adamdaniel

Tales from the Punchbowl #13

Turkish Delight

I was hammering down the M8 with a meagre supply of petrol, my excessive speed indicative of my frustration at not being able to afford a full tank. Outward bound from Melbourne city, towards Ballarat, I raced, determined to get to school on time. I had been called in to mark English essays and was anticipating an entertaining day. Even the last fortnight had been assessment heavy, and now it was time to inspect the quality of the teaching via submitted work – stories, essays, short answer booklets – the works. I felt a shudder and a jolt. My petrol was drying up quickly and I still had five or so kilometers to traverse before reaching the high school. No money to speak of, and I had already called RAC to my rescue twenty or so times, asking for fuel, with the result they had suspended my roadside assistance policy. Gotta get there, I sweated. The rocketing car lurched and complained for thirst. I could see the slip road in the distance, the exit to crusty yet lovable Melton. I’m going to make it, I gulped, my precarious affirmation like a mental soft toy to my reeling 2025 brain. Up the incline of the slip road I careened, then blank, my petrol gone. With the counteracting influence of the upward slope, I quickly coasted to a holt.

The morning traffic was busy and angry, and I had perched unwittingly right in the middle of the effervescent AM flow. I looked about guiltily. I’m sorry, my silent proclamation to all the passing drivers, honking their irritation and swerving aside rapidly to avoid me. I must escape this incriminating position and extricate myself post haste, I thought with jittery hands. I have the slope, and the unsleeping force of gravity, I reasoned with Isaac Newton genius, removing the hand brake and subsequently rolling backwards towards M8 proper. I collected momentum and glanced over my shoulder nervously, hoping for a safe spot off to the side – there must be one – the weighty car rolling backwards with increasing speed, and sundry drivers darting sideways as they engaged an involuntary game of chicken. I scraped with a loud and awful noise over the curb and ploughed into a pole, a very stationary and fixed and unyielding pole, coming to an immediate, undignified and crunchy stop. Oi meu deus – the applicable Portuguese exclamation.

Thankfully, for a start, I was out of the way of disgruntled drivers, but now, having emerged from the front seat, I was instantaneously mired in a black and ugly disposition after inspecting the concertinaed doors of my beloved vehicle. The entire left side was affected, pushed in or scraped to deformity – the front bumper, two side doors and rear bumper. Sudden sadness and sorrow hit me, like a set of spears in my soul, as a result of the unkind and vindictive fates harbouring in the morning air that had so rudely allowed this brazen accident. Curse my inglorious plight on this woefully inclement Tuesday! Heavens to mergatroid and sufferin’ succotash! Tish and fie and rotten eggs! A plague of bumble bees upon my life and this cursed western suburb! Curse you clouds and roadside shrubs! I am against you stop signs and curving metal barricades! I invite a pox and colourblindness to your distinct fanfare of red, orange and green, ye pompous traffic lights! I hex your technicolour hues to black and white; may you offer signals in confusing triplets or indistinct semi-quavers! I curse the sea gulls standing witness to this indiscretion and disaster – may you find no chips today! I hope in earnest that the sun’s mighty heat and great blanket of volatile luminescence might incinerate everything within a ten kilometer radius of unkempt Melton! Dark clouds and devils assist me while I denounce heaven! Stand back, ye short tempered drivers racing to a pointless future, I have pranged my snail-like home into a pole and now stand ready to box this out with any one of you, in my red, marshmallow gloves! With forthcoming provocation, I show the swallow tattoos on my wrists in defiance of your good humour and goad you to reveal your probable cowardice! I’ll take you! I’ll go you! etc etc etc.

After simmering for a while in total annoyance, having employed and exhausted ninety percent of the curse words in the English lexicon, I phoned the insurance company, elucidating the nature of my car’s injuries and confirming my physical location. Within moments of hanging up, an incident response vehicle was behind me, placarded in reflective tape and signage, with a big, padded bumper at the front. The Vic Roads officer exited his vehicle and leaned in the passenger side window questioningly. You okay? He enquired. Yeah. Just unceremoniously jolted, I said frankly. I already called a tow, I declared with a level tone. They said within an hour. He nodded approvingly. Maybe we can drag her back further? Away from the pole and away from the traffic. Nah, it’s okay sir, I appreciate your offer, but I’m sure the tow truck driver will handle it. He advised that he’d wait with me for safety’s sake, returning to the seat of his ambulance-like contraption. While I waited, I called the school to advise of my untimely accident and my intention to truant. I won’t be in. I’m going AWOL. I’m getting some beers and heading down to the video game parlour for old time’s sake, I quipped comedically. Very good sir, we’ll see you tomorrow then.

