CHAPTER THREE
Mitchell dreamt of Julianna again that night. Beautiful Juliana who he still loved and thought of every day. He lay staring at her eyes and beaming smile. Gingerly stroking her hair, guiding the wayward strands over her ear safely to the others. He was lost in her. Nothing else mattered in the world.
But it had been a long time since he’d done that in reality
A thick grate suddenly separated them. In stark contrast to Juliana’s beauty, it was a rusted barrier of metal and wood keeping her teasingly from Mitchell’s reach. A portcullis, from a medieval fort or prisoner dungeon. Designed to hold horror and not something as beautiful as Juliana.
She’d never been taken from his dreams, only his life, and the grate’s arrival shattered his thoughts. He panicked. Fighting harder to stoke her brunette locks, to run his hand tenderly down her silken cheek. To kiss her.
Why was this happening?
Juliana moved away. He sensed not by choice, but rather an unseen force. He struggled holding on, the more he tried the further she withdrew. Mitchell saw a tear roll down her cheek before cascading like a raindrop onto the muddied ground beneath her bare feet. He also wept as she sailed into the recesses of a blackened abyss.
He woke abruptly to a night as warm as the day before and glanced at the clock now showing 1:11 am. Hungrily grasping for breath, still filled with fear, Mitch laid his head on the now moistened pillow thinking of the red 4WD.
≈
When the suns’ rays broke through the curtains across the hallway, Mitch rose, splashed water over his face, brushed his teeth and slipped on his running clothes. He usually jogged with music to break the tedium but today chose not to. He needed to concentrate. The past few days, even last night, were strange to say the least and he needed to focus. On the plate, the red 4WD, Juliana…
Despite the mental exhaustion, Mitch decided to run an extra lap of the parklands before making his way to his favourite café, ‘How’s Your Day Bean?’
“You’re late today Mitch!” Sarah quipped never removing her smile.
“Better late than never,” he retorted sitting down to catch his breath.
Sarah was the barista always working the morning shift and Mitch came to know her through his regular morning coffee ‘runs’. Every day they engaged in some innocent, flirtatious banter most good baristas use to ensure regular trade; but there was always something more between them. He knew very little about Sarah other than she made an extremely good latte and never failed to make him smile. Mitch found her attractive in many ways and sensed she felt the same.
“Not like you to come in late. And puffed out too. Everything OK?”
“As well as can be expected,” Mitchell replied. “And not like you to not have my coffee ready when I do arrive,” he added with a cheeky smile.
“I did smartarse. But as you were late, I had to drink it myself. Bloody good too.”
“Always said you make the best latte north of the Yarra,” he bantered back not skipping a beat. “How’s your morning been?”
“Very clever…actually it’s been pretty quiet, I missed you. Why you so late?”
Mitch thought as he took the first sip of freshly made coffee. It had only been two days, but the red 4WD and the damn metal plate were on his mind.
Should I mention that to Sarah? He chose not to say anything.
“Threw an extra ‘K’ or two onto today’s run to keep me on my toes.”
“So, not a heavy night then?” she enquired with a raised eyebrow and smirk.
“Of sorts you might say...Hey, let me ask you something.” Without thinking, and against his better judgement, Mitchell asked a question he knew he shouldn’t.
“You know everyone, well everyone who likes a great coffee anyway. Do you know of a red 4WD from around here? Maybe someone local who would come home the same way, every day, at the same time?” He took another sip of coffee hoping Sarah might perhaps shed some light on what he’d seen.
“Jesus Mitch! I’m stuck here from predawn till just after lunch. I see plenty of people but never the cars they drive. Why do you ask?” she added quizzically.
Mitch hadn’t thought that through. He was so anxious to get some answers he’d just opened a Pandora’s box. Stupid...
“Oh no reason. I was out walking Peanut the other day and this madman almost ran us off the road near the crossing down the way. It was nothing really. But if there are kiddies around, who knows….” He was happy with the recovery but again uttered under his breath. Stupid.
“Sorry I can’t help Mitch, but I can ask around if you’d like?”
He told Sarah not to worry, it was nothing really. Mitch bid her good-bye with the promise of being on time tomorrow. He decided to take the long way home, walking slowly to enjoy his morning latte.
