People Just Need to Sit in Their Car for a Little Bit Sometimes
There’s this dude who lives a few doors down and there’s always stuff for free out the front of his house. It’s not good stuff but, like, curious stuff, you know, a 1930’s pram, a rotten ladder, a shower seat. I see him mostly sitting in his car, one dusty denim leg hung out the open door, cap perched on thick hair, big boots, big jacket, grey face, staring, staring. His car is filled with shit, much the same as the stuff on the street, bags of rubbish, junk, scraps, yada, yada, right up to the roof. He isn’t heading to the tip or anything, in fact, the car only really goes to the top of the street and back, is sometimes reverse parked and attached to a trailer of more rubbish, but like the dude and the car, it never seems to get that far. I don’t wave at him. God, I’m an arsehole. But it’s intentional. I’m trying to not wave anymore, or say hello, or smile. Nah man, too much of that in my life, I’m done messing about with that stuff. I’ve got nothing left in the tank, not even to raise my hand for what, civil code? Female nicety? Loving thy neighbour? But this dude sure does look like he could use a wave. Or at the very least for me to stop staring, staring at him, his house, his car, and deciding, based on nothing, what has gone wrong in his life. I do get the car thing though, you know, like, I even envy him a bit. Ah man, just to be still for a minute, even if stagnant, those moments are pretty much extinct for me. But when I find one, I grab it and it is sacred. We’ll get home after another outing and I insist on bringing in all the bags. Bags that took hours thinking about and packing and stacking, stuff we never even used which will be unpacked and repacked until I die. And I just feel, like, slammed you know, like, heavy, like carrying so much load and guilt and grief that it feels good just to sit in my car. Nothing moving between the ears, not even air, body slumped over the wheel, shit stacked high in every possible space, just staring, staring past everything and far beyond.
Caitlin Farrugia is an Australian dark comedy writer fascinated by human behaviour and everyday suffering, as well as intergenerational everything and absurdism. She is the author of the short story collection, Search Histories (Vagabond Press). Other works by Caitlin have appeared in Meanjin, Squawk Back and Feels Zine. www.caitlinfarrugia.com