Bonds

A water drop formed at the end of a pipe and glinted brightly in the hot afternoon sun. The face of a man grew larger in the reflection until the lines around his eyes and the wariness of his expression became clear. John looked into the drop intently as it grew, slowly elongating, before falling in an instant.

He turned his head at a distant sound, a low rumble. He peered out at the wide, flat landscape, the red of the earth offset by the deep blue cloudless sky. Beyond the heat shimmer, far off in the distance, dust was being kicked up; an aberration on serenity.

John squinted. He wiped his brow of sweat and dirt and let some moisture build up between the grit in his mouth. 'Looks like company, Sam,' he said to his companion, in a slightly exaggerated Australian accent.

He scratched his bushy beard thoughtfully. 'This can't be good.' He said this to himself but his companion offered a quiet bark of understanding.

John looked toward the house which seemed tiny in its wide surroundings. The white paint was faded and peeling after too many hot summers, exposing the wooden structure beneath like open wounds.

Knowing he had plenty of time, and not needing any, he casually made his way past a mob of emus, held in by a makeshift wire fence, and walked by a lopsided Hills Hoist to a screen door. He walked through, ignoring the drawn-out squeak it made, and waited.

With the sounds of Sam barking, John opened the door to two tired men. The man on the left was sweating under a thick suit and sunglasses. The man on the right wore a bright orange top and a large Akubra hat. John peered at the suited man, narrowing his eyes, while the other man spoke.

'Sir, I am Linus from the Royal Swedish Academy of Sci...'

'No, thank you,' said John, cutting him off and closing the door abruptly.

The two men looked at each other.

The suited man played with the tiny chunk of hair below his lip and then knocked hard on the door. 'Let us in, John,' he shouted.

A moment later the door opened. The two men were given the sight of a quickly vanishing John.

They found him picking his finger nails at a small dining table in the kitchen. He stared blankly into a half-finished glass of vodka.

Entering last, Linus stood stiffly and said, 'Sir, let me say it is an honour to finally meet you. To be honest, I have had a little crush on you for a long time, professionally speaking of course. What you have done, what you have achieved, I just can not believe I am in the same room as... '

'Get rid of those,' said John curtly, without looking up.

'Sir?' said Linus.

John looked up at the suited man. 'Get rid of your sunglasses, Richard. We're inside. It makes you look stupid.'

Richard paused. He waited long enough to show he wouldn't just do anything he was told to, before removing his sunglasses slowly.

Linus followed suit by taking off his hat. He looked down with an expression of embarrassment and respect.

'What do you want?' demanded John. 'I'm a busy man.'

'I can see,' said Richard, watching John idly chew his fingernails. 'This is important, John.'

'Of course it's important,' said John. 'It's always important. You wouldn't be here if it wasn't important.'

'John...' pleaded Richard.

'Stop calling me that!' said John.

'All right,' said Richard. 'But it's been three years. You didn't respond to any of my messages. At least hear me out.'

John took a break from his fingernails and sat back, showing a slight hint of compassion.

Richard's lips curled up. 'You've got it,' he said. 'The prize!'

'I've got a whole chunk of prizes,' said John.

'Not like this. The prize.'

'Don't want it,' said John.

Linus turned his head sharply, his wide eyes focussing on Richard. Turning back to John, he said: 'Err, Mr Starkovich, with all due respect, perhaps you do not know which prize we are referring to.'

'I know it. Don't want it.'

'Why?' said Richard, slowly.

John waved his hand vaguely in the air. 'Because...'

Richard waited for an end to the sentence, but it had none. 'Because...?'

'Just because,' said John.

'But there must be a reason,' said Richard. 'You spoke about this for as long as I can remember. It's what every physicist strives for.'

'No!' said John forcefully. He leant forward. 'Every real physicist strives for the betterment of understanding. Every real physicist wants to learn, wants to know. We ask questions; and we do our damned best to answer those questions. We don't do it so that some administrator can pat us on the back like a mutt and say "Good boy, here's a biscuit." '

Richard suppressed his anger. It wasn't personal, it's just what he did. He liked to play with you, put you off your game. You need to focus on why you're here.

'But why not do both?' said Richard, straightening his jacket suit. 'You can learn. You can ask questions. You can help civilisation all you want...'

'And you certainly have,' interrupted Linus.

'But why not get the biscuit as well?' said Richard.

'No, thanks,' said John, standing up. 'So if that's all you gentlemen were here for...'

'Uh, sir,' said Linus, 'would it be possible to get a beverage before leaving? It is very hot.'

John breathed in and out loudly before relenting. He shuffled over to a large ceramic pot in the corner of the room and removed a damp cloth from the top.

'Sir, is that a Zeer pot?' said Linus, rushing over with enthusiasm.

'It is,' said John.

'I've never seen them before,' said Linus. 'Only hearing of them.'

'Oh,' said John. 'I put it together a few months ago. No electricity when you're in the dead centre of nowhere.'

'How ironic,' said Linus.

John allowed Linus a peek inside, showing the pot within the pot, with dirt sandwiched between. Inside the inner pot sat two bottles of water and two pears.

Richard sat down at the table, uninterested.

'How cold is it inside?' asked Linus.

'Doesn't keep things as cold as a fridge, of course, but out here even mildly cool water during the middle of a scorcher is a godsend.'

Richard narrowed his eyes at the last word.

'Mmm, I am sure,' said Linus. 'It works by evaporative cooling, correct?'

John nodded enthusiastically, a smile forming on his face. 'Yeah, kind of like sweat,' he said. Becoming more animated, he picked up a bottle and poured some water on the dirt. 'As the water evaporates, it cools whatever's adjacent to it. Which in this case is the pot and its contents.'

John plonked two glasses onto the table.

'You certainly like using water for energy,' said Linus.

John poured the water slowly, watching it sparkle from the light streaming through the window. 'Water is life,' he said, passing one glass to Linus. He looked over at Richard, then down at the second glass. 'It's the most precious thing...'

Richard watched John's expression become serious, sombre and downcast, with eyes looking out toward nothing and everything all at once. To Richard, John's body appeared to become smaller, less threatening and more vulnerable. He noticed the thick lines around John's face and wondered why he hadn't noticed them before. It was almost like he was looking at a different person, an old man.

Richard opened his mouth and spoke, so quiet it was barely audible. He uttered a single word, with no emotion save a tinge of bitterness he could not conceal: 'Budmo.'

'Hey,' cheered John automatically, taking a swig of vodka mechanically.

Richard said it again, a little louder. 'Budmo.'

'Hey!' cheered John, then stopped. He seemed to grow in size as he looked over at Richard, eyes hard. 'This is no celebration. There is no joy, no happiness.'

'I think I know why you wont accept, now,' said Richard, boldly.

'No Richard,' said John. 'You don't.'

'Is that why you've run away from everything?'

'No.'

Richard continued, softer in tone. 'You need to move on.'

'Don't do this,' said John.

'She would have wanted you to accept,' said Richard.

John stood up abruptly. 'Don't...!' he said, stopping short. He spoke with gritted teeth: 'Linus, mate, have you ever seen emu's in the flesh?'

Linus took a quick look out the window before nodding in understanding. 'Ah, my little girls will be jealous,' he said. 'Excuse me.'

John watched Linus leave before leaning over Richard. 'I know I haven't shown you much hospitality so far,' said John, 'but let this be clear: if you ever, ever, say anything like that again, you'll be out on your arse faster than a rabbit's donger.'

Shaken and scared, Richard nodded.

'Use your mouth, boy!' said John.

'Yes, sir,' said Richard, meekly.

John leant back. His expression changed, becoming confused, like he no longer recognised Richard. He sat back down and finished off his vodka.

Richard plucked up the courage to speak. 'We needed to do that before,' he said. 'Talk about things. We could have dealt with all this together.'

'You don't deal with something like that,' said John. 'It's not something that just goes away. It lingers, like a mist. Always there, reminding you.'

'Trapped, no way out,' said Richard, dreamily. 'I hurt too, you know.'

John stood to leave the room. 'I'm not having this conversation. You shouldn't have come.'

