THE BOULAH RING WAS A BAND OF AFFLUENT SUBURBS which orbited the Waluralla CBD in a rough green circle, bound to the north and east by the Arafura Sea and to the south and west by a thick bend of the Waluralla River. Over the river the wide lawns, chic mansions and belts of sanitized savannah disintegrated into a concrete sprawl which swept far beyond the hazy horizons. Real estate prices began a slow dive with every congested mile and bottomed at the outermost extension of the tropical city, the satellite of Wadleena. It was the butt of many Boulah Ring jokes and for this reason I didn't venture there much, but curiosity is a strange force: as I swung on to the Yunupingu Highway I felt willing to risk any humiliation, any inconvenience or harm.

I had taken a large gamble already in raiding the University of Waluralla's computer network to find Kristian Holstein's address, 792 Bonda Wongee Street, South Wadleena, and suffered the consequences when Astella called me a weirdo. It didn't worry me: I was on to the tracks of something deeper than dance parties, cocktails, even fashion.

The drive to Wadleena was a 40 minute cartoon loop of traffic clogs, windowless factories, secondhand car yards and dull red blocks of flats. A pair of smokestacks marked the entrance into the suburb. I turned off the highway and found what they belonged to, a low metal factory which proudly boasted to be the largest in Waluralla. I generally try to ignore ugliness, but I could not help noticing a 10 metre long sign which ran along the road. I slammed on the brakes when I read what it framed:

Ф
Creswell Corporation Australian Headquarters
1055 Houston Street, South Wadleena
The Creswell Corporation's Wadleena plant is not only the largest factory in Waluralla, but is also the largest private employer in the southern suburbs, providing more than 6,000 jobs. In association with its 65 subsidiary companies, the Creswell Corporation manufactures and markets one of the most extensive range of clothing, entertainment and cosmetics in the world.
Ф

Bonda Wongee Street was only five blocks away; opposite a smaller Creswell Corporation sign, with arrows pointing to the factory, I stopped at a little green fibro house with a direct view of the twin smokestacks. I suddenly felt very nervous and out of place. That's it man, you've seen the place, now get out of here. But before I could start up the engine the front door of the fibro creaked open and a woman in a cliched apron and curlers in her hair stepped out.

<<Yes?>>

<<Uh... does Kristian Holstein live here?>> I asked, then instantly regretted my lack of tact. She looked down for a moment, said wiping her eyes: <<I'm sorry. He passed on last week. Were you a friend of his?>>

<<Well... I sort of knew him.>>

She gestured me inside, led me with slow steps on creaky floorboards to a kitchen lined with fading calendars. <<Would you like a drink?>>

<<No thanks. Listen, I don't want to intrude.>>

<<Not at all>> she said. <<Kristian never had many visitors anyway; any friend of his is welcome now, now that...>>

She broke down again, and hid it by pouring me a drink anyway. She seemed to snarl at me: <<What happened to my son? Why won't they say anything?>>

Uncomfortable with these emotional scenes I turned looking for escape, then smelt something oddly familiar. I followed the musky odor down a dark corridor and into a sudden explosion of colour which could only have been Kristian's bedroom. An unmade bed with a Mexican bedspread was nestled beneath a few lamps shaped like astrological motifs which spread a multitude of luminous rings on the carpet. But my attention was directed towards a bedside table where among a row of deodorant and hairspray containers sat a half empty bottle of Hedione #5. Its exuberant scent was perfectly suited to this room. I picked it up to study its gaudy labelling, see who made it. In microscopic lettering were the words: Glam Cosmetics, a Subsidiary of Creswell Corporation. And below: Ф.

A mad desire made me rip open the cupboard, and drag out its contents. A pair of jeans I had seen on my last trip to the gay quarter, made by Zeus Jeanswear, with a tiny Ф carved into the back pocket. A flowery, Balinese shirt commissioned by the same subsidiary. I was relieved when I found a pair of raving shoes without a single Creswell or subsidiary on them, but turning them over I saw an inconspicuous Ф in each soul. On the bookshelf opposite the bed, a book about Aboriginal art stood open exposing a work in the Central Australian school. It looked like a maze.

FUCK, WHO WAS THIS GUY?
CASSIUS CROON (c)opyright Rob Sullivan 1996-2023. Contact the author for all your criticisms and feedbacks.