Blowin’ in the Wind

Story and Illustration by Sandshoe

Black walked in swaggering. He was cooked. A day at the beach represented ‘what people do’.

“Went to the beach.” He was as self conscious as a flag and pulled away from around his neck the striped towel he wore as he would an ill fitting evening scarf.

Where she had stopped half way towards the interior room and glanced behind her when she heard Black about to come in, she was motionless.

“You got badly burnt,” she said.

Black recoiled and sneered. He made a noise of disapproval.

“You are badly burnt.”

Black sat down on an upended crate installed inside the door of the front living room to furnish it with a one-seater. He sprawled against the exposed framework of the wooden wall. He lolled his head. He raised his head, screwed his eyes almost shut, eyeballing her. He declared her wrong.

“Alright,” she said, “you’ll know about it tomorrow.”

She felt confused, but didn’t show it.

“I don’t burn. I can’t.” Black’s head fell forward. He feigned sleep.

She recovered her aplomb.

“All right,” she said and returned her attention to the walk across the bare boards of the room. Everywhere in The Castle’s interior was bare. She called back easily as she disappeared through the door into a baffle of sunlight accommodating a mezzanine floor above her.

“Must be the Red Indian in you.”

A tense expulsion of vented breath split the air. She heard Black scrape the upturned crate so it fell over when he stood.

She wasn’t frightened by Black’s impetuous movements. They were full of grace. The exclamation made her turn around and walk back into the front room to hear what Black was suggesting. He was leaning forward in front of the small mirror hung on a wall post. His legs creased forward, his knees bent the better to see his face full on and side to side, he swung his face wide to the view of the mirror’s reflection. “I am,” he mused. He turned to her, defenceless. “I never knew I could burn. I thought I couldn’t.”

Black sauntered immediately behind her as they both turned and headed towards the doorway into the interior room, the heart of the renovation furnished with bench seats either side of a wooden table. She skirted the table to access her room on the other side of the table, before she lay down to sleep through the rest of this afternoon’s heat threw the cushions onto the floor off her single divan bed, ready for evening loungers. Black ran up the ladder to the enclosed mezzanine that made a loft over the fireplace. He sang in the private consideration of space he shared with Suse.

Mismatched and partnered individuals meet and find a way to live together in squats. There is only one antidote for homelessness, housing and The Castle was an adventure, their roof overhead, a haven, sleeping place and – like a found object of the greatest value – companionship. None of the residents were keen to leave regardless while the meaning here was – so – different from the rhythms of the city streets and their neighbours. The resonance of the property was theirs and eccentric. The place was home everything aside. There was a lifestyle challenge. Parties were irresistible. The music was good. One length of power cord trailed through the entrance door past the end of the cement driveway and the levelled ground of the build site next door ran a stereo and boiled an electric kettle. The owner fallen from rank and who knows what directories through financial calamity had fled some time previous to the squatters’ occupancies and the power account lapsed.

This is where writing you depend on instinct to communicate an authentic claim to know something, perhaps a character very well, but story certainly. You need to know the story. An expansive sleight of hand to indicate direction or occasion – generate opinion – garners belief in it. You’ve got to give a little.

The Busker walks noisily in through the front door and espouses to himself he made some money. As he proceeds, he takes a packet of chocolate biscuits out of an army bivouac bag he slings through the doorway into his room. It is his ritual he stand in the doorway and rustle the cellophane paper of the packet of chocolate biscuits he buys any day coins are thrown by passers-by into his guitar case. Other residents straggle in. The Busker in his room tells of his fortune like a town crier. Evening would close in soon. The squatters will view the darkening gully tree tops through the window of the Busker’s bedroom. They drape as their mood and comfort takes them across the Busker’s double bed, sit  cross legged on his floor, cram alongside massive stereo speakers on a table. They guffaw, shout to nobody, enjoin, tell stories, recount memorable incidents without concern over the volume of the music. Some will keep a clear head. They will leave to turn in earlier than die-hard others. The heat of this night will intensify.

PAST EPISODES, READERS

Episode 1 – November 2010 – is here  https://pigsarms.com.au/2010/11/22/the-castle-episode-one-the-florist/

Episode 2 – April 2011 – is here  https://pigsarms.com.au/2011/04/02/the-castle-episode-2-wooden-%E2%80%93-it-%E2%80%93-be-%E2%80%93-nice-%E2%80%93-to-%E2%80%93-get-%E2%80%93-on-%E2%80%93-with-%E2%80%93-your-%E2%80%93-neighbours/

Episode 3 – February last – is here  https://pigsarms.com.au/2012/02/16/the-castle-episode-3-fruhlingsrauschen/