Travelling Without Moving

by William Bowden

Josh began to feel the first stages of wakefulness. Traditionally the first sensation he encountered was the superbly horrendous taste in his mouth; a rancid blend comprising of a night on the fags, eight hours worth of uninterupted dribbling, and divorce proceedings with his toothbrush.

Inevitably though, as if with a will of it’s own, his tongue seemed beholden to explore further. The graveyard of his teeth only proffered up more evidence of disintegration and decay. He hated this daily rendezvous, a meeting with little or no use — a functionless function as it were.

Next up were usually the rest of the ensemble cast: a twinge in the lower back, pins and needles in the elbow, and the star of the show: Old Itchy Eyes.

Christ waking up in the morning was over-rated.

Part of his mind began to sing a mellifluous lullaby, encouraging him back to the sea of dreams. As his tongue, like a loose automaton, continued it’s futile mop up operation however, Josh realised: he wasn’t going back to sleep.

In fact he needed to piss. Urgently.

Even so, he lay immobile for a few moments savouring the pain. At least he was feeling something, and that (combined with a chronic desire to remain in bed) caused his descision making to fluctuate. BED, piss, Bed, Piss, bed, PISS, PISS. Alright, he was going to piss. Just a few seconds more ... just close the eyes for a split second. But no ... some back-up mechanism had interpreted his mind for him, and he felt his body begin to slide out from under the covers.

Heading towards the dilapidated bathroom, Old Itchy Eyes was getting the better of him, and Josh was forced wipe away huge encrustations of sleep. As he passed the curtains, he could dimly percieve that it was indeed a nightmarishly bright day outside and though his nose felt blocked and painful, the air smelt warm and moist.

Josh slumped down on the loo, mainly because his legs felt rickety; they weren’t particularly good in the morning — and he rarely felt the desire to take up the traditional masculine pose.

Aaaaaaah! What relief as his bladder began to empty.

Josh mused on this, the simplest of joys:

Did a guy with a colostomy bag ever miss this sensation? What was it like to piss in a spacesuit? Could you survive a take-off hanging onto a full bladder? Did the guys on the Challenger piss themselves just before destruction?

He also wondered whose piddle would be worth the most as a ‘collector’s item’ on E-bay:

Rameses the Second, Pamela Anderson or Piltdown Man? He suspected Piltdown man — primarily for his DNA, and anyway, Pamela wasn’t really famous for her urine was she?

After discharging the morning salute from his nostrils, the next port of call was the ancient washbasin. How many wrists had it seen in it’s time? The pocked marked surface of the bowl was a testament to the pre-war quality of manufacture. Nowadays it was all stainless steel; which looked so shiny in the showroom, but ominously took on the patina of a men’s urinal after just six months. This basin had probably out-lived most of the previous tenants, and surely it’s creator. Of course the bloody plug was nowhere to be found, so Josh timidly put his hand under the hot tap and splashed his face hurridly before the water began to scald.

He was wide awake now and, staring into the impressionistic mirror, began wondering if he should sort that mouth of his out.

There were two ways to go of course ...

The first was to brush his teeth — and that would tragically force him into breakfast mode and at the very least a shower. The manky towels on the sodden floor didn’t seem to lend support to this initiative either.

No, Fuck it! He’d go with option two — the old favourite: maintain the furry mouth, do a quick swipe with a finger and get straight into a Marlboro. He could hardly wait.

Collapsing back onto the bed, and with his newly functioning nostrils beginning ‘the whiff report’, Josh realised with a shock that the aroma of the decaying bedlinen was finally overpowering even the ashtray. “What is the world coming to?”, he said aloud, while activating the tv remote and moving the ashtray into position. Where were those damn cigarettes?

Holy Shit!

HE’D SMOKED THE LAST FUCKER AT 4 AM!

This was preposterous, what, was he supposed to go outdoors? As if mocking him, the television suddenly proclaimed: “The tragedy when your son is born ... a mongoloid ... tonight on Sixty Minutes”.

“Fuck You!”, he yelled, pressing the mute button with glee. At least they couldn’t torment him with a cigarette commercial, those idiots.

Wait a minute, what was he thinking? There was a backup, of course there was a backup, there HAD to be a backup for situations like this.

Ahhhh ... yes.

