JFK

JFK

A president doesn’t need to be shot or a terrorist to attack for someone to forever remember where they were. I can remember all the places I was when all the big things happened to me.

When this call comes I’m outside a florist’s that’s closing down. I’m watching them put that white stuff on the windows to stop people seeing in.

The phone rings and I can hear a busy road in the background and a strained female voice that says: ‘Hi we’ve got your dog.’ She says it as if a dog is a crappy thing.

‘I don't have a dog,’ I say, wondering if my memory really is getting bad.

‘Well it’s got this phone number on the collar. We tried the other number but there was no response.’

‘What does the dog look like? Oh jeez, yes, black dog? Wags her tail in a circle?’

After I hang up, I’m thinking maybe it’s a good sign that Jackie hasn’t got round to changing my number from the collar. Even if it is not like her to misplace her beloved Frankie-dog.

I ring on the doorbell. Their dinner smells good, and I realise I've not eaten today. The woman from the phone answers the door, her kid there with its napkin tucked into its collar and food on its fingers. I can see Frankie behind them, tail windmilling at me, a bit of grey hair on her muzzle that’s new. Breakups are hard on the pets too.

‘Thanks for this,’ I say, ‘Where did you find her?’

‘You know once we hung up I wondered if maybe she was in that car that crashed earlier, over in Gertrude Street.’

‘Oh jeez. What kind of car was it?’

Me and Frankie are heading along the footpath towards the car and this all feels like hell in my stomach. I'm watching Frankie jaunting along, her tail transmitting info back to planet dog, and I’m reminded of what it’s like to have a K9 as your sidekick. It's completing. Even if Jackie might be, for all I know...

Since we broke up – can’t be two months yet – I've been trying to get myself together. Mainly I’ve been aiming to get the famous ice-cream shop to happen. It was my dream but, like a soccer team, Jackie kind of joined in supporting it when we got together.

I’d be redoing the shop layout for the hundredth time and she’d ask me for the fiftieth: ‘So when you actually signing that lease?’ It became this kind of ritual question of hers. Like a stick and carrot combined.

After we broke up, I found a new vigour for it. Turns out my dreams can only come petulantly true.

I got within a signature of the final draft of the lease when the landlord hiked the price. Fifteen grand more. Just because.

I try Jackie’s phone for the third time. Voicemail. I hear the husky slightly agitated tones of hers I love so much. All the pillow moments I’ve had with that voice. My co-insomniac. I know every shade and mood in her voice. Every syllable of her emotions.

When I see Jackie’s car it's a shocking sight, the light pole seems to be coming up from the bonnet, as if it suddenly sprouted from it. The keys aren't in the car. The back and driver’s door are open. Inside is clear of her possessions, except I see that little black book of hers in the back footwell.

I grab it and lock all the doors. There’s no sign of blood on the steering wheel. No airbag deployed. I look for latex gloves on the ground; any sign of paramedics.

I head for her house, looking for taxis as I walk. Her little black moleskin has a reassuring weight and feel about it. She always mocked me for my ordinary journal books with my terrible handwriting. I can feel the heft and quality of her secrets. I won’t look in it this time. Last time broke us up. I read what she thought about my failing courage to go forward with my dreams. It was hard to stick around when your partner’s lost faith in you too.

Frankie goes bolting off into Milford Park and heads straight for the famous junkie bushes. I go running in after her, calling her, careful of needles and whatever else. She appears out the other side with something in her mouth, her run full of celebration.

She drops her prize near a bin and is sniffing around it. I grab the dog and pick up what she dropped; an old pair of shorts. They’re heavy. I look in the pocket. Then I shut the pocket and check for anybody watching. I look in the pocket again. It’s a fat wad of money, maybe all fifties.

I put the shorts in the bin. And with my hands still hidden inside the bin, I take out the money. I check behind me and there’s one battered soul in an orange t-shirt looking this way, his hands tattooed.

I’m head off, aiming for Jackie’s place, stuffing the money in my pocket and checking behind me again. This park is renowned for its nefariousness. I don’t even cut through it to save time.

The orange t-shirt dude is leaving the park too.

I try Jackie again. Voicemail. I call her mum – no answer. I call her bestie, then her reserve bestie. No answer. Maybe they’re all too upset to come to the phone.

Once I turn the corner into Davis Street, I stuff the money down my undies and start jogging to Jackie’s.

At Jackie’s, I look up at her apartment and there’s no clear sign of her being in or out. Except the windows are closed. She’s obsessed with fresh air, so I guess she’s not home.

I press the buzzer, nervous while I wait. I’ve not seen her since we parted. Our lives untangled as easy as a boat from harbour. One pull on the knot and the whole great hulk of our love just drifted out of dock and sailed away. It’s been hell, and I’ve been angry – putting on weight. My apartment had been there waiting for me though, still tired and in need of upkeep.

