Kristen de Kline
Thin Air
Tell me the truth about smut, I said, damn it, tell me the truth about you. Are you a 'college boy' or a 'uni student'? Do I find you under 'C' or 'U'? You said you'd been into some strange scenes. You said you could handle anything. You said you'd been there, you'd done that. You said. You said. You said.
DISCIPLINE. PUNISH. PRISONER. I jotted down a few words. I wrote them on the ad and then I etched them on your flesh. They were a start. In no time at all there were messages all over your body. There was a love-bite on your lower neck. A burn on the palm of your hand. And bruises, lots of bruises. There were the letters D.E.A.T.H. inked in prison blue on separate fingers and the word HEAVEN scrawled across your wrist. There was a heart that skipped a beat, a beat, a beat, followed by a flat flat line. DISCIPLINE. PUNISH. PRISONER. I jotted down a few words. I wrote them on the ad and then I etched them on your flesh.
You wanted a whole story. A narrative. Something you could sink your teeth into. You wanted to take a leisurely stroll along the BondiTamarama walkway, and enjoy the panoramic view. But I've ruined all that. Digging up all those absences those slippings those fallings those 'accidental' deaths. I could have edited them out, the corpses. I could have thrown them away along with the evidence. Just before I pressed the DELETE button, I remembered a notebook a private eye buddy once showed me. Rule number 3, it said: 'Don't write off the corpse. It is still a character. She may be (illegible) now, but someone loved her once'
Hit the REWIND button.
September 1985.
Gilles Mattaini, a French national, a Bondi resident, goes for an afternoon jog along the walkway. He is never seen again.
His body. His Walkman. His spray jacket. Gone. A friend reports him missing but the report is misfiled. Seventeen years later police start investigating.
Play it again.
July 1989.
Ross Warren, a WIN TV newsreader, takes a late night drive to Bondi. The next day friends find his locked car near Marks Park with the keys located on a cliff ledge below. The papers said: It was suicide. He had a broken heart. He threw himself into the waves. His mother said: He would never have done that. The detective said: There's nothing suspicious. It's a hoax. He's probably staged his own disappearance. His friend said: He was one of those people everyone liked. He was very gentle, very kind and never raised his voice.
Play it again.
November 1989.
John Russell, a Sydney bartender, spends the night with friends at a Bondi hotel. He arranges to meet them later at the Waverly Leagues Club but never shows. His body is found at the bottom of the Bondi cliffs with hair strands in his right hand. The papers said: It could have been suicide. The police said: He was a seasoned drinker, he must have slipped. His friend said: I waited for him all night but he never turned up. At the inquest years later John's brother holds up the clothes that he was found in. Wrapped in plastic. He's hung on to them for fourteen years. Not a day goes past, he says, when I don't think of him.
You wanted an abstract, a paper, a dissertation, a publishable work.
I got stuck on the first line.
"This paper is about illegitimate victims and disposable bodies"
Illegitimate. Disposable. Victims. Bodies. Bodies. Bodies.
Damn it! I don't have any more tricks to produce.
No direct line to Derrida.
No 'real time' chat with Judith Butler.
No contacts in high places.
Everything I'm working with can fit in the palm of my hand.
Your hand.
His hand.
Anybody's hand.
Hairstrands.
Found in a dead man's hand, then lost. Gone.
Carkeys. Found on a cliff ledge. Then lost. Gone.
Reams and reams of paperwork relating to these cases. Gone.
The officers who were meant to be investigating. Away on annual leave.
The divers who should have searched for clues. Never activated.
Hair strands, carkeys, paperwork, evidence, men - too many men - slipped,
jumped, vanished into thin air.
There's a confession on tape, but no confessor.
It wasn't me. That's not my voice. It wasn't me.
My friends were all 'nice guys' who had been 'easily led by horrible people'
Hairstrands. Carkeys. Muffled voices on a tape.
There wasn't much to go on.
These deaths were accidental - incidental - accidental.
