay. Okay.’

The elevator stopped. ‘Why don’t you come and have a drink and tell us all about it,’ said the woman. ‘I’m Jean by the way and this lovely big oaf is my husband Jack.’

Rhys was trying to politely refuse the invitation and share his name as they bustled him out of the lift and into the hall. ‘Come on love,’ said Jean. ‘We’ll sort you out and get you geared up for your big moment.’ She walked away as Jack’s heavy hand fell on Rhys’s shoulder, causing his knee to buckle. ‘You wouldn’t wanna go off half-cocked, would ya?’

Soon they arrived at an open door. Jean had already retrieved three beers from the fridge and loaded them all into stubby holders. 

‘Have a seat Rhys. Tell us all about it.’

One hour later, Rhys left Jack and Jean’s room and the security of their not so gentle wisdom, prepared, he hoped, for his encounter with Rhonda. Doubt jumped on his back as soon as his closed the door. Fear landed on his shoulders from a great height. His throat once again craved the sweet bitterness of cold beer. The elevator met him. He pushed the button and waited. The counsel of his new friends rolled around in his head while he fought to put everything in order, to bring some discipline to the chaos. His mind was a playground filled with children hyped up on sugar.

The door opened. Rhys entered. His feelings did not change at all as he watched the descent of illuminated lights on the display panel. The lift stopped. The door opened. He stepped out.

‘You changed your mind.’

Rhys looked up to see Rhonda’s radiant smile and was instantly paralysed from head to toe. She entered the lift, pushing him back in as she did. Others followed her in and was trapped. It seemed he was destined to never reach the lobby.

‘Are you okay?’ asked Rhonda.

‘I’m really sorry,’ said Rhys without looking at her as they stood side by side, shoulder to shoulder. At least he though he spoke those words.

‘What did you say?’

Rhys finally turned to look at Rhonda, only to discover she was already staring at him. ‘I said I’m really sorry.’

Rhonda looked away, mysteriously silent. The silence persisted all the way back to their floor where they exited the lift, at the same time but not together. This was going to be much harder than Rhys had imagined. He hadn’t counted on the longevity of Rhonda’s antipathy. Surely, the pool had cooled her temper as well as her body. She looked refreshed, she smelled fresh. Shed smiled at him when she entered the elevator. Had his first pitifully soft and ineffective apology destroyed any chance he’d had at earning her forgiveness. It was unlike her. Rhys didn’t feel like himself, and Rhonda was also askew; out of character as well. Had he fallen into a parallel universe? Did he unwittingingly step through a portal somewhere? What was going on? Rhys felt an urgent, nagging and tension in his stomach as he followed her along the corridor. She said nothing. He might as well not have been there. He wished he wasn’t.

At the door, Rhonda turned and looked at him. She seemed surprised: unsure what to say; perhaps conflicted within herself. Rhys attempted a smile. Rhonda turned away, pushed open the door and entered the room without waiting for him. Rhys stood still. He thought for a moment he’d be well advised to go back to see Jean and Jack and give them an update on the situation. They’d be able to boost his flagging spirit; redirect his reconciliation efforts. Or they would just say the same thing. F=Give him another beer and a kick up the backside and send him back to Rhonda to sort out his problem. The problem he created.

He didn’t want the relationship to end. In fact, now as he stood, helplessly trapped in Rhonda’s rejection of his words, even his presence, he knew he would do anything to keep her. Anything to make it right. Summoning hidden reserves of courage from the four corners of his mind, Rhys opened the door and walked towards Rhonda who was sitting on the bed staring at the wall even though she’d switched the television on.

Sitting beside her, Rhys carefully lifted her hand and held it firmly in both of his hands. Rhonda didn’t pull away. Thus encouraged, Rhys began, this time in a contrite but intelligible tone. ‘I’m really sorry,’ he said.

After a very long pause which caused Rhys to again wonder about whether he had actually spoken the word aloud, Rhonda said, ‘It’s okay Rhys. I understand. It’s over. I’m in love with someone else.’

Flight. Fight. Fix. Part 2

Flight. Fight. Fix. Part 2

by

D.A.Cairns

The Fight

‘I don’t know what that was Rhys, but I sure hope you got it all out of your system.’

The line at immigration moved forward. Rhys shuffled: feigned a contrite look and shook his head. ‘Sorry baby.’

