Roseanna is playing, but it’s not the original. I remember swaying along at a high school dance to that song in 1982. It had a definite beat. This one is the blah version – background music to blend with cafe life – maybe it’s like ‘the coffee blend – smooth, to soothe your day’, or some other magical description. I close my eyes trying to remember the beat – maybe I could tap my spoon in time with my memory.
It’s impossible. There is a man at the bench tapping his Jesus sandals absently against a stool leg as his fingers caress the hard plastic of a mouse. Not Roseanna – not helpful. The guy in the corner is tapping his fingers annoyingly, and I cast him an old-woman glare. He continues oblivious, pausing momentarily to push his glasses onto his forehead. A finger rubs at his chin and his forehead creases as he peers into a laptop screen. A waiter comes over and he slams the screen shut. MI5, I fantasize, but what would they be doing here in Slowville?
“Settle up,” he drawls in mid-western American. FBI then, I muse.
I go back to my large coffee – that will fill the next hour. Then what? Shall my life be measured in Eliot’s coffee spoons; the evenings, the mornings, the afternoons – I have known them all, till I somehow collapse into a swirling sea of tepid caffeinated milk?
“Mike?” Jesus sandals asks Mr US of A, as he brushes past his chair.
“Um no. Sorry dude, you must have me confused with someone else. I get that all the time, you Ossies must think we all look alike,” he quips loudly and walks out.
An old couple at the door table chuckle as Jesus sandals’ face screws up. He shakes his head, taps at his keyboard, emits a sharp harrumph, then packs his techno paraphernalia away, and strides to the till. Perhaps he is going chase down Mr US of A.
Well, that was it – the excitement of the day. When I first moved here, I thought it would be ideal. A place for me to slow down and recover all those hours that I had loudly proclaimed in my office life ‘Well there’s an hour of my life I’ll never get back.’
“Can I get you anything else?” the waiter asks, clearly keen for me to vacate the table before lunch. My six-dollar coffee pays no one’s bills, nor is my matron-grey attracting new customers.
“No thanks, I’m just leaving. My friend isn’t going to make it after all,” I lie. Why do I lie? I wonder. Why don’t I just say, ‘no thanks’, and smile blithely back? I’ve seen others do it. Have I actually run out of fucks? Another of my old favs when my opinion was required. Now I’m invisible, except perhaps for the imprint of my backside on the cafe chair – an imprint the manager wants removed ASAP.
I collect my things, walk out to the footpath, stare at the never-ending blue of perfect one day, bored to death the next, and sigh. One foot in front of the other, I guess I’ll go the long way, through those dappled bloody leaves…again.
“Listen Mister, I don’t know who the hell you think I am, but I’m not this Mike.” Mr US of A is standing over Jesus sandals in a laneway behind the vet. I was right, he was following him!
“I know who you are, and so does Xi,” sandals hisses back. I cross the lane, my head lowered. No one looks up, and they continue arguing loudly. I shouldn’t have bothered; I’d forgotten I was invisible. It won’t hurt if I listen a little longer, I tell myself as I linger at the window of the dry cleaner on the other side of the lane. I wonder if I was right about FBI, and who is Xi?
Their voices are low and blunt. I can’t make out the words. Should I move closer? Just who the hell do I think I am, bloody Miss Fischer? I hear a scuffle, a smashing sound, then nothing. I wait. The woman in the dry cleaner is now looking at me oddly, wondering why anyone needs to watch Air BnB sheets be folded for ten minutes. Dammit, I have to know! I walk nonchalantly (if that is a thing – I read it somewhere) towards the laneway. Oh my God, they are still there. The vet has a sign in it, I lift my phone and pretend to take a photo of the sign – I look exactly like someone who should desex their cat – no one looks and I turn the screen to the men. There I have it! Proof that my life is not dull – something did happen. There are a few muttered words, and the men disappear in separate directions. It’s probably just that someone owes someone money – the usual deal in this age – and ducked out on their rent at the Air BnB. Xi is probably the landlord. FBI really? I have been listening to one too many of those true-crime podcasts, I scold myself and put my phone away.
