Dimitri looked at the doctor. How unusual to find a professional who was so compassionate and yet so competent. “You are right Doc. Spain it is. Take the wife and kids and get out of here. When can I leave?”
The doctor looked relieved. “Wise choice. We need you in for a few days, to run a couple more tests and make sure you are out of the woods. Your wife mentioned the dreams, so I want to monitor you over-night as well. It could all be related to something as simple as Sleep Apnoea and if this is the case we have simple solutions to assist you.” Then he paused, and added, “Dimitri, as I said, I am no psychiatrist, but in my experience, when people are driven like yourself, there is some sort of fear buried in the past you have forgotten. The Psychs will try and get you to face those fears, confront them, etc. But in my experience, finding the love in your own family is the real cure. Spending time with the kids, quiet time with the wife, these are the sorts of pills you need.”
He put down the board and smiled at his patient. “Anyways, my work here is done. I trust Spain will be good for you, and unless there is a significant thing to reawaken the stress, it is unlikely you will have to be back here any time soon.”
Dimitri watched as he left. He called out, “Doc, you came from dirt poor poverty, right?”
Doctor Carrigan paused, and looked back, “Child of a Welsh miner who died, leaving his wife to raise eight hungry children, so yes, real poverty. Why do you ask?”
“You look like a man who knows only to work. How did you balance it out with the family?”
“I didn't,” he said, bluntly. “After the wife died, my kids had no reason to call in anymore, and didn't. I am a stranger to them, though I supported them through university, bought them all a house and send them birthday and Christmas presents - other than that they have no reason to say hello.”
Dimitri nodded. “I would love for you to come visit us in Spain when you take a holiday.”
The Doc laughed, “Dimitri, people like you are the reason I keep working. Send me a postcard, I may just take you up on the offer.”
He left the room, and Dimitri suddenly felt an overwhelming tiredness. Without realizing it, his eyes closed, and he faded into sleep.
Not one hint of yellow haunted him.
One More Day
Sena was there the next day, still teary-eyed. “I thought you were gone, that you had left us all behind,” she said between sobs.
“Doctor Carrigan said I should go to Spain, and drop the merchant banking business completely,” Dimitri said. He was curious how she would react.
“Yes, we need to go to Spain. Forget the job, we will make do. I don't need marble kitchens, Dimitri. I am so sorry you went through all of this for us.”
He looks at her and it is like he is seeing a different woman. One good nights sleep and he is already getting his focus back. Yes, he really needed to get to Spain. Should he tell her about that last deal? Something says not to, maybe a surprise when they get there. Then something stirred inside, he started to feel an erection. How weird, lying there watching his weeping wife, sobbing like this, it was doing something. He took her hand, placed it on his cock, and laughed as her eyes grew.
“Really? Here?” She asked.
“Private room darling.”
And they lived happily ever after.
Is there a Moral to this story?
Maybe: Watch out for your dreams of living in clover, they may turn out to be fields of daffodils.
THE WALL
Why don't we build bridges, instead of building walls? This is a story on the unintended consequences of pushing others away, and isolating yourself in a dream of superiority.
The arid lands were blown with dust and grit. The border between Arizona and Mexico was a desolate, empty place, known only for the desperate immigrants trying to cross into a better life for their family.
Two guards were on a permanent patrol across the top of the amazing Wall. It was an extraordinary structure, fifty feet tall, solid concrete, able to be traversed by vehicles for hundreds of miles. They had stopped and were looking out over the expanse of desert while one of the guards was taking a piss. Flicking his cigarette over the edge, he turned to his friend, "Unbelievable, Trump DID get his wall AND Mexico paid for it. Who would have ever believed it back in 2020?"
The other man, not a talker, just grunted while reading his newspaper. It was 2065, so much had changed in the last seventy years because of the guy, but that was then. Now, no one cared about that aberration in the US political cycle.
