Bruce wasn't used to having passengers in his car. It took him a minute to gather up the fast-food wrappers, coffee cups and CDs from the front seat so that Danny could get in. Danny had some sort of job with the prep plant, though Bruce wasn't sure what they did over there. Bruce threw it all on the back seat and mumbled, “Sorry about that.”
“No worries at all,” said Danny as he got in. Once Bruce was in his seat, Danny added, “It's your car. I'm just glad for the ride.
Bruce drove carefully out of the car park. Soon they were on the open road. Danny tried to start a conversation a few times, and Bruce tried hard to keep his end up, but without much joy. Bruce wasn't good at talking to people he didn't know. He almost never started a conversation. He hated that about himself, but found it hard to change.
Danny said, “You mind if we turn the radio on?”
“Sorry,” said Bruce. “No aerial.”
Danny shrugged. “You got CDs?”
Bruce coughed. “They're not really what you probably want to listen to.”
“I've got pretty broad tastes.”
“My stuff is a whole new level.”
“Wow,” said Danny. “You got me curious now. Is it very offensive?”
Bruce thought for a moment. “Not to me,” he said. “But it is to a lot of people.”
“Try me.”
Bruce tried to laugh, but it came out as a kind of squeak. He reached down turn on the car stereo.
After a moment, a man's voice began to speak. “Whoever believes in the Son has eternal life; whoever does not obey the Son shall not see life, but the wrath of God remains on him.” Then, after a pause, the voice said, “Chapter four.”
“What the -?” said Danny, turning in his seat to face Bruce. “What is that?”
Bruce reached over, and pressed the power button again. He sighed. “That,” he said, “is a man reading the Bible. I'm up to the gospel of John.”
“Why?”
“It comes after Luke.”
Danny shook his head and scratched his hair. It looked to Bruce like he was considering jumping out of the car. Bruce wondered if he should slow down a bit.
Danny said “I meant, why do you listen to that stuff?”
“I can read a lot more by listening when I'm driving then I can find time for at home.”
“You listen to a man read the bible over and over?”
“Well, not exactly. I sometimes skip to different bits. And, I've got one version of a woman reading too. She's got a nice voice.”
Danny didn't say anything.
“I listen to a lot of other things too,” said Bruce. “I've got a stack of audio-books, and I download a lot of talks, lectures and sermons from the internet.”
“You don't like music?”
“I love music, but I listen to my music at home. And at my desk at work. Car-time is my daily bible-study time.”
“It doesn't make you fall asleep?”
“You kidding?” Bruce laughed. “Nothing is more interesting, or important.”
Danny was quiet a moment. Then he said, “You know what I think's the biggest problem with you Christians?”
Bruce glanced over at Danny. He looked tense. “Not at all.”
“You're always trying to ram it down everyone's throat. All the time.”
They drove in silence until they got to town.
This story was first published in Issue 105 of Shift Miner Magazine.
Showing posts with label religion. Show all posts
Showing posts with label religion. Show all posts
Wednesday, May 4, 2011
Tuesday, September 14, 2010
Real Threats
Tim sat in the crowded departure lounge, flipping through a magazine, bored. He looked around every so often to see others also waiting, also bored. There was a TV mounted high on the wall showing an American soapie, with the sound muted, thankfully.
A young Indian-looking man came in, wearing a CIO Mining shirt like Tim's. He saw Tim, and made his way over. CIO was a multinational mining company; it was common for it's employees to meet each other randomly at airports.
"Hello," said the newcomer. "I'm Saleem. I'm an electrical grad up at Western Creek Coal." He sat down across from Tim, and put his laptop bag beside him. He had just the slightest trace of an accent.
"I'm Tim." He leaned forward and they shook hands across the aisle. "I do SAP support for all the Queensland and New South Wales coal sites."
Saleem smiled. "You must fly a lot, then."
Tim grinned. "Platinum frequent flyer, most years."
