The Caboose

Author’s Note:

         They were near the railway station where I lived, mowing the lawn and doing garden maintenance around the place. I’d see them on Sundays going to work. Mum said when she’d walked the dog down past them she’d seen the remains of their lunch, Vegemite sandwiches on white bread. She thought it was terrible for them to be fed such a meagre lunch after doing tough physical work. She didn’t know if they came from Silverwater or Goulburn.
         I saw them during the week when I went to buy milk at a different part of town. They were at the sportsfield mowing and trimming hedges. I got milk, and stopped at the take-away going home, ordered $10 worth of chips and said I’d be back in a few minutes. I tore home and got changed - I had to look unremarkable. A footy jersey and jeans. I picked up my monstrous order of chips and pulled up at the sportsfields. Paying particular attention to remaining calm, I approached their supervisor. He said they were about to stop for lunch anyway and that I was welcome to join them. I slapped my chips onto the picnic table, and so, with some interest, the men sat around with me, succumbing to the sweet scent of deep fried potatoes. There looked to be about 15 of them altogether – plus the supervisor.
         I’d bought a packet of cigarettes even though I’d only smoked once before in my life, and as we ate I lit up and offered them around. Cigarettes were going to be the only thing I had in common with these men – prisoners, doing community service. I was sitting next to a young one, in his early 20s. He made me laugh, and liked the same music as me. It looked like we had more than his addiction to nicotine – and my apparent one – in common.

         I love Jimi Hendrix… The guitar was never an instrument that he had to play. It played him, manipulated him into doing what he did with it. I totally agree. Another artist like that, an Aussie guy, Diesel. He’s like that with his voice, it just finds these notes with such ease… Diesel! Johnny Diesel! I saw him live with Cold Chisel, oh only a few years ago before I… Yeah, Cold Chisel was the first rock band I ever saw. Dad took me in Year 6! Awesome… We never get to listen to music inside. I mean, if you had a walkman or something, then yeah. Could you get hold of one? I have Jimi Hendrix and Diesel tapes in my car, you could have them if you wanted, I only recorded them from CDs, I have other copies… Oh really? Y’sure? Yeah that’s fine. Awesome, that’s so cool of you.

A prisoner of considerable age and wisdom, thought:

Hair dye – Copper on Blonde by L’Oreal
Make up – by Miki
Aussie football jersey – by Cantebury
Flared blue jeans – by Levi Strauss
Nail polish – Vermillion by Clarins
Shoes – by Converse
Liar

She’s trapped herself and she doesn’t even know it. The only thing that’s real for her is her hands and eyes. Not only that, she’s a teenager and Axel’s dope. A young woman and a young man. That unavoidable connection. There’s no happy endings when you throw in your lot with criminals. We just don’t have the moral responsibility for the world outside bars. Apparently we can gain it through years of reflection, though. Hmmm…
         
He waited until after lunch to talk to her.

         He leant with her up against the railing of a bridge over the dam. She was smoking again.
‘Jill, I noticed you were getting quite friendly with Axel before.’ She blushed, laughing to brush it off.
         ‘Do you know what he’s in for?’
         ‘Nup,’ she said exhaling smoke, thinking who does he think he is. Bloody loon.
         ‘Drugs. He bought, he sold, he bashed, he broke.’ He was losing her and he knew it. ‘Look, I’m just trying to say be careful.’
         ‘Mm Hmm,’ she dismissed him again, but something about him kept her listening.
         ‘I’m Mannix, by the way,’ and he offered his hand. She took it.
         She flicked the cigarette away, trying to remain aloof.
         He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a photo of a young boy in a St. Peter’s College uniform.

         ‘Let’s hijack this one eh?’ said Marc.
         ‘Sure,’ said his mate, but not without a smug, dopey laugh.
         They dived underwater into the whale’s belly that is the inner-city bus. It was New Year’s Eve, and important plans had to be made.
         ‘Two adults to Surry Hills.’
         ‘Four dollars twenty.’ The doors swivelled jerkily back into place, moving slowly at first, like a kid leaning forwards trying to maintain his centre of gravity. Then all in a hurry, as if he’s lost his balance, they slapped onto the doorframe.
         The bus was densely populated so Marc sat alongside a stranger. A teenager in uniform.
         ‘Hey kid, can I sit here?’
         ‘Mm hmm.’ He didn’t look up.
         ‘Who are you writing to? Girlfriend?’ Marc leant over the glistening mobile phone, and thought, ‘big buttons for humans’ –  an ad he’d seen at a bus shelter in Coogee.
         ‘Nah man, I haven’t got a girl. All boys school,’ he said, with a quick flick of the head, moving his long black, straight hair out of his eyes to smile at Marc.
         ‘So who you talkin’ to then?’
         ‘Oh yeah, a mate.’ As he said this, he turned his head, smiling at Marc, revealing buck teeth. In theory, this kid’s beauty is ruined. But somehow those teeth added an untouchable quality to his smile. It sure made the girls swoon. Anything for a glimpse of those teeth.
         ‘Lookin’ for something to do tonight?’
         ‘Yeah.’
         ‘Corner of Smith Street and Batman Lane in the Hills.’
         ‘Oh yeah?’ this time he looked up inquiringly and it was his eyes. Deeply set. Dark. Bottomless.
         ‘Yeah but don’t expect too much free corn.’
         ‘Nah man.’
         ‘So yeah, BYO. Have you got the means?’
         ‘Yes, thanks. Older brother.’
         ‘Sweet.’
         ‘It’s Jamie by the way.’ He held out his hand and Marc took it in a strong handshake.
         ‘Marc. good to meet you –  Jamie.’ Jamie nodded and they began to lean forward with inertia as the bus pulled into the Bondi stop. Marc got up, his impression of ‘cool’ being, as far as he was concerned, made fairly obvious. The doors performed a reverse of the jerky routine they had executed only minutes before. Marc briefly gripped his dopey mate on the shoulder as he left, and the man rose and followed him. Marc, the piper, couldn’t resist. As the bus pulled away, he made eye contact with his young friend, and gave a quick lift of his head. A reverse nod, and he had another follower.

