Of Novel Novels Pt3

8/8/2019 Of Novel Novels Pt3

1/10

Three

June 2nd

2000.

Jay strode back to our table. Sweat had made his hair slick. He stabbed the air in front of my face.

Come on, dance, I'll get a song played for you.

No, I'm fine.

Let's dance, put your red shoes on and dance the blues.

Steady on, you almost seem enthusiastic.

Its only an act. Dont tell anyone, His shoulders sagged by exactly 5 centimetres only to rebound

rolling into his face as a smile, when in Rome and other clichs.

Jay puts his hands on his hips and looks at me seriously. Eyes glinting, eye brows raised.

I dont like to see you sitting here alone. It looks like youre having a crisis.

Crisis? Shut up. I am as stable as this table.

Stability and happiness dont always go together. I'm always ok, as in I can soldier on and function.

I question your functionality.

Its possible to function and achieve while depressed.

I don't envy you for knowing that.

Last chance...


2/10

It's cool, I'll just soak up the atmosphere.

_______________________

I met Jay several years beforehand. About two years before I started to keep a diary, sometime in 1995 -

High school - Year Twelve.

I had hoped to be a journalist. The dream didn't quite come to fruition. I didnt have the courage to try

for that, plus I didnt get the marks in the dreaded Year Twelve to get in first try.

I went science as a second option.

Now I pay the bills with a wine career. I work long days for about three months of the year, staining my

hands with red wine and tannin as a winemaker for Glenview, in Ten Mile Creek. Never heard of Ten

Mile Creek? - it is not quite the Barossa Valley in marketing terms. Ten Mile Creek conveniently located

two hours south of Adelaide on a windswept plain. It is near highways. Highways help keep transport

cost down. It is efficient, if not romantic.

The namesake Ten Mile Creek rarely has water in it. The water for the vineyards comes from

underground aquifers.

Glenview you ask? Not all that famous we tend to make wine for other labels. No, I dont stamp on a bid

tub of grapes. Its a modern winery, all stainless steel and flashing security lights.

The place looks as if it has risen from what was a series of pasture farms and wasteland. In fact it has.

Ten Mile Creek; you wouldnt go there for a holiday, it not the McLaren Vale or Western Australias

Margaret Riverbut you have to give it something. Dollars and cents, pounds and pence, Ten Mile Creek

is an important part Australias wine engine room.

Ironically my job involves a lot of writing, and no, I dont write the backs of wine labels, the marketing

team does that.


3/10

Im a writer of cellar notes. These are instructions that run the winery. They involve moving wine from

one stainless tank to another. They contain such poetry as pump 400 litres from Tank A to Tank B, clean

out the lines, add 4 bags of tartaric acid to rotary fermentation tank four. These notes make sure things

end up where they belong. I do a tiny bit of Math and try not to make any mistakes. It is not the kind of

job you can cut corners. You will get caught out.

Write the wrong note and chaos ensues.

One of the worst mistakes you can make is pumping red wine into a white wine tank. I once had a cellar

hand, the juniors of the winery, misread one of my notes and create a pink wine mixed mess. That is

hard to explain away, we made a cheap ros and sold it to a Hong Kong company.

I met Jay at a young writers award ceremony. I think I still have the certificate thanking me for my

submissions. An honourable mention its called. Thanks, but no thanks. Keep trying, you're nearly there!

As a writer and poet I was nearly there. Jay was there both physically and as an 'it' writer. On this day Jay

received a major prize awarded in the competition. Schools Award. He got a cheque, smiles and

handshakes. I should have guessed it would lead him to write for student newspapers and me to write

winery operational manuals.

He showed me his submission at some stage later. For someone who was seventeen it was good. I could

see how he tricked all of them. The internet was a new thing. Not many people were using it.

The results were not Sylvia Plath but passable. His writing was probably worth the fuss. His Frankenstein

prose was miles better than anything I had written. Better than anything I had in the school year book.

I'll never forget when I met him. We were both standing in line to meet the Governor. I was there with a

couple of other people from my school. The usual suspects were in attendance from my school, over

achievers and student council members. Kids thinking about how they would look in the school

newsletter.

I dont know why they even bothered. They always looked good in the paper. Shined in the eyes of the

teaching staff. Perhaps that is why I didn't like them very much.


