![[FnG]magnolia](/styles/overclockers/avatars/9.png){kind=avatar}
Caporegime
- Joined
- 29 Aug 2007
- Posts
- 28,857
- Location
- Auckland
"Let's try something else," the advisor - not a counsellor, regardless of his official title - says. I sigh and nod wearily. I don't like this office and the magnolia paint looks wrong, too modern, not serious enough. Lacking in gravitas. The painting of the yacht looks out of place.
"It's not very professional, is it?" I say.
“What isn’t?”
“This scrabbling around for something to discuss. Are you an amateur?” I ask.
He laughs before replying. “No, I’ve been doing this for a while now, I suppose. Maybe too long,” he mutters and winks at me. I look away. “Tell me about your mother,” he says.
“My mother – God rest her soul and be ever watchful over her in heaven – was an habitual drunk, a compulsive liar and a criminal to boot.” I look up to see if he’s listening but his eyes are glued to the page he’s scribbling furiously upon, the words looking like snakes from my viewpoint.
“Did she have any bad points? Anything you didn’t admire about her?” he asks.
“I – pardon? None of those are good traits!” I say.
“Someone who looks after you is a good person. You were saying how good a person your mother was,” he says. “Do you need a tissue?”
I shake my head and try to gather my thoughts. My hands wipe away tears. “Can I have a tissue please?” I ask.
“Tell me about the train rides.”
“My mother used to tell a story to anyone who would listen and it always started the same way : ‘When James was born in September 1970, it was one of the worst days of my life because I knew then that one day he would die and I’d be responsible for it.’”
“Go on.”
“She’d then tell her first lie. It wasn’t a black, thundery day on the day of my birth. It was actually sunny, if a little cold.” I study my hands again. “I checked the old weather reports,” I admit. “She never guessed that I knew. It was a Thursday,” I add.
We lock eyes briefly before I continue.
“The train rides were always coming back from somewhere, never going somewhere. ‘Let’s get the train home James,’ she would say and I’d nod glumly because trains frighten me but I didn’t want to upset her. ‘It’ll be quicker than walking!’ she would always say.” I dab at my treacherous eyes.
“Why did they frighten you?” he asks, apparently interested.
“’People are afraid to merge on freeways in Los Angeles’,” I recite. I shake my head. “Ignore that, sorry. Never mind.” I’m losing focus and have to try harder. “They’re busy and smelly.”
“Smelly?” he says. “Does that bother you?”
”Yes,” I nod, “ I prefer outdoors. Open spaces. Fresh smells.” I remember a day from when I was five and my mother – it was always mother, never father – pushing me on the swings at the park. We’d had a picnic earlier and the drizzling rain had left my clothes a little damp but the water felt wonderful, fresh. The swing was old and the chains were rusty : big, brown, interlocked O’s reaching up to the sky. Later we went on the slide and that was when it happened.
“James?” he asks.
“Yes,” I say flatly.
“Do you like swimming?”
"No," I say. "Yes. No, only at high tide."
I take the tissue he offers me.
It was the day we built the bonfire and you wore a red top with orange sleeves which shouldn’t have worked but it somehow did. We’d been preparing for almost four weeks and the gathering and storing of the wood logs, branches and twigs had been hard if rewarding work. The sky was a bruised blue (“eggshell” you later tell me) and the clouds were white marshmallows.
“There are so many things I like about this time of year,” you begin hesitantly. “So many. The air and the cold and being here with you.” You look back to the bonfire and put both hands in your pockets.
I say nothing, considering options.
“When I go to sleep I think of trees. Is that weird?” You giggle before going on. “Really tall, powerful trees. I can’t climb them. This isn’t … um, that isn’t a metaphor for anything.”
I remember a time from when I was younger, better, less bad. We’d gone to the park and mother had a terrible fall – “I’m falling, Daniel! Catch me!” – and hit her head on the unforgiving concrete. Her broken maw, filled with red and white, looked up at me and it was somehow my fault again.
“What kind of trees?” I ask. The dentists bill had been nearly seven hundred pounds and had taken four separate visits.
“Oaks, I think. I don’t know. Oaks?”
We light the bonfire.
And I stumble from that into this with barely a miss is how the paragraph begins but it feels rushed, stylised and over-thought. We're in the park again and the day is glorious : a blaring, glaring sun bathing in a sea of blue sky and the clouds have taken the day off. Perhaps they've gone to the beach or to Mexico or Fiji. I went to Fiji when I was much younger and I remember that they did not sell Coca Cola which resulted in a tantrum; father smacked me and a local took exception to this. I remember a fight but later we had ice cream sundaes so that made it better. Mother had looked away as I covered my face with the chocolate sauce, muttering something but I didn't care.
"Why are we here?" you ask. You put both hands to your blonde fringe and push it away from your face. I watch you attempt to put it into a pony tail and consider your question while still thinking about Fiji. The pony tail isn't straight and I lean over, spilling ash onto my jeans which causes me to tut loudly, and try to fix your hair.
"I thought it would be fun to hang out. At the park, here." I look down at the mark on my jeans. You wipe it away and I watch as your red nails go to your mouth.
"Don't bite your nails," I say. "Please." You shrug, nod, remove them from your face. We share a smile.
"We're here because this is an amazing park," I continue. "Did you know that this used to be a swamp or volcanic or something? It took a long time to develop." You look bored, uninterested.
"Maybe we could talk about this later," you suggest and I nod, pleased, because I don't really know anything about this park at all and I was running out of fictitious tales to tell.
"Where do you want to go? My lady," I add, adopting a faux-Butler style voice, and you laugh. You've fixed your hair and you look so beautiful.
"We're going to the beach," you say. "My car, you drive. Don't put that terrible music on though," you warn me. I pretend to be hurt.