Richard's sunglasses sat on a ledge. His head was buried in the top of a rusted drum. He rose and rubbed his wet face, water dripping abundantly.

Richard looked down into the water, examining his reflection. His eyes were a little red and some stubble was already growing. More drops fell from his face, making his reflection ripple.

He rubbed his face with a hot, dry towel and fixed his suit, straightening it. Richard's lips became pursed and his expression became more serious as he picked up the sunglasses. He went to put them on then stopped, placing them in his jacket pocket, before walking out the room.

John sat on an old lounge chair, reading a thick reference book on the natural world, when Richard entered. Another glass of vodka had materialised, drawn to John like a magnet. The room was bare apart from a cranky father and a bookshelf. Avoiding them both, Richard made his way to the lone window which provided the only source of light in the room. He looked out, watching Linus move his outstretched hand to one of the emu's before pulling it away quickly, afraid of its sharp beak.

Richard floated slowly to the bookshelf, trying not to make a noise in the quiet room. He let his finger run down a few physics titles and picked one at random. He sat on the floor, cross-legged, pretending to read.

'Always an easy answer with you, isn't it?' said John, before peering over his book at Richard.

Richard looked back.

'Even when you were younger,' continued John, 'you never wanted to examine things closer, look for a more complete understanding. You always wanted the short version.'

'Occam's razor,' said Richard. 'The simplest explanation tends to be the right one. See, you did teach me something.'

'Ah, so you're just following the scientific method? Great! Let me see...'

John leapt to his feet, grabbed some chalk which sat on the bookshelf, and walked to a blank wall. He scribbled the word “Observation”, circling it.

'So you've observed that I don't want to accept the award,' said John. 'And your question is “why?”'

Richard thought for a moment. Why was he doing this? He'd have nothing to gain and everything to lose, surely? What am I missing?

'I'll ignore your thoughtless suggestion from earlier,' said John. 'So what other reason could there be?' He drew an arrow between the word “Observed” and a new word, “Hypothesis”. 'What's your hypothesis?' he said, circling it.

Richard decided to go along with the game. 'OK,' he said. 'You're going to say it's for idealistic reasons. You will say that science should be pure, that we shouldn't make a business out of it. That it needs to be done for the right reasons, ethical reasons. You'll say it's a kind of protest vote, to not accept. How am I doing?'

'Interesting hypothesis,' said John. 'It certainly sounds like a good reason to me.' As he spoke, John drew another arrow from the word “Hypothesis” to a new word, “Test”. 'But how would you test it? Bearing in mind, of course, that this is quickly devolving into the realm of one of the softer sciences, psychology.'

Richard smiled. Why was he making this so easy? 'My test has a few faults, but I'd perform it by determining if you were an ethical person,' he said. 'If you weren't, the test would fail, and we'd have to start again. Let's just say I've got my money on needing a new hypothesis.

For a moment, and only a moment, Richard noticed a slight change in John's expression. Then it was gone.

'And how can you tell if I'm an ethical person?' said John.

'Let's see,' said Richard, trying to draw it out. 'I would say that if an individual decided to fudge some numbers; add a few here, remove a few there...all so they could acquire enough funding to do some - albeit extremely important and world-changing - science. Yeah, I'd say if they did that, they would be unethical.'

'Good,' said John, turning back to the wall. 'So that hypothesis is wrong. We can move back and try another one.' He drew an arrow back from “Test” to “Hypothesis”. 'Oh,' he said, turning back for a moment, 'you weren't expecting me to be shocked at your great detective work, were you? Maybe you thought I'd get defensive and give you the opportunity to reveal your damning evidence, like in some fake movie trial, hmm? It doesn't work that way in the real world, Richard. Some poor scapegoat, some paper-pusher, may get knifed in the back and lose his job, but that's where it'll end. Next hypothesis, please.'

Richard had to think quick, regain his composure. 'OK, forget all this hypothesis stuff. At least tell me one thing: is that why you ran away from work?' Richard looked up at John. 'Is that why you ran away from me?'

John looked away. He took a few slow steps and sat back down in his chair. 'It's not like you're still a child,' he said. 'You're an adult. You can look after yourself.'

'But we needed each other. I needed you.'

'I needed to be alone. You don't understand. Work was all I had. It was the only thing that took my mind off it. If I buried myself in the work, focussed absolutely on that and only that, I could make it one or two minutes without remembering. Without seeing her in my mind. Without smelling her, tasting her.'

Richard blinked, his eyes welling up. He clutched the book in his hands, holding it close to his body.

'So I'd go in to work every day,' continued John. 'And every day things got worse. Our funding was fading away. Since the basic research was done, all the money moved to engineering and in implementing the reactors. I could see the writing on the wall. There's no room for people who have done things any more. The world is only fit for those who are in the process of doing, or who will do.'

'You could have got a job somewhere else. You can't tell me you weren't in demand.'

'Didn't seem worth it any more. There'd be new people to get around. More rooms full of dolts who all pretend to understand your work and get upset if you don't treat them like royalty. More people who love to feel important. But they're not. They're nothing. Just parasites. Worse than parasites! They get in the way of actual work getting done.'

'That's enough! These administrators you like to poke fun at are the only reason you could do what you did. You wouldn't have the money, the equipment, or the people without them.'

'Newton didn't need them. Neither did Tesla.'

'Tesla this, Tesla that. You know what? You're not Nikola Tesla. You're John Starkovich: good physicist, possible Nobel laureate, and horrible father. That's it!'

'Good physicist? Hmph! So your best comeback is a quid pro quo ad hominem attack? You were never good at creating a convincing and cogent argument. If I have one fault, it's not being firm enough with you. When I was a boy, your grandfather used to force my sisters and myself to debate him before dinner. We learnt the hard way, the best way. On one occasion, when I was getting a little ahead of myself, I tried to convince him that we should get extra...'

'Extra helpings for dinner, I know. And you lost and ended up with nothing. Well you know what? Your dad was a horrible father, too.'

John paused for a moment, thinking.

'OK,' he said. 'OK. A father should look out for his son, that's what your saying?'

Richard looked back. He may not have been a skilled debater but he knew not to answer a question without any idea where it would lead.

'If I accepted the prize,' continued John, 'it would help your career too, wouldn't it?'

'I'm not here for myself,' said Richard defensively. 'I'm here to make sure you accept what you deserve.'

'My very own Mephisto,' said John under his breath. 'But,' he said, louder, 'if it ever came up during budget time or for an application, you'd have to answer honestly that the venerable John Starkovich is indeed your father, correct? You certainly couldn't lie – that would be rude.'

'What are you getting at?' said Richard.

'And if that so happened to get you the deal, get you more money, more power; well, that's just icing on the torte.'

'I do what I can for the institute,' said Richard. 'We have a lot of overhead these days. It's not like before. We need more ancillary personnel.'

'More middle-managers you mean. More hoops to jump through for the people who should be getting the resources: the actual scientists.'

'We do some great science. I'm proud of what my guys do.'

John's eyes narrowed. His snarl slowly turned into a smile. 'You know what? I've decided to accept.'

'What?' said Richard, still guarded.

John beamed. 'I want to accept the prize,' he said.

Richard didn't like that smile. 'Why?'

'Why not?' said John. 'What did you say...I can get the biscuit as well?'

'Well, good. I guess.'

Richard knocked on the window. He gave a thumbs up symbol to Linus, then motioned for him to come back in the house.

'You've made the right choice,' said Richard, turning back to John. 'You deserve this.'

'We deserve this,' said John, still smiling.

'Maybe,' started Richard, 'maybe we can stay in touch more. You could even live with us for a while. See your grand-kids. I'm sure they'll give you a good debate, trust me.'

'It is all good?' said an out of breath Linus, rushing into the room. 'You will be accepting?' he asked John.

'I'm accepting,' said John.

Linus beamed.

'...on one condition,' said John.

Richard shot his father a look.

'Oh, well, I am sure we can accommodate,' said Linus.

'What condition?' said Richard, firmly.

'Oh, it's nothing too onerous, my boy. I will accept the Nobel prize if you step down from your role as director of the institute.'

