Rush

by Daniel Mason

  There are others, like Cal, who didn’t know the meaning of the word ex-girlfriend. Kept going back to the previous girlfriends. Not just one, not two, but three of them. Casual thing, he said. Couldn’t quite get over them. ‘Not that I don’t love you, Jules. It’s just some things are hard to let go. You’ve got to give me points for honesty, right?’ That relationship didn’t last very long.

  Juliet tells me, ‘I have a knack for choosing all the wrong ones.’

  I want to say something witty, like, ‘Two wrongs don’t make Mr Right.’ But all I do is sit there, because my throat is dry and I can’t find any words. I take her hand in mine again and run my thumb over the scar, once, twice, three times, four.

  Cut to a close-up of my face, we’ll see my tired and bored eyes, and we’ll slowly draw back as I exhale smoke and we’ll find that I’m in a meeting for the United Workers’ Front. I’m sitting at the back of the room in my own cloud of smoke. This is in a house in Stanmore. The carpet is worn away in most parts of the floor, and giant anarchy symbols have been spraypainted on the walls. There is a half-burned American flag mounted over a print of Marigolds.

  There are maybe two dozen people in the room. All of them are seated on the hard floor. There is no furniture, and the only light comes from candles. The electricity to the house has been cut off.

  Jack tells me that this is only one cell, one of several divisions. He says it isn’t safe for everybody to gather at one time. This is only one of several safe houses around the city. He tells me that during the week, meetings such as this one will be taking place with different members in different houses.

  They call themselves a United Workers’ Front, but it’s just a front, just a name. This meeting is like a strange collective of the Democratic Socialist Party, the Campaigners Against Multinationalism, and a Sex Pistols Fan Club. The people here are well spoken and unwashed.

  A bearded man wearing a shirt with the face of Che Guevara printed on it stands before the others, speaking. He says, ‘On Tuesday, Smiley and Griffin charged into the 24-hour McDonald’s on the corner of Pitt and Park with a bucket full of red paint. I’d like to congratulate the boys for their redecoration skills, and the ability to evade security. Nice one, boys.’

  Whoever Smiley and Griffin are, they don’t stand up and take a bow. Everybody claps.

  Jack leans toward me and whispers, ‘The bearded dude, his name’s Dharma. He marched against Vietnam in the Sixties. He’s a real campaigner. He’s been doing this shit for thirty years, man. But the thing is, he’s so full of himself, with his head so far up his arse, he doesn’t really even know what he stands for anymore.’

  Dharma continues speaking. ‘On Monday we’re planning a blockade of the Australian Stock Exchange in Bridge Street. We’ll keep it as non-violent as possible. For those of you who are employed, we’d be grateful if you can call in sick on the day for the protest. We’ll need banners painted and speeches written. As you know, the Stock Exchange is a major target. We’ve been planning this one for several months. For the new people in the room, allow me to explain.

  ‘The Stock Exchange is like the centrepoint for all major corporations. One point two billion dollars are traded on the Australian Stock Exchange every day. That much money, daily, can cancel such things as world debt, reduce world hunger, fund our public education. Most people are ignorant of these facts. And so our goal is to be noticed, so that others might support our campaign. Bring your friends, your family, as many people as you can. The louder we shout, the more likely we are to be noticed.’ Dharma speaks from the heart, and sitting at the back of the room I’ve never been so bored in all of my life. Jack and I are the only people in the room who don’t applaud. Jack says to me, ‘He speaks down to us like we’re stupid.’

  He looks me in the eye and says, ‘I’m not stupid.’

  When the meeting is over, Jack says to me, ‘These people are pacifists, and pacifism is no way to get your cause noticed. It doesn’t work that way.’

  In the newspapers this week the police are still talking about the Jack Of All Trades Killer.

  Jack says, ‘If pacifism worked, the world would have been changed in the Sixties. But instead we wind up with this Baby-Boomer crap, you know?’

  Jack is saying, ‘These people, they have the right idea. They just have too many morals, too many convictions. You can’t have a revolution without a violent uprising.’

