by Peter Marks
‘Who?’
‘Sorry. Mr. Motherfucker.’
‘Jesus, it is you Nathan. Decided to speak again have we. I think I enjoyed the silence better...’
Nathan granted him his wish. He hung up.
This went on, and on. He couldn’t get a straight answer from any-one so he rang the Crisis Counselling Line. They told him it was a beautiful day and wasn’t it wonderful to be alive. Wright told them he was suicidal and would garrotte himself if they didn’t answer him immediately.
So they told him it was Friday so Wright immediately suicided.
________________
He looked at his watch. Apart from the time, it told him the date and the date it told him was the 21st. Unfortunately this information was of no help as he never related days to dates - only days to names like Wednesday, Friday or more usually, What Day Is It?
I’m too young for senility Wright sniffled, flinging a clammy palm to a pale temple to check his temperature and make sure he wasn’t feverish in the forlorn hope that the explanation was perhaps physical and not as assumed, mental. It wasn’t a hot, so it was definitely mental. He was definitively mental.
Nothing was making sense and yet everything made sense.
Today was yesterday and the recently deposed Friday was not merely a figment of his overactive imagination. Wright could have wasted a few hours searching for a logical explanation only there wasn’t one, there was just his crazy pal Doubleday. He felt his brow again and realised that he may not have a temperature but he did have a headache. AND. AND he thought suddenly, a hang-over.
He HAD between his ears the inevitable result of an alcohol assisted mating ritual. A hang-over, he breathed sickly but slightly relieved, at once ill but also feeling less dubious of the health of his head for here was real evidence. Standing over the still dish high sink, Nathan spoke the word loudly, spelt it out knowing this groggy headache was impossible if those about him wanted rationality for Nathan knew the glue in brain was only possible, indeed inevitable, if he had really gone to the party last night (for Nathan, a hangover was like a date, he tried never to leave a party without one).
Wright knew one thing with great certainty; he knew a hang-over when it rampaged through his sodden system. What was now pulverising his body and brain were the pounding hammers of spent booze and if today was.. if, as every-one but he agreed, if today was Friday then yesterday was...
…was Thursday and Thursday evening had been spent in cross examination over his mum’s dining table!
________________
He’d been forced into sobriety for the night due to Wright’s mum being the only person on the planet never to have seen him drunk. Such ignorance of her son’s true nature was entirely due to Nathan not wanting to shatter the last vestiges of his mother’s respect for her wayward son who wasn’t married, wasn’t working in a secure job and who hadn’t produced three gorgeous grandchildren for her to dote over so was an almost total failure.
‘But at least you’re not a drunk,’ she’d smile, patting him on his hand in gentle reassurance that he wasn’t a total dead loss. Poor misguided woman.
Anyway, he’d sat for three hours Thursday evening defending his morals, his lack of spouse or house, his behaviour, forced to speak because his mother, unlike the rest of the human race, refused to brook any shit from her son and had pried words from the reluctant Wright.
So Thursday night he’d been as sober as a judge before his jury as his mum had passed sentence, summing up the nut case in a few sentient words.
A life sentence.
‘You’re wasting your time,’ she’d told him.
________________
Wright, drifting into the constantly curtain dark lounge, remembered the night clearly (sobriety had this unfortunate effect which was why he avoided the ugly effect so religiously. At this low point in his often low life the only thing Nathan wanted to remember was where he’d left that bottle of Whisky he was sure he’d left under the bed).
He vividly recalled sitting there that evening being harangued by his mother who was trying to point out where he’d gone wrong. She wasn’t being mean, she was just being a mother. She was genuinely trying to help her sad son by advising him on where he’d gone wrong and how to right it (by tearing his tattered ego to even sicklier threads it seemed to Nathan). Searching behind the couch, Nathan knew his mum didn’t mean to hurt or harm but she lacked sensitivity sometimes for sometimes she’d begin lecturing him on his failures at the same moment he was contemplating knocking himself off because he knew what she knew.
