Glenn Bresciani
banana smoothie
I am an Australian
who is a factory worker by day and a writer by night. My partner and I have been
caring for foster children for seven years. My articles on foster
care have been published on the websites Parenting Express, Next Family and
CafeLit.
The beverage I have
chosen for my short story is: banana smoothie
Glenn
Bresciani
SPRING
1993
Okay, I confess: I am
a twenty-two year old male devoted to computer games. Indulging myself in this
passion brands me as a ‘Nerd’ or ‘Geek,’ particularly by those whose idea of a
quality lifestyle is being out in the midst of a sunny day involved in some
sports or other. Although my high self-esteem shields me from such insults, it
does little to prevent me from getting annoyed whenever I am told to ‘get a
life.’
Get a life, indeed! I
am attracted to computer games because they divert my mind from life. And,
believe me, I need the diversion. Each day is filled with complications. Joy,
sadness, anger, in fact every emotion available to humans is incited by the many
situations I find myself- leaving me in a heightened state of aliveness. So it's
no wonder I use computer games to distract my mind from daily dilemmas and
stimuli.
Last Saturday morning
is a great example to demonstrate how really intense my life is. My mate Kovka
and I were linking our computers together so we could network a computer game.
My mate Kovka is a portly giant, measuring over two meters tall. With Kovka one
gets the feeling one is in the presence of a cheerful, talkative Goliath.
However, I’m not impressed by his dress sense. He always wears faded army pants
and a stretched, moth-eaten woolen jumper.
While we connected
the computers on the dining table of my flat, we discussed the hassles we each
endure with our jobs. I’m a representative for a shop that sells automotive
paints, and Kovka is employed as a security guard for the city's entertainment
center. Exhausted by another frenetic week at work, we were both eager to plunge
our minds into the pixilated sci-fi horror of Doom, a game painstakingly built
by computer programmers for our enjoyment.
But before we can
begin the game, Kovka wants to go and buy bags of chips and a bottle or two of
soft drink. Our sessions on the computer are long, sometimes up to six hours, so
Kovka likes to keep food and drink close to his computer.
We’ll have to visit
the service station to get the provisions, and once the computers were set up,
we got into my car to begin our mission.
At the service
station, I pass the time by browsing through magazines while Kovka selects bags
of chips and pulled bottles of lemonade from the fridge. Can you see any
problems emerging from this mundane task? Of course not. Thousands of people do
it every day with minimum fuss. So, what I want to know is this: if it's so
basic for everybody else, then why does it have to become an ordeal for Kovka
and me? I wish I had stayed in my flat and told Kovka to forget about the food,
just play the damn computer game.
Our predicament
presented itself in the shape of a distressed bride. No point in describing the
bride as they are all the same, stunning in a flowing white dress. Although, I
guess the young lady's clear blue eyes and her dark hair falling in tight
ringlets down the sides of her face are worth a mention, as I found them
attractive. Accompanying the bride was an exasperated woman in a wheelchair
wearing a leather vest. Her bare arms- biceps bulging from having to wheel
herself about- were decorated with Celtic style
tattoos.
Hope vanquished the
lines of anxiety on the bride's face when she saw the pay phone next to the
freezer. Her relief was killed by disappointment when she noticed the piece of
paper taped to the phone with OUT OF ORDER printed on
it.
The attendant,
standing behind the counter waving Kovka's choice of chip packets through the
scanner, apologized for the inconvenience that only a dead telephone could
provide.
"I have to phone
NRMA," said the bride, "my bridal car has a flat tire.”
The attendant
whistled. "Talk about unlucky. Is your car outside?"
"Nope, it's sitting
on the side of a road three blocks away. Lucy and I have spent ten minutes
searching the streets for a phone booth. We didn't see one but we found this
service station- not that an out-of-order phone will do me any
good."
"Typical," the
attendant said, "if it wasn't an emergency you can bet the phone would be
operating."
The bride put her
hands on her hips and began to pace. "And to think I was running on time too. If
my bridal car hadn’t had a flat tire it would’ve been the first wedding where
the bride was punctual."
"Why can't the driver
change a flat tire?" asked Kovka, leaning against the counter. He was intrigued
by the bride's plight.
The woman in the
wheel chair glared at him. "I'm the driver. Do I look like I can change a
tire?"
"Point taken," Kovka
muttered, deciding to shut-up.
"I'd change the tire
myself," the bride said, "but you can imagine how obvious dirt streaks are on a
white dress, plus the effects sweat has on make-up? It's taken me two hours to
transform myself into a bride, so I'll only change the tire as a last resort.
Not even my father can change the tire. He's recovering from a
stroke."
It was a tragic
story, and I reckon that if the bridal car was parked outside, the attendant
would have jumped the counter and changed the tire for the bride. All he could
do to assist her was to offer her his phone behind the counter. The bride picked
up the offered phone and dialed, waiting for a
response.
