Kalgoorlie Delis

In Kalgoorlie, the proprietors of my local delis were larger than life. They made every purchase an adventure, and left me with a story to tell, always. In Perth, at least so far, that hasn’t been the case.

You’ll have noticed that I used ‘proprietors’ plural and ‘delis’ plural just moments ago. See, in Kalgoorlie, I lived halfway between the Carbarn deli – or ‘Carbarna’ as a housemate of mine tagged it, trying to spice up its image – and the Wilson Street deli, and was able to choose between them on a whim. Sometimes I would step out with a few dollars in my pocket and not the slightest inkling where I was going. Usually, though, the choice was clear.

I chose between the delis not on appearance, nor by the goods in stock, but by the character of the proprietor, and, more specifically, the compatability of that character with my mood at the time. My moods were, and still are, variable, but the men running the delis were constants. Old Cheeseman at Wilson Street and Old Genovese at the Carbarn, eternally jovial and eternally melancholy, respectively; predictable, like the sun and the moon. Those men were the benchmarks, the standards, the knowns, that I, the unknown, gauged myself against.

Old Cheeseman was a talker. I knew a couple of his sons and they were talkers too. They may have descended from a long line of storytellers or bards. Or cheese men. Who knew? All I knew was that, before setting off to Wilson Street, it was wise to clear the diary for half an hour, maybe more. One certainly wouldn’t leave a pot of tea to brew at home, unless one was fond of cold, bitter tea. No siree.

He had a story for every item in stock, Old Cheeseman. Bottled water: his mate invented it. Chiko rolls: he knew how the filling got in. Washing powder: his dog ate some and had to be put down. These yarns would be told to completion in a slow and methodical manner, no matter your hurry or the hurry of those waiting behind you. If unsure of a narrative detail, he would stop counting your change and sieve through his mind, carrying on the story (and the counting) only when he had extracted the elusive and entirely insignificant fact in question. You could tap your watch or naked wrist, drum your fingers on the counter, clear your throat, pass wind, or scoop out your eyeball with a teaspoon, all to no avail. Nothing would stop him.

On certain days, though, when the sun was a-shinin’, the birds were a-singin’, and the lollipops were a-plentiful, I could appreciate Old Cheeseman and his quaint, saccharine ways. Wilson Street was the optimist’s deli. Steve Irwin would have liked it. Terri Irwin and Bindi Irwin and Bob Irwin would like it. And Marcia Hines and Brad Hogg and Scooby Doo. But sometimes the thought of clanging through that flywire door and seeing Old Cheeseman’s ruddy, smiling face would cripple me. Some days the sun was a-hidin’, the birds were a-rottin’ on the pavement, and the a-plentiful lollipops were a-laced with strychnine. On those days I went to the Carbarn, the pessimist’s deli.

The Carbarn was entirely devoid of warmth: physical or conversational or atmospherical, faux or genuine. Old Genovese made sure of that – in fact, like some strange deep-sea bacteria, he positively thrived in the anoxic conditions. But, like Wilson Street, the Carbarn was therapeutic for certain states of mind. You went there stressed to be served in silence. You went there jilted to be numbed in the cold. You went there angry to mentally duel with a man angrier than you; a man who would flog you with a liquorice strap as soon as sell you one. I found his weakness, though, and visiting the Carbarn then became a fiendish game.

See, Old Genovese had an unsettling habit of cupping his hand to receive my money before I had placed my goods on the counter. There his hand would remain, unwavering, as I furrowed my brow and fumbled my coins and apologised to all and trembled like a junkie sans junk. And all the while, he wouldn’t even bother to lift his eyes from the morning paper. At least, that’s how it was to begin with.

I knew Old Genovese didn’t tolerate ill-prepared fools like me; fools who interrupted his day with their petty concerns and indecision and clumsiness. So I adopted and exaggerated these habits, giving mad performances of verbal and physical slapstick designed to make him shake and sweat like I had before his motionless palm. As I searched for a dollar in ten cent pieces or considered aloud the pros and cons of having sauce with my pie, I casually twisted a red-hot poker into his gut, eager to hear him scream. But even my wackiest performances failed to break that most determined of warriors. I just wanted to make him laugh or cry, but he did neither, and for that he has my respect. Our silent armwrestle, imperceptible to the passing observer, and perhaps even to the man-of-stone himself, remains undecided.

Characters they were, Genovese and Cheeseman - annoying characters, but characters none-the-less. They were end-members of the personality spectrum - one light, the other dark, one warm, the other cool, one licky, the other bitey – but in having and displaying personality they occupied common ground, and made the deli run an experience.

