MY DEAR FRIEND ALF…….

Sales representatives were basically in the ‘people business’ and every meeting had the potential to bring problems. And I do not mean just lack of sales. When staying in contact with somebody, a deep relationship may develop, sometimes deeper than one is at first aware of! For example, in a tiny country town of Edenborough, there was the only floor covering shop for near and far which belonged to Max Whiting and his staff of three.

There, my cup of coffee was made with more love and attention and the biscuits were more generous. The shop was run by a manager, Alf Downing, as the boss did the actual flooring installations - a somewhat unusual arrangement. But the flooring installations were of top standard, of course, having been installed by the boss himself! How I loved calling on this shop, because the welcome was so much more sincere than anywhere else.

There was never a complaint to investigate and everybody seemed to have a permanent happy smile. Every time I called on that establishment, the complete staff assembled in the shop to meet with me: the boss, the two other floor layers, the boss’s wife and her father, a farmer who had nothing to do with floor laying but liked to meet ‘city people’. I always found myself sitting in that shop on a roll of carpet or PVC flooring, a cup of coffee in my hands and biscuits on a plate which was balancing on the roll I was sitting on, with everybody facing me with all attention I had ever wanted. Of course, I always had some knowledge to pass on, installation techniques to discuss, questions or queries to answer, new product catalogues to give out and technical data to hand out. It was sheer enjoyment, sitting there, having their utter attention; it was a circle of real friends and the atmosphere was always relaxed and warm.

Whenever I hit the town at lunch time, I used to phone ahead and arrange with the shop’s manager, Alf Downing, to have lunch with me. There was a little cafe which served simple meals but the seats were actually benches, arranged in cozy nooks, giving one the sensation of utter privacy. Sitting there and enjoying Alf’s company, I always felt that the two of us were the only customers in the shop. (Sometimes we really were!)

‘Here we are, Alf,’ I would say as we sat down. ‘It’s time I had lunch with a real gentleman!’

Alf smiled his relaxed smile ‘Thank you, Peter. Oh, I’ll have a tuna sandwich and a cup of coffee, if that’s alright with you.’

‘Of course it’s alright’, I replied and went to the counter to place my order.

‘You mentioned last time that you had leukaemia? That’s terrible, Alf! Are you in treatment? And what can be done about it?’

‘Nothing much can be done about it, Peter’. He smiled quietly and gave me the impression of utter peace and calm.

‘It is in remission right now and I can lead a normal life. But it can flare up at any time and I could die at any time.’

Seeing my horrified face he smiled and added: ‘But at the moment I am alright.’

‘But you have a young family, Alf - a lovely wife and two beautiful daughters. This is a terrible predicament. And you are doing such a good job, managing the flooring shop. What did you do before you joined Max Whiting’s team?’

‘Oh, I am a printer by trade and also used to do a little bit of artwork and layout.’

‘So, that’s why your shop is always so nicely laid out and signs and price tags are always placed correctly! You are an artist as well!’

We always had a chat whilst chewing something and it was very relaxing for me. Alf had this natural, friendly, personality and always seemed to be at peace. At the end of our meals, he would say ‘Now, let’s go to the shop and meet the others! We all want to know what you have for us this time.’

Back in the shop, the whole team was there and, yes, another cup of coffee and more pleasant conversation followed. I always regretted having to move on to another town and getting back into the ‘rat race’.

One day, when walking from the parked car to ‘our cafe’, as we called it, I noticed Alf limping slightly.

‘Hang on, Peter, I am a bit slower today’ he pointed to his right leg. ‘I’ve got this pain in my hip and I do not know from what. But it’ll go away,’ showing again his serene smile.

But it didn’t go away. I had been back in Melbourne, for a week’s work, when I received a phone call one evening at my home: ‘This is Joe here, Peter. You know me; I work for Max Whiting in Edenborough.’

‘Hello, Joe, it’s nice to hear from you. How are you doing? I hope I can help you with something!’

‘It’s about Alf, Peter. He is in the St Vincent’s Hospital in Melbourne, dying of leukemia - will you visit him?’

