Being creative
(Beni Li, Master of Business (Major in Sport Management)
Being creative
Sam wears a short black skirt and not to stare. You can see each carries a black plastic briefcase. wrinkle in his skin, even though he The briefcase is from Granny Mays, has muscles and veins popping up bought with earnings from bussing all over to distract a gaze. His smile tables in a posh hotel in Surfers, and eyes betray his desire to be with a cavernous lobby and cold, forty years younger, still tries it on marble staircases. Sam’s got her with some of the young women Walkman in Lycra straining head-set against the covering pulleys and ropes, her ears, lifting dumbbells Ira McGuire the cord over their heads trailing into the case. She gets a near mirrors. The music in Archer’s glances from grown men sitting is all about Def Leppard and AC/ at a bus stop, several from a DC. Posters of Arnie are tacked up worksite, knows she’s getting the for extra motivation, several photos glances. Her legs are long, tanned, of women in headbands and skin her spare time spent lying at the coloured stockings, even though beach, rubbing oil into her skin. that’s going out of style. A few She walks past a gaggle of girls women in the gym are testing out in uniform, smoking, their fringes how to wear a g-string while doing blow dried in stiff peaks, hoop bent-over rows. Sam gets a highearrings glinting in the afternoon five from Archer, and walks past sun. They give Sam the up and the chest-high desk to the change down and decide there’s no point rooms. giving any shit, let her past without incident; there’s something about the way she doesn’t even blink Sam returns ten minutes later, their way. Sam’s listening to the wearing a crop top and cut-off way Morten Harket’s voice vibrates, tracksuit pants. She pulls on her gives her goose-bumps, will give gloves and goes to the corner her incentive to reach under the where the pec-deck machine is. elastic of her undies later that night Some dude in a navel-grazing top while she tries to block out Mum is sitting on it, straining his cactus talking to rellies in Melbourne, elbows towards each other, his discussing the pros and cons of image in the mirror showing a lot maybe moving down there, now of teeth. After six slow reps he that Dad’s gone. stops, lets his arms relax and the weights clang together. Sam walks up the small incline and
Archer’s.
decline of Scarborough Street, past Del Plaza Hotel and its two open windows. She glances at the rows of bottles and people sitting on stools, smoke rising in long lines from ashtrays, like tiny campfires. Sam finally slows to a stop in front of a white building with a narrow staircase. Archer’s Gym is painted in pale blue against the white, a mid-century building made over with paint and steel framed window casings. Sam unplugs Morten mid croon and slides across the plastic tabs on her case, and coils the headphones into it, nestling them inside a layer of clothing.
Archer is standing at the front desk, a man so tan it’s near impossible
‘Can I work in with you?’ Sam asks. ‘Sure thing, Princess,’ he says, smiles indulgently. Sam adjusts the pin, brings the seat up and sits. She stares at herself in the mirror opposite: her eyes seem too small for her nose and mouth, all her features yet to find balance. She shuts her eyes and squeezes, the strain and effort releasing endorphins at the end of the twelve-rep set. ‘Nice one,’ the man says, lowering the seat, adjusting the pin. ‘You’re not just a pretty face are ya?’ He chuckles to himself and Sam turns away. She watches Archer chatting to a young woman leaning against Being creative
the desk, her Reeboks on tip-toe. Archer has his arms crossed, biceps on show. Sam wants to sit back down and strain over another set, but she sees Tony enter and nod to Archer who high-fives him, like he does all the regulars. Sam feels familiar goose-bumps rising, watches at the way Tony holds onto the strap of his bag, his black eyeliner smudged, hair teased in a Robert Smith homage. Tony doesn’t bother with the change rooms. He comes straight over to Sam and they stand silent, shoulders touching until the man still on the pec-dec furrows his brow at them and moves on. ‘Wanna go sit outside?’ Tony asks after Sam’s final set, after he has stared at her in the mirror, adjusting strands of his hair. ‘I’ll just grab my stuff,’ Sam says. They sit outside, on the curb, legs stretched. Tony smokes and worms a finger into the hole on his jeans, proffers the smoke at Sam who shakes her head. ‘Dad smoked. It stinks,’ she said.
Being creative
‘Sorry,’ Tony said and took a long drag before dropping the smouldering end into the gutter. ‘You wanna come to my place?’
‘Maybe I’ll stay longer next time.’
They walk in silence to an old Queenslander on High Street, The Cure playing faintly from the headphones hanging around Tony’s neck. His parent’s house is neat and tidy and they hurry past Tony’s mum who glances at Sam.
Sam sits in the gutter, in front of Archer’s, legs stretched in front of her. It’s nearly dinner time, her stomach vocal while she watches gym members walk past her to their cars, waits for her Mum’s car. She’s still waiting when Archer himself comes downstairs, stands next to her, so close she can smell liniment.
‘Just a friend from school,’ Tony lies and closes his bedroom door, drops his bag on the floor and presses the play button on his stereo. They sit on the floor, listen to REM, Sam looking around the room, at the posters and angst drawings, the double bed, a small fish tank, empty, except for a plastic castle. ‘Mum put an unsterilized rock into the tank and all the fish died,’ Tony said. Sam nods, crosses her legs. They sit in silence for ages, until Tony slides closer to her, their knees touching. They’ve never hung out outside of gym, have never been on the verge of something. Tony leans in. Sam grabs a handful of his t-shirt, and they come together, lips awkward. The kiss is long, long enough for Tony to move a hand onto her breast, Sam flinching slightly but letting him do it. Michael Stipe mumbles in the background and Sam pulls away, wipes her mouth with the back of her hand. Tony leans back. ‘Didn’t you like it?’ He fiddles with his hair, rubbing the strands together. ‘Yeah, it’s not that. I just think I should go, before Mum starts wondering where I am,’ Sam said.
Tony shucks his shoulders, walks her to the front door.
‘You alright? Got someone coming or you need a ride someplace?’ Sam is silent for a moment, looks up at Archer, his tan and lined face. ‘I’m alright. Mum should be here any minute,’ she finally replies. Archer stays put, puts down the nylon gym bag he is carrying, rummages through it for a second or two. Sam glances down the road, hears the familiar click of a lighter. ‘Want one?’ Archer asks. The scent of the cigarette is bitter. ‘No. I hate cigarettes. My Dad was a smoker.’ Sam brings her legs in, tucks them under her chin.
‘So, is your Mum single, then?’
They remain in silence, Archer smoking above her, until her Mum’s car pulls to a stop under a streetlight. Being creative
Zarek Hennessy Fulless {This morning I was woken by a murder of crows mating. An invitation on her pillow to my birthday and our divorce.} These balloons are heavy like this floor is too thin. My heart pumps how many; pints of blood, twitching ‘til fixed strangled doves, bruised apples felled low above, flawed souls in wrong dirt dug, told stories came in come. These heavy things are weightless like this lightness is thick as absence.
Being creative