First excerpt from "A Place Called Mayfield"...
By now anyone reading this knows I am publishing my written works on this site. I have decided to begin posting parts of a book I have been working on for some time dubbed "A Place Called Mayfield." These anecdotes are based on real events and people.
The Dirty Two
Or
"Want some Gas?"
Number One strolled along side Number Two who walked his rusting bicycle as if it were a three legged geriatric blue heeler that was to lame to bother putting a leash on. What once was a racing cycle, thin wheels and a thin-light frame, still holding minute traces of its original silver paint, appeared to be able to manage little more than rolling. Walking passed the pair I gave a short nod, a gesture much like the finger of acknowledgement, which was returned in kind. Call it a pass-by, an ordinary everyday event that usually you think very little of.
There wasn’t anything particularly distinctive about Number One. He wore a black cap that had faded to an off grey, a black t-shirt and black jeans, an ensemble accompanied by an old yellow canvas bag, the one you’d find in a disposal store, slung over his shoulder. A poor attempt at a goatee, a wispy growth of some two dozen black hairs about two to three inches long sprouted from his block splitter of a chin. This is an almost perfect description of at least 30 percent of male Mayfieldians. Although Number One may have blended into the environment, his odor could not have been missed. Remember when one of your parents said ‘wash behind your ears or you’ll grow potatoes’, this man had Ireland behind his lobes. An experience that can be likened to walking into a concrete wall and knocking oneself unconscious, the stench was that of a pair of socks worn for three weeks than turned inside out, for longevity, and worn for another three and finally washed on the very same feet whilst taking the bi-annual shower.
Number Two looked like a member of the Nomads, a fairly infamous motorcycle gang (for the benefit of those who don’t know) – a Ned Kelly beard and a Mr. Sheen head. Black leather vest over white t-shirt, blue jeans, all set off with a pair of white Dunlop Volley’s. Compared to One, Two was quite well groomed; resembling a bouncer that more than likely has never possessed an actual security license. The expression on his sun-creased face was an odd mash of the anger of a large bull being antagonized by the wave of a red flag and the bemusement of a small child fumbling with a Rubix Cube. The small crucifix like scar on his left cheek gave the man a distinct air of roughness.
I was just about to turn the corner, Hanbury onto Maitland Rd, when Number One yells out in a Jimmy Barnes voice, “Hey man, want some gas?” Warily I reply, “Nah mate, cheers,” and begin to make my way once more. Again from behind I am summoned, this time with a high pitched woo-whip whistle. Not wanting to further ignore the two quite burly men, I consider it to be in my best interest to acknowledge. “I’ll do a twenty,” gruffly states Number One, upon seeing me turn to face him. Keep in mind that we are standing on what is one of if not the busiest intersection in Mayfield. “Hey, we doin’ a point for twenty now?” Number One barks in reply at Number Two, “We gotta pay, brus, we need the cash.”
As One and Two argue with each other, not at all concerned of being overheard, the scene plays in my mind like a Warner Bros. cartoon, the pup that enthusiastically follows the bulldog. “Hey Ralphy, can we fix him? Can we? Can we? Hey Ralphy, you show him!” Meanwhile, I’m still standing momentarily forgotten like a customer in the queue at a bank as the teller changes the sign from open to closed. So I wait.
What was about to happen had mostly already been established. Two of them and one of me. Fill this section with a long series of woulda, coulda and shoulda’s if the need is felt but simply put, I could take Number One up on his offer or turn and leave swiftly. It was at that point my own Jiminy Cricket spoke, “A dealer and his muscle, in Mayfield, wants money, say thanks for the point, pay and leave.” Wise.
Rolling off his tongue, like many times before, One states in plainly open sight, “Get your cash out and follow me.” The three of us move all of about ten feet when One begins feeling around in his bag, Number Two pipes up and asks, “Hey dig, you got a taylor?” Number One immediately snaps at Two, “Shut it,” and then with little discretion produces the product. Like an amateur I fumble with my wallet and produce the going rate.
The feeling in the moment when paranoia kicks in is more than difficult to word. Every single eye within the direct area stares at you and you alone, they are all potential police. A billion what-ifs bounce around your mind taunting your rationality. The prospect of arrest, fear of incarceration, what happens to the ones you leave behind? Yet, in what could be minutes, or seconds, or perhaps less, you remember two large men you would attempt to avoid meeting at the best of times are waiting. Maybe you might wonder if you’re being fleeced or mugged. If there is actually something in the hand pulled from the bag, and even if there isn’t, the risk of an alternative you’d rather not think about far outweighs the need you had for the twenty dollars in the first place.
With both reluctance and curiosity the handshake occurs. The short moment of discretion that seems amusingly ironic in comparison to the not so subtle origins of the transaction. Two hands meet, one unsure, the other expertly folding a note with dexterous fingers. The small snap-lock bag, container of currency, floats to the pavement in super-slow motion like that annoying feather scene in Forest Gump. Surprisingly, with cobra like reflex, I lift and land my foot squarely on my purchase that is immanently threatened to be blown down the street. Ever so calmly, and in one fluid motion, I nod to my momentary acquaintances, bow retrieving the baggy from under my foot and b-line in my original direction without once glancing back.
Or
"Want some Gas?"