         hey sam-party2nite cnr
         batman-smith st surry
         hills byo

         awesome whos is it



         dunno some random
         on the bus told me

         hmm legit jamie?

         yeh man ill taxi to urs
         @8
         
         ok copy that          

December 31, 1994: The time is out of joint

         The taxi rounded the corner onto Smith Street and it was obvious where they were headed. The last sprinkles of dusk had fallen over the city, and darkness rose from the permanent shadows. On a less romantic note, cars lined the narrow, dingy street. It was one of the last terraced streets in the city not to be fully renovated by schmick developers, and it showed. The terrace was painted a rich, dark green, and for some reason, all of the light falling from the windows onto the road was green as well.
         ‘That’s fourteen dollars eighty, thanks,’ said the taxi driver, and Jamie paid while his friend stared out of the window like a four year old at a train. There was a woman in a mint coloured satin dress tending to one of the people in the gutter. The arch of her back creating an image of motherhood in that simple gesture that would stay with Sam forever. As she rose to enter the house, her momentary child turned to look imploringly after her. Sam turned away, slamming the taxi door.
         ‘Wow Jamie, this is so not a teenagers’ party. This is like, hardcore.’ Sam’s eyes began to slide back and forth over people sprawled along the kerb.
         ‘I know, Scrogger, it’s a real party. Excited?’ Sam nodded to himself as Jamie led the way up the front steps, feeling as if he were about to arrive at a dinner party with his 6-pack of Heineken, not a… well, whatever this was. They ducked under the tree ferns at the front of the house and stumbled forwards until, without realising, they were through the door and in the smoky, dark green hallway.
         Music was thundering through the house from an as yet unknown source.
         Radiohead! said Jamie, excited. It’s called “Thinking About You” and it’s actually a rip off of a prelude by Chopin, with Thom Yorke’s vocal over the top.’
         Nobody cares, J. Sam was busy freeing part of his jacket from a doorknob he had been forced onto. Shit, it smells in here eh?
         Yeah, what is that? Weed? Spew? Sam nodded.
         You bet. That’s sick. Let’s head out the back. Together they snaked through the crowd, both clinging to the 6-pack of beer for fear of losing each other. They finally reached the kitchen, which led out to the back porch. They could still hear Radiohead but hadn’t passed the stereo yet. It would be somewhere else in the labyrinth.
         Outside, the air smelt of rain. Fresh and clean, other than the odd rancid whiff of smoke as a stranger lit up.
         Well, want to crack one open then? Sam had realised their purpose here.
         Yeah, sure. Jamie snapped out of his analysis of a man wearing an Irish football jersey rolling a joint in the corner of the yard.
         Jamie smelt Calvin Klein. Now that’s more like it, he thought, and he headed straight after Marc’s dark hair. The music throbbed louder as he followed the smell and the hair into the bottom level of the terrace. Suddenly, Marc turned to say hello to a lady, and Jamie caught his eye. At that second the music came to an abrupt halt and created a second of silence as their eyes met. How romantic, Jamie thought sarcastically.
         Jamie! Marc said hailing him through the crowd as another deliciously disturbed Radiohead number burst from the speakers.
         Hey, he said and nodded. Without thinking, he scanned the room, alighting on either distractingly beautiful women or obvious drunks. Marc read discomfort not curiosity, and began to make every effort to make him feel more at home.
         Let me introduce you to a few people. Get to know the crowd. Did you bring that mate with you? Marc made sure his eyes stayed on Jamie as he said this. Jamie had to know he cared – think he cared. Whatever.
         Yeah, he’s…  I dunno, out the back I think.
         Wow, you’ve already split up? You’re pretty brave. Let’s go get him.
         The next twenty minutes were a flurry of handshakes and delighted eye contact as Jamie met the crowd. When they went back outside to find Sam, he had gone and left the beer behind.
         He’d be inside. Maybe he met Larissa. I told her you guys were coming.
         Did you know all these other people were going to turn up?
         Marc didn’t answer, probably because he was paying more attention to the woman Jamie and Sam had seen outside before. The mint coloured satin. She was with Sam.
         Is that your mate?
         Yeah, that’s Scroggins.


