swine

When I first moved into the rooming house the owner looked at me as we passed a grey headed man standing in the stairwell.

“Don’t worry about him". The owner said. "He talks to himself”.

Oh yeah, I thought. Another fruitloop; make no attempt at conversation and keep as far away from him as possible. Let’s make sure the battlelines are clearly drawn right from the beginning. That way, nobody gets confused.

That night, the man whose name I did not want to know but who had been christened The Swine, locked himself in the kitchen beneath my room and had a party with all his friends. Alone, with all his friends. I woke at 3.00 am to the sound of an endless monologue punctuated by several different voices, one male, one female, and the high pitched squeal of a child. Unable to resist, I climbed out of bed and listened. There were accusations and threats of recriminations. There was pleading for help and teasing. There was in that kitchen any one of several different types of people all wrapped up in The Swine who only found expression early in the morning encapsulated by a quart of blackberry wine. The man was clearly in some kind of crisis. But crisis’ are a dime a dozen in rooming houses. More important was a good night’s sleep. I wasn’t game to tell him to be quiet so inserted earplugs into my ears, resolved to speak to the caretaker in the morning, and went back to sleep.

Next morning, the caretaker assured me he would speak to The Swine and there would be no further disruption. That afternoon, I saw The Swine washing his sheets in the washhouse trough. We stared at one another, but not a word was spoken. I swear there were daggers in The Swine’s eyes and went to sleep that night fearful of a surreptitious attack so made sure a chair was wedged between the door and the floor securing the entrance to my room.

Like every person who has ever stayed in a rooming house I only intended to be there for a month. But soon discovered that most of the other tenants had there for a minimum of 5 years. The Kaiser, a German who flew a Messerschmitt during the war, had been there for 25 years. While the old Hungarian who lived upstairs could not remember when he first took up lodgings. Of course, I was the exact opposite of these people. They were down and outs; unable to function in the more important areas of life. Drunken bums and drug addicts, fruitloops and fruitcakes. Say hello in the corridor but only because you have to, then move on and find a better place to live at the first opportunity.

Two years later I was sitting in my room one day, unable to get started on a story I had wanted to write and unhappy with everything else that I had written, when I not only realised I was talking to myself, but that I had been talking to myself for quite sometime. Nothing serious, just the usual mumbling and grumbling. You know, the expressions of frustation that rise up in a person when they don’t have anyone to talk to; the odd obscene exchange between myself and that ‘Other side’ that always wants to argue. I reckon life would have been much easier if we had have been made with one person in mind instead of two. The duality of existence has always confused me.

Later that afternoon, while stepping outside to go to the toilet, I saw The Swine sitting under a tree drinking a can of beer. Without knowing why, the first sentence that came out of my mouth was:

“How are you ?”

The Swine took a slug from his can.

“I’m alright...”, he said. “How are you ?”

“Fine”, I said.

Then continued onto the toilet and returned vowing not to say another word.

But the swine had other ideas.

“I’m trying to give up the booze”

“Yes”, I said. “Been drinking far too much myself lately. Knocked over half a dozen longnecks on Saturday afternoon”.

“Not good for your health... Your mental health”, said The Swine, who then introduced himself as Tony.

“That’s funny”. I said. “My name’s Tony too...”.

Then quickly took no further part in the conversation and headed straight back to the safety of my little room.

I don’t normally remember my dreams, but I did that night. A dream like no other dream I had ever had before. I was flying around in the top storey of a transparent multicoloured building. When I pushed my head through a wall in an attempt to escape, I saw a doll dressed in sepia lace. I looked away, then looked back. The doll’s face had reverted to a skull stripped of flesh. I woke in the middle of the night feeling exhilarated. For the first time in six months I heard The Swine, locked in his kitchen, drunk as a skunk, and the little girl inside of him was screaming out that she had been abused. I did not know what to do and nor did I complain to the Caretaker, but next morning when I sat down to write their flowed out of me a story about a man who'd had a nervous breakdown and in doing so, murdered a child. I don’t know where that story came from but without question it seemed right to call it Nightshift.

Seven years later the owner tried to evict me for no other reason than I had been there too long and was becoming part of the furniture. I fought the case in V.C.A.T. and won easily. You see, it was a matter of principle. But having high principles can result in a short term lease on life. A life without an escape clause in a world where only two things are certain. Death and taxes... Or maybe, just death.

Just the other day I ran into The Swine on a tram in Chapel St. Prahran. He had given up the booze, or so he said. But I could smell it on him. I asked him where he was living. He said a rooming house in Kew.

“But there aren’t any rooming houses in Kew”.

“I know”, said The Swine.

The tram stopped. He got off at his stop and disappeared into the grey afternoon.