Long Black and Flat White
The
radio was always tuned to the Italian station at Conca’s. A barrage of polysyllabic static emanated
from the speaker.
“Sounds
like a soccer game?”
“Yayes”,
the elder woman said. “Is Italia? What would you and the young lady desire this
morning?”
“I
don’t know. What do you want
Frances? Hey, look there’s some meat,”I
peered into the glassed in counter case, “ looks like good Italian sausage.”
“Yayes. Is very good.”
“I
think I’ll just have the regular breakfast.” Frances said.
“You
want a coffee or something to drink too?” the white haired woman asked.
“Yes. I’ll have a long black and a sport drink–one of the Red Bulls.”
I
decided, “I’d like to have eggs and toast.”
“What? You want no meat?”
“No. I’d rather, just have—some potatoes, perhaps,
instead.”
“We
don’t have no potatoes, Signore. How
about, I give you extra egg and some pineapple and maybe a fried tomato?”
“Sounds
great.”
“Do
you want a coffee or something too.”
“Yes. I’ll have a flat white and bottle of that
orange juice.”
“Ok. You just go sit down; get your orange juice
and Red Bool over there in the cooler and I bring everything else out.”
“Where
do you want to sit, Tommy?”
“Here’s
good. Ok?”
“Fine.”
“Can
I get a paper too?”
“But
of course, Signore. That will be
$14.50,” bells ringing as she pushed the cash register keys.
“Grazie.”
“Prego,
prego, Signore. Are you Canadian?”
“No;
I’m an American. I’m from San
Francisco.”
Frances,
her blond streaked hair bobbing, made her way to the cooler then smiling with
her sly grin, brought our drinks back to the table.
“Bravo
Signore. Are you here on vacation?”
“Sort
of. I’ll be here for another five months
or so.”
“I
hope, you will enjoy yourself, Signore.”
“I’m
sure. I will. In fact; I already am.”
The table itself was situated on the line which
separated the light from the dark sections of Conca’s. The Formica topped tables decorated with
lilies, surviving miraculously without water.
In the darker corners of the café, a grey haired woman sat under a old, framed movie poster depicting a broadly
smiling fellow, in a yellow t-shirt with black gloves and a Texaco, gas-
station -of- the- 50's kind of hat,
in,“Un Americano in Roma”, a Carlo Ponti production, her eyes glued to
the coin operated computer screen as a middle aged man next to her (her son?)
prompted her every move on the internet–instructional mode. On another wall, a poster of James Dean
walking down rain splattered streets of New York on the “Bolulevard of Broken
Dreams”. Other wall decorations had
Humphrey Bogart, Clark Gable and a chewing gum advertisement for Wrigley’s
written in German. The pin ball
machine’s hastily scrawled “Out of Order” sign, still there after weeks of
these Sunday morning outings irritated me.
“Scheisse. I thought, they’d have it fixed by now.”
“What’s
that Tommy?”
“The
damn pinball machine. It’s been like
that for weeks.”
“No
worries, Tommy. They’ll have it fixed
soon,” Frances demurely replied.
Time,
is what it was. Time was going at
another, slower speed now. I was still
in hyper-drive, but not “me mates”. They
hadn’t experienced the complete boot up of Silicon Valley ‘Chip Kultur’. It was “hurry up and wait” there, taken to
the nth degree of absurdity. These
people were still in the 60's or even 70's in terms of the killer pace. I was just glad to be on the edge of the
planet; out of the way in Western Australia; a rat out of the race, a winner,
transforming himself back into a human.
“Babe;
you know what I am?”
“No,
what are you Tommy?” Frances said as she
put down the “Sunday Times”.
“I’m
a runaway slave; that’s what. I’m a
runaway slave.”
“That’s
fine, Tommy. Do you want some of the
paper?”
“Yeah. Hand me the sports section, will you,
Beautiful? I’m determined to learn what
the hell is going on with this cricket game.
I mean they bounce the ball in front of the plate and all. A mystery, a complete mystery.”
“Sure
thing.” Frances said, as she peered over the business section and handed me the
sports.
“Ah
Signora. Here you are.” Granny Italiana said with a smile as the
plate touched gently on the formica –a typical Australian breakfast of:
sausage; ham; fried tomato; an egg, cooked sunny side up, plopped onto toasted
white bread.
