Time past and time Future

A couple of weeks ago, a friend was caught seriously speeding. Police unscrewed his licence plates on the spot, hit him with a $2,500 fine, and cancelled his licence for six months. I went with him to court to see if he could at least get a reduction in the suspension. That morning, the court was full of young men and women, all there for the same offence. I knew that because the magistrate asked for a show of hands. They'd all been to the same music festival, and they'd all been arrested for possession of one, two, or maybe three MDMA pills, the drug of choice for young festival goers. They call it X, E or XTC.  They also call it Molly, Dancing Shoes, Hug Drugs and Happy Pills. Whatever name it goes by, the National Institute on Drug Abuse describes the experience as that of mental stimulation, emotional warmth, empathy toward others, and a general sense of well being. 

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At 11:00am I got a call for a pick up in Glebe. I signalled my arrival and a gorgeous, grergarious young woman with pink plaits and fairly short shorts bounced out. She told me her friends weren't quite ready, and we were waiting for another Uber car to arrive so we could travel in convoy to the Future Music Festival. The driver in a shiny black Honda arrived, and we were ready to roll. We were to share the love all the way to the Royal Randwick Racecourse. They were flying, trading on-mouth kisses between them. My front-seat passenger was totally in love with the PRETTY WISE tattoo which she'd drawn on her neck with a glitter pen. It was  inspired by Ninja from Die Antwoord, who she just couldn’t wait to see. She loudly pondered getting one just like it, for real. 

Pretty wise

Ninja from Die Antwoord

My riders wanted music. Very loud music.  My folkish rock blues hippy trippy stuff was way too laid back. So we connected back-seat Claudia's phone to the car radio and the sounds of the Future began pumping. Die Antwoord at the top of the list, then Example, Nero, Afro Jack, Avicii, Green Velvet, Throttle, Bassjackers, Yellow Claw - names lost in Future Time at the Future Music Festival.

Time present and time past

Are both perhaps present in time future
And time future contained in time past.*

With the music bashing away, and me basking in being repeatedly told how cool and wonderful I am, things could only get better. Back-seat Claudia (resplendent in a sequinned halter top decorated in a yin-yang-eye design) wanted to know if  I would let them smoke tobacco in the car. She was offering $30 cash. I said okay, and before we knew it the smoke was wafting, we were sharing more love and our louder music with every passing pedestrian and fellow motorist. 

Back-seat Claudia

I spoke to them about the courtroom where the judge was so ardently intent on maintaining community standards from his perch. Amidst lecturing on their illegal behaviour, he refused to invoke Section 10. As I semi-lectured on, they said, "Drugs? What drugs? We don't do drugs." I told them the story of a newly graduated young engineer who stoood before the man. He had a job offer in Canada, and whoosh, in less than five minutes, there went his future. 

But later, towards the end of the journey one admitted to having a few pills stashed in her vagina. 

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As I ferried more people to the festival, less-colourful riders explained the problem with the kids that die, and there always seems to be one tragic death at these events, is in fact the police. Kids become scared when they see the heavy blue presence with  sniffer dogs, that they swallow whatever they've got on them. 

Another rider estimated that about 90% of those dancing all day in the heat of the summer sun are propelled by the intoxicating merry qualities of MDMA. I have no reason to doubt it.

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Go, go, go, said the bird: human kind
Cannot bear very much reality.
Time past and time future
What might have been and what has been
Point to one end, which is always present.*

* 'Burnt Norton' The Four Quartets, T.S. Eliot 

In the beginning...

The new car

I'm not sure if I'm ready for this, but let's see where this particular ride takes us.

I bought the car, the new job never lasted, the cash flow was dubious, and on a suggestion, and a whim, I began driving for Uber. After all, how many employment options does a young woman in early old age have at her disposal? Not that I'm one who loves driving, or anything - it's always been just an A-to-B sort of thing. Apart from enjoying people, the thing that's taken a hold is the random nature of the gig. It somehow reminds me of The Dice Man,  a cult classic from my youth. I never quite know where I'm going, nor of course who I'll be driving. When I press my 'Go Online' button, I  slip into an Uber state of mind, and let chance take me where it will.

One of my very first encounters was with a young man who looked like an Aussie version of Tom Cruise (more Top Gun than scientology). He got into the car and immediately set the radio to Triple J. Told me he loooved the station. Said it had put him onto Uber, and that Uber was 'ace'. He talked about how he'd had to bribe a taxi to take him home from the city on a busy pre-Christmas Friday night. 

Many a journey starts, and sometimes ends, with Uber talk, but this was just the beginning.  He talked about Afghanistan, which prompted me to ask if he was in the army. He told me he was briefly home for more training before for his next deployment - it was his third or fourth tour coming up.  There was no time to get back home to Brisbane for Christmas with his family. From my captioning work, I was familiar with the places he spoke of, or at least I knew the standards we adopted to spell them.  Oruzgan, Tarin Kowt, Helmand province (whether the 'p' should be capitalised always stumps me).

Tom, let's call him that, casually mentioned he served in the Special Operations Engineer Regiment, and their main job was dismantling IEDs. They cleared the way for another special operations unit to tackle insurgent networks. We spoke about the psychological fall out from war, and those who handle it, and those who don't. He said he was okay with it.

And as he spoke so matter of factly, I could only think of my son, who is roughly the same age.  I was suddenly overwhelmed. I thanked him for doing what I would never want my son to do. I felt ashamed, just like one of those mothers who I judge harshly. Those who don't believe in vaccinating their own children, but who can afford to take this stance because enough others make sure their own babies are innoculated.

As we neared his destination, he told me that this would probably be his last deployment. He was ready to quit. Then, just before he got out the car, he asked something of me.  He said, when the next Anzac Day rolls around, would I please have a drink for his mate Scotty Smith, who died over there. When I came home, I looked for Scotty Smith on Google. He had died dismantling an IED. He was just 24 years old.

Corporal Scott James Smith

Like a dream that affects one's day, this encounter stayed with me the whole week.

And yes, come Anzac Day, I'll definitely have one for Scotty. At the same time I'll be thinking of Tom and hoping he's home and safe, and as nonchalantly upbeat as he was when we shared a ride on that hot December afternoon in 2014.