Number One strolled along side Number Two who walked his rusting bicycle as if it were a three legged geriatric blue heeler that was to lame to bother putting a leash on. What once was a racing cycle, thin wheels and a thin-light frame, still holding minute traces of its original silver paint, appeared to be able to manage little more than rolling. Walking passed the pair I gave a short nod, a gesture much like the finger of acknowledgement, which was returned in kind. Call it a pass-by, an ordinary everyday event that usually you think very little of.
There wasn’t anything particularly distinctive about Number One. He wore a black cap that had faded to an off grey, a black t-shirt and black jeans, an ensemble accompanied by an old yellow canvas bag, the one you’d find in a disposal store, slung over his shoulder. A poor attempt at a goatee, a wispy growth of some two dozen black hairs about two to three inches long sprouted from his block splitter of a chin. This is an almost perfect description of at least 30 percent of male Mayfieldians. Although Number One may have blended into the environment, his odor could not have been missed. Remember when one of your parents said ‘wash behind your ears or you’ll grow potatoes’, this man had Ireland behind his lobes. An experience that can be likened to walking into a concrete wall and knocking oneself unconscious, the stench was that of a pair of socks worn for three weeks than turned inside out, for longevity, and worn for another three and finally washed on the very same feet whilst taking the bi-annual shower.
Number Two looked like a member of the Nomads, a fairly infamous motorcycle gang (for the benefit of those who don’t know) – a Ned Kelly beard and a Mr. Sheen head. Black leather vest over white t-shirt, blue jeans, all set off with a pair of white Dunlop Volley’s. Compared to One, Two was quite well groomed; resembling a bouncer that more than likely has never possessed an actual security license. The expression on his sun-creased face was an odd mash of the anger of a large bull being antagonized by the wave of a red flag and the bemusement of a small child fumbling with a Rubix Cube. The small crucifix like scar on his left cheek gave the man a distinct air of roughness.
I was just about to turn the corner, Hanbury onto Maitland Rd, when Number One yells out in a Jimmy Barnes voice, “Hey man, want some gas?” Warily I reply, “Nah mate, cheers,” and begin to make my way once more. Again from behind I am summoned, this time with a high pitched woo-whip whistle. Not wanting to further ignore the two quite burly men, I consider it to be in my best interest to acknowledge. “I’ll do a twenty,” gruffly states Number One, upon seeing me turn to face him. Keep in mind that we are standing on what is one of if not the busiest intersection in Mayfield. “Hey, we doin’ a point for twenty now?” Number One barks in reply at Number Two, “We gotta pay, brus, we need the cash.”
As One and Two argue with each other, not at all concerned of being overheard, the scene plays in my mind like a Warner Bros. cartoon, the pup that enthusiastically follows the bulldog. “Hey Ralphy, can we fix him? Can we? Can we? Hey Ralphy, you show him!” Meanwhile, I’m still standing momentarily forgotten like a customer in the queue at a bank as the teller changes the sign from open to closed. So I wait.
What was about to happen had mostly already been established. Two of them and one of me. Fill this section with a long series of woulda, coulda and shoulda’s if the need is felt but simply put, I could take Number One up on his offer or turn and leave swiftly. It was at that point my own Jiminy Cricket spoke, “A dealer and his muscle, in Mayfield, wants money, say thanks for the point, pay and leave.” Wise.
Rolling off his tongue, like many times before, One states in plainly open sight, “Get your cash out and follow me.” The three of us move all of about ten feet when One begins feeling around in his bag, Number Two pipes up and asks, “Hey dig, you got a taylor?” Number One immediately snaps at Two, “Shut it,” and then with little discretion produces the product. Like an amateur I fumble with my wallet and produce the going rate.
The feeling in the moment when paranoia kicks in is more than difficult to word. Every single eye within the direct area stares at you and you alone, they are all potential police. A billion what-ifs bounce around your mind taunting your rationality. The prospect of arrest, fear of incarceration, what happens to the ones you leave behind? Yet, in what could be minutes, or seconds, or perhaps less, you remember two large men you would attempt to avoid meeting at the best of times are waiting. Maybe you might wonder if you’re being fleeced or mugged. If there is actually something in the hand pulled from the bag, and even if there isn’t, the risk of an alternative you’d rather not think about far outweighs the need you had for the twenty dollars in the first place.
With both reluctance and curiosity the handshake occurs. The short moment of discretion that seems amusingly ironic in comparison to the not so subtle origins of the transaction. Two hands meet, one unsure, the other expertly folding a note with dexterous fingers. The small snap-lock bag, container of currency, floats to the pavement in super-slow motion like that annoying feather scene in Forest Gump. Surprisingly, with cobra like reflex, I lift and land my foot squarely on my purchase that is immanently threatened to be blown down the street. Ever so calmly, and in one fluid motion, I nod to my momentary acquaintances, bow retrieving the baggy from under my foot and b-line in my original direction without once glancing back.
Other excerpts to follow, so stay tuned...
* * *
The Window
Perched upon a window
Any window
Mindlessly watching the rain
Smacking its hands
on the roofs
Nowhere to go
Just roll off
Not as if in any hurry
Little unconscious drops
doing as they do
Turning a sky as grey as a street
Turning a street as wet as a sky
Only to be sucked up
Evaporated
Washed away
Still it rains
Perched upon a window
Any window
Mindlessly watching the rain
Smacking its hands
on the roofs
Nowhere to go
Just roll off
Not as if in any hurry
Little unconscious drops
doing as they do
Turning a sky as grey as a street
Turning a street as wet as a sky
Only to be sucked up
Evaporated
Washed away
Still it rains
posted by Jimi at 4:26 PM
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