After setting Frances’ long black down she
presented mine, “And for you Signore–is these ok? You see; we have here a little pineapple
too. And a one flat white.”
“I
see. Very good. Looks great.
Grazie Signora.”
“Prego,
Signore, prego. Enjoy.” And with that
she withdrew back into the kitchen; the heat of the recently lit pizza ovens
and Italian conversation with another older woman; the two working, as they did
every day at Conca’s; preparing homemade
pizza and breakfasts for their incoming retinue.
Stirring
two packets of sugar into the thickened milk and then sipping, I relished the
un-frothed, cappuccino like quality of my flat white. As usual, the sunny side up egg had been
placed directly on top of my toast. I
deftly moved it off and picked up the partially soggy tan bread in my
hand..
“Quaint,
how they do the egg ON the toast.”
“It’s
the Australian way, dear.” Frances replied with her usual blended tone of
sarcasm and irony.
A hot breath of air blew through Conca’s open
door. Outside, blinding white brightness splashed over a landscape of dry brown
and green suburban lawns. A Pizza Hut
chain restaurant sat kitty corner cross the street, slowly sucking the Conca’s
customer base away. A sun of 40 degrees centigrade burned down from a
relentlessly clear, blue sky. A man of
about 45, breezed through the door and picked up one of the “Sunday Times” from
the pile of those still for sale. After
perusing it for five minutes, he replaced it neatly on the stack, then,
sauntered out again. The grannies
remained in the kitchen, oblivious to the man’s commercial violation. Then the TV came on. More soccer from bella Italia. A teen, sans shirt with girlfriend in tow,
arrived seeking shelter from the incessant sun.
Frances scooped up the last slab of egg white into her mouth, then fed
her caffeine addiction once more with another sip of Red Bull as the teen and his woman friend
shared coke; she clad black on black: black shirt, pants, ankle high boots,
rounded with silver studs. They exited
arm in arm into a blaze of sunshine.
“She
must sweat like a stuck pig in that outfit.”
“Excuse
me?” Frances questioned.
“I
mean that woman in black.”
“I
see. Yes, she must. Are you ready to go back now?”
“Yeah.”
“So
long, Signoras” I called.
“Oh,
you leaving now?”
“Yes. We’ll be back though. When do you start making pizzas?”
“We
start now.”
“Already? It’s only 11.”
“All
day, ‘till night Signore.”
“Ok
then, we’ll be back sometime for pizzas.”
We stepped out into gush of hot wind.
“You
want to give me a massage when we get back?” Frances asked.
“Sounds
a delightful proposition.” I smiled.
The
car was at least 10 degrees hotter. We
hurriedly rolled the windows down; did a U-turn and made our way back down the
Albany Highway and finally down King George Street to our upstairs
apartment. Frances took her clothes off
and put a towel down over the Turkish rug.
I got the “Exstress” massage oil out of the refrigerator.
“Eureka!”
“What
are you talking about now, Tommy?”
“That’s
what’s written on the side of the oil bottle.
Advert gimmick.”
“Hmm. You want to do the front or back first?”
“Front.”
“Ok,
start with the top.”
I
massaged her from her top, just below her chin, to the to bottom of her
feet. She turned over and I started
immediately in the middle.
“WHAT
ARE YA DOIN’. GIVE ME...YOU GET OUT
HERE. GO! GET OUT OF HERE!”
“Sounds
like it’s coming from the next building.
Those people are always fighting.”
“Yeah.” Frances said.
Neither
of us, I think, wanted especially to do anything or find anything out about
what the cretins around us were doing, yet again. It seemed like harmless lovers’ spats broke
out between couples all the time in our neighbourhood–“Leetal Napoli”, I liked
to call it. But the noises persisted
and began to sound a bit closer. So, I
reluctantly got up and peered out the small bathroom window, conveniently
located head high. Nothing to be seen
across to the neighbours. And as I
listened more carefully, I determined that the disturbance seemed to be located
within our own complex.
“What
are you doing, Tommy? Come back here and
finish.”
“I
don’t know, Frances. It’s beginning to
sound a bit weird. Maybe, I better check
outside.”
