Chapter 7: Twice Bitten

'If you didn't want to get caught, why did you break into the ticket-booth?'

'All the other phones were being difficult. That was the only thing I could do.'

'You need to work on your crisis resolution technique.'

The grey-face took a long look at me. 'Where did you go when you broke out?'

'I tried to go home.'

'I got a long list of incidents reported in the general area of where you were found, and I'm gonna try to pin every one of them on you, do you know why?'

'No.'

'Because I don't like you.'

'Why not? I like you...'

'You ever work as a biological engineer?'

'Funny question.'

'Not to me it isn't. Not when you consider the human element.'

'The human element?'

'Yes, a little thing us normal people consider before we do anything... I'm sure someone like you would consider that a waste of time?'

'Oh, I guess that's fair.'

'I'm on a strict program of non-repeats, my doctor will not be pleased I've done something twice, its not good for me.'

Chapter 6: Trained

Outside the station I see a disproportionate amount of happy-looking people and become suspicious. I'm walking on hot coals and they're coming out grinning... I mean, show a little consideration for a man who actually needs to see his Doctor to save himself... I decide to investigate. Source of the trouble appears to be a man causing a disturbance by spreading cheer among commuters. Man of seventy sells fairy floss as if this place where people exchange positions on platforms for seats on trains might be closer to a carnival than I'm prepared to believe... As if anyone would come here when they didn't absolutely need to for purposes of travel...

I line up to watch him serve a little girl. This kind of technology amazes me. Big steel twisties gyrate in loopy patterns, whipping the sugar into a floss... Pretty much doing the bulk of the work... The man just has to stick in and twist clockwise to make it into a consumable shape for the kiddies. He does this for the girl before me, pulling out a cartoon-sized icecream of fluffy alien sugar cotton. When he's done with her, I shove her aside and begin my interrogation...

I tap him on the wrist. It feels cold. I press down on a pattern of hairs.

'Excuse me, but are you allowed to be doing this still?'

'I have been for forty years, I can't see why not.'

'Have you a government sanction? A permit of some kind?'

'Not really, but they know me, its okay.'

'Surely common sense would suggest you don't sell food! Don't you watch the news? Don't you ever look out the window when you're driving? Which is good advice anyway...'

No-one comes near us... People in public tend to smell arguments and steer clear.

'You have strange notions. Those piles are all fruit. Have you ever seen a fairy-floss spill? It doesn't pile, that's why.'

Knowing little about his product, have to take his word for this.

'But its made from sugar. Sugar is found naturally, like watermelons...'

#

Look around for phones, only ones I find say accessible to One-tel cardholders only… Flash of anger, jump beside myself while the telephone booth gets trashed till its hanging limb from limb. I’m nearly vibrating from desperation at being lost and alone when I find the holy grail: an information point. Walk up. Mouth agape, eyes aglow, all rest agog. White light and blue writing is becoming a sort of comfort food. Turns out a curly-auburn-haired temptress is fountain of knowledge.

‘Hello, is there a phone around here?’

‘There's one right there.'

'I saw that one, it died, and you need a special card for it. How come they don’t let you use coins anymore – what if its an emergency?’

‘Emergency calls are free on all state-owned pay-phones – is it an emergency?’

‘Uh… Not right now, really.’

‘Oh.’

‘So what can I do?'

‘I don’t really know how they work…’

‘But you’re information, aren’t you?’

‘Yes, but I’m only really supposed to help you with train timetabling. I have some maps of the station, if that would help…’

Sensation of understanding a secret communiqué. ‘I understand completely… You’re only supposed to help me with whatever…’ Something’s happening beneath this.

‘Hang on, you’ve got a phone there – can I use that?’

‘You’re not allowed.’

All these rules.

‘Staff only.’

‘Does it matter if you’re staff somewhere else?’

‘If you don’t work here, you can’t come in.’

‘But you could pass the receiver through the bars and end it.’

‘I’d get in trouble.’

Altogether too many things to think about.

‘Alright, thanks for your help.’

#

Kick my feet into various things... Bins, shins... To alleviate the stress a bit. Vow to swear off phone booths, whenever I have a moment to authorise some kind of official document in recognition of this. Encounter a vending machine on which I vent a similar ferocity I showed phone before. It rudely ate my gold coin without doing anything, thus violating the ancient system of exchanging useful things (chips) for a useless object arbitrarily attributed with equal value (a gold coin). Fucken Fountain of Shit-all. Useless.

Walk around with head hung low till find dog-collar, and an idea. Smile for the first time. Put the collar on with silver studs facing in till presses hard against jugular and several important information superhighways leading down from throbbing brain to wafting organism. Body pulsating. Movements jerky. Think like a dog… Initiate man-dog launch sequence. Go up and bark at strangers when they go past. Woo-woo-woo-woo-woo, a hollow bass-drum sound. Watch them reel away, wheezing laugh. Keep an eye on information and yes, witness the first complaint being made. ‘Miss, uh, miss, there’s a man, or is it a dog, hassling nice people up there, he must be put down or put out of the station… Get the pound on the phone. Information woman opens door to cubicle and it starts to swing shut… Scrape feet on floor for run-up. Initiate jaguar run… Claws clink on the tiled floor in a thunketa pattern, would make nice drum sample, 117 bbm, should combine it with bass-drum bark and some brainless lyrics to make some contemporary music… Run straight past Fountain of Info and catch Info door just before it closes, whip it open and secure the wolf inside. Take off wolf costume and pat him on head, he’s done his job. Good dog. Now… A telephone and locked room for maximum privacy for desparate prodigal patient call to doctor. Just ignore the thumping on the door and threats of persecution, or did she say prosecution…


All I wanted: to be alone with a telephone... And what do I get? Intolerance. ‘Hi, after hours please call emergency triple-zero, or if you're one of my friends,’ his voice changed slightly, ‘hi, please hold the line.’ There was a pause, and a click, and the Doctor came on the line with a zippy, ‘Y'ello.’

‘Hi Doc.’

‘Xaviour! My good fellow!

‘Okay, I don't have long; I think something’s happening to the food.’

‘What?’

‘I’ll explain when you pick me up. I was in jail, now I’m at Central Station. Come pick me up before the cops do.’

‘What did you tell them?’

‘Don't worry, I didn't mention you.’

‘Why, am I not interesting enough?’

Door blasts inward, with a little station master on top, and a cop pointing a gun at me.

'Come forward, nice and easy.'

'Scratch that, pick me up at the... Which station, seargent?'

'City Plaza.'

'City Plaza,' I told the Doctor.

'You know I'd love to...' the Doctor began, as I hung up. I knew he wouldn't.

Chapter 5: Accusations

Second waiting-room in as many days, and I don't even like waiting. Lucky I'm not here of my own volition... Then you'd have to wonder... Whereas, what have I done? Admitted I have a problem... And what are the long term effects of exposure to television? You just don't know... Except about six months ago I began having dreams where food would talk to me... Then chase me... Now, I've never spoke to anybody about this, my friend the Doctor has basically tarnished the entire concept of doctors for me... For no good reason I don't trust anybody with a stethescope...

Doctor tends to wear a milk-white dinner suit to everyday events like going to the movies, or sitting around watching TV... I'd never admit this in person, and I've never really discussed it with myself, but I get the vague impression that I'm afraid of the colour white. Don't ask me how or when it happened, or what it feels like... Except a sick anxiety, and you can't locate the source of it... Until a moment like this, when you're sitting in a hospital waiting room, and your body starts talking to you: it says 'Hey...' It says 'I know we've never really talked, but I thought this was as good a time as any... I really don't like the colour white...' And that's it. You have to just go, 'okay.' From now on I shall shun all things white, that'll just be my thing. Body, I shall work with you, and together we shall not be afraid.

Okay, so I'm not at the prison any more. This whole thing happened, where I was transferred. Papers were filed, things were said - some hurtful - you don't want to know about it. The main thing is, here I am. In similarly scary place I don't belong... A public hospital.

Even though I'm a basically fully grown man... Except maybe in a physical and psychological sense... Despite that medical fact, I'm having this child-like experience where everything seems big. But at the same time, its like I'm having that adult experience of looking back at your school assembly hall and thinking you were crazy to think how big it was.

So these huge receptionists take my particulars... And my generals... Data and broad concepts they can use to label me, like "police transfer" and "possibly dangerous"... These ladies with giant moles and giant disappointed-parents syndromes are most interested in the things which least define me: like what religion my parents were (not applicable) or my food allergies (open to suggestions). I do my best to commune with them, despite their utter lack of interest, and decide to let two giant bodybuilders moonlighting as orderlies drag me along the coridor, screaming like a kettle, to my designated bed... Which I sense is much more randomly chosen than they'd have me believe... Once you have a bed, that bed becomes you... Nurses will talk about "bed number 7 needs such and such"... So you'd hope they really consider the options before they choose which bed's yours.

