These donuts are whole with jam injected into them and are delicious. You cannot stop at one, which is why you get five.
There are like the donuts I used to get from the Dandenong market when I was a child. Back then, nearly 60 years ago, I used to go every Tuesday to get fruit and vegetables, and sometimes clothes, because there were other stalls selling useful household items.
Back then we used to get donuts, and for a long time, I had never managed to get back when the market was open to relive those childhood memories.
This trip we do.
The Dandenong Market had changed considerably since the last time I remember it. The building where my eldest son used to play basketball has been turned over to meat, fish, and food stalls.
It has spread to be about ten times the size it used to be, making it seem like a difficult task to find the donut van, but we entered by the right entrance and there it was.
And the donuts?
They were exactly as I remembered.
While we’re in the area we also make a trip to the Springvale market. When I lived in Victoria there was no such market, this had only been around since the immigrant Vietnamese have made their home in Springvale, and in places, it reminds you of similar markets in Singapore, Hong Kong, or China.
It was a fascinating half-hour of wandering around almost feeling like you are somewhere in South East Asia.
With markets like these who would really need a supermarket? And a bonus? The street food.
Category: Books
What I learned about writing – Poetry, again
The Necessary Madness: Why Poetry Demands a Certain Unsoundness of Mind
There are few pronouncements in literature as instantly arresting and delightfully unsettling as the suggestion that to truly engage with poetry—to write it, or even to enjoy it—requires “a certain unsoundness of mind.”
This quote, often attributed to the Romantic critic and essayist William Hazlitt (though sometimes debated), doesn’t just demand our attention; it challenges the very foundation of how we define sanity, rationality, and the purpose of art.
If the quote holds any truth, it suggests that the purest forms of human expression are found not in the centre of logic, but on the fringes of accepted thought.
The Tyranny of the ‘Sound’ Mind
Before we celebrate this poetic madness, we must first define what the “sound mind” represents.
The ‘sound mind’ is the mind built for survival and efficiency. It is pragmatic, literal, and relentlessly focused on the material world. It asks: How does this benefit me? Is this efficient? What is the demonstrable return on investment? A sound mind appreciates a spreadsheet more than a sonnet.
Poetry, by its nature, is profoundly unsound. It is impractical. It sacrifices plain meaning for music, clarity for colour, and the material for the transcendent. In the purely economic or rational sense, poetry is useless.
The poet, therefore, must reject the tyranny of the purely rational. They must be willing to stare at a blade of grass not as an element of photosynthesis, but as a small, green miracle demanding an ode. This ability to divert focus from the practical necessities of life to the consuming fire of feeling—this is the first hint of “unsoundness.”
The Poet as the Maximalist of Feeling
When we talk about the “unsoundness” necessary for poetry, we are generally not talking about pathology, but rather maximal sensitivity.
The poet is often someone who feels the world too intensely. They do not merely observe tragedy; they absorb it. They do not just see beauty; they are momentarily blinded by it. This heightened level of empathy and emotional responsiveness is exhausting, destabilising, and deeply incompatible with the smooth running of mundane life.
To be a poet is to stand permanently outside the insulating wall of detachment that most people build to cope with existence. You must be vulnerable to the overwhelming sensory and emotional data the world constantly provides.
In this context, poetry becomes a necessary defense mechanism. It is the obsessive, painstaking labor of translating this overwhelming internal cacophony into structured sound. The rhyme, the meter, the perfect metaphor—these elements are not arbitrary decorations; they are the cage the poet builds to house their wild, excessive feelings.
Unsoundness is the Engine of Metaphor
Perhaps the greatest sign of poetic “unsoundness” is the absolute reliance on metaphor.
The logical mind deals strictly with A = A. The poetic mind insists that A = B, even when A and B share no literal qualities. It sees a lover’s eyes and calls them stars; it sees a city and calls it a sleeping animal.
This non-linear connection—this immediate leap across the chasm of logic—is the signature mental deviation required for the art form. The poet must briefly abandon empirical reality to create a new reality, one governed by emotional resonance rather than physics.
