I was walking past my local video store earlier today, after having cycled all over Brunswick / Coburg / Pascoe Vale for four hours looking at apartments. I figured there was no way I'd get anything useful done in the afternoon on account of the heat, so on a whim I decided to get a movie and some beer, and sit in front of the tube for a few hours until I felt revitalised.
I got the beer first from the liquor store next door, then went in to browse for movies. I selected three. One or two of which I planned to watch in the coming afternoon, and one for another night later in the week. My selections were 'The Animatrix', a comic style version of 'The Watchmen' that I hadn't seen before, and 'Unforgiven' starring Clint Eastwood. I took them to the front of the store and waited in line to be served.
When I reached the counter, and began searching for my membership card, a mental block prevented me from recalling the name of the store I was in. I mumbled to myself as I searched, hoping that the woman serving would stop me when I found the correct card. Since I had not cleaned out my wallet for many years, this went on for some time. "Hmmm... What do I have here? Video Ezy Boronia, Blockbuster Ferntree Gully, Video Ezy Montrose... What is the name of this store again? Where am I? ... Video Ezy Outer Eastern Suburbs? Does that help? ..."
By the time the woman stopped me, I had emptied my wallet of six membership cards from various stores all over Melbourne. The woman said "This is DVD Destination. Have you hired from here before?"
My mind may have been woozy from dehydration after having cycled around in the heat all morning. I was stumped by her question. "I think so, but, maybe not. I don't know. Did this store... used to... trade under a different name, maybe?"
"A few years ago, before I started working here, this store was a Video Ezy. Give me the orange card. No, the clear one. Yes that one."
She took the card from me and swiped it in her reader. She turned to me and said "You're banned from Boronia. Give me another Video Ezy card."
That I was banned from Boronia was news to me. I stood confused while I handed her another card. "You're banned from Montrose too."
I gave her yet another card. "Banned."
"What? Why? Does it tell you?" I said, referring to the computer monitor that had so bluntly and without evidence labelled me an habitually dishonest criminal.
"It doesn't give specifics," she said, "but people are banned because they fail to return movies. Movies are expensive to replace."
"I don't remember failing to return any movie. What movie?"
"Movies." she corrected me. "It doesn't give specifics."
I thought again, but couldn't remember any trouble with any video store in the past. "This is very odd." I said. "Whatever incident or incidents you are referring to must have happened a long time ago."
The woman was unmoved. "We do not take the step of banning someone lightly. Normally we just give a warning. Only people who repeatedly fail to return movies and ignore our reminder letters and phone calls end up being banned." She looked at me closely then down at the pile of cards on the counter. "So you move to a new store each time you hire videos? Perhaps you should keep better track of where you've been."
"What? No! There's been some kind of mistake. All these cards I've pulled out, I haven't used them in years. It may look as if I hire videos all the time, but really I don't. I just don't clean out my wallet very often. I came in here today on a whim. I can't even remember the last time I hired a movie. This is all very surprising to me. Can you tell me anything at all about this crime I'm supposed to have committed?"
The woman looked at me shrewdly. "It was at the Boronia store, in 2001."
"2001! How long do these bans last? Am I banned for life? What about my children, or my children's children? Will they be banned too?"
"There is no way for me to override the computer. I'm sorry. I can't let you take the movies."
"This is all wrong. I'm no criminal! I'm like a straight-A-student church-going poster boy!" I looked around for support, but there were no former classmates or altar boys nearby to back up my claim. I was alone. I was also sweaty and dishevelled, my hair was all crazy from my bike helmet, I had a six-pack of beer at my feet, and I found myself protesting my innocence before the prejudiced eyes of a hostile local shopkeeper.
While the woman waited silently for me to accept the situation, a realisation hit me. "I'm an outlaw." I said.
"Yes."
I was sure I hadn't committed any video-card fraud in 2001, but it seemed pointless to argue. In fact I kind of liked the idea of being hunted by the law. It made me feel invigorated. I no longer wanted an investigation to prove my innocence, and I no longer cared about the movies. Staying alert was more important. I had to start watching my back. I looked around to see who else might have seen me browsing the shelves and might remember my face. I looked back up at the woman behind the counter, judging what her next move would be. I figured she wasn't the type to talk about having seen me, so I didn't need to resort to any intimidatory tactics. I could just keep my cool and stroll on outside.
"I'm gonna clear off." I said.
"I think that's the best thing you can do."
I gathered my cards from the counter, hoisted my bag on my shoulder, picked up my beer from the floor, and headed back out onto the hot main street. I vowed to continue my apartment search with renewed vigour. Tecoma town just didn't feel so welcoming anymore.
