Put together an Irish convict, a Greek fisherman, a Yankee whaler and a Dreamtime Aborigine, and you have Carson O'Flaherty. If he'd had the worst aspects of each, he would have aspired to losing teeth in bar fights. Instead, he was clever, funny, earthy and ready for anything. He was as likely to come up with a new proof of the Pythagorean Theorem as he was to get a notion that there was treasure in your backyard and fill the place with holes. He could sit for hours quietly contemplating the shadows of a rock formation or swap dirty jokes with you non-stop until three in the morning.
         I met Carson on a visit to Melbourne. He has a peculiarity common to Australians, a low tolerance for complaining. They do complain, but they keep all fussing in bounds. In my first week Downunder, I noticed the slogan, "Enough whingeing for today." Once I figured out what whingeing was, I learned they meant it. Not a single complaint would escape the mouth of an Aussie after the day's promise had been made. I even found myself complaining less.
         Eventually, Carson returned the visit. When I picked him up at the airport, he was half asleep, so I put him to bed. As he slept, I got back to my day job. I decided I could combine work with my hosting duties by bringing Carson into town with me after his nap. It put Carson right into the middle of real situations in what may be the Capital City of Complaint. I never suspected what this would lead to.
         While I'm waiting for my band to make it big, I scout locations for independent films. My latest project was finding a location for a low-budget horror film. There can never be too many low budget horror films because teenagers always want to see kids who speak their slang, listen to their music, engage in clique warfare and get naked and dead.
         I always start my research online, looking through real estate sites. Empty property in New York swallows up money, and the owners are usually glad to have a bit of income. If the commitment is only a week and the payment is in cash, so much the better.
         I found several possibilities, including a perfect spot to shoot a zombie scene - a ritzy apartment with a view of Central Park. I would never have been invited in as a guest by the owner, but I called the realtor about a one-week rental. I told her I was considering several places, and I used an Ivy League manner I'd picked up from an actor who played snobs in direct-to-video SF movies.
         The realtor told me it was impossible, but she'd check with the owner. I told her it wasn't necessary. Mr. Scorsese preferred another location. This one just had the advantage of being empty, which made blocking out the scenes easier. I was glad to confirm it wasn't available. (I've never met Scorsese, but I've found his name opens doors.)
         Within twenty minutes, I had an appointment to view the location. She even let me know that she had power of attorney, so she could close the deal on the spot. Could I stop by in an hour? I checked my watch. Carson was still asleep, but he'd had three hours. I knocked on his door.
         "Come in."
         I found him naked, stooped over, picking the aspirins off the floor and plinking them back into the plastic bottle. The pills had been spilled out into a spiral design. "Have a good nap?" I asked.
         "Perfect," he said. "These aren't zamia seeds, but, with a bit of a wongga chant, they kept the quinkans away." He dropped the last pill into the bottle and handed it to me.
         "No, you keep them," I said. "You may need them later."
         "Right," he said.
         After Carson was dressed and had eaten a whole box of cereal, we took the Seven to Manhattan, and then the Six up to Lex and 59th.
         Mrs. Arbutus was about fifty, heavy-set and dressed in brick red Chanel. She reminded me of a nun I had in grade school. That woman could hit me in the ear with a piece of chalk from across the room. I had difficulty making eye contact as Mrs. Arbutus looked me over. I didn't pass inspection, but she was delighted to meet Carson.
         Carson knew my plan, and he fell right into role, pretending to be the assistant director of photography. "This is a fine building," he said, running his hand along the framing of the door.
         I wasn't interested in the exterior of the building, but Carson made a big deal of it. He borrowed my tape measure, and called out the widths of the front door, side windows and a planter. I scrambled to grab my pad and write down this useless information. Then he looked in the wrong direction for oncoming traffic and dashed across the street. Brakes squealed and he got a New York greeting of curses and horns. From across the street, in Central Park, Carson made squares with his fingers and peered at us. He closed his eyes, shook his head, frowned, and then nodded slowly.
