Life is a Parallel Universe

by Alexa Aella

  Chapter 4.

  At the end of 1989, without warning, as the residents relaxed in that cooling off period between Christmas and New Year’s Day, the earthquake struck 15km south-west of the town of Newcastle. This noble town was left shuddering and crumbling as people in agitation poured out of its shattered heart.

  In 1990 the girls were in year 10. They were almost young women now, perhaps thinking about jobs and soon learning to drive. The future: close as it had ever been.

  In the hallways at school, Lisa and her gang would shimmy and swagger along pushing others aside; looking down their noses at those less fortunate and blooming. Thinking that they were each Madonna in the flesh. The moves of that herd, for anyone watching closely, could be described as ‘Vogueing’. How full of confidence they were, how they thought they had it all: knew it all. Scientists looking on at these scenes, on any particular day, may have muttered something about the Dunning-Kruger effect: that illusionary sense of superiority.

  ‘There's clowns to the left of me, Jokers to the right, here I am, Stuck in the middle with you.’

  A sixteenth birthday was arranged for Lisa at her home. The whole school year was invited, but the unpopular outsiders knew that this did not include them. They would arrange their own darker themed entertainments.

  Mrs and Mrs White spent weeks before the big night, arranging a DJ, hiring caterers and bringing gardeners and cleaners to ensure that the brick veneer was dressed to impress. Lisa, at this time, scoured the shops with her favourite sidekick, an orange haired blonde, who already had a hairdressing apprenticeship lined up, named Abbey. The pair was in search mode for weeks, before they finally discovered the perfect, slutty supermodel dresses, at a shop in the town mall. Teetering on dangerous stilettos they planned to make their debut at the party, drinking elaborate fruit cocktails and pouting seductively toward anything remotely male.

  That sultry Saturday night the Sparkle pool did indeed sparkle. Tables were set up bedecked in glossy white tablecloths and waiters stood to attention with pristine towels draped over arms. The White family stood, titivated and arranged, waiting for guests to arrive. Billy Joel’s ‘We Didn't Start the Fire’ bellowed its message into the suburban air: flavoured with chlorine and BBQ.

  Looking down upon the Whites, you may think at first that a chess game is about to commence; a game with two queens and a king: the pawn in the game elsewhere.

  A growing group of teens had spent hours before the party drinking and carousing in Hudson Park. Already, party dresses were askew and pressed shirts were sweaty and stained with lipstick. But, finally, it was time to trudge and wobble up to Madison Drive: the highest part of the Heights.

  Lisa’s gold cross glittered in the floodlights. She had taken to wearing one recently: after all, Madonna had made the look fashionable and it also allowed Lisa to feel a bit of faux religiosity. Like she was the Madonna herself, glowing, blue dressed and blue-eyed with a fashionable halo. Sometimes, lately, she also quoted Buddha or at other times, something New Age like ‘everything happens for a reason’. She was learning about the power of words, how they could make you feel reborn and new. Or not.

  The night went off like a fire cracker. Alcohol was not evident, but it was everywhere under cover. The music boomed, and vast quantities of ‘gourmet’ sausages were consumed; romances, or at least lust, detonated in corners and the Sparkle pool was alive with girls in Sea Folly bikinis’ and boys in Billabongs’. The White’s party was a success.

  Perhaps you are trying to catch a glimpse of our heroine, Beatrice. We will return to her in due course. But, first, let us catch up with our other protagonist, Sue Brown.

  Sue was a guest at Lisa’s party; she was part of Lisa’s outer group these days, as she sat with Sue in English class. None of Lisa’s actual friends were in her English class and a girl has to sit with someone!

  Under the gazebo, perfumed with Aeroguard, Sue spent much of that magical evening with eyes locked on Scott Smith. She told him of her plans to get a ‘safe’ job in the council; he told her about how his mum dreamed he would become an electrician. And, they were both equally delighted to find that they shared a history of family holidays at the Entrance; albeit in different caravan parks. But still. Sue whispered that her favourite song was by Michael Bolton and her voice became even softer as she said ‘How Am I Supposed to Live Without You’. Eyes aglow, Scott whispered back, soft and sibilant ‘it’s mine too’.

  I can’t tell you what Beatrice was doing on this particular night, as I was not looking in her direction. I, like most of you, was caught up with the razzle-dazzle on Madison Drive. But what I can tell you is that, Beatrice did attend a party a few weeks after this, where she stood around in the shadows and became tongue tied when spoken to. Later, some creep, who had often called her names like ‘you horse’ and ‘you stupid scrag’ tried to grope her while his friends were looking on and so she made her escape and jumped the bus home. A journey, which was both horrifying and disturbing; as the only other passenger on board that swaying, dark eyed, petrol fumed bus, was a Vietnam veteran, who told Beatrice with eyes staring at some personal nightmare, how he slept every night with a gun under his pillow. Next time, keep your eye out for that girl, as she runs like a fawn home from that bus stop in the dark of night.

