Coda
A short story by Simon Groth
Price: $5.00
Martin Finn wants to write the great Australian novel. Only trouble is he can’t speak, he can’t type, move a muscle in his body, only his eyes—up and down.
A Mini Shot of fiction published by Vignette Press. One magazine. One story. The perfect size to slip into your pocket for when you need a quick injection of fiction or have five minutes to kill. Mini Shots is a new concept magazine series. Each magazine contains one short story only—the perfect size to read on the tram to work, over your morning coffee or while you’re waiting for a friend.
Coda is essentially a dress rehearsal for what would become my first novel Here Today. I suspect I was reluctant to dive head first into something as daunting as a novel, so I farted around instead with a short story using the same characters. This was, though not by design, a good idea and the story has become probably my most widely read fiction and a pretty good indication of what my writing is all about. At least I think so. I could be wrong. An earlier version of the story was published in Syntax Magazine around 2002 and an even earlier version was highly commended in the State Library of Queensland Young Writers Award in 2001. This 2007 redraft is not significantly different from its earlier incarnations.
Here’s how it starts:
MARTIN FINN rolls his eyes at me. Two seconds into my first patient here and I’ve put my foot in it. How is he? He can’t move a muscle in his body! How do you think he feels, Astrid?
I clear my throat. He watches my discomfort.
‘Ah. Sorry . Bridget did some work on your chair last week. I’m Astrid. I’m taking over her caseload for a while, so I wanted to check your wheelchair over. Is that okay?’
Again, he rolls his eyes. What the hell does he mean by that? Yeah-whatever-go-ahead? Bugger-off-little-girl-and-leave-me-in-my-misery?
You could hardly blame him for being a little tetchy, I suppose.
‘Are you Mr Finn?’
Rolling the eyes again.
‘Martin Finn?’
First blinks, then rolls the eyes.
‘Um.’
The man I assume is Martin Finn is in a fairly standard orthopaedic wheelchair set near the window with a view of the park. He is perhaps mid thirties. A high headrest extends from the back of the chair and wraps around to the sides of his jaw. Supports for his hands and his calves augment the armrests and footplates. The wheels do not have handrail for him to self-propel. The dressings for his tracheostomy tube remind me of a priest’s white collar. A build-up of mucous from the hole into his trachea has stained the collar of his t-shirt. The nasogastric feeding tube wraps over his ear like a cool bodyguard’s earpiece.
Beside the chair is a communication board with the alphabet, numbers and words and phrases that I assume are in common usage: STOP, WINDOW, NURSE, DOCTOR, GO, STAY. I notice there are also names: KARYN, CONRAD, SHELLEY.
‘I’m sorry , I don’t understand your communication technique. I’ll come back a bit later, okay?’
I watch the expected roll of the eyes. On closer inspection it seems to be a quick glance at the ceiling.
Coda is one of the ten Collected Stories.
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[...] Coda: Martin Finn wants to write the great Australian novel. Only trouble is he can’t speak, he can’t type, move a muscle in his body, only his eyes—up and down. Coda is only available as a digital download in Collected Stories. More about Coda. [...]