Remembering Argos by Lee Bemrose You don't know how old you are, maybe ten or eleven. You're out in the bush with your dad and the new dog who's still a pup. It's hot, there is the deafening trill of cicadas invisible in the trees and there's a high white sky. You need to go to the toilet but there isn't one around, but you really need to go. Your dad says do it here but you’re not sure because what if someone comes along? So your dad unzips his shorts and starts to piss into the air. He pisses a great golden arc off the edge of the rock. It's huge, this great shimmering thread. You stand beside him and pull the elastic of your shorts down and it feels strange to be exposed like this. You start a thin silver stream, and then you're putting everything into it, the bright blue vein in your neck bulging. You give it everything you've got, but you just can't match your dad's magnificent effort.   Son, look over there. You look over your shoulder and see that the dog's got its leg in the air, pissing against a tree. And your dad laughs at this. He really laughs, face twisted shut to the sun, shoulders shaking. And you laugh too because he's so happy he looks like a kid. You don't know it then, but it's the last time you'll ever see him so happy. The day you turn sixteen the old man tells you what he was doing when he was your age. He had a wife and a job and a kid on the way, he had responsibilities. You are still a boy, he says and hits you in the same offhand way he kicks the dog. You don't hold any of this against him because it doesn't mean anything. Tomorrow he won't even remember it. You leave school because the old man thinks you should, doesn't see the point in your going on and you don't disagree. You're only average at everything. Except a foreign language. French. Second in the class. Strange, that. And a bloody waste, the old man mutters. He lines up a job you should be grateful for, and soon you are used to the smell of wet concrete, the rough texture of bricks, the weight of the shovel with its neck of buffed grey steel. You get used to it all and to some extent the beer after work and the way the old guy treats you now. Still dumps shit on you, but laughs with it and doesn't bother raising a fist. You go back to school one day a week to learn how to lay bricks. You build things using lime instead of cement, piers and walls and barbecues, creations of fleeting pride that are knocked down and cleared away at the end of each day. Eighteen. Dawn. A good time to be travelling. You wonder what the old guy will say when he finds out. Probably shout at the old lady, kick the dog, get pissed and whinge to his mates. But it's the right thing to do. Standing on your own two feet. Leaving what has been - in his words - more a mistake than a family. You have never been hurt by this because they're not much more to blame than you. Besides, it's dawn. Such a clear day you can almost believe in angels. Morning light and clouds so golden you can't imagine sorrow or pain or sadness. You remember people at random. Old relatives. That young girl you kissed in the fruity shadows of a mulberry tree after a funeral. All those anonymous faces from the schools. A teacher, Mrs or Ms Buttsworth who had the kindest eyes and who was pretty and seemed always to know something about you, know who you were. You recall certain moments when you meant to express gratitude, when you caught their eye but moved on, aware of this awkward, missed moment. You think of the dog and realise you might not see him again. It's full daylight now, and it's hot and you've seen where those angels have cried; broken glass scattered across three lanes. But you can't dwell on this, you can't care because you have to keep going. You don't care for birthdays but you can't help thinking that today's your twenty fifth. You can remember when someone asked you what it felt like to be a teenager and you told them you weren't sure yet. They laughed and perhaps envied you a little. And now you're twenty five. They wouldn't envy you now. All you've got at twenty five is your car and a rented room overlooking a bay in another city, a string of casual jobs and a few reluctant encounters you can't really call relationships. You don't have anything, don't have a circle of friends, haven't had the kind of experiences others would want to hear about, don't go to the dinner parties you overhear them talking about. But you don't worry too much about the things you don't have. You're just living, just making the choices and living. There's a knock at the door and you have to make a choice. Do you open it or pretend you're not in. You're content enough, alone with your window and your thoughts, but you think what the hell and let her in. She's got a bottle of scotch and that hint of a smile that always makes her look like she knows something, like she's got secrets about everyone. She enters and you wonder if she'll choose the blue plastic chair or the unmade bed. She chooses the bed, pulling the covers across the wrinkled sheets before she sits. She asks you if you drink scotch and you tell her you do even though all you usually drink is beer. You offer to get some ice but she tells you she likes hers straight up, no ice. She pours and you click the glasses quietly together. You take the chair and you both talk about things, about living in this place, about the others who live here, the travellers and the loners, the losers and the ones who aren't quite right.   