19

Patrick

North Facing Window: Michael ‘D’accordion’ Smith

July 2016

By Rik Lee

If you have two ears and have walked the outdoor malls of the north, chances are you’re familiar with Michael ‘D’accordion’ Smith. ‘I grew up near the SA border but have spent the last five years busking around the world. London, Berlin, a stint in Rome that didn’t end too well. Mostly Europe, though, because they’re more open to busking. The Balkans in particular were incredible – I learnt a lot there, both musically and spiritually.’

Now settled in Greensborough, D’accordion plies his trade right across the region. ‘Anywhere my bike will take me – that’s my rule. It’s a pretty incredible way to make a living and counterintuitively, easier than if I were to park myself in the middle of the CBD. There’s more community in the suburbs. I guess that’s it. People aren’t as stressed.’

One of the biggest misconceptions D’accordion finds is that people assume he’s a penniless artist. ‘I do well enough. Plus, my girlfriend, she’s a painter but she’s also nearly finished studying early years education. It’s not like we sleep under a bridge or anything.’ D’accordion and his girlfriend are saving money to build a tiny house. ‘Nothing special. Just a tiny place to call home.’

His favourite thing about the north is how many people seem to have spare change on them. ‘It’s the continental Europeans – people who carry all their cash on them – who are a busker’s best friend because SOMETHING SOMETHING SOMETHING

Patrick hunched forward, squinting at his own indecipherable handwriting. The word looked like ‘swamp fiend’ but that couldn’t be right. Something? Smarmy? Who was to say . . . He consulted his notes, trying to remember what he had been planning to write next but this train of thought was shuttered up in the depot now. He stood, stretching, then filled the electric kettle. He waited as it stirred to life, leaning his frame against the kitchen bench. It won’t boil if you watch it, he thought to himself, casting his eyes across the rest of the small living area. It wasn’t much to see, the sideboard crowding the space, proud and mighty like a fallen monarch. It masked the emptiness though, which had reminded him so much of the bare Anatolian guesthouse room, its wall-to-wall solitude disrupted only by the little bed he had dragged to the centre. How it allowed him to see all around, a tiny turret in the middle of the cramped bare room, where the quiet noises of the landlady’s daily chores scraped in through the window and swept under the threshold and time passed as he tried to make sense of the senseless. How this hadn’t worked, so he had eventually pulled himself from the room and wandered, disoriented, down the quiet streets peopled only by the wild-coated cats and dogs who knew nothing of the off-season, and it was in this manner that he had stumbled upon the barber, surprising them both when Patrick sunk into the worn red leather chair. He’d looked between the stylised images affixed to the wall, then pointed to one of a clean-shaven young man, his head clippered into a military-style buzz cut. The barber nodded, turning down the volume of the little television mounted on his wall, then set about pulling from his drawers the tools of his trade.

First, he laid out before him the electric razor and its assortment of heads, blowing into the blades to clean them. Then he gestured to the heads one by one, miming to Patrick their lengths as they tapered from his own longer locks to the soldiery shave of the poster. He waited, his rough dark hands stroking the ends of his Atatürk moustache as Patrick scrutinised the heads, giving an obliging nod when he selected the shortest. Then he set to work, removing Patrick’s hair in great curving sweeps, the hair falling about the old towel around his shoulders. When this was finished, he removed the head and ran the naked blades along Patrick’s hairline, delicately tracing the same arterial freeways of his increasingly frequent headaches. He worked slowly, carving new borders across Patrick’s nape, along his temples, folding the tops of his ears to run the clippers down and back to where he’d started. When this was complete, he reached for a pair of long metal scissors, winding a cotton ball around the end, then dipped it into a clear solution. He set the cotton ball on fire then swiftly dabbed it against the outer rims of Patrick’s ears one after the other, the hairs sizzling, then dropped the ball into the sink where it fizzled out. The barber disappeared for a moment, returning with two small metal cups. He poured hot water from one into the other, working it into a foamy lather with a wooden handled brush, then painted Patrick’s throat and cheeks in soft arcs.