“Are
you sure, Tommy? Could be dangerous.”
The
disturbance was getting louder now. It
seemed to have broken out of doors downstairs.
“I’m
going down,” I said as I put my trousers back on.
“You
be careful, Tommy.”
“Don’t
worry. Remember, we’ve been taking
martial arts at Muay Thai.”
“Stop
joking, Tommy.”
“Ok,
no worries, Frances.” I said with mock confidence.
So,
I proceeded outside the front screen door and down the cement stairs. When I peered over the railing I saw.
“Give
mih back ma knife.” Scotty, our seventy
year old downstairs neighbour was saying to a hefty black woman in her late
thirties with a long kitchen dagger in her right hand, as they both lurched out
of his apartment door; she moving backwards and he approaching her, hands up,
with his absurdly demanding appeal. The
knife was in stabbing position. That it
to say, it was being held in her fist with the blade pointing downwards, ready
to deliver the fatal blow.
“You
get him away from me,” she said.
Then,
I noticed the him, she was talking about, a short, puffy eyed black man, in his
forties, I estimated. He made gestures
and grunting sounds then, he looked at me in partial shock and partial fear,
whether of me or the knife wielding woman or both, I couldn’t ascertain. He dropped
his half-filled litre of Emu
Bitter in the dead grass near the wall of Scotty’s apartment.
“Get
AWAY FROM ME!” she screamed. And the
black man loped off, away and towards the nearby sidewalk, looking furtively
over his shoulder as she continued to stare menacingly in his direction, then
whirling back towards Scotty who repeated, “ I want ma knife back.”
“Scotty!” I shouted.
“It’ ok. Let her have the knife.”
She
turned and noticed me then, breaking down in tears, “You call the police! Call them!
Tell them to make him stop bothering me.
You do that now. Do it now!”
“Ok,
ok”, I said. And I ran upstairs to
phone.
“What’s
the number of the police, Frances? Do
you have like a universal number here or something?”
“I
don’t know.” she said.
“I’ll
look them up in the phone book. Lets
see, yes, here, police services.”
I
pushed the numbers in and waited.
“Police
or Fire or some other emergency. How
shall I direct your call?” the voice at
the other end of the line calmly asked.
“Hello. This is police service. What is the nature of the problem?”
“I’m
an American. I don’t know whether I’ve
got the right number or not. I haven’t
been in Perth very long. But the
situation is that there’s a woman with a knife downstairs and she’s waving it
around rather threateningly. An old guy
lives downstairs and he’s asking for his knife back. And then there was this other guy...”
“Sir?”
“Yes?”
“Where
do you live, sir?”
“I
live at unit ten, 20 King George Street in Victoria Park.”
“What
is the apartment number where the disturbance is taking place.?”
“It’s
right below this one. I ‘m not sure of
correct number. Do you want me to go
down and look?”
“No. That’s quite all right, Sir. And your phone number?”
“9366-77,
let’s see. I’ve got it here somewhere.”
“9366-789
is it?”
“Yes,
that’s it. How did you know?”
“We’ll
be sending someone right out. Thank-you,
Sir.”
By
this time, Frances had put some clothes on and had gone out to the balcony to check on the
action outside.
“The
woman is leaving now.” she said over her shoulder looking back through the
screen door at me. “ She’s going down the sidewalk.”
“ I hope the police don’t hang around all
day.” I replied. “ If it was the States,
they’d be here for hours filling out reports and getting statements.”
“Well,
here they are, Tommy. Quick enough for
you?”
The
cops came towards the apartment complex and knocked on door below our
apartment.
“Oh
no. It’s not that one,” I said out
loud.. “They’re at the wrong
apartment.”
“Here
they come upstairs.” Frances observed.
“Ah
yes. I’m the guy who phoned. It’s apartment one, just down there.”
“What
was happening?” the cop asked as he
looked at his partner.
“Well,
there was this guy down there, leaving.
I think that’s his beer bottle down there next to the building.” I said in a rapid, nervous voice as I went
out on the balcony and pointed towards
the Emu Bitter container. “There’s an
older guy who lives down in the apartment.
