The Condimental Op

by Andrez Bergen

  All, without exception, cited Vegemite as their favorite topping on toast for brekky, and Melbourne Bitter as their favourite beer. Colman couldn’t abide that. While Vegemite admittedly remained the nectar of the gods, he was a Coopers man himself — but guessed that the company logos on their shirtfronts meant these people could never infer otherwise.

  The man threw an empty Coopers plasti-can over into the corner with a resounding clatter, and then opened one of its brothers as he concurrently rolled and lit another gasper.

  Thought he’d pass out with the mind-numbing absurdity of things on the telly, but maybe that was more due to the effects of mixing grass with wine and beer, even if the latter liquid refreshments were synthetic chicanery.

  Did that ancient adage — the one about beer after wine being fine — still apply when the substances themselves were fake?

  It seemed like hours had swung by at a snail’s pace before the match began, and Colman sensed he didn’t need to be The Amazing Criswell to predict what would happen next.

  The World XI, batting first, started disastrously.

  They played like kindergarteners reluctantly inducted into the Under-18s, tossing away their first three wickets for just twenty-two runs before a fourth player retired injured, his foot broken in three places by “a Miles Mander trademark sand-shoe crusher” — as one studio armchair critic described the devilish delivery.

  Colman’s head was beginning to freewheel, but a surprising level of clarity in there surprised him. He puffed out and leaned on the table. The announcers adored this Mander character in every possible which way: “Bowler of the century,” they went on, “Greatest cricketer of all time” and “Best pecs on the field,” along with “Coolest haircut in cricket” — meaningful observations, the lot of them.

  They also asided that his fastest recorded delivery clocked in at 176 km/h.

  Ant had ratted out the fellow to Colman a few weeks before, thankfully over drinks to dull the pain. Seems that in the past year he’d not only split helmets, caused concussion, and broken bones on a regular basis, but two World XI players had been killed by his deliveries, another was in a coma, and a lucky fourth had permanent brain trauma and would never walk again.

  Genetic enhancement had been legalized (under the cuff) in sports a decade ago, and Miles Mander was the natural conclusion to this kind of GM manipulation of the human physique. He swayed in the breeze at well over two metres in height, his shoulders somewhere near that wide.

  It was obvious he deserved his nickname — the ‘Verminator’ — but, given the blocky facial lines and heavy brow, Colman felt that Ivan Drago would be a better handle. You could hang bamboo blinds from the man’s forehead.

  Ant had said that Mander perfected a deviation on the old Bodyline tactic used by the English early in Don Bradman’s career in the 1930s, except Mander didn’t just bowl straight at the batsman’s body — he aimed purposefully at their heads.

  Headline? the man pondered. Nah, that’d cause too many newspaper copywriters headaches. Boom-boom! Colman shook his skull, laid down the spliff and stared at it. Perhaps it would be better, he decided, to stick with the beers.

  And the telly. Ahhh, the telly.

  Most of the World XI batsmen pictured there seemed to be equal parts shell-shocked and terrified, though he doubted this had much to do with homegrown cannabis. Even a cheap, relatively spaced-out amateur punter like him could see that these cricketers wore far too much protection to be able to fluidly move, and put excessive effort into evading Miles Mander’s deliveries instead of trying to hit them.

  Hell, if he were stuck in their place he’d do exactly the same thing, or even better duck and run for cover in a convenient bunker some place.

  So he wondered what kept these fellows going out there to face permanent injury or possible death; what vice-hold grip or sordid means of coercion the Cricketing Authority used to keep them popping up their heads as human cannon fodder.

  A fourth wicket tumbled with the score on thirty-one, and the crowd’s jubilation reached fever-pitch as the ousted batsman began his slow, pathetic walk across the oval to the dressing rooms, dragging his bat as he went.

  What a sad-sack individual.

  Empty bottles and loaded jeers came flying out towards him, making Colman consider if the helmet and body-armour were more intended more for this situation than the playing of the game.

  The commentators were beside themselves and he caught Ant’s name being touted. Sure enough, there was the man and his goatee, emerging from the dressing room.

  Ant patted his despondent teammate on the shoulder, and then walked briskly across the grass, using his bat to swat away a bottle that flew too close. There was a determination about his face that Colman hadn’t seen lately — if ever — and the announcers drew attention to the fact Ant wasn’t carrying a helmet.

  “Ludicrous,” one of them declared; “Complete stupidity on Hope’s part,” spat out another; “What kind of role model for kids does he think he is?” grilled a third.

  Ad nausea. Fucking hell. Whatever.

  Ant lined himself up at the crease then wandered out to the middle of the pitch to chinwag for a few seconds with the other batsman. The Australian players hovered round them like a bunch of ravenous, genetically knocked-together seagulls.

  Then Ant smiled a fraction, returned to his end, and batted up.

  Miles Mander was bowling.

  The crowd chanted, in out-of-kilter manner, his nickname (the Verminator) before resorting to the simpler “Kill, kill, kill — thrill, thrill, thrill.”

