August 13th, 2005

The door to my dim little sanctuary swung open and bashed against the wall remorselessly. That kind of carelessness could only come from one person.

“Get out of here, Eric. Not in the mood.”

“We’re swamped, Candice is on her break…and you look like you...”

“Finish that sentence and you perish.”

I removed the tea towel from my face and twisted it around my hand. I was sitting on the floor with my back supported by the wall, my arms resting lifelessly on bent knees. Yes, yes, hiding out in a corner of the back room was not a particularly productive way to spend a Saturday morning, especially when you’re the boss, but it sure assisted lack of sleep and a filthy mood.

“Big night, Chief?”

His stocky hand swallowed the tattered notepad in it. Eric could quite easily kill me with that hand. He could lift me up by my throat like a villain in a superhero movie and make me squeak out some ego-crushing apology with my feet dangling just above the ground. I thought about him trying to hand-paint detail onto a porcelain doll’s face and coughed to camouflage an obvious chuckle at the image.

“Bananas and energy drink.”

“Huh?” I asked.

“Best hangover cure. Bananas and energy drink.”

“No. I just…I couldn’t sleep last night. Stop slacking. Disappear.”

He pocketed the notepad and wiped his monstrous, and what I assumed to be sweaty, hands on his apron.

Truth was, I shouted at Sebastian this morning for no justifiable reason. I wanted to piss him off. I wanted him to hurt and to lash out at me, to tell me that I was being a prick, to tell me that I am selfish, to tell me that I’m dead.

To perform CPR on my numbed spirit.

How did it even start?

Oh, yeah. Something sort of like this:

“Why would I want to meet your father when all he does is ridicule you, Sebastian? It’s masochism. I knew you liked it rough but this…”

He tasted a bit of mango yoghurt from his little finger, checked the expiry date on the tub and glared at me across the bench.

“Because no one wants a life of solitude no matter how much they convince themselves.”

He challenged me to break his gaze and for possibly the first time since I’d met him, I was actually scared to.

“Why do you want me to meet him? I don’t want to meet somebody that hurts you. I see the way you come home after you’ve visited him, Sebastian.”

He pulled open drawers in search of a spoon, but was so flustered he opened the same one about three times and gave up on the yoghurt and opted for making a toasted sandwich instead.

“What are you talking about? So I feel a little sad after a see him? I’m all he has.”

I laughed at him in an unexpectedly cruel way.

“Don’t think I don’t see how red your eyes are when you walk in.”

The slices of tomato he was cutting for his breakfast became carelessly thick in his rage. He opened the toaster and clamped the sandwich inside.

“You are full of it, Lucas.”

No matter how much he ached to tell me what I was full of…he wouldn’t. Swear words coming out of Sebastian’s mouth are specimens worthy of belonging in the Louvre.

“I don’t want to be a part of something that makes you react like that.”

God, I could hardly cope with Mickey crying, let alone an adult man. Because I’m so tough, of course.

You can cue the pre-recorded laugh track now, if you like.

“You don’t want to be a part of anything.”

He was facing me but all my eyes could pay attention to was the smoke coming from the toaster. He traced my eye-line and sprung on yanking the power-plug out. After I scraped my cold, half-consumed toast into the bin I walked over to him, put my hands firmly on his shoulders and waited patiently for his eyes to connect with mine.

“I’ve got to get to work. We’ll talk this out later, ok? Are you staying tonight?” I inquired as I hurriedly delivered an obligatory kiss to his forehead.

“Don’t think so Lucas”, was all that he could say in return.

So of course I felt like I had just slapped around a pocket-sized puppy wearing a knitted vest and matching hat. I should be dropping to my knees and thanking whoever is up there calling the shots that someone so attractive, unselfish and caring could feel for me so unconditionally, but all I can do was become irritated with the whole matter as if it inconvenienced me. As if coming home to somebody who just wants to wrap their arms around you and fall into bed and then fall asleep afterwards still enfolded in those arms was something less than satisfactory. Who the hell am I? It was like I was trying to repetitively prove to him over and over again that I’m really not all I’m cranked up to be in his mind.

Eric slid down the wall into a sitting position next to me.

“Wanna know my opinion, Chief?”

“No.”

“I think you try to make people dislike you.”

I glanced at Eric’s face to check if he was joking. And to see how he’d read my mind.

“Oh? Which intelligible piece of daytime TV did you yank that glittery gem from?”

“You think bad of everything, ‘cause it’s easier to trash it than accept that you’re actually an ok person sometimes…‘cause that means that you have to keep being an ok person and that’s the hard bit.”