10
3
8
4
7
6
5
9
2
1
HAPPY NEW YEAR!

         The first day of 1995. At their local Italian café, they decided that the previous night had passed in relative fun, though it was nothing much more exciting than parties they’d already been to. Marc had obviously made quite an impression on Jamie, he kept talking about things Marc had said to him and people he’d introduced him to, like ‘The Professor’ and ‘Leatherjacket’. These two lived in a shared bus shelter at Coogee. The Professor was one of Marc’s dealers, selling drugs out of what was called ‘the Coogee branch’ and Leatherjacket looked after the finances. Jamie couldn’t shut up about drinks he and Marc had shared and cigarettes they’d rolled and music they’d talked about… Sam was seeing a montage of happy times like in the ugly duckling movies, when a makeover was imminent.
          I think you need to calm down and get this in perspective, J. Why’s he being so friendly? What’s the point in getting you wrapped around his little finger?
         I dunno, maybe he just thinks I’m cool.
         Yeah Jamie, why didn’t I think of that?

January 1, 1995: The times are bad indeed.

April: It is not, nor it cannot come to good.

         ‘Man, you’ve got to get over this maths, science and music bullshit,’ said Marc. ‘There’s no point once you get out of those buildings and into the real world. You spend all those years forcing this structured life onto yourself, and it’s not until you get out that you realise how you’ve just spent all that time putting yourself in prison. Real life’s living on the edge, never knowing what’s coming next, and not caring when it does.’ Marc handed Jamie a glass of Scotch and they drank to freedom.
         ‘Here’s to freedom then, Jamie - to chaos!’
         ‘To chaos!’ They drank. Then they sat somewhat deflated - having lost the momentum, as it were.
         ‘What about the people who tell you that but have got a university degree, and are making themselves a living thanks to their high school education. Is that prison?’
         ‘Jamie, I’m rich and not one solitary thing I learnt in a classroom is helping me now.’
         ‘Depends on what future you want for yourself. What are you gonna do when you’re 65 and want to retire?’
‘By then I’ll have made enough money to live on for the rest of my life and the rest of yours. Bourgeoise expectations, it’s all just a ring of oppression.’ 
‘Hmm…’ He leant back into Marc’s dark leather lounge. New enough to still smell like an animal.

It is a terrible thought.

What do you think?
Why don’t you just tell me?
Why do you want to know?
Because I’m trying to be your friend.
Statement, Scrogger, statement. One – love. My serve.
Have you ever smoked pot?
What’s pot? Don’t you know?
Could you refresh my memory?
Can’t you refresh it yourself? Do you have any water?
Non-sequitur. Two – love. Your serve.
Why do you keep hanging out with Marc?
Don’t you think he’s a nice guy?
Do you really think he’s making you a better person?
I’m learning from him, doesn’t that make me better?
It’s going too far.
Stateme-
Jamie, I’m not playing. I’m serious.
Look Scrogger, come to mine this weekend. My parents are still away.
Your parents are away? Why aren’t you staying at mine?
I told them I was.
Then why aren’t you?
Later that day: A foul and pestilent congregation of vapours

