This is a Three Word Wednesday (CCLXV) contribution, using the words fragrant, jostle and remnant.
He watched the big men, small old women and fussing mothers in the crowd jostle for position in front of the huge glass doors. Above the door, a banner advertised the Mega Book Clearance Sale with a start time that was now twelve minutes ago. He shrugged, and sat down on a bench, well back from the crazy people, and returned to the last chapter of a Thomas Keneally novel he’d picked up the day before at a suburban thrift shop.
Eventually the doors were opened. Four bulky, obese men in pseudo-official-looking white shirts that featured plastic badges tried to look intimidating.
After ten minutes, he’d finished the book. He put it back in his bag and sighed deeply, satisfied, as if he’d finished a great meal. He walked past the guards, who now looked bored, and into the warehouse. A small remnant of the piles of books he’d seen before remained. The air was fragrant with a thousand rifled and hastily-purchased paperbacks. He smiled. The pulp had been removed. He moved slowly through the aisles, and selected four books that he knew he wanted to read. The total was $12.50, including GST.
Showing posts with label selfishness and kindness. Show all posts
Showing posts with label selfishness and kindness. Show all posts
Wednesday, March 28, 2012
Thursday, September 9, 2010
Visiting Esme
“Good morning Esme, how are you today?” said Jim, his voice bright and cheery. He looked into her face for a glimmer of recognition, but saw only cold mistrust.
“I'm fine, thank you very much,” said Esme loudly, peering up at him. “But, who are you? And what do you want?”
There were six patients at Whitman Park Aged Care Home, including Esme, whose religious affiliation was listed as “Presbyterian”. It was Jim’s right, and duty, as the local Presbyterian minister, to visit them each week. Jim did his visiting on Thursday mornings. It suited him as well as any other time. The old fogies that kept track of days and times appreciated the routine, and it made no difference to the others.
And then there was Esme. She had her good days and her bad days, but overall, Esme's dementia was a case of steady decline. On a good day she showed a vague sense of having met Jim before. It didn't help for him to insist that he had known her his whole life. Her responses to such notions were belligerent, and often violent.
After introducing himself as the minister, Jim won her affection with some licorice all-sorts. It was a cheap trick, but he always used it, because it worked.
“These are lovely,” she said. “I can’t say I’ve had them before, but they are just lovely.”
Esme told Jim she’d had a terrible night's sleep. “Those young people in the flat downstairs had their music on so loud, the whole night long,” she said. Her hands trembled as she spoke. “Not that I call it music. Bang, bang, bang! That's all it is. Noise. That's what it is: just noise. Something should be done about it. Someone should do something.” She dabbed at the edge of her mouth with a handkerchief.
Jim blinked. He was still not immune to the things that she could say. Whitman Park was a single-story complex, flat on the ground; there was no ‘downstairs’. He bit his lip and swallowed and prayed, quietly in his mind, for strength.
“I'm sorry to hear that Esme,” he said. “Tell you what: I'll have a good stern talk with them about it on my way home. I’ll make sure that it doesn't happen again. How does that sound?”
Esme smiled. Her glasses glinted as she sat up in her chair. “Oh, would you? Would you really?”
“Sure,” said Jim as he got up. He felt claustrophobic.
Esme asked him to stay a while longer. “You've only just got here.”
But Jim had to leave. He couldn’t make himself stay. He retreated, shuffling backwards through the door, and waved as he left. Esme stayed in her armchair, watching him go, looking bewildered.
Jim marched quickly through the corridors of Whitman Park, out into the fresh air, and towards his car. He leaned against the car and took deep breaths to calm himself down. He took a tissue from his pocket and wiped the tears from his face.
He still wasn’t sure if he had the faith or the strength it took to be a minister. They hadn't trained him for this sort of thing at the college, and God felt farther away than ever.