  I tell him, ‘You can’t have a violent uprising if you’re only one man.’

  He sneers at me. ‘I’m one man, but there are others. I come to this place to meet like-minded people, looking for hope. There’s no place in this world for self-righteousness. That guy, Dharma? He’s kidding himself. They’ve got the idea and they don’t know what to do with it. I’m talking about revolution here, man. Everybody must be made an example of.’

  I ask him how he plans to make an example. My face is shrouded in shadow and I’m breathing smoke. When I show him the clip from the newspaper he looks at it and laughs. He says, ‘You think this is me?’

  I ask him if it is.

  Jack says, ‘You think I’m an idiot, don’t you?’

  I tell him, ‘I think you set your goals too high.’

  He tells me, ‘I’m not the only one setting high goals.’

  I say, ‘You still owe me a game, you know. I’m waiting to cash that raincheck.’

  He disappears into the night and says, ‘Yeah, maybe some other time. I’ve got bigger fish to fry.’ Before he’s gone, I hear him call back to me: ‘And stop following me, freak.’

  I get the idea when I see an old woman hurrying to cross a busy city street, limping with her walking frame as horns blare at her. There’s a look of fear mixed with determination on her wrinkled old face. She’s truly afraid that these people will run her down in the street if she doesn’t get to the other side in the next five seconds. Toward the end she almost slips and falls, but regains her balance and finally frees up the traffic.

  There is a tinge of pity in my heart for the old woman, but I decide she isn’t worth my pity because she’ll be dead soon, anyway. She’s probably somebody’s mother, somebody’s sister, somebody’s grandmother. But all I see is a frail old body, withered with age, cells crumbling under the weight of free radicals and the burden of existence.

  In the phone book I find listings for hundreds of retirement homes and villages. I choose the one with the classiest advertisement; it sounds upscale and quiet and is located in Manly. I take a taxi out there and tell the driver, ‘I’m visiting my grandfather. I’m in the country to see him because the doctors say he’s slipping away and I wanted to see him just one last time, I felt I owed him that much.’

  The driver says, ‘Well that’s nice of you. I hear that Alzheimer’s is a terrible thing.’

  The retirement village has a long winding driveway and I tell the driver he can drop me at the top, I don’t mind the walk. He wishes me the best with my grandfather and I walk through the gates and follow the road.

  I smoke a cigarette and whistle a happy tune as I walk.

  The retirement village is basically a large hospital-like building surrounded by several small units and apartments occupied by those old folks who are still reasonably capable of looking after themselves. I walk right up to the lobby and I’m hit by a blast of air conditioning as the automatic doors slide open. There is a middle-aged woman behind the service desk and the air smells just the way you expect an old folks’ home to stink.

  I flash the smile that I’ve been practising and speak in the most pleasant of tones to a woman at the desk. ‘Hi, I’m here to see my grandfather. I’ve arranged to meet him in the rec room, but I don’t actually know where that is. Could you direct me?’

  She returns my smile, only hers has warmth. She says, ‘Sure. You just follow the hall here and you’ll find it on the left. Hard to miss.’

  I thank her and follow the hall, absently toying with the gun in my jacket as I proceed. The problem with a six-cha
mber weapon is that you’re constantly reloading. My pockets are jingling like a piggybank with free bullets, just because I like the sound.

  The rec room sports a large television and wide windows that look out over a green lawn. There are rows of chairs like a classroom and some of these are occupied by old people in dressing gowns or flannel pyjamas. Two men occupy a small table at the far side, white hair emerging from their ears, playing chess. Nobody seems to notice me standing there.

  This room is all low murmurs and classical music leaking from speakers in the ceiling. The television isn’t even turned on, but there are three women sitting there staring at it. There’s one old man in the row of seats, sitting alone, staring at his hands in his lap. He’s wearing glasses halfway down his nose and his pale hair is combed over his nearly bald scalp. It sounds as if he’s talking to himself. I mosey on over and sit beside him, and he looks up at me with milky eyes and says, ‘Are you the new nurse?’

  I say, ‘No, sir. I’m just a volunteer. How are you this morning?’

