Challenge Submission Whine, Woman, End Song.

[WhatISeemIAm]

It was nearing New Years. Always an event for the odiously boring little sea-side tourist trap, and a group of young men had picked up a job for the day moving chairs, tables, and out-door lamps for a local bar which were being set up out-of-doors to deal with the expected influx of revellers. Four hours cash-in-hand work was a good deal, and for these residents of the infamous, 'Baza's pad,' (calling it a house would have been too charitable) a full of forty dollars worth of sweet, nourishing two-minute noodles was not to be taken lightly. The work itself was made tolerable by the abundance of chaff and good sport among the semi-feral, tree-house dwelling pseudo-socialist collective as they toiled, all blithely indifferent to the suspicious and disapproving looks they drew from their fellows proletarians, and the odd patron. A number of whom were currently engaged in some sort of trivia competition.

One of their number, a youth named Mike, was currently labouring under the weight of a folded trestle-table with one of the few young women willing to cohabit with, well, people like him. All had the lightly cooked and sinewy but slightly undernourished look that is one with the beach-loving transient, and the sort of feathery sun-bleached hair that comes of spending an inadvisable number of hours on the water in sweltering conditions as a daily habit.

'That girl,' the young woman nodded at someone behind Mike.

'Who-?' He turned awkwardly, '-Where? Uh, Michelle, she's like forty, and in a wheelchair.'

This obtuse response provoked a silent, long-suffering look of exasperation.

'Next to her.' The young woman replied flatly after declining to opine his obduracy.

'Huh-?' He craned his neck awkwardly once more, noting a girl with dark eyes, rod-straight brown hair, scrawny shoulders, and an unfortunate nose that he couldn't bring himself to dislike, as it all seemed to work together nicely, 'Oh, her. What about her?'

She did not look like a local. Her skirt was too long, her shirt had full-length sleeves that fell part-way over her hands, and her ears - which stuck out rather noticeably - sported an eclectic mix of piercing that did not appear to have been planned in advance. Also she wasn't even slightly baked.

'Forget it Boxer,' Michelle frowned, 'If you haven't noticed, me telling you won't help. I swear, the true value of your brain's labour is nothing. Just talk to her if you get a chance, alright?'

'I will think harder.' He responded automatically, and because he thought slowly he realised after saying it that he should have said something about low-blows being banned and still waters running deep.

The two continued hauling the table and went back for another in silence after setting it down. Outside the streets were getting busy. The growing crowds were getting noisier. The bins were filling with empty bottles. Inevitably however the group's labours drew to a close, and Mike found himself fighting for elbow room at the now-crowded bar to find the was landlord insisting on paying them less because of the surplus of workers. All felt the inimitable sting of knowing the bourgeois were doing their part to contribute to the on-going alienation of the working class from the true value of their labour. They knew well that a rational market-actor would have refused to take on such dubious work in the first place, but it is impossible to be a rational market actor without capitol and securities. The other members of his commune joined him briefly, grumbling all the while, but more salient than the loss of wages the primary point of contention was that the influx of tourists was going to make the local beaches insufferable for several days. So they made plans to head to the off-shore reef break off Slate Rock that none of the tourists would be mad enough for, assuming any even knew it existed. Though far from a beach-going dilettante Mike's most recent venture there had left him with a broken bone and a number of scars, one of which he fingered thoughtfully where it ran across the line of his not-quite-clean-shaven jaw as his friends filed out. He was looking forward to going again. He had also forgotten all about the young woman his comrade had pointed out and was taken by surprise when he rose from a bar-stool to follow his fellows and found himself standing next to her, acknowledging her presence with a careless smile as she collected some sort of mysterious voucher that had presumably been won earlier in the trivia game. She smiled back. Which resulted in a certain amount of apprehension on the young man's part, but the gesture did seem genuine, and she wasn't attempting to escape.

He resolved to greet her with all the wit and originality at his command.

'Hi,' Mike remarked, his sinewy shoulders moving awkwardly as the young man scratched the back of his neck.

'Hi,' the dark-haired young woman responded raising a hand to brush back a few errant locks of hair.

***​

Thankfully there was more going on than this tepid, initial exchange would have suggested. As is often the case when young people insist on doing these things for themselves. The interaction being characterized by a sort of groping, non-verbal exchange carried on unconsciously and barely understood as each parsed the other and found nothing their complete absence of common sense, as informed by an almost complete lack of experience, could discern as a red flag.

