Suburban kitchen, a patchwork of linoleum and faux marble bench tops fashioned by someone learning how to be house-proud on a shoe string. A middle-aged vaguely handsome squat thick-set man stands at an island counter dripping honey with studious intensity from a spoon into a bowl of cereal. He seems vaguely perplexed by the honey’s viscosity, the force of gravity, who knows. He seems lost in the moment. A girl in her early 20‘s shuffles in yawning and playing with the pink streaks in her long blond hair, tosses them away as though convinced they have to go, and then starts stroking them again as though deciding to give them another chance. A cat sniffs around.
Fridge: Mel? (Plants the spoon in his mouth, makes a face). Mel?
Mel: (Looking up distractedly after planting herself in a chair at the small square table). Oh, no thanks.....
Fridge: (Shovels a spoonful of cereal into his mouth, wipes an imaginary drop of milk off his chin.) Something on your mind kiddo?
Mel: (Pulls a face, starts humming, throws her streaks away in disgust, then starts stroking them again) Can I smell coffee?
Fridge: You got legs. You’re humming, Mel.
Mel: So? You make a new rule against humming while I was away?
Fridge: You women make the rules in this house, kiddo. I’m just the exception that proves them. Nice streaks by the way. You hum when you’re bothered. Kind of a nervous tick, I guess, like my propensity for playing with honey. Must be the creative process. Tour go well?
Mel: (Stomps past Fridge to pour herself a coffee from the percolator. Fridge takes the opportunity to give her a peck on the cheek.) Just about broke even. Anyway, you hate streaks.
Fridge: (Shovelling another spoonful into his mouth) Don’t recall having a firm position on the subject. I definitely hate honey, though No..... distrust. I’m very sceptical about honey.
Mel: (Pulls a face) How can you distrust honey, Fridge? You love honey. You have it every morning.
Fridge: Your mum’s idea. She reckons sugar does no favours for men my age -
Mel: I just got this weird text from mum...
Fridge: Yeah, me too....
Mel: (Slumps back down like someone who has obviously had a very late night) Mine said...(produces her phone from the pocket of her pj’s) no thanks already gave at the office. Smiley face smiley face, champagne bottle, party hat.
Fridge: Yep, that’s the one....
Mel: (Looking a little exasperated) Fridge, doesn’t that bother you?
Fridge: (Shrugs, turns the spoon upside down in his mouth) Why should it? She probably just cc’d us.
Mel: That’s emails, Elon.
Fridge: That the guy makes the driverless cars? We’re supposed to be getting those soon.
Mel: But you drive cars for a living, Fridge.
Fridge: (Shrugs) Yeah, and some day soon the cars will be driving me.
Mel: She must have sent it to everyone in her contacts....was it meant for you?
Fridge: Nope. I checked all dates of significance.
Mel: Fridge!
Fridge: (Chuckling a low brassy chuckle) What’s the big deal?
Mel: Before mum met you she used to pull this kind of crap all the time. Cost her a couple of jobs. She was a bit of a mess.
Fridge: Yep, I remember. How do you think we met?
Mel: (Tosses her phone down on the table, annoyed but not quite obvious at who) Aren’t you going to do anything?
Fridge: Aren’t you overeacting a little kiddo? It’s just some stupid text. Probably a work thing. You know you can be a bit hard on your mum. She’s a big target, and anyway (he plants the spoon in his mouth again with a little Bond villain smirk) I always knew I was a stop gap.
Mel: Jesus Fridge! We moved in here when I was in primary school! You’re so..... (waves a hand around as though trying to snatch the adjective out of thin air)
Fridge: Chilled? Come on, you’re home. I’m happy. You’re so worried about it, why don’t you ask her yourself? She’s standing right behind you.
Mel: (Snatches up her phone and pulls a face without even bothering to turn around) Ha ha! You’ve been pulling that one on me since I was a kid.
Fridge: And what a cute and trusting child you were. Whatever happened to her?
Mel: (Pokes out her tongue as she gets lost again in her phone) I just wish she was....
Fridge: Different? You’ll always have a home here kiddo. I knew what I was getting into.
Mel: One of these days I’m going to buy you a big house.
Fridge: (Launches into a bar of Elton’s “Your Song”) Where we both could live...
Mel: (Frowny face emoji) Anyhoo, where is mum? Hey, I brought some hats back from the tour. You want a hat?
