March 1st, 2023:
"I'm not suicidal, I'm homicidal," declares a man wearing a cochlear implant as he plonks himself opposite me. We are both savouring our medium-rare steaks on a Wednesday night at Carnamah Pub. Even the axolotls in the corner seem slightly unsettled by his remark. I relax into my body, trying not to invoke thoughts of the Australian Gothic. Shane, who openly identifies as a 'shit kicker', spends long days on farms digging holes for soil testing. Initially, he had difficulty understanding me, but as the meal progressed, he no longer needed me to repeat myself. His blue eyes and weathered skin are marked with countless stories. An ex-army veteran, now dealing with PTSD, he prefers working alone, enabling him to vent his violent moods without causing harm to others. In many ways, he reminds me of my cousin Nick, a closet philosopher dressed in Hi-Viz.