Before long, the tow truck arrived, the stout driver inviting me into the cab for safety. I hopped up and closed the door, inspecting the array of screens and devices inside as though at a museum. Concentrating on his accustomed procedure, ignoring the occasional swoosh and bustle of passing traffic, the ostensibly European driver secured and retrieved the unhappy vehicle, the crestfallen and now very maudlin Toyota, hauling it onto his tray, winching it along and up onto the platform as though it were a stranded whale. We wended our way through the dirty streets. Are we going to Melbourne, I asked innocently. Nah – holding yard. It’s not far. We crept into the yard at a low and careful speed. I could see masses of old cars and dishevelled vehicles in various states of disrepair occupying the very extensive grounds. A graveyard and limbo for lost causes and vehicular demise, with everything forgotten and time-ruined, like the eclectic objects visible through end stretch of Empire of the Sun. I was slightly awestruck at this weird industrial vista and felt somewhat woozy in the warm tow truck after my unnerving incident.

The driver hopped out of the lofty cab like a nimble mountain goat and activated the hydraulics, slowly delivering the ailing seven-seater passenger vehicle to earth. For me, more significant and vital than the recent Tesla landing. He placed the Estima in a line of other afflicted cars, other patients in the waiting room of the car doctor’s busy practice. How am I going to manage this, I groaned, looking around somewhat disbelievingly as I surveyed the unplanned locale. I tidied up the car as a means of comfort, selecting a few bags and key possessions, arranging them neatly on the ground, then lay on the concrete staring at the clouds and breathing softly, in the same throbbing existential monotony as Camus’ character on the beach in The Outsider. After mindlessly and blankly fathoming the outer heavens, for boring minute upon boring minute, I looked sideways, towards the warehouse. In the distance, near the overflowing skip bin, there was a bearded character cursing vociferously into a smartphone. You bloody crooks! What are you trying to do to me? Rob me of my profession and my livelihood? You think I can’t defend myself? I know the leader of the biggest bikie gang in Melbourne you fucking idiot hippopotamus! If you want to fuck my shit up, I’ll bring a torrent of shady characters to make a strong point you won’t forget, you get my fucking drift?

I was slightly dumbfounded and bereft overhearing this fiery exchange. I gulped. The man hung up the phone. I stood up nervously, looking about innocently, not knowing what to do with my gaze. He walked over, directly towards me. I rallied my decorum and hailed him in a friendly way; waddup my brother? That didn’t sound good, I added, extending my sympathy like a white flag. No, it wasn’t, you can be fucking sure of that. He could gather that I meant him no ill and was pleased to have the assistance of another sentient creature in calming down. He proceeded to unleash a cathartic torrent of thoughts and gripes… You get here, to a nice democracy like Australia, and a free place like Melbourne, from a god forsaken place like Lebanon, and work hard, pay taxes and obey the law, and still they’ll come after you to take everything, like you’re a fucking criminal. Just dickheads wanting to screw me over. Fucking hate it. I have a family to support and they want to jam a crowbar into my spokes. Know what I mean? You have to fight and threaten and defend just to maintain an even keel in a country belonging to the first world, let alone the third. Who invented this fucking fucked necessity anyway, the fact of being interminably hounded? It’s woeful and wrong. Bloody stressful. No wonder our demand for psychologists is so pronounced. I nodded and mumbled a few pathetic lines of understanding and consolation. Good to meet you anyway, he added sharply. He looked evidently chuffed to have exposed his mind so candidly after being wound up to such extreme RPMs. I better go, he blurted, then walked away smoothly.

I have a situation, I reminded myself painfully, shrugging off the encounter and staring at the array of new creases and vertices on the side of my car, which was now like crinkled tin foil. And now I have no bed, I mused glumly, the car having served as shelter for the past few months. In desperation, I started flicking through online pay advance services, hoping to siphon something out of nothingness to fund a hotel or hostel for the night, and succeeded. It transpired that the mighty Presspay, having scrutinised my bank records, would sponsor me $200 in advance, with the total interest payable being $10. This I can manage. Bing. Done. Transferred. I booked an Air BnB online and took a taxi to Tarneit, some twenty six kilometres away. By taxi I was transported to the address, passing dilapidated farms and flashing impressions of countryside Victoria in the vast midday gloam. Upon arriving, having snatched my bags from the boot, I perused the luscious fig tree garden like the first Adam, enjoying the deep green leaves and the multihued dainties peeking at me from the flower beds. I breathed a casual sigh, gladdened at the well-kept premises and the positive atmosphere. At length, I sidled up to the large wooden door and punched in the code I had received by text. It opened up with a gentle buzz and with interest I proceeded down the long, dark passage to my room. Once I had set my bags and belongings in my quarters, I looked through the house, examining the ornate Muslim artwork lining the walls. Prodigious talent and extreme detail lay hidden in the gold tinctured etchings and phrases, like Smaug’s treasure invested in a two-dimensional crypt. Excerpts from their cherished Koran were framed and set in bold display, the visible aesthetic prowess and powerful wisdom counselling them to goodness and godliness and allegiance to Allah the almighty, the all merciful. I will have a pleasant stay, inshallah!

