Wright Left

by Peter Marks

  Striding through the terminal, Wright sauntered to the Check In and donated his bags to the prim woman behind the counter before making for the Club Lounge.

  The place was packed tie to tie with dour men in identical suits. It was like some giant convention of the mindlessly conservative. Nathan wondered if their wives dressed them or if it was costume by uniform. Wright, dressed in jeans, jumper and college jacket emblazoned with a large “A” front left, felt rather conspicuous.

  ________________

  This jacket had become a constant companion recently and those who bothered to ask Nathan what the “A” stood for usually received this reply: ‘Peace, justice and the American way.’

  Invariably, Nathan received this reply to his reply: “Arsehole more likely”.

  ________________

  Settled comfortably in a window seat, Business Class, No Smoking, the flight from Tullamarine lasted just over an hour (or three drinks, one tray of plastic fare, five packets of peanuts - Eastern Stomach Time). Nathan was seated in a No Smoking area because he had no choice. The entire plane was one airborne smoke free zone. If you want to fly in Australia, and you want to smoke, then you’d better grow wings or try cocaine ‘cos the airlines aren’t about to allow you share their seats with your nasty habit. You can’t smoke. Not up front, not down the back, nowhere. Its banned. Rules, regulations. The bloody government playing Big Brother. Continuously.

  Nathan had an all consuming contempt for any-one who told him what he could or couldn’t do and these days, with politicians and public servants growing ever more powerful and contemptuous of anything left of right, you couldn’t pick your bum without signing forms, in triplicate, granting you a license to do so. (A Miner’s License, so you could burden your bum with a pick finger in this particular instance).

  This all consuming contempt was now a no fuming law. Wright wanted to smoke. They wouldn’t allow it.

  What he really wanted to do with them was to set fire to these law makers who interrupted his suicide. Wished to torch those parental politicians who believed in rules not rights. Watch them do what he wasn’t allowed to. Smoke. See them burn then slap their self righteous ashes in a pot in a goal for the criminally deceased for immolating in public without permit.

  He figured this would be the only thing they’d ever actually urn.

  ________________

  Nathan’s political theories were as colourful as the rest of his peculiar palate. His respect for all things political was about the equal of South African Blacks were for their Berlin Bunker Boer fuehrers. Felt most anywhere were persons of minor talent and major personality defects. Hubris infested, strutting peacocks with a grasp on reality about as secure as a dieting anorexic. He thought the local tribe, distant from life, securely cosseted thousands of miles from their constituents in Australia’s custom built democratic Disneyland, Canberra, were no better, no worse than their cohorts elsewhere. It was just that they affected his life while governments elsewhere didn’t. So he hated his own more vehemently than any overseas incarnation.

  Locally Democracy was as dead as the Sphinx building Pharaohs but Wright seemed to be the only one to notice the passing.

  ‘If it’s so bad here why don’t you go live in Russia, or Poland, or even better, Heaven.’

  ‘Go to hell,’ he’d stammer, ‘just because there are worse systems than the rusted relic you lot call democracy doesn’t excuse or justify the system. It’s my bloody country and I’ve got as much right to pick its bones as anybody,’ he’d state thinking there was no point in arguing with any-one not smart enough to see the sad truth. Those not like him. Not Wright wing.

  ‘Jesus Nathan, what do you want, Hitler’s return? Storm-troopers beating down your door, men in black leather coats watching your every move, police and propaganda, Gulag’s and death camps, people shipped off to Tasmania for daring to argue with the Politburo you claim exists in Canberra?’ Kelly would say, quite happy with her lot.

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous. The concept of democracy is fine. It’s the politicians who fuck it up.’

  ‘Politicians are people like you and I...’ she’d start to say. Wright would gag and make the sign of the cross then wail anew.

  ‘They aren’t like me baby. And I sure as hell don’t like them. Nathan Wright has not the slightest deviant steak in common with that species of mind atrophied lurk merchants.’

  ‘You’re mad.’

  ‘Damn right I’m angry.’

  ‘Just what is it you want?’