To create the brilliant, jarring imagery that defines great verse, the poet must be willing to let their mind wander into territory that the logical world deems nonsensical. They must embrace the illogical truth.
The Reader’s Necessary Leap
The quote states that even enjoying poetry demands this mental deviation. This is perhaps the more insidious and intriguing part of the claim.
If the poet is the architect of illogical truth, the reader must be willing to temporarily relocate their own mind to that space.
To truly enjoy a poem, you cannot read it primarily for information. You must allow yourself to be led away from the concrete ground you stand upon. The appreciation of poetry requires the reader to:
- Suspend Literal Meaning: To understand why the moon might weep, or the wind might whisper secrets, we must momentarily sideline our rational understanding of astronomy and meteorology.
- Embrace Emotional Logic: We must prioritise the feeling the poem evokes over the fact it describes.
- Accept the Unexplained: We must allow the poem to exist outside the need for easy answers, recognising that the beauty lies in the ambiguity.
In the brief time we spend with a stanza, we are happily infected by the poet’s particular brand of “madness.” We choose to be unsound, and in that fleeting moment of voluntary irrationality, we find profound emotional clarity.
A Celebration of Necessary Deviance
The history of poetry—from the romantic excess of Lord Byron to the stark, fragmented vision of Sylvia Plath—is littered with geniuses who struggled to align their profound internal lives with the demands of the pragmatic world.
The quote, therefore, is not an insult or a diagnosis. It is a profound observation about the nature of creativity. The “unsoundness of mind” is simply the maximal awareness of the human condition—the courage to feel disproportionately and to articulate those feelings without filtering them through the gauze of acceptable, practical thought.
If sanity is defined by the refusal to look beyond the mundane, then thank heaven for the glorious, necessary unsoundness that gives us the words to describe the sublime.
What Do You Think?
Do you agree that a departure from strict logic is necessary to appreciate poetry? Who is your favourite poet whose work seems to thrive on this “unsoundness” of mind? Share your thoughts in the comments below!
365 Days of writing, 2026 – 161
Day 161 – Is the American Dream a good model to follow
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The Mirage of Prosperity: Can We Still Believe in the American Dream?
For generations, the “American Dream” has served as the national North Star. It is the seductive promise that with enough grit, talent, and ambition, anyone—regardless of their station—can rise from obscurity to acclaim. It is a narrative of meritocracy, gold-paved streets, and the promise that the past does not dictate the future.
But is this dream a practical model to follow, or is it a gilded trap? To answer this, we must look at the literature that first dared to peek behind the curtain of the American success story.
More than a century ago, Theodore Dreiser’s naturalist masterpiece, Sister Carrie, dismantled the shiny exterior of the American Dream, revealing a hollow, often tragic reality beneath. By examining Carrie Meeber’s journey, we can better understand why the American Dream, as a moral or psychological model, may be fundamentally flawed.
The Illusion of Upward Mobility
In Sister Carrie, the protagonist arrives in Chicago with nothing but a longing for “something better.” She is the quintessential seeker of the American Dream. Through a series of transactional relationships, she climbs the social ladder, transitioning from a struggling factory worker to a celebrated Broadway actress.
On the surface, Carrie is a success story. She achieves the material comfort the Dream promises. Yet, Dreiser leaves us with a haunting image: Carrie, wealthy and famous, sitting in a rocking chair, perpetually unsatisfied.
Dreiser’s point is devastating: The American Dream is a process, not a destination. It functions on the psychology of “more.” It teaches us that contentment is a static state that must be avoided, because if you are content, you stop striving. As a model for living, it creates a treadmill where the finish line constantly recedes.
The Transactional Self
One of the most uncomfortable truths in Sister Carrie is the way the American Dream erodes human connection. In the novel, people are viewed as commodities—assets to be acquired or obstacles to be discarded. Carrie’s rise is facilitated by her abandonment of those who helped her, most notably the tragic figure of George Hurstwood.
When we adopt the American Dream as our primary model for life, we risk turning our relationships into utility-based arrangements. We ask, “What does this person offer me?” rather than “How can we grow together?” In a culture obsessed with the outcome of success, the quality of the human experience often becomes collateral damage.
