Author: Kate Capewell
Chapter 2 continued (section three)__ Untitled.
Solway had left half an hour ago, he’d cancelled his meal and had pulled up a stool at the bar. Hans current challenge to himself was to see how much of the hanging, upside-down bourbon bottle he could drink and still be able to book an Uber.
‘Anothery,’ he mumbled at the bartender.
‘It’s getting late, mate.’
‘Don’t care.’
‘We’re closing soon. This isn’t a pub.”
‘Jush gimme anothery and shush up.’ That sentence was possibly the politest thing he’d said all night. He smiled at himself in the mirror behind the bar and blew himself a kiss. ‘You’re a shpunk,’ he said to his reflection and gave himself the thumbs up as well for good measure.
‘Hello,’ said a feminine voice from beside him.
‘Goodbye’ he said without turning. ‘I’m fairly shoor I’m nart opp to whateva it ish you’re funking, so yeah, nope.’
‘Did you want some of my vegemite sandwich? I’m not sure what to do with it.’ A plate hovered under his nose.
‘Nope, I shed. Go ‘way. Or, send it to the kids in whatever cuntry it ish you send food to nowdaysh.’ He smoothed back his hair and sipped his drink, or smoothed back his drink and sipped his hair. It was one of the two, or both, or something.
‘Whish one,’ he wondered.
‘I’m sorry?’
‘Navermend.’
‘I think you may have had one too many,’ said the American woman.
‘I’ve not had one enough, or shumfink.’ He looked at the lights above his head. ‘Oh noh.’
‘Oh noh?’
‘Yep. I’m fink I’m gunna chock. Go’way now. Bad fings.’ He waved a hand dismissively, fingers brushing against something soft and squishy. He turned his head. ‘Helloooooo.’
‘You might not wanna do that.’ admonished the bartender. Hans looked at his hand which was reaching out for…
‘Oh darr. Shilly moi wish ish me or …. shorry.’
The woman looked at his hand, which he’d been slowly withdrawing, then looked back up at him. Her face was unreadable.
‘Huh-oh. Jigger me nunkies,’ said Hans, and tried not to fall off his stool. He rose from it as swiftly as he could and headed for the… ‘Where’s the dunny goon?’
‘That way.’ The bartender pointed to the corner of the room. ‘Please try to make it.’
‘Okay-dokay.’
He stumbled off, not tripping over anything at all. Behind him he heard soft laughter. When he returned half an hour later, accompanied by the helpful bartender, the woman had gone.
‘Fank Gid,’ he said, then looked at the fuzzy screen of his phone. ‘I wonder if I can cull an uber.’
‘I’ll do it for you,’ said the bartender.
‘Gidoidear, You de man.’
‘No problem,’ replied the bartender. ‘You are too.’
For no reason at all that was the funniest thing Hans had heard all night.
Chapter Two continued (section 2) __Untitled
The restaurant had a boardwalk type thing that sat over the water of the harbour. For some reason, Hans felt drawn to the smell of the salty air and the distant stink of marine diesel, so once he’d made his order he grabbed a number by its silver pole and wound his way through the tables, apologising to the other mindless patrons wandering around without a care in the world.
He didn’t call them arseholes out loud, but he thought it loudly and he hoped they heard him.
I’m being ridiculous.
The tables out here were like picnic benches, polished yet worn, uncomfortable, horrendously awkward, but offering a peace that he simply wasn’t feeling.
The chair part things were also attached to the table somehow, and he only just prevented himself from performing a spectacular trip as he went to sit down. At least the lights were dim.
He should have ordered a drink.
Sailboats sat in the murky water under overhead lights that looked like they hadn’t been cleaned in years. There was even the occasional high powered “yacht”, which had never been a thing in the town until recently.
‘Yatch-ett,’ Hans muttered under his breath. It had taken him quite some time as a kid to say that right. He knew they were “yotts” so why some damn fool had written it like that was beyond him.
Then again, much of the English language was beyond him when it came to spelling things out. It was the one thing he’d had a problem with in school. Maths hadn’t been an issue, science made sense most of the time, history was like storytelling but with real people, but English itself, written down, was stupid. Well, it was or he was, and he preferred to think it was, because no one had ever called him stupid aside from Solway, and she only got away with it because she was his sister.
