She was frozen on the spot – her breathing hard, her lungs like stone, tears rolled down her face. The time was late – she had stayed up to write a short story for school. Finished, she had left her bedroom and relieved herself in the bathroom, it was returning to her room that she saw the spider.
The spider crept under one of her tops that lay on the floor. Now that it was out of sight Ferrí’s trance was released – she slowly made her way to a shoe that was lying on the floor next to her bed. She never took her eyes away from the top. She picked up the shoe as slow as a sloth, fear pumping adrenalins through her body – the spider crept out. She gave a muffled scream/gulp and slammed her shoe into the ground – the spider fled faster than she could react. She tepidly chased it repeatedly trying to smoosh it with the shoe. Then within a blink of the eye it was gone. She jumped about the room as if the spider was underfoot, looking for it everywhere but never finding it. She got into bed shaking and pulled the covers tight – it will get me in my sleep, she thought. Her phone buzzed.
φ
Last night was a blast, Method’s mind yelled while he was lying in his bed hearing the voices of his sister’s friends in the kitchen. Their mother had gone away for the weekend leaving Method and his sister with the house. So of course his sister, who was called Madrepore or Madre for short, organised a little gathering. Usually Method wouldn’t really socialise with Madre’s friends, usually they were ‘not his type of people’ but on this occasion he was needed – they couldn’t work out how to use the DVD player. So after wiring it properly and getting some music playing Method sat with them drank mixed drinks and monitored their activities – making sure they didn’t spill or break anything. Not too soon afterwards the time came when Method was needed again – they were bored and wanted to play a drinking game. Method, being the oldest and presumably most experienced – but later proven wrong in the game – taught them a game he had played with his friends on various party like occasions. The game was called never have I ever, or something along those lines, it was a good game to get to know people as you found out a lot of personal things. The rules were simple: the players take it in turns to say something they’ve never done and anyone in the group who has done that takes a drink.
One of Madre’s friends produced a bottle of vodka that he was willing to share with Method on the fact that he had gone to the same school as Method the year before – Method didn’t recognise him, he was in the year below. So Method got out the shot glasses and poured both of them shots – if he was going to drink spirits, he was going to drink ‘em straight.
“Like a real man,” Method said putting the bottle down on the middle of a coffee table that was inherited from his grandparents – they weren’t dead, they just wanted to get rid of some junk when they moved to the tropics.
Everyone soon knew that they had all had sex, except for Method and another guy who Method supported.
“Don’t worry I’m the oldest person in this room and I haven’t had sex,” Method said, trying to look comforting. The boy seemed even more embarrassed - I hope I have sex before I’m 19, he probably thought.
Also two had given head in public, one had had sex with someone nearly twice their age and one had swallowed cum. Unsurprisingly, Madre was involved in two of those accounts and surprisingly Method was involved in one – the later, which received a shocked look from everyone and a shrug from Method.
Time moved on and the group paired off into various bedrooms leaving Method with the guy he had shared the Vodka with. They watched some poker on television, then the guy whisked off to a bathroom and vomited, passing out on the heated tiles and newly regurgitated alcoholic beetroot.
Method, left alone, drunk and wishing he were getting some, did what all men do in this situation; contact the girl they love. For him it was Ferrí. She picked up the phone,
“There’s a spider!” she cried, making Method glance around nervously, looking for it – quickly realising that it was on her side of the phone. After some soothing words he calmed her down and they engaged in a fairly normal half drunken conversation until Method churned out this little question,
“Would you ever have sex with me?”
“I would,” she said it without even a second thought. Method’s heart jumped out of his chest into his throat and down his pants. He couldn’t speak.
“Holy shit!” he thought, “wow,” he said, “wow,” he repeated.
“What did you think I would say?” she asked, laughing to herself at his drunken surprise.
“I don’t know,” he stuttered, “I thought you would avoid the question or something.”
