adamdaniel

Tales from the Punchbowl #11

I’m Pregnant and I Want My Fucking Money

I woke up with cars swooshing past, under a line of London plane trees, known for their maple shaped leaves and mottled trunks. These mark the Melbourne CBD like stalwart sentinels, representatives of mother nature sent to ensure that the realm of human concrete and tightly spaced tenements does not become too absolute in its grey dominion. The morning sun and gentle wind had primed these splendid green ambassadors to duty. Emerald twinkles from above met my eye as I regained consciousness in the back of the car. I wonder what the day will bring? December 23, my brother’s birthday. Let’s start with a nice, sloppy cooked breakfast.

I drove down to Port Melbourne and had a very generously sized plate of bacon and eggs, a perfect primer for my engine. As my anatomy chugged into operation, the port breeze came coursing down the channel of the coffee strip like a friendly will o the wisp, soft and clean, speaking a gentle language of love. Ahhh, I know who this is speaking to me in such a fashion. Verily it is Aphrodite who addresses me thus with her soft breath, it is Venus, Ishtar, Eos, Dianna, it is Love herself – whispering my name from the clouds like a secret lover. I like this soft voice very much. I have been propositioned beautifully by someone who understands me, I thought contentedly, as the gregarious spirits of the air bade me good morning. Bom dia, Senor, amo-te (I love you) was their hopeful and ebullient cry. I am quite content to have an abstract noun or Grecian personification as my partner, I affirmed to myself. Love, yes, Aphrodite herself, I declare, is my muse and paramour!

I was so completely satiated from the hearty breakfast and comely embrace of the morning breeze that I fell asleep again in the cocoon of my Estima. I dreamed far reaching dreams in the soft sunlight, my mind searching forgotten amphitheaters of time and space, lost journeys visible by astral wings only, dreams within dreams within dreams. God’s eyes are surely Satan’s eyes, and the two scrutinize each other across the aeons with implacable attention (I should know!). In my reverie, I witnessed dynamic spirit realms populated by occult people, disincarnate but all with a purpose and a hidden life and journey, free as the thoughts of God, unencumbered by earthly drudgery and physical tribulation. I woke a few hours later. Dammit. Parking ticket. Here was a rude return to the human realm and their OCD fascination with rules and bylaws. I plucked the infernal slip from my wiper and stashed it into denial – inside the glove box. I had a notification on my phone. My package for medicinal cannabis had arrived by post and was at the Melbourne GPO. I figured I’d try it to combat the irritation and discomfort of ulcerative colitis which was diagnosed in 2020, a condition which can’t really be cured but only managed.

I drove to Bourke street and collected the package consisting of two tubs of THC infused jellies. Pink and sugar speckled, like jubes. Take 1-2 at night before sleep. Hrmm. I glanced at my watch. 10:20 am. Not that far off bed time relatively speaking. In terms of eternity, I’m practically at bed time. I took two. I’m sure they’re not that strong, I assured myself. After all this sleeping and a three kilometer drive, I think I’m ready for lunch, my stomach informed me, like a disgruntled minion barking a complaint. That’ll do pig, that’ll do, I said pacifically to my grumbling second brain, we’ll get lunch. In the words of fat cat, Chris Harris, the master of AutoCAD and avid morning tea participant, “it’s time to feed the face” – a phrase quoted for years on end at the precise strike of 12 pm, the secret declaratory incantation that unlocks all the splendours of lunch time, just like “Abracadabra” to get Aladdin to the cave of wonders. I drove to St. Kilda, to the Sacred Heart Mission. They are open to supply your breakfast and lunch if you don’t have any, 365 days of the year. I love them – a dedicated and selfless team that greet you like you matter. I collected my cannelloni and pudding and sat next to Ava, an Aboriginal woman I’d hung out with about a week before.

How you doing, my lovely, she asked. Good, good, I said, scoffing the excellent Tuesday lunchtime fare. We ploughed through our lovingly prepared repast, commenting on the tastiness of the purple rocky road pudding. We daubed the napkins provided against our lips and looked at each other. She had a baby face and cheeky smile, bright brown eyes and tight fitting clothes. Can I use your phone babe? You got credit? Yeah, no worries, I said, nudging my S24 ultra across the table. She started texting. I wanna try’n get some money, she commented to herself more than me, and continued texting busily, entirely intent on what she was doing – a woman on a mission.

