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.
Wednesday, May 4, 2011
Monday, April 4, 2011
Let's Go
Tony walked up toward the open garage door. A Harley Davidson motorcyle had been wheeled back out of the garage onto the driveway. The water mark was up over the headlight.
Inside the garage stood a man, looking dazed.
Tony said, “G'day. We heard you could do with a hand.”
The man nodded. “Yeah,” he said. “I'm Keith.”
“Tony.” Tony introduced the others. “So Keith, do you have a plan?”
“Not really.” Keith shrugged. “Never done this before.”
“Well, we have. A couple of times.”
A few of the blokes chuckled. They'd been working together four days straight now, eleven hours a day, cleaning the mud and muck out of people's homes. Any people: young families and old ladies, the well-to-do and the dirt poor. The flood had put the normal social distinctions on hold for a while, and replaced them with new ones. Now there were those whose homes were flooded, and those whose weren't; those who helped others, and those who didn't; those with insurance, and those without.
Keith raised his hands. “Look Tony, if you're gonna help, you're in charge.”
Tony nodded. “Good. Let's have a look.”
The water had come up waist high through the house. That meant any stuff up on the benches was borderline, and that cupboards and fridges may have floated around. There was a step up from the garage into the house, with no lip on the threshold; good for hosing out.
Inside, the house stank, badly. There was the usual flood smell of mud and rotting carpets, but this had a little something extra: sewage. Every house stank, but these were the worst, and there was no getting used to it. They all had to work to hold back the urge to vomit.
Out the back was a covered patio, beyond that was a muddy lawn.
Tony made some quick decisions, then spoke up loudly so that everyone could here. “All right, here's the plan. We'll get the patio hosed out and clean first. Give it a good scrub. That'll be for the clean and dry stuff.” He turned to Keith. “Have you taken photos of everything for insurance.”
“Don't have any.”
“Right. That makes it simple. Everything that's destroyed, goes out on the footpath. If something may be salvageable, out on the back lawn. Let's go.”
Keith took Tony aside for a moment. “Why not put the clean stuff in the garage?”
“It's lower than the house, and is the best place to push all the water out with squidgees.”
“Never thought of that.”
“Neither did we, the first time.” Tim smiled. “Come on mate, let's start.”
Three guys started cleaning down the patio. Everyone else started carrying wrecked stuff out to the front of the house. There was a lot of wrecked stuff.
“Maybe we could wash the mud out of the sofas,” said Keith, hesitantly.
“Don't think of it as mud,” said Tim. “Think of it as poo.”
“Why's that?”
“Because there's plenty in all this.”
“Hey?”
“Did you sand-bag every drain and every toilet bowl?”
“Well, no.”
“Well, your toilets flush both ways mate.”
Keith went pale, then vomited were he stood, onto the lounge-room floor. Two other blokes went out in sympathy. Tim could feel it in the back of his throat but managed to keep it together. He took a hose and washed the spew out into the garage, and down the driveway.
After an hour of hot, sweaty work, everything that was clean and dry had been removed to the patio. The lounge and dining room were empty of everything, including carpet and underlay. One man remained, lifting up the timber strips around the room that the carpet had once been nailed to. Everyone else had moved onto the bedrooms.
In another hour, they'd finished hosing out the mud.
Tim called his team together. “Time for lunch,” he said. “Let's go.”
This story was first published in Issue 104 of Shift Miner Magazine. It was inspired by my experiences in the clean-ups of both the 2008 and 2010 floods in Emerald; though the 2010 flood was most vivid in my mind. The 2010 floods happened (mostly) between Christmas and New Year, with most of the clean-up in the first weeks of January, before the Brisbane floods hit.
Feel free to share your flood experiences by posting a comment.
Inside the garage stood a man, looking dazed.
Tony said, “G'day. We heard you could do with a hand.”
The man nodded. “Yeah,” he said. “I'm Keith.”
“Tony.” Tony introduced the others. “So Keith, do you have a plan?”
“Not really.” Keith shrugged. “Never done this before.”
“Well, we have. A couple of times.”
A few of the blokes chuckled. They'd been working together four days straight now, eleven hours a day, cleaning the mud and muck out of people's homes. Any people: young families and old ladies, the well-to-do and the dirt poor. The flood had put the normal social distinctions on hold for a while, and replaced them with new ones. Now there were those whose homes were flooded, and those whose weren't; those who helped others, and those who didn't; those with insurance, and those without.
Keith raised his hands. “Look Tony, if you're gonna help, you're in charge.”