“How could I avoid such an important question,” she said, “a question like that needs to be answered.” She had completely forgotten the spider that had terrorised her earlier that night. Method’s voice soothed her and after a brief expulsion of the other virgin and his cherry picker from Method’s room, they were both lying with butterflies in their stomachs on their own beds nearly 130km apart but closer together than they had ever been before.
They whispered to each other sweet nothings and salty somethings. Ferrí wanted Method to tell her stories. As his deep, and what Ferrí found, thoroughly sexy voice spilt out of her receiver it pushed its way through her ears and into the part of her brain that controlled her fingers. She reached down and pushed them between her legs, closing her eyes and feeling his voice massaging her clitoris. Her back arched, Method could hear her soft breathing – he couldn’t resist. His door was closed and it seemed the other people in the house were preoccupied so he reached down and held his hard warm penis. He continued telling her a tale of a crocodile, that he had previously told his cousin, but he couldn’t remember the details as his mind blurred between the pleasure down his pants and her soft breathing. Ferrí gave a little gasp and a snap – Method lost control of talking completely as he ejaculated all over his boxers. There was silence from both ends – Method spoke first.
“What was that?”
“That was my underwear snapping,” she said, her voice was calm and even.
“woooh, you’re underwear hey,” Method said teasing. Now standing and wiping away the creamy lost children from his groin with a handkerchief.
“You’ve always got to eroticise everything don’t you,” she said playfully, “it wasn’t anything like that.”
Method believed her. They talked until the phone batteries died - neither of them knowing that they had both got off on each other’s voice.
φ
One hour bent into the next as Method slid the produce of mass consumerism past the red laser at his checkout bench. It was quite fascinating watching the supermarket dynamics, seeing the type of people who went to each checkout, what they bought, how they behaved. Mainly Method served elderly people or mothers if he were on one of the mass volume checkouts. Mostly they were nice, but sometimes Method would get the ones, who want to take over the job and do the packing themselves, which was reasonable, as especially at the beginning of his shift Method needed to get into the packing groove. The self-packers were fine; the worse ones were the ones who wouldn’t take over the job, but demand that the bags are packed in a certain way. Double wrapped with three cans of cat-food and a toothbrush in four of them and the rest holding the twelve three litre bottles of milk that I need for my fourteen cats,
“But I want them to weigh less than two kilos each,” said a particularly good looking but arrogant mother. Her two and a half year old son was sitting in the trolley trying to reach one of the already packed cans of cat-food standing on the checkout bench.
“Sure,” said Method, hardly looking at the customer as the packing was ‘all consuming’. It would be hard packing the milk that way seeing as they were all over three kilograms each – he would have to pour some out. Method wondered if the checkout lasers could give him cancer of the hand.
“Hmm if I was a chick I’d want to use those tampons,” Method thought packing a particularly nice looking box of tampons.
“They’re the same condoms that I have – ha that reminds me of Ferrí,” Method thought also as the mother opened her purse to pay. Method remained in two different worlds when at work. The world of the supermarket and the world of his mind – anything could happen in either.
“Hello sir – woah that’s a woman!”
“Who on earth needs thirty jars of mustard?”
“I’m sure I’ve seen you somewhere before.”
“I’m sure I’ve seen you somewhere before.”
“I’m sure I’ve slept with you in another life.” Went Method’s mind as the customers filed by.
And his voice;
“Hello. That’ll be twenty-seven dollars and five cents. Two dollars and ninety-five cents change. Have a good day.”
“Hello. That’ll be ninety-four dollars exactly. Any cash out? Have a nice day.”
“Hello. That’ll be…”
“My guy friend wants to know if he can have your number.”
“Um…?”
“Oh you’re not gay?”
“Um sorry no.”
“Fine.”
“I have a girlfriend too,” Method said thinking of Ferrí as the girl ran out of the store and to her ‘guy friend’.
On the ‘twelve items or less’ checkouts Method would mainly serve children and businessmen. That’s where he got asked out – checkout number one – twelve items or less. Too bad it was a guy, rather than a girl who wanted his number and that Method was also more in love with Ferrí than even.