I sat back a while, ruminating. With the stimulus of food to catalyse my digestive process, I was suddenly very aware that my thought processes were altering, and rapidly. The medication was taking flight. I looked around the room with an altered basis of perception – one newly informed by THC. My plenteous emotional baggage started moving, subtly, like mud lifting off the bottom of the stream with increased flow, or like slime lifting off the walls of a pool with the addition of a chemical or buffer. Oh yeah, that stuff, my brain mused, I still have it. I was loosening up, relaxing. Normally I am only a tight ball of rage, 100% of the time, such is my timeless and infernal hatred of my father. He abused his kids with amazing stamina, and loved it, writing them off as stupid or hopeless as much as he possibly could – an antichrist of parenting. Get drunk. Abuse kids. Rinse and repeat. Always there to remind us that his ability to be a dick wad is unchanged. He poured pots of water on my mum to humiliate her in front of us, and smacked her out in the study when she wouldn’t agree with him. I think he used the weights set. What a painful clanger that was. The eternal bully. A consummate fuck head if ever I met one! He comprehends abuse as a sort of sport that only he is entitled to play, because he is too clever to be accountable for his actions. Can’t stop me is his battle cry, and he’s right. This is why I am determined that hope should be abolished from the universe forever – because genuine effort is hopeless when well-meaning people can be trashed ad infinitum, without ceasing, with no consequences that do anything of value. In the words of Steve Brule, welcome to hell, who cares?

Ava broke into my distracted train of thought with a curt and abrasive voice. I want a lift bro, just down the road, to some flats. Yeah okay – no problem sis, I agreed. I was a little queasy and physically unsure as I stood up, my mind recalibrating itself against the puissant infusion of THC. The drugs are the genuine article, I noted unambiguously. My inner world was shifting to embrace a fresh openness, a warm and novel mellowness, conferred by the freshly absorbed chemical. I sat there smugly in the dining hall, looking at the disheveled individuals shoveling down their lunch, just like the entirely quirky characters I’d met at the various mental hospitals I’d been in over the last three years. Ava wheeled her bright purple suitcase to the car and hopped in. I drove down Grey street, down the hill towards Inkerman street and across the intersection. Ava was in the back, still busy on the phone. Both of us were distracted, so I drove straight past the flats, heading towards South Yarra. It took me a while to realise what I was doing. I want my money, Ava grumbled as she texted.

The warm midday sunlight induced a compelling torpor, brought on with alacrity by the subduing influence of food and THC, a heady sun daze, if you like. I broke out of this and summoned some sudden clarity. Sis! Sis! Where are your flats, I demanded sharply, wanting to know how to get there. She was annoyed at my voice. I’m texting my mum, and my ex. I’m pregnant and I want my money. Do you have an account, I queried. Nah bro, she said with irritation. How they gonna pay you then? Do you have one, she asked earnestly. Yeah, I do. Can they pay it, she asked with keen interest. Yes, yes – yes they can, I assured her, now somewhat worried at what I’d taken on. I’ll get the money out for you. PayID this number. Tell them to PayID this number. She took to the messaging app again, thumbs racing. I’m pregnant and I want my fucking money, she repeated angrily, entirely infuriated at the phone.

Ava’s mood took a turn for the worse. She was overcome with pent up emotion and arced up vociferously, addressing her ex, frustrated by the answers she was getting by text. I want my money, you black incest cunt, she screamed at the text message, as though her ex was physically present. A payment receipt came through about a minute later. Fuck yes, she declared, in momentary relief. She’s fucking paid me. We looked at the transaction receipt and the number. It was wrong. Her mum had paid someone called Rodney. I told Ava. Now she was utterly molten, volcanic with enmity. I’m pregnant and I want my fucking money you black incest cunt! Rage overpowering her, tears forming and anguish racing, she got into the bed in the back of my car and screamed her guts out, then started weeping. I was utterly bleak with sadness. My soul was whisked into the ninth circle of hell, such was my vicarious pain. The ninth hell is treachery, and my good hearted friend was sorely betrayed, let down, her heart broken. She was groaning and crying bitterly. Let’s call the number she paid, I offered, desperate to know what to do. Let’s call Rodney. We called him. Go to Cash Converters Prahran, Ava, he instructed. Do you see the money? Ava implored. Rodney! Do you see it? I want my fucking money.

