I was walking down Enmore road a few months ago, as I’ve done more times than I’d care to count (but while we’re here, it’d be less than 1500).
The abandoned post office on the corner, where once the words “Anthony Hopkins is a drug dealer” and “Julia Roberts is a crack addict” adorned it.
The drycleaner with the newly installed rotating sign outside it. It was a rotating triangle, if you can imagine that. Along each edge of the triangle was writing, advertising the services inside. Why was it triangular? Why did it rotate? The sign spun and spun, a marketer’s dreams snuffed down a vortex of nausea.
I passed the newsagent, an attentional black hole if there ever was one, my unwilling eyes being sucked onto the magazine displays and forcing me to learn of celebrities. Furrowed eyebrows were the only clue to the unease I felt for unintentionally looking.
I strode ahead.
As usual, I glanced upwards at signs, light globes and railings from awnings, rooves and the like. Looking for something to jump up at, testing my vertical leap and at the same time demonstrating to passers-by that I was a man who could, and would jump for no apparent reason.
Usually when jumping, it suffices to lightly glance the target with your fingers. If it’s real dirty, you may want to avoid making any contact whatsoever. On this day a few months ago, I decided to hang on to the railing just after the convenience store. Quicker than I could think, I’d pulled myself up to shoulder height, whereupon I jiggled my legs and with surprising ease hoisted myself to the top of the railing. There was a small gap between the roof of this shop and the convenience store’s, so I sprang up between it, absent-mindedly wondering if there was a guillotine waiting above.
I rose to my feet and took a look around. There was a corrugated iron roof that sloped up to an apex at the centre of the building. Before ascending, I turned around and peered down the gap I’d just scrambled up. I saw my shadow on the street. I shifted from side to side and tried to make out my fingers, but it was too blurry. A couply walked over me and the infant in their pram looked straight up at me. It gave me a smile of recognition, then its eyes drifted to my left and the smile disappeared. I spun around to see if anything was there, but I was alone. I looked back down but the sun had passed behind clouds and my shadow was gone.
I returned my gaze to my surroundings and noticed a collection of drink bottles lined up by a wall. There were beer bottles, soft drink bottles and a motley collection of other beverage containers. They were all half empty, or half full if you like. Whoever’s been hanging around here enjoys a wide range of beverages, I thought to myself. Hang on, they can’t enjoy it that much if they never finish the bottle.
I walked up to the bottles and saw that propped up against each one was a little piece of paper. I leaned down to inspect one. On it was printed an address, and each piece of paper had a different address.
Corner of Cleveland and Elizabeth St.
Underneath big Coke sign.
Carillon Ave opposite university entry.
Plot. Thickens. Thoroughly perplexed. I couldn’t see any other signs of life up there, so I quickly climbed back down to street level. My mind was racing, trying to fit facts with reality. Homeless guy with printer? Drunken slobs’ party game? Some sort of conspiracy? How far up did this thing go?
I went home and told my wife about it and she chastised me for climbing up dirty buildings. After a heated discussion, she agreed to come and take a look with me. By then night had fallen and we agreed it would be best to wait until the next day. That night I dreamt of Alf, the TV alien.
The next morning I felt a sharp pang in my stomach. I instantly recognised it as the body’s need for food, so I ate some toast. After being chastised once again by my wife for leaving the knife protruding out of the vegemite jar, I thought to myself how all would be forgiven when she saw the mysterious addressed bottles.
She was walking in to work that day and we left five minutes early. I figured that would be sufficient time to climb up, take a photo with my phone, show it to her and agree on a plan for further action.
I found myself a little reluctant to jump up in my wife’s company, but up I jumped nonetheless. Before lifting myself onto the roof, I cautiously poked my head up and looked around. I almost fell over when I saw a woman up there. Just as my wife was about to start questioning me, I gave the shoosh sign, which fortunately she obeyed.
The woman was crouching down by the bottles, only there were less this time. She was wearing brown slacks and a beige blouse. Her shoes were black as night. She started to turn around and I quickly ducked my head, coming face to face with a pigeon. The pigeon pecked my cheek a single time and returned to the nest it had fashioned for itself.
I felt for blood, and a reassuring look from my wife confirmed to me that no blood had been drawn by the peck. She dilated her pupils and pointed to her watch, although she wore none, and I knew I would not get my photo in time.
I went for one last peek and saw to my horror what the woman must have been turning around to. A homeless man, rank in odour and tattily clothed, was slowly approaching the woman. I called out: “Stoppit!” Both of them turned towards me and then to each other. The last thing I saw as I dropped to the street was a look of recognition on their faces. They knew each other.
I tried to explain everything to my wife as we rushed towards the city, but nothing sense making seemed to fall out of my mouth. She comforted me and at last I had to bid her farewell.
I returned home and wasted three and a half hours surfing the net.