  This chant surged to a resounding roar as Mander loped in with the ball and let it fly in an absolute flash. With far more graceful a flourish, Ant hooked the ball over his shoulder and it went flying into the sky and right over the fence — into the crowd.

  The umpire took his time before he lifted his arms into the air to indicate six runs.

  Colman’s friend — yes, he would admit it, he was suddenly willing to impart the honour in this proud, gung-ho moment when he was considerably off his head — well, Colman’s friend stood his ground and stared down the bowler, a man who looked now less in league with Dolph and a lot more like a stunned Lou Ferrigno reflecting on glory days as the Incredible Hulk — not the prettiest sight.

  The bowler’s brow dropped an inch further down and he fumed.

  The crowd was, tip to toe, silent. Even the TV commentators had shut up. This required the services of a celebratory toke. Colman lit up again and chased the smoke with half a can of beer.

  The Hulk returned to the end of his run up, glowered a bit, chewed gum, spat on the ground, rubbed his crotch with the ball, shook his head like a frenzied bull, and then charged in. The crowd rediscovered their collective voice and screamed away in a grubby frenzy of expectation, albeit decibels lower this time round.

  Ant leaned back and easily smacked the ball away through mid-wicket, to the boundary, for another four runs. Quietude prevailed.

  “Oh, you bloody beauty!” Colman tossed another deprived can into the corner, heard the empty plastic thunk as it smacked into its predecessor, and opened a fourth Coopers.

  The third ball ended up being smashed away for four runs through mid-off, earning scattered applause that picked up around the stadium.

  Interesting.

  The next delivery? A great big hit back over the bowler’s head for six, followed by rowdy, more sustained hand clapping and cheers. Twenty runs in about six minutes.

  Drinks were taken, the Australian players gathered in a hyperactive huddle. Officials clad in astoundingly ugly lime-green suits joined them.

  Advertisements took over the screen, so Colman drained the can, practiced his slips-cordon throwing technique, and opened yet another. By this time he was hypothesizing that something was amiss. Some action, completely unscripted, was about to go down.

  Time for the emergency stash.

  He mulched, gathered, rolled, licked, twisted, and sought out the light
er — then sat back to ponder. As much as he’d baited, pissed off, harangued and ridden Ant Hope over the years, there was no one he was more proud of in that drunken and philosophical moment.

  The World XI weren’t intended to play like this. Win occasionally, certainly, but by supposed chance, poor umpiring decisions, and only ever by uninspired minimal margins. Colman figured that was intended to keep people from guessing the obvious ruse at play.

  The Australian team was the star here. Its members were the celebrities, the demigods. They weren’t supposed to be upstaged. Ant had mentioned this on countless occasions. It was part of the contract he’d signed — but was also pretty much apparent to anyone with half a cerebral cortex.

  When the ad break was over — he’d suffered through about a dozen inane commercials for Melbourne Bitter, Vegemite, Hylax plastic projects, PCs, cars, DevWatch, even a new-fangled MCD public announcement — Ant and the other batsman had returned to their creases and a different bowler was on.

  That bowler, a pretty innocuous individual, delivered his six balls — without score — to Ant’s batting partner. This made Ant go crazy. He was yelling at the other batsman after each delivery, but the guy acted nonchalant and simply padded away each ball without trying, like he wanted to stay down his end of the pitch.

  Probably that was the case.

  Because then the over changed and it was again David versus Goliath — or rather, in this case, Ant taking on the rampaging Hulk.

  Miles Mander’s first ball was a wide, so far from Ant’s outstretched bat that the wicket keeper barely got a hand to it, and Colman was surprised the delivery didn’t take off the man’s fingers.

  The next ball reared up at Ant’s unprotected throat.

  Somehow, he got down under it and hooked again, a much bigger shot this time, one that flew right up into the air, toward the overhead stadium lights, and there was an insanely huge explosion as one of the two-metre bulbs was trashed by the ball.

  The crowd erupted then, as one.

  They loved it. Colman loved it. Hell, everyone and his dog would love it. “You funny card thrower,” he muttered, smiling in silly fashion. The communal roar on the telly distorted the sound coming through his crap speaker.

  On-screen, Ant remained poker-faced while receiving a standing ovation. The Australian players again huddled together, talking, yelling, and gesticulating wildly.

  In that moment, to be completely honest, Colman started traveling a wild flight of fantasy, one that mixed together James Caan in Rollerball, Russell Crowe in Gladiator, even Ralph Macchio in The Karate Kid. He skulled the rest of his existing can of amber fluid, lobbed it in indiscriminate fashion, and popped open the last of its ilk. For fuck’s sake, even the dimwit commentators were flighty and carried away.

  The next ball crash-landed further delusions.

  Mander stomped in like a raging rhinoceros on heat to let loose a ball later clocked at 182 km/h. His fastest ever, they said.

  Ant was skilled enough to give himself a chance to swing at it, but he didn’t have time to connect with his bat.

  The ball, instead, connected with his head.

  PART 4:

  RANSACKING THE ARCHIVE

  (i) 1989

  When, in 1989, I returned to Melbourne after some time carousing in London, an unsettled and listless post-punk/faux goth without a heart in either scene, I pottered away over the next three years on an early, somewhat primitive version of the manuscript that would eventually turn into Tobacco-Stained Mountain Goat.

