It was a nasty, boring situation.
Trevor stood a distant silo, slave to sinking feelings of stuckness, and distracted by the sadness of another Saturday washing too fast over him.
Time splintered into eddies like the turgid waters of the coiled brown snake down below – wrapping, warping, rushing around the grubby sandstone pylons of the neighbouring Indooroopilly railway bridge and onwards to what.
Cassidy tugged gently at his shirt.
Trevor didn’t notice.
The heat was unbearable.
Kristy gave audience to the ageing fat man in the jolly red t-shirt as he regathered his breath once more and continued his sermon.
“Now, this where things get really interesting,” boomed the fat man.
“The story of the bridge’s construction is one of mighty setbacks, let’s make no mistake. But a Man; a man of unwavering determination; one might even say a True Visionary, was able to move all mountains before him. The man at the centre of this story was none other than Walter Taylor. A builder, an inventor, and member of the Graceville Progress Association – a formidable man in his time….”
Trevor redoubled down his gaze on the babbling, flabby brown brook down below.
His mind drifted once more to the last time the river escaped itself and enveloped half of Brisbane.
His mind drifted once more to childhood folklore and superstition. To the magic of a pebble dropped a second or two before jumping from the Walter Taylor Bridge. How it would break the water’s skin and ensure a safe passage deep down to brown and dark brown and dark.
He wondered what would happen if he jumped just now without a pebble dropped.
Nirvana?
The fat man continued.
“This elegant Art Deco crossing we now stand on, the Walter Taylor Bridge, has a cousin few might suspect! Another grand and iconic Australian bridge. Any takers?”
Kristy tugged sharply on young Cassidy’s shirt.
She knew the answer and she loved it.
“Darling,” Kristy said loudly enough to inform the crowd that the right of the reply belonged not to them.
“Remember when we went to Sydney at Christmas time? Do you remember that beautiful bridge we saw?”
The stitched up lips of grown women and men held space for the future Philistine to grow into himself.
“The-the-the Thidney Hah’bah Bridth,” Cassidy said.
“Well done!,” the man in the red shirt beamed.
“Well done, young man!”
Kristy beamed.
Cassidy beamed.
“The story of our city’s past is safe in the hands of bright young sparks like you,” said the old spark.
Fuck this warped Willy Wonka, Trevor thought.
Kristy snapped, whispered.
“Jesus, Trev! Can you at least pretend to be interested? Your folks drove all the way from Grafton for this. This is Roger’s birthday present from us, remember?”
Roger and Carmel first met in Oxley, knew and loved the bridge well, and were interested enough by what the ageing fat man had to say.
“Local residents had depended for decades on a ferry service between Chelmer and Indooroopilly. Can you imagine? The community had long been agitating for a vehicular bridge to overcome this problem. Taylor was the man of vision and purpose who devised the concept that could see their aspirations realised.”
Lagging behind, Kristy and Trevor’s older daughter, Chelsea, redoubled down her gaze on the babbling, flabby brown brook. Her girlfriend Jade spied her curiously.
“There are crocodiles in this river,” Chelsea said to the river, staring down on the tidal brown soup.
“Fuck off there are, I don’t see any,” said Jade.
“Well what’s the point of looking at something you can already see,” said Chelsea.
Trevor motioned them closer.
“Go easy on them, Trev,” Kristy said.
Only hours earlier, Chelsea and Jade got stoned beneath the same bridge on the Indooroopilly side. On the edge of the edge of the rubble and the rocks that slope down steeply to the mud and the catfish.
They knew better than the man in the Red Shirt, than Kristy, Trevor, Roger, Carmel, Cassidy, the story of the living bridge. They were custodians of a young story.
The old man pushed on.
“Taylor first advocated a concrete arched bridge be built as part of Brisbane’s centenary celebrations in 1924, but failed to secure government support,” the fat man’s lecture continued.
The parade of the bored and the old and the too young to care continued across the bridge, marching in the shimmering heat to the wobble of the jolly red shirt.
Until their passage was blocked.
Dibley J. Hanify stood smoking a cigarette, slumped over the railing, searching for crocodiles.
