How’s your girlfriend going? she asks tonelessly..
Pam? Yeh, she’s okay, I say.
You seem to need somebody, she says. A wife, partner, a female friend.
And you don’t?
No. I must be stronger, she conjectures in her haughty voice. I can live with myself. I don’t need anyone.
Loneliness is a morose companion, I add.
She says nothing.
pic by Joey Monsoon courtesy of Pinterest
Pounding the pavements of Portland,
grim, gaunt , hunch-backed,
Matthew,
no singing, cheery, Disney
hunchback of Notre Dame
but a
bandy-legged, bushy eyebrowed,
Quasimodo, orange vis jacket
looks like an angry bee.
This is Terry.
You can wave to him.
He would like that.
He waves a lot but not everyone waves back.
In fact hardly anyone does.
He sits on a folding chair in the middle of the mall outside Coles looking for someone to say hello to.
You can say Hello to Terry.
Many people pretend not to hear him.
But that does that put him off?
No.
Terry is on a mission.
He is collecting donations for the Blind Sports Association.
There are a lot of people like Terry outside supermarkets throughout Australia.
Hopeful. Indomitable.Courteous.
Not in your face.
And yes, I did.
This is Barry.
Say hello to Barry.
He runs the Central Market Books in Adelaide.
I had a chat to him last Friday night.
Apart from who he reads — Jo Nesbo, Robert Ludlum and Lee Childs —and what he’s into: Magic, Militaria, Espionage and Angels —the most remarkable thing about Barry is that he’s a man happy in his own skin.
And isn’t that the goal, the purpose, the station we want to arrive at?
And o, don’t mention Stephen King. His inner echidna comes out then.
I look for him everywhere .
In supermarkets , shopping malls ,
along the esplanade where he
hangs out .
Have you seen Milton ? I ask .
But no one has .
Not lately .
Suddenly I need him
this gnome of a man
with the grey goatee .
Milton the Gatekeeper
hoarding the knowledge
like bullion .
Like Diogones with his lamp
I scour the streets
with my headlights
looking for Milton .
That’s us, at T Chow’s, the wonderful Chinese restaurant in China Town, our Cheers, on the last night before Lockdown. The place is bustling and you can only see half of it because the photographer stood in the middle to get a shot of the group, the one with the bloke in the wheelchair. It’s always happy there and everybody does know our name. There’s always three of us, often four but sometimes it grows to seven or eight.
Things are different now of course. Numbers are limited and they do a roaring take-away trade and there’s a new bloke, Brian — they always adopt an English name [is that a form of racism, I wonder?] —- who zips between tables spread out over the four quadrants of the restaurant. He’s young, he’s zippy and athletic with a great sense of humor. Everyone is cheery at T-Chow’s. You never see a long face or a frown. It’s where we hang out Friday nights. It’s our Cheers.
When I wait for her to do a spot of shopping
I wait in the car.
When she’s getting ready to go out,
I wait in the driveway, the sun
like a lamp. with my stash of magazines
between the seats:
my New Yorkers, National Geographics
and that lady in the glove box,
Olive Kitteridge.
It is my loo, my library, my study,
My five-seated reading room,
My Chapman’s Homer.
My car really takes me places.
It was the one no one wanted
The last one on the shelf
The one no one wanted, I didn’t
Much want it myself.
But there were no others
So I had little choice
The one that all had shunned
I purchased myself.
And Oh it filled the bill
To the nth degree
So the one no one wanted
Was the right one for me.
“You’re like Lee Chandler,” she said.
“Who?”
“Lee Chandler, the guy Casey Affleck plays in ‘Manchester by the Sea.’”
Jackson liked that film but he did not like Lee Chandler, the way he closed himself off from people.
“That saddens me.”
“That you’re like Lee Chandler or that I mentioned it?”
“Both.”
“The reason I brought it up is that I asked you if you’d like to see Anne perform and you said you’d give it a miss though I made it clear I’d like you to go.”
“I know. I’ve thought it over and would like to go see her perform.”
“Because you want to or because you’re afraid of being compared to Lee Chandler?”
“Both.”
It was a little late, Jackson admitted. It would have been better if he’d said so straight off but at least it was a move towards empathy. She would have to give him that.
First swim of summer
God’s little acre
At the end of our street
Salt-bush coast
Swimming pool seas
Me and one other
The beach.
John Malone 