You would think that déjà vu would operate to assist people in avoiding bad ideas, or at least in helping people making good decisions about bad ideas. This is the same sort of logic that suggests that written history serves to protect people from repeating previous mistakes. But then would where Darwinism fit? Perhaps the answer is more complicated, like supply and demand. (Ok, not really that complicated.) As ones penchant for making bad decisions rises, ones chances for assisting in continuing the species diminishes. Perhaps you can even envision the graph with the lines intersecting with the little box around it that my Econ Professor tried to explain the meaning of. In this case, it's the approaching the "no odds" point and then anything beyond that predicts that you'll die a premature and likely horrible death because of a bad decision, or conversely you'll continue well into your Golden Years having never uttered the phrase "What's the worst that could happen?” Isn't this how déjà vu should work?
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| The Moon Under the Story Bridge |
But here we are heading into our 2nd Aussie winter; shocked and incredulous that the weather is turning “not warm” again. Part of this, I suppose, is that the summer wasn’t as hot as we had expected. This is probably good a thing as the few hot and humid days that we did have were tough. As you might imagine, sleep was disturbed and often required a fan running through the night.
The heat was tough enough to face without frustration, but unfortunatley we also had to manage our tempers due to the fact that our landlord refused to acknowledge that the Air Conditioner (AC) wasn’t working. “Maybe you just need to change the batteries on the remote, mate.” I'll backup on this story.
Some things that you need to first understand:
Our landlord has hired a property management company to handle these types of things, but prefers us to raise issues with him first. Bad.
The landlord, who I’ll call Dirtbag Greg, insists on being involved in all matters. He is thusly named, not for any sort of literary value but because his name really is Greg and he is really a dirtbag. Dirtbag Greg claims to be an expert at most things and undertook to both design and supervise the construction of the units (duplex in Canadian). Worse.
Oh yeah, did I mention that he’s also the neighbor? Unmitigated disaster.
So Dirtbag Greg fancies himself as "The Man", so you can almost imagine how this goes.
“Greg, we’ve noticed that the tiles on the main floor are loose.”
“No, that’s impossible, those tiles can’t be loose.”
Impossible? Infallible tiles? You don’t have to be a rocket scientist to know that you don’t use “impossible, infallible and tiles in the same sentence since 1 February 2003.
[1] Similarly, while I’m not an electric engineer I can predict with some degree of certainty that putting new batteries in the remote control will not change the fact that the AC blows hot (well, tepid) air. But as you might have anticipated, that’s not all there is to this story. When directly asked, Dirtbag Greg openly admits “Well I don’t really know mate, I’ve never turned it (the AC) on.”
Right, this guy is so tough, so cool and so switched on, that in spite of fact that the prior year had some of the hottest days on record (a series of days >40C) he never used his AC. Not ever, not once. This is a "tough bloke" as they say here.
“Wow, Greg, that’s unbelievable. So are you really telling me that you’re impervious to the heat that you don't require AC at 40C and 95% humidity, or rather that you have such lack of regard for the construction project that you “supervised” that you couldn’t be bothered to even turn on the appliances?” I’m seething. I close my eyes to retain some modicum of composure, I visualise the tropical weather we love here, beaches, waves, I hear Spencer playing in the sand. I'm trying to find calmness. I see acts of violence. Violence that wouldn't be contemplated by Scorsese, Coppola or Tarantino. When I open my eyes again, it becomes clear that my eyes have betrayed my emotion. I sound calm but I can see Dirtbag Greg starting to recoil.
“Well, ah…” his retreating voice has abandoned his bravado and his willingness to have this conversation is quickly following.
“Right, either that you have no business with these types of projects or you know damn well that the AC has never worked.” So it's proven, like Dirtbag Greg, our AC blows hot air. Well not really hot, more like tepid.
But now that the heat has abated, we have another problem, as these same units supply the only source of heat. So tepid air remains a nuisance and doesn’t help even now that summer has passed. This is proof positive that if it’s not one thing it’s another. However, the landlord’s
agent is supposed to have someone fix it today, which would be great. But like a feeling of déjà vu, this is the fourth attempt.
[2] I’ll spare you the minutiae.
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| Civic Church At Dusk |
And so it goes, we’ve now been here over a year and have started making the transition from “recently arrived” to “established resident” with “knowledgeable local” firmly in our sights and objectives. This transition is an experience in itself.