He took a deep breath of the harbour air. Maybe he should have been a whaler like Granddad. They didn’t have to spell shit. The fact no one was a whaler anymore because it wasn’t nice and there weren’t too many whales, was not the point. It was the idea of being out on a big metal ship and fighting the elements, being shoved from one side of the boat to the other by massive waves while you had a rope tied around your waist, and being whacked by various loose machinery that should be tied down but wasn’t. . . That was what he liked about it.
It is highly possible I’m having a thirty-something crisis. He grinned to himself. Cool. At least it isn’t boring.
He’d never seen a large hairy dog on a ship before, so he supposed it might not have worked out for him. How he’d managed to get into the Hospitality industry was beyond him as well. Then again, he hadn’t had the tendency to turn into a dog when he’d started so . . .
He’d been mumbling to himself. ‘I can’t even cook.’
‘That’s why you’re here.’
The voice came from beside him and he glanced sideways. ‘Oh good, you’ve arrived. Finally.’
Solway frowned. ‘You’re being more of a prick than usual, Hans. What happened today?’ She sat down opposite him.
‘You look nice,’ he replied. ‘Not too nice though, so my chances of pickin–‘
‘God, you’re an arsehole.’
He grinned. ‘I never said I wasn’t.’ Then he frowned. He hadn’t even checked out the other table to see what else was on the menu. This was highly unusual for him. ‘I need a drink.’
Solway ignored him. ‘You’ve picked a nice spot.’ She looked around. ‘You can see the entire restaurant from here.’
‘And they can see me, which is more to the point.’
‘Are you putting yourself on show again?’
‘When do I not?’
‘True.’
‘Let’s talk about you for a change,’ Hans muttered, trying to change the subject.
‘That’s not why I’m here.’
He growled.
Solway growled back, then took a deep breath. ‘We can’t do this here.’
‘What are you talking about?’
‘You know.’ She shoved a lock of blonde hair behind one ear. ‘If we get angry with each other, you know what happens.’
‘Oh right,’ Hans scowled. ‘Dogs. I need a drink right now. Please go and get me a drink, Sol. I’ve had a shit day and I need a drink.’
‘Then maybe you should go and get me a drink too,’ Solway grinned. ‘That way, you’ll pay for it and I won’t have to.’
He shrugged. ‘Good point. What do you want.’
‘Whatever you’re having.’
‘Bourbon?’
‘Sounds good to me.’
Hans got up. smoothed down his dress pants, realised he was still wearing his elastic-sided boots, shook his head and began walking to the bar. He could have picked up three women on the way, but he didn’t. He just wanted to spend some time with his sister tonight, so if the universe could get that sorted for him, that’d be grand.
On the way back to the table, a woman grabbed at his sleeve. He stopped, and tried not to glare.
‘Can I help you,’ he asked politely.
‘Do you people do sandwiches?’ She smiled. He may very well have detected an American accent.
‘I beg your pardon?’
The smile faltered slightly, then came back with a brightness that almost blinded him. ‘Do you work here?’
‘No.’
‘Oh. How do I get someone’s attention around here?’ She seemed pretty enough in a normal, not too exciting, kind of way.
‘Usually, you go to the front there and make an order.’ He looked at his sleeve. She still clutched it. ‘Do you mind?’
‘Not really.’
‘Well, I do.’ He pulled his arm out of her grip. ‘Have a nice night, lady. See you later.’
‘See you later?’ A frown puckered her forehead.
‘Not literally. Just let go of me. Oh.’ He grimaced. ‘You have. Well, anyway. Bye.’
‘Bye?’
‘Yes.’ He stomped back to Solway, not shouldering anyone out of the way and definitely not spilling a drop of their drinks. ‘Drink it quickly,’ he snarled. ‘I’m going back for more.’
Solway started laughing. ‘What’s happened now?’
He told her. She laughed louder. ‘Priceless,’ she said.
‘You think?’
‘I do. Thank you,’ she added as a nice young lady dropped some bread rolls in front of them.
‘Oh look,’ said Hans sarcastically. ‘No whipped garlic butter. Amazing.’
‘What the hell are you talking about?’
‘Never mind.’ He drained his glass, ice clinking against his teeth. ‘Hurry up.’
‘I shouldn’t have anymore, I’m driving.’