Fridge: (Shouting after a skipping Mel who has disappeared into her room) She’s off on one of her buying sprees for the shop. Bali, Lombok. Back day after tomorrow. Are they those hats that make me look like a roller girl?
Mel: (Plants a black rhinestoned baseball cap on Fridge’s solid head) I thought roller girls were your thing, Fridge.
Fridge: I’m a middle aged man with no prospects, Mel. Of course roller girls are my thing. May as well set my sights on something I have no hope of catching. So you’re home for a while then?
Mel: (Tosses the phone down on the table again. She seems to be having the same ambivalent relationship with it as she does with the streaks in her hair) Just waiting around for some studio time. Paid the money, now comes the wait.
Fridge: Heard you on the radio this morning, kiddo. Never thought I’d be sharing my house with an ear worm.
Mel: (Makes that comic side-splitting gesture reminiscent of a mummy finally released from its crypt so popular among the youth of today) Come here cat. Aw, say hello...
Fridge: He’s been AWOL pretty much since you left. I don’t think he liked the name I was trying out on him.
Mel: Should I ask?
Fridge: Tyrone. (Mel laughs, then coughs, then sneezes. Fridge shovels the last of the cereal into his mouth, checks the time, swears under his breath.) Gotta go. (Gives Mel a quick hug) Get some honey into you, kiddo. Best thing for a cold your mum tells me.
Fridge barrels down the long hallway singing some sweet little snatch of melodic pop and snatching up two eskies as he heads for the lead light door.
Mel: Fridge! God, enough already!
Fridge: (Parting shot as he slams the door behind him) Great song kiddo!
We follow Fridge out onto a standard Sydney suburban street, one of the older red brick suburbs where the relentless tide of gentrification and cookie-cutter homogenity has only just started to lap at the buckling pavements. Judging by the harsh light it is late summer, maybe early autumn. Fridge pips the alarm on a little hatch back emblazoned with the lurid livery of the company he works for, Healfast Pathology. As he loads the eskies in the back, an old man in a weathered robe emerges from a tumble down house two doors along, scratches his stubble, checks the letter box, waves to Fridge. Fridge waves back. His public mien is affable if a little careworn.
Fridge: Cat’s at ours, Sid. (He then watches on in mute horror as Sid scratches his nethers while a group of high school girls pass by his gate) Christ, you’re not far from the ankle bracelet old man. (This last, of course, muttered under his breath. No point upsetting an old pervert who lives two doors down.)
We sit beside Fridge as he goes through his morning routine, arranging the ice packs in the eskies, filling out the car’s log book, checking down his run sheet, stuffing around with the bluetooth until he wins a connection on the third try. Patrick James Cooley, aka Fridge, has been a pathology courier for the best part of twenty years and it is the only job he could ever imagine doing. Like many of those you will encounter behind the wheel of a taxi cab or a courier van, Fridge is an autodidact with an above level IQ who enjoys the relative solitude and autuonomy of the job. He also likes that they give him a car. Fridge grew up as a state ward, bouncing from one family to another, and like most foster kids he has fond memories of that one good kind-hearted family where a large part of his tastes and character were formed. The old man died of a coronary and the mum lost her marbles, but not before Fridge had acquired a love of books, history mainly, and what may appear an odd blend of American Swing Jazz and Renaissance polyphony. However, before you dismiss this outwardly strange combination maybe give it a try. People are far too eager to dismiss outward dichotomies. Fridge is very much an outward dichotomy.
Fridge: (Promptly answering the first call of a long and hectic day) What have you got for me Larry?
Larry: Hey Fridge. One of the fucking Siemens shut down on the night shift. Starting to smell like a giant fucking baby threw up in here.
Fridge: Always that added ray of sunshine to my mornings, Larry.
Larry: Your mate Vlad the Impaler called to say you didn’t pick up again. That’s code right?
Fridge: Don’t call him Vlad, Larry.
Larry: Yeah, well I don’t want you hanging around there mooning over his fucking wife all morning. We got a shit load of pick ups. Racing season mate. I need you right the way out to Rossmore, over to Cattai, then back for a lap around Warwick Farm, Hope, Munday, you know the drill.
Fridge: I need ice.
Larry: So get ice. You won’t need it for the horses. They’re your priority. Tell Vlad we don’t keep social hours.
Fridge: Don’t call him that Larry, he’s one of our oldest clients.