The vet door opens and the receptionist asks if she can help me with anything – how long have I been standing here? “Oh no,” I reply. “Just checking out your cat services, passing your details to a friend, kept cutting out – had to have a few goes.” I smile and stretch my neck and arms as a delicious breeze wafts through the lime-green leaves overhead and turn homeward. As I turn into my yard, I realise the summer rain and warmth have had their effect and there is much to do. A homesteader, that’s what I had said I wanted to be when I retired. Well, welcome to the homestead – best get started. Podcast or audiobook? A good old-fashioned spy thriller will do. I download the book, switch to airplane mode, push my earphones in, and begin. My stomach is rumbling when I finally finish mowing and weeding, and head inside. I set the kettle to boil and reconnect. I’ll have a quick scroll while I wait.
‘Fuck!’ It’s the man – Jesus sandals. His face is everywhere. He was crushed by a train, disrupting all services. A CCTV screenshot of him shows – the last minutes as he turns his head looking back and steps toward the track. A phone number flashes across the image. Anyone with any information please call Crimestoppers. I scrawl the number on the edge of a torn piece of paper and punch in the number. “Hello. Yes, I have some information about the man who was hit by the train.” They put me through and I tell them what I saw – the photo. “Can you please go to the nearest police station and provide them with the photo and a witness statement? Which station will that be? We will let them know you are coming. What is your name and address – it will make things quicker when you get there.” I tell them my name, my address and gather my things. Oh my God. This was important.
“Hello. My name is Anna Torrens,” I say as I press my body against the counter at the Police Station.
“Yes, Ms Torrens. We were told to expect you. Please come through. You can wait in the interview room. The sergeant will be with you shortly.” I sit quietly at the table, back upright, waiting. I had taken the time to shower, do my hair and wolf down a sandwich. Who knew how long I would be here for? If the media get a whiff, they may even be waiting outside. Imagine the look on the office peeps’ faces if they turn on the news, and there I am – solving problems…like always.
“Ms Torrens?” A policeman enters and sits opposite, taking out a notepad. Do they seriously still take paper notes in this day and age? Surely, they would record it, maybe it’s just a privacy and permission thing. I nod. ‘You told the operator you had seen this man?’ He pushes a photo of Jesus sandals towards me.
“Yes, that’s him. I saw him this morning while having my coffee.”
“OK, start at the beginning. Tell me everything you saw and I am told you have a photo of some altercation he had.”
“Yes. Yes. I have it here.” I pull out my phone and begin scrolling. It’s gone.
“Well?”
“I had it. I don’t know what happened. It must be in trash. I’ll look there.” Feverishly I flick through folders, search ‘man’, the date. There is nothing. Nothing on my phone – not since, since…2024! “I don’t understand, my photos they’re gone. Everything gone!” I am sweating and I feel like I’m choking.
“Would you like a drink?” he asks. I nod, and he presses a button. A man answers and the sergeant asks for water and a jug. He waits and watches as I check my phone. Nothing. No emails, No posts to my social media accounts. Nothing. Gone. The water arrives and I chug down first one then another.
“OK. Ms …ah…Torrens. How about we start again, and you tell me who you are.”
“I’m Anna Torrens, I told you.”
“Yes, we checked. Anna Torrens died in 2024. A sad case apparently, she retired and was dead within six weeks – or so her official records suggest.”
“What? I am Anna Torrens,” I scream. “I live at 23 William Rd …” I stand and bang my fist on the table.
“Ma’am. Please sit down,” he waits, and I slowly resume my seat trembling. “Anna Torrens lived at 23 William Rd, and our CCTV in the street clearly shows you coming and going from that address,” he continues. “Deceased estate apparently, while they track down some distant relatives and wait for their advice.” He watches me carefully as I gasp. “Our inquiries suggest the man killed was connected to an identity-theft ring. A ring which it seems you may be a part of. You wouldn’t know anything about that would you?”
“Yes,” I yell. “Of course, that explains it. That’s what happened in the cafe. First, I thought it was the FBI, because he was American- it must be Xi- I’m sure I heard them say Xi.” I am spluttering, apoplectic. “They have erased ME to protect themselves. Made me invisible!” Fat tears roll down my cheeks and the Sergeant presses the button.
“Mack, bring some tissues.” He turns back to me. “Or are you homeless? There is no shame in that you know…in these times.”
“I AM NOT HOMELESS,” I spit across the table. “I AM IMPORTANT.”
The Sergeant lifts his hands to his vest, making clear the capsicum spray and gun at his waist. “Ma’am, please remain calm, I would rather not have to move you to a cell. So, tell me, important to who?”