  He speaks with a waver in his voice. ‘I’d like it if they turned the air conditioning up.’

  He’s kidding, or he has to be. It’s almost cold enough in here to draw mist at my breath. I tell him, ‘I’ll see what I can do about that. Is there anything else I can help you with? Not feeling a little tired? Don’t want some pills?’

  He’s staring at me like maybe he suspects I don’t really have any business here. I say, ‘Sir, aren’t you tired? Do you really think that this is living?’

  He stammers. ‘E-e-excuse me?’

  I’ve raised my voice and some of the other oldies in the room have turned to stare at me. I’m saying, ‘Do you consider this living? Do you have complete control of your bowels, sir?’

  ‘I don’t,’ somebody else mutters.

  I turn in the direction of the voice. I say, ‘You, sir!’ like I’m a travelling salesman with a gimmick up his sleeve. ‘Are you tired of this existence? Being spoonfed and shitting through tubes? Have you had enough?’

  ‘Leave him alone,’ one of the old women says. The age in her voice makes the order sound feeble and without meaning.

  ‘No,’ I decide, pulling the gun.

  Somebody screams. It’s a high-pitched wail. Others moan. Somebody says, ‘Mother of God.’ These people are too slow to bother running; their fear has them frozen in place.

  There’s a nurse standing in the hall behind me and she says, ‘Jesus, what are you doing?’

  I turn to her, waving the gun casually. ‘Don’t worry ma’am. I’m only here for people over the age of seventy.’

  The old man sitting before me says, ‘I’m eighty-four years old.’

  I swing the gun toward him. ‘Okay. Do you want to go first?’

  He says, ‘Are you asking me if I want to die?’ He’s incredibly lucid as he says this.

  I say, ‘You bet.’ There’s nobody in the world but he and I right at this moment.

  He’s staring up at me, eyes following the barrel of the gun to my hand, my arm, my shoulder, my neck, my face. He appears to seriously consider the matter, and he says with a sigh, ‘Sure. I’m old. Why not?’

  That’s all the encouragement that I need.

  What’s remarkable is the silence that comes from these people in the wake of the gunshot. There’s blood splattered on my face and hand, and I look calmly around the room and nobody needs to be told to shut up, nobody needs to be ordered to sit still. Even the nurse isn’t moving. There’s the sound of commotion in the outer hall, and people are coming to investigate the gunshot. Old people move slowly and I estimate I can get another body on the floor before the onlookers arrive.

  I shout, ‘Who’s next? Who’s next? Step right up! Put your hands to-gether! Who. Is. Next?’

  Nobody volunteers. I skip over to an old lady sitting in a wheelchair by the window, and I ask her, ‘Ma’am, would you care to dance?’ I’m even extending my hand in a gentlemanly fashion with the gun behind my back.

  She begs. ‘I have arthritis.’

  I tell her, ‘I can heal you.’

  I say, ‘Trust in me. I can show you the healing light. Hold my hand.’

  Gingerly, she takes my hand. I extend my other hand, with the gun. I shoot her twice and she jerks in her chair, and when she’s dead her hand is still in mine.

  I turn to face the room. ‘Who else wants to be healed?’

  One of the chess players raises his hand weakly. I say, ‘Hallelujah,’ and shoot him from where I stand, pulling the trigger once.

  I put the next two bullets into the old man I’d first sat and talked with. He’s crying before I shoot him, but he’s not crying because he’s going to die. We’re all going to die. He’s crying because he understands the worthlessness of the life he’s been living here. And this is when I free him with two pulls on the trigger.

  I’m reloading the gun and everybody is standing motionless around the room, onlookers have gathered in the entrance to the room. They’ve all fallen into some kind of stupor. This is truly an awakening. I’m stuffing bullets into chambers and one of the old men comes to his senses, and he whispers to another nearby, ‘Do you think we can rush him while he’s reloading?’

  I say, ‘No. No, I don’t think you’ll have time.’ I snap the chamber closed.

  The next six bullets are spent within twenty seconds. That’s a bullet every 3.3 seconds. I can definitely do better. There are four more bodies on the floor leaking old blood that looks like motor oil, and the people around me are beginning to snap out of their trance as I reload again.

