Plight by K.M. Golland (1)

Private Message from Elliot Parker:

What. The. Actual. Fuck?

That was the private message I’d received on Facebook two days ago from Elliot, aka ‘Lots’ (my nickname for him when we were kids) Parker. We hadn’t so much as spoken to each other in seventeen years when he moved houses and we went our separate ways, so his message had come out of nowhere.

NOWHERE.

Anyway, this was my reply:

As any normal person would, I’d taken his little legal spiel as a joke, because who writes something like that in a Facebook message and expected anyone to think it was legit? Him, apparently.

Am I ready to tie the knot? NO! Living the happy single life. What about you? Married? Kids?

Kids? No. Although, we probably should’ve discussed whether we wanted any twenty-two years ago.

By that stage, his quirkiness had started to morph into you-can-stop-with-the-whole-marriage-bullshit. It was overkill. Weird. Then again, Elliot had always been, flamboyant, eccentric and overly dramatic. As kids, that was kinda cool. As an adult, not so much.

At the very least, I expected an LOL back — my joke was funny — but I didn’t get one. Not even a laughing tears emoji.

I’ll admit, even though I’d been playing along with him, I was a tad creeped out so left the conversation as it was. It was now forty-eight hours later, and there was a little red number two attached to his Messenger bubblehead picture on my inbox list — a bold, annoying, hard to ignore, red, figurative apple of sorts. But I didn’t click on it. Clicking on it meant that he would see I’d read it, and it was common courtesy to reply to a message if you’d read it. Then again, failing to reply was a clear indication that you were deliberately ignoring it or just far too busy. Maybe I should do that?

Tucking my tiny stick figure legs to my side, I snuggled into my roommate Chris’ giant beanbag. It was Thursday night and he was out of town. He played football for the Essendon Bombers and this week’s game was being played in Sydney.

We lived in Melbourne.

I liked it when the team played their away games interstate. It meant I got uninterrupted me time on my favourite beanbag with my favourite blankey and non-human — my pug, Dudley.

I was the Essendon Bomber’s merchandise store manager, which was how I met Chris. He was infamous for being the team’s manwhore — their player player. When some of his teammates felt compelled to conduct an intervention — aka Operation Chris Castration — he begged me to room with him because, in his words, it would stop his “whorish ways” if he lived with a chick he “couldn’t fuck”.

Well, we did fuck.

But only once.

And we don’t talk about it because it had been wrong on so many levels. For starters, Chris is not my type. He’s far too cocky and slutty, and lazy, and annoying. But man, he can cook. And, strangely enough, our rooming together just worked. I kept things tidy and prevented him from bringing disposable women home, and he kept me fed.

Win win.

Tapping on Elliot’s Facebook profile pic followed by the photos section, I picked up my mug of chai and took a sip. It was freezing outside, being winter and all, and because Chris had conveniently forgotten to replenish our woodpile, it wasn’t a hell of a lot warmer inside either. I was going to hurt him when he returned on Saturday. Actually, I was going to hide his protein powder first, and then I was going to hurt him.

I cradled my mug to my chest, the warmth providing a very small reprieve from the chill in the air, but what also defrosted the sting was the hot, older version of Elliot that I was currently studying on my phone, and, sadly, it was the only uploaded picture he had.

To say he’d changed considerably since I’d last seen him was an understatement. Gone was his scraggly jet-black hair and typical sprinkling of teenage boy acne, instead, replaced with a short but sophistically styled cut that was still as dark as the ace of spades. And his skin was perfect, albeit lightly cast in a five o’clock shadow of beard and mo regrowth.

I smiled and patted my lap for Dudley to jump upon. He’d just finished his dinner and was licking his chops like a happy little maniac.

“Come and meet Lots, Dudley. Lots is all kinds of hots!” I laughed and hugged my four-legged child, too slow to dodge his wayward meaty-smelling tongue. “Ew! Dudley, stop.”

He settled into his favourite spot, between my butt and my feet, and harrumphed a part snort, part growl.

“What? Are you jealous? Don’t be. You’re still the love of my life. I promise … even if your breath is about as welcoming as an abattoir.” I gently pulled him into my arms. “Come here. Check out Lots for yourself.”