Tony nodded. “Good. Let's have a look.”
The water had come up waist high through the house. That meant any stuff up on the benches was borderline, and that cupboards and fridges may have floated around. There was a step up from the garage into the house, with no lip on the threshold; good for hosing out.
Inside, the house stank, badly. There was the usual flood smell of mud and rotting carpets, but this had a little something extra: sewage. Every house stank, but these were the worst, and there was no getting used to it. They all had to work to hold back the urge to vomit.
Out the back was a covered patio, beyond that was a muddy lawn.
Tony made some quick decisions, then spoke up loudly so that everyone could here. “All right, here's the plan. We'll get the patio hosed out and clean first. Give it a good scrub. That'll be for the clean and dry stuff.” He turned to Keith. “Have you taken photos of everything for insurance.”
“Don't have any.”
“Right. That makes it simple. Everything that's destroyed, goes out on the footpath. If something may be salvageable, out on the back lawn. Let's go.”
Keith took Tony aside for a moment. “Why not put the clean stuff in the garage?”
“It's lower than the house, and is the best place to push all the water out with squidgees.”
“Never thought of that.”
“Neither did we, the first time.” Tim smiled. “Come on mate, let's start.”
Three guys started cleaning down the patio. Everyone else started carrying wrecked stuff out to the front of the house. There was a lot of wrecked stuff.
“Maybe we could wash the mud out of the sofas,” said Keith, hesitantly.
“Don't think of it as mud,” said Tim. “Think of it as poo.”
“Why's that?”
“Because there's plenty in all this.”
“Hey?”
“Did you sand-bag every drain and every toilet bowl?”
“Well, no.”
“Well, your toilets flush both ways mate.”
Keith went pale, then vomited were he stood, onto the lounge-room floor. Two other blokes went out in sympathy. Tim could feel it in the back of his throat but managed to keep it together. He took a hose and washed the spew out into the garage, and down the driveway.
After an hour of hot, sweaty work, everything that was clean and dry had been removed to the patio. The lounge and dining room were empty of everything, including carpet and underlay. One man remained, lifting up the timber strips around the room that the carpet had once been nailed to. Everyone else had moved onto the bedrooms.
In another hour, they'd finished hosing out the mud.
Tim called his team together. “Time for lunch,” he said. “Let's go.”
This story was first published in Issue 104 of Shift Miner Magazine. It was inspired by my experiences in the clean-ups of both the 2008 and 2010 floods in Emerald; though the 2010 flood was most vivid in my mind. The 2010 floods happened (mostly) between Christmas and New Year, with most of the clean-up in the first weeks of January, before the Brisbane floods hit.
Feel free to share your flood experiences by posting a comment.
Tuesday, February 22, 2011
Happy Christmas
Chris wasn't sure what had gone wrong with his Christmas.
He'd made all the right preparations, sparing no expense. There was plenty of grog, and he was into it at a very reasonable pace. There'd been lots of good food: ham, chicken and prawns, and all kinds of salads. He was still feeding himself as much White Christmas and nuts as he could handle without making himself sick. There'd been presents for everyone under the tree; he'd made sure everyone got what they wanted.
Now, with the presents opened and the Christmas lunch consumed, Chris sat back with his rum and coke, trying to make himself feel happy. He knew he should; and he couldn't rightly think of anything else that he wanted, that he could have or get, that might be missing.
His son Jack was playing with his new iPhone, in his room. He'd seemed happy with it.
Chris got up, and went to the kitchen where his wife was trying to work out how to use the whiz-bang fully automatic coffee machine he'd bought her. He shook his head; a thousand bucks for a machine, when a teaspoon did the same job, quicker. But, it was what she wanted. She'd seemed happy enough, when she'd unwrapped it, though not very surprised. Now her head looked like it was shaking, as she turned from looking at the manual to the machine, back and forward.
Seeing the machine made Chris think he'd like a cup of coffee, so he put the kettle on.
"Are you right?" Helen snapped at him.
Chris got such a fright he almost spilled his drink. He looked at her slightly dazed, confused. "What?"
"Don't you think I can get this to work?"
Chris thought about that for a moment; he knew a trick question when he heard one. Actually, almost all of Helen's questions were trick questions. She didn't often ask him for his opinion or his advice. "Of course you will," he said.
"Well wait five minutes and you can have a real coffee."
Chris shrugged, and turned off the kettle. As he left the kitchen the machine started to make a terrible high-pitched grinding noise.