Never had I received a greater shock! This was a dreadful telephone call, with a very direct question. I felt the blood draining from my face and my hand that held the receiver was shaking and I could not do a thing about it.

‘Whaaat? I . . . er . . . since when?’ I babbled uncontrollably. Then fear set in: First I was losing a dear friend and secondly . . .

‘Will you visit him?’ Joe had more presence than I.

‘Yes, of course!’ I do not know how I had the strength to say that. It was a most dreadful situation. Obviously, his illness had surfaced again to full-blown leukemia! What do you say to a good friend who is dying?

‘He wants you to visit him, Peter. He thinks a lot of you!’ He sounded natural and genuine, with no trace of flattery. Putting back the receiver, I broke down. I could not handle this, I thought. Never had I been in such a predicament. Yet Joe’s voice still reverberated in my ear. ‘Will you visit him?’ spoken with such naive trust. This was another of those occasions where my wife had given me great support. It helped me a lot, feeling her hand on my shoulder and speaking to me softly. We went to St. Vincent’s Private Hospital the following morning.

‘Yes, Alf is on the fifth floor and you may visit him now. Take your time,’ said the sister at the reception with a soothing voice and gentle smile.

I cannot remember entering Alf’s room, as I was still

trembling and pale, but I believe my wife led me in. Alf was in his bed, fast asleep. There were flowers on his bedside table, a jug with orange juice and a dressing gown folded neatly at the end of his bed. The reality was not as bad as I thought, I noted and recovered somewhat.

My wife and I sat on chairs by his bedside and simply waited. I thought of all the good times we had enjoyed together, about his family, his young wife and two lovely girls who used to smile at me from the photo he kept on his side table. I certainly dreaded his waking up, but suddenly, his eyes opened.

‘Hello, Peter, I was wondering when you would come!’ He smiled and his serene face seemed to gleam with joy. He always knew that I would come!

My wife introduced herself and took over the conversation which suited me fine as I was still confused as to what to say. What was appropriate in such a situation? Fortunately for me, Alf had a long and interesting conversation with my wife and the mood was that of a ‘normal’ patient who was recovering. But he wasn’t getting better, I thought. Every now and then a nurse or a nun would come into the room; they all had a nice smile and reassuring manners. At the end of our visit, I had promised to come again the following day, which pleased Alf visibly. Our conversation was just ordinary small talk between friends - that’s all.

When we left I was very glad that I had visited him and relieved that our visit had turned out alright and that I had been able to cope with a situation like this. Somehow, I had come through the occasiont! From then on, I visited him every day for the next five days. Alf always looked forward to my visits and on the fifth day we found him sitting on his bed with his feet dangling and eating a roast chicken with gusto.

‘You are doing well, Alf!’ I greeted him.

‘Yes, Peter’, was his cheery reply, ‘I feel fine and the doctors are sending me home tomorrow. I am in remission again and only need to visit the local doctor back home in Edenborough once a week. Isn’t that great?’

Alf, with his leukemia put on hold, went home to his family and friends. He had to retire from work on doctors’ orders, to look after himself better. I phoned him at home nearly every day and we had great conversations!

However, these daily conversations were interrupted when an urgent business trip took me to Tasmania, but, as soon as I arrived back home I phoned him again.

‘Hello, Jenny,’ I greeted his wife cheerfully. ‘How is Alf today?’

There was a moment’s hesitation before Jenny replied, ‘He died’.

Handing the phone to my wife, I walked away, thinking of everything we have been through together and the many conversations we had about life and the joy of it. And now, there was what he loved most in this world, his family, alone - a grief stricken wife and two bewildered little girls.

Since that time, whenever I had to go to Edenborough or had to drive through it, I always bought flowers and visited his grave. It wouldn’t matter how busy or how late I was for an appointment somewhere, I always had the time for Alf! Laying down the flowers by his graveside I prayed for him and spoke to him. I have since asked people in Alf’s town about his family and was told that they were ‘alright’ and that his widow had found a job in the town and that life was going on as normal as could be. But one person, who knew Jenny well, told me that she had noticed that every now and then there were flowers on Alf’s grave and that she had always wondered where they were coming from.

