July 14th
The text reads:
Might you be able to give me a hang fitting the plates to an armoured t-shirt that I am making?
"Who's it from?"
"I... don't really know."
To be fair, I have a hunch. But the name came up as "bendekatov," which is not a name in my phone. Stranger still, the message can't be directly replied to and the number has an 85 country code.
I send a "Definitely, but who is this?" response and chalk it up to a wrong number when it goes unanswered.
The following morning, a call from Ben (who I met in The Play) requesting my assistance with measurements.
He had sent the text using Skype because he's out of phone credit.
***
Ben is from London, specifically Elephant & Castle, although he was born in a van in a desert in Israel. He looks younger than someone in his late-30s, with an impish glint in his eyes. Russian-Israeli, he has that compact stature prevalent in people who've trained extensively in martial arts.
I have no idea what he does. And I've asked. I do know: he's studying theology; trying to run some Qi Gong/Tai Chi/Kung Fu classes; lived in Byron doing the surfer-beach bum thing; was adept at coaching me on diction and accents; and that he generally cracks me up.
Half the time, I believe his overtly mysterious behaviour is all an act and he's actually an accountant.
***
We're on the floor of his room, tracing and cutting out templates for the armor. He’s been getting into the Gothic scene [“And I have to say, it’s not a very big scene here, Ah-Lee.”] and has been improvising costumes/outfits/whatever because he can’t afford to go all out. The project has come out of necessity: “I have no money: how else am I supposed to get the chicks?!”
Ben has done a little metal work in the past – of course he has – and has enlisted the help of a seamstress, a metalwork artist, and apparently, me. I look sceptically at the tiny pixellated photo he’s using as a model: frankly, I don’t see how it’s going to work.
“How can it
not work?” he asks upon noticing my telling expression.
The first pectoral piece is measured, cut out, re-sized, altered, and then once satisfactory, thrown into what looks like a laundry hamper.
“Important things go in the bin,” he says without looking up from his work.
“Ah yes, The Bin of Importance.”
Upon making suggestions for the belly piece, I’m encouraged to “Run with it, Ah-Lee.” Ben often adds in the name of the person he’s speaking to, even when there’s no one else around. And Ali comes out a pleasing
Ah-Lee in his accent.
“What about the shoulder plates?”
“Not gonna have them.”
“Well, I think it needs them...”
Nearly complete and with the appearance of success, he states: “I can do everything, too,” almost more to himself than to me.
I chuckle a little.
“It’s true,” he adds, with the utmost sincerity.
“Thanks, Ah-Lee – I knew you could help.”
As I ponder what specifically about me could have given him that confidence, “... maybe I’ll start my own line...”
***
Ben has decided to accompany me to the library. Behind me on the bike path, he rings his bell.
“That’s a fine bell.”
“Ye, I found it.”
Ding ding ding“I like bells on things. That’s why I like churches, I think.”
Ding ding ding-ding ding***
Ben is telling me about the Asian gangster at the Brunswick Pools who was grilling him about the details and meaning of his very ornate tattoo, a full sleeve that extends onto his chest and back on the left side. The gangster was trying to trip him up, but Ben had designed it himself and knows the symbolism behind each element.
“Knowing the full story,” he tell me, “is good for the head. Martial arts, religion: I like to have my fucking bases covered, Ah-Lee.”
I nod as we ride side by side down the sunny, leaf-strewn street.
I have no idea what he’s talking about.
***
“Maybe I will add shoulder plates.”
“Good, it’ll make you look broader.”
“I don’t want to look
too broad.”
“Yes. Yes, you do – that’s the whole point.”
***
All morning, I’ve been excitedly telling Ben about my potential upcoming adventures. He’s reasonably puzzled when he notices I’m leaving the library with A Girl’s Guide to Surfing.
“You’re going surfing in the desert?”
And in that instant, it hits me: I’m as much of a enigma to him as he is to me.
Awesome.
***
A week later, my assistance is requested to finish up the shoulder plates.
“Do you want some juice?”
“What kind?”
“Spinach and coconut.”
“Yes.”
“It’s the closest thing to human blood in the vegetable kingdom.”
“...”
“Check it out on the Internet! I mean, you won’t find the exact proportions, but... it’s the vitamins, and the coconut is similar to plasma...”
My phone rings.
“Hey Mum! Yeah, just over at my friend’s place. He’s making spinach-and-coconut juice. Yes. It’s apparently the closest thing in the vegetable kingdom to human blood... No, he’s not Australian.”
Ben shouts over the juicer: “We’re vegan vampires!!”
My poor mother.
***
Ben has been battling some visa issues. Finally, a few more background details: his residency is sponsored by the Church of England.
“The Church thinks I’m sent from God – how funny is that?! I’m pretty good with the legal stuff. Think it’s the Jew in me. Man, would Popeye be proud of us,” as I'm handed a tall glass of thick green juice. “I’ve had to hack away at everything I get. No one looks at me and says, ‘Here’s a cool guy.’”
“Mmm...”
“Mind you, it’s different for chicks.”
“What?”
“The game of life.”
“Oh.”
“I worry about you a bit.... But you’ll be fine. Your boat will come in. Or at very least, run aground at some point. Yes, Ah-Lee. You are an interesting character.”
Considering the source, a high compliment, indeed.
I've taken to heckling vehicles that pass Sharky. Or ones that act like they're cool. Because they've got nothin' on our beast.
We're taking the back roads through country towns for Tisi. Her grandfather ran the church in Balaklava; this is the route of her childhood.