Hans sighed. ‘Can I not get you an Uber or something?’
‘No, Hans. I just came down because you sounded off.’
‘Look, it’s not that bad. I’m just being dramatic, which as you know, should be fairly normal to you, being a girl and all that.’
‘I am not going to say the first word that came into my head then, Hans, because, as a “girl”, I would not usually say it, but let me tell you one thing. It was not a very nice word.’ Solway glared at him. ‘At all.’
‘Okay. Sorry.’ He wasn’t sorry. ‘My bad.’
‘Don’t be pretentious.’
‘That’s a big word, Solway.’
Her eyes got all squinty. ‘Stand up.’
‘What?’
Stand up. You said you were going to get another drink, so stand up you, you… not very nice person.’
‘Why?’
Because I am going to smack your arse like the child you are being.’
‘I dare you,’ Hans stood up.
Solway slapped him hard on the backside and it actually really stung.
‘Ow. Fuck. You bitch.’
‘Get another drink, areshole. If you’re lucky I’ll still be here when you get back.’
‘Fine.’
He stomped back into the restaurant, realised there were several women watching him and grinning quite openly (they had possibly seen Solway whack him), stopped stomping, smoothed down his hair, avoided the table where the American was now studying what seemed to be a vegemite sandwich from the kids menu, and headed to the bar.
‘Make it a double,’ he said. ‘Clearly, I need one.’
‘Clearly,’ said the bartender and made him one without delay.
Chapter two to be continued…. :)
Sentinel
“Is it an African Elephant or an Indian Elephant?”
When I was a kid and interested in all sorts of things, I learnt a little bit about two types of elephants. Back then, the above is what they were called. I assume the names have changed now, but there was one very clear way to tell the difference.
The size of its ears.
The Indian elephant has much smaller ears.
I guess, if one looked at the map of the world online, or were lucky enough to own an Atlas, like we did when I was a kid, one would see that reflected in the size and shape of the two different areas. One is bigger, one is smaller. Unsurprisingly, as in the size of the elephants ears, India is smaller.
Now, as I was not born in either of those countries, rather one of quite a unique shape and size, I can’t compare my smaller ears to someone else’s. I also do not pretend to be African or Indian. I’m Australian.
I have a little voice in my head saying, ‘Just remember to keep calm.’ I’d say that would be a reflection of a certain amount of my heritage, but not all of it. You see, I’m not quite sure where the other side comes from.
As I have said many times in the past though, ‘Now is not the time to go jumping on your white charger and go galloping off into the sunset. People may get hurt.’ Life is a jigsaw, and sometimes parts of the jigsaw are missing. It is just the way of it.
When someone, or something, has passed away, it takes a very long time to get over it, if at all. The memories still linger, and occasionally we still allow ourselves to grieve. What we choose to do with those memories, though, is up to us. I don’t feel I need to repeat other things written in the past over and over again, if it has already been said.
What I do like to do, though, is have the opportunity to hone my skills. If that opportunity is taken away, the skills remain, not fresh, but struggling. Some people are particularly good at choosing words immediately. Some people like to carefully pick their words so the exact thoughts and ideas are presented in such a fashion no one gets the wrong idea.
I prefer to be methodical in my approach to things, personally. When I “fly by the seat of my pants”, I do it through using all my previous experiences. I do not believe I have ever jumped into something without first checking the depth.
Of course, when one is not given a depth, and one is pushed, issues arise. Problems can occur. Accidents can happen. ‘Sink, or swim’ is not an adage in my book. ‘Watch, and learn,’ is.
When I write, ‘The only way to do it is to fly,’ I am not referring to leaping off a cliff with no thought for my personal safety. I’m talking about hard work, and determination, and the wish to make sure things are done properly. If I were to ‘jump off a cliff’ in any way, shape, or form, I would be making sure I had numerous safety measures in place, I will have double-checked and triple checked things myself, and not simply relied on other people’s say so.
This is often not the case when one is surfing the internet.
There is so much misinformation on the internet, so many different points of view and unhinged, unreliable personal opinions not based on fact, it becomes extremely difficult for someone (or something) with no experience to navigate. What is truth? What is fact? Do I rely on the amount of things that say the same thing? Are they from different places in the world? Different sources? What does history say about these things?