I turned in for the night, distinctly pleased at my capacity to find something comfortable and homely in such rapid speed, indeed a lovely property, managed with care and pride. I conjured impressions of the Edenic garden as I lay in bed. I completed two more days at Melton High before closing out the term, teaching a combination of art, maths, English, health and social sciences. I even headed up a session on emotional literacy, using Inside Out 2 as the text, explicating the necessity of talk therapy and emotional frankness when responding to trauma and conflict, in the process refreshing my comprehension of the term ‘ennui’. I diplomatically mentioned the electrocution I’d witnessed as a year twelve student and the troubling aftermath I’d suffered, and the real urgency for lucid talk therapy and honest descriptions when unpacking emotional pain, which the counsellor had stressed so strongly. First responders have to talk, or they crash and burn, he’d said in earnest. You have to hear me on this, young son. It’s important. You try peeling someone off the train tracks who has suicided. Seriously. It’s devastating. You have to talk about it or you go bonkers. Same with you. I’m here, right now. You tell me what you saw and felt…

I received a phone call on Thursday evening, after school. Ahhh, good news. My Landcruiser is ready for transport to the next repairer, Carrera Motors advised, the chassis having been replaced and the axle and differential restored, with substantial electrical work completed as well. I’ll be there tomorrow, I announced gleefully. I’ll be in about lunch. I will need a place nearby, I ruminated, further towards Nunawading, anticipating the movements of the next day. I booked a room in Richmond and took a long train ride from Cobblebank, on Melbourne’s western flank, through the graffiti plastered city and out to Richmond. I had flashes of conflict from past ages surface in my brain as I lugged my bags through bustling Flinder’s Street Station. Eve is not better than Adam, I thought weirdly, like a bickering teenager, like a television experiencing static. Eve is Adam, the silly wench. Lilith your witchcraft will never find a way to escape the contumely of God. Self-exaltation is destined for excoriating grief, as you well know. You will never find a place of identity that is properly or fully divorced from Adam and God on high, and you know this in your blood, in your ancient and time-weathered soul, in the deeps of your poisonous womb. You can summon as many sundry demons as you please, from unseen origins and unexpected deeps, from foul swamps and lightless chasms built on the chimeric flame of Satan’s hatred, but you will NEVER not be Adam.

I boarded a bus and progressed through labyrinthine and neon bathed Melbourne to my hotel, passing football fans in their droves, all of them dressed to the nines in their teams’ colours and costumes. Carn the mighty blues, the tenor of the afternoon. Even though I am comfortably inured to the norms and cycles of Aussie sport, I still observed this cultural phenomenon as though an alien, or anthropologist. Indeed, my first few years in this world had included gifted Fitzroy merchandise, bought by my father who worked in that suburb for a time. Hauling my luggage awkwardly to my next chapter, like one of the hopeful Okies moving interstate, I entered the building in the murky evening shadows and inspected the instructions presented in Engrish, written in bold red signage at the entrance. No alcohols or weeds in the room. Very good, sirs and madams and landlords and esteemed dignitaries. I shall not reveal, consume, expose or dally with any weeds or alcohols whatsoever in my room, under your watch. I swear on my copy of Red Rackham’s Treasure and the prostitutes of St. Kilda. I assure you from the depths of my depths, from my loins. I placed my gear down safely and went out into the virgin night.

