THE FABRIC OF YOUR SHORTS

At Suspended Imaginums, Ray was trying to figure out exactly where on the map he needed to be. It seemed like they might have plonked Unmade Lists right down on top of the worn patch of map Ray was hoping to wander over.

A man with a ponytail, shiny slacks and an Essendon football club dress shirt was shifting from foot to foot, tapping his pen on a clipboard. Ray peered at the name tag he had stuck to the front of the shirt.

‘Is this the Bureau of Unmade Lists?’ Ray asked. The name tag was hand lettered and impossible to read.

‘Office of Unmade Lists.’ On the bottom of the man’s tie, Homer Simpson was reaching into the air for a giant, pink doughnut.

‘Sorry.’

They both stood and looked at each other for a while. The man continued to tap his pen on his clipboard.

‘Are you very busy?’ Ray asked.

‘Very,’ he replied.

‘I see.’

They both stood a little longer.

Ray looked around. There was an expanse of carpet, about five by five metres, with nothing on it. It was bordered with a wall of office dividers covered in grey material. On one, a laser printed sign in Comic Sans font read, ‘Welcome to Suspended Ims! You don’t have to be crazy to work here, but it sure helps’.

‘So, can I see the lists?’ Ray asked.

‘They haven’t been made,’ the young man replied.

‘Oh.’

Standing. Looking. ‘So what exactly do you do here?’ Ray asked.

‘I can tell you about the lists.’

‘The unmade lists?’

‘Yes. The Unmade Lists.’

‘All of them?’

‘You don’t have time for that.’

‘Yes, you’re probably right.’

They both waited a little while. Ray thought the man might have been worried that things were getting a little too friendly between them. Once the atmosphere had cooled somewhat, the man said, ‘Would you like to hear about Smells Now Extinct?’

‘Sorry?’

‘It’s a list.’

‘An unmade list?’

‘Yes. It’s called Smells Now Extinct.’

‘Oh.’

There was a short wait. Ray realized the man was still waiting for an answer to his question. ‘I’d love to hear about that list,’ he said.

‘It’s a list of Smells Now Extinct,’ the man said.

‘For example?’

‘The list is unmade.’

‘Ah.’

The man looked left and right, then leaned confidentially over his clipboard. ‘I can tell you some of the things I think would be on it. But you mustn’t tell anyone.’

‘Ah, sure.’

The man began:

‘Ahem. Smells Now Extinct.

‘One. The smell of a trilobite which has been feeding underwater and is now half exposed by a receding tide.

‘Two. The smell of a trilobite which has been feeding underwater and has become wedged between two rocks. In its struggle to escape, part of its exoskeleton has been crushed.

‘Three. The smell of three brine shrimp which have smelled the crushed exoskeleton and have come to investigate. One is nibbling on the trilobite’s exposed flesh.

‘Four. The smell of a triceratops egg, just twenty seconds ago expelled from its mother’s cloaca.

‘Five. The smell on the breath of a pterodactyl who within thirty seconds of the egg being expelled has snatched it from its nest and eaten its contents.

‘Six. The smell as you push a Monaco Bar from its justopened wrapper.

‘Seven. The smell of a piece of Monaco Bar which fell into your lap while you were watching the cricket on television, and which you didn’t find until hours later when it was well and truly melted into the fabric of your shorts.

‘Eight. The smell of Rod Marsh’s right hand as he hurriedly tugs his wicket-keeping glove off to retrieve a Lillee bowl which has somehow gotten past him, even though he touched his fingertips to it enough to slow it down.

‘Nine. The smell of a baby giant sloth sleeping in dappled sunlight, its rear half in the sun, its front half in the shade.

‘Ten. The smell of a baby giant sloth’s intestines bloating in the dappled sunlight as it begins to rot; though it appeared to be sleeping it was, in fact, dead.

‘Would you like to hear some more? I have more.’

‘I think I get the gist,’ Ray replied.

‘There are other lists, you know.’ The man was becoming quite conspiratorial. ‘There’s a list of The Speed of Things. It lists the speed of every thing which has ever existed, in every mode of travel.’

‘I see.’

‘It’s not made.’

‘I probably could have guessed that.’

Ray could hear four or five people behind the dividers struggling to sing Happy Birthday in fewer than three keys.

‘Do you think I could just pop over to Suspended Imaginums for a minute?’ he asked the man.

‘I’m afraid not. It’s a Closed Department.’

‘Closed?’

‘Yes. It isn’t open.’

‘Ah, not like Unmade Lists.’

‘Unmade Lists is an Office. It’s Closed too.’

‘But you let me in.’

‘No I didn’t. Unmade Lists is over there.’ The man waved his arm at the empty carpet.

‘Right.’ Ray took a deep breath and made a run for it, and landed on his side as he tripped over a hummock of granite sticking up from the grass. ‘Oh thank you God,’ he said out loud, rolled on to his back and stared up at the blue, blue sky.