Bright Death - part two

READ BRIGHT DEATH – PART ONE HERE

Bright Death - part two

 

I wake up in long, dewy grass. My boardies slightly damp, hair on my arms standing on end. The sun is lifting itself over the ocean and into the cloudless sky. There’s a gentle breeze. Its warmth tells me it’s a westerly. It’s going to be one of those stinking hot days, but the surf should be good. I remember another morning like this one a few years back, running into Hands at the beach when I should have been studying. He told me: You can’t waste days like these.

 

On the walk home, utes and wanky cars speed past. Commercial radio blares from windows. Bougie cafes buzz while real estate agents talk into AirPods. Feral kids push and shove each other at bus stops, their backpacks twice their size. I'm an alien plodding through the streets.

 

When I make it back home, it feels like I couldn’t have gone a step further. Trudging up the driveway, I notice for the first time the symmetry of the three windows lining the side of our little unit. Evenly spaced and perfectly aligned; one for the bedroom, one for the study, one for the kitchen. I get a warm and fuzzy feeling. Adrianne sits on the sill of the window closest to the door and licks her paw.

 

Rummaging in my pocket, I’m surprised to find my housekeys still there. I fumble for the lock, jiggle the key and step inside.

 

//

 

It’s dark and cool in here. With the blinds drawn, I’m safe from the world in my nest. Dark green plants line the walls. Books and records spill from the shelves and onto the floor. I’ve never been compelled to arrange them in any particular order. Adrianne jumps down from the window and stretches on the floor. She dodges my attempt at a pat, running down the hall and under the bed. She won’t be back out until the sun goes down.

 

There’s a dirty bowl and coffee cup in the sink. Priscilla’s breakfast before she rushed off for work this morning. She was fast asleep when I kissed her goodbye in the dark and whispered that I was going for a swim. It feels like a long time ago.

 

I take a cold shower and put on a pair of clean boxers. The Sunbeam Mini Barista is already on. I don’t question why. I cut an orange into quarters and make two pieces of vegemite toast, washing it down with a cold coffee. Outside, the garbage truck rumbles down the street. It must be Monday. Flipping half-heartedly through The Surfer’s Journal, I remember my bike. I hadn’t had time to make sense of the morning’s events, let alone contemplate the whereabouts of my beloved Norco Indie 2. I stumble outside to check the shed we share with our neighbour. Maybe it was just a weird, visceral dream and my bike will be sitting right where it always is. Shielding my eyes, I step outside and dart across the scorching concrete.

 

The shed feels damp. Small and cramped. Two washing machines, a Big Daddy Double Deluxe swag and a bag of deflated footballs suffocate the cramped den. In the corner stands Priscilla’s shiny new cruiser. I spent most of my savings on it for her birthday last year. It was better than mine and I knew she would only ride it every now and then, but I wanted her to have it. It’s been worth it for those sunny Saturday morning rides to the coffee shop together. Mine isn’t there though. Despite the poky space, the spot where my pushy should be is a cavernous gorge.

 

//

 

Back inside, I put on a shirt, sunscreen and a wide-brimmed hat. I check Adrianne is still under the bed, telling her I’ll be back soon. I slip on my thongs and head out the door.

 

The sun stands a little higher now. It’s proud and regal. I can feel it looking straight through me. The streets are quiet with the morning sadsack rush over. They’ll be sitting in offices, quietly filling their keep cups with tears.

 

Trying to retrace my ride this morning, I walk past old ladies with shopping trolleys. Teenagers whopping school are loitering outside the IGA. Young women push empty prams along pedestrian crossings. On telegraph poles I notice the same poster on nearly every street. It catches my eye after the third or fourth one I pass. It’s a notice for a missing person. Her name is Maggie and she’s been gone for nearly a week. From the photo on the poster, she looks to be about my age. I feel a pang in my chest looking into her eyes. Then I realise: it’s the girl from my dream last night. Exact same hairdo and everything. Just as pretty.

 

I’m lost in my thoughts when I hear a shout across the street: Joey!

 

Not many people call me Joey. An eclectic mix of friends, family and acquaintances who feel like they either do or don’t know me well enough to not use my full name.

 

I turn around to see Charlie. Like always, he wears a huge grin on his freckled face. It almost reaches his ears. He’s just been to the bakery for a salad sandwich. Waving a tightly-packed white package from the window of his car, he calls me over.

 

As I cross the road, he’s unwrapping the sandwich, insisting I take half. I acquiesce; partly because I don’t want to hurt his feelings, and partly because I’m suddenly ravenous. Didn’t I just eat breakfast?

 

I hop in the passenger seat of his white Nissan X-Trail. We sit in silence as we devour our halves. He gets as much joy gifting me the sandwich as I do in eating it. He’s like that in the surf too, directing traffic as the sets roll in: Here’s one Joey!

 

When we finish eating, Charlie says the waves are firing. I tell him I need to go find my pushy, but we’re already driving to my place to get my board. The bike will have to wait.