'Aren't you from...?' her voice trailed off as if she couldn't frame her suspicions about the young man's living arrangements in terms that seemed polite enough to speak out-loud.

She had a pleasant voice that seemed slightly affected in a way that stood apart from the broad accents which were the norm in that small-town milieu, and Mike concluded immediately that nothing he could say about his current lifestyle was going to sound good enough. Which, as far as he understood it, meant he did not have to worry about it. Also her nose looked better up close. Looking as if it had been broken at some point. Not a cutesy, bourgeoisy sort of nose. He couldn't help but find the resulting asymmetry endearing.

'It's kind of a tree,' he scratched the back of his neck once more, 'I haven't been there long. Can't go back tonight because Baza is doing some dumb Pagan cleansing thing to get rid of the year's bad vibes. I'm Mike by the way,'

'Jill,' she responded, 'doing anything for New Years?'

The question was inflected to suggest a cautious invitation, and because his instincts moved faster than his thoughts the young man perked up instantly as a dog might upon witnessing a moving car, but took a moment to respond all the same.

'Uh, yeah, we're... kind of having a party?' he said. 'It'll go all night, since we don't have anywhere to sleep-' he thought for a moment, '-want to come?'

Thus far Jill had given a reasonably intelligent impression. She wanted to say yes though. Which was at least impressively unintelligent.

'Uh, my family want me to head straight home,' she frowned, 'would you-'

'-Yes,' he grinned crookedly, going on instinct.

Jill's brow furrowed slightly.

'I hadn't finished,' she pointed out.

'I know,' he gestured as if to suggest this was an irrelevant technicality, 'it's still a yes.'

She laughed. He felt the strange pride that comes of making a girl laugh when you're not trying to be funny and don't get the joke.

'Alright, well, let's go,' she was smiling.

There was a brief pause here.

'Heh. So, uh, where are we going?' He ventured.

'For a walk, I guess? I mean I'm going home. You can come-' her brows furrowed here, 'uh I mean, well, you know,'

'No, I get it. I mean, I think?'

'Yeah, it's weird to say out-loud-' she paused, frowning slightly, 'but I'm not sure I want you to know where I live, yet.'

Yet. That's all he cared about.

'Cool.'

***​

The two found their way onto a back-street that was all dismal motor-inns and closed mini-golf courses overrun with cane toads, but it was also free from drunken new years revelry, and the sound of the crowds was softened by the distance so as not to occlude the not-quite-musical calls of the innumerable amphibians.

'So how did you end up at Baza's, uh, place?' Jill asked.

'Well,' the young man trailed off with a furrowing brow as if pondering a long story he seldom told, 'Huh, do you know what a Bethel is?'

Her expression made it plain that she did not.

'OK, so it's like a third-rate motel for the small army of unpaid cultists who make pamphlets for the Witnesses. I got sent there because I was too, I dunno? Too something, obviously. If that makes any sense to you.'

'I think so?'

'OK. So, it was dumb, but witnesses have this thing where they sort of non-person anyone who leaves their cult and I left their cult. So, uh, I dunno if that really explains how I got here.'

'Wow, that's… I mean… I didn't mean literally so, you know,' Jill's tone made it clear she was horrified rather than impressed, or perhaps impressed by how horrified she was by the anecdote. 'I always thought those guys were alright. You know, sometimes they bring Watchtower, and mum likes to talk to them, and they're always nice.'

'Yeah. That's how it starts. Then they enslave you to make the Watchtower,'

'Huh. Well, I'm glad you escaped, religion is all kind of stupid anyway I think,'

'Really?! Oh my God, yes, it so is! Marx totally nailed it. Marx always nails it.'

'Heh, he had a pretty good Engel on some things...'

There was no response. He had, in a manner of speaking, been completely unhorsed in the social list of conversation. Still. Some things. That felt like a slight. On the other hand sometimes love happens at first slight. He glanced sidelong at the young woman as she punted aside an obstinately obstructive toad barring their path.

'Uh, don't take this the wrong way, but you don't look like a local. Are you new here too?'

'Not really, I just don't get out much,' Jill admitted, 'Mum had a bad accident years back not long after dad passed away, and someone needs to help her out,'

'Ugh, we're really keeping this uplifting, aren't we?' Mike couldn't help smiling crookedly even as he said this.

'Honestly,' she held his gaze, 'I don't mind. Anyway I've been meaning to ask...'