Well, in any case, thought Chris, if he couldn't feel happy on Christmas Day, he could certainly get drunk. He made himself another rum and coke, going very easy on the coke. He used only as much as was absolutely necessary to make the concoction look black.
He went and sat on the back steps, wishing he wasn't already looking forward to his next tour. Over the fence, his neighbour was playing frisbee with one of his boys, who was about ten. They really did look like they were having a lot of fun, and for a minute he envied them, which was ridiculous. That man didn't earn half what he did: he drove a piece of junk, and their house was tiny – especially for the four or five kids they had. They might be happy for a few minutes, but it couldn't last.
The neighbour's kid laughed as he jumped to catch the frisbee. He called out, "Thanks for the frisbee dad, its fantastic."
Chris sipped his drink and frowned, and tried to think. Had Jack actually said thanks when he'd got his phone? He'd certainly said, "Cool." That didn't mean thanks though, did it?
Chris went inside to Jack's room and knocked on the door. No answer. He opened the door. Jack wasn't there. The iPhone box and manuals and cables were on his bed.
He went into the kitchen. "Helen," he said. "Jack's not in his room."
Helen handed him a cup of coffee. "He went out with his friends. I said he could go. It's not a happy Christmas if you can't have fun, is it?"
"No, I suppose not." He sipped at the coffee. It wasn't hot enough, and it tasted like dirt. He smiled. "Lovely. Happy Christmas." He took a long sip of his rum and coke.
This story was originally published in Issue 102 of Shift Miner Magazine.
He'd made all the right preparations, sparing no expense. There was plenty of grog, and he was into it at a very reasonable pace. There'd been lots of good food: ham, chicken and prawns, and all kinds of salads. He was still feeding himself as much White Christmas and nuts as he could handle without making himself sick. There'd been presents for everyone under the tree; he'd made sure everyone got what they wanted.
Now, with the presents opened and the Christmas lunch consumed, Chris sat back with his rum and coke, trying to make himself feel happy. He knew he should; and he couldn't rightly think of anything else that he wanted, that he could have or get, that might be missing.
His son Jack was playing with his new iPhone, in his room. He'd seemed happy with it.
Chris got up, and went to the kitchen where his wife was trying to work out how to use the whiz-bang fully automatic coffee machine he'd bought her. He shook his head; a thousand bucks for a machine, when a teaspoon did the same job, quicker. But, it was what she wanted. She'd seemed happy enough, when she'd unwrapped it, though not very surprised. Now her head looked like it was shaking, as she turned from looking at the manual to the machine, back and forward.
Seeing the machine made Chris think he'd like a cup of coffee, so he put the kettle on.
"Are you right?" Helen snapped at him.
Chris got such a fright he almost spilled his drink. He looked at her slightly dazed, confused. "What?"
"Don't you think I can get this to work?"
Chris thought about that for a moment; he knew a trick question when he heard one. Actually, almost all of Helen's questions were trick questions. She didn't often ask him for his opinion or his advice. "Of course you will," he said.
"Well wait five minutes and you can have a real coffee."
Chris shrugged, and turned off the kettle. As he left the kitchen the machine started to make a terrible high-pitched grinding noise.
Well, in any case, thought Chris, if he couldn't feel happy on Christmas Day, he could certainly get drunk. He made himself another rum and coke, going very easy on the coke. He used only as much as was absolutely necessary to make the concoction look black.
He went and sat on the back steps, wishing he wasn't already looking forward to his next tour. Over the fence, his neighbour was playing frisbee with one of his boys, who was about ten. They really did look like they were having a lot of fun, and for a minute he envied them, which was ridiculous. That man didn't earn half what he did: he drove a piece of junk, and their house was tiny – especially for the four or five kids they had. They might be happy for a few minutes, but it couldn't last.
The neighbour's kid laughed as he jumped to catch the frisbee. He called out, "Thanks for the frisbee dad, its fantastic."
Chris sipped his drink and frowned, and tried to think. Had Jack actually said thanks when he'd got his phone? He'd certainly said, "Cool." That didn't mean thanks though, did it?
Chris went inside to Jack's room and knocked on the door. No answer. He opened the door. Jack wasn't there. The iPhone box and manuals and cables were on his bed.
He went into the kitchen. "Helen," he said. "Jack's not in his room."
Helen handed him a cup of coffee. "He went out with his friends. I said he could go. It's not a happy Christmas if you can't have fun, is it?"
"No, I suppose not." He sipped at the coffee. It wasn't hot enough, and it tasted like dirt. He smiled. "Lovely. Happy Christmas." He took a long sip of his rum and coke.