Larry: Tomas Petrovic is a fucking drunk who should have been struck off years ago. I don’t know what the fuck you see in him Fridge. You know what he called Mustafa?
Fridge: (Smiling to himself) Yeah, well you kinda answered your own question there Larry.
Larry: Yeah, well that’s it for now, mate. Oh no, hang on. Soong at Mortlake. Nothing urgent. Collector lost the key at Enfield, so get there before they close if you can. I asked her to hang around, but apparently she’s the only health worker on the fucking planet with a kid. Be ready for a real shit fight.
Fridge: Always a pleasure Larry. (Hangs up. Reverses into a blast of horns from some hoon tearing around the blind sweep in his V6 Commodore.) Dickhead!
And so begins another day gathering up the viscera of our great metropolis.
A montage of quiet shots of Fridge navigating Sydney traffic. Maybe to the backing of what we can perhaps assume is one of Melody’s songs. Fridge stops for a coffee at his favourite little cafe in Maroubra where he notices a man sitting at one of the outdoor tables with an ankle bracelet clearly visible on his right leg. The man is wolfing down a breakfast burrito and slurping on his latte like it was his last supper. Fridge hesitates and then goes on inside, gestures over his shoulder with his thumb at which the waitress at the counter merely nods.
Waitress: Yep. He was halfway through the burrito before I noticed.
As Fridge waits on his coffee, two police officers arrive and gently coax the man to his feet.
Waitress: (Tethered to the machine) Hey! Who’s paying for his burrito? Shit, bloody Mario’ll kill me!
Fridge: Throw me a piece of that carrot cake and I’ll cover it.
Waitress appears grateful in that sour way of waitresses who have a sixth sense for ulterior motives. Fridge should know her name by now but he feels he has left it too long to ask. He thanks her for the coffee and cake and gets back in his car where he cranks up the Thomas Tallis Spen In Alium and looks for a moment like the happiest man on earth.
The job of a pathology courier all hinges on the element of surprise. Fridge, being an old hand, has for many years now been given the tricky jobs in out of the way places where the element of surprise seems to exist as a fifth element. Without this fifth element, Fridge would finish a shift feeling like he hadn’t quite earned his keep. We will encounter such a situation in a moment.
The run sheets of a pathology courier are replete with little glitches and quirks - drive up the second driveway past the rusty letterbox, leave the engine running, lights on, press the buzzer twice, DO NOT OPEN THE GATE UNACCOMPANIED, etc. All such quirks and caveats being added to as new couriers express their opinions and misgivings over the years. But forget dogs and junkies and truck drivers high on ice, the pathology courier’s sworn enemy is the practice manager, a sub-species of human friends only with the jackal and the wasp.
Fridge turns down a leafy suburban street and pulls into a gated driveway, gets out, walks down the path into a bright surgery where a man in a FAITH NO MORE t-shirt is brandishing a stapler at the room at large. Fridge stamps his foot once very firmly on the linoleum floor, the man turns and Fridge grabs him by the wrist, twists firmly but gently until the man is on his knees.
It is a little later, the man is being escorted from the surgery by two uniformed officers, and a small Asian man is patting Fridge on the back and smiling a warm generous smile. A woman is watching all this from behind the counter and appears less than amused.
Woman: There’s a Mrs Nguyen in room 2 doctor, when you’re ready.
Doctor: Yes, thankyou Milly. Thankyou Fridge. Chocolate?
Woman: She’s been waiting half an hour doctor.
Fridge: (Accepting the little Snickers bar the kind sweet doctor offers, then turns to the Easter Island statue behind the counter) Boy out of gaol yet Milly?
Woman: I made a complaint about you.
Fridge: Ditto. Call it a professional courtesy. Your sweet old doctor there know you’re closing fifteen minutes early? (Reaches over the counter and picks up a plastic wicker tray in which lie two small specimen bags, a mouth swab and a urine jar, half full and clear.) That it?
Woman: Yep.
Fridge: This couldn’t have waited? I’ve gotta be at Rossmore in an hour.
Woman: Not my problem.
Fridge: You’re a real swine among pearls Milly.
I will leave the parting shot to the imagination of whoever has read this far.