Patrick watched as the barber opened a drawer and pulled out a small straight razor, and suddenly his heartbeat quickened. The barber knocked the razor against his palm and the blade came away, then he replaced it with a fresh blade housed in a little paper sheath. He laid out a square of card on the bench to catch the foam as he shaved, then turned back to Patrick.

Patrick watched his reflection in the mirror, the razor moving towards him, and it started again, racing up and down the fresh lines of his haircut, pounding, scratching, throbbing with urgent pain. He couldn’t breathe. His breath refused to draw. Then the razor was at his throat, the barber pulling it down his flesh in one long drag, and it was all too much. As the barber pulled away, Patrick slid from the chair and backed out of the little shop. Pulling a handful of lira from his pocket, he stammered an apology as he let it tumble to the chair, then he was gone, off, out into the street to blindly stagger back towards the empty guesthouse. Stop, please, I only want to help. And people had stared at him, the smattering of locals going about their daily business, startled by this wide-eyed man with a face full of foam and his hands clutching at his shorn temples, and it was then that he had met the Australians and the terrible situation was made that tiny bit worse. And now, sitting here in his boxy Melbourne apartment, now he could feel it again, the same tensing of muscles around his nape, as the limberness fled his body. Taut, coiled, ready to react, ready to spiral and stumble and nauseate him once more.

There was a knock at the door, first timid then flattening into a confident rat-a-tat. Patrick pressed his palms over his face, the cool of his fingers a brief relief, then rose from the table. He opened the door cautiously. Seymour was standing there, his hands plunged into his pockets. He read Patrick’s surprise.

‘The rideshare,’ he explained. ‘It used your address.’

Patrick opened the door and Seymour stepped inside. He led him down the dark hallway and into the cramped living area. As they pressed past the sideboard, Patrick saw Seymour trail his fingers lightly along its wood. In the kitchen the electric kettle was rumbling. It let out a loud click as it switched itself off, making them both start.

‘This place is terrible,’ Seymour observed, leaning against the counter, arms crossed in front of his body.

‘The rental ad said cosy,’ Patrick murmured.

This made Seymour snort.

‘Our place is cosy. This place is like a crypt.’

They both waited until the word had run its course, ricocheting about the room and dusting them both with sadness. Seymour turned and reached up to the cupboards, pulling out two mugs. Patrick watched him navigate the little kitchen, finding easily the items required to assemble their tea.

‘Top drawer for spoons, farthest right cupboard for mugs, farthest left for tea, just like at home,’ Seymour explained, placing the full mug in front of Patrick. ‘There’s no milk, though.’

‘I don’t drink it anymore,’ Patrick said, and Seymour flinched.

They sat opposite each other, sipping their tea. After a while, Seymour collected their mugs and rinsed them at the sink. He sat back at the little kitchen table-cum-desk and placed one hand on top of the other.

‘Are you coming home?’

Patrick couldn’t tell if this was an invitation or a clarification. He moved his hands awkwardly in some unspoken sign of the unresolved. Seymour exhaled sharply.

‘What is going on? We take a break, fine. You need to go do your thing, fine. But you were always coming back. You were always meant to come back. Wasn’t that the agreement?’

Patrick stared at his hands. ‘I am back.’

Seymour looked critically around the room. ‘Are you? Is this you being back? Living in a poky little apartment with hardly any furniture except Grandmother Lee’s great bloody sideboard like you’re some kind of Romanov? I don’t recognise any of this stuff. I don’t recognise you. You’re thin and your clothes are strange. You look like a sad thin man with strange clothes and a patchy beard. What happened to you?’

Patrick shrugged, avoiding Seymour’s look. Seymour let out a yowl, throwing his hands into the air with frustration.

