by Bill Day
I wait as Lucky unlocks the diner. “I never used to lock this door but we have had unwelcome visitors.”
“Thieves?”
“No, just unwelcome visitors.”
The door swings open. Although huge, the diner is nothing special - shabby chairs, plastic tablecloths, and the brown bench where I cracked my head. In contrast, the kitchen at back is modern in every way - stainless steel benches, restaurant-grade equipment, two large cool-rooms, freezers, multiple ovens, a huge hot plate, and a large pantry full of dry goods. Everything shines like new. It seems a shame to dirty it.
“Fix yourself some bacon and eggs.”
“I don’t like bacon.”
“Everyone likes bacon, Monty. Now, chop-chop – customers are coming.”
I look into the foyer. A few dozen residents descend the stairs. All are 50 plus and have a glint of hunger in their eyes.
They enter – “Bacon and eggs!” “Bacon sandwich!” “Scrambled!” “Sausages!” And so it goes. My breakfast goes to the first customer and there is no time to eat after that. Lucky pulls over a chair and uses it to climb onto the counter.
“Everybody! Please let me introduce my good friend Monty!”
“Monty!” They cheer, raising cups of tea, instant coffee, and fruit juice. I stare like a rabbit in headlights and wave my spatula meekly.
I crack, flip, toast, and butter until everyone is served, then stand by the till hungry and exhausted. I notice one unassuming woman at the shelves as she drops cans into her prodigious jacket pockets. I walk over to her.
“Excuse me, you need to pay for those.”
Her wide brown eyes look up and she looks a little confused. She is about to say something but instead turns to leave the room. I lightly grab her arm.
“Sorry, you need to pay for the things in your pockets.”
She stares in shock. There is an audible gasp in the room.
“Monty! Unhand her.” “We expect better.” “Well, I never.” “Disgusting behaviour.” “Learn some manners, Monty.”
I turn to face the murmuring crowd and put my hands up in conciliation.
“I was just…..”
The crowd is inconsolable. They hold cutlery like weapons and glare menacingly. Mr Bananas picks up a boiled egg. Splat - the boiled egg hits me on the forehead and drops in my shirt pocket.
“Bastard” calls somebody as a rasher of bacon Frisbees across the room. It slaps my forehead and drapes over my shoulder like an epaulette. A slice of toast just misses me and sticks to the wall behind. The diners hiss in displeasure and hurl breakfast foods. Toast, bacon, baked beans and other breakfast remnants rain down on me as they hurl abuse and victuals. I smell like breakfast time at a truck stop. I wildly look for an escape and spy two grinning dogs following the fracas through the window. My escape options are narrow.
The angry crowd advances. Scurry and Clatter salivate at the window. Lucky stands by the counter and watches with glee. I must make a decision – where to run? I decide to sprint through the crowd, into the foyer, and up the stairs.
This time I have my shorts intact and take off at full sprint - one, two, three strides and my front foot hits a stray fried egg. My feet fly out from under me, so high that I’m staring at my sneakers. Time slows again and I notice there’s a hole in my left sock. I land with an eggy splat on the floor. The crowd gasps. There is an expectant silence. I glance about to see Lucky open the window and let loose the dogs of war. I curl in a ball and squeal.
The two fiends are all over me again. Clatter is pulling at my shorts to scoop up morsels of bacon and other delicacies. Scurry detects boiled egg in my shirt pocket and scratches her way towards it. With each scratch, I utter a pathetic squeak.
Behind my squeaks, grunts, and groans I hear growing laughter. My shorts descend to my knees under relentless pulling. Scurry decides there is bacon in my left ear and proceeds to scoop it out with her long, pink tongue. Clatter’s thick brown tail thumps me repeatedly in the face as he works on my shorts.
The sound of laughter grows into a roar of hilarity.
After an age, someone tethers the devil dogs and drags them away. I stand and pull up my shorts. All about eyes water, lungs wheeze, and bladders burst. Felicity leaps up with a look of panic, dances a little jig, and runs for the door. She leaves a trail of droplets - evidence that her flight is futile and far too late.