To some suitably wistful pop, we follow Fridge from the passenger’s point of view as he cuts around the back of the airport, past a crowd of planespotters gathered on a mound with their deck chairs and eskies full of food, looking straight through the camera with a strangely blank expression as he files past a pile up on the freeway, down Queen Street Campbelltown right through the middle of a screaming match between a woman camera side of the mall and the ubiquitous shirtless skinny guy with an array of meaningless tatts yelling right over Fridge’s head passing at 10kmhs. Then out into the old farm land past Narellan where horse studs press up against small Vietnamese allotments growing cabbage and bok choy for the local market, which in turn press up against the horrid new housing estates that seem to proliferate by the hour chewing up what until recently was prime farming land. Fridge seems happy, or at least content. He pulls into a driveway with a huge metal gate on rollers under a sign that reads simply VET. A woman in white overalls and rubber boots greets him from a stables, beckons him to follow her and duly presents him with a gigantic bucket. The lid has been sealed with what looks like about a whole roll of electrical tape.
Woman vet: Now hold that while I get the afters.
Fridge: (His air of contentment quickly replaced by one of quaint curiosity. ) Afters?
Woman vet: Yes, didn’t they tell you? I say, that’s a rather small car. What you’re holding is before he ate, now I’m going to collect what came out after. Turning rather warm. You may want to crank your windows.
Fridge: Yeah, I get that a lot.
Woman vet promptly returns with an open bucket filled to the brim with horse droppings.
Fridge: (Seems to impress the woman by his calm under pressure) That’s quite a lot of afters. Didn’t know they went that colour.
Woman vet: Nor did we. Ripe, isn’t it. Leave it at room temperature, is my best bet, although I must admit we’re all a little flummoxed by this one. We think the poor old boy may have eaten something - illicit.
Fridge: You mean dope?
Woman vet: (Nods) And a lot of it, judging by that. Was flailing around like a drunken sailor when they brought him in.
Fridge: Can’t imagine a stoned horse would be an easy proposition.
Woman vet: Quite. Gone through our entire supply of apples. Had to send out for more.
Fridge stands poker-faced for a moment, but finds the effort impossible to maintain, and finally explodes into laughter, which elicits a quiet titter from the woman.
Back on the road and the phone rings. Fridge seems a little puzzled by the number showing up, hesitates a moment before answering.
Fridge: Morning Robert. Been a while.
Robert: (One of those gravelly patrician voices that distinguishes a certain man of a certain age and skin colour as the nearest this country gets to a ruling class). Yes, morning Patrick. It has been far too long.
Fridge: (Frowning) Everything OK your end Robert? You don’t sound your usual ebullient self.
Robert: (A gentle gravelly chuckle that sounds like a cat with a fur ball over the patchy line). Never better, thank you for your concern. I know you’re on the road and that I shouldn’t keep you, but I received -
Fridge: A strange text from Angie?
Robert: Well, yes.....there was that also....but I was actually referring to this conversation I had with Angela’s mother regarding some paperwork. Do you know anything about it?
Fridge: Mate, you know me and paperwork. And you know me and Deb, for that matter. I tend to avoid either as much as humanly possible.
Robert: Quite quite...one of the less palatable aspects of being Angela’s significant other.
Fridge: Don’t we know it, Robert. I’m sorry, mate, but -
Robert: I really don’t want to keep you Patrick, but the paperwork was for a loan Angela seems to be negotiating using your house as collateral. I don’t know why Deborah saw fit to come to me with this.
Fridge: Probably because you’re the brains of the outfit, Robert. Thanks for letting me know, mate. I knew nothing about it. She needs my signature before she can go ahead with anything right?
Robert: Yes, of course. The house is still in your name I take it.
Fridge: Last time I checked.
Robert: Yes, well without sounding too alarmist I would check again, Patrick. I am loath to take sides, but from what Deborah told me I think Angela is up to something. I’m sorry, Patrick, but that’s how I see it from here.
Fridge: No no mate, I appreciate you ringing. I might swing by in the next day or so if that’s OK.
Robert: I will look forward to seeing you, Patrick Don’t leave it too long.
Exterior shot of Fridge driving with his head out the window gasping for air, perhaps mouthing the time-honoured syllable SHIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIII!!
More wistful pop as we follow Fridge doing the morning rounds of doctor’s surgeries and nursing homes, chatting with the dear old things sunning themselves under the withering palm fronds as the jet skis tear by behind them around Taren Point. Fridge back at the enormous lab where he greets the girls at Specimen Reception, the white-coated haematologists and biochemists punching buttons on the vast lines of machines, down into the basement to fill a couple of tiny foaam eskies with dry ice. Pats a few fellow couriers on the back in passing. Usual work-a-day banter.