  That year, her cat simply disappeared, but Beatrice did discover something important, a comrade between the pages: Holden Caulfield. It was when she read Holden’s response to Mr Spencer that she began to view this book as perhaps containing the answers to some of life’s arcana.

  When Spencer said ‘Life is a game, boy. Life is a game that one plays according to the rules.’ Holden, in his stream of consciousness, had responded ‘Game, my ass. Some game. If you get on the side where all the hotshots are, then it’s a game, all right—I’ll admit that. But if you get on the other side, where there aren’t any hotshots, then what’s a game about it? Nothing. No game.’

  This to Beatrice was a revelation of truth.

  Beatrice could also relate to Holden’s gulf of grief, which nobody appears to acknowledge. To her, it is no surprise that Holden is tortured by the fact that Allie, a brother better than himself in so many ways, has died of leukaemia and life just goes on. Who can blame Holden for breaking the ‘goddamn windows’?

  At her new school, Beatrice had managed to blend in to a certain extent. There were a few incidents, but I don’t feel like going into those right now. She had, however, attached herself to a clan of friends by gentle osmosis and so had people to hang about with. On the fringes at least. And she had made a friend in maths class who had somehow managed to coax the dark humour from deep within her often paralysed lips.

  One particular day, though, it looked like this cherished titbit of friendship may also be garrotted. It was a Wednesday and a group of students from Beatrice’s old school had come to play competition netball in the school courts. Later, Beatrice’s maths friend had returned from this game with an odd glitter in her eye and had said ‘a girl called Melanie Ross says that you had to leave their school because everybody hated you’. Beatrice felt like she had been struck by lightning and was about to burst into flames. But, the Maths Friend, seeing the fear in her friend’s eye, changed the subject and never mentioned it again. And, as far as Beatrice knew, she had never spoken about this incident to anyone else either. The outrageous and extraordinary thing, to Beatrice, which caused her head to hum with agitation, was that she had never spoken to Melanie Ross in her life. Ever.

  Then, in 1989, they tore through the Berlin Wall separating East and West Germany.

  “I think that hate is a feeling that can only exist where there is no understanding.”

  ― Tennessee Williams, Sweet Bird of Youth

  Chapter 5.

  Neither Lisa White nor Sue Brown returned to school in the following year. Their schooling was done. Lisa’s mother managed to secure her a job at a travel agent located inside the air conditioned mouth of Garden City, through a friend. S
ue Brown was offered a job with thirty other new starters as a clerk at the council building in the town. Dreams really do come true! Every day she would catch a dusty, swaying bus to her job, in a building which looked like a giant curling rod. Not that such comparisons entered Sue Brown’s mind.

  Our girls…. I mean young ladies, were now at a crossroads. However, you may have the impression as you gaze upon these young Mademoiselles, that their lives will have a predictable pattern and that you can see how it will pan out for each of them. Do not be too hasty. Do not be too precipitate. People are not like mathematical equations. For example: Sonja Antonov, who also started school with our heroines, may have left school at fifteen to work in at Dick Herbert’s fruit Shop, but when her father developed early Alzheimer’s disease, she was motivated and inspired to take on university study and she recast herself as a social worker. By the time she was forty five, Sonja was an academic and teacher who had really made a difference to how people-yes, people -with this dreaded disease are now understood and treated.

  Things can go the other way, of course. What about Brad Murray, who seemed to be good at every damn thing he did. And he was bloody good looking into the bargain –in that alpha-male style –if you fancy the type. He left the Little Smoke of Newcastle for the Big Smoke of Sydney and became a high payed corporate lawyer and lived in an apartment at ‘the toaster’ on Sydney Harbour. Then, when his marriage fell apart at the age of thirty five, he blew most of his money up his nose with cocaine. No one knows what became of him, I am sad to say. But I wonder: what would you do if he sent you a friend request on Facebook today?

  People can change. Whilst we may have no choice about the genes we are given, the families we are born into or the way we are treated; it is still the case, that certain events or happenings can change the trajectory of our lives. A certain book, the study of philosophy or the kindness of strangers, may lift a demonised folk devil from the path of destruction …..Or retribution.

  So, when school went back in 1991, Beatrice drifted along too and started year 11. She didn’t know quite what else to do and her father hadn’t said anything, so, she thought she would just see what happened.

  Not long before, Beatrice had started working on Saturday mornings and Thursday nights at Shipmates at Garden City, but the local high school students refused to buy their chips and gravy anytime that Beatrice was working and so, she was given the sack.

  Overseas war raged in the Gulf.

  Beatrice, also, had to be careful anytime she visited the shopping centre: that great house of twentieth century worship, because hordes of girls were likely to catch sight of her and Beatrice’s social immolation would continue. It was sad really, because Beatrice loved to wander past Loven Oven and gaze at the cream buns, chocolate layer cakes and creamy coconut slice. And she adored looking at all the album covers in Sound World and putting on those giant headphones to escape into some mad musical dimension. But what could she do? Saying something rational like ‘this is my world too’ was likely to earn her even greater derision.

