Fifty Two

Thanks to:

My lovely wife Diana: For giving me time, encouragement, hugs, brownies and unconditional support for so many years now.

Everyone who read the original stories: For reading them, commenting on them and encouraging me along the way. And you, for reading this now, because hopefully that means you bought a copy. I'd like that.

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Introduction:

The fifty two stories in this volume, with one exception, were all written in the span of a year, one story per week. It's actually the fault of a journalist friend of mine who I should also thank, Jeanne-Vida Douglas. JV commented on Facebook at one point that she wanted a challenge, like writing a story a week or something, and I thought that sounded like an interesting idea. So I grabbed that as a concept (I did tell her, though it's not an entirely original idea) and set to writing.

Writing one short story isn't actually all that hard. We've all probably got an idea, or an anecdote, or a half-remembered joke that we could spin out into a passable enough story if given enough time. Writing fifty two of them, and to a deadline was an entirely different matter. I had a few stories in the bank before I started that I vowed I could use if I totally couldn't write a story in a given week, and I did end up using both of them, but then these stories were written in 2015 and early 2016. A span of 12 months that was genuinely stressful and difficult for me on multiple levels. Had I known quite how difficult, I never would have started writing short stories, but then you wouldn't have this collection in front of you.

I have slightly re-ordered the stories for a neater reading flow, I hope, although I would encourage you to merely sip at the stories. I have my favourites, and others I'm not quite so sure hold as well together as they might, but I'm aware that my interpretations of the meanings of these tales could vary quite widely from yours. However, reading them all at once might dull the impact of some of the later tales, and I've tried to sprinkle a selection of my favourites throughout, as well as my more obvious runs at genre writing. I'm consistently online these days, so if you have any feedback for the stories you liked, the stories that touched you and yes, even the stories you didn't like, reach out and let me know.

Also, if you do like the stories, look up my other novel, Sharksplosion. It's exactly what you might think it is, except that the hero is an Australian secret agent and there isn't an action trope left unused by the time it's all done.

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1 Dave

Everyone’s got a mate like Dave. At least, I think everyone’s got a mate like Dave. Big fella, shock of bright red hair, tattoo showing his love for the Bulldogs on his right bicep. I’m sure you know the type. Maybe not every Dave has that tattoo, but fully one hundred per cent of my mates called Dave do.

Anyway, Dave’s been having a bit of a rough time of it of late. He was telling me about down the pub after work… well, that’s after my work, what with the parts factory closing down and Dave being laid off last month. The bigwigs told those TV people that everybody would be looked after, and everyone would get opportunities to be employed elsewhere, and what does Dave get? He gets told that if he wants a job, he’ll have to pull up stumps and relocate to Townsville. Bloody Townsville! You can imagine what Dave told them when they said that. Apparently things got a bit uncomfortable after that, so besides being handed what Dave called a rusty golden handshake, he’s been out of work ever since.

It’s been driving his missus, Katrina, mad. She’s never worked since Kevin and Sharon came along, but she keeps herself busy volunteering down the Salvos and organising bake sales for the school club, not to mention keeping the house nice and neat.

Dave’s not what you call a neat kind of fella, but then that didn’t matter when he was working. He’d be out the door by seven, back by six to have his dinner on the table and some family time. All except Fridays, of course, when we’d see him down the pub for a few drinks. Dave can certainly put them away, but that’s always the way with Daves, don’t you find?

Anyway, Katrina’s been on his case, because apparently having him around the house just watching the footy and working on his car isn’t her idea of domestic bliss. It’s not really Dave’s fault, you know, but then I guess it’s not really Katrina’s fault either. Dave got a job at the factory back in… must have been… ’92, I suppose, back when he could leave school, ‘cause he hated that place. We all did. Not as much as Dave, but then he had his plans well sorted right from the start. His Dad worked down the factory, and Dave never wanted to do anything else but that. That factory was alright by Dave, or at least it had been for the longest time. That job let him get that mortgage on the block right next to his Mum and Dad, so it was easy for Katrina to get help when the babies were little and Dave was out at work.

That changed a fair bit when Dave’s mum died, mind you. Dave’s dad, well, see, he did love his grandkids. Just not quite enough to change a nappy, or as Dave told me he put it, I never bloody changed Dave’s nappy, and I’m not about to change one now!. Apparently Dave then looked at his Dad and told him that this was OK – he didn’t need a nappy change any more, but Sharon was stinkin’ to high hell, and she probably did.

He’s such a crackup, Dave. You’d like him. I’m sure you would.

Even once Kevin and Sharon got past the nappy stage, Dave’s dad wasn’t a whole lot of help, but by then his hip was going out on him, and then that bad cough started up. Mesolo… Mezlo… that nasty bloody coughin’ disease that lots of blokes in the factory got. Dave’s dad went downhill pretty bloody fast, not that any of us saw much of it. We could just tell when Dave would hit the pub with a glum look on his face and order a scotch to go with his beer that things were bad.