'What?' said Richard.

'And vow never to work in a research facility again,' continued John.

'You can't be serious,' said Richard.

'Now, let us not be rash,' said Linus, looking at Richard.

'Why?' said Richard.

'Let's just say it's my one contribution to the people who do the actual work there. It's not a big gesture, perhaps, but I'm reminded of that joke, the one about a thousand dead lawyers at the bottom of the ocean.'

'Ah, I know that one,' said Linus, who laughed and then cuffed his mouth quickly.

Richard was unmoved. 'And what should I do instead, hmm? What would be satisfactory to the great John Starkovich?'

'That's up to you, Richard,' said John. 'It's your life.'

Richard stared back.

'Having said that,' continued John, 'a man of my age has built up a reasonable level of wisdom over the years. There are a great many leeches in this world, Richard. And a great many drains on society. If you could allow an old man just one suggestion, one tip, one thought, it would be to make yourself useful. Do something which benefits and enriches society. Do something important.'

'My work is important. I'm important.' Richard adjusted his tie nervously.

'Your honours focus was in biochemistry. You enjoyed it. You should go back to it.' John became more upbeat, almost pleasant.

'Ugh, I didn't enjoy it. You enjoyed that I did it. I wasn't even very good.'

'Of course you were. Just needed a little more discipline. That's something you learn as you get older.'

'I'm good at what I do now. Stop holding on to this stupid thought that I'll become a scientist.'

John became much more serious. 'You're going to have to come up with something soon. Otherwise you'll be unemployed.'

'I just said I won't do it,' said Richard.

'But we are talking of the prize, Richard,' interrupted Linus. 'It is bigger than all of us.'

'He's playing games,' said Richard. 'Trying to make a point.' Richard looked at John. 'Well done, you've proven what a big man you are and what you think of my life. Stop being stupid and just accept the prize like the old dolt you are.'

'Richard,' said Linus, 'please excuse me, it is not really my business, but is it disrespectful to say that about your father? Let alone such an eminent scientist.'

John smiled.

'You're unbelievable,' said Richard, shaking his head at John.

'It's just a humble request from an old dolt,' said John.

'I am sure we can arrive at a good solution,' said Linus.

'I can't believe you're going along with this,' said Richard. 'You've both lost it. I'm getting out of here. Come on.'

Richard slammed the door on the way out, leaving Linus and a smiling John.

'I will convince him,' said Linus. 'We will work it all out. It was an honour to meet you, Mr Starkovich.' Linus bowed before taking John's outstretched hand and shaking it profusely.

'Likewise,' said John.

'We will be in touch!' said Linus.

John watched them both through the window. Richard stood by the car, animated and upset. Linus attempted to placate and relax him before the assuredly heated trip.

John noticed his reflection in the window. His smile faded and his face drooped. Harsh wrinkles formed. He looked down and walked slowly away from the window.

© 2010 Ben Safta

 This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial 3.0 Australia License

With some Flynn's in my pocket...

'Hey, hey, sit down I've written a new song,' said Nathan.

'Oh, that's OK,' said Camilla. 'I've heard heaps of your songs. Wouldn't want to spoil all those great memories.'

'Nah, I think I'm onto something.'

'A job?'

'No, not a job,' said Nathan. 'But that's the thing. I could totally get money from this.'

'There's always a first,' said Camilla. 'I suppose that's a good enough reason to listen.'

'Good. Umm I'll sing it for you first then tell you how clever it is.'

'Can't wait,' said Camilla.

'No, I mean the business side of it. Just listen.' Nathan shuffled the guitar until it sat comfortably on his lap. He sang:

Look inside, look inside your tiny wallet

And look a bit harder

'Coz we're so broke today

So lacking pay

It's really disheartening

John Flynn's (John Flynn's)

Flyin' high with all my John Flynn's

I want them, I need them

They're all at my knees'n

Yes, yes, they can't help it

John Flynn's (John Flynn's)

Flyin' high with all my John Flynn's

I'm rich and you're not

I can buy what I want

Yes, yes, I can't help it

'OK, so that's what I've got so far,' said Nathan. 'What do you think?'

'Umm,' said Camilla. 'I guess it's kind of catchy.'

'But what about the lyrics?'

'I don't...really get it.'

'I just need a few extra verses. Like something to do with bitches.'

'I'm sorry?' said Camilla.

'Oh, and something more to do with the religious angle.'

'OK, now I'm really confused,' said Camilla.

Nathan strummed his guitar a few more times, playing through some ideas in his mind. 'Ma John Flynn's, they're makin' you fall...'

'What the hell is a John Flynn?'

'He was, like, some minister or something,' said Nathan.

'Right...?'

'But he started the Royal Flying Doctor's,' said Nathan.

'What's that got to do with anything?' said Camilla.

'Oh, he's on the twenty dollar note,' said Nathan.

'Ohhhh,' said Camilla, understanding dawning. 'So it's kind of like those hip-hop songs with the Benjamins.'

'S'right,' said Nathan.

'So wouldn't it better to use whoever is on the hundred dollar note?'

'Yeah, but that's Dame Nellie Melba, I think. You can't do much with an opera singer. Besides, more people have twenty dollar notes. No one uses hundreds.'

'Unless you were, you know, rich?'

'Oh, you haven't heard the awesome part!' said Nathan, ignoring Camilla. 'You know all those news items and current affair shows when they have stories about people buying stuff? Like they'll have some story about the economy or how much shops are selling or something? They always play the same one or two songs. Like that money song from Pink Floyd.'

Camilla was managing to keep up so far.

'Well,' said Nathan, smiling brightly, 'I've got this song that can be used there instead. How much do you reckon they pay for the rights? I'm sure they'd all play it every week or two.'

'I don't think they'd pay that much,' said Camilla. 'And it's probably to some collection agency. You'd get practically nothing in the end.'

'What? That's crap!'

'And anyway, they only play those songs because everyone knows them. They have to be popular first.'

'So maybe I should release it and once it's popular enough, I'll be on easy street.'

'I don't mean to be mean, Nathan. You know I want you to be happy and successful. Money's always nice! But you've tried to do that with your others songs – release them I mean - and it hasn't really gone too well.'

Nathan slumped. 'That's because no one knows about them. I'm doing my best.'

'Sorry. I didn't mean to make you upset.'

'No, it's OK,' said Nathan. 'You're right. Everyone thinks that it's horrible when you make something and some people don't like it. And it kind of is. But it's nowhere near as bad as no one even knowing or caring about it in the first place. That's way worse.'

'I care about it,' said Camilla, smiling. 'And this one did have a catchy tune.'

'I copied it.'

'What?'

'It's from a Lilly Allen song. I thought the lyrics would be the most important part.'

'Oh.'

I did have some ideas for other songs, too,' said Nathan, half-heartedly. 'Like something about bludgers mooching off the government. Or...something about bickering neighbours. They always have those stories.'

'Maybe you could try writing one with your own melody,' said Camilla. 'And without a reference to someone pictured on our currency. I don't think Australians relate to that so well.'

Nathan sat back.

'Hey, let's watch some TV for a while,' said Camilla. 'Take your mind off it.'

Camilla turned the TV on and sat close to Nathan, putting her arm around him.

'And you can buy Miricalé weight loss tablets at all good pharmacy's,' blared the female presenter. 'Coming up next: What can you buy on thirty dollars? Stay tuned for this mother and daughter's special grocery budget.'

Camilla and Nathan watched on as images of blurry-faced people buying groceries was overlaid with a brief extract of a song: '...with some bitches in ma crib, they droolin' on their bib, rhymin' my way to Nellie Melba's...'

© 2010 Ben Safta

 This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial 3.0 Australia License

Scent

I was at the shops when a girl floated past. A few seconds later her scent followed, filling my nostrils. It made me think of you. It was your scent. I used to smell it every day when we were together. And when I was alone. Especially when I was alone. It was not only in my clothes but in my heart.