The Myth of Meritocracy
The American Dream rests on the belief that if you fail, it is a personal moral failing. Conversely, if you succeed, it is purely because you “earned” it.
Dreiser’s work highlights the role of “blind, unmerited chance.” Carrie possesses a certain magnetism, but her success is as much about serendipity and the changing tides of urban life as it is about her own talent. When we buy into the Dream, we become blind to the systemic and accidental nature of success. This leads to a two-fold tragedy: we feel profound shame when we struggle, and we develop an unearned arrogance when we thrive.
Is the Dream Still Useful?
If Sister Carrie shows the dangers of a life driven solely by the pursuit of status and material gain, does the model have any merit today?
The American Dream can be a powerful engine when it’s defined as opportunity rather than acquisition. If we view it as the freedom to pursue our passions and contribute to society, it remains a noble pursuit. However, when it becomes a rigid model for identity—convincing us that we are only as valuable as our bank accounts or our job titles—it becomes a source of psychic misery.
The Lesson from the Rocking Chair
Dreiser’s Sister Carrie is a cautionary tale, not just about the dangers of consumerism, but about the dangers of living for the future at the expense of the present.
If we choose to follow the American Dream, we must do so with our eyes wide open. We must recognise that the “Dream” is often an artificial construct designed to keep the wheels of industry turning, rather than a blueprint for human happiness.
Perhaps the most “American” thing we can do today is to redefine the dream. Instead of chasing a title or a lifestyle that leaves us sitting in a rocking chair with an empty heart, maybe we should focus on a model of success that prioritizes integrity, community, and the quiet satisfaction of a life lived on one’s own terms—not the terms dictated by the market.
What do you think? Is the American Dream a source of inspiration or a recipe for perpetual dissatisfaction? Let’s discuss in the comments below.
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In a word: Meat
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We all know what meat is, the flesh of an animal like cattle, pigs, sheep, even goats.
It can be used to describe a pie, such as a meat pie, but the odd thing is that it doesn’t have to have 100% meat in it.
It can be used in the context of humans, depending on when you eat certain types of food that will put meat on your bones.
Meat can also be used to describe the fleshy part of nuts, fruit, or eggs.
Then there’s the meat of the matter, which is the crux or basis of the argument or message you want to get across.
And a rather interesting if not obscure meaning is to describe a favorite occupation or activity.
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Another form of the word is meet; what we do at a coffee shop, on a date, at a pub, or any number of different places.
We can gather together for a meeting, such as a board of directors or a committee.
It can be used to describe an athletic or swimming carnival.
How about you meet me halfway, in a negotiation, not on a long road trip
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To dole out or allot something like punishment, is to mete it out.
Good thing then, we don’t live in the dark ages, all manner of bad punishments were meted put to the serfs.
‘What Sets Us Apart’ – A beta reader’s view
There’s something to be said for a story that starts like a James Bond movie, throwing you straight in the deep end, a perfect way of getting to know the main character, David, or is that Alistair?
A retired spy, well, not so much a spy as a retired errand boy, David’s rather wry description of his talents, and a woman that most men would give their left arm for, not exactly the ideal couple, but there is a spark in a meeting that may or may not have been a setup.
But as the story progressed, the question I kept asking myself was why he’d bother.
And, page after unrelenting page, you find out.
Susan is exactly the sort of woman to pique his interest. Then, inexplicably, she disappears. That might have been the end of it, but Prendergast, that shadowy enigma, David’s ex-boss who loves playing games with real people, gives him an ultimatum: find her or come back to work.
Nothing like an offer that’s a double-edged sword!
A dragon for a mother, a sister he didn’t know about, Susan’s BFF who is not what she seems or a friend indeed, and Susan’s father, who, up till David meets her, couldn’t be less interested, his nemesis proves to be the impossible dream, and he’s always just that one step behind.
When the rollercoaster finally came to a halt, and I could start breathing again, it was an ending that was completely unexpected.
