The Greek honey bought in the Sing’ supermarket failed to run out of the sachet here, almost solid lumps squeezing. More strange still, in the cold the scan of the forefinger, distended and faintly coloured with garden grime perhaps, could not access the iPhone, and sometimes not even the Pad. Two week on it was the same. Mornings preparing breakfast the pale sun through the glass of the side door and window warmed the length of the galley kitchen; taking the bowl onto the step of the back porch provided more warmth again. On the second Tuesday the forecast was for low teens & only 10-15% chance of rain. As ill-luck would have it, needlepoint falls struck on both the ride out to lunch and then the return at night. Knuckles and fingers aching. It was such a wonder—after almost eight years in the Tropics—that one hand after another was given a brief inspection for some kind of impossible verification of ownership of the sensation. Later in the night before the Nobo fanless heater, following Arthur’s practice, the feet were warmed before bed. As Arth said more than once, it was impossible to warm the feet no matter the bed-cover if they were chilled to begin with. That second Tuesday night the hands had been ignored. Under cover one went under an armpit and the other against the woollen night-cap. (The new, blood red woolly picked up in the style-only Seconds store in Anderson Street actually fitted beneath Robbie’s fashionable Nazi era helmet that received smiles from pretty fellow cyclists.) Pale early morning light on the towel hanging from the bathroom door, entering from the skylight, was again newly striking here. On the first morning of the return trooping up Clarendon Street toward the Optometrist biting cold was biting. Thin trousers, long sleeve thermals below a tee and tightly buttoned Route 66 shirt proved far from adequate for 7:30am Melbourne winter. (The puff jacket was in storage in one of the cases at Four Chain View back in Sing’.) Add the straw Panama, which actually helped a bit; better than nothing. A sight for those few who were about on the street at that early hour. Among the very few was found a tall, bearded, Celtic chap walking his dog with his daughter. Unless these poor, clouded eyes greatly deceived, none other than big Glick—Ian Garlick, coming on. Wah! Like a wandering hero suddenly confronting one of the Furies come out from a hidden cave when least expected. An old footballing frenemy Glick. Centre-Half Back in the first Under 17 team before the captaincy was assumed in the following year, by which time Glick was too old for the age group. Glick had always been hardy and tough; the old man, who joined in training some nights and acted as runner game day, was tough as nails. For all that, Garlick needed to watch who he called a wog. Never let that one pass, no matter what. That was in the days before the club was joined. A short little raising of the fists on a nature-strip one afternoon on the walk home from school. Ra-ra-ra. Harmless. With a name like that calling anybody a wog was pretty strange. The gumption! Once the team was joined relations quickly smoothed; in the trenches you needed to watch each other’s back. Later beer & ciggies followed over card games at Glick’s bachelor flat in Francis Street. Palsy bonhomie near enough, in a group. In the first five minutes back on the Melbourne street not the first familiar face one would wish to see—not on the way to the Optometrist at that hour in the cold stopping to chat. How you bin goin the last fifteen/twenty years, Ian?... Glick had married a fellow psychiatric nurse, an older woman who had never been met. The pair didn’t do the couple thing; two or three kids. The girl in company on Clarendon could only have been his daughter; Glick could never have pulled young chicks. Mature, understanding years, nothing whatever against the guy. Most certainly not. Last few encounters twenty-five/thirty years ago the voice suggested some kind of proper road travelled. Even at one of the card nights long before Ian had informed of the over-representation of the South Slavs in the wards, schizophrenia especially. No kind of barb involved; simple insight…. Well, was it in fact Glick? is the material question here. With the dog there was available a prompt switching of the eyes down to ground level. On the man’s side too, not altogether an immediate, easy ID either, mind. Strangers passing in the morning. Coming to the larger point, in subsequent days there followed not one, but indeed two other sightings of Glick. One was on a train headed to town and the other a Footscray street near the station. Tall, lumpy grey-beard with bad skin. In the latter case the memorable stumbling gait. (Ian had run like a camel with the ball.) After almost eight years in the Tropics it wasn’t Chinamen who looked all alike. A measure of the strange, passing strange passage.