Visiting Esme was killing him. He did it because it was what he had promised to do, and to be, but he wished he was someone else. He wished that Esme would hurry up and die. Take her soon, Lord, please, he prayed, She doesn’t know me. She doesn’t even know her own son.
“I'm fine, thank you very much,” said Esme loudly, peering up at him. “But, who are you? And what do you want?”
There were six patients at Whitman Park Aged Care Home, including Esme, whose religious affiliation was listed as “Presbyterian”. It was Jim’s right, and duty, as the local Presbyterian minister, to visit them each week. Jim did his visiting on Thursday mornings. It suited him as well as any other time. The old fogies that kept track of days and times appreciated the routine, and it made no difference to the others.
And then there was Esme. She had her good days and her bad days, but overall, Esme's dementia was a case of steady decline. On a good day she showed a vague sense of having met Jim before. It didn't help for him to insist that he had known her his whole life. Her responses to such notions were belligerent, and often violent.
After introducing himself as the minister, Jim won her affection with some licorice all-sorts. It was a cheap trick, but he always used it, because it worked.
“These are lovely,” she said. “I can’t say I’ve had them before, but they are just lovely.”
Esme told Jim she’d had a terrible night's sleep. “Those young people in the flat downstairs had their music on so loud, the whole night long,” she said. Her hands trembled as she spoke. “Not that I call it music. Bang, bang, bang! That's all it is. Noise. That's what it is: just noise. Something should be done about it. Someone should do something.” She dabbed at the edge of her mouth with a handkerchief.
Jim blinked. He was still not immune to the things that she could say. Whitman Park was a single-story complex, flat on the ground; there was no ‘downstairs’. He bit his lip and swallowed and prayed, quietly in his mind, for strength.
“I'm sorry to hear that Esme,” he said. “Tell you what: I'll have a good stern talk with them about it on my way home. I’ll make sure that it doesn't happen again. How does that sound?”
Esme smiled. Her glasses glinted as she sat up in her chair. “Oh, would you? Would you really?”
“Sure,” said Jim as he got up. He felt claustrophobic.
Esme asked him to stay a while longer. “You've only just got here.”
But Jim had to leave. He couldn’t make himself stay. He retreated, shuffling backwards through the door, and waved as he left. Esme stayed in her armchair, watching him go, looking bewildered.
Jim marched quickly through the corridors of Whitman Park, out into the fresh air, and towards his car. He leaned against the car and took deep breaths to calm himself down. He took a tissue from his pocket and wiped the tears from his face.
He still wasn’t sure if he had the faith or the strength it took to be a minister. They hadn't trained him for this sort of thing at the college, and God felt farther away than ever.
Visiting Esme was killing him. He did it because it was what he had promised to do, and to be, but he wished he was someone else. He wished that Esme would hurry up and die. Take her soon, Lord, please, he prayed, She doesn’t know me. She doesn’t even know her own son.
Sunday, July 18, 2010
Farewell Tour
Ted stood in the muster area, as the sun began to dawn, as he had hundreds of times before. Today he was alone; there was no shift change. There was no oncoming crew bantering and rustling with crib bags and drink bottles; there was no off-going crew tired and dirty handing over achievements and concerns; there were no engineers or planners or superintendents, all in a mild panic, trying to find out why things hadn't gone to plan, chasing precious paperwork, and passing on newer, grander plans.
The crew vehicles were parked in a row, silent. No one was doing the shiftly pre-start checks or complaining about the mud and rubbish left inside by the last mongrel crew. The safety board showed two days since the last injury. It hadn't been touched since the day North Creek Mine had been shut down.
The mine had been the biggest part of Ted's life; his whole life, really. He had lost that, when the front gates were closed and locked, fifteen days ago. Head office had chosen to shut the place down, and he'd found out at on the same day as everyone else.
He'd taken it hard. He held it together, until he was alone, and then he cried like a baby. He felt ashamed, to bawl like that.