  I was at uni, doing a thesis on industrial music in Britain in the 1970s, and had some minor pretentions to whittle away at. I obsessed over the music of Front 242, Cabaret Voltaire and Ary Barroso, loved directors Terry Gilliam and David Lynch, and pretended to read Umberto Eco and Brion Gysin.

  I still had vague dreams of publication of my fiction but drifted toward film-making and music, and it was precisely at this juncture that my friend’s father, Tomek Sikora — a Polish artistic photographer of some note — asked me on board to write short prose pieces for his more experimental visuals.

  These were subsequently placed together in a limited edition, glossy coffee-table book called Behind the Light, and it won some photography award or other…in spite of the writing. But this was my first publication and funnily enough was the last outlet for my fiction (aside from journalism) until TSMG was published in 2011.

  Though I’m not into the style/content now and find it a wee bit embarrassing, I decided to stick in four of these 23-year-old pieces.

  Seems I also used to like flaunting adjectives and semicolons.

  I did consider removing ‘em and tidying up, but that wouldn’t be exactly fair to the spirit of history. I’ve pulled enough 1984-isms already.

  Mirror, Cracked

  The mirror, cracked,

  Reflects two diverging faces

  Where one once was.

  A partition that reflects the state of my soul — Reflects something split, torn, slit, rendered; The discord, disruption, dissension there.

  Pain where once joy was nurtured;

  Affliction overcoming vitality.

  Love gone, hate gone.

  Just two empty eyes from diverging faces

  That stare back into my empty heart.

  Eyes cold, emotions cold, life cold.

  The mirror, cracked,

  Bears an image of what could have been,

  What would have been,

  But for my own failure.

  One shard of glass, from

  The mirror, cracked,

  And one swift movement.

  That’s all.

  Destroy! Destroy!

  Violence and destruction;

  A lust to destroy, render, crush!

  Equality and reason as a weakness

  To be dispelled;

  Morality cauterized!

  The only right is their right,

  The right of power and dominance

  Over others too feeble to fight.

  They find strength in their own belief

  Of their own superiority;

  Smash all else —

  Pathetic! Pathetic!

  Destroy! Destroy!

  Steadfast love of themselves!

  What a wonderful ego trip,

  Orgasming all over themselves

  And their presupposed superiority!

  Ignorance as wonderful!

  Blind belief as catechism!

  Racism and bigotry their icons!

  …stuff that.

  Bliss

  She tries to ignore him.

  He is so far from her spiritually,

  But he is too ignorant to understand that.

  She tries to invert her thoughts,

  To that comforting inner sanctuary where she can

  Escape his insipid advances:

  Those dreams of escape from the cruel restraints of this place;

  Her dreams of freedom to live something more than this,

  Where others could respect her for herself and —

  His rough hand slides clumsily along her wrist,

  And then to her thigh.

  The pause in her thoughts is brief, and resentful,

  Before returning to her dreams of escaping this appalling existence;

  This town of pointless indifference and stale lives.

  He’s pressing close to her now.

  She can smell his breath of tobacco and alcohol and wheat;

  He’s mumbling drab nothings in her ear

  As his hand creeps towards its predetermined destination.

  He’s just like all the others; wants exactly the same from her, And nothing beyond that.

  She clings to her dreams with furious strength.

  Dreams of eluding the passive fate of her sisters and her

  Mother and her grandmother in this stifling place

  Arriving, working, fucking, marrying and eventually dying In utter apathetic ignorance.

  She hates th
is place and these people.

  Hates it all.

  His calloused fingers pry at her dress and he laughs inanely;

  She pushes herself further into her dreams.

  Dreams of escaping.

  Two Remaining Trees

  Two remaining trees

  Upon a ruptured grey plain, scarred and desolate;

  Dawn mist or smoke and the stench of filth.

  They file past the trees in sombre silence

  Or melancholic oblivion,

  Their grey faces empty and bare;

  Their heads bowed, thoughts absent.

  Barely registering a sniper shot a mile away

  And a distant, short cry.

  They file onwards in their ragged grey line,

  Stepping wearily over rotting carcasses and

  Meandering along familiar water-logged planks

  Past smashed wagons and a fallen airplane

  Across the strangled, infertile earth.

  A languid sun struggles on the horizon,

  Its stagnant presence a mockery of the past;

  Its pale glow outlining the two remaining trees

  Where once a forest and life grew.

  Memories

  There are faces around — his family.

  He can no longer hear her voices, or feel their presence.

  Memories drift past, diminishing one by one;

  But he clutches at a single memory.

  It’s her.

  She smiles that smile.

  She’s there, by the window, and She is just as he remembers her.

  No one else notices her presence, strangely.

  He lies there, watching her yet not seeing her.

  She is waiting for him — he can see it in her warm,

  Welcoming eyes.

  And he is happy.

  Coma Home Now

  He sees a picture of home.

  It shouldn’t be here, so far from home,