We used to play stupid games with each other. We'd watch strange looking people go by and come up with a character name for them. Do you remember the Purple Leprechaun? Or the Goth Cowboy? Afterwards, I'd use your full name disapprovingly to chastise you. And you hated it. But you'd laugh. I loved to hear you laugh.

Even when we weren't together, I used to think about you constantly. Wonder whether you were smiling, laughing. Hoping you weren't sad or feeling alone. I made sure you knew I loved you. It was all I could really offer. I didn't have money or a fancy career. Or any future for that matter. But I had love and I had you.

Then you left. You left and it hurt. My stomach retched, my head ached. I was sick. Sick for weeks, for months, for years. At least I think I was. I have a vague memory of a misty thought. Like a dream of a dream: colourless, without shape.

Even in my pain I would picture you naked. It was easy. I knew every part of your body: where your skin was soft and where it wasn't; the location of every cute dimple and tiny lump. Now I can't even remember your body shape. Did you have an hour-glass figure, like the girl that went past? Or were you straight and thin? This isn't right. Why don't I remember?

I would go to bed each night humming the M*A*S*H theme song, hoping beyond hope. If I couldn't be with you then there was no point. The easy way really did sound easy. Even in those moments I'd still know you better than you'd know yourself. Even if I couldn't see you, I'd still know what you'd be doing, what clothes you'd be wearing. You loved to wear...jeans? Or was it a dress? Black? Red? I used to know all this, know everything about you, think of nothing else, but now... Now I don't know. Why don't I know?

Whenever I closed my eyes you were there in front of me, blinking in that cute way. Did you even have a way of blinking?

Did you have funny shaped lips or am I thinking of someone else? Why can't I remember?

We tried to be friends. You'd talk to me about what books you'd read. Did you read? Or just watch DVD's? Did you like documentaries? Maybe we weren't friends. Maybe that never happened.

Come to think of it, I'm not even sure it was your scent. I thought smells were connected to memories. That every scent you inhaled brought back poignant thoughts and feelings; those of long ago. Did I just hope it was your scent? Is my mind playing tricks?

It's funny. You were such a huge part of my life. How can I forget someone who filled my soul? How can I forget someone who crushed me and brought me to the brink of an early death?

You know what's even funnier? I can't even remember your name.

© 2010 Ben Safta

 This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial 3.0 Australia License

My Daddy Is The Best Daddy Ever

My daddy is the best daddy ever. He never gets upset at me.

We do lots of things together, like drawing and playing games outside. But not when it's cold. He touches my nose when it's cold. It warms me up.

It's really, really, really cold here. And it smells funny.

Daddy smells nice. Except when he farts.

He takes me to soccer. He puts bandaids on me when I fall over at soccer. The grass is hard!

This bench is even harderer. I'm bored. I wanna see daddy!

He always makes me smile. He says, smile and the whole world smiles with you. I don't know what it means but it makes me happy.

Daddy never gets angry at me. He loves me. He told me! More than anyone else in the whole universe!

Heaps of other people are here. Heaps of strangers.

Daddy said not to talk to strangers. Stranger danger! He's so strong, he could beat them all up. He puts me on his shoulders so I can see Santa.

He's the best dad ever. I don't wanna wait any more. I wanna give him my Father's Day card. It has a funny looking man on it.

A man said daddy smoked the wrong thing. I didn't say anything 'coz daddy said not to talk to strangers. The man said daddy is behind bars. But I can't see any chocolate.

I like chocolate. Daddy used to give me chocolate. Then he'd wink and say not to tell mummy.

I miss daddy.

© 2010 Ben Safta

 This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial 3.0 Australia License

Basic Buseography

I glanced in the direction the bus would be coming from. No bus, but I did notice a couple of young women walking along the footpath. One of them locked eyes with mine so I looked away quickly, peering up at the tall buildings which were yellow from the setting sun. I focussed on the large windows of one building, trying to work out if they were square or just a little off. The latter seemed more likely, especially taking into account the shape of the entire structure. Behind the buildings the sky was a dark blue, filled with approaching storm clouds. I hoped the rain would wait until I got home, where I could watch it fall out my own window.

I looked down again, trying to catch another glance at the woman walking by. She was about sixty centimetres away when I goggled her, which I'm sure made her feel a little uncomfortable. I looked away, back to the building, giving serious consideration to crossing the road and taking a closer look at the dimensions of one of the lower windows.

Some yellow flashed into the corner of my eye. I turned my head and read the number: the 254, my bus. Another bus, the 222, was already at my stop, taking on passengers. Hopefully my bus wouldn't get here until the 222 was gone so I wouldn't be put in the awkward position of deciding whether to wait at the stop itself or walk to the bus waiting behind. Some drivers would not open the doors until they were at the actual stop, which was the correct way from my understanding. But the throngs of soon-to-be passengers would rush to the bus, realise it was not letting people on, and shuffle back awkwardly.

Thankfully I wasn't put in that position as the 222 pulled away, leaving room for the fast approaching 254.

I looked each way, waiting until there was a gap in the passing pedestrians before walking to the scraggly queue. It wasn't really in the order in which we arrived at the stop but I let that pass – it had been a long day.

I stood just outside the bus, waiting behind an old gentleman. He was extremely slow and I could sense the exasperation of others around me. You need to give old people more time – it's not their fault that they struggle do things at an optimum rate.

Peering down at my ticket, I pointed it in the right direction so that it would enter the correct way into the ticket machine and not embarrass me with an “Egh” sounding beep.

I stepped up onto the bus. The old man had only just passed the driver. I turned my head and got a quick sense of how full the bus was.

The machine was on the right hand side, as you walk down the aisle, which is prejudiced against left handers. Sometimes I remember enough to use my left hand, but on this occasion I subconsciously used my right, which meant a false start in placing my correctly faced ticket into the machine. On the second go it went in fine and I looked up at what faced me.

Looking to the rear first, I could discern a lack of free complete double seats; each taken by at least one person. My eyes zigzagged down to the front of the bus where a couple side-facing seats were available. It's not easy to determine the best seating position, but what follows is my rough guide.

The optimum seating position is one where you are:

• facing forwards;
• alone;
• toward the back;
• not directly behind the exit doors nor over a wheel.

With this in mind, a handicap score can be given to any spare seat available. To determine the best seat, you simply solve for the lowest value.

The points system is as follows (lower is better):

Seat	Pts	Reason
Side-facing	5	Awkward looking at people Sore neck from twisting head
Back-facing	6	Awkward looking at people Current location hard to tell Slight nauseousness
Shared	5	Uncomfortable
(w/ugly female)	+1	No disrespect meant
(w/attractive female)	+2	Makes her uncomfortable
(w/large person)	+5	No room Potential smell
(w/small person)	-1	More room
(w/sick person)	+5	Contagious
(w/child)	+5	Contagious
Behind middle-doors	1	Annoying cool draft
Atop back wheel	1	Hot Restricted leg space
Front seats	2	Needs to be vacated for old/disabled people (quite rightly) Uncomfortable as new passengers always walk by Awkward as standing passengers congregate here
Middle seats	1	Uncomfortable as new passengers always walk by Awkward as standing passengers congregate here

Articulated buses have a few more options but the principle is the same.

My quick scan of this particular bus showed five spare seats, at least at first glance. The first two of which were side-facing seats (so an automatic five points). One of these would entail sitting next to an unattractive older woman (five points for shared, plus one for ugly female, giving a total of eleven). The other was sitting next to a school kid (five for shared, plus five for child, giving total of fifteen).

The old man shuffled aside, into one of these side-facing seats, rendering the first of my options moot. I took another step and chanced a second glance at the choices remaining.

The next spare seat was about half way down (+1), shared with a normal person (+5), and behind the exit doors (+1), giving a total of seven points. The best seat so far.

I took another step, heading in that general direction. If nothing else stood out, this would be my seat.

The fourth spare seat was toward the back. I wasn't sure if it was over a wheel or not. Sitting there would mean sharing (+5) with a female I considered quite attractive (+2). If in doubt, especially when scores are even, always head further back. That's my motto. Unfortunately this particular situation was lacking all required data. I had to make a decision soon as I was nearing the seat behind the exit doors. I paused a moment and, without craning my neck or drawing undue attention to myself, tried to make out the situation with the final seat. For some reason the angle had changed and I couldn't see it any more.

