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// Filed under: Verbiage on Thursday August 18th 2005, 10:50 pm The first thing I notice is the smell. The smell of the dust of ages - not so much a random collection of ancient, microsopic detritus, no; but a dusty, a musty smell that can only come from a house that has endured a lifetime of cleaning. A house where the dirt is so clean that it has been ground into the wall themselves. He lounges there like an extension of the chair, face wrinkled, but eyes afire as the flicker and glow of the television speckles the room in alternating light and shadow. Sunlight streams through the gaps around the edges of the curtains and picks the motes of dust out of thair. A whistle blows on the television as a goal is scored. His gnarled fingers curl into a fist and thump against the wooden armrest. I look up in surprise. “Bloody stupid Collingwood! Pack of bloody ratbags, the lot of them!” I laugh and nod, and he glowers in frustration as the ads come on. His fingers rap against the armrest for a moment, before he seems to come to a decision. “Dot! Dot, where’s my bloody cup of tea!?” he bawls, with a voice so drenched in cliche I can’t help but smile. Like a scene straight out of the 1950’s, my Nanna bustles in, bearing a tray adorned with tea and biscuits. You can almost see the dimples in the carpet, almost feel the collected weight of this weekly ritual as a thousand repititions breathe a sigh of collective relief that the requisite tea and biscuits have been delivered without incident. He raises the cups to his lips, hands trembling only ever-so-slightly. Only the barest fraction of a second later, a portal to the 1950’s opens up around us and his voice shrieks through it, barrelling and bellowing. “Bloody hell, Dot, it’s stone bloody cold! What the bloody hell do you call this?” She doesn’t even pause in her work, practiced hands deftly exorcising the tiniest amounts of imagined dust from their bookshelf. “Oh, shut up and drink your tea, Percy. The game’s on now, anyway.” The cup is at his lips, but begrudgingly, and even I can see his eyes tightening the barest fraction from the scalding heat of the tea. I know from experience Nanna makes a tea you could strip paint with. He gulps it down anyway, as he has done a thousand times, eyes riveted on the game. For a few minutes, there is nothing but the roar of the crowd, and the shuffle of Nanna’s feet around the room. The the Eagles score a goal, a hard-earned one from the looks of it, if Grandpa’s knuckles are any judge. White and taut, they release their grip on the armrests and he sinks back in the chair. A thousand practiced hands reach down to a thousand plates, grasp the same biscuit and pop it in the same mouth. He smiles a smile of satisfaction I have seen a thousand times before. I sip my lemonade, and taste the tang of the battered metal cup on my lips, marvelling to myself that outside these musty curtains, beyond this delightfully broken record of a living room, it is the real world. // 6 Comments 
// Filed under: Verbiage on Friday August 12th 2005, 4:04 pm The choc milk is on the table before he is, plonked down with a stylish aplomb. He pulls out a chair and collapses into it, reminding me of a controlled freefall more than anything. He meets my eyes and smiles wryly, tearing open his choc milk with a practised hand, and slipping the straw inside. A comfortable silence settles on the table, as we both take in the surroundings. People bustle around us and the air is thick with noise. He mutters something about the price of choc milk these days, but I don’t quite catch it. The light of decision floods into his eyes. He reaches down into his ever-present black bag. Torn and tattered with age, he seems to wear it like a badge of honour. We’ve had this conversation before, I recall. “Surely a badge of honour should be distinctively marked?”, I quip. “You’ve just got a cheap, plain old backpack.” His lips twist into a knowing smile and he doesn’t say anything. We are back in the present, and he is handing me a book. It’s a unit textbook of some description. “It’s my Creative Writing textbook”, he explains as I thumb through it. My eyebrow arches in unspoken query. “I need to do an autobiographical piece,” he says, “and I’m looking for a fresh approach.” He leans back in the chair, and takes a long drag on his choc milk. The blue straw floods with brown liquid and his eyes half-close in pleasure. I realise he’s waiting for an answer. “Well?” I say, confused. “Interview me.” “What? I can’t interview you. I’m you.” He leans forward, eyes bright, fingers intertwined. “That’s what makes it perfect. Who better to take such quality material and refine it to perfection?” “Now that’s certainly true”, I say, finding my grin rising to match his own. “Of course, it won’t be easy,” he remarks, stretching his arms, almost hitting someone as they hurry by. “You’ll have to strike the right balance. I don’t want to come across as arrogant, you know.” I uncap my fine, felt-tip pen, setting it against a fresh page in my sketchbook, noting the approval in his eyes. You can always tell a person by their pens. “That’ll be easy enough,” I say, jotting down some ideas, forever transforming the white mundanity of the paper into something more, something greater. “After all, you’re not arrogant, just… misunderstood.” “Hah! I’ll drink to that,” he says, raising the carton of choc milk in mock salute. I study him, thinking. As long as I’ve known him, he’s always been devoid of brand names, and even in a hypothetical meeting with his own self, he’s no different. Plain, neutral shades. Not messy, but aimed to give an impression of neat apathy. Standards, I think to myself. This is a man of standards. It is then I notice that he has spilled some choc milk on his shirt, and is guiltily trying to cover it up. “Tim, I’m you,” I explain. “You know I don’t care about a little food-stain here and there.” “Oh please,” he says dryly. “We both know I’m my own biggest critic. Now, make with the questioning. I grow bored of your witty, yet insightful observations about my character.” “Have you always been such a bad liar?” I remark, tongue planted firmly in cheek. “But of course, my dear sir. That’s what a lifetime of bluntly telling the truth will do to you.” Oh God, I think to myself. Not the principles. Don’t start on your goddamn principles. But it is too late. He is already talking, and I scramble to keep up, noting with displeasure how my handwriting gets messier when I’m in a hurry. Maybe if I’m lucky, I might be able to get a word in edgewise in an hour or two. // 2 Comments
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