I think father received a police caution for the fight and later in the holiday our rental car had suffered not one but two punctures which the police later confirmed appeared 'suspicious'.
"Ok, no ****** music," I say.
We get in the car and begin our journey to the beach and I stumble from that into this.
"It's not very professional, is it?" I say.
“What isn’t?”
“This scrabbling around for something to discuss. Are you an amateur?” I ask.
He laughs before replying. “No, I’ve been doing this for a while now, I suppose. Maybe too long,” he mutters and winks at me. I look away. “Tell me about your mother,” he says.
“My mother – God rest her soul and be ever watchful over her in heaven – was an habitual drunk, a compulsive liar and a criminal to boot.” I look up to see if he’s listening but his eyes are glued to the page he’s scribbling furiously upon, the words looking like snakes from my viewpoint.
“Did she have any bad points? Anything you didn’t admire about her?” he asks.
“I – pardon? None of those are good traits!” I say.
“Someone who looks after you is a good person. You were saying how good a person your mother was,” he says. “Do you need a tissue?”
I shake my head and try to gather my thoughts. My hands wipe away tears. “Can I have a tissue please?” I ask.
“Tell me about the train rides.”
“My mother used to tell a story to anyone who would listen and it always started the same way : ‘When James was born in September 1970, it was one of the worst days of my life because I knew then that one day he would die and I’d be responsible for it.’”
“Go on.”
“She’d then tell her first lie. It wasn’t a black, thundery day on the day of my birth. It was actually sunny, if a little cold.” I study my hands again. “I checked the old weather reports,” I admit. “She never guessed that I knew. It was a Thursday,” I add.
We lock eyes briefly before I continue.
“The train rides were always coming back from somewhere, never going somewhere. ‘Let’s get the train home James,’ she would say and I’d nod glumly because trains frighten me but I didn’t want to upset her. ‘It’ll be quicker than walking!’ she would always say.” I dab at my treacherous eyes.
“Why did they frighten you?” he asks, apparently interested.
“’People are afraid to merge on freeways in Los Angeles’,” I recite. I shake my head. “Ignore that, sorry. Never mind.” I’m losing focus and have to try harder. “They’re busy and smelly.”
“Smelly?” he says. “Does that bother you?”
”Yes,” I nod, “ I prefer outdoors. Open spaces. Fresh smells.” I remember a day from when I was five and my mother – it was always mother, never father – pushing me on the swings at the park. We’d had a picnic earlier and the drizzling rain had left my clothes a little damp but the water felt wonderful, fresh. The swing was old and the chains were rusty : big, brown, interlocked O’s reaching up to the sky. Later we went on the slide and that was when it happened.
“James?” he asks.
“Yes,” I say flatly.
“Do you like swimming?”
"No," I say. "Yes. No, only at high tide."
I take the tissue he offers me.
It was the day we built the bonfire and you wore a red top with orange sleeves which shouldn’t have worked but it somehow did. We’d been preparing for almost four weeks and the gathering and storing of the wood logs, branches and twigs had been hard if rewarding work. The sky was a bruised blue (“eggshell” you later tell me) and the clouds were white marshmallows.
“There are so many things I like about this time of year,” you begin hesitantly. “So many. The air and the cold and being here with you.” You look back to the bonfire and put both hands in your pockets.
I say nothing, considering options.
“When I go to sleep I think of trees. Is that weird?” You giggle before going on. “Really tall, powerful trees. I can’t climb them. This isn’t … um, that isn’t a metaphor for anything.”
I remember a time from when I was younger, better, less bad. We’d gone to the park and mother had a terrible fall – “I’m falling, Daniel! Catch me!” – and hit her head on the unforgiving concrete. Her broken maw, filled with red and white, looked up at me and it was somehow my fault again.
“What kind of trees?” I ask. The dentists bill had been nearly seven hundred pounds and had taken four separate visits.
“Oaks, I think. I don’t know. Oaks?”
We light the bonfire.
And I stumble from that into this with barely a miss is how the paragraph begins but it feels rushed, stylised and over-thought. We're in the park again and the day is glorious : a blaring, glaring sun bathing in a sea of blue sky and the clouds have taken the day off. Perhaps they've gone to the beach or to Mexico or Fiji. I went to Fiji when I was much younger and I remember that they did not sell Coca Cola which resulted in a tantrum; father smacked me and a local took exception to this. I remember a fight but later we had ice cream sundaes so that made it better. Mother had looked away as I covered my face with the chocolate sauce, muttering something but I didn't care.
"Why are we here?" you ask. You put both hands to your blonde fringe and push it away from your face. I watch you attempt to put it into a pony tail and consider your question while still thinking about Fiji. The pony tail isn't straight and I lean over, spilling ash onto my jeans which causes me to tut loudly, and try to fix your hair.
"I thought it would be fun to hang out. At the park, here." I look down at the mark on my jeans. You wipe it away and I watch as your red nails go to your mouth.
"Don't bite your nails," I say. "Please." You shrug, nod, remove them from your face. We share a smile.
"We're here because this is an amazing park," I continue. "Did you know that this used to be a swamp or volcanic or something? It took a long time to develop." You look bored, uninterested.
"Maybe we could talk about this later," you suggest and I nod, pleased, because I don't really know anything about this park at all and I was running out of fictitious tales to tell.
"Where do you want to go? My lady," I add, adopting a faux-Butler style voice, and you laugh. You've fixed your hair and you look so beautiful.
"We're going to the beach," you say. "My car, you drive. Don't put that terrible music on though," you warn me. I pretend to be hurt.
I think father received a police caution for the fight and later in the holiday our rental car had suffered not one but two punctures which the police later confirmed appeared 'suspicious'.
"Ok, no ****** music," I say.
We get in the car and begin our journey to the beach and I stumble from that into this.