I eye the nurses carefully to test this theory, but I'm almost certain they just plonked me down in the next available bed. I observed no anthropological analysis of the dimensions of the room and how they might best be chosen to fit my particular temperament. They would know what my temperament was, they didn't even give me a personality test. But they can't exactly do things at a share-house bum's pace, or no-one'd get their medicine.

One bed over a man lets a man-made machine do his breathing. They've stuck tubes nearly everywhere they could think to.

Now my bed's doing all the physical labour, so I'm free to just float around... So I sneak into various rooms on a data-retrieval mission, with the view to generate a profile of how standards of living and quality of life differ from room to room. Main thing I'm concerned about once I leave my body and become Bed 4B is the number of rooms on my floor where everyone has a personal tele.

'Oi, whata you doing outa bed?'

'Oh, hi, I was just... coupla errands. This and that.'

'Yeah, well from now on I'll run the errands, cause that's the way I want it. See my badge? It says Colleen. You don't do anything unless Colleen says so. Alright?'

'That seems easy enough.'

'Now get back to bed.'

Colleen wears a red face courtesy of Alcoholism. For this reason she never makes acceptance speeches and lives a thankless life in a thankless job and a thankless marriage. She has wonderful sex, though, so don't feel too bad for her. Her partner must be a matching shade of red.

Anyway, all I could gather before my mission was so rudely cut short is that differences in quality of life seem to be more a product of internal not external factors... I noticed a strange phenomenon: men who know their life expectancies don't watch television... I don't get this... You'd think they'd want to get in as much as they could, but there's no accounting for taste...

%

Like the world needs another hospital. Yeah, let’s just do everything in white – not a hint of imagination. I hate white... Breeding a desire for colourblindness among the inhabitants. If I knew a thing about colour or blindness I’d have to have a word.

Man comes in with a severe allergic reaction to crayfish. Allergic to hard-shell creatures, but got confused cause thought it was a fish. Another man’s gored himself with a whale-hook and his foot’s gone the colour of carrot. Staff are inventing a new word for gangrene in his honour. The whole hospital bops and buzzes along, but I don’t know what I can trust in it. Man comes by dressed like a clown.

'Hello.'

Look left. Look right. Wait till an unbiased observor agrees they can see a clown.

'Hello,' he says again.

'Hello,' I say, apprehensively, recording his every move in case I later build a case against him.

'I'm a clown,' he says.

'Oh good,' I say. 'That explains your costume.'

'What have you got little man?'

'If you're here to cheer me up, don't you know that's a rude thing to ask?'

'Not really. I'm new. I'm just here to spread joy among sick kids.'

Feel my face contort.

'I'm not a kid. I'm not even in my teens, I think we've established that.'

Check the tube-man, my only neighbour close enough to help, but totally unconcious.

'You know what I think? I think you shouldn't be here. I think you're here cause you're lazy and unimaginative.'

'That's slander. How dare you...' Prop my body up, shove in his general direction. No contact, mind. I'm somewhat at mercy of outsiders as clown has right of way to nurse's station, where he tells some kind of story involving lots of shadow boxing, which I can see, though he's too far away to hear.

'Why don't you say it to my face... GET A LAWYER!'

Commotion contagious... Bit of shouting produces a lot of fear instantly. I flop back in bed for a rest to save energy for big fight and out the window’s only blue sky, which might indicate we’re a fair few floors up… There’ll be no dramatic escapes involving pointy ends of shoes and ropeless abseiling down external guttering…

Nurses come over, stand around me, there’s a million of em and they’re wearing Halloween masks and breathing fire… Okay, I made that last bit up, but there’s a hospital and a situation and some nurses here think they’ve got to deal with it or I’ll go on being crazy a few more days… Come on, what would it hurt… Look into my (puppy-dog) eyes…

A radius clears around my bed… I appear to have lashed out and gnashed teeth. What possessed me to do this, I’m not quite sure, but here go the claws and fangs again. What genus is the species: well, sir, it appears to be humanoid in nature, but there are some animal features: this tail is rather handy for wagging, and the second set of eyelids sure makes winking weird… This is not indicative of a smooth recovery… Turkey’s just too cold to serve… Need medicine. Now I’m pleading with them...

‘I need my medicine, I’m a private patient, I need to be out of this system. I'm too sensitive... I have a private physician...'

Restraints are brought down at same time as another torture device: hospital food. Starvation and disgust: two contrary motions in stomach. I begin to shriek.

‘No! No! No!’

‘You’re not hungry?’

‘You can’t make me… Don’t force me…’

‘If you don’t wanna eat, don’t eat…’

‘They’re force feeding me…’

‘Och, call psych, we’ve got a transfer for them. Tell them it may be urgent.’

@

Up on the walls there’s posters of great men who’ve given their lives to advising deaf people about what music to listen to. Since I left my apartment I’ve seen a million faces… Some fat, some pale, some the colour of the one food they eat like it’s the secret to their happiness – when I was in high school I had routine foods, and I only would know it was time to switch to a new recess food when my piss started smelling of it – like corn, cause we had these corn rolls… There was just no other way to tell, but it was beginning to take over my life. Soon as you smelt that, though, you had no problem switching to another routine food. Whoa, sidetrack… I’ve walked by a million people since I left my apartment a few weeks ago, and most of them were eating themselves to death. I… Its like my eyes have x-ray vision now, and I can see into their stomachs… See the food they’re eating… And… And I can see, like, their other organs too, and they’re all slimy and festy, and they’re rotting, see, they’re decomposing… Its like I’m some kind of prophet. The Prophet, that’s me, and its also a Lebanese restaurant near where I now live that symbolises my childhood, which was not Lebanese in any other sense. It used to be a road-trip away, the kind where you go to sleep with your head lolling on your seatbelt and wake up in your driveway. If you’re going that distance for dinner, it means everything else in your life tends to get deprived of attention. Parents wanted me to be a nutritionist – promote non-evil eating habits. They were religious about certain things, not fussed about others. I think they were so obsessed by it because they were big fatties, huge fatties, and they didn’t have the self-control to teach me to eat right, so I’m a big fatty too. Sorry if I didn’t mention it. Secret’s out now. Put the book down, folks, he’s a fatty. Fatty in the room. Ummmmmm… I think the thing I’m about to say is… Something wonderful… Something hot and spicy, a curry of some sort… With nachos on the side… And none of that sour cream rubbish to wuss out with. Take the heat, fucken feel the pain!

&

Sorry. Got a little carried away. I’m here waiting in the waiting room (where else?) getting carried away by my hunger… I’m hit twice with a double-barrel loaded with hunger and shit – a combination as disturbing as sex and shit. Hunger and sex, no problem. As for any other combinations… Though I may not personally take part, I’ve heard they go quite well.

Hunger and shit just feels sickly. Your bowels are saying: I don’t care what else you’ve got on your plate, we’re going to the toilet. I don’t care if the doctor’s calling you any second… FIND A FUCKING TOILET OR YOU’LL DIE! So off I pop. For a plop. Sorry again. Shall perhaps regret that, but too late we’re moving on. Oh look it’s a toilet and we’re there. You’re there too. We’re all here. It’s a team effort. Everything seems to go well… But there’s a certain aroma… Not altogether unpleasant… Perhaps second-hand food of some kind… Nachos, perhaps… There’s just no human way of finding out. God… We’d need to call God in. If he was here, he could go: look guys, you’ve heard that saying ‘god only knows’ well, for christ’s sake use your imagination!

And we’d all go: shit, God just swore. Well I wouldn’t cause I’m too polite.

God would go: oh, sorry, I kind of spend so much time alone… Just the three of me…

This guy’s a fucking nut... one of you’d say, cause again that doesn’t sound like me, I’m a nice guy. But seriously folks – God has multiple personality disorder. Look at his novel – he’s power mad, he’s a sociopath: he killed EVERYONE and showed NO REMORSE. ‘Even if they were like evil, who the fuck is he to be playing god?’ Who said that, some philosopher among you. Perhaps a biblical reference. We’ll never know because none of us is as well-read as me – Ha ha ha!! Revenge of the biblical allusion… A new adventure starring: Abuncha Grapes and Towera Babel. Hmm… Sounds too foreign…

If there was a cat and a nutritionist, which one of them would be better read… I say the cat… Just look at his face. He knows…

&

Now here’s an environment I can appreciate. Earthy, literary… Smell of book signings and lecture series. Not a hint of disinfectant and no sign of scrubs. Staff here wear coats with patches for elbows… Perhaps at last I’m home, cept they kept me waiting till I tried to chew my elbow just to pass the time. Shrink’s room is booky but you can still tell we’re in a hospital: most blank spaces are still white. Shrink’s got big glasses and a baseball cap… Looks like he’s just been told his half-life.