         It was a great show, but I wasn't getting anything done, and I didn't know how much time Mrs. Arbutus would give us. I waved for him to come back, and he did, creating another round of traffic chaos.
         "Well?" Mrs. Arbutus asked.
         Carson furrowed his brow and looked solemn just long enough to unsettle her. Then he broke into a glorious smile and nodded. "I can make it work," he said.
         I felt relief, even though Carson's film only existed in his imagination. "Let's go inside," I said.
         Mrs. Arbutus began to explain the history of the house and its many features.
         I let her and Carson walk off while I did my own inspection. The place had rich, expensive wallpaper and lots of wainscoting and other wood accents. Beautiful, but a bit busy for background in a film. We'd have to paint over it or tack up paper, maybe old newsprint. The rooms were good sized. We had space to hang lights and solid walls for the bolts we'd install. We could even put in tracks for some action shots when the zombies got hopping.
         I listened. Very little of the road noise got in. That was good because it not only meant we could record, but it was less likely that neighbors would call the cops when the screaming started.
         I went down to the basement to check the power. When I got back upstairs, I saw that Carson had Mrs. Arbutus totally charmed. He telling a story about a shoot that never happened and work he'd done that no assistant DP would ever have been involved in. So far, Mrs. Arbutus didn't know she was being conned, but I didn't think we should push our luck.
         "Carson, do you have what you need?" I asked, interrupting his story when he took a breath.
         "Photographs," he said.
         "What?"
         "I need some photos of the place for planning."
         It was madness. We needed to finish and get out. "I didn't bring a camera," I said.
         He rolled his eyes. He gave Mrs. Arbutus a "see what I have to put up with?" look. "Can you not use your bloody cell phone?" he asked.
         I wanted to strangle him, but I handed him the phone instead. He went around taking useless digital pictures. While he was gone, I got down to business. "We'll need access without interruption from September 18 to 25."
         Mrs. Arbutus frowned. "I can't have this off the market for a full week. I'll need to bring potential buyers through."
         I shook my head. "I'm sorry, but that's impossible. The house wouldn't show well anyway. We will have sets installed and our equipment."
         "How much equipment?" she asked. That was a question I'd hoped to avoid.
         "The usual," I said. "Cameras. Lights."
         "I'll need to hang diffusion drapes!" Carson said from another room.
         "What will that do to the walls?" Mrs. Arbutus asked.
         "Nothing. I guarantee that not one nail, screw or bolt will be used to hang diffusion drapes." I'd never heard of diffusion drapes, and I wasn't sure that they actually existed.
         This seemed to relax her a bit, and I was about to offer $300 (not enough for one night in a good New York hotel), when Carson spoke again from the other room.
         "I think we can use the crane if we punch a small hole out the back wall."
         The air pressure in the room changed. The red of Mrs. Arbutus's dress popped. Every edge - windows, floor, wood trim - came into sharp crystalline focus.
         I felt a chill and I swear I saw my breath. "He didn't mean..." My words died. In fact, before they could travel the fifty centimeters between my mouth and her ear, they spiraled to the floor and splattered.
         "Mr. Salamander..."
         "Sanders."
         "My business is based on trust. My sellers rely on me to display their homes with honesty and dignity and to ensure their care."
         "I know."
         "I wipe my feet before I enter someone's home. I have services clean each of my listings weekly."
         "I understand."
         "There can be no scratches on the woodwork, no handprints on the windows."
         Mrs. Arbutus grew larger and larger.
         I was shrinking so much that I could have easily fit into one of the tiny desks I sat in as a third grader at Holy Nativity. Sweat turned the fresh new rental agreement in my pocket into cheese. Somehow, I knew, zombies would never work here.
         Carson glided in, a smile on his face. "There's a horse out there," he said.
         Which meant what, exactly? It meant Mrs. Arbutus had to turn to look at the mounted cop patrolling the park.