4/10

So there I am standing in line. Not really fitting in. Jay starts talking to me. The writer of the year was

interested in what I had to say. Maybe Jay knew I was different from the others somehow. Perhaps he

needed to confess. Most likely he wanted to cause an emotional stunt. I was his random target. So, for

whatever reason he handed me a little piece of folded paper. It was well inked on a typewriter. The

front said in neat lettering, Confession... It wasnt signed.

After shaking hands with the Governor and a brief tour of Government house, I sat down in the

manicured garden. With the smell of cut lawn running my nose I read the note. Even though Jay was a

stranger, after the reading the note I had to know more.

His writing was seductive.

____________________


5/10

C o n f e s s i o n . . .

I h a v e t r i e d t o p u t w o r d s d o w n o n p a p e r . Y o u c a n n o t c a l l i t w r i t i n g . I r e g u r g i t a t e ,

I s p e w .

I w i l l e x p l a i n m y f r a u d u l e n c e i n p l a i n t e r m s . I a m a r e h a s h e r . T h e y a r e o n l y o t h e r

p e o p l e s t h o u g h t s p u t i n t o a n e w o r d e r . C u t a n d p a s t e . T h a t i s n o t a n a c h i e v e m e n t . I

u s e d p o p c u l t u r e t o w r i t e f o r m e . I j u s t c h a n g e i t s o y o u c a n t t e l l . O l d P o e m s .

S o n g s . F r e e t h o u g h t i s n o t a n a b i l i t y . I a m c a p a b l e o f d e m o n s t r a t i n g . O v e r t h e l a s t

f e w t e l e v i s i o n s e a s o n s I h a v e b e e n m i s m a t c h i n g m y t h o u g h t s a n d t h e i r s .

I h a v e c h e a t e d t h e m a l l .

I h a v e t h e o r i e s a b o u t l i f e a n d i t s l i t t l e i d i o s y n c r a s i e s . S o m e I h a v e t r i e d t o p u t

i n t o t h e p o e t r y I w r i t e . M o s t n e v e r m a k e i t t h a t f a r . M y r a n t s r e m a i n t r a p p e d i n a

s e r i e s o f r a n d o m l i n e s . W r i t t e n i n b l u e p e n o n l i t t l e s c r a p p i e c e s o f p a p e r . O r w o r s e

l o s t , l e f t a s t h o u g h t s i n b e t w e e n c h a n n e l s . I l a m e n t . W i t h m y o b s e s s i o n w i t h p o p u l a r

c u l t u r e t h i n g s c a n s o e a s i l y b e l o s t . T h o u g h t s , l o v e s a n d e v e n w h o l e s e n t e n c e s l o s t .

I o n c e t h o u g h t I h a d t h e a n s w e r t o t h e t h i n g I h o l d m o s t d e a r . T h e n t h e e p i s o d e o f

' T h e S i m p s o n s ' c a m e b a c k o n . I w a s n o t s u r e i f I w a s t r u l y t h i n k i n g o r j u s t e c h o i n g

t h e t h o u g h t s o f M a j o r Q u i m b y .

I h a v e b e e n d o i n g t h i s f o r w a n t o f t r u e o r i g i n a l i t y o r s p i r i t . H o w e v e r o f l a t e I

h a v e b e e n f i n d i n g i t i n c r e a s i n g l y d i f f i c u l t t o j u s t i f y m y s e l f . I a m j u s t r i p p i n g o f f

t h e s u m o f m y m e d i a o b s e r v a t i o n s a n d t r y i n g t o p a s s i t o f f a s w o r t h y . W h o a m I t r y i n g

t o k i d ?

______________________


6/10

Then in a nightclub Twenty years old.

Jay returned to me sliding a beer across the table. It spun around, faking to fall. He had read my mind.

Mine had just finished, both!

I reached out and seized the bottle to stop its fall. I quickly sipped the foam layer out of the neck of the

bottle.

Jay danced off again, still happy. His friend Morgan returned, the two of them did some sort secret

dance move as they passed. Morgan sat down opposite.

His face was always stuck in a permanent smile. Grinning as if he knew something I didnt. He looked like

he has worked through to the detached DJ. Set up a playlist of his favourite songs and was going to

taunt me with the knowledge he knew exactly what was coming next.

Here, have some of this,he said as he produced a metal hip flask from his pocket. Morgan poured a

clear liquid into my beer. He was helping me get loaded.

Now there is no way you would let someone do that, just let someone load up your drink, date rape

drugs and the like, but I did know the guy. I didnt think he was after me like that. I had absolutely no

idea what he put into my drink. Perversely it thrilled me like touching fire.