"That would drive me crazy," said Saleem. "No matter how much I fly, the security just frustrates me. I get the random explosive check every time I come through. I just had my carry-on searched, after the x-ray check."
"Really?" said Tim. "I've never had them go through my carry-on."
Saleem shrugged. "It's one of the hazards of looking like me, rather than you," he said, matter-of-factly. He added, "And having Muhammad as my first name doesn't help."
"Saleem's not your first name?"
"Where my family's from in Pakistan, Muhammad is every man's first name. Saleem is my second name; it's what I've always been called by."
"Well, I'm sorry if they give you a hard time just for that. I think security is important, but they shouldn't be targeting you just because of what you look like, or for your religion. That's just prejudice. Security should be focussed on real threats."
Tim realised he was starting to rant. He changed the subject, and asked Saleem if he'd been with CIO for long. Eighteen months, he said.
Suddenly Saleem asked, "Hey, are you Tim Murdoch?"
"Yeah, that's right."
Saleem smiled. "I've actually been meaning to give you a call – everyone says I should talk to you. I need your expertise on a project I'm working on."
Tim smiled back. He liked helping people with SAP problems, and he loved being seen as the go-to man. "What can I do you for?"
"I need your help to make a bomb," said Saleem.
Tim blinked. The people around fell silent. No one looked directly at them, but Tim could feel their eyes, and he wasn't good at feeling that type of thing. He coughed, then said softly, "You need my help for what?"
Saleem looked around, then back at Tim. "To make a bomb. Everyone says you're the one to talk to."
"Everyone?"
"Sure: my boss, other grads, lots of people. They say you've made more bombs than anyone else in CIO. That you make them quickly, and, most importantly as far as I'm concerned, you get them right, the first time."
The circle of quiet, nervous people had expanded now, like a ripple in a pond. The entire departure lounge was hanging on their every word, though everyone kept looking at their magazines and laptops, or at the TV, or out the window.
"I'm afraid I don't know what you're talking about."
Saleem looked bemused. "You're are the SAP guru, Tim Murdoch?"
Tim smiled, self-consciously. He liked being called a guru, though he'd never admit it, and he sometimes even pretended to complain about it. "Hardly a guru," he said, "but I know a thing or two about SAP."
"Then why don't you know about how to make bombs? I'm quite new to SAP myself, but I thought that building a Bill of Materials would be child's play for someone like you."
Tim almost choked. Of course: Bill of Materials. He always referred to Bills of Materials as "BOM's", for short. Everyone did. Saleem had been after his expertise, so why on earth had Tim thought he was talking about building a bomb?
"Oh," he said, after a few moments. "You mean you want my help to build a BOM!"
Saleem's mouth dropped open. "Isn't this what I've been saying for five minutes?" he said. He spoke quickly now, and louder, and his accent was becoming stronger. "I have all the parts and components. I just need you to help me build my BOM!"
Tim looked up then, and saw the security guards. There seemed to be a dozen, or more, coming at them from every direction.
This story was published this week in Issue 95 of Shift Miner Magazine This is also my #fridayflash for 17 September.
What's SAP? Almost all the readers of Shift Miner will know what SAP is; but you may not. SAP is one of the major "Business Management Software Applications". Among many other things, this type of software is used by mining companies (and other major corporations) to organise and track maintenance and other aspects of asset management. In industry, one of the steps of procuring a new piece of equipment is to set up the "BOMs" (Bills of Materials), so that the "system" has a record of all the parts, how many are stocked, and where to buy them. People in this part of the industry talk about BOMs ("bombs") all the time.
I'm sorry if the humour in this piece is too much of an "in-joke" ; however, I hope the underlying message still comes through.
A young Indian-looking man came in, wearing a CIO Mining shirt like Tim's. He saw Tim, and made his way over. CIO was a multinational mining company; it was common for it's employees to meet each other randomly at airports.
