“Thank you,” I say. “That’s very helpful.”
“Pleasure,” she smiles.
I continue along the ends of the aisles, trying to take as much in as possible. If I loiter, I fear I’ll rouse further suspicion. But then I see something that stops me dead in my tracks.
The sign at the end of the final aisle reads Cancer Treatments. I step into the row and scan the hundreds of different products. Sections of the shelves are labelled. Skin Cancer. Lung Cancer. Prostate Cancer. Bone Cancer. Every type has products assigned to it. I pick up a thin box, not dissimilar from the box a tube of toothpaste might come in. But it’s much lighter. The brand is Cansar and has a quirky and effective logo. Underneath the logo is the word “vaccine”.
I read the back of the box. There’s a diagram of its contents. A syringe. One cancer vaccine contained within. Instructions for use. Plunge needle until entire contents is injected. Will prevent the onset of most skin cancers. Recommended retail price is twelve dollars.
Further up the aisle is a special offer. Two colon cancer vaccines for the price of one. Fifteen units. Bargain. Everywhere I look there are cancer vaccines and not just one manufacturer. There are rival brands. Colourful boxes. More syringes. Pills. Different doses for adults and children. Cures. Fucking cures for cancer.
A young man with black hair combed neatly across his head, and wearing glasses, approaches me. He’s wearing the same white lab coat and his nametag says William.
“Can I help you, sir?” he asks.
“These vaccines,” I say, pointing at the shelf to my right. “Do they prevent cancer?”
“The vaccines?” he asks. “Yes, that’s what they do.”
“What if you already have cancer? Do they cure it?”
“Uh, no, they are only preventative. You would need a prescription medication if you have already developed cancer.”
“What’s the main ingredient?” I ask. “What’s in all of these vaccines?”
“There’s a range of ingredients,” says the man.
“Specifically?” I probe.
“Sir, it really depends on the medication. They vary.”
“But there must be a principal ingredient…? What’s the cure for cancer?”
“It’s a combination,” says the man, politely. He either doesn’t entirely know or he thinks I’m a psycho. “There are some sulphides, some chlorides… and anti-mutagen.”
“Oh,” I say, smiling, no more enlightened. “That’s very interesting. Thank you for your help.” I walk past him and leave the store.
As Brie stated, nearby is a grassy area called Cornwell Park. It’s a little oasis in the commercial bustle of this business district. Taking up a small block and surrounded by crowded footpaths, the park consists of trees, some children’s play equipment, picnic tables and benches, and immaculate green grass and flower beds that radiate innumerable colours. Many people in business attire sit at the tables or in circles on picnic blankets.
I’m very exposed here. It is a good place for a busker, unless you’re not welcome. It’s difficult to sit back somewhere and perform background music. Everyone is in very close proximity. It’s a captive audience. Now that it’s unlikely that I’ll be able to make any actual money, the winds of confidence have left my sails.
Perhaps I should treat this as more of a social experiment? I’ll perform for free and ingratiate myself with this race of people. It’s a noble idea. But I still wish I had a pen and paper so I could create a “cash only” sign.
As I stand on the footpath and decide where to perform, a group of three people leave. They were seated near the trunk of one of the thick, incredibly tall trees. I walk over and sit against the trunk, resting the guitar on my lap. Immediately I feel dozens of pairs of eyes turn and watch me with interest. A lone man with a guitar.
A group of young women is sitting on a red picnic rug to my right. Only a metre and a half away. They’re all looking at me and whispering something, dressed in more casual attire than most of the people here. Jeans, skirts and blouses. Hair in ponytails. All four of them are quite attractive. They share a plate of food on the rug between them. There’s also a bottle of what looks like red wine, which they have poured into each of their bulbous glasses.
I take a deep breath and begin to play ‘Ventura Highway’. I’m intensely nervous so I remind myself that my goal is to earn money for a freshly cooked meal. With that in mind, I focus on the America song.