Cut to Fridge pulling up on a deserted street in an old industrial estate. A few truckless trailers are parked around the dead end street, but otherwise there are absolutely no signs of life. All the factories have long since closed, the bus stop signs have rusted. Fridge breaks out some sandwiches and that slice of carrot cake he got from the cafe and sits chewing and gazing with increasing intensity at the vacant block beside him. His ears seem to prick up at the slightest sound, but if there is anything to see it perhaps exists more behind his eyelids than in front of them. Suddenly the phone rings.
Angie: Hey stranger! Whatcha doing?
Fridge: Heya. How’s the third world sweat shop?
Angie: Ha ha.You on the road? I can never get the time difference.
Fridge: (Fighting down a mouthful of food). Lunch.
Angie: Mel back yet? (There is a searching note in her breathy voice, a little trill of uncertainty).
Fridge: Last night. Late. Think she’s picked up a cold.
Angie: Touch of wine flu, I’d wager.
Fridge: I wouldn’t know.
Angie: Everything OK darling?
Fridge: Yep, just taking a trip down memory lane.
Angie: Oh Fridge, you know that never ends well. Still the same?
Fridge: Yep, everything pretty much as I left it.
Angie: Any reason for the visit?
Fridge: Doesn’t hurt to remind yourself how bad it can get.
Angie: (A long silence through which Fridge chews distractedly gazing at the scene of post-industrial desolation to his left). Fridge, is this about the text? I can explain -
Fridge: Robert rang me. Seems your mum’s worried about some papers you asked her to sign.
Angie: Fridge, I didn’t realise it would move so fast. I was going to sit down with you and talk it over. It’s for the shop. A total refit.
Fridge: Yeah, well when Deb starts worrying on my behalf I know shit is about to hit fan.
Angie: Darling, it’s not a big deal -
Fridge: Nothing ever is, Ange, until it is. That’s my home you’re signing away. Point one. (Drops a bit of his sandwich that he has started waving around. Stops for a second to brush off the mess.) Point two. I’m not Robert. Don’t get me wrong, I like Robert. But if you want a Robert go back to Robert.
Angie: Robert has nothing to do with it Fridge, and I’m not signing away anything....
Fridge: (Frowns at the dashboard incredulously.) I know Robert had nothing to do with it. Robert would never go behind my bloody back like this!
Angie: You’re angry -
Fridge: Course I’m bloody angry, Ange! Before I go to the bank I wanna hear it from you. Who’s names are on the deeds?
Angie: (A long silence at the other end). Fridge - I -
Fridge: Yeah OK thanks Ange. Gotta go. (Hangs up.)
Fridge, we are now beginning to realise, is not as easy to read as we may have initially thought. His face seems perfectly calm as he chews the last of his sandwich, gulps down the dregs of his coffee, and gazes disinterestedly at the abandoned factory site to his left. He then dusts off his hands, tidies up, and turns the ignition, all wothout a sliver of emotion crossing his face. His watery eyes seem fixed on some vague point in the distance. As he performs a U-turn we almost want to reach out and lay a consoling hand on his shoulder, but we are contractually obliged to simply sit and go along for the ride.
The scene jumps to a small car park at the back of a doctor’s surgery. Fridge has tried to enter but someone is sitting in their fancy BMW talking on their phone blocking the way. Fridge waits. The man keeps talking. Fridge makes a fairly innocuous gesture to which the man holds up a finger denoting “just one minute”. Driving in a liveried car has its drawbacks when you find yourself in situations such as this. I’m sure Sydney has thrown up a similar situation in the path of all of us, but uniformed and liveried pathology couriers are obliged to keep their cool. Finally Fridge loses his patience and goes hard on the horn. The man starts nudging his car toward Fridge until Fridge has no choice but to back out into the path of unhappy traffic. The man tears by him without word or a gesture as though Fridge didn’t even rate as a minor irritant. The reader is free to tag their profession of choice to such customary arrogance in a city of lawyers and real estate agents.
Fridge: (Entering a bright air-conditioned surgery where a handsome woman in her 40‘s sits at the counter with a vaguely amused expression on her chiselled heavily rouged face). You look more than usually pleased with yourself today, Margaret.