The walkways through Mitchell’s suburb intersected each other across many routes. Nowhere couldn’t be reached on foot. The long way home as he called it, was in essence the reverse to his regular walking route with Peanut, but instead of walking up the hill, it started from the high side making the downward leg much easier.
From this opposite direction, Mitch noticed many things he normally didn’t see. But that was typical of him. Things going unnoticed, too caught up in his own world, his own drama and agenda to be mindful of anything else. And sadly people too. Those who loved him. He never intended shutting them out but inadvertently did with his, some would say, selfishness.
The houses looked almost unrecognisable from the opposite angle, and Mitch could see the city skyline way off in the distance. Even the parked cars took on a slightly changed persona. He figured the red 4WD would be moving away from him at this position. That damned 4WD.
He tilted his head swigging the coffee and spotted a park bench slightly off the path nestled amongst the shelter of adjacent tress. He hadn’t noticed it before. It was weathered, and well occupied judging by the smoothness of the panes and fading paint. Of course it had always been there, but Mitchell was oblivious to his surroundings.
Uncharacteristically he sat down to enjoy it’s solitude. The sun slowly tracked across the morning sky and thankfully the temperature of the day before didn’t look like returning. Mitch wondered if Ethel was out watering her Gardenias or if the Nut had noticed his changed timetable. He was soon daydreaming, helped along by a slight breeze to relax him. His mind wandering. A passing car crossed his eye, but Mitch didn’t see it. It was the heavy sound of a broken muffler catching his attention and he snapped his head quickly thinking it was the red 4WD.
It wasn’t.
For an hour Mitch twisted his head back and forth, up and down the road searching for the phantom 4WD. He might have been watching a tennis match had an observer bothered to notice. Dozens of cars made their important journeys, but alas no red 4WD was sighted. Mitchell deduced it useless and rose from the comfort of the newly found bench, tossed his coffee cup into a rubbish bin, and headed home.
Leaving the shelter of bushes and trees, Mitch spotted the metal plate and his heartbeat quickened. More in anticipation than fear, and he countered the palpitations by slowing his pace. There were many walkers on the path today: they always used the pathways, but with his head down and mind elsewhere, he rarely noticed them - let alone engage any in conversation. Today though he saw the lone figure of an elderly man standing in statuesque silence on ‘his’ plate. Exactly as Mitchell stood firm footed the day before on the very same spot.
The man wore dark blue trousers and a light brown, long sleeved shirt buttoned to the collar. Odd apparel for such a warmish day but typical of older generations; dress smartly for all occasions. A Fedora hat adorned his head, and a pair of dark sunglasses were perched on his nose. More suitable Mitch thought given the moderate spring sun. He carried a walking stick, just as Mitchell had many times, but remained stationery having not moved an inch in the thirty seconds Mitch was watching him. As Mitchell neared it was obvious the gentleman wasn’t moving from the path. He was forced to walk around him and through the long grass paralleling the pathway. As he did, and again uncharacteristically, Mitchell gestured,
“Good Morning, lovely day?”
The old man completely ignored the comment and remained looking into the distance. His mischievous smile seemed to widen as Mitchell passed, but still he ignored him. He didn’t acknowledge Mitch’s presence and hadn’t moved a muscle. With a sideways glance Mitch noticed the walking stick the man carried was white and rather thin. A walking cane with a distinct rounded bulb at the tip. The dark glasses too were not sunglasses at all.
The man was blind.
Surprised by the man’s behavior, Mitch kept walking and quietly muttered to himself.
“You might be blind old man, but you’re not deaf!”
This was more in character.
≈
Unsure if Peanut was happy or otherwise, that afternoon Mitch chose not to take her walking. He wanted to avoid the plate and the sleepless night and extra running had him tired for the first time in months. But that didn’t stop the ice cubes from appearing; he threw a hand-full into a bowl of water for the Nut and poured a generous scotch over some more for himself.
“Pays not to be polite sometimes” he told Peanut recalling the ignored greeting earlier in the day. It sometimes wasn’t worth it and partly justified why he often kept to himself. At least the ignorant old man took his mind from the 4WD, letting him slip in memory to times when most things were going right.
