I am four years old. We are on a holiday that so far has consisted of a long drive and breakfast at a truck stop. You can have anything you want, I am told, so I order a Barney Banana. My brothers fill the back seat of the old green Falcon, so I lay across the front with my head in Mum’s lap and my legs across Dad who is driving. Look what I found! he says, tickling the soles of my feet. He manages to laugh despite looking very tired, and I can’t resist giggling before settling into boredom. Without watching the road I feel every unexpected bump amplified but from this angle I can see the stars sparkling and the thin clouds as they cut across the moon. As my eyelids grow heavy and fall I think what fun Adelaide will be.

My elder brothers have met some girls who are staying in the penthouse of our hotel so Mum and Dad are happy to let them play together and they’re enjoying their reign of the beach free to do what they like. They aren’t really my brothers. They are bigger and older than me and have a different Mum who doesn’t live with us. In front of the hotel is a path with a white line down the middle much like a freeway with a picture of a bike on one side and two large footprints on the other. After this there is a grassy area where some families are playing cricket and a brown dog catches someone’s pink Frisbee in its mouth, before a steep set of concrete steps leads down to where we are sitting on the golden sand of Glenenlg beach.

Mitchell, my younger brother, sits on Mum’s knee and laughs as she adjusts his floppy yellow hat and applies more zinc cream to his face. He is like a miniature version of me; short brown hair, green eyes and mum’s big nose. My face too was covered brightly with zinc. It had dried and cracked and tasted funny when I licked my lips, like the old play equipment in the park near our house.

We never go to the beach at home. Running as quickly as I can my feet flick sand up against the back of my ankles and it tickles in an unfamiliar way. Heaving in the salty air I look behind me to see the crashing surf wash away my footprints. Seagulls circle and squawk with a menacing shrill and they manage to scare and excite me. A little way along the surf I can see a peer stretching out from the shoreline. Some children about my age are diving off the end and swimming back to the shore to do it again and again all summer long. I am catching up to them now. The sand overlaps the concrete base of the peer, which turns right over the water and becomes a series of wooden planks. Now I realise something is wrong. I can’t walk anymore, my steps become smaller until I inevitably stall. Looking at the wood all I can think of is falling down into the water through the gaps between the giant sleepers. They are hardly wide enough to see through, let alone fall through, and although the other kids seem fine I can’t bring myself to step out over the water. Some children throw themselves off the end and sink and become ocean spray, but I can only slowly move away, step by step, and run back to where Mum and the towels are. I try to tell her, but Dad is arguing with her, the blinding sun cooking his already flustered face.

-o-

We drive in silence. Maggie hasn’t said anything since we left our place. In fact she hasn’t said anything since she got back from overseas. She seems to be driving very cautiously. The roads here are narrow but she’s driving much too slow. We are late as it is! Or rather, she was late and I was with her. Tension manages to expand like a balloon and creates an invisible barrier between us that prevents me from making unnecessary eye contact. How could she do this? I try to breathe quietly. I once thought I understood her. My mind wonders. Her grey dress suit attracts my gaze. The vest seems too small, tiny black buttons tightly fastened with effort, the material stretched across her stomach. I don’t know why she wears it if it’s too small. The skin on her arms glows a luminous brown, the weak hairs bleached blonde from the sunshine of her trip. She watches the road through a vacant stare. Something about her has changed since she left for Laos or perhaps earlier than that. Some seed, some thought planted in her head.

We found a parking space as close as we could manage. ‘Ok. Here we go,’ she said. Her teeth stuck to her lips as she pealed them back revealing an unconvincing smile. I was going to try, why, at least, wasn’t she?

The car’s interior light glowed as I stepped out into the alley. With one movement I threw my coat around my shoulders and delicately shoved the door closed with my hips. I still felt I shouldn’t look at her. I heard her footsteps scuffle as she walked around to my side of the car and up onto the gutter where I nervously fidgeted with my hair and adjusted my collar. She started to leave me.

‘Can I have the keys?’ I asked, pulling her back momentarily.

‘Why?’ Her eyebrows tightened.

I couldn’t respond. Her expression slid into an icy glare, but I’d let her drive even though it was my car. She might have been upset, but at least she was being rational. With a sigh she reached into her coat pocket and gently tossed them at me. The metal jangled as I got the sharp ring back from her, and finding the button I pressed the alarm firmly to ensure extra security. Some lights on the car flashed before it disappeared completely, its black exterior swallowed by the darkness of the night.

She was used to the city. She won a position as a contracted photographer with a popular magazine, her dress suit and her short hair winning her the place as much as her folio. I hadn’t said anything at the time but I had wondered how sadly true it was that the clothes make the man. At the moment her hair managed to remain neat despite the overgrowth she fashioned, the result of a style now aging. She wanted to grow it out, she had explained.