What a first shift – straight in the deep end – lucky he could doggy paddle. What unnerved Method the most was that just about everybody bought bananas – what was with that?
φ
WISH YOU WERE HERE read the badge that Method pinned to his light grey jumper. It had a picture of two robotic hands shaking one made of a dark metal the other a light. The background was broken up into quadrants one side was a desert with a large yellow sun, the other side was an ocean with wispy clouds a small orange sun high in the sky. The small barely legible writing was next to the large sun. The badge was from the album of the same name that housed Method’s favourite Pink Floyd song, Shine On You Crazy Diamond. He did conceit though that he liked the extended version on their best of album more than the version on the original album.
The badge was sufficient - it served its purpose - to remind him of Ferrí – not that he needed much reminding. She remained in his mind constantly. It was as if he was her father and his mind was a playground. She would run from one piece of equipment to the next, and with each new piece of equipment Method’s heart would jump – will she be safe – but after a second or two he would realise she was perfectly safe – she knew how to play. But it was more than that, Method realised that it was not as if he were a father but a brother – he cared for her safety oh yes - but the emotion that was most prevalent was longing, a longing to join her on the slides and swings and seesaws. There was a height restriction though - he was too tall.
φ
Eight of Diamonds – the dealer read. It was poker night – Mach 2. Method was flippant about winning. His new job had given him an overt sense of flippancy towards money - it had always been in him but now it was exposing itself due to a rise in his bank account balance. Method bet on every hand even if he only had a pair of twos – of course he lost more than he won.
They had organised the game so that the winners would receive a fixed sum of money rather than what they had won. So even though the difference between the winner and loser could be quite large – they would only win $30 of a $10 bet – the loser would lose $10. Already the winner was clear. Amongst the group was an avid poker player and he had already doubled everyone else’s winnings – he played to win – Method played to play.
The chips sat in great heaps across the table – some in the humus dip that they had ordered. They had called up every Turkish place in town, (they had a hankering for some felafel) trying to find one that did takeaway and pizzas, fortunately there was one – it took two hours to arrive by which time they were all famished. With the words “open sesame” they opened their banquet and divided the food. Method had piled his plate – he knew from previous experience that he wouldn’t be able to eat it all, but bad habits die old.
The fat dripped from the meat that filled their plates. Putting down their cards, their conversations during this fuelling respite were centred towards relationships. Somehow they had started talking about Di and Laurel, who weren’t there at the time but whose three-month anniversary was due. The conversation broke into different subsections and Method told his news of him and Ferrí – he announced that he had a girlfriend – Ferrí – to one of his friends. As the words girl and friend slipped from his lips the whole party’s interests where concentrated towards him.
Method told of how she went to flying school in America and then returned – for him – his story of the development of their relationship was all very romantic until Method mentioned her age – 15. This was not suitable. His friends, concerned, forbade him from having sex with her – statutory rape they said it would be. How was it their place to say what he could or couldn’t do? Method thought as they started pleading for his abstinence. He knew it was illegal, and he already knew what he had already done with her meant he was eligible for prison - but the drilling he received from his friends hurt. He didn’t need that. It was fine at first – Method had been prepared for it - he moved away from the ‘rape’ discussion and said that he counted their anniversary from the first time they ‘made out’ but for his friends this didn’t count as she had been in America for so long. With one foul swoop his heart died when one of them remarked,
“And when she goes back to America,” for she surely was due to (the flying season was far from over) “you’ll have been together even longer.”
Here he was a man, who felt like a boy – in love – but not allowed to be, and they were mocking his long distance commitment.
“Well fuck you!” The night ended at twelve – Method had lost. He left the poker game in pain, walking towards home in the dark companionless air. Fuck you, he thought.
“Fuck you!” he said out loud, his voice bouncing around the back walls of the National War Memorial. The city remained silent, heaviness loading the streets. As Method reached home and turned the key, the circular indent of a long unused condom hidden in his wallet, shined in the silver light and reverberated the words “fuck you too” from a crying man lying in a grave.