We’ve met a bunch of people, some who have become friends, a few acquaintances and then simply others that you smile and nod to whilst dropping of kids, waiting for coffee or riding the lifts (elevators). All of this seems pretty civilized and of course part of the adventure. This experience also brings along a sense déjà vu.
Not only have we become more familiar with Brisbane over the last year, but as you might also expect, Spencer has grown. (A fact that is only remarkable because I’ve been cooking more again.) This of course means that she is outgrowing things such as clothes, shoes, and most recently, her crib. Fortunately consumer goods are expensive here (as compared to Canada) and so the items that we brought over fetch a decent bounty off of eBay. This is a less fortunate fact when the things that we have brought over need to be replaced locally, but that's a story for another time. But ultimately we post Spencer's crib on eBay.
At the conclusion of the auction, I received a text on my mobile (cell phone) as everyone texts here (I never really did back in Canada). Turns out that the buyers live down the street and want to drop over and pick up their spoils, sure. That works, Sunday night, get a wad of cash to start the week, pretty good outcome. Spencer is now in bed and I'm procrastinating because Nicole is away working.
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| Now Imagine a FULL beard! |
Shortly after the exchange of details, a bear appears at my door. A bear? No, not in Australia, anything but, right? Well, ok, not a real bear but a man (I know you had this figured out) but with a huge presence and a beard that makes Fidel Castro (in his prime) look like a pubescent teenager experimenting with facial growth for the first time.
But there’s something else. A familiarity. A sense of knowing, but out of context. James? Davies? Bruce, why not everyone’s Bruce here, right? “Hey, it's Bruce right?”
“Ah, no Filip. With an ‘F’”.
“Right, sorry, perhaps we met when I was out with Brucie?” I quickly back peddle. But there is still something else. Filip carries himself with a confidence and style that is striking. His manner is at once compelling and comforting. You see within his eyes an understanding and you sense that he’s listening attentively to you. At once you understand the concept, not the word, but the concept of charisma.
So we visit and comfortably chat about the small bits while I ask he and his wife about their pending baby and I pull the crib apart so as to accommodate putting it into their “sedan”
[3]. As things are moving along with a familiar ease, the conversation turns to, as it must, but without haste, the pending payment. In particular, Filip inquires about the additional bedding that wasn’t part of the auction, but is also available. We don’t talk as friends but as people of a common experience. Some how connected in an inexplicable manner, as though we had traveled extensively together, worked through the nights on a common goal or simply just known each other for years.
“How much do you want for it?” Filip asks in his suave manner.
“Look, we’re taking offers but we’ve got it up for $150 and it’s in really good shape.” I reply, wishing I had an ounce of this guy’s charm but knowing it’s just not in the cards. Scaring the crap out of Dirtbag Greg by showing restraint when he knows I don't really want to is one thing, being cool with this Polar Bear in loafers is a world apart.
“Do you like coffee?” He asks. “I see that you have a stove top espresso machine, a sign of a true fancier” he adds flatteringly.
Puzzled by the seemingly random departure in the conversation, “of course” I reply. “I’m no expert but I thoroughly enjoy it. It's been one of the really great discoveries about coming to OZ.”
“I run a custom coffee shop in South Bank, why don’t I roast and grind you a bag and we call it even?”
Suddenly it’s clear to me – I’ve never met Filip before; I’ve never even seen Filip before. The sense of déjà vu is based exclusively on his personal charisma. It's now as clear as mountain air at -30 how a subsistence farmer abandons their plowshares and raise arms to become revolutionaries. I wonder, is it the beard? “Really, that would be great!” That’s right; I just agreed to forego roughly $150 cash for a vague promise of coffee. Panic starts to set in: from a contractual basis what was offered? What was agreed? When did the parties become ad idem? How am I going to explain this to Nicole? Nevertheless, he had me at “coffee” and in that word I find ease.
Skipping ahead, I told Nicole (from the safe distances that Skype provides) that the auction had concluded and the buyers came and picked up the crib and the bedding. Obviously attempting to gloss over the payment bits for the bedding, I asked how her travels and meetings in Canada were going.