Maggie’s delicate limbs effortlessly spirited her body away from me. Swaying back and forth her torso twisted slightly exaggerating her grace and style. Tonight she at least looked half the woman I knew she was. Somewhere between feminine beauty and masculine businessman. With haste I managed to ape her click-clack rhythm following her steps through the veins of the city to its heart. The city can be an ugly place when you don’t want to be there. The filth of the day left a layer of grime on the windows of the buildings and collected in the gutters and on their residents, tonight it has not yet been removed by the cleaners of the early hours as if by magic, ready for the next day.

I wanted to speak to her, call her attention to me, but I couldn’t. Who are we meeting? Will Peter be coming? No not Peter… Tom? Will Tom be coming? Michael and Phillipa? Will they mind that we’re late? For some reason everything I thought to ask was lame and unnecessary. Months of neglect had given birth to this moment, had forced her overseas, provoking a reflection on our situation. Somewhere, I pained to remember where exactly, I had lost all the power in the relationship and gone with it now was my confidence. I wanted her to stay with me, take care of me, keep me company, fill out the spaces in my life. But her decision was made.

Since returning from Laos Maggie had planned a reunion of sorts for her friends. Her reception was the Rialto tower – I had never been there. Maggie told me once that the best way to introduce yourself to a metropolis is by taking it all in at once, but I figured that was just a photographer’s mentality. I had asked if it was her decision to meet everyone there, but it wasn’t anyone’s decision. It had just happened.

Her trip to Laos had not been for pleasure, enjoyable though it may have been. Freelancing meant that scenic shots of isolated areas could be syndicated and could provide her a more than modest income, and so she had spent the last two months of her life climbing mountains and shooting narrow valleys and rivers for her folio. She was good. At least I thought so. The walls of our apartment featured some of her more successful shots. Amsterdam. Delhi. Madrid. She had experienced dozens of cities, pausing long enough to capture a few glimpses from the wide angle of her lens. My only knowledge of these places was through her work. I adopted the photographs as memories, leaning up against them in secret to ensconce myself, adopt my person to these images - vivid yet narrow.

Through the glass doors were other famous buildings of impressive heights, grey silhouettes printed on a blue wall each with a brief description. I recognised the American ones, the Seattle Tower and the Empire State Building, and the cities that I’d never visited reminded me of home in so many ways. They reminded me of Maggie’s photographs, blown up and framed on the walls of our apartment. Perhaps it was all a bit too common for her, but it was enough to stop me for a few seconds. I stood calmly taking in the display until I noticed that she was at the counter and had bought herself a ticket. I had money, that wasn’t the problem, but I realised that I wasn’t here tonight with her. I rushed over and bought myself a pass, listened to the rehearsed speech about the movie showing every half hour and caught up with Maggie, already waiting at the escalators that lead oddly down to the elevators.

There was someone different at every turn, dressed the same and with a similar function but with slight variations. Different hair coloured or body shape. An Indian gentleman kept us behind a rope briefly as the lift descended and the doors opened. There was no one else around, so we had the lift to ourselves. Inside Maggie reached for the button (I had no idea even which floor the observation deck was on) but before she could it lit up automatically.

“Get ready,” she said. I didn’t really understand.

The walls of the lift were lined with a fake brown marble pattern, with a mirrored ceiling reflecting ourselves back to us only upside down, inverted, not allowing us to see where we were headed, although she obviously knew. As we started to rise I felt my feet becoming heavy. Without wanting to make a big deal of it I bent my knees slightly and transferred the weight to my thighs. We must half reached almost the half way mark when my ears began to pop. The atmosphere was changing so rapidly that the pressure had to be increased, at first I heard tiny gunfire near my earlobe before a battle proper broke out and I felt the inner skinned layers of my ears snapping quickly about ten or fifteen times.

-o-

The glass had disappeared and the air pressure from outside was dragging me toward the edge of the building. I could wrestle but not reason with this force. It felt like fate. I fell from the edge and dove towards the ground, my clothes flapping fiercely, my body shaking, tripping end over end with no way of controlling myself. And then it was done. The collision brought clarity to my thoughts, like snapping to consciousness after a bad dream. The ground at my feet seemed soft and limp, and it took a great deal of effort to remain against the inner wall of the corridor. I pressed my back hard up against the wall and spread my arms to either side to help keep my balance. There are heating ducts near the floor of this place and the jet of hot air blasted against my ankles. By now my eyes were pressed shut and my brow collected s thin layer of perspiration. I slowly collected myself and felt brave enough to open my eyes. Before me, framed neatly like a movie screen, was the observation window, the neon city lights contrasting the empty blackness of the bay hanging dark like a black velvet curtain. Maggie and her friends had disappeared and hopefully missed my shameful distress. I needed a drink.

My feet still shook a little, not entirely trusting the ground, as I made my way around the deck. The walls were entirely glass on my right side, so I concentrated on my left as I walked counter-clockwise, palms against the wall, past some German tourists, a few elderly people and another largish group of non-descript patrons. There was a café of sorts built into the inner side of the level and I studied for a moment the liquor they held, what I wanted was there but I decided the setting was still too open for my nerves to handle. I need to protect myself from this. Past the tables and chairs and past the informative signs I clambered to a glassed room that looked a more like a bar proper.

