It was the last day of winter and the whole state had been drought-declared. I put a new bottle of chardonnay in the fridge to cool then went back to writing a book review of a fantasy novel that had been recommended to me. This friend had seen a negative review on the blog of a work of science fiction, which had resulted in a long string of comments forming a conversation between us conducted over the period of a week or so. In part of that long string of words, he had left a list of book suggestions. The current book under review was one of those.
The bottle was the last in its box, one of two boxes I had had delivered. I had gotten into the habit since moving back to Sydney three years ago of ordering wine from a company with a website that accepts credit card payments. Once the order has been submitted it takes a few days and then a deliveryman arrives in the morning at the intercom that connects the caller to the apartment. I let him in with the access button on the device that is mounted on my living room wall and he leaves the boxes of wine in the lobby, where I collect them when I am free. I put them in the lift, take them upstairs and store them in my bedroom.
The now-empty wine box I put on the chair in the living room. Then I took my Stanley knife from where it sits in the desk drawer and went into the bedroom and used it to open the new box of bottles. With the knife in my hand, I returned to the living room and cut off my name and contact details from the label that is affixed to the front of the burgundy-coloured printed box with its cardboard separators still intact where they had held the delicate glass bottles apart during transportation. It took four cuts of the knife to make an outline around the part of the label I wanted to remove, then I inserted the sharp edge of the knife under the corner of the marked section and peeled it away from the box. I threw the resulting scrap of paper in the bin next to the bookshelf by the front door.
I used the shoehorn to put on my tan casual loafers and put my keys in my pocket. I took the knife back to the desk and put it in the drawer, then closed the drawer. I put my mobile phone in my other pocket and returned to the door. I picked up the cardboard box, opened the door and stepped out into the hallway. Then I put my left hand in my trouser pocket, felt for my keys as I always do before going out, and closed the door.
In front of the lifts, I pressed the call button and stood waiting. The mechanical sound the lift always makes when you press the button was audible: a metallic knock followed by a melodic whine as the thing made its way to my floor. The hallway at this point is wider than elsewhere on the floor and there are three downlights set in the ceiling that illuminate the area. As I was looking at the grey carpet with its delicate design of dots in a grid the lift arrived with a small “ding” and its metal doors opened.
I stepped onto the black stone that covers the floor of the lift and applied the small grey tag on one of my keyrings to the black plastic pyramid on the wall that has a small green “on” light, then pressed the button for the second floor. The doors closed and the lift made a moan that rose in tone until it resembled an average male singing a note at the middle of his vocal range. There were some disconcerting metallic clicks from where the floor is, as the lift slowly descended.
Usually when I get in the lift in my apartment building I think about the fact that there is no mobile phone coverage inside it. Once, in November of the year before, I had got stuck in the lift at the light rail station near my house and I had pressed the emergency call button in the lift but nothing had happened. I had then used my mobile to phone triple-zero for the police emergency unit. Since then, I had often thought when standing in my own building’s lift that I should go and talk with the managers who look after the residential complex the building is in about the phone coverage in the lifts, but had never got up enough enthusiasm to spur me to go out of my way and visit the office, which is located a short walk from the back of the building.
When the lift arrived at the second floor the note its machinery made deepened momentarily before the mechanism fell silent. The doors opened and I stepped out onto the concrete floor of the hallway. Turning right with the burgundy carboard box still in my hand, I walked past Besser-block walls until I arrived at a short flight of steps. In front of me I could see parked cars sitting in their bays where the second-floor carpark is located. There are guard rails around the shallow well I descended into. I turned left and opened the door to the loading bay. The slightly sweet, rotting smell of maturing garbage greeted me and the lights went on at a signal from a motion sensor installed in the space I was now in.
I went down a grey-painted concrete ramp, which has a metal barrier to prevent you from falling off the edge if you are careless of where you put your feet, to the floor of the loading bay. Ranks of wheeled bins with either yellow or red lids stood against the side walls of the space. At the back, near the door I had just used, various items of household garbage, too big to fit in the garbage chute, had been left for someone to pick up in a truck later on. I put the cardboard box on top of one of the wheeled bins and headed for the street door, which is made of metal and which has louvers and a metal handle that you use to get out.
Outside, I walked down a short driveway from the door to the street. On the pavement, an injured cockroach approached me and I stepped around it, heading north. Turning the corner, a blue utility with a covered rear drove along the street in the same direction I was headed in. It had white number plates. The wind was strong in my face as I walked past the trees set in the pavement near the kerb. At the front door of the building, I unlocked the door using the proximity tag and opened it. I called the lift, which was still on the second floor, and when it arrived at the ground floor I rode upstairs in it.