A little way down Punt road, I passed a cheerful looking pig scrawled into the sidewalk in chalk, under the bus stop. Pig hole licker, it said accusingly. I wonder about the relevant back story here? Haha. Someone’s done something gross, methinks. My thoughts strayed into forbidden territory, like bestiality and Equus style perversion. No. No. Not at all, my mind baulked, as I jolted back to sobriety and continued my evening perambulation. I continued into unfamiliar territory in my polished dress shoes and business clothes, the twilight having disappeared under the cloaking blanket of night. The night is so bright it will blind you, the vampire had said. This was such a night. I pressed on, across the traffic and under the bridge. I saw a beautiful circular mural in the underpass and stopped to observe the skilful work. It’s like a Tibetan mandala, I conjectured, very detailed and with a pleasing symmetry, effectively set against the backdrop of grey concrete and red brick walls. My mind assessed the deliberately placed spirals and arcs and geometrical continuations, the inherent reflections and flow, all woven together in a pleasingly endless tapestry. It somehow sparked memories of the album by …and Oceans. The symmetry of I, the circle of O. Yes, yes, it’s all connected isn’t it, and endlessly reflective, like a mirror hall. Time is but a mirror hall, a looping mirror hall, I sustain. John Piper proclaims from the pulpit at his most feverish, arms outstretched and spirit high, “and then, with God, looking on from heaven above, it’s all connected, it’s all one, it’s all purposeful and powerful relationships, the father, son and the holy ghost energised and electrified in almighty knowledge and joy as the creation lifts up in glee.” Oh for that creation-wide occasion! Oh for that sight from Zion! Oh for real time panoptic clarity! Oh for Piper’s dream come true!

But contrarily, here, in the discombobulated twenty first century, in bold contrast and juxtaposition to this imagined paradise, I looked upon broken people in rubbish-strewn tenements, grappling to muster enough small change to fend off the tormenting spectre of hunger. Homelessness is everywhere, I lamented angrily, an epidemic in this land of plenty. Australia is verily a callous miser and the government’s capacity to leverage the vast talents hidden in the homeless demographic is abysmal. Like scarcely literate apes, like uncultivated bafoons, we marginalise all those talents that don’t yield money, and they disappear, like jewels lost in the sand. I walked on in dismay, onwards into the night shades. On my left a bright faced indigenous fellow peered down into his tub of Neapolitan ice-cream, shovelling it into his gullet with eager gulps. That looks yum, I offered in friendly greeting. It absolutely is, he said with a full mouth, watching me walk past. I went into the tavern and ordered sour beer as a rudimentary escape from the sinking world, our slow dying star, as my friend put it last week. I photographed the garden and the artwork like a tourist. The artistic selections had a zest and verve that propped up my spirits, ushering me to restored equanimity. Human creativity will always remind me that there are no limits, no none whatsoever, save those we create and entertain of our own volition. The Black Captain taught me that with everything he did and said. I exited the building with the tang of sour beer upon my tongue. After traversing more littered sidewalks, through a dark patchwork of blocks and alleys, I duly bumped into two highly intoxicated characters feasting on kebabs, one of them patently awash in garlic sauce. Are you having a bath in garlic sauce my friend, I quipped in jest. Fuckin A. Yessir. All of the above, he blurted in high spirits. How’s the kebab, I enquired interestedly, like a MasterChef participant. I give it a strong seven. That’s my frank assessment. Thanks for asking. Very good sir, very good, I affirmed, and walked off again.

I kept moving through the night, pausing intermittently to absorb the impressive graffiti art and bold displays of creative skill plastered on the lamp bathed buildings. This city has far superior creative boldness to Perth, I judged smugly in the attitude of an arty farty art connoisseur. I’m hungry now, I thought uneasily, passing more homeless characters wheeling their meagre store of earthly possessions in trolleys. I wish I had a wand for you, to wave in perfect love, to give you everything you need, with praise to God above. I wish, I wish, upon a star, that I could tame the sky, and usher every blessing there into your precious life. But alas the trolley wheels kept clattering and the grimy faced denizens of Richmond proceeded in their destitution, my well-meaning thoughts as nothing, as ephemeral and powerless and pretty as dandelions in the breeze.

Ahead I could see a kebab stall draped in fairy lights, brightening the dingy scene like a lighthouse. I walked up to the counter. Greeting me from the other side was a stocky and unshaven man with a middle eastern appearance, deep brown eyes and an endearing smile. I’d like a V, two waters and a container of baklava please, I directed. Where are you from, I asked, as he dutifully retrieved the requested items. Türkiye. I’m from Türkiye. Oooh, I encouraged with a smile. I used to listen to an excellent radio show from that country. Seda Nigbolu, such a fine presenter and powerhouse of a DJ. I actually made a radio show about the history of Suleiman the Magnificent a few years ago, learning the details of his precocious skill and early ascension to power and his momentous contribution to military campaigns and academic learning in Türkiye. I garnered in my studies the importance of the sword ceremony and ritual transference of power from one generation to the next in the royal house of Osman. I conjured visions of the esteemed Sultan’s eventual passing, among the colourful tulip fields that meet the lapping waters of the bosphorous. He was quite taken aback at my words. I see you are a man of letters, my dear one. I continued my observations. I also see that Türkiye has been in amazing strife of late, suffering unprecedented turmoil with the election approaching and the imprisonment of Ekrem İmamoğlu. What did you do in Türkiye, I queried innocently.