"Hello, I'm ringing
for a road service . . . the bridal car that’s taking me to the church has a
flat tire and none of us can change it . . . bad luck, tell me about it . . .
what's that? You want the number on the membership card?" She pressed the phone
against her chest and spoke to the woman in the wheelchair.
"Lucy, quick, what's
your NRMA number?"
The paraplegic was
more composed than the distraught bride. Already she had her wallet in her lap,
slipping the plastic card out. She read the number out to the
bride.
"The number is LC44
2789," the bride repeated into the phone.
While Kovka placed
his change in his wallet and picked up the plastic bags, I continued to
eavesdrop on the bride's conversation over the phone.
"It'll take an hour
for a road service to reach the car? That's no good to me; the wedding ceremony
was supposed to start ten minutes ago. . . this is urgent, I need assistance
right now. . . isn't there any mechanic available?. . . There's no one! Well
then, your service is no good to me!"
I
watched the bride slam the phone on the receiver and cover her mouth with her
hand. Seeing her inflicted by trepidation, it became obvious to me that she was
considering changing the tire herself. The thought of her walking down the aisle
with dirt and grease on her hands and dress appalled me- I would not allow it.
As I opened my mouth to speak, Kovka sensed the compassion I was feeling toward
the bride and nudged me in the ribs. He shook his head, pleading silently for me
to be indifferent, to not get involved in the bride's predicament and go back to
my flat to play Doom.
"Excuse me," I said
to the bride, ignoring Kovka, "If you want, my friend and I can give you a ride
to your car and fix the flat tire."
There, I have spoken;
I have committed myself to her problem. The bride was at first suspicious,
studying Kovka and me until she registered my concern. She and the paraplegic
looked at each other, then, realizing my charity was genuine, gave me their
consent to aid them with a nod of their heads. The bride became excited,
treating Kovka and I as if we were a godsend. And so, the two women in the
backseat, the food and drinks in the luggage compartment with the wheelchair, we
exited the service station in my station
wagon.
While I drove Kovka
frowned at me, making it clear he was frustrated. He didn't have to frown; I
knew how he felt because the feeling was mutual. Life had, once again, refused
to let us escape its grasp by delving into a computer
game.
As we drove,
determination to prevail over this difficulty was a strong emotion felt by all
of us. It seemed wrong to share this potent feeling as strangers and so we used
talk to unite us as friends. It didn't matter how trivial the talk was, as long
as it gave us some sort of bond.
"I can't thank you
two enough," said the bride, "my name is Sonja, and this is Lucy. She’s the
owner of the car that was hired to take me to the
church."
"Hey," grunted Lucy.
In the short time I had spent with her she was in a foul mood. Considering her
car decided to have a flat tire on Sonja's most special day, who could blame
her?
"I'm Todd," I said,
"and this is my mate Kovka."
"That's an odd name,"
Lucy said, her tone of voice implying it was a statement rather than a question.
"I was born in
Russia," explained Kovka. "My family moved to Australia when I was about five."
"Russia?" Sonja
gasped, "You’re the first Russian I've ever met. What's it like living over
there? Do you remember much?"
"No, not really. The
only thing I can recall is the color white. Everything is white from snow-and
cold too. Each morning my mother used to dress me in big heavy coats. I'm glad I
don't have to wear such thick clothing in Australia."
"What sort of car did
you hire for the wedding?" I asked. I was curious to know; judging Lucy by her
'born to be wild' image, I doubted she drove a BMW.
"A Monaro," answered
Lucy. "Sonja and her fiancé approached the Monaro Club that I'm a member of and
offered a fee for the use of one of the cars."
"My fiancé is a
Monaro fanatic," said Sonja, "He was so enthralled by Lucy's beastly machine
that he pleaded with her to drive me to the church."
"I was honored to do
it," grumbled Lucy, "it would be the first time my Monaro had ever been used for
a wedding. But now I'm fucking humiliated because my car decides to be an
inconvenient bitch."
Speaking of the
Monaro, there it was in Rowan Street, parked on the side of the road. Looking at
it, I had to agree with Sonja that it was indeed a magnificent vehicle. With its
long, solid body and sleek contours, it appeared to be moving rapidly despite it
being stationary. Its panels were as smooth as glass, its black paint work
polished to a high sheen that reflected everything surrounding it.
As I parked my
station wagon behind the splendor that was the Monaro, I could see a man's face
peer out of the Monaro's back window. The left-hand, rear door opened and
Sonja's father stepped onto the side walk. His face was haggard and his posture
weak, but I guess a stroke has that effect on a person. Sonja hurried out of my
car, lifting her dress up with both hands as she ran to her father, embracing
him.
"Dad, these two men
have offered to fix the tire."
"Couldn't you get in
touch with the NRMA?" asked her father in a deep, croaking
voice.
"Oh, I rang them, but
it would’ve taken them an hour to arrive."