Again, déjà vu rears
“You did what?” Nicole inquires, her confusion obviously, yes even from the other side of the planet. This isn’t the first time I’ve been on this ride.
“Yeah but the coffee is supposed to be really good…” I trail off.
“Ok, but how much coffee,” Nicole asks, genuinely interested?
“A bag,” you can only imagine how meekly I responded. "Did I tell you about the conversation with Dirgbag Greg regarding the AC?"
“A bag? Really, does the ‘bag’ have a size?” Nicole is now starting to sound incredulous. This isn’t the first time she's been on this ride either, as I've never been one to shy away from a bad decision.
“Yeah, I imagine there is a specific size…but we sort of came out a little light on details. Like none. Truth be told my contracts professor; my principle; and any other lawyer I’ve known will be disappointed.” All the while I’m trying to explain Fair Trade coffee, the passion of roasters, Kalashnikov’s in the hands of peasants and anything else that might support my unparalleled lack of judgment.
“A little light on details? You don’t say. Oh honey, it’s ok” Nicole says now with palpable sarcasm, “you’ll get your coffee and plus, you’re a revolutionary now. Right? That’s better than actual cash for our daughter’s first possessions” implying now that I’m a truant father just because of my pursuit of dubious decisions.
And here is where you’d think that déjà vu would help a guy out and that I should really know better. Now I’m feeling trapped in the conversation like Steve Austin in the opening sequence of Six Million Dollar Man, <<She's breaking up, She's brea…>> I need Divine, or at least a monumental intervention to save me now. I hit the eject button. Deploy the shear rams. Burn my boats. I blurt out “It’s your fault if you weren’t in Canada leaving me all along looking after everything here this would have never happened.” Right. Great move, after all I’m not really responsible for the bad decisions I make.
I suppose that this also explains how Hitler marched in Napoleon’s footsteps to lay siege upon the Russians in winter, only to have his armies perish in retreat in spring.
Hopefully Nicole will just be happy to be back home to see us and have the fresh smell of coffee in the house and all will be overlooked.
At any rate, I’ve yet to receive my coffee, perhaps it will be waiting for me when I get home. Alternatively, it may be just another déjà vu day of hopes and expectations that ends without additional coffee supplies. When (if) I do get the coffee I’ll let you know. Maybe I’ll visit Filip’s shop and that will become an update of its own. Looking at his website, there is certainly potential for that.
http://www.paladarfumiorsalon.com/Bienvenido.html
A final thought on déjà vu? Below is an excerpt from the Trusts Act 1973 (Queensland)
S. 59 Trustee may sue himself or herself in a different capacity
Notwithstanding any rule of law or practice to the contrary, a trustee of any property in that capacity may sue, and be sued by, himself or herself in any other capacity whatsoever, including the trustee's personal capacity; but in every such case the trustee shall obtain the directions of the court in which the proceedings are taken as to the manner in which differing interests are to be represented.
This is awesome. Actually relevant to my current employment but more entertainingly this evokes images of a dog chasing its own tail, catching it and then biting it until it bleeds, gets infected and falls off. Then of course, being compensated for the loss of his tail. This is so awesome, it's like having enough Kryptonite to make Superman your bitch.
I may have to reconsider private practice. There is obviously an opportunity for me to become the Trustee of my own estate, run it into the ground, retain myself as counsel and then sue for damages. Conceivably, whilst the client would be the difficult to work for (because he obviously lack judgment), I could charge whatever fees I wanted and then even sue later for the recovery of them. I wonder if this provision would allow me to retain myself as an expert.
This could start a process and series of litigation that will make Memento appear straight forward. Can you imagine the litigation? “Haven’t we requested this disclosure from the party?” “Yeah, but he claims that he can’t find the documents.” “Don’t believe him, he’s a deadbeat.” Well maybe not a deadbeat but certainly one for a penchant at not knowing better.
Enjoy.
[1] The Space Shuttle Columbia disaster occurred on February 1, 2003, in which one of the causes was found to be damage to the protective tiles on the bottom of the spacecraft. [2] Note: the fourth attempt to repair the AC failed as moving the unit requires two men to lift it. A fact that apparently couldn’t have been discerned the first three times the “Tradies” attended to affect the repairs. Some things really are universal. [3] The modestly self-described “sedan” turns out to be a vintage Benz. 
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