The years go by and sometimes we, who live, tend to question the purpose of carrying on, but for me, one thing never changes: whenever I have to drive through Edenborough, I always buy beautiful flowers and visit my friend Alf!

A MICE PLAGUE

The radio announcer warned drivers to be very careful when driving in the area of the mice plague, however, I just had to drive to the town of Hurtley. Again, as was my wont, I drove to this location on a warm summer evening in order to be able to meet my client there first thing in the morning.

Hurtley is a small farming town with great grain silos, which are visible from far away. Also, there are huge mounds of grain simply covered by large tarpaulins. The people there are particularly friendly to anybody who calls on them. Unfortunately, they lose their young folk to the city and those who stay, try very hard to make a living and to stop the population drain. I thought of my contact there, a hospital engineer with a craggy face and deep sunburn, which told me that he was also running a small farm in his spare time.

Darkness had set in but in my headlights the roads were clear and there was no traffic at all. I had the feeling that I was the only person in the world driving on that road. The gentle music in my car and the soft glow of the dashboard gave the interior a pleasant ambience. Suddenly, I saw something - a strange vision. Slowing down to almost walking pace, I gazed at what seemed like a gigantic grey carpet on the road - a carpet stretching from one field, covering the road, and continuing on the other side. It was so large that I could not see where it started or where it ended. It covered the ground and billowed as if there were a draft underneath it. Incredible! As I got closer, dread came over me - ‘the grey carpet’ was a plague of mice, migrating across the road and spilling into the field on the other side. They moved in such tight formation covering the left side of the road and spilling onto the middle that they really looked like one gigantic grey carpet. When I wound down my window, I heard them emitting a high-pitched squeaking that continued on and on. It was a clear moonlit night and I could see quite a distance into the land on both sides of the road - and what I saw was wall-to-wall mice. There was no end to them.

I quickly had to make a decision: I had to continue my journey, come what may, as I had people waiting for me: the motel where I had booked a room and my client early the next morning. Driving slowly and gritting my teeth I kept going, into the mass of living flesh. My car slithered and slid and my hair stood on end because I could not see where the road ended and where the fields started. Unlike in floodwater, I could not see the middle line on the road to guide me, yet every now and then a traffic sign indicated to me that I had managed to somehow stay on the road. After about an hour of this gruesome experience I had reached the outskirts of the town and the mice had started to thin out.

I staggered into the reception room of the motel and the manager looked with alarm at my white face, trembling body and wet shirt, clinging to me. I stammered a bit when I told him what I had just been through. He nodded understandingly and his face hardened. It was like a punishment from God and there was little the suffering population could do about it.

Digging trenches with poisonous liquid, trapping them, shooting them; nothing seemed to have had any effect on this plaque. And as for the cats, they were nowhere to be seen. Jim, the motel manager, spoke very slowly: ‘And when this plague is over we can expect a plague of snakes. They normally follow mice.’

‘That is terrible, Jim. How do you cope with all this?’

He managed a forced smile. ‘You city people have no idea what we go through at times. As if the drought was not enough for us!’

I had walked into my motel room in a very depressed state. The next morning, upon seeing my blood spattered car, my stomach churned again. After completing my business with Alan Frosby, the maintenance engineer, I had driven off to the next town and found the roads clear and the land eaten bare, devoid of any plant life. Only occasionally did I encounter mice and the ones on the road were as flat as pancakes. This eerie experience will be with me for a long time, taking its place in my memory, next to some other catastrophes I have encountered in my long years as company representative.

Technorati Tags: writing,writer,short story,entertaining,author,authoring,mice plague,plague,composing a short story,biography,story telling,literature

NOT ANOTHER LIMERICK!

AT THE BOOK MARKET, I DO NOT SELL ANY
ALL DAY LONG I DON’T MAKE A PENNY
“HEY YOU! BUY A BOOK
AND DO NOT JUST LOOK”
AS AN AUTHOR, I'M LOSING MY SANITY.




THERE WAS A YOUNG GIRL FROM TASSIE
WHO WAS PRETTY BUT KNOWN AS A HUSSY
WHEN SHE MET A YOUNG SCOTT
WHO LIKED HER A LOT
AND CALLED HER “MY WEE BONNIE LASSIE!”




