Australian Strangers

Strangers 1

Hail to the bus driver, hail to the bus man.

On Route 465, Moonee Ponds to East Keilor, during these times of COVID-19, is one of my daily experiences. Something to do. Now, let's say, the traditional biker's goatee, silver though, cigarette in hand, one of the last few, is how I introduced myself. “Ha, well, we are dying with every breath anyway, might as well make it one you enjoy!” said Jim.

It started from there, talking about families and such, each to their own, whatever god they may pray to, but the consolidated depression we shared was the lack of youth, a shortage of men, even among the elder and older humans. If he heard me say "human" now, he’d slap me and say, “Where? No such interested person.”

Let me just paint you a picture: Jim, that is, left home for the streets after bashing his abusive drunk father, who was a real piece of work. Let's agree on that at least. Whether drafted or enlisted, I never got to ask, but he was shipped to Nam for service. That, he said, was the last time he could remember the Aussie being feared by the "wog," Chinaman, or "brown." Come back, and what do you hear? "You bastard," but no thanks...

That happened the world over, and not to bring sour memories back, ask Jane Fonda, you younger ones—Nam was the mistake Americans call their Afghanistan. Now ask a Russian? The older gentleman allowed me to complain about the billy goat gruff attitude that I felt his fellow Irish-Scottish mixed Spaniard lot had. All showing they own the weight of misfortune if you say something, but once the comment of altruism is apparent, the tumbling down of, "Well, we all drop something, we all, us men, lose sight of our family, try to control an emotion that we’ll state is our home."

If you seem a little confused by what you're reading, then imagine this: men keep locker room conversations between themselves, have eyes that see straight out, up and down, and consider the sponge in between their legs to be a third leg. Now, excuse my ego—themselves, ha, really? Well, when the realization of oneself as the insignificant ant that crawls in the wilderness gathering up for the toil of soil, the anchor to his love, as Jim was aware, we cease to be men and become the vessel of truth, justice, beauty, and love. It’s what I believe you women call, “hmmmmm.”

Hail to the bus driver, hail to the driver of that bus. For he reminded me that no matter how hard you fight for others, enough is not done, so fight harder, harder so the bloody gods will hear in their gardens the rustle of trees and investigate. Putting order to this mess we call home. Putting order to the speck, blue.

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Strangers 2

Meandering the Yarra is like moving through any body of liquid. Depending on its viscosity, one can traverse as gracefully as a floating swan or sink to the bottom like a stone. Most trouble doesn’t actually come from those you’re doing the trouble with. They’re like-minded, in that situation as you find yourself because they are there, but often enough, no one really ever talks their mates into doing the wrong thing—it kind of just happens.

And there I was, Yarra Skate Park. A few of these so-called rambunctious fellows known as youngsters had pulled the tape down and were skating to their hearts' content. I pulled my book out, and watching them watch me read a few words, I sat quietly content that, in these COVID-19 times, not all had been lost.

One of the three skaters approached, “You’re not going to call the cops on us, are you?” he muttered. Taken aback, in my own head ran the thoughts: "You’re kidding me," "What the hell," and "Is this kid that paranoid?"

I quickly nicknamed him "Paranoid" and asked him to come closer. “You serious about the cops, Paranoid?” I asked. His reply:

“Well, we normally skate the other end of the park for the simple reason that when someone does call the cops, we have a chance to get away around the building over there.”

My jaw hit the inevitable floor, my limbs went numb, and I couldn’t see straight anymore. Breathing heavily, I quipped, “Has it happened before?! You mean I can’t even read my book in here?”

“Lockdown means lockdown, ha, geezer!”

“Ok, I’m not calling the cops.”

“Thanks, mate.”

For all intents and purposes, these stories are meant for their own reasons: to inspire, opinionate, even rotate the reader into thinking, as Slim Dusty would sing, "Where has the Australia gone!"

As I’m no longer reading, not even looking up, as it would take a great effort to pull my head up, I recall my words to another young chap I once spoke to, often:

(We left the kids of tomorrow nothing, not a pot to piss in, not a road to burn, nor a field to turn)—and that’s the polite version.

As that thought passes through my head, I smell, and I kid you not, someone in the area burning one down. The three skaters roll over and ask, “Is that you?”

“Me?! In what sense?”

Skater 1: “Well, we thought we smelt a... Lol.”

“It’s ok, I smelt it too.”

Skater 2: “We were hoping it was you, lol.”

“Sorry guys, not me.”

Paranoid: “Well, we are off. See ya.”

“See ya, fellas.”

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Strangers 3

Compared to friends, those who separate, get divorced, well, to put it mildly or straight, sell each other down the river, take the bitter and throw it like a child throws a ball in the park—everywhere. With no direction. Until someone explained to my friend, and we all have these kinds of friends, that the stigma, the general association to this broken period of time, when—and ladies, no man, I said man, will ever want to leave his children, let alone the mother incubator of the kindest pleasure (I jest, of course).

For though ladies may have a Plan B, whatever that is, for the better or to run away, the stigma is: it’s a failed attempt, a burden to get over, or a missed opportunity. And in that one association, a missed opportunity, is where my friend fell to his knees, as if to propose again to his separated lady, and said,

“To this, I have known her as if I know myself, for all those reasons we can and cannot be, it is the reasonable assumption in all life, that the atmosphere of love is divine and always withstanding. These words will never touch her ears, and my actions, yet to be made, will be in the decision of what is best for them, regardless of my outcome or situation.”

Everyone at the party staggered, and as usual, like the drones now in the sky, everyone rose to applaud his words. And those critics, as we all were, for the rest of the night, tried to comfort him, though he would not have a bar of it. We mingled and spread our own versions of what we had heard and what we would do.

The fact remained simpler though, he had suffered a terrible seven-year misfortune, life’s undoubtedly toughest test. He, though seemingly selfish or introverted in his own ways (of which I knew he wasn’t), had fallen to self-medicating to relieve his stress and anxiety. She tried to understand, but his bad temper at times and, well, a deal-breaker is exactly that—a deal, bye-bye.