‘I hope to God you aren’t planning on ruining our holiday like you just ruined everyone’s flight; especially mine.’

‘It’s not like I planned it.’

Rhonda glared at him until he reluctantly met her gaze. ‘It looked exactly like you planned it. Like it was scripted.’

Rhys laughed. ‘Get serious.’

‘Do I like look I’m joking?’

They inched forward again as another visitor had their passport stamped by a serious looking individual in a khaki uniform. ‘I’ll behave myself. I promise. I won’t put a foot wrong for the rest of the trip, and If I do it will be entirely unintentional.’

‘I’ll give you entirely intentional,’ she said before punching his arm.

Rhys had overdone it on the plane. Rhonda had simply ignored him, as had Deep Voice, even when Rhys had lowered his seat right onto the guys lap. The flight attendants remonstrated with him with every drink they brought him, as did every passenger whom he bumped into in his way to and back from the lavatory. During a quieter moment he had decided to try something else. Even though he had no original thoughts on how to force this break up, he managed to delude himself otherwise. Next was the flirt. He searched the adjacent queues on either side of theirs until he found something pleasing to his eye, then stared. Eventually Rhonda noticed his concerted attention and followed his gaze.

‘Don’t stare Rhys,’ she said. ‘It’s rude.’

‘Do you think her breasts are real?’

‘Do you think that’s any of your business or of any interest to me?’

‘I never asked about yours,’ said Rhys suddenly turning back to Rhonda, to her face first then to her chest and quickly back again.

‘I gave you plenty of chances to find out for yourself, dumbo.’

‘I’m going to go and ask her.’

They shuffled forward. ‘Ask her what?’

Rhys offered no reply, and before Rhonda could protest or grab his arm to hold him back, he was in the next line chatting to the woman who may or may not have had breast implants. He started with a smile and a quip; ‘I want to hedge my bets for the fast lane.’ She rewarded him with a smile which revealed she had spent a small fortune at the dentist.

‘Your teeth are amazing,’ he said. She thanked him. ‘I’ve had so much trouble with my teeth. I was thinking about ditching them all and starting again, but I can’t afford it.’

The woman nodded. The line moved again. Rhys waved at Rhonda who had not moved. ‘Your wife? Girlfriend?’

‘Can you keep a secret?’

She frowned an impossibly cute frown. ‘Yes.’

‘It’s our farewell tour.’

The woman’s frown deepened into something less appealing; something suspiciously like dim wittedness. ‘She brought me on this holiday to dump me.’

‘That’s horrible.’

‘Anyway, we were talking about how much your breasts cost.’

Rhys wasn’t sure what he was looking at now, but he didn’t like it. He liked it even less when it hit him in the face. ‘Arsehole!’

As he walked quickly back to join Rhonda he avoided looking at her and also tried not to laugh. Maybe he was losing his mind. His behaviour was further out to sea than he’d ever travelled, but instead of being concerned, he felt pleased; almost delirious. This was fun. Back in the queue, he received a pinch from Rhonda, then turned to smile at the woman behind him.‘She has trouble controlling me,’ he said.

The woman stared at him just long enough for Rhys to receive a mixed signal. Open to interpretation, he opted for the most self-gratifying explanation. He lowered his voice and leaned towards the woman who took a small step backwards. ‘Maybe you could do a better job.’ He winked and cringed.

‘The line is moving,’ she said.

Rhys turned and followed Rhonda who had moved a few paces forward courtesy of a whole family passing through the checkpoint. There were only two people in front of them now. Rhys had always thought he was charming. Always believed he was cool and impressive in a very masculine way. He’d never really tried out his skill though. Previously successes had been accidental. Even meeting Rhonda had been a case of serendipity. With the fireworks going off all around them, he’d never really had to try to win Rhonda’s heart. It seemed she was a ripe mango swaying on the tree. Open to love with all its mystery and adventure. Rhys was more like an overripe banana. Why was he thinking in fruit metaphors? It sounded ludicrous. It matched his sentiment.

Rhonda was very quiet, no doubt upset by his behaviour. A tiny seed of remorse threatened to bud in his heart. He wasn’t really a mean person. Not intentionally, though he was aware he lacked sensitivity. He was, as he had so amply portrayed on the plane, quite intolerant. He was even intolerant of himself sometimes. This moment felt like one of those times. As people do when they are trying to avoid awkwardness, Rhys brush stroked the silence with inane small talk.

