A Step Below

lack on white, black on white. A finite chessboard where some players have the game tipped towards them. You see there is always more white than black. The small vents in the side of the tunnel where the only elements not white. It seemed strange to paint the tunnel white. Maybe it was to hide to some the idea that soot could cover some- thing, even something so small, in their lives. It was like doctor giving a leper a silk glove, not to cure the leper�s malady but the doctor�s. However the black vents gave away the truth. The tunnel was really a place of black grime. It was like the face of a beggar, and would eventually appear to all as such. Then they would sand it and re- paint it. The next generation of the mistaken would marvel at the new technology that had made the 8th wonder so clean. Time would pass however, under scrutiny white never stayed white for long. As we passed out of the tunnel I turned to look back. While the inside of the tunnel was painted, the outside area above and to the side of the tunnel was still grey stone. It had not been painted. In the grey stone of the tunnel's body was deeply etched the numbers 1908.

It was late. Still dressed primly and perfectly they drove me home. They were my friend�s parents and compared to mine they were like gods. If the tunnel was the 8th wonder than these people were surely the 9th. They were evincing diamond, decorum, pressed pin-stripes, and glamorous gold (not just wrapped either) even at this hour. My parents would probably be asleep after having watched a night�s television. Something had to be said to break the uncomfortable silence. �And what about you Christopher, are you all right?� It was an elementary question.

�Fine thanks.� I said.

How could I match this beauty? Their brilliance demanded much self examination. Almost as brilliant, but for all the wrong reasons, a new restaurant came into view. It was camouflaged in pink fluorescent lights and a matching blue bawdy paint. One could never miss it. Valentines. �Have you been there? I�ve heard Valentines is a buf- fet?�

Easter. Easter was a time for sorrow. My parents believed in piling sorrow on top of sorrow. A tower of sorrow was sure to lean and fall in a bid to build itself even higher. �Coal chips hurt when they fall,� I heard my father say a while ago while we shovelled coal into the shed, as we had done every Autumn until recently. �A nice night,� my tired mum said. She was tired on both work day and holiday, as such she always went to bed early; �I can�t be bothered making dinner with Easter an all.�

�Sure,� came the answer from my father, muffled by the separating wall.

The destination had been a blank. I knew though, I knew. On that night we were headed for the place where a rumpus room was provided, a nigh life-size general, on a horse, carved entirely from butter presided, and where there were enough old people who stagnated long enough that obtaining cancer pneumatically was perceivable. We were heading for the land where the lighting caused beauty to take a fourth or fifth seat. Valentines.

�No I�ve never been.�

�Hey Chris, could you open your window?� I was asked.

The buttons along the smoothly carved plastic moulding appeared like a panel from Roswell. The technology was alien to me. Things like this seemed to come and go so frequently now. All but my dad�s car, it was all manual. It was so different from my friend�s car, everything was so familiar. The �Hearse�, as I called my dad�s car, had been around for years. The little cracks in the plastic moulding, the marks on the car- pet, and the smell of home.

This Saturday would be a long day. The request was simple, �Could you clean the car for me, son?� The knowledge of Dad�s bad back tied in simply and without need of vociferation. He was always so proud of his car. It was a very old model and the colour was a hideous gold, but he was still proud of it. The car was dirty, grubby and without the technology that made other cars appear better. He was still proud of it. I guess he was proud of it because it was like a diary to him. The cause of each imperfection on the car could be connected by him to a time in our, his kid�s, lives. I had my orders. The car must be clean. This was part of dad�s ethos. I did it, cleaned the 'Hearse' out the front where everyone could see. Where everyone could see that somehow, no matter how loosely, I was tied in with this piece of junk. I washed and waxed every inch of the car. I would see every imperfection and all the dirt. I wish I could fix them and make the car shine. However I don�t think he would want me to. At the end he would come, and he would point out the flaws of my job. He would pay me no matter what level of job I did. As he moved back inside the house he would always say something dispirited. I was happy because I knew he was still proud.

�I�ve got it don�t worry,� said my friend, at the same time doing what I could not. The window slipped down into some unknown crevice, with the buzz of a tiny robot at work. I had learnt something at least.

