On Regulars
A man comes into the bookstore every Saturday night, browses for 15 minutes or so and leaves without ever buying anything.
I say ‘every Saturday night’ because he’s been around for the last four and I’ve only been working here that long. In my imagination, he’s been coming every Saturday since the bookstore opened and perhaps even wandered around the empty patch of land before it was built, but it may also be the case he started coincidentally coming in the same week I started. In either case, it makes him my first regular. And this means he’s important, although this has nothing to do with him being a particularly spectacular human being.
I think maybe he’s Canadian, because he’s got a softly twangy, rhotic accent, speaks kind of slowly and dresses mostly in clothing of the polar-fleece and drill cotton variety. I figure he comes from somewhere cold and practical. If he turns out to be American, he could be from Colorado. I say this because I once saw him look at a copy of “Touching the Void” and the only other guy that did that was from Colorado. But maybe he just likes mountains. Or twitty British mountaineers.
The first time he came in, I had just put a movie poster in the window for “Ten Canoes”. I knew very little about the film, but there was a pile of posters on the counter when I came in and they had an agreeable colour scheme. Anyway, this guy comes walking in, and his face lights up as soon as he sees the poster. He picks up one of the ones on the counter and makes some serious, contemplative noises at it. He then held it up to get my attention.
“Have you seen this yet? I was at a screening over in Sydney over the weekend and it. Was. Terrific!”
He actually said the last bit like they were all separate sentences, which was the first time in I’d heard someone speak like that in real life.
I glanced up.
“Oh, I just put that in the window this morning. I thought the colours were nice.”
He looked a little disappointed.
“Well, if you get a chance, you really must go and see it. It was just great.”
After this exchange, he kept standing there, looking at the poster and making the occasional contemplative noise. Then he began again.
“You know, it’s a pity more films like this don’t get made. About your Indigenous people I mean. I’ve hardly seen anything at all since I’ve been in the country. It just seems as though most Australians aren’t willing to take an interest in the culture.”
He paused again briefly. “But it’s a wonderful film. It’s done entirely in the Aboriginal language, you know?”
This man was beginning to annoy me. So I did something bratty, which I can only assume is the kind of thing I can get away with as an independent bookstore employee and ex-film studies major. I took the poster off the counter and actually read the back of it. Then I looked up at the man and smiled broadly.
“Oh, no wonder you said this was good…it’s a De Heer film. He’s been making some fantastic films lately. His last one, The Tracker, starred David Gulpilil. Have you seen it? He co-produced this one too apparently.”
The guy shook his head and opened his mouth to say something, but I kept on talking.
“I wonder, if it was Gulpilil producing, and his nephew was in it, which language they actually used? There’s well over forty region-specific Indigenous languages in the area, so it’s hard to say. Gulpilil, I think, is from North East Arnhem Land, so if they filmed there, it might have been in Yolngu. He films a lot in South Australia though, so he speaks at least five languages, I think. Then again, it doesn’t say exactly where they filmed. Do you know?” I tilted my head as though I expected him to know the answer, and smiled.
See, I know that the Australian film industry is lacking in decent films about Indigenous cultures, issues and people, especially ones involving Indigenous directors, cast or crew. I am also aware that Australia handles our shady colonial past and frequently embarrassing present about as well as Paris Hilton might handle being a UN Ambassador. However, I wasn’t about to murmur and shake my head in a gesture of camaraderie with a man whose country of origin has equally dodgy colonial roots and bow to his superior knowledge of Australia because he went to see a film featuring ‘the Aboriginal language’ and wants a pat on the back.
So, I acted like a bit of a brat and felt smug about it.
The man however, was put out, because he wasn’t able to continue playing the role of knowledgeable elder. So, the next two times he came in, he didn’t say anything to me at all, except he did continue with the contemplative noises every now and then.
Last Saturday he told me he comes in because he orders Chinese takeaway next door and it was nice to look around in here while he waited for his food. I think he was worried I thought he was hanging around in vain hope that I might consent to be his girlfriend.
I think he’s really coming in until he thinks of a smarmy comeback…and then he’ll march smugly out of the store, and I’ll never see him again.
And until that day arrives, I look forward to seeing him each Saturday. At least he’s more entertaining than the boy who comes to eat a sandwich at the outdoor tables every Wednesday morning. He likes to pretend I’m not there.