‘That was a relatively quick march.’

‘It didn’t take long at all.’

‘Soon we will be out of the airport and in Bali.’

Rhonda finally turned her head and sighed. ‘Where do you think this airport is?’

A few clever quips sprang to mind, but Rhys held his tongue. His strategy, mixed and haphazard as it was, appeared to be having some impact. The decision now was whether to back off, maintain, or escalate. By following every little impulse, each mischievous prompting, he was not only wearing Rhonda down but also having fun. However, it was important to manage the timing.

They walked from the terminal out on to the concourse and were immediately assailed by a gang of hawkers. Rhonda was ready to talk turkey until Rhys reminded her they had pre booked a shuttle to the hotel. After a brief search they located their driver who was holding a handwritten sign with their names on it. While the driver led them to his vehicle, Rhys looked around, admiring the collection of ladies; both local and foreign. Rhonda ignored him, but he only cared a little bit.

At the Bali Dynasty Resort, Rhonda returned to her bubbly self, gushing about the lavish lobby bursting with greenery as it was, interspersed with gleaming marble and brass. Large wooden blade overhead fans moved the air around just enough to take the edge of the humidity. The peaceful and elegant tropical ambience seeped into Rhys’s bones calming the poltergeist within. He would lay off the bad boyfriend routine for a while, if for no other reason than he didn’t want to blow the holiday to hell too soon.

‘How good is this place!’ he said as they followed the porter to the far end of the foyer and into the elevator. Rhonda rewarded his new found positivity by taking hold of his hand and squeezing it. He kissed her cheek. She grabbed his face and forced her lips onto his. He nearly fainted. The discreet porter stepped from the lift when they door opened and quietly asked them to follow him. Rhys had trouble walking straight. ‘How good is this place!’ he said again.

It was normal for a natural wonder to far exceed the muted beauty displayed in photographs. Hotel rooms were a different story. Rhys braced for the disappointment as the porter opened the door. The first thing which always struck him upon entering a new hotel room was how much smaller they were in reality. The air conditioning had been running for some time; providing a perfectly comfortable interior which was tastefully furnished and not overcrowded. The bed was huge. A king which Rhys knew was two doubles cleverly conjugated. Beyond the bed sat a sofa which housed a pull out bed. Rhys had checked that. In case the bed was too small or if he should decide that he simply would not be able to sleep with Rhonda so close. He gulped, wondering how he was going to avoid nature taking its course. Still recovering from the forceful passion of Rhonda’s elevator kiss, Rhys began to seriously doubt his ability to resist. If he surrendered, all would be lost. He would be stuck.

‘Enjoy your stay,’ said the porter quietly before slipping away to allow the door to close softly on Rhys and Rhonda. The former ambled over to the double-glazed sliding doors which opened on to the balcony exposing a panoramic view of the ocean, the latter flopped on the bed and flipped around like a fish out of water. Rhys tried not to think about tsunamis. This was so stupid. He imagined his mates telling him what a dick he was to be trying to avoid what everyman lived for. They’d crap on about silver platters and looking gift horses in the mouth, and with every attempt to damn him with clichés, he’d find himself weakening. A rushing wall of water was on its way.

‘Let’s go for a swim!’ he said, wanting to get out of the room before wondering how on earth seeing Rhonda in her bikini was going to do anything to cool the fire in his loins. A voice in his head told him to get it over and done with. She wants it. You want it. What are you waiting for? What was he waiting for?

‘Sure’ said Rhonda, springing from the bed to land beside her suitcase which she tipped on its belly and ripped its zipper, opening it. She quickly found her bikini: the royal blue one. Rhys loved that colour on her. Loved it. Before he could say anything, she disappeared into the bathroom mercifully choosing to change out of sight. In his heightened testosterone fueled condition his imagination was more than capable of compensating.

When Rhonda emerged from the bathroom looking like a goddess or a sexy queen or something impossibly tanatalising, Rhys averted his eyes, then turned away.

‘Something wrong baby?’ she said. ‘This is your favourite.’ She was moving closer breathing her words. ‘I could take it off if you don’t like it.’ When her breasts pushed into his back, Rhys felt his knees tremble. He was about to turn and take what she was offering, close to letting her feel how much he wanted her, on the verge of exploding. Her hand slid down from his stomach to hit the target. Rhys leapt out of her embrace.

‘Fuck Rhys!’ she said.

