On To Jakarta.

We found Roland passed out on his bed, a sheet twisted around his ankle. Holly and I got him up and showered. He was supposed to be at the airport by six thirty. “You just want to get rid of me,” he kept saying.

There was some truth in that. When the headhunter had called about the job in Jakarta, Roland said he’d think about it. “What’s to think about, Roland?” Holly asked at the time. “Nobody’s beating down your door here.”

There was some truth in that, too. He hadn’t worked in five years. “Count your blessings,” Holly said at the airport. We left him weaving through the crowd, his old flat-bottomed suitcase in one hand. He didn’t even wave to us.

I’d known Roland since he interviewed me back in ’77. He was the creative director at Ross and Daniels in those days, winner of three Cannes awards, a fighter pilot during the war, nose broken three times, collarbone twice.

What did Roland expect? Not Jakarta, that’s for sure. He’d been there during the war. It was a staging area for what he called the Pacific Squabble.

He’d given me a job — he’d given us all jobs — now he needed one himself. Okay, it was Jakarta, not exactly Madison Avenue. What did Roland expect? Not Jakarta, that’s for sure. He’d been there during the war. It was a staging area for what he called the Pacific Squabble.

Anyway, we got him on the flight, but we should have known that wasn’t the end of it. He called the next day, saying he was coming back, this time on his own dime. He’d forgotten his portfolio. No portfolio, no job. He blamed us. “Can’t rely on you two for anything,” he’d said to Holly.

He didn’t even call when he got home. I found him at the bar, still in the same clothes, telling Liam O’Malley and Sean Cagney he’d pissed himself on the plane. They were South Africans, too, Roland’s oldest friends. Liam O’Malley shook his head. “Pissed yourself,” O’Malley said. “No dignity there, Roland. You’re too old to be gallivanting, anyway.”

Roland just yawned, the scar across the bridge of his nose crinkling up. He hadn’t slept in twenty-four hours. His suitcase was under the table.

Holly was reading her newspaper, bifocals low on her nose.

“It’s your fault, you old bat,” Roland said to her.

“I’m not your mother,” Holly said.

“So that’s that, then,” Cagney said to us. “All the way to Jakarta for nothing. Seems like a waste, doesn’t it? How did he forget his portfolio?”

She shook her newspaper, licked her thumb, turned the page.

“I told you it was a bad idea,” Roland said.

He got up and went to the washroom.

“So that’s that, then,” Cagney said to us. “All the way to Jakarta for nothing. Seems like a waste, doesn’t it? How did he forget his portfolio?”

“He’d forget his head if it wasn’t screwed on,” Holly said.

Roland stopped to talk to some old rugby chums. They stood there in their sweaters, roaring when Roland told them about Jakarta. “Bloody armpit of the world,” he was saying. “Nothing but pestilence and starvation.” They slapped him on the back, telling him no self-respecting South African lived there.“The place needs to be bombed,” Roland said.

Holly put down her paper. “Now we’ll have to hear about that for the next twenty years,” she said.

“I doubt any of us will live that long,” O’Malley said, stroking his beard. “What happened, anyway?”

“He wasn’t even packed when we got there,” she said. “All his clothes were in the laundry hamper.”

The back of the toilet was broken, the floater held together with a pair of old underwear. “I couldn’t even find his toothbrush,” I said.

I told them I’d gone to get his shaving kit out of the washroom. The back of the toilet was broken, the floater held together with a pair of old underwear. “I couldn’t even find his toothbrush,” I said.

“That’s not the Roland we used to know,” O’Malley said. “Is it, Sean?”

They’d all emigrated back in the early sixties, going into advertising, playing rugby on the weekends. Roland eventually became creative director at Ross and Daniels. He hired Cagney, then O’Malley, then Holly.

Cagney and O’Malley still wore tight sweaters with rugby crests. Their stomachs protruded like most of the old rugby players. Holly had gone gray early, never married. They lived in apartments relatively close to the bar.

“He could have done that job with his eyes closed,” Cagney said.

“We’ll never know now, will we?” Holly said.

Roland came back and started in about Jakarta again.

“I place the responsibility on you, Holly,” he said.

“Stick it in your ear,” Holly said. “The state of your apartment, I’m surprised we found you.”