This story was originally published in Issue 102 of Shift Miner Magazine.
Wednesday, February 9, 2011
Promise to Fish
They fished in silence for an hour, standing close together on the beach. The sun set over the sea, flooding the sky with an orange glow. David looked up and down the coast in the fading light. They had the beach to themselves.
"You get any bites?"
Sam shook his head. "No, not yet."
In twenty minutes the sun had gone, and David and watched the white foam on the tops of the small waves shining in the moonlight as they came into the shore. He felt cold. "I'm going to make a fire," he said.
He reeled in his line and walked to their fishing bags and put down his rod. He went up to the high water mark, just below the dunes, to gather driftwood. He prepared a pile of wood on the sand to start a fire, but had nothing to light it with. He shivered, and walked back to Sam.
"Any bites?" he asked.
"I think I got one," said Sam, "just a minute ago."
"Maybe he stole your bait."
"Maybe."
"Hey, you got a light?" said David. "I don't have anything to start a fire." He knew Sam smoked, though he tried to keep it a secret from their mother. That meant he tried to hide it from David too.
"Yeah, I do. I thought we might want to make a fire."
David smiled. Sure you did.
Sam started winding in his line. "I'll come with you," he said. "I'm sick of standing here, catching nothing."
When he'd reeled his line in, he showed David the bare hook.
David nodded. They walked together to their fishing bags. Sam put his rod beside David's, and they walked over to the pile of driftwood nearby. Sam lit the dried-out seaweed and grass David had stuffed amongst the smaller pieces of wood. In a few minutes the fire was burning well. They sat as close as they could to the fire without burning the hairs on their legs. Neither of them spoke as they stared into the flames. The fire snapped and crackled. The waves dropping on the shoreline made a constant, beating sound.
Sam spoke first. "Do you have a problem?"
David smiled. Sam was always blunt; never the diplomat. "No, I'm just cold; and, I don't actually like fishing all that much."
Sam shrugged. "Me neither."
"I never fish, actually, except on these trips with you."
Sam nodded. "We used to love fishing, when we were boys, when Dad would take us. We had a lot of fun then, didn't we?"
David laughed at the memory. "Yeah."
Sam reached behind him for a piece of wood and placed it on the fire. Bright sparks jumped up into the smoke and then fizzled out high in the air. "I guess it was Dad who really liked to fish," he said.
"You really think so?" said David. He turned from the fire to study his younger brother's face. "Did you know he never went fishing by himself, after we'd both left home?"
Sam turned and looked David in the eye. "You sure? He used to talk about it."
"He talked a lot," said David, "but he never went. I asked Mum. She said he only ever fished with us. He never even went fishing before we were born. He only bought the gear when I was four or five."
"That's weird. Dad did do some weird things, didn't he?"
"Oh, yeah."
"Hey," said Sam, "how old's your little boy now?"
"Frank? He'll be five in a few months."
"You gonna take him fishing, like Dad took us?"
David thought for a moment, staring into the fire. "Yes," he said, turning back to Sam. "I think I will."
"That's good. If I had a kid, I'd take him fishing."
David didn't reply to that.
Sam spoke again. "Do you want to keep doing this; our once-a-year fishing trip?"
"We promised Dad."
"I know," said Sam. "Why did he make us promise, anyway? We don't even like fishing. We haven't caught a thing in years."
"Yeah, but we promised."
"You're right." Sam poked at the fire with a stick. "We'll keep doing it, then."
They drifted into silence again. They stared into the flames, poking at it with sticks, and throwing things into it. David said, "You wanna pack it in?"
"Sure, it's getting real cold now."
They put out the fire with sea water, fetched with the buckets that were meant to hold their catch. They walked slowly together up the beach to their cars. They packed away their gear, then shook hands. David reached forward and hugged his brother, awkwardly. "See you next year," he said.
"Yeah, sure; next year. Look, I'll try to call you, more often."
"Sure, that'd be great. Me too."
This story was first published in Issue 100 of Shift Miner Magazine.
"You get any bites?"
Sam shook his head. "No, not yet."
In twenty minutes the sun had gone, and David and watched the white foam on the tops of the small waves shining in the moonlight as they came into the shore. He felt cold. "I'm going to make a fire," he said.
He reeled in his line and walked to their fishing bags and put down his rod. He went up to the high water mark, just below the dunes, to gather driftwood. He prepared a pile of wood on the sand to start a fire, but had nothing to light it with. He shivered, and walked back to Sam.