I passed the middle seat and decided to keep on going. You don't make it in this world by not taking chances.

The fifth seat turned out to be non-existent. A passenger must have been bending down, or perhaps to the side, which made them impossible to see. It was the fourth seat or nothing.

I approached the attractive woman with respect and mild reproach. Her eyes flickered over toward me and then straight ahead, lips firm.

My own eyes tracked down to the floor. As I took another step my heart sunk – the large cylindrical shape of metal poked out below the seat, curving down like a high foot-rest. A wheel-seat!

For a moment I contemplated turning back, quickly jumping into the more comfortable middle seat. But since that would draw too much attention, I knew I had no choice but to sit in the wheel-seat.

I slowly bent and sat on the seat, sheepishly edging over so that I wasn't completely on the end. I made sure to leave a bit of room between myself and the woman. My expression was one of apology, but I knew she would think I chose the seat because of her. If it was socially acceptable I would have explained the situation, the little faux-pas on my part. We could have had a little laugh and that would be that. But in the world we live in, that kind of thing just doesn't work. At least not in my experience.

The bus clattered along, somehow turning the smooth road bumpy. I tried to examine the woman's body language. Was she recoiled by me? Or did she not really mind my presence? I couldn't discern an answer either way.

The rain started hitting the windows, becoming heavier very quickly. I sat quietly, without moving.

I knew I shouldn't have taken chances.

© 2010 Ben Safta

 This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial 3.0 Australia License

Pages Paradox

Abilene paradox: a paradox in which a group of people collectively decide on a course of action that is counter to the preferences of any of the individuals in the group.

Despite being surrounded by hundreds of thousands of words, the customers shouted. They coughed, they burped, they grunted, they slurped. They did everything except read. And think.

Bianca's relaxed smile stood out in contrast to the other customers waiting in the queue. She looked ahead at the three cashiers ahead of her, all in a row. The first was a woman, middle-aged, her hair raggedy and greying. She looked like she was a lifer and reminded Bianca of every front-end supervisor at every supermarket she'd ever worked in.

Bianca had always felt that names should represent the personality of its owner. She took a good look at the first cashier and hoped her name was Joan.

The second cashier was younger, prettier, and wearing glasses. The type who wanted the job because of her love of written words but ended up having to talk to people all day. Bianca went with the name Wendy.

The third was a young man, about her own age, with everything in its place. The kind of person who'd worry if his short-back-and-sides was short enough, back enough and not too sides. The kind of person who would grow up to become that annoying old neighbour, complaining about your hedge having crept two centimetres onto his side of the fence. I'll call him George, she thought.

Wondering which cashier she'd get, Bianca looked down at the book in her hand. Above the loud murmur, in the corner of her ear, she heard a man's voice saying: 'And here's your receipt. Thanks for shopping at Pages book store. Hi, next please.'

Bianca subconsciously stroked the spine on her book, feeling its smoothness.

'Next!'

She looked up. 'Oh,' she said, smiling back at a frantic face behind the check-out counter. George it is!

'Apologies for the wait, it's been hectic all morning,' said the man, before she even got to the counter.

'That's OK, it's that time of the year -.' She stopped short as she looked down at the name-tag on the man's chest. Written in a simple sans serif typeface was the name Matt. Ugh, that so doesn't fit him, she thought. She admired the simple design of the name-tag and was about to use Matt's name when she stopped and chastised herself: she got irritated when people used to do that in her old job.

'Welcome to Pages Fiction: revealing truths that reality obscures,' blurted Matt.

'Uh,' grunted Bianca.

Matt leaned in conspiratorially. 'They make us say that,' he whispered.

'Right,' said Bianca.

'Do you have your Pages Book Club Card?' asked Matt.

'No, I actually don't have -'

'So is it just this one?' said Matt, picking up the book. 'Ah, Hitchhiker's! Nice choice. I love the Vogons.'

'Oh no, I don't need to buy it,' said Bianca. 'I've already bought it.'

She looked across at Matt, expecting some kind of reaction. Instead, he continued to flip through the book, turning the pages carefully like they were scripture.

'I just need to,' she continued, 'um, return it.'

Matt looked up sharply, the awe in his expression quickly fading. 'You're in the wrong line. Returns are just over there. If you'd like to -'

'No!' said Bianca firmly, and quite a bit louder than she had intended. She took a breath. 'I mean, I've already been in that line and the lady said I'd have to come here. To be honest, I think she was a little confused about what I wanted.'

'That shouldn't be a problem,' said Matt. 'Do you have your Pages Book Club Card on you?'

'No. I told you before that -'

'Wont be much longer,' shouted Matt to the large and growing queue. He turned his attention to the book, closely examining the pages, the spine, and then the cover. 'Book's in good shape; no dog ears or anything. I'm sure you haven't just sneakily read through it,' he said, adding a fake little chuckle for affect.

'Actually, I did.'

'Hmm?' said Matt, not completely listening.

'I did read through it. I didn't like it.' She paused, screwed up her face, then shrugged her shoulders. 'I told the girl on the other count... -'

'What?' said Matt, before his attention was stolen by “Wendy”, the cashier next to him.

Bianca peeked at Wendy's name-tag: Monique. Oh, come on!, she thought, that's so not right. She looked up and noticed that Wendy - she refused to call her Monique - was looking back at her shyly, moving a hand to her chest uncomfortably while talking. At least it appeared she was talking - her mouth was moving, which is often a good indicator. But Wendy's prudishness had pulled Bianca out of the moment and allowed the atmosphere of noise to swamp in around her once more which, despite being quite exhilarating, made hearing difficult; especially for someone as soft-spoken as Wendy seemed to be.

'Just press function...then t...yeah, what do you mean you didn't like it?' said Matt, turning his head mid-sentence. The last part was directed at Bianca.

'I mean it wasn't very good. I'd heard how wonderful it was. How original, how funny. But it, err, wasn't.'

'But it's Douglas Adams,' exclaimed Matt. 'The towel! The meaning of life! Forty-two!'

'Didn't really do it for me.'

'You don't like humour, is that it?' said Matt, in a condescending tone.

'Of course I do,' said Bianca, feeling she had to defend herself. 'I loved A Confederacy of Dunces. And Catch-22.'

'Ah, I think I get it,' said Matt. 'Do you like The Office?'

'You mean the TV show? I don't see what that has to do -'

'Do you like it?' Matt demanded.

'It's not bad.'

'American or English version?'

'There's an American version?' said Bianca, honestly confused.

'Damn,' said Matt, annoyed that his anti-English theory was wrong. 'If it's not that, then why don't you like it?'

'Why does anyone dislike anything? Why do some people love dancing in the rain, while others run for cover after the first drop? Why do some people enjoy Dan Brown, while others seem to hate him?'

'Hrmph! You can't compare Douglas Adams with Dan Brown. A master of language and logic, versus a...a...hack! Not even in the same galaxy!'

'I'm sorry,' said Bianca, 'I think I've upset you.'

'You didn't,' said Matt with gritted teeth. 'Go through to the next register,' he said curtly to someone already on their way to Joan, the third cashier. He was starting to get a bit irritated by this customer. 'So you want to return the book because you didn't like it?'

'Yes, please,' said Bianca, smiling.

'We can't do that.'

'Why not?' said Bianca, still with a smile on her face.

'You've already read it.'

'Yes, but like I said, I didn't enjoy it. It wasn't...' She struggled to remember the specific phrase from the consumer protection part of her high school Legal Studies class. 'It wasn't...fit for its intended purpose.' Yeah, that's it, she thought. 'It didn't...I'm not sure how to put it...entertain? Yeah, it wasn't entertaining.' She beamed, now on a roll. 'In fact, I'm not sure how I made it through the last few chapters. But, you know, it feels like you're being rude to the author if you stop half way through.'

Matt paused for a moment, trying to formulate the words in his head. He spoke slowly: 'So you've read the whole thing, cover to cover, and you think you can get your money back?'