Margaret: (Tossing a perfectly manicured thumb at the tiny tv monitor in the corner of her workspace). Was watching you on the tv. (Her accent is difficult to place, as is her opinion of Fridge).
Fridge: Your boss in?
Margaret: (Arching an eyebrow. They almost seem painted on. Margaret is that species of medical receptionist who hides her emotional exhaustion behind an air of invincibility that tends to crack after three glasses of chardonnay.) My husband is not my boss.
Fridge: He was when you married him.
Margaret: And now...(she holds up a heavily ringed hand over the counter which Fridge stoops theatrically to kiss) he isn’t. He is with Arthur. You can go in.
Fridge: What about Arthur?
Margaret: You don’t know Arthur. Arthur is very old. He will relish the company. (This last with a vague air of incomprehension.)
Fridge: So, when are we going for that drink, Margaret?
Margaret: (Shrugs her shoulders, presses a button on her desk). Fridge is here.
Fridge takes that as a cue to go right on through the first door on the left. There is only one office, as Tomas has run through all viable practice partners over the years. He is a combustible mix of world class diagnostician and arrogant buffoon. His brushes with the AMA are legendary right across the health profession, but his patients adore him and he rewards them with a devotion to their care and well-being that almost makes him seem like an anachronism in this sleek and shiny new world of conveyor belt healthcare.
Tomas is sitting with his hands clasping both knees directly facing an old man who could be straight out of central casting right down to the haggard old Stetson. Arthur looks about ninety. He doesn’t look up when Fridge walks in, nor does he proffer a hand when Fridge is introduced.
Tomas: Arthur here was telling me about his granddaughter.
Arthur: I don’t answer to Art, or Artie, or any of that muck.....
Tomas: His granddaughter is in the orchestra.
Arthur: (Affording Fridge a quick look over for the first time.) That supposed to impress him, is it? Doesn’t look like he’d know his tuba from his arsehole.
Tomas: Arthur here is a prick, and when he doesn’t take his pills he comes to me to complain that they don’t work.
Arthur: Takes one to know one.
Fridge: Well, it’s nice to meet you Arthur, even though your doctor thinks you’re a prick.
Arthur: (Thumbing at Fridge) Who’s this bastard, Tom? I like him already.
Tom: Everyone calls him Fridge, Arthur.
Arthur: Oh yeah, why’s that? Because you can’t tell if the light’s on?
Cut to Margaret busily typing up a letter at the front desk, probably to one of her husband’s many creditors. Fridge emerges from the office holding what looks like a CD. He waves it at Margaret with a slightly puzzled look on his face and leaves without a word.
Cut to Fridge filling up at a busy service station. He notices a young boy, maybe about ten years old, standing near the shop entrance holding his phone up to passers-by, but no-one bothers to stop. A man in his forties is loitering out on the pavement smoking a cigarette and casting the occasional disinterested glance back at the boy. Both man and boy look Chinese and are both dressed smartly casual like rich people on holiday. When Fridge emerges after paying with the boss’ card, the little boy holds up his phone and to his evident surprise Fridge stops to read what it says on the screen.
Fridge: Kindly - give me a lift - to the city - my sister - is waiting.
Boy smiles at Fridge. Fridge smiles back wearily at the boy. The man out on the street tosses away his cigarette and glares at Fridge as though on his decision rested the fate of whole nations. Fridge holds up a finger and goes back inside.
Attendant: Can I help you sire?
Fridge: (Doing a quick double take) Sorry, did you just call me sire?
Attendant: I don’t believe so sire. (The attendant is a pretty young Indian woman with a ruby stud in her left nostril that is catching the late afternoon sun in a most distracting fashion).
Fridge: That kid out there, you see him there flashing the phone at everyone....how long would you say he’s been standing there doing that?
Attendant: Mmmmmm........I would say about an hour, sire.
Fridge: (Pointing out to the road at the dark figure of the man smoking yet another cigarette). And him? The same?
Attendant: (Eyes going wide as though Fridge had pointed out a new constellation to her) I had not noticed him before, sire.
