The grey beyond the windows was not appealing. It was not drawing me out. I could have been less interested than with a poultice over inflammation.
Missy was lying stretched out on the floor next to me. I’m too restless a sleeper for her to enjoy a full night on the bed. Usually, every thing is fine until I fall asleep, then I think the pussy bitch takes a beating. (She's a female and she is a cat... before we get them writing in)
I started listening to radio national, but it seemed pointless, a stupid delaying tactic, not much more. (I had to get up. I had to head to the salt mines) All those people getting mileage from all of their opinions? Talk, talk, talk, talk. Do you think we have become a society of talkers? People getting their opinions out there just for the sake of getting their opinions out there?
Then I was standing unsteadily on my own two feet in the dim light bleary eyed. I looked around but the bed was still and quiet. Just the one, it was silent, no noise but me. There is a certain thrill about such stillness, it brings goosebumps to the skin.
I was out the door by 8am, heading up G Street to the 109 tram. I was heading to X Street Port Melbourne to work. My feet were still tender just like they were walking home last night. Why do I have sore feet? Why?
The boulevard of Victoria Avenue is so grand and so picturesque with its cathedral ceilings and its open plan spaces, wide and luxurious all paved in green.
What is it “they” say now? It seemed expensive.
I walked the, seemingly manicured, lawns, along the straight edged bluestone, parallel to the straight steal rails, to the precise cut of the decking making up the new mini super stop, nestled under the trees.
It’s a gorgeous place to start the day from. Or is that, it is a gorgeous place from which to start the day.
A cool breeze blew. I drew my suit jacket tight around me. I thought about work? I wasn’t replacing someone today, I was working with him. I wondered what kind of loser needs me to come and assist him? Hold their hand, if you like. This is not, after all, rocket science, nor am I looking for a cure for the common cold, or baldness, or eternal youth. It is just adding a few numbers together, let's face it. A relatively smart chimp could probably be trained to do it.
It was heading towards 8.15.
I’d checked the map last night and it should be the second set of traffic lights after the turn onto the light rail track at which I had to get off. Easy. Why hadn’t I considered Port Melbourne before?
But, of course, the Port Melbourne Tram is the light rail, the old train line and it doesn’t comply strictly to the lay out of the roads. It’s all different, suddenly it wasn’t how I expected it, how I saw it on the map last night. The first street came and went, so I should get off at the next stop. But at the next stop, I couldn’t see the name of the road, the stop didn’t align with the intersection. I dithered and I hesitated and then the tram was off again, as I realised I should have just got off. Then the tram seemed to travel an inordinate distance before it stopped again. I was berating myself as I was getting off, for not being quicker in my thinking and have just leapt off as an act of faith, rather than staying on to only have to inevitably wait for another tram heading back in the other direction.
Am I no good under pressure?
Can I not make instant decisions, like all the smart people can?
The only thing I could hear was a resounding, “duh!”
What time was it? 8.43.
The return tram took forever but it finally came. What was the time 8.50.
It is very pretty around there, verdant with picturesque pathways, wide open commons, lined with cute cottages. Spacious. Clean. Cute. Inviting, really.
As I got off, where I should have got off in the first place, I asked a man to confirm the street up ahead was, in fact, X Street. He said it was. I deny I asked him because he looked so cute in his beanie pulled down over his, presumably, cold ears. I deny I asked him because the sun had just shone onto his handsome face. He was simply the closest. Do you seriously think that gay men have their heads tuned by handsome men?
Then I’m walking along X Street and my feet are hurting more. My work shoes haven’t done much walking and they seem to be biting into me. I’m sure I’ve walked enough in them for them to not hurt, but apparently not.
I’m stressing, all the time telling myself what an easy time I had of it yesterday. And then I am wondering if I’m actually feeling stressed, or maybe it is just boredom. Maybe I am bored and underwhelmed by my work situation. I’m not getting enough regular work for it to be not concerning me and I know I have to find myself a permanent job.
I come to (the number), but it is some kind of college. It is 8.58. I ask at the counter, after I have waited for, what I forget is, juvenile students laughing about the pencil the woman behind the counter is sharpening for them. Something about it being pointy, I’m not sure if it was a sexual innuendo, I don’t get the joke clearly, just get out of my fucking way, the clock is ticking.
“Oh yes, (she gives me directions).”
The building is fabulous, big and spacious, huge airy dimensions, like a building of true warehouse origins.
The entrance is kind of small and unimposing, like one is going in a back way. The boy on reception is cute, “wog, wog, wog,” as Sam would say. He says he’ll get Garth for me.