Nathan N. A. Wright was an abysmal failure.
No Kelly, no future, no hope and now his mind was also joining the party and failing him with the same casual equanimity he sniffled, checking the kitchen cupboards.
So if this family chat had happened Thursday, as his mother and current pickled mental state confirmed, then he had partied Friday. BUT today was Friday so where did that leave him? Left him two leagues west of insanity and twenty-four hours overactivated for Nathan could remember, even account for a period of forty-eight hours that warranted only half the time it actually took.
Obviously I’m non compus mentus, the calendar calculator in my head non computus mentis, he groaned, his head in the darkness under the sink.
Truth was the Serepax Tango had arrived to lead Nathan another merry dance.
________________
It was 2.00 pm Friday. The Whisky had been found in the arms of Adolf in the cupboard and Nathan, glasses later, felt a little better about being crazy.
Strewn across the couch, the television glowing in the grey veil that was the colour of the sky Nathan now chose to lead his entire existence under, things made sense (being pissed was a boon to rationalising the irrational).
The answer did indeed seem to be the no sense Tango. He felt better knowing this truth (feeling even better knowing he was pissed and therefore any truth tripped over in this state was also an irrelevance) but the problem that confronted him was how to reveal such a phenomenon to others (who weren’t pissed) who always took the easy way out by labelling him mad and disbelieving the unbelievable.
Climbing the stairs, he lurched into the chaos of the office to sit shakily down. Plucking an envelope and a sheet of paper from the bottom drawer, he began writing a letter of defence - of truth, justice and Doubleday.
On the front of an envelope, in large red letters, he scrawled: NOT TO BE OPENED UNTIL 12.00 PM, SATURDAY 22ND.
________________
This is what he wrote:
“Dear Stacy,
I realise what I am about to tell you will make no logical or rational sense but please read this carefully and keep an open mind.
I’ll have this letter delivered by taxi to Nicola this afternoon (Friday your time) with instructions to pass it on to you tomorrow (Saturday our time).
Revealing the full extent of the peculiar illness I suffer from is a risk I am probably foolish to take but I think you’re worth it for, for the first time in ages, I really enjoyed myself last night (Friday my time. Thursday yours). Don’t panic Stacy, it’s not Aids, herpes or foot and mouth. I’m not infectious or a carrier of leaping bacteria, I don’t sneeze or breath microbes bloated with deadly disease. I’m just affected.
Before I go on to hang myself, let’s get one thing straight - I AM NOT MAD. A little warped maybe but nothing dangerous. Honest. I’m simply suffering from a curious ailment I call the Serepax Tango or Doubleday, the Tango being the probable cause, Doubleday the effect but I’m getting ahead of myself.
I shan’t try and explain the affliction to you in any great detail because it’s just too complicated but basically it means I get an extra day every so often. Thus the name Doubleday. Yes I know that sounds whacko but, if you haven’t called for the men in white coats by the time you’ve finished reading this, you can ask me about it and I’ll try and explain but at this point I have only one defence. You. And yo
ur immediate future.
What I am about to do in evidence of The Tango (and my sanity) is tell you all I can recall as to what will transpire this evening (last night by the time you read this).
Tonight (last night) you will arrive at the party in Hawthorn at about 12.30. You’ll have just come from Redheads where you met Phillip, your first ever boyfriend, who you didn’t even know was back in Australia. Your car will need to be push started and you’ll arrive missing your left earring.
You will be wearing a black jacket, white shirt.....”
________________
Bloody phone.
‘Nathan’
Wright picked up the receiver and said nothing.
As life had decided to misbehave again, Wright wasn’t speaking again.
‘Okay, I know you’re not talking, just heavy breathe and I’ll know you’re there.’ Wright sighed heavily. ‘I just heard something really funny. Listen to this ...my dopey sister just rang and said you’d rung her and then accused me, angel that I am, of setting her up. When the silly bitch calmed down and finally stopped swearing at me, I told her she was off her tree ...I told her it couldn’t have been you because you hadn’t uttered a word to anyone in well over a month ...so it couldn’t have been you. What a laugh eh? I wonder who’d be dumb enough to use your name Nathan?’
