A Good Man.

When three plain clothed ticket inspectors boarded the tram and presented their badges, Tim stood up and made for the door. He held the railing above with his right hand, stood up straight. A short man with his head held down sidled up beside him. The ticket inspectors carried out their ritual efficiently, coming from both ends.

Tim only took public transport when something went wrong with his van, and he’d forgotten that the ticket machines didn’t accept notes. He was on his way home from the auto mechanics – two days prior, on his way back from a delivery to Geelong, his starter motor blew up. He rode the V-line home and had the car towed to a nearby garage.

Unscathed, he got off the tram at the next stop. The short man did too. It was an overcast day, small breeze. Tim could feel a cold coming on in his bones. He had the starter motor tucked under his left arm. It was secondhand, one hundred and ninety dollars – slightly more than a fare evasion fine, if he recalled correctly. He rolled a cigarette, and searched the street for the next tram. The short man appeared to do the same, tracing the tramlines down Smith Street, then dug a hand into his pocket and turned around. He glanced at the starter motor, then at Tim.

“Great day for the race,” he said, then looked towards nothing in particular, and smiled. He wore a beard that reflected the hair on his head – an astonishing, tawny mass. His skin detailed a lifetime of cigarettes and neglect. Tim assumed he was after some change.

“What race?”

The short man grinned. “The human race,” he said. Jaundiced eyes. Stained teeth. His voice was gentle and didn’t match his face. “What’s your name?” he asked.

“Tim.”

“I’m Alvin,” he said, but didn’t extend a hand. “How did you come across such a lovely name as that, Tim?”

“My mother.”

Alvin removed a wallet from his pocket. A flimsy, leather thing bound with elastic bands. His fingernails were yellow. He frowned sincerely, asked, “What’s your mother’s name? Is it Maureen? Gladys? Shirley?”

“Ruby,” said Tim.

Across the road, a small group of pigeons fought over a loaf of bread on the footpath. Tim watched this.

“Today,” said Alvin, smacking the elastic bands around the wallet, “I won two hundred dollars on the pokies.” He let out a laugh. When he laughed he wheezed. He removed the elastic bands and tied them around his wrist. Then he opened the wallet and fanned out four fifty-dollar notes. “See?”

“Lucky you,” said Tim. He looked at his cigarette, then leaned forward and peered down the road.

Alvin smiled. A warm smile. “Thanks to this,” he said, and touched a large medallion that hung from his neck. It was an ugly metal thing – the size of a beer coaster, round, gold in colour, with sporadic indentations that looked accidental, as if hammered by someone wearing a blindfold. In the middle was a silvery glyph. It was attached with craft glue that was visible around the edges.
“Eight-hundred dollars the other day,” said Alvin, “twelve-hundred last week. I’m not kidding you. How much is that all together? I don’t even want to know. Am I lucky or what’s happened?”

Tim dropped his cigarette butt. The pigeons broke apart when some crows flew down. Something caught Alvin’s eye across the road. Not the pigeons. To the right. He tapped Tim on the arm and pointed to a bench. “See that?” he said. “You should hand that wallet in,” he said, “You can get twenty dollars for that, you know? If you hand the driver’s license into the police.”

Tim pulled a tight smile. “I’ll keep that in mind,” he said.

Alvin replaced the elastic bands, and put the wallet back in his pocket. Then he said goodbye and crossed the street.

When Tim arrived home, his wife, Linda, was changing their three-year-old daughter’s nappy on the lounge room floor. The T.V was blaring. The room smelt of shit. There were toys everywhere, and a sound like loose coins in a clothes dryer was coming from another room.

Linda looked at the starter motor under Tim’s arm. “You get it?” she said.

“Yep,” said Tim.

“That’s good, love,” she said.

“What’s that noise?” said Tim.

“I think the dishwasher’s on its last legs,” she said, and continued to change the nappy. Tim went into the bedroom to make some calls. It was company policy that all drivers have their own car, so the problem with the starter motor meant more days off. He could pick the van up the following day, a Friday – another train trip – ready to start again on Monday.

A day at work for Tim was basically a drive from Melbourne to Sydney, but without the sense of accomplishment gained from reaching a destination. Years of driving had caused his road rage to become more concentrated, more toxic, and more readily available for the times when anybody made a wrong move. It was draining. As soon as Tim overtook someone, another car would arrive to take his place. He played reggae or classical music in an effort to soothe his nerves, but neither were quite the right salves. Neither could mute the general exhaustion of never really getting ahead.