‘Is there anything you want to talk about?’

‘Well, there’s about a million and two things I can think of to start with…’

‘Okay, great, let’s begin with that.’

‘With what – one or a million?’

‘Whichever you’d like.’

‘Okay, but I don’t know if you’re gonna like it…’

'It doesn't matter if I like it,' Shrink says in a weathered-smooth voice.

I shrug, lose interest in the whole thing. 'Meh. I guess I have weird memory things happening, and the machine that helps you gauge reality... That thing's probably broken, but its a little early to tell. I've also been growing apart from my body, and I think we're looking at a trial separation...'

Doctor is frowning pretty seriously.

'There's more. Um... I've been having food-mares.'

'What's a food-mare?'

'Okay, so you know how when you're hungry you dream about food. Well... I'm starving. And paranoid. And I've been having some fucked-up dreams...'

'I'm not really a dream specialist, if you wanted to discuss that, I have a colleague I should contact...'

Which means I'm looking at another pointless transfer.

'No no no, that's okay. Let's talk about something you do know about... How bout the weather? Did you know its raining food?'

'I did. I've been following the story in the news. Isn’t that a weird thing…’

‘Great piles of food appearing for no reason… It has to be biblical. I’m sure it’s the Creator finally writing his follow-up to the Bible. This is Genesis II.’

‘I'm sure it'll turn out to be something utterly unmysterious, as tends to happen... But it’s an unusual time to be in a psych ward, that’s for sure… A couple of times I’ve been in the middle of what I thought was an important belief-challenge and a patient’s gotten me to look out the window and there its been… Bananas.’

‘All the regular loonies must love it.’

‘Oh yes, it stirs them right up… Everyone’s got a prediction about what it means, and all of them include the end of the world.’

The subject of my personal physician comes up, because Shrink mentions something about kidnapping and gross abuse of a medical license…

‘Maybe you can help me with this… Maybe you could tell me of his reknown in the community, the articles he’s written, awards he’s won… I’d settle if you had an old buddy from Johns Hopkins who he went to school with…’

‘What’s his name?’

Knocks the wind out.

‘His name.’

‘Is that a bad question?’

‘Kind of.’

‘I don’t know if I can help you if you can’t give me a name…’

‘I can’t name names… Its not in my nature…’

Furiously flip through mental roll-o-dex of identities… Mind: wander back to a situation when he’s entered a room… Any room… Tends to announce his name like reporter... Okay 'Doctor Perkins Murkin Murky Murray...' Rubbish, it could be anything… Work brain…

‘You know, maybe forget it.’

Finally, take him through my three-day bender which began with medicine and ended with a river-based escape from the mountain lair of cop impersonators. Think I just won a medal for the least likely story he’s ever heard.

‘If you’re right, what happened to me in those three days… Cause all my clothes still stink of river water… And I’ve got scars from pineapple spines.’

Lift up my shirt and show him polka-dotted punctures.

I go on, ‘I’d say they got their torture weapons from a food spill… But I’ve never gotten close enough to check, but are the food in those spills… Mutated? Do they look over-large to you?’

‘Closest I’ve been to them is ten stories up…’

Stand. ‘I think you’ll agree the weirdness is out there, not in here,’ point to chest.

Shrink looks lost, which provokes a worrying bout of sympathy in me. ‘Don’t worry. Things’ll get back to normal.’

‘Mmm…’

Ask the doctor if he could spare me a nutritionist or two. Doctor realigns himself with flourish, concealing a crotch adjustment executed by a single finger. Suspicious crumbs on his zipper – no crumb ever escaped my notice.

‘Why do you want to know that?’

Initiate protection program.

‘Just curious. My parents wanted me to be a nutritionist, whereas I preferred not to.’ Still standing there over him. The atmosphere is awkward and hesitant.

‘There is a nutrition department up on the seventh floor.’

‘Mmm.’ Interested noise.

‘Is that interesting to you?’

‘Could you not tell from that noise I just made?’

‘Noises can mean different things.’

‘I don't know anything but I never ask anybody what a noise means... And I’m not a quack shrink.’

‘I sense you've a real hostility towards the medical sciences.’

‘Sciences… is that what you call them? When’s anyone ever gotten better from taking a pill? The problem’s still there. You need to find it and dig it up and poison the roots.’

‘That’s an interesting view, and I’d like to take you up on a few points if I may. I think its important to clarify – if you know your medical history…’

‘Here we go. Ancient witchdoctors and waiting rooms – no thankyou, I’ve got a nutritionist to see. And I bet she won’t keep me waiting.’

‘Is it important she’s a female nutritionist?’

‘I suppose I prefer that to a "she" being male...'

'Can you not answer me seriously?'

'I don't want to.'

'Xaviour, I think we should talk some more about your doctor friend. Is he the kind of friend only you can see?'

Stare at him like he's an utter fucking moron.

'He's my next-door neighbour. Sometimes I wish I couldn't see him.'

Throws arms on his lap in exhasperation. 'Well I don't know what to believe... You're telling me you have mental problems, the police are telling me you're a murderer and I don't know what I can tell them...'

Watchamawhat now? Now I have to sit down.

'Is that what this is about?'

Quack's stunned, sullen.

'This is not that rubbish about the Doctor again is it?'

'There is a certain feeling I'm getting from the police that they think he's dead, and that you've killed him.'

'That is interesting.' What can I say? 'Do they have a body, or are these just stubbornly ill-founded accusations?'

'I'm not at liberty to discuss that...'

'If you're at liberty to make accusations, you can find the fucking liberty to defend them.'

'I don't know where this hostility's coming from...'

'How bout from fafaf'ing being accused of killing my best friend, my only doctor, a man I've lived next to for... A while, and... More importantly, a man who's alive.'

'He's alive?'

'My doctor? He's more or less alive. Depends how you judge these things. Some would say he's a parasite.'

'But you say he's your best friend.'

'As I say, that's what some would say. Not me. I can't stand him, but I'd never say that about him... Parasite. Not in mixed company, at least.'

'Xaviour, I want to impress on you how serious these charges are. The police... Its a question of bureaucracy. Once the machine gets going, it can be difficult to stop... You may want to phone a friend, you may want to go on a road trip. Whatever you do, if I were you, I would find this man and keep him alive, because if you're right, and he's died since you saw him last, you could be in an immense amount of trouble, cause I'm looking at their case against you here... And, between you and me, you've been in too many places that look wrong on paper... I'm going to report that you went missing. I'm going to do it in such a way that I don't get fired - which there's only a few of... Its the kind of thing they don't tell you in training.'

I go pretty quiet. Alright… upsy-daisy.

'Hey, wait a minute!'

Shrink enclosure quickly becomes a corridor with shiny floors and neon lighting, which becomes a small inlet with a desk and flashing lights. Almost safe when, from the right, a white-coat sweeping the area, digging a trench to lay mines in. Duck under the desk… wait for it… wait for it… They come in soft-soled shoes so you never hear them till the needle’s in you. This one’s a ripper. Clever bastard. I’m frozen to the floor, waiting, when he wheels a trolley by and sees me. Fucker’s found me.

‘What are you doing out of bed?’

‘A whole bunch of things.’

‘Do the nurses know you’re there?’

‘Oh, it’s just a thing we’ve got worked out… Between us. A kinda peace treaty.’

‘I know just what you mean – alright, I’ll leave you to it.’

Stupid fuck. Alright, back to two-legs. Its what separates us from the rest of the food chain, or, as I call them, food. Its a shit to have something actually important to do, means you can't faff around without feeling guilty, and I love faffing around. Shit to goodness ratio my system is extreme considering recent adventures; I need to see my Doctor about it. As I'm almost out of the facility a small lady in a white coat corners me and pulls me into her office. Lips puckered, spinal curviture like a bird perching, skin looks like it might come free if you touched too roughly. Her badge believes her name is GRAY, so that’s what I believe.

'Gray?'

‘Actually no. I've lost my badge.'

A jolt of electricity goes from her brain to mine… Perhaps as a form of punishment, and I look down at her badge, weak with hunger…

Now who do I believe: badge or person? Big pizza, nachos?