Fridge: (Thinks for a minute while the queue behind him gets longer) OK, thanks. (Fridge walks back outside and squats down to be level with the boy. He seems like a cute kid. Beads of sweat are running down his fat little cheeks.) Kid, no-oné’s going to give you a lift, you understand? (The boy nods and smiles, but Fridge is left with the distinct impression he understands not a jot.) You can’t go asking strangers at petrol stations for a lift. Maybe we could call your sister? Is her number in your phone? (He makes a grab for the phone, but the kid pulls away and makes a loud wailing noise, at which a number of people, including the dark stranger on the street, throw Fridge an angry menacing, vaguely accusatory look.) OK OK, have it your way kid. (He walks over to the night counter and taps on the glass) Call the police. This little boy needs help. You have to call the police.
The pretty attendant smiles sweetly and nods and returns to serving the next customer as though Fridge were a sparrow that had brained itself on the two-inch glass.
Cut to Fridge pulling up outside his house. The world is bathed in that beautiful golden light of late afternoon in Sydney when the days are still long and the working day slides right off you. He pulls the eskies out and slams the hatch door closed, grinning at the sweet trill of laughter from the front verandah. There he finds Melody curled up on the sofa stroking Sid’s cat, and beside her a coltish brunette of similar age with a wide-brimmed hat pulled down low over face, presumably to shield her eyes from the sun. The house sits on a straight line east-west.
Fridge: Heya kiddo. (Plops down the eskies and flips both their lids until he finds what he was looking for.) Managed to score us a couple of barra....(He plops the large paper parcel down on the table in front of Mel and gestures to the mystery guest.) Anyone I know?
Mel: This is -
Deirdre: Deirdre -
Mel: Deidre.....
Fridge: (The woman raises the brim of her hat just enough so Fridge can see her face, and then promptly lowers it again. Fridge is understandably puzzled by the whole charade but decides to play along. It is, afterall, Mel’s first night home after a long tour and he plans to make the most of it.) So where’s Nate?
Mel: His mum.....we had another - lapse. The magistrate is giving her one last chance as long as she sticks it out for the whole treatment. Nate’s over there now booking her in.
Fridge: (Scratching his head with a quiet quizzical glance at their new visitor. He seems to be trying to place the woman’s face, although it is not always so easy to tell with Fridge.) Poor kid. Last thing he needs after a month on the road.
Mel: I said he could stay here if he needs to.
Fridge: God yeah Mel, don’t even ask. My home’s his home. (Turns to Mel’s quiet companion) Sorry, have we met before?
Mel: How about we get that fish inside, eh? Are we barbecuing? (Gestures to Fridge from the front door to follow her.)
Fridge: (Once safely inside and shook free of Mel’s iron grip on his elbow.) Sorry, kiddo, I hope I wasn’t rude. Is that an American accent?
Mel: (Leaning in to whisper over the kitchen counter). That’s Desiree. (Does a strange little dance the like of which you might see in ancient Egyptian heiroglyphs.) Even you must have heard of Desiree....
Fridge: (Watches the dance puzzled, then slightly amused, and then as though struck by a brick right between his wide apart eyes.) Yeah, of course I’ve heard of Desiree. (Hesitates for a moment.) Shit, that’s Desiree.
Desiree: (Who had snuck in without either of them noticing, which isn’t all that difficult even on old wooden floorboards when you’re all skin and bone and a trained dancer.) Deirdre -
Fridge and Mel: (In comic unison) Ah! Shit!
Cut to the three of them lounging on the front verandah picking barbecued barramundi out of their teeth. It is almost dark now and two oil lamps are burning to ward off the mosquitoes.
Desiree: Best damn barra ever!
Mel: (Slapping her playfully on the thigh.) Listen to her, the token Aussie!
Fridge: Aerogard?
Desiree: (Pirrouettes her long dancer’s feet in Fridge’s direction.) Lay it on me mate!
Fridge: (While duly obliging). So, I hope you’ll pardon an old man while he tries to wrap his head around this, but don’t you have minders? I mean -
Mel: Relax Fridge. Donovan knows. It’s OK.
Desiree: Just a day away. You got some serious pap in this country! You don’t mind, do you Patrick?
Fridge: Mind? Christ no! (Frowns inquiringly in Mel’s direction) Pap?
Mel: (Holding out her glass for Desiree to fill) Papparazi. And not a word to mum, OK Fridge? When’s she back, by the way?
Fridge: (Shrugs) I don’t know. Depends on this bloody outbreak. Day after tomorrow? Haven’t you called her yet?
Mel: I guess I should call her.
Desiree: You should totally call her dude.
