Cactus

“Into this house we’re born

Into this world we’re thrown.”

- The Doors

My prospects twelve months ago were not what they are today. I don’t just mean money. To be paid to write was an ambition twelve months ago. Today my writing provides for me financially as it always has internally. Into this world we’re thrown.

After balancing the register and clocking off I wandered downstairs to do a once over. Apart from myself and Mr. Chong – who’s whistled rendition of For What it’s Worth bounced off the mirrors and kettle bells - no one remained in the building. Only three year old pop songs and the hum of Mr. Chong’s vacuum pack stood in the way of silence.

In the staff room now, I take my bag and overcoat and fill out my timesheet before heading back to reception to use the changing rooms. Hurriedly I shower and dress and make my way back downstairs, pressing the cool cling wrap from a chicken sandwich to the skin beneath my eyes.

“Finished?” Said Mr. Chong, switching off his vacuum pack and taking a white handkerchief from his breast pocket. “Dinner?”

“I’ll eat more when I get home.” I say. Mr. Chong dabs his fore head and stuffs his handkerchief into his pants pocket. “You show me how to change the music.” Says Mr. Chong, removing his vacuum pack and stretching his spine. I become conscious of the pop music and notice the lack of jackets, jumpers and point chisels on the weights rack.

“Where’s Mrs. Chong?” Mr. Chong pressed his palms together and rested his cheek on the top of his right hand. “Sick.” He said.

I took Mr. Chong’s phone from him and headed back towards the staff room. “Buffalo Springfield?” I ask.

“Stones.” Said Mr. Chong. “Please.”

Mr. Chong gives me a double thumbs up when I reappear from the staff room, Start Me Up having returned him to his youth. I can’t help but to smile, to which Mr. Chong claps his hands and begins to dance the twist.

The town centre was deserted and spittle stung the tops of my ears as I moved towards the cab rank.

“Where you going?” asked a driver out his window.

“I’ll give you twenty to take me to S___ Avenue.” He thinks about it for a moment before pressing the unlock button by the steering wheel.

The tarmac road darkens as we hurl through round-a-bouts past lampposts. Neither of us speak as the wind shield wipers begin to move faster.

I get out on S___, pull my coat collar over my head, and sludge to the back entrance of my building, the wet guts of which I climb until I am spat out into a purple corridor flanked by purple doors with brass knobs and brass numbers. Jaw clenched, I pat my hair dry with the sleeve of my coat and pass through the corridor.

The old man in 703 is watching a broadcast detailing Russia’s Olympic ban, the lawyer in 705 is heating something up in the microwave, and the student in 708, judging by the soggy shoe prints in the carpet, is not long in. The din of post-dinner drinks in 712 is also perceptible, though I am unable to make out what is being said. Only Freya’s laugh is decipherable.

Freya and I moved into the building within two weeks of each other. I was smoking a cigarette on my balcony when she pulled up in a cab, head out the window, brunette bangs and RB1971 Square Classics effacing the building.

“No chance.” She called up to me before removing her sunglasses. I couldn’t help but to smile.

It was warm in the corridor and I was beginning to lightly perspire on my forehead.

“Tyler?”

My shoes blocked the light from getting into the apartment through the crack beneath the door, betraying my presence. The door to 712 then swung open, Freya appearing on the other side, wafts of garlic, prawns and butter exuding from the apartment.

“Creep.” She said.

“Outside my control.” Gone were the bangs, in their place a middle part and wavy shoulder length hair. She gave me the impression, though, that her GoGo boots were clean and ready in her wardrobe and that her square Classics were never far from her reach.

“At long last.” Said Freya, Leading me into the living room. “Tyler Mac.” Freya was wearing a navy pencil skirt and a white blouse. I was really quite in love with her.

Freya’s apartment followed the same design as my own. Adjacent to the kitchen is a space for a dining table and beyond that is a carpeted space, often used as a sort of sitting area. At the dining table were Gordon Hewitt, who, at the time, I was not particularly fond of, and Allisson Reed, who has since past away.

“The man of the hour.” Says Allisson, standing to hug me. Brian also raises to shake my hand. I sit next to Allisson and Freya places a bowl of sea food spaghetti and a glass of soda water on the table in front of me. I express my sincere thanks – Freya was a superb cook, her sea food spaghetti her specialty – and began spooning butter sauce onto the muscles and prawns in my bowl.

“Still off the booze?” asked Gordon.

“That’s right.” I confirmed, though it was really none of his business.

“That’s really great.” Gordon validated. “We’re all so proud of you.”

I spooned the last mouthful of butter sauce into my gob and finished my soda water. Outside on the balcony was a small table, on top of which was what appeared from the dining table to be a packet of cigarettes.

“Cigarette?” Said Freya. I was really quite in love with her.

“I might get going.” Said Gordon, rising and removing his jacket from the back of his chair.

