Duncan Milne's Blog, page 6
November 29, 2015
Any Day
He watched the approaching bus slow, then stop, then in the bottom of a pause surrendering it’s doors folding open to him. The airbrakes released, expelling a sigh matching his own. Corralling a deep breath, he looked up and boarded the daily 6.24 Express that conveyed him to work. Sharing a momentary recognition with the driver, they exchanged incomplete nods and muttered greetings. Seeking the midpoint between decorum and indifference, a location ultimately defined by apathy. An exchange that was the baseline of expectation in a society that was losing sight of being polite. Indifferent to each other, yet sharing the knowledge that they each played a role in the other’s day, the same way a bench or streetlight would. Important, yet inseparable from the mundane landscape.
A key domino in the morning, the 6.24 fit best. Eight minutes later, or eight minutes earlier could still work, but 6.24, at this stop, afforded him the luxury of a small cushion of time.
Steadying himself to the acceleration and swaying of his transport he began scanning for a seat, two actually, a vacant bench being his preference. A comfortable cushion between the solitude of his thoughts and someone encroaching upon his morning; away from the draft from the door was a second criterion this morning.
Surrendering to a short bench, already feeling the new day’s weight draining through his shoulders and into his spine, he closed his eyes and inhaled a slow deep breath. He placed his satchel on the vacant aisle seat, he would move it if the bus became busier and his concession became an expectation. Another benefit of the 6.24 was that it was rarely crowded.
This morning there were only five travelling companions, three were regulars like him; people he’d exchange a partial smile and nod with, if their eyes met at all. There was a time when he wondered what each of them did. Where were they going? When he first started commuting, he would notice his fellow passengers. Their new shoes, or maybe just freshly polished, a new skirt or haircut, but that was lifetime ago. Back to a time when his posture would straighten a few inches when he donned a suit and his shoes flashed like his eyes, glistening with pride and ambition.
That was so long ago. Now he faced the expectations of the day, no longer possessing the energy to rage against the tides as he used to, and the desire to vanquish, now yielding to seeking balance. Not necessarily, a solution of fairness, but rather of what might be acceptable. His suit once roaring in the sunlight like polished armor, now falling across his shoulders like a sleeping cat reflecting a life of concession. Concessions that fellow regulars were part of, a surrealism he called ‘morning commute’. As static as the advertising illuminated above their heads.
Life insurance. Debt recovery. Travel abroad. Affordable pay-per-use mobile phones. Family planning services. It was all there, complete with toll free numbers and websites, guiding him through his existence, reminders of the important things. Reminding him of the expectations that we have for society and that society in turn has of us.
Turning his head away and shuddering instinctively, he was chilled only by the thought of the morning drizzle, remembering the cold having penetrated the tiny fissures in his wool coat. He removed his damp gloves and folded them onto his lap. Looking out at the grey that pressed on the outside of the window, he started thinking about the day ahead.
Begrudgingly, at five o’clock he had left the acceptance of sleep to face the expectations of the day, casting the protective warmth of slumber into the examination of daylight. Expectations intrigued him. They flickered in the candle lit corridors of others, casting vague shadows and disguising colors, leaving his path uncertain. His own expectations weren’t even clear. Whatever they were, they were his to possess. Clutching at these fragments, they populated the scorecard by which he navigated through his life; a collection of restless standards to be measured against, judgment always examining him. But still, always the jury waiting to be recalled, hanging in judgment every day. No longer a cause but a result.
Expectations filled the bus around him, ignoring the empty seat beside him or even the benches that remained vacant. His doctor expected him to drink less wine; to stretch regularly, to exercise during the week, and to reduce his bad fats. There were other expectations as well. Friends, family (even some beyond the grave), colleagues, his wife; even his wife all held expectations over him like a sword on a thread. His own expectations often crawled under his skin more than those of others that he faced.
Reeling past the picket fence of stops, names, and places that he recognized but only experienced through heavy glass; the geography of the unknown world within the five kilometers between where he slept and where he labored. These were streets and parks in his hometown equally foreign as the dog-eared and worn atlases that mystified him during school.
How many of the day’s travel companions knew these streets? Did any of the childhood palms that had once softened and curled the pages of the primary school atlases move past their dreams into the world around them? Had any of them seen those exotic destinations, or did they move from city to city and from job to job. Or did they end up like him with unrequited dreams of travelling to marvel at soaring mountains, mirrored in the lakes below; or the crowded markets screaming with new fragrances and a cacophony of unfamiliar languages. Contemplating the sign across the aisle, maybe he should have invested in lake property.
Eyes flickering in lassitude, with the knowledge he was drawing near his destination. The acceleration and deceleration becoming more frequent, the low apartments having grown into office towers, he would now gather his gloves, his satchel, and his resolve. Express 6.24 was tipping, about to tumble the next domino, as was his expectation, as was any day.
Walking past empty cubicles that would slowly become populated over the next ninety minutes, the tea was hot through the paper cup and felt warm through his leather gloves, he entered his office and set the paper cup onto his desk. Removing the plastic lid, and setting it beside the cup, he removed his gloves, turned his computer on, and hung his coat on the back of his door. Beside his gloves, on a spare client chair, he folded his scarf, and placed his woolen cap, building momentum for his morning.
A cursory review of email brought the news of the day, foreign markets, and the summary of his schedule sent from his assistant Pam. He managed this information automatically, while he returned to his contemplation of expectations. Lining up four pens; three black and one red, alongside two mechanical pencils, he took a sip of his tea. Nodding half to himself, half to his desk or the tea, or to an idea; yes, expectations align society. It was how roles become defined and how relationships form. Without some semblance of order, life would be an ornate box, full of surprise. One could turn it, shake it, and examine a parcel for hours without knowing if it contained trash or treasure.
Some people like surprises, he supposed but usually only if it was of little consequence, other people just lacked responsibility; these were people who expectations fell away from like a harvested crop. Falling without consequence to the ground, only to be gathered later and milled for flour.
Checking his watch, he heard a knock on the doorframe, as Pam seeing he was neither on the phone nor with anyone, entered and said, “Good morning sir, I trust you’re well. I have your briefs and an updated schedule, printed.”
“Thank you Pam. Yes, I’m well. You?”
“A touch chilly, but doing well sir. Is there anything else for now?”
“No, nothing for now. Did you cut your hair?”
“Yes, sir. Tuesday.”
“It suits you. The color is — is”
“Thank you sir. They say a change is as good as a rest.”
“I suppose so. Thank you Pam.”
“Sir,” she replied as she retired from his office.
Taking a larger, more committed, sip of his tea he began reading the briefs. An extension of his expectations, he would review the materials without trying to settle upon a conclusion, making notes of questions that arose and identifying the larger issues at play. Matters that would be answered to his satisfaction before an answer was settled.
Confirming the time on his watch, he completed his study of the briefs, checked email again, and took time to survey the headlines again until he was ready again to review his notes.
Twenty minuets later a soft chime from his computer alerted him that he was expected elsewhere, looking up from the briefs he asked, “Pam, the files have been sent up?”
“Yes sir. Room 1503 this morning. I’ve a fresh pad of paper and pens here for you. You’ll just need your briefs and the schedule,” the voice came from beyond the open door.
“Very well. I’m heading up now.” Standing up, he straightened his tie and smoothed his suit, then made his way down the corridor towards the elevator bank. The cubicles were now filled and buzzing away with the activity of the day. He exchanged some cursory greetings and nods and then entered the elevator alone, again only with his thoughts, his expectations, and arm full of materials.
The elevator opened leading onto a narrow corridor and he proceeded to a door marked 1503. He stared at the black number embossed on the cream painted door and then down at his shoes. “I really ought to send these out for a shine,” he thought and then he sighed and drew in a deep breath.
He pressed the button to the left of the door and awaited. A uniformed commissionaire opened the door away from him, nodded and said, “Good morning sir.” Then turned and addressed the room, “Court in session. Please rise for Judge Thomson presiding.”
Looking across the crowded courtroom, he tried to imagine how the expectations trapped behind the eyes that were facing him could be reconciled with those of his own.