  ‘A hung parliament,’ Nathan advised, dragging his tie above his head to indicate the general idea.

  ________________

  Nathan, pen in hand, began scribbling in the notebook open on his lap.

  “.... Sydney’s a place you go to see water, a meccano bridge, some scenery and the Americanisation of Australia.

  Melbourne born, I have an unsavoury, baseless contempt for any-one from any-where over any border within the boundaries of this vast continent. It’s like that everywhere for Australians are loyal creatures. Loyal to home town and original State (and some say we Australians are just that. In our original state, i.e. Neanderthal).

  This wide brown land may be one country but interstate rivalry is about as friendly as Serb wedding. When the groom is a Croat. We Victorians feel superior, those from New South Wales are patronising bastards, Tasmanians marry their relatives, South Australians never wake up long enough to do anything, Western Australians have banks for brains, Northern Territorians are simply dismissed (shit, it’s not even worthy of a State title). And Queenslanders have an inferiority complex the size of their state, so are constantly telling every-one how superior THEY are.

  All this self delusion results in hours of argument:

  SCENE 1.

  INT. QUEENSLAND RESORT HOTEL. NIGHT.

  Darrell is about 40. He’s a short man, balding, with a pronounced beer gut, loud shirt, huge gold chain with tusk pendant. Red face from too much sun he is leaning on the bar of a place decorated in tack Hawaiian with lays, streamers and posters of the Banzai Pipeline. The barmaid, a pretty girl, about twenty, suddenly appears from under the counter.

  DARRELL: Shit love, don’t do that. Hell, I thought you was the wife come for her alimony. Woman’s six foot under with earthworms for eyes but I wouldn’t put it past the damned soul to come a huntin’ for me.

  BARMAID: Do I look like her? What do you want?

  DARRELL: Nah. If you looked like her you’d be takin’ your folks to court an’ suing ‘em for malicious damage. Gimme a beer will ya.

  He looks over shoulder. We see that the place is almost deserted apart from the odd, very odd couple. Satisfied with his summary he turns head back. There’s a cat drinking from his glass and he swiftly sweeps it from counter to carpet.

  BARMAID: What did you do that for? Skram was just having a sip.

  DARRELL: Cos the wife loved cats so I hate ‘em. Anyway its unhygienic.

  Darrell accidentally drops coin he’d been playing with in a beer the barmaid had put on the bar for another customer. A hippy. Long hair, beads, the lot. Darrell shoves fingers into glass to retrieve the coin.

  HIPPY: Hey man, that’s my beer.

  DARRELL: And its my money hippy. I thought you lot were into organic food anyway. I’m organic ain’t I.

  HIPPY: (Under his breath)

  You’re an organ okay. Dickhead.

  DARRELL: WHAT!

  HIPPY: Nothin’ man.

  Two girls, one with wet hair, the other immaculately coiffured wearing garish tee shirts sidle up to the bar.

  GIRL 1: A Foster’s please.

  DARRELL: Oh Christ, save us! We’ve been invaded. You girls have gotta be Victorians, no-one with any breedin’ would touch that camel’s piss.

  The girls turn to Darrell. The Hippy, who had turned to walk from the bar, turns back. The Barmaid gets the cans, shakes them slightly then pulls the top. Spraying Darrell. Darrell
falls off the stool.

  GIRL 2: You alright mister?

  DARRELL: Sure love. Just as wet as last night’s dream.

  BARMAID: I’m really sorry Sir.

  GIRL 1: Serves you right. Calling us Victorians. The nerve of some people.

  GIRL 2: Yeah! We’re from Bathurst. Bathurst NEW SOUTH WALES!

  GIRL 1: Where did you escape from ? Deliverance ?

  DARRELL: As a matter a fact, I’m from God’s own. I’m Brisbane, born and...

  BARMAID: Inbred

  Every-one laughs except Darrell who continues undaunted.

  DARRELL: Sunny Queensland, perfect one day...

  GIRL 1: Full of morons the next. It’s surprising the way you behave that you’re not a bloody Victorian.