Mike raised a brow when she reached out and touched his jaw, turning his face in the direction of a nearby street-light.

'How did you get that scar?' She asked.

'Give me a minute,' he grinned, 'and I'll make up a cool story,'

'I see,' Jill smiled as she lowered her hand, 'So, you did something stupid?'

'Yes, shallow off-shore reef in eight foot swell at low tide. Absolutely qualifies, and it's not the only one either. On the plus side it was kind of funny. I mean, after my friends had dragged me back to shore there was so much blood people thought I'd been mauled by a shark and there was a pretty serious panic,'

'That's not actually funny,' no one had ever told him this before. 'Why play around in what is basically an angry washing machine with teeth?' And no one had ever posed this question before.

There was passion in his response.

'Because it's like, the only fun thing left in the damn world no one owns.'

The two had turned off the street toward the coast by way of a narrow path running through a leafy belt of reserve that paralleled a not-quite-scenic concrete-lined storm drain in a thoughtful silence.

'Honestly,' he spoke up, ' I was planning on going there tomorrow, but I'd rather take another walk with you.'

'Sure.' Jill smiled, 'and you know, there are other fun things no one owns,'

'Agreed. Though I'm curious now, how did you break your nose?' Mike asked as they loitered at the point of inevitable departure.

'Give me a minute and I'll make up a cool story,' she smirked.

'Heh, good to know you can do stupid stuff too.'

'Yeah-' She frowned, '-First time in heels. Tripped, smashed my face on a banister rail, and bled all over the guy I was trying to impress.'

'Still seeing him?' This was clearly a tactical inquiry.

'You're not serious are you?'

He shrugged.

'Wouldn't have bothered me. Still own the shoes?'

'… yes, they're pretty, and it wasn't their fault.'

'I hope I get to be impressed by them some day, and I don't mind being bled on if that's what it costs.'

'It could happen-' she shrugged, '-uh, don't take this the wrong way, but do you have a phone?'

'Now why would I go and waste money on one of those when there's a perfectly good phone-booth near the tree?'

'Oh, of course. Private phones are so excessive,'

'Completely bourgeoisie,'

'Well if you can forgive me for owning one, I'll give you my number,'

This was clearly an agreeable proposition and as the two went their separate ways the phone number scrawled on the back of a receipt that was currently in his pocket seemed like compensation enough to make up for having nowhere to sleep.

***​

Mike wasn't particularly small as the human male went, but he was currently sitting in the front seat of a battered blue Civic with a figure named Kurt who made him feel that way, and not in qualitative terms. In the most literal sense. He looked like someone had created him by taking a normal, albeit solidly constructed human figure, and then simply increasing their overall dimensions by around thirty or forty percent. He was Jill's brother, and his dour presence made it clear to Mike why she'd always manoeuvred him around her family in the weeks that had followed their meeting. All the same at her request Kurt had agreed to taxi Mike to her home as Jill was apparently incapable of making their planned rendezvous, and this left him slightly worried.

His introduction to her home was considerably more intimidating than the car ride. Not that there was anything wrong with the quaintly appointed fibro cottage itself. Nor the lawn, which was strewn with several cars, but the other brothers loitering about were another matter. He counted four. All as large and dour as the first.

'C'mon,' his driver grunted, 'fuck off outta my car, I gotta go to work,'

'Right,' he responded while backing out of the passenger side door, and doing his best not to look too relieved to have escaped.

'Yo!' One of the huge men looked up from an open car hood, and turned toward the house, 'Jilly-bean, ya tragic-ass boyfriend's here!'

Another took several strides to reach a point where he could converse at a more civilised volume.

'He's just fucking with her you know,' he intoned casually, 'Is it true everyone calls you Boxer 'cuz you're a dumb commie fucko?'

'I dunno. Do people call you Benjamin? Because you're obviously a fucking donkey,' Mike winced inwardly, his brain having moved too slowly to arrest his mouth.

There was severe inflection to what might have seemed an innocuous term to others. Clearly one did not simply refer to another as a donkey without serious provocation in these parts. The two glared at one another. The other three watched as small, mad-dog courage and the unshakable confidence of the unassailably huge met without flinching.

'Mad cunt,' unlike the hideous slur deployed previously this term clearly held a certain measure of regard and the huge man shook his head as the tension was defused by his silver-tongued civility, 'Get the fuck inside.' He turned, and started back toward his engine, muttering, 'Call me a fucking donkey...'