It's a sad place, she tells you, don't you find it sad? Maybe, you say, maybe a little, but you can be alone and nobody minds. She nods and tells you she likes it because it's cheap and convenient, you can leave whenever you want, the drop of a hat. Later, when you're both a bit drunk, both sitting on the bed with backs against the wall looking at the lights in the city, she wants to know if you think you'll ever settle down, get married, have kids. Don't know, you say, don't know. And then, and you don't know why, you tell her you're twenty five. Today. Twenty five today. Is that so, she says with that smile like she knew it all along. Quarter of a century, happy birthday. She leans across and kisses you and you realise for the first time that she's a little older than you, maybe five years. Pretty soon neither of you are interested in the scotch, or the lights in the city or the others living in this sad place, not interested in the noises, the laughter and moans of lust and loneliness, the quiet groans of life being lived. You order a scotch straight up, no ice, and you think about her for the first time in ages. If you were right about her age she'd be thirty eight now. You think about that for a long time as you watch an old guy put money into a machine, his eyes staring blindly as the coloured light spits back in his face. You wonder if she ever moved out of that place, wonder if she ever settled down, wonder if she ever thinks about you. You try to play a scene in your head, try to imagine what would happen if she walked into the bar right now, alone like you. But it doesn't work. You can't imagine what she would say, can't imagine how she remembers you. If she remembers you. Sure she does, you think. Sure she remembers. You catch sight of yourself in the mirror behind the bottles and think you can see a bit of the old man in you. You can't pick out exactly what it is, just something vague like the shape of your eyes or the line of your jaw. And then for a second you can't see him at all. Or the old lady. Cataracts of the memory. But the fog clears and you can see them again, and you wonder what they look like now. A guy asks if you mind if he takes the stool next to yours. You shrug and take a sip. He orders a beer and takes a card out of his wallet, flicks the corner again and again while he thinks about something. You don't read the card because you know his type. He wants to save your soul or make you rich or take you home. You decide to finish your drink and head off. But the guy beats you, asks you if you live around here. Yeah, you say and hope he realises that you're not interested in what he's got.   Got a job? he asks.   Sometimes. Then he puts the card in front of you, leans it against the glass so you have to read it, and it turns out he's a casting agent. He drinks some beer and tells you, don't take this the wrong way but you've got good character lines, can get you some work in film and television, if you're interested. You look at him then and think is this a line or what. You look forward to telling someone: met a guy in a bar who said he was going to put me in the movies, no kidding. No kidding, this casting agent tells you, then tells you how it works. He says it in a way that makes you realise he's for real. Fair dinkum, no bullshit. It's not as glamorous as people think, he goes on, and the money's not always great, but it can be. And it's fun, you meet people. He finishes his beer and says it's up to you, you want some work, give me a call. Then he leaves. You sit there staring at the card. You laugh a little, then order another scotch straight up, no ice. Character lines have developed more character. How old now? You have to think. Thirty nine. Almost forty. You've built houses, picked fruit, cleaned windows, thrown drunks out of pubs, driven cabs and seen yourself on TV so many times you don't even find it funny any more. Not like that first time, dressed up like a cop with a gun and everything. Your agent was right, it's not glamorous, mostly just getting paid for doing nothing and who'd complain about that? And you meet people. Like this woman who wears black lipstick. All serious, she reads your horoscope and you wonder again if she's a little crazy. You think she might be, and you like that. Got to be crazy, she tells you, to live with a serious old guy like you.   Not that old, you say. Almost old enough, she says, to be my daddy. Then she does something like pluck a chest hair. Crazy. In time she decides she doesn't want to be in the movies any more, so she gets a full time job and in the quiet hours you try to write a novel and discover that it's harder than you thought. You don't understand this, you think that if you want to write something you just write it, simple. But it isn't. Everything comes out tangled, even the simplest things. It doesn't seem believable, or it's too real and who's going to want to read it anyway? You try a few times, then give up and decide you'll read the novels others have written instead. Forty three and you think of the dog. You think: he must be dead now, probably got old and died years ago. You realise that you've got some of the things others have always had. You're not married but you've been together so long you're used to each other. You've been a tourist - Thailand and India - and you've got a few friends who sometimes call you up and ask you over for dinner or out for drinks. It's her, you know, she makes the friends. She even got you the job in the second hand book store, three days a week in that dry, papery silence surrounded by the thousands of thoughts and plots and scenes. Sometimes it's almost busy, but mostly it's quiet and you get to read a lot. Occasionally you try to write that novel again, only to give up and wonder how the hell they do it. Sometimes you don't hear from the agency for weeks, other times you might get two or three jobs in a week. All in all you're pretty content with the way things have turned out. From time to time she talks about kids but you end up agreeing that they would have been a drag anyway.   You're not happy, are you? You look at her and look away, thinking that she's got the most remarkable eyes you've ever seen. You're lying on a sunny patch of grass waiting for the crew to set up the next shot, drinking coffee and wearing a chef’s outfit, chequered pants, apron, funny hat. I'm happy, you say and drink from your foam cup. There's the two of you and two hundred and ninety eight others similarly attired. Three hundred chefs milling about in a sunny paddock, reading or talking or playing football.   