“Bye Gordon.” I Said, moving through the living room and the sitting area towards the balcony while Freya and Allisson hugged Gordon goodbye.

It was no longer raining and the scent of petrichor was instantly perceptible as I stepped out onto the balcony. Allisson and Freya followed me out, each taking a seat at the small table as I lit my cigarette, leaned back on the railing, and breathed smoke into my lungs. The excitement in my stomach was finally too much to bear.

“What the hell are you smiling at, Tyler?” Said Alisson. “You look like anabsalute idiot.”

“I received a letter.” I said, barely able to steady my voice. “From R___ House.”

No one said a thing. Freya covered her mouth with her hand. I felt lightheaded and moved in from the railing.

“Tyler.” Said Allisson, rising to hug me. “Tyler.” She said. She began to laugh and so did I. Freya stood up and went inside.

“You fucking did it.” Said Allisson. “You did it.” I watched Freya walk down the hallway toward her room.

“She’s in shock.” Said Allisson. “I just--” she ran her fingers through her hair, massaging her scalp. Freya reappeared in the hallway, holding a black, palm sized notebook.

I had not seen the agreement book in over three years. The two of us had been at S___ Avenue a little over a month when we came up with the idea. We gave ourselves five years. If we weren’t being paid to write in five years we would get “real” jobs, maybe write on the side, put our parents out of their misery. It was all terribly cynical. In fact it was not remotely in line with my beliefs about writing or occupation, which has always been that living, working and writing were all one and the same. But at that time the agreement book was necessary. It gave us permission to fail, therefore it gave us permission to try. We wrote up contracts and signed our names in a little black notebook that Freya had been using for her grocery lists and every day we wrote.

I was certain the book had been thrown out. That is not to say that Freya was unsentimental. Freya’s writing had taken a back seat in her life over the previous twelve months. She started working at an accounting firm which she loved and which paid her handsomely. I don’t mean to say she had given up on her dream. But it would have been hard to hold on to that notebook.

By the time Freya returned to the balcony my excitement had reached my throat and was expanding outwards. She moved towards me and handed me the book before wrapping her arms around me. I began crying on her hair.

“I’m so proud of you.” Said Freya. “I always believed so much in you.” The air was now icy, my ears and nose having gone numb. I wanted to apologise to Freya. Or at least to assure her that I could support the two of us while we both wrote. But I knew I couldn’t. I knew she wouldn’t let me. The two of us would never end up together in a romantic way. As wild as I was about her. As in love with each other as I am certain we were. We were peers. Our relationship was that which provided support and assurance. She married a man called Erik Donnovan, a professional photographer who treats her like a queen. To this day Freya and I read each other’s writing. I visit Erik and Freya every month. They live on the coast with their son, Albert.

“You did it.” She said, allowing a teary smile.

I resigned from the gym and spent four months working on my manuscript day and night, with Freya helping me edit. R___ House paid me an advance of twenty thousand dollars, which I was able to use to support myself, as well as to pay Freya for her efforts, though she was often reluctant to accept.

Two months ago I was at dinner with Morgan McKenzie, a local literary agent I had recently hired. The publishing process was unprecedentedly fast, as I had essentially been compiling the book for just under five years. I was staring down the barrel of four weeks of book readings at various selected universities which had received copies of my book prior to the publishing date.

“This is crucial.” Said Morgan, chewing a sliver of Wagyu fat. My prospects twelve months ago were not what they are today.

After dinner I wandered two blocks over to the gym. Standing outside the tall windows of the gym floor, I watched a man I did not recognise vacuum the carpet isles between the treadmills. No jackets or jumpers occupied the weight rack. No point chisels to be seen. Three year old pop songs blared from the speakers inside, the town centre deserted.

The following week I arrived at my first book reading. I shook people’s hands and reacted modestly to the praise of various strangers before being ushered onto a stage, on top of which stood a table crowned with neat rows of books. Upon smooth, off-white covers in shiny black Times New Roman Font read the word Cactus, below which, in smaller font, by Tyler Mac.

The audience comprised of literature students and professors clad with woollen jumpers and flannelette shirts and after a smile and a wave I sit on the stool by the table and pick up a copy, running my fingers down the cover to feel the embossment of the shiny black font.

The space is silent. Someone in the front row has a runny nose. I begin to read.

“Cousin Joel did not return to the same city he fled. By the time of his homecoming, the hounds had long been annihilated, the murder of Long Legs all but forgotten. The bounty placed on Cousin Joel’s head, however, remained. As did the memory which plagued his sleep.” From my breast pocket I pull out a white handkerchief. Outside on the university lawn a young man is lying down smoking a cigarette. To his right a magpie tries to get close to him. Two streets over, a sculptor’s husband’s whistled rendition of For What it’s Worth bounces off the kettle and microwave as she takes her last breath. Into this world we’re thrown.