Part 5 1/2
To there and back
Click here for Part 4

Right now, I’m on the road again. I’m Driving back through torrential rain because something crap has happened to me. No, not that. Something else.

But before that, I was having the best time that I could possibly afford to have in the past few days. Sitting by the pier on a bright sunny day. Fresh crusty bread and two cans of tuna. There was the cool sea breeze. The dolphin cruise boats, or ferries or whatever you wish to call them, lined up one after the other. Even the seagull poop seemed to miss me every time. There was a group of Japanese tourists lining up to see the dolphins and one of them took a picture of me. Maybe Astrid did some spell on me and made me look like a dolphin. But I was feeling good there for a while. I maybe went a whole hour without thinking of her. And the rest of the trip had been pretty good too.

The drive up to Port Stephens was uneventful enough.

Well… I suppose there were the three exploding tires that was kinda freaky. I mean, what are the chances of that? I got the same NRMA mechanic twice.

‘Dude, you sure you don’t wanna just ride with me the rest of the way?’ he says. I told him no and twenty minutes later, I got another puncture.

And then there was also that freak electrical storm that seemed to only be above my car.

But these things happen.

Anyway, when I decided that I had to leave the house, there was only one place that I could think of going. That's Port Stephens. It's always been my happy place and I needed that. Ever since childhood, it’s been the one place where I can’t remember ever feeling sad.

I stayed, last night, at the Paradise Island Motel, which in itself wasn’t a bad thing at all. The room was basic and decorated like a 70s love motel but it had a TV and kettle and I was allowed to borrow a microwave from George, the owner. He was very nice.

Then, in the middle of the night I was visited by a ghostly figure (who looked a bit like Dennis Franz except with fangs and a tail) who told me I should go back home. Thank God that was only a dream though. Would have been real scary otherwise!

So anyway, things were going quite well, given the circumstances. I was on the pier, as I mentioned, and whistling the theme song to Bewitched when I saw a newspaper fly straight past me, catching itself on a pole. Flapping around noisily like a makeshift flag. So I got up and picked it up.

And here’s when things went to crap. See, I wasn’t really trying to read the paper as I grabbed it but I glanced at it. As you would. And when you glance, you end up reading. Except I didn’t. Couldn’t.

I couldn’t read a single word. I mean, I could sort of tell the letters apart and it was all clear and not blurry or anything. And I was pretty sure it was all English. But I couldn’t make out a single word. These… symbols… these… things just danced in front of my eyes but giving me no joy of meaning!

I turned the pages but they were all the same. Just pictures and undecipherable symbols. And I realised it was the same everywhere. I looked up and I couldn’t derive any sense out of anything I tried reading. The name of the boats. Signs on the pier. I turned around and it was the same with all the shop signs.

I panicked. How am I going to survive? How will I work? I need words! Was this Astrid? Why? Why would she do this to me? What did I write in the note again? Was it that bad? I can’t remember. I can’t read. Dammit, I can’t read! If I can’t read, how am I supposed to, like, read stuff?!

So here’s where we’re at. I feel like all I do is pack and run. Back and forth. I’m driving now. It’s very wet. And my inability to read is no longer possible to ignore. Road signs point me in to foreign towns, while speed limits have become mere educated guesses from how fast the other cars around me are going.

I’m thinking of my next step. What now? What do I do? Do I go and face Astrid? Is that what she wants? Is that an ice cream van that just passed me? What’s this thing on my head?

Oh, it’s seagull poop.

_____

When I get back into the city, I decide that I’m not yet prepared to face my wife. These past couple of days, I’ve had this growing feeling of pride that I don’t think I ever had in me before. Going back to her now, after all she’s done, would just make me the loser that I always assumed I was. So instead I go to Newtown to see the only other magic person I can think of.

I park my car behind Coles, hoping that I am allowed to park there. Of course, I can’t read the parking sign. But I don’t really care at the moment. I run to the magic shop.

And so I’m there in the alley behind the bar but the shop isn’t there. I run out the front to check it’s the right bar. It is, but the shop isn’t there. Has it closed? No, the shopfront isn’t even there. It must be the wrong place. Or have I…

‘Oi!’ says a voice, ‘it’s you again.’

I look around. The voice seems familiar though. I reply, ‘Hello?’

‘You’ve been locked out mate,’ says the voice again. ‘That’s why you can’t see it anymore.’

