Break-Breakdown

The conclusion of The Concert That Wasn't

From The Archer Review, Issue 10: The My All Edition (Thu 14 May 1998)

Last issue, we left the Archer speeding across Melbourne in the wee hours of a Tuesday morning, hot in pursuit of a member of Elite Force, Mariah's dance company on the Butterfly tour...

There's that word again- "decoy". Freda is seeking more bountiful prey than Trey Lorenz now- what if they are moving Mariah now that the last of the fans have dissipated, leaving the Grand Hyatt unguarded.

The dancer's taxi pulls-up at Crown Casino. Hardly surprising- as somebody had commented earlier in the evening, there's not really that many night-spots kicking at 1am on a Tuesday morning in Melbourne.

Freda decides not to follow the dancer inside the Casino, and instead uses a service driveway to quickly turn the car around and hurtle back towards the Hyatt. Freda's mind must be racing, because the out-of-towner has to direct her through the streets back to the Hyatt. I am quite proud that I have mastered the Melbourne city circle in little more than 12 hours. "Well, it's all square and flat. I come from Hobart- hilly and twisted."

Contrary to Freda's suspicions, nothing is happening back at the hotel, pretty much as I expected. We sit for a while, and as Freda's mind begins to fall out of warp, she decides it's time she went to work- at the Crown Casino as it turns out.

Back at Crown, Freda shows me inside the service entrance, and points out an office where I can drop off Trey Lorenz's autograph once I get it. "Just say it's for Freda. They'll get it to me."

"So you're the only Freda?" I guess Crown just seemed like too big an operation to have just the one Freda. As it turned out, I was right, but Freda insisted they'd know which one would want Trey Lorenz's autograph.

Freda drops me off where the dancer had been dropped off twenty minutes before, and Freda gives me directions to the room she thinks he would have gone to- the room where she believes Trey is.

Oddly enough, running an errand for a near-stranger is not high on the list of priorities for a sad, dejected, thirsty guy who desperately needs to go to the toilet.

After finding and utilizing the facilities, I decide I need some money, having spent all but my last twenty dollar note and a handful of coins on bus fare, lunch and Mariah merchandise. To my horror, I find that my card is rejected by every machine I try it in. The reality of the situation begins to dawn on me, and I experience an almost overwhelming sense of doom as I consider my options.

Basically, I have nowhere to stay. I was planning to see some late-night movies at Crown or something, because, as I said to Derek, it seemed an awful shame to waste my short stay in Melbourne by sleeping.

It is obvious that my remaining twenty dollars must be spent getting to the airport. It is also obvious that I won't be able to do much of anything at Crown with the coins left in my pocket.

I decide that I definitely need somewhere to spend the next six hours or so before my flight- somewhere free. And I need to be sure I can get to my flight from there within plenty of time and using only twenty dollars. The airport suddenly seems like the place to be, and bus seems the best way to get there.

I'm trekking along the west end of Flinders Street, apparently on the wrong side of the road, because I have to do some climbing. in order to stay out of the way of oncoming traffic. Anyway, I'm still kind of thankful I wasn't on the other side of the road, as a couple of drunken men appear to be having a brawl over there.

I'm pretty concerned about my situation, and having time to think about it isn't helping any. Luckily I can be fairly rational and detached when I need to be, so I'm not hysterical or anything. As I'm walking, a drink stop suddenly seems worthwhile.

There is a twenty-four hour shop on the corner of Elizabeth Street, so I mosey in and buy a can of Fanta with my coins. Surprisingly, there are a lot of people in the small store considering the hour.

The drink does some good, but my thirst is far from quenched by the 375ml of soft drink. I try a few more ATMs as I make my way up Elizabeth Street, but all to no avail.

By this time, the hollow and ominous ticking of the pedestrian signals is beginning to grate on my nerves. There are some weird people walking the street at this hour on a Tuesday morning, and this week, I'm one of them.

Evidently, I am walking too slowly, as occasionally I hear footsteps quicken behind me, as yet another night-stalker goes past. Apparently I am also a suspicious character, as I notice a security patrol watching me at one point.

Arriving at the bus station, I find it to be closed, and my rational mind begins to fail. OK, great, now what. I know that there is a bus that goes to the airport every hour, even this ungodly one. Unfortunately, I don't appear to be in a calm enough state to remember, or even reason, where the bus stops when the station is closed. I just focus on the fact that when the station opens, there won't be enough time to get to my 8:30 flight.