There was no need for further encouragement as Mike beat a hasty retreat from the brother-laden yard. All the same it felt rather presumptuous to go wandering into someone else's home by himself, and he lingered briefly in the doorway hoping someone might notice and invite him in. It did not happen. Still at least he felt dressed for the occasion sporting the old 'Kingdom Hall,' get-up which included a shirt with actual working buttons. All very respectable. Drifting into the hallway and glancing about he couldn't help feeling a guilty sense that he disliked the place, and there was nothing materially wrong with it, dialectically or otherwise, which only made it more unsettling.

'G'day,' an overly-cheerful, wheelchair bound woman spoke up from within the small living room at the end of the hall. 'Call me Steph-' Mike strode closer and shook her hand, '-pardon me not getting up-' she chuckled, '-Jilly-Bean's out back,'

There was not much in the way of family resemblance between her and her daughter although the same could not be said of her sons.

'It's nice to meet you. I'm-'

-I know-' she was leaning past him so as not to miss something on television, '-off you go.'

The meeting having clearly concluded he wasted no time as she thumbed him in the direction of a screen-door that opened onto a covered out-door area which had been glimpsed in part through a large, unclad, steel-rimmed window. Outside there was something like a rustic picnic table with in-built bench seats and Jill was currently seated across one leaning against the nearby wall with an open book on the table. Even from where he stood though it was clear she was not actually reading it.

'Are you OK?' He made his way over to the opposite bench.

'Sorry about today,' she responded evasively, 'Also, sorry if any of my brothers were being jerks. I'm really glad you came though.'

'I'm glad you wanted me here, although I'll be honest. I don't like your house,'

'You don't like any house. Actually I remember you telling me that if you were a dog you'd be an outside-dog,'

'You're right. I don't even understand the point of inside-dogs. If you hate life so much just get a cat and be done with it,'

Jill spluttered.

'What did cats ever do to you? I remember you said you once thought a dog ate your brother...'

'I did!' He sat up, 'I swear my mother said I had to stay in my room because there was a dog in the house the night he shot himself! Everyone was crying, I thought the dog was getting them!'

'I don't know why I find that so funny, because it's not funny.'

'I didn't think so. I was like nine. Scared the hell out of me. I couldn't decide if I should go downstairs to help, or jump out the damn window and run,'

'You never told me what happened after that,' her tone was obviously inquiring.

'I don't remember.' He admitted, 'Literally. It's mostly blank. I remember police in the house and not being able to go downstairs, and there was a big square cut out of the carpet in the living room. That's it.'

'I guess that's a good thing in some ways. I remember everything about dad dying. I never understood why he wanted us to go away at the end.' She was staring, not at anything in particular.

The conversation had gone dark and Mike was thinking about what it meant. Which took time.

'Hey, you know when you had that accident on the reef. Did you ever think you wouldn't make it?'

'Naw, it wasn't that bad.'

'Well, do you ever think about dying?'

He seldom did. He liked to think of not now and not real as synonyms.

'I try not to, I mean, it sucks, right? But it happens.'

'Can I ask you, what brought it home for you? I mean, does it actually scare you?'

'Yeah, but I don't like admitting it. It's whiny.'

'Complaining about something everyone has to do. I get it, but what if someone told you had to do it tomorrow?'

'I'd do what I always do, what you know I always do. Not think about it until I have to and then panic and improvise. Are you alright?'

'No,' it was blunt, forceful, traumatised no.

'Panicking.' he admitted.

'Improvise?'

He took her hand.

'I'm sorry. I'm not sure how to say it because I don't really want to believe it because it's so… fucking… uh, sorry, I get it. I don't want to whine about it either, I know we're all dying but I have actual dates to think about in the not-too-abstract future,'

She handed him her phone. There was an open document. Grim. In form a description of an incurable condition. In fact a sort of pamphlet that no matter how polite or well-spoken on the subject amounted to not much more than, 'nothing we can do. Have fun dying.'

'Fuck,' He concluded. 'That's… fucked. How did you even get this?'

'Apparently, washing my dad's work clothes.'

'Which you only had to do because your mother is in a wheelchair oh wow that's-'

'-Fucked?'

'Yes. Fucked. So, uh, how long?'

'Can't say. Months or years.'

It was months. Not now. So not real. Yet. When the moment came they panicked. They improvised. She still died.