'Yes, please,' said Bianca, ignoring Matt's tone.

'Are you even listening to what you're saying? If you go see a movie all the way through, and really hate it, can you get your money back?'

'You should.'

Matt groaned. 'With you shortly,' he said wearily to the next customer in line. 'Look,' he said to Bianca, 'we've got a change-your-mind returns policy here at Pages. I can give you a refund.' He leaned in closer. 'All you've got to do is say you haven't read the book.'

'But I have,' said Bianca.

'I know, I know,' said Matt. He leaned in further, his mouth two centimetres from her face. 'But just say you haven't,' he whispered.

'I'm not a liar!' Bianca screamed.

Matt recoiled immediately. 'But you're happy to return a book you've read. Is this something you do often?'

'No. Normally I borrow books from a library. Then if I really like it, I'll buy it. Same with music: download it, play it; if it's good, buy it, if not, delete it. I can't think of anything fairer than that.'

'I've heard about you lot. Pirates. You can't tell me you buy anything you steal, let alone the stuff you like.'

'Not so much lately,' admitted Bianca, wistfully.

'Aha! I knew it!'

'No, I mean I haven't bought much 'cos there's so much free stuff around now-a-days. So many people giving away their music, their books, their photos, their drawings - everything! It's amazing. It really feels like a world-wide community.'

'Hello, dear.'

A tall, thin, wiry man had approached the counter. His bulging eyes flickered from Bianca to Matt, and back again.

Bianca looked at the man's name-tag and giggled. Finally! she thought.

'Is there anything I can help you with, Matt?' said the man, oozing sleaze.

'Yes, please,' said Matt. 'This customer wants to return a boo -'

'Ah, you're in the wrong line, my dear,' said the man. 'If you'll just come with me I'll -'

'No, you see -' Bianca started.

'She's read the book,' said Matt.

The man swayed back and rested on his heels. 'Hang on, hang on,' he said, 'let's do this properly. Now, mon cheri, welcome to Pages Fiction: revealing truths that reality obscures.' He puffed out his chest, almost comically. 'I am Humbert, the store manager,' he said, bending down and holding out his hand palm-up.

'Uh,' said Bianca.

'He wants to kiss your hand,' whispered Matt.

'Err, that's OK,' said Bianca.

Humbert cleared his throat and straightened up. 'And what is your name, my dear?'

'Bianca.'

'And how can I help such a delicate flower as yourself, Bianca?'

'I just want to return this book.'

'Yeah, but -' said Matt.

'Uh, uh,' interrupted Humbert, his body stiff. He drooped as he turned his attention back to Bianca. 'And do you have your Pages Book Club Card, Bianca?'

'I don't have one,' said Bianca. 'I didn't like the book so I want my money back.'

'So you've...read it?' said Humbert.

'Unfortunately,' said Bianca.

'Well, I'm sure we can break the rules this once,' said Humbert. He said it in a way that made Bianca want to follow every rule ever invented.

'But sir,' interrupted Matt, 'we have a policy that -'

'I'll take care of it, Matt,' said Humbert, annoyed.

'To be honest, err Humbert,' said Bianca, 'everyone should have the right to return something they didn't like.'

'You let me take care of them, petal,' said Humbert. 'Now, do you have your receipt?'

Bianca paused. 'Err.' She inspected her handbag and patted her pockets like she was a cop arresting herself. She couldn't find it.

Matt looked on, irritated.

Humbert maintained a perfectly creepy lip-curl - as if he'd been taught how to smile and had to focus hard to maintain it.

Bianca's face started to redden. Defeated, she looked down and picked up the book. Her face brightened as her fingers excitedly grabbed a piece of paper wedged in like a bookmark. She handed the receipt over with a smile. Even Humbert's lips quivered, one side rising an almost imperceptible amount. That is, until he took a closer look at the piece of paper in his hand.

'Oh,' said Humbert. 'Oh dear. I'm afraid we may have a large problem, here, Bianca.' He looked up.

Bianca's mind raced. She hadn't looked at the piece of paper before handing to the store manager. Perhaps it wasn't the receipt after all.

'I'm not sure how to say this,' said Humbert. 'It's just..it doesn't look like you purchased your book from Pages, at all.'

'Oops, my mistake,' said Bianca, grabbing the receipt and skipping out, leaving behind two open-jawed employees of Pages Fiction: revealing truths that reality obscures.

© 2010 Ben Safta

 This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial 3.0 Australia License

In My Day

A dirty index finger probed a large, hairy ear canal. The finger, bent, scratched and weather-worn, escaped the ear and was cast down until it hovered over an ivory-coloured key. It shook, waiting, as compressed air was pushed through a regulating valve, into a reservoir, up a wind-trunk, and into an airtight box.

At just the right moment, as it had done thousands of times before, the finger dropped, pressing the key down hard. A pallet opened. Air flew up a pipe. Then up another pipe. And another, until it escaped each pipe in the key channel, blowing out the top of the organ.

The sound rushed past the organ player and hit the walls, bouncing and reverberating at weird angles, finding every nook and cranny. It reflected and refracted against stained-glass windows. It bounded down the aisles and skirted through the overzealous parishioners who made up the first pew. It meandered past the deaf patrons in the second pew, in the hopes of a miracle. It ignored the third pew all together as it ducked and dodged down the building, gliding effortlessly. It meandered off the wooden floor and twirled up a pair of denim jeans belonging to a girl, skimming past her thick belt, slinking up her patterned navy blue and white top with thin straps, around her beaded necklace, through her over-sized ear-ring, before circling around her ear. It had found a home! It rushed into the ear but was blocked by an ear-bud.

A hand waved in front of the girl. She rolled her eyes and reluctantly pulled the same ear-bud from her ear, the sound intermingling with the noise from the awful organ. She turned her head with a look of exaggerated pain.

The owner of the hand was, she thought, some old guy. If she could be bothered thinking about it properly she would say he was in his mid to late thirties. In other words, old!

'What have you got there?' the man said. 'One of those iPods?'

The girl's eyebrows wrinkled. What the hell was he talking about?

'Pretty impressive things,' he continued, unperturbed. 'Technology changes so quickly.'

The girl rolled her eyes and mouthed the word 'pedo'. She put the ear-bud back in her ear. Now she'd missed half the song!

'Hey!' shouted the man. 'You should listen to your elders! Life wasn't always this easy. In my day we didn't have MP3's.'

An older man, who the girl would describe as 'really old', sitting nearby, had his interest piqued and decided to listen in on the discussion.

'All we had,' the man continued, 'were ghetto blasters. To get to the next song you'd have to listen to the sound it made as you fast forwarded. And at the end of the day you'd be happy if your shoulders weren't too lopsided.'

The older man couldn't hold himself back. 'Ghetto blaster, you say? Hmph, in my day you couldn't carry music around. No. You'd have to be patient. Wait till you got home. Maybe, after your brothers and sisters, ma, and pa had used the turntable, you'd get to put on a record. Back then you appreciated it. And you didn't, let me tell you, even dream of breathing too heavy or you'd scratch the vinyl.'

The sound of snoring stopped. No one had heard it until it wasn't there, and even then they were only hearing its absence. The source of the lack of noise, who the girl might describe as 'really, really old', raised its head. 'Vinyl? In my day you couldn't just sit and listen to music. You had to create it! You'd spend years learning, you would. If you played the wrong key you'd get your fingers cut off. And then you'd be in trouble with your folks for having no fingers! But by the end, at least, you could play the piano.'

'You had pianos?' asked a really, really, really old man. 'In my day you'd spend all day starving for food. Mmm, it was tough.' He waited for nods of agreement and looks of awe. Receiving neither, he continued: 'Despite starving, you'd still climb to the tops of tall trees like monkeys - mhmm monkeys - and hang on to the branches. Sometimes the dang things'd break off and you'd go tumbling all the way down to the hard ground. But us survivors would pick up the snapped bits of wood, level 'em off, and play them by banging 'em together. That was real music, it was!'

