Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS writer
We decided to meet at his apartment. It was in an inner city Melbourne, down a laneway plastered with wannabe Banksy graffiti. Not the ugly tags of misspent youth, but considered, crafted art. Very hip.
He answered the door in distressed jeans, a stripy t-shirt, no shoes.
He was halfway through a glass of wine as he showed me around. His apartment was a gentle mix of intelligence and taste – floor to ceiling bookshelves, interesting pieces of Danish furniture, no clutter. I’d googled him before I arrived and seen that he’d written several books. I spotted them in the bookshelves.
The apartment was tasteful homewares-magazine worthy. Modern, clean lines. Not a single canvas artwork, no timber “dream” or “love” words adorning the shelves. I searched the kitchen floor for biscuit crumbs, the benches for loose paperwork, anything to suggest it was lived in. Nothing. Even the fridge, so often a snapshot of people’s day to day bits and pieces, was stark.
As he sat to put on some shoes, I remarked on a wall. It was a giant chalkboard neatly drawn up as a calendar. “That’s handy” I said. “I find it oppressive” he replied.
We walked through the city streets, him in a sportsjacket, me shivering under a too-thin cardigan. We wove until we found a trendy bar. He sipped Rose, I clung to vodka on the rocks. He was nervous – but hid it well, and we kept to conversation that how demonstrated how clever he was. I was also secretly in performance mode; I asked open questions, crafted the conversation to flatter him and reveal almost nothing of me.
He wanted to start a band. He’d been a drummer for a long time but now he yearned for the stage again. He could almost smell the gigs, he said. No other feeling like it.
He told me he was leaving his job. He felt like he’d done it for long enough and there are things out there that need to be explored. He was moving to South Africa. He didn’t know when he would be back. He had no mobile phone, didn’t believe in them. He would appear again when he appeared and that would be that.
We went back to his shiny display-home apartment and he invited me in for coffee. No nespresso here – this was a three-phase barista’s dream. I declined politely.
“It was nice to meet you” he said, kissing me on the cheek.
Back in the banksy-inspired alleyway, I turned to my boyfriend. “How old is your dad again?” I said. “Mid-life” he replied.