“Flick’s pissed herself.”
Hilarity grows into hysterics. One strangled cough sends a pair of dentures across the floor. They spin through a pile of dusty scrambled egg. The newly toothless man descends into fits of coughing. A few friends slap him on the back. But it is all too much and they sink to their knees, curl into balls on the floor, and howl with laughter.
Lucky strides over and helps me up. “Monty, no one pays at the till. I told you that.”
Of course you did.
I look about the room and grin, “At least you won’t have to feed the dogs.”
People regain their composure and gaze at me with watering eyes. There is a smattering of applause. One fist goes up – it’s Fingers. “Monty is the man!” The delighted patrons pummel me with back slaps and pump me with handshakes.
How quickly fortune changes.
“Way to go Monty.” “Never laughed so much.” “She pissed herself - brilliant.” “Classic Monty just classic.” “Too funny.”
From the far corner of the room, a small figure walks over and reaches into her pocket. Her hand comes out holding crumpled bills and pushes them towards me. Gently I close her fist.
“No one pays at the till – ever.”
Lucky looks at me. “Mandy is in unit 35.”
We link arms and there is an appreciative silence as I escort Mandy to her room.
3
Avoid Ham Sandwiches
Mandy stops and pulls out her keys. She turns to face me. “Thank you, Monty.” She pauses for a second as if considering something.
“I flew an aeroplane once. I was a nurse and got stuck on the wrong side of the line around Sariwon. I stole a Yak-9 and flew it to Seoul.”
With a click, she’s gone. I stare at her door with my mouth open for a full thirty seconds then turn and head upstairs.
I look in my fridge. There is a plate of ham and cheese sandwiches. I give them a sniff and a close look. I am not always good with ham but I’m hungry so I wolf them down. I collapse on the black rocker to doze for a while.
“Monty, I’m coming in.”
I might need a bolt-on this door. I look at my watch and its 7.00 pm. I have slept the day away.
“Good work today Monty. I haven’t heard laughter like that for ages.” He tosses me a wad of cash.
“What’s this?”
“This is what I choose to pay you, as per our agreement.”
I don’t count it or even look at it. I know straight away it’s a significant amount of cash. I pop it straight into my pants pocket before Lucky changes his mind. It leaves a satisfying bulge.
Lucky walks to the sliding door, opens it, and leans on the patio railing. He looks out at the sea of new mansions popping up like fungus on a damp log.
“Look around Monty, this was once a working man’s town. Over time it got too expensive to live here. Look at it now, no lawns, chickens, veggie patches, or corner stores. All swallowed up by this sprawl of monstrosities. I hate it.” He turns to me. “You know, they want this place as well but it’s my line in the sand. I won’t let them have it.”
“But you own this place.”
“No, I own most of this place. The other owners are agitating to sell.”
I think for a sec, trying to make sense of the morning. “Will anyone pay for breakfast this morning, Lucky?”
“Perhaps. It doesn’t matter.”
“Does anyone pay rent?”
“Perhaps a few. That doesn’t matter either. But, Monty, what does matter is that tonight we live-stream the Seabreeze Tower Art Installation Project. If all goes well we
will use it to build a family of anti-development supporters. Help me move the table.”
Without thinking too much I lift one end of the table. My stomach protests just a little and I feel an ominous gurgle.
“I am not feeling so good.”
“Don’t fold now Monty, we need you! Big event tonight and you have to play your part.”
A cacophony grows just outside my door. The door pushes open and a team of people file in carrying cables, monitors, computers, cameras, and other video production paraphernalia.
“Sorry Monty, we need your room.” It occurs to me I rarely know what’s going on.
“Quick introductions – everyone this is Monty. Monty, here we have Andy, this is her project.” Andy looks every bit an artist; splendid in her brightly patterned yellow top and purple jeans. She is thin and swanlike. She looks never to have left the 1960’s.
“Gladys will do your make-up and get you set up. Don’t give her any lip.” Gladys is not someone to give lip to - a classic, purple-haired, no-nonsense kind of person.
