The Oracle in the Red Limousine by Geoffrey Maloney
I was sitting at the bus stop, on my way to work, eating apricots, and worrying whether I’d left it too late in life to marry. I was not overly fond of apricots. While their colour and fragrance was pleasant enough, it was rare to find one that was just right. Usually they were hard and a little green, or they ripened too quickly and were soft and mushy. And my two most recent girlfriends had not been the marrying type. Both of them had tired of me after six months.
My job as a translator was not a very exciting one, and even though Deirdre spoke French and Miriam Portuguese, they would have much preferred to have gone out with a young football player, maybe a pilot, or even a racing car driver. Life was meant to be exciting they both told me, and knowing several languages, including Ancient Greek, was hardly exciting in the modern world.
Of course, I always started to worry about these things when I hadn’t had a good night’s sleep. I’d woken late after spending half-the-night chasing possums around my lounge room – those pesky fellows had broken in through the kitchen window again in search of a midnight snack. There was a whole gang of them, with the two ringleaders, Cookie and Muffin, in charge. I had been silly enough to feed them when they were cute little babies playing in the Poinciana tree in the backyard. Now they lived in the roof and acted as if they owned the house. Luckily, I’d the good sense to hide the fruit bowl in the cupboard before I went to bed. But I missed my usual morning bacon and eggs and had no time for coffee. So I’d grabbed a handful of apricots from the fruit bowl as I rushed out of the house, running late for work.
Now it seemed my bus was running late as well, either that or it had run early and I’d missed it. But the bus stop was deserted that morning and the longer I waited the more I began to get the sense my absent fellow commuters knew something I didn’t. Perhaps it was an obscure public holiday and I had neglected to mark it in my diary. It certainly wasn’t a Saturday or Sunday; there were far too many cars on the road, even for a weekday, and most of the occupants looked dressed for work.
But I had done that once. Simply got up one morning without thinking and went off to work, and was surprised to find when I got there the office was closed. I went shopping instead and bought a nice Panama hat, which I wished I had with me now. It was one of those steamy Brisbane mornings. The sun was beating down and it had hardly cooled overnight at all. I was already sweating profusely. My clean striped shirt was spotted with unsightly wet patches, and my tie felt like it was strangling me. The air-conditioning of the bus would provide a welcome relief. That is, if it ever arrived.
I loosened my tie. I was starting to think it would be in my best interests, for my peace of mind and my self-respect, to simply write the day off as a bad joke. I could return back home, phone in sick and catch up on some sleep. At least that way I would avoid arriving late, smelly and dishevelled. I had almost made my mind up to do this when a red limousine with heavily tinted windows pulled up. The front passenger window lowered and I could see the driver peering out of the darkness inside. Perhaps he had lost his way and needed some directions. I imagined the smell of bacon and eggs was wafting out of the interior. That’s how hungry I was.
“There’s no buses, I’m afraid,” the limousine driver said. “There was a bus strike called at six this morning. They won’t be back until six this evening.”
Well, that explained the absence of other commuters and the large number of cars on the road. I had been in such a rush I hadn’t even bothered to turn the radio on. I usually tried to catch up on current affairs in the morning, but I had long since given up listening to the weather report. In Brisbane the weather only came in one variety: warm and sunny with the possibility of afternoon thunderstorms. So I always carried an umbrella, despite the heat of the day.
“Would you like a lift?” the driver asked. “I’m sure I can still get you to work on time.”
I looked along the length of the handsome red car. So that was his game. He was touting for business. I would never be able to afford to ride in such a car. But still I asked, “I’m on my way to George Street. How much?”
The driver smiled. He had a friendly face. “For you, my friend, today, it will cost you nothing, but a little conversation, perhaps.”
Well, I could certainly afford that. I picked up my briefcase and tartan umbrella and went over to the front door. I was about to open it, when the driver said. “Have you ever ridden in a limousine before?”