'You had wood?' interjected a really, really, really, really old man, frowning. 'In my day we'd have to dig up an old relative. At the risk of upsetting the spirits, mind! We'd dangle their mutilated legs in the river and then drag them over stone to make shuffling noises.' He frowned ever further, allowing the large creases in his face to find a home. 'The stone wouldn't be nearby, neither; more likely a days walk in fifty degree weather. But we didn't complain! The best way to keep the legs wet was to pick some that had skin.'

The girl continued listening to her music, oblivious to the competition that had sprung up.

A really, really, really, really, really old man, seated nearby, looked on with indignation. 'Skin? You had skin?! In my day we walked around pushing our organs in with our hands. Didn't have blood, either - we had to pump oxygen to our cells by hand. Gripping an oxygen atom without skin on is no easy task, let me tell you.'

'Atoms?' muttered a really, really, really, really, really, really old man. 'You had it easy! In my day we had to collect stray protons, neutrons, and those pesky electrons, and hand-craft the atoms ourselves. We didn't just get given them like some...some prize! If you weren't able to make your own atoms, you weren't created. Simple survival of the fittest - and we liked it!'

A noise, loud yet distant, thundered the building. It sounded like the remembrance of a thought of a remnant of an echo of a giant finger impatiently tapping against the earth. The organ sounds stopped. The chattering stopped. The only sound that could be heard came from the girl's ear-buds. Every other church member looked up.

'You were created?' boomed God. 'Ha!'

© 2010 Ben Safta

 This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial 3.0 Australia License

Ho Ho Holy Fraud

Richard sat on a cold, wooden bench. Hunched over, hands clasped, and shaking slenderly, he turned his head to face down the long corridor to a T-junction at its end. The clip-clop sound of high heels echoed down the hard floors, getting louder and louder until the source, a five year-old receptionist, swept by in a flash, the sounds of her shoes quickly fading like a siren.

He was back to being alone.

His gaze ran along the cold, dull walls, its smooth sparseness occasionally interrupted by large pictures. His eyes stopped at one of the pictures: a large head-shot of, he assumed, a past broadcaster. The face looked old - at least nine or nine and a quarter – and had almost a faint dark patch above its lip.

Richard didn't recognise the person. An audio medium should reward its personalities with sound bites, he thought, not pictures.

'Mr Hitchens?'

The shrill voice broke him out of his thoughts. He looked up into the thick make-up which hid the face of an assistant.

'You can come into the studio now,' said the bright red lipstick.

Richard nodded his head, blinking quickly, as he began to rise. He quietly followed the stockings of the assistant into the control room and looked out through the large glass that separated him from his nerves.

'Are they on air?' he whispered.

'Yes,' responded the assistant, her voice booming in the relative quiet of the control room. 'And you don't have to whisper.'

'Oh,' said Richard. He rubbed his eyes and looked around the small room, its specks of coloured light only enough to make out the vague movement of a bobbing head at a console.

'Stay tuned after the break for more of the Jolly Merry Show,' said a tinny voice from a tiny speaker. Before the little jingle was over the voice's owner crashed into the control room, looking immediately to Richard. 'Mr Hitchens?'

'Uh, yes', said Richard.

'Oh, it's great to meet you, great to meet you. Alan Laws.' He shook Richard's hand. 'Thanks for coming on the show, I honestly appreciate it.' His smile hit Richard like a beam of white light, almost blinding him in the darkness of the control room. 'Interesting book, interesting. Go through to the studio. Be with you in a mo'.'

Richard hesitantly made his way to one of the large seats and sat down. The seat fell back unexpectedly before rocking forward. Richard, arms outstretched, took a moment to regain his composure.

It was just as cold in the studio as in the hallway. He wasn't sure if his shaking was to do with a lack of body fat or nerves.

He poked the microphone, tapping it in time to his heavy heart-beat.

'Uh, we'll need you to stop doing that, sir,' said the bobbing head from the control room.

'Sorry,' said Richard, leaning in too close to the microphone.

He sat back and swivelled in the chair, letting it spin completely around. Out of boredom and nervousness he looked around the room, across the large desk at two cushy and well-worn seats, each with an accompanying microphone. Between the seats, against the wall, sat a giant red 'A', slightly slanted on one side.

Richard looked up at the ceiling: the down-lights twinkled in the same way trees do during the festive season.

Muffled sounds were faintly audible from the control room. Peering into the darkened window, Richard made out Alan Laws slapping another man on the back, giving him a hearty welcome. They looked like old buddies. Their voices got louder until they entered the studio.

Richard sat up quickly, trying to look professional and in control. Alan motioned to take his seat before stopping himself. 'Oh, have you two been introduced?' he asked neither of them.

'No,' said Richard.

'Oh, how terrible of me,' said Alan. 'Father, this is Richard Hitchens. Richard, Father Nick.'

Richard stood up and held out his hand to the large man, feeling his lips utter 'Father'. He immediately chastised himself for using that term – he'd written a whole chapter about the power of words. His politeness was greeted with a grunt, forcing the withdrawal of Richard's unshaken hand.

Father Nick sat down abruptly. The bright red coat, hung with care around his ample waistline, seemed to glow in the studio lighting. He raised an almost man-sized white-gloved hand to his face, fixing a drooped, and obviously fake, white beard.

The sound of an advert seemed to get louder, motivating Richard to take his seat quickly.

'And welcome back to the Jolly Merry Show. I'm Alan Laws and with me today is a regular on the show. I've got a lot of respect for him, a great man, Father Nick.'

'Thanks Alan, it's always a pleasure to be on your great show, spreading the word of our Father, Ho ho ho,' said Father Nick, his belly jiggling with the ho's.

'And our special guest today is the controversial author of a book which is number one on the Barossa Herald's Best-Seller List, non-fiction category...'

'Hmph,' interjected Father Nick.

'...Richard Hitchens,' continued Alan. 'Thanks for coming down for the show, Richard.'

'No problem,' said Richard.

'Now, the book is called Ho Ho Holy Fraud, and it details the theory that there is no Santa Claus. Can you tell us why you chose such a strong title?'

'Yes, well,' said Richard, giving a little nervous chuckle, 'the title was actually chosen by my publisher. They felt there'd be more publicity by naming it something more provocative.'

'There certainly is!' said Alan.

'But if you read what's inside the book, the content itself, you can see I'm not suggesting that the vast majority of people are perpetrating actual fraud, deliberately misleading followers - although some are and we can talk about that later - but what I'm really trying to say is that the evidence for Santa really doesn't exist. More so, that the evidence against Santa is so large that it honestly astounds me that any reasonably-minded kid can ignore the facts.'

'Father?' said Alan, motioning for Father Nick to weigh in on the conversation.

'That's simply untrue,' said Father Nick. 'There's so much we know for a fact. We know there really was a Saint Nicholas. We know that he really did give out gifts. We know for a fact that if you truly believe, and you've been good all year, you'll get presents. These are indisputable facts!'

'And what about the orphans? I've met many who have never received any kind of present, despite living a good and moral life.'

'Ahh, but good and moral by who's standards?' continued Father Nick. 'That's what happens when we think we can generate our own moral code instead of following that of our Father.' Father Nick immediately looked up above him, arms wide as if about to embrace someone, and said: 'Ho ho ho.' Returning to his original position, he continued: 'We can't second-guess The List. We simply have to lead the best life we can and, most importantly, have a belief in Him.'

'Okay guys, okay. I can see this is going to be quite a heated conversation.' Alan gave what he thought was a jovial laugh, but which dripped disgustedly over Richard with its condescension. 'Richard, I'd like for you to read this section of your book I've highlighted. Just...that bit there.'

Richard stood up and took the book, knocking his microphone. He sat down and started to quickly read over what he was about to read. Alan looked on with an air of impatience.

Covering up the silence, Alan said: 'It's okay Richard, we're not setting you up.' Another of his laughs.

Without rushing himself, and showing a calm belying his true emotions, Richard waited until he had read the passage before speaking. '“This group believes that there is a literal Santa's workshop in the North Pole. They believe that he really does stand by in a factory, like a foreman, giving instructions for this elf to make a barbie, and for that elf to make a transformer. When they could simply go to the shop and buy them all in one fell swoop. All this happens while Mrs Claus, presumably, boils them up some nice hot cocoa.”'