He looked at her face, but did not see what he expected.

‘Why?’ she said, her voice crumbling, tears welling in her eyes. ‘Why?’

Rhys had never felt more guilty or stupid, or whatever the hell crazy mix of foolishness this was. Rhonda’s wounded expression quickly gave way to anger. ‘Fuck you!’ She shoved him in the chest, snatched up her towel and tote bag before storming out of the room. Rhys might have called out to her; to apologize, to beg her to stay, to say anything, but he was too busy collapsing on the floor in exhausted impotence. ‘Fuck Rhys!’

Flight. Fight. Fix. Part 1

Part One: The Flight

by

D.A.Cairns

When the key broke off in the door, Rhys knew it was an omen. The key could have been old and soft like his body, or he could have been unaware of the new power he had found at the gym whilst trying to pretend his body was not old and soft.

A face greeted him, yellowed teeth protruding from within a bushy grey beard. ‘I timed that well,’ said the old man who owned the beard.

‘You did indeed, mate,’ replied Rhys, giving serious thought to the issue of timing. He was ahead of time and would arrive at the airport early. Instead of being sensible and allowing him to pick her up, Rhonda insisted on making her own way. She’d burst into the cool of the terminal like a westerly blast, looking all flustered, desperately searching for him. That was Rhonda’s style and although he criticized her for it, it was almost as endearing as it was frustrating.

The two men smoothly swapped positions in the gateway, and Rhys proceeded to his car without another word or even another thought for the old man who lived in unit one. Rhys lived in number eight, also on the ground floor but on the other side of the expansive foyer which featured an tacky side table adorned with old paperbacks, and a kooky array of plastic vines dangling from the fenced promenades above. To the left of the elevator was the staircase. To the right the laundry. Rhys had moved in three weeks ago and had only in the last few days managed to expel the toxic fume left behind by the cats who previously shared the unit with their human. The eye watering stench should have been enough to deter him from taking on the lease in the first place, but there was something about the unit which spoke to him.

Rhys was halfway inside his white i30 when his phone rang.‘Hi baby.’

‘Are you there yet? At the airport?’

‘Just leaving home now.’

‘Okay. See you there,’ said Rhonda. ‘Love you!’

‘Love you too.’

Based on instinct, Rhys had chosen to live in the former cat parlour; convincing himself everything would be okay if he could survive the detoxification period. As the days passed, thankfully carrying away vestiges of the former occupants, he convinced himself he had made the right decision. Even as he battled the headaches and nausea brought on by necessary visits to the laundry, he remained patient and positive. On the other hand, his relationship with Rhonda was wearing him out. He turned the key in the ignition, fastened his seatbelt then changed the radio station. Community radio with its extremely limited playlist and terrible news and advertising copywriters was also wearing him out. Rhonda was a lot like a community radio station. Something different, somewhat intriguing, occasionally entertaining. He had discovered over time, six months now, that she too had a limited playlist and her scriptwriter should have been fired for lack of originality, excessive use of cliché, and basic grammatical and factual errors.

The trip to Bali was her idea. He’d resisted to the point of rudeness, risking the relationship in a game of brinkmanship, before backing down. Bowing to her will, bending apologetically. Now he was on his way to Bali where every second Australian holidayed at least once, usually multiple times. The Indonesian island of beaches and clubs where the government had introduced a law against fornication in an attempt to deter troublesome antipodean visitors. Where the predominately Muslim local population tolerated the boorish behaviour of Aussie tourists because they depended on their money to feed their children. Rhys had raised the fornication laws during their holiday discussions knowing full well Rhonda would not be deterred. On the surface she had to agree with Rhys that it didn’t matter because they were not going to be having sex. Rhys had knocked Rhonda back numerous times, but not because he didn’t want to. He did. In fact, it was an almost unbearable strain to fight against his natural instinct. The reason he didn’t want to go that far with her was simply a choice he made to protect them both. Introducing sex into a relationship was like stirring up the mud at the bottom of a clear pond. He simply wasn’t sure their relationship had legs, so he didn’t want to complicate it.

Rhonda accepted his rebuffs although he knew they hurt her, but Bali doubtless represented opportunity in her mind. This was how Rhys saw it. She had to agree that the fornication laws were not a hindrance to them, but for sure and certain she was thinking Rhys would finally surrender to her. As this was the first holiday together and they would be sharing a room, there could be no other conclusion to draw. Rhys had not yet considered how to deal with the inevitable seduction, the pressure, the power of sexual desire, but he felt confident he would find a way out.