I’ve been told there’s a sequel in the works.
Bring it on!
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The book can be purchased here: http://amzn.to/2Eryfth
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365 Days of writing, 2026 – 161
Day 161 – Is the American Dream a good model to follow
…
The Mirage of Prosperity: Can We Still Believe in the American Dream?
For generations, the “American Dream” has served as the national North Star. It is the seductive promise that with enough grit, talent, and ambition, anyone—regardless of their station—can rise from obscurity to acclaim. It is a narrative of meritocracy, gold-paved streets, and the promise that the past does not dictate the future.
But is this dream a practical model to follow, or is it a gilded trap? To answer this, we must look at the literature that first dared to peek behind the curtain of the American success story.
More than a century ago, Theodore Dreiser’s naturalist masterpiece, Sister Carrie, dismantled the shiny exterior of the American Dream, revealing a hollow, often tragic reality beneath. By examining Carrie Meeber’s journey, we can better understand why the American Dream, as a moral or psychological model, may be fundamentally flawed.
The Illusion of Upward Mobility
In Sister Carrie, the protagonist arrives in Chicago with nothing but a longing for “something better.” She is the quintessential seeker of the American Dream. Through a series of transactional relationships, she climbs the social ladder, transitioning from a struggling factory worker to a celebrated Broadway actress.
On the surface, Carrie is a success story. She achieves the material comfort the Dream promises. Yet, Dreiser leaves us with a haunting image: Carrie, wealthy and famous, sitting in a rocking chair, perpetually unsatisfied.
Dreiser’s point is devastating: The American Dream is a process, not a destination. It functions on the psychology of “more.” It teaches us that contentment is a static state that must be avoided, because if you are content, you stop striving. As a model for living, it creates a treadmill where the finish line constantly recedes.
The Transactional Self
One of the most uncomfortable truths in Sister Carrie is the way the American Dream erodes human connection. In the novel, people are viewed as commodities—assets to be acquired or obstacles to be discarded. Carrie’s rise is facilitated by her abandonment of those who helped her, most notably the tragic figure of George Hurstwood.
When we adopt the American Dream as our primary model for life, we risk turning our relationships into utility-based arrangements. We ask, “What does this person offer me?” rather than “How can we grow together?” In a culture obsessed with the outcome of success, the quality of the human experience often becomes collateral damage.
The Myth of Meritocracy
The American Dream rests on the belief that if you fail, it is a personal moral failing. Conversely, if you succeed, it is purely because you “earned” it.
Dreiser’s work highlights the role of “blind, unmerited chance.” Carrie possesses a certain magnetism, but her success is as much about serendipity and the changing tides of urban life as it is about her own talent. When we buy into the Dream, we become blind to the systemic and accidental nature of success. This leads to a two-fold tragedy: we feel profound shame when we struggle, and we develop an unearned arrogance when we thrive.
Is the Dream Still Useful?
If Sister Carrie shows the dangers of a life driven solely by the pursuit of status and material gain, does the model have any merit today?
The American Dream can be a powerful engine when it’s defined as opportunity rather than acquisition. If we view it as the freedom to pursue our passions and contribute to society, it remains a noble pursuit. However, when it becomes a rigid model for identity—convincing us that we are only as valuable as our bank accounts or our job titles—it becomes a source of psychic misery.
The Lesson from the Rocking Chair
Dreiser’s Sister Carrie is a cautionary tale, not just about the dangers of consumerism, but about the dangers of living for the future at the expense of the present.
If we choose to follow the American Dream, we must do so with our eyes wide open. We must recognise that the “Dream” is often an artificial construct designed to keep the wheels of industry turning, rather than a blueprint for human happiness.
Perhaps the most “American” thing we can do today is to redefine the dream. Instead of chasing a title or a lifestyle that leaves us sitting in a rocking chair with an empty heart, maybe we should focus on a model of success that prioritizes integrity, community, and the quiet satisfaction of a life lived on one’s own terms—not the terms dictated by the market.
What do you think? Is the American Dream a source of inspiration or a recipe for perpetual dissatisfaction? Let’s discuss in the comments below.