I was in the Turkish police – special forces. I know the justice system and modes of law enforcement very well. I am a firsthand initiate and practitioner of law enforcement in that space, to put it plainly. I am perfectly aware of Ekrem İmamoğlu. He is a Turkish politician and businessman who has, until his recent imprisonment, served as the 32nd Mayor of Istanbul, since 2019 to be exact. The Western media construe him as the good guy, the wronged hero, asserting that, once elected by democratic means, he will symbolise hope for a future based on pluralism, justice and respect for fundamental freedoms, but actually some of the dirt they have on him is real. There are in truth questionable transactions in his banking and shades of corruption that characterise his past. I know about these through my colleagues. The charges are not as spurious and trumped up as the Western media portray. And the university degree which must stand as a precursor to election is actually baseless given the fact his studies were commenced in Cyprus and finalised elsewhere. The consistency and grading that goes with a legitimate degree is absent. But still, I wish the country well. The shape of the future hangs in the balance, and Erdogan has proven himself to be quite spineless in counteracting Israel’s insanity or allowing the democratic mechanisms to function with efficacy. He behaves like a tyrant, with irate words and pitiful if negligible action. He made great progress for Türkiye once, but he is too old and irascible to be of service now. Do you want a piece of baklava, I offered, presenting him with his own product. You are too kind, he said, declining my offer with a wave of his hand. So interesting to talk to you, he continued cordially, it’s been a real delight. I better go, I confessed, I’ll see you later.

I walked back to the hotel, consuming the entire container of baklava on the way. I entered the lounge room and slumped down on the couch. Two young women were sitting at the table drinking vodka, one islander and one Caucasian. Waddup ladies, I said gregariously (fancying myself a Cassanova and Romeo and toned David Hasselhoff in any situation). After some small talk, I declared my heart’s desire – I think I want to drink with you. They invited me to the table and we chatted long into the wee hours. Jay and Willow proved noble hosts and graciously presented me with an imbibe concocted of vodka and Monster. Not exactly health food, but apt to warm the cockles of my testicles. I told them about my teaching work at Melton. Look up my cousins, insisted Jay. They’re naughty as, little shits, both of them. Look on the roll and see what they’re like. I tried seeking their identities in the Compass system, but it turned out they were not listed. They must have been chucked out, Jay hypothesised. As we succumbed to the increasing effects of alcohol, Willow proceeded to relate a spine chilling tale of her incarcerated aunty. She’s locked up for life, you know. She harboured this monumental suspicion against her lover, and when she finally discovered his infidelity, she wanted blood – actual blood. So she went around to the house to do him in, to do him a mischief, as the saying goes. But here’s the twist; she bloody got the room wrong. She slit this guy’s throat and he died, but it wasn’t her lover at all. Still, she got caught and apprehended and put away for life, to ruminate on her murderous fuck up through the decades. How’s that? Then my other aunty, she’s even more of a nut job. She was a porn star for ages, then became a pagan, then a witch, participating in all sorts of ritual bullshit, and finally a fucking Muslim. She’s bounced around from belief system to belief system like a ball in a pin ball game. How munted is our bloodline?

I looked around the lounge absently, to recover from all the gory details. I gazed on the visage of Pharlap, hanging from the wall with pride, the colours gold and brown defining the tasteful piece. Hey I’m not done with you, Willow proclaimed, yelling from the table, coaxing me back to the conversation. Did you know you’re lucky to be talking to me, Adam? My twin was dead at birth. I lived. The umbilical cord was wrapped around his neck and he came out blue. Only I survived. I was okay – praise God and all the saints – she said, looking at me with total satisfaction. I smiled back accordingly. It was in truth a miracle. Jay also added to the interchange, wanting to chime in with her own story. I got pregnant at seventeen. I was quick out of the blocks. I was the only person in my family to have a baby with a black cunt. But we loved that baby, we cared for that baby. I gave that baby my best and praise the day he was conceived, and I would do it all again. Very weirdly, and relevant to the topic of pregnancy and childbirth, Jay produced a condom and threw it at me playfully. There you go handsome. Stick that on your twig and berries in the event an amorous occasion presents itself and you don’t want to have a baby like me. I thanked her with a laugh and retired to my rail side room, tipsy and exhausted and ready for the fierce lover that is slumber.