Any Day
He watched the approaching bus slow, then stop, then in the bottom of a pause surrendering it’s doors folding open to him. The airbrakes released, expelling a sigh matching his own. Corralling a deep breath, he looked up and boarded the daily 6.24 Express that conveyed him to work. Sharing a momentary recognition with the driver, they exchanged incomplete nods and muttered greetings. Seeking the midpoint between decorum and indifference, a location ultimately defined by apathy. An exchange that was the baseline of expectation in a society that was losing sight of being polite. Indifferent to each other, yet sharing the knowledge that they each played a role in the other’s day, the same way a bench or streetlight would. Important, yet inseparable from the mundane landscape.
A key domino in the morning, the 6.24 fit best. Eight minutes later, or eight minutes earlier could still work, but 6.24, at this stop, afforded him the luxury of a small cushion of time.
Steadying himself to the acceleration and swaying of his transport he began scanning for a seat, two actually, a vacant bench being his preference. A comfortable cushion between the solitude of his thoughts and someone encroaching upon his morning; away from the draft from the door was a second criterion this morning.
Surrendering to a short bench, already feeling the new day’s weight draining through his shoulders and into his spine, he closed his eyes and inhaled a slow deep breath. He placed his satchel on the vacant aisle seat, he would move it if the bus became busier and his concession became an expectation. Another benefit of the 6.24 was that it was rarely crowded.
This morning there were only five travelling companions, three were regulars like him; people he’d exchange a partial smile and nod with, if their eyes met at all. There was a time when he wondered what each of them did. Where were they going? When he first started commuting, he would notice his fellow passengers. Their new shoes, or maybe just freshly polished, a new skirt or haircut, but that was lifetime ago. Back to a time when his posture would straighten a few inches when he donned a suit and his shoes flashed like his eyes, glistening with pride and ambition.
That was so long ago. Now he faced the expectations of the day, no longer possessing the energy to rage against the tides as he used to, and the desire to vanquish, now yielding to seeking balance. Not necessarily, a solution of fairness, but rather of what might be acceptable. His suit once roaring in the sunlight like polished armor, now falling across his shoulders like a sleeping cat reflecting a life of concession. Concessions that fellow regulars were part of, a surrealism he called ‘morning commute’. As static as the advertising illuminated above their heads.
Life insurance. Debt recovery. Travel abroad. Affordable pay-per-use mobile phones. Family planning services. It was all there, complete with toll free numbers and websites, guiding him through his existence, reminders of the important things. Reminding him of the expectations that we have for society and that society in turn has of us.
Turning his head away and shuddering instinctively, he was chilled only by the thought of the morning drizzle, remembering the cold having penetrated the tiny fissures in his wool coat. He removed his damp gloves and folded them onto his lap. Looking out at the grey that pressed on the outside of the window, he started thinking about the day ahead.
Begrudgingly, at five o’clock he had left the acceptance of sleep to face the expectations of the day, casting the protective warmth of slumber into the examination of daylight. Expectations intrigued him. They flickered in the candle lit corridors of others, casting vague shadows and disguising colors, leaving his path uncertain. His own expectations weren’t even clear. Whatever they were, they were his to possess. Clutching at these fragments, they populated the scorecard by which he navigated through his life; a collection of restless standards to be measured against, judgment always examining him. But still, always the jury waiting to be recalled, hanging in judgment every day. No longer a cause but a result.
Expectations filled the bus around him, ignoring the empty seat beside him or even the benches that remained vacant. His doctor expected him to drink less wine; to stretch regularly, to exercise during the week, and to reduce his bad fats. There were other expectations as well. Friends, family (even some beyond the grave), colleagues, his wife; even his wife all held expectations over him like a sword on a thread. His own expectations often crawled under his skin more than those of others that he faced.
Reeling past the picket fence of stops, names, and places that he recognized but only experienced through heavy glass; the geography of the unknown world within the five kilometers between where he slept and where he labored. These were streets and parks in his hometown equally foreign as the dog-eared and worn atlases that mystified him during school.
How many of the day’s travel companions knew these streets? Did any of the childhood palms that had once softened and curled the pages of the primary school atlases move past their dreams into the world around them? Had any of them seen those exotic destinations, or did they move from city to city and from job to job. Or did they end up like him with unrequited dreams of travelling to marvel at soaring mountains, mirrored in the lakes below; or the crowded markets screaming with new fragrances and a cacophony of unfamiliar languages. Contemplating the sign across the aisle, maybe he should have invested in lake property.
Eyes flickering in lassitude, with the knowledge he was drawing near his destination. The acceleration and deceleration becoming more frequent, the low apartments having grown into office towers, he would now gather his gloves, his satchel, and his resolve. Express 6.24 was tipping, about to tumble the next domino, as was his expectation, as was any day.
Walking past empty cubicles that would slowly become populated over the next ninety minutes, the tea was hot through the paper cup and felt warm through his leather gloves, he entered his office and set the paper cup onto his desk. Removing the plastic lid, and setting it beside the cup, he removed his gloves, turned his computer on, and hung his coat on the back of his door. Beside his gloves, on a spare client chair, he folded his scarf, and placed his woolen cap, building momentum for his morning.
A cursory review of email brought the news of the day, foreign markets, and the summary of his schedule sent from his assistant Pam. He managed this information automatically, while he returned to his contemplation of expectations. Lining up four pens; three black and one red, alongside two mechanical pencils, he took a sip of his tea. Nodding half to himself, half to his desk or the tea, or to an idea; yes, expectations align society. It was how roles become defined and how relationships form. Without some semblance of order, life would be an ornate box, full of surprise. One could turn it, shake it, and examine a parcel for hours without knowing if it contained trash or treasure.
Some people like surprises, he supposed but usually only if it was of little consequence, other people just lacked responsibility; these were people who expectations fell away from like a harvested crop. Falling without consequence to the ground, only to be gathered later and milled for flour.
Checking his watch, he heard a knock on the doorframe, as Pam seeing he was neither on the phone nor with anyone, entered and said, “Good morning sir, I trust you’re well. I have your briefs and an updated schedule, printed.”
“Thank you Pam. Yes, I’m well. You?”
“A touch chilly, but doing well sir. Is there anything else for now?”
“No, nothing for now. Did you cut your hair?”
“Yes, sir. Tuesday.”
“It suits you. The color is — is”
“Thank you sir. They say a change is as good as a rest.”
“I suppose so. Thank you Pam.”
“Sir,” she replied as she retired from his office.
Taking a larger, more committed, sip of his tea he began reading the briefs. An extension of his expectations, he would review the materials without trying to settle upon a conclusion, making notes of questions that arose and identifying the larger issues at play. Matters that would be answered to his satisfaction before an answer was settled.
Confirming the time on his watch, he completed his study of the briefs, checked email again, and took time to survey the headlines again until he was ready again to review his notes.
Twenty minuets later a soft chime from his computer alerted him that he was expected elsewhere, looking up from the briefs he asked, “Pam, the files have been sent up?”
“Yes sir. Room 1503 this morning. I’ve a fresh pad of paper and pens here for you. You’ll just need your briefs and the schedule,” the voice came from beyond the open door.
“Very well. I’m heading up now.” Standing up, he straightened his tie and smoothed his suit, then made his way down the corridor towards the elevator bank. The cubicles were now filled and buzzing away with the activity of the day. He exchanged some cursory greetings and nods and then entered the elevator alone, again only with his thoughts, his expectations, and arm full of materials.
The elevator opened leading onto a narrow corridor and he proceeded to a door marked 1503. He stared at the black number embossed on the cream painted door and then down at his shoes. “I really ought to send these out for a shine,” he thought and then he sighed and drew in a deep breath.
He pressed the button to the left of the door and awaited. A uniformed commissionaire opened the door away from him, nodded and said, “Good morning sir.” Then turned and addressed the room, “Court in session. Please rise for Judge Thomson presiding.”
Looking across the crowded courtroom, he tried to imagine how the expectations trapped behind the eyes that were facing him could be reconciled with those of his own.
November 17, 2015
November 12, 2015
The Gap
It felt late, later than it could possibly be. Still only dusk fading across the Sydney skyline, the Opera House and iconic bridge to the west would still be bustling with activity as people began heading home from work. Spring days pinching moments of sunlight from winter, still even before six o’clock, the day had extracted more than it ought. Releasing thoughts of the day into the breeze rising from the Tasman Sea, James exhaled a long sigh.
