Ollie placates the Hole in Things

Two hours on hold to the council and now I’ve got three kids on the driveway playing silly buggers.

They’re taking turns jumping over the hole. Champ, it’s barely a metre, you’re not going to the Olympics on that exploit.

The council says the driveway is my property, so the hole is my responsibility. One of these yahoos falls in, they’ll say it’s my fault. Probably dock my pension to pay for the dingus’ memorial.

How a retired sparkie is supposed to fix this, you tell me.

I holler for the Buddhist monk and ask him to take over on the kitchen phone. He cradles the handset and nods attentively at the repeating ‘your call is important to us’.

I march out to the front and yell at the kids to quit it. One of them teeters on the edge of the hole and stumbles back. Near miss, that. They get quiet, tell me it’s just a game. I tell them to scram. They hitch up their pants and scamper off to their parents.

I’m barely back inside when the chick from the CSIRO spits gobbledygook and Arnott’s crumbs in my face.

“I know it’s not a vacuum, because the lower pressure would suck in air. And if you think about it, even a vacuum isn’t empty. If you assume the cosmological principle, dark matter - ah, more simply, even a vacuum has energy. It’s something. And what you have in your driveway is… nothing!”

The monk shouts from the kitchen, “It’s like the one about the mountain! It’s there, then it’s not. And then, just when you least expect it, it’s there again! Bit of a puzzle. Probably something to do with desire. Usually turns out to be.”

I ask him if we’re still on hold. He confirms that we are and adds that he’s happy to stay on the line. Says it’s good mindfulness training. The cycling voice recording makes him think of the endless nature of karma and reincarnation. Good for him.

Then there’s a banging on the back door.

Did they make my house part of the Bruce Highway and not tell me?

I think of calling Dave. Got his number jotted down. But nah. He can reach out first.

I navigate the Fler Furniture obstacle course, my wife’s final joke on me. Then I confront the menace doing lasting damage to the flyscreen.

“Ollie, buddy, I’ve heard about your good fortune…”

It’s Pat from the tip. Bent as a pig’s tail.

“I heard at the Tradie’s. This hole where things just… go away. Clean. Bloody miracle. I was wondering if you would be open to… a few sneaky disposals, nothing huge. Happy to slip some coins into your palm for the privilege, of course.”

The scientist puts their oar in. “Uh, on that topic, I think the CSIRO could arrange some federal funding, appropriate compensation for a guarantee of ongoing scientific access…”

Everyone wants a piece of me today! I tell Pat that I’ll take his offer under advisement and shut the door on his face.

No sooner is that done then there’s an ungodly kerfuffle out the front. Like someone having a row and smashing a beer bottle. If it’s the kids again, I’ll truss them up and pitch them in the hole myself.

Worse, it’s the QTV van, and a reporter with shoulder pads she probably filched from Mel Gibson. Trudging behind her is a lad with a beefy camera perched on his shoulder like an obese parrot.

Even here on a country road, they’ve somehow managed to have a prang. They’ve bumped into a charter bus and splintered the front light.

A smarmy geezer in a white robe descends from the bus and beseeches the TV crew not to worry about the damage. He proclaims that the front lights of charter buses are only illusions to the enlightened soul. Then tells the news crew his mission can wait until their business is finished.

In the bus, gaunt faces press to the windows.

The lady from the TV shoves a microphone in my face and shoots questions. When did you discover the hole? Last week. Has anyone fallen in? No, but I threw in some rocks, they vanished. What are you going to do with the hole? I’m hoping the council can sort it, but they say anything on the driveway is my responsibility. Can people come and see the hole? Sure, but it’s ten thousand dollars for five minutes, and then I get to push you in. Do you think the council is shirking its responsibilities to a hard-working ratepayer and pensioner? Yes, I’ve been calling them all week.

They want to film the hole. Not much to see. Just white, like the margins in a book. Doesn’t glow. No noise. Sometimes there’s little squiggles, but they fade quick. As far as a gap in the fabric of reality goes, it’s not putting in much effort.

The cameraman leans over the hole and grunts. Says the hole won’t show up on the recording.

The reporter swallows their frustration and thanks me for my time. Says they should still be able to do something with the useless council angle. They drive off. So much for my short but fulfilling career as a TV star.

Meanwhile, the gate crashers in white frocks have vacated their bus and are setting up tents across the road. I almost admire the cheek. Their leader floats over to me and spins some guff about their religion, how they have prayed for emptiness to manifest on earth so their souls can unite with the pure source of existence. Claims they want to meditate on the hole and

humanity’s ultimate deliverance from suffering.

I tell them it’s a free country, but I don’t want them on my side of the road, and also, I’m putting up a fence around the hole first thing tomorrow. Maybe a sniper tower as well, haven’t decided yet.

The man bows his head to me. He assures me his coterie will maintain a respectful distance.

Like I don’t know they all plan to jump in first chance they get.

The monk runs out onto the lawn in a hurry. Says the council finally answered the phone.

Transpires that when they found out I was busy, quick as a whip snake they declared they would call back later and hung up.

Typical. They don’t want to deal with this either.

Maybe I should give Dave a call. Ask him to sort this for his old man.

We wander back inside, and I put on a fresh pot of tea. Plate up more bickies.

When we’re all snug, I ask the visiting brain trust if they have any ideas on getting rid of the hole.

The scientist thinks it over. Reflects that there is already a lot of emptiness inside solid things. Spaces between atoms. So maybe this is normal. Sometimes there’s just a gap. A hole in things.

The monk agrees that the world isn’t solid. Not really. We only see it that way. The world’s always changing. Ditch your attachments, and there’s no difference between the mountain that’s there and the mountain that’s not there. All comes out in the wash.

I don’t quite get either of them, but that’s life for you. It all comes down to one big fat question mark.

I thank them, and they head off to report to their respective orgs. Get instructions. Nice of them to travel all this way to visit an old man looking for expert advice on a sticky issue.

I go into the kitchen and open the address book next to the phone. Dave’s number. Haven’t seen him since his mum’s funeral.

I rip the page out and scrunch it into a ball.

I walk over to the hole. I scrutinise. I ponder. And I confirm there’s nothing to see.

I toss the ball in.

The next morning, the camp across the road is gone.

So’s the hole. Dirt again.

Might visit the RSL later. Get lunch. Watch footy on the TV. Have a pint.

Wonder if there’s anything good on TV.

Leg’s acting up.

Have an early night.

Forgotten something?

Can’t be important.

Nothing to worry about.