  Feeling worthless and not being able to look others in the eyes weighed Beatrice down like lead. People would become annoyed by her fearful diffidence. And whilst she yearned to be close to others, she was afflicted by the hedgehog's dilemma; feeling a visceral pain in her isolation, but fearful of getting too close to the spines which protect. And spines which damage.

  With plenty of help from her parents, Lisa White bought a sporty Suzuki Sierra soft top that year and she was learning to drive in that moat surrounding our retail citadel: the car park at Garden City.

  While Beatrice was learning about the World Wars and Cold Wars and studying Pride and Prejudice, Lisa was organising cruises to Bali and booking accommodation for white shoe wearers on the Gold Coast. On Friday and Saturday nights though, Lisa and her crew would sashay into the night clubs in town: like the Palais Royale, The Jolly Roger and Fanny's, even though they were all still underage. The gang would then dance and drink gin and tonic until two in the morning.

  Lisa was famous at Fanny’s for ‘going nuts’ when her favourite song by Melissa Tkautz – ‘Read My Lips’ would fill the room. But when ‘Treaty’ by Yothu Yindi came on, she would march briskly outside and smoke a cigarette. Or, if she could get it: some weed.

  Look! You can see her now. See the radiant gleam of her hair as it shimmers in the glow of the street light in that darkened street.

  Often, lots of discarded food could be found around the back of the shopping centre: a generally deserted place hidden from the views of shoppers. Just as the shopping centre would close for the evening; when the lights would begin to flicker and then be extinguished one by one, Beatrice could be seen wading through the cabbagy and sulphury smells, sorting through slimy broken containers and day old bread. Not only did these expeditions provide Beatrice with much needed food, but often, she also found it fun and exciting too; as long as she did not leave her mission too late; when the guards and the dogs had arrived for the night. Then she would run like the wind, the sound of her feet like a drum beat: pounding, pounding, pounding.

  Our friend Sue Brown was now ‘going steady’ with Scott Smith. Both sets of parents had eyed their respective child’s romantic partner and there had been nods of approval all around. Finding a member of your own tribe was very important.

  Scott, could often be found at teatime, eating a chop and three veg with the Brown family at their three bedroom perfectly painted timber house. He always wiped his feet before entering and he never looked behind him as he went inside. He always looked straight in front: certain of his purpose and content with his place in the world.

  Chapter 6.

  In September of that same year, Beatrice was sitting on a flaking wooden bench, at an almost empty Nobbys Beach, on a chilly but bright Saturday afternoon. Gulls were wheeling overhead, like lost papers caught in an updraft; a toy ship could be seen far away at sea. Waiting.

  Beatrice was wrapped in a red and black wool coat that she had found in the second hand shop and ostensibly, reading a book for school called ‘1984’.

  However, a young man of about twenty years of age had been relentlessly traversing the beach for some time; from side to side calling out the name ‘Friedrich’ over and over at the top of his lungs and his voice had been transported and buffeted by the breeze toward Beatrice. She had found herself absorbed with watching his progress, instead of reading about the surveillance by Big Brother.

  Soon, the rosy- brown haired young man, with an open agreeable face, had made his way toward Beatrice and he had asked her in his softly Scottish flavoured voice ‘have you seen a black and white medium sized dog run past?’ But before she could respond, the happy-go-lucky Friedrich himself was upon them wagging his tail like a crazy metronome and laughing his Dalmatian smile. The young man also broke into a smile. And, as if smiles were contagious, Beatrice smiled too.

  The young man, David, sat down on the bench next to Beatrice, as he fondled his dog’s velvet head. ‘He is named after Friedrich Nietzsche, the great German philosopher’ said David earnestly, as Friedrich pranced and leapt about.

  Beatrice, with her head on the side must have looked puzzled, so he explained ‘Friedrich Nietzsche was a controversial and interesting thinker who challenged many basic assumptions.’ And, he added, “he said things like ‘that which does not kill us makes us stronger and whoever fights monsters should see to it that in the process he does not become a monster’”. David’s eyes crinkled as he looked intently into Beatrice’s ’eyes ‘ideas worth thinking about. No?’

  David had been born in Scotland, but he had moved to Australia with his parents when he was ten years old. Now, he was a student at the university in Newcastle, but he felt uncertain and stressed by this choice since the Hawke government had brought back university fees.

  David, also, played guitar and sang in pubs like the Lass O Gowrie and the Great Northern Hotel. Sometimes, just sometimes, he could be found at Uptown Circus, late at n
ight, long after The ‘Hipslingers’ or the ‘The Crying Suns’ had appeased the tumbling crowds. Late at night when moods had switched toward contemplation and reverie.

  It became a habit for David and Beatrice, to meet at the beach whenever they were able. But, as the summer wheeled in, soaking the world in its orange glow and piles of people massed and swarmed smelling of Reef oil and Juicy Fruit gum, Beatrice would catch a bus to Tighes Hill, where David shared a house. Once there, the pair would smooch and gaze into each other’s eyes and David would teach Beatrice, whom he always called ‘Bea’, the guitar, for which she found she had an aptitude. Then, one day, he enticed her to sing and -just like that - suddenly, she found her voice.