Mind you, Dave always found a way to have a laugh. His dad was on those drugs that make you lose your hair, so Dave went out and got him a big boofy clown wig to wear. By that stage, Dave’s dad was pretty much out of it, so Dave dropped it on his head and took some photos while he was snoozin’. We all had a pretty good laugh at that one, and no-one more than Dave.

Then his Dad passed away the next day, and Dave wasn’t so happy any more. Life just kept on kicking Dave, because apparently his Dad had put up a couple of mortgages on the house in order to have a few sly bets down the track. Once those were sorted out, the house, car and contents were gone, baby, gone, and all Dave had left of his Dad was the picture of him in the clown wig.

Dave’s been trying for jobs ever since the factory closed, or at least he says he’s trying. But that fast food place only hires teenagers or mums who worked there back when they were teenagers, and the security firm took one look at Dave’s record, and that business with the stolen car back in ’94, and he was out the door. It’s so bloody unfair. Dave was only driving around in that car because Shane loaned it to him, and Shane didn’t tell anyone he’d nicked it from the Woolies carpark just that afternoon.

Judges don’t have much of a sense of humour, although Dave only got a suspended sentence. Shane got out in ’97 and left town. Last I heard, he was livin’ in a commune up somewhere near Nimbin, fixing combis and getting’ it on with those hippie chicks. I wonder what that’s like?

Anyway, I was talking about Dave, wasn’t I? Dave’s not had much luck with jobs, but that’s because, as he says, he’s just too highly trained. Too clever in ways that people don’t appreciate, or won’t appreciate, or can’t, or something like that.

The problem, according to Dave, is that these new-fangled cars don’t need a quality loading bracket the way that Dave can make them. They’ve all gone over to plastic loading brackets on a number 27 frame, so says Dave. I don’t have the foggiest what that actually is, but I learned years ago that it’s not wise to question Dave’s wisdom when it comes to factory matters. Everyone remembers the big blue he had with Frank over those quality assurance reports, and I’m sure Dave remembers being barred from the pub for a month after he broke that chair over Frank’s back.

Frank was fine. I mean, he got up and laughed while the blood ran down his nose and over his mo’, but then Frank’s a tough bugger.

That’s probably why he and Dave’s missus, Katrina, are… nah, I’d better not say. Dave’s due to turn up any minute now for the fishin’ trip. I can’t stand fish, but it’s good for Dave to be out and about, and we never catch anything anyway. Gives us time to think, sink a few beers, and gets me off the hook with Frank after I lost that bet, because it keeps Dave out of the house.

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2 Just Plane Annoying

Right now, places please everybody! Places! PLACES!

Do I have your attention?

Good. He’ll be boarding soon, and we absolutely must make sure that the flight is as unpleasant as possible for him. Now that might just happen randomly, but we can’t rely on luck.

We’ve already primed the pump; he was promised a Business upgrade at the check in desk that we’re downgrading to Economy at the gate for operational reasons, and the computer will be down so they can’t check why. Always helps when the ground crew are on target with the mission.

That’s what I want from all of you as well. The only thing that’s going to make a successful flight certain is if we all pull together as a team. That means no dozing off, no forgetting your assignments and under no circumstances whatsoever do you offer to help them with anything in any way.

Oh, yes, very well Keith; you are meant to be the friendly old man who seems to help with the suitcase but spills the contents all over the cabin floor. That’s still not helping ultimately, is it dear? No, it’s not. Again, team effort, people.

Now, where is Gladys? Gladys, put your hand up, love, so I can see where you are. Ah, there you are Gladys. Got the babies ready, Glad? Good, good. So, what have we got today? One screamer, one wriggler, and one intermittent cougher that will require mum to walk up and down the aisle in the middle of the sleep cycle, randomly hitting him in the shoulder with the nappy bag. Yes, that seems to be the full allotment.

Now, have we prepared the food? Good, good, so what do we have?

A delicately crumbed chicken meal with fresh garden vegetables, a small saucer of gravy and raspberry yoghurt dessert? Sounds lovely Jocelyn. Lovely indeed. And the other meal is?

Ah, the fish. Always a classic.

Unidentified fish, swimming in some kind of salty white sauce, served scalding hot underneath a hard to remove foil lid, served with a stale rock solid bap, not quite enough margarine somehow already semi-melted and fruit that appears to have been glazed in solid sugar. Yes, yes, that sounds perfectly insipid. Now, out of the two hundred meals on board we have? Ah, yes, three of the chicken and the rest fish, to be served from the front. Which row are they in? 67. Perfect my lovelies, just perfect.

