Phases

The moon hangs low, a fabulous orange, imposing itself on the city skyline.  A giant peach skewered on the apex of a high-rise, so full and ripe quivering with the effort of not bursting its flesh over the muffled streets of Brisbane.

Christian surveys the evening through his dropping spattered window.  The kitchen of his Paddington apartment resembles the glass; dirty, but not completely atrocious.  Half finished meals, cutlery, wine glasses, along with at least five opened boxes of mint tea (others may be hiding) are strewn across the bench top.  His only friend, Matt sits quietly awaiting Christians’ attention.

The old couple from next door are making tea again.  Endless cups of tea must swish around in their mouths, swallowed and then expelled.  Is it the act of tea making or the tea itself, which brings people closer together?  Is it just the excuse of a beverage, allowing people to forget their meandering lives and focus on each other?

The kettle finishes its cycle; it clicks off along with his reverie.  “Sugar?”

Matt sighs, squinting at Christian’s expectant brows.   “No.  I have sugar in my coffee, not tea.” He purses his lips and convinces himself it is out of habit not indolence.  He’s about 33.  A constant shirker of responsibility, Matt ‘works’ at his mum’s restaurant - a job he’s held since high school along with high hopes for his electronica side project, ‘because it’s not a real band if no one has heard us’. 

Christian shrugs, wondering how he can make this cup the last.  Matt solved the problem of him being alone, but it didn’t alleviate his malcontent.  He looked back at the moon, away from the silence of the kitchen.

Attempting conversation Matt delineates the unfair persecution of mixing spots and stripes in his band outfits, until the phone callously interrupts.

Christian picks up the receiver and Matt’s keys, eyeing the door. “Hello?”

Matt takes his cue.  He picks up his half finished tea, placing the dirty cup on the sink before sliding out the door.  

“Chris, is that you?”  Maria questions from the other end of the line.

“Oh, yeah.  Hi.” He’d slept with her a few times and they both liked the same movies, but he wouldn’t have called Maria a girlfriend. Oh shit.  His promise of dinner and a movie comes flooding back, along with his need to piss.  He can’t be bothered.  “No, I can’t go. I’m sick.”  He can’t be bothered to think of a good excuse either.

“Come on, just take a Panadol.”  She insists in her unique way, combining a plea and a demand.  After his second refusal she gives up.  He should go - last week she effused about; the movie, the director, the cast so he finally agreed to go in exchange for a blow job, which meant twice as much to him because he got silence along with his pleasure.   

His experience has shown only two roles to be played in most relationships; the selfish and the compromising.  As he discovered long ago - human nature rarely allows two independent minds to agree.  Then, all he has to do is figure out at a certain time if he is being selfish or not, accept it and next time a self-centred urge takes him, remember it’s not his turn.  Christian’s memory was sketchy at best.

¤¤¤

Looking to the sky again, Christian sees the incandescence of the moon has evolved to a more golden, less threatening hue.  He deliberates while emptying a bottle of wine, rolling his eyes around the room expectantly.  A distraction is sorely needed.

Contemplating the decision between trashy novel and arthouse cinema, he makes tea.  The windows next door are black, their frames amalgamate with the walls, almost indistinguishable.  The old farts next door are already in bed.  The kettle boils, 11:15pm arrives along with drooping eyelids and the feeling that television allows for less concentration, maybe he won’t fall asleep.  He emigrates to the only seat in his lounge room - a black velour recliner left untouched and preserved in its original form since the 70’s; it was a parting gift from the previous tenants. 

Christian had very little energy for unpacking when he moved in, and after eight months many unsightly moving boxes remain, which now double as cupboards, small tables and bookshelves.  In the gloom and mess of his life it was of no consequence.  There could have been IKEA pine under the dirty towels and three months of TV Guide but his visitors would have been none the wiser.

Sitting down he crosses his legs.  Something white and papery made the trip from the kitchen with him.  Christian pries an old photograph off his Hush Puppie.  The faded faces smile back at him; a woman with amber eyes beams her maternal glow at the camera, she nurses a small baby while a young boy of three plays in the background.  Immersed in the photo, his eyes slowly close of their own accord.

The phone begins its siren song for the second time.  Christian is dragged from a light doze.  In the disorientation of reality, his cold tea is flung about the room, absorbed mostly by various towels and dirty clothes.

 “Hmmm?” 

“Jan?”

“Oh, ya mama.”  Desire and apprehension replace drowsiness.  The conversation is exhaustive; too many questions for his somnolent state.  He replaces the receiver lightly, trying to make as little noise as possible so his thoughts won’t notice him.