We heard loud noises coming from down there and so I went out to see
what was happening. When I did, I saw
this woman with a knife coming out of the old guy’s apartment. He was following her and then there was the
other guy who sort of took off when he saw me.”
“They
were aboriginals.” Frances stated
flatly.
The
cops looked at each other, “We’ll go check now.
Thanks for your help.”
They
went downstairs to Scotty’s door and knocked.
We heard their muffled voices, speaking with Scotty. A motorcycle cop drove up outside as
well. And then, all three took off in
their vehicles.
I
decided to go back downstairs then. Scotty came out, when I did, “Ah, they
tahride to steal ma mooney. They always
want that, they do. But I fooled ‘em.
They only got ten dollars from the table. But Ah
fooled ‘em.” And he pulled a wad
of bills from the back of his shorts.
Scotty always wore shorts, his ultra tan spindly legs forever exposed to
the West Australian sun. “Yes, Ah fooled
‘em.” he said again and chuckled, continuing to wave his money in the air.
“They didn’t want ma new toaster. Hah,
they didn’t want anything else. Just
mooney. I knew them from my old
apartment. Yes, they used to come around
there too. He’s deaf, you know. Can’t talk.
Oh, she always wants mooney.”
“Did
you used to give them money?”
“Ah
yes, I gave here some mooney. Yes, they
used to live next doohr to me in Perth before.
I used to live there, ya know.
Right down in the City. Then that
company came and mooved us ahll out.
They tore the building down, don’t ya know. Made us ahll move out.”
“I
see,” I said. “Well, I guess, I’ll go
back upstairs now. Good that you’re ok. You know, you should have just let her have
that knife.”
“That
was ma knife.”
“Yeah,
I know. Anyway, I’ll see you
later.” I said, trying now to escape
back upstairs to Frances, massage and the good life, once again.
Noticing
my intent, Scotty quickly turned the subject around, “Me brand new toaster
won’t work; won’t plug in. Me sister
sent it. Brand new and it won’t plug
in. Fooking Australians. Maybe you can make it work, Tommy. Won’t ya come in for minute and take a look.”
Why
he thought, I could fix anything was beyond me.
But I agreed, “Ok, sure,” I said.
Scotty’s place smelled a musty mix of sour air. It was sparsely furnished: a small TV; a
couple of plastic chairs; a well worn couch; lamp with a frayed shade. Clearly his brand new, shiny white toaster
would be one of his few luxuries--quite possibly, his only one. He handed it to me with great care..
“Looks
like they moved the refrigerator.” I
observed as I took the toaster in hand.
“Oh
yes. There was a commotion, ah what a
commotion. They moved me fridge; thought
they’d find mooney there behind it. But,
I fooled ‘em. They only took $20.” And he pulled the fat wad of bills from his
back pocket once again, shaking them in my direction.
“So
you actually knew these people before?”
I queried.
“Ah
yes. They used to live next to me in the
City. They’d come over and talk. Sheah would talk. We watched TV. I tried to keep here inside this time. I went to the door and closed it and said,
‘Now you can’t leave.’ But I forgot,” he laughed and hit his forehead with his
hand, “ it only lowcks from the outside.
She got right out. Took me knife
as well.”
“Here’s
the problem,” I said as I removed the plastic shipping covers from the prongs
of the toaster’s electrical plug. “No
wonder you couldn’t get it into the electrical socket. The plug’s still got this thing on it.”
I
plugged it in and pushed the toast lever down.
As the internal wires turned orange, he said, “Oh, oh, thank-ya. Thank-ya.
Me eyes aren’t too good, don’t yah know.”
I
looked at his eyes more closely this time.
His searching, grateful gaze came through pale blue colour, clouded by a greyish
haze. Perhaps cataracts; perhaps
glaucoma, I couldn’t tell. It was
obvious though that his sight was pretty severely impaired.
“Won’t
you stay and have some beer,” he offered.
I
saw, he was drinking Emu Bitter from litre sized bottles.
“Not
right now, Scotty. It’s a bit early for me.
Besides, Frances is waiting for me upstairs. Maybe later, huh.”
“Oh,
oh, thanks for fixin’ me toaster. It’s
brand new, yah know. Me sister sent it to me.
They didn’t take it. They didn’t
want anything but some mooney.”