It was mystery why Rhonda stayed with him. Women being the perceptive and intuitive creatures they are know when things aren’t right. Either she was delusional or she was hopelessly hopeful. Rhys smiled. Same thing right?

Turning off Bagot Rd onto McMillians, Rhys worked on his exit strategy. It was time to end the relationship. If he could, he would encourage her to walk away, to see reason if such a thing were possible. He would need to make himself less attractive in every way. The problem with that idea was he didn’t know what she found appealing about him in the first place. They met by accident at the Intercontinental Hotel in Sydney. She was working there. Something happened which led to some other things happening; the first of which being a dinner date at Red Lantern on Riley, the last of which being Rhonda relocating to Darwin and scoring at job at Manta on the Esplanade. It had been fun for a while.

Rhys parked at the Long Stay plus where he’d snagged a five day park for only $75. From there it was a three minute walk to the terminal. He checked his watch. Just after eight. More than two hours until the night flight direct to Denpasar. Rhys was never late anywhere. His definition of late included on time. The disparity between his punctuality and Rhonda’s complete lack of it was just one of the little cracks which she always managed to laugh off. Rhys was keeping score. He had told her to be at the airport no later than ten thirty. Now, as she stepped through the sliding doors to the cool interior of Darwin International Airport, he imagined how fun it would be to run a book on what time Rhonda would arrive. He amused himself for a few moments, picturing himself laying odds, running around taking bets. An excited crowd gathering just inside the terminal doors holding their breath every time a single woman approached. The wrong woman would then have to deal with the cloud of disappointment at her arrival. She’d push through the crowd, trying to throw off paranoid thoughts, oblivious to the fact the punters had long ago lost interest in her.

After buying an overpriced coffee at Giancarlo, Rhys found a seat, pulled F. Scott Fitzgerald’s The Curious Case of Benjamin Button from his backpack and began to read.

‘Hi baby!’ Her familiar voice was quickly followed by an exuberant kiss.

Startled, Rhys placed the open book on the table, cover up, and stood. Rhonda latched on to him before he was properly balanced and they nearly fell together. Rhonda laughed. Rhys frowned. She kissed him again.

‘Made it on time,’ she said. ‘Are you proud of me?’

Rhys looked at his watch. Eight twenty five. He cursed inwardly, then remembered to return her smile and congratulate her. Their second hug allowed him time to smell her hair. So fresh, and her body so soft against his, so relaxed inside his arms. Blood moved to a certain part of his anatomy in response, forcing him to break the embrace. ‘Brilliant!’ he said a little too loudly. ‘Well done.’

Rhonda kissed him again and he suddenly felt like dropping to the floor with her immediately. Admonishing himself for this weakness, he focused attention elsewhere. ‘Would you like a drink? We have time before we need to check in. Or we could check in now and have a drink upstairs. Up to you,’ said Rhys, unable to stop despite sounding ridiculous to himself.

‘Are you okay?’

‘What?’ Rhys looked at the floor, then at The Curious Case of Benjamin Button. ‘Yep.’ More words bubbling at the back of this throat, splashing on to his tongue. ‘Just nervous about the flight. I’ve never been overseas.’

She laughed as though he had made a joke. ‘The flight to Sydney is longer than this one, silly.’ She playfully slapped his arm. ‘Don’t worry baby. I’ll take care of you.’

In the headlights of Rhonda’s piercing, mirth filled blue grey eyes, Rhys had an epiphany. She was too good for him. Too clever. Thinking he had any control over her was foolishness epitomized. He’d been trying to keep his distance, guarding his heart, avoiding not only sex, but intimacy. Not even sex. Intimacy. He was afraid of her openness, her generosity of spirit, her tolerance, her lack of ambition. He had been wrapped around her finger since the first word. That something in her eyes at the reception desk at the Intercontinental. Surely, he had mistaken her professional friendliness for something more. He lied to himself then, maintain the denial even as he asked her out to dinner, fostering the falsity all the way from the Harbour City to the Top End. He was still doing it. The revelation sparked in that instant when he wanted to make love to her right there and then. Not that he wanted sex. He wanted to be close to her. To let go. To be vulnerable. The fight against his natural impulses had been premised upon a need to clarify the strength of the relationship before making a commitment. However, the evidence supporting this war was as strong as the evidence against Saddam Hussein which led to the Second Gulf War.