"Seriously," the first man pursued his argument, trying to elicit a response. "You got to thank him, we got jobs because of it. I know everyone called him the 'enema America needed to have' but really, it worked out pretty good for us in the end."
Another grunt. The headline showed more trouble in the South China Seas, and the invasion of Australia by Indonesia was seen as a given, now that their military was funded by the Chinese. Every day, the Chinese, they were the only thing anyone talked about now.
"Come on, talk a bit. There's no point us patrolling this damn wall every day and every night in silence. It's boring. You got to have an opinion on something!"
"I got an opinion," the reluctant guard finally spoke. "Which is that there are too many opinions."
He paused, still reading, but the other guy just looked at him, encouraging him to say more. "Look," he relented, "I don't got no idea about anything but the obvious. It is obvious that if Trump had not started the trade war, then the Chinese would have ignored Mexico. It is obvious that when the money started pouring in, and the huge factories got built there to get around the import tariffs, that all the manufacturing in the States went South. And yeah, this is why the huge cost of building this damn wall was fronted up. But who cares? It is what it is. Let's get going, we have two hundred miles to check before the day is done."
The get in their Chevy Nova, now manufactured entirely in Mexico. Not even the parts were made in the States anymore! GM had moved its entire management down to Mexico City, then Ford, then Chrysler. The trade war was brutal, but in the end, US manufacturers, effectively bribed by China, chose cost efficiency over country, and moved. They just paid the damn tariff to ship stuff back. At least now they could sell to the rest of the World in the unilateral trade agreement between Asia and Europe that the US was excluded from.
Next, it was Caterpillar, then a steel mill, one after another the heavy industries were shifted South. China bought them up and moved them all. It wasn't what the Republican Party ever imagined, that their trade war would end with massive amounts of money out-rightly buying American production, thus reducing the country to penury. But hey, that's the free market!
The poor cousin of North America was suddenly the rich one. It was like the lottery had fallen into their laps ... jobs, money, work, the good life was finally theirs. China funded Mexico to become the New China, and sure, they had to toe the line but Mexicans were naturally communist.
That was when they finally agreed to build the damn Wall. Too many Americans were trying to get South to where all the jobs were. Miguel turned to Raffa, and said, "Seriously, I know you don't like to think of it, but every day I thank Trump. Where would Mexico be without him?"
Red Dust at Boulia
Do we choose to live in the ordinary, or do we dare to be different? Choice, and choosing are simple things, but to use them means we have to leave the small world where we live and embrace a greater experience. This is a story of a choice that changed the direction of a young boys life.
That huge grin confronted me from the porch of the 1903 Federation I have just finished renovating. He mentioned he would be about, but looking at the huge bushy beard and the beaten up Akubra hat, I barely recognized him. But one look at shining ivories that look they could bite through leather convinced me, "Jimbo!" I said, both delighted he came and stating the obvious in the same breath.
"You want to go to a camel race?" he asked, right off the bat.
In that
brief moment, I looked down the gun barrel of my life and, seeing nothing in the targets, responded, "Sounds good, when we heading out?"
"Tomorrow morning would be good. Head to Djarra, catch up with Sandy, he will want to come. Then down to the Camel races. We should be there inside three days when it starts."
It was Five PM. I gave my old friend a hug, welcomed him in, made coffee, and asked for details. We sat on the veranda over looking the Tweed River. Like everything about the renovation I had been doing, it was a thing created from scrap off demolition sites. "Where is Bullia?"
"You remember I told you about Djarra, where I was catching camels?" I nodded, "South of there."
"Central Queensland? That's a bit of a drive." I commented.
"Mate, we don't HAVE to go, but I reckon it would be great fun."
If a person was not worried about mortgages, divorces, who will take care of the five year old, and where their next bit of income will come from, then they would probably consider things like cost, how the car will go, how long they will be away. However, for me all I thought about was leaving all that crap behind. "No, I love it, we can head out tomorrow. I will call the ex up, and see if we can bring the fourteen year old along. He's on holidays from school right now."