Imagining that he could observe his breath mixing in the air, floating away to join the clouds, peace began returning to him. Wisps of breath fading, watching the fleeing sun being consumed by the western lands, chased by the bruise colored sky, as he inhaled the beginning of his calm. Tomorrow it would begin again, the night would again pacify him.
Inhaling the unusually tactile humidity as it mixed with the cooling air, he reminded himself that everything is part of something else. Just as day fades into night and stress releases into tension, he embraced that night would retire the day. Somewhere he would become whole, a confluence of his experiences.
Now a habit for nearly twenty-five years these twilight walks always served him well: recalibrating his world; grounding his beliefs, enabling him to face the demands of tomorrow. Opportunities he called these walks.
Mutt was running ahead or lingering behind, filling his canine olfactory senses with clues of the unseen occupants that made The Gap home. James could only imagine the games and adventures his dog might be playing out in his infectiously lighthearted manner.
Reliable companionship always came in the form of a dog. Mutt, the fifth such escort to have joined him over the years, James shared certain sensations with his friend. But there were others only known to the dog. Memories of a hare, tracks of lizards, and snakes, the scent of other curious canines, sounds demanding Mutt’s attention but sometimes escaping James’ capacity.
James returned his thoughts to the day. News of drought, the cricket matches, the rugby, asylum seekers, ISIS, and other plights facing his proud country; with a list like that, he didn’t delve into the behavior of specific politicians to renew his despair.
Humidity welling up from the sea as the cool air displaced the warmth of the day, becoming indifferent to the time consumed by the deepening dusk, he watched the world changing. Patiently watching Mutt and seeking a balance as the mixing between the external tranquility of the park and the lingering internal tension of his day continued.
Allowing a shallow smile, there was enjoyment in negotiating along the cusp of a duality and the tension that was both tangible and imagined. Even in the failing light, he could sense a tension along the escarpment, the strain between the earth and the sea. Developing conflict of approaching weather, a cooling wind that first graciously offered a reprieve from the day’s stifling humidity, but then once welcomed, rudely extending it’s indulgence creating the chill of an overstaying guest.
Above the grey horizon was smearing between day and night, extending into the dusk and obscuring the details of the day. Details that harbored history. Details filled with stories of this place; the present reality and the future of those who so often find themselves at the crossroads. Crossroads that deposited countless pained souls along this headland.
The history of The Gap is storied enough for most. A testament to wayward sailors caught in fierce Tasman storms, having failed to find safe harbor in Sydney. A history that always counted a rosary of lost souls. Wrecks. Ships and souls alike have floundered on the shoals below. Crashed vessels and souls alike, mercilessly against the rocks below, relieved of all their earthly expectations and inchoate dreams.
As much a part of the history of the place as anything else that happened yesterday; James occupied a gap somewhere between the forgotten military garrison and the spawning stories of victories and repression, depending on the voices behind the tale. Who would really know? Ultimately the degree of our participation is measured in the history of tomorrow. What had once started as his habit, became a section of land that James took responsibility for and protected.
As James’ eyes became more attuned to the failing light, he saw what he had come to expect on his walks. Mutt saw, or sensed, it as well, and drew close to James’ heel before venturing away again as they moved toward the horizon.
Casting a muted silhouette against the sky, there was a solitary figure sitting along the ledge of the cliff, his legs dangling over freely, touching the void, looking out towards the sea. Bracing his hands on his legs in front of him, James could see the man’s square broad shoulders covered in a light colored jacket. James whistled and called out, “Mutt, back.” The dog’s return was immediate and certain.
“G’day.” James called out.
“Hey,” the stranger responded offering an indifferent wave, without looking away from the sea.
“You ‘right mate?” James persisted. Walking towards the man, with his palms extended up, he offered, “Is there anything I can do for ya’ mate?”
A silent nod was unable to convince James that the stranger was responding to the question or to some other question posed from afar.
“Ya’ know mate, I just live up around the way, why don’t you come ‘round for tea and tell me about it?”
“Thanks, but I’m fine. Just as happy here with the sea and my thoughts. I’d just as rather not impose upon you.”
“No imposition mate. Com’ on.”
“Have a good night. Enjoy your tea. No reason to feed a stranger, besides I’ve got means enough to find my own.”
“Fair enough, but The Gap here has taken more than it’s share of troubled souls; if it’s all the same to you I’d be happier making a new friend than either one of us facing regrets.”
“All the same, I’m fine. Besides, this isn’t’ about you. G’night.”
“Hey, it’s just me and me dog Mutt, we’re just heading back for our tea. We could use the company.”
“Mutt’s the dog’s name or just what you call him?”
“It’s his name and what I call him,” James chuckled.
The man nodded his head and continued to look away from James.
“It’s actually short for mutton,” James continued, sensing a restlessness beyond the indifference of the stranger.
“Funny name for a dog.”
“My cousin from across the ditch gave him to me, other than the dog, the only good to come from New Zealand is Mutton. But as a pup he chased more than he herded, he was no good with the mutton, so I took him.”
The man nodding said, “Should’ve called him ‘Lucky’; lucky the station hand didn’t give him a bullet.”
“Well, that’s sort of why I took him. Don’t do any good letting creatures die before their time, know what I mean?”
“I suppose,” the stranger said nodding, “like I say ‘Lucky’ seems to fit.”
“Last dog was ‘Lucky’, so that wouldn’t do.”
“Can’t be lucky twice?” the man asked still looking across the water.
“Well some can. Mutt deserved something different. We all do. You looking for better luck?”
“It’s not like that. I’ve said I’m fine; just thinking.”
“I’m sure ya’ are mate, but ya’ know the browns hunting these grasses at night.”
“Seems that the snakes tend to leave me alone more than people do,” he answered with a sigh. “Are you that guy?”
“What guy might that be?”
Turning to look towards James, the man answered, “People say an angel patrols these cliffs helping the suicides.”
“Well I suppose that they’re not really suicides if I talk them down. More like folks that need an extra ear. I’m no angel, but yeah, I’ve come across some folks that wanted a talk.”
“You can’t save them all you know.”
“Well, maybe. But I save what I save.”
“Are you sure? Do you safe them or just delay the inevitable? Aren’t suicides like recovering addicts, they are what they are? Some don’t recover and some suicides aren’t preventable. Nothing can stop those, you just delay the end of the day.”
“I don’t need to be sure. . . I suppose sometimes it is only temporary but that doesn’t stop me from trying.” Mutt was sitting a few meters off, quietly looking between his master and down at his paws, the emphatically understanding the fine line between situations that are contentious and those that are embarrassing. Sometimes it’s the opposite sides of the same coin.
“I suppose not.”
“What if I told you it was equal measure about both me and them. If I felt a draw to sorrow and wanted to chase it away from everyone near, as though misery was a contagion that could be eradicated.”
“Ain’t no crime in being here. Park closes at midnight; I’m not bothering anyone.”
“You American? I hear a bit of an accent.”
“Canadian.”
“Right, sorry mate; been in Aussie long then?”
“A while. Not long enough to be bit by a Brown snake.”
“That’s funny.” James said with a chuckle. “I’m James, I didn’t get your name.”
“Nice to meet you James.”
James waited for the stranger not to tell him his name and then shrugged his shoulders and scratched Mutt’s ear. “So then mate, why don’t we just chat about what brings you out ‘ere; sitting over a cliff lookin’ at the sea?”
“Just ‘cause we’re both here, doesn’t give you the right to ask.”
“Suppose not, ain’t any harm neither.”
“Suppose not.”
“So?”
“So maybe I’m just thinking. Maybe I’m just enjoying the softness of the day’s end or the night’s awakening embrace. Maybe I’m composing a photograph.”
“Without a camera?”
Chuckling, the man replied, “maybe you come out to see the world first, then carry out your art. Maybe you need to sense something before you can capture it.”
“Could be I suppose. I don’t know much about art. It’s getting dark though, why don’t we go back to my place, have a pint and talk about the Ashes disaster.”
