Thursday 28 December 2006

Saab 93

Mum and dad heard the 280E start up, at Xmas and dad saw the black smoke belching out of the 280E's exhaust. (How much is a Mercedes engine rebuild?)

Apparently, a day later mum said to dad that considering she'd given me the 280E all those years ago, it was maybe time she got herself a new car and gave me her 2 year old Saab 93.

In between times, the last few of her cars have gone to my siblings, so she thought it was my turn.

So, yesterday, mum took delivery of her new car and her Saab 93 now sits in my driveway, or at least, it would if I had a driveway. 


It is out in the street behind Fiona, as though it is sniffing Fiona's arse. I feel kind of sad, when I should feel happy. I don't think I am ready to give up the 280E just yet.

Sunday 17 December 2006

Fiona

A gay friend, my lovely friend Keith, who has no idea about cars, which will become quite apparent, got into Fiona and I was about to drive him somewhere when looking incredulous, holding his hands up like everything inside the car was just too precious to touch.

He said in a new age/wondrous tone. “This is like an old Mercedes.”

I looked at him blankly and said, “It is.”

He looked wide-eyed like he didn’t understand me. He tilted his head and his eyes begged me for an explanation.

“This is like an old Mercedes… because it is.”

“What?” said Keith.

“It is an old Mercedes.”

It was funny.

We both laughed.

We had the same sense of humour, Keith and I.


Saturday 16 December 2006

280E Mercedes

Fiona is gold, but you get the picture, I'm sure.

280E

It looks like I'm just about up for a new car. The 280E is beginning to blow smoke and, I reckon, she's lost a bit of power.

Not the 280E... or Fiona, as Mat called her, because of her metallic gold paint work and white lambs-wool interior. Mat said she was a girl's car; she looked like a middle-aged Brighton woman, bravely hanging onto her youth with too much jewellery and too much fake tan.

Mat, said I got away with it because of my dark, wavy hair. Whatever that meant? Something about me loving the beach. Ex-non-surfie, to be truthful. Hardly, I never tried surfing. I just liked the flat, tranquil beach, early in the morning, watching for the waves. It used to clear my head, sort of put stuff in perspective. It was the one place I used to let go of all my fear. I've just got the hair, had the hair, that's what Mat meant.

My mates have often said the car is a girl's car. 

“Looks like a fucking powder-puff,” said one of my mates.

Mum was just trading it in on a new model and wasn't going to get much for it, relatively, you know what trade-ins are like, when my brother wrote off my car and they felt sorry for me being at uni with not much money. Of course, on the face of it, an aging Mercedes for a uni student wasn't, perhaps, the best choice.

But having said that, the 280E has never broken down, or let me down, for that matter. She's been a classy old bird all the years I've had her, despite what everyone around me has said at various times. Believe it or not, people, boys have been impressed by that car, over the years. It always kind of amused me, since I've always just got stick about her from everyone else, my secret weapon.

I've blown too many joints to remember, smoked crystal meth before weddings and popped pills up city alley ways at night, in that car. I've had sex, on a few occasions, in the front seat, and the back seat.

Sad to think of her gasping her last breath.

Mat just laughed when I suggested I could get a purple Monaro, at one of those moments when he was dishing Fiona. I saw one driving down the Calder, it looked slick. Mat said the idea was too laughable. I didn't expect him to react that way. I'm not sure what he meant, exactly? Something about changing my name to Spiro. Then he was talking about his ex-boyfriend's cock, some Italian mechanic named Tony who, apparently, had a salami as big as his wrist.

When I told him I meant mid-night purple, nearly black, he laughed more.

“Beaudy!” he said. Thumbs up.


Saturday 2 December 2006

Out of My Head

I rode my bike around the Yarra. Swift. Sleek. Skimming the corners. Flying. It's the thing that keeps me sane. Wind in my hair, the burning in my calves.

Cool wind on my face and on my chest.

Faster than the wind. Just staying in front.

I ride for an hour. I try not to stop, except for little children and traffic lights just at the very end.

That last hill is a killer. I try to take it in one stride.

I love that feeling at the end, once I've dismounted onto my unsteady feet. Gasping for breath. But in a healthy, cleaned out the arteries, kind of way.

I went out drinking with Sebastian and Cam. Sam was there. We just kind of came face to face. Noisy bar, could hardly hear each other speak.

"How are you? How are you?" we said at exactly the same time.

"You look good. You look good." Awkward freeze. "Nice to see you Blake. But, I've got to go. I'm meeting someone." He smiled. He looked confident, handsome.

"Me to", I said. I hadn't seen him how long? Not out. Not dressed up. All our wayward nights at uni, together, flashed through my head, seeing him standing there looking gorgeous. He was the last person I had expected to see.

He did look good.

Then he was gone.

I went riding to get him out of my head.