‘Baby?’ Rhonda placed her hands on Rhys’s cheeks and searched his eyes. ‘Are you sure you’re okay? You’re acting pretty weird. I thought you were excited about this trip.’

Did she really think that, or was it more self-delusion? Rhys’s heart was racing. He felt like a little child separated from his mother in a massive mall. Eventually, he squeezed out some words which seemed to reassure Rhonda who turned away and walked over to the bar; answering his earlier question. Rhys sat down and concentrated on his breathing. Now what? He was planning to force a break-up. To either push her into dumping him or doing so to her. He couldn’t do that now.

The subsequent two hours passed quickly albeit drenched in awkwardness.

‘Watch it mate.’

‘Sorry.’

It was a classic way to avoid paying for checked baggage; bring a suitcase on board. Bring a bag and a small suitcase. Add a handbag. Use up all the allocated space in the overhead locker and under your seat. Hit everyone in the arms and legs as you shuffle along the aisle.

‘That’s pretty big carry on you’ve got there.’

‘Pull your head in mate.’

‘Maybe I should,’ said Rhys to the man’s back. ‘That way I can avoid having it knocked off by oversized carry on luggage.’

‘Sit down Rhys.’

He hadn’t even realized he was standing. Rhonda’s admonition united with an urgent downward tug of his belt forced him to resume his seat.

‘I hope there’s no one in the window seat,’ said Rhys. ‘Then you can slip over and have it.’

‘You could slip on over with me.’ She traced the length of Rhys’s arm with her fingertips.

Rhys’s throat went dry; instantly parched as though exposed to flames. ‘I prefer the aisle seat you know.’

Rhonda laughed. Rhys turned away. Why did she always have to laugh at his factual statements? Why couldn’t she tell he was not playing her game.’

‘Mate,’ said Rhy to the passengers across the aisle. ‘Could you speak up? I can’t hear you.’

The two men frowned; simultaneously screwing their faces. The one nearest Rhys spoke. ‘What?’

‘I said you are talking too loudly. Be quiet. I’m not interested in your conversation.’

The first man looked at the second who said: ‘that’s not what he said, is it?’ The first man turned back to face Rhys. ‘That’s not what you said, is it?’

‘Flied lice’ said Rhys. ‘Keep your voice down.’ Placing his finger on his lips, he added. ‘Speak quietly please. Flied lice.’

‘What is flied lice?’ said one to the other as they exchanged puzzled looks.

Pleased the joke had gone over their heads, Rhys turned back to Rhonda. ‘The Chinese are so bloody rude. They talk as loud as they want in their own sing song ching chong language.’

Rhonda stared at him. The stare became a glare. Rhys swallowed, then averted his gaze, suddenly finding the back of the seat in front of him highly fascinating. She was a tough nut to crack and for that Rhys admired her. His behaviour was more overflowing frustration rather than deliberate belligerence. It seemed an appropriate time to try out a few things he’d often fantasized about doing. Although he was good at practicing restraint, Rhys was also good at letting go. When he let off steam he was no wimpy kitchen kettle. He recalled a former girlfriend breaking up with him with a torrent of criticism of Rhys’s sarcastic wit. She did not think he was funny, and she’d made sure Rhys knew that before giving him the finger and slapping his face. It was quite a spectacle that bust up.

As Rhys mulled over these matters silently, Rhonda returned to leafing through the inflight magazine. She’d evidently burnt out after bending Rhys’s ear right up to and including the time they took their seats on JK162. Taking advantage of Rhonda’s silence, Rhys considered his strategy. He was definitely viewing this holiday as a last hurrah. The broken key was an omen. Rhys didn’t believe in portentous signs except when it suited him to do so. This was one such time. The key snaps off in the lock, locking him out, preventing his entry without the help of a locksmith. He’d walked away as though it was of little consequence, and for the moment it was. For the next five days it was completely irrelevant. Five days in Bali. One hundred and twenty hours until the end of Rhys and Rhonda.

‘What are you smiling at baby? Finally starting to relax?’She kissed him on the cheek. 

He took her hand in his, raised it to his mouth and landed a butterfly kiss on it. Rhonda snuggled against him, filling his nostrils again with her shampoo and the intoxicating scent of her skin. Again, he became aroused; a feeling which was fortunately interrupted by an announcement from the flight crew manager.