…
Inspiration, Maybe – Volume 2
50 photographs, 50 stories, of which there is one of the 50 below.
They all start with –
A picture paints … well, as many words as you like. For instance:
And, the story:
Have you ever watched your hopes and dreams simply fly away?
Everything I thought I wanted and needed had just left in an aeroplane, and although I said I was not going to, I came to the airport to see the plane leave. Not the person on it, that would have been far too difficult and emotional, but perhaps it was symbolic, the end of one life and the start of another.
But no matter what I thought or felt, we had both come to the right decision. She needed the opportunity to spread her wings. It was probably not the best idea for her to apply for the job without telling me, but I understood her reasons.
She was in a rut. Though her job was a very good one, it was not as demanding as she had expected, particularly after the last promotion, but with it came resentment from others on her level that she, the youngest of the group, would get the position.
It was something that had been weighing her down for the last three months, and if she noticed it, the late nights, the moodiness, sometimes a flash of temper. I knew she had one; no one could have such red hair and not, but she had always kept it in check.
And then there was us, together, and after seven years, it felt like we were going nowhere. Perhaps that was down to my lack of ambition, and though she never said it, lack of sophistication. It hadn’t been an issue, well, not until her last promotion, and the fact that she had to entertain more, and frankly, I felt like an embarrassment to her.
So, there it was, three days ago, the beginning of the weekend, and we had planned to go away for a few days and take stock. We both acknowledged we needed to talk, but it never seemed the right time.
It was then that she said she had quit her job and found a new one. Starting the following Monday.
Ok, that took me by surprise, not so much that it was something I sort of guessed might happen, but that she would just blurt it out.
I think that right then, at that moment, I could feel her frustration with everything around her.
What surprised her was my reaction. None.
I simply asked who, where, and when.
A world-class newspaper in New York, and she had to be there in a week.
A week.
It was all the time I had left with her.
I remember just shrugging and asking if the planned weekend away was off.
She stood on the other side of the kitchen counter, hands around a cup of coffee she had just poured, and that one thing I remembered was the lone tear that ran down her cheek.
Is that all you want to know?
I did, yes, but we had lost the intimacy we used to have, where she would have told me what was happening, and we would have brainstormed solutions. I might be a cabinet maker, but I still had a brain, was what I overheard her tell a friend once.
There’s not much to ask, I said. You’ve been desperately unhappy and haven’t been able to hide it all that well, you have been under a lot of pressure trying to deal with a group of troglodytes, and you’ve been leaning on Bentley’s shoulder instead of mine, and I get it, he’s got more experience in that place, and the politics that go with it, and is still an ally.
Her immediate superior was instrumental in her getting the position, but unlike some men in his position, he had not taken advantage of the situation like some might. And even if she had made a move, which I doubted, that was not the sort of woman she was, he would have politely declined.
One of the very few happily married men in that organisation, so I heard.
So, she said, you’re not just a pretty face.
Par for the course for a cabinet maker whose university degree is in psychology. It doesn’t take rocket science to see what was happening to you. I just didn’t think it was my place to jump in unless you asked me, and when you didn’t, well, that told me everything I needed to know.
Yes, our relationship had a use-by date, and it was in the next few days.
I was thinking, she said, that you might come with me; you can make cabinets anywhere.
I could, but I think the real problem wasn’t just the job. It was everything around her and going with her that would just be a constant reminder of what had been holding her back. I didn’t want that for her and said so.
Then the only question left was, what do we do now?
Go shopping for suitcases. Bags to pack, and places to go.
Getting on the roller coaster is easy. At the beginning, it’s a slow, easy ride, followed by the slow climb to the top. It’s much like some relationships; they start out easy, they require a little work to get to the next level, followed by the adrenaline rush when it all comes together.
What most people forget is that what comes down must go back up, and life is pretty much a roller coaster with highs and lows.
Our roller coaster had just come out of the final turn, and we were braking so that it would stop at the station.