‘I don’t think I can confide in you if I don’t trust me.’

‘If you don’t trust who?’

‘What did I say?’

‘You said you.’

‘Right, if I can’t trust you, how can I confide in you.’

She looks down at her book, ignoring me.

‘Of course… What was I thinking… Please doctor, I need your help…’

Lean forward, she thinks I'm about to grab her. She flinches and pulls skirt over bony legs, but it just goes: nope, and retracts. I watch it, suddenly scared it’ll lift up her skin and I’ll be confronted with what she looks like inside. Become distracted by a runner, strand of ancient train seating, come free. Slip forefingers in, feel what brain tells me must be inside… Knife, chewing-gum ball, particle accelerator… Just about to touch tip of it when…

‘I’m not a doctor, I’m a nutrition student.’

‘I’ve been suffering from unusual changes in the fabric of my world… I’ve lost the concept of inside out… The way the world was when I left it… I can’t tell 'is' from 'was'… Or anything much else… Am I making sense?’

‘Not really…’

‘Is this not something you’ve heard of before?’

‘I don’t know... Have you seen someone about this?' The way people say this they're always referring to mental health professionals.

‘Nonsense. Buncha quacks. I need you.'

‘I’m really not qualified to be talking to you… About… anything! I haven’t even finished my degree…’ Listen to her, in case she says something that might affect my status in her cabin and the world it currently takes part in... But I’m not certain of anything’s constancy… ‘And even when I do finish… Its nutrition… How to eat right…’

‘Ah, the stuff of life…’

‘Well, I often think I haven’t learned anything I'll use…’

‘Oh, come on, you’re just being modest… I’ll bet you could tell me anything you’ve learnt and I’d be really impressed.’

‘Hardly…’

‘Go on… Bet you a dollar I’ll be impressed.’

She sighs. When she raises her arm to touch her forehead her joints creak.

‘Alright. I guess the main thing I know is there are five food groups…’

‘Wow!’

‘Shut up…’

‘You’re really good… Do you think you could help me now?’

‘Listen, I feel like I shouldn’t say anything, but actually you do seem a little malnourished… And…’

‘Oh thankyou doctor! I knew it, I just knew there’d be a simple solution and then everything’d go away…’

‘Hang on… Let me finish… The thing is, most people look a little green at the moment…’

No-one move or breathe even. We’re at the threshold of genius, witnessing a sacred prophecy…

‘Tell me how you came to this vision – I want to know everything, where you were, what you were wearing…’

‘Its been in the news…’

‘Shut the fuck up!’

‘No, its been on the news the last few nights…’

‘See, I knew I’d miss out on everything if I went without television… Everything’s gone wrong since I’ve been without it… I bet everything’d be fine again if I just went home…’

‘Yeah…’

‘And I'll just knock on the Doc's door and hand him over the police, and then everything will be wonderful again.'

‘Uh... Yeah. What?'

Chapter 4: Confession

So I'm in jail. I agree its not ideal. I get a mild case of brain-burn and physical memory begins dumping... And I know there's something I really don't want to forget, something I really need to follow up... But its too late.

All I am is... here.

Temporary residents of police building's suprisingly efficient holding-cell level are, on the whole, polite and well-groomed. You couldn't ask for a better specimen of humanity than the gent sitting across from me, except for maybe a shave and the fact that he's in jail.

'So why are you here?'

'They made me.'

A young hospital orderly passes, dicking around with his keys, including his pass-card, which seems to get him through the doors at either end of the floor.

'Excuse me, sorry to bother you...' I say, gather curls, bury behind ear; come up to bars till I feel his breath on me.

'Not at all,' the man, clean-shaven, dressed in white, smells of psych wing, 'What can I do ya for?'

'I understand why I need to be here, it seems perfectly reasonable when you think about it, and peace isn't something I'd ever on purpose want to disturb...'

'Of course.'

'And everyone's been so nice, I hate to make a complaint... But I was wondering if there was any way we could get a TV in here?'

'Ah.'

He seemed to want to help till he heard my request.

'Is there any special arrangement we could come to...'

'We generally only assess special needs of a medical nature...'

'I have some of those, whatever you need, what do you need?'

Looks worried he's being joked on, forces himself to laugh, 'I better go.'

'No... Don't.'

'I better.'

'What if I like gave you a whole heap of money, and some other shit?'

'Um... Do you have a whole heap of money?'

'Not really.'

'Um...'

'I'll be your best friend... I haven't seen a bit of TV in like three days... I'm pretty sure the end of the world's coming and I'm missing out...'

'Trust me, you haven't missed a thing, there hasn't been anything on...'

'That's just the kind of thing you would say.'

'Okay, I'll speak to my friend about it... Wait here.' Goes a few steps, looks back, becomes crippled by his accidental wit. 'Wait here!' So pleased with the phrase he clones it to test if it produces the same amusement as the original. It does.

Strain eyes to near edge of head to see orderly input a code, probably numerical, would have to be memorised... And disappear for a while, coming back with his friend... They pause every so far along the long hallway, speaking in hushed diatribes and unintelligble fits of hissed laughter... The friend: big gut, psoriosis... United they stand and expect to derive some kind of amusement from me by whatever means necessary.

'How come you want a TV?'

'Oh, I kind of mentioned something about it... I think.'

'You know this is a jail, right?'

'I know.'

'How come you think you get a TV?'

'I've seen it in the movies... There's always men watching TV in jail.'

Men look at each other with great excitement, their moment is here... 'Seen it in the movies, he says!' There's no stopping it now... Imminent scene of being laughed at... There it is... All the capillaries along the spine and up the neck grow hot under their scrutiny...

'Guys, stop it.'

'What did you want the TV for?'

'I just need it... No reason...'

'Do you have special needs?'

'I don't want to talk about it.'

'You can't want it very much if you won't convince us.'

I watch the men. They watch me. A whole lot of watching goes on, none of it particularly comfortable. The one dressed like a hospital rubs at his groin, the other perceives this and glares down at him.

'Would you not do that?'

'What?'

'That. That thing you're doing. Down there.'

'This?' The hospital orderly asks, and does it again.

The burly one shakes his head and stares back at me. I take my cue.

'I have a kind of addiction... I haven't been without TV for about nine years. I pretty much don't know what life's like without it... That's all I do. I miss whole weeks of work for it. I organise my life according to the TV schedule. I've said no to many relationships based on conflicts with my favourite shows. I organise my routine according to how 'must-see' certain things are. I'm a wreck. Its killing me to think what I'm missing for these pointless conversations...'

The officer's eyes responded in a way that synchronised with the things I said... Like he was kind of taking it all in, and it was having an effect on him. I have a feeling I really connected with him just now. He looks kindly at me.

'What are you missing right now?'

Little snakes begin to crawl around my elbows... Always in places I can't kiss it better... Isn't it funny how people look at you when you try and kiss your elbows in public...

Mouth purses, brow folds, tongue deals with spasming jaw.

'Missing something I like...

'People keep locking me up... And when I'm not locked up, I can't find a TV anywhere. I'm going back to my apartment as soon as I can.'

Hospital orderly whispers something to the officer. Officer scrutinises me and nods.

'Okay, put your hands through the food-hole, we're gonna open you up. Apparently you're of interest to some people upstairs.'

Teeth chatter, begin jabbering. 'Upstairs? I wouldn't like that. I'm afraid of heights...'

Big face is pressed up to the slot, billowing cloud of breath on plexiglass. 'Don't worry so much about that... We'll look after you. Just show us your hands.'

Chapter 3: Interview

Supermarket carpark fills gradually with families. Trolleys are taken and minds are emptied to roll in slumber. A picaresque trek through the different sections, the circle of life. Oily-skinned juniors doing well with minds out travelling time. Been granted access to inner sanctum of head manager, a creepy-crawly looks five years my junior.

'Can I've a job please?'

Man flinches, face contorts then flops with chuckles. 'What?'

'Can I?'

'Ah... I don't think so.'

'Why not?'

'Serious requests will be considered, but you have to fill out an application with a current address and contact number, and we'll contact you... If you're selected for an interview, which is done on the grounds of your resume, which you'll need to provide, along with references from your previous employers.'

'So involved. I didn't realise.'

'Right.'

'That won't work though.'

'What won't work?'

'The problem is... the part where you write your address... And phone number... I was kind of hoping for a live-in position...'

'You're kidding?'

'You know, like maids and nannies do on TV.'

'That's not exactly how it works.'

'Its not?'

