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(Generally unedited, raw aka don’t judge too harshly yo!)
Meeting #14 of 2012:
In attendance, listed in seating position: Robert Higgins, Susie Reider-Smith, Flynn Goldsmith, Wednesday Montgomery, Stuart O’Neil, Grant Lucinagno and myself, Candace Higgins.
Minutes taken by Candace Higgins.
In the city of Melbourne it is a surprisingly clear day. The blue sky touches the tops of buildings and sends a crisp breeze through open windows. It is perfect eating chips on the beach weather, or, if I wasn’t 13 and a half, maybe I’d be frolicking around with a kite. Despite the calming day, the presence within the Fungus Records meeting room is very glum, which is in keeping with the theme of other previous band meetings. An invisible beast is looming above our heads, it’s mouth wide open ,ready to gobble us up with razor-sharp teeth.
Robert, a man of big stature, most notably in his gut created by guzzling a many disgusting beers, looks over at me, ‘Remember Candy, possum, just keep notes. No need for all that other narrative baloney.’
The minute-writer thinks about correcting her father and insisting on the importance of the atmospheric nature of a meeting but instead she just nods and concentrates on the feeling of the keys beneath of her fingers.
Susie, the band manager, flicks her blonde bob from her face and in a cool voice says to Robert, ‘Jesus Rob, do we even need a minute-taker? I mean she’s only a (lowers voice) child.’ The minute-writer waits for her father to protest her maturity, for it was only yesterday that she cleaned her room and cooked a perfectly edible dinner for her parents and herself. Robert only cleans his throat, fumbles with his Sunday tie – a mickey mouse one, a present from his youngest daughter for last father’s day which he only seems to wear to work on days when that certain daughter is taking the minutes. That daughter waits, like a delicate flower waiting for acknowledge for the sun, but nothing but dark clouds pass overhead. Hungry, beastly things.
‘Bloody hell, let’s get on with this.’ Robert says. The minute-writer picks up a pen and makes a little note of this on the back of her hand.
The other band members murmur in agreement, it is 11am, an ungodly hour no doubt for the nocturnal species. Wednesday is dressed in her one-piece pyjamas and rubs her eyes and the tip of her nose, which are the colour of squashed raspberries. Despite her obvious nasal infection she grins like a wild banshee, her blue hair piled high on her head, little spirals of a loose fringe tickle the side of her temples.
‘Guys, guys, I wrote a song,’ She says.
Susie claps her hands, ‘Oh honey that’s great!’
‘You want to hear it?’
Stuart sneezes, nearly knocking off his black Ray Bans, ‘no fucktard, this is not a band practice.’
Wednesday sticks out her lower lip, ‘wellllllll that’s a big poo.’
Grant laughs, a deep Santa Claus-like laugh and brushes a hand through his black curls, ‘you are such a libra sometimes Weds.’
Susie reaches out and squeezes one of Wednesday’s chipped black nail-polished hands, ‘but we’ll hear it later lovely. Right now we’re got some bigger octopus to fry.’
The beast, balancing on the ceiling with it’s grossly green suction feet looks down at it’s prey. The fat man will be tastiest, it thinks. The rest are too skinny, all just bones that will get stuck in his teeth no doubt.
‘This is bullshit.’ Flynn says, his orange stubble framing his jaw line, the harlequin of many female romance novels. He begins to stand up, ‘fuck this.’
‘Mate, just sit down alright. It’ll be sorted it will.’ Robert says. Flynn rolls his eyes and falls back down on the leather seats. Custom italian made. Flynn has respect for jam-faced Robert. It is hard for the minute-writer to have respect for a man she sees often dancing his underwear.
‘I don’t want anything to do with that chick.’ Flynn says.
‘Sweetie, you mightn’t have a choice.’ Susie smiles, ‘some could say it was karma for being a shit on Twitter.’
Grant twists his face like he’s stepped bare-foot a big dog turd, ‘Susie, I think I need to give you an education into Buddhism. Our current actions are not carried out this life through karma. It is our past-lives…’
‘Oh shush!’ Susie says, squatting Grant away like a little annoying fly.