“And you, Willie,” he said to me. “I expect carelessness out of Holly, being old and senile. What’s your excuse? Young snipe like you. Why didn’t you remember my portfolio?”

“Don’t go blaming him,” Holly said. “You’re lucky he helped at all.”

“Where would he be if it wasn’t for me?”

“He would have gotten hired somewhere else.”

“Nobody would touch him,” Roland said.

“When did you become St. Francis of the Fields?”

“The day you became St. Mary of the Downtrodden.”

“You mucked that Jakarta job, Roland. Let it go at that.”

“I didn’t muck anything,” he said, rubbing his bent nose.

He had to belly land and walk off the wing. “Broke my nose in three places,” he said.

His broken nose was a story in itself. He joined the South African air force at seventeen when your chances of survival were maybe two in five. One time, the landing gear of his plane wouldn’t go down. He had to belly land and walk off the wing. “Broke my nose in three places,” he said.

Roland was my first interview in advertising. “I think you’re better than your work,” he’d said, going through my portfolio. He was drinking hard back then. His hands shook each time he turned a page. Three years later, he was out. Five years passed with no work. He knew Jakarta was his last chance.

“Such a shame,” Cagney was saying now.

“Idiots,” Roland said, going off to the washroom again. The rugby players were calling him a ‘nutter’ as he passed. He came back to the table with his fly half done up, yawning away, sitting down with a great thump.

“For heaven’s sake, Roland,” Holly shook her head, “you’re dead on your feet. Go home, for heaven’s sake before you do something really daft. Better yet, I’m going home before you do something really daft—if that’s even possible at this point.”

She finished her drink and got her coat from the front door rack. Roland went over and held the door open for her.

“Off you go,” he said. “Out in the street where you belong.” He fake kicked her as she went past, the rugby players laughed, then he came back rubbing his eyes, looking around the room with a blank-eyed stare.

“She’s right, Roland,” Cagney said. “Go get some sleep. We’ll take care of the tab. You can tell us more of your travails tomorrow.” He reached under the table and pulled out Roland’s suitcase. “I’ll even drop this off for you, if you like. Go on, you’re dead tired. Everything’s covered here.”

Roland looked at him, then stood up. “Maybe I will,” he said, picking up his suitcase, then waving to the rugby players as he put on his coat. The collar was turned in, the belt practically dragging on the floor.

“Nutter,” the rugby players yelled as he walked out the door.

“Poor man,” Cagney said after Roland left. “More tragedies than most, wouldn’t you agree, Liam?”

“Not all of his own making, either,” O’Malley said. “His daughter, for instance. Worst tragedy a man can have. Terrible way to die.”

“I didn’t even know he had a daughter,” I said. “What happened?”

“Killed herself, lad,” O’Malley said

“In a matter of speaking,” Cagney corrected him. “She tried passing a fake script at a pharmacy. On drugs, from what understand. Never got the full story. I doubt Roland did, either. Anyway, she tried passing a fake script and the pharmacist called the police. When they came, she panicked and ran into a coat hook. Impaled herself.”

“Roland was here at that point. They were supposed to join him, mother, daughter and son. They never bothered.”

“Was that here?” I asked.

“No, Johannesburg,” O’Malley said. “Roland was here at that point. They were supposed to join him, mother, daughter and son. They never bothered.”

“It wasn’t even his wife who sent word,” Cagney said.

“Wife’s sister, wasn’t it? I’m not even sure she spoke to him. Didn’t she just send the newspaper article? I think it was the front page clipping.”

“Something like that,” Cagney said. “You saw him on the downslide, lad,” he told me. “Certainly not the man we used to know, was he Liam? Used to fly gliders. Remember that, by god? Flew above a hurricane one time.”

“I think it was just a storm,” O’Malley said. “Took him right into Manitoba. Long time ago now, lad, but he was a hell of a pilot—and an artist. I still have a painting of his. Quite a nice one, actually. Not many people have lived a life like he has. Wouldn’t you agree, Liam?”

“Bloody shame, if you ask me, “O’Malley said. He should be enjoying his memories now, not gallivanting all over the place. Especially Jakarta. No money, though. Never saved anything. Let that be a lesson, Willie. Don’t waste your money on drink like us. Having said that, I think I’ll have another”

I told them I’d get the drinks.