         I realized we had a chance to escape. "Sorry to have taken your time," I said. I leaned over and grabbed the sleeve of Carson's shirt. He didn't move.
         Mrs. Arbutus turned back. She looked confused.
         "You are a most charming woman," Carson said. "I thank you for showing me this place and putting up with my little jokes." I was still holding onto his sleeve, and he turned to look at me. "Do we need to go look at the other place now?"
         "I think we should," I said.
         "I think Mr. Coppola will be delighted with this one," he said.
         "Scorsese," I whispered.
         "Perhaps him, as well. I was referring to Alan Coppola. Didn't you know that he's the art director on this project?" I risked a glance at Mrs. Arbutus. She just looked confused, not suspicious.
         Carson pulled out my cell phone and dialed a number. "G'day, Alan. Yes. Yes. I'm there now. With the most charming woman." He nodded at Mrs. Arbutus, and she faintly smiled. "Yes, he's here. No worries. I've been able to keep him out of trouble."
         "Wants to speak with you, I'm afraid."
         He handed me the cell, and I said hello. After adjusting to the accent, I realized I was listening to a greater Melbourne traffic report.
         As I stood there, confused, Carson chatted with Mrs. Arbutus. "...that one," Carson said, pointing to me. He shook his head.
         Mrs. Arbutus said, "I understand. The woman who answers my telephone? She can barely speak English. And the things she says."
         "Did she ever compare a client to a water bug?"
         Mrs. Arbutus gasped.
         "And do it in a television interview?"
         "How does he...?" she asked.
         "Family needs to keep him employed. And out of trouble."
         I glared at Carson, who winked at me.
         "But he's developing. I have hopes."
         Mrs. Arbutus nodded.
         Carson pulled out an old pocket watch and tisked. "Look at the time. And we were having such a lovely chat."
         "Harvey," he asked. "Do you have the agreement?"
         I kept the phone next to my ear and pulled the moist contract out of my pocket. I handed it, then a pen, to Carson.
         He snapped his fingers and turned me around.
         Mrs. Arbutus signed it on my back. She has a heavy hand.
         Once we were outside, I looked for a chance to talk to Carson, but he spoke first.
         "You don't have to thank me. I was delighted to be of help," he said.
         "You humiliated me in front of a client," I said.
         "I was happy to do it, Harvey. Any man would have done the same."
         "I'm going to have to deal with that woman again. She's going to speak to my boss."
         "I have every confidence in you. With the whinges gone, you can handle it."
         "I don't know why I even brought you."
         "We made a wonderful team, didn't we? And you'll have no more problems with those whinges. They were quite feeble looking by the time we left."
         "I don't know what you're talking about."
         Carson looked me in the eye. Then, he got very concerned. "My, lord. You're blind. I'm sorry. I never knew."
         "What?"
         "You were a champion in Melbourne, driving away the whinges. I just assumed..."
         I was angry, but I worked to keep it under control. Maybe he had jet lag, or maybe I just was seeing him differently out of his own environment. Whichever, Carson had gone on his last ride-along with this location scout. "Hey, Carson. This was my mistake. I shouldn't have brought you with me. Let's say I put you on a Circle Tour while I get some work done. I'll meet you after..."
         He was staring at me, but I don't think he was hearing a word. Ultimately, I ran down. I thought I'd hurt his feelings.
         "Come on," he said. "We need some pepper."
         He pulled me over to a restaurant, one with nice linen table cloths. "Come on," he said, gesturing me in.
         "Are you paying?" I asked. It was somewhat upscale, both for the way I was dressed and the contents of my wallet. We were early enough to beat the lunch rush, so the maitre d' seated us immediately. I noted that we were not placed in the window to attract more trade. That was reserved for a pair of middle-aged ladies who were taking their jewelry out for the afternoon. Otherwise, the place had about a dozen business people chatting, exchanging papers and yelling into phones.