         From the street it’s a façade of 1940s brickwork and conservative design. Comfortably overgrown shrubs screen the nearly-too-neat, dark verandah. Jamie and Sam approach the door.
         The flyscreen is peeled back effortlessly, and the key works first time. Within the shell, the smell of teen spirit rushes up their nostrils, and while Jamie jostles his way into the kitchen, Sam recoils silently. The interior is unrecognisable.  An oak hallstand is replaced with a milk crate full of records, some not even in their sleeves; a travesty compared to Jamie’s usually meticulously alphabetised CD racks. Through to the once-was-dining room, Sam gasps at the $15,000 Tasmanian Blackwood dining table, usually with an elegant candlestick in adornment, instead covered in music DJ equipment and empty beer bottles. Elsewhere, six large speakers on six expensive dining chairs. To complete the effect, a festive sprinkling of alcohol in all fashion of canisters, as well as cigarette butts, glow sticks, pizza boxes and CDs.
What the hell, Jamie? He was washing mugs to make them tea, in the kitchen.
Scrogger? In here.
Sam stood in the doorframe watching, as Jamie washed the cups, having to negotiate piles of dishes, pots, pans and utensils. He didn’t speak.
Jamie. What’s happened here? Talk to me.
A party… Sam waited for a further explanation, but none came.
It was Marc, wasn’t it?
He didn’t mean for so many people to come, he even bought me a case of beer to say sorry. Seriously, it was only meant to be a few of them. It just fleshed out…
When was it, Jamie?
Two Saturdays ago.
TWO WEEKS?! He turned to survey the ruins behind him. And you haven’t cleaned up yet?
Too busy.
Sam pressed ‘play’ on the CD player, and thrashing heavy metal attacked his ears at a volume well above the safe 85 decibals. Sam lunged at the ‘stop’ button, took the CD and threw it into the backyard, where he located the rest of the furniture missing from Jamie’s house.
Here, Jamie handed his mate a cup of tea as they surveyed the situation.
I guess we’re gonna have to tidy this place up pretty soon then. When are your parents back from Croatia? They were with relatives on the outskirts of Zagreb, organising Jamie’s temporary enrolment in the Zagreb Music Academy, so that he was eligible to compete in the Croatian National Cello Competition.
Tomorrow. Shit, they get back tomorrow.
Tomorrow? No way.  Sam said it in an Irish accent, imitating a comedian they’d seen on tour in Australia. Jamie laughed.
Yep.
Really? You better get your other mate around here too then, Jamie, he’s the one that made the mess in the first place.
Nah, don’t worry Scrogger, I’ll do it myself. He surveyed the turmoil around him.
Then why’d you ask me over?
I dunno. I didn’t realise, I just saw it on the calendar then.
Jamie, do you even want to do the competition now? Or has Marc messed with your head so badly that a dream you’ve had forever doesn’t mean anything any more?
Look, I dunno, and childhood dreams never come true anyway, kids have a distorted view of things. They think we can do what we want. I thought I could do what I wanted. I’ll go to Croatia because I have to. He lucky-dipped a CD out of a beer box and without turning down the volume, pressed play. They sat in the whirlwind and enjoyed their tea, lost in thought. They listened to the guitar detonate and the man’s voice soar, making the journey from, and back to, a sordid selection of the most depressing words ever written.
         As the album continued, they rose from their stools and began the titanic task of restoring order, and turning what looked like the chaotic squat of a penniless addict into a home.

The very air stinks.

         He crossed the line between sleep and wakefulness in a split second. With resolve, he pushed the covers on his bed neatly back to his left, and swung his feet out onto the floor to his right. He was dressed in a once crisp, white shirt, a navy blue tie, a darker navy blazer and suit pants with narrow, grey pinstripes, dark grey socks, and shiny, black, formal shoes. Perhaps unusual for somebody waking up before leaving their ‘holiday’ destination. But it made sense to the Professor. It was his last day at the hospital, and he wanted to make sure everything went according to plan.
         He rose and pulled the sheets over the bed, standing back to survey the situation before turning to his suitcase and taking a deep breath.
         ‘Goodbye bed, goodbye bedside table. Goodbye window, goodbye curtains…’ he went on like this for around half an hour ‘… Goodbye pillow, goodbye pillowslip…’ After he had personally farewelled every object in his room, he stacked his bed time reads into his suitcase. Foucault, Einstein, and three books on Quantum Physics. He savoured the final click of his door into place. Waiting for the safety lock to slide over ten seconds after the door was closed. The last time that simple nurturing act would be carried out.
After walking through the gates with nought but a suitcase and a name, and a nickname at that, the Professor followed the signs to what looked to be the nearest town and boarded a bus. He was going to Coogee to meet up with his old pal, Leatherjacket.

August:          There’s a divinity that shapes our ends
         Rough hew them how we will

jamie… come by the
italian cafe this arvo,
ok? i need 2 talk 2u
about something.
larissa

ok ill b there @4

yep c u then,
and please don’t
bring sam, i need
to c u alone

is everything ok?