"Hello," said the newcomer. "I'm Saleem. I'm an electrical grad up at Western Creek Coal." He sat down across from Tim, and put his laptop bag beside him. He had just the slightest trace of an accent.
"I'm Tim." He leaned forward and they shook hands across the aisle. "I do SAP support for all the Queensland and New South Wales coal sites."
Saleem smiled. "You must fly a lot, then."
Tim grinned. "Platinum frequent flyer, most years."
"That would drive me crazy," said Saleem. "No matter how much I fly, the security just frustrates me. I get the random explosive check every time I come through. I just had my carry-on searched, after the x-ray check."
"Really?" said Tim. "I've never had them go through my carry-on."
Saleem shrugged. "It's one of the hazards of looking like me, rather than you," he said, matter-of-factly. He added, "And having Muhammad as my first name doesn't help."
"Saleem's not your first name?"
"Where my family's from in Pakistan, Muhammad is every man's first name. Saleem is my second name; it's what I've always been called by."
"Well, I'm sorry if they give you a hard time just for that. I think security is important, but they shouldn't be targeting you just because of what you look like, or for your religion. That's just prejudice. Security should be focussed on real threats."
Tim realised he was starting to rant. He changed the subject, and asked Saleem if he'd been with CIO for long. Eighteen months, he said.
Suddenly Saleem asked, "Hey, are you Tim Murdoch?"
"Yeah, that's right."
Saleem smiled. "I've actually been meaning to give you a call – everyone says I should talk to you. I need your expertise on a project I'm working on."
Tim smiled back. He liked helping people with SAP problems, and he loved being seen as the go-to man. "What can I do you for?"
"I need your help to make a bomb," said Saleem.
Tim blinked. The people around fell silent. No one looked directly at them, but Tim could feel their eyes, and he wasn't good at feeling that type of thing. He coughed, then said softly, "You need my help for what?"
Saleem looked around, then back at Tim. "To make a bomb. Everyone says you're the one to talk to."
"Everyone?"
"Sure: my boss, other grads, lots of people. They say you've made more bombs than anyone else in CIO. That you make them quickly, and, most importantly as far as I'm concerned, you get them right, the first time."
The circle of quiet, nervous people had expanded now, like a ripple in a pond. The entire departure lounge was hanging on their every word, though everyone kept looking at their magazines and laptops, or at the TV, or out the window.
"I'm afraid I don't know what you're talking about."
Saleem looked bemused. "You're are the SAP guru, Tim Murdoch?"
Tim smiled, self-consciously. He liked being called a guru, though he'd never admit it, and he sometimes even pretended to complain about it. "Hardly a guru," he said, "but I know a thing or two about SAP."
"Then why don't you know about how to make bombs? I'm quite new to SAP myself, but I thought that building a Bill of Materials would be child's play for someone like you."
Tim almost choked. Of course: Bill of Materials. He always referred to Bills of Materials as "BOM's", for short. Everyone did. Saleem had been after his expertise, so why on earth had Tim thought he was talking about building a bomb?
"Oh," he said, after a few moments. "You mean you want my help to build a BOM!"
Saleem's mouth dropped open. "Isn't this what I've been saying for five minutes?" he said. He spoke quickly now, and louder, and his accent was becoming stronger. "I have all the parts and components. I just need you to help me build my BOM!"
Tim looked up then, and saw the security guards. There seemed to be a dozen, or more, coming at them from every direction.
This story was published this week in Issue 95 of Shift Miner Magazine This is also my #fridayflash for 17 September.
What's SAP? Almost all the readers of Shift Miner will know what SAP is; but you may not. SAP is one of the major "Business Management Software Applications". Among many other things, this type of software is used by mining companies (and other major corporations) to organise and track maintenance and other aspects of asset management. In industry, one of the steps of procuring a new piece of equipment is to set up the "BOMs" (Bills of Materials), so that the "system" has a record of all the parts, how many are stocked, and where to buy them. People in this part of the industry talk about BOMs ("bombs") all the time.
