So here’s something from longer ago than I remember. The date on the file is 2012 and it hasn’t been touched since then. It comes, I am sure, from a failed novel/story/project, from back in the days that I thought it possible to ever finish such a thing.
I’m fairly sure it was based around an idea of some guy’s apparently perfect life disintegrating when an old, less fortunate friend steals his identity. I don’t remember much detail.
There would be other bits lying around somewhere. This bit must be very close to the end ….
*
Peering through a thin slit in the curtains. The last sun vanishing behind a distant ocean. Across the street the mob swelling behind the police line as spectators jockey for position waiting for something truly horrific to occur. All the while something of a beachside carnival atmosphere developing between those outside whose lives have not yet turned to shit. Cars, trucks and motorcycles parked across the footpath and even a few caravans settling in for the evening, anticipating an extended siege. Bikinis, hats, sunglasses. Blue flashing lights. Somebody selling coffee. Music playing. People holding up signs. Many with my name on them. Heartfelt messages of ill-informed hatred.
Though I confess to feeling, just for a moment, like a celebrity.
Inside it is quiet. Surreal. Lionel beside me busying himself with cardboard and black felt pen. Building a sign of his own. In large letters the words: HOSTIGISES WILL DIE.
Sadly recognising that there is not time for a spelling lesson.
“Lionel, we don’t have any hostages.”
“They don’t know that.”
A voice through a loudspeaker booming over the din outside.
“In the house. Throw down your weapons. Move to the door. You have five minutes.”
Jesus Fucking Christ. This time it is serious.
Lionel positioning his sign at the window and returning to sit on the lounge. Smiling. Leaning back in the seat. Hands on his head. Madness in his eyes. “Not long now.”
“Fuck, Lionel. What are you talking about? Not long now? Until when? Not long until what?”
“Nirvana, man. Peace. Paradise. Heaven. The home of the martyrs. Seventy-two virgins.” I swear there is real fire in his eyes. His whole body is alight. There’s little other than craziness inside him and it’s out of control, strangling the little boy I once knew. Though, for now, physically at least, Lionel remains very much alive, enthusiastically relaying the message from the devil within. “This is the final journey. Together. We are one. I am you. You are me. We will die as we have lived. With Allah, for Allah, of Allah.”
The loudspeaker again. “Three minutes.”
And I’m the smoothest talker on the planet but there’s no way that I can concoct a viable speech to get us out of this one in three minutes.
“Holy shit, Lionel. Mate. Listen to me. You’re a fat white boy from the suburbs. You went to a Catholic school. And let’s face it. You were never much good with women. Seventy-two virgins? Really? Think about it. I doubt that it’s all it’s cracked up to be. Lionel? Are you in there? You love fish and chips. And beer. You’re a Tigers supporter. Everything’s just a bit fucked up in your head right now, mate. We’re not martyrs. We sell real estate. Let’s just take the rest of the day off and go and get a sandwich somewhere.”
It’s odd how an obsession with food can weave its way into conversation at a time like this. And bring a wry smile to the face of a lunatic.
“A sandwich?” he says, “oh, yeah, sure. Judgement day is upon us and I’ve blown up a hospital, two office buildings and five police stations. I’ve turned seven churches into rubble. I’m a mass murderer of spectacular proportions. I’ve killed men, women and children. Police and politicians. Nurses and nuns. A few cats and dogs. I’m the most hated man on this planet and probably the universe. And everyone thinks I’m you. I am you. And you want a sandwich. Sure. What sort?”
“Two minutes.”
“Ham and salad, mate. White bread. Mayo. Like my mother used to make. Remember? Come on, Lionel. Let me just go and chat to the people outside. I’ll organise lunch. You stay here for a bit. Let me do the talking. I’m good at this stuff. I can explain everything. I can sort it all out. Just with talk.”
He smiles at that, and I realise that he really has become me, and so he knows, in his heart, that nothing has ever been more, and will never be more, than just talk.
Every now and then I read a post, find it interesting or provocative and then formulate thoughts in my head and maybe questions for clarification or further illumination, only to discover, at the very end of it, that ‘comments are closed’.
WTF?
You are posting something presumably to be read by others, so surely you have an interest in their impressions and reactions. What is the point of posting in the first place, otherwise?
Is it a protection against criticism? Is it because you consider your own posts to be sitting on some sort of pedestal way above the plebiscites (a group of admittedly very ordinary people such as myself)? I probably have this all wrong, but it just comes across as arrogance to me.
So, by all means, put me straight. Clear up my misunderstanding, because, as always, my comments remain open.
This is my second attempt in response to Sami’s 50 word challenge which I suddenly realised I mucked up the first time. Somehow I thought it was supposed to be about the points of a compass. It wasn’t. Sorry, Sammi. I should learn to read rules ….
Anyway ….
*
Looking to the heavens
For the holy trinity
No sign of my salvation
In that vicinity
Unsure of the status
Of my own divinity
As I’m staring down the blackness
Out towards infinity
Left the bible reading
Lost my virginity
God, it seems that you and I
Have no affinity
*
Here’s the original effort, which has nothing to do with Sami’s challenge, as it turns out, except that it has 50 words in total ….
Richmond Road 