Chapter 32

 

 

On the couch, Moggsie had just finished rearranging Ewen’s lap, when the mobile rang.

Hogmyre.

“Ewen, how does it feel, on your way to abundant wealth?”

His protégé laughed. “Better than poor.”

“Pathetic answer. Have you forgotten what I’d taught you?”

“Okay. It’s fantastic being rich.” It still felt wildly untrue.

“Be grateful and you’ll receive. Fake it before you make it. So, whatdya say we spend a slice of your three hundred grand profit?”

“Tonight?”

“It’s Saturday night, and the working class have slaved and saved for five days so they can enjoy themselves on the weekend. Let’s watch.”

“A bit condescending.”

“The truth is seen by the enlightened few.”

Ewen enjoyed the fact Francis couldn’t see his smile. “You consider yourself enlightened?”

“I’m more enlightened than anybody I know,” he said laughing. “So. Up to it?”

“I wanted to do some research.”

“What on? Me? You’ve won big this week. It’s Saturday night. I’ll meet you at the Glacial Bar at nine pm.”

 

*

 

Ewen placed a ticket on the Prado’s dash and strolled in the warm night air through the Leederville car park. Rear fences and back entrance roller doors formed the car park’s eastern boundary. The rear fences belonged to the Oxford Street shops whose street frontage formed Leederville’s main drag. Oscillating sounds, voices and vehicles, rising above the shop roofs gave the entertainment district a lively air.

He smelt ganja. Three parking bays away, two neatly dressed cowboys leant against a Holden ute sprouting three aerials, a bulbar, mudflaps and spotlights. The young jackeroos watched him approach, and offered the joint. Ewen pointed up to a central surveillance camera mounted on a pole. The cowboys checked it from below their hat brims. The joint passed between them.

Halfway along the car park boundary, Ewen noticed a lady in her early sixties bent over beside a skip bin. She wore a faded blue cotton dress and a zipped, sleeveless jacket that defied the night’s warmth. He slowed as he neared her. Her hands, dug deep into a white polywoven bag, wrestled something. Eventually they pulled out a cushion and placed it atop the rectangle bag.

The skip bin threw a shadow into a walkway between a ringlock fence and a brick wall. The walkway ended two metres in, at a locked gate.

“Don’t sleep here,” he said, amazed how his private concerns had turned public.

Still bent over, she spied him through a curtain of grey hair. She slowly straightened her spine. The act revealed a white Chihuahua’s guarded face nestled between her breasts behind the jacket’s V. The woman stayed silent. Two sets of eyes, hers and the dog’s, watched him.

He couldn’t understand why everything flowed so automatically—his words, opening his wallet, handing over fifty dollars.

She didn’t move.

He stepped forwards with the fifty. “Here.”

She didn’t take it. “I don’t wanna do tricks,” she said sadly.

The deepening of the homeless woman’s worry, the visions of what she’d probably endured, ignited a sparkler inside him. The angry flare shoved him past manners and into her personal space. He pushed the money upon her.

“Hey, Nuisance, whatdaya think you’re doing?”

Ewen spun round to the cowboys squaring up to him.

“Huh?” said the stockier of the two, flicking the joint over his shoulder as they marched at him.

Ewen’s anger locked onto its target, the relief a medicated rush. He stepped straight up to them. “Why don’t you fuck off back to the movies!”

They stopped in their tracks. “We’re…just asking, mate…”

Ewen stepped into the hesitation, right to the cowboy’s hat brim. “Well ask some other cunt.”

Spittle landed on the cowboy’s nose and forced him backwards a pace.

“If you had a brain you’d realise I’m trying to help her, give her money!” screamed Ewen. “But seeing you haven’t any brains why don’t you fuck off!”

Ewen didn’t blink. “F-u-c-k o-f-f.”

Experience had sharpened the voice. The cowboys knew it. Slowly, they showed their backs.