'The store gets shut up at nights... No-one but security allowed.'

'I kind of don't know where to go next... I've been away from home... I kind of got kidnapped...'

'I'm sorry to hear that.'

'Thanks. I didn't mind, there was food.'

'Right...' Suspicious.

'Listen, I'd love to help you out, but I just took on a couple of retarded kids, so my quota's full. I've done my bit...' Pathetic, he shrugs. 'Sorry.'

'I don’t get funny ideas, I won’t expect promotion...'

'I wish I could help...'

'Just somewhere safe... I used to be a hall monitor, I used to be pretty reliable...'

Man just looks at me with a smile filled with sadness.

'I know,' he says, as, from behind, that increasingly familiar sensation: the unnecessarily forceful grip of the security guard. Into the shoulders, find a handle, tear it up if you like, there you go… oops, don’t mind the bones, I’ve got others, whatever's easier...

%

Half way out I find I have another one of those out-of-body experiences. I see myself, Xaviour, elbow a man twice my height and physical fitness schedule, pick up a snub-nosed toblerone and stick it into his back.

‘Okay, motherfucker, don’t move.’

‘Alright just take it easy…’

‘You think this is easy? This is hard, motherfucker.’

Where did I learn a word like that?

Xaviour digs the toblerone so far into tough-guy’s back that enemies flanking him can’t see that its just a prepackaged chocolate product.

‘Get your boss out here, motherfucker.’

‘Alright, I’ll get him. Just keep your tongue civil.’

‘Was I swearing?’

‘Just a little, okay?’

‘Alright, just get your boss.’

Creepy-crawly saunters into the great central aisle of the sprawling supermarket, the central hub of operations for the mammoth shopping complex.

‘What is the situation, Armstrong?’

‘Situation is a Code Red.’

‘No Codes!’ Xaviour shrieks.

‘Alright, alright… Situation is this… customer here… Is a little distraught, doesn’t know what he’s doing…’

‘I know exactly what I’m doing…’

‘He’s not a customer, Armstrong. He’s a vagrant. Homeless. Tried to apply for a job. Disgruntled. Deal with him.’

‘Don’t call me names. I’ve got a fucking gun!’

Force the pointy corner of the toblerone into the muscle-man’s kidney. He groans.

'Like the man says, sir, like I was trying to explain... He's got a gun.'

'Armstrong, you're so fired. I'll deal with this. You, there, vagrant... What do you hope to achieve, boy?'

‘… Give me a minute.’ This has not been well thought out.

‘I want a job. And I want to meet General Chemistry. And I need some medicine – but I don’t know what its called.’

‘I can't help you with any of those things, would you please go elsewhere?'

'Mr Duncan!' Armstrong freaks, suspecting this a reckless course of action for Duncan to take.

'There's a SUPER! Market around the corner that'd suit you fine. You're just their type.'

Heart lifts. 'Really?'

'He's takin' the piss, honey,' some woman says.

'Oh.' Heart sinks.

'Take your gun round the corner, they have drugs at SUPER! Markets too. You can satisfy your habit there.'

‘What about the job?'

‘Come on, you’ll be lucky if you get out of here before the police arrive. Wouldn’t it be a bit awkward now anyway?’

‘I don't mind...'

Relieve the pressure on the mini-toblerone... Quickly... Tear it open and eat a piece! Several enemies figure it out straightaway (which tells me they shouldn’t be stuck in retail) and I bolt for the turnstiles while they blubber away trying to explain to Sir Duncan of Creepsville, Metropolis, Erewhon. But I don't care, my mouth is full of sweet chocolate... Excuse me for a minute...

So zonked by chocolate kind of forget to continue getaway... Tastes so Swiss and good have to enjoy it somewhere private... People staring... Self-consciousness... Ruins the chocolatey goodness... I break up all the letters I have left... OBLERON... Sounds like a mystical land created by science-fiction or fantasy novelist... Or perhaps a device that will destroy the world in just twelve minutes!!! Which is on the slow side, you'd think... I could do it in under ten. I play with OBLERON in my lap while I'm waiting for mouth to process current E... While I'm chewing the E, I see BE... BEN... EON... LEER... And I almost spit out the E, but its already too soft... Still, if I did have that E, could make REEL too... By the time the police arrive I've eaten the remaining OBLERON, and I pretty much don't care what happens next, at this point, I feel that good.

$

Cops are gentle with me. Mainly because, being uneducated, they believe the rumours and assume I'm mentally disabled in some way, which is outright something they're in no position to judge. Men in police car are different from gay men who kidnapped me... Very few phone calls to their dealers, which they must do in their own time like responsible workers... Hardly ever sat on my lap and slapped me... Which was nice. Conversation the right side of pleasant, particularly for arresting officers... Like this, on where my apartment is:

'That's a lovely part of the city.'

I pull a face.

'You think?'

'Well...' Laughs. 'You caught me, I was just being nice.'

'I could tell. Cause its a shitty part of a shitty city.'

'I guess you're right.'

@

It might have something to do with being arrested, or it might just be post-chocolate depression... But everything about the police station annoys me. Huge well-maintained one with frosted-glass foyer in an area where you can't even tell what the rest of the buildings are made of, no-one cleans the pollution off. Wishful representation of police importance in the area... Same principle as churches: using architecture to convey something that doesn't exist. Any giant penis police station could be said to conform to this tradition.

Get feeling potential felons are safe as long as they're polite and subtle... And don't make the police look bad. That's when something gets done. An interesting theory which, of course, I am the exception to being mild-mannered secret identity without superhero cover. I'm so mild Officer McBoring and partner hardly handle me at all, but for some reason I'm compelled by the nearness of their life forces to accompany them, handcuffed, through the frosted-glass foyer.

I'm processed as human, though not asked to prove it... I have very few documents, and even fewer I could say were genuine... And they're all locked up back at City #1. My sanity is not questioned, which appears to show neglect bordering on lack of common sense, till my processing offer says, 'my guess is if you'd waited a couplea days, you wouldn't even have been processed at all...'

'Things are that bad?'

Policeman's face elongates, tongue cramps up, unable to express the level of severity.

'Have you been watching the news?'

'I'd watch it if I knew where to look.'

Chapter 2: What Darwin Said

Come across a requiem for a sporting goods store. Burnt-out husk, looks like arson. Bins the size of men, filled with balls of all kinds: rubber, versions of plastic... Toss ten out and get in. Too tired to do anything but sleep standing up like some horror movie psycho. Not a nice night's sleep... Least no tossing turning as… no room.

Morning. Dust bits of ball-hair out of clothes... Clothes seem more concerned with the river-water clogging their particles than the basket of balls which just cushioned them from the walls of the bin. If General Chemistry had a Good Bin Guide, this bin would probably get a three-star rating, as very few hazardous chemicals, hardly any second-hand syringes... In bedside table, no Gideons, but they did have a blanket and a little stuffed wombat who I called Lazarus, for no particular reason, except maybe because he kept making me get up during the night to feed him egg-shells... This is the stuffed wombat, I'm talking about, in case you missed it.

I collect animal noises in a special file in my brain, and last night contributed a nice cicada noise, which in America is called Locusts, and a stray dog who had bits of fur missing, perhaps from some venereal disease... Who I liked enough to give a name... 'Patches' but not enough to actually go up and say hello, in case I caught whatever was making his hair come out in clumps.

Ah... Eyes so f'n bleary from river-water, lashes laced together... Check for suspicious sentiment in river-water... Sorry, sediment... Actually, if I had a mobile lab, that would be handy... I could test everything before I drank it or stepped/sat/f'd in it or poured it over nearby brides and grooms coming out of churches.

Now... I don't find any ticks or allergic reactions on my outermost layer, or my skin either, which is my second outermost layer... So I decide I'm perfectly healthy and decide I need two things, and two things only... One more than the other. A) I need sustenance. And B) To a certain extent I need a telephone. Would be nice to phone a friend and see if they can help me remember where I'm supposed to be... Only thing I can remember doing is watching TV instead of going to work. If I can think of a single person I know who knows I'm not where I'm supposed to be... Then i'll probably need a telephone half as much as I need a bite to eat.

A few shops down a window full of TVs. Get stuck. Not doing anything interesting... Or now. Not yet. Well... Depends how choosey you are. There's a soap opera on... Tail end of what looks like was a cracking good coma, but she's out of it now... Normally I'd be right in there, but when you come in half way its just a little bit... Almost like its not actually happening. At one point, I swore I saw a false wall collapse just on the edge of screen and a man with a stereo head-set prop it back up. I can't guarantee it happened... You'll just have to believe me... But I swear. I'm almost positive that's... kind of what I... think I saw. There was also this disturbing scene set on a co-star's chin, blown up to full screen. Either the drama is molecular or the plot involves a shrinking device, which I would almost suggest was not actually possible, except there it was on TV. Breakfast's calling me. If can't find any more V.I.P will perhaps be reduced to contacting Doctor...