“You’ll have to get up pretty early to fool me!”, Josh whispered, (though out of the corner of his eye he could see it was 2.30 in the afternoon). Now he remembered: The China Town Haul.

How could he have forgotten the package under the bed ... and not just a package — but a space station! He’d bought it ages ago for an emergency just like this one. Well the day had surely arrived! Ignoring the protestations of his apparently balsa-wood spine, Josh lent over the edge of the bed and found himself peering into the strange world under the mattress.

It was a forbidden land, festooned with impressive dust-strand vines; and these snaked crazily over a mysterious jungle floor — partially obscured from view beneath a mossy layer of detritus and matted hair. Hidden in this gloomy landscape, he could just make out the Machu Pitchu-like buried temple of the Malboro Soft Pack Reds. It was in a difficult position; at the rear of the bed and on the wall side. Further to this, the temple was almost inaccesible due to the large numbers of ruined edifices that practically littered the jungle. They were all covered in a thick protective layer of dust; that had clearly not been disturbed in many centuries.

“I’ve found it!” Josh yelled.“the fabled Lost Temple of Commandedes The Red, Ruler of the House Malboro,” and he immediately ordered his hand to mount an expedition. “Set forth boys!” he cried at his fingers — flexing them in anticipation of the labours ahead.

In order to begin however, he first had to dismount the bed, lie flat on the floor, and come face to face with this Lost World. As Josh’s hand snaked unsteadily about — searching for it’s prize - he sneezed violently. This resulted in a whirlwind of rancid fragments, flying about in front of his eyes. “Come on Boys,” he exclaimed. “Don’t let a minor thing like a tornado stop the find of the century!”

Still there was no word from his troops. Josh couldn’t see a thing, and Old Itchy Eyes appeared to be having some kind of sensory jam-session with his nose: both were dribbling profusely. Just when he felt he could bear no more, a shrill voice broke through:

“Sir, Sir ... WE HAVE IT!”

His hand had fastened round the artifact, and was slowly, inexorably bringing it forth. As the mouldy sarcophagus began to approach, Josh fought down increasing levels of a crazed excitement. When it finally slid out from under the bed, he almost felt a kind of reverence towards it. This carton had taken on an almost spiritual significance; it was an oasis in a lifetime of dissapointments and failures — it had become a sacred relic, and he would treat it accordingly.

Feeling like a bespectacled english archeologist in the twenties, Josh began his work.

He prised open the lid slowly. This revealed two neat slumbering rows of red parcels. They looked a lot like little mummies; embalmed in a shiny transparent carapace — and preserved in this way for all time. Well, not for all time , thought Josh, as he inched a packet out of it’s holy resting place.

The next phase of the operation involved removing first the tear-strip along the top, then gently excavating the silver foil beneath. Hardly daring to breathe, Josh carefully tore open the silver paper, making sure he didn’t damage the luminous blue US TAX EXEMPT label; with it’s fabulous hieroglyph of a tobacco leaf and emblazoned proudly with: MADE IN U.S.A.

Finally he breached the inner seal, instinctively held the packet to his nostrils, and took a deep and satisfying inhalation. God tobacco smelt good! And his mind was filled with visions of the last person before him to have smelt this particularly redolent blend. Was it a fat lady, marooned on her arse in the quality control rooms of the Malboro factory; while she rolled huge cuban cigars on her thighs for an overindulgent husband? Or was it the white blue-collar worker in the plantation, perhaps still humming the blues as he toiled, unaware that they were pioneered by his negro-slave predecessors?

This first whiff spoke to Josh of far-off lands and strange unknown lives. It was a transporter of sorts — and he felt carried aloft by the whispering serpentine vapour, this all-enveloping divine wind, this alluring and musky olfactory temptress. Tobacco was a god, how could anyone contemplate ‘giving up’ when a siren like this — sang to your fucking nose!

His lungs were now clamouring for their share in the spoils. An intense sense of longing began crawling around in the back of his skull. Soon this longing became inflamed into unbridled desire, and a command in his mind was literally barked out:

Stop Fucking Around And Light The Bastard!

Josh hurridly pulled a cigarette from amongst it’s fellows and lit up. Why had he waited so long? What was wrong with him? Anyone would think he was mad.