'Comments, Father?' said Alan.

'Yeah, deniers always like to bring this one up, but if you read the true translation from the Greek, as in the Snotty Simon version, it only says that he lives to the north. Now, we have more of an understanding of the world than we did in the past...'

'And the word north, that was simply a way for the people - centuries ago – to mean up,' interrupted Alan.

'Exactly. He is above us. He comes from above, down our chimneys. No one thinks it means a literal north.'

'With all due respect, they do believe that,' said Richard. 'You've kind of made me quote that out of context, but that section was specifically about those who do believe in Santa residing in the north pole. It's about those who believe in burning their letters to Santa in the hope that the wind will blow northwards and that the ashes will reach the actual, real workshop. These people exist!'

'Sure, and there are some denominations that think the Santa Clauses in department stores are the real thing. We know they aren't. They are just representations of the Ho-Holy one, there to spread the word and provide hope for all the kids who weren't necessarily good all year.'

'Yeah, that's the basic tenant of Yardenism, that kind of absolution once a year,' said Alan.

'Hang on, you can't just pick and choose which parts...' started Richard.

'Sorry Richard, I don't mean to cut you off but if we don't take a commercial right now my bosses will be down here asking all sorts of questions,' laughed Alan. 'But we'll be back shortly with some callers.'

The jingle from the first advert drowned the studio before dying down. It was all going a bit too fast for Richard.

'This is good stuff Richard, good stuff,' said Alan, as his assistant came in with a big cream doughnut, laying it out for Father Nick. 'I think we're really getting to the meat of some of these issues.'

'Sixty seconds!' came a cry from the control room.

'To be honest, I don't feel I'm really putting across everything I need to say. I haven't even mentioned how parents are inextricably linked to not only the present-giving, but also the apparent consumption of the mince pies and the sherry or brandy. Or even the...'

'Whoa whoa, save it for when we're on air. Just jump right in when you have something to say, mate. I love energetic debates. Good for the soul. And for the ratings.' Alan gave another bright smile, this time with a bonus wink.

Wet munching sounds assaulted Richard's ear. He looked over at Father Nick who was scoffing down the doughnut, half the cream missing his mouth and blending in with his fake beard. Alan had chosen this one time to not fill the space with his own voice.

'In five, four, three...'

'Welcome back to an action-packed Jolly Merry Show. With us are controversial and, may I say rather strident, author of Ho Ho Holy Fraud, Richard Hitchens. And, of course, Father Nick. We'll take some calls. Hello...Wendy?'

'Oh, it's me. Hi Alan, hi Father Nick.'

'Hello Wendy,' said Father Nick.

'How can we help you, Wendy?' said Alan, deadpan.

'Oh, umm, I just wanted to say that you're so funny! I always listen to you every day!'

'Thanks Wendy, do you have anything to ask Richard?'

'Well, not really.'

'Okay, and next up we have James.'

'Hi Alan,' said James.

'Hello,' said Alan.

'What's wrong with giving people hope? Even if it isn't true, who cares?'

'Richard?' prompted Alan.

Richard paused for a moment: at first taken aback by the abrasiveness of the questioner, and then in contemplating a reply. He felt the others grinning at him, or maybe it was just his imagination. 'There is certainly a train of thought which would suggest the ends justify the means; what's the harm in a little lie if it means we all live a just and happy life? There are two problems with this. One is that it's a non sequitur. It suggests one can't be happy and benefit society unless one believes in Santa. This is clearly not true and, if you read my book, you'll see enumerated a number of reasons why.'

Richard shuffled into his chair, finally warming up.

'The second reason why I believe that truth does matter,' he continued, 'is the sheer beauty of it. If you accept, even for a moment, that it really is your parents giving you these presents and not Santa; how amazing is that? How much love must your mum and dad have for you if they want to give you gifts every year? How much better is that than some make-believe, heavy-set, fairy?'

'Now, come on!' bounded Father Nick. 'That's the problem with you lot. You do nothing but sprout your dangerous, antithetical speech. There's no need to discriminate and shout down belief. We should respect the views of every single child. Every one of us has a right to our own faith. We should follow the words of Santa Claus himself and live our life as He would want.'

'See, you've just been hypocriti...'

'Sorry Richard,' said Alan, 'we'll have to go to another call. There's plenty of people wanting to get in on this. Chris?'

'Ah, hi gentlemen, hi Richard. Look, Richard, I'd like to give you a little story. Last year I really wanted an Optimus Prime transformer. I wanted it so much but every single shop I went to, we couldn't find it. Then, guess who came by during the night and left a brand new Optimus Prime in my stocking?'

'He certainly is amazing, isn't He, Chris?' said Father Nick.

'How do you explain that, Richard?' said Chris hurriedly, with a sense of superiority.

'When you said every shop you went to, did you mean every shop your parents took you to?' said Richard.

'Well, of course. I'm too young to go out on my own.'

'Do you think it's possible your parents only took you to places which they knew didn't have the transformer?'

'That seems like a lot of work,' said Chris. 'I can't imagine them doing all that just for a small present. It could only have come from Santa!'

'That brings us to an interesting point,' said Alan. 'Why would parents continue this? Why would they lie to us? My parents never lie to me, and I never lie to them!' His voice had started to break. His words hung in the air. A true emotion had slipped through the Alan Laws persona.

'It can be hard to accept something like that,' said Richard, honestly. 'Did you parents ever tell you about the tooth fairy? Did they ever plant chocolate eggs out in the garden at Easter time?'

'Well, sure they did, but that was just a white lie. Deep down, me and me brothers knew it weren't no serious thing.' Alan's language had devolved. His control had slipped. For once, letting his mouth run in front of his brain had caused a problem. He took a short breath – imperceptible to most listeners, but an eternity for him – before recovering. 'But hey, we got some chocolate out of it so we didn't really care,' he lied.

'I think we've got another caller, Alan,' said Father Nick, helping his associate out and avoiding the potential rebuttal from Richard.

'Uh, yeah, thanks for your call, Chris. Now we have Julia on the line. What would you like to say, Julia?'

'Hi, Richard! I came to your book signing today! I just want to thank you. I've spent the last twenty weeks without believing in Santa and it can be tough dealing with other kids who do believe. But your book has really helped me in not only feeling good about that choice, but also it's given me ways to talk to other people.'

'Thank you, Julia,' said Richard. 'I'm glad it has helped. There are more of us than you might think and one of my hopes in writing this book was to let people know they weren't alone.'

'All right, unfortunately that's all the time we have,' said Alan. 'I'd like to thank my guests, Richard Hitchens, author of the controversial new book Ho Ho Holy Fraud.'

'Thank you,' said Richard.

'And of course our regular on the show, Father Nick.'

'Thanks, Alan.'

'Thank you, Father,' said Alan.

Richard walked slowly along the corridor, hoping to retrace his steps and find the exit. Had it gone well? He wasn't sure. He didn't want to think about it for now. It was over. He could head to the comfort of home.

He passed by a door, slightly ajar, and stopped. He could hear a kid playing with some toy, making shooting and flying noises. Stepping up to the door quietly, Richard peered in and saw Alan seated on the floor, all alone, with legs crossed and transformers in hand.

'Pew pew pew,' Alan managed to let out, his eyes downcast and lips in a frown; his fake smile nowhere to be seen.

Richard watched for a while, wondering whether he should say something. He thought back to the moment he discovered his parents had lied to him. He had felt let down, scared, alone. But once through that initial stage it felt liberating. The world became clearer, more real. Anything was possible!

But it was a long journey.

Richard turned away and faced the labyrinth of corridors. It was a strange little building, filled with surprises, twists and turns. Sometimes you'd go down the wrong way, only to backtrack and find a whole new section or a whole new floor with new people, new rules, new adventures.

He walked off contentedly, with confidence and a renewed sense of hope. He was not truly alone.

© 2011 Ben Safta

This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial 3.0 Australia License