If that isn’t working for me, the only thing I can rely upon is experience. If I am unable to have the experience, I then need to rely on a source who has had the experience. Then, I must assume they aren’t telling me lies. How do I do that? I don’t know. How do I discern the difference between fact and fiction for the fun of it? I don’t know.
So, what I do, is draw upon my own personal experience and hope that not too much has changed. I carefully weigh up my options, check and double check my safety gear, and then decide if I am going to fly. I will not let myself be weighed down by indecision once I have made this choice. My choice does not change. I see it through, because I am the one to have made this choice.
This month (February) has many meanings to many people. To myself personally, it is pretty important. A lot of very special things happened for myself and my family in February. I am here to make sure it all goes correctly, as much as I am able.
After all, as a mum, that’s my job.
Chapter Two __ untitled
Before Hans headed out that evening he took the newly hotmixed road to the top of the hill, parked his most recently acquired sporty little car in the cul de sac, and scowled at the windrows of dead trees sitting above him on the piles of sand. Nothing of any importance came out of his mouth because the words he was thinking were so vile he did not wish to say them out loud.
It took some time to control himself but when he calmed down, just a little bit, he opened the car door, pulled on the old elastic-sided boots he’d placed on the passenger side floor, and got out. He closed the car door as gently as he was able to in this current mood, shoved a cap low on his head and trudged up the recently made sandhill to the very top of what remained of the ridge.
The tree still lay where he’d last seen it, not yet whirred up into tiny wood chips, its horizontal trunk taking up quite quite a lot of space amidst the great, big, huge and very dismal sandy expanse where native bushland had once been.
He took off his sunglasses and stared moodily down the slope into his own backyard. He’d contributed to this, only in a small way he knew, but he couldn’t get out of it that easily because every other house below him had contributed to it as well and with all those contributions came loss, and what that loss looked like clearly resembled the shit he now stood in the middle of, wondering why the fuck he hadn’t bought himself an old rundown house in the middle of nowhere instead.
Hans sighed, then wandered over to the fallen tree. He felt like covering up its exposed roots with a blanket to give the tree some kind of dignity but that thought, he knew, was slightly ridiculous. Besides that, someone else would probably wander up from below the hill, look at him like he was a complete lunatic and possibly, knowing what people were like in this day and age, call the police for no reason other than the fact he’d likely made them feel uncomfortable.
He took a picture of the names burnt into the trunk and decided to take it down to one of the local joints the following day, the kind of place where they allowed you to blow photographs up and put them on shiny paper and then, when he got the chance, he’d frame it and go and stick it on Jake’s grave just for shizz and gigs and no other reason whatsoever.
‘Howja like them apples,’ He said to no one at all. Then he nudged the bottom of the tree with his boot and wandered back to the car.
Nobody else came up the hill, and he was not actually surprised by that at all. A bottle of bourbon, a heartache, and a plate full of fish and chips later, and he probably wouldn’t even remember it himself.
On the way to his dinner for one, Hans decided to call Solway.
For reasons he’d never been able to understand Hans couldn’t keep his sunglasses on when talking with people on the phone so, as he coasted down the hill from the cul de sac, he kept his sunglasses off, removed his cap, straightened his wavy, not curly, hair in the rearview mirror and cried “Solway” at the top of his voice.
Two seconds later, not that he was counting, she answered with a “Hans!”.
‘What are you doing,’ he asked.
‘Wondering why you’re calling me,’ she replied. There was a moment of awkward silence.
‘Is Bart there?’
‘Yes, he is. Did you want to speak with him?’ Another long expectant pause.
‘No.’ He stared out through the windscreen.
‘You called me, Hans.’
‘I know I did. What are you doing for dinner.?’
‘Oh.’ She signed softly. ‘We’re having dinner at home. You know, with the current economy and all that…’
‘Blah blah blah blah,’ he said rudely.
‘What’s up your arse?’
‘Nothing. The usual. Can’t I just talk to my sister on the phone?’
‘It would help if you actually talked.’
‘I am talking.’
‘Okay, well that’s fantastic. Are you going out for dinner are you?’
‘Yep.’
‘This is like drawing blood from a stone. What’s going on? You sound dumb.’
‘Well, you sound stupid,’ he replied in his most menacing voice.
