myself.
Think nothingness.
But even nothingness was something. It was a thought. It was a thought, and gutters were still full of the loosened stuffed gutsity.
I didn’t feel like I could cope with this, but I walked on regardless, trying to dig up a new idea that would make things better again.
Can’t worry yourself like this,
I advised myself a bit later, when I reached Central Station. I hung around in the newsagent’s for a while, looking at
Rolling Stone
andall that kind of thing. It was a waste of time, of course, but I did it anyway. If I’d had the money on me I would have got a train to the quay, just to set my eyes on the bridge and the water and the boats there. Maybe there would be a mime there or some other poor sap I couldn’t give money to anyway because I had none on me. But then, if I had the money for the train, maybe I would have it too for a humble busker. Maybe I could even have taken a ferry ride over the harbor. Maybe. Maybe …
The word
maybe
was beginning to annoy me, because the only thing that was fixed was that
maybe
would be with me forever.
Maybe the girl had something inside her for me.
Maybe Sarah and Bruce would be okay.
Maybe Steve would get back to work and on the paddock as quickly as he wanted. Maybe one day he wouldn’t look down at me.
Maybe my old man would be proud of me one day, maybe when we finished off the Conlon job.
Maybe my mother wouldn’t have to stand over the stove at night, cooking mushrooms and sausages after working all day.
Maybe
I
could cook.
Maybe Rube would tell me what was going on in his head one night. Or maybe he would grow a beard down to his feet and become some kind of wise man.
Maybe I would end up with a couple of good mates at some point.
Maybe this would all go away tomorrow.
Maybe not.
Maybe I oughta just walk down to Circular Quay,
I thought, but decided against it, because one thing that wasn’t a maybe was that Mum and Dad would fold me if I came in late.
After fifty times of hearing that guy over the loudspeaker saying, “The train on Platform Seventeen goes to MacArthur” or wherever it was going, I walked home, seeing all my doubt from the other side. Have you ever seen that? Like when you go on holiday. On the way back, everything is the same but it looks a little different than it did on the way. It’s because you’re seeing it backward.
That’s how it felt, and when I made it home, I shut our half-broken, half-hearted small front gate and went in and sat on the couch. Next to that stinking pillow. Across from Steve.
After half an hour of a
Get Smart
repeat and part of the news, Rube entered the room. He sat down, looked at his watch, and said, “Bloody hell, Mum sure is draggin’ the chain with dinner.”
I looked at him.
Maybe I knew him.
Maybe I didn’t.
I knew Steve because he was less complicated. Winners always are. They know exactly what they want and how they’re going to get it.
“Just as long as it isn’t the usual,” I talked over to Rube.
“The what?”
“The usual dinner.”
“Oh yeah.” He paused. “That’s all she cooks, though, isn’t it?”
I have to admit right now that all the dinner complaining really shames me now, especially with the way people on the city streets are begging for food. The fact is, the complaining happened.
Still, though, I was over the moon when I found out we weren’t having mushrooms that Sunday night.
Maybe things were finally looking up.
Then again, maybe not.
I’m running.
Chasing something that doesn’t seem to exist, and time and time again I tell myself that I’m chasing nothing. I tell myself to stop, but I never do.
The city is thrashed around me by broad daylight, but there is no one on the streets. There is no one in the buildings, flats, or houses. There is no one in anything. The trains and buses drive themselves. They know what to do. They breathe out but never seem to breathe in. It’s just a steady outpour of non-emotion, and I am
Think nothingness.
But even nothingness was something. It was a thought. It was a thought, and gutters were still full of the loosened stuffed gutsity.
I didn’t feel like I could cope with this, but I walked on regardless, trying to dig up a new idea that would make things better again.
Can’t worry yourself like this,
I advised myself a bit later, when I reached Central Station. I hung around in the newsagent’s for a while, looking at
Rolling Stone
andall that kind of thing. It was a waste of time, of course, but I did it anyway. If I’d had the money on me I would have got a train to the quay, just to set my eyes on the bridge and the water and the boats there. Maybe there would be a mime there or some other poor sap I couldn’t give money to anyway because I had none on me. But then, if I had the money for the train, maybe I would have it too for a humble busker. Maybe I could even have taken a ferry ride over the harbor. Maybe. Maybe …
The word
maybe
was beginning to annoy me, because the only thing that was fixed was that
maybe
would be with me forever.
Maybe the girl had something inside her for me.
Maybe Sarah and Bruce would be okay.
Maybe Steve would get back to work and on the paddock as quickly as he wanted. Maybe one day he wouldn’t look down at me.
Maybe my old man would be proud of me one day, maybe when we finished off the Conlon job.
Maybe my mother wouldn’t have to stand over the stove at night, cooking mushrooms and sausages after working all day.
Maybe
I
could cook.
Maybe Rube would tell me what was going on in his head one night. Or maybe he would grow a beard down to his feet and become some kind of wise man.
Maybe I would end up with a couple of good mates at some point.
Maybe this would all go away tomorrow.
Maybe not.
Maybe I oughta just walk down to Circular Quay,
I thought, but decided against it, because one thing that wasn’t a maybe was that Mum and Dad would fold me if I came in late.
After fifty times of hearing that guy over the loudspeaker saying, “The train on Platform Seventeen goes to MacArthur” or wherever it was going, I walked home, seeing all my doubt from the other side. Have you ever seen that? Like when you go on holiday. On the way back, everything is the same but it looks a little different than it did on the way. It’s because you’re seeing it backward.
That’s how it felt, and when I made it home, I shut our half-broken, half-hearted small front gate and went in and sat on the couch. Next to that stinking pillow. Across from Steve.
After half an hour of a
Get Smart
repeat and part of the news, Rube entered the room. He sat down, looked at his watch, and said, “Bloody hell, Mum sure is draggin’ the chain with dinner.”
I looked at him.
Maybe I knew him.
Maybe I didn’t.
I knew Steve because he was less complicated. Winners always are. They know exactly what they want and how they’re going to get it.
“Just as long as it isn’t the usual,” I talked over to Rube.
“The what?”
“The usual dinner.”
“Oh yeah.” He paused. “That’s all she cooks, though, isn’t it?”
I have to admit right now that all the dinner complaining really shames me now, especially with the way people on the city streets are begging for food. The fact is, the complaining happened.
Still, though, I was over the moon when I found out we weren’t having mushrooms that Sunday night.
Maybe things were finally looking up.
Then again, maybe not.
I’m running.
Chasing something that doesn’t seem to exist, and time and time again I tell myself that I’m chasing nothing. I tell myself to stop, but I never do.
The city is thrashed around me by broad daylight, but there is no one on the streets. There is no one in the buildings, flats, or houses. There is no one in anything. The trains and buses drive themselves. They know what to do. They breathe out but never seem to breathe in. It’s just a steady outpour of non-emotion, and I am
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