Fridge: Maybe now, before you’ve had too many more of these.
Mel: (Grabbing her phone and sidling off inside for a bit of privacy.) OK OK, I’ll call her....jeez....you’re like my -
Desiree: Mother?
Cut to Fridge’s large L-shaped couch some time later. Mel can be heard in a room behind a closed door in animated discussion with what we must assume is her boyfriend and band mate Nathan. Mainly because we can hear her occasionally yelling CHRIST NATHAN! at the top of her lungs. Fridge and Desiree are propped at opposite ends of the huge couch as the tv flickers on mute. The cricket is on. Australia are playing India in Hyderabad, and despite his obvious fascination with this international pop sensation propped at the far end of his couch, Fridge can’t help glancing at the tv now and then to check on proceedings.
Desiree: You know, people think we Americans don’t get cricket. I get it. I don’t understand it. But I get the whole - fascination. You can’t turn a street corner in India without bumping into a bunch of kids playing cricket.
Fridge: Yeah so I hear. I came to it late myself.
Desiree: So Mel tells me you lived on the street?
Fridge: Mel exaggerates a little for effect, but yeah I had some tough times. Foster homes, you know....not always all they’re cracked up to be. (His face twitches a little, although only a little. Enough for a watchful woman accustomed to reading the faces of middle-aged men to take note.)
Desiree: (Reaching for a glass that is beginning to seem a little too far away.) You know, I lived in India for a year. Chennai mostly. So frickin’ hot! Damn it gets hot down there! I was a kid hanging out with other kids. First friends I ever had. Tragic, yeah....(She’s lost in herself a little now, but Fridge lets her go) I was seventeen and they were my first real friends. Met them in dance school, and one day my mum - you’ve heard about my mum right? - well, one day my mum just got too much even for little ol’ me and I - skedaddled.
Fridge: Just like that?
Desiree: (With a sadly triumphant look away off to the far corner of the room) Just like that....(Makes a grab for her glass again). Then about nine months later mum managed to track me down and remind me of the contract I had signed -
Fridge: With the dance school?
Desiree: (Looks at him a little incredulous, although perhaps that’s the wine) No...with her....
Fridge: Jesus.....
Desiree: You said it, brother...
Melody appears looking utterly drained by events both recent and not so.
Melody: Fridge! Cricket? Really? Desiree -
Desiree: Deirdre -
Mel: Sorry, Deirdre doesn’t want to watch bloody cricket!
Desiree: I like cricket.
Fridge: (Gestures to his guest). She likes cricket.
Mel: Christ, two peas in a pod you two. There’s a bed made up in the small room, although there’s a chance Nathan might be sleeping in that...
Desiree: I can sleep here. Is that OK Patrick if I stretch out here?
Fridge: As long as you don’t mind the cricket.
Desiree: (Stretches out her long legs as though stating issue settled.) I love the cricket....
Fridge: (Some time later. Runs are being scored by the Indians with reckless abandon and both Fridge and Desiree seem to delight at the colour and noise). So, if you don’t mind my asking - why Deirdre?
Desiree: As a nom de guerre? Well, if you must know, she was my invisible friend growing up. I left her behind in India.
Cut to a vast dark drafty space. The sound of tin sheets creaking in the wind, rats scurrying, water dripping. A young man is propped on a mangy old single mattress on a bare concrete floor in one corner of this vast space. He is sliding the last of an elaborate jigsaw of tin sheets in place around his makeshift bed. A candle sheds the only light in a jar sat on top of a milk crate beside him. When he is satisfied all is in place the young man blows out the candle and settles down for the night. Within seconds of shutting his eyes, however, there is a loud bang on the tin sheeting, followed by another then another as though something large and angry were making straight for him. At this Fridge wakes up with a loud cry to find the tv still on and Desiree curled up at the far end of the couch dead to the world. Fridge’s face seems about to fall in a puddle at his feet as he squints at the screen. The Indians are two down for about a million and the Aussie bowlers look tired. Suddenly, for no apparent reason, Fridge cups his face in his hands and lets out a deep primordial sob. His broad shoulders shake maybe a dozen times and then he is done. He wipes his eyes and takes a deep satisfied breath and reaches out to tap Desiree lightly on the ankle.
Fridge: Well goodnight kiddo!
End
(To a few bars of some sardonically bouncy pop)
© Justin Lowe 2020