In the kitchen Christian’s intent to make tea is never realised.  He reaches the kettle, flicks the switch and a flash of red light blinds him.  An ambulance is hastily parked next door, the back door thrown open.  Two medics are crouched over a stretcher, the screen door flies open as the old man stumbles outside pulling on his wife’s pink dressing gown.  The couple are reunited in the ambulance as it speeds off, siren blaring, lights flashing.

Christian cranes his neck, willing the window to move, offering him a better view.  The kettle clicks off, he takes a step back from the bench and falls into a chair.  His thoughts run the 100-metre sprint, trying to be acknowledged first, but his mother’s voice beats them all.  Reason surfaces amongst the melee, and decision drowns out his worries.

He does a quick scan, the musty flat reveals nothing.  Getting up is slow.  He steers towards the bench and next to the one unopened box of mint tea, his car keys glisten.  He seizes them and wades back through the disarray.  For once he leaves the house with a feeling of certainty and the awareness of making a conscious choice, instead of allowing himself to be hauled along behind fate. 

Donna, his trusty green Honda Accord greets him with the familiarly fetid bouquet of the forgotten, as he climbs into her vinyl saddle.  He’d said to himself every Sunday since he’d bought the car that he would clean it, but as he turns the key he knows it won’t happen. 

The drive is served more by sight than memory, finding Matt’s becomes a game of hide and seek that he’s not in the mood for.  He passes the street twice before realising the light on the corner of Extasis Drive is out.  Easing along, Christian feels as though he is following the light at the end of the tunnel as he trundles down to Number 23.

As he alights from Donna’s saddle it occurs to him that maybe he should have called before arriving so unexpectedly.  But a faint glow from the back of the house assures him that Matt is probably at home, reading Stephen King, which he does only after 11:00pm to ‘get the full effect’. 

He walks up to the blue door, about to ring the doorbell, he hesitates, his finger hovering over the glowing red button.  Knocking instead, he imagines his friend sitting up to listen for the resonant sound again for confirmation.  He knocks again, but this time only once.  Seconds pass, becoming minutes, and then he hears a faintly creaking floorboard and a few cautious footsteps.  All of a sudden Matt flings the door open as if any villain who waited there would be impressed by his bravery and flee from his baggy trackpants and stained Bonds t-shirt. 

“Hey.” 

Matt visibly relaxes at the sound of Christians voice.

“Chris, hey.  I wasn’t sure. . .”

“Yeah – sorry, I should have called.”  He doesn’t mention Stephen King and neither does Matt.  He looks at Christian expectantly wondering if there is anything more to his visit than reducing him to a child who’s afraid of the dark.  Christian ushers him inside, conveying that his is not a story for the patio, and Matt leads him to the kitchen. 

He puts the kettle on, and turns to get the tea bags.  Christian is reminded of his ill-fated cup of tea from earlier in the night.  At this point he decides to tell Matt as much of the truth as he needs to know, he starts slowly.

“I’ve decided to go home.”

Matt nods in assent, “oh.”  He thinks for a moment then looks up at his friend.  “And where exactly is home?”

“Holland,” he says, trying to gauge Matt’s reaction.

He marinates on this new information for a transient minute before coming to a conclusion.  “You don’t have much of an accent,” is all he says.

“I was just a kid when I came here.  And I only went back to Holland when I found out my old man died and I had to take over the family business, a few years ago.  But I needed. . .”  He trails off at this point, trying to continue.

“I came back because of something I thought I’d left behind.”  He pauses, finally realising why he did come back to Australia.  Matt’s curiosity hovers on the edge of Christian’s vision, but he leaves no room for questions.   He wasn’t here for explanations. 

Changing tack he cloaks the favour he asks in a bribe.  “I’m giving you Donna, so now you can get that new amp you wanted.  Be good to her.  All you have to do is clean up my place a bit.  I’ll leave the key on the ledge above the door.”  Christian detaches his car key from the rest of the ring, relinquishing it with a pained expression.

Distaste filters through Matt’s expression, but he remembers all musicians suffer for their art and getting Christian’s apartment to resemble tidy could be a whole album’s worth of pain.  But even these preoccupations and Christian’s peculiar departure could not obscure his new momentum, so unlike his previously dulled friend.

Goodbyes are always hard but Christian feels worse leaving Matt, being pretty sure Stephen King is his only other friend.  After a brief man hug, his first in years Christian turns his back on Matt’s waving hand.  Stealing one fleeting glimpse at Donna, he ignores the urge to look back as he stumbles along until eyes adjust and he can faintly make out the footpath.  He raises his head in search of the moon; it has risen and is almost vertically overhead now, no longer a deep cadmium but small and platinum.  Christian drags his eyes from the sky, wondering if this unfamiliar street will lead him home.