         I scanned the menu and decided I could afford a bowl of soup.
         When I looked up, I saw that Carson had all his attention on the waiters' station. It had pitchers of water, coffee and pepper grinders the size of bowling pins.
         Just then, our waiter came over. "Something to drink?"
         "Definitely," Carson said. "But later. First, we'd like some pepper."
         The waiter looked at the table. No salads. No entrees. "Pepper?"
         "Yes. One of those bloody big ones. A fresh grind." He pantomimed holding one of the grinders and twisting the end.
         "Okay," the waiter said. "Would you like some water first?"
         Carson held his hands higher and ground again. The waiter scampered off.
         I've spent enough time with Carson not to let pepper distract me. "Carson, if you're not paying, we need to be careful about how much we spend."
         "Not now," he said. The waiter returned. "Hold out your hand, Harvey."
         "My hand?" I said. I raised it, and he took my fingers and turned my hand palm up.
         "There," he said to the waiter, pointing to my hand.
         The waiter raised the pepper grinder, and then stopped. Evidently, he hadn't been asked to season a customer before.
         "It's okay. He won't mind," Carson said, speaking for me.
         Pepper grounds rained on my hand, which I kept holding out like a dummy.
         There was quite a pile before Carson stopped him. "Enough," he said. "You can get us our beer now."
         "What kind?"
         "The yellow kind with bubbles and a bit of foam on top. You'll recognize it when you see it," he said, and the waiter wandered away, somewhat more confused.
         I sat there, hand full of pepper, not knowing what was coming. A number of our fellow patrons looked over, more or less discreetly. One of them snickered, and then turned away.
         As I tried to decide whether to dump the pepper onto the floor or fold it into my napkin, Carson took my hand into his. "Whatever happens," he said, "keep looking at me. Don't look around the room." Then he started to chant. Low guttural tones, held together by the insistent rhythm. Have you ever heard the wailing of a didgeridoo? Imagine that with more articulation. And there was an odd, subsonic overtone that I could feel in my gut.
         One of the women at the window must have felt it, too. She squealed and, instinctively, I looked over. Whinges. I saw them. Like children who had been taffy pulled. Two of them stood next to the women, touching them.
         "Harvey."
         I turned back to Carson, but my eyes only glanced at him because I saw a monster embracing the man on the cell phone. It was stretched and distorted, larger than he was.
         "Harvey."
         My eyes locked with Carson's for a fraction of a second, but I had to look around the room. Everyone except Carson had a personal demon. I felt cool fingers on my calf. My tiny whinge was there. I kicked it away.
         "Harvey, stay with me."
         My eyes returned to Carson.
         He smiled. "Good man." Then he let go of my hand. I wiped the pepper off on the leg of my pants.
         The waiter gave us our beers. "Are you ready to order?" he asked.
         "Not quite yet," Carson said.
         I didn't say anything right away. I couldn't. Carson took his beer and downed about a third of it. The whinges had disappeared. I caught my breath. I sipped a little of my own beer. "Pretty good trick," I said. "Is it hypnosis?"
         "Could be. If that's what you need."
         But I didn't believe it was hypnosis. I thought of the pepper. It wasn't a known hallucinogen.
         My mind was looking for other explanations, when Carson took out a piece of paper and drew a figure. It was in the Aboriginal style that I'd seen on boomerangs, calendars and park benches in Melbourne - curvilinear and stretched and peppered with dots. And it was unmistakably like the whinges I'd seen.
         "Are they still here?" I asked.
         "In a manner of speaking."
         "You didn't have one."
         "Well, not this time of day. Mine is well-trained. And you've done a fine job with yours, but I think you've been overfeeding him. And speaking of food..." Carson signaled to the waiter, changing the subject.

         Ultimately, we did not get back to talking about the whinges. Part of me believed that I had just imagined them, but I knew better.
