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The EndThis story may contain adult content. |
| Written by mick beville | |
| Friday, 22 August 2008 | |
"Stop... right there" said ‘American Pete,' snarling and slamming his hand on the aluminium table hard enough to make its contents bounce. "This is the point where you have to ‘seriously' think about the ending." His eyes rolled and saliva sprayed over the table. "You can't finish with yourself running around with no pants on. This is your Autobiography for Christ sakes; people will think that you're completely unhinged." "I thought that was the idea' I said, placing my coffee cup on my lap. "The whole point is you're not unhinged, not in the purest way. These guys have somehow managed to get under your skin, but in the greater scheme of things they were no more than chaff on the wind. You god dam Irish have a talent for rising above adversity. Unlike some of us who are destined to keep falling through the basement floor..." "Is this about the ***** again?" I asked, welcoming the change of subject. "The *****..." he growled, thumping his fist on the table. "Calm down Peter" I urged, as a few heads turned at the tables. ‘The Bitch' he referred to was the new principle of the high school where he had earned his living as a casual teacher for the past several years, and the ***** it seems had taken a certain dislike to Peter. "If the ***** doesn't like you, then you don't eat." he said, with bitterness in his voice. "I bought a god dam hundred and fifty yards of sandwich wrap at the break and you can believe that was money well wasted. And to visit a friend, I drove all the way to Byron Bay at Christmas. I watched every sign, sixty, seventy, one hundred. I even picked up a hitch hiker to give my eyes a break, turns out he couldn't drive. Ten hours up there and then ten hours back, nobody ever watched the speed signs harder. Yesterday Richard from the cinema gives me this envelope; a speeding camera, someplace I never even heard of, says I was speeding, and to beat that I got no points left on my licence. I tell you man, I just keep crashing through one floor after the other. Sure I could get work at some godforsaken outback mining town, but I dreamed all my life of living in a place like where I am now." "Maybe that's how things were meant to be Peter. Maybe you'll get on the train and find the perfect woman." He smiled. "You heard the story?" I smiled back. I'd heard the story several times. How he'd sat next to her on the train. How he'd started a conversation about the book she was reading. How within two months they were married and within a further two months it was all just another disaster. "It's at this point" he said, seamlessly changing the subject "that you have to nail the essence of ‘you.' This is your story, your journey, and for better or worse, it's brought you to this point. How do you want to end the story?" he asked.
I had to think for a while. It was early March 2007 and in three weeks I would be fifty eight. For the past thirty six years sharing my life with Anne, I'd been happier than a man could ever wish to be. Three fine sons and seven grandchildren would be a fitting end to any story but I guess life itself gets to choose the end to all our stories.
THE END Copyright 2008 mick beville |
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