He hadn't been able to sleep last night. In the early hours of the morning, he came back to the mine, to have one last look around; to say goodbye, properly. In the dark, he cut his way through the boundary fence. He walked the corridors and buildings and paths. He breathed in the smell of mud, diesel, grease, rubber and smouldering, heating coal as he roamed his mine. He touched the wheels of the mammoth rear-dump trucks, parked in rows on the go-line. He gathered memories.
As he walked through the plant, the wind blew in gusts, howling through the structure and the conveyor gantries and in and around the yard machines. Ted had never before heard that sound in the plant. The plant had roared when it was running, and during shut-downs the sound of the machines was replaced by rattle-guns, hammers, grinders, cranes and men. Now, the plant was silent, and the wind took its turn to be heard.
Through the early hours, Ted walked, and thought, and comforted himself with familiar sights, and saw some things around the mine he'd never seen before.
He'd gone to the muster area just before the dawn. He stood and watched lightening sky and listened to the crows as they fought over what was left in the bins.
He heard footsteps then. He stepped around the corner to avoid getting caught.
"There you are Ted," called a familiar voice. The footsteps quickened.
Ted went back and saw David, his overburden superintendent, and the closest thing he had to a friend.
"G'day."
David smiled. "Saw you before, lurking around," he said. "I've been on a bit of a farewell tour myself."
They stood quietly together and looked around. Then Ted said suddenly, "I'd do things differently, you know, if I could do it all over again."
David nodded, and grunted.
"I pushed, and pushed, for tonnes. That was my job. But I pushed until something broke." He sighed.
David said nothing.
Ted went on, "I said safety was the number one priority; but I didn't want people to believe me, and they didn't. I pushed tonnes, tonnes and tonnes. But I couldn't squeeze the volume through this place that it needed to turn a decent profit."
"But you tried."
Ted grunted.
They stood together in the cool quiet and the minutes passed. Ted could hear the clock on the wall ticking. He read the signs posted on the walls, as if for the first time.
A few tears escaped from Ted's eyes. He wiped them quickly with his shirtsleeve before David could notice. He didn't like to blubber; he just felt so depressed, like his life was over. His career was in tatters. He'd had little effect on production, he'd lost control of costs, and now two me were dead and a third would never walk again.
Ted hated who he was. He hated that he was crying about his mine and his career, and not about the men whose lives he had risked, and lost, and wrecked. He hated that he was crying at all.
Ted spat into the dirt. "I'm going home, before the rent-a-cops catch me."
David nodded. "Me too."
They shook hands, promised to keep in touch – both knowing that they wouldn't – and walked away.
This story appeared today in the Five Minute Fiction column of Issue 91 of Shift Miner Magazine. I've often thought of what it would be like to walk around a mine that was a big part of your life, and was then shut down. Imagine all the things that were once important, that now don't even exist.
The crew vehicles were parked in a row, silent. No one was doing the shiftly pre-start checks or complaining about the mud and rubbish left inside by the last mongrel crew. The safety board showed two days since the last injury. It hadn't been touched since the day North Creek Mine had been shut down.
The mine had been the biggest part of Ted's life; his whole life, really. He had lost that, when the front gates were closed and locked, fifteen days ago. Head office had chosen to shut the place down, and he'd found out at on the same day as everyone else.
He'd taken it hard. He held it together, until he was alone, and then he cried like a baby. He felt ashamed, to bawl like that.
He hadn't been able to sleep last night. In the early hours of the morning, he came back to the mine, to have one last look around; to say goodbye, properly. In the dark, he cut his way through the boundary fence. He walked the corridors and buildings and paths. He breathed in the smell of mud, diesel, grease, rubber and smouldering, heating coal as he roamed his mine. He touched the wheels of the mammoth rear-dump trucks, parked in rows on the go-line. He gathered memories.
As he walked through the plant, the wind blew in gusts, howling through the structure and the conveyor gantries and in and around the yard machines. Ted had never before heard that sound in the plant. The plant had roared when it was running, and during shut-downs the sound of the machines was replaced by rattle-guns, hammers, grinders, cranes and men. Now, the plant was silent, and the wind took its turn to be heard.