It was a familiar spiel requesting the attention of the passengers for the safety demonstration. Rhys always paid attention and noted very carefully those around him who did not. On this occasion, the two oriental gentlemen to his left were carrying on their conversation in more hushed tones as per Rhys’s directive.

‘Hey!’ he said. ‘The lady requested your attention.’ He pointed to the flight attendant who at that moment was fumbling with the demonstration safety belt. ‘Watch the safety demonstration.’

The men once more exchanged curious glances; one even allowed a smile to bend his thin lips.

‘Dammit,’ said Rhys, noticing an unfastened strap hanging from the side of the seat. ‘Fasten your seatbelt.’

‘Mind you own business,’ said Rhonda.

The flight attendant twitched ever so slightly, ironically embarrassed by the attention. A deep voice came through the back of his seat, piercing his spine with menace. ‘You should listen to her.’

Without turning, Rhys replied, ‘That’s what I told Chairman Mao and Jackie Chan there.’

‘You’re an arsehole mate.’

Rhonda had moved right away from him, pressing herself into the curve of the inner wall of the plane, attempting to create as much distance as possible between them. The flight attendant finished her performance and was busy checking the overhead compartments were secure, seats upright, window shades open and handheld devices switched off. Mao and Chan resumed their conversation until they were interrupted by the flight attendant telling them to fasten their seatbelts. ‘Told you so,’ said Rhys, adding a theatrical clucking sound.

‘Shut up dickhead!’

Although he knew it was extremely childish, Rhys felt excited by the attention; feathers had been ruffled. He was the chief ruffler. He wasn’t afraid of the man behind him. Words were like paper airplanes.

‘Why don’t you have a drink?’ suggested Rhonda. ‘Or maybe a few. Help you chill and stop making such a pest of yourself.’

‘Good idea,’ he said. Rhys pressed the call button, then immediately called out ‘excuse me miss! Excuse me.’

The flight attendant dutifully arrived and leaned closer to speak with him in a sensible tone of voice. As she spoke Rhys enjoyed her perfume. ‘Please wait until we are in the air, and the seatbelt sign has been switched off before placing any orders sir.’

'Probably not the smartest idea to give him anything unless it’s a heavy sedative.’

‘The sound of your voice will have the same effect mate.’

Rhonda sighed heavily while the flight attendant fought against smiling. The guy in the seat behind held his tongue so Rhys congratulated himself. Once the flight attendant had walked away, the seat in front reclined into Rhys’s lap.

‘Hey!’ said Rhys as he shoved his palm against the back of the seat. ‘You can’t recline now. Don’t you listen. Put your seat up. And keep it all the way forward for the duration of the journey.’

Rhonda sighed. Deep voice behind said, ‘Arsehole.’ Mao and Chan babbled on. The reclining seat offender immediately did as requested and not a peep did they utter. Rhys sat calmly, looking forward to that drink and devising ways to annoy everyone all the way to Denpasar.

The Back of the Bus

The Back of the Bus

by

D.A.Cairns

There are sufficient seats at the front of the bus so he doesn’t need  to sit anywhere near the back. A stolen glance as he boards and presses his Darwin bus card against the scanner while greeting the blank faced driver, confirms this. Relieved, he walks through a curtain of fetid air and takes an aisle seat so he can move at least one of his legs. The buses are rarely crowded, in fact on a number of occasions he’s enjoyed their cavernous and frosty interiors in solitude. The bus pulls out into what passes for traffic in Australia’s northern capital, before he’s settled, so he’s forced to grab the handrail and swing his backside down onto the seat.

Stony faced passengers stare out through the windows if they don’t have mobile devices, as he allows the icy air to cool his skin. After a five-minute walk to the bus stop he was sweating already. It’s only seven thirty but the mercury is already poking thirty and the build up humidity draws sweat from the skin as though squeezed from a sponge.

He watches them through the window, meandering through the park in a loose herd formation. The front runner is dressed in a hi-vis shirt and King Gees. Thongs adorn his feet, but he’s carrying a Coles shopping bag in which he probably has a pair of boots. He reaches the bus stop seconds before the bus pulls in, having received its command via a long high pitched beep instigated by a passenger wishing to disembark. The bus stops. Two exit through the back door as hi-vis enters via the front. He shuffles down the aisle without making eye contact with anyone, and makes his way to the back of the bus. The back of the bus is dark and it smells. It’s noisy too and with the arrival of a hi-vis guy, the hubbub ramps up. They appear careless of the presence of others as they chatter loudly in a language he doesn’t understand.