φ
Rest and then… the pogrom. It was not a pogrom of people but of consumer things - the storm ripped through Canberra like dragons through a medieval village. Trees toppled, glass smashed and the tops of roofs burned with a thermoluminescence like white ice. Method’s mind was dark – the outside environment emulated his inner feelings. He was cleansing the city of the vile filth that had composted itself throughout. This was all pure sub-subconscious thought on Method’s behalf – he didn’t realise what he was doing, and he wouldn’t have cared. All he knew was that as usual he felt like the weather looked.
It had been bright – it had been sunny – and then it was dark and monstrous. People ran to find shelter, their feet slipping from under them in the blasts of wind and rain. The white tops of the businessmen and women stained on the dirt muddied ground. Cars crushed under fallen trees and red umbrellas rained from the sky. An indiscernible morose pain hung heavy in the air, it blew like a phantom howling.
Method’s eyes lulled over the scene outside – chaos. He was at work and it was inundated with was-be passers by floundering for shelter in the hollow cavern that was the now blacked out supermarket. There was an eerie stillness and then the lights flicked back on, Method returned to the graceful movement of produce exodus.
The throats of the customers tightened as they beeped their minutes away with the ‘chick’ that’s name was written in black on a digital white screen. He was the one they called Method and in the apocalyptic storm he preached.
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So it would seem that McDonalds is the new Christianity. Muslim extremists - terrorists are not fighting against western traditional ‘religious’ views, they are fighting against what is becoming a new religion, consumerism and consumer choice. These people, the ancestors of the cradle of our modern-day nations, are the ones trying to prevent the homogenisation and cultural regression washing over and leaving our lives unwarrantedly unified. Yes they are doing it in an all to aggressively hurtful way but it has come to this and it will not stop at this – the terror battle will not end for at least another fifty years.
Method doesn’t eat McDonalds – but McDonalds is no longer something you don’t eat – it’s something you don’t believe in. And from this Method is ostracised from the McDonalds eaters as the pagan heretics of years past said they didn’t believe in the Christian god – which Method didn’t to boot.
What ‘Supersize Me’ and other films of little note but of great importance, created was not an expulsion of a corporation but a completely new branch of a religion – the New Testament. McDonalds is in the processes of writing the New Testament for the modern age – the new choice – as it is called. Yes the corporation itself a vehicle will rust and be forgotten but its reformation will be preached for generations to come.
2000AD is 0AD all over again – officially it never happened but in another two thousand years humans will once again be arguing over whether the models of religion now consumerism, are still relevant and what the exact year their 4th millennium anniversary is.
We will not know whom the second Messiah is just like all but a select few of the people of Jesus’ time didn’t know the importance that he would play. But one thing is for sure – a new day has come upon us that will wipe out the beliefs of old and in their place leave new but no less superficial beliefs. Be grateful for the age you live in, as it is grateful for you but do not take it for granted, as your age is not the only age.
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Ice slid over her nipples, leaving a tear like snail trail. He massaged the liquid into her skin; her eyes were intent on his as they quivered at her beauty. He let his tongue take over the caressing - little pools of water were now mixing with her sweat and his saliva – he let the pools rest and made his way from her chest to her stomach. He found his tongue falling into her belly button – it tasted like salt mixed with moisturiser. She giggled as his tongue played with the smooth indent – the point of separation from one human with another. Her hands moved down to stroke his cheeks and tussle his hair. She had her tongue resting against her top lip, her eyes gazing over the peripheral view of her nose down to his head, which was gliding over her short dark hairs to the gap between her legs. He paused and looked at her face.
“I’m just going to have a little explore.” He said as she turned from his face to the ceiling – closing her eyes.
“That’s it.” She said, half moaning the “it.”
His tongue stroked and with each stroke she motioned, with sound, movement and breath for him to continue. He continued, letting her warm and arch and moisten. She tightened and pushed her hips tight into his shoulders, repeating the action until he stopped, his lips wet and tongue aching. She opened her eyes and looked down at him, he got his fingers and gave her clit a rub – instantly her eyes closed again and she gasped. He smiled broadly and gave a little laugh - continuing the play, whilst watching her hairs drip.