Not knowing where to look, embarrassment warming my face, I simply watch my left hand forming the chords. The fingernails on my right hand have grown long enough to negate the need for a plectrum. As I sing the song a part of my soul returns to Earth. The melody is a tenuous thread that binds me to that floating rock.
When the song finishes I look up and see that almost every person in earshot is looking at me. I tense in the brief silence, but then someone starts to clap. Then everyone else joins in. The girls with the red wine have put down their glasses and are clapping also.
One of them, a pretty brunette, asks me, “Where’s your pay code?”
“I don’t have one,” I reply.
“So how do we pay you then?” she asks, incredulously.
“I suppose you can’t if you don’t have coins,” I shrug. “I only accept real money.”
The girls look at me with bemused expressions, but I give them a confident smile and continue to perform. I play ‘Classical Gas’, which I haven’t played in a long time. But I find that the music returns to me. On Earth I played it a thousand times. I make a small mistake, but no one realises.
After ‘Classical Gas’ I play ‘Miles Away’ by The Sleepy Jackson, which I hadn’t planned on performing, but the song appears in my consciousness and I realise that I can remember how to play it. The lyrics mention various destinations on Earth, but I decide to just sing them. They could be fictional cities for all these people know.
I then play two Beatles tunes, ‘Norwegian Wood’ and ‘You’ve Got To Hide Your Love Away’. After that I perform a Drones song, ‘Shark Fin Blues’ and then ‘Don’t Panic’ by Coldplay. When I finish singing the latter two older women, perhaps in their sixties, walk past me and smile. They’ve been sitting at a nearby picnic table. One of them stoops and hands me a fistful of coins. Money.
“Thank you,” I say.
She nods with a smile and then continues her departure. I count ten coins. Ten units? I push them into my jeans pocket.
One of the girls from the red wine circle, a blonde lass, asks me, “Do you work for Juice Bomb?”
“No, I just like the shirt,” I say.
“Why don’t you have a payment code?” she asks.
“I’ve never been offered one,” I reply.
“Are you homeless?” asks the brunette girl.
“Sam, don’t be rude to him,” says the blonde girl to her friend, clearly embarrassed.
“Well why wouldn’t he have a payment code?” replies the brunette.
“I apologise,” says the blonde girl to me. “My friend is blunt when she drinks wine.”
“That’s perfectly alright,” I reply. “I am going to get a payment code very soon. But if you don’t have coins that’s fine. You can still listen.”
“Did you write these songs?” asks the brunette.
“Um… yes,” I say. It’s just one lie amongst a wide and varied array of dishonesty. I can’t tell them that these songs are compositions from an alien planet. They’ve not consumed nearly enough alcohol to properly digest that little morsel of information.
“You’re very good,” smiles the brunette.
“Thank you,” I reply.
I play ‘Mother’s Little Helper’ by The Rolling Stones and then I do a nice rendition of ‘The Blower’s Daughter’ by Damien Rice. I now have the attention of everyone in the park. A myriad of eyes and ears on me. I perform ‘I Know It’s Over’ by The Smiths and ‘Sisters of Mercy’ by Leonard Cohen.
There’s a group of business-type people
about twenty metres away who have been listening to me. After I’ve played ‘Comes A Time’ by Neil Young, the five of them stand to leave. But one of them, a young, clean-cut gentleman, walks over and pulls four coins from his pocket and hands them to me. His hair is short and combed. He has a young face and a blue-grey pinstripe business suit.
“I’ve had these coins for months now and not many places accept them any more,” he says.
“Oh, okay,” I reply.
“I see you don’t have a payment code, so you will get more use from them than me.”
“Thank you,” I say.
“There is a good food outlet downtown called Taste Warehouse. It still accepts coinage. Have you been there?” says the man.
“No,” I reply.
“You should try it. Did you write these songs that you’re playing?”
“I did.”
“They’re very, very good.”
“That’s a kind thing to say.”
“Your voice is unusual. Where is your accent from?”
“I’m from nowhere in particular,” I reply.