  After the next six bullets are spent, one of them shattering the television, I hear sirens in the distance. I say, ‘Who called the cops? Dammit, they’ll just spoil all the fun. Don’t you realise?’

  One old woman says, ‘This isn’t fun. It’s terrible.’

  I say, ‘You there. What medication do they have you on?’

  She starts to rattle off the names of pills, prescriptions, addictions.

  I tell her, ‘That stuff is only going to numb you.’

  I shoot her twice and say, ‘Take two of these and call me in the morning.’

  By now I’m laughing.

  The sirens are definitely closer. I face the old folks and say, ‘Okay. When the police come, this is definitely a hostage situation. I can’t talk my way out of this without a hostage. Now who wants to play hostage for a couple of minutes?’

  I have to choose, tic tac toe, from the show of hands. ‘You,’ I say, pointing at an old man. ‘Need a little more excitement? Let’s do it.’

  I grab him and move up the hall and out to the lobby.

  We’re out the front of the building by the time the police turn into the driveway with their lights on and sirens howling. I fire shots at the cars and they pull to a stop a safe distance away from me. Pressed against me, the old man says, ‘This is the most fun I’ve had in a long time.’

  I say, ‘It’s the most fun your brains will have splattered against the wall if you don’t shut up.’

  He says, ‘Oh, yeah.’

  The gun is empty, so I ask Harry—he’s the old fellow—to fish around in the pocket of my jacket and get me a handful of bullets. I’d do it myself but I have one hand around his neck and the other is pointing the gun toward the police officers gathered behind their cars out on the lawn. Harry drops several bullets in my palm.

  ‘Thanks,’ I say, and reload.

  A bullet shatters a window behind my head and I decide to step back into the lobby for safety. I call out to the cops, ‘Jesus, what are you trying to do? Shoot me?’

  There’s a moment of silence before a voice replies, ‘Yes!’

  With a shrug I’m muttering, ‘Fair enough.’

  A voice on a loudspeaker calls out, ‘PUT DOWN YOUR WEAPONS.’

  I shout, ‘Never!’

  The voice calls, ‘SURRENDER OR WE’LL SHOOT.’

  I yell, ‘I’ll shoot this old fucker, I swear I will!’ I’ve even got the gun pre
ssed to Harry’s head for greatest theatrical effect.

  The voice calls, ‘WHO CARES? HE’S OLD AND HE’S GOING TO DIE SOON ANYWAY.’

  I share a puzzled glance with Harry and they open fire again. It’s moments like this that I hate having a six-shooter. For shooting sprees I really need something that can hold more bullets. I fire my six shots, shattering a window of one police car, punching holes into the door of another. I haven’t hit anybody.

  ‘Harry,’ I say. ‘Bullets.’

  Reload. The cops are firing at us and there are bullets bouncing in the lobby. One of the bullets ricochets from a wall and smacks Harry in the leg. He cries out and goes down and I let him fall. He’s wincing in pain and spilling blood onto the nice carpet.

  I call around the corner to the cops: ‘You bastards! You shot the old man!’

  The loudspeaker replies, ‘YOU WERE GOING TO DO IT ANYWAY.’

  I shout, ‘That’s not the point!’

  This time the voice is curious. ‘WHERE’D WE HIT HIM?’

  I reply, ‘In the leg!’

  ‘WE SHOOT TO KILL,’ the voice says blankly.

  There’s a scuffling sound coming through the loudspeaker, and then a different voice comes on the horn: ‘WE DON’T WANT TO HURT YOU.’

  Bullshit. I’m muttering, bullshit. I call to them, ‘Give me a minute. I’m going to surrender.’

  ‘THROW DOWN YOUR WEAPONS OR GIVE US A CLEAR SHOT!’ the first voice yells.

  I head back to all way and the rec room, leaving Harry bleeding and moaning on the floor. Everybody else is gathered in the rec room, but they’re careful to avoid the pooling blood of the dead. It’s like playing hop-scotch.