CIGARETTES & BALLOONS

A man drives up my street in a white van. It takes some vicious pulling and pushing at his steering wheel before he manages to make a U-turn. His side door needs to be facing my driveway. Maps and delivery details and invoices cover the top of his dashboard and his front seat.

He’s been all over Melbourne—a city that sprawls great distances. No-one knows all of it. He gets out and lights a cigarette, consults a clipboard and tilts his head left and right, looking for my house number. Doesn’t see me looking from my upstairs study. He opens the big door in the side of his van. I’m expecting to see a mess of tumbled-over packages. It’s one huge bag in the back. He pulls on it, and it jostles but doesn’t budge. He uses both hands and a foot on the side of his van to yank it out, violence in his fists. An immense nylon-mesh parcel, filled with vibrant colours, ready to burst or float into the dismal winter skies above. That’d be a sight. All those balloons let loose and floating free. It would be a quick glimpse. They’d get lost almost immediately in Melbourne’s wide winter skies.

The cigarette is still burning in his mouth and I’ll certainly give him an earful if one of the balloons bursts before he even gets it to my front door. Though, of course, I didn’t order any balloons. It’s not my birthday and there’s no occasion I can think of that would warrant anyone buying me balloons. I’ve never received such a gift and I’ve never sent balloons to anyone.

I walk through the house coughing and blowing my nose, trying to think of who and why, but I can’t come up with even one likely answer. Elation in all these possibilities as I move towards the unexpected surprise. I almost stumble down the stairs. I chastise myself for this silly burst of joy. What would I do with a big bag of balloons? How utterly useless!

Perhaps I’ll release the balloons within the house. They might move from room to room whenever a gust from the heating or a door opening and closing nudges them along. Maybe they’ll congregate in one particular room, and when I walk through they will sway with my movement. There will be all that colour clustered at my ceiling, nestling and jostling, like creatures ready to lead the way to liberation at the first opportunity.

When I open the front door, there’s a smouldering cigarette on my doorstep. The delivery man has walked back to his vehicle and is shoving the immense bag of balloons back into his white van.