Fremantle Line

The Esplanade was an ant’s nest of activity, not people, not human, drones to society. Blurs behind glass, no story, no color, no definition; just worker ants. The Esplanade was located 141 William St, it just so happens to be no where near 140 and 142 which makes things terribly difficult if say someone was after a birth or death certificate. Up to only a few months ago I was considered a ghost to the work force, none existent. Those who don’t have a tax file number notice a calculated 48% of your earnings deducted under the assumption that you do not own a number. No manager at any fast food outlet can tell you why, half the time they don’t even know. After employment for five years, at the age of sixteen I got myself my tax file number. I was now part of the grid, locked in with my superannuation and future promise on sinking debt as I purchase my first car and take a loan for a house; the white picket fence and all. Maybe my accountant can explain why I earn more through my tax claim then what I do annually.
To locate the esplanade you walk down the white arcs across from the central park glass building next to the giant construction ditch. The ditch its self was at least a cubic mile with a ten story drop to yellow sand and mud holes. The pipes that once circulated water and sewerage still poke out the sides of the walls, potent and sharp like a cactus. At the end of the arcs lie a cascade of glass and greenery; seats and tables that look as though they have never been used. There was a moment when I had to stop and stare at the cracks in the glass roof. Mesmerized as the suns golden beams cut through and lit up the garden; vines climbing high up the poles and webbing against the glass as though it was by a spider. No one appreciates these things anymore.
Continuing forward down the flight of stares there is another hallway over an bus exiting road, with glass arcs leading into the esplanade. As I approached the sliding doors I saw her waiting against the glass. She had her kitten clip-on-ears, and her messenger bag. Around her wrist was an assortment of studded bracelets, and on her jeans were patched designs and cut outs from other materials. Her shirt was a small white thing with a black zip over her left shoulder; I wouldn’t unzip it was just there to look good she reckons. Her smile is warm and gentle with a hint of menace as she always has about her. Good girls say no, bad girls say when.
I feel a slight pain in my left leg and I fall to the floor. I look down and notice the pain was her foot kicking my knee; steel caps today. Like catnip she jumps onto me and looks me in the eye. Her face only an inch away from mine, her lips are closer. I close my eyes and wait for the rush only to here a click, and open my eyes to the strobe from her camera. She took a photo of me; of all the things she could have done she took a photo of me.
“What, what…why did you take a photo?” I ask.
“Well you said you liked cameras.” She replied pulling the photo tab out from the bottom and waving it gentle.
“Yeah but if your going to break my leg and make a scene at least follow through with it.”
“Oh relax I didn’t come out that bad anyway.” She says before showing me the photo of a guy, mouth open, eyes closed, and a finger (not his) poking at his nose. The girl in the photo was missing the top half of here head but there was a smile visible.
“That’s much appreciated thank you.” I say smiling. “Now hand me the photo before some one sees it and has a heart attack, because I swear if you don’t I’ll go into one myself.”
“Calm down come on, I think it’s kind of cute.” She says with a grin hold the photo out of reach.
“Please, it’s enough to break a mirror come on.” I say try to reach it.
“No, not until I’m convinced your not going to through it into that bottomless pit of yours on your back you call a bag.”
“I promise, come on, don’t be so evil.” I say trying to gain some sympathy.
“I don’t believe you. I like this photo, maybe we should see what other people think and compare it to yours.” At that she calls out the nearest person, and young lady in fact. “Excuse me, miss? I was wondering if you could give your opinion on this photo I just…”
I block the fog horn to save what ever dignity I have left.
“Don’t mind her.” I tell the lady with a fake smile. “She’s just off her medication. We are going to give the photo to Matt now aren’t we, yes?”
She signs and hands it over whilst mumbling what I assumed was an insult. She paused for a moment a frowned before continuing. “Okay well then I guess if you don’t like this one we will have to take another one.”
I stuff the photo into my pocket and put on a smile. She lent down next to me and kept the camera high in the air above us. She wanted this to be good, I better smile harder. The shutter clicks, the flash goes off and the photo comes out of the base of the camera.
“That was a good one, thank you babe.” she pecks me on the check and sits up straight. The doors behind her open and before the photo is exposed a gush of wind carries the photo out of her hands and down gap in the floor between the elevator doors.
“Aw well at least we have other one.” She remark.
“Yeah just don’t go doing anything I wouldn’t okay.” I reply with my hands in my face.
There’s a noise, a clap in the distance. I tilt my head backwards to see where it is coming from. The second echoed up and down the esplanade.
“Well, well, well, well. I must say that was quite entertaining.” Says Julian; walking slowly towards us, towering over with a video camera in hand.
“Oh no.” I say with frustration “I can just see this ending on the internet.”
“Relax kid this only PG 13 right?” laughs Julian.
Celia cracks up before remarking “You obliviously haven’t seen him at work.”
“What you mean at the video store? I work with him.” He replies.
“Wrong context but that sounds like fun.” She looks down at me “Let me know when your working next kid I bring you a little surprise.”
This was no surprise to me; I already knew what she was going to do. I knew this because Julian knows this. It was unfortunate however to discover this so late on, that I might not be the only ball or yarn this kitten rolls over.