Juxtaposition

Justin’s hesitation, a mere millisecond, is time enough for his mate Ollie to steal the jig on him. Ollie sees it and runs. Gripping a knot in the rope secured high in the River Red Gum Ollie swings past his friend with his signature “Waaaaaaaaa-hooooooo". He rides the big arc down till his toes graze the water. Holding fast, he rises to the top of the curve again, twists to grin at his audience - the town kids on the bank - flings the rope away, plunges gracefully tucking his right knee up and gripping it with his arms, and finally leaning back smashes the water with a perfect jack-knife bomb.

As the bubbles rise and foam and dissipate the punters on the creek bank cheer and shout and dance about, but there is no Ollie to laugh and congratulate himself. The waters still.

 

Justin knows this trick and, as always, must play second fiddle to his mate. Ollie is swimming stealthily beneath the surface, unseen in the murky waters, to surface amongst the exposed roots of the river redgum. No-one can see him there and it will keep the mob guessing, holding its collective breath.

 

Justin steals a glance over at one body stretched out on the sand. Yes, the goddess Angela Temple, object of their mutual desire and impetus for Ollie’s impetuousness (and Justin’s hesitation) is, naturally, unconcerned, casually leafing through a magazine.

 

Justin Case and Oliver Sutton are / brothers / companions / mates / joined at the hip. Justin - the reserved, thoughtful, considerate Justin, and Ollie the rascal, the trickster, quick with a quip, a jibe, a jab, a dead leg or a dare. The conservative and the radical - the careful and the chaotic – and the best of mates. The two are opposites in many ways yes, but they savour their small-town trust, are united in their differences and, recently, increasingly, absorbed in their adoration of Angela.

 

Tall, lithe, languid and lovely, Angela sports a sundress like a spell. Her lightness on the netball court is reminiscent of a brolga in dance. When she graces with her presence everyone - woman, man, girl and boy – either gazes or tries to look like they have something pressing to attend to. Young mothers – appreciative, envious or jealous – glance, then quickly look away. In this game of time and space, she defines space, is the fierce femme answer to the trifling issue of time.

 

From off the water the sunlight shoots shards like bullets of lightning. The yabbies, carp and redfin have long scattered but the leeches lurk in wait for legs smelling of blood. Water skimmers defy gravity and surface tension. Sandflies sting if you sit still long enough. Up above, over the high bank, is where older kids with cars come to park, to smoke and drink - and more - after dances at the hall or nights at the pub.

 

Justin, unaware that it’s obvious, brushes his eyes across the crowd again, but he needn’t have. There is no hum now. No hum in the air. Angela has sported her spell again, graduated and gone.

 

Ollie, still to surface, is the hot topic of the moment and Justin sees himself now and into the future - alone on a creek bank with a flaccid rope in his hands. He feels, for the first time, that his consistently missing the boat will, ultimately, be what defines his journey.

 

 

© Owen Smith 2019

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Tracks in the Sand

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In the Midst of the Maelstrom