“Cricket? Maybe you’re not the guy to help suicides. Ashes has been awful.”
“You’re not wrong there. Look, anything you’d like to talk about. I don’t want to be out here all night, but I don’t feel right leaving you.”
“Hmm.”
“So I’m not gonna make somethin’ out of this, or anything. You sure you don’t want to talk?”
“Thanks, I’ll be fine with my thoughts, the brown snakes, and whatever else might be out tonight. Have a good night.”
“Satisfy yourself mate.” James said, turning home, “Have a good one, seems odd to me. Mutt— away. Let’s get tea.”
“Well, thanks for stopping by, but like I said, maybe it’s not about you.”
“Still don’t make no sense to my why you’d be here in the dark; be well. G’night.”
The man arose and fumbled in his pocket, watching James and Mutt dissolve into the evening. He turned off a hand recorder and waiting until James was out of earshot, said, “Maybe I just wanted to see if you’d come.”
Post Script
Don Richie (9 June 1925 – 13 May 2012) was a local resident who patrolled the cliffs at The Gap. In 2006, he was awarded the Medal of the Order of Australia for his rescues, the official citation being for “service to the community through programs to prevent suicide.” It is estimated that he intervened saving over 400 people.
The Gap
It felt late, later than it could possibly be. Still only dusk fading across the Sydney skyline, the Opera House and iconic bridge to the west would still be bustling with activity as people began heading home from work. Spring days pinching moments of sunlight from winter, still even before six o’clock, the day had extracted more than it ought. Releasing thoughts of the day into the breeze rising from the Tasman Sea, James exhaled a long sigh.
Imagining that he could observe his breath mixing in the air, floating away to join the clouds, peace began returning to him. Wisps of breath fading, watching the fleeing sun being consumed by the western lands, chased by the bruise colored sky, as he inhaled the beginning of his calm. Tomorrow it would begin again, the night would again pacify him.
Inhaling the unusually tactile humidity as it mixed with the cooling air, he reminded himself that everything is part of something else. Just as day fades into night and stress releases into tension, he embraced that night would retire the day. Somewhere he would become whole, a confluence of his experiences.
Now a habit for nearly twenty-five years these twilight walks always served him well: recalibrating his world; grounding his beliefs, enabling him to face the demands of tomorrow. Opportunities he called these walks.
Mutt was running ahead or lingering behind, filling his canine olfactory senses with clues of the unseen occupants that made The Gap home. James could only imagine the games and adventures his dog might be playing out in his infectiously lighthearted manner.
Reliable companionship always came in the form of a dog. Mutt, the fifth such escort to have joined him over the years, James shared certain sensations with his friend. But there were others only known to the dog. Memories of a hare, tracks of lizards, and snakes, the scent of other curious canines, sounds demanding Mutt’s attention but sometimes escaping James’ capacity.
James returned his thoughts to the day. News of drought, the cricket matches, the rugby, asylum seekers, ISIS, and other plights facing his proud country; with a list like that, he didn’t delve into the behavior of specific politicians to renew his despair.
Humidity welling up from the sea as the cool air displaced the warmth of the day, becoming indifferent to the time consumed by the deepening dusk, he watched the world changing. Patiently watching Mutt and seeking a balance as the mixing between the external tranquility of the park and the lingering internal tension of his day continued.
Allowing a shallow smile, there was enjoyment in negotiating along the cusp of a duality and the tension that was both tangible and imagined. Even in the failing light, he could sense a tension along the escarpment, the strain between the earth and the sea. Developing conflict of approaching weather, a cooling wind that first graciously offered a reprieve from the day’s stifling humidity, but then once welcomed, rudely extending it’s indulgence creating the chill of an overstaying guest.
Above the grey horizon was smearing between day and night, extending into the dusk and obscuring the details of the day. Details that harbored history. Details filled with stories of this place; the present reality and the future of those who so often find themselves at the crossroads. Crossroads that deposited countless pained souls along this headland.
The history of The Gap is storied enough for most. A testament to wayward sailors caught in fierce Tasman storms, having failed to find safe harbor in Sydney. A history that always counted a rosary of lost souls. Wrecks. Ships and souls alike have floundered on the shoals below. Crashed vessels and souls alike, mercilessly against the rocks below, relieved of all their earthly expectations and inchoate dreams.
As much a part of the history of the place as anything else that happened yesterday; James occupied a gap somewhere between the forgotten military garrison and the spawning stories of victories and repression, depending on the voices behind the tale. Who would really know? Ultimately the degree of our participation is measured in the history of tomorrow. What had once started as his habit, became a section of land that James took responsibility for and protected.
As James’ eyes became more attuned to the failing light, he saw what he had come to expect on his walks. Mutt saw, or sensed, it as well, and drew close to James’ heel before venturing away again as they moved toward the horizon.
Casting a muted silhouette against the sky, there was a solitary figure sitting along the ledge of the cliff, his legs dangling over freely, touching the void, looking out towards the sea. Bracing his hands on his legs in front of him, James could see the man’s square broad shoulders covered in a light colored jacket. James whistled and called out, “Mutt, back.” The dog’s return was immediate and certain.
“G’day.” James called out.
“Hey,” the stranger responded offering an indifferent wave, without looking away from the sea.
“You ‘right mate?” James persisted. Walking towards the man, with his palms extended up, he offered, “Is there anything I can do for ya’ mate?”
A silent nod was unable to convince James that the stranger was responding to the question or to some other question posed from afar.
“Ya’ know mate, I just live up around the way, why don’t you come ‘round for tea and tell me about it?”
“Thanks, but I’m fine. Just as happy here with the sea and my thoughts. I’d just as rather not impose upon you.”
“No imposition mate. Com’ on.”
“Have a good night. Enjoy your tea. No reason to feed a stranger, besides I’ve got means enough to find my own.”
“Fair enough, but The Gap here has taken more than it’s share of troubled souls; if it’s all the same to you I’d be happier making a new friend than either one of us facing regrets.”
“All the same, I’m fine. Besides, this isn’t’ about you. G’night.”
“Hey, it’s just me and me dog Mutt, we’re just heading back for our tea. We could use the company.”
“Mutt’s the dog’s name or just what you call him?”
“It’s his name and what I call him,” James chuckled.
The man nodded his head and continued to look away from James.
“It’s actually short for mutton,” James continued, sensing a restlessness beyond the indifference of the stranger.
“Funny name for a dog.”
“My cousin from across the ditch gave him to me, other than the dog, the only good to come from New Zealand is Mutton. But as a pup he chased more than he herded, he was no good with the mutton, so I took him.”
The man nodding said, “Should’ve called him ‘Lucky’; lucky the station hand didn’t give him a bullet.”
“Well, that’s sort of why I took him. Don’t do any good letting creatures die before their time, know what I mean?”
“I suppose,” the stranger said nodding, “like I say ‘Lucky’ seems to fit.”
“Last dog was ‘Lucky’, so that wouldn’t do.”
“Can’t be lucky twice?” the man asked still looking across the water.
“Well some can. Mutt deserved something different. We all do. You looking for better luck?”
“It’s not like that. I’ve said I’m fine; just thinking.”
“I’m sure ya’ are mate, but ya’ know the browns hunting these grasses at night.”
“Seems that the snakes tend to leave me alone more than people do,” he answered with a sigh. “Are you that guy?”
“What guy might that be?”
Turning to look towards James, the man answered, “People say an angel patrols these cliffs helping the suicides.”
“Well I suppose that they’re not really suicides if I talk them down. More like folks that need an extra ear. I’m no angel, but yeah, I’ve come across some folks that wanted a talk.”
“You can’t save them all you know.”
“Well, maybe. But I save what I save.”
“Are you sure? Do you safe them or just delay the inevitable? Aren’t suicides like recovering addicts, they are what they are? Some don’t recover and some suicides aren’t preventable. Nothing can stop those, you just delay the end of the day.”
“I don’t need to be sure. . . I suppose sometimes it is only temporary but that doesn’t stop me from trying.” Mutt was sitting a few meters off, quietly looking between his master and down at his paws, the emphatically understanding the fine line between situations that are contentious and those that are embarrassing. Sometimes it’s the opposite sides of the same coin.