LEGS VARY IN SHAPE AND IN SIZE,
IN SHORT SKIRT, THERE IS NO SURPRISE,
SOME ARE SKINNY LIKE STICKS
HAIRY LEGS ARE THE PITS
BUT CONCRETE CRUSHERS I DESPISE!




THE BABY CRIES PIERCINGLY LOUD
“SHUT UP!” THE FATHER DOES SHOUT
THE MOTHER THEN NURSES
TO AVOID FURTHER CURSES
BUT AS PARENTS THEY BOTH ARE SO PROUD!

….MORE LIMERICKS….

WHERE IS MY TIE?

‘Hello Peter, your car has been serviced and it is ready for your country trip.’ The friendly voice on the telephone belonged to Stan, the man in charge of Selby’s Motors. Since a lot of people treat their car almost like a loved one, as a member of the family, his role was like that of a family doctor. His diagnosis of a car is always eagerly awaited by customers and his recommendations are followed religiously.

‘That’s great, Stan, thanks for your good work.’ I am sure I sounded relieved and grateful.

‘That’s alright, Peter. We know that you are due for your country trip and therefore have made servicing your car a top priority!’

Good service! I thought. Whilst I hated putting the car in for service as I always felt stranded without it, I realised that it had to be maintained properly. If not, it could let me down in the country side, in the middle of nowhere, between two towns, with tons of mozzies swarming around. I knew from bitter experience that you could do nothing about it then because when the motor doesn’t run, the air conditioning doesn’t either. It then gets stifling hot inside the car and you are forced to open a window. And that’s when the gnats get you! Out of nowhere they converge on one as if trained that way.

So, I went to my loyal service station and picked up my car. Relieved, I sank into the comfortable seat, turned on the air conditioning and sighed with sheer pleasure as the crisp, clean, refrigerated air hit me. Automatically, I undid my tie, took it off and dropped it on the seat next to me. I undid the top button of my shirt and . . . ah, that was luxury! For a moment I envied all those people who did not have to wear a business suit, shirt and tie.

Upon driving back to the office, the traffic was at its peak and I got nearer to my office only by the stop-start method, which I always found unnerving. I much preferred to do my business calls in the country because at least you could drive without the frustration of traffic and stop where you wanted to stop. It was wonderful to be able to park right outside an architect’s office and just go inside!

Suddenly, I had the feeling that something was not right. Was it the air conditioning? I fingered the control buttons - it was turned on alright, but why was the air suddenly so stiflingly warm? Feeling the air vents, I panicked. The fan which normally blew out the refrigerated air was not working. What an inconvenience! I was supposed to go on a country trip but could not possibly do so with the car in such condition!

‘Stan,’ I explained on my car phone to the service manager of the workshop, ‘the air conditioning does not work. It started alright, blowing cold air but suddenly the fan is not working. What happened?’

‘There can’t be much wrong, Peter,’ Stan’s voice was very reassuring. ‘We checked everything before handing you the car. Can you bring it back and we’ll have a look at it?’

Despite the heavy traffic I managed a u-turn and raced back to the workshop. Once there, Stan sounded less optimistic ‘To check the air conditioning’s fan and motor, we have to open up the dashboard and have a look at everything - it will take a while as it is a big job. Leave it here and we will phone you tomorrow with the result of our inspection.’

This did not sound reassuring at all. I’d have to face another full day without my car! Feeling like a broken man, I hailed a taxi cab and returned to the office. Whilst I had enough business to attend to at my desk, it was not a happy situation. I was in the middle of a large batch of phone calls when Stan reached me on the line. His call got to me between my outgoing calls.

‘This is Stan again, Peter. Your car is ready to be picked up. I’ve fixed everything. Now you can go on your country trip. Can you come right away as our workshop closes early?’

Slightly breathless I had entered the service station and Stan was waiting for me. All the other office staff and all the mechanics seemed to be looking at me, for some reason. ‘Peter, where is your necktie?’ Stan enquired with a very formal attitude. This was an unexpected question and I said the most stupid reply I could think of:

‘I haven’t got a necktie,’ I replied, totally confused about what that had to do with my car? ‘And what’s a necktie?’