"Any bites?" he asked.
"I think I got one," said Sam, "just a minute ago."
"Maybe he stole your bait."
"Maybe."
"Hey, you got a light?" said David. "I don't have anything to start a fire." He knew Sam smoked, though he tried to keep it a secret from their mother. That meant he tried to hide it from David too.
"Yeah, I do. I thought we might want to make a fire."
David smiled. Sure you did.
Sam started winding in his line. "I'll come with you," he said. "I'm sick of standing here, catching nothing."
When he'd reeled his line in, he showed David the bare hook.
David nodded. They walked together to their fishing bags. Sam put his rod beside David's, and they walked over to the pile of driftwood nearby. Sam lit the dried-out seaweed and grass David had stuffed amongst the smaller pieces of wood. In a few minutes the fire was burning well. They sat as close as they could to the fire without burning the hairs on their legs. Neither of them spoke as they stared into the flames. The fire snapped and crackled. The waves dropping on the shoreline made a constant, beating sound.
Sam spoke first. "Do you have a problem?"
David smiled. Sam was always blunt; never the diplomat. "No, I'm just cold; and, I don't actually like fishing all that much."
Sam shrugged. "Me neither."
"I never fish, actually, except on these trips with you."
Sam nodded. "We used to love fishing, when we were boys, when Dad would take us. We had a lot of fun then, didn't we?"
David laughed at the memory. "Yeah."
Sam reached behind him for a piece of wood and placed it on the fire. Bright sparks jumped up into the smoke and then fizzled out high in the air. "I guess it was Dad who really liked to fish," he said.
"You really think so?" said David. He turned from the fire to study his younger brother's face. "Did you know he never went fishing by himself, after we'd both left home?"
Sam turned and looked David in the eye. "You sure? He used to talk about it."
"He talked a lot," said David, "but he never went. I asked Mum. She said he only ever fished with us. He never even went fishing before we were born. He only bought the gear when I was four or five."
"That's weird. Dad did do some weird things, didn't he?"
"Oh, yeah."
"Hey," said Sam, "how old's your little boy now?"
"Frank? He'll be five in a few months."
"You gonna take him fishing, like Dad took us?"
David thought for a moment, staring into the fire. "Yes," he said, turning back to Sam. "I think I will."
"That's good. If I had a kid, I'd take him fishing."
David didn't reply to that.
Sam spoke again. "Do you want to keep doing this; our once-a-year fishing trip?"
"We promised Dad."
"I know," said Sam. "Why did he make us promise, anyway? We don't even like fishing. We haven't caught a thing in years."
"Yeah, but we promised."
"You're right." Sam poked at the fire with a stick. "We'll keep doing it, then."
They drifted into silence again. They stared into the flames, poking at it with sticks, and throwing things into it. David said, "You wanna pack it in?"
"Sure, it's getting real cold now."
They put out the fire with sea water, fetched with the buckets that were meant to hold their catch. They walked slowly together up the beach to their cars. They packed away their gear, then shook hands. David reached forward and hugged his brother, awkwardly. "See you next year," he said.
"Yeah, sure; next year. Look, I'll try to call you, more often."
"Sure, that'd be great. Me too."
This story was first published in Issue 100 of Shift Miner Magazine.
Wednesday, December 1, 2010
Harden Up
The sound of the alarm shattered Tim from the nothingness of deep sleep into the harsh, conscious reality of 4:30 am. He killed the sound with a fling of his arm and swung his legs out of the bed. He sat in silence, angry. Angry at being woken up so early, angry that he had no real option. The anger was normal – part of the ritual now – and helped him get up, get moving.
Tim staggered to the en-suite and took a leak. He had a drink of water from the cup on top of the vanity. He moved silently in the dark. He never turned on the light. Light was offensive at this hour.
Tim took his pants from their usual place and put them on. It was an effort. He didn't want to go to work today – more than usual - even for the first day of a tour. He worked his arms into his shirt. As he did up the buttons he noticed that it hurt a bit to swallow. He thought about this, slowly. Perhaps he was sick, or would become sick part-way through the shift.
He sneaked out of the bedroom. His wife hadn't moved the whole time, since the alarm. Perhaps she's dead, he thought. If I check, then I'll be dead. Of well, I'll find out when I get home.
He took the milk from the fridge and poured some into the bowl of cereal on the kitchen bench.
Tim ate slowly, sitting on a bar stool. It was getting towards summer now, and a little pre-dawn light came in through the windows. That made it easier to get going; not easy, but easier.
