Eagar Kristie Raw Blue

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the beach front, enjoying the lights of Manly. I d like to have
a cigarette but I don t like smoking around people, and,
anyway, I think Manly council has passed some legislation
about smoking on the beach.
The moon is weird tonight. A yellow devil with a knowing
face and hard triumphant eyes. The top of his head is
cropped off diagonally, as though he s wearing an invisible
hat on a jaunty angle. Usually when I see the moon I feel like
I ve been blessed, but not tonight. This moon is telling me to
watch my feet.
On my way back to the caf� I buy a copy of the Sydney
Morning Herald. There s still half an hour to go before
Morning Herald. There s still half an hour to go before
Georgina and Marty finish up. Taking a seat out the front, I
glance in at Marty, who s filling the coffee grinder with
beans, spilling half of them on the floor and not seeming to
notice. He s got to be on something. There s only one other
couple in the caf� besides me. It s one of those nights
where Manly is pumping with life but nobody can settle. The
crowd walks up and down the Corso, worried they might be
missing out on something.
I start reading Bernard s reviews. Bernard s my ritual.
Sometimes he writes articles for the news section on
weekdays but only when something big has happened in
the world of rock and roll, like someone important has died.
They re okay, but his reviews are better. That s when you
get the feeling that to borrow Bernard s parlance
Bernard is riffing, tap-tap-tapping on his computer
keyboard in a darkened room, his concentration
momentarily distracted by the flickering of a neon sign
outside his window (I m thinking Kings Cross, probably). In
between bursts of typing he pauses to suck back on a beer,
and while he works he listens to old LPs because their
sound is pure and deep, not like the digitised sine curve of
a CD.
Well, that s what I like to think anyhow. My idea of
Bernard has got a fair dash of romanticism. The rock critic,
a dying breed, sort of like the last cowboy.
This week Bernard is being cheeky. His review of Korn s
Live and Rare is downright flippant: Hey, Korn, live and
rare? Hey, Korn, we don t care. And that s it. That s it! But
he gives me the good stuff in a review of Sodastream s
Reservations. He says, This is delicate low-key pop, sad
and slightly fluttery, but laments, Sodastream don t break
your heart in the way you want them too. The best Bernard
reviews are full of tragedy.
You re so brown. Georgina s voice. I look up to see her
wiping down one of the tables near me. She peers at my
arms. Is it fake tan?
I clear my throat, uncomfortable with her scrutiny. It s
from surfing. I put sunscreen on but I guess it s not enough.
I m going to be a prune when I get old.
Georgina straightens up. Do you surf?
I nod.
Like really surf? Or are you just learning?
I shrug. I surf.
Can you take me sometime? I ve been wanting to learn
to surf.
She says it as though it s not the hardest sport in the
world, just something you pop out and do, like taking a
driving test.
Yeah, okay.
I don t know why I m saying yes. I ve taken people surfing
before and it s been a waste of time. Not one of them has
passed the paddling test. That s the way you know you re
going to stick with surfing, if you never give up when you re
trying to get out, even if it s really big and the lines of white
water are relentless and you ve got spaghetti arms and you
haven t moved more than ten metres away from the
shoreline in the twenty minutes you ve been paddling.
Really? You ll take me? Georgina squeals.
I nod. I ve only got a shortboard though, so you might
have to get a board. You know, something bigger to learn
on.
I ve got a board. I bought a really cute one with
frangipanis on it so I d be inspired. When can we go?
Well, I hate frangipanis, but what I say is, Whenever you
want. I surf every day. Just ring me when you want to come.
See, there it is. I want Georgina to like me. I hate that
about myself.
The Steyne is crowded. We sit on stools around a table
downstairs. I can t hear what Georgina is shouting at me
but I nod anyway. She goes over to Marty and pushes her
way in between his knees to shout in his face. He s nodding
in time to the music and she must take that as a yes,
because she rushes off.
When I look over at Marty again he s watching me. He
stands up, grabs my hands and pulls me to my feet,
wrapping an arm around my shoulders.
Come on, he says in my ear, lurching suddenly to the
right. Let s go.
I steady him. What about Georgina?
Heavy-lidded, he tries to compute what I ve just said.
Then Georgina is back, looking sulky, making a big deal
about the three bottles of beer she s placing on the table.
Later, outside, my ears are still ringing from the music.
Well, thanks guys, that was fun, Georgina shrills.
She sounds so sparky and I wonder at her energy. I
couldn t force a voice like that if I tried. Marty staggers
sideways, bumping into me.
What do you want to do now? Georgina asks, looking at
me because Marty s staring down at the pavement.
Get Marty s stomach pumped, I think. No, I m going
home. I am so tired.
The night seems like an empty promise. I feel older than I
am, old enough to not enjoy sitting around silently in a place
where we couldn t have talked to each other even if we did
have something to say. I wish that Marty was home in his
own head but he s missing in action tonight.
Do you want a life? I ask Georgina, then blink when I
realise what I ve said. I mean a lift?
No. I only live down & She points in the direction of the
wharf.
Okay, well, I ll see you guys later. I smile, holding up my [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]

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