Frank believed that freedom meant being truthful, whatever that meant at the time.
Frank Ruben lay in bed. It is nine am. The house is empty. If he stayed horizontal for the next six days no one would notice. He masturbates as cleaning himself is the only motivation to stand. During this time he organises a date with a woman. He finishes into the hair on his stomach. He looks down at his body and feels deep shame. I wish it made me go blind, he thought. But he knew what the Christians meant, masturbating doesn’t make you go blind, it just makes you see one thing. He stood and sat beneath the hot water as he brushed his teeth. Thinking and thinking. Drawing faces with the end of the toothbrush on the fog of the glass. Beautiful flowing lines. Perfection through not trying. Perfection through no attempt to capture, nothing in the way, no tricks, just the characters who occupy his mind showing themselves for seconds before the condensation sets them free. He sat in his backyard with a coffee and decided to drink some red wine. He sat with a pen and paper and wrote two hundred sad poems. He had now set himself a challenge to write something nice, something good, something optimistic, an actual answer to all his gloom. So he opened another bottle. The answer wasn’t there, he knew that, it was just fun to make sure. The reason he did drink was for control, a solace, an anchor on his spirit to keep it somewhere predictable. He had his soul held hostage just to show it he could, just to level the score, just to get to know each other a little, just to feel involved in his own life. The soul knew and waited patiently for him to die, so a new skeleton could have a go. But eventually they would do art together, and look at the trees together, and listen to a piano together, and the soul had a thought that maybe this skeleton knows something. Now they’re both unsure all the time but when they agree on something, there is no will required.
Frank Ruben wrote a story about a man and a son. A conversation as they walk down an Australian forest. Spoke about the meanings the animals have according to the indigenous. Filled it with sentimentality, romanticism and of course his own overtone of despair. He wondered why he wrote it and assumed it was because his dream to have a loving family was being washed away by the gentle waves of reality. Most of all he was scared because he started to not want this dream, but he knew it was only his heart trying to save itself. He knew it was all deeper than him, that is why he was sad, because it was an acceptance of something he did not want to accept. Things just weren’t happening for him outside of the page. His black and white page. His thin page. Now with his new story, instilled with lacklustre philosophy, riddled with fleeting hope, things weren’t happening inside the page either. He was in the way, he was making it about him on purpose, terrible. But as he drank, the music got better, and the day started making promises for the night. I will go on this date, he thought, and checked the times for the train into the city. He got dressed. He wore what felt right for him, whether mowing the lawns, attending a funeral or meeting the queen, he would wear whatever the wardrobe could offer that felt like an extension of his personality. Whatever was clean, whatever was ready. The problem was that the train station was a four kilometre walk, and he wore jeans, a white t shirt and a long sleeve shirt over the top, which made him very hot. He was looking quite sharp, quite cute, quite like someone who had a trick or two up their sleeve. His long sleeves. If attending a funeral he would be too casual, if mowing the laws too fancy, but going on a date with a stranger, perfect. He looked at himself in the mirror and said aloud, “I am someone’s dream.”
Then, of course, his mind went at the sentence like an autistic adult going at a Rubik’s cube. I am someone’s dream? He wondered. Who’s? and what laws occupy me? what is the motivation for my manifestation? He was going to miss the train so he rolled a joint, grabbed three cans of beer, put deodorant on and walked out the door. The walk was long, down the mountain along the track to the bottom of a street, over the hill and across the main road. Frank got to the station and put three empty cans in the bin. He missed the train by forty three minutes. Covered in sweat he made sure he was not going to be rude by being late to this date, opening his phone and calling a taxi. It cost him twenty six dollars more than all of his book sales combined. The driver was from Afghanistan and together they spoke about cricket, until they went through the bottle shop and Frank offered Rashid a beer.
“I am Muslim, no beer for me,” he said with a laugh. They spoke about religion and all that for a little while, then went back to talking about cricket. Rashid was a leg spinner and opening bat. His highest score was sixty-two. Frank found that sad.
If not drunk Frank would be nervous, and he liked to feel nerves when they offered themselves, instead of drinking them away, but this was an odd case, he was here because he was drinking, therefore there would have been no nerves as he sat on his couch listening to music and masturbating between writing deeply sad and nihilistic poetry, so, he spoke to himself with this thought, we are stepping into the big wide world for a change, it is just me and you lot in my head. My inner world, there are other humans here, just like me, just like us.
He pictured them all watching with intent, yelling at the screen, giving suggestions, comedic commentary and all the things that come as images as you sit perfectly still. Franks face like a placid lake with monsters swimming deep below; funny, loving, beautiful monsters, but just monsters out there.
Frank arrived after leaving home three hours ago. He was sweaty and tired, he wanted to go home, he was scared. He received a message from her saying she was going to be an hour late. He could have caught the next train. He sat in the bar and ordered a drink from a Latina. Her name was Bella.
“Where are you from?” asked Frank.
“Argentina.”
“Muy bien.”
“Ahhhh, gracias!”