“There’s a good lad,” O’Malley said. “You can start saving tomorrow.”

A few weeks later, Holly came in with some news. While Roland was in Jakarta, she’d gone to clean his place. In one of his drawers, she found his citizenship. He was sixty-six-years-old. That made him eligible for senior housing. Holly put him on a waiting list. As fortune would have it, she got a call that morning. There was vacancy at a place not three blocks away.

“But a home, Holly? Where’s the dignity in that?”

“Roland in a senior’s home?” Cagney said when she told us. “I can’t see that.”

“The man can’t take care of himself, Sean,” Holly said.

“But a home, Holly? Where’s the dignity in that?”

Roland was coming through the door.

“What are you all talking about?” he said.

O’Malley was stroking his beard.

“What’s wrong with you lot?” Roland said.

“Tell him, Holly,” O’Malley said.

“Well, out with it, woman,” Roland said. “Don’t sit there all cow-eyed.”

“You’re not going to like it,” she said.

“Like what?”

“I put you on a list for a senior’s home.”

“When?”

“While you were in Jakarta.”

“Hear this?” he said to us. “She’s trying to get me institutionalized.”

“We’re looking at the room tomorrow,” Holly said.

“Tomorrow? You’ll have me in diapers next.”

“Be here at five o’clock.”

The next day, Holly showed up at the bar.

“Finish your drink and let’s go,” she said to Roland.

He drained his glass, wiped his moustache, and followed her out.

“You’re still a sneaky old bat, Holly,” he said.

They were still calling him a “nutter,” but they had that look in their eyes.

The room was next to the elevators. Roland said it reminded him of a drying-out facility. Holly had the rugby players bring over Roland’s leather wing chair and television. They were still calling him a “nutter,” but they had that look in their eyes. We all looked like we were having a dog put down. Roland ignored it at first, but then he started to get irritated with all of us.

“Bloody pillocks,” he said. “Go on, take off.”

We brought over the last of Roland’s stuff the next day. He was watching rugby. “They’re playing like summer tarts,” he said.

Cagney walked around with his hands in his pockets.

Roland finally gave him a nod.

“Off you go,” he said.

I followed Cagney and O’Malley downstairs.

“Hell of a way to end up,” Cagney said, lighting a cigarette. “Hurts me greatly, I can tell you that. I wonder if we’ll all end up here. God, I hope not.”

A flu bug was going around that February. The senior’s homes were the hardest hit. Holly kept calling Roland, asking if he was okay. He told her he was fine. Then she got a call saying Roland was in hospital. There was fluid in his lungs. He’d been sick for over a week without telling anybody. Three days later, he drifted into a coma, dying just before midnight.

One had him in his uniform, looking like a young Hemingway, standing in front of a plane with other pilots.

The wake was at the bar that Sunday. Along the wall, Holly put up a bunch of pictures. Some went back to Roland’s early days in South Africa. One had him in his uniform, looking like a young Hemingway, standing in front of a plane with other pilots. It was taken in the forties, somewhere outside of Durban. Another showed Roland with his family before he emigrated to Toronto.

Cagney started the speeches, telling everyone how Roland pissing himself on the way to Jakarta. “Nutter,” the rugby players yelled. Then Holly got up. “To Roland,” she said. “Silly old sod. Miss you already.”

Everyone raised their glasses.

The rugby players asked if he could put Roland’s picture up at the club. Holy gave him the one of Roland in uniform. I helped her take down the rest, giving some to Cagney and O’Malley, a few to me. We finished up singing Shosholoza, then the bar started to clear out.

“That’s it, I suppose,” Cagney said, getting his coat.

They were singing “Shosholoza.”

We followed him out to the street. Standing by the window, we watched the rugby players still carrying on inside. Holly looped her hand through O’Malley’s arm, the other through Cagney’s.

“He would have liked that,” Cagney said.

“He would,” O’Malley agreed.

“Should we get a cab?”

“Let’s walk a bit,” Holly said.

They went off arm in arm down the street.

Robert Cormack is a satirist, novelist, and blogger. His first novel “You Can Lead a Horse to Water (But You Can’t Make It Scuba Dive)” is available online and at most major bookstores. Check out Skyhorse Press or Simon and Schuster for more details.