“I suppose not.”
“What if I told you it was equal measure about both me and them. If I felt a draw to sorrow and wanted to chase it away from everyone near, as though misery was a contagion that could be eradicated.”
“Ain’t no crime in being here. Park closes at midnight; I’m not bothering anyone.”
“You American? I hear a bit of an accent.”
“Canadian.”
“Right, sorry mate; been in Aussie long then?”
“A while. Not long enough to be bit by a Brown snake.”
“That’s funny.” James said with a chuckle. “I’m James, I didn’t get your name.”
“Nice to meet you James.”
James waited for the stranger not to tell him his name and then shrugged his shoulders and scratched Mutt’s ear. “So then mate, why don’t we just chat about what brings you out ‘ere; sitting over a cliff lookin’ at the sea?”
“Just ‘cause we’re both here, doesn’t give you the right to ask.”
“Suppose not, ain’t any harm neither.”
“Suppose not.”
“So?”
“So maybe I’m just thinking. Maybe I’m just enjoying the softness of the day’s end or the night’s awakening embrace. Maybe I’m composing a photograph.”
“Without a camera?”
Chuckling, the man replied, “maybe you come out to see the world first, then carry out your art. Maybe you need to sense something before you can capture it.”
“Could be I suppose. I don’t know much about art. It’s getting dark though, why don’t we go back to my place, have a pint and talk about the Ashes disaster.”
“Cricket? Maybe you’re not the guy to help suicides. Ashes has been awful.”
“You’re not wrong there. Look, anything you’d like to talk about. I don’t want to be out here all night, but I don’t feel right leaving you.”
“Hmm.”
“So I’m not gonna make somethin’ out of this, or anything. You sure you don’t want to talk?”
“Thanks, I’ll be fine with my thoughts, the brown snakes, and whatever else might be out tonight. Have a good night.”
“Satisfy yourself mate.” James said, turning home, “Have a good one, seems odd to me. Mutt— away. Let’s get tea.”
“Well, thanks for stopping by, but like I said, maybe it’s not about you.”
“Still don’t make no sense to my why you’d be here in the dark; be well. G’night.”
The man arose and fumbled in his pocket, watching James and Mutt dissolve into the evening. He turned off a hand recorder and waiting until James was out of earshot, said, “Maybe I just wanted to see if you’d come.”
Post Script
Don Richie (9 June 1925 – 13 May 2012) was a local resident who patrolled the cliffs at The Gap. In 2006, he was awarded the Medal of the Order of Australia for his rescues, the official citation being for “service to the community through programs to prevent suicide.” It is estimated that he intervened saving over 400 people.
November 9, 2015
Dusty Pages: Meet A Writer Monday Presents...
November 1, 2015
The Halloween Meeting
The clunking of water heating pipes echoed through the room, marking time he wished to forget, counting towards the meeting he always loathed. Ten o’clock, Wednesday mornings, his week ebbed and flowed against this time, measured as a high water mark, but the lowest of points for the psyche he once jealously protected. It was always more or less the same, watching over his shoulder, trying to rationalize the experience as the days gained distance from the meeting, but then anticipating dread as the morning began approaching again. The lighthouse wouldn’t notice if the water splashed a bit higher on a given day, or laid calmly on others. He was their beacon of light. Of hope. And yet, he was isolated and unable to remove himself from what he knew as the inevitable cycle.
He looked at the chairs that Nelson had arranged in a rough circle, nodding as the patients started taking their places. It had been years since he had worn any jewelry, even as much as a watch, so instead he relied upon the various wall clocks throughout the hospital. The wall facing him possessed a large wall clock, housed in a wire cage, with it’s minute hand lurching each excruciating moment towards and then past the faded numeral ‘12’. He sighed and looked out through the barred windows, allowing his mind a brief escape from the noise filling the room.
His mind drifted through the past the bars, across the grounds and towards the sea. Late October and as expected there was a storm blowing in. From far across the grounds he could see
the dancing trees, flaunting their lack of care. A luxury he had sacrificed long, long ago to help those most in need. It was a memory he indulged and one that tormented him, back when psychiatry was a noble profession.
Studies were an obsession and he collected honours in every academic pursuit he applied himself to, all with a view to helping the vulnerable. He could have been a lawyer. Maybe he should have for how it had all turned out. Oliver, his graduate school roommate had become a lawyer, a judge and poet now, surely his fortunes could have kept pace with an intellect as mean as that.
In leaving Harvard both men took their own paths, yet his led to this hospital cobbled together on an isolated rock of an island. For the family of the patients, it was close enough to Boston to make the effort, yet far enough to make excuses. At the time it was a private facility for the anguished. Kleptomaniacs, delusionals, somnubulists, and others that the emerging science promised to help; but now, somewhere during his tenure it became something else.
Patients were no longer admitted into the facility and all who entered through the wrought iron gates were labeled ‘criminally insane’. Treatment wasn’t offered, cures never promised; in fact basic comforts were barely provided, food rationed among those interned behind the stone walls, if they even accepted it all.
Society had given up on these wards, calling them inhuman—monsters—sometimes. He had witnessed glimpses of both among the detainees, acts of inconceivable grace and also unspeakable horror. Regardless 
of any fleeting humanity that might be displayed, no one would be leaving the hospital and his career was as condemned as the men who were filling the chairs around him.
Looking at the wall clock again, he sighed, turned towards an empty chair and announced, “Alright, it’s now after ten, let’s begin. Find your seats and remember the rules. Bruce, would you please remind us of the rules for group. We’re nothing but for rules.”
An unseen presence spoke first, “why? Why do you do that, it’s like you’re looking right past me. If I didn’t say anything would you even know I was here?”
“Would you like an opportunity Griffin? If you spoke at the beginning of session, do you think you’d feel more recognized? What about Bruce, shouldn’t he have an opportunity to be seen.”
“You never notice me. Never ask—”
“Of course we would know you’re here Griffin. I’m not looking past you, I’m just distracted today. Perhaps the weather.”
“Sure, you’re distracted doc, big night? Did you finally seal it with that redhead that works late Tuesdays?”
He looked at the man. He was large and powerful, even sedated you could see the strength in his body chasing nerves from his hands through his arms up to his neck. Lumberjack plaid jacket hung open and his face had patchy bearded growth, “No, Buddy. No I didn’t and that’s not a discussion for group. And you know I’d prefer to be addressed as ‘doctor’, or Doctor Shackleton ”
To the left of Buddy another man spoke up, “You know Shacky, we should maybe examine this. With your access to the pharmacy and my, you know, my expertise, I bet that between the two of us we could get a hold of the ingredients to make a cocktail that Rosey would be yours all night.”
“Bruce, you’re not helping. I’m not interested in either sedation dating or the Nurse Rose.”
“What are you interested in doc?” Buddy started with a choking sort of laughing sound, “maybe that big orderly then, hey doc? I bet he’d leave a mark on ya.”
“Buddy. . .”
“What? The Supreme Court say’s it’s OK. I’m not judging, right Bruce?”
“We’d need heavy doses for that guy. He’s gotta be at least three hun’,” Bruce jeered, holding his hand out for a fist bump from Buddy.
“The orderly’s name is Norman, he deserves the respect of all of us, just like anyone else,” nodding to the orderly who was maintaining his vigil at the door. “Now, Griffin please,” Dr. Shackleton repeated, “please take us through the rules for group.”
“I forget. Sorry doc, they must have just blown through me, you know like the weather outside that’s distracting you. Must be nice to get outside, even in weather like this.”
“Enough, we all know the rules. It’s pedestrian to keep starting this way,” a tall pale man spoke, with his pronounced European accent. “This is tiring, every time we have group, it’s the same thing. ‘What are the rules? I forget. I don’t know.’ This dog of a man and anyone that he baits just wastes our time.”
“I’m no dog, you bloodsucker. I’m a lone wolf. Besides if you’re so smart why don’t you tell us the rules.”
“Because it doesn’t matter. You don’t listen, or your flea pecked brain is too weak to understand. I can speak a dozen languages, I can touch people in such a way they fall under my suggestions, but can’t communicate at a high enough pitch for you to hear.”
