Every morning this week
that bloody kid
has woken me at six-thirty
with Weet-Bix and milk
and the thought of another day
cutting up pieces of overripe fruit.
This is what I get
for feeling sorry.
I tell him to piss off, again,
but he ignores me now.
He thinks I need the money,
or the company,
or the early mornings,
when what I really need
is to be left alone.
Bloody hell.
Work.
I haven’t worked in years.
I haven’t done anything in years.
Look at me now,
walking along beside the kid
to the cannery.
And he never shuts up,
he talks about this girl he’s met
and how friendly she is
and I’ve half a mind to tell him
to get her to go to work with him
and leave me alone,
but he prattles on
until we reach the cannery
and another day of rotten fruit.
But at least
I’m not drinking so much,
and I can’t smoke in the cannery.
Bloody hell,
this kid’s going to turn me
into a health freak!
My hands
At the end of five days work
my hands were stained red
and smelled of rotten tomatoes
and every night
at McDonald’s
waiting for the leftovers
I prayed the burgers
were without sauce
and I couldn’t eat the fries
splashed with blood-thick liquid.
I knew where it came from,
not fresh from the orchard
with a handsome farmer
holding up firm shiny ripe fruit.
I knew it came from a conveyor belt
where coughing workers
cut the mould
and the black growth
from squashed red mush,
and I remembered the fingernails
of some of the workers
and I hoped the gloves were tight
and disease-proof
as I watched families pass the
sauce packets
from sister to brother,
and I looked at my hands,
the hands of a worker
tomato red and raw.
Burning
I signed the form
and the lady handed me
the yellow envelope.
I walked out into
afternoon sunshine
and sat on the bench
with Old Bill.
I counted the notes
five days – thirty-eight hours
$456 minus tax
and I’m left with
more money than
I’ve ever had in my life.
I asked Old Bill
what he was going to do with his
and then I wished I hadn’t.
He looked at me
and at the money
and at the fading sun
and he said,
‘Drink it,
drink it probably,
and piss it all away’.
He stood and walked out of
the dusty car park
the money
burning his pocket.
Rich
I stuffed the notes
into my jacket pocket
and walked into town.
I thought of what to do
with all this money –
a big meal at a restaurant,
some clothes,
a new sleeping bag,
a radio for the long nights,
and then I realised
how Old Bill felt –
with nothing
you’re rich.
You’ve got no decisions,
no choice, and no worry.
Here I am walking
in the sunshine of another day
buying the world
and worrying over choices
I didn’t have to make a week ago.
I wanted to spend the money
quickly
so I could go back to nothing,
go back to being rich
and penniless again.
Green
The thought crossed my mind
as I looked at the rings
laid out on the counter
while the jeweller turned
to get some more
to show his badly dressed customer.
But two things stopped me
from stealing one silver ring
and running out of the store,
the old bloke would never
catch me, no way.
First, I wanted to stay
in this town,
not have to leave,
afraid of being caught.
Second, I liked the jeweller.
I walked into his shop
on impulse,
smelling of overripe tomatoes
and looking far too poor
to buy anything
and here he is
showing me
his silver and gold rings
pointing out the best ones
pointing to his favourites
and letting me take my time.
And I choose
the thick silver ring
with the green emerald stone
small and shining
green like her eyes
and the jeweller said,
‘$109, but let’s make it
$100 cash. It’s a good ring, son.’
I give him the money.
He wrapped it for free.
Sleep
Occasionally
I find Old Bill
asleep on the gravel
beside the carriage,
an empty bottle beside him.
I try to wake him
and help him inside
into the warmth.
He swears
and coughs
and his breath smells
of beer
and cigarettes.
We stumble into the carriage
and he falls on the seat
still swearing
at me for waking him
and at his luck for
being found
smelling badly
asleep
on the gravel
beside the train tracks
by a kid
who can’t leave well enough
alone.
Need
I help Old Bill
because of Ernie
and Irene
and their friendliness.
Because when I was
twelve years old
and my dad had chased me
out of the house
with a strap,
I’d hidden in the neighbour’s
chook shed, waiting for night
when I could climb
through my bedroom window
and sleep,
hoping Dad wouldn’t wake angry.
After an hour,
our neighbour came out
and placed a bowl of soup
and some bread
on a tin
outside the chook shed door.
She left me dinner
and walked away.
I ate my fill
and waited till late.
A few weeks later
that neighbour moved away
and I never thanked her,
and that’s why I help Old Bill,
for no reason
other than he needs it.
The mop and bucket
Last night
with my hated mop in one hand
and bucket in the other
I walked to Billy’s table.
I stood there and he smiled,
sipped his lemonade,
and waited.
I asked him
for a date
on Saturday,
a picnic,
anywhere he wanted,
and I felt foolish
holding the mop and bucket
trying to look confident,
and he said yes
he’d love to
and I said
I’d love to as well
and I went back
to mopping
trying to act as though
nothing had happened
even though
we both knew
it had.