Jimbo kept that insanely bright smile on his face, clearly approving of the decision. 'Brilliant!" he said in that East London accent.
I reflected for a moment, my mate from New Zealand had called up a few years earlier, saying "I got this guy who is heading your way and wants to continue guitar lessons. I reckon you will get on well, shall I give him your number?"
Instant friends are rare. You know, the person you look at and immediately say, "Hi!" but what you mean is "Love that smile" or "great set of teeth" or any one of the thousands of inane thoughts that run through your head that are on the 'like' side of the equation. More to the point, there were no notions of "problem here" or "could be an effort". Right in that first moment, I decided I liked him.
We have gotten on like kids in a sandpit ever since.
"Nice house," he noted.
I know he was also noticing the lack of a wife, and of a son, and probably the stress on my face. But he didn't say anything. That's what I liked about Jimbo. "Yeah, took a few months to get it right. You got a car we can take?"
"Ah, not really," he answered.
I laughed, the red bluebird wagon was in the driveway. I had traded it as a deposit on some land I was selling, and the woman had reneged on completing the contract. She hadn't asked for the car back, so I figured it would cope with the drive. It's like a rental, you are entirely prepared to flog it till it dies. How many miles round trip?" I asked, knowing Jimbo is generally up with these things.
"It's around two thousand k's there, bit more to Bullia. Can do it in a solid days drive."
I look up the map in Alta Vista. It was October 1996, and the whole internet thing was still an amazing thing. On screen you could see the journey without having to pull an atlas from the shelf. "Yeah, if we head tomorrow, stay overnight at Djarra, that should work. I will give a call and see about collecting EJ. You staying here?"
Of course he was. There wasn't a whole lot to organize: bedding, clothes, some food for the trip. What else would you need? A guitar with a road less traveled is enough.
oooo00000oooo
The Ex looked pretty damn happy to be rid of the troublesome fourteen year old. "Have him back by the start of school," she said. He looked as happy to be out of there as she was to see him leave. By way of an after thought, she adds, "And don't let him get drunk!"
Ah, intuition is a wonderful thing, but we won't spoil the surprise. EJ is duly loaded in with his clothes, and blissfully happy he starts to prattle on about how men that wear rose colored glasses are all gay. Jimbo is, needless to say, wearing rose colored glasses. He looks at me with a smile and hops into the conversation.
"Is that right," he says, looking over his shoulder, right at the lad, while wearing the said sunglasses.
"Yeah, it's a fact," Ej says with all the confidence and knowing of everything that only a fourteen year old can possess.
"I thought the saying was 'Looking at the world through rose colored glasses' and that it meant you were overly optimistic?" Jimbo asks, innocently.
"Means they are gay," EJ responds, clearly in charge of all knowledge and truth.
Jim and myself laugh. The sheer level of dumb that a fourteen year old can muster, yet be so completely oblivious to, was something we both understood. We had all been that stupid at some point. We let the subject drop, EJ never notices that Jim's glasses are rose colored.
This was the first time the two had met, and given Jim's easy-going nature they got on quite well. The road was ahead, the journey was underway, and adventure was our goal. "How did these camel races come about?" I asked.
"Paddy started them," Jimbo answers.
"You mean the guy that didn't pay you for months of work?"
James had been living in the bush for months, catching and training camels for Paddy. He was paid virtually nothing, but he loved the work. This involved going into the desert, walking in, and finding a herd. You caught a young female, they were the only ones worth breaking in, and "camel whispered" it, to get it used to humans. At some point, Arab buyers would call by a muster, choose the camels they wanted, and pay Paddy. Then he might pay you, or he may not.