‘What is going on with you? What is going on with us? Why won’t you say anything? I know things went weird over there. I have the internet –’

‘Can we please talk about something else?’ Patrick interrupted, not looking up.

Seymour sized him up. ‘Fine. Let’s talk about something else. The weather perhaps? It’s shit, isn’t it? Politics too. We’ve already talked about real estate so perhaps we’ve run out of topics.’

Patrick brushed this aside. ‘How’s the gallery?’

Seymour stared at him, then allowed himself to soften.

‘Same old. Sales are up and down, and I live in fear of my young staff usurping me. They have so much energy. They’ll be up all night working on their own stuff then turn up at the crack of dawn because they’re too wired to sleep and be at it for hours while I’m on my third coffee after a big night in, bingeing on Netflix.’

‘They will inherit the future,’ Patrick said.

‘They can pry it from my cold dead hands,’ Seymour scoffed. ‘The Vince Pemblebrook show is happening. Took months of negotiating with the little turd. You know he turned up with a list of demands as long as a Kerouac scroll and sat there waiting while I read through it. All the staff are contributing pieces, so you can imagine how focused they are at the moment.’

‘Are you contributing anything?’

‘God no. You know how I am with production. No, I’m too busy making sure we cater to Vince’s whims and fancies. Currently I’m trying to source vegan mock gyros, and there’s a long and painful story of how we got to this point that I shan’t bore you with, but suffice it to say, it all better be worth it.’

‘I’m sure it will be successful,’ Patrick offered.

‘Are you, because I’m not,’ Seymour replied. ‘And if it’s not successful I look like an idiot, and who wants to show their work in an idiot’s gallery?’

Patrick fought the instinct to reach out to him.

‘Uni students and vanity artists?’ he offered.

‘We can only hope,’ Seymour sighed. ‘Because without the gallery, I’m not really anything, am I?’

They sat in silence a moment waiting for Patrick to fill it. When he didn’t, Seymour rose from the table.

‘I should leave you to your work.’

He hovered awkwardly, halfway towards the front door.

‘I could stay?’

They were both surprised by this. Seymour looked around the empty shell of a room. In his eyes Patrick saw a glint of something that could have been pity or love, and he deserved neither of those things right now.

‘You could,’ he replied softly, avoiding Seymour’s gaze. ‘But I don’t think you should.’

After Seymour left, Patrick tried to return to his work but it was futile. All he could picture was Seymour’s face and the almost imperceptible flashes of hurt that had punctuated his visit. And without warning Seymour’s eye became that poor man’s, and his face twisted in a moment of indescribable agony and it was the same look of agony that had set Patrick running, spiralling back to this country because all it seemed he was good for was hurting others. Where he had stood, jet-lagged and shrunken, the sun shining on the polluted river with its corpses and chemicals sunken below, and wept for being home. He stood up, the chair skittering into the wall behind him, and grabbed at his coat. Outside, the cold hit his cheeks first, spreading across his exposed skin, and he shoved his hands deep into his pockets. He walked without purpose, stalking down the high street and along its branches in great pointless rectangles. Eventually he tired, crossing the street in search of somewhere to eat. He passed a young man, eyes and nose peering out from the depth of his scarf and beanie, a clipboard in his hands.

‘Help a child in Syria?’

Patrick blinked. ‘What?’

‘Sponsor a Syrian child?’

Patrick squinted at the young man. He was dressed casually, the clipboard unexceptional.

‘Did you know that there are thousands of Syrian children living without clean water or electricity? Unable to go to school? Unable to access basic medical treatment?’ The young man motioned earnestly at his clipboard.

‘Where are you from?’ Patrick asked him.

‘UNICEF,’ the young man replied cheerily.

‘Where’s your ID?’

‘Left it at home.’ He shrugged, embarrassed.

‘Why aren’t you wearing a UNICEF T-shirt?’

‘In this weather?’ the young man replied lightly. ‘It’s a few layers under my coat.’

