Arena
Even the guys with the bootleg t-shirts were packing up. It was early autumn; the
night sky was grey. The arena was mostly empty of people, filled in their wake with
lost property and garbage. Josh was leaving late, resentful that he’d been saddled with a new co-worker to close. The rest of the night had been smooth. The teenage pop stars had the loudest audiences, the longest merch lines. The girls and
their protectors were mostly polite—the major issues were fainting, the odd crying
child with an invalid scalped ticket and an irate mother. The monster truck rallies
went without saying, and at Billy Joel he’d served a replacement beer to a man who’d had his first one snatched from his hand and poured down his front because he had wanted to stand during the show and was obscuring the view of the people sitting behind him. He found it easy to smile at the young women—mothers and daughters—sometimes wink knowingly at a father or husband. His role felt very defined.
Leaving the arena always took him into a part of the city that didn’t feel like pedestrians should be there—concrete ramps, bent guard rails. He saw her resting against one of them, the backs of her bare legs touching the metal. She was sniffling, rummaging in her bag—regulation size, no bigger than an A4 piece of paper, for security reasons. He knew it might be scary for her to be approached, but he thought about his own sister, if she were alone. He was wearing his polo shirt with the arena’s branding on the breast; she would know she could trust him.
He called out, ‘Hey, are you okay?’ She looked up.
She told him that she’d lost her friends and her phone was dead, that she didn’t know how to get home. He said he was walking to the trains, she could come with him if she wanted. She followed, effusive and grateful, telling him how upset she was that her friends had left her behind.
As they walked under the overpasses, she introduced herself. Lily, nineteen, almost halfway through her second year of university. Josh, twenty-seven, almost halfway through his second degree.
He asked what she was studying, and she said media and communications.
He knew what to say. ‘But Lily, you seem like an artist.’
She laughed. ‘Oh, God, I’m not. I guess I want to work with artists. Like, maybe in marketing or as their manager or something?’
He felt her warming up, thought now she might be ready to be teased: ‘Oh, so you want to help sell stuff? You want to make things for the masses, like your mate onstage tonight?’
She paused. ‘I like that she makes something that connects with people everywhere. That music is like… poetry, but as an injection. It’s immediate.’
He shook his head. He told her that there was no art in this, just cash, that everything that was huge was corrupted by money. He looked her in the eye, serious, and said, ‘Do you ever look at the top of skyscrapers?’ She blinked. He continued, ‘What’s on top of them? It’s always the name of a bank.’
She rolled her eyes. She asked, if he thought that art and money couldn’t coexist, what did he think about Andy Warhol? The Beatles? He was pleasantly surprised, and felt challenged in a minor, delightful way, like he had made it to the next level of a game.
This conversation carried them to the trains. They walked past a man speaking into a microphone, spreading the word of God. Had they heard the good news?
‘You know, I wake up every morning, and I’m always frustrated, my heart is heavy. It’s heavy with the world’s evil. It’s hard to live in this world, this world of so much evil, and choose to be good. To think of your fellow man as your equal, to act with peace and kindness. In the end, that’s all God wants you to do. All He’s asking of you is to wake up in the morning, reject evil, and be good.’
Josh was moved, despite himself.
When they reached the platform, he put his hand on Lily’s shoulder: ‘Lily, d’you think you’re good?’
♪♫ ♪♪♫ ♪♫♪
He warned her that his room was above a restaurant, and that they would need to enter through the back. In a courtyard enclosed by a chain link fence, he greeted Stella, the pitbull, and Lily kept her distance. He assured her Stella was friendly, that the guy who did prep after the restaurant was closed brought her to work because she loved it, all the scraps. Walking through the kitchen, which was empty and clean, they passed this guy, whose name Josh had never been able to properly parse—he didn’t want to guess or clarify. It felt insensitive.
Lily was staring around, and he could tell she was feeling out of place, that she probably hadn’t been in a house like this. They went upstairs and into the carpeted hallway, and he unlocked his bedroom door.
‘Welcome,’ he said, half bowing. His eyes fell on the empty bird cage, and he saw hers do the same. ‘Oh, it’s a long story. I mean, not really. I share a budgie with my ex.’
She let out a short laugh, just an exhalation through her nose, then asked about the bathroom. He scrambled for the toilet roll he kept by the door, and she looked nonplussed when he handed it to her. He pointed out the door at the end of the hall.
In his room, he didn’t want to be sitting motionless waiting for her, so he picked up his guitar and started to play, singing quietly. When she came back in he smiled broadly at her, and she smiled too, noticing the guitar. She sat down on the couch opposite his bed, on top of the clean laundry he’d left there that morning.
‘Do you want a mandarin?’ he asked, nodding at the bowl on the table between them. ‘Don’t mind the other peels around them, they’re all new. I just like the smell.’
She took one, said ‘thank you,’ and started to peel it and eat the pieces one by one while he sang and played.
She slid her shoes off, and only when she did that did he realise how uncomfortable she must have been: he felt some rush of pain, sympathy or desire when he saw her blistered feet and thought about her trailing him through the city. He was still singing.
When he played a final chord, she smiled and clapped. She paused, said ‘I’m sorry to be annoying, but…’ and leaned towards him.
He braced himself, thrilled, but instead of approaching him she was leaning towards the floor, picking up the charging cable that lay limp by his bed. She plugged her phone in and encouraged him to keep playing. While he did so, she lay gingerly down on the couch, listening and closing her eyes. Her phone came to life on the floor next to him, the white apple against the black background, and he saw a photo of her and another girl appear. He looked over at her, her eyes still closed. She looked so peaceful, the skin of her eyelids so pale. He finished the song and she opened her eyes, gave him three soft claps. She sat up straight, adjusted her hair and looked down at her phone on the floor as it began to buzz repeatedly, the messages from the last few hours all landing.
