of novel novels pt6

8/7/2019 Of Novel Novels Pt6

1/8

Six.

June 4th

to 8th

2000 Four days of a working week in review.

If you were editing this you could run a red pen through that week. You could cross the days out like

you were unhappy with the draft. Nothing would be lost. I went to work. I slept. Jay hauled up on the

couch watching late night television. I went to work. If the weather wasn't different all the days could

have been the same. It was a template day times three.

No highlights worth recording, you know how it goes, weekends bleed into weekdays. Time is fluid.

Sunday always leaks into Monday, worse Monday flows into Tuesday. That is the universal problem with

time leakage.

At work I tasted some wine. I took a set of tasting notes. Reading them in my diary now, they make no

sense. I did a stabilisation and clarification trial, I kept a note of that. I used a forklift to move barrels. I

dropped a screwdriver down the drain and spent three-quarters of an hour trying to get it out, riveting

stuff.

Then there was Thursday. I know I told Jay it didnt matter, but did you believe that? I was just saving

face. Thursday had the expectation of her.

_________________________

Thursday June 9th

2000.

My alarm clock spat out music at 5.02 am. It cracked into a distorted, Triple J megamix. I rose pretty

much straight away. There was always the risk of falling back asleep if you didnt move straight away. I

showered properly to wake me up. Then I crept down the corridor. I stopped only to make breakfast.


2/8

On a good day I didn't have to eat my breakfast driving. On an even better day I had time to butter my

toast. It is obvious I should have set my alarm clock to go off earlier. Often my breakfast was dry toast

and my progress was rushed.

This Thursday was different. I woke up before the alarm. The yellow butterflies of expectation had

forced me awake. That morning the coffee-pot was boiled. I was so organised I had time to collect some

records I wanted to play on the stations turntable. Yes even in the 2000s they had a turntable. It was

retro cool equipment.

There was no running. The slinky form of P.G Cowdrey was out of the house and in the car, breakfasted

and calm. I even had the proper time to warm up the engine before driving off down my Grenfell Street

and onto Dequetteville Terrace.

At the National Wine centre, I turned left onto North Terrace and picked up a park east of Ayers House.

My watch said 5:45, after a two minute walk and it was time for the community radio experience.

I entered my code into the small keypad by the door. The code was M.U.S.I.C. The door opened and I

walked into the broadcast office. It self-locked behind me. I was sealed in the broadcast centre.

Broadcast area is a better description. Nothing as grand to be called an office, just three empty desks

with a scattering of computers and Post it notes. The station management didnt arrive until the after

the end of the shift. They worked 9 to 5. So, it is up to me to get the days weather out of the fax

machine. I walked into the next door under the faded red sign that reads 'On Air.'

As I burst through the door a husky voice greeted me. Words emerged from the tall stacks of shelves

that were the vinyl library.

What's with the whistling?The voice called out.

It was Jane my co-host, hidden behind a large series of shelves, rifling through the stacks of dusty LP

records.

My whistling is an automatic reaction, a reaction in anticipation of seeing you.


3/8

You're so full of crap, Paul,Jane coughed. Make yourself useful. I take my coffee with one sugar. No

milk.

Dutifully I complied. While Jane's bark was worse than her bite and deep down I am sure she cared for

my welfare, but at ten to six she hid it well. Deep down. As I poured my second coffee for the morning I

said a silent prayer. Did I get the sugar right? Will the coffee powder all dissolve?

Jane was a very strong-willed girl.

So what are you looking for in the library? I asked. I continued to I stir Jane's coffee. I created a

spinning a vortex with a quick flick of my wrist.

Something by Marianne Faithful. I promised it for a tutor. We have to play it at 7:15 and I get my

chemistry practical marked today.

Thats against the rules!

Wharrr?She might have sworn at me. I think she said I was a twisted nerve.

Thats influencing people isnt it? That sounds like your breaking your rules of radio.

__________________________

My rules of radio by Jane Germain.

1. Never get personal. Yeah, the guy is a prick but I'm not going to sink to his level. Sure he is a total arsehole but the dear listener

doesn't need to know that. Besides he might be listening...

2. Never let Paul play 'The Smiths'. I don't care how many times he brings the CD. It's breakfast radio not funeral radio.

3. Don't swear or play 'Closer' by Nine Inch Nails. My Mother listens to this show, for fuck's sake.

4. Never use the radio to win friends and influence people.

_____________________________

Pssspt...Jane made that sound by pushing her lips and blowing air through them.


4/8

They're my rules. Mine to make if I wish, mine to break if I wish. She coughed again. Jesus, no wonder

we don't play many of these records anymore. This dust, it's a health hazard.

I have an interesting fact about Marianne Faithful. Well about my father really.

Oh my God, Jane seethed. Youre Mick Jaggers love child too? He told me I was the only one in

Australia.

Paul senior, I continued. Would be the only person in the world to own more Marianne Faithful

records than Rolling Stones. The LP ratio would be at least two to one. He had a thing for her when he

was my age.

You need to get some more material. You told that story the other day, Jane said. She emergedclutching a copy ofMarianne Faithful- Broken English, her 1979 comeback album.

When was I talking about that?

You're always talking. Talk, talk, and more talk. You and that friend of yours. Jane places her hand on

her hip and waves. The one who always wears black.

Jay. I said as I followed Jane into the broadcast room.

