Monday, January 15, 2007

You can give them to the birds and the bees.

When you ride a speedboat across a secluded salt water lake under a dark red sun and charcoal clouds choke the air and your every breath is cinders / acrid / soot / smoke and fire, when as you climb into the car that you hitch a lift two hundred kilometres in and as you close the door you notice a giant Goanna laconically clambering beside the road where you were standing not ten seconds before and it flickers its lick spittle tongue backwards and forth lashing leather lips and scaled google eyes, when you're driving through forests built of tall ghostly dancers still as eternity and blackened by lightning and scorched by the caresses and gropes of red and yellow fingers...when you do all these things but the only thought in your head is hatred of the fat little cunt sitting beside you eating hamburger after hamburger and barbeque shapes and mars bars and your stomach is a bear, an animal, a growling boogie man eating away at the lining of your intestines and the only thing that keeps you going is the mantra, I hate you fat little cunt, I hate you fat little cunt, I hate you fat little cunt...well, that's when you know being broke is a bitch.

I made it to Bairnsdale though, through the fires, back towards Melbourne. I made it to Bairnsdale with five food stops for the little prick in a two hour drive from Cann River. I made it with my eyes burning holes through Catcher in the Rye as the incessant noise of an eight year old boy chewing chewing chewing drove me to insanity, reading the one sentence over and over and over: I sat at that goddamn bar till around one o'clock or so, getting drunk as a bastard. And every time they stopped and asked after me, are you sure you don't want something Mathew? I kept my cool and smiled and said, no thank you, I'm happy with my book, words are nutrition for the mind you know! Honestly, I said that. I sat at that goddamn bar till around one o'clock or so, getting drunk as a bastard. And at Bairnsdale I looked for my Uncle's Insurance Company but I couldn't find it, well actually I'm pretty sure I did find it but I just couldn't bring myself to go inside, to go through the door into the fluoro world of Insurance, and besides I could see through the tinted glass and inside hovering over the barely legal mega breasted receptionist was a carnally challenged cheap suited office gorilla, his hands on the back of her chair, breathing hot mutton lunch down the nape of her neck. Man I walked past that window five, six, seven times, but I still couldn't bring myself to walk inside. I was covered in black dirt, my hair smelled of ash and rotten fish and I had the gaunt look and wild round eyes of a starving Hyena and if my Uncle was inside I would've scratched and clawed at his polyester and spat beggar desperation at him for half a sandwich or something. So I just kept walking past that window right side left side until finally I sank to new lows of hunger driven desperation and played a game with myself of wondering which corner, which street I would have to turn down to find that shiny twenty dollar, ten dollar, five dollar note. I was laughing to myself, at myself, but I had time to kill and the walk took the edge off, I mean, I didn't ask anyone for anything, and that's what counts right? And I had cigarettes, man those babies are a sucker's best friend. And sitting there, with the black fellas outside the train station, they knew my cousin, he used to run with them out here out East, and watching the Stuyvesants slowly burn one by one, and waiting for the train with the thought of peace at the end of the line, all I could think was, it's going to be embarrassing, but fucking write it all down. And two days later drinking champagne over scrambled eggs at Mario's, it's all a fucking dream, until that evil shit burns your hands and disintegrates and dissolves before your very eyes and the beautiful cycle of life keeps rolling on and on and on. So I'm looking for work, again. And late tonight I can take the stuffiness no more and I write a cover letter to go along with my application,

Dear The Future,

Your ad was so wonderfully written and exciting in an F. Scott Fitzgerald meets Harrison Ford meets that lady from Bert Newton style of presentation that I could not help but be swept up with enthusiasm. I mean, this one time, I wrote and art directed a comic for Nike, and so they gave me a penthouse party on top of the Mercantile Mutual Building, All I wanted was a pair of shoes, but okay...party it was. It was fun, I wish you guys had've been there. However, I feel this pales in comparison to the wonderful and exciting picture of the Buchanan Group you have painted within your advertisement. And I'm pretty sure I have absolutely NO chance of getting this job, but I'm very cheeky, and extremely sharp, and I think you'd like me a lot. It really sounds like a wonderful environment to learn new things. I'd like that.

May all other applicants disappoint you or contract rare disabling diseases.

All the best, I anxiously await your reply.


I'll let you know how I go. As the Magic Eight Ball says: Outlook not so great.


5 comments:

  1. why didn't you let them buy you some food? why did you spend food on smokes rather than food? why do you write so bloody beautifully? how did you eat your eggs?

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  2. I don't know, I didn't want anyone to know I was broke.

    The smokes came free.

    Thankyou, that's a nice thing to say.

    WITH MY FISTS SUFFING THEM INTO MY GAPING ORIFICE OF A MOUTH!!

    x

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  3. no i meant scrambled or poached or?

    i'm glad you got a feed, and some 'pagne. it all helps, doesn't it.

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  4. And why didn't you know I was in Bairnsdale and say G'day. I would've bought you a sandwich, at least.

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