“Maxine J is our director – call her Max.” Max looks business-like in browns and whites. Her face is crisp and eyes focused - the look of a pragmatist.
“And this is the Flight and Light Extravaganza team – Enrico, Sonia, and Mary. They are costing us a bomb; so don’t get in their way.”
Enrico hands me a business card. “You call me one day. Not just for video stuff, we can do spy work with the drones as well.” He winks conspiratorially.
“And finally, Marty here is looking after the live feed. He’s my nephew.”
Max pipes up, “It’s getting dark people. Let's get wired up.” Everyone springs into action. Headsets go on, monitors glow; Sonia and Mary head off to wherever they need to be. And so on.
I stand with no idea what’s to come. My stomach grumbles. I think I had better just sit on the loo for a bit. My gut gurgles in agreement. I waddle my way to the bathroom, clamping shut lest I disgrace myself.
“Monty, I need you now. Time to get ready.” Gladys has a chair and make up ready.
“Um, I just need to……”
“No time Man, let's go.”
I clamp my bum cheeks tightly and walk over to Gladys. I feel bloated and need to relieve some pressure.
“Over here Monty, let’s go!”
Gladys stands me in front of the chair, spins me around and pushes me forward. I find myself bent over the chair. Quick as a snake she whips my shorts down to my ankles.
I start to panic. All I can think is: “Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear.”
“Everyone, come and look at this!” The whole room rushes over to stare at my bum. I have a very distinctive birthmark.
“It’s a mouse!” Enrico is fascinated. “Never have I seen a finer mouse!” There is a murmur of general agreement.
Oh no, no, no, no, no, no. My legs are shaking and I try to contain the building pressure in my bowels.
Director Max gets close for a good look and turns to Enrico. “Get the drones in close to Monty and get footage of the mouse. He will look sensational. Touch him up Gladys – nice clean lines and plenty of colours.”
Please God, oh God, oh God, oh God. I distract myself by singing - “Ohhhh we’re the nuts from Barcelona”, but I forget the words and just hum tunelessly like a happy drunk. Gladys accents my mouse with an eyeliner. A zephyr of gas oozes out.
I start to sing, “I’m forever blowing bubbles”. Gladys brushes mouse with a soft makeup brush. My song choice is unfortunate. My singing masks frequent squeaks and blarts.
Max cries, “Final check, ground floor – all good – first – were set – second – all go here, and so on. Ok everyone, final places.”
Gladys guides me to the balcony. As I walk tiny puffs of gas pop in time with my steps. Gladys delivers a resounding slap across the back of my head. “Stop that!” The slap only serves to dislodge a louder hiss of gas.
Gladys pushes me forward “Up on the railing, arse over the edge, don’t wiggle. Control yourself, Monty!”
That is much easier said than done. I feel like a rocket pack about to streak across the sky.
“Were all go! Sonia and Mary get the drones in the air. Enrico - lights on. Get the live feed going, Marty. It’s your show now Andy.”
Andy joins Enrico to control lights and cameras. The art is about to happen and I still don’t know what’s going on. I am sure; however, that my arse is cold and bad things are happening to my insides. I squeeze tight and hum tunelessly.
A soft buzzing comes from outside. I can see the live video monitor. Patterns of light flash across the outside wall. There are at least three cameras, one on the whole building and two drones. The building is lit with a brilliant laser light display. It picks out a multitude of human arses as they hang out every window and balcony. Each is painted differently, fluorescent, reflective, patterned, and plain. I watch the drone feed. The drones are moving in and out, picking up details of various bottoms. The live video feed is accompanied by Wagner’s Ride of the Valkyries, which seems a bit trite, but it all looks and sounds fantastic.
Meanwhile, I try to relieve the pressure in my bowels. It’s a mistake. It feels rather wet. The buzzing gets closer. “Hold on, hold on, hold on – please, please, please… nooooooooo”.
I see my birthmark in full screen, right there on the monitor. Gladys has highlighted in a fluorescent reflective red and the laser light bounces off it. I am distracted by its splendour. Another wet squeeze sneaks out. There is more in there than just gas. The music reaches a crescendo.