  HIPPY GIRL: Hey babe, cool it. Before I found the Great Baba, and discovered true spiritual enlightenment, I lived in Melbourne.

  DARRELL: No-one lives in Melbourne. The dead drive trams in Melbourne and the rest are at rest. Or would be if I could get my hands on a B-52 and a few nuclear warheads.

  HIPPY: It’s fortunate for you that Madeline has found peace and serenity with the Baba. Otherwise she’d have your head for shoes, she used to teach karate you know.

  DARRELL: Oh shit, I’m terrified. Save me from the hippy! Save me from the hippy!

  Darrell jumps into the arms of Girl 2. Girl 2 drops him on the floor. Barmaid turns to Girl 2.

  BARMAID: It’s illegal to litter.

  GIRL 2: Sorry.

  Girl 1 pulls a lighter from her pocket and holds it over Darrell. Darrell picks himself off the floor. Smartly.

  DARRELL: I ain’t a candle love.

  GIRL 1: You ain’t even aflame mate. YET!

  Girl 1 chases Darrell about the room until bored with such a trivial pursuit, sits again and turns to hippy.

  GIRL 1: Are you from Queensland?

  HIPPY: Nah. I was a cop in Adelaide before I came up here.

  Every-one gathered in this tight circle groans as if the hippy had just confessed to being a serial killer. Darrell creeps back to the bar stool.

  DARRELL: A cop? In Adelaide ? What a laugh. What are you now, Peace OR Police. No wonder you came up here, South Australians don’t need cops ...they need resuscitation. I’ve never met one that didn’t seem to be sleep walking their way through life.

  HIPPY GIRL: Well it’s a shame you don’t follow our example.

  Darrell shoves his head on the nearest chest and starts snoring.

  GIRL 1: Get your head out you pervert! Go find a plastic bag and shove it in there instead.

  DARRELL: Go shove your tits in a plastic bag and I’ll consider it.

  GIRL 1: Consider this while you’re at it.

  Girl 1 immediately plants her left foot firmly between Darrell’s legs.

  ....oh yeah, I almost forgot (and how I wish I could) those from the Australian Capital Territories. Well they’re mainly public servants and politicians so not worth the paper this is written on.

  ________________

  ‘You’re a writer are you?’

  ‘No, I’m a space cadet.’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘Being in love means never having to say you’re sorry.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘The power of a current of one ampere flowing across a potential difference of one volt.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Exactly. A watt.’

  ‘I’m sorry young man, but I haven’t understood a word you’ve said. I’m American..’

  ‘I’m Leonard J. Cutfish, how do you do.’ Leonard leant over to shake the limp hand of an unsuspecting tourist. The woman was wearing a red coat which was buttoned to her neck even though the plane itself was now glove warm.

  ‘How do you do Leonard. I’m Rebecca. Are you going to Sydney on business or pleasure?’ She asked as Leonard J. Cutfish ordered another whisky from an airhostess who was older than her mother. Who was older than time.

  ‘Business,’ Cutfish confided, ‘family business. My girlfriend’s best friend is with child so she’s being married off to give the embryonic bastard a house in the suburbs and a father it can recognise. ‘

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘O exactly. Her mother still claims the girl’s a virgin. Zero fondles, a no sex siren. Hell, the girls been at it since the pram was traded but her mother still claims Jesus is coming compliments of her immaculate daughter. What a laugh.’

  The woman wasn’t laughing. Was thinking that these Australians were certainly a strange race. She had no way of knowing that Wright was not indicative of the breed. Or that he was about as normal as a Yeti.

  The airhostess, born around the time the Roman Legions invaded Gaul, handed Wright his drink. Served it with all the delicacy of a beer hall Fraulein. Wright waited for Godzilla to depart before continuing.

  ‘Where do they dig up those things? Don’t they pension them off anymore? I can remember when they were young and beautiful.’

  ‘Yes, my husband used to fly just to leer at the air hostesses.’

  ‘In a Leer Jet?’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘Not as sorry as I am. There’s no point flying now. I’ve seen better bodies at the mortuary.’