The chance to watch them clop away allowed his heat to disperse, anger’s absence letting him feel for the lady, not himself.

By the time he turned to her, she was ten paces away, pushing her bag that used a skateboard for its base.

“Sorry.” The word, rattling in his chest, forced him to move, forced him to run after her.

Intent on a B-line, she kept shuffling, back bent like a child pushing a billycart.

“Sorry. Stop. Please.”

She did, and glanced his way.

“I don’t think it’s safe sleeping here.”

“Nor do I.” She took the Chihuahua from her coat and set it on the pillow atop the bag. The dog’s eyeballs, as static as marbles, watched Ewen.

“Here,” he said, holding out the fifty. “Take it. Please.”

She did. “Mighty kind.”

As if the words had excused him, Ewen sighed. “I thought you were going to spend the night here.”

“We’re off to the park.” She spoke to the dog. “The park, Betty. The park.”

The dog yapped.

“Betty’s got friends there.”

She said no more and pushed her life away, out the car park and across the road.

 

He walked from the car park and rounded the corner into Oxford Street, into crowds, lights, chatter, hops, music, coffee and comfort.

He’d heard about the Glacial Bar but felt no way inclined to waltz in and let some joker sell him water—no matter where in the world the water hailed from.

He found the tiny side alley off Oxford, strolled ten metres down it and stepped into a poky boutique bar so ridiculously cold that sweat scraped his skin.

The bearded barman wore a fur lined, hooded jacket. A six-stool bar and three booths decorated as ice caves were crammed into the joint. Two caves seated laughing teenagers, and a reserved sign sat on the empty table in the third cave. He pulled up a barstool.

Asked for his order, Ewen wanted to say, water to start with, but held his tongue. He shrugged. The barman slid a menu over.

Canadian glacial water. Kimberley wet season. French Alps snow water. Switzerland spring water. New Zealand spring. Each was priced between three and four dollars. Shit: Antarctic iceberg, six dollars. No way.

He asked for filtered tap water; priced at only a dollar. He sipped it. Yep, water.

The barman eyed him, and Ewen wondered if the guy was bored or waiting for a water compliment. On the verge of asking if OH&S demanded furry jackets, he checked his watch instead. Right on time, Hogmyre strode straight past him to the reserved cave table and took a seat, his back to the bar. Ewen sat opposite.

“So,” said Hogmyre, “what did you order?”

“Filtered tap.”

“Why, because it was cheap?”

“I hate even buying bottled water.”

“You’re ahead three hundred thousand, and what, still penny pinching.”

“I’m not pinching. I have an issue buying water.”

“Money, Ewen. You need to circulate it. Spending is actually an investment.”

“Lesson number three?”

“Correct. The two dollars you saved, now that will propel your savings exponentially, won’t it.”

“Okay. I grasp your point.”

“So back to the bar and order two Antarctics.”

He did, and plonked back down.

“You look as if your mother died.”

“Twelve dollars for two waters. I just gave a homeless lady fifty. I’d rather donate the twelve dollars to her.”

“You gave fifty dollars to a homeless person. What for, to make her or you feel better?”

Ewen stalled.

“Come on, Ewen, off the cuff, who were you helping?”

“You want me to say me.”

“I do, because it is. Did you react because you needed to react, without realising why you reacted?”

“We should give.”

“Fifty bucks. What will that do?”

A meal—”

“Fuck all. But you. Now that is whom you wanted to help. By pandering to the poor lost soul inside you, and finding the same event outside, you’ve quelled the turmoil, medicated the emotion. Here’s fifty bucks, now go away angst. Not go away homeless person.” Francis looked left, absent in theories, and then looked back. “What was your angst?”

“My concern for her.”

“Empathic concern is what you’re suggesting. My guess is you felt empathy for your inner pauper. At that moment, or soon after, you would have experienced a few emotions. What was the strongest?”

“Anger.”