We parked in front of Cash Converters. He’s got a green shirt, she said. That’s what he told me. He must be here. I looked up and down the street, slightly bereft and spinning inside. I can’t see him. Noone with a green shirt anywhere. I was now fully infused with the effects of the pink jubes, well and truly in the clutches of unfamiliar THC intoxication, utterly discombobulated, distracted, and highly excoriated by Ava’s predicament. Ava was pissed. She got out of the car and screamed at the top of her voice, I want my fucking money Rodney you cunt where are you? I tried to calm her down. Ava! We’ll find him, I said, desperate to console her. She wouldn’t listen. A flurry of demons were dancing in the air and had her in their clutches. Stand back, let it out, they counselled. She barked her madness into the air; I’m pregnant you black dog! Rodney! Where are you? Fucking incest cunt, I’ll kill you! The shop attendants in the three shops in front of us, including Cash Converters, closed their doors, worried for their clientele. It was getting scary. Passers by were increasingly wary of what seemed to be an escalating situation. Ava kept screaming, totally inconsolable. I walked ten or so meters up the street, cringing, since she was hanging out of my car. Anger like black bile spewed up inside her, her voice guttural and penetrating. Her words were like rockets. I’m pregnant and I want my fucking money! I was convinced the police would arrive any moment. I’m gonna try again, I determined, walking over to her. Ava. You want your money get your mum to pay again. Forget Rodney. It has to be the number displayed in the messaging app. This number. She phoned her mum and screamed at her to pay. Moments later a bing on the phone. 200. It’s there Ava, I blurted. It’s there. Get in the car.

Ava flopped down into the bed, exhausted and relieved. I was now fully galvanized to see this through. Fuck it. We’ve come this far. We’re getting the goddam money. I drove on determinedly, mastering my coordination to the best of my powers. Calm. We need calm, I instructed myself. I turned the radio right down. Sunlight and shoppers – my only impressions as I governed the Estima through the streets. My love, my lovely, came a meek voice from the back, composure having returned to her in some small measure, I’m going to pay you off. I get one fiddy and you get fiddy. My eyes brightened with hope and satisfaction. Aww yes. And I believe that too! That’s petrol right there, I told myself resolutely. I drove through the inner city suburbs looking for a CBA atm. There’s one. Spotted. Right there. Got it. The brilliant yellow diamond of monetary hegemony that marks the bank’s territory jumped out clearly through the bustling and ornamented pre-Christmas streets. I parked and approached the golden ATM. My dithering fingers had the jitters, like someone with Parkinson’s disease, stress and THC having set my senses akimbo. The touch screen was highly unresponsive. I started hammering on the screen desperately, such was my level of stress. I squashed and batted at the options with my unwieldy digits to get the process to work. It took some persistence, but after much bashing and trickling sweat the withdrawal was approved. I hopped across the street like a faun, dancing through the traffic, back to Ava in the back of the car. Here, I said, proffering the crisp set of fifties with a tremulous hand. We got it! We fucking got it! she screeched in triumph and elation. As promised, she returned fifty dollars to my possession. Let’s get you home.

She was okay overall. I have bi-polar, she informed me as we drove. That means I go ape shit all of a sudden. Okay. All good. I see, I said responsively. Thanks my honey, she said sincerely, thanks my babe. I’m going to buy my friend a necklace for Christmas, with diamonds n’ all. My brain paused a moment. The extreme fury that had been set on display in public, all the barking and howling and protestation, all the tears and screaming, witnessed clearly by a passing gaggle of demons, had been about Ada’s capacity to buy her friend a present for Christmas! Wow. Then again, inebriated with the fierce hormones of pregnancy, who could really blame her for her spectacular behaviour? Now where exactly was it? Bottom of Inkerman, near the intersection. Ah yes. That’s right. I drove right past it earlier. I zoomed her home, helping her retrieve her bags as she exited the vehicle. Happy Christmas, I declared somewhat pathetically as she retired to her flat.

I was melancholic and a bit numb, but pleased to have some money. I sighed long and low as I recalled Dante’s Sonnet Seven, remembering the lines as I perused the streets for a petrol station.

VII. Sonnet “Upon a day, came Sorrow in to me”
By Dante Alighieri

(translated By Dante Gabriel Rossetti on the 9th of June 1290)

Upon a day, came Sorrow in to me,
Saying, “I’ve come to stay with thee a while”
And I perceived that she had usher’d bile
And pain into my house for company.
Wherefore I said, “Go forth—away with thee!”
But like a Greek she answer’d, full of guile,
And went on arguing in an easy style.
Then, looking, I saw Love come silently,
Habited in black raiment, smooth and new,
Having a black hat set upon his hair;
And certainly the tears he shed were true.
So that I ask’d, “What ails thee, trifler?”
Answering he said: “A grief to be gone through;
For our own lady’s dying of sorrow, brother dear.”