Now, who have we got sitting next to them? Kerrie and… Wilbur. Now, Wilbur my love, I know you put a lot of effort into spilling over into his seat as much as you can, but remember pet, the art is in not seeming so obvious. Fall asleep, fart as much as you can, but don’t make it clear that you’re doing it deliberately. We nearly had one on the last flight peg as to what was going on. Had to drop the LSD into his beer to encourage a sky rage incident to cover it all up. Messy business. Messy. I don’t like messy, Wilbur. Do I make myself clear? Excellent, top notch.

Do we have the Rugby supporters on this flight? No? Are you certain? Oh. Ah well, a pity. Always a good rollocking bit of fun once they’ve had too much to drink and start kicking the back of his seat while singing foul sporting songs. Maybe next time.

David, where are you David? Ah yes, that’s it, get the Captain’s badge on. You must look the part.

Naturally, chuckles, don’t actually touch the plane controls. Yes, that’s right, still handled by the plane itself, far too complicated for you to understand. All you need to do David is look the part and watch that little camera over his head that he thinks is the broken air conditioning vent. Now, whenever he seems to be nodding off, or if he goes to get up to the toilet, or when he’s struggling with the lid to the fish container, just hit that big green button. That will put the seatbelt light on, and force him to be stuck in his seat, panicking, as the gyros shift the plane up and down for a bit.

Now David, this is important: Don’t overdo it. Yes, it is all good fun, but it’s only really scary if he doesn’t grow to expect it. We had a chap the other day on here who just figured the weather outside was really bad and decided to have a stiff upper lip position on it. Just terrible, it was! So bad for team morale.

Ooh, yes, and before I forget, there’s one other time you must hit that big green button, and that’s during drinks service. He’s going to be thirsty, what with having scalded his tongue on the salty fish, and so he’ll be waiting for the drinks trolley to approach him. All puppy eyed they get. It’s so adorable, and so much fun for all the team when the turbulence starts just before Sarah or Holly get to his seat.

Holly my love, you will remember to press the button on the side of the trolley as you’re approaching 67 so that David knows to start the turbulence this time, won’t you dear? Good, good. If we get this right, it’s drinks all round in the galley as a little reward for everyone. Added bonus, team: Drinks all round practically ensures that we’re out of whatever his profile suggests he wants to drink most when we do get back to him.

Still, he will get a drink of whatever flat beer is left over, and that means he’ll need to go to the bathroom eventually.

Drinkies always means bathrooms, and that means vigilance. Gladys, Bruce, Keith and Denise — you know your positions, right? Bruce, you’ve got to make sure that you spend as long as possible in there so that a decent queue can build up. That’s when you strike Gladys; make sure you’re doing that uncomfortable bladder dance… actually, can we see that Gladys, just to be sure?

Hmm.

I’m not sure about that Gladys.

You’re definitely in need of a pee, but you’re not looking urgent enough by far. Can you go a bit more red in the face, and step up the twitching of your feet?

Yes, yes, that’s MUCH better. He won’t be able to say no when you ask if you can jump ahead because you’re bursting if you put that much effort into it.

Now remember everyone, the plastic cover cloths are in the secret cupboard on the right hand side, just behind the baby change table. Once you’re in, place those over your head and then let rip. Walls, floor, toilet seat, even the ceiling if you’re feeling limber. Everything in fair game once you’re inside. Once you’re done, wipe yourself down with the supplied towels, don’t forget to shove a load of unnecessary paper in the waste disposal and then squeeze most of the soap out of the hand dispenser all over the sink. Just like in rehearsals.

Now then, entertainment. Ralph… Ralph, where are you Ralph? Ah, tinkering with the entertainment system. Good, I like a man who thinks ahead. Just make sure that whatever he wants to watch randomly switches to Japanese with Thai subtitles obscuring the bottom half of the screen, but only for twenty minutes before requiring a reboot of the entire system. That will ensure he can’t actually pass the time except by looking at the map of the route and the time left to go. Now, what actual speed have we set the clock to for maximum disorientation? Three minutes to each flight minute. Perfect, lovely, sounds like that’s all coming along nicely Ralph.

There, team, is a real professional. I never have to check in on Ralph, because I can always be assured that he gives 110 percent, each and every time.

Now, flight crew, a little word if I may about smiling.

Naturally, we despise them all quite equally, but we can’t let them know that. The secret is smiling. Smiling so hard it hurts, because it imbues this silly idea they get in their heads that you like them, but at the same time with that nagging doubt that perhaps you’re not quite sincere.

If anyone needs any training in smiling hard, talk to Sarah. She’s from Las Vegas, where they invented insincere smiles, and the plastic surgery to go with it. No Sarah, don’t try to frown at that. You’ll only break something again.

Now, here he comes, down the walkway. I’ll handle the greetings, and the rest of you handle it from there. Remember, there is no I in team… and I know where the emergency parachutes are

.