The carpet still felt spongy so with rubbery steps I made my way through the doorway and stepped towards the bar. With my back to the glass I felt slightly stronger and a few drinks would calm me down, I hoped. One of the stools near the bar was free so I flopped down on it, the cushion slowly falling with the weight of my body. There was no one behind the bar so I looked at the bottles for a minute. They all looked more or less the same. I always order scotch and coke anyhow.

Looking around for some service I noticed Maggie near the widow with her friends. I know them only through Maggie, they are her friends not mine. Hand in hand were Michael and Phillipa, a couple she had known for a long time. Michael was an afternoon radio host, tall and handsome but pretty thick when it came down to it. Phillipa seemed dwarfed by him, she had short, dark hair like Maggie and wore neat, dress clothes. From this angle they looked like four guys waiting in line for a movie. Phillipa was a journalist for a lifestyle magazine. I think she might have given Maggie her first break in published work. They all turned and visually addressed someone out of view, until walking into frame came Russel. Maggie ran over to him, kissed him on the cheek and threw her arms around him. She simply adored him because he was a small time actor who made a living in unsuccessful plays and television commercials. She always was a sucker for wide-eyed boys. Despite my best efforts I could not tolerate him. He somehow got away with short cropped hair and eyes so beady they rattle like a snake when he turns his head. An actor! Who wasn’t these days? I tried to imagine what Maggie was thinking. It wasn’t easy. She loved me / hated me / I was boring. Of-course I was! All I ever did was sit and watch. There’s a safety in distance.

Michael caught view of me and pointed me out to the others with satisfaction and unshared enthusiasm. He started to make his way over to me and the others slowly followed in his trail. Maggie motioned away from the group, Phillipa was only interested in what Michael was doing (their relationship was still fresh enough to promote this sentiment) and Russel, looking confused listened carefully as Maggie pointed around the corner and it looked as though she had to go to the toilet.

‘Hey! Here you are hiding from us,’ said Michael with a smirk stretching his wide jaw to the limit and extended his hand in welcome. I grasped it firmly and slowly pumped it up and down but not before noticing how clammy mine had been.

‘Hi. No, I just wasn’t feeling very well,’ I said, ‘and the service here is terrible!’ Turning back to the bottles with a newfound interest I closed any connection that he had made. I was in no mood for his garbage tonight. An elderly man with a white shirt and black pants who obviously worked behind the bar rushed to the sink with blood running from hand. Running water over it I could see he had cut himself cleaning up a glass that a rather embarrassed looking young trainee seemed to have dropped somewhere and accepted fault for by looking sorry for himself.

‘Get over there and serve,’ he was ordered. And so he did. He strode directly over to me, recognising my haste for a drink without recognising my reasons for doing so.

‘Can I help?’

‘I’ll have a scotch and coke thanks.’ Still my favourite drink; simple, warm and safe.

He left me for the bottles behind him and I returned to Maggie’s friends in an attempt to feign interest. Phillipa and Michael now had their backs to me and were addressing Russel making a male – female – male pyramid of happy conversation. I didn’t fit in to the circle from any angle so I slumped in my stool and groaned in complaint.

‘I wonder when she’ll start showing,’ I heard someone say. It takes months to prepare a photographic exhibition. You have to book a gallery, prepare all of the prints, contact
agents and invite high profile enthusiasts. As far as I knew Maggie’s Laotian images hadn’t even been processed yet, but I expected an exhibition would be held sometime in the future by which time I would be who-knows-where doing who-knows-what.

Behind me I heard a few beeps and a strained sigh. Spinning around I saw my apprentice friend bewildered by the register that he obviously couldn’t work. He looked over to his senior, and my gaze voyeuristically followed, catching sight of the supervisor struggling to wrap his hand in a bandage. The apprentice suffocated with guilt as I sat silently in observation.

To help him out I threw a note onto the counter top without bothering to see what it was. The boy looked up at me with a hurried grin before turning back with confusion to his register, the mass of buttons and calculations was obviously far too advanced for him. I looked again over my shoulder to see if Maggie had returned and I saw that finally she had, standing near the doorway looking especially tired and laboured.

‘Excuse me!’ called the boy, attracting my attention the way pulling teeth might. I must have looked annoyed, and recognising this the boy was especially apologetic. ‘I’m terribly sorry, but it’s my first shift and I’ve lost the transaction on the register here, so I was wondering if you could help me out. Your drink was six dollars thirty-five, and you gave me twenty… Again, I’m sorry, but if you can figure out the change I’m happy to give it to you.’

The talking pyramid made its way over to her. She was magnetic that way. Her life was on the way up while mine had levelled and steadied long ago. They slowly, step by step, blended in with the tourist crowd, leaving me with the softly burning comfort of my drink before making my way back to the elevator and down to the assured comfort of the hard streets of Melbourne.

© 2002 R. W. Gordon. All rights reserved.