wasnât just about what was on the page. Their silence and space was solidarity in its simplest form.
Lizzy seemed busy with her music anyway. She had brought a laptop along and would occasionally allow herself an hour to fiddle around with mixes before quickly shutting it back down and hoping the battery might last until we found more power. Meeting Tommy had made the album real again. It actually existed. And so did she. The poppy half of Canadian indie pillars Taylor & Lizzy. A fixture on any alternative radio station or hip summer festival. If what Tommy and Taylor said was true and we were now in a city, or a world, full of Artists, Lizzy wanted to be on her game.
Taylor seemed edgy for other reasons entirely. Things I knew about that maybe even Lizzy did not. I had underestimated the connection she had felt with the Boxing Day painter. Sold it off as loneliness. The thought of human contact after years without it. But Taylor felt a real connection to this mystery girl. Enough to convince Lizzy to forget the airport and its fractured link to Canada and their mother. Enough to have us leave the security of our cushy hillside life. To risk runninginto Bulls and Loots and whatever the hell else lay in the abandoned sprawl of future Perth. Leaving the hills was about much more than Taylor finding her painter crush. Yet once again Taylor was leading, and Lizzy and I following. Like the doors in Carousel, it was Taylorâs goal that defined us the most.
We started passing the occasional shop and warehouse. Really niche places like a repair centre for remote controllers or a ride-on lawnmower reseller. They filled the gaps between a depressing series of houses. Small box-like fibro places set back on quarter-acre blocks, sold off in the seventies in a city sprawling outward wherever it pleased. We were relieved to be emerging out of endless suburbia, but what lay ahead didnât feel overly welcoming.
We came across a couple of blackened buildings and street corners where it seemed like a gas pipe might have blown and burnt out the surrounding area. Chess sniffed cautiously and I thought again of Tommyâs warning about the city.
âI need a bathroom and some lunch,â said Lizzy.
She had stopped cycling and was assessing the options.
âWhich one of these palaces would you like to make a home?â asked Taylor.
The three of us looked around. One side of the street had a series of water-stained fibro houses. The other had a warehouse with an ambitiously large car parkneighbouring some kind of fenced-off power grid.
Lizzy rolled forward.
âNumber twelve has roses in the garden. Letâs run with that,â she replied.
The laundry door was open at the back. Taylor let herself in and walked through to the front.
âSoup anyone?â she asked as she let us in.
âWow,â I replied.
A wave of
old-lady-at-the-stove
smacked us in the face as Lizzy bombed through to find the toilet.
âI swear that smell is immune to the apocalypse,â I said.
Taylor smirked and wandered through the neat shrine of a living room. It was dated and dusty, but neat as a pin. Patterned wallpaper. A cabinet housing glassware and football memorabilia. An orange couch with wooden veneer. I stayed away from peopleâs photos, but Taylor drank them up like some wacky anthropologist. She nosed around while I distracted myself with an ancient TV guide.
âThis place is empty,â said Lizzy from the kitchen.
âLetâs go next door,â I said, replacing the guide.
âYouâd think there would be some minestrone at least,â said Taylor.
We went next door but found the kitchen empty there also. As were the following four houses. Doors unlocked. Cupboards ajar and empty.
âPopular street,â said Lizzy at the sixth house.
Taylor and I glanced at her. It was unnerving to seesuch obvious signs of someone else in the area.
âLetâs get out of this weirdo
Lizzy seemed busy with her music anyway. She had brought a laptop along and would occasionally allow herself an hour to fiddle around with mixes before quickly shutting it back down and hoping the battery might last until we found more power. Meeting Tommy had made the album real again. It actually existed. And so did she. The poppy half of Canadian indie pillars Taylor & Lizzy. A fixture on any alternative radio station or hip summer festival. If what Tommy and Taylor said was true and we were now in a city, or a world, full of Artists, Lizzy wanted to be on her game.
Taylor seemed edgy for other reasons entirely. Things I knew about that maybe even Lizzy did not. I had underestimated the connection she had felt with the Boxing Day painter. Sold it off as loneliness. The thought of human contact after years without it. But Taylor felt a real connection to this mystery girl. Enough to convince Lizzy to forget the airport and its fractured link to Canada and their mother. Enough to have us leave the security of our cushy hillside life. To risk runninginto Bulls and Loots and whatever the hell else lay in the abandoned sprawl of future Perth. Leaving the hills was about much more than Taylor finding her painter crush. Yet once again Taylor was leading, and Lizzy and I following. Like the doors in Carousel, it was Taylorâs goal that defined us the most.
We started passing the occasional shop and warehouse. Really niche places like a repair centre for remote controllers or a ride-on lawnmower reseller. They filled the gaps between a depressing series of houses. Small box-like fibro places set back on quarter-acre blocks, sold off in the seventies in a city sprawling outward wherever it pleased. We were relieved to be emerging out of endless suburbia, but what lay ahead didnât feel overly welcoming.
We came across a couple of blackened buildings and street corners where it seemed like a gas pipe might have blown and burnt out the surrounding area. Chess sniffed cautiously and I thought again of Tommyâs warning about the city.
âI need a bathroom and some lunch,â said Lizzy.
She had stopped cycling and was assessing the options.
âWhich one of these palaces would you like to make a home?â asked Taylor.
The three of us looked around. One side of the street had a series of water-stained fibro houses. The other had a warehouse with an ambitiously large car parkneighbouring some kind of fenced-off power grid.
Lizzy rolled forward.
âNumber twelve has roses in the garden. Letâs run with that,â she replied.
The laundry door was open at the back. Taylor let herself in and walked through to the front.
âSoup anyone?â she asked as she let us in.
âWow,â I replied.
A wave of
old-lady-at-the-stove
smacked us in the face as Lizzy bombed through to find the toilet.
âI swear that smell is immune to the apocalypse,â I said.
Taylor smirked and wandered through the neat shrine of a living room. It was dated and dusty, but neat as a pin. Patterned wallpaper. A cabinet housing glassware and football memorabilia. An orange couch with wooden veneer. I stayed away from peopleâs photos, but Taylor drank them up like some wacky anthropologist. She nosed around while I distracted myself with an ancient TV guide.
âThis place is empty,â said Lizzy from the kitchen.
âLetâs go next door,â I said, replacing the guide.
âYouâd think there would be some minestrone at least,â said Taylor.
We went next door but found the kitchen empty there also. As were the following four houses. Doors unlocked. Cupboards ajar and empty.
âPopular street,â said Lizzy at the sixth house.
Taylor and I glanced at her. It was unnerving to seesuch obvious signs of someone else in the area.
âLetâs get out of this weirdo
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