Deep down, she persists, are you happy deep down? You glance back at her and find your eyes locked with hers. She's looking into you with those remarkable eyes, looking deep down into you and you think this is the most intimate thing you've ever done. You're looking into her and she's looking into you and right there in those long, strange moments you know you love her, feel like you just want to look into her forever. Jesus Christ, you think, what is this? At the end of the day, dressed normally again, you offer her a lift home and she accepts and you both know what's going to happen. Nothing is said, you just know. It happens and it keeps happening, weeks and months, almost a year and you know that eventually you're going to have to make a choice. She wants you to make a choice and you know it's the right thing to do - although you know this isn't wrong. It can't be wrong. But she wants you to choose, tells you she will accept the decision whatever it is, tells you this as she looks into you with those eyes that you're sure will haunt you even when you are dead. Reluctantly you make your choice. The director isn't happy. You're not happy. No one's happy. It's so easy, two words and you're fucking up. A thousand bucks a word; that's fucking up big time. Everyone's talking about you, muttering quietly behind your back. The director glances at his watch as he walks over. You start to apologise again but he doesn't want to hear it. It's a thirty second ad, he tells you, and you're going to be up there for maybe four seconds. We've got a lot to get through, okay? Think you can do it his time? Okay everyone, first positions.   All set. Everyone's ready. You're ready.   And ... action. The actor walks across to you just the way the director wants, smiling like it's for real. Camera moves silently on its track. Behind you focused on him. At the side. Now behind him. Focused on you, and you're thinking about it again thinking he's got to be thirty five at least thirty five and you feel yourself start to choke. But this time, thank god, something clicks, and as he hands you the gift, this thirty five year old guy, you feel the creases and lines going to work as you do a warm smile and tell him, like it's for real, Thanks Son. When you tell her how much trouble you had, she thinks, then asks how long it's been. You shrug. A life time. Maybe, she suggests, you should see them, just in case, before it's too late.   You consider it. You really think about it.   No, you tell her, don't think so. No. You're surprised how little the street has changed. The trees ... the actual trees you climbed are still there. The houses even look the same. You can't believe it. You switch the engine off and just sit there, your heart thumping, the motor creaking as it cools. You look at the house and think it could have been yesterday, you could have walked through the front gate yesterday. There are small changes, a different letter box and the eaves are a different colour, but otherwise it's the same. On the nature strip there's a clear plastic soft drink bottle lying on its side, filled with water. You don't know how, but you know they're still there. After all this time. What will you say? What will they say? Your heart's really pounding away, and you don't know what to do. For a long time you look and remember and wonder. You squint as you see the curtain shift, just pull to the side a little. Someone's looking. They're looking at you. You feel like your chest is going to explode. They're just there, looking right at you and you're looking back thinking what next, what do we do now? Then the curtain falls back and nothing else happens. You wait a little longer, several minutes, maybe ten, then start the engine.   You sure? she asks.   You nod as you check the mirror and move off. You're old, you know that, but you should have years left. instead you've got this thing inside you, eating you away. There's been a new development and they've told you it means you've only got a few weeks. Funny they can know this and not be able to do anything about it. It doesn't make sense; your own body destroying itself. Weeks and it will be over. Sometimes you don't even want the weeks because it's just time to think about all the things you wish you could put right, all the things you've said and done, the things you wish you could do again. And then at the end of it all there's the big one; you're going, really going. Not in sixty years or twenty or even one. Just a few weeks. In a way you prefer the pain to the drugs because it reminds you that you're still there; with the drugs you find yourself surrounded by ghosts and it's like you've already gone. But sometimes the pain is too much and you have to give in to the whispers of the ghosts, sometimes telling them things, at other times knowing, somehow, that none of it is real. Too rarely there are teasing periods of pain-free lucidity during which you can talk to her. She is always there, holding a hand you don't recognise as your own. You want to talk to her as much as possible but there's so little to say. Everything is trivial. Nothing matters. You're leaving her and that hurts more than the pain.   One time you look at her and remember something and smile.   What, she says, what are you smiling at? Remember, you say, remember when you used to wear black lipstick? She laughs a little and says she remembers. You watch each other's smile slowly die and you wish you weren't doing this to her. You want to tell her you're sorry, but there's no need because she knows. Then you remember something else that you want to tell her. You wonder why this suddenly seems the most important thing. It's something you've thought about from time to time, and now it's important that you tell someone, as though that will make up for the betrayal. You have to tell her. She waits, and you tell her, I should have taken the dog. Strange, but of all the things, that's what I regret most. Isn't that funny?   She squeezes your hand and tells you she understands. ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ Lee Bemrose is currently working part time as an editor and staff writer for 3D World, Australia’s most popular dance music magazine. He also writes fiction and freelances to other magazines, focusing primarily humour and music reviews, two areas he is astoundingly unqualified for. Remembering Argos is not humour or a music review, as you will see if you read it. It did, however, win first prize in the open section of the Greater Dandenong Short Story competition, one of Australia’s most highly regarded short story competitions. He has also had short fiction published in various Australian lit mags and anthologies, as well as another story in an upcoming issue of crybloxsome.com Almost daily writing can be read at twobluefish.blogspot.com