“Sure Vladimir, you’re clever, with your fancy aristocratic upbringing, but you’re still here. Born with a silver spoon in your mouth, but afraid to touch it.”
“OK, gentlemen,” Dr Shackleton interrupted, looking around the room, gentlemen wasn’t polite, it was almost patronizing to these monsters. He had no hope of rehabilitating them, he could barely tolerate them airing grievances. “Vladimir is right, you all know the rules of group. But the reason that we repeat them at the beginning of each session is to remind ourselves to be respectful. To consider the feelings of others. Griffin, since you won’t help us out today I will.
“We all agree to be respectful. To listen and to support. We don’t have to share, but we participate through our acceptance and at the very least tolerance. So, let’s—”
Bruce interrupted, “but it’s always the same Vlad feels persecuted, Frank doesn’t know who he is, you think I’ve got anger issues, I’m convinced you’ve got your own problems—”
“Let’s start with you Griffin. You claim that people look right through you. It that how you really feel?”
“Sometimes it’s like, like I’m not even there.”
Doctor Shackleton continued, “let’s examine that, do you think that this feeling is a result of your perception of your circumstances, or more related to a sense of not feeling physically connected. Have you had problems focusing lately?”
“It’s not about me, it’s about how others treat me. I’m never ever considered.”
“Why do you think that is, Griffin?”
“I don’t know, it’s like they don’t care, or don’t see me for who I am. Who I want to be.”
“Sounds like someone has to learn to take responsibility for their actions.”
“Buddy, we’re supporting each other today. Can you rephrase your comment into a question, or a suggestion that might help Griffin?”
“OK, sure like do you suppose if you weren’t trying to conceal your greed for fame and fortune you might be seen in a better light?”
“Are you saying I brought this on myself? It was an accident, I was. . .”
“You were accidentally mixing chemical and lost control of your urges?” Vladimir asked, “The mutt’s right, you need to accept consequences for your greed. I do. If I’m hungry, I eat. What I eat is simply food, there isn’t anything that deserves a seconds worth of thought.
“That’s because you’re a sociopath,” Bruce cut in.
“No. I eat food. I don’t need to feel sorry for what I feed on, it’s just food. That’s it’s raison d’etre. I only eat what I need; not a slave to wonton bloodlust like doggy here does. Having sympathy for a loaf of bread is a path to ruin.
“In fairness, you’ve haven’t had a slice of bread since forever.”
“I’m celiac.”
“Is that what the kids are calling your condition these days?”
“If I didn’t care about getting rabies, I’d drain you—”
“Bruce, we were talking about Griffin, we can discuss your issues and the classification of Vladimir’s condition in a moment, now Griffin you were saying.”
“I was recruited by the CIA. They forced me—
“At the time you claimed the experiments were conducted the CIA didn’t exist,” Frank said.
“OK, they were the OSS then, but became the CIA!”
“Don’t you mean the British Military Intelligence Branch?” Vladimir asked with a grin.
“It doesn’t matter! If you had sorted out your own problems in Europe, the government wouldn’t have coerced into working with optics and then, and then— this!”
“So this is a European problem, and what I suppose that I should have singlehandedly laid waste to all the belligerents in Europe? Or maybe just the enemies of the West?
“You’re not even looking at me.”
“We don’t need to. I know that you’re pacing and waving your hands around like an emotional thespian.”
“This isn’t helping. Griffin, please. So you’re saying that you feel trapped, invisible, because of an accident in your lab and that you’re a victim of the times. Is that right?”
“I. . . suppose.”
“Why does being seen mean so much to you. Do you feel that you’d command more respect? I mean, the group talks to you, we listen to what you have to say. Every week you have a turn, does it matter if we look at you?”
“I’m invisible! I’ve been an invisible man since the explosion and now—and now—now do you know how long I’ve had to wait in lines never to be served. People bump into me without even apologizing!”
“What do you think Frank? You haven’t said much today. Do you —”
“He’s brooding,” Vladimir said.
“Again,” Bruce added.
“Do you think that Griffin would be understood better if we could see him, maybe his message would be deeper or more nuanced if we could see his non-verbal signals?”
Frank was solemnly looking at his hands and shaking his head. Dr Shackleton was always amazed that the chair would sustain Frank’s weight; his heavy wool sweater stretching across his shoulders and back like it was covering a cathedral bell. Additional patience was required with Frank, but the wait was rewarding as some of the most profound and unexpected comments in group came from Frank’s oversized helmet looking head.
“Dum inter hominess sumus, colamus humanitatem. While we are human, let us be humane,” the colossus breathed out. “If we are to be branded and ostracized by societies, we lose our humanity. We become monstrous. Monsters even. In here we have been forced to admit, through Dr. Shackleton’s work with us, that we’re never leaving, all we have is each other and what’s left of our humanity. If we can’t share compassion, we really are as society claims—irredeemable.
“We all have our issues, some of us have come to terms with them, others are still not there, but I think that we need to appreciate the points on both sides. Griffin doesn’t feel present, because he often goes unseen. But he forgets that he’s still heard—”
“And I can smell him across the ward,” snapped Buddy.
“Really? The way you mark your territory, I’m surprised you can smell anything.” Vlad said while pulling his Kingsman smoking jacket closed. “Especially, after all the ass sniffing and ball licking you do, dog boy.”
“I can only do that when I’m in wolf form.”
“I’d never change back,” said Bruce.
“Gentlemen, please,” Doctor Shackleton said, rubbing his grey temples.
Frank sighed and heaved himself to his feet, “Doctor, the world is a complicated unforgiving place. While it’s true that we confine ourselves with our own perceptions, it’s also the definitions of society that decree specific sentences upon us. The self-loathing that Buddy and Griffin harbour makes them feel monsterous, but society labels Vladimir and Bruce as sociopaths yet they feel unaffected. Yet, here we all are; confined and condemned.”
“Thank you Frank, again that’s very insightful—”
“Insightful or inciting,” Bruce asked while wringing and twisting his hands.
“Perhaps both Bruce. How do you feel about the labels society applies? Are you a monster, like Frank suggests or do you feel fiendish ?”
“Do you know the difference between a sociopath, a vigilante, and a hero?” Bruce asked the room. “Perspective and judgment.”
Frank held his massive arms wide to fill the void of the failing joke. Looking like branches of an ancient oak, his arms were thick and crisscrossed with a network of scars, “Bruce, you’re right in a manner. Judgment is what we all face. Perspective is what we offer. Valdimir drinks the blood of people to nourish his desires and sees it no differently than crops are harvested or cattle slaughtered. Buddy, he sees his monthly liberation as a natural cycle that is beyond his control. These are perceptions that they hold, yet society judges. I’m judged by my girth, yet I didn’t ask to be reanimated. Or to be cobbled together from various parts; I no more have a sense of who I am than a quilt could claim to be from a single bolt of fabric. You’ve all chosen your paths; Bruce was bit, but has embraced his lycanthropy, Vladimir took an oath of revenge that created a bloodlust, Griffin experimented with means of manipulating light and shadow to become invisible, and Bruce wanted a means to release an inner rage. While you all found your path, I was a discarded experiment, created as a child but left loveless and unwanted. I can’t simply trace my scars back to a distant genealogy. But still, we carry the stigma and the label of monster, not them. Even you Doctor Shackleton, I’ve seen changes in you. I’m sure your confinement here hasn’t left your humanity unscathed. But me, I’m an abomination.”
“I think this is enough for this week,” Dr Shackleton said, “Norman has your medication, please remember protocols.”
As Norman dispensed two small paper cups to each of the patients, one with light blue pills, the other with an orange liquid, Dr Shackleton spoke, “once you’ve finished your vitamins and electrolyte drink, you’re free to go. Thank you for your participation today.”
“Aren’t ya gonna check that we took our meds first doc?”
He knew that none of them were getting better. There was no release scheduled, or even contemplated. At best they emulated human traits, but left to their own they would become the monsters they knew themselves to be. “Buddy, this is an exercise in trust. I can’t be checking up on you all the time, what would you do once you’re released? You need to decide what’s best for you, yourself. Vitamins and fluids are the best we can do for you here to augment the diet that’s available.”
