Paul J Penton – Songwriter

Do we live in a ‘culture of complaint’, as one art critic suggests,. Willing at the drop of a hat to make mention of the smallest detail that doesn’t suit us? Maybe if you buy a big ticket item or you book seat X at a concert and get seat Y then a complaint is in order?  Some poor sod at the other end of the strangled customer service line has a noose just behind the desk because the next person to complain about situation Y or product Z will be the turning point. All that misery getting inside you head could whip the brain chemicals up into a fizzing cauldron of acid – eating away your sensibility until maybe you snap at the ‘customer’ – who is always right.

Person to person might be even worse, the only shield a sheaf of plywood between you and the formidable customer. They come rolling into the store like a live sea mine, lots of prickly barbs and spikes that will erupt into an explosion at the slightest provocation. They smell of smoke and fire and brimstone as they laud their complaint, of how they’ve been wrong done by, chewing on it for satisfaction like a fat stick of licorice, going to current affairs shows to reveal the latest consumer rip-off. Look, when it’s genuine then fine – you buy something and it breaks, then within a reasonable period fix it – yeah – but some people get it completely out of proportion. What starts out as a sandcastle seems to become a 3 story house by the time they’re finished, you look at the item in question, turn it on and it flashes and squeaks just like it’s meant to and they ask – “how did you do that”. You reveal the amazing  battery pouch where the battery was inserted the wrong way round. Logic overcoming complaint with ease. . The huffy customer walks out as if nothing has happened. If only we could capture that hot air and use it to generate power , we might light up a whole city.

The only thing you want is for the pain to stop. Inside one of those enamelled lumps there’s a hole or a gap that needs to be dealt with. There seems to be a road crew in there , pneumatic drills are tapping right on the root of the nerve OUCH!. A thousand Enola Gays have come by to your very own Hiroshima right there in your mouth..YOW! A hundred lighting bolts KAPOW! – against the nerve that seems to dangle like a grappling rope from a black hawk helicopter, they keep tugging at the rope and your head swoons and fights like a boxer and you bite down hard on that pain all the way to the dentist.

An emergency call – have you got a moment spare anywhere TODAY!- a desperate plea, coming from a well of despair and pain, you just want this suffering to end.. SOON! Your fear of needles diminishes as you know that in a few moments the numbness will start to sweep in. A cold winter will frost your gum and the pain will be temporarily gone. From there there’ll be decisions – extraction or filling? Hmmmmm. preferably a filling – If it’s not broken in half or anything then yes that’s the best option. The assistant engages the sucking machine – Its pitch rises and falls like a vacuum cleaner as it gets stuck on the inside of your cheek you feel it pull and tug while it drips a cold salve of water near where the dentist is working. Now the gum is so numb you don’t feel that little hook tool pulling away at the edges of the affected area, but you can hear it and it sets the rest of your teeth on edge, your back arches up, your stomach muscles constrict waiting for the pain that never comes because you are wonderfully numb. The dentist dons orange glasses and the assistant doles out sculpting pastes to rebuild what’s left of the tooth……

Afternoons in the back yard in white cricket  pants. The ball coming in at reckless speed while over head the sun beat down  with the force of kick drum at a rock concert, drilling into our heads, our backs, our necks and our arms – but we didn’t care – yes we could get sunburn but it was nothing to worry about then – now completely different of course.

Thick semolina afternoons of lying about beside the pool soaking up chlorine germ killer, lying under the sun that painted strokes of heat over our exposed backs and raw legs. The piercing light bulb in the sky that made school holidays last forever as if it was a time machine and each minute seemed to yawn by. How can I get back there – I’m now trapped and overwhelmed in dark dungeons behind unfriendly computer screens and my soul just wants to let sunshine in. I want to drink in that sweet orangey yellow lucozade mornings where the shadows creep long against the sides of buildings as if the sun is stretching its arms and yawning. I want to catch those last rays of evening after the sunshine has turned to a piny purple glow but they’re like tadpoles that slip away through my fingers. So pure so clean so fresh these beautiful rays of sunshine…

I’m stuck up here on the roof week after week. Does anybody really notice me? I’m here on guard duty, my nose sticking out further than Pinnocio, waiting for that merest sniff of charred air. If you burn the toast or leave the roast too long, then I will send a warning. I’ll be completely annoying, I’ll beep and pierce and impinge on your sensitive hearing until you have to do something. But you’ll encounter a dilemma, because I’m safe and out of the way up here and as soon as I start shouting you won’t have anything that can reach me. You’ll have to be inventive, drag table out and stand on top of that, it might be a bit shaky you might sway from side to side and reach up to me as If I wil hold all your weight, but I’m just screwed into the ceiling by two flimsy self tappers, little worms of thread that  are impaled into the plaster board so don’t put your faith in me. 