  The woman in the red coat was becoming uneasy with Leonard J. Cutfish.

  ‘I know it’s sexist, ‘Leonard continued, ‘but life’s to short to be served drinks by a uniformed cane toad. It’s false advertising. Air hostesses are supposed to be slim and curvaceous and ready to join the mile high club with any-one low enough to try.’

  ‘The Mile High Club?’

  ‘The Mile High Club. It’s a select club for the sinfully active. You join by making a deposit in the nearest hostess. I certainly wouldn’t invite our hostess to join. She’s more air bag than air worthy.’

  It was indeed fortunate that, like a hurtling Concord, all this was going right over the woman’s head. Talking to a Zulu would have been less confusing.

  ‘Yes siree bob, I wouldn’t plumb the depths of that without an air sick bag over her head. And neck. And entire body,’ he said.

  The woman in the red coat leapt to her feet and tried to parachute from the plane.

  ________________

  Wright, nee Leonard J. Cutfish, Wanker extraordinaire, never could figure out why there was such a rush to leave the aircraft on arrival. Why people leapt from their seats to gather bags and belongings and choke the aisles just waiting for the doors to be flung open.

  Nathan thought this penned herd was more dangerous for the flight attendants than flying. Thought the airlines must lose a few stewards and hostesses each year trampled underfoot by the wildly fleeing passengers in their urgent rush to the baggage collection carousels.

  Where the passengers could hang about for hours awaiting the arrival of their luggage.

  ________________

  The cab drove over the Harbour Bridge. The driver was a squat Vietnamese with impeccable manners but limited English. Nathan asked to be driven to his hotel which was located on the North Shore. When the taxi driver didn’t seem to understand the request Wright handed him a hotel brochure with a map on the back. while wondering if they’d end up in the heart of Sydney or the heat of Saigon (or Ho Chi Minh City, or whatever they called it these days).

  Shuffling restlessly in the rear seat, carefully nursing the wedding present, he gazed through the glass and girders at the tranquil scene about him. Saw the Opera House, all sail and shape, bright in the sunshine. It was quite beautiful so quite unlike Melbourne

  for Melbourne was timid, sedate, snore inducing while Sydney was exciting, sophisticated, sensual - and Nathan hated the place.

  ________________

  Saturday morning. Wright collected Kelly from the airport.

  ________________

  Sunday morning, he didn’t.

  ‘Where the hell are you?’

  ‘It’s 8 o’clock. Where the hell do you think I am?’

&n
bsp; Wright was too sleepy to respond.

  ‘I’m at the airport waiting for them to release you from psychiatric care. What the hell do you think!’

  ‘What are you doing there?’

  ‘Booking you a ticket to Botswana. I’m sure I can locate a witch doctor who can restrain your spiralling madness...or at least make a half way decent totem pole on which to display those various portions of your body I’m about to remove.’

  ‘That’s one heck of an imagination you’ve rented Kelly. It’s a shame they haven’t connected it to your brain yet.’ Nathan was lying in bed with his eyes shut. He turned to search the sheet next to him. She wasn’t there. He looked under the bed, she wasn’t there. He looked in the bathroom, the closet, then in his suitcase. She wasn’t there either.

  ‘Where the hell are you?’

  ‘I told you I’m at the airport ‘

  ‘Yeah, sure you are Kelly. The jokes over, what are you doing?’

  ‘Preparing for surgery.’

  ‘Cut it out....’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘Kelly, I’m hanging up if you don’t make some attempt at sense.’

  ‘Jesus Nathan, you’ve been at those anabolic stupid pills again haven’t you?’

  Nathan searched the room for a sign of her previous existence. Her bag wasn’t there and the bathroom didn’t resemble a disaster area so maybe she was telling the truth. Suddenly the true seriousness of the situation dawned on him.

  ‘What did I do? Come on Kel, whatever it was I apologise. Don’t leave me. I’m a stranger in a strange hotel room, don’t orphan me.’ God, she must be really angry to have gotten up and left during the night. He could remember being drunk but he couldn’t remember being any more drunk, or any more aggravating for that matter, than usual.