So far, his curiousity has not compelled him beyond speculation. He’s still disappointed that the stereotype he hoped would be destroyed by his actual experience in the Top End, has instead been unambiguously reinforced. Hi-vis guy is a rarity for two reasons: he has a job and he’s sober. Listening to the back of the bus jabber makes him wonder why hi-guy sits with them. The reason strikes him quickly, making him feel stupid. He is one of them. He looks like them and speaks their language although as gainfully employed citizen he is inhabiting a different world. There are many worlds on the bus. Individual planets in which people sit in safety, enjoying their self-imposed isolation. Darwin draws people from all over the world, but no matter which piece of geographical space one occupies it is always different from others. Everyone experiences the world through the lens of their own culture.

The bus stops again, relieving itself of another burden, before proceeding along the Stuart Highway towards Palmerston. He becomes aware of other conversations taking place, but they are not in English either. All of his fellow passengers can speak the local language with varying degrees of proficiency, which makes it an unsecured mode, and besides it is infinitely easier to converse in one’s own tongue. Even though there’s no need for discretion when no one else can understand what you’re saying, most people, mindful of others, speak as quietly as they can. The mob at the back of the bus are boisterous, loudly calling to a couple of their members as they leave the bus at the next stop. Perhaps, it’s the parting shot of an argument now severed by circumstance, or maybe it’s a hearty wish for health and happiness. It’s impossible to tell. They always sound angry. The disembarkees, don’t smile as they gesticulate towards the back of the bus on their way out.

Others takes their place, dressed in the uniform dirty rags of their tribe, and set off nicely by an assortment of bandages and plaster strips. They fight all the time. He’s seen them in the parks, staggering around in an alcoholic fog hurling curses and fists at each other. He studies one of the women and realizes that she might have been beautiful once, before her lip had been split a dozen times, and her nose broken. She’s shrouded in weariness, her dull dark face framed by thick unwashed hair. The back of the bus waits for her: a broken and battered woman bearing ten extra years of life in every crease of her face. They are not a good-looking race. Oversized noses, brows and lips. He quivers with disgust at himself, but this latent racism has been nagging him ever since he arrived. They are more different than any other people and yet this land is theirs. They belong while everyone else, in one sense, does not.

He wishes it was different. That his only conversations with them hadn’t involved humbugging. That making eye contact meant being hit up for money or cigarettes. He wishes he had not seen them sifting through handfuls of cigarette butts looking for a smokeable remnant or staggering around the streets of Darwin in the middle of the day, menacingly intoxicated, or sleeping in the middle of footpaths and on bus shelter benches and in parks, flat out on their backs and oblivious. The awful statistics are on the news every night, as they valiant efforts of community leaders to rescue their people from despair. He would rather not have seen or heard any of this. The rampant racism and typecasting he heard back was easy to refute when distanced from actual experience, and nothing is more powerfully influential than an individual’s own experience.

It was becoming a torment for him to endure this increasingly undeniable awareness of his own prejudice. He wanted desperately to do something about it, to transform himself, instead of merely joining the eye rolling and long suffering majority who with differing degrees of tolerance shared the city with its minority of resident natives. His stop was approaching, and he would soon be at work, fully engaged mentally and unable to give consideration to the troubling thoughts he suffered on every bus ride. He often thought of purchasing a car, but it made him feel sick to think that was his best and only solution to the festering problem of how to live with his Indigenous brothers.

He presses the stop button and shuffles in his seat. When the bus stops, he rises and walks to the front  door. Fifteen minutes have passed but the stench of the back of the bus passengers still hangs heavy in the air and it drapes him as he exits the bus with a nod to the blank faced driver.

As he walks, he thinks of Rosa Parks: a champion of the American civil rights movement in the 1960’s. Her particular brand of protest focused on ending the restrictive and racist law which saw negroes forced to sit at the back of the bus. More than half a century later, black Australians choose the back of the bus. It’s their territory, as they travel around aimlessly, resenting the white invaders who stole their land and their children. The same invaders who pay for their pitiful, violent and alcoholic lifestyles. The irony takes his breath away, makes him feel dizzy and despondent.