They lay on the bed; heads on the pillows enchanted by each other’s eyes - both sets an indefinable colour of blue. His head traced from her lips to her neck – kissing all the way. Her chocolate hair tangled in his lips he sucked it then moved his hands towards her hips and stroking them, she laughed and squirmed pleading him to stop. With a quick sweep of her hair across his face and a vampire plunge towards his neck she kissed and he was defeated. She travelled from his neck down towards his shoulder and then stopped, with her hand placed near his groin and her gaze upon her hand.
“May I?” she said siting up, her hands making their way onto his black boxer shorts. She slipped them down his legs and he kicked them off. His penis was erect; it had a little puddle of clear, soft liquid resting above the small slit. He touched the puddle with his index finger and was waving it about – ET style. She grabbed his hand and stuck his finger in her mouth – her lips sucking off the dew. She then let his finger fall across her bottom lip and to the sheets. With the quiet sound of a clock ticking, she moved her head down to his penis, licking it at first and then putting it in her mouth. She was scared and unsure of what to do but at the same time aroused. He watched as she made an up and down motion with her head and he could feel her doing little circles around the head of his penis with her tongue. But she couldn’t keep it up – it didn’t fit and her teeth brushed along the spine of his penis – for all the effort, it was slightly uncomfortable for both.
She gave up upset.
“Don’t worry,” he said, taking her hand, making circle motions with his finger in her palm “there are other ways.”
He took her hand and let it grasp his penis; she started jerking him off. He stopped her and said, “hold it like this,” putting his hand around hers “and don’t go down so far – try not to stretch the skin too much.” He let go of her hand; she did as he instructed slowly starting again. He lay back gazing at the ceiling. It wasn’t long until he was writhen in pleasure – but not coming.
“I can’t believe I’m not coming!” he almost shouted.
“You just don’t want to come,” she said – her arm tiring but remaining consistent.
After a minute or two: “Let’s have a break,” he said – not at all wanting to but considerate to her tired arm.
They stopped and she lay next to him they both kissed and kissed and kissed, until he announced it was time to try again.
“What if I move into a different position,” she said, getting on top of him. She had put her underwear – her grey Kelvin Klein’s - back on. She moved on top of him again grasping his penis how she was told to.
“This feels better for me too,” she said smiling and moving down to kiss him while they rubbed against each other. In no time at all he was coming, and boy did he come. Sucking his stomach in and grabbing hold of the bed sheets, losing thought of how he was kissing… she kept going until she felt the warm semen on her stomach. She stopped - they both lay there for a second.
“There’s so much of it!” she said, getting off him, standing next to the bed, “do you have anything to clean it with?” She asked looking around. He got up and ran to the bathroom; his penis now sticky and flaccid flopping from side to side. With her entail, they both wiped each other down with some tissues. He playfully put his fingers in his semen and rubbed it on her breast,
“Stop it,” she laughed her nipples erecting. They kissed again, and got cleaned off.
They stood clothed next to Bé’s BMW, the motor running and Bé waiting inside.
“I love you,” Ferrí said, Method’s body was close, his nose was softly touching hers like a butterfly,
“I love you too,” he said, kissing her lightly. They stood still, Bé watching them through the rear vision mirror, from the air fluttered a butterfly – a jade green butterfly - it landed on Ferrí’s shoulder with a small pat. Method watched it, its wings slowly rising and falling and his eyes glistening an imperfect twist of emerald. Ferrí’s eyes were intent on his, he smiled and then like a breath of astonishment from a child, the butterfly flew up into the air.
φ
Night fell on the Australian Portrait gallery. A golden hue etched the ultramarine blue clouds as the stars twinkled into crystal existence. Method breathed in the air – there was a slight breeze but his all black attire remained motionless. Ferrí stood next to him her hand holding his. They both watched as the moon, the silent orb of wonder, ever so slowly began its rotation back to the light side.