There was no question of going with her to New York. Yes, I promised I’d come over and visit her, but that was a promise with crossed fingers behind my back. After a few months in the new job, the last thing she’d want was a reminder of what she left behind. New friends, new life.
We packed her bags, threw out everything she didn’t want, a free trip to the op shop with stuff she knew others would like to have, and basically, by the time she was ready to go, there was nothing left of her in the apartment, or anywhere.
Her friends would be seeing her off at the airport, and that’s when I told her I was not coming; that moment, the taxi arrived to take her away forever. I remember standing there, watching the taxi go. It was going to be, and was, as hard as it was to watch the plane leave.
So, there I was, finally staring at the blank sky, around me a dozen other plane spotters, a rather motley crew of plane enthusiasts.
Already that morning, there had been 6 different types of planes departing, and I could hear another winding up its engines for take-off.
People coming, people going.
Maybe I would go to New York in a couple of months, not to see her, but just to see what the attraction was. Or maybe I would drop in, just to see how she was.
As one of my friends told me when I gave him the news, the future is never written in stone, and it’s about time you broadened your horizons.
Perhaps it was.
© Charles Heath 2020-2026
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Coming soon. Find the above story and 49 others like it in:
The cinema of my dreams – I always wanted to write a war story – Episode 5
This is a story inspired by a visit to an old castle in Italy. It was, of course, written while travelling on a plane, though I’m not sure if it was from Calgary to Toronto, or New York to Vancouver.
But, there’s more to come. Those were long flights…
And sadly when I read what I’d written, off the plane and in the cold hard light of dawn, there were problems, which now in the second draft, should provide the proper start.
…
I knelt down to Jack’s level and whispered in his ear, “Time to go, mate. Things are about to get a little sticky here, and one of us should get away.”
I’m not sure he understood what I was saying.
I pointed towards the trees that ran along the wall. “Go, now.” He walked slowly in the pointed direction, then turned to look at me.
“Go.”
Another hesitation, he headed towards, and then disappeared, into the trees.
Behind me, I could hear the sound of boots on the rock floor of the tunnel. The men had broken through and cut off my escape. I didn’t believe for a minute that Jackerby was there to help me.
Well, out of the frying pan, I thought.
I walked through the gap between the trees, getting a scrape on the side of my face from a prickly branch, and then burst into the open. Jackerby had taken about twenty steps down from where he had called to me, and hearing the trees, turned and took a few steps back towards me.
Seconds later the two men from the tunnel came through the same gap and took up positions so I couldn’t escape. Guns were not drawn but ready in case they were needed.
“Where’s the dog?” Jackerby asked.
“Rats desert a sinking ship, why should dogs be any different. Guess he knew I was for the high jump.”
“Didn’t have to be that way.”
I don’t remember getting an offer to betray my country and decline. Significantly, he had made no more mention of his offer to help. But, I had to ask, “Which side are you on?”
“The right side, of course.”
It was hard to tell what version of the truth that was. He had one of those faces I associated with a professional poker player.
A nod of his head, and we headed back towards the castle. Jackerby walked beside me, the two guards about three yards behind. Running wasn’t an option, I’d get two bullets in the back before I got ten yards. There was little cover to hide in, so that was out as well.
I wondered what fate awaited me back at the castle.
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© Charles Heath 2019-2026
‘The Devil You Don’t’ – A beta reader’s view
It could be said that of all the women one could meet, whether contrived or by sheer luck, what are the odds it would turn out to be the woman who was being paid a very large sum to kill you?
John Pennington is a man who may be lucky in business, but not so lucky in love. He has just broken up with Phillipa Sternhaven, the woman he thought was the one, but relatives and circumstances, and perhaps because she was a ‘princess’, may also have contributed to the end result.
So, what do you do when you are heartbroken?
That is a story that slowly unfolds, from the first meeting with his nemesis on Lake Geneva, all the way to a hotel room in Sorrento, where he learns the shattering truth.
What should have been solace after disappointment turns out to be something else entirely, and from that point, everything goes to hell in a handbasket.
