2003-04-01 - 6:54 p.m.
A cool design magazine wanted me to write something for them, and gave me the title "The Message Centre". So here's what I came up with and I guess it'll be published soon enough. Older readers may recognise some events from these very pages. (Note to self: what ARE "very pages"?)
I AM THE MESSAGE CENTRE
Like the man said, this was supposed to be the future.
Trouble is, we�re still blatantly living in some dystopian, viral-marketing-ridden, George Foreman low-fat grill of a society, where you�re apparently expected to be comfortable with any of the random outpourings that the terminally bewildered public see fit to spew forth in your direction, no matter how ungrounded in reality the words seem to be that spill, like so much overheated chilli topping from an inappropriately-boxed jacket spud, from their jabbering, froth-encrusted mouths.
In short, I want to be able to screen my public.
�Hi, this is Paul. I�m not sure what you�re talking about right now, but speak after the tone, and I�ll get right back to you.�
Beep.
�You are Jesus.�
Funny way to be addressed in a bank, though granted I haven�t shaved in a few days. She�s a nun, and behind me in the queue. I decide to play it safe and I tell her I was just there to make a small deposit, which seems to be a satisfactorily Nazarene transaction for her. I approach the counter. �Jesus is risen! Christ the all-powerful, all-conquering Lord!�, she begins to shout, her pink Nike backpack almost falls off her shoulders as she waves her arms, physically emphasising her faith. I�m a little embarrassed, though an introduction like that might at least prompt the clerks to treat me with basic courtesy instead of the usual barely-hidden indifference to the state of my finances. My burgeoning Messianic complex is soon quashed, though, as she approaches her lucky teller with a cheery �How are you, Jesus?� And just when I thought I was special.
Beep.
�You�ve not eaten it or anything have you?�
Annoyingly, I�m in the biggest hurry since Moses and the ticket barrier attendant is unimpressed and I�ve managed to lose my ticket in the transfer between the rail and the tube and it�s a walk of about 200 metres with no major physical obstacles or sumo wrestling bouts or other inconveniences to make my ticket leap from my pocket as far I can remember and this is about as helpful as hiccups.
Beep.
�I killed five people in Vietnam.�
Hospital waiting room neighbour�s opening gambit, initially unclear as to whether he means as part of any official military engagement or not. It�s directed to myself and, also present, the oldest man alive. He supposedly fought for the Australian army. �Where abouts?� chirps up the old boy. �Er�.in the jungle�� he bluffs, obviously not used to being pushed for details of his fictitious manoeuvres. He moves onto tales of training ground violence and how he �Once broke a man�s jaw in four places�. I imagine it to be from repeated dropping to the ground at being told such unbelievable bullshit war stories. The old codger goes off to fulfil his urine test commitments. �God help us if anyone ever invades us. Young people today are more bothered about the colour of their mobile phones.� I almost say �Than what? Indiscriminate killing?� but I figure it might not butter any parsnips with his type. I pocket my cream Nokia and look mean.
Beep.
�You want to get yourself a trade.�
Scarily practical family friend is dishing out career advice. To be fair, I had been complaining about the lack of professional development afforded by temping. The morning before I�d tried to sign with an agency and my speed typing tests came back looking like something produced by the Enigma code machine. I want to say, �I was thinking of mongering. I always wanted to be a monger. You know, start off in gossip and rumour, then consolidate with fish and iron before really branching out into doom, panic and war.� But I just think it. I assume he means make a late bid to become a joiner or some kind of blacksmith.
Beep.
�Give me all your fucking money. I�m not afraid to use this�
The first question everyone asks me about wantonly staring into the face of violent gun death is �Do you think it was real?� Now call me old fashioned, but I think checking the authenticity of your adversary�s �piece� in this inescapably intimate situation would be akin to questioning the veracity of, say, a pair of suspiciously impressive, recently-proffered breasts: ie. It wouldn�t be the first question that sprung to mind, and besides being rude, no good could possibly come of asking it. �Hey Mr Gangsta, now�I�m no expert, but that thing you�re holding looks to me like a badly fashioned piece of black plastic � how about letting me give that baby a quick once over? No? OK, you seem to have removed half my face with a single shot � I think that answers my question. Please carry on.�
Beep
�I�m eighty, you know.�
What? Am I supposed to be impressed that you�ve staved off death long enough to noisily complain about me accidentally kicking your dog?
Beep
�So you�re in the hi-tech business, yes?�
Excusing himself as he misread my line of work and reached over for another fistful of stale airline bread rolls, you can�t help but think, given his demeanour and choice of suit �war criminal on his way to a country with no extradition agreement�. I almost consider watching �Crocodile Dundee in LA� to avoid his rampant probing (�So what exactly WAS your business in the States?�) but luckily the three after dinner liqueurs he downs take effect and I merely have to endure the gentle sounds of his slumber. Gentle as in the way industrial digging vehicles downshifting on the motorway are gentle. My fear of flying only exists in a social sense.
Beep.
�Do you have a couple of minutes to help us with our survey?�
Beep.
�Why are you still single?�
You have to love some friends for their unabashed directness. It isn�t asked in a �I can�t believe you�re not being propositioned left, right and centre� kind of way, more of a suspicious �You must have some really weird sexual habits that put people right off� kind of way. �Um, I can�t find anyone into pureed monkey glands the same way I am?� Facetiousness provokes resolute disinterest. �What about that psycho girl last year?� �Well, I think you just answered your own question.� �But you can�t be too picky. You�ll end up on your own.� �I think there�s a difference between being picky and choosing not to date psychotics.� �She had really nice hair.� �Yes, I�m sure that�s what the guys in forensics would say as they picked them off my butchered corpse.� �You see? Saying stuff like that doesn�t impress girls.� Sometimes, I just want the last thirty seconds of my life back.
Beep.
� Pablo 2003