My hand grabs absently at my wrist. I'd forgotten but there's a hospital tag there who tells whoever finds me to contact my "doctor", what's his name. Now to straighten a few things out... A) I don't remember agreeing to being labelled... And if I did, I'm sure the last person I'd put on the label is the Doctor, mainly out of concern for the fact that he's not a proper doctor. If they did a lab study of him, I'm sure they'd find trace elements of doctor in his make-up... But the truth is he's my friend, and its a self-appointed nick-name... The only reason I'm stuck calling him that, when I hate encouraging him, is its just easier than remembering his proper name... I never remember it, but I remember I don't like it...

Reasons Not To Call The Doctor: well, how long have you got? There's his reluctance to talk about anyone other than himself, his reluctance to let five minutes go by without filling it with drivel, which usually consists of unwarranted updates of material recently deleted from his thesis. Sometimes I think he enjoys deleting more than he enjoys writing.

Alas, certain things compel me otherwise... ie, Reasons Not to Not Call the Doctor: his possession of many medicines which came like water to me back like two days ago when he lived next door and was available most of the time (which is yet another reason I know he can't be a real doctor)... Among his two or three positive points are... His portable TV set, his pug ugliness, which makes me almost interesting by comparison... His personal portability... Being that the Doctor loves most things except public transport, he tends to have a car, which means if I hang around him, I get to bypass certain unpleasantries that really can put a damper on a nice day: like bus drivers, bus inspectors... Or, on the hitch-hiking side of things, there's the possibility of sudden death, brought on by the pure randomness of the lone night riders you brave being trapped in a car with... When you're on the side of the road with your thumb out, let's just say your options are pretty limited. Of course, you could ask to check references...

All he needs to do is provide the necessary television and perhaps lift me back to where I belong from wherever the hell this Hicksville shopping-centre district is: you know those areas where the shopping centre takes up more space than the humans? You can just see how some Hot Shot with big ideas has come along and thought the locals so deprived of even small ideas for how to spend their Day Off they'll agree to bring all their money down to a mall and part with it, on the condition that the Hot Shot does all their thinking for them. And as a bonus they get some crap they don't need, maybe see a movie, eat some fast food, and boom you're home in front of the TV. The Hot Shot goes 'great,' signs the contract with the local council, based on a petition from the local consumers just so keen to see the development get under way, and sets up his mall with everything you dreamed about when you were little. Except its not free, but now you have a job so its okay. When I was little I wasn't allowed to go to shopping centres. I always wondered where they drew the line: cause my grandma lived right behind this little set of shops, and all it had was a hair dresser, a bank and a green grocer, but Grandma took me down there all the time, and spend all day sometimes, chatting to people she knew who worked there. I suppose its possible Mum never knew about that. My parents were strict on this one rule, and virtually nothing else... They had this funny belief there was something inherently evil about a place that is designed to look like a city, but where people aren't allowed to live. Something somehow illusory and cruel. You know the communities I mean? Half way between where the paddocks begin and the urban metropoli end, are these sad concrete outer suburbs, with no beaches, but lacking the relaxing of laws and friendly locals of the country... When I was little, I heard that kids on farms drove trucks when they were nine... And I still believe it. Anyway, these kind of places, much like I am right now, the 'mall' cause they use the American term too... Even though you can’t see it expanding (unless you hang around and watch the builders), you just know one day it’ll engulf the earth.

But it is very civilised inside. Everything's so clean and neat. It looks brand new, and like some creepy age experiment, it'll look brand new way past the time when its architectural design goes out of fashion. I could get anything here. Like a King in a Castle... No need even to ask nicely, they won't look at you rudley like the school receptionist would and insist you say please. They'll give you your coffee, massage, hair cut even if you spit in their faces!

Over there's a pair of pirate-ship doors... Stolen, no doubt, cause there's no way they belong to the seafood-based eating hole inside. If anyone knows a captain looking for his swinging doors, do let me know... In a formal letter, which I shall introduce to the eating hole's owner, whoever the scurvy dog shall be... With the ultimate objective of investigating a theft, I make my entrance, which can't not be extravagant when you've got swinging pirate-ship doors... A gust is put into motion by the swinging doors... Smells like the inside of a blowhole. Seafood and you eat it (™ my grandpa): my kind of place.

Kind of need the doctor. Much as he spoils a morning with his thought of the day I don’t feel like me till I’ve had my medicine. With that thought, place now smells more like air fried in animal fat. 'Don’t thank us, that tip's for free!' A sign hints, sidling up by the cash-register. Subtle.

Mysterious signs abound. There’s an old sea captain painted in war paint... Can't say whether by vandals or restaurant staffers, graffiti or not graffiti… that is the question. A colonel in dark glasses, a team of secret service suits in a huddle around their VIP, shuffle to counter, voice orders meal, staffer tries to get eye contact, suits pass messages internally through the circle, avoid letting information out at any cost. Order my breakfast. Big breakfast. Contains egg, sausage, bacon rind, caffeine, phenylalkeleines, ethanol, polyerythane, bits of shoe, hazardous waste and mushy peas. A house specialty.

‘You’re adventurous,' she says, which is her trying to be reassuring. 'Don’t be put off by the menu, hon, chef just throws in whatever.’

‘Ah.’

Comforting, but the order has been placed and orders should not be rescinded.

‘We can only do one a day, cause chef throws in the stove element. We tell him cut it out, but he’s French, so…’

‘I see.’

So some time goes by. Not thinking anything, which I like to do. Wait and wait for someone to come from behind the screen, place is empty but me. When I've waited so long I'm worried the mall's engulfing the earth already, I get up and, sin of sins, go to that barrier which forms the social division between ingredients and fancy meals... Which difference is not so great, when we're talking about seafood...

I peer in. I do it, I feel myself do it. I make the glass fog with my mouth. Visions of Johanna. A bicycle wheel, disemcycled but still spinning, stands where the chef should be, quietly minding a slow roast. Just when I’m about to break in and start talking to a bicycle wheel, I see the culprit. A monkey swinging from the neon kitchen lighting like he thinks it’s a chandelier in an Alexandre Dumas novel.

‘Quit horsing around in there,’ I say under my breath, not sure how much to invest in what I appear to be seeing. Bell tinkles behind me, and I’m sure the waitress shall return us to civility. Brushes straight past me.

‘Oh no, Pierre, please, we have a customer today, yes, a customer, please behave… its been so long since you took over from Roberto… Give me a big breakfast, I give you carte blanche, monsieur, oui?’

#

I would have left, but even a French monkey-made breakfast is better than going hungry. The meal does, eventually arrive. The monkey wheels it out. Pierre. With his little white coat some local most likely's made him. Small-town humour. I watch him. I keep one eye on the monkey and one on the erratic waitress fogging up the kitchen window. Pierre does his job, but if you stare really hard in his eyes you can see there's no thought behind it. Now... I don't know who knows about Pierre, who's trained him, but he's really distracted. His eyes dart, scanning the exits. Me and Pierre have a huge room to ourselves. All the locals must be at the beach, over an hour away, whichis not too much tyranny when you're talking about a day at the beach. I'm almost here fantasising about having even one local to chat to, is how starved for company I am.

Its five minutes later and here's a telephone booth & I can't remember what I ate or if I ate. Standing here looking at the numbers and I should be thinking doctor friend, decaying city and factory job are a quick phone call away, but I'm a little distracted. Who'd blame me. Look at this. Receiver covered in faeces, no prizes for guessing the species. Okay, maybe next phone I’ll dial up my life. Can’t do without the medicine, after all, who am I kidding. Actually, considering, don’t feel bad at all. Is possible I had my medicine when I wasn’t looking? First must make complaint about monkey problem in shopping centre. Look around for signs. Over here.

YOU ARE HERE.

A welcome pointer, and nice to know, in my current state. Not too helpful though. Initiate spatial skills program: beep. Just wait for it to load up. The human brain. Women are better linguistic, men are better spatial: reading maps, yet both manage to argue fine about who’s reading the map wrong. A fun species.

I scan the map for signs, anything that triggers. This: INFORMATION. And the ! symbol. Mysterious. Information about what: how deep do they go? That’s where I need to be, not where the board says I am.

