There’s a man who pops up on my Facebook feed every so often. We were friends in high school, I guess you could say. As far as I can tell, he only uses Facebook to promote the lifestyle of Being A True Bloke. He's shared a photo from a page called Forestmachineoperatorjobs of a tanned, topless model with her hair across her nipples. She is holding a large chainsaw in a very phallic way. Scroll down to a video of a man cutting down a tall, thick tree that is set on fire. I suspect he set it on fire. When it hits the ground it pushes the flames up into a stack and it looks like another tree is going to catch alight. Scroll down. An e-card states Please, tell me more about how you came to our country and now want us to change our traditions because they offend you, but there is no full stop. It’s open-ended. On the e-card there is a man in business wear sitting at a table gesturing to an empty seat. I sit down and ask him what he is drinking. ‘Tea,’ he says, and he sips at it, as if to prove he isn’t lying. He offers me a drink and I ask if he has any Earl Grey and he does, so he gets up and puts the kettle on. I look around and his room is just a pale blue prism with all-white furnishings. I can’t tell where the walls end and the floor begins, and I wonder if the man has any opinions about the forestry industry. He returns and hands me a hot mug and I say thank you. He has made my tea black but I guess I never asked for milk. The man adjusts his tie and looks around his room, nodding. ‘It’s not much, I know,’ he says, ‘but who needs a big place these days?’ I drink my tea and think about leaving. It seems as though he’s looking at me but then I realise he’s looking past me and I turn around and on the pale blue wall is a large square canvas. On the canvas, in black Arial Narrow, it reads Please, tell me more about how you came to our country and now want us to change our traditions because they offend you. It’s a fine quality print. The man laughs quietly, and I don’t want to look at him, but then I realise he’s sighing. ‘Yeah, I know. My mother bought it from an art sale. I can’t really take it down, can I? You know how it is.’ Now he’s cutting into a quart of cake and I know when he looks back up he’s going to offer me a piece and I don’t think I have the stomach for it.
Published 2014 online in Seizure