‘Who’s locked me out?’

‘Can’t say, really. Could be anyone.’

I look around a bit more. There’s nothing and no one around that could be speaking. Then I look down and I see a doormat against the wall. It’s the same one that was in the shop! I stoop down and say, ‘is that you?’

‘Of course it’s me!’ the mat shouts, ‘who else could it be?’

‘Well, I guess it’s just that I’m not used to talking to doormats. Are you magical?’

‘"Enchanted" is my preferred description.’

‘Oh, alright then. So I can’t get in?’

‘Well it’s kinda hard to get anywhere if you can’t see where you’re going.’

I give him a perplexed look. Quite possibly because I am perplexed.

‘Well let’s put it this way, mate,’ the mat continues, ‘what’s a doormat doing without a door?’

‘Ahh’ I smile, figuring out that the door to the magic shop must be the part of the wall next to the doormat. Well, duh!

‘You’re not as dumb as you look.’

I step on the mat and smile to myself. I hesitate a second and then walk through the door.

Bang! On the head! And I reel back, with what distinctly feels like I just banged my head against a brick wall.

‘You said there was a door there!’ I demand of the doormat.

‘Well there is, you dickhead.’

‘So how come I couldn’t walk though?’

‘Cause it’s a friggin’ door, you moron. You need to open it first!’

‘Oh,’ right, I knew that. ‘So where’s the knob?’

‘You gotta be able to see the door first.’

‘And how do I do that?’

‘Step back a bit. If you squint, you’ll be able to see it.’

So I do that. I squint. And I could see…

‘Nothing. I just see bricks.’

‘Keep going.’

And so I do. And so it does. And slowly, out of the blurriness of the bricks doubling into each other, I can see the beginnings of a door. Like a Magic Eye picture materialising from the page before me. A door never looked so amazing. I walk up to it slowly and reach for the knob. It’s icy to the touch. I turn it until it clicks. The door then opens effortlessly and I’m inside the shop where it’s still as musty as ever.

‘Thanks,’ I say, looking back to the doormat.

‘Dickhead.’

_____

Francis stands by his counter with a wand pointed at me.

‘How did you get in here?’

‘I opened the door.’

‘You can’t be in here.’

‘Why did you lock me out?’

‘It wasn’t me.’

‘Aren’t I a valued customer?’

‘I can’t sell you nothing no more.’

‘Why?’

‘If I tell you, they’ll kill me.’

‘Really?’

‘Er… yes.’

‘I don’t believe you.’

‘Don’t make no difference.’

Despite being the one in the power position – you know, him having a loaded (with what?) wand pointed at me and all – he’s the one who looks scared. I can see he is sweating and his white vampire skin makeup is running down one cheek.

‘Look, I’ll be quick. I just need your help. You’re the only… um… magic person I know. Other than my wife of course.’

I step closer. He takes an air swing of the wand. I pull back. Hands raised to head level.

‘I think somebody’s put a spell on me.’

‘Of course they have. They’ve put a few spells on you.’

‘But why?’

‘I got no idea. But whatever it is, you must be in trouble, and if you’re here much longer, I’ll be in trouble.’

‘Who are they?’

‘Can’t say.’

‘Was it my wife?’

‘Listen, leave please!’

‘Can’t you help me?’

‘No, I told you.’ Francis looks really nervous now.

‘How about someone else? Do you know anyone who can help me? I need these spells removed.’

‘No, I can’t risk that.’

I take out my wallet slowly out of my back pocket. Francis flinches and I raise my hand again. But after he sees that all I have is a wallet, I fish out a note from it that I can tell is a fifty. From the colour. Because of course, if you’ve been following my story, I can’t bloody read anymore!

‘Even if I just happen to drop this on the floor?’

‘No,’ he says, eyeing the note as it floats gently to the floor.

He doesn’t move or say any more so I bend down to pick up my note.

‘Well maybe.’

I leave the note. ‘Please.’

‘I know this guy.’

‘Where can I find him?’

‘You can’t. But you can call him.’

‘OK.’ I gotta say. I’m sceptical.

Francis digs around behind the counter and pulls out a teabag.

‘Here,’ he says and hands me the teabag. ‘Make a cup of this…’

‘It’s Lipton!’

‘No… well yes, but it’s magic Lipton.’

‘That’s crap!’

‘No, serious! Look, brew this tea for two minutes. While you’re waiting, find a pillow and tie it to the back of your head…’

‘What? You’re just having me on!’