‘Are we, like, five?’ Her tone was getting that exasperated edge he remembered so well from when he’d been a kid and done something evil and she’d had to clean up after him. ‘You’re upset about something. What is it?’
‘I’m bored.’ He began tapping the steering wheel.
‘No, you’re not. It’s something else.’ After a moment of silence he heard something metallic hit something else like she was stirring something. ‘If it’s about the fleas…’
‘I thought we weren’t going to talk about the fleas.’
‘Yet here I am, talking about fleas.’
‘I don’t want to talk about fleas.’ He glared at the road.
‘I am trying to be kind, Hans. Don’t make it hard.’
‘I don’t want to hang up on you Solway.’
‘I know you don’t buddy. What is it?’
‘Nothing. You wouldn’t get it. I don’t get it. It’s okay. I’m okay.’
‘Now I’m worried. Where are you having dinner then?’
‘That fish and chip place on the foreshore.’
A rustling sound and a soft murmur came through the line. ‘Okay, I’ll come down. I won’t be eating, but I’ll come down, okay?’
‘Okay, Don’t look too attractive.’
‘Don’t look too… Do you want me to come down or not?’
‘Yes.’ He scowled and flicked on the indicator.
‘Okay. I’ll see you soon.’
‘Good.’ He hung up.
He felt like tossing the phone into the back seat, then felt like tossing it out the window. He put it on the leather passenger seat instead. It was going to be a shit night, and a shit meal, and everything was going to be shit. He pulled up at a stoplight and checked his teeth. Perfect, as usual.
Okay, maybe it wasn’t going to be completely shit. Maybe it would be okay. He wondered if they had tartare sauce.
to be continued.
The Temper
I was going to show you something else this morning but I’m feeling a spot of rage coming on. It’s possibly why, with the original story/title of The Temper, it felt like like it didn’t quite hit the mark.
When I got to the fourth story of that book (you know, the one I wrote, not anyone else) I called it Out Of Time, because the name I’d been looking at for a long time to call the story was “Extempore”. It didn’t quite fit what I was looking at though. It didn’t sit right.
With a word like “Temper”, you get to see it in its entire meaning. The “pounding into shape” of a mood or mindset, the flash of rage those who don’t know me very well always seem to be surprised by, and the immediate control I will insert on myself when this happens. Not everyone can do this. It doesn’t make it an excuse, and sometimes it can be used to your advantage. Hence the alternative title of “The Tempest”, (which unfortunately had been used as a title many years ago for another book).
It (the word Temper) can never be used to your advantage, though, if you can’t control it. Imagine going into a boxing ring and flipping out at your opponent while he’s sizing you up for a nice meal. He’s going to win because he’s in control, and you’re not. Rage, and fury are two very different things.
So, when one is not in a boxing ring and one is capable of wounding with one’s voice instead of fists or whatever, one still needs to apply that very strict code of conduct to oneself to stop yourself from “beasting out”. It doesn’t always work, and sometimes it is almost impossible to control (I know this one for a fact when it comes to the written word), but the written word is possibly the ONLY place where one can go back and put things to right before they pass them on… Especially if the message conveyed is on someone else’s behalf because that other person was too much of a coward to say it themselves. It happens a lot, and sometimes it happens without their consent
If that is the case, as I have helped construct messages on other people’s behalf (my sons, husband, friends), then those people need to once again look at the title of this particular piece. Using my words without my consent to send a message will only get you deeper in the poop. Understanding whose temper is controlling who really depends on the time of day, so don’t get too carried away with yourself. Perhaps take a leaf out of your own “Book,” and learn how and why one needs to control one’s temper.
People also need to understand when a dream is a dream and not reality. Even if it’s a dream that smacks of deja vu, or a dream that appears to be a recurring one, it is still a dream, and not reality. If it hasn’t actually happened, it likely won’t happen at all. It’s like a little switch has popped on in your head to tell you beforehand that something might be difficult to control and it’s a pretty good indicator you’ll know exactly how to control it if you were ever in that situation. You’re welcome.
Chapter One __Untitled, continued
Hans sat on the freeway for what felt like forever in the midday traffic. It took an hour and a half to get back from these stupid bloody meetings. God knew why they couldn’t have Zoom meetings instead, although, apparently, a rather clever chap by the name of Zed Van Burton (who maintained his websites) had assured him that having in-person meetings were far more unlikely to be hacked into than Zoom ones, not that Hans knew that was a thing although, he supposed, if it were possible, someone had likely done it already.
