Takes Two

Abstract

We may divide characters into flat and round. Flat characters were called humours in the 17th century, and are sometimes called types, and sometimes caricatures. In their purest form, they are constructed round a single idea or quality: when there is more than one factor in them, we get the beginning of the curve towards the round. ... We might describe a man like this: middle-aged, overweight. Dresses badly, flannelette shirts, too tight jeans. His grey hair is long at the back but getting thin on top. Works on a building site. After his shift he goes to the pub; gets pissed. Drunk, he's loud, repeats himself, doesn't listen. Bores his mates. Ashes on the floor. Ogles the big-bosomed barmaid. She's bored too. But he never misses his shout. Stumbles home late. Too late. Sleeps alone. Snores. His second wife locks the spare-room door, pulls the covers over her head. His children have grown up. Left home. Moved away. They phone every few months. He forgets their birthdays. After his eldest boy's graduation ceremony, he said: "Don't get too big for your boots, son." He uses words such as abo, wog. Dole-bludger. Poofter. He says things such as: "Shouldn't let 'em in the country if they can't speak the bloody language." He reads the tabloids, listens to talkback, cry-in-your-beer country. He used to vote Labor. In literature, he's there as a foil -- a negative image of the hero -- or he's someone to laugh at, despise, perhaps. He represents something -- an idea, an emotion -- but not himself. He's predictable: we already know what he'll say, how he'll act, what he thinks. He can never surprise us. In life, though we don't really see him; we know he's someone we're not. *** Or we might tell another story. Middle-aged, overweight. Dresses badly: flannelette shirts, too tight jeans. His grey hair's long at the back but getting thin on top. He looks at photos of himself taken 20 years ago. At a party, a wedding maybe. Laughs aloud at the silly fashions: did he ever wear such a wide tie, that loud shirt? Thinks: Christ, is that really me? All that hair. All that hope. Thinks: How did I get here? Works on a building site. After his shift he goes to the pub; gets pissed. Once he dreamed he might eventually own a place like this. He likes the smell, the noise, the casual camaraderie. He likes the old blokes and their war stories; he knows half of what they tell him's probably bullshit, but still he's eager. Thinks of his old man, wishes he'd listened, wishes he'd bothered to ask. Wonders how he'd have measured up. Drunk, he's loud, repeats himself, doesn't listen. Bores his mates. Ashes on the floor. Ogles the big-bosomed barmaid. She's bored too. But he never misses his shout. He tells the story about the broken arm and the cricket stump again, or the one about being dumped in the scrub with nothing but a .22 and instructions to be home by Tuesday. He knows he has told them before, can see their eyes glaze over, the barely contained impatience, but he needs to tell it. Needs to remember. Needs to hear someone say: "Jeez, he was a hard bastard, your old man."