“Excuse me,” said the man in the red shirt.
“Look at that tower over there,” replied Dibley to no one in particular, waving towards the Art Deco tower on the Indooroopilly side.
The wailing of crows carved the swamp air in two.
“The last remaining tenant in that place was hoisted out the window of the fucker by crane in a medical emergency. Three hundred kilos, he weighed,” Dibley said.
“I was getting to that. Although I wouldn’t have put it exactly that way,” replied the man in the shirt.
“He represented the sad end of a dynasty. The exclamation mark at the end of a long and winding sentence. The descendant of a long family line of toll collectors made redundant in the Name of Progress.”
Dibley paused, regathered himself.
“That orange brick building over there,” Dibley said, pointing at the Witton Barracks across the tracks and over the fence on the Lambert Road side.
“Ahhhh, a fine part of Brisbane history!,” the fat man enthused.
“And yes! Ummm, I’m sorry, but I never, did quite catch your name? Normally people need to register to take part in these guided tours. But given your clear enthusiasm, and interest in this subject matter, I’d be delighted to make an exception!”
“The name’s Jason,” said Dibley.
Cassidy tugged sharply at Kristy’s shirt.
Kristy grabbed Cassidy’s hand.
“Well, Jason,” whispered the fat man, “Welcome aboard!”
“Thanks,” said Jason.
“But there’s one thing I ask,” the man continued.
“No smoking.”
Jason winked, flicked the cigarette over the railing to the mud and the catfish.
Trevor eyed Jason. Chelsea, Jade eyed Jason.
Roger, Carmel had been watching a bad documentary all day. All that flashed before them was just another terrible scene.
Roger now lamented his birthday present and how the sweat glued his shirt to his back like wet.
The man in the jolly red shirt continued.
“Witton Barracks is a site that has served our nation as a vital defense asset for more than 70 years. It was with immense pride that the Brisbane City Council recently acquired the asset from the Federal Government to ensure it will continue play a vital role for our local community as park, open space and as a historical site,” he said.
“Developers were eyeing this prime river-front real estate for apartment blocks. Up to 10 storeys are allowed according to local zoning regulations. Of course, there are provisions in the plans for a much needed bridge duplication project to ease congestion. But the Council has the utmost respect for this vital part of our city’s history. Sites such as this contribute immensely to the character of our vibrant New World City.”
Jason regrouped, continued.
“There are less and less Second World War structures in Brisbane as each year goes by and they are being demolished to make way for developers.”
“Brisbane was a major headquarters in the war, far more important than Sydney, Melbourne or Canberra. From Brisbane, General Douglas MacArthur directed the war against Japan. The kind of intelligence they were getting was invaluable. It was coming largely straight from Japanese captured at the front and held just over there,” Jason said.
“That place over there needs to be kept in tact,” Jason continued before the fat man interrupted.
“Jason,” the man said.
“It’s Damian,” Jason said.
“Damian,” said the man.
“I’m not sure what you are getting at exactly, and I have every respect for your views. However I also have the interests of a tour here to look after. Perhaps you can provide me your details and we can talk later? Or I can register you for another tour in the near future?”
Damian interrupted.
“So you expect that our council is about protecting this space in the long run? The same Brisbane City Council that has given up half this suburb to developers with no corresponding plans for supporting infrastructure to meet this growth?”
“Who are you?,” the fat man asked.
“Josh,” replied Damian.
“What about you?,” Josh asked.
“I’m just a man,” said the man.
“I volunteer my time twice a week to lead tours for the Brisbane City Council as a ‘Greeter’.”
“I’m part of the Brisbane City Council’s vision to promote Brisbane as a New World City; a city to rival our domestic and international counterparts. And I have a particular interest in the Walter Taylor Bridge.”
“I see,” Josh said.
Josh continued, addressing Kristy, Trevor, Carmel, Roger, Cassidy.
“So what we’re talking about right here is Brisbane City Council bullshit!”
“Brisbane…..Australia’s New World City!,” Josh said.
Have you ever heard of such fucking bullshit in your whole entire life?”
The man interjected.