yep see u @ 4

         He noticed she looked nervous. She was sitting almost totally hidden, he didn’t think she was even there at first. She was also looking around furtively, more so even after she laid eyes on him. He sat down across from her having ordered some tea.
         Uh… So what’s up Larissa? He met her eyes steadily.
         Oh, nothin’! Nothing’s actually wrong, I just… needed to talk to you. Her voice was relaxed, but her quick fingers played with the sugar sachets, stacking them into orderly rows.
         Hit me. Jamie took a big swig of tea and gave her a second to gather her thoughts without his eyes on her.
         Ok. Jamie, I want to talk to you about Marc.
         Yeah sure, what about him.
         Jamie, I love Marc very much, he’s a great guy. But I know him very well… I know his history, is what I’m saying.
         Yeah, Jamie drank more tea, this time grabbing the corners of his thoughts and pulling them together.
         Marc came from the same place as you did, Jamie. The place you’re still at and shouldn’t let go of.
         Marc went to St. Peter’s?
         Yeah. He dropped out at sixteen, though, and from there he just went downhill. At first he genuinely tried to get an apprenticeship, but working in BHP, it was tough to stay a good guy.
         Yeah… He still didn’t really know where she was going with it.           Jamie, Marc will do you no favours, trust me. This lifestyle, for Marc, it’s been all he’s known as an adult. His childhood had one thing going on, but then adult life for Marc has reduced him. All he can do is cling to these material things he fills the gaps with. He’s using you to get these things, Jamie, and it’s got to stop.
         Larissa, I’ve heard this speech before. Even Scrogger’s telling me ‘this is not the place for you, Jamie’. Pretty much you just want me to do what you want, not what I want.
         What’s important to you Jamie? He poured more tea from the pot, in silence. Jamie, I think you refuse to admit to those people what’s important to you because both you and they know it’s not this. Silence. Ok, how about this one. There’s a saying. If the whole world’s wrong and you’re right, you need to turn and take a look at yourself.
         And what am I supposed to see?
         You’re supposed to see you doing what you want to do. What do you want to do? A prolonged silence as Jamie looked at himself in ten years time. He woke up in a certain house. He had a certain lady lying beside him. He got up and went to a certain job. He came home from it. All the while looking out for Marc, but he didn’t see him. He sighed, and looked up from his teacup. Marc was going to get me to help with a swap he’s doing tomorrow night, with some guy –
         Yeah, Mut.
         Mut, that was his name. I had to do something, I dunno, look out for the cops.
         You can’t do it. She flung herself around the bedroom in her head, ripping open drawers and hurling clothes across the room in search of an excuse for him.
         Nah, I have to. It’s been planned for a few weeks. I can’t back out of it.
         You do understand what I was saying though, right? School, your parents, they might be boundaries but you don’t have to jump over a fence just because it’s there. I mean, look at me. You think I’m free, but I’m not – every day I put on makeup and dress in fashion. I wear society’s little rules, but they can’t stop me from doing what I want or seeing things as they are.
         OK. Just tomorrow, then I’m gone to stinking Zagreb.

Well, at least we’re getting somewhere.

         why are things swilling around so much? even the pop song on the radio has lost its beat. last time that happened i’d eaten magic mushrooms. bang. what the fuck? breathe. keep calm, these situations come up all the time, and i’m always fine. always. the drugs. the money. bang. shit, i’ve got vertigo. it’s no use hiding the shit mut, they’re not fucking stupid. they’ll search the whole apartment, as if they’re gonna miss under the flipping lounge chair. a-ha, the upstairs window. last time we jumped out easily enough onto a dumpster… easy. bang. get moving. the officer’s coming up the bang stairs. everything’s sluicing together. the green from the carpet and the stained white of the walls. walls that are unfortunately caving in over me. caving in. they are right? marc! they’ve gone! no they haven’t mut. finally! the top of the stairs. all my strength to get this window open. marc! get back down here, i’m not joking! yes you are; the police have got you and are making you try to fool me. not gonna happen. got it! whoa… humph, i’m good. faster, faster. hey marc! stupid, good-for-nothing kid. marc, i hear police sirens. so do i. run.

         The officer calmly took Jamie by his arms and cuffed him. Marc put up a more serious fight, but in vain. He was in the patrol car before you could say ‘pot’, much less ‘marijuana’. The door of Jamie’s car was wrenched open in two rough movements, but he was ushered in as if he were as fragile as porcelain.
         The ride in the car was beautiful. Sydney City is brilliant at night, because the homeless are bedded down and invisible after nightfall. Indelible stains on the pavement and graffiti on unlit walls doesn’t exist. There are just shiny buildings and well-dressed partygoers. After 1 or 2AM the streets are slightly tarnished by drunks, but before the drink takes over, wealth rules.
         The cars pull up at the station, the blue and white frown setting the tone for this end of the street. The sweaty, humid atmosphere outside gives way to a chilled, shiver inducing air-conditioned interior. The doors clinically slide shut behind him and the policeman.
         A typical police station surrounds them. More bright lights than panelling line the ceiling, and doors swing open and closed while important, busy looking people march through having hushed conversations full of “hmm’s”.
         Jamie ends up sitting alone in a room with some grey plastic chairs around a grey table. The walls are nearly white, but probably closer to grey. There is a clock on the wall, and it’s black and white. So when he lets his eyes go out of focus it becomes a blob of grey. The door is very dark grey, with a window at head-height that looks out into the black and white hallway. The door-handle is silver, which is a kind of grey too.

         It feels like his mum doesn’t turn up for ages because      time

passes
                             really,
                                                 r e a l l y,

                                                           s  l  o  w  l  y.


         After about an hour his mother picks him up. On the way out, the doors part gracefully, beckoning him through.
         ‘You’re very lucky, you know, Jamie.’
         ‘I know.’ He insists on looking out of the window, observing the pavement when they stop for the lights at empty intersections.
         ‘If you had been charged you wouldn’t be allowed out of the country tomorrow.’ He doesn’t reply.
         When they pull in to the façade of 1940s brickwork, his mother speaks once more.
         ‘Good luck in the competition, Jamie. I know you’ll do us proud.’
         ‘Thanks.’ He makes his way straight inside, leaving his mother to close the gate. He knows she is calm because now he has no choice but to go to Zagreb.
         He rises the next morning - bags already packed - and carefully lets the door to his parents room waft open, but they are asleep. He looks at his watch. 05:30. His parents alarm begins its gentle, bleeping crescendo. He slinks hurriedly along the wall and pulls the power cord from the socket.  Not bothering to shut the door behind him, he makes his way to the taxi rank at the end of the street.

