A Sudden Burst Of Sunshine (2) Arty decided that he understood a small part of Bruce. “Stars are gorgeous, eh?” the old man was still yelling. “Oh they’re lovely,” Arty replied. “But tell me, how does Arty stop worrying?” Bruce lowered his gaze back down to Arty. “That’s for Arty to work out, bro,” he said quietly. “But it’s no worry!” He began shouting again, or perhaps, Arty thought, hooting was a better word for it. “You and me, we’ll drink all the worry with our beer tomorrow!” “Sounds fun,” Arty smiled slightly, and gazed upward to the stars, recognizing the blanket of glowing points floating in the heavens without effort. “There’s wisdom in those stars,” Bruce was using his quiet voice now. “They can tell you anything. But, ya have to shout loud enough for ‘em to hear ya!” He cackled. On impulse, Arty jumped to his feet and hollered upward, “Hey stars! What’s my name? What’s my name? What’s…my…name?” Bruce hooted, slapping his thighs. Footsteps silenced the two as a shadow approached their firelight. “What, no screaming welcome?” the brunette Arty had almost acquainted in the morning appeared beside Bruce, white teeth gleaming as she grinned at them. Bruce laughed again. “Arty, meet Sienna,” Bruce chuckled, barely able to contain his mirth. “Sienna…oh, wait! You know this boy don’t ya?” “That I do,” said Sienna. “Not all that well though, come to think of it.” Arty regarded Sienna from across the dancing flames. As grimy as she appeared to be, there was an earthy beauty about her, accentuated by the reflection of the fire on her face. Dark, curly hair, tousled by a hard days work, ringlets reaching down to small eyes that turned upward when she laughed. Prominent cheekbones, small nose and chin, a strength in all her limbs; yes, she was beautiful, just not in the manner that Arty fancied he recalled from his lost past. It occurred to him that women covered in dirt, sporting jeans, t-shirts and beer cans, laughing loudly and slapping their thighs were not his usual pick for attractiveness. Sienna was a long way from what he was certain his ideal woman had been, yet still he stared at her, acknowledging her dusky curls brushing her cheek. “There’s silence at Brucie’s fire!” the old man’s cracked laughter disturbed Arty’s thoughts. “What’s the world comin’ to?” “Just sipping my drink old man,” Sienna joked. “It’s all Arty’s fault I’d say.” “Arty!” Bruce yelled in mock rage. “Ya little sod! Open ya big mouth and say a word or two!” Arty grinned, saying, “I’m not sure what I’m meant to be saying, but I think I just said something.” “He’s lost a bit of his wit, hasn’t he?” remarked Sienna. “Used to be such a joker.” “And you seem to think I’m not here,” Arty retorted humorously. “I guess I’m just a ghost after all.” Bruce grinned, waving his arms about like a crazy person. He stared up at the stars again, before rising to his feet and crying, “Spirits are everywhere, Arty. Dead men walkin’ all round here, ya know? And there’s others too. Lots of old life out there bro. Lost. Or don’t want to be found.” He paused, looking around, whether in apprehension or for an expanded audience Arty couldn’t tell. “There’s a war up there, brudda. And down here.” “Come on, Bruce!” Sienna giggled. “You’re scaring the poor boy! He’ll wet his pants!” “I think he’s done that already,” Bruce chortled, seating himself again. “I’m still here you know,” Arty informed them. “I think it’s time Sienna told us a little about herself.” “I’ll drink to that!” Bruce laughed again, and snatched Sienna’s can from her hand. “Come on, Sienna!” So Sienna Hartilly’s story began, albeit slow, and full of drinking and laughter. Even so, Arty got the gist of it; she was twenty-two, born from hippie parents in a town called Nimbin, which Arty reminded himself was a small town on the inland mountain stretch of northern New South Wales. Apparently it was a haven for drug addicts, mostly marijuana, so much so that the local police had given up arresting people for using. It was a place where you could see art, culture, and score at a very low price, and it was there that Sienna was reared, growing a healthy distaste for the life choices of her hippie parents, referring to them as ‘lousy old tokers’. Thus armed, she left home at the tender age of fifteen, and having seen enough of human vulgarity via the inbound visitors’ fold during her childhood, managed to avoid the alleyways of life, opting for hitch-hiking with the only people she knew with certainty to be harmless; ironically, dope-smoking hippies in kombi vans. She soon learned that trading her body for food was not her preferred living style, and decided instead to follow the itinerant workers’ schedule. Since that time, as she told it, she had been working her way up and down the east coast of Australia, trying to save enough money to buy her own car. Of course that was going to be hard when she didn’t stay in one location long enough to learn to drive the car she intended to buy, but she was undaunted when Arty pointed this out, telling him that she would simply travel with people who could drive. It was just a matter of timing, she said. “She’s a wild one,” Bruce commented. “That’s