After Mitchell’s mother died he buried himself in his studies as a method of escape. No doubt the start of escapism he carried to this day. Those he loved left within a few short years; he didn’t trust anyone and honed an unhealthy habit of keeping emotional distance in the ill-contrived notion of not getting hurt. Mitch and his brother inherited what little money their parents hadn’t already spent on their sons, and he wisely put his share into a fruitful term deposit during the course of his studies. With his career starting on a generous salary, it took little time for Mitch to raise a deposit to purchase his current home. A small three-bedroom brick veneer in the outer suburbs of Sydney. His overseas living expenses were fully subsidised further aiding his finances, and Mitch leased out his house during the eleven years he was abroad; the rental income alone covering the mortgage repayments. The recent redundancy payment more than covered the small residual loan, so Mitchell now owned the home outright. At least he still had that.
It was during his third whisky the red phantom returned.
Mitch considered sitting at the plate, for hours if needed, watching every car that passed. He could jot down the number plate then trace the mirage that way. He had friends in the police that could help. Well he once did anyway; nothing a phone call wouldn’t fix if he could gather the courage to contact them after all this time. But then what would he do? Knock on the owner’s door and say ‘Excuse me, I was wondering if the red four wheel drive parked in your driveway is real of not?’ He drained the remainder of the glass conceding the idea ridiculous. Back at reality, the moon and stars were out and Peanut sat patiently awaiting her feed. He diligently prepared her dinner but chose another glass for himself in lieu of a meal.
≈
Morning came but only after another dream of Juliana; where she was again dragged from his arms and blocked by the rusty metal grate. He chose not to run and couldn’t remember the last time he’d skipped a morning jog. Regardless, he dressed accordingly and set off to get his coffee arriving on time to the amusement of Sarah. His latte was ready as usual.
“You are a stickler for time aren’t you? And true to your word,” she teased. Sarah knew little of Mitchell. They talked every morning, engaging mostly in the same pleasant banter, never revealing too much about themselves. But Sarah correctly surmised two things about Mitch, perhaps by accident; he was true to his word and always on time.
“As timely as you with my coffee. How are you today Sarah? Looking radiant as ever.” Mitch decided to start the flirting.
“Keep that up and the next coffee’s on me,” she smiled widely. “You tracked down your maniac driver yet Sherlock? Perhaps you should get yourself one of those florescent vests and STOP signs and become the local lollipop man at the crossing.” Sarah laughed heartedly at the taunt, almost spilling the coffee she was handing to her waitress.
“What did you call me yesterday, smartarse was it? I could say the same of you. But I won’t.” Mitchell smiled wider than Sarah. “No, I haven’t, and to be honest I’d completely forgotten about it.” That was a lie of course and Mitchell hoped it wasn’t spotted.
“Fair enough. I’ll keep my eye out anyway…but you’re the only one I notice around here.”
“Thanks for that. You have a great day and I’ll see you tomorrow,” Mitch said turning with a wave completely unaware of the comments true meaning.
With his coffee now in hand Mitchells pace quickened and he almost ran to the park bench that had miraculously appeared yesterday. By luck it was free so he planted himself squarely in the middle of it; one arm draped over the backrest, the other periodically bringing the coffee to his lips. And he waited. Not entirely sure what for, but he waited nonetheless.
The increasingly familiar sounds of the surrounding bush filled his ears and Mitch wandered in thought. He was ‘smelling the roses’ and drank every sound and sight, even slumping further down the bench to find a more comfortable position. The coffee seemed sweeter; had the cheeky Sarah dropped a scoop of sugar in as a tease? No matter, he was enjoying the morning and neighbourhood coming to life.
Between the birds and din of the traffic, an unusual sound caught his attention. It was a sound rarely heard, becoming stronger the more he listened for it. A passing car would occasionally drown it out, but it kept its rhythmical timing.
Click - Click. Click – Click, reminiscent of Mitch tapping his walking stick on the pavement to gain Peanut’s attention.
Click – Click it continued, getting louder each time. Mitch looked to his left and saw thirty metres down the path the elderly gentleman he’d passed yesterday coming toward him. He wore the same trousers and stately hat, but his shirt today was white and once more buttoned to the collar and wrists. In his right hand was the walking cane, the tip of which tapped the ground;
Left - Right, Left - Right. Click - Click, Click - Click.
As the man came closer, Mitch thought perhaps he hadn’t heard his greeting yesterday and decided to try again.
“Good morning sir,” he said loudly on the off chance the man was in fact deaf.
