I was on the way to pick up a vintage lamp in North Sydney one Monday evening. I scrolled through the internet market place where I found the lamp and saw a wooden bedside table. It had been a long, hard search for a bedside table that would fit with the aesthetic of my vintage boho jail cell-like room at Lodge 45. At last I prevailed and the item was only the next suburb over from where I was headed.

I collected the vintage lamp. I messaged the seller and she responded quickly,

“Hi Rory. Wait, is this the Rory I think it is?!?! 😀 😀 … Anyway, yes it’s available.”

“Probably not, unless my books are more famous than I think? Haha. Great, where is it?”

“Rory Homestead! I went to high school with a Rory Homestead … if not, never mind hahahahah. Neutral bay.”

“No way! I don’t remember an Isla at Sucia Maria, so someone else I’m guessing haha. Cool. I’m actually in North Sydney at the moment picking something up, would it be crazy to come grab it now? If not, no worries, I’m flexible tomorrow.”

“Sure come on over. 112 Ben Boyd Rd. I’m so dumb. Should’ve just checked your profile. Saw your photo. Totally not the Rory Homestead I know 😂”

“Hahaha. Awesome thanks, I’ll be there in about 15-20.”

“No worries, see you soon. It’s the brick building, terra cotta tiles. Front gate can be pushed open and we are the fourth house down.”

My instincts tingled as I read our exchange.

Should I launch it?, I thought, my fingers suspended. “Haha right. Well what did you think of the photos? …”. It’d be aggressive … , my mind continued.

“Brick house, we’re the 4th door down.”

“We’re”, I noted. She’s making it known she’s not alone. Sounds like a partner. Shit unless it’s a room mate and the threesome is on? …

I stalked her social media profile. Her cover photo was a vague, slightly commercial yet semi-real looking Asian guy. Almost a K-pop star. But with a genuine edge to their vibe.

That’s either a boyfriend or she’s a freak. Likely boyfriend. Wait, some cuckoldry on the cards here? …

Scenarios played over in my mind.

Isla answers the door. She’s in a silk gown.

“Heeeyy Rory, come in! Nice to meet you.”, she says, kissing the edge of my mouth paired with a sensual hug.

She guides me to enter. I step inside.

“This is Fang.”, she says gesturing to the corner of the front living room.

“Hello Rory …”, Fang answers velvetly, from an arm chair, slowly stroking and teasing his pecker.

I look back at Isla. She’s staring at me lustfully. She drops her gown to the floor, eyes still locked on me like laser beams …

The thought stirred in my head as I knocked on the front door.

Isla and an Asian Aussie man both answered the door with the bedside table. The two smiled and welcomed me warmly and formally in unison.

“Two Rory Homesteads on the North Shore. What are the odds? …”, I bantered.

“Ah, yeh.” Isla answered coldly, slightly confused. “You got cash or?”, she fired with hasteful bluntness.

I laughed internally as I watched the absurd fantasy be murdered by reality, decompose, and leave only a skeleton of embarrassment.

We did the deal. I picked up the table, thanked them and left.

“Hello Rory …”,

Fang’s fictional words echoed in my mind out on the street, breaking me into psychotic laughter, stirred on by the shame at being only half doubtful of the scenario before the door was answered.

I ordered an Uber taxi. “Naphanphak” was my driver. Judging by her profile picture she looked cute. My body responded.

“Oh fucking stop it mate!”, I bollocked my mind aloud as the intrusive thoughts began again.

Naphanphak arrived a few minutes later and greeted me politely. She opened the boot of the car and I placed the bedside table in. Confused, I watched her then go to the rear passenger side door on the opposite side of the driver to get something. I went to the other side and got in the back. When I did so she was unbuckling a large child booster seat. She opened the door in front and placed the booster in. She slammed the door shut, suspending me in a capsule of quiet momentarily, as feelings simmered. She opened the driver door, entered the capsule, and resealed us. We took off in silence. I looked at her in front. Then across at the booster seat. Then the car dash clock. It read 8 PM. I began to cry.

Naphanphak dropped me off fifteen minutes later. I carried the bedside table and lamp up to my room at Lodge 45.

With the bedside table and lamp addition the place was coming together.

“I was close to being complete …”, I said to myself with amusement, trying to recall the movie quote. I did.

”Whatever else happens I’ve got that bedside table problem handled …”, I continued, this time in Edward Norton’s character’s voice from Fight Club.

I plugged in the lamp and shifted the table towards the bed, looping the dialogue to myself out loud in a psychotic, self amused form of theatre, hitting Ed’s mark as meticulously as possible.

My autism fired hard that evening.