‘… drink the tea. Then call this number.’ He writes me the number on a piece of paper and hands it to me. ‘Then, when it connects, start chanting this mantra: “Owa Tagu Siam”. Keep going until he responds.’

‘I don’t believe you.’

‘You don’t have a choice.’

‘This is true. But what the hell do I need to tie a pillow around my head for?’

'You'll see.'

I leave the shop after that and I start thinking of where I can spend the night and where I might make this phone call. I ended up settling for this backpackers’ hostel in Surry Hills that has private rooms for a little more than the cost of a bed in the dorm. Well, quite a bit more really but that’s not really important right now.

‘Oh by the way,’ I say to the reception guy, a tall skinny redhead, named Dave, who’s obviously on weed – something I disapprove of quite strongly but that’s also something that’s not really important right now – I say, ‘Do you have any string or masking tape?’

_____

So I have this pillow tied to the back of my head and I’m drinking the tea which, it turns out, is certainly not Lipton. Maybe really old Lipton. Like Lipton that’s so old even the maggots have discomposed. I hold my mobile phone in my hand and I take out the piece of paper with the phone number on it. I unfold it and… well, yes I am an idiot once more, because of course I've forgotten that I can’t READ THE BLOODY THING! So I run out the door and down the stairs to Dave who on second thoughts may be not on weed at all. I think he’s just tired. Maybe he’s been playing too much Xbox. Or maybe he has a sick mother that he has to tend to. But anyway, I digress. So I give him the piece of paper and I ask him to read it to me.

‘Why dude?’

‘Just read it please.’

‘OK dude.’ And he reads it out to me. It doesn’t sound like a home number. And it’s rather easy to remember, thank God.

I then thank him and start to walk back up the stairs.

‘Hey dude,’ he calls out to me. ‘Why do you have a pillow stuck to the back of your head?’

‘Well,’ I start, ‘it’s just that when I sleep, I toss and turn so much that the pillow often ends up falling off the bed. So now I just tie it up.’ I’m grinning at him.

Dave looks puzzled. Then smiles and starts nodding.

‘Cool, dude. I might try that.’

So now I’m back in the room. My stomach starts to rumble and my head feels light – probably from the bad tea bag. I get the feeling that Francis has scammed me again but I go ahead anyway as people with nothing to lose often do. I ring the number and I start the chant.

Owa Tagu Siam.

Then it connects.

‘On the third stroke, it will be 10:32 and 30 seconds.’

Stroke.

Stroke.

Stroke.

That bastard Francis has given me the time information service! And the bad tea! And he’s made me tie a bloody pillow on my head! I bet he’s having a good old laugh now!

I’m about to put the phone down but then I think ‘eh, why not.’ Just go with it. What can I lose? And besides, my head feels light now and I’m resting it on the phone in my hand.

‘On the third stroke, it will be...’

I think I’m smiling. No. I’m just… um… what am I doing? Oh, I’m still chanting. I didn’t even realise.

Owa Tagu Siam.

Stroke.

Stroke.

Oh wa tagu Siam.

Ah… this is nice. And maybe if I start rocking back and forth on my chair it will be nicer.

Oh wat agu Siam.

Yes. Rocking is nice! Wheeeeeee!

‘… it will be 10:39 and…’

Oh what agoo siam.

I’m a rockin’. I’m a rockin’.

Oh what a goose…

And I snap out of it. The bad tea or whatever. One moment of clarity. But my momentum is already going backwards, in a violent jerk at the realisation. And I’m falling backwards onto the floor.

‘Ahh, the pillow,’ I think to myself. But I hit my head hard and I black out anyway.

_____

When I open my eyes, I’m upright. On my chair. One hand is still holding the phone to my ear. The pillow on my head is gone. I feel great. Doesn’t seem to be any effects left from the tea. The room is deathly silent.

‘On the third stroke, it will be 3:56 and 45 seconds.’

It’s still the time information service. Has it really been over five hours? How much is this going to cost me? That bastard Francis!

Stroke.

Stroke.

Stroke.

Oh what a goose I am!

‘On the third stroke, it will be 3:57 and I should be in bed right now dreaming about Jessica Alba or my hot next door neighbour who kinda looks like Jessica Alba. So tell me who the hell you are, who gave you my number, what you want from me, or just bugger off, will you?’