‘Show me,’ Patrick demanded.

The young man looked nervous, stepping back slightly.

‘So far it is estimated that recent airstrikes in Aleppo have –’

‘Show me your T-shirt.’

Patrick stepped towards the young man, seizing his lapels.

‘Man, you’re crazy! Fuck off.’

‘Show me your T-shirt!’

The young man pushed at Patrick’s hands. The clipboard fell to the ground, papers fluttering about. A few people had stopped to stare.

‘Show me your T-shirt! This is a fucking scam. People are dying there and you’re fucking scamming people.’

The young man scowled, slapping at Patrick’s hands.

‘Fucking let me go.’

‘You lying little bastard. You should be arrested for this. I arrest you. This is a citizen’s arrest.’

A crowd had gathered around them, fumbling for their phones. The young man grabbed Patrick’s wrists, wrenching them sideways. Patrick held on, his fingers tightening.

‘Let me go!’

‘Never!’

The young man jerked to one side, his coat ripping as Patrick tumbled after him. Patrick righted himself as the young man seemed to pause to gather his strength, then he lunged forward, slapping Patrick across the cheek.

‘Leave me alone.’

Patrick threw himself forward, wrapping the young man in an awkward hold, his arms pinned to his side.

‘Someone call the police!’ Patrick hollered as the young man struggled furiously.

Someone had indeed already called the police, who arrived to find the two men locked in an awkward, unwelcome embrace.

‘They’re fighting,’ someone explained, and the officers looked unconvinced.

‘This is a citizen’s arrest,’ Patrick crowed, before the young man got an arm free and smacked him in the mouth.

Later – and it was a considerable amount of time later – Patrick sat in the passenger seat of Harry’s Mazda outside Preston police station. His top lip had started to swell and his cheek was crimson in the cold.

‘They’re not going to charge you with anything,’ Harry explained, starting the car and turning the heat vents towards Patrick. ‘Or the kid. I had a chat with them about everything.’

Patrick didn’t respond. He felt exhausted. Harry cleared his throat.

‘I know what happened,’ he said gently. ‘Over there. I ran into some guys from the network who were over there too, and they told me. I . . . Here’s a number. Critical incident counselling. They might help, mate.’

Patrick took the piece of paper and shoved it into his pocket. No one knew what happened. Not all of it.

‘Sorry I called you. They wouldn’t let me go without someone coming to pick me up. I . . . there wasn’t anyone else.’

Harry considered this for a moment, stretching his hands wide across the steering wheel. He turned back to Patrick.

‘You probably don’t know this but I studied physics for a semester. First year of uni. Bloody hated it. Too many letters masquerading as numbers. But there’s this one thing that has always stayed with me. Physics 101, this classic Galileo experiment to prove wind friction or something like that. You take a feather and a bowling ball and drop them from the same height at the same time. Normally, because of the air resistance, the feather falls at a slower rate, while because the bowling ball is so much heavier, it’s going to hit the ground faster, right?’

He waited a fraction of a second for Patrick to nod then continued.

‘But if you put them in a vacuum and take away the air resistance, both objects fall at the same rate. Now to me – and I could be wrong because what would I know with one failed physics subject to my name and all – but I’ve always thought that’s pretty neat. If you take away resistance, we all fall the same.’

They sat in silence for a moment before Patrick raised his eyes.

‘Am I the bowling ball?’

Harry gave him a smile. ‘Most of us are, mate.’

Hot air streamed from the vents and Patrick found himself leaning back into a fug of weariness. His eyelids drooped a moment and he wondered if he were to let them close how long Harry would let him stay here. The car came to a stop. Harry reached over and placed a hand on his arm.

‘Is there anything I can do to help? I only want to help.’

The weight of his fingers brought Patrick back to the present and he reached for the door handle. Stop, please, I only want to help.

‘I’m fine, Harry. Thank you for today.’