I push her buzzer again. I try her phone but it’s still going straight to message.

I head over to Tiamo. It’ll be fingernails down my chalkboard to face the staff there again, but I need somewhere to think and that orange t-shirt dude is hanging about up the street a little.

I sit in our window and don’t recognise any of the wait staff. I order some food and a decaff.

I set the moleskin in the sunlight coming in and seeming near bright enough to break the window. I can see the veins in the book cover, the small river delta lines of the leather. I flick through the pages at a corner and see the little stop motion cartoon of Jackie’s words. Snippets of meaning.

My coffee comes and the orange t-shirt guy takes a seat at an outdoor table, one of his legs hammering out the rhythm of his agitation. He doesn’t look at me, he looks through the distance, up the road.

My food comes but it just steams up at me. I open the journal. Part of me is reading as if she’s already dead.

I only flick through, scared to take in whole sentences. I see a bit about me. A nice bit. I move on to the last written page, the rich smell of the paper wafting up at me.

There is an entry from this morning.

Due at the clinic today but I’m just not sure. Only that I can’t go ahead with this with a man who lies to himself. A child deserves **********.

I can’t read the words at the sentence end.

I shut the book. My leg is banging out a tune louder than the orange guy’s outside. I push away my food. I try her phone. I take Frankie with me to the toilet. I count the money. I feel my anger that she didn’t talk to me. I feel my worry for her, going through that alone.

Twenty grand.

Twenty grand.

But then there’s dates to consider. And is it another type of clinic and not at all what I’m thinking. Or another man?

I put five grand in my back pocket, still telling myself I won’t keep any of it. I’ll hand it in. Meanwhile my body is a hot soup of feelings.

I call the landlord and leave a message.

I exit the toilet. I pay the bill at the counter, card not cash. I’m really not sure it’s my money yet. I feel bad about keeping it. Even if it’s drug money. Even if I tell myself I’ll give away ice-creams to the homeless forever. And even though I left a bold message for the landlord.

‘See you, K and F,’ the familiar cashier says. Our friends called us JFK. Some of the locals did too. We were a thing – Jackie, Frankie and me.

I step out and the orange guy gets up. He has a butter knife from the table. Jackie’s apartment windows are open. Frankie starts barking. I look at the dude and up this close he looks made of waxwork; pale and sweaty. His teeth are like an ad for the wrong choices in life.

‘You take something that wasn’t yours?’ he says.

‘Excuse me?’

‘They lost some money on that patch yesterday. Good job I kept my eyes open.’

‘Please don’t mug me!’ I say, loud enough for the other diners.

‘Give it to me.’ He says it through his bad teeth.

‘I don’t know what you mean but here, take this, it’s all I have!’ I hand him the five grand. ‘That’s all I’ve got!’

He looks at the money like it’s love at first sight.

‘Please man, it’s all I have. Please take it.’ Frankie is barking and barking. People are standing up, their chairs scraping the ground. One customer is making a call on his phone.

The dude takes the money and runs. He looks stupid running down the street with a butter knife. He’s a terrible runner.

Someone offers to call the cops. I tell them I’m just happy to be ok.

I do a block with the money in my jocks. My phone rings.

‘Hey,’ Jackie says. I can hear she’s been crying. ‘I’m sorry to bother you. You got Frankie?’

‘Right here. What’s happened?’

‘Ah jeez, thank goodness. I stacked my car and she bolted. I kept meaning to get her tag changed but, I couldn’t really get excited about it.’

‘It’s just good to hear you’re ok. The dog’s fine. Great actually. I saw your car.’ And my bloody voice is choking up on me. ‘Bad day?’

‘It’s kind of been good, actually,’ she says, ‘apart from my phone keeps dying on me. I was on my way to an appointment when I crashed. I’ve been messy.’

‘Me too. You make it there anyway?’

‘No,’ she says. ‘Frankie saved the day. The boot popped in the accident and she ran off frightened.’

I close my eyes. My phone beeps in my ear. A call coming through.

‘Was she pleased to see you?’ Jackie says.

I’m relishing the sound of her voice. She sounds all opened up and soft. ‘I’m nearby,’ I say. ‘I’ve been really worried. I might greet you Frankie style.’

‘I’m home,’ she says. And I can hear the way that word sounds in her voice. I can also hear her frantically tidying up.

My phone beeps at me again and I glance at the screen.

‘I’m coming,’ I say to her. ‘You need anything? Text if you do, I’ve gotta go, my landlord’s on the other line.’ And I’m not lying. For once I am not lying.