On the board a pattern of curving lines indicate the spatial layout of the shopping centre. Several continents are listed: and there is a compass in the corner, in case you can find a window and use the sun without blinding yourself. North, west, east, south. Names of some of the major corporations of the planet are alotted on certain portions. Can only infer these portions are owned by those particular companies. Insane – do the people in those alottments know the land has been bought up by these corporations? Suddenly I’m sweating. Thanks, I already showered in river-water last night, I’ll be right. But it keeps coming. A small stream down back.

Trapped in the middle of this corporate conspiracy. Have to tell someone, have to spread word… But how to interpret the signs on this board, and can the sign by trusted, since it seems to be where the executives come to bid for the lots… Oh god. Right here I’m standing at the absolute apex of corporate evil. This is it. Let that shudder through ya. Absolute waterfall down the back now. Need a supply of spare shirts like a pro tennis player.

Information door tinkles as I come in, all within look like their minds are elsewhere. Take a number, take a seat. Firm couches. Small tear in corner. Dead mosquito. TV in corner plays a tape on a loop: a colourful epidemic of shouting about the life-opportunities the metropolis-sized centres tend to provide for towns. Soon becomes obvious there’s nothing specific about this tape to this room or this centre: in fact, the accents are foreign, as is its enthusiasm over empty concepts. Aussies just laugh when we figure someone’s trying to con us with how they put something.

Other folks on the couches. I look over, try not to seem to look. Hadn’t noticed, but the waitress from the eating hole is there. And beside her. Have a look. Look away. Begin to sweat. Look again, he’s still there. It’s Pierre.

The waitress catches my eye, smiles.

‘Hi.’

Look down at Pierre.

Try to be familiar as I feel only opposite. ‘He might throw his own faeces, but he knows what to do with a stove element.’

‘He’s demanding more pay.’

What can I say to such a thing?

‘Oh, okay.’

‘I say he’s pushing his luck – so he’s worked in France, but he’s still just a monkey…’

‘Like they say, there’s no substitute for basic humanity.’

‘Do they say that?’

That’s it. Up I get.

‘You’re going?’

‘I think I need to lie down… That should do the trick.’

‘But you haven’t had your turn…’

‘It doesn’t matter…’ Look at Pierre. Still there. Looking at me. ‘I just figured out there’s not much point complaining…’

‘That’s so funny, I was just telling Pierre that exact thing.’

Helpless, smile and out we go. Just give me a minute... Catch my breath...

&

There was a monkey chef here just now... But its okay, he's French, so... Hey, as long as other people can see him, he's alright by me. I'm lost and not feeling especially stable, so I take a nap on an immaculate bench. I look around for a piece of the community newspaper to wrap around me then I realise there's no wind because I'm inside, and there's no rubbish anywhere, anyway. I'm woken by a security guard.

'End of the line, pal.'

'Ay?' (Which is Australian for 'What?')

'Could you please leave the premises. Vagrants will be prosecuted to the full extent of the law.' Looking bored, reciting a given rule of his environment.

Something so obvious I should have perceived it before my first visit. What did my parents teach me? What must I have learnt in school? I can't think of a single important thing. All I know is I don't know a thing about how to get along well in a mall, and that seems like the most important thing. If I was to, say, set up camp here... How would I go about it? Find a job, find a wife, you know, really dig in. You could build everything up from nothing at the mall... Once you get a job at a store, you can start putting down deposits for appliances... Something will start to happen between you and a co-worker of some persuasion... You can find a wedding planner at the mall, and a funeral parlor... You'll need both at some stage, if all goes to plan... (fun euphemism that... 'parlour' almost sounds like you should look forward to their services... whereas 'mortician' deriving from the latin word for death... has a sterile, medical ring to it... far too similar to reality for consumers). The whole spectrum is here, all the best stuff anyway... It even has the concept of paying rent for space, and becoming your own store that is the soul of capitalist culture... The first thing before anything has to be work... That's like the only thing I know for sure right now...

Look I'll tell you what I've been doing... Since I left Information I've walked all the way to the SUPER! Market... With no resume, reference or prospects... Bet this'll seem like a great idea in like five minutes time but right now you'll have to excuse me cause its the only thing in the world I feel like doing...

Chapter 1: Kidnapped!

Voice like a gremlin on the phone, pouring aural poison down the line: ‘Delivery of filth, four o’clock.’

‘Not for me, thanks, don’t bring it here.’

‘Delivery of filth, coming your way.’

‘If you bring it here, I’ll call the police. They were just here. We’re on speaking terms.’

Gremlin pauses. ‘Uhhh… Special delivery…’

‘I’m hanging up, and I think you should either stop drinking coffee or see a trachiologist, you may need some trachea... -Tomical surgery. I saw a documentary on it.’

Hang up.

Tinkling at doorbell. Drag knuckles on ground over to edge of void. Fight tide of boredom well enough to focus on what people are saying.

Men with knight-sticks, coffee-stained lips. Scratch my leg and look lopsided. ‘What?’

‘Yes, ah, can we come in?’

‘I don’t know, can you?’

‘Well, may we?’

‘I don’t know, I’m kind of busy right now… I’m just watching television, its my only creative outlet.’

They notice the foodscraps on my shirt, envious of my exotic lifestyle.

'You live alone?'

'Mostly. I have a Doctor friend I can't seem to get rid of...'

The two look at each other when I say this.

'That's funny, because we've received reports from this region... Of a suspicious nature, regarding the life-force of a gentleman known only by his profession… What was it, Higgins, a dentist? A drunkard?’

‘Doctor.’

'Ah, that's right.' Smiles and turns. 'A Doctor.' He's more talkative, this one. Now he turns serious. 'Recently deceased, late as last night. Have you seen him?'

I drum some fingers on my chin for effect. 'Hmm... Let me think... No. Nope. There's definitely no dead doctors here.'

'You should know that our reports were very suggestive of something untoward having happened to this Doctor character. You're quite sure?'

'Listen, the Doctor's fine. Don't worry about it.'

'So you have seen him?'

'Well, like I said, he's only next door, so he'll often come in here for a week or so, then I won't see him for like six months. He's inconsistent like that.'

'Perhaps we could take a look next door, then?'

Begrudge myself out into the corridor. Rap tap tap.

No answer.

Turn, toothy grin. ‘Look, he’s in there; he’s just not answering – he tends to do that. You do know he's not that kind of doctor, right? He doesn't even have a first aid certificate...’

‘I think you should come with us.’

‘No thanks.’

‘Yeah, you better.’

‘I’m right.’

‘Higgins…’

Higgins who doesn't say much grabs me. Breathing heavily, I look over, coffee grains frosted to his shoulder-pad.

‘Hey, coffee...’

‘Shaddup.’

Looney Tunes music sees us down the network of corridors. Something tells me there’s a Russian Caravan at our backs with a giant rolling-pin steamrolling up behind us. Panic sets in.

‘Quick, it’ll smoosh us.’

‘Shaddup.’

‘I can feel it…’ Try and make a noise they've never heard before.

'What was that?'

Shrug.

Its starting to crush my legs, I’m going under… This isn't good.

‘Higgins, club ‘im.’

Lights out.

+

A doctor's probably not a good thing to keep up your sleeve. If I knew where mine was... Some kind of microchipping service might help... I could show him to these men and avoid some future unpleasantness. Strange... To think having the doctor around might actually be a good thing for once... He's not that kind of Doctor. His medical status is unsubstantiated in most contexts he crashes. He has on several documented occasions made false accusations about himself. I tend to keep a to-the-minute diary of things as they happen on my palm-pilot, where I have develloped my skills of dictation to such an advanced state that I can document doing things as fast as I can do them... Of course, living this way, your faculty of actually doing things as regular humans would do them can get sidelined in favour of your typing. Which is all I want to say about that. If I sometimes seem brusque, I apologise, but now you know why. One doesn't always, as on long cartrips like this, have the luxury to think before one types...

These are not likely to be policemen. They have no handcuffs, their cage which is intended to prevent cranial gouging from behind, is made from chicken wire... And their demeanour betrays a certain lack of the small niceties that are indicators or law-enforcement employees who have extra things to consider, like Internal Affairs investigations, paperwork, a code of conduct... You know, little things like that. Anway, I rate these men about a 1 out of 10 as cop impersonators. If I wasn't writing with one hand in my pocket, I coulda damn well realised that like anyone reading this prob'ly will.

So, you have to take into account, that as quick as an exchange of dialogue might read here, its actually been carried out at a reduced rate, due to my seeming absent mindedness and divided attention. I'm glad I had this second to talk to you, we have the irrelevence of the goons in the front seat to thank for that.