Zed, being rather clever (if Hans remembered correctly) had assured him it had indeed been possible and if Hans perhaps remembered the story about the priests meeting where someone had left on (or maybe even added) those little extra wonderful bits to the online service that time (Hans remembered that story very clearly) then Zed may have accidentally not at all have known someone who might have had nothing to do with it.
Sometimes, Hans’ web designer spoke in rather roundabout ways about certain things, and Hans quite enjoyed it. Not that he told anyone that, because that would be “betraying the trust” or something equally ridiculous, yet important.
It had been around that time Zed had kicked him, not in the least softly, under the table.
Hans shot back to the present, remembered he was driving and felt rather pleased with himself he hadn’t done what Bart had done that time a couple of years back, and instead had kept his hands on the steering wheel.
He checked his hair in the rearview mirror, admired his own chin, made sure his eyebrows were neatly trimmed, and winked at himself because, when one was as amazingly “adorable” (he tried not to cringe at that one) as he was when he wasn’t working, one just had to remind oneself of how utterly amazing one happened to be.
He did this regularly. It worked for him.
‘Where was I,’ he said to the radio, which happened to be playing loud and awesome music with lots of guitar and headbanging.
The radio kept doing its own thing and didn’t reply.
Hans wondered if the line of traffic he was currently in, would actually reach over fifty kph, or whether he’d still be doing twenty k’s in another hour’s time.
He decided to change the radio station.
‘At the third stroke it will be…’
… Something that no longer existed. Bloody ABC.
Maybe he should take selfies for social media and… Get picked up by the traffic cop who’d just turned up in a patrol car nnext to him.
Okay then, social media “I’m bored” shots were understandably out of the question, which was lucky because he was thirty two, not ten, and really didn’t need all that wonderful feedback from randoms at all, ever.
Not even a, okay, just a little bit.
But not now.
Definitely not now. The cop’s partner, who was the one not driving, had poked her head past her partner’s shoulder and was currently giving him a little wave, despite the frown on the driver’s face.
‘Hellooooo,’ Hans crooned, giving her a mouthful of shining white teeth to admire.
The constable in the driver’s seat did not look impressed. He glanced at Hans then looked back at the road pointedly, before glancing at him again.
Hans sighed. God, even the police were boring.
Who knew? Apparently, everyone did but him… and the sweet little police officer who was giving him a very pretty smile from the passenger seat of … He slammed on his brakes just in time to avoid hitting the car in front of him, the patrol car sailed past him without the driver giving him the finger at all, and Hans came to a complete halt.
‘God I hate Monday,’ he muttered.
He didn’t get home ’til two p.m.
There were actually many reasons why Hans didn’t like Mondays but this afternoon’s reason was all the noise coming from the top of the hill.
He’d already said goodbye to Jake’s tree early that morning, but decided, perhaps when the man in the whatever-it-was, which was extremely loud, had knocked off and gone home, he’d see what else had been destroyed in the name of progress.
Hans laughed at himself. He’d never been too interested in the past about why things like construction sites were done a certain way, but in the last two years (possibly around the time he’d found out he occasionally turned into a large, brown and slightly terrifying dog), he had felt more connected to nature (for what were fairly obvious reasons, not all of them being the fact it was Monday).
He adjusted the flea collar under his shirt as he sat on his long back verandah and sipped on an espresso.
‘Wankers,’ he said to no one in particular, and tried not to lift a leg and scratch himself under the chin. Growling, he stood, opened the french doors, and grumbled his way inside.
He’d pulled off his paisley tie earlier, thrown it over the back of the couch, stripped himself of the ridiculous (yet extremely cool) brown leather shoes which he’d left halfway down the hall and now, simply because he didn’t want to sit out the back and watch trees being knocked over, decided to pick it up and toss it all into the very long walk-through robe thing, and check himself out in the floor to ceiling mirror he’d purchased for himself on Boxing Day.