About a week later I was walking home from the library when I noticed a bottle of Lucozade on the ground. It was half full. I bent down to pick it up and caught the disgusted look of an onlooker. My eyes tried to explain, but the passer by was gone before my mouth could open. When I get to the bottom of this, I thought to myself, it will only be looks of approval and understanding that I receive.
Before lifting it, I withdrew a handkerchief from my pocket. It was a gift from my father in law. I felt the weight of the brown bottle in my hands. Little condensation beads had formed on the inside. Even through the kerchief, the bottle was warm from standing in the sun all day. Looking up, I saw the entrance to Sydney University. I did a double take – the kind you see in the movies – and looked down at the bottle. I knew I was in danger.
My body said drop the bottle and run, but my mind said no. I held onto the bottle tightly, so tightly I feared I might break it, until my fear passed. It was a quarter to five. There was still time.
I took a plastic bag from my backpack and carefully placed the Lucozade bottle inside, making sure that no liquid spilled. Rather than tying a knot in the plastic bag, I held the handles, and spun the bottom, forming a watertight seal. Looking upwards, I caught another look from a passer-by. This time it was from a too-cool-for-school inner west type, so nonchalant they were practically agreeing with my strange actions.
In less than a minute I was standing in the office of Professor Mick Horner. Mick, a renowned expert in mass spectrometry analysis, had tutored me in a proteomics class a few semesters back. As far as I know, I was the best student in the class, and I figured he would be nice to me because of this. I quickly explained to him my situation, intermittently prodding both palms towards him to allay his concerns.
As you probably imagine, my thinking was that some sicko was spiking drink bottles with dangerous chemicals and leaving them in public places. If Mick could run a quick mass spec for me, we’d know in half an hour whether the bottle of Lucozade was positive for a number of known harmful compounds.
'Why are you wasting my time?”, Mick said.
“Mick, you’re the best in the business. I know you can help me.”
“What are you talking about? Look, I have a busy schedule, the machine is booked solid until 3pm on Wednesday.”
“Can’t you blow somebody off? This could be life or death stuff. The fate of a twelve year old girl rests in your hands, Mick. Twelve years old!”
Mick appeared to waver at this little white lie, but it was no use.
“Come back on Wednesday, I’ll see what I can do. But without a lead compound, something you at least suspect, it’ll probably be a waste of time.”
I thrust the plastic bag-enshrouded Lucozade into Mick’s arms but he recoiled in horror and the bag fell to the floor.
“Get out!”
“But the bag!”
“Out!”
“It’s leaking!”
“You can shove your leaking bag up your leaking arse!” With that he kicked the bottle through his doorway, where it rolled around the floor in the corridor. Liquid had spilt everywhere and I was in no mood to clean things up.
As I glumly walked home, I thought of many things. The lost bottle – my only evidence, the feeling of that rusty railing on my fingers the first time I hoisted myself up on it, the pigeon peck, the woman and the homeless man. None of it made sense. I consoled myself with some fried chicken and chips and I ducked into Better Read Than Dead.
Absentmindedly thumbing through the latest non-fiction paperbacks, I came across an expose on the pharmaceutical industry. ‘They’re evil, but that’s yesterday’s news. In this hard-hitting expose, investigative journalist Lisa McLaughlin reports tomorrow’s news: drug companies are experimenting on you right now, and you don’t even know about it!’ Wouldn’t put it past them, I thought, and I made a mental note to see if the book was in the library.
I went to walk out of the store but a whiny voice apprehended me. “Sir, you’ve just put greasy fingers all over that book, I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to buy it.” Cursing my carelessness, I forked out $24.95 and started walking home.
I looked in the index and discovered that it was only third world people that were being tested on. Somewhat disappointed, I threw the book into a bin and continued home. It did get me thinking though – just what is in those bottles, who’s putting it in them, and who would be stupid enough to drink half-empty bottles lying at the side of the road anyway?
Perhaps due to the chicken, I had a moment of clarity.
In my mind’s eye I saw dark, disturbing forces at work. Something this complicated would require a lot of time and even more persistence. Sadly, I was about to start a new job, and I had made a commitment – to myself, my wife and my future employer. I filed the case of the mysterious addressed bottles under ‘complete next time inbetween jobs’ and let it go. That night I dreamt of 100 billion stars in 100 billion galaxies.
Since then I’ve started my job and everything’s been going well. I’m writing on a lunch break now, so I’d better wrap up. I still notice those bottles from time to time, but my work’s so interesting that I don’t think about it so much. Meanwhile my wife and I are planning on starting a family, so it looks like my detective days are behind me. But that’s okay with me. Just so long as no one I care about drinks from those bottles, I’ll die a happy man.
A.J. Ogilvy? C'mon! This is the kind of name I’d come up with as a joke with friends. And here is the fine specimen, fresh from the mean streets of Sydney (I wonder if I've ever walked past him, or dominated him in a game of street ball?). More than a passing resemblance to Milo Kerrigan, wouldn't you say?
Can you believe it?