         Carson let me know he was paying for lunch before I ordered. That was uncharacteristically considerate of him. Then he announced that the Circle Tour sounded like a fine idea for him. I think he just wanted to give me time to process my experience on my own.
         We had enough food left over for doggie bags (which meant I didn't need to worry about paying for dinner). I packed these away, and we easily got over to the pier at 42nd Street for the 1:30 departure of the tour boat. I waved goodbye to Carson, and then I subwayed downtown to check out a garage on Orchard Street. Broken cars and zombies just sort of go together, don't they?
         The train was crowded, tourists blocked the sidewalk and a kid had redlined his boombox, but I wasn't complaining. Any griping gave me a sick feeling. On the street, I detoured around whiners. At the garage, I found that humor and humility tended to cut complaints short. I came across a man shouting into his cell phone, and I had no problem imagining him in the full embrace of a monster whinge. So I was being cautious.
         Three hours later, I met Carson at the dock. As the boat came in, I saw him put his arms around a blonde and give her a theatrical kiss. The passengers and crew applauded them, and Carson bowed deeply.
         He disembarked, and, as led him away, his fans shouted goodbyes and waved. I was working with a rock star. "Tourists," Carson said. "A very enthusiastic bunch."
         "Especially the blondes."
         He grinned and he may even have blushed. "Fine woman. Out of Colorado. Owns a horse."
         "Did she teach you anything about riding?" I asked.
         "A bit," he said. "But the trip was only three hours and I did want to get a good look at the Statue of Liberty. How was the garage?"
         I told him about some big chains that could be used to bash zombie heads and explained the many uses of a car lift for a man with a welding torch.
         "Did you sign them up?" Carson asked.
         "Oh, yeah. It was all very pleasant," I said. It had, in fact, been one of my most pleasant site visits, despite my looking over my shoulder for whinges. Maybe because of that.

         Back at the apartment, I realized that somewhere along the way I'd misplaced the doggie bags from the restaurant. It was a bitter disappointment. I had been looking forward to more than peanut butter and jelly and now that hope was gone.
         I sat down, cracked open a soda and brooded. When I brood, small animals go into hiding. Dark clouds form across the Tri-state area. Keeners feel foolishly upbeat.
         "It's a sad and a hostile world, Carson. Tense. And oppressive. Everyone is suspicious. Look at Mrs. Arbutus. And everyone pretends to communicate. On cell phones. In blogs. Anywhere but face-to-face. It's the New Anxiety." My New Anxiety speech was well rehearsed, and it railed against everything bad that was emerging and everything good that was being driven away. It's heart-rending, and I'm sure not even the Dalai Lama could withstand its melancholy.
         But when I looked up, I saw Carson turning my sofa up-side-down. He'd already inverted several chairs and a table. And he was eyeing the fish tank.
         I lost my place in the speech. "What the hell are you doing?" I asked.
         "Whinges," he said. "They can be distracted. They have a keen sense of the way the world should be, so a bit of disruption holds them in check."
         "What?"
         "You know. People should be fair. They should understand what we are getting at. They should be more grateful and helpful and accommodating."
         "They should," I said.
         "Yes. And you were 'shoulding' all over yourself and everyone else. But I think we'll be okay now." He headed toward the fish tank.
         "Hold on. You've made your point," I said.
         "Thank God. My back is getting sore," he said. He sat on a fallen chair and grabbed the legs they way I did when pretended to be a rocketeer as a kid. I hadn't thought of that in years, and it made me smile. Then I shrugged. "We have nothing for dinner," I said.
         "No worries." He handed me a business card:
         CYNTHIA HOROWITZ
         PERFORMING ARTISTS MANAGEMENT.
         "What's this?" I'd been trying to hook up with an agent for my band for two years. The address was the hottest neighborhood in the Village.
         "We're invited to a party, fair dinkum."
         "How? How did you get this invitation?"
         "Cindy was taking her parents on the cruise. Nice folks." If all the agents hung out on Circle Line cruise ships, it's no wonder I'd never found them.