         Author’s note:

         One day I’ll know that Zagreb is a stunning city. A clean city. Most unusual, a clean city. Photos of its buildings remind me of orchestral scores. Classical ones. Not modern ones, modern ones are all over the place. Scores from the actual classical period are structured, symmetrical, predictable and tidy. So are these buildings.
         It’s impossible to properly imagine a score though. You can never imagine the feeling. You can even know exactly how it will sound, whether it will be ‘happy’ or ‘sad’, and fast or slow. You can know that the white hotel is 15 stories high or that the church has a steeple that will baffle you… But you can never know how a score is going to make you feel when you’re sitting looking at it. Music can be colourful, which some people think is ironic – that it is made solely from black and white. If you think about it, it’s not ironic at all. In fact, it makes perfect sense! How is a pattern of black and white constraining? The truth is, it is not a restriction to a composer. In fact, there’s a great freedom when you’re in control of those black dots.
         Ha! My point was that when the scores are put into practice they are enchanting, exquisite and beautifully ornamented. This is how I will feel standing underneath the arched gateway to the Zagreb Music Academy. Enchanted.

         
December: An almost blunted purpose

         Jamie stood under the arched gateway to the Zagreb Music Academy, and was surprised. This was not the Harry-Potter-esque castle he was expecting. Honestly, it was so far from ‘beautiful’, that he thought it looked more like a prison than a living, breathing organism. It was grey, and square, and made mostly of glass. It was extremely modern. He stood shocked for a moment, and shrugged, realising he should have expected this all along. Modern music is exactly this, not very appealing in the typical sense, but nevertheless based on tradition (four walls and a ceiling). Eventually he was shunted through the gates by the throngs of inmates jostling to get inside. All in their orange suits, or vintage T-shirts and the rest of that “look at me, I’m different” musician’s garb. Hey, at least they’re having a good time.

         Jamie’s Aunt and Uncle’s place was an unremarkable townhouse, a 25-minute walk from the Academy. Part of a small development, it was orange sandstone with red windows and a red door that squeaked cheerfully as he stepped through. He found himself immediately in the kitchen, a wonder of orderliness, with herbs and spices lining the walls in neat canisters.  His mother’s sister was a smart woman, and her husband a stern man. Kata and Josip.

A week after his arrival, Kata and Josip invited him to join them in the kitchen.          
In Rjeka, a family with 12 children, Uncles and Aunts, Grandparents and Grandchildren gathered around their kitchen table.
On the Eastern border, a bachelor knelt at his bedside table.
In Zadar, a Mother and Father with a baby in her mother’s arms congregated around their own dining table.
‘Jamie. There is an ancient Croatian tradition we must complete this evening,’ said Josip. ‘Today is the 13th of December. It is the feast of St. Lucy. Each family in Croatia sows wheat in a plate with some water and we use it on the table. It is a decoration. When they grow, the plants are tied to the trobojnica,’ he pointed to a red, white and blue ribbon on the table. ‘They are tied around three candles. They stay there until Epiphany. Epiphany is the 6th of January. So they stay through the Christmas season.’ Kata brought the plate with water and wheat seeds to the table, and each of them sprinkled some into the water.
‘That’s… prekrasno,’ Jamie blinked. It was one of the only Croatian words he knew. It meant ‘beautiful’. Had he just thought it? Or worse, had he just said it out loud?
‘Yes,’ said Josip. ‘It is a nice tradition.’
         Jamie was still reeling from his admission about the beauty of what had just happened, and he soon retired to bed. He was restless after the ritual for some reason. He couldn’t understand why so many of these rules and traditions made him feel so happy. Their passion for their homeland was a release, closing the door on oppression and letting the door to freedom swing wide.

         Next thing, it was Christmas Eve’s eve, and Jamie’s Aunt had been cooking the traditional Christmas Eve dinner for the next day. In Croatia, Christmas Eve is a feast. During the day only plain bread is eaten. Then, at night, the irresistible Croatian cuisine, dish by dish, is ceremoniously presented, to be devoured by family and friends. Strukli, a vegetable ravioli, is eaten with purplish dry prunes, yellow pears, and red-skinned apples or “Fat” beans, which come with sauerkaut and fried onions.
         ‘Jamie, do you know what is happening in Croatia?’ She paused, ‘outside of the city?’
         ‘A war?’
         ‘Yes. War. First, under Hrvatska Demokratska Zajednica, Croatia declares independence from Yugoslavia. Before war, Yugoslav government was controlled by Serbians. So small amount of Serbians here were on the side of Yugoslavs. Croatian culture… What is the word? It is going bad…’
         ‘Being poisoned?’
         ‘Poisoned… Yes, I suppose. It is being poisoned.  Slavs and Serbs attack us. A 500-year-old church was bulldozed over. All of gravestones were knocked down. It was a great tragedy. Finally there was a ceasefire, but fighting goes on,’ she concluded sadly, lulled into a trance as she stirred a pot.
         ‘That’s terrible, Kata,’ Jamie was seated at the long farmhouse table drinking lukewarm tea without milk or sugar.
         ‘It is very sad. But Croatian people believe in saving our identity. This is a passion for us. No amount of violence can take away our prekrasno Croatian culture.’ He took another gulp of his tea, afraid that if he let it linger for much longer he’d be drinking it iced. He had a sudden unexpected curiosity.
         ‘Is anything being done about it?’
         ‘Hope. There is always hope. We continue our traditions and know that we will be released. What is within us can never be put in chains.’