She had brown eyes, the colour of a coffee table in your childhood loungeroom. Curly hair that bounced when she walked. A thin waste and a fat ass. But most impressively to Frank, she was nice. As Frank sat alone with his beer he wondered why people perceive his writing as sad and hopeless when he does nothing but have a good time. I guess Frank just didn’t value happiness as much as others, he had kind of just mumbled all his emotions into one, everything was just alright. Happiness was alright, despair was alright, and just because he talks about suicide, doesn’t make him suicidal; he cant believe it isn’t something everyone is talking about, how fascinating, to just… die, how much power we have over the torment! And another thing he thought, alright is alright.
The lady was now one hour and thirty five minutes late. Frank had rode the waves of the unknown for so long he felt delirious but Bella kept his consciousness intrigued. She spoke as if the date was not going to come but it was her loss because Frank is great. The last train is in one hour. He decides to leave not knowing if he was happy or sad, but still alright. Then her possum eyes walked in the door, he knew it was her. She was done up like a Christmas tree. She was hot. Blonde hair slicked back into a pony tail, some form of blue on her eye lids, glitter in her lipstick matched with a nice contrast of a conservative denim outfit.
“Frank,” said Frank standing up with his hand out.
“Helen,” she replied shaking his hand very softly.
“How are you?” he asked, “How was your day?”
“Good thanks.”
“Do you want a drink?”
“No thanks.”
“Okay.”
Frank caught the eyes of Bella and she walked over and Frank said, “Just uno, por favor.”
She laughed and walked off, the way she walked reminded Frank of a Panther.
“So,” said Helen. “What is it you are looking for?”
“What?”
“What are you looking for?”
“In what?”
“What are you intentions on this date?”
This prompt made the characters in Frank Rubens mind shout. These are the things they were shouting–
“Have you heard of god bitch?”
“Explain to her the root cause of suffering is desire.”
“If he was to know what he was looking for he would have it. How can you know what you're looking for when you're constantly evolving? It doesn’t make sense!”
“Say what she wants to hear, she is hot!”
“Drink!”
“The hilarity of paradox!”
Amongst themselves within his mind there were philosophical conversations and a passionate comradery.
“If he was to mention God to her, would she not just picture the god she made up to not believe in, would she not restrict him to one of three religions, would she not relate him to a friend who is a man of faith and not quite right?”
“She is asking that question because she has an answer of her own, and her roommate has an answer of her own, and they talk about it and will talk about this, and her answer is based off watching her sister laugh, her mother smile and her father dance, she just wants a dog and someone to sleep with in a tent over Christmas, and she wants to go to the movies with someone who loves her, and she wants to make him a coffee after eight hours of dreamless sleep and buy bread at the Sunday market. All she has stolen joy from, to something she owes so much, the only way to pay her debt is to ensure it happens. She has written the role of her future man, he just has to sign the dotted line and say goodbye to his soul.”
“It is theatre! They are both just playing a game, her inner world is poking a stick at this one, we should engage with charm and infiltrate her true self.”
“You better say something Frank!”
Frank knew he could say what she wanted to hear. He could trick her and live the rest of their lives in disappointment. His face looked stupid and he replied, “I don’t have any intentions. I guess I just wanted something to do.”
This was the wrong answer for Helen and she did not smile for the rest of the date. Luckily Frank had a belief that nature gave us a sense of humour for when you have to play something you can’t win. So he let all of his characters chime in with what they thought would be funny in the conversation. One man in particular, who smoked a large wooden pipe through his moustache, rocked back on his wooden chair looking at the horizon in Franks mind. He found Helen to be completely outrageous. He would laugh so hard at Franks replies that Frank could not help but smirk whenever he said something. This really pissed Helen off and she made up a few stories of her own. She assumed Frank was a no hope piss ant who needs an eye to like him to live another week and is trying to trick her into giving up her vagina just so he has a bed. Not to mention the side of the story he will tell to his mates at the pub. Helen thought this was a big joke to him, that she was a big joke to him. Helen wanted to cry now. As Frank and his inner world partied like a thunderstorm in his skull.
“Come on it aint that bad!” said Frank to Helen as he looked around for Bella.
Helen was sad because she has hope. Because she has not given up yet. Because she deserves to be happy. Because she has created a good life for herself and wants to share that with someone. Because she is funny, and she knows it, she just wants someone to hear some of the things she says, or to read the thoughts she thinks. Because she is lonely, and an auntie, and doesn’t want to be just an auntie, doesn’t want to be a stereotype, but to have a family of her own, have all of those experiences with someone she loves, someone who shows his love by understanding her needs, by committing to her and their life together, and it being special because they made it that way.
Frank thought she was a sour faced bitch. He held her hands across the table and put his charm to work, unfortunately his charm didn’t show up and Helen left.
As a man exploring freedom he did not want to be an advocate for it, he did not want to be a salesman, to lie, for Frank believed that freedom meant being truthful, whatever that meant at the time.
Bella walked by, that was Franks idea of a woman, someone you don’t fight for but dance with. He admired her so much that he did not speak to her again. That is what his pride told himself, the truth was, he couldnt handle the thought of being rejected again. He then messaged Helen thirty two times. She never replied. He got in a cab and went home. He had spent his budget for the quarter in a night.
He sat by his art, picked up a pastel and drew faces of women, hoping to create the eyes of one who can see him.