“Good day to you too. Enjoying the morning bird song are you?” came the reply in a strong, authoritative voice brought through age and wisdom.
“I sure am. Do you a need a hand?” Mitchell offered unsurely and not at all naturally. He seldom offered help, preferring not to get involved; he otherwise would have sat silent in the hope the man passed him unnoticed.
“Thank you son, but I have been doing this for a long time now and think I can manage on my own. Can you hear that Rosella off to the right? What a delightful chirp they make this time of day.”
Mitchell was gob smacked. He heard all manner of sounds but in no way could distinguish anything precise as a Rosella, let alone the tree in it was perched! It’s said the loss of one sense only heightens the others, Mitch now knew the man might be blind, but he definitely wasn’t deaf.
“I am afraid I’m not that clever at distinguishing birds yet, but I’ll listen out. Enjoy your day sir,” was all he could bring himself to say somewhat shocked by the blind man’s awareness of the surroundings.
The Click - Click was metronomic as the old man continued his morning stroll and Mitch leant from the bench to watch him longer. The man never strayed from the centre of the path, demonstrating his acquired skill with the walking cane as if on show. The thought again crossed Mitch’s mind how the loss of one thing only reinforces your appreciation of what you have.
Click - Click it continued, before a distinct change in tone broke the cycle. Mitch heard a deeper Clunk - Clunk sound ringing with a slight echo. He shot up to the path and spied ahead to find the neatly dressed blind man standing dead centre on the metal manhole cover; the cane at his side and his head tilted toward the sky. Mitchell aped the man, looking in the same direction, finding himself mirroring his stance in the hope he might be missing something. A Rosella perhaps, or the cicadas. Mitch heard them all, but nothing coming from the space the old man peered into.
He noted the time, 8:10 am, a habit formed after years of clock watching, and stood frozen, transfixed by the blind man starring off into nothing. What was he doing?
They stood in silence only metres apart; the elder oblivious to Mitchells’ presence, Mitchell rooted in fascination. Minutes passed. The sun moved higher in the sky and the traffic mounted as the workday beckoned. Neither driver nor passenger seemed to notice the old man almost praying to an unseen God.
Mitchell though was awestruck.
After a while the old man began moving, slowly pirouetting on the plate, his feet moving no more than a few inches at a time. He was looking around, no longer just focused on the sky, and suddenly made a surprising movement. He raised his hand toward his head, to scratch his nose Mitchell guessed, but instead he pinched his sunglasses at the frame and removed them from his face. His eyes were saucer like, unblinking, sparkling as the sunlight danced across his corneas. The way the light caught Juliana's eyes during that lunch date by the sea…
The old man’s smile soon widened baring his teeth for the first time and Mitch thought he actually laughed such was his childlike reverence. He remained that way for some time, never moving his feet from the confines of the plate nor acknowledging anything immediately around him.
Then the man suddenly turned to face Mitchell straight on. They were metres apart but he looked straight at him. Straight through him. On instinct Mitchell raised a hand to wave and called out if everything was Ok. But like the day before, he was completely ignored.
Mitchell dropped to a squat resting his elbows on his knees in disbelief. His quads quickly burnt but he didn’t move. He didn’t want to miss anything despite having no explanation for it. The pain though soon became too great and Mitchell stood, shook his legs to recirculate the flow of blood and checked his watch. 8:42 am.
Where the hell did half an hour go?
Still without an explanation, he perched himself on the ledge of the nearby gutter and cocked his body in the direction of the solitary man. There Mitch sat more comfortably. The passing traffic had softened by now and the sun higher in the sky. Strangely though, not another soul passed their way; it was only Mitchell and the blind man. His buttocks ached from the hard concrete, but stone-like himself, Mitch sat starring until the old man without warning reeled, catching his balance with the walking cane. After steadying, he calmly removed a neatly folded handkerchief from his hip pocket and wiped his brow of the gathered sweat while standing in the sunlight. He then nonchalantly replaced his glasses to the bridge of his nose. The old man returned the handkerchief to his pocket and dipped his hat ever so slightly before dusting his lapels in an matter of fact fashion. The cane was placed in his preferred right hand and he began walking down the hill faintly whistling the old Irving Berlin tune ‘Blue Skies’.
The time was 9:49 am.
The entire, bizarre set of events took exactly ninety-nine minutes to unfold.