He suddenly realises his so-called friend Sebastian has not exactly told him the truth about a small job he asked him to do, the woman he is falling in love with is not quite who she says she is, and he is caught in the middle of a war between two men who consider people becoming collateral damage as part of their business.
The story paints the characters, cleverly displaying all their flaws and weaknesses. The locations add to the story at times, taking me back down memory lane, especially to Venice, where, in those back streets, I confess it’s not all that hard to get lost.
All in all, a thoroughly entertaining story with, for once, a satisfying end.
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Available on Amazon here: https://amzn.to/2Xyh1ow
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The cinema of my dreams – I always wanted to go on a treasure hunt – Episode 6
My mind will not rest.
Down here, it is summer, and the last few days have been rather hot, well, it is summer after all, but tonight it is particularly hot.
So, as I can’t sleep, I’m lying on the couch staring at the ceiling, otherwise known as the cinema of my dreams.
Where am I?
Well, the location is in keeping with the weather, hot, humid, and cold drinks are mandatory.
I’m going to get another one now!
…
There is such a thing as being in the right place at the right time, as much as there is being in the wrong place at the wrong time.
I think I got a dose of both that morning.
I ignored the call from Boggs reluctantly, but I still had the world-weary look on my mother’s face fresh in my memory. As much as I didn’t want to, I headed towards the warehouse and the office where old man Benderby would be, in his Italian suit and cigar, the signs of his prosperity.
Everyone hated him.
In the employee car park, opposite the front gate, I could see Rico and one of Benderby’s sons in earnest conversation. The sons were as bad as the father, and because we went to school with them, and they were bullies then, not much had changed.
I was curious and tried to get closer, without being seen.
Benderby Junior was yelling, “You’re as useless as that brother in law of yours. He thought he was smarter than us too, and look what happened to him. You still owe us ten grand Rico, and my father is getting impatient.”
“Look, I have a special project, it’ll take a few weeks, then you’ll get your money.”
“It better not be some treasure hunt I hear you’re on. There is no treasure. That was what your brother in law tried to float, said he had a real map but never showed it to anyone. It doesn’t exist. He offered to sell it to me. Do I look like a fool?”
“No. But, it’s real. I’ve seen it.”
Benderby just shook his head. “Tell you what. Bring it to me, and if I think it’s real, then we’ll talk.”
With that, Benderby Junior walked off.
Rico didn’t look happy. Not surprising, because if Benderby thought it was real, then Rico just lost the rights to the treasure. Or, most likely, any part of it.
Telling Benderby was the last thing he should have done.
I went it to the office where I was greeted by the girl on reception. I;d been to school with her, and she had been friends with Alex Benderby. It was how she got the job. It was not what you knew, it was who you knew.
I also knew Alex Benderby, but it was not the same. He didn’t like people who were smarter than he was, we were, he once told me, threats. To what, I had no idea.
“Sam. How are you, haven’t seen you for a while.”
We had been friends of a sort at school, but now working for Benderby, she moved in different social circles.
“Fine, Jenny, as well as can be expected.” Not one for small talk, I cut to the chase. “I came to see if there was a job. My mother keeps at me to do something with my life other than hanging out at home waiting for a ship to come in.”
“I thought you were going to university?”
“Needs money we haven’t got.
At that moment Alex walked in and saw me. His face was all hostility.
“What are you doing here?”
“The same as every other unemployed person is, looking for work.”
“I thought you university types were too good to work in the warehouse?” No mistaking the sneer in his tone, or the superiority.
“Alex.” A bark from behind made both Alex and Jenny jump. “Get the hell back to work.” Then he saw me. “You’re Grace’s kid, Sam?”
“Yes, sir.” I may hate him but I still knew how to be polite.
“Grace told me you were coming down.” He looked at Jenny. “Tell Williams I’m sending over his new paperwork guy. Tell him I said to treat him properly or he’ll answer to me.” Then back at me. “Say hello to your mother from e when you see her. And that she still owed me dinner.”
Then he was gone.
“Congratulations,” Jenny said. “Right place, right time.”
It seemed so.
© Charles Heath 2019-2021
Thrills, Spills, and just a dash of Romance 