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George Anderson |
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Honeymoon The church ceremony is simple, attended by a small agnostic gathering the reception is at our shared flat in Chippendale- total cost including cake about $20 The intended honeymoon is as extravagant a tent site at Burning Palms in the Royal National Park- we catch the train to Heathcote Station with Jim, my best man & then hitchhike to Garrie Beach- it is an easy 30 minute elastic stroll to our honeymoon site We set up our 2 man tent- a glorious September day Jim gladly walking the miles to the campsite- sharing stories from the night before: of urinating from his third floor window of the drunken blather of words which begin with the letter C- cake, crap, cunt… of our uncertain futures We toast some cans of beans on the beach & fill our sandwiches- later swimming & splashing one another/ laughing working off the emerging hangover of our lives- the sun suddenly slanting westwards, enmeshed in the trees- & then Jim has to go; piss off- trudging up the hill we wave him goodbye. The sun sets & we cuddle outside our tent gazing at the stars as they emerge in the east- soon- we hear a familiar whistle & Jim emerges from the woods- 'I couldn't cop a lift', he reckons He sleeps outside the tent we hear him shivering on the ground in his singlet momentarily snoring then awakening again- we finally welcome him inside beneath our sleeping bag; he apologizes, awkwardly taking comfort shifting his body until at ease Within the dark I comb her thick frizzy hair with my hand stroke on stroke imagining its growth its being/ till long past midnight- I hear Jim's gentle breaths- the moonlight surging I groan under her thumping body pulling her shoulders downwards & inwards… I close my eyes & all I see coming the waves breaking is- fields of mist fields of mist Ten O'Clock We used to call him 10 O'clock because he was usually drunk by 10 or seen drinking or driving in that position there were innumerable ugly incidents, confrontations too many to recount here- of illustrious drunks of fights of uncontained youthful exuberance of serious police involvement. Thirty years after the event I can still clearly remember visiting Ten hassling him if he wanted to go to Sanair to watch the 750 cc motorbike races- we entered his room on Old Orchard Avenue that Saturday near noon curtains down peeling away his pillow from his head, a crust of vomit flaked on his face. Hey Ten wanna come? He leaned sideways dry retching & then laughing cackling knowingly, Sure We camped on the racetrack's grounds for the weekend toking on some weed staring blankly at the strange faces of the evolving hot coals of a fence post or two we had found- glancing up- too late to stop, we blurringly saw Ten straddling, wobbling his orange 4-stroke Kawasaki cracking it into the distance with Phil on the back presumably for more beer somewhere down the road, long past closing time. He never returned- that night we surmised for a while in a drunken philosophical banter that they were dead that it was an inevitable & perhaps a just conclusion to Ten's frantic self indulgent life. In the morning we heard from inside our tents the distinctive sound of Ten's cracker approaching- cackling in his characteristic laugh, totally apologetic. He blurtingly explained how he couldn't remember much from last night how he woke in a ditch beside Phil his bike strewn fifty feet or so from them. I ran into Ten on my last trip to Montreal we embraced & walked in the sub zero temperatures to the city lookout with my younger son Rory. He has abandoned his vices no more dope or speed or LSD or booze he wore proudly a 10 year abstinence badge from AA on his parka- he even has his own diary web page daily published in the Gazette on how he gave up smoking & spoke how he was a regular participant in senior triathlons. From the edge of the lookout there seemed something missing in Ten, in us now that he has gotten his act together- that sense of urgency of taking chances of exploring the blurred boundaries, I suppose it is still there in spurts- but for the first time for him & us there existed a sense of predictability of a rehearsing between us, of replaying real past or possible events cautiously as if the best years of our lives has been spent- possibly wasted As we headed back to Beaver Lake through the skeleton wind it was as if our formerly known selves have been irreparably shed. |