Tim didn't think about much as he ate. He couldn't think at this hour. He did decide he wasn't sick, though. His throat was still sore, but the crew would need him. Two teaspoons of cement was all he needed.
Tim left the empty bowl on the counter and grabbed his crib from the fridge as he put away the milk. He headed out the front door ten minutes after he'd woken up. He didn't need to check his watch.
He began to walk towards the bus pick-up. It would take him seven minutes, maybe eight. The birds were awake now, flying around, making a racket and catching their worms, or whatever they did.
Tim walked along the edge of the road, carrying his bag. He felt empty. It was like being sad, but worse, and different. He felt like that a lot lately. He tried not to think about how he felt.
He was glad it wasn't raining; that was something. He'd have stayed home, he thought, if it was raining. But stayed home for what?, he wondered. Better off at work. Rock and a hard place. Hard place. Harden up.
He was at the bus stop in plenty of time. Some of the others nodded, said g'day. A few were smoking, while they could. A few blokes were telling each other dirty jokes, laughing.
A year ago, Tim would've joined them. But he'd lost interest in that sort of thing. Like most things. Hate my job, and not interested in finding another one. For sure, not interested in learning a new mine, a new boss, new people. Only wish this job didn't grind me down. Harden up Tim, harden up.
"Hey Tim!"
Tim fell out of his daydream. "Hey what?"
"Coming?" The bus had arrived, and everyone else was on board. How'd I miss that?
He climbed on board to head off for the first shift of the tour.
This story was first published in Issue 99 of Shift Miner Magazine. I wrote this coming into the month of "Movember", helping to raise awareness and funds for men's health issues for prostate cancer and depression. Let's just say I wasn't going to write a story about prostate cancer.
Depression is a killer. One way to help is to so go to the beyond blue website and give some money.
Tim staggered to the en-suite and took a leak. He had a drink of water from the cup on top of the vanity. He moved silently in the dark. He never turned on the light. Light was offensive at this hour.
Tim took his pants from their usual place and put them on. It was an effort. He didn't want to go to work today – more than usual - even for the first day of a tour. He worked his arms into his shirt. As he did up the buttons he noticed that it hurt a bit to swallow. He thought about this, slowly. Perhaps he was sick, or would become sick part-way through the shift.
He sneaked out of the bedroom. His wife hadn't moved the whole time, since the alarm. Perhaps she's dead, he thought. If I check, then I'll be dead. Of well, I'll find out when I get home.
He took the milk from the fridge and poured some into the bowl of cereal on the kitchen bench.
Tim ate slowly, sitting on a bar stool. It was getting towards summer now, and a little pre-dawn light came in through the windows. That made it easier to get going; not easy, but easier.
Tim didn't think about much as he ate. He couldn't think at this hour. He did decide he wasn't sick, though. His throat was still sore, but the crew would need him. Two teaspoons of cement was all he needed.
Tim left the empty bowl on the counter and grabbed his crib from the fridge as he put away the milk. He headed out the front door ten minutes after he'd woken up. He didn't need to check his watch.
He began to walk towards the bus pick-up. It would take him seven minutes, maybe eight. The birds were awake now, flying around, making a racket and catching their worms, or whatever they did.
Tim walked along the edge of the road, carrying his bag. He felt empty. It was like being sad, but worse, and different. He felt like that a lot lately. He tried not to think about how he felt.
He was glad it wasn't raining; that was something. He'd have stayed home, he thought, if it was raining. But stayed home for what?, he wondered. Better off at work. Rock and a hard place. Hard place. Harden up.
He was at the bus stop in plenty of time. Some of the others nodded, said g'day. A few were smoking, while they could. A few blokes were telling each other dirty jokes, laughing.
A year ago, Tim would've joined them. But he'd lost interest in that sort of thing. Like most things. Hate my job, and not interested in finding another one. For sure, not interested in learning a new mine, a new boss, new people. Only wish this job didn't grind me down. Harden up Tim, harden up.
"Hey Tim!"
Tim fell out of his daydream. "Hey what?"
"Coming?" The bus had arrived, and everyone else was on board. How'd I miss that?
He climbed on board to head off for the first shift of the tour.
This story was first published in Issue 99 of Shift Miner Magazine. I wrote this coming into the month of "Movember", helping to raise awareness and funds for men's health issues for prostate cancer and depression. Let's just say I wasn't going to write a story about prostate cancer.
Depression is a killer. One way to help is to so go to the beyond blue website and give some money.
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