“The Lord Mayor of Brisbane, Graham Quirk, he’s a fine man…..”
Josh interrupted.
“He’s a smug little fucker, absolute jerk! The reality is that he’s a manager in charge of sewerage and fucking bin collection! All this New World City bullshit? He’s gripped by delusions of grandeur. Brisbane, Australia’s ‘New World City’? Fuck me dead!,” Josh said.
Chelsea and Jade stared amused.
“That fat fuck has a boner for the Indooroopilly Bridge,” Jade whispered to Chelsea, speaking of the fat man in the shirt.
“The Walter Taylor Bride,” Chelsea said, correcting Jade.
“Let’s not make that fat fuck’s life worse than it is already.”
They laughed.
Trevor overheard and smiled.
“Excuse me, Sir,” Jade interrupted.
“Would you describe the arches of that bridge as sexy?”
“Jade!,” Trevor snapped.
“I would describe them as elegant,” said the man.
“Show some respect,” Trevor whispered to Jade and Chelsea before continuing.
“But at the same time, sir, there’s been so much progress happening that seems to have happened without the concerns of people all over town being heard.”
Cassidy grabbed Trevor’s hand. Trevor felt it.
“Well yes, and fair comment,” replied the man.
“And the Brisbane City Council have heard those concerns. You might have seen the recent release of the Brisbane City Council’s Future Blueprint document. The Lord Mayor himself is all about opposing the cookie cutter style of property development that is inundating this city, and is deeply concerned with the preservation of Brisbane’s charm and character.”
Kristy dreamed about life before the bride. About the vehicular ferry rolling on cable across the mud and the catfish.
“Have you read the report, Josh?,” the man in the shirt continued.
“The name’s Nick,” said Josh.
“Oh, I’m pretty sure I heard Josh before,” said the man.
“I can guarantee you I said Nick before. It’s the name that was given to me. I don’t particularly like it,” said Nick.
“Very well,” the fat man said, before adding, “And your thoughts?”
“Well, so, the BCC basically spent three million dollars on a survey and report that confirmed what the people of Brisbane had been asking for over the last five years. Great work there, Quirky!”
“The Lord Mayor, he’s a fine man,” the fat mat interrupted, tugging mindlessly at a loose thread on the inseam of his jolly red shirt.
Nick noticed the thread.
“Allow me,” Nick said, offering to break it off.
The man in the shirt obliged.
Nick pulled and pulled as the whole red shirt and man unraveled revealing yet another man beneath.
Councillor Julian Simmonds.
“Who are you? Where am I?,” Julian asked.
“The name’s Dibley,” said Nick.
Julian fiddled with a key plugged into his cuff.
He was lost for words.
“May I turn it?,” Dibley asked.
“Please,” said Julian.
Dibley turned the key.
Julian opened up like a cello case, hinged at the spine.
Simmonds’ arms and head splayed apart like a melon, and out leapt a new man.
Graham Quirk, smiling, standing five-foot-smug tall.
Instantly he spoke.
“My team at the Brisbane City Council have incredible respect for the way our heritage contributes to the vitality of this vibrant New World City. It’s not like you are making it out at all. You are distorting the truth of the matter.”
“Then, what is it like?,” asked Dibley.
“And what’s up with that zip?,” Dibley asked, noticing the interlocked metal line running across his midriff.
“I’ve never noticed it before,” said Graham.
“I don’t have the slightest idea what lies beneath,” he said, tugging on it gently.
“Do you mind?,” Dibley asked.
“Well, I suppose not,” said Graham.
“But what’s your name again?”
“The name’s Damian,” said Dibley.
Damian worked that zipper around Graham’s torso before the zip-line took a new direction over his head and down his back and up and over and down and up until the cloak fell down revealing a:
New Man.
A Newman.
Campbell Newman stood, two foot tall, mute, averting gaze, and darting.
Damian, Kristy, Carmel, Trevor, Roger, Chelsea, Jade, Cassidy did their best to corner him, grab him.
But it was like arresting an eel.
And through the bars he slipped, falling down to the coiled brown snake down below.
No pebble was dropped to brake the water’s skin.
BAD ORIGAMI 