Now, realising that I am not coping well with my situation at this point, I decide, despite the hour, I should call home and wake somebody up. Not that they could really do anything, but at that point a familiar voice might have made all the difference.

However, that plan turns out to be pipedream as well, as when I manage to find a phone, I discover that I don't have enough coins to operate it, nor do I have the "smart" phone card alternative it suggests. Apparently, my "dumb" card is not good enough for it.

I wouldn't say I was panicking at this point, but I was certainly approaching that state. It seemed like everything I was touching was turning to stone.

After walking around a few blocks, collecting my thoughts, I reaffirm my belief that the airport is the place to be. After all, my plane ticket couldn't fail me, could it?

Just then I see the airport bus go up a street about half a block away. There ain't much traffic in Melbourne at that time of night, so it's hard to miss a bus. OK, now I know where the route takes it, but I don't like the idea of hanging around on the streets for another hour waiting for the next one.

Having seen a few taxies on the streets, I decide that this mode of transport would be a viable alternative in the absence of the bus. Although I am a little concerned that I won't be able to flag one down, given that everything else has already gone wrong.

As it turns out, it only takes me a few minutes to hail a taxi, but then my concern that a ride to the airport may cost more than I have is borne out.

The driver is not exactly unfriendly, but he is rather abrupt at first. He probably gets all kind of riff-raff flagging him down at this hour of the morning, and certainly, I'm not sure I can claim to be any exception. I ask him how much it would cost to get to the airport, and he estimates about twenty-five dollars- five more than I have.

OK, two options flash up in my mind almost instantaneously. Either I accept his terms now and cry poor at the airport, or I try to convince him to take something of value that I have in place of the fiver.

In a matter of centiseconds, I have eliminated my Discman, my camera, Mariah stuff, and all items of clothing- because either they were too valuable, or not easily redeemable for the cabbie. Then I have an idea.

From left to right: the T-shirt, the ticket and the tour book

"I only have a twenty," I say as I open my wallet, "but I do have an American ten dollar note. Will you take that?" And here I must thank Mr Peter Ferenz for being one of the few Mariah collectable seekers who honoured his commitment to me over the summer.

I am not hopeful, so immediately I break into a spiel about how its worth more than Australian currency, and that it wouldn't be that hard to exchange when the banks open in a few hours. But apparently this is not required, as he seems happy to accept my deal. Indeed, he's gonna be the winner, and probably even knows it.

As I get into the seat (all his discussion has been taking place at his open passenger door), and close the door, I thank the man very much for his kindness.

Predictably, as we begin on our journey, he asks me how I come to be with only a twenty dollar note (and an American ten), walking the streets of Melbourne in the wee hours of a Tuesday morning, looking to get a ride to the airport. And given that he has rescued me from the impending panic of a few minutes earlier, I am only happy to recount my sad tale to him.

Many miles... Mariah concert... Cancelled... Camped outside her hotel... Many hours... Leave... No money left... ATM card won't work... Bus station closed... Phones won't take phone card... Lost in the big city...

I nearly breakdown a few times while telling this story, but I continue underneath the guise of a smile, trying my best to make a joke of it. But my feigned laughter is hollow.

Anyway, the hardest part of my story is explaining that I am actually Australian, and why an Australian has American currency on his person. At least he agrees that the airport is indeed the best place to be in my situation.

We discuss what Tasmania is like, and he tries to talk up Melbourne. I guess he can tell from the tone of my story I ain't exactly rapt in his city. I guess I can forgive him for not knowing Tasmania is a part of Australia- he appears to be a fairly recent Greek migrant (at least I hope he is- perhaps all mainlanders are as naive).

And because all conversations with taxi drivers must inevitably have idle chit-chat, we discuss the craziness of all the road work blocking up the Tullamarine freeway.

Upon finally arriving at the airport, it becomes apparent that I have fully won the support of this stranger, because he decides to give me five dollars change from my unusual currency combination. So I am not completely destitute, and as he suggests, "I might get a coffee" with it. I don't have the heart to tell him I don't drink coffee.

The domestic terminal is dead. There is the odd cleaner roaming about, but apart from that the place is deserted. I don't believe I'll be able to sleep, so I just set up camp in a passenger lounge, take off my shoes and socks, and begin massaging my wet, aching feet.

Having settled in, I decide that some Mariah would hit the spot right now. I have been putting it off in case it makes me breakdown and cry or something. But I think it is the best thing, given the hours I need to kill before my plane is to leave.