I'm sorry if the humour in this piece is too much of an "in-joke" ; however, I hope the underlying message still comes through.
Thursday, September 9, 2010
Visiting Esme
“Good morning Esme, how are you today?” said Jim, his voice bright and cheery. He looked into her face for a glimmer of recognition, but saw only cold mistrust.
“I'm fine, thank you very much,” said Esme loudly, peering up at him. “But, who are you? And what do you want?”
There were six patients at Whitman Park Aged Care Home, including Esme, whose religious affiliation was listed as “Presbyterian”. It was Jim’s right, and duty, as the local Presbyterian minister, to visit them each week. Jim did his visiting on Thursday mornings. It suited him as well as any other time. The old fogies that kept track of days and times appreciated the routine, and it made no difference to the others.
And then there was Esme. She had her good days and her bad days, but overall, Esme's dementia was a case of steady decline. On a good day she showed a vague sense of having met Jim before. It didn't help for him to insist that he had known her his whole life. Her responses to such notions were belligerent, and often violent.
After introducing himself as the minister, Jim won her affection with some licorice all-sorts. It was a cheap trick, but he always used it, because it worked.
“These are lovely,” she said. “I can’t say I’ve had them before, but they are just lovely.”
Esme told Jim she’d had a terrible night's sleep. “Those young people in the flat downstairs had their music on so loud, the whole night long,” she said. Her hands trembled as she spoke. “Not that I call it music. Bang, bang, bang! That's all it is. Noise. That's what it is: just noise. Something should be done about it. Someone should do something.” She dabbed at the edge of her mouth with a handkerchief.
Jim blinked. He was still not immune to the things that she could say. Whitman Park was a single-story complex, flat on the ground; there was no ‘downstairs’. He bit his lip and swallowed and prayed, quietly in his mind, for strength.
“I'm sorry to hear that Esme,” he said. “Tell you what: I'll have a good stern talk with them about it on my way home. I’ll make sure that it doesn't happen again. How does that sound?”
Esme smiled. Her glasses glinted as she sat up in her chair. “Oh, would you? Would you really?”
“Sure,” said Jim as he got up. He felt claustrophobic.
Esme asked him to stay a while longer. “You've only just got here.”
But Jim had to leave. He couldn’t make himself stay. He retreated, shuffling backwards through the door, and waved as he left. Esme stayed in her armchair, watching him go, looking bewildered.
Jim marched quickly through the corridors of Whitman Park, out into the fresh air, and towards his car. He leaned against the car and took deep breaths to calm himself down. He took a tissue from his pocket and wiped the tears from his face.
He still wasn’t sure if he had the faith or the strength it took to be a minister. They hadn't trained him for this sort of thing at the college, and God felt farther away than ever.
Visiting Esme was killing him. He did it because it was what he had promised to do, and to be, but he wished he was someone else. He wished that Esme would hurry up and die. Take her soon, Lord, please, he prayed, She doesn’t know me. She doesn’t even know her own son.
“I'm fine, thank you very much,” said Esme loudly, peering up at him. “But, who are you? And what do you want?”
There were six patients at Whitman Park Aged Care Home, including Esme, whose religious affiliation was listed as “Presbyterian”. It was Jim’s right, and duty, as the local Presbyterian minister, to visit them each week. Jim did his visiting on Thursday mornings. It suited him as well as any other time. The old fogies that kept track of days and times appreciated the routine, and it made no difference to the others.
And then there was Esme. She had her good days and her bad days, but overall, Esme's dementia was a case of steady decline. On a good day she showed a vague sense of having met Jim before. It didn't help for him to insist that he had known her his whole life. Her responses to such notions were belligerent, and often violent.
After introducing himself as the minister, Jim won her affection with some licorice all-sorts. It was a cheap trick, but he always used it, because it worked.