not true,” Sienna was indignant. “I’m perfectly rational. I think it’s a good plan.” ”But ya keep drinkin’ it down the dunny, love,” said Bruce, his white grin gleaming at her. “Never buy a car with nothing, ya know?” “I know,” she sighed. “But at least I’m never bored!” Bruce cheered. Arty grimaced at the ridiculousness of it, but nonetheless could not help laughing when the girl he had barely met jumped up and began dancing around the fire, catching his hands and dragging him with her. Bruce took his opportunity, producing a mouth-organ from his pocket, and cracking out a blazing blues tune with expert proficiency. Even the moon seemed to be smiling. So Arty allowed himself to be led around and around the campfire, wild music pouring from the old man’s ancient harmonica, and Sienna gripping his wrists and dragging him along with her, laughing and laughing as if it were the last time she would ever experience the pleasure. In that way, the night passed away, with Bruce ending his music for a moment every now and again to crack jokes, eliciting more laughter than ever. Arty wondered if he had ever been so happy, and was saddened when his mind doubted the fact without any hesitation. Bruce played on, and Arty opened himself to the joy of the dance, knowing that if he died in that moment he would be happy. Bruce cheered again. “Even the stars dance,” Sienna shouted madly, spinning him into the darkness, his world reeling with void and jiggling points of light. And then it was morning. Arty stretched, looking up at his brown tent roof, wondering momentarily how he had arrived on his back inside his tent, before smiling at the recollection of crawling into his bed as Bruce and Sienna howled their goodbyes to the evening. He sat up, grabbing his pay packet and inserting it into his back pocket. Looking himself up and down, he found that he had not undressed, and his clothes were filthy. Sniffing himself, he recoiled at the stink, wondering just how little everyone in the campsite worried about cleanliness. As if in answer to his musing, Bruce’s voice bounced off his tent: “Wake up, bro! Don’t ya want yer weekly shower?” Arty’s answer was to spring from his tent in a falling pile of limbs. Hearing laughter from several directions, he picked himself up and wiped what little grime he could from his garments. “Don’t get too excited, brudda,” Bruce clapped him on the shoulder. “It’s only water.” “Yeah, but he stinks,” Sienna giggled from behind. Arty turned to find Hiroshi, Keiko, Bill, Sienna and Bruce laughing at him. “You are comical!” Keiko grinned her polite Japanese grin. “And why is that?” Arty enquired politely. “Because,” Hiroshi answered for her. “You seemed to have many arms and legs coming from your tent. Perhaps you were going to fly, mate!” Arty had to laugh at Hiroshi’s continued perfection of the word. “Plus your face was in the dirt,” Bill put in, his deep chuckle resonating over the rest. “Yeah, yeah,” Arty jeered. “Laugh it up, while the joke’s still on me.” “Oh, it’s threats is it?” Sienna was exuberant. “What are you going to do, dip our hands in tepid water?” “What’s that do?” Arty was bewildered. “Makes you pee your bed!” Bill told him. “No, no!” Keiko said loudly. “It is warm water that does this!” “Oh, crap,” Sienna replied. “It’s tepid water. Between warm and cold. That’s why it does it, ‘cause it’s not hot or cold.” “Crap yerself,” Bruce cut in. “It’s cold water that does it. Alright?” That comment sent the group into hysterical argument, lewd exclamations abounding. Arty told himself that he had never seen any group of people so happy or full of life. It reminded him of a childhood he barely remembered, and then only in flashes. “Well, that’s enough bull for one day!” Bill told the others. “It’s about time we hit town, wouldn’t you say?” The last words drew a cheer from the little crowd, followed by a rush to the brown station wagon Bill claimed to be his. “Shotgun the passenger seat!” Bruce called huskily. “Shotgun?” Arty asked of anyone who would answer. “It means he’s reserving it,” Sienna replied, walking beside him. “So you’ll be stuck in back with me.” “With you, Keiko and Hiroshi don’t you mean?” “Nope!” she laughed. “They’ve got their own van.” “Oh.” “Don’t be too unhappy, Arty!” she slapped his arm. “I’m not that bad!” “No, it’s not that…” “Whatever,” she was laughing at him again. “You need to bend your back a little!” “What?” “Loosen up! Cripes!” “I’m loose enough.” Before any further conversation could be had, the mud-encrusted car roared to life, skidding dust into the air as Bill sped out of the campsite. It seemed to Arty that the dominant shades in this area all tapered into some form of brown or another, the dirt, the grass, even the air was laden with dust. Behind them trundled a dented, dust-caked van of questionable origins, barely kept on the dirt road by a driver who quite obviously had missed his license upon landing in the country. Soon, the tiny pocket of bushland surrounding the camping area faded into flat, brown grassland, blue sky and blazing sun beaming down over a seemingly endless continuance of earth. “Beautiful sight, eh bro?” Bruce barked