Maxine strides out on the patio and slaps me on the shoulder. “Looking good Monty!’ This straw breaks the camel’s back. I let go with a thunderous blast just as a drone moves in close. All pretence that I have the situation under control vanishes. An eruption of gas and turd avalanches out of me and cascades to the lawn below - all in full-screen high definition.
The music continues but otherwise, there is a stunned silence of one, two, three seconds. Another brown stream surges out and plummets down to the rising strains of Wagner.
Andy’s scream shatters the silence. “You little bastard.” She charges towards me as I sprint to the loo and shut the door.
I can hear Andy scream. “He’s ruined it! I spent weeks on this and that little wanker voids himself on camera.” She shouts through the door at me, “You better stay in there you shit-head because I going to slap you stupid when you come out.”
I can hear Marty. “Bloody brilliant. This will go viral. Everyone will watch this. It’s better than we ever expected.”
Director Max, confirming she is a pragmatist, is conciliatory. “Come on Andy, this will be good for the cause. Think of the exposure we will get. It's still your installation.”
“Shitting isn’t good for the cause Max! Shitting is not art. This is a serious installation. We bare our bums to the world and make them beautiful, and Bozo in there shits all over it!”
The worst of my discomfort abated, I open the bathroom door a crack and peek out just as Andy leaps on Maxine and bites the back of her neck. Max looks shocked and spins around trying to dislodge her attacker. She looks up and spies me peeking out the door.
“There’s your enemy. Bite him you lunatic.”
Andy looks up and her eyes narrow - “You!” She flies across the room and kicks open the door. I back away until I’m against the bathroom sink. There is no escape. Andy advances slowly and with great menace. Quick as a flash I fall to my knees and crawl between her legs. I run into the main room. Andy flies after me with a look of unabridged violence.
I head for the door but a network cable wraps around my ankles. I go down in a wriggling heap. As I hit the ground yet another burst of gas explodes out of me and floods the room. I try to rise but Andy reaches me and delivers a resounding kick in my ribs. She continues to kick with her stiletto-clad feet.
She screams in time with her kicks, “Bastard, bastard, bastard, bastard.” With each kick a smattering of gas phuts out of
me – phut, phut, phut, phut. I sound like a vintage tractor. Finally, the absurdity of the situation sinks in and a foul smell permeates the room. Andy lets out a heart-rending sob, gives me one last kick, pinches her nose, and runs from the room.
Wagner plays on while everyone holds their nose and laugh. “Putrid Monty”, “Oh my God Monty.” “Disgusting.” And so on.
Marty prances around the room excitedly. “I got it! I got it all on video! This is going to be sensational.”
The entire room turns as one. “Delete it.” Marty looks crestfallen. Lucky walks over to him. “She deserves dignity, Marty. Her installation tonight was not a total disaster but this fracas was undignified. She doesn’t need it and neither do we.” With a pout, Marty walks over and deletes his record of recent events.
I look up at the video feed. The drone is landing. There is a white flash as the kelpie leaps up and snatches the drone out of the air. The last image is of a brown smiling face with lolloping tongue following behind.
Lucky walks over to me, his eyes gleam in sheer joy.
“You’re worth every penny Monty - best private secretary ever. Now fix yourself up while we pack away.”
Everyone coils cables and boxes cameras as I stand on the balcony and watch the Light and Sound Extravaganza team try to retrieve their drone from the devil dogs. Life is good.
I leave everyone to pack and fuss, close my bedroom door, and fall into a light sleep. I dream I am flying a fighter plane over Korean rice fields.
4
Therapy
We are all in a basement room. It is grey but well lit. The floor is stained by goodness knows what. There even appears to be splatter stains up the walls and across the ceiling. I start to speculate on the fate of former room occupant, “Ratchet”.
Everyone is here: Fingers, Miss Jessica, Felicity, Mr Bananas, Maxine J, Lucky, Mandy; and that is just to name a few. Of course, Lucky is running the discussion.
“We got 50 million hits on the first night, 80 million on the second, with no sign of slowing down. We aimed to raise our profile and Andy has done that, with a little help from Monty.”