The men jumped, slipped, fell.
Jumped slipped fell into the universe of the missing person into the
universe of the unsolved crime into the universe of the too hard don't care
too hard basket.
It wasn't me. That's not my voice. It wasn't me.
There's a quick change of scene, and a frantic flick of a cigarette lighter as I read the papers. BROKEN AFFAIR KILLED TV STAR. POLICE LOSE EVIDENCE. DENIALS AT GAY HATE INQUEST. MORE DENIALS AT GAY HATE INQUEST. My hands cup a thin flame as I watch newsprint words, riddled with the glowing tips of cigarettes, take a dive in a clumsy wreath of smoke. Too little too late too little too late. The notebook said: Makes notes. Copious notes. Write often. Write early. Carry a torch and always wear leather. Take photos. Take lots of photos. Take them again. And again. And again.
What do the assailants look like, you ask.
I watch them duck out of range on the way to the inquest, fleeing from the camera's gaze. Give me a profile, you say. A hooded sweatshirt with the letters USA and an American flag. Designer sunglasses. Torn jeans. I was going to project images of them here, up high, enlarged, over on that wall there. But I changed my mind. I don't want you to say he looks like my boyfriend my brother my son. I don't want you to say he looks like he looks like he looks like … Instead I want you to listen to him, in his own words:
Quote.
"We got him on the ground and we said, 'what are you?' And first he said he was a copper. We said, 'Show us your badge, c---', and he goes, 'Oh, I haven't got it. It's at home'. I went f---ing whack. 'what are you, c---?' He said, 'An ambulance driver', so I f---ing cracked him again and I said, 'what are you, c---?', and he goes, 'I'm a taxidriver.' I said f---bang, bang, bang, 'You lied to me three times c---, what are you?' And he goes, 'I'm a homosexual'. F---. Boot. Oh, heaps bad, mate, stresses me out how they lie to me all the time"
Unquote.
The victims. They're not how I'd imagined they'd look.
They seem frayed around the edges. Insubstantial. Ghostly even.
But reading between the lines I can see a burn and a bite and bruises, lots
of bruises. I watch them come to life in the palm of my hand your hand his
hand. Anybody's hand.
Bruises, lots of bruises, randomly littered over strangers' bodies.
Classified ads from a gay magazine.
Photographs of the victims set out in newsprint like a family tree: John
Gilles Ross and the others … Kritchikorn, Gary … and the others …
Victim 'M', Victim 'B' … and the others …
I took your photo. I took it again and again and again.
I blew it up. You shot it down.
I struck a chord. You lit a match.
There was a letter and another letter and words, lots of words. You asked for the truth. You wanted to see it with your own eyes. You demanded justice mystery suspense. Time's almost up, and I haven't followed the golden rule. Beginning-Middle-End. I've only introduced three characters, and there were many more where they came from. The notebook said to flesh them out. Give them a personality. I had hours of tape, reams of paperwork, boxes of slides. You were going to get it all. The whole damn show and tell. But at the eleventh hour I slashed and cut, and slashed and cut.
GENUINE REPLIES ONLY I reiterated in bold print.
CONFIDENTIALITY ASSURED , I added.
I don't want you to see what they looked like.
I don't want you to say: he looks like my boyfriend my brother my son a
guy I once danced with at Sleaze Ball Mardi Gras Connections The
Aquarius Club.
Instead I want you to trace their shadows, their ghosts, their absence,
everything they've left behind:
The soles of their feet.
The tread on their shoes.
The locks of their hair.
You told me to take a risk. You told me to take a gamble. It was all your doing. You wanted the truth, you asked for it. I promised didn't I. To give it to you. The truth the whole truth and nothing but the truth. I jotted down a few more words. WORK IN PROGRESS. I wrote them on the ad and then I etched them on your flesh. TO BE CONTINUED …
Prior publication: Davis, K. (2005) in
Continuum: Journal of Media and Cultural Studies