‘Your tie, Peter!’ and he tucked at his own accessory to jog my memory.

‘Oh my tie? It’s in the car, on the seat.’

Suddenly, the whole office staff and the mechanics started to laugh and Stan explained: ‘Peter, we found your tie entangled in the fan. Here it is,’ and like a magician, he produced my tie which was in a terrible state.

‘It somehow got sucked up into the air intake opening at the floor and prevented the fan from blowing. There is nothing else wrong with your car!’

With a red face, I had accepted my car keys back and the tattered tie and got into my station wagon. What happened? Well, with all that starting and stopping in heavy traffic, the tie had fallen from my seat onto the floor, must have slid forward and been sucked into the air opening. What a reason to give a car back to a mechanic! I did not live this down for a while. Whenever I put my car in for service, Stan or whoever was serving customers, always remarked: ‘Ah, I see you’re wearing your tie!’ Naturally, I can laugh about this now but I still wish it had never happened to me!

EXAGGERATIONS…..

The morning’s grey – what will it bring?
Outside, there blows a freezing wind
and brings the South pole closer home.
I fancy polar creatures roam
at intersections, public places,
where people rush with frosty faces
past penguins and seals in masses
who stare at them with frozen asses
as they pursue their daily chore,
so frozen deep down to their core.

MISSING SLIM DUSTY IN CONCERT…..

I turned and there was Ian, a youngish architect, smiling at me. He had set himself up on his parents’ farm and travelled up and down the country district, finding business and was seemingly cushioned against the vagaries of the economy that his city counterparts dread so much. Conducting my business was easy as Ian was naturally friendly to visitors. He did not get too many and that made me very welcome.

‘Be careful when you drive on to Dunkston and into Victoria,’ he warned.

‘I know, Ian, I heard about the plague of locusts on the radio. Unfortunately, I will have to spend a day in town because I have to put my car in for service,’ giving him an accusing look which went unnoticed. Anyhow, I wondered what there was to warn about? They were tiny creatures, weren’t they? What could they do? Plus, the government was constantly announcing that it was spraying the area, obviously killing them off before they started swarming, so if I kept the windows closed and the air conditioning on, they could not get to me. I just had to drive through the swarm in comfort. Easy!

Well, it wasn’t! I was wrong as usual and my hair greyed a bit more than nature intended. But first, I had to get the car serviced. There were two good mechanics and I chose one with the least cars waiting. The workshop was located at the begin of the town and it was unique because it had a life-size mannequin outside, near the road, with a motorised arm waving motorists into its driveway. Obviously, the owner of the petrol station cum repair shop had a sense of humour!

Looking at the dummy, I had noticed that it was also being used as an advertising medium for other things because it had a large sign hanging from its neck, inviting everybody to a play in the town: ‘Rome, sweet Rome’ it said in large letters - obviously a pun directed at the Italian population of the area. Also, the dummy was dressed in a Roman toga and, like in ancient Rome, had a laurel wreath placed on its realistic wig. With its finely detailed face and accurate proportions the mannequin really did look lifelike! To make it attract even more attention, the service station owner had installed a windscreen wiper motor that moved the arm. Waving at passers-by and directing motorists into the driveway was certainly a clever set-up!

Wally, the owner came out, smiling. He knew that another city slicker had been lured into his establishment! ‘You like my dummy, then?’ he started a conversation.

‘It’s incredibly lifelike! It certainly gets a lot of attention,’ I observed admiringly.

Wally nodded proudly ‘Yes, I put a bit of work into it,’ pointing at the arms. ‘I’ve installed a windscreen wiper motor. Actually I put two of them in the dummy and added hinges to the arms.’

I stared at the animated figure.

‘I’ve also installed a loudspeaker and work everything from the console in my office. He pointed to his small office with all the space occupied with paperwork and with spare parts used as paperweights. And sure enough, there was a microphone and some buttons and knobs giving the appearance of a primitive radio station.

‘I have only one problem’ he said.

‘What’s that?’ I could not think of a drawback.

