James Wilfred Klein was born in 1940 to a mother big of breast. His developing eyesight always sought out the voluptuous life-giving mounds but Nolene, suffering with chronic mastitis, always managed to keep them away from his mouth and little grasping hands. This was perhaps a sign of things to come for James as life went on.
As a nine-year old at school, his diminished stature lit him up like a beacon. Michael Robbins attempted to make a target out of his head with his sausage fingers wrapped into what James recalled as a fist the size of a large baked potato. Years later when he read about serving sizes being fist-shaped as recommended by the Ministry of Health, he couldn’t help thinking about the potato fist looming rapidly upon his yet unblemished nose. The concussion he incurred was not from said-potato fist but from the wound at the back of his jet-black hair-covered head upon where it contacted the footpath after his heel became entangled with the bully’s bicycle that lay on the ground behind him. Still, he could safely say that his injury was not at the hands of the aggressor, only at the failings of his two left feet.
There were other occasions in the years to come; taking Marissa McNaughton out to the movies to see Jailhouse Rock only to find that Elvis’s gyrating wasn’t enough to allow him free access to her blouse, her bosom still locked away from his inquisitive hand. He heard Tommy Bradstone took her to Vertigo the following year and got more than a handful afterwards.
He worked for the local community newspaper early on. He aspired to write for the major daily being assured of a job the moment one of the existing staff left. They never did. He reluctantly accepted writing classified ads for the little rag and drowned his sorrows alone at the local. He managed five pulls on the pokey machine before giving that away. The sixth pull by a new guest at the machine struck the jackpot. James never even bothered turning.
The sound of the pokie machine playing out its gaudy tune snaps him out of his daydream. It’s his mobile squawking from across the other side of the room. At 76 he perhaps knows he shouldn’t be climbing ladders, but he feels safe enough on the footstool where he’s attempting to re-wallpaper his lounge. It is hard to say how long the phone has been ringing so he moves quickly, forgetting the second step. The table looms quickly and catches his glasses in a way Michael Robbins never did. During his gravity-fed flight he recalls removing his wrist alarm for fear of getting wallpaper glue on it. He lands on a busted hip and forearm, unable to move. Conscious, he sees the alarm handset on the table nearby and does the mental estimates. Arm length – one point two metres, distance to alarm – one point five metres.
Andrew Hawkey
As a nine-year old at school, his diminished stature lit him up like a beacon. Michael Robbins attempted to make a target out of his head with his sausage fingers wrapped into what James recalled as a fist the size of a large baked potato. Years later when he read about serving sizes being fist-shaped as recommended by the Ministry of Health, he couldn’t help thinking about the potato fist looming rapidly upon his yet unblemished nose. The concussion he incurred was not from said-potato fist but from the wound at the back of his jet-black hair-covered head upon where it contacted the footpath after his heel became entangled with the bully’s bicycle that lay on the ground behind him. Still, he could safely say that his injury was not at the hands of the aggressor, only at the failings of his two left feet.
There were other occasions in the years to come; taking Marissa McNaughton out to the movies to see Jailhouse Rock only to find that Elvis’s gyrating wasn’t enough to allow him free access to her blouse, her bosom still locked away from his inquisitive hand. He heard Tommy Bradstone took her to Vertigo the following year and got more than a handful afterwards.
He worked for the local community newspaper early on. He aspired to write for the major daily being assured of a job the moment one of the existing staff left. They never did. He reluctantly accepted writing classified ads for the little rag and drowned his sorrows alone at the local. He managed five pulls on the pokey machine before giving that away. The sixth pull by a new guest at the machine struck the jackpot. James never even bothered turning.
The sound of the pokie machine playing out its gaudy tune snaps him out of his daydream. It’s his mobile squawking from across the other side of the room. At 76 he perhaps knows he shouldn’t be climbing ladders, but he feels safe enough on the footstool where he’s attempting to re-wallpaper his lounge. It is hard to say how long the phone has been ringing so he moves quickly, forgetting the second step. The table looms quickly and catches his glasses in a way Michael Robbins never did. During his gravity-fed flight he recalls removing his wrist alarm for fear of getting wallpaper glue on it. He lands on a busted hip and forearm, unable to move. Conscious, he sees the alarm handset on the table nearby and does the mental estimates. Arm length – one point two metres, distance to alarm – one point five metres.
Andrew Hawkey
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