“These are lovely,” she said. “I can’t say I’ve had them before, but they are just lovely.”
Esme told Jim she’d had a terrible night's sleep. “Those young people in the flat downstairs had their music on so loud, the whole night long,” she said. Her hands trembled as she spoke. “Not that I call it music. Bang, bang, bang! That's all it is. Noise. That's what it is: just noise. Something should be done about it. Someone should do something.” She dabbed at the edge of her mouth with a handkerchief.
Jim blinked. He was still not immune to the things that she could say. Whitman Park was a single-story complex, flat on the ground; there was no ‘downstairs’. He bit his lip and swallowed and prayed, quietly in his mind, for strength.
“I'm sorry to hear that Esme,” he said. “Tell you what: I'll have a good stern talk with them about it on my way home. I’ll make sure that it doesn't happen again. How does that sound?”
Esme smiled. Her glasses glinted as she sat up in her chair. “Oh, would you? Would you really?”
“Sure,” said Jim as he got up. He felt claustrophobic.
Esme asked him to stay a while longer. “You've only just got here.”
But Jim had to leave. He couldn’t make himself stay. He retreated, shuffling backwards through the door, and waved as he left. Esme stayed in her armchair, watching him go, looking bewildered.
Jim marched quickly through the corridors of Whitman Park, out into the fresh air, and towards his car. He leaned against the car and took deep breaths to calm himself down. He took a tissue from his pocket and wiped the tears from his face.
He still wasn’t sure if he had the faith or the strength it took to be a minister. They hadn't trained him for this sort of thing at the college, and God felt farther away than ever.
Visiting Esme was killing him. He did it because it was what he had promised to do, and to be, but he wished he was someone else. He wished that Esme would hurry up and die. Take her soon, Lord, please, he prayed, She doesn’t know me. She doesn’t even know her own son.
Monday, August 9, 2010
A Part of This Australian Society
This is my latest story in edition 92 of Shift Miner Magazine. The online version of this edition is here. Enjoy!
"Have you been in Australia long, Dr Ramji?"
"Please Mark, just be calling me Ramji. I have been here twelve years. I came first to study medicine at UQ."
"Wow." Mark was lying face down on the examination bench, waiting for Ramji to remove a mole from the back of his leg.
"Can you feel that?" said Ramji.
"Feel what?"
"Good, the anaesthetic is working just fine. I was poking your leg with the point of my scalpel."
"Well, I didn't feel a thing. You can start now, I suppose."
"I am already starting, Mark. Please be lying very still."
Mark lay very still. The pulling and tugging as Ramji cut into his leg felt weird. "Can I ask you a personal question, Ramji?"
"Sure. Normally it is I that is asking the personal questions."
Mark laughed, and relaxed a little. "Are you a Muslim; is that why you have that … your head covered?"
"No, Mark," said Ramji, "I am not a Muslim. This is a turban I have on my head. I am Sikh."
"You're sick?"
"No, I am not ill. I am a Sikh. It is a religion, from my native India."
"Fair dinkum?" said Mark. "I though it was mainly Muslims in India."
"Actually, Hindus are by far making up the biggest Indian religion. Then there are many others, like Muslims, and Christians, and us Sikhs, and many, many others. I am ready to start your suturing now."
"My what?"
"Your sutures. Stitches."
"Cool. I suppose you have a lot of people ask about your turban?"
"Actually, no. You are the first in about one year. I am thinking people are scared they will be offending me."
"Have I offended you?"
"
Good gracious, no."
"That good."
Ramji laughed. "Yes," he said. "Especially as it is I that is having the scalpel."
Mark laughed too.
Ramji said, "May I ask what are your religious beliefs, Mark?"
"I've got to say, I don't like religions, myself."
"Oh?"
"It causes so much conflict."