Through the early hours, Ted walked, and thought, and comforted himself with familiar sights, and saw some things around the mine he'd never seen before.
He'd gone to the muster area just before the dawn. He stood and watched lightening sky and listened to the crows as they fought over what was left in the bins.
He heard footsteps then. He stepped around the corner to avoid getting caught.
"There you are Ted," called a familiar voice. The footsteps quickened.
Ted went back and saw David, his overburden superintendent, and the closest thing he had to a friend.
"G'day."
David smiled. "Saw you before, lurking around," he said. "I've been on a bit of a farewell tour myself."
They stood quietly together and looked around. Then Ted said suddenly, "I'd do things differently, you know, if I could do it all over again."
David nodded, and grunted.
"I pushed, and pushed, for tonnes. That was my job. But I pushed until something broke." He sighed.
David said nothing.
Ted went on, "I said safety was the number one priority; but I didn't want people to believe me, and they didn't. I pushed tonnes, tonnes and tonnes. But I couldn't squeeze the volume through this place that it needed to turn a decent profit."
"But you tried."
Ted grunted.
They stood together in the cool quiet and the minutes passed. Ted could hear the clock on the wall ticking. He read the signs posted on the walls, as if for the first time.
A few tears escaped from Ted's eyes. He wiped them quickly with his shirtsleeve before David could notice. He didn't like to blubber; he just felt so depressed, like his life was over. His career was in tatters. He'd had little effect on production, he'd lost control of costs, and now two me were dead and a third would never walk again.
Ted hated who he was. He hated that he was crying about his mine and his career, and not about the men whose lives he had risked, and lost, and wrecked. He hated that he was crying at all.
Ted spat into the dirt. "I'm going home, before the rent-a-cops catch me."
David nodded. "Me too."
They shook hands, promised to keep in touch – both knowing that they wouldn't – and walked away.
This story appeared today in the Five Minute Fiction column of Issue 91 of Shift Miner Magazine. I've often thought of what it would be like to walk around a mine that was a big part of your life, and was then shut down. Imagine all the things that were once important, that now don't even exist.
Wednesday, July 14, 2010
A More Gentle Creature
"I think a man should be gentle," she said, not looking directly at him. "Strong, and bold, of course; but especially gentle."
"Indeed," he said. "How intriguing. I agree that a man possessing strength and boldness is worthy of some praise; but there is no call for gentleness. That is an attribute more fitting for a lady, I should think."
She laughed. "A lady should appear gentle," she said, "but can never be so, if she is to survive in this world."
"And what then of a man, that is both strong and bold - as you require - but is not truly gentle?"
"Such a man," said she, turning to face him directly, "is vulgar."
He knew that she had said, in not so many words, that such a man was he. He hid his humiliation by turning and leaving, in search of a more gentle creature, with eyes that might adore, rather than pierce him.
This little scene is my response to Three Word Wednesday number CXCVII. The prompting words are gentle, praise and vulgar.
"Indeed," he said. "How intriguing. I agree that a man possessing strength and boldness is worthy of some praise; but there is no call for gentleness. That is an attribute more fitting for a lady, I should think."
She laughed. "A lady should appear gentle," she said, "but can never be so, if she is to survive in this world."
"And what then of a man, that is both strong and bold - as you require - but is not truly gentle?"
"Such a man," said she, turning to face him directly, "is vulgar."
He knew that she had said, in not so many words, that such a man was he. He hid his humiliation by turning and leaving, in search of a more gentle creature, with eyes that might adore, rather than pierce him.
This little scene is my response to Three Word Wednesday number CXCVII. The prompting words are gentle, praise and vulgar.
Tuesday, June 29, 2010
Lone Rider
Recently I put a story called Lone Rider up at the Six Sentences social site. The theme is something different for me, but does it work?
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
Posts