Closer, closer, closer the car slipped. Closer, closer, closer I came to my own mental precipice. Pushing me over the precipice was the goodbye the thank-you and the clos- ing of the door. These things were made difficult for me by my lack of experience with proper company. �Here will be fine thanks!� I had said it a little loud. It drew, �are you sure? We could drive you right up to your house if you wanted us to.�

Without mind or meaning he worked. I had once heard of a psychology experiment where the subjects were told to turn pegs for an hour. The peg turning was completely useless but they did it anyway. I could not help drawing a parallel between the actions of my father and this. He was a soldier on Gallopoli bound to performing an inane duty or like a missionary �spreading the word� to people who couldn't even understand his language. Like that he was, a Catholic. Never did he stop moaning just to prove it.

�My back, my back,� a stated or gestured comment from my father that seemed to contradict his continual sanding. It wasn�t bad enough with just the blockage of the stairs, the noise of the orbital sander, and the radio playing some dreary talk-show (Kim Hill, I think?) which you could hear where ever you where, but dad had to get changed. With him nothing could be done in normal clothes. They might be ruined.

"Put on old ones," my Father would always say. His idea of �old ones� was a disgrace. I think a homeless person could do better. Even more disgraceful was that he flaunted this 'fashion' as though he was proud of the fact he had cheap clothes. His flaunting drove my to my room. I refused my friends entry to the house. �Wait around the cor- ner,� was the axiom for meeting me. We tried to change him. We begged mum to buy him decent clothes, to talk to him, to mould him. I don�t know if she tried, but he never changed. My father was without intent, reason or self-respect.

�No here will be fine.� The car slid to a stop, in a fluid uniform motion. Must have those new brakes that were on the telly. �Thanks for the ride, sorry to be of inconven- ience,� I said loudly so they knew, or at least were deceived to believe, I had manners. This was followed by, �No trouble; we�ll see you again,� they said with a smile that I rarely saw at my house. I opened the door and my foot hit the path. I slid out and down to the pavement, a step below. The door closed with muffled click. The car picked up speed. It was going away. As a parting gesture the horn shouted a final grand farewell. The red hazy lights on the back of the car and the steam seeping out the muffler made it look like a beast, having left its prey to small or tasteless for a meal. The car went around a bend. It was gone. The light from above shone brightly. It was plastic and high above the ground, but still had not missed the attention of the local gang whose graffiti made shadows on the ground where the red light would have once covered. The night was cool and my breath made smoke in the air. The darkness, which I enjoyed, brought on a feeling of loneliness, which also I enjoyed. I like to be alone. There was no pressure to do or be anything. Home.

The white patches on the long, otherwise brown wooden boards. All the widows black like they were frosted with charcoal. Two cars lay in the driveway leaking oil. I had heard oil was the remains of some million year old dinosaurs. Something that was once so grand now fitting into something so small. Home.

The corner was approaching. The saturnine service station sign in a street of malady was like the red night sky before the rainy day. I could see my house at the end of a street, littered with cars which were lighted with red and covered in shadow. In my vi- sion the house had none of the character that now stood before me. The windows were not frosted with soot, rather they were bejewelled by the lights of the street, and the stars and moon. On either side of the window were suspended the curtains that like the papal robes were finely crafted and rarely seen. The white patches signs of a struggle. My dad�s struggle against the back pain, against the weight of the sander, against the sun, against his memories and dreams slipping away, against�.

�He�s a cunning old bastard. I remember him shaking the beer crates to make a noise as if he was returning some.�

�What about what your dad did. He got 19 dollars off the price.�

�Dad got me such a good car for 1000 dollars.�

We had tried to paint over him but we shouldn�t have. The rock was still strong even though the paint had crumbled. When their cars rusted in the shop, this house would live. They would have a mausoleum. His epitaph would be this house. For a time that mausoleum would rise above all else like a beautiful bronze statue- however time would make that bronze turn a disgusting green and eventually all would revile the sickly image. The epitaph would be more like a stone statue, at the beginning of its life it would be nothing to amaze or impress onlookers, but years down the track its stubborn existence through the ages would draw crowds. The memory of a man who had passion and character would take many years to die. Sixty years would be about right I think. That would mean about twelve coats.

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