While Kovka and I
held Lucy's wheelchair next to my station wagon so she could lower herself into
it, Sonja's father greeted us with a nod of his
head.
"Thank you," is all
he said. I could see that he wanted desperately to be the one to assist his
daughter, but could not because of his weakened state. His shoulders slumped
forward to take the strain of the heavy weight of inadequacy he was
feeling. Sympathy towards this dejected father was the next
emotion to engulf me- in my opinion, sympathy is the worst sensation one can
experience. I was now emotionally synchronized with him, sharing his shame and
broken pride.
"Hey Todd!” Kovka
said at me, he already had the Monaro’s boot open and was dragging out the spare
tire, "grab the wheel brace and start loosening the wheel nuts."
Removing the flat
tire, I had a sensation of being someone of great significance. Only through my
decision to make the Monaro drivable was Sonja's wedding directed away from
disaster. I radiated pleasure with the knowledge that because of my kindness and
my willingness to help, I had turned a crisis into a minor setback.
The spare tire
attached, I unwound the jack so Kovka could put his weight behind the wheel
brace as he tightened the nuts. On the opposite side of the car, Lucy sat in the
driver's seat then folded up her wheelchair. At the flick of a switch a chrome
rack, bolted to the roof above the driver, folded outward and swung down on
motorized arms. Lucy strapped the wheelchair to the rack and it ascended back on
to the roof.
The job completed,
Kovka and I studied the dirt and grease that stained us, grinning with
amusement. Oh well, better us being soiled, than the
bride.
Once the flat tire
was placed in the boot of the car we received gratitude in abundance from Sonja.
'Thank you' after 'thank you' was verbally placed upon us like gifts. Even as
Sonja's father said goodbye, shook our hands then sat himself in the back seat
of the car, his daughter still continued to express her gratefulness.
"You'd better get
going Sonja, you're husband-to-be must be getting worried," I reminded
her.
The mental image my
words put in Sonja's head forced her into action.
"Oh that's right,
poor Steve, he'll be so concerned. He's probably standing at the alter thinking
I stood him up. Have to run, thanks again," Sonja kissed me on the cheek then
did the same to Kovka who had to bend his neck so that she could reach his
face.
She paused, as if
recalling something. Then she hiked her wedding dress up to her thighs, slipping
her garter off. She placed the lace circlet in my hand.
"Look, I want you
both to have this as a token of my appreciation."
Kovka and I gaped at
her, eyes bulging and our jaws wide open. I'm sure if we could see ourselves we
would have been embarrassed by the blatant look of shock on our
faces.
"Yeah, I know it's
ridiculous but it's all I have," explained Sonja. "Please except this garter, I
will only end up throwing it at a group of single men at the reception. I would
rather you two keep it."
My body suddenly felt
as if it was filled with helium as ecstasy overwhelmed me. Receiving Sonja's
gift- ludicrous as it was -plus her gratitude had put me on a high. I was
elated, thrilled . . .
I've got to
disconnect myself from all this stimuli before it gives me mental fatigue. If
only I had the imagination to give myself instant relief from the stimuli
through daydreaming instead of relying on computer games. Is it becoming clear
why I spend my spare time gazing at a monitor instead of being outdoors? It has
nothing to do with me being unsociable or disinterested in life.
You see, I have this
theory that each individual’s response to life can be measured on a scale of one
to ten. At the lowest point on the scale you will find all those reckless,
adrenalin junkies who embrace slogans such as 'no fear' or 'live life to the
max.’
This kind of person
is unresponsive to life, very little stirs their emotions. They consider their
lives boring and crave the stimulation their low response to life denies them.
The only way they can overcome their stoical handicap and invigorate all their
dull senses is by participating in dangerous, furious activities that raise the
adrenalin. Bungee jumping, skydiving, abseiling, jet skiing- you get my
point.
At the highest point
of the scale you have poor bastards like Kovka and me. We're so sensitive to
life, that even a simple thing like searching around the house for misplaced car
keys, or the joy expressed by a school kid when buying one of their fund raising
chocolate bars is enough to incite us. Just an hour of living and everything
happening around us has invoked every emotion possible. No wonder Kovka and I
need to retreat into a computer game where reality's assault on our minds cannot
reach us.
Kovka and I waved
goodbye as the Monaro pulled away from the gutter then sped off down the road,
the V-8 engine under its polished bonnet screaming. The beautiful bride and the
Monaro were, at last, on their way to a church. In unison we sighed, long and
deep, glad the complication was corrected.
"Quick Todd, get into
the car before a little girl wants us to get her cat out of a tree or something
worse."
"I agree
Kovka."
We got into my car
and drove back to my flat, secure in the knowledge that a computer game was
waiting for us to delve into it.
About the author
Glenn is Australian
who is a factory worker by day and a writer by night. He and his partner have been
caring for foster children for seven years. His articles on foster
care have been published on the websites Parenting Express, Next Family and
CafeLit.
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