But once again, that which I touch turns to stone. The Discman's battery is flat. Apparently I had accidentally jarred the play key earlier in the evening, and it had played Butterfly silently to itself for a couple of hours.

With little left to do, I thumb through the tour book, but find that it just melancholies me. It reminds me of the songs I was supposed to hear the night before, and I begin to feel cheated.

It is not good to brood by yourself for so long, especially knowing that you are hundreds of kilometres from home on your birthday, and that all has been for little more reward than the tokens and souvenirs in your bag.

I am thankful that the airport is now beginning to "jump", with staff flowing in, and the odd early-bird passenger cropping up. But they make me feel out of place, and even more isolated than when I was alone. I know sleep is impossible now.

I check-in for my flight, simply because I have nothing better to do. I have waited for the queues for the 6am flights to shorten, but in that time I have been increasingly disturbed inside.

I have been up for almost 22 hours straight now, and my eyes are burning hot in the dry air of the terminal. My throat is dry, and I have trouble speaking to the man at the check-in counter.

I ring home, because one of the airport phones can handle my "dumb" phone card. My mother answers. She's awake at this hour, preparing to wake the kids so she can get them ready for school before she has to go to work.

At first mum thinks everything is routine, because I had promised to call after the concert, but I warned her that I might get caught up doing other things and not call until the morning.

Then she asks, "How was the concert?" As I open my mouth to speak, I realise I cannot make a sound. My voice is about to squeak. I finally realise that my non-chalant facade when I was outside the Hyatt has been compromised, and I can now feel the knots my heart is tied into.

My solution is to speak very softly, barely above a whisper. The words are slow, and well separated, "There was no concert." Unfortunately, she wants explanations that I appear to be in no state to give.

I manage to tell her a little of my misfortunes since 1am, but the longer I speak, the worse I become. Eventually I just tell her I have to go, ask her to pick me up from the airport (because I don't have any money for the airport bus) and say goodbye.

I disappear into the toilet for a long time. Sorrow so powerful overcomes me there. And then I breakdown and cry. I remain silent, because I don't want to reveal the fact I'm suffering.

I compose myself and return to the passenger lounge with bloodshot eyes. If anyone had spoken to me then, I easily could have lost my composure. But thankfully no-one did.

I get some Chocolate Big M for breakfast and sit in the cafe for a while. The woman is obviously disappointed that I don't want anything else, but I don't really care.

I feel my skin getting thicker again, but know that, gradually, I'm dying inside. I just can't see the bright side of anything, yet part of me knows that others will think me foolish if I tell them the truth.

How could I be so upset about a cancelled concert? What kind of priorities does such a person have? And so my questions probe deeper into my psyche, and so it is when you are given too much time with your own thoughts and too few distractions.

I sit in the standby area, mainly for a change of scenery, waiting for my flight to ascend the departures screen.

I watch the comings and goings with detached emotions, concerned only with boarding my flight. I have resolved not to do anymore self-analysis, for fear of self-destruction.

I'm finally in the air heading home. I hallucinate as I stare the clouds, and for the first time in history, someone is thankful for the snack the airline provides.

The flight is smooth, which actually disappoints me a little. Suddenly plummeting into the ocean doesn't seem like such a horrifying thought. With that thought, I know that I have boarded the plane in the nick of time. My rational mind has checked-out, and I'm running on the fumes of a broken heart.

When I finally touch down, mum isn't at the airport, which gives me time to sit out in the sunny carpark and brood. It feels so cruel that it can be so sunny and beautiful today, and yet be so dull and dreary the day before.

It'd be just my luck that she's not coming, I think to myself. I realise I have no hope left in me, and even that I don't really care if she doesn't come. It is just another small thing on the list of things that had gone wrong in the past 24 hours.

When mum arrives, I am only half-aware. Asleep with my eyes open, or just too paralysed with self-pity to move. As she leads me to the car, and I numbly collapse in the seat, I utter not a word. "Happy Birthday," mum says, and probably immediately realises how cruel it was to utter that cliche in these circumstances.

I am speaking by the time we get home, and mum gives me Sarsaparilla and hot Milo even though she should be at work.

When she finally does leave, I realise that nothing will be the same in my world again. So breaking with years of pyjama tradition, I put on some clean boxers and my new Mariah T-shirt and sleep fitfully for the daylight hours of my birthday.

I didn't really catch up on sleep until the next day. But I took one more photo to tell the last 1000 words of my tale. See if you can spot the plate with some of the crumbs from my chocolate birthday cake.