Garth duly appears. He is middle aged and short. He seems a bit nervous, like he isn’t sure about himself. Do I see myself in Garth’s face? I look away before the answer comes to me.
Every guy is wearing a tie, the first time I have forgotten to put one in my bag. Duh! Stupid me! I hope Garth wont rat me out to the boss.
Garth has adjustments to make, that he doesn’t seem to know how to do. I wonder how long he has been doing this? Really Garth?
He says he is going to leave me to it. I ask him the questions I need answers to and then he is gone. He must have a good relationship with the boss around here to be able to get someone in while he absents himself.
Really? Leave me to it? I see? At some stage I stumble across Garth’s salary of 200K. Really? Oh, not such a dead end loser. It turns out Garth is the boss. Bugger!
He’s done all the preliminary checks and cross checks, so most of my work had been done. Consequently, I’m finished by 11.30. I can see the sun shining outside and I am keen to get back out into it. It is nice just working the morning and heading home around lunchtime.
As thrilling as that is, how carefree it makes me feel, it is further evidence that I need to find myself a permanent job. This kind of carry on is not going to pay the bills, well, certainly not in the long term that is for sure.
Garth is coming up the stairs as I am leaving. He thanks me.
The sun is shining as I walk back to the light rail. I hope I got everything right. The managing director of the group of companies, no less. My natural insecurities think that I must have screwed something up. I’m bound to have with the boss looking over my work.
I text Sam to have lunch. He calls me back, he is walking to a cafe as I text and will meet me there shortly.
I wonder if all my jobs this week will amount to just a few hours and then I am done. Fuck it! Most likely they are, I hadn’t thought about that previously.
I have lunch with Sam at the Thai restaurant off Flinder’s Street. He is there already when I get there.
There is a loud mouthed girl sitting next to us talking loudly to the man sitting opposite her. I complain that she is annoying.
We walk up Swanston Street and Sam tells me that the only thing he hears is me complaining. I try to explain and he points out that I am talking just as loudly as the annoying girl who was sitting next to us.
I turn to him quietly and ask why he is being such a bitch.
He laughs and says it is all about Christian Fletcher, Christian Fletcher, Christian Fletcher.
I ask him again quietly why he is being such a bitch.
He apologises and does the arm pulling down through the air action and says, Team Christian, Team Christian, Team Christian.
“Better,” I said.
I leave him in La Trobe Street, he turns left and heads back to work. I turn right and head home.
I may have upset Sam, as he wanted to come over for dinner, but I have tomorrow off and I don’t want to go to bed at 10pm with Nana Sam.
Anthony called and told me that he has had good reports from the weekend away. He was supposed to be going, I think, but, I presume, his agoraphobia stopped him.
“Oh really. I don’t know anything about it.”
“Really? Shane went down there for the weekend.”
“Shane didn’t say anything.”
“Really,” said Anthony
“Shane doesn’t really tell me anything about what he is doing.”
Apparently, David went down as well. And apparently, a good time was had by all.
“They all enjoyed the food that Sebastian prepared.”
“Well, you know,” I said. “Once you’ve tasted one thing Sebastian has cooked, you have tasted it all.”
“Oh really.” Anthony laughed.
“All of Sebastian’s cooking tastes the same, really.”
It was cold and around 6pm I decide to have my dinner and head to bed to watch TV.
I don’t really want to live with Shane any more, thinking about the weekend and me and Sam not being invited. What is the benefit of living with so called friends, I think? If that is how he is going to be, I can only conclude deliberately exclusionist, there is no advantage for me living with friends. In fact, the only person getting some sort of advantage here is Shane, getting to live in a grand house that he wouldn’t otherwise be able to afford to live in.
I’d be better off living with strangers on a purely financial business arrangement where I can call all of the shots and not have to make any allowances for friendship.
If I kicked Shane out, he’d have to go and live in some hovel, which would probably cost him more, which he probably wouldn’t be able to afford, as he is so hopeless with money. The thought makes me feel good. Is that bad?
Is that just revenge/mean which would come back and bite me?
Would I be better off living with strangers? Is that, actually, true?
But, what do I think is going to happen? The truth is that living with Shane makes me feel bad. He doesn’t seem to grasp the fact that this is my house and for him to continue living here on some level he has to make me feel good about him living here.
Truthfully, something has to change.
It was 6 degrees at 9pm.
I just want to spend the rest of my life snuggled up in my bed.
I guess that is bad.
Oh… what am I going to do with my life?
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