Wednesday, August 28, 2019
Glick (Schoolboy Files)
The Greek honey bought in the Sing’ supermarket failed to run out of the sachet here, almost solid lumps squeezing. More strange still, in the cold the scan of the forefinger, distended and faintly coloured with garden grime perhaps, could not access the iPhone, and sometimes not even the Pad. Two week on it was the same. Mornings preparing breakfast the pale sun through the glass of the side door and window warmed the length of the galley kitchen; taking the bowl onto the step of the back porch provided more warmth again. On the second Tuesday the forecast was for low teens & only 10-15% chance of rain. As ill-luck would have it, needlepoint falls struck on both the ride out to lunch and then the return at night. Knuckles and fingers aching. It was such a wonder—after almost eight years in the Tropics—that one hand after another was given a brief inspection for some kind of impossible verification of ownership of the sensation. Later in the night before the Nobo fanless heater, following Arthur’s practice, the feet were warmed before bed. As Arth said more than once, it was impossible to warm the feet no matter the bed-cover if they were chilled to begin with. That second Tuesday night the hands had been ignored. Under cover one went under an armpit and the other against the woollen night-cap. (The new, blood red woolly picked up in the style-only Seconds store in Anderson Street actually fitted beneath Robbie’s fashionable Nazi era helmet that received smiles from pretty fellow cyclists.) Pale early morning light on the towel hanging from the bathroom door, entering from the skylight, was again newly striking here. On the first morning of the return trooping up Clarendon Street toward the Optometrist biting cold was biting. Thin trousers, long sleeve thermals below a tee and tightly buttoned Route 66 shirt proved far from adequate for 7:30am Melbourne winter. (The puff jacket was in storage in one of the cases at Four Chain View back in Sing’.) Add the straw Panama, which actually helped a bit; better than nothing. A sight for those few who were about on the street at that early hour. Among the very few was found a tall, bearded, Celtic chap walking his dog with his daughter. Unless these poor, clouded eyes greatly deceived, none other than big Glick—Ian Garlick, coming on. Wah! Like a wandering hero suddenly confronting one of the Furies come out from a hidden cave when least expected. An old footballing frenemy Glick. Centre-Half Back in the first Under 17 team before the captaincy was assumed in the following year, by which time Glick was too old for the age group. Glick had always been hardy and tough; the old man, who joined in training some nights and acted as runner game day, was tough as nails. For all that, Garlick needed to watch who he called a wog. Never let that one pass, no matter what. That was in the days before the club was joined. A short little raising of the fists on a nature-strip one afternoon on the walk home from school. Ra-ra-ra. Harmless. With a name like that calling anybody a wog was pretty strange. The gumption! Once the team was joined relations quickly smoothed; in the trenches you needed to watch each other’s back. Later beer & ciggies followed over card games at Glick’s bachelor flat in Francis Street. Palsy bonhomie near enough, in a group. In the first five minutes back on the Melbourne street not the first familiar face one would wish to see—not on the way to the Optometrist at that hour in the cold stopping to chat. How you bin goin the last fifteen/twenty years, Ian?... Glick had married a fellow psychiatric nurse, an older woman who had never been met. The pair didn’t do the couple thing; two or three kids. The girl in company on Clarendon could only have been his daughter; Glick could never have pulled young chicks. Mature, understanding years, nothing whatever against the guy. Most certainly not. Last few encounters twenty-five/thirty years ago the voice suggested some kind of proper road travelled. Even at one of the card nights long before Ian had informed of the over-representation of the South Slavs in the wards, schizophrenia especially. No kind of barb involved; simple insight…. Well, was it in fact Glick? is the material question here. With the dog there was available a prompt switching of the eyes down to ground level. On the man’s side too, not altogether an immediate, easy ID either, mind. Strangers passing in the morning. Coming to the larger point, in subsequent days there followed not one, but indeed two other sightings of Glick. One was on a train headed to town and the other a Footscray street near the station. Tall, lumpy grey-beard with bad skin. In the latter case the memorable stumbling gait. (Ian had run like a camel with the ball.) After almost eight years in the Tropics it wasn’t Chinamen who looked all alike. A measure of the strange, passing strange passage.
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