Driving back from Geelong, starter motor working comfortably, Tim pulled up behind the 86 tram on Smith Street, as it stopped to let off some passengers. He happened to pull up next to the bench where Alvin had spotted the wallet. It was gone.

He decided to reward himself for the long day of traveling with a drink, and pulled up in a side street by the Grace Darling Hotel. He ordered a pint and sat by the fire. There was something hypnotic about watching fire. Could lose track of time. He looked at his pint. Someone at the bar was telling a story, but it was punctuated with an alarming laugh – a wheeze.

“Tim!” called the voice from the bar.

Tim nodded his acknowledgement, raised his pint.

Alvin slipped down from the barstool. He had a peculiar way of walking – as if afflicted by rickets. Tim hadn’t noticed this the other day. Alvin sat down on the couch beside him. He would have only been five foot tall, Tim thought, his feet only just touching the ground. He was drinking a pint of Guinness. His medallion shimmered in the firelight.

“Tell me, did you hand in that driver’s license?”

“I didn’t,” said Tim. “I was in a hurry to get home.”

Alvin laughed. “Never mind,” he said, “there will be more. Another drink?”

Tim declined the offer. He was short on money. He didn’t want to be over the limit. Neither himself or Linda, or their baby, could afford a drink-driving charge. He remembered the dishwasher.

Alvin took his medallion and held it to the light. He waved it slowly in front of Tim’s eyes, transfixed on his possession. “Three-hundred and fifty I won today,” he said, then dropped it back onto his belly. He laughed. Wheezed. He was noticeably drunk.

“Your lucky charm,” said Tim, taking a gulp from his pint so large it made his eyes water. “I’m not a gambling man, myself,” he said.

Alvin threw an arm around Tim’s shoulder, spilling Guinness on the couch as he placed his pint on the coffee table. “But you are a good man,” he said. “I can tell. I notice these things. It’s in your general – what’s the word? – Demeanor. I saw you the other day, with that thing you were holding. You were very polite to talk to me. Not everybody will. People take one look at me and that’s enough for them!” His mind seemed to wander a moment, then returned. “Did you know I made this thing myself?”

Tim looked around the pub. “I didn’t,” he said.” The bartender was pouring wine, a couple shared hot chips. Another couple entered, removing their coats. Everybody was minding their own business.

“I made this medallion myself. I made it from something special. A very special material. Very special – very rare. The rarest. You would know the name of it… but you wouldn’t believe it were so.”

“Is that so?” said Tim. He swayed his beer inside the glass, took another swig. Alvin was making him uncomfortable. He held the medallion in his hand and tapped Tim on the arm with it. Firmly.

“Luck,” he said.

Tim glanced sideways at the circular chunk. He realised his pint was empty. He stood up, shook Alvin’s hand and said, “Good talking, see you around, mate. Gotta get home to the family.”

On Monday afternoon, a speeding ticket arrived in the mail. Tim spent the evening on the verandah with a beer, staring out across the road. Linda would sometimes talk about how it was bad Feng Shui to live on the low side of the street, opposite a two-storey house.

On Tuesday morning, as Tim was refilling the tank in his van, he noticed a wallet by the sliding doors of the service station. He looked around. A man was refueling his Audi. Two schoolgirls were purchasing something at the counter. Perhaps there was truth in the rich drunk’s banter, he thought, as he braced himself and bent down.

The driver’s license belonged to a twenty-four year old Collingwood woman named Marie Wallace. There was also a fifty-dollar note and eight dollars of coins inside, which Tim kept for himself. In between deliveries, Tim got his twenty dollars from the police station.

On his way home from work, he stopped by the Safeway to pick up some extra things for tea. He bought some ice cream for his daughter, as well as some Merlot for Linda and himself. On his way out, he saw Alvin sitting atop a bench on the footpath, feeding some pigeons. He made to turn the opposite direction when Alvin called out, leapt up from the bench and hobbled over to Tim, clutching his medallion as he did.

“Alvin,” said Tim, reluctantly.

“Tell me,” he said, almost puffing. “Have you found a wallet yet?”