You'll like it, I play around with distillery in me spare time.

A homemade still, hey?

Legal with a pot capacity smaller than four litres.

I was impressed and said something like; You can do impressive acts with four litres.

I think I explained to Morgan that I made home-style Kaluha on my stovetop.


7/10

Saves a fair bit of hard earned.

What is it?

SVR. It has next to no taste. With Morgan's encouragement I took another slug of my beer. Just that

incredible warmth.

I havent seen it used like this before. Wow!

_____________________

SVR is a very high strength alcohol added to wine to fortifying it. You use it in port or sherry.

It has two types, low strength spirit, with complex flavour components, or the high strength with no

taste. Morgans version was high strength category. By high strength I mean it would have been 80%

alcohol.

A high cost Uni degree taught me that.

My education didnt teach me if putting it in beer is a good idea. I dont endorse it. In the event of doing

this seek medical advice.

_____________________

Tis a fun drink. A 3am-cheap-special,Morgan said.

All concerns aside, it was. Clean like an unmuddied lake. Warm on your tongue, a very dangerous thing.

The liquid equivalent of walking up to the cliff edge and closing your eyes. It made you worry about

losing your balance.

I like it when she wears her hair down.

Sorry?


8/10

Morgan looked over my shoulder. I had trouble following what he was saying with a head full of spirit. I

tried to read the time. Blur past fuzz, my watch read. I distinctly remember not being able to read my

watch after that drink. Luckily, I had previous experience in this state.

Hair down... Normally 'tis up. Always up, pigtails you see. Kind of her little trademark.

Sorry?

Continued to stare blankly, I was confused. I tried to follow the conversation. The music tended to send

me deaf after awhile. I leant in close and tried to explain.

Sorry, audio shellshock, Morgan, too many concerts and night-clubs.

Ella's hair. Very long. Always up. Now down. Wish she would do it more.

Oh, yeah!

He was talking about his girlfriend!

I turned and looked over my shoulder.

Jay was dancing away with young Eloise playing his beer bottle along with the music like a guitar. As

Morgan deemed fetching, Ella's hair stretched out almost to her hips. It looked like a series of long red

ribbons. They flicked about as she jigged up and down. As she rocked from foot to foot, side to side her

hair followed. The ribbons tried to catch up her movements but always stayed half a beat behind.

Yeah I see what you mean. It just takes loves eyes to notice it immediately.

One of those silences settled over the two of us. You know, the type when you want to talk but you

don't know what to say.

After a time Morgan broke the silence with his accent sharp.


9/10

Can I ask you a question?

Sounds ominous.

Well, when you said it takes love's eyes.

Umm, yeah.

Why did you make love, sound like a dirty word?

I dont have a reliable record of what I replied. I was getting drunk at this point and in the morning when

I scribbled in my diary I couldnt remember what occurred.

I had a soft opinion of love at twenty. My own scars were not yet cut. I assume I said something like this;

Love is not a dirty word. It makes the world go round. I have been in partially in love on a few

occasions. I feel better for the experience.

Partially?

Yes, partially, I said something along those lines.

Is that like being slightly in love?

To quote Fitter happier- Radiohead. Fond but not in love.

Morgan started laughing at me. I am not sure if he found my love life funny or was impressed that I did

that Radiohead quote in a perfect steely robotic voice.

Fitter, happier, comfortable, not drinking too much, I cringed.

I absentmindedly sculled the rest of my drink. It was hot with spirit. Too hot. I started to gag.


10/10

I chased it down with the nearest thing that came to hand. A sour sensation leaped over my tongue and

lingered in the back of my throat. It tasted like white wine. Sour white wine, house dry white. Pretend

Riesling. Sultana doctored up to taste like citric acid.

Excuse me.A voice scolded me.

Like a deep-sea diver coming up for air I was confused and short of breath. I floundered as the girls voice

spoke.

Excuse me.

That was the voice reaching out from somewhere beneath the depths a mermaid? Right from the start

that voice unsettled me. Her voice had a combination of charm and urgency.

Her tone made me feel I had come up too quickly, boiled my blood. I felt I had dragged up a mermaid up

with me, hooked by a piece of seaweed to my leg.

That's my drink!

Oh. The realisation hit me. I'm sorry.

I had taken her drink... I was drinkstealing.

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Of Novel Novels Pt3