In Jimbo's case, he had been in a very bad accident with an old Land Cruiser hitting a cow that crossed the road in front of it. Wiped out the four wheel drive, which is saying something if you know old land cruisers. The cow wasn't real good either. Jim was injured, but apparently this was unimportant. Anyway, the cost of this car was deducted from his pay, despite it not being his fault. Now, at the time, he was not an Australian resident, just over on a working visa.
There was a lot of effort and costs and lawyers that would be needed to get the dollars he was owed, and everyone who knew Paddy also knew he would never pay up willingly. In fact, it was a surprise he managed to convince anyone in central Queensland to trust him, as he had a terrible track record.
"He's a charming Irishman," said Jim by way of explanation. "I enjoyed the experience, I loved the desert, training the camels. I would never have done that without Paddy. Apart from hitting the cow, I met some fantastic people and felt I was part of the real Australia. I just called it a loss and moved on."
The oddest thing. Jim was hard working, conscientious, a qualified arboriculturist, what most people think of as a tree surgeon, but could he get residency in Australia? So many problems were thrown in front of him, yet he never gave up. This was where he wanted to live. Eventually, he had to drive the immigration department to first accept his professional qualifications and then prove there was a call for, with a subsequent lack of, arboriculturists in this country.
We chatted in general over the long drive, along the gun barrel highways, the long stretches of nothing that most of Australia is comprised of. Taking shifts, we pushed on through, watching the price of petrol rise every one hundred k's. Along the way, Jim starts talking about DaJarra. "It's been ten years since I have been there, but you know nothing will have changed. Behind the bar, there will be Bull. He and Hooter own the place. At the left of the bar, Sandy will be having a FourX Gold." Jim looked off to the distance, perhaps because there was nowhere else to look, and sighed.
"It's a thing you just don't see in the cities, the sense of permanence. You have the sense that in a hundred years Dajarra will still be what it is." Sadly, a mere ten years on, Sandy was dead, Bull had sold the pub, and Dajarra is a ghost of its former self. The camel races are still happening, however.
oooo00000oooo
We roll into town, if you could call it that. Mostly it is railway stockyards, the life blood of DaJarra. The cattle are mustered here and moved on to where they will go, and this provides both the town its only employment, but also the brief moments of excitement as machinery and cows call out in a strange
harmony.
We walk into the bar, and the locals look about. It has been a decade since Jimbo has been there, but there is no apparent surprise. "Gidday Jimbo," Bull says, and stops strutting his back and forth behind the bar. Above him, a mural of nubile aboriginal women stare down as they had for years. Behind him, the solid stainless fridge doors that were once the stable of every pub, giving a solid 'tunk' as you pulled the lever to open them and get out what the customer ordered. The others turn, and nod, then go back to drinking.
Jimbo goes over and takes his place beside Sandy, who asks, "You staying in the hall?"
"We figured that as we look like rich city folks, we might as well book a room in the pub, if that's OK," he replies.
We get a room and, after a shower to wash off the road, we head in for the thrill of Friday night in the Dajarra pub.
That means drinking beer and talking. EJ is about to turn fifteen and the casual mention of this causes a small stir. "Let me buy him a drink!" says a newcomer to town. Which he duly does as I ignore the last minute advice from the Ex. It is rude to tell the local policeman not to buy your son a drink and, of course, the boy is blissfully unaware of this fact.
All it took was four beers, and the poor lad was close to legless. Head spinning, he said "I am so tired, got to get some sleep," with this he staggered out to a great deal of laughter.
We stayed and chatted, getting to know the locals. It was agreed that Sandy should come with us to Boulia for the Races, he had some business down that way. So, organized, we roll out of there and get ready for the short drive on the morrow.
oooo00000oooo
The bush is a wonderful place in the early morning. You hear so many sounds: The lowing of cattle from the stockyards, the laughter of kookaburras, the snoring of fifteen year-olds. The air is chilled and damp, the paradox of the desert that will soon turn hot and dry.
Witch Hunters and Other Stories (2018-2019) Page 15