“What?” said Tim.

Alvin raised his medallion, as if Tim was aware of some inside knowledge. “A wallet on the ground – have you found one?”

Tim, slightly alarmed by Alvin’s sense of urgency, shrugged and admitted that he had.

“This morning,” he said.

“And did you hand it in?”

“Yes, I did.”

“Then you need to come with me,” said Alvin. There was desperation in his voice, a slight wheeze. He smelt of whiskey.

“I can’t,” said Tim. “I have to get home.” He held out his shopping bags. “I have ice cream.”

Alvin waved his hands in a flustered manner. “Never mind ice cream.” He dug into his pocket and retrieved his wallet, unsnapped the elastic bands, and fanned out one hundred dollars. “This I won again today. Take it. Come.”
Tim looked at the two fifty dollar notes. Alvin’s yellow fingertips were shaking.
His eyes appeared deep, earnest. Tim felt slightly ashamed. He took the money and quickly forced it into the pockets of his jeans.

Alvin clapped his hands together. “Great!” he said, and began hobbling, motioning to Tim to follow.

It was only a short walk from Smith Street to Alvin’s home. Many of the surrounding houses had rusty corrugated roofs, smashed letterboxes or graffiti on the fences. As they approached his front fence, Alvin turned and pointed to the Collingwood commissioned flats, one block away. “See that?” he said, with what appeared to be awe. “I used to live up there.” To Tim, this information came as little surprise. They walked a few more metres and Alvin removed the house key from his pocket.

“But this is where I live now.”

They stood before a beautifully renovated two-storey terrace home. It was painted a deep charcoal, and a marble water fountain peered above the front fence. Alvin opened the gate. The garden was immaculate with topiary hedges and flowers. Alvin took Tim’s shopping bags, as if it were a courtesy he extended to all visitors, and led the way forward.

The lighting was warm, golden. Chandeliers hung from the high ceilings. The floor was lined with exotic rugs. Pieces of artwork that Tim recognised from advertisements, hung on the walls.

In the kitchen, Alvin took a bottle of dry ginger ale from the fridge. Some of it had already been drunk. He poured the remainders into a half-empty bottle of whiskey.

“Drink?” said Alvin.

“Sorry?” said Tim, who was admiring the marble bench.

Alvin waved the bottle. “Scotch?”

Tim shook his head and continued digesting the atmosphere.

Alvin placed Tim’s groceries in the fridge. “Come on,” he said, carrying his scotch with him.

Tim followed Alvin through the living room, which was beside the kitchen, and then into a small passageway that led to the bathroom and the laundry. Next to the laundry was a small cupboard. Alvin opened the cupboard door and knelt down. He took his medallion, and directed it towards the floor. Suddenly, the floor illuminated. Alvin took his house key and unlocked a small hatch, opened it, then turned to Tim and waved him over.

“A cellar?” said Tim.

“Don’t be silly. Trust me.”

“Why?”

Alvin brought out his wallet again.

“Don’t worry about it,” said Tim, annoyed. “This better be quick.”

The two climbed a small ladder down the narrow passageway. Everything was dark except for the small beacon of Alvin’s medallion. When they reached the floor, Alvin flashed his medallion around the room. It was difficult to tell if there was anything in the room at all. The air had the thick, concrete smell of a basement. Tim kept one hand on the ladder for security as Alvin shuffled about, his hairy face occasionally lighting up beneath the medallion. His footsteps became quieter, and then a tiny wheeze.

“Over here, Tim. Follow the light of the medallion!”

Tentatively, Tim followed the glow that dragged across the concrete floor. Several metres, and then a sharp turn. A mound of dim light, about the size of a medium dog, lay in the corner.

“This is where it all began,” said Alvin, taking a swig from his bottle before removing the blanket from the mound.

A terrifying bright light, like a star, shone from the corner of the room. A tapestry of electric blue, gold, silver and red. It resembled what fire would look like were it possible to freeze. Tim didn’t know what to do. He extended a hand and Alvin passed him the bottle. He took a swig and sighed.

“What is it?” said Tim. “Gold?”

Alvin wheezed. “It’s greater than gold,” he said, removed his medallion, and swung it like a pendulum before the mound. Every time the medallion moved passed the mound, it shimmered and disappeared.

Tim pointed with the bottle. “That’s made from that?” he said.