“I see,” says the man. He then extends his hand. “My name’s Michael.”
“Jack,” I say, reaching up to shake it.
“Jack…? What is your last name?”
“I don’t have one,” I reply. “I’m Jack.”
“Nice angle,” says the man. “Do you perform here a lot?”
“This is my first time here.”
“The reason I ask is that my girlfriend’s father runs a record label. Endurance Records. You would have heard of it?”
“Ah… yes. Sure,” I say, trying very hard to pretend I’ve heard of Endurance Records.
“He’s always keeping his ears open for new musicians. If I ever stumble across someone that impresses me, I let him know.”
“I see,” I reply. Suddenly the lie I’ve told about writing my own music grows heavy in my soul. I wonder how far I can carry it.
“When will you perform here again?” he asks.
“Uh…” I say, my brain ticking over. “I suppose… I might be here tomorrow.”
“Same time?”
“Sure,” I say.
Michael shakes my hand again and walks away.
I take a few deep breaths and gather my thoughts. When I look up, the surrounding visitors of Cornwell Park are waiting for me to perform another song. I play a Whitley song in which I lament that all I could have been is now lost in time.
When the song is finished I decide to cut my losses and depart. As I stand and begin to walk away, everybody around me claps. I bow politely before joining the flow of people on the footpath.
My stomach is announcing its hunger as I walk back past the giant chemist and the spot where I met Evan and Adam. Michael’s recommendation of the food outlet that accepts actual money, clearly one of the last businesses to not relent to this concept of a cashless society, remains a good idea. I see a man sitting alone on a bench. He’s more casually dressed than a lot of the people in this part of town and as a result, I deem him approachable.
“Pardon me,” I say, as he turns to look up at me. “Do you know how I would find Taste Warehouse from here?”
He looks at my guitar then up at me, then back at my guitar. “Taste Warehouse? Is that the underground place?”
“I think so,” I say, completely unsure. “It was recommended to me.”
The man thinks. “It’s under a hotel,” he says, pointing up the street. “If you walk five blocks in that direction you should find it.”
“Thank you,” I say.
“Do you play music?” he asks.
“A little,” I say.
“Do you write your own music?” he asks.
“A little,” I say.
Taste Warehouse is beneath an old, slightly derelict hotel. A small sign on the footpath points through two automatic glass doors. Down a wide set of stairs is an underground food court. It’s a hive of activity. Hundreds of people have filled every available table, laughing and drinking in the dim lighting. The floor, walls and ceiling are wide yellowish tiles. It feels like I’m standing in the assembly hall of an Egyptian pyramid. The roof is quite low. In the corner a DJ stands in a booth, playing music. He mixes music on two small computers as slow-tempo dub beats grind from his speakers.
Around every wall are food outlets. They consist of a small service window and a photographic menu printed on the wall next to them. Each menu has pictures of the dishes on offer, probably appearing far more immaculate than how they will arrive. A single attendant stands at each window’s counter and as I look around the room it appears that customers are indeed handing them actual money.
At the end of the room is a longer window with glass-fronted fridges behind it. A bar tender sells what I assume is bottled alcohol. This is a kind of food court and nightclub hybrid.
So as not to seem too obvious, standing here gawking at the room with an acoustic guitar in hand, I start moving around the room’s perimeter to decide on a meal. The appearance of the food on the picture menus reminds me of dishes from Earth. It has a distinctly Eastern appearance. Somewhere between Indian and Asian cuisine. Many of the meals are served on something called aroz, which looks like a cross between rice and cous cous. It’s a pebbled grain that seems to be on the majority of the plates in the room. Diners shovel it into their mouths.
One of the outlets has fish tanks in its wall with live seafood. The first tank has large crustaceans scurrying back and forth that look like slipper lobsters. They’re segmented and broad across their jagged heads, each with two antennae drifting back and forth. They remind me of the Balmain bugs we used to have back home. Before they died out.