from the front passenger seat. “Real quiet, full of spirit, ya know? I bet ya don’t remember all the times we talked about this wide brown land, do you brudda?” “He doesn’t remember anything!” Sienna hollered over the bumps and clunks of engine and dirt road. “Remember?” From that came another round of raucous laughter. Arty remained silent, pondering the meaning of his current situation, wondering absently if his memories would remain scattered forever, ephemeral pieces of a puzzle he could never quite connect into a meaningful whole. “Hey, wake up!” Sienna playfully jabbed him in the ribs. “Bruce was talking to you, no me!” “Hey, what?” Arty shook himself from the inner recesses of his mind. “What’s wrong, Bruce?” “Nothing wrong!” Bruce shot back happily. “Just you, bro! You need to look out your window there! See the things ya used to love, ya know? Maybe that’ll help your memory!” “Thanks!” Arty called out over the noise. “I’ll do that.” Taking Bruce’s advice, Arty stared past the cracked glass, over the endless brown, making his best effort to reminisce. Although his attempt was unsuccessful, he did manage to see what the old coot meant. Such barren waste took on a beauty of its own, if only one lived inside it, stared at it long enough, took the time to get to know it and love it. Then a person would realise how long they had lived without such stark beauty, how they had missed eternity in a landscape. Tearing himself away from the hypnotic allure of wide sterility, Arty turned to look at Sienna, and was surprised to find her staring at him. “Something wrong?” he asked. “Not at all,” she grinned, and then slapped his arm. “Ow!” he grunted, rubbing the light sting she had left on his arm. “What was that for?” “Fun and profit,” she laughed. “Where’s the profit?” he snapped, annoyed that she would strike him so reasonlessly. “Lots of profit!” she continued to laugh. “Can’t you see the profit?” “No,” replying calmly appeared his only option. “I don’t see any profit at all.” “Wow,” Sienna’s smile faded into mild disappointment. “You really have forgotten a lot, haven’t you?” “What do you mean?” “Well…we used to have a lot of fun together, put it that way.” “You don’t mean, you, and me…” “No!” she stopped him abruptly, crimson circles lighting her cheeks. “Nothing like that. Just a lot of fun, that’s all. You’re really uptight now.” “Sorry,” he said dumbly. “But you should try losing your whole life, and see how you feel?” “I suppose,” the response was distant, as if she had stopped listening. Sienna smiled wanly at Arty, laying her head on the cracked leather of her seat, staring still at his face. Arty made his best effort to grin back, and found that he too was just smiling, quietly, as if he and she were suddenly two tired old creatures full of sorrow for the world, but happy in each other’s company. Arty closed his eyes, feeling sunshine on his face, knowing that this girl of the earth was smiling at him, that he had friends in front of him, driving him to collect money and drink him half to death, all in the name of fun and happiness. Of one thing he was certain – he had never been so happy in his entire life. His schooling had been a peculiar failure, he having left not on account of poor marks, in fact he was at the head of his classes, but rather simply because he hated the system of routine. Images of several familiar youthful faces appeared in his mind, and he knew that they were the faces of his friends, acquaintances he had left behind without a word. At the same time, his lover at that time, a tall, golden-skinned creature with little brains and less sense, had left him for no particular reason other than being sick of his company. Tensions were at an all-time high with his parents, and to top it off, that golden girl he loved so badly continued to visit and remain on good terms with his folks. So, one bright morning, in fact a morning very similar to his present, he packed a small bag, said an abrupt goodbye to those who called themselves his mother and father, and caught a train to the north. He could still see the tears in their eyes, hear the scorn in her voice as she declared him a loser for taking flight. From there…it was gone. “Dammit!” Arty shouted with frustration, his eyes blinking open. “What’s wrong?” Julia reached out and touched his arm, softly this time, her actions begging an answer to her question. “Sorry,” he replied dismally. “I had a memory; it seemed to be going somewhere. Then it stopped.” “Oh, poor you,” she said quickly, hoping to assuage him. “You’ll get it, give it time. It’s only second day, remember?’ “I know,” he grimaced. “But so far all I’ve got is fragments. I want a whole piece!” “Don’t worry ‘bout it bro!” Bruce interjected loudly from the front. “I can’t remember the difference between today and yesterday and the day before that! It’s all a blur!” He finished with a cackle. “Very funny,” Arty sulked. “I have amnesia. Remember?’ Again the group fell into laughter, and after a moment, Arty followed suit. Such merriment was infectious, and he was becoming infected.
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Copyright © 2004 T J Rintoull |