That’s all it was – a grief to be gone through. Such a close fit for the afternoon’s turmoil and Ada’s heart rending calamity! Dante’s words surely bore an uncanny pertinence to this summery afternoon in 2024 and the woebegone antics that had taken place. Love must have had a reason, somewhere. He usually does. A long distance from 1290 AD, but nonetheless relevant, I pondered. I duly happened upon a Caltex. That free lunch paid off, I thought happily, translating the full amount to my tank. I think I’m going to quit the CBD for a few days, I schemed, quickly navigating to the M1 and heading out on the Princess Highway towards Gippsland. It felt good escaping the city space; the events of the afternoon had been relatively nerve shattering. The Estima was slick and responsive and fun to drive. I weaved through the traffic confidently as I departed the city space. I passed Gumbaya world, glimpsing the enormous golden pheasant out the front, still painted to perfection and a bold symbol for that wonderful tourist attraction I’d visited as a boy. Where should I go? I wondered. What about Walhalla? I’d been there numerous times as a child. I had precious memories of camping in that historic gold town with my dad, the two of us cozily nestled in the tent with ethereal twilight beams slinking over and through the treetops, like gleeful Sun-sent ghosts, down to the valley, gladdening the hearts of the entourage of friends huddled around the fire. I’m going there, I decided.

I took the C466 out of Moe and snaked my way to Walhalla, a histrocial gold town, founded in late 1862. At its peak, Walhalla was home to around 4,000 residents. Now, home to about 20. I have a vague memory of drinking naturally sourced mineral water there, with Richard and Janis, somewhere in the late 80’s. The drive out was perfectly magnificent, truly beautiful to behold. The scenery of Moondarra State Park, on the northern edge of the La Trobe Valley, is as picturesque as it gets, and I’ve seen a fair bit of this wide country. I’m glad I’m here, I thought in genuine glee, distant memories bubbling back to my being across the dark decades. I learned that, along the Seninis track in particular, you can find sixteen or more species of native orchid. Indeed, the slopes were alive with a rich display of native flora. Look at this! The bold highlands and incredible slopes, clothed in a mixture of Silvertop, Yertchuk, Messmate, Stringybark, Eucalyptus and Banksia. All holding their noble silence, as my friend Neil puts it, their branches reaching up to the sun like the hands of a church choir, in reverent praise to God above. Something special about this sentimentally charged location, I thought, as a flicker of spiritual joy awakened inside me, like the first spark of a fire. These represented precious times, before my dad had developed his penchant for abusive language and cryptic, gobbledygook unpleasantness.

I was awestruck and in a sort of breathless wonder as I rolled through old Walhalla, driving very carefully, as though in the presence of greatness. The town’s name is taken from an early gold mine in the area, named for the German hall of fame, the Wallhalla Temple – Valhalla from the Norse sagas, which I’d studied at UWA. It really was like something from a fairytale, like a magical Brigadoon, of Scottish legend, or like a carefully crafted place from a realm of perfect types, as ideated by Plato. It was a precious place, preserved with striking verisimilitude. I looked at the camp site, at the base of the valley, near the stream, where I had rested with my dad, the mottled afternoon shadows making play on the grass. A few campers were ready for their long awaited holiday commune with nature. What an outstanding location, I concurred. My childhood self was long deceased, of course, but visible through my mind’s eye, reified in a much brighter past – before I knew I had no hope. Adam! My name seemed to be echoing through the long valley and the lost ages, like a mute scream from a cursed painting. Roald Dahl had described such a painting, as had Oscar Wilde. A lost soul now, I lamented, a smothered voice with as much sentience and life as inert paint.

