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| The weapon in question |
Hi everyone! I’m back from a few weeks of camping in the Blue Mountains with my Dad. It was magic, especially the Jenolan Caves. I felt very peaceful traipsing around in the semi darkness.
Anyway, nice to be back, here’s today’s blog.
The cultural hub of Footscray is Lentil as Anything. It’s not as upmarket as the city ones, instead functioning as a sort of community center, forever heaving under the weight of the jostling, jovial locals. Here, old Greek guys shout at eachother over their lattes, newly arrived Sudanese refugees observe politely from the corner table, and the bogans of the West convene to discuss what the fuck is up with Dave, coz he’s been acting like a fuckin’ cunt lately.
At first I felt a bit intimidated by it all, like it was a noisy, chaotic club I didn’t have the password for. Everyone there behaves as if they’re in their own private lounge room. Despite my apprehensions, I took a deep breath one day and entered the fray, notebook in hand.
Scrawling away, I was just beginning to relax when I noticed a hand scratching at the surface of my table. I lifted my gaze and jumped. Standing in front of me, sort of swaying back and forth as if he might collapse at any second, was a rather disheveled man. His eyes were trained in my direction but he clearly didn’t see me, lost in some hazy, swaying dream world. I told myself he wasn’t a threat and just to ignore him. But the scratchy-hand advanced further and further toward me, the sways now bumping my table in a sort of rhythmic- heroin- dance. Bump. Bump. Bump. I began to panic. What on earth was the appropriate thing to do? I racked my brain, and just when the space cadet was about to sway his way into my lap, a lanky, smiling guy sat down next to me.
‘Hey dude!’ Yelled lanky man at the intruder.
Mr Spacey’s eyes flung open and he beamed in silent shock at his surroundings.
‘What are you doing?’ Questioned smiles.
‘Ummmmmm….’ Spacey did not know what he was doing.
Smiley suggested he go do whatever it was somewhere else, and apparently quite happy with this idea, the table scratcher was gone from whence he came.
Part of me felt like throwing my arms around this, admittedly also quite disheveled, man and professing my admiration. But I refrained, instead offering a thankyou and asking him if he knew that guy.
‘Nah, but he looked like he was pretty out of it to me.’
Yes, yes he did. Obligatory chit chat ensued, and if you read this blog, you know how much I looove obligatory chit chat. I went for a code breaker and asked him about his wrist, which he had been rubbing as if in pain. What followed was the sort of talking someone does when they have been dying to talk for years, but no-one has bothered to invite them to. I didn’t mind. I listened to his list of injuries, and to how he used to be a carpenter but couldn’t work anymore, and to how he was planning to smoke some ice tonight because he just wanted to escape and not have to think for a while. I felt bad for him and when I eventually managed to remove myself from the conversation, I really hoped that things for my rescuer would work out.
I didn’t realise what I’d started.
The next time I went to Lentils he happily spotted me and came over for another chat. About two thirds of the way through my latte, one of the staff rushed over and positioned his face right next to Sam’s.
‘You better leave,’ the waiter breathed angrily, ‘Right. Fucking. Now.’
Sam immediately launched into a stream of defenses; ‘I’m innocent! It was that motherfucker who punched me!’
The waiter stood firm and said he would call the cops, at which point Sam stood up, walked into the kitchen and started ranting to the staff about being wrongly accused. Unsurprisingly, they were shocked dumb and stood there, at a loss. Sam continued his tirade, now walking round the café and trying to drum up support for his cause. He approached one of the Sudanese girls; ‘Sara! You know I didn’t do anything wrong! That guy was feeding his dog from the human plates! From the human plates, Sara!’
Sara’s lack of support was the final straw, and the enraged Sam finally stormed out.
‘Don’t come back!’ Screamed the waiter as he locked the door. ‘You’re banned!’
What had just happened? I needed to know! But I couldn’t work out if it was appropriate to ask. Fuck it, I thought after some consideration, and walked up to the waiter who’d done the dirty work.
‘What happened?’ I asked.
‘Do you know him?’
‘Not really, he just talks to me when I come in.’
‘Uh, ok. He’s a regular so we’ll put up with a certain level of bullshit, but lately he’s been really bad. The other day he came in with a weapon, and went and threatened this dude out the front with it. If I hadn’t have stepped in he would have used it.’
That didn’t sound good. ‘What was the weapon?’ I inquired.
‘A vacuum cleaner head.’
I had to stifle a giggle. ‘Like, the end of the tube thing that comes out of the vacuum cleaner?’
‘Yeah, that.’
Confused, I thanked the waiter for his bravery and walked out. I guess my friend really is disturbed, I thought.
Ok, so that should have been that. But now I have a little problem. Every time this guy sees me, he comes right over, happy as Larry, sits next to me and starts chatting away. To be honest I don’t harbour any fear that he’s gonna use his vacuum on me, but it’s really tedious. I don’t know how to get him to go away. And he's one of those people who are completely immune to normal 'winding up the conversation' cues, like saying, 'Well, it's been really nice chatting to you but I should really get back to...'
'And then this dude started being the biggest dick, blah blah blah...'
Even if I’m working, he just sits down and talks over the top of my computer. Usually I have to excuse myself and physically leave in order to exit the situation.
So now when I walk in somewhere I have to, like, scan around and make sure it’s all clear. I've taken to working in really obscure Asian cafes in the hope he won't find me there.
Just another story from the heart of Footscrazy.