They haven't once asked me what radio station I'd like to listen to, and I'm just really getting the impression they just don't really respect me. On the radio a simulcast of a political rally: General Chemistry, drumming up support for the nothing he’s done. A whisper’s been heard thorough the eaves of the sooty city. The Journalist Factory have not picked up on it yet, but no-one tells them things anyway. Decree that all sport shall be heretofore played with metallic balls for General Chemistry’s ancient-roman pleasure. A mere distraction tactic from the unexplained weirdness of the food piles. Can’t solve one problem, create one you can. The boys don’t seem to care one way or another.

‘Do you ever just feel like wearing a neck-brace?’

‘What?’

‘To take the pressure off a bit.’

‘Um…’

‘From holding your head up.’

‘Not really.’

‘What would you know Higgins...’

Open my eyes. Lights up on a cage which keeps me from scratching out inspectors brains, if so inclined. Sitting waist-high in fast-food wrappers: all the best chains. For some reason shouting... From the place where I'm sitting... Caused by something in body or out, it depends.

‘Is this where you keep your conquests… YOU’RE SICK!’

‘Someone just got up on the wrong side of the cop car...’

‘You drive like a prisoner of war – GET A LICENSE!’

Inspector not-Higgins about-faces. ‘If you don’t shaddup I’ll make Higgins sit back there with you – and you won’t like that.’

‘There’s no room – it’s like my apartment back here. GET A CLEANER!’

‘We wouldn’t need one if Higgins wasn’t such a pig.’

‘I shouldn’t have to clean, isn’t it enough I do the driving – I thought you agreed…’

‘No, I agree on this: I’m your supervisor, you obey my commands. If I say you do the driving and the cleaning, and appear in the TV spots, and shine my shoes, you’ll do it, and all at once, if the situation calls for it...’

‘Now you’re being unreasonable.’

‘I’ll tell you when I’m being unreasonable.’ Pause. ‘Not yet.’

Phone rings for the unnamed man, the one who calls the other one Higgins every five seconds.

The face starts twitching. The hands tied, so… can’t rub it better… Won’t stop. Can’t remember if I set it off, but its really swinging now. Gets worse the more I think about it.

‘Like ta help ya out thar, Chucksta, but already have goods en route… Hang on a tic, mate. Higgins, he’s pulling faces, take care of that would you? Sorry, mate.’

About faces… once, then again. ‘Oi, cut that out.’

Amble along. Not-Higgins continues his personal call to possible drug-courier business contact.

‘Are we on this weekend?’ Mean laughter. ‘Poco loco!’

Burble of static from receiver, not-Higgins reels back, winces.

‘Fucken thing.’

For whatever reason, this strikes me as hilarious, so cackle uncontrollably.

‘Higgins!’

About-face: ‘Shaddap-you...’

But I was off...

‘Right, that’s it – pull over, Higgins. I’ll take the wheel - you get back there.’

Higgins sits on my lap, supposedly to hold me down, and just follows non-Higgins’ directions. Non-Higgins is a far less competent driver than Higgins, so because of his anxiety over concentrating over-hard on driving, he gets rather slap-happy with directing Higgins, who keeps his face straight while he applies a hand to mine, painting it all kinds of purple, which I spy in the backwards mirror. So distracting looking at your face when you're trying to tell a story...

‘Don’t flinch!’

Tongue begins to loll, blubber some jibberish about overseas aid workers and the sexually transmitted disease AIDS, and the import-export flow from cuba to the United States during the Cold War. Just the kind of thing I like to jibber when I’m half-conscious. Then something called Higgins made the lights go out.

%

The next cage is worse: its no longer moving. Smells like a log cabin: pine, perhaps. Up in the mountains. Soft flushing of the bottom of a waterfall nearby, constant replenishing. Candles, chatter. A party is in progress. Just a candelit evening at the Higgins’ mountain retreat. Appears they live together: partners in the line of duty and life partners too. How cute. Some painters arrive – The Higgins’ offer them what they have: a game of chess, refreshments, a sneak peek at their latest acquisition. They have to come inside and open a door to get from the party to me.

‘When’d this come in?’

They eyeball me, dressed white with technicolour yawn. They sniff.

‘Smells like teen spirit.’

Higgins’ sniff.

‘So it does.’

‘I’m older than that.’

‘So you are.’

‘I’d really rather not be detained her so long without medicine, I have a condition you know.’

‘And what condition is that?’

‘The condition of requiring regular medicine.’

‘Just sit tight. You’ll enjoy tonight: we're having you for dinner.’

$

Roll me out on cross, naked, wet dishcloth for modesty.

‘Maybe I won’t stay for dinner…’ I say.

‘No, I think you should...’

Guests... Painted faces, jockeys, flying kites and ducking between the trees leering down the hill to a river… If they were as observant as me they'd see my fingers fluttering, trying to match brain and eyes speed. Good brain-hand co-ordination is what you need. Take it all in… Possible escape route: river. Appears an entire postwar generation of middle-aged doctors and mothers on call are invited to the Higgins' tonight for a show, a play of some kind. Tribal music plays: someone beats the drum. Floor is moving. Woozy… maybe drugged, maybe paranoia, maybe fatigue… A bass-player, for no reason, stands in corner, fag lolling on lower lip, smoke effusive in humid night. One of them mothers a prepubescent daughter… Lovely thing, I’m looking at the insignia on her dress… There’s some historical signal on there… Catch the mother’s eye: she’s caught mine, or thinks she has.

‘He was staring at my daughter – the filthy brute!’

‘I never.’

Could mention the insignia, the dress, but who'd know the difference.

‘I thought he might,’ non-Higgins says, and makes his face eclipse my panoramic view of the party, this still-stranger says, wags a finger and paints chin with kiss... ‘You should learn to look ahead,' he tells me, at the top of his voice. Uh, yes... ‘Higgins, bring out the fruit.’

‘No Higgins…’ Do my best.

‘We’re here to feed you… Think of the starving kids… How can you refuse?’

Wheel out a buffet-table filled with the ugliest torture weapons you’ve ever seen: heavy, misshapen fruit with spindles, small ninja-star fruit, the largest unpeeled carrot you’ve ever seen, which must only have been grown for one purpose… Some seriously perverted hydroponics going on in these hills.

As the pineapple needles dig into my flesh my mind wanders. Send out a mental task force to investigate the neighbouring fruit-stalls. Dust for great-ape and monkey fingerprints. Issue a few directives. If I were General Chemistry I’d have the state issue nutritional pamphlets decreeing proper hygiene, food preparation techniques, instead of the current state of gastronomical laissez-faire. I’ve a few questions for this General Chemistry, should I run into him – like, what kind of cereal-box military academy did he attend, and what decorations does he have to recommend him? Build in my mind a corrosive explosive all-doubts-forgotten get out of jail device; from a no frills beer top and a reserve of creative energy didn’t know existed. Joy! Implement the device quickly, footsteps outside, pausing to give thanks to whoever I inherited this particular deus ex machina from and vowing to forever cherish no frills products and campaign for their domination of the market. Only, what name will I put on the banner… Have to invent a logo… Hmm… Dear Mr Frill, writing to inform of heretofore unimagined use for your product…

I’m running, I’m free… Somehow it worked… No time to wonder now. My feet find the boards outside the log-cabin – please no splinters – bundle my sore bones downhill, sticky soles thicken with soil as I go. Short trip down, mini-preview of the rapids ahead?

Boatdocked, loosen rope, speed… Over shoulder voices ricochet zigzag from tree to tree. Higgins this and Higgins that. Ladybug – what’s she doing so close to the edge! Ahh – rope burn!

Weathered old boat ambles along waters; plinking sounds at contact points. Suddenly a tranquil moment to look back and smile, lay back and look up, think about things I’m grateful for - watching TV with dad – our favourite cop shows – Him showing me how to… Building um… I’m sure there were times when I learnt something useful from him, but… they escape me. River’s not the most conducive to that kind of thinking, maybe.

Pictures crop up from time to time, projected on the fog – just the news reel... Or are they real? Careers advisers. Curmudgeons. Men kneeling in bushes buggering, downstream more men night-fishing and a congregation of feminists skindiving. River swims ahead, lucky someone’s marked it with streamers for me, or I might drift off course. Someone knew I’d come this way. There’s only one river, but still. As I leave behind the city, I try to be at peace... Appreciate the scenery, which turns sleepy and green as river runs from rapids to Sunday afternoon walks... But then I remember I'm lost and don't know my way home.