Slightly Feral

Gary and I lost touch, must be 15 years ago now. Not a word since. Recently I got a post card out of the blue, Dear Rod… in his unmistakable handwriting I knew from copied essays …met some Surfer chick while walking the trails in the Blue Mountains. Apparently, even Gary went bush, slotted himself into a tree change domain and …slightly feral staying in hostels. No one misses a little pilfered communal food. Been trekking with a group of German tourists down to the Jamison valley floor…Found this woman a bit lost up there. Slightly freaked out. Helped her find the right trail back to the car park.

More good luck than Gary’s sense of direction, let’s just say, spin him around twice in a car park and he’s bush-wacked. Barely identify the direction of surf swell when we were teenagers heading out with our boards.

Turns out Barbara, his slightly lost, victim of confusing or unmarked bush trails, made art out of beach-comber-picked-up-off-the-sand stuff. And my mate, Gary just another fitted into her life as an interesting discard found above seaweed strewn high tide water mark. Way above, up in the mountains which proved an impenetrable barrier to earliest European settlers before they thought to ask help from local indigenous individuals.

Gary and Barbara left behind chasms, ridges and steep cliffs of the Blue Mountains, so named because of wafting mists from gum leaves. An ambience which muted distances into a faint softening, blurred edges. These two shacked up near up near Rainbow Beach. Jumping off for four wheel enthusiasts to go chase dingos on Fraser Island. And not in a payback way making up for ‘that dingo took my baby…’ Azaria and Lindy Chamberlain way. Been a few dingos interested in toddlers since then. Australian native dog must see campers with their small kids as a possible food source.

Little at Rainbow Beach other than one Pub, surf club, and cluster of shops. Pick up keys for holiday shacks from the local 7-11 store. One shop town, sort of place.

My next postcard – showed the town’s name sake, rain bowed sand cliffs. Great waves here …Barbara’s making some money selling souvineer-ish trinkets slash art. At markets, as far south as Caloundra, but not Emmundi, her gizmos aren’t quite arty enough for those pozers…

I can understand up market, overseas tourist specialist stalls which dominate Emmundi not wanting to stock what I imagine is slapped together beach junk art.

Before long I got a bedraggled envelope of photographs. Knew Gary would never manage posing on the Book of Face. Looked like living by expansive beach was doing wonders for Gary’s skin. Weird to think of him as casting off the acne riddled image he maintained at school

Gary’s next post card – wide shot of sand hills. Sand, shifting, coloured, or cream white another one of Rainbow Beach’s claims to fame. Reason tourist buses cruise along the beach from Noosa. Quite spectacular, I have to admit. Behind the grains, a message covered the whole rear just stating – I’m in love!

I pinned Gary’s postcards and photos to my office divider. Felt as if I was right there with him. Maybe I secretly wanted to escape my office capsule and live Gary’s lifestyle. A token escape, if you can relate.

Under the guise of work related conference calls I even took a chance to talk to Gary. My mate’s dulcet tones jarred with hot-desk spaces and interaction zones.  

 ‘Yes, I got your pictures. Made me green with envy.’

‘How good does my skin look… never thought hours of sea, surfing, salt air and good food would clear up my crater face.’

 I am listening, and not listening while he rambles on about a dermatologist visit to remove his scars. ‘It’s positive ions, Barbara’s creativity, blunting my edges…’

Gary never once asked me about Helen and the kids. All the time we’d be talking I’d hear Barbara doing stuff in the background. Yelling at Gary to hurry up to help her find shoes for the kid he helped her to bring up, or put out rubbish bins. In my mind, insignificant stuff which could wait while Gary spoke to his long-time friend, one and only person he thought to keep contact with.

Even if her banshee edge got on my nerves, I related to this as a positive for Gary. Finally, someone willing to give him instructions in the mundane things of life. Keep tabs on him, as if her role included being stand in mummy.

Eventually her background hum would overwhelm, ‘I must obey…turn off Barb’s noise through compliance, you understand mate.’

I really thought Gary finally found his lot.

No such luck.

Only days later, Gary rang to say Barbara left him. ‘For one of those old guys you see scanning beach sand with those machines, looking for coins or metallic objects.’

Probably not the best to share that my mind locked down images of these two scavengers clicking, bending their heads together on like goals. While Gary is saying, ‘everything’s turned to custard.’

He sounded freaked out, ‘Why, what else happened mate?’

‘Can I come down to the big smoke and crash in your spare room?’

At that I paused… you know one of those pauses… when you know there is no way to make an excuse good enough to cover, justify or excuse, kind of pause. If I try, there will only be a sinking deeper into an abyss living in such a pause.

 ‘Anyway might not be for ages,’ continues Gary. ‘She’s left so much crap behind. I’m going to build a bonfire and torch everything. Then jump on it myself.’

Should I be worried this sounds remarkably like self-harm? Does heart-broken Gary have suicidal tendencies? ‘Listen to me mate, don’t do anything stupid. You just need a change of scenery. We both know city life doesn’t suit you.’ Still felt like an excuse for not insisting Gary use my non-existent spare room. I am slipping on perfectly angled sand grains, an ant in those pits’ ant-lions make, slipping down cones of sand caused by my earlier pause.

I could mention Barbara’s track record. Somewhere in our too-and-fro calls Gary mentioned several exes. Applauded himself for being one to stick by her side, through thick and thin. Her flight predictable – kid already – run off from father dude – or just never shacked up. Habitual dumper, for sure. But all I could think of was boys from seventh floor financial accountants, asking for an explanation for my phone calls.

‘The penny-pinching finance boys are watching me, I am going to have go. Can I call you back tonight?’  

‘No can do, cow Barbara, made sure to disconnect phone and power. Catch you later, when I can mate.’

Spent a few weeks looking at those cards, shifting sands, peering into Gary’s so much hope in those big soppy eyes looking down from basic multi-coloured beige. He haunted me.

Finally another post card arrived – Further south this time. White walls, solid features of the Woolgoolga Sikh Temple. Flat roofed, with Lotus bulb towers. Horses mid stride right there beside wide marble stairs.

Rod, on my way, honestly. As far as I got. Picking Blue Berries, living in a hostel again. Except more like a commune. Looking after me, take turns cooking. You won’t believe some of the things we’re eating. Get the best curries here! Still a chance to catch a few waves too. Think I’ll stay for a while.

Promise myself to talk to Helen, seriously, plan a road trip… Load up with supplies, take a leisurely interstate cruise. Link into an idea the girls deserve a few weeks featuring theme parks and surfside Gold Coast towers as a bargaining chip. I am sure once I start to talk about major shopping malls, Sea World, all sorts of amusement rides, wife and my teenage girls will think I am suggesting on their behalf.

That my path with Gary might cross, and I can rid myself of guilt residue.