Nathan knew.
________________
Back at the desk, he went on to detail all he remembered, from her perfume to the people she spoke to, from what she drank to the two aspirin she stole from the bathroom cupboard. Everything and anything. When he finished documenting all the evidence his memory offered he sealed the letter in the instructional envelope, went downstairs and out the front door. The sun was bright but Nathan wasn’t fooled. He wore dark, dark sunglasses and tapped his way to the cab stand across the road using a white cane he’d stolen from Alison.
Wright, impatient buggar that he was, played blind because it was the only way of crossing a busy street without waiting.
Locating a cab by braille bash, slamming the cane onto the hood, then bouncing off the driver’s door before finally spinning about and dropping dramatically to the ground with a loud grunt to gain sympathy in a fabulous display of blind man’s butt. But Wright wasn’t finished yet. Sighted, he’d had nothing but trouble with cab drivers so about once a week he played this game to exact some small revenge for all the indignities he’d suffered unimpaired.
On rising, pretending to be awkward, he gave his wrist a quick spastic flick deftly locating the cabbie who’d leapt out of the car in startled amazement with the hollow white weapon. Got him right in the balls Wright grinned, hiding the smile as the cab driver, his voice an octave or two above normal, apologised for getting in his way so Wright, knowing a sucker when he assaulted one, set about causing further havoc.
For the next ten minutes he wandered about whacking, prodding and poking everything not in sight. Finally exhausted, pad around his neck, his baseball jacket flapping in the stiff breeze and the harsh sunlight hitting colourless cheeks, the mad mute sat down in the leaf packed gutter and drew a map with a thick crayon, tracing each finished line with a finger as if in braille scrawling roads, streets and public conveniences. In the top left corner, he drew a little house with smoke billowing from it’s chimney and wrote Nicola’s name and address by it. This took him a further twenty minutes and by now every other cab in the rank had fled in terror.
(Wright’s antics were becoming famous and, if he caused too many accidents crossing the road, the noise attracted the attention of the cab drivers waiting at the cab rank opposite who, on seeing the blind dervish coming, would immediately jump behind the wheel and speed off before Wright got the chance to assault one of them).
Writing a second note stressing the importance of the first note, he handed the still crutch clutching driver the bits of paper and a fifty dollar note. For a fare worth $15. (Melbourne’s cabbies weren’t the suckers Wright supposed for in this town everyone was fare game and not even the enormously handicapped escaped). Wright didn’t get a cent of change because Melbourne cab drivers spoke the only language he still talked. Money.
________________
The driver with the set of instructions didn’t need to use the map. He knew where he was going. He went immediately to hospital and spent Wright’s $50 on having twin testicles removed from his suddenly female throat.
________________
The day crawled slowly but night finally descended and Nathan was ready for the critical test. He left the front door unlocked. On purpose this time.
‘Okay Nathan, party time.’ Her arrival was no surprise to the stewed soothsayer. Again, he was lying on the couch, bottle of whisky on the floor, wearing the same pair of soccer shorts and QPR shirt, watching television and talking to his hand.
‘Put the dummy down, we’re going out.,’ Nicola yelled as she swept through the door like an avenging repeat.
________________
So the whole mad game started anew. The evidence was overwhelming, and every-where, it was the same time, same place, same people, same everything, all was just as he remembered it. It was hyperactive deja vu.
‘Hi sis, what’s happening?’
Nathan reached in his pocket for a cigarette and tried to look casually innocent.
‘Stacy, this is Nathan. Nathan’s the one you didn’t speak to.’ Nathan almost choked on the cigarette as Nicola’s sister offered a slim hand in greeting. ‘Pleased to meet you.’