Caitlin
It’s simple really.
I have more clothes
than I’ll ever wear.
I have a TV and a CD player
in my room
which has its own bathroom
which is always a mess
full of make-up and lip gloss
and moisturiser and special soaps.
I have a large desk with a computer
and next month,
when I turn eighteen,
my own bloody car.
And I’m not a spoilt brat OK,
but I am spoilt,
spoilt to boredom,
and I’m smart enough
to realise that none of this
means anything
except my parents are rich
and think I want this stuff
or need this stuff
and I know what I really need
and it’s not in my bedroom.
And it’s not able to be bought
in any damn store.
Lunchtime
Friday lunchtime
with Petra and Kate
under the maple tree
behind the library.
I tell them about tomorrow
and Petra giggles
and says,
‘Outdoor sex, how romantic’.
We all laugh,
thinking if only it were true,
then Kate
comes right out and says it,
‘I had sex once’.
Grateful
Petra and I stared at Kate.
She didn’t look to be joking,
or proud,
or even happy.
We waited.
‘I had sex once.
A year ago now.
I can’t tell you who with.
And before I had sex
I thought it would be so easy,
so clean – that’s it –
clean and special.
It wasn’t.’
I’m looking across the schoolyard
at the Year 9s
playing netball
and two girls
arguing over a shot.
I’m afraid to look at Kate.
‘It was uncomfortable,
it hurt,
it was too quick
and too messy
and we both felt stupid.
I closed my eyes and tried
not to think of anything
as he unravelled the condom
and threw it away.
That was it.
Messy, quick,
and a condom flung in the bushes.
I had sex once
and I’ve been too scared
to have it again.’
The girls at netball have stopped arguing.
They link arms
and walk into class
as the bell rings.
The three of us are quiet.
And for once
we’re all grateful that
lunchtime is over.
No hurry
The knock is so quiet.
I’m not sure if she’s there,
but I open the carriage door
and she says hello and
holds up a picnic basket
full of food, good food,
not takeaways,
not cold burgers,
but bread and cheese
and half a roast chicken,
and peaches, grapes, watermelon,
and a packet of Tim Tams
and a bottle opener for the beer
and on top of all the food
is the mobile phone
switched on
should her dad ring.
She’s at Petra’s, right.
Caitlin and I
walk to Bendarat River
and my favourite bend.
The sun is sparkling Saturday
and I’ve scrubbed my clothes,
at the laundry this time
with real detergent
bought with the money I earned.
I left the ring in the carriage.
I’m in no hurry.
It’s in my hiding place,
safe,
waiting for the right time
when I’m certain
it deserves a showing.
I’m in no hurry,
The picnic
We ate everything.
We took our time,
lying on the blanket,
a sip of beer,
a slice of cheese,
some roast,
and slowly one chocolate biscuit
after another
in the quiet sunshine –
we couldn’t stop ourselves.
It was warm,
it was delicious,
and the beer worked its magic.
We both stretched out
on the tartan blanket
and we drifted
asleep.
Our first date
Billy and me
and we slept together
only
we really did just
sleep together
content
to waste the hours
close.
Truth and beauty
I walked into the
Railway Hotel
and put $20 on the bar.
I said to the waitress,
‘Keep the beer coming
until there’s nothing left.’
She took the money
and replaced it with
a big cold glass
with the froth
trickling over the lip
and I thought
how beautiful is a drink
that hasn’t been touched,
the deep radiant colour
burning gold,
the bubbles dancing
ballet-perfect to the rim,
the sweet-bitter smell
of malt and barley.
I li
fted the glass
and downed it
in one ignorant gulp
and I called for another
as all thoughts of
truth and beauty
washed from my mind.
Old Bill’s fall
In 1993
my ten-year-old daughter Jessie
fell out of a tree
and landed bad
in a coma
in the District Hospital
and for twelve days
my wife and I
sat beside her.
I held her hand
and told stories
about our holidays together
and what she’d say to us
at dinnertime or
early in the morning
when she’d climb into bed
with my wife and I.
I talked to her
so she’d remember
and wake up
and we’d go back home
as if nothing had happened.
The doctor came
with the form for us to sign
and I couldn’t,
not for another four days.
I sat by Jessie
and waited.
My wife signed
and handed me the paper
and I held Jessie’s hand
and signed with the other.
They switched off the machine
and Jessie lay there
for hours
still not moving,
then she died.
I went home and
took to the tree with an axe.
I was there for hours
mad with rage and pain
and God knows
that tree fell …
But look at me.
Kids fall out of trees
all the time.
They sprain their ankle,
or get the wind knocked out of them,
but my Jessie,
my sweet lovely Jessie,
fell
and I fell with her
and I’ve been falling
ever since.
And this pub,
this beer, these clothes,
this is where I landed.
The house
My wife died one year
to the day after Jessie.
She died of signing the form.
She died of making me sign
more than she died