What's Next
Ep 4 - What’s Next - Season Three
By Steve Gray
The ‘Facey Page’ lit up when Sally mentioned the ‘Sensorial thing.’ People were full of positive words, others called it an imposition upon people's privacy and a whole lot more.
Sally discussed it with Soren and Rex, then the girls at Chapter Two bookshop. They figured it would be worth trying out, there was always the money-back guarantee.
Sally mentioned she would think about it a bit more, then mentioned there was a new opening at the gallery this week. They were all keen, the ‘Facey Page’ lit up again with, ‘Who's going to the opening?’
It was a big gathering, something about the weather, or perhaps the wine on offer and the way that they kept the formalities to a minimum. It always seemed to be a nice break from the drudgery of doing business.
The gallery air grew thick with the scent of Chardonnay and expensive visual art. Soren nudged Rex, gesturing subtly toward Carlos, who was currently attempting to explain the structural integrity of a Spanish sunset to Trish. Trish was nodding with the intense concentration of someone whose actual husband was currently at home in track pants trying to fix a clogged garbage disposal.
'If Carlos rolls his R’s any harder,' Soren muttered, 'he’s going to sprain his tongue.'
'Let him dream,' Rex chuckled, grabbing a cube of cheddar from a passing platter. 'It’s the most action this gallery has seen since someone tripped and went headfirst into a paper-mâché installation last spring.'
Meanwhile, Christie Minns had cornered Robert from Sensorial. She was holding his business card as if it were a rare map to El Dorado. 'So, Robert,' she said, her voice dropping into her signature podcast register, 'this 'Sensorial thing.' Is it a threat to civil liberties, or is it just excellent marketing? My listeners are dying to know if you’re tracking their brainwaves or just their foot traffic.'
Robert smiled the smooth, unflappable smile of a man who had already secured three new corporate contracts that morning. 'We mostly just track how long people stare at the scented candle display before they give up and buy one, Christie. No brainwashing required. Though, I can’t speak for Chris Jones’s new shop.'
Chris Jones, hearing her name, floated over. She was already radiating the faint, overwhelming aura of lavender and eucalyptus. 'Oh, my candles don’t brainwash,' Chris chimed in cheerfully. 'They just gently hypnotise you into believing your house doesn’t smell like wet dog. It’s a very ethical business model.'
Across the room, the atmosphere shifted from casual mingling to high-stakes finance. Wayne Plum was staring at a large, abstract canvas that looked remarkably like a bicycle accident inside a tomato soup factory. He pulled out his wallet with the theatrical flair of a man about to change a life. When he handed his credit card to Vera, the Director, she let out a gasp that was slightly louder than acoustically necessary for a dignified art space.
'Five thousand,' Wayne announced to no one in particular, though he ensured his voice carried directly to Christie’s microphone. 'A triumph of form and colour. It speaks to the modern entrepreneurial struggle.'
'It speaks to your tax write-offs, Wayne,' Gail called out from her corner, where she was still holding court with Bob the Cobbler. Bob nodded sagely, his leather-apron-stained fingers wrapped tightly around a beer.
Vera, clutching the deposit slip like a winning lottery ticket, immediately signalled the gallery assistant to stick a bright red dot next to the painting. The artist, standing nearby in an asymmetrical linen shirt, looked as though he might weep with gratitude, or perhaps he was just allergic to Chris Jones’s perfume samples.
As the evening wound down, the core group gravitated toward the back courtyard. The wine was running low, which meant it was time for the real business strategy to begin. Gail pulled out a small leather notepad, her accountant instincts overriding the three glasses of bubbly she had consumed.
'Alright, look,' Gail said, tapping a pen against her chin. 'We need a follow-up. This strip of shops is gaining momentum, but the Facey Page is getting chaotic. Someone posted a three-paragraph rant yesterday claiming the Sensorial sensors gave their cat anxiety.'
'That was Sarah,' Sally said, laughing. 'Her cat has anxiety because she dresses it in miniature tweed waistcoats. It has nothing to do with Robert’s tech.'
'Be that as it may,' Gail continued, 'we need a structured meetup. A strategy workshop. Vera has offered the gallery space again, provided Wayne doesn’t buy the walls out from under us.'
Robert raised his glass. 'As the resident outsider turned insider, I propose a toast. To Darley Street. Where the gossip is fast, the art is exquisite, and the bookkeeping may be questionable.'
'Hey!' Gail protested, though she clinked her glass anyway.
Sally pulled out her phone. The screen illuminated her face, reflecting a dozen new notifications. The ‘Facey Page’ was already mutating.
'Did anyone see what Wayne bought?' one comment read.
'I heard Carlos is actually from Ohio, not Barcelona,' read another.
Sally smiled and slipped the phone back into her pocket.
No two days were the same on Darley Street, and tomorrow, the internet would have a whole new set of rumours to dissect. But for tonight, the till was full, the community was intact, and nobody had ruined the art.
No two days were the same in Darley Street; people come, and people go. Today was possibly a glimpse into a more fascinating future, of fun and frivolity.
Steve writes with passion and intrigue, aiming to inspire and/or raise awareness of topics. His poetry can take abstract turns, and his 'Odd Angry Writes' on his website are sure to turn heads with his aggressive approach to topics.
A background in Art and Design, as well as teaching, often gives his written pieces a unique creative perspective.
With a bunch of e-books under his belt and some honourable mentions in the Geelong Writers Group and various stories here in the Geelong Ceral, puts his work in good standing.