I see all the goings on here through my red eye vision, constantly blinking. I hear all the goings on. The fights the divisions the make ups and the love making sessions. I could be a camera on your life if you wanted. Otherwise I just sit here dormant, stiff and brittle waiting to prove myself. My only real friend in the world is the battery – he didn’t know he was in for a life time of trickle charge – he thought he was going to have a much more exiting life as the battery back up for a foot pedal in a rock band – think of it; world travel, the music, the girls! Instead he’s almost in solitary confinement in my belly. I’ve thought about moving on, but these self tappers constrain me in a straight-jacket fit, there’s no budging. Only when my friend the battery dies and I  begin to weep constantly do they come and operate. The cover gets a brief respite on the table while the battery is changed sometimes when they’re not organised it can be as long as five minutes- five minutes in a lifetime, that’s not much to write home about. Maybe I should just let out a quick string of  beeps now, to let them know I’m still here…

Bargain collectors corner, the owner is standing outside making a chimney of himself before the real trade starts to come through. There’s all manner of goods stacked on the footpath, those big clear plastic stacking boxes, kids hand-held windmills, clothing apparel all bundled out on the footpath. Inside, the shop is stacked from floor to ceiling with all manner of odds and sods from cutlery to CD cleaners, dish racks to electrical cords all available for bargain basement prices.

The sunglasses are tucked away near the front, a revolving wheel of them, or is it an octagon? The labeled price is $19.99, but a peeling hand written stick on label says five dollars. The attendant looks over from the counter- “all fi’ dollar” in broken English. The bustle of Chapel Street floods in as I move the squeaky carousel of coloured glasses around – so many choices – the dark brown, the black, the light brown with silvered frames. Aviators, Britney glasses – all “fi” bucks!  I go for some brown wrap-arounds and they clamp my brain tight- and shadow the windows of my soul sufficiently. I look up to the tiny mirror at the top of the column and decide that for five bucks they’re absolutely fine.  I dive into my jeans pocket for a loose note- apparently this is a ‘boy thing’. to have loose money floating in a pocket – girls just don’t do it.

I wander out and head into N Tran Bakery – maybe some morning tea and a cinnamon doughnut is in order. I sit in the window letting the warmth of the mug dissolve the winter nip in my fingertips and feel the  encrusted cinnamon drop down my chin while the doughy insides are mashed up by fierce molars. There’s a sandpapery feeling as the next one goes in but the sweet cinnamon taste and smell overcome any unpleasantness…..

It had to be a well planned operation, somehow he had to get back in the side window without making too much noise. He definitely did not want his parents hearing him, because as far as they were concerned he would be asleep in there already. Somewhere between the news and the next round of sitcoms he had deftly washed past the entrance to the lounge room where the flickering glow of the television had them transfixed. He had unlatched the back door and fled. He had left open his window for the purpose of the return. After meeting up with his buddy, together they consumed half a bottle of Jack Daniels beneath the willow tree down by the river while the balmy night dragged over them. This was going to add to the difficulty of making a quiet re-entry to the house.

Earlier he had positioned a milk crate from the shed below his bedroom window and now, in his best stealth bomber mode he acted like an unseen shadow merging with the darkness of the side of the house. He’d forgotten about the rake just around the corner and this was the first thing he ran into – a fist of fright took hold, but no lights came blazing on – it was one thirty in the morning. He managed to lever up the window and the sash held – lately there’s been this problem and it had a habit of guillotining shut- hopefully not tonight. The whiskey on his breath and the cloud of cigarettes they’d consumed preceded him into the room. A sweep of worry that it would  be evident tomorrow clouded his consciousness temporarily as his feet kicked the last few feet along the weather boards affording him a landing on the bed.