“Anger again. Let’s look into it a bit more. Humans utilise anger a lot to mask shame. Inappropriate shame developed in childhood. Shame of being poor. Shame of not fitting in. The indoctrination of shame from an abusive parent or elder. Do you get angry often?”

“It comes.”

“With an answer so guarded, I’m guessing you do.”

Anger bit and Ewen very nearly laughed at the timing. The reason he didn’t was from being intrigued; how does someone as smart as Francis Hogmyre think. The guy’s face gave nothing away.

“Does the anger come out of nowhere?”

Ewen felt naked beneath the soft eyes. He gave himself a second. “Half the time I don’t even know why.”

“Are you violent?”

Ewen took another pause. The cold air had definitely become ridiculous. “To inanimate objects, sometimes.”

“You’re running a childhood story.”

“I know.” That carried a hard edge. He softened his voice. “Neurons that fire together, wire together.”

“Donald Hebb. Smart lad. Do you know your story?”

“Not exactly.”

“Are you working your brain?”

“I try to catch myself, and drop it, especially if the anger is all consuming and irrelevant. It’s difficult to catch myself though. Sometimes, I’ll snap out of it only to realise I’ve spent the last five minutes fuming over nothing.”

“Continue doing what you’re doing. Catch yourself. Watch your mind; a thousand philosophies are based on it. I told you trading would re-educate and uncover hidden emotions. But the way you’re winning you’ll never experience down days, which is needed to express your anger.” He winked. “I may have to throw you a bum steer.”

“I’d rather you not.” Ewen searched Hogmyre’s face for the truth. The brightness in the eyes disarmed him enough to change the subject. “Getting back to the homeless lady and the fifty bucks. How do aid agencies work, then?”

“The first-rate ones. By thinking colossal. Creating employment, building infrastructure, nurturing education. Don’t think fifty bucks, think fifty million. And to do this stop paying off the pauper inside you. Do you have any idea what’s humanitarianly possible with fifty million? You can…” His sight drifted.

Ewen said, “Go on.”

“No.” Hogmyre raised his glass. “Salute.”

They clinked glasses. Francis drained his and pointed at the bar.

“Do you understand the word, shout?”

“Reinforcement of Lesson number three. Remember. I’m a psychologist. I need to burrow inside you head. Rewire your brain. ”

He sauntered to the bar and returned to the table.

“Feeling ripped off?”

“A little,” said Ewen. “It tastes surprisingly similar to Coles spring water.” Hogmyre sipped his drink. Ewen continued, “We’re in for a massive Saturday night if we stay here drinking water all night.”

“You couldn’t stay here. You’d freeze.” Hogmyre leant in. “But back to your point regarding a massive night. Best way to start is water. Because on the biggest nights you usually forget.” He leant further in and whispered, “Especially when Charlie is making an appearance.”

“Serious?”

“A-grade marching powder.”

“You’re into it?”

“Why not?”

“Your profile. Your age.”

Hogmyre sat back. “What a wonderful way to start a Saturday night. It’s okay though, my gopher is out front.”

“I didn’t mean it like that.”

“How did you mean it?”

“When I’m seventy-odd,” Ewen lowered his voice to a faint whisper, “I don’t think I’d wanna do coke.”

“It’s a hobby. Not a habit. I’ve mastered myself. I’m moderate, drink spring water, not too much booze, don’t smoke, stay fit, eat well and do a few lines twice a year. And, in all honesty, I’ve only recently discovered Charlie. And I tell you, he does an excellent job cleaning out the cobwebs.”

“But your profile, the risk.”

“Interesting you should ask, because if you only learn one thing from me, let it be this simple insight. If you don’t risk, you don’t live. So scull your drink and let me show you a Perth you’ve never seen before.”

“Not another for the road?”

“No, Dirk, my bodyguard, owns the place and he’s taken enough money from you already.”

As they walked to the door, Hogmyre saluted the barman. “Cheers, Gav.”

Francis elbowed Ewen. They both laughed.