Griffin said, “don’t drink the water, it’s laced with psychoactive meds that can make you paranoid. The electrolyte is safe, the sugars prevent the drugs from binding properly.”
“Well if the food was better, all our needs would be satiated. Even if we could get the occasional live deer for doggy and I to share, something to savour.”
“Maybe we can follow that thread next week Vlad, is there something about draining a victim that makes you feel more connected? Perhaps bridging your thousands of years of existence to something more contemporary?” Allowing himself a slight smile, the doctor knew, these monsters wouldn’t eat their pills. He had found them in bedding, under mattresses, and even carelessly discarded on the floor. It didn’t’ matter, they were placebos. Part pacing the inmates through the motions, part distraction. Over the last decade he had found other pursuits that satisfied his craving for discovery and learning, the sort of learning that only experiment provides. At first it began with separate sessions with Bruce and Griffin, as a way to connect with them, understand their science and their minds. Later, he conducted his own trials with soluble concoctions of psychoactive substances to heighten a particular psychosis, administered into the food.
Griffin was right, the water was laced, but it wasn’t the drinking water, but rather the water used for cooking. Allowing the psychoactive cocktail to be infused into the food. Tasteless, colorless, innocuous, and perfect; each meal tailored to a condition. Shakleton would create his own brand of monsters, manipulate conflict and tensions, all playing out for his Halloween parade.
Happy Halloween
The Halloween Meeting
The clunking of water heating pipes echoed through the room, marking time he wished to forget, counting towards the meeting he always loathed. Ten o’clock, Wednesday mornings, his week ebbed and flowed against this time, measured as a high water mark, but the lowest of points for the psyche he once jealously protected. It was always more or less the same, watching over his shoulder, trying to rationalize the experience as the days gained distance from the meeting, but then anticipating dread as the morning began approaching again. The lighthouse wouldn’t notice if the water splashed a bit higher on a given day, or laid calmly on others. He was their beacon of light. Of hope. And yet, he was isolated and unable to remove himself from what he knew as the inevitable cycle.
He looked at the chairs that Nelson had arranged in a rough circle, nodding as the patients started taking their places. It had been years since he had worn any jewelry, even as much as a watch, so instead he relied upon the various wall clocks throughout the hospital. The wall facing him possessed a large wall clock, housed in a wire cage, with it’s minute hand lurching each excruciating moment towards and then past the faded numeral ‘12’. He sighed and looked out through the barred windows, allowing his mind a brief escape from the noise filling the room.
His mind drifted through the past the bars, across the grounds and towards the sea. Late October and as expected there was a storm blowing in. From far across the grounds he could see
the dancing trees, flaunting their lack of care. A luxury he had sacrificed long, long ago to help those most in need. It was a memory he indulged and one that tormented him, back when psychiatry was a noble profession.
Studies were an obsession and he collected honours in every academic pursuit he applied himself to, all with a view to helping the vulnerable. He could have been a lawyer. Maybe he should have for how it had all turned out. Oliver, his graduate school roommate had become a lawyer, a judge and poet now, surely his fortunes could have kept pace with an intellect as mean as that.
In leaving Harvard both men took their own paths, yet his led to this hospital cobbled together on an isolated rock of an island. For the family of the patients, it was close enough to Boston to make the effort, yet far enough to make excuses. At the time it was a private facility for the anguished. Kleptomaniacs, delusionals, somnubulists, and others that the emerging science promised to help; but now, somewhere during his tenure it became something else.
Patients were no longer admitted into the facility and all who entered through the wrought iron gates were labeled ‘criminally insane’. Treatment wasn’t offered, cures never promised; in fact basic comforts were barely provided, food rationed among those interned behind the stone walls, if they even accepted it all.
Society had given up on these wards, calling them inhuman—monsters—sometimes. He had witnessed glimpses of both among the detainees, acts of inconceivable grace and also unspeakable horror. Regardless of any fleeting humanity that might be displayed, no one would be leaving the hospital and his career was as condemned as the men who were filling the chairs around him.
Looking at the wall clock again, he sighed, turned towards an empty chair and announced, “Alright, it’s now after ten, let’s begin. Find your seats and remember the rules. Bruce, would you please remind us of the rules for group. We’re nothing but for rules.”
An unseen presence spoke first, “why? Why do you do that, it’s like you’re looking right past me. If I didn’t say anything would you even know I was here?”
“Would you like an opportunity Griffin? If you spoke at the beginning of session, do you think you’d feel more recognized? What about Bruce, shouldn’t he have an opportunity to be seen.”
“You never notice me. Never ask—”
“Of course we would know you’re here Griffin. I’m not looking past you, I’m just distracted today. Perhaps the weather.”
“Sure, you’re distracted doc, big night? Did you finally seal it with that redhead that works late Tuesdays?”
He looked at the man. He was large and powerful, even sedated you could see the strength in his body chasing nerves from his hands through his arms up to his neck. Lumberjack plaid jacket hung open and his face had patchy bearded growth, “No, Buddy. No I didn’t and that’s not a discussion for group. And you know I’d prefer to be addressed as ‘doctor’, or Doctor Shackleton ”
To the left of Buddy another man spoke up, “You know Shacky, we should maybe examine this. With your access to the pharmacy and my, you know, my expertise, I bet that between the two of us we could get a hold of the ingredients to make a cocktail that Rosey would be yours all night.”
“Bruce, you’re not helping. I’m not interested in either sedation dating or the Nurse Rose.”
“What are you interested in doc?” Buddy started with a choking sort of laughing sound, “maybe that big orderly then, hey doc? I bet he’d leave a mark on ya.”
“Buddy. . .”
“What? The Supreme Court say’s it’s OK. I’m not judging, right Bruce?”
“We’d need heavy doses for that guy. He’s gotta be at least three hun’,” Bruce jeered, holding his hand out for a fist bump from Buddy.
“The orderly’s name is Norman, he deserves the respect of all of us, just like anyone else,” nodding to the orderly who was maintaining his vigil at the door. “Now, Griffin please,” Dr. Shackleton repeated, “please take us through the rules for group.”
“I forget. Sorry doc, they must have just blown through me, you know like the weather outside that’s distracting you. Must be nice to get outside, even in weather like this.”
“Enough, we all know the rules. It’s pedestrian to keep starting this way,” a tall pale man spoke, with his pronounced European accent. “This is tiring, every time we have group, it’s the same thing. ‘What are the rules? I forget. I don’t know.’ This dog of a man and anyone that he baits just wastes our time.”
“I’m no dog, you bloodsucker. I’m a lone wolf. Besides if you’re so smart why don’t you tell us the rules.”
“Because it doesn’t matter. You don’t listen, or your flea pecked brain is too weak to understand. I can speak a dozen languages, I can touch people in such a way they fall under my suggestions, but can’t communicate at a high enough pitch for you to hear.”
“Sure Vladimir, you’re clever, with your fancy aristocratic upbringing, but you’re still here. Born with a silver spoon in your mouth, but afraid to touch it.”
“OK, gentlemen,” Dr Shackleton interrupted, looking around the room, gentlemen wasn’t polite, it was almost patronizing to these monsters. He had no hope of rehabilitating them, he could barely tolerate them airing grievances. “Vladimir is right, you all know the rules of group. But the reason that we repeat them at the beginning of each session is to remind ourselves to be respectful. To consider the feelings of others. Griffin, since you won’t help us out today I will.
“We all agree to be respectful. To listen and to support. We don’t have to share, but we participate through our acceptance and at the very least tolerance. So, let’s—”
Bruce interrupted, “but it’s always the same Vlad feels persecuted, Frank doesn’t know who he is, you think I’ve got anger issues, I’m convinced you’ve got your own problems—”
“Let’s start with you Griffin. You claim that people look right through you. It that how you really feel?”
“Sometimes it’s like, like I’m not even there.”
Doctor Shackleton continued, “let’s examine that, do you think that this feeling is a result of your perception of your circumstances, or more related to a sense of not feeling physically connected. Have you had problems focusing lately?”
“It’s not about me, it’s about how others treat me. I’m never ever considered.”
“Why do you think that is, Griffin?”
“I don’t know, it’s like they don’t care, or don’t see me for who I am. Who I want to be.”