All such doubts however, were immediately quashed in the onslaught of America’s Finest:

First the burn in the throat, then the warmth in the chest. The nicotine speeding round the bloodstream, awakening the circulation with a bang. Perhaps a little headspin was a small price to pay - after all — it was the first one of the day, then, at last — the bittersweet aftertaste in the mouth; something only an illuminatee could know and cherish.

Josh glanced at the television; and was immediately captivated by the bizarre and implausible appearances of an ensemble of american soap opera ‘stars’. He guessed it was The Young and The Restless ... or was it The Bold and The Beautiful?

Whatever it was ... it was incredible.

What kind of man, no, what kind of creature thought this stuff was fit for broadcast in Australia? A middle management marketing moron, who had been bamboozled by the yank salesman:

“Oh yes Sir, our marketshare back home is 200%. Of course our population only eats fast food and microwavable comsumables, and we do think Australia is a state of Texas, but with the increase here in fast food I’m sure you can get the premier rate for adverts during the show ... in fact part of the deal is an exclusive arrangement with the two big burger chains so you’ll have a guaranteed income straight off the bat ...it’s like we’re paying you!”

And who could argue with that, except that Australia was being poisoned?

But what about further up the food chain? The director who’se brilliant show this was: a monster who thought sophistication was ordering a Martini, a devil who seemed intent on providing the most lumpen assessment of life, a backward child; who through reading Harrold or Tony Robbins discovered ... enlightement?

God, this lunatic had spawned an entire network. He’d hired the clearly-blind costume designer, the next-door-neighbour hair ‘architect’, the pack-it-on-Sally makeup ‘Artiste’, not to mention the failed L.A. session-muso (probably his cousin) - whose saxophone love-scenes made Josh want to puke. His wife was probably a dentist, the dialogue was reminiscent of a remedial class and what about the sets?, built in a day and decorated by a Copper-Art Specialist. Josh looked eagerly for the Fijian wooden spoon and fork that would surely adorn a wall. Then there the casting agent, what was she up to? No-doubt in league with her friend the cosmetic surgeon who was probably handing her kick-backs on the side. Given the waxen appearance of most of the elderley female personages, and the impossibly hewn jaws and rugged looks of the males; it seemed reasonable to suggest that the casting agent would only consider candidates who’d had work done. She would no-doubt be compensated well for her ‘dilligence’. Josh imagined the scene:

“Yes I think I can find something for you Vance, but might I suggest a visit to Dr Hacker’s surgery first? It’s on West Boulevard next to Dr Smiles Dental Emporium — who I also recommend, I think a little bit of enhancement will GREATLY improve your chances for a role, in fact, if you get that chin fixed up, there’s something you’d be perfect for coming up next month, they want a man with a strong jaw, oh, and you should get those sideburns looked at, I think a touch of grey adds an air of distinction don’t you? I know the perfect hair technician for you, Raphael, he’s a genius he is, let me give you his card ...”

And so it would go on. The more Josh thought about it, this whole show had the stench of corruption. The cosmetic surgeon’s work was absolutely everywhere — as was the dentist; and the whole shebang seemed little more than a luncheon club for neurotic would-be actors and quasi-socialites. One thing however, did stand out on the women. Josh noted with glee their claw-like hands and turkey-gobble necks. He was obviously busy that surgeon, but why just the face — such curious omissions seemed to give the whole game away; these women were ancient! Perhaps the clever fellow kept faceliffs cheap, but the neck n’ hands exhorbitant in case one of these old croaks came into some real money. Hah.

Josh changed channel.

ABC: old black and white movie, seen it before.

Ten: Stan Zemanek, yeuckk, odious man.

Nine: the golf — boring.

Seven: the soap, why soap? did you need to wash afterwards?

How about SBS?

Sadly there were no nude scenes in progress, he’d have to wait till later; this looked too serious — some migrants tragic tale.

He turned the TV off. The fabled Marlboro was now dead and the situation seemed hopeless: it was far too much effort to do anything! The bed was still warm and it beckoned to him like a beer. Fuck it, thought Josh, I’ve done my part: I bothered to get up, I saw what the world had to offer — and I wasn’t impressed. I’d rather have a dream if this is the alternative! Reality is a total yawn, and there’s a pillow with my name on it: a ticket outta here.