The second tank has a pair of large eel-like fish circling inside it. They’re black with rippling fins along their backs and underbellies and have fat, ugly heads that look like balled fists. When I peer at them, close to the glass, I can see tiny, dark and emotionless eyes. One on each side of their heads. They swim slowly around their aquarium, which is far too small for them, and their long bodies often overlap themselves.
With my nose almost against the glass, one of them seems to notice me. It does one more lap of the enclosure and then stops. It surely can’t see me through the reflective surface of the inside of the tank. But it stares as if it senses my presence. The long, slithering fish slowly opens its mouth and a pink, cylindrical tongue snakes from between its lips. It hesitantly touches the glass and then pulls away.
The person behind the counter, a tall, thin white man with a shaved head, asks me in an accent that sounds almost Russian, “You like anguila?”
“I’ve never tried it,” I reply.
“You like to try?”
“I’m not sure.”
“It choose you,” says the man.
“It… choose me?” I ask. “It… chews me?”
The fish continues to stare, its tongue waving back and forth.
“Can it see me?” I ask.
“Only can buy it if choose you,” says the man, who is clearly not from around here as he hasn’t quite mastered the local dialect.
The fish probably tastes fine, but I’m tentative.
“How much?” I ask.
“Fifteen units,” says the man.
That’s more than I want to spend. “Sorry,” I smile. “I’m a little short.”
I nod politely and continue on my way, examining the menus. Outlets sell dishes that look like spring rolls, meat on skewers, meatballs, small pastry parcels and fried noodles. There are quite a few meat dishes that have something called porcine in them. It looks to be a white meat.
After perusing the menus of a number of outlets I decide on a dish called tereyagi, which is served on a bed or aroz, and appears to be chunks of red meat in an orange sauce. Underneath the bottom right corner of its picture is a number four, which I’m hoping is the price. It is menu item number twenty-three. I step to the counter where a short, smiling, olive-skinned man is standing, and plac
e my order.
“Four,” says the man, holding up four fingers.
I hand over the four coins and he puts them in the small register. He then hands me a paper ticket with a number on it.
“Not long,” he says.
I stand a few metres away and try to maintain my low profile. Some people look at my guitar and then look me up and down as they pass. But most people are too caught up in their frivolity to pay me much attention.
When my dish is ready and my number called, I take my plate and cutlery to a two-seater corner table that is mostly in shadow. I sit the guitar in the spare seat and adjourn to the other. My eating implement is like a spoon, but it’s diamond-shaped with one mildly serrated edge. I lean down and inhale the steam rising up from the meal and it smells good. The chunks of meat taste like firm-fleshed fish and are softer than chicken or pork. Overall, I’m impressed by my first freshly cooked meal on this planet.
I watch the antics of those around me from my darkened corner. Groups of young people drink and laugh. I ponder on what their response might be if they had any idea who I am. My significance.
Once I’ve virtually licked my plate clean, I take my guitar to the public bathroom. I cup a few mouthfuls of water from one of the sinks. I then make a clean getaway.
I return to the offices of the Easton Advocate to sleep. While Roy has brought it to my attention that there are giant, and incredibly venomous, spiders in the building, I haven’t seen any on the upper levels since he exterminated them. I haven’t seen any, period. I have privacy there and there are more books to read. I’ll keep my eyes open and I’ll sleep in a locked room. Roy has probably gone through the building and killed them all anyway. So I take my chances with the giant arachnids.
In the side alleyway I find my swipe card in the brickwork and let myself into the building. I locate a light switch next to the inside of the door and flick it. Old globes appear in the ceiling. Some of them are long dead, but enough bulbs remain to illuminate the wide office. There are about thirty desks. Some still have computers on them.
I take careful steps across the room to the corridor. I listen intently for anything spider-like. I don’t know what I expect to hear. My eyes scan my surroundings, looking under desks and paper bins, waiting for something to stir in the shadows. I see nothing suspicious. No spider webs. No creepy crawlies of any kind.
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