I’ve no doubt that such personalities exist in Perth, but too often they are not displayed. The deli owners are friendly, efficient and helpful, but in the fashion of the air hostess. I find that paid familiarity disturbing, a whoredom of sorts, and I wonder about the society that demands it. I wonder about the society that values homogeneity; that puts smoothness before texture; that sands the edges off its sharpest and rarest stones, when it should be dusting them off and putting them on display in fancy glass cases.

But I’ve wondered long enough, so I step now onto my soapbox and I shout: “Shine on, you crazy diamonds, you Cheesemans and Genoveses! Pay no heed to my petty critique. Shine on, shine on!”

Harvey's Odyssey I

The nail of his right index finger lazily scratches at the armrest of the recliner he now inhabits. Sweat-derived scum begins to peel away in distinct sections: a thick consistent top layer; a wafer-thin film; a pale and uninspiring goo; and, finally, a heterogeneous but strangely beautiful basal crust, whose peculiarities – like the pea beneath the princess’ mattress - are mimicked by the overlying strata. Blowing the scrapings away, he sees the clean black leather beneath. And he sees that it is good.

Easing back in the chair with hands clasped behind his head, the coach now forms an imposing silhouette against the grass and blinding concrete terraces of Fremantle Oval, the ground’s centre circle framed by the isosceles triangle of his left arm. His gaze drifts beneath the desk and, seeing the heavily-pilled tracksuit pants and tattered ugg boots, he eases forward again, feeling embarrassed, though no one else is around. If a visitor happened by – Pav, Rick Hart, that old water boy who looks like Yoda – he would have to remain seated.

He leans forward now, elbows on desk and fists on jaw line, forcing his cheeks high until they almost touch his furrowed brow. All of the videos and DVDs and books and papers lining the shelves loom before him, laughing and probing, coldly: “Are you ready for this?”.

“Dunno”, he whispers, stroking the patchy stubble on his chin. A short time later he resolves to stop conversing with inanimate objects. That was the downfall of Damian Drum, or so he has heard.

Abruptly, and without knocking, a deep mauve haze of melancholy enters the room, settling around him. He begins to feel strangely out-of-place, as though adrift in an ocean far from home. Frowning at his ill-fitting purple polo shirt, he plucks at its fabric, testing its reality. It all seems so foreign, so other-worldly. Doubts infest his mind, bouncing against and chewing at his skull’s inner wall. Was he good enough? Were they good enough? Why was he even here? Here, in this harsh, isolated place, far from the padded jackets and the icy breath and the sloppy, tasteless four-n-twenty pies of his earlier life? His head, involuntarily, rattles now from side to side and now from back to front and now round and round, fruitlessly attempting to expel the concerns through one or both ear holes.

Calming slightly, or perhaps advancing into a higher, Zen-like form of madness – it’s hard to say – he reaches for the phone, pining for the counsel of Kevin Sheedy. But just as his clammy fingertips touch the handset, a knock at the door jolts him.

Without awaiting his invitation, Cameron Schwab enters the room - at least, the bodily form of Cameron Schwab enters the room. The tense, squirming muscles and flickering red eyes betray his real identity: Apollo, deliverer of prophesies, cunningly disguised as Cameron Schwab. The coach is wary.

“Hi Cameron”, he says, smiling as best a former Essendon hard man can.

“We should never have sacked Troy”, booms Schwab, foregoing any niceties and displaying fury dramatically incongruous with his pale skin and delicate spectacles. “It leaves us lacking centre-square hardness.”

A droplet of sweat trembles on the tip of Schwab’s equine nose as he awaits reply. Knowing better than to engage in a shouting match with an immortal – a fiery death usually results - the coach is measured and unflinching.

“Hardness won’t be an issue Cameron. And Troy retired - he wasn’t sacked.”

“Oh”, says Schwab, noticeably slumping as Apollo, defeated, sublimes and dissipates through the open window. “Sorry, I...,” he starts, turning his flaccid body back from whence it came, “I don’t know what came over me.”

As Schwab’s shaking head is eclipsed by the closing door, the coach sits back in his chair and sighs. If he could ward off the meddling Gods – and he was certain they would interfere again – then, he reasoned, he was capable of handling anything, even a pre-derby press conference with John Worsfold. It was almost time to perform now: like a demon before the players, like a gibbon before the press, like a philosopher before the fans. Like a Docker.

With that thought lingering, he springs from his chair and strides out of his office and out of the building, possessed by supernatural energy and entirely unconscious now of his bogan attire. He would go home, roast a suckling pig for himself, cast another onto the fire to appease the Gods, and retire to enjoy the boon of sleep until the first rays of rosy-fingered dawn. Then he would awake and lay out his plan for the men, his plan to take them all to their rightful home: the MCG in late September.