“Sounds like someone has to learn to take responsibility for their actions.”
“Buddy, we’re supporting each other today. Can you rephrase your comment into a question, or a suggestion that might help Griffin?”
“OK, sure like do you suppose if you weren’t trying to conceal your greed for fame and fortune you might be seen in a better light?”
“Are you saying I brought this on myself? It was an accident, I was. . .”
“You were accidentally mixing chemical and lost control of your urges?” Vladimir asked, “The mutt’s right, you need to accept consequences for your greed. I do. If I’m hungry, I eat. What I eat is simply food, there isn’t anything that deserves a seconds worth of thought.
“That’s because you’re a sociopath,” Bruce cut in.
“No. I eat food. I don’t need to feel sorry for what I feed on, it’s just food. That’s it’s raison d’etre. I only eat what I need; not a slave to wonton bloodlust like doggy here does. Having sympathy for a loaf of bread is a path to ruin.
“In fairness, you’ve haven’t had a slice of bread since forever.”
“I’m celiac.”
“Is that what the kids are calling your condition these days?”
“If I didn’t care about getting rabies, I’d drain you—”
“Bruce, we were talking about Griffin, we can discuss your issues and the classification of Vladimir’s condition in a moment, now Griffin you were saying.”
“I was recruited by the CIA. They forced me—
“At the time you claimed the experiments were conducted the CIA didn’t exist,” Frank said.
“OK, they were the OSS then, but became the CIA!”
“Don’t you mean the British Military Intelligence Branch?” Vladimir asked with a grin.
“It doesn’t matter! If you had sorted out your own problems in Europe, the government wouldn’t have coerced into working with optics and then, and then— this!”
“So this is a European problem, and what I suppose that I should have singlehandedly laid waste to all the belligerents in Europe? Or maybe just the enemies of the West?
“You’re not even looking at me.”
“We don’t need to. I know that you’re pacing and waving your hands around like an emotional thespian.”
“This isn’t helping. Griffin, please. So you’re saying that you feel trapped, invisible, because of an accident in your lab and that you’re a victim of the times. Is that right?”
“I. . . suppose.”
“Why does being seen mean so much to you. Do you feel that you’d command more respect? I mean, the group talks to you, we listen to what you have to say. Every week you have a turn, does it matter if we look at you?”
“I’m invisible! I’ve been an invisible man since the explosion and now—and now—now do you know how long I’ve had to wait in lines never to be served. People bump into me without even apologizing!”
“What do you think Frank? You haven’t said much today. Do you —”
“He’s brooding,” Vladimir said.
“Again,” Bruce added.
“Do you think that Griffin would be understood better if we could see him, maybe his message would be deeper or more nuanced if we could see his non-verbal signals?”
Frank was solemnly looking at his hands and shaking his head. Dr Shackleton was always amazed that the chair would sustain Frank’s weight; his heavy wool sweater stretching across his shoulders and back like it was covering a cathedral bell. Additional patience was required with Frank, but the wait was rewarding as some of the most profound and unexpected comments in group came from Frank’s oversized helmet looking head.
“Dum inter hominess sumus, colamus humanitatem. While we are human, let us be humane,” the colossus breathed out. “If we are to be branded and ostracized by societies, we lose our humanity. We become monstrous. Monsters even. In here we have been forced to admit, through Dr. Shackleton’s work with us, that we’re never leaving, all we have is each other and what’s left of our humanity. If we can’t share compassion, we really are as society claims—irredeemable.
“We all have our issues, some of us have come to terms with them, others are still not there, but I think that we need to appreciate the points on both sides. Griffin doesn’t feel present, because he often goes unseen. But he forgets that he’s still heard—”
“And I can smell him across the ward,” snapped Buddy.
“Really? The way you mark your territory, I’m surprised you can smell anything.” Vlad said while pulling his Kingsman smoking jacket closed. “Especially, after all the ass sniffing and ball licking you do, dog boy.”
“I can only do that when I’m in wolf form.”
“I’d never change back,” said Bruce.
“Gentlemen, please,” Doctor Shackleton said, rubbing his grey temples.
Frank sighed and heaved himself to his feet, “Doctor, the world is a complicated unforgiving place. While it’s true that we confine ourselves with our own perceptions, it’s also the definitions of society that decree specific sentences upon us. The self-loathing that Buddy and Griffin harbour makes them feel monsterous, but society labels Vladimir and Bruce as sociopaths yet they feel unaffected. Yet, here we all are; confined and condemned.”
“Thank you Frank, again that’s very insightful—”
“Insightful or inciting,” Bruce asked while wringing and twisting his hands.
“Perhaps both Bruce. How do you feel about the labels society applies? Are you a monster, like Frank suggests or do you feel fiendish ?”
“Do you know the difference between a sociopath, a vigilante, and a hero?” Bruce asked the room. “Perspective and judgment.”
Frank held his massive arms wide to fill the void of the failing joke. Looking like branches of an ancient oak, his arms were thick and crisscrossed with a network of scars, “Bruce, you’re right in a manner. Judgment is what we all face. Perspective is what we offer. Valdimir drinks the blood of people to nourish his desires and sees it no differently than crops are harvested or cattle slaughtered. Buddy, he sees his monthly liberation as a natural cycle that is beyond his control. These are perceptions that they hold, yet society judges. I’m judged by my girth, yet I didn’t ask to be reanimated. Or to be cobbled together from various parts; I no more have a sense of who I am than a quilt could claim to be from a single bolt of fabric. You’ve all chosen your paths; Bruce was bit, but has embraced his lycanthropy, Vladimir took an oath of revenge that created a bloodlust, Griffin experimented with means of manipulating light and shadow to become invisible, and Bruce wanted a means to release an inner rage. While you all found your path, I was a discarded experiment, created as a child but left loveless and unwanted. I can’t simply trace my scars back to a distant genealogy. But still, we carry the stigma and the label of monster, not them. Even you Doctor Shackleton, I’ve seen changes in you. I’m sure your confinement here hasn’t left your humanity unscathed. But me, I’m an abomination.”
“I think this is enough for this week,” Dr Shackleton said, “Norman has your medication, please remember protocols.”
As Norman dispensed two small paper cups to each of the patients, one with light blue pills, the other with an orange liquid, Dr Shackleton spoke, “once you’ve finished your vitamins and electrolyte drink, you’re free to go. Thank you for your participation today.”
“Aren’t ya gonna check that we took our meds first doc?”
He knew that none of them were getting better. There was no release scheduled, or even contemplated. At best they emulated human traits, but left to their own they would become the monsters they knew themselves to be. “Buddy, this is an exercise in trust. I can’t be checking up on you all the time, what would you do once you’re released? You need to decide what’s best for you, yourself. Vitamins and fluids are the best we can do for you here to augment the diet that’s available.”
Griffin said, “don’t drink the water, it’s laced with psychoactive meds that can make you paranoid. The electrolyte is safe, the sugars prevent the drugs from binding properly.”
“Well if the food was better, all our needs would be satiated. Even if we could get the occasional live deer for doggy and I to share, something to savour.”
“Maybe we can follow that thread next week Vlad, is there something about draining a victim that makes you feel more connected? Perhaps bridging your thousands of years of existence to something more contemporary?” Allowing himself a slight smile, the doctor knew, these monsters wouldn’t eat their pills. He had found them in bedding, under mattresses, and even carelessly discarded on the floor. It didn’t’ matter, they were placebos. Part pacing the inmates through the motions, part distraction. Over the last decade he had found other pursuits that satisfied his craving for discovery and learning, the sort of learning that only experiment provides. At first it began with separate sessions with Bruce and Griffin, as a way to connect with them, understand their science and their minds. Later, he conducted his own trials with soluble concoctions of psychoactive substances to heighten a particular psychosis, administered into the food.
Griffin was right, the water was laced, but it wasn’t the drinking water, but rather the water used for cooking. Allowing the psychoactive cocktail to be infused into the food. Tasteless, colorless, innocuous, and perfect; each meal tailored to a condition. Shakleton would create his own brand of monsters, manipulate conflict and tensions, all playing out for his Halloween parade.
Happy Halloween