"That is true; there is much religious conflict. But then, people are always finding some things to be fighting about. Stopping the religions is not enough to be stopping all the wars. Your leg is all finished now Mark."
Mark sat up on the bench and looked at the dressing on his leg and poiked at the skin around it, feeling where the anaesthetic had deadened his leg. "So what's your answer?"
"To make world peace?"
"To stopping religious violence, and conflict."
"Respect, and freedom, and not taking revenge. I have the freedom to be a Sikh without fear; and my neighbour, a Christian, and my other neighbour, perhaps like you, with having no religion at all."
"But aren't people always killing each other about religion in India?"
"True, it is happening sometimes," said Ramji, his head rocking from side to side. "That is one very big reason for why I am loving Australia. I did not stay here for the taste of the food."
Mark laughed, but he wasn't convinced. "But doesn't people coming here, and keeping their own religions, stop them from being part of Australian society?"
Ramji made a tut-tut sound. "Mark, my friend, I am a doctor, here in Emerald, removing a mole and maybe cancer from your leg. Am I not right now being a part of this Australian society?"
"Have you been in Australia long, Dr Ramji?"
"Please Mark, just be calling me Ramji. I have been here twelve years. I came first to study medicine at UQ."
"Wow." Mark was lying face down on the examination bench, waiting for Ramji to remove a mole from the back of his leg.
"Can you feel that?" said Ramji.
"Feel what?"
"Good, the anaesthetic is working just fine. I was poking your leg with the point of my scalpel."
"Well, I didn't feel a thing. You can start now, I suppose."
"I am already starting, Mark. Please be lying very still."
Mark lay very still. The pulling and tugging as Ramji cut into his leg felt weird. "Can I ask you a personal question, Ramji?"
"Sure. Normally it is I that is asking the personal questions."
Mark laughed, and relaxed a little. "Are you a Muslim; is that why you have that … your head covered?"
"No, Mark," said Ramji, "I am not a Muslim. This is a turban I have on my head. I am Sikh."
"You're sick?"
"No, I am not ill. I am a Sikh. It is a religion, from my native India."
"Fair dinkum?" said Mark. "I though it was mainly Muslims in India."
"Actually, Hindus are by far making up the biggest Indian religion. Then there are many others, like Muslims, and Christians, and us Sikhs, and many, many others. I am ready to start your suturing now."
"My what?"
"Your sutures. Stitches."
"Cool. I suppose you have a lot of people ask about your turban?"
"Actually, no. You are the first in about one year. I am thinking people are scared they will be offending me."
"Have I offended you?"
"
Good gracious, no."
"That good."
Ramji laughed. "Yes," he said. "Especially as it is I that is having the scalpel."
Mark laughed too.
Ramji said, "May I ask what are your religious beliefs, Mark?"
"I've got to say, I don't like religions, myself."
"Oh?"
"It causes so much conflict."
"That is true; there is much religious conflict. But then, people are always finding some things to be fighting about. Stopping the religions is not enough to be stopping all the wars. Your leg is all finished now Mark."
Mark sat up on the bench and looked at the dressing on his leg and poiked at the skin around it, feeling where the anaesthetic had deadened his leg. "So what's your answer?"
"To make world peace?"
"To stopping religious violence, and conflict."
"Respect, and freedom, and not taking revenge. I have the freedom to be a Sikh without fear; and my neighbour, a Christian, and my other neighbour, perhaps like you, with having no religion at all."
"But aren't people always killing each other about religion in India?"
"True, it is happening sometimes," said Ramji, his head rocking from side to side. "That is one very big reason for why I am loving Australia. I did not stay here for the taste of the food."
Mark laughed, but he wasn't convinced. "But doesn't people coming here, and keeping their own religions, stop them from being part of Australian society?"
Ramji made a tut-tut sound. "Mark, my friend, I am a doctor, here in Emerald, removing a mole and maybe cancer from your leg. Am I not right now being a part of this Australian society?"
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