‘Come into my office right now’ His voice had become a whisper like a conspirator’s. Eagerly, I had followed him. He placed himself in front of his microphone, his hands hovering over the knobs and buttons. His expression became grim and determined.

He obviously had forgotten about me, judging from his intensive staring at a van with a family inside. Clearly tourists, they had stopped in front of the dummy, and stared at it, talking to each other excitedly. Then one man had left the van and slowly approached the figure, as if mesmerised.

‘Watch this bastard,’ Wally whispered. ‘They all do that!’

‘Do what?’ I whispered back, feeling like a conspirator, too, only not knowing the plot.

The man stood in front of ‘Nero’ as I had named the Roman mannequin, reached out and tried to shake hands with him. This must harm the mechanism, I thought.

Suddenly, the dummy jerked and boomed at the tourist ‘Let go of me bloody arm! What do you think you are doing?’

The shock was very visible, especially as there was nobody else in the driveway. The man almost jumped out of his skin. Trembling, he sprinted to his van, got into it and drove off with the acceleration of a racing car driver.

‘See that?’ Wally turned to me. ‘They all try to shake hands and it damages the motors inside it.’

‘That’s incredible,’ I could only stammer.

But Wally was made of sterner stuff because I heard him mumble: ‘I hope his drycleaner can keep a secret!’

I had to stay in Dunkston while my new muffler was being installed and I also took advantage of getting a full car service at the same time. Wally was an old-fashioned mechanic who took his work very personally, and whatever he did, he did properly. However, I had some visits to make in the town: to the hospital, the local government authority and flooring contractors, all in walking distance, so not much time was lost.

Upon leaving an architect’s place and walking towards a Government department where more architects were waiting for me, I had passed a large cinema and noticed a sizeable poster advertising a concert by Slim Dusty. It was a pleasant shock because Slim Dusty was one of my heroes of country music. In fact, it had always been my dream to attend one of his concerts and witness this legend perform. His concert was scheduled for the next day! I was reading the poster with excitement when I felt a hand on my shoulder.

‘Hello, Peter! You are back in town.’ It was Terry Stringer, an architect, whose small office I had intended to visit.

‘Hello, Terry.’ I was pleased to see him as he was completely natural with none of the snobbish air I sometimes encounter from city establishments.

‘Yes, I was coming to see you this afternoon, if that’s alright with you? I have some new samples for you and your catalogue needs updating.’

‘Splendid, Peter. Let’s say about 3 pm? That’s it then. I see you are a Slim Dusty fan? Are you going to his concert tomorrow? It will be a great event.’

‘Unfortunately, Terry, I can’t! You know how it is - there is always another town to call on.’

‘I know what you are like, Peter. You are too correct. That’s what’s wrong with you.’

‘W-what do you mean?’

‘Let’s say, if you had a car problem that needed fixing or if you were not feeling very well and had to take a day off - you are entitled to it, aren’t you? Then you would have your chance to see Slim Dusty and nobody would know!’

‘You make it sound so easy, Terry’

‘But it is easy. And don’t forget that after the concert, you can meet the master in the pub and have a yarn with him. You know what Slim is like!’

‘Yes, he is very folksy and,’ I was pulling myself together, ‘I have my car in for repairs and a service today. I tell you what, Terry, if the car is not ready by this evening I shall stay here for another day. But only then.’

‘Please yourself. So I shall see you at 3 o’clock then’. Terry nodded and left me in inner turmoil. I have always been a stickler for correctness. It didn’t not matter how far away from a boss I worked, I always did the correct thing, otherwise I just would not have been able to look at myself in the mirror in the morning. Therefore, I decided to leave it up to God. If my car was still being repaired the next day, then I would have had no other choice and I would see Slim.

Wally, the repairman, smiled when I called on him late afternoon. ‘It’s all ready, Peter. New muffler and full service! The tyres are alright and I have just test driven it.’

‘Thank you, Wally. I am relieved that I have a reliable vehicle again and do not need to feel stranded any more!’

But there was a touch of regret in my voice.

http://www.peterfrederick.org                                         http://www.life-on-the-road.com