Just as it was getting dark, as I was sitting at my desk, a currawong silently alighted on the balustrade of the balcony, noisily wiped its beak twice on the railing, opened its black wings, and flew off into the space in front of the building, heading south. Later, as I was eating dinner, it started to rain.
The bottle was the last in its box, one of two boxes I had had delivered. I had gotten into the habit since moving back to Sydney three years ago of ordering wine from a company with a website that accepts credit card payments. Once the order has been submitted it takes a few days and then a deliveryman arrives in the morning at the intercom that connects the caller to the apartment. I let him in with the access button on the device that is mounted on my living room wall and he leaves the boxes of wine in the lobby, where I collect them when I am free. I put them in the lift, take them upstairs and store them in my bedroom.
The now-empty wine box I put on the chair in the living room. Then I took my Stanley knife from where it sits in the desk drawer and went into the bedroom and used it to open the new box of bottles. With the knife in my hand, I returned to the living room and cut off my name and contact details from the label that is affixed to the front of the burgundy-coloured printed box with its cardboard separators still intact where they had held the delicate glass bottles apart during transportation. It took four cuts of the knife to make an outline around the part of the label I wanted to remove, then I inserted the sharp edge of the knife under the corner of the marked section and peeled it away from the box. I threw the resulting scrap of paper in the bin next to the bookshelf by the front door.
I used the shoehorn to put on my tan casual loafers and put my keys in my pocket. I took the knife back to the desk and put it in the drawer, then closed the drawer. I put my mobile phone in my other pocket and returned to the door. I picked up the cardboard box, opened the door and stepped out into the hallway. Then I put my left hand in my trouser pocket, felt for my keys as I always do before going out, and closed the door.
In front of the lifts, I pressed the call button and stood waiting. The mechanical sound the lift always makes when you press the button was audible: a metallic knock followed by a melodic whine as the thing made its way to my floor. The hallway at this point is wider than elsewhere on the floor and there are three downlights set in the ceiling that illuminate the area. As I was looking at the grey carpet with its delicate design of dots in a grid the lift arrived with a small “ding” and its metal doors opened.
I stepped onto the black stone that covers the floor of the lift and applied the small grey tag on one of my keyrings to the black plastic pyramid on the wall that has a small green “on” light, then pressed the button for the second floor. The doors closed and the lift made a moan that rose in tone until it resembled an average male singing a note at the middle of his vocal range. There were some disconcerting metallic clicks from where the floor is, as the lift slowly descended.
Usually when I get in the lift in my apartment building I think about the fact that there is no mobile phone coverage inside it. Once, in November of the year before, I had got stuck in the lift at the light rail station near my house and I had pressed the emergency call button in the lift but nothing had happened. I had then used my mobile to phone triple-zero for the police emergency unit. Since then, I had often thought when standing in my own building’s lift that I should go and talk with the managers who look after the residential complex the building is in about the phone coverage in the lifts, but had never got up enough enthusiasm to spur me to go out of my way and visit the office, which is located a short walk from the back of the building.
When the lift arrived at the second floor the note its machinery made deepened momentarily before the mechanism fell silent. The doors opened and I stepped out onto the concrete floor of the hallway. Turning right with the burgundy carboard box still in my hand, I walked past Besser-block walls until I arrived at a short flight of steps. In front of me I could see parked cars sitting in their bays where the second-floor carpark is located. There are guard rails around the shallow well I descended into. I turned left and opened the door to the loading bay. The slightly sweet, rotting smell of maturing garbage greeted me and the lights went on at a signal from a motion sensor installed in the space I was now in.
I went down a grey-painted concrete ramp, which has a metal barrier to prevent you from falling off the edge if you are careless of where you put your feet, to the floor of the loading bay. Ranks of wheeled bins with either yellow or red lids stood against the side walls of the space. At the back, near the door I had just used, various items of household garbage, too big to fit in the garbage chute, had been left for someone to pick up in a truck later on. I put the cardboard box on top of one of the wheeled bins and headed for the street door, which is made of metal and which has louvers and a metal handle that you use to get out.
Outside, I walked down a short driveway from the door to the street. On the pavement, an injured cockroach approached me and I stepped around it, heading north. Turning the corner, a blue utility with a covered rear drove along the street in the same direction I was headed in. It had white number plates. The wind was strong in my face as I walked past the trees set in the pavement near the kerb. At the front door of the building, I unlocked the door using the proximity tag and opened it. I called the lift, which was still on the second floor, and when it arrived at the ground floor I rode upstairs in it.
Just as it was getting dark, as I was sitting at my desk, a currawong silently alighted on the balustrade of the balcony, noisily wiped its beak twice on the railing, opened its black wings, and flew off into the space in front of the building, heading south. Later, as I was eating dinner, it started to rain.
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