I need to describe the room. It had shag carpet on the walls, brown with orange flecking. Can you guess

what decade it was laid? 1970s baby. It had one desk, several dials and switches I didn't know how to

use. I remember it had a large gauge, with a swinging needle that looked like an ampmeter.

Jane and I strategically left our coffees on a shelf outside the inner sanctum. As an aside to Janes Rules

for radio the station had its own. One of the official station rules was that fluids and electrical

equipment don't mix.

Black Jay, was talking about how you are like your father. Even if you won't admit it.

We are nothing alike... I stammered.


5/8

Your friend was pointing out you own more Hole albums than Nirvana. He was trying to parallel Kurt

and Courtney as the early nineties version of Mick and Marianne.

That doesn't mean anything. Beside Mick and Marianne are not the same as Kurt Cobain and Courtney

Love.

There is less death for a start.

I feel justified in owning my Hole albums. Some stupid quirky fact does not mean I am anything like my

Dad.

Then you started getting all-defensive. Like you are now.

I sat down and started playing with my headphones.

When it suited me I was determined to not talk about my personal life. I tried strict adherence to Jane's

rules of radio. I wasnt always successful.

I sat there and waited for the third member of our unholy trilogy.

Meg was the brainpower behind our operation. The absent Meg actually knew how to work the mixing

desk. Megan kept it all going. I would talk, I would pick most of the music, and Jane would attack my

lowly Y chromosome. We were the filler. It's was perfect combination, at least for once a week Radio

Adelaide, we were gold. We pleased our tens of listeners. Well I assumed tens of listeners. Official

ratings didn't list us. Someone must have listened. On one occasion we had two calls on the switchboard

at once. You should have seen the excitement. It lasted until we realised someone just hadn't hung up

the phone correctly.

Finally Meg breezed into the studio with 35 seconds to spare.

Hi Guys, she beams. Traffic.


6/8

What traffic? Jane said, It's 6.00 in the morning. There are no other cars.

Exactly, Meg said as she slid a wooden box onto the table. It was filled to the brim with CDs.

Momentum carries it leaving it sitting just in front of the control panel. Friction then squeaked the box

to a stop. I was planning on slipstreaming behind cars, lowering the wind resistance.

In twenty quick seconds she pressed the right combination of switches and started the theme music.

Meg transmitted.

OK, dear listeners, this is Paul giving you the weather for Thursday. Fine and sunny...

_____________________________


7/8

Two hours later, inevitably the show ended, no request, no phone call, nothing. It turned into one giant

anti-climax. It left me down before the day started. After that I had to get through eight hours of work.

Eight hours at a desk. Eight hours dealing with numbers and a flickering computer screen. Eight hours

with a boss. Eight hours with only coffee for solace. It was going to be a long day.

My place of work accepted that I was late on a Thursday. It was accepted that I would be fifteen-

minutes late. I made a big deal of community radio being a community service. I stressed the word

community.

I think if they knew the reality was, me sitting around reading out sections of the newspaper, it might

have been different. Playing CD's and pining after a girl I met in a nightclub doesn't rate compared to asoup kitchen. No one gained any benefit at the nursing home and the Red Cross has doors left

unknocked. Still, if I got to work within a quarter of an hour everything is fine. If I hurried I could make it

in time.

That morning I drove slowly. That morning I was late. That morning I was miserable.

That morning I got blasted for being late to work.

__________________________

The day didnt get much better. It ended terribly.

That Thursday the sun was setting in the west. As far as I have noticed it always does. No conspiracy

there, I didn't take it personally. No matter how my day went the sun sets into the ground at roughly the

same cardinal point.

Just that day it hurt me. A celestial body hurt me. Driving home down the freeway passing Bridgewater

and Crafers the sun hung, sharp in my eyes. I had forgotten my sunglasses. Inevitably I got a headache.

By the time I reach the peeling paint of my front door the sun had done its work. The sky had darkened

but I still felt an ache in my teeth with every heartbeat.


8/8

I fumbled with the key and on the third attempt I got inside. I jumped over the pile letters the mail slot

has collected, likely they were applications for more credit cards or home shopping catalogues.

Calling out to Jay got no answer. His bedroom door was shut.

I headed for the kitchen. After rummaging through the cabinets I found no medicine. A search of the

bathroom also turned out negative. I came to a conclusion. We were out of headache tablets.

Jay always brought a generic brand of painkiller. A pharmacist he went to school with claimed you pay

less for the same chemical. Codeine. It was before the heavy controls on its supply so you could buy a

fair lick in one go.

Jay normally kept sheets of them in the kitchen. I incorrectly assumed, as I found out later, he hadnt

stocked up in awhile.

Needing a distraction from my headache, I cleaned the bathroom. Not the best cure for the pain in my

temples, bleach is not a health tonic.

Cleaning is not all that glamorous, but it needed to be done none the less.

I really should have done something about the ceiling in there. I should have repainted or the like. Being

an old house the ceilings were high. I couldn't reach them. An ill looking mildew accelerated the peeling

paint. The ceiling was never cleaned in the time I was there. That equals two and a half years of unaided

paint flaking.

I started the day with a microphone in hand. I ended it with a scrubbing brush. I used clockwise strokes

and hefty sprays for good measure.

I used chores as a replacement for thinking.

Chores to blank the mind like the taste of chewing gum after two minutes in your mouth.

of novel novels pt6

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