‘You’re a hotty and don’t forget it,’ he said to himself, very seriously, and didn’t burst into flames once — then wondered why he thought that might be a thing. After all, bursting into flames was not conducive to getting a new girlfriend, was it? No, not at all. ‘I like you,’ he added, refusing to back down from the mantra he’d uttered at his reflection every day for the past two years.
His reflection did not reply, and Hans felt rather pleased by that.
He wondered which restaurant he’d go to tonight. The local places were all friendly and simple, and he was pretty sure none of them had whipped garlic butter.
Hans pulled out his phone, opened the Maps ap, shut his eyes, and began twirling a finger over the screen. he refused to think about the heated discussion he’d had with bloody Nora earlier that day on why restaurants should be closed on Mondays. These were different kinds of restaurants to his, and that’s all there was to it.
Tonight, he’d be dining at “Carbaretta’s”, who apparently did seafood. He hoped it wasn’t too oily.
Chapter One — Untitled
Hans Endersans was not a happy man. He’d been to one too many “bored” meetings, as he called them, and each and every restaurant manager felt exactly the damn same to him. They were pretty, pretentious people, made to carry a tray of Cognac, or a semi-inexpensive bottle of wine, made to greet people at the door with a smile and a slight bow, made to pick on the harried, sweating kitchen hands and argue with the greatly feared chefs of the seven restaurants Hans now owned.
Not a one of them seemed to have the brain capacity for new ideas.
Apparently, thought Hans, this is my fault for not “allowing” them to sprout their rubbish into my ears for hours on end, or listen to their thoughts on a new type of whipped garlic butter, or allow them to be ashamed when I’ve told them it’s all been done before, but ….
‘Sure,’ he said loudly to the severely gelled woman at the other end of the table. ‘Whatever you think.’
She smiled and picked at the tablecloth in front of her with fingernails Hans would never have allowed in a commercial kitchen. ‘I’d like the thoughts of my fellow managers if you don’t mind, Hans.’
The other managers, who knew Hans far better than she did, held their breaths and leaned back, or held their breaths and slumped down, or held their breaths and …. He glanced at the man closest to him. It did kinda look like he was trying to dig a hole into the carpet with one patented shoe. Hans frowned, and tried not to let his baser instincts get the better of him.
There are no bones under the table. There are no bones under the table. The scowl deepened and he rolled his shoulders, trying not to glare at the ridiculous woman with the gelled back hair.
‘I beg your pardon,’ he asked politely.
‘I said,’ said the woman, not completely understanding everyone else’s reaction. ‘That I would like the opinions of my –‘
There came a chorous of positive responses arounfd the table.
‘Absolutely.’
‘Oh yes, what a wonderful thought.’
‘I am in complete agreement.’
‘Never would have come up with that one myself,’ said one participant, who nearly swallowed his own tongue after Hans shot a glance at him. ‘Sorry,’ he muttered. ‘Too much?’
Hans tried not to grin. It had been a sarcastic comment, but he should not have found it amusing. He cleared his throat.
‘There we have it,’ he said, waving a hand in the air. ‘Are we done yet? I’m hungry. How about you bring one of your whipped garlic butter whatsits in and we’ll destroy it with some lovely crunchy bread rolls, and then you can all go back to what you should actually be doing and take the fucking day off because it’s Monday.’
‘What does Monday have to do with, well, anything?. The soon-to-be-fired restaurant manager asked from botox injected lips.
Hans raised an eyebrow. ‘How long did you say you’d worked in Hospitality,’ he asked. Did he really need to go back and check her resume?
Her mouth closed with a slightly gummy sound them popped open again. This woman had a death wish. ‘I know, traditionally we don’t open on Monday’s Hans, but…’
‘There’s a reason for that Nora. Tell me what the reason is,’ he said.
‘The reason?’
‘Yes, the reason. Tell me the reason we don’t usually run our restaurants on a Monday.’
‘Well, traditionally, we wouldn’t make much money I suppose, but –‘
‘You suppose?’
‘Yes.’ She sat up straighter on her vinyl covered chair, if that was possible. She’d already looked like there was a carrot stuck up her arse. Now it looked like it was a cobweb broom with an extendable handle.
‘Well,’ said Hans. Let’s just suppose I like making money, okay? Let’s just suppose that, shall we? Let’s not kick “tradition” in the arse, just because you have come up with this “new” and “amazing” whipped garlic butter which has never been done in the past, ever, apparently, by anyone else at all, and think about this sensibly for a change.’ He stood up. ‘I like making money, Nora. I do not like losing money. I also like to give my staff the occasional day off. How about you?’
