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...