"Ah, good evening sir, may I see your boarding pass? Row 67? Lovely, Sir, just down the corridor to the right there. Please do have an especially pleasant flight."

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3 The Date

The music wafted out of the disco, lazy pop synthesiser beats followed by tepid computerised drums in the way that those kind of songs always did, Alan figured. The Crystal Palace Disco always played songs loud, no matter what type, because once you were in the doors and on the dance floor, it was all about being eternally young and dancing your cares away. Being able to actually hear anybody was entirely secondary, which often led to very mixed drink orders at the bar. As long as the music was flowing the drinks kept flowing and that kept the owners happy.

Always the same songs, about love, or love lost, or love eternal. Nothing Alan really cared about, but some of it was OK to dance to, he guessed. He’d much rather be in there dancing, or perhaps trying out his ID in the hopes of buying a sneaky beer, than waiting out here in the growing cold and dark.

He’d been standing outside the disco, waiting for… how long was it now? Nervously, Alan checked his watch. He didn’t want her to turn up and find him looking at his watch, because surely the point of looking cool was not to be seen stressing out about time.

Stress was not cool. Cool was hard to define, but you knew right away which things weren’t cool. Flared jeans, anything recorded before 1978, anything that was brown, those things were not cool. Being stressed also wasn’t cool, because, hey, Alan thought, it showed how much you were losing your cool.

Being cool was about looking cool, too. Alan was certain he looked cool. Bright white trainers over tight black leather pants, denim shirt over the top with a thin white tie, and a delicately brushed mullet with light streaks through it, just like his idols wore. Alan figured if he looked any cooler, people could store beer in him.

Heh, Alan thought. I’ve got to remember that one the next time I see Craig. But first… where was she?

Ah, bugger it, Alan thought, I’m going to look at my watch anyway.

The bright red LED of his wristwatch told Alan that it was 10:27, exactly two minutes since he’d last glanced down at his watch, and nearly an hour after they’d agreed to meet at the disco. There was fashionably late, Alan knew — hey, everybody knew about fashionably late — and then there was just plain not showing up.

Alan knew that staring in a stressed fashion at his watch wasn’t cool, but neither was just not turning up. For the seventeenth time, he adjusted his razor-thin tie to make sure it ran perfectly down the centre of his shirt without kinking outwards.

Alan liked looking good, and tonight, he figured, he looked good.

Over the road, the Opal cinema opened up its doors, letting the patrons of the 8:30 showing out into the cool night air. Most of them were chattering, or making exclamations about how Ghostbusters was the best movie they’d ever seen.

Alan had already seen Ghostbusters twice already; once at the Pavilion, which was a much better cinema in Alan’s estimation that the Opal, and once on a pirate videotape that Craig had bought down at the markets.

It had been a bit fuzzy compared to the cinema, and there were weird scribbles — Craig reckoned they were Japanese, but Alan figured they were probably Chinese — at the bottom of the screen. Still, it was a lot cheaper than going to the Pavilion again, or even the Opal.

The couples emerging from the Opal seemed very happy, Alan thought. He watched one couple walking arm in arm with each other, sharing laughs and cuddles as they slowly made their way down the street. That could be me, he thought, except that it isn’t. I’m more like that sad, lonely, balding guy walking out of the cinema all on his own.

Except I’ll never be that sad and lonely, or that old. Alan knew this, because in the future they were going to eliminate getting old with science, or drugs or something. He’d seen something about it on the telly the other night. You can keep being old for the old people, Alan figured, and he’d stay young and having fun forever.

Alan hadn’t thought of asking Carol out to the cinema, mainly because the only other movie showing was that Gremlins thing, and Alan didn’t reckon any scary movie was a good date movie. Sure, it was nice if they got a little spooked and wanted a cuddle, but not if they got grossed out by something and stormed off in a huff.

Suzanne had lasted through The Temple Of Doom right up until that cool bit where the bald guy ripped out someone else’s heart before running out of the cinema. That was a mistake that Alan was keen to avoid in the future.

Where was she?

Alan was starting to get angry. He’d have to work tomorrow, driving the old man’s cab because he was always way too drunk on a Sunday morning to steer properly. He’d have to keep to the back roads like always, because it wasn’t like he had a licence to speak of, but the agreement was that if he drove on Sundays, he could keep all of the tips.

Sundays meant ferrying the old ladies to and from the Church, and they always made certain to give him generous tips along with the requisite Bible verses. Alan didn’t much care for the Bible verses until he figured out that being able to quote them back generally led to a much larger tip, and a much happier customer. Yes, you didn’t have to do much to keep the Church ladies happy.

Well, except for that Mrs Sanders and her wandering hands, but that was a lesson that Alan picked up very quickly.

Never let them ride in the front seat, Dad had warned, and it wasn’t until Mrs Sanders that