GUIL: What are you going to do now?
ROS: I don’t know. What do you want to do?

         First left. Third right. Second right. Eighth left. Third door on the right.
         There were 4870 practice rooms at the Zagreb Music Academy, arranged by an architect in a logical and space-maximising way. This layout made perfect sense on a draftsmen’s table, but when put into practice (no pun intended) the logical beginnings turned out to be most confusing for all involved.
         When you visit the Academy, there is an expectation on newcomers to align seamlessly with those around them. This means that the daggy and uncool yet extremely helpful directions one may be carrying, must become invisible. Sometimes newcomers will go beyond the call of keeping their appearance low-key. They will pack their display folder noticeably, with healthily worn-in scores that ultimately communicate skill and talent.
         Jamie, however, on his first cello lesson at the Academy, chose not to wear a silver spoon in his mouth. He made sure that his eye-catching music was packed away, but had to settle with being self-conscious about his noticeably high-profile hard, red cello case. When he passed someone in the corridor, he’d say ‘dobardan’ and ask if he was on the right path to his teacher’s room.  Thanks to this, he fitted in at the ‘cad’ sooner than he expected.

         

His first lesson with the cello Master transcended reality, and Jamie found himself pinching his arm on the way out to check it had all really happened. The pink-cheeked Master was the kind of man that looked as if the decisions he’d made in his life had manifested themselves on his face. That’s the kind of man you can hang your future on, he thought. It seemed like the wrinkles in his face were the stave upon which his life was written, the music etched into his features. During the lesson, Jamie had struggled angrily with a ferocious passage, unable to sustain the rapid, driving pulse. He stopped and sighed, leaning back in his chair. The Professor read his body language and spoke. Jamie, keep trying. You’re very close, your hands know what they’re doing now. You’ve got to do this piece a thousand times by the rules, now do it with your eyes closed and feel it. Trust me, go again now, you’ll make it through and your soul will fly.

         “Ladies and gentlemen, this is your Captain speaking. We’ll be commencing our descent momentarily, so the seatbelt lights have been switched on. The local time in Sydney is 11.15 in the morning, Monday the 6th of January, 1996, and we’ll be down by11.30, which is right on schedule. A balmy morning, at 28 degrees.”

         The next Wednesday Jamie remembered as Marc’s delivery day to ‘the Coogee branch’. So he took a detour home via the bus shed on the main street.
         
         The sky had been just tops all day, and had served as the lifeboat in many drowning conversations. However, as is always the case in a layered narrative, clouds loomed to the south, and were rudely stretching across the sky, refusing to recoil.

         The two men lived in a bus shelter, one of those three walls and a tin roof jobs. They were struck by poverty so that they were doomed to inhabit this tragic excuse for a home for the rest of their lives. The Professor and Leatherjacket.

         I’ll walk past them and they’ll stop me. They always scrutinise their customers squeezing out of buses, spilling like water over a cliff. Moving slowly until they reach the door, then flinging themselves onto the pavement to power-strut away. No, they may not recognise me back in my uniform. I’ll sit between them on the bench, perhaps.
         I prepare a face to meet their faces.