‘Not for long,’ Nicola giggled while Stacy stared suspiciously at Wright.
‘Nathan? Are you sure you didn’t ring me?’ Again, it was not an auspicious beginning.
‘Christ Stacy, that’s subtle. Why don’t you ask him if he’s a pathological liar?’
Wright grunted, doing his best to disguise his voice. Nicola and Stacy revisited the routine, falling into each other’s arms and laughing hysterically, slapping each other on the back as if they’d just heard the world’s funniest joke just as they’d done 24 hours ago. Nathan, standing, watching the performance was relieved that Stacy seemed willing to accept that he was the innocent party of some-one else’s prank. Women were so dumb sometimes.
Half an hour later, Stacy went searching for some Aspirin.
‘You’ve given my sister a headache.’ Nicola giggled, suddenly appearing from the crowd.
‘Why didn’t you tell me about your sister?’ The question had been bothering him since last night.
‘I was trying to protect her. Besides, she doesn’t have huge knockers so I thought you wouldn’t be interested.’
‘What, you think I’m that shallow?’
‘As a dry lake bed. Every girl you’ve stared at tonight has been walking several paces behind their chests. Every girl I’ve ever seen you notice or date has a big bust...’
‘Crap! You’re just jealous, even if you were right ...which you aren’t!’
‘Crap.’
‘Nicola, until Kelly, I didn’t even know such a thing as a bust existed. All my other girlfriends were as flat as your jokes.’ Nathan said. ‘Anyway, even if you are right about the habits of my beady little eyes, don’t assume it’s a factor of any relevance in my choice of company,’ he argued, pausing momentarily. ‘It’s merely a preference,’ he reasoned.
‘Like the fact they’ll lay you on the first date....’
‘Precisely. If you had a choice, what would you prefer? Someone tall, dark and handsome with a small dick or someone tall, dark and handsome with a huge dick?’ Nathan watched Nicola squirm as the logic set in.
‘Someone tall, dark and handsome with a dick that works....hard,’ she giggled. ‘Mind you, it would be even better to find one that did overtime ...or stood to attention for longer than 2 seconds and then didn’t fall fast asleep after such a minimal work out,’ she decided.
‘In..’ Nathan corrected. ‘But that wasn’t the question.’ Nathan reminded her, searching the room
for Stacy hoping she’d return and save him from further inane argument.
‘So just what is your point? Nicola said, staring at him and Nathan immediately knew that deciding to speak again had been a big mistake. But he went on anyway.
‘My point is, and I can’t believe you thought I wouldn’t like your sister because she isn’t built like YOUR idea of a male fantasy, is this ...and I’ll attempt to put it in a way you can comprehend. If every man you’d bonked only had a little dick, you’d want one with a big one. Not because you’re prejudice toward dwarf erections or demand a phallus the size of a stuffed stocking, or view twelve inches as a mandatory prerequisite to having your evil way... but because variety is the spice of life. We just want what we’re not used to and as much as we might prefer to bonk the well endowed, it certainly doesn’t follow that you’d grunt with some grotesque male with a huge schlong any more than I’d forgive ugliness because there’s a great pair of tits attached.’
‘So you’re saying beauty is more than dick deep...’
‘Or tits succulent.’
‘Don’t be disgusting..’
‘But we’re discussing the disgusting..’
‘Alright Nathan, but what’s you’re point. And I’m not talking about the needle in your trousers.’
‘Now who’s being disgusting. I’m simply saying one should try and get as much beauty with as much skin as one can.’
‘Can one?’
‘In a perfect world.’
‘So if she’s pretty, you wouldn’t care how she was built?’
‘Of course not.’
‘What, you’d love them even if they had no tits at all!’
‘Of course not.’
________________
Friday night ended as it had last night. Friday night. When Wright rolled up his sleeve for her to write on, Stacy’s name and phone number were already there, tattooed in dull blue on the puny arm just inside the elbow. It was further incontrovertible evidence of HIS last night.