He felt himself losing her and said, ‘Lily, would you like to come and sit next to me?’
She smiled, said, ‘I’m okay,’ and reached for her phone.
♪♫ ♪♪♫ ♪♫♪
Greer Clemens is a writer, library technician and musician from Melbourne.
Leaving the arena always took him into a part of the city that didn’t feel like pedestrians should be there—concrete ramps, bent guard rails. He saw her resting against one of them, the backs of her bare legs touching the metal. She was sniffling, rummaging in her bag—regulation size, no bigger than an A4 piece of paper, for security reasons. He knew it might be scary for her to be approached, but he thought about his own sister, if she were alone. He was wearing his polo shirt with the arena’s branding on the breast; she would know she could trust him.
He called out, ‘Hey, are you okay?’ She looked up.
She told him that she’d lost her friends and her phone was dead, that she didn’t know how to get home. He said he was walking to the trains, she could come with him if she wanted. She followed, effusive and grateful, telling him how upset she was that her friends had left her behind.
As they walked under the overpasses, she introduced herself. Lily, nineteen, almost halfway through her second year of university. Josh, twenty-seven, almost halfway through his second degree.
He asked what she was studying, and she said media and communications.
He knew what to say. ‘But Lily, you seem like an artist.’
She laughed. ‘Oh, God, I’m not. I guess I want to work with artists. Like, maybe in marketing or as their manager or something?’
He felt her warming up, thought now she might be ready to be teased: ‘Oh, so you want to help sell stuff? You want to make things for the masses, like your mate onstage tonight?’
She paused. ‘I like that she makes something that connects with people everywhere. That music is like… poetry, but as an injection. It’s immediate.’
He shook his head. He told her that there was no art in this, just cash, that everything that was huge was corrupted by money. He looked her in the eye, serious, and said, ‘Do you ever look at the top of skyscrapers?’ She blinked. He continued, ‘What’s on top of them? It’s always the name of a bank.’
She rolled her eyes. She asked, if he thought that art and money couldn’t coexist, what did he think about Andy Warhol? The Beatles? He was pleasantly surprised, and felt challenged in a minor, delightful way, like he had made it to the next level of a game.
This conversation carried them to the trains. They walked past a man speaking into a microphone, spreading the word of God. Had they heard the good news?
‘You know, I wake up every morning, and I’m always frustrated, my heart is heavy. It’s heavy with the world’s evil. It’s hard to live in this world, this world of so much evil, and choose to be good. To think of your fellow man as your equal, to act with peace and kindness. In the end, that’s all God wants you to do. All He’s asking of you is to wake up in the morning, reject evil, and be good.’
Josh was moved, despite himself.
When they reached the platform, he put his hand on Lily’s shoulder: ‘Lily, d’you think you’re good?’
He warned her that his room was above a restaurant, and that they would need to enter through the back. In a courtyard enclosed by a chain link fence, he greeted Stella, the pitbull, and Lily kept her distance. He assured her Stella was friendly, that the guy who did prep after the restaurant was closed brought her to work because she loved it, all the scraps. Walking through the kitchen, which was empty and clean, they passed this guy, whose name Josh had never been able to properly parse—he didn’t want to guess or clarify. It felt insensitive.
Lily was staring around, and he could tell she was feeling out of place, that she probably hadn’t been in a house like this. They went upstairs and into the carpeted hallway, and he unlocked his bedroom door.
‘Welcome,’ he said, half bowing. His eyes fell on the empty bird cage, and he saw hers do the same. ‘Oh, it’s a long story. I mean, not really. I share a budgie with my ex.’
She let out a short laugh, just an exhalation through her nose, then asked about the bathroom. He scrambled for the toilet roll he kept by the door, and she looked nonplussed when he handed it to her. He pointed out the door at the end of the hall.
In his room, he didn’t want to be sitting motionless waiting for her, so he picked up his guitar and started to play, singing quietly. When she came back in he smiled broadly at her, and she smiled too, noticing the guitar. She sat down on the couch opposite his bed, on top of the clean laundry he’d left there that morning.
‘Do you want a mandarin?’ he asked, nodding at the bowl on the table between them. ‘Don’t mind the other peels around them, they’re all new. I just like the smell.’
She took one, said ‘thank you,’ and started to peel it and eat the pieces one by one while he sang and played.
She slid her shoes off, and only when she did that did he realise how uncomfortable she must have been: he felt some rush of pain, sympathy or desire when he saw her blistered feet and thought about her trailing him through the city. He was still singing.
When he played a final chord, she smiled and clapped. She paused, said ‘I’m sorry to be annoying, but…’ and leaned towards him.
He braced himself, thrilled, but instead of approaching him she was leaning towards the floor, picking up the charging cable that lay limp by his bed. She plugged her phone in and encouraged him to keep playing. While he did so, she lay gingerly down on the couch, listening and closing her eyes. Her phone came to life on the floor next to him, the white apple against the black background, and he saw a photo of her and another girl appear. He looked over at her, her eyes still closed. She looked so peaceful, the skin of her eyelids so pale. He finished the song and she opened her eyes, gave him three soft claps. She sat up straight, adjusted her hair and looked down at her phone on the floor as it began to buzz repeatedly, the messages from the last few hours all landing.
He felt himself losing her and said, ‘Lily, would you like to come and sit next to me?’
She smiled, said, ‘I’m okay,’ and reached for her phone.
Greer Clemens is a writer, library technician and musician from Melbourne.