         Maybe the word is ‘sidled’. Jamie leant towards the bus shelter, and upon eye contact with the Professor, took the last few steps until he was out of the sun.
         Afternoon gentlemen, he said with one of those triumphant smiles that’s always followed by an oh hi! With an elongated ‘i’ sound. The Professor raised his eyebrows and Leatherjacket just kept rambling.
         Professor? Leatherjacket… C’mon guys? It wasn’t really a question.
         Can I help you? That was a question.
         Yeah, by remembering who I am. Remember Marc? We hung out a few times. Before I went to that cello competition in Croatia…
         Caboose! Caboose! Leatherjacket roused the travellers popping out of the bus. Don’t get caught or you’ll be in the caboose!
         Jamie felt a strong grip on his shoulder, and turned to recognise Marc. Tall and well built, as always, but somehow more used. I guess prison really takes it out of you, Jamie thought.
         Marc, said Jamie, and looked at the ground below the bench. The convenient ‘built in’ storage space, for broken bottles and chip packets licked clean.
         Jamie, Marc replied, and allowed his grip to loosen before putting his hand back in his pocket.
         Jamie now is it? About time!
         Look kid, slow up, I had your back for a long time, the only reason you didn’t do a bit was ‘cause I kept my mouth shut.
         Yeah, well thanks… He’d run out of options. Why had he even come here? To see two druggos in a bus shed by the beach? And now what, with Marc there? He had to finish this. He didn’t want Marc in his life anymore, he realised where he should be in the world, and Marc had no place there.
         Marc let out a quick breath, in a silent snort.
         Excuse me? He said, obviously not happy with Jamie’s expression of gratitude
         Marc, you took me out of home! You converted me to-
         Converted you?!
         Yes, to your crazy… street-religion. I was lucky to keep myself off the ‘missing persons’ list! That’s where you document the rest of your ‘converted’. Jamie looked up, flicking his hair out of his eyes to meet Marc’s.
         Oh calm it grammar-boy, I freed you. I saved you. I got you out of that tight blazer and put you in-
         Tight black jeans. The street is no different to where I am now, Marc.
         A huge truck lumbered past, almost drowning Leatherjacket’s explosive conjectures about the bucket! The noisy, noisy bucket!
         Marc was phlegmatic.
         Jamie, if your old home’s the same as the street I didn’t ruin shit.
         Yes you did. I mean that there’s the same amount of freedom here as there is in my grammar-school blazer. Like-
         No there’s not. Jamie shut his mouth to hear Marc out. There’s freedom here to do what you want when you want. I can even take a piss whenever and wherever I want.
         That’s not freedom. The intensity of body language between Jamie and Marc had been climbing alarmingly quickly, and The Professor’s sudden interruption made the tension dissipate. The Professor stood and shuffled between Marc and Jamie.
         You think being able to do your will in the outside world makes your inside world free? It doesn’t. Freedom comes from the inside out and you’ve spent your whole life trying to get it the other way around, which has made you stuck where you are just the same as I’m stuck in this bus shed. The listeners were stunned at The Professor’s sudden coherence. It was as though a sleepwalker had awoken.
         This guy’s talking bullshit. Marc finally blurted out.
         No, he’s right. You value different things to me, Marc. I like learning, I mean, I’m writing an essay on the first electronic instrument made, and it was made in like, 1928 and –
         You’ve got your priorities          -
         Radiohead use it now even though it’s so old.
                                                 - all wrong
         Nineteen twenty-eight! Radiohead? Wireless-head! Wireless-skull? Leatherjacket was in fits laughing at himself, but Marc and Jamie took no notice.
         To be honest Marc, there’s nothing to be gained from me living-
         No shitty rules about what to wear and when to get up or go to bed, and doing schoolwork! Even the bloody caboose isn’t that strict.
The Professor let fly once more. Imprisonment comes from the inside. From your mind. The outside world has nothing to do with it. As I was saying, you’ve got to achieve freedom in your mind, and when you do you won’t care about the outside world.
         Hey! The Professor’s waked up! And Leatherjacket had joined the fray. You bus people, come listen! $4 for corporate box, $2 for standing room! He winked at a group of uniformed schoolboys.
         I don’t care about getting up in the morning whenever I-
         Today’s the day! Come, come, don’t miss out! The Dean of the University of Quantum Perversity is here for a… Jamie still had a door to close. With his back to The Professor, who was once more reduced to slightly-too-loud erudite ramblings, he continued.
         What I mean is, getting up in the morning doesn’t bother me, I care about being given the chance to spend the rest of my –
         Move aside, little man, we need room for the stage!
         He was really starting to get agitated now, but he had to get this out, make Marc understand that he could never speak to him again.
         I want to teach music, Marc. You’ll never understand, but Hector Berlioz, he just has this passion, this fury, and –
         You know what kid? So do I.
         Listen!! Debussy. He’s got vision, and… spirit. George Gershwin –
         Alright everybody, hush, hush!
         The cheek of Gershwin! I want to give all that and more to every willing mind I meet. I have no freedom to do that here. No freedom. I’d rather live in a nutshell than on the street, and I’ll get up when I’m goddamn told every day for the rest of my life as long as I can do that.

Author’s Note:

Unmoved, still leaning on the bridge railing, I stood with Mannix, the sun setting behind us. One of the prisoners made a call to him and his conscious mind swung back into the real world. He leant back to stretch, and just before walking away, took my arm in a strong grip, pushing the photo of the boy into my hand. I turned it over and saw “Chuck Norris – 0408 482 629”.
‘Well, I’ll see you round I spose, Jill. You’re free,’ he said, and knowing I never would see him around, I took one last look at the bright blue eyes, and putting the cigarette out on the bridge with my toe, made off for home.

New Year’s Eve, 1999: Why can’t we go by them?

“G’day mate, lookin’ for something to do tonight? A decent celebration?” With a short consideration, the young fellow looked out of the bus window into the druggo’s den. He slowly nodded his way back to Marc.
“Sure am. I’m Charles.”
“Good to meet ya, Chuck. Marc,” and he nodded, shaking hands.