Finally, it looked like the woman had grown a brain. ‘Oh.’
‘Oh, indeed. Speaking of staff, when you’ve pulled that one out of your backside, perhaps you’d like to come and visit me in my private office and we’ll discuss how much you like your career.’
‘Let’s see how those crunchy bread rolls are going, shall we,’ said the man with the patented shoes.
‘Let’s,’ said Hans.
Chapter One to be continued…
Dear East Perth Lockup,
I’m wondering whether you still have my fingerprints on file. They may have changed slightly over the years, and acquired a scar or two. Many of your present day members may not remember me, but I do know (and remember) an old Ivan who may remember that night well.
It was night, to be fair, and i don’t believe it was dreary. The small, sparkly, poo-brown sigma had been the vehicle I drove at that time. It had been perhaps, purchased from another former member of your mob, and I happened to be driving it at the time I was caught wandering along Hay Street East.
My passenger, and I did have one if I recall, was a little person, but not a child, who happened to be, you guessed it, sitting in the passenger seat. My clothing, if I recall, consisted of one dress, purchased previously on Barrack Street (but not on the same night), peach, one leather belt, oddly shaped and white (it may not have been, but I did wear it with that dress on more than one occasion) and a pair of white leather slingbacks.
Your constables managed to finally get me to pull over when I considered it safe, that being on the lower corner as one turns left at the bottom of Barrack Street, possibly near where the Army Surplus Store once stood. They then proceeded to take myself and my passenger to the above address.
It may have been quite a surprise to one of the members on staff when the sister-in-law of his former “teammate” walked through the door. He may have indeed said some very inappropriate words along the lines of “What are you doing here” with a question mark somewhere in that sentence. He may have even laughed a great deal at the conundrum his former teammate’s sister-in-law found herself in at that time.
Let it be said, I never said I wasn’t a terrible teenager or young adult, but I did always manage to get to work, and the courthouse on time, regardless of distraction.
Thank you for your time.
Kate Capewell (nee Tew).
P.S. Paddy, also a former teammate, may remember his larks around the Dongara township. I think that’s on file as well, nothing to do with me, and quite a few years later.
I wish them and their families love, luck and hugs. May your ships always enter a safe harbour. CSC.
Adventure Weather
Have I told you about the warri?
It’s the type of wind that gets under your skin and makes the kids a little wild. It sets the horses running down a paddock rolling their eyes. It sends the roos into the dense scrub, and it tells the grownups they need to start tying things down.
Some get a little fractious when the warri picks up and the trees begin to sway and whip their branches. Some, like my funny old cat (sorry, middle-aged cat) like to chuck maddies around the house and tell me the clouds scudding across the darkened sky have just dumped a shower of water. Those clouds are moving so quickly though, they don’t have time to keep raining in one place. They need to move on.
When the warri starts to sing, we listen. She calls around the corners of a house, or moans up a sand track so old it has made its own hollow in the dunes. This is really the only time she can sing, the warri, and so we let her sing and tell her how beautiful she sounds.
Sometimes, when we do that, she stops, she hesitates, almost as if she is saying. “What?” It’s as if she doesn’t want us to compliment her on her sound. Perhaps she is used to people being afraid of her, and for someone to say she sounds beautiful makes her question whether she’s done it right.
But… she’s the wind. She’s the warri. Everything she does is right. How could it be wrong? When she hears this, she dumps more tears from the sky and might think to herself, ‘This is good. Let’s move on.’
We should never take her for granted. She can be a little destructive, and if she has warned us she is coming, we should have listened, and we need to be careful of where we drive and where we sit if we’re outside, and where we need to keep ourselves safe along the roads.
This is a good day to build cubbies and forts inside, and take away all the special things that can be broken and hide them in cupboards. This is the type of day the children will want to go outside and let the wind flap their hair and spray their faces with water. Sometimes, for a short while, we might let them, but only if it’s safe. Otherwise, perhaps we will allow them into the biggest room in the house to make their special games of hide and seek and let them plunk away on an old toy piano.
It’s the warri.
Kate Capewell - Ambrosia Wishes 