Alvin nodded. He returned the medallion to his neck and smiled. “It’s luck,” he said.

Tim smirked.

“It’s all luck,” said Alvin, drawing an arc in the air with his hands. “Can you believe it? Can you believe my luck?”

“There is no such thing,” said Tim, taking a small step back. He shook his head and squatted on the ground.

“Haven’t you been listening ?” said Alvin. “Have you not seen my home? How could a bum like me live in a place like this?”

“I don’t know,” said Tim, “You’re a con-artist.”

Alvin snatched the bottle and joined him on the ground. The bright light from the mound emanated warmth like a campfire. It had an intoxicating effect. Tim reeled over the past few days in his mind. Small memories, glimpses, came to him like images in a flipbook. He thought this was something he would probably make sense of in the future. He wondered how much time had passed, if he should leave.

“When did you discover this stuff?”

“A few weeks ago,” said Alvin, coughing, his eyes soft. “In a junk yard. I was picking for old things to sell – furniture, car parts. Maybe that’s what caught my eye about you. I once swapped an old starter motor to some kids in the flats for a six-pack of booze. Could have made a hundred bucks or so if I’d been smarter.

“This thing was wrapped up in a baby’s blanket inside an old pram. I will never understand it. I managed to get it back to the flats inside an old suitcase that was nearby. The next day I get a call. First phone call I’d had in months. It turned out my mother had died. I hadn’t seen my mother for years. But would you believe the luck? She owned this home. All the things in it. More scotch?”

Tim nodded.

Alvin smiled. “So I moved in straight away. I figured this mound of luck would be worth a quid, so I locked it down here. Of course, back then I didn’t know it was luck. I just knew it was good.” He paused to take a gulp of scotch. “And because I never really did much anyway, I figured I’d try to make something with it. Maybe sell some things, if they turned out alright. So I found some tools and made this medallion here.”

“Your lucky charm,” said Tim.

“Only,” said Alvin, “I wished I’d had this a long time ago. It works like this,” he reached over to the bright mound and petted it like an animal. His palm shimmered with gold dust. He then touched Tim on the arm. “Look at your sleeve,” he said.

Tim looked at his sleeve. There was a smear of gold dust where Alvin’s fingers had been.

“Luck is when good things happen to you, right? So having access to so much luck in my own home means a lot of good things happen to me. But for a good thing to happen to me, it usually means something bad has happened to someone else. Take the driver’s license. Find a wallet – usually means someone has lost a wallet. It’s much better to take the middle route and get a reward from the police.”

“That’s a good thing to do,” said Tim. He decided to play along – lend an open ear. “Can you control it?” he said.

“Sort of,” said Alvin. His voice was quieting, his bottle was almost empty. He drew the blanket back over the mound and the room darkened. He nodded as he spoke. “If I have my luck on me, good things will happen to me. For sure. But I can’t say what it is that happens to anyone else.”

“Well,” said Tim, “I got a speeding fine the other day.”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” said Alvin. “I am so sorry about that.”

Tim tried to shrug it off. “It’s nothing,” he said. After some silence, he asked,

“So is this why you’ve been playing the machines? And winning each time? Because of the luck?”

Alvin shook his head. “No,” he said. “I play because I’m a gambling man, and I drink because I’m a drunk. I have no use for luck, really. If you think about it.”

Tim didn’t say anything. He looked at the light through the fibres of the blanket. This beautiful thing. So far away from everyone and everything.

Alvin knocked over the bottle as he lay down and rested his head against the mound. His small body cast a shadow across the form, cutting its dim light in half.

“I sleep here sometimes,” he said.

“Not a bad idea,” said Tim.

He looked at his watch. How much time had passed? He wanted to leave, it was the right time to. He thought of the groceries in the fridge. The ice cream, merlot. His hands on the small of Linda’s back. It wouldn’t be hard. Go back the way he came, climb the ladder, pace the hall…

Alvin began to snore. Tim stood up and scraped his feet on the concrete. The sound clawed and bounced around the room, but Alvin didn’t budge. He tried again. Alvin was lost to a deep, arresting sleep.

A feeling of peace. Tim bent down, and slowly removed the medallion from Alvin’s neck.

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Tags:

charm, collingwood, luck, lucky, men, short, story, van and whiskey