My fingers scuttled around the ground around me in search of my water bottle. The floor needed a serious sweep and mop job. Eric eventually caught on to my visual laziness and slapped the bottle into my hand before speaking again.

“We had this dog once…”

“Oh God.”

“See!”

“What?”

He cleared his throat to avoid yelling at me. It’s a trick I’ve seen him do often. “You’re trashing stuff before I even get to say it. Why? Because you don’t want to hear what anyone else has to say. Have you ever taken advice in your life?”

“Eric, you little scallywag! You never told me you were a therapist!”

“Fuck it. You’re hopeless.” He sighed, rocking himself into a standing position in preparation to storm out.

“Eric! Eric! Relax please, I’m just messing around with you.”

I wasn’t.

I patted the floor next to me. He eventually took the cue and sat down next to me.

“Want to know something, Eric?”

“What?”

“You’re not such a little shit. You’re like a…micro-shit.”

His thin lips pulled themselves into a side-smirk, revealing dimples that I had never taken the time to notice.

“Um…thanks?”

We remained there in stillness for a few, satisfying moments in which my throbbing head numbed. I had nearly dozed off without thinking about the business, Sebastian or any other frustrating aspect of my life until I heard Eric move, catapulting me back into both the room and my own head.

“Eric?”

“Yes, Chief?”

“Get out.”

Later that day I worked solidly through hours of faceless customers, countless orders and my stand-in smile. I copped a rogue splurt from the coffee machine (something I’m sure I’ll have to replace, which will prolong the conclusion of the mural I’m still stuck on) leaving a painfully noticable brown, splotchy stain on my shirt. Eric gave me the spare T-shirt he had in his bag, which unfortunately read ‘Greeks do it better.’ Patriotic for him, embarrassing for me.

“My Mum bought it for me last year. It’s never left this bag. It’s a spare for situations…like this one.” He informed, smirking through every word.

I’m a firm believer that you can sense from the instant the phone rings that a call is going to deliver bad news. This is why my body jolted when Eric answered the screeching company phone.

Naturally, I tried to casually eavesdrop on the call when Eric then handed Carla the phone.

“Who is it?” I silently mouthed at him.

And as subtle as a pantomime, he announced “Some Fynn guy.”

“A.k.a her brother, idiot.” I replied.

“'A.k.a' is so dead, idiot.” Candice dropped in politely as she passed me with a tray of used dishes.

I only caught snippets of the discussion and tried to use my astounding intellect to put it all together. The way her eyes widened had an instantaneous effect on my stomach and I felt like throwing up all the air I had eaten today.

By the end of the call, I was blankly staring at Carla as if she owed me an explanation about its content. Subtlety could go fly a kite. I never understood that saying. Go fly a kite. I understand ‘go to hell’ but…isn’t kite-flying supposedly an enjoyable recreational activity that is fun for the whole family?

Her posture was calm but her glassy eyes shook with fear and she melted into a little girl who didn’t understand the world around her. She wasn’t crying, though (I’ve never seen her even remotely close to crying. Maybe she never has?)

She faced me before dashing off to the staff room and re-emerging with her bag.

“Lucas, I have to go.”

I reached for her arm.

“Carla, tell me. What’s going on? What can I do?”

Was Fynn ok? Did I care?

“I just…need to go. Dad’s had a heart attack and he’s in surgery. They’ve put a stint in his arter...”

“Shit. Shit. Shit. Carla I’m so…sor…”

“Relax…I just…”

She fumbled her car keys, dropping them at least four times.

“Do you want…?

“No I…Damn it. You think between us we’d be able to finish a sentence! Why can’t I hold onto these damn keys!”

I gently reached over took the keys from her hand.

“I’m taking you. Try fighting me.”

When I informed Eric that he and Candice would be running the café for the last hour (hence closing up), I would have lovingly laminated a photo of his dumbstruck face. I repeated my mantra of ‘don’t make me regret this’ to them and forced them to mumble it back to me as Carla and I left, trying not to imagine what they would do to my place while I was gone.

And it only struck me then, like a moment in a terrible sitcom when the audience scream with delight at the protagonis’s misfortune, when I was speeding (or trying to) through the Melbourne streets in Carla’s little car, when I finally had a moment to pull my head together, that Fynn would be at the hospital.

And oh Powers-That-Be, was I unprepared.

Hello? (Cue echo due to readers tired of waiting for an update.)

I hope those of you still reading enjoyed this chapter, I'm a fan of writing two-parters (and I cross-my-heart you won't have to wait long for the next one, as I'm on holidays as of tomorrow! Yippee!)

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Sundown

Xx