I don’t know where I am in terms of the next major town or center, nor do I care. I drove to the back of old Walhalla, across the bridge, glimpsing views into the old gold miner’s village. I scrutinized the signage. Access to Matlock – clear. Sounds promising, I mused. It was an unsealed road but I figured I would venture into the unknown. I drove up the slope under a canopy of Australian Blackwood and River Red Gums, or Eucalyptus camaldulensis, as they’re known scientifically. I was nervous to stay much longer, such was the emotional charge that flared into life with immersion in the location. I disappeared over the crest of the hill, leaving the quaint town behind. I ultimately made an epic journey, on completely unsealed roads, through 4wd terrain, in my 1700 dollar Estima. I traversed windy and undulating trails, kilometer after kilometer, creeping on eggshells, as it were, nervous to my bones at the capacity of my vehicle to maintain the course, but I persisted and just kept going, negotiating the jutting rocks and sharp cut aways with judiciousness and trepidation. I progressively scaled Mt. Baw Baw, with an elevation of 1,567 m, situated on the northern edge of Baw Baw National Park. The height was dizzying, and I suffered pangs of vertigo and nausea as I gazed down into the distance, eventually catching reflected sunlight glancing off the lengthy Thomson Dam. Despite the trail being alarmingly dangerous, with clifflike edges, I progressed determinedly, without pausing, passing Barnes Lookout then driving onwards towards Matlock and Woods Point. About four kilometers shy of Woods Point, I ran out of petrol. I was worried. No major towns nearby – this place looks like a setting for a Hitchcock movie. Google maps would not respond. I managed to roll into the deserted town, coasting down the long, winding gradient by gravity alone.

I entered the gates of a farm, situated at an idyllic bend on the side of a stream. A couple were sipping rose by the banks of the winding creek, enjoying the evening twilight and the babble of the water on the rocks, with their large, white hound by their side. I hopped out of my car. I’m stuck for petrol. Can you sell me some? I can pay you. Let me see, good sir, let me see, said the fellow solicitously, keeping his large dog at bay. He returned later with a jerry can, retrieved from the dilapidated shed. I want fifty bucks. I only have twenty, I’m sorry. Very well. It’s Christmas, isn’t it? I think we better be generous. Where’d you come from anyway? Melbourne, I replied. Jesus, he said. The city is pretty fucked, rickety old juggernaut that it is. Get out if you can. She’s a beat up old cesspit, Melbourne, bless her soul. He ceased his commentary and returned to the task at hand. I handed him the twenty and he proceeded to pour the majority of his petrol into my tank. This will surely get you to Mansfield. Thankyou, my friend, I’m mightily thankful, I asserted. You’re okay. Happy Christmas. I cruised out of the bounds of the farm past the gate and headed to Mansfield. It was again very stunning terrain. I passed Lake Eildon and stopped to photograph the lovely evening vistas.

I pulled into Mansfield, surveying the buildings and shop fronts. It was distinctly and immediately familiar. I had an overwhelming sense of déjà vu, as though a drug of past life memory had been released into my brain and senses via ESP. I know I’ve visited this place in my dreams. I’ve been here. I know it. I couldn’t get over the powerful sense of supernatural knowledge inundating my being. My mind and body were so sure, so captivated by the siren call of past life impressions. I drove slowly as a response, then parked at the pub. Two brawny fellows were drinking beer out the front. They looked me up and down questioningly. What’s up, stranger, they enquired. I guess I looked like a lanky and unkempt dork, just like Vincent dressed for volleyball in Pulp Fiction. I sidled over gregariously. I just drove from Walhalla to here, across Mt. Baw Baw, in that there Estima, I stated proudly, pointing at the dust caked car. They stopped blankly, then started laughing. What? Yeah. Those windy dirt tracks – conquered by this humble Toyota Estima. What do you think about that? Holy shit you crazy mother fucker. They looked at each other in high amusement. My life is as a recovery driver for those mountains. I’m a recovery and rescue service. I fish people out of those hills that attempt that passage all the time. I can’t believe it. Sir, I take my hat off to you, he said in earnest, his friend a witness. Well done. Nice driving. I grinned like an idiot, then took off. Nice to meet you two. I need dinner. Bye.

I drove around the corner to a roadside caravan. I ordered two kransky hot dogs with onion and mustard and chowed down with neanderthal gusto. I chatted to the one other customer present at the stall. How’s your day, he asked. I just drove from Walhalla across Mt. Baw Baw to Mansfield. Say what now? He smiled, inspecting my very average looking vehicle. I’m an RAC driver. I have the patrol here. I fish people out of those hills all the time who attempt that passage. You don’t say, I smiled. I retired to the car wash and hosed down the rocket before driving to the park. I clambered into bed. It’s my brother’s birthday, I recalled again, as I lay there, dizzy with the events of the day. I better do something, my conscience advised, though we never talk any more. I skimmed through my photos. Ah. Yes. Perfect. This will do nicely. I sent him a happy birthday wish and a semi-naked picture of Joanna Lumley, then succumbed to exhaustion and disappeared into the luxurious arms of sleep.