Method was the most serene he had ever felt – he was comfortable with this girl. The serenity was broken by Ferrí’s voice,
“I’m going back to America in a couple of days,” she said.
With those words galvanised the fact that he didn’t want her to leave again, not now, not ever. She let go of his hand and walked into the white silk marquee that stood behind them. He watched for a few moments, gazing at the gap in the curtains and listening to the laughter that emanated from inside. The curtains rustled and parted, Ferrí looked through, giving him a wink and a wave. He took a few quick steps forward and then with a spin followed her back inside. He took hold of both her hands drawing them behind her back. Into the noise of drunken bohemians and aristocrats the couple braved.
φ
The next day she was gone. They had kissed their goodbyes the pervious night and she had been driven back to Berridale that morning. In a few days time she would be heading up north to Sydney, and after a night in Sydney, there was a plane to LA and then another across to Vermont where she would remain until the flying season was over. Method pondered this whilst the waiter poured a burgundy coloured wine into his glass. He picked up the glass and sniffed the wine, lightly spinning it like brandy. As he took his first sip, Madre came into the restaurant with their stepmother; she held a plastic 1.25 litre bottle of a sulfur and purple soft drink. They both sat down, the chairs scrapping as they moved across the tiled floor.
For a minute there was silence, allowing for the small bubbles of the fizzing soft syrups to capture all those who were present – Method, Madre, their stepmother, Thi and their biological father - Brim. A ringing from a phone somewhere at the back of the restaurant broke the lull. And as the hushed words of a waitress made to answer, a soft snow fell from the sky melting on contact with all it touched, bar the wisps of pollen that flew through the air. The sight was that of oleic sensation, numbness creeping through the sinuses and distorting the eyes – it was as if looking through a frosted window splattered with opaque cream. As Method’s father wiped his glasses his throat cleared and he spoke.
“We are having a child,” he said in a straightforward, friendly but hesitant voice. Thi patted her stomach – glistening with expectant joy. In the supermarket two doors down Di and Laurel mounted a backroom shelf of nappies and made love into fructuous liquid pleasure.
φ
Head first – pain, stretching through and up and everywhere. FUCK! FUCK! FUCK! FUCK! FUCK! FFFFFUUUUUCCCCCKKKKK!!!!! I hate you! I love you! Go away! Come here! Hold me! Let go of me! Squeeze, love-hate-romance-room-tired-thirsty-black-blue-white-slippery-sad-elated-dead-alive-longing-dad-house-leave-lost-mum-more-lust-neither here nor there nor. Get OUT! GET OUT! GET OUT! GET OUT! GET OOOOOOWWWWEEEEEEETTTTT!!!…
Gone…
Peace – quite – calm – love.
φ
Eggnog for Christmas, chocolate for Easter, cake for birthday, and nothing for all – constructs and conceptions heaving, lunging for more.
Ending something is easy. All could stop right now.
The End.
But satisfaction, satisfaction in an ending can only come from what has come before it – an ending isn’t tangible – it is infinitesimal and only points to the line of ‘no more’. It just signifies what is conceived as ‘no more after’.
φ
Surreal – Method’s thoughts swam in his head like oceans, torrents of water crashing in and out of each other – through each other – blue, black, green masses engulfing expulsing force – turning things off, turning things on. Quantum binary, quadrated systems – words - hard, tangible black words, written and read and re-read and then – what then?
Expelled – for others – for them… Enjoy
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Knowledge gained, knowledge lost, lessons learned and lessons forgot. Wasted time? Inspired finds? Own beliefs, own subscriptions, own choice – that is what it’s all about - own control. Throw it all away – prejudice and pre and this.
φ
You float, you walk, you exit by your own means. Leaving this world, this reality, this non-reality. Leaving these words to ponder themselves, leaving these pages to muster, leaving these memories to linger for dust. As you leave feel free to take these records with you, or if you so desire, leave them behind for someone else to discover – it’s your prerogative. I’m just here to remind you.
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