Look after yourself
Sometimes, you have experiences that make you want to run and never speak of it again.
More often than not, I’m inspired by the people around me. Whether it's their personality, the stories they have to tell, or a mixture of both. But very rarely do I attempt a story based almost entirely on a story I have heard second-hand. This story is one such example. I hope I have done it justice.
A streak of sun punctures the cloudy sky, shining a spotlight on a small village a few kilometres away. It’s different from my hometown. The roads here are tarmac, not gravel; gates are closed instead of open, and the winding river is replaced with a dozen straight canals. Even so, it reminds me of the life I left behind. It reminds me of Sunday hikes in the mountains or skiing in winter. Or nights in the garden, drinking beer under trillions of stars and Christmas barbeques wearing shorts and Santa hats. I can almost hear the meat sizzling. I see my mum hunting for the last cubes of ice. She's submerging her face in the freeze like it's a portal to another world. Dad’s there too - sipping a beer and playing with the tongs he has just unwrapped. He’s wearing the world's best dad apron I bought him when I was twelve.
There’s a bump in the road followed quickly by an aggressive honk. We’ve hit traffic. That’s the issue with bus travel. You’re held captive by the roads. It might say two and a half hours on your ticket, but only fools take that as a guarantee.
“Jesus, it’s heavy. I reckon we’ll be here a while,” Em says. She has the aisle seat and a better view.
“I just wanna be home,” I say.
“Yeah, right.”
I want to sulk, kick the back of the chair in front and push the bus through the cars ahead. But I’m too tired. The window’s less comfortable than it had been on the move. And the glass seems greasier. But in all fairness, that could be my hair. After last night, I didn’t want to waste time washing my hair. Sometimes, you have experiences that make you want to run and never speak of it again.
“Look after yourself,” Dad had said the morning before I flew. “I know you’re going to have a great time, but watch your back. And make sure you come home,” he was always a little dramatic.
“I think it’s safer there than here, Dad.”
“Well, they don’t have crocs at least.”
“Or sharks.”
“Not all sharks live in the water,” he says, looking at his apron. He’d gotten up early to bake me cookies. They were awful, and I threw them out at the airport. “Do you remember when you got me this?”
“I think Mum bought it.”
“Ha, maybe. But I’ll never forget when you gave it to me. You were so little then… Now look at you,” he manages before losing his voice. We hugged until Mum came back from the supermarket, rolling her eyes. He’d been a stone wall for weeks, promising everyone he was excited for me to leave so he could turn my bedroom into a gym. No one believed he’d touch a thing, and so far, at least from my insider reports, he hasn’t.
He was right, though. Sharks exist here as much as they do at home. Here, they wear nice clothes, talk in slick sentences and smell like money. But he also missed something. It’s not only sharks that live here. You can practically find everything from back home here. Crocs lying dormant until they can chomp you all at once. Wallabies hopping through life without a care in the world, and spiders ready to spin you in their web. You just have to look closely to see them. And sometimes you don’t even have to do that.
Our weekend trip was nothing to write home about before last night. Pretty gothic buildings, statues of people I’ve never heard of and cramped bars that sold half pints for twice the price they should be. The evenings were charming, like they tend to be in Europe, when the sun has burned away all day. The terraces sang with conversations, and the soft street lights glowed, adding a few marks to everyone’s appearance. Maybe that’s the real trick of the romantic European dream: soft uplighting.
Our last night ended earlier than the others. There’s only so much you can do in three days without needing a good sleep. And for us, that need came one night too early. We had been on our own in our hostel dorm until last night. But the extra bags were nothing to worry about at first. Luggage doesn’t make a lot of noise without the owner. The owners arrived at four a.m., moving about in silence the way only black-out drunk people can.
“Ssh, they’re already in bed,” the first said, flicking on the white light.
“Oi, oi,” another chimed in from the hallway.
“I told you they were birds,” a third said.
“Sssh,” the first replied, stepping into view. I suppose this is why people want the top bunk. It never occurred to me before. Why does anyone want to climb a ladder before bed? But now it makes sense. I was at thigh level and before long, all three British lads were stripping down. Two of them had thin legs, almost as smooth as mine. One of the two had a sock sunburn line. The third had tree trunk legs, developed to support the belly wobbling above. He was slow to strip down, catching his shorts on the end of his foot. He fell back and steadied himself on our bed.
“Bloody hell, boys. Could you be any louder,” Em said from above.
“Sorry,” the first one replied. I think he was the one with red shins, but the two skinny boys have disappeared.
“And why the hell are you starkers?” Em asked, more curious than annoyed, but definitely both.
“It’s too hot,” the belly said, lowering himself onto his bed. Now I could see everything. His hair was curly and sprinkled with glitter. And now that I could see him, I could smell him, too. He was a mixture of days-old Maccies and BO. He caught me staring through half-opened eyes and smirks. Perhaps he thought his night would end with a bang.
For an hour, there was peace. A symphony of snoring, suffering bed springs and distance sirens filled the stale air. But I couldn’t find sleep again. Something felt off, like a perfectly still lake in 'Croc country'. I was facing the wall, protecting my eyes from unwanted views when the loudest snores stopped. I heard heavy footsteps trying to find their balance. Something really felt off then, and I rolled over. I was right; something was off, but the view that met my eyes was worse than I thought. Tree trunk legs had decided to try his luck in the middle of the night. Butt naked, he began lowering himself into my bed. I’m not sure what I should call him. He’s not a shark nor a croc. Both are apex predators, and this pasty lump of a body was nothing more than an over-fed cow.
“Aaah,” he cried as my foot found his balls and bent him over.
“Go to bed, you fat fuck,” I whispered and kicked him again, landing my heel in his stomach.
“Okay, sorry,” he whimpered, collapsing backwards, almost bringing down the metal frame. I rolled back over, covering myself with every inch of the duvet and listened like a picky music teacher searching the air for mistakes.
We didn’t hang around much in the morning. All three boys were unconscious when we left. Em took their room keys and threw them out the window.
“Bastards,” she said as we turned on all the lights and shut the door.
“Damn, there was a big crash,” Em says.
“What?”
“The traffic. Look, you can see the pile up now.” I lean over her lap and poke my head down the aisle. Three cars and a minibus are responsible for our delay, and we pass the wreckage at a snail's pace so everyone can get a good look.
“We’ll be back within an hour,” Em says, and I retreat to my greasy window.
The town on the horizon is no longer sparkling under its spotlight. And in the gloom, I can’t tell if it is the one I saw earlier or if it's another small town surrounded by green squares and watery lines. I wonder what Mum and Dad are up to? It’s evening in Australia, so maybe they are drinking in the garden, wondering where I am and who I’m with. I wonder if Dad is standing by the barbie, with the apron hung around his neck and tongs in his hand. Look after yourself, I hear him say.
“I did,” I reply.
“What?” Em asks.
“Nothing…I just miss home.”
“Me too, babe. Me too.”
Love, Luke
P.S Thank you Sophie.