Reaching around Dudley, I positioned the phone so that we could both see the screen.

Ice-blue eyes stared back at us; ice-blue eyes that had always had the ability to mesmerize me for the smallest of seconds. They were definitely something that hadn’t changed since childhood. They were also the very first thing I’d noticed about Elliot Parker the day he moved in next door. I remember thinking to my five-year-old self that he was some kind of secret mystical being, like a giant elf sent to mingle with humankind for the purpose of reporting back to the Elf King.

Those eyes had not been of this world, and they still weren’t.

Unable to ignore the obtrusive Messenger red number two any longer, I tapped on Elliot’s bubblehead icon.

The first message was in response to my expensive taste and expectation of an elaborate engagement ring, but it was the second message that had been sent a day later that piqued my curiosity.

Again, what the actual fuck?

Firstly, this was the first I’d heard about my participation in what sounded like a huge project. Thanks, Mum. Secondly, I couldn’t believe the council wanted to demolish our garden. That news hurt my heart. They couldn’t tear it down. It was special. And, thirdly, his winky face emoji was the first sign that he hadn’t lost his ability to joke around.

At least I hoped he hadn’t.

As I was about to type a reply to that effect, my phone started dancing within my hand, my mother’s picture staring me in the face.

I tapped speakerphone. “Your ears burning?”

“Why hello, dear. Saying hello is the correct way to answer your phone. I could’ve been anybody, you know.”

I shook my head and smiled. “No, you couldn’t have, Mum. I knew it was you.”

She laughed. “Oh, so you’re a Psychic now?”

“Nooooo…” I narrowed my eyes and shook my head again. “Never mind. So, what’s this I hear about Mr Hillier’s garden needing to be rebuilt or it will be demolished, and that we are rebuilding it? When were you planning on telling me this?”

“Now, as a matter of fact, but your new psychic abilities have allowed you to beat me to it.”

“I’m not psychic, Mum. I found out from Elliot Parker.”

“Ahh yes, Helen’s boy. Such a wonderful young man he is. Did you know he’s a famous lawyer? He stopped the demolition so that we could fix the garden.” She sighed, sadly, kinda fake-like. “I always thought the two of you would end up getting married and giving me grandbabies, so did Helen.” Mum’s part witch, part sing-song cackle, momentarily broke her words. “I think she still does.”

I snorted. Loudly. “Mum! The garden. What’s going on?”

“Okay, okay. Gee whiz. As of this weekend, we are going to be working around the clock to rebuild the community garden. Seeing as Helen and I are listed as the garden’s founders, it’s up to us to make sure we succeed or it will be demolished.”

“What happened to the garden? The last time I saw it, it was fine.”

“When was the last time you visited the garden, Danielle?” Her all-knowing tone was critical of my answer because it was warranted; it had been a while.

“I don’t know … maybe a year or so?”

“Try at least five.”

“No way!”

“Yes way. It’s been at least two years for me, and I live here.”

Hunching with guilt, I hugged Dudley a little tighter for reassurance. The garden was special to Elliot’s family and mine, and we’d neglected it. I felt awful.

“How bad is it?” I asked, my voice barely above a whisper.

“Well, the garden beds are no longer visible, swallowed by weeds. The shed is rotten, the windows smashed, and the panels have been kicked in and graffitied,” Mum paused. “And of course some disrespectful little so and so’s with nothing better to do have defiled Mr Hillier’s plaque. There’s also a good chance the gum tree is dead or at the very least partially dead.”

“Shit! So there’s a lot of work to do?”

“Yes, sweetheart, there is. And we owe it to Mr Hillier to fix this. We also owe it to Elliot for working his magic and allowing us this second chance.”

I nodded; she was right. What Elliot had done for our families, the Coldstream community, and Mr Hillier’s memory was pretty cool. He’d fought for all of us knowing how important the garden was.

All of a sudden, he wasn’t so creepy.

“Okay, Mum. So what time do we start on Saturday?”

“Be there at 7:00 am on the dot. And bring a shovel. Love you.”

“I don’t have a shov—” Before I could finish my sentence, she hung up. 7:00 am on Saturday morning? Are you kidding me? Ugh! There goes TGIF drinks after work.