The idea came suddenly to Joel, as he sat contentedly on the toilet seat. In that moment he knew it was a winner. Ten seconds later, some unsuspecting soul wondered into the Gents', and let out a moaning, retching type of sound. Whoever it was, left in a hurry. Joel smiled to himself, and finished up.
He looked at his face in the mirror as he carefully washed his hands, and decided that there would be no problem. He felt confidence flow into him as he headed to the waiting area again.
Joel's trouble was that he never did well in job interviews. He was a solid worker, he felt, but he just couldn't think of the examples and stories they wanted in interviews these days. And even if could drag up a story, he'd always down-play his own role in the drama, or the significance of the solution; mostly because he pretty much always was a minor player, and generally very modest. Modest and mediocre: that was Joel.
That was all about to change, as Joel strode down the hallway. Why not take the skills from his hobby of creative writing and apply them to job interviews? The writing itself hadn't yielded the blockbuster novel or critical acclaim he'd dreamed of – for he'd come to realise he was mediocre at writing too; but, it was a hobby that he enjoyed.
Eventually he was called into the interview room. It had white painted walls and ceiling and glaring fluro lights. The HR lady shuffled her papers and kicked things off. “We're going to ask you some behavioural questions,” she said. “We're looking for specific examples, where you can tell us about a situation, what you did, and then what the outcome was. Is that okay?”
Joel smiled; that was going to be perfect. “Sure.”
The lady smiled back. Even the grizzled old manager beside her seemed to soften a bit.
“Can you tell us about a time you came across a situation or a practice that was unsafe; what you did about it, and what the outcome was?”
Joel took a deep breath. “Sure,” he said. “When I arrived at the place I currently work, I found that people had to walk across the roads on site a lot, which involved lots of interactions with light and heavy vehicles.”
Which was true; but of course, he'd gotten used to it, like everyone else. Grizzly and HR lady both nodded, starting to scrawl notes. Joel smiled; he was about to get his creative writing written by dictation. He continued, “So I conducted a traffic study, and based on my analysis and my research into Australian Standards and the Coal Mining Health and Safety Act and Regulations, I wrote a draft Traffic Management Plan for the site, which included quite a few changes.”
They'd stopped writing now, and were watching him, awestruck. Joel didn't miss a beat. “I costed all the changes, and then facilitated a semi-quantitative risk assessment around the major changes I'd identified; using a cross-section of the work force. I then presented my findings and recommendations to the Senior Management Team. They approved the plan, and further approved nine-hundred-thousand dollars in out-of-plan capital to make all the proposed changes.”
Joel smiled, as if at the memory. “I project-managed all the changes, though I was given a few resources to help out, of course. We now have a system of well-lit and signed pedestrian crossings, as well as segregated traffic flows and hard barriers in the higher risk areas.”
HR lady was back to scribbling notes now. The manager looked stunned.
“Was that the sort of answer you were looking for?” asked Joel, trying to sound as innocent as he could.
“Perfect,” they both said together, then laughed.
He nailed the rest of the interview, of course, and heard promising noises at the end about “progressing things to the next stage”. The job was his – he knew it – his first senior engineering role. It was his, until that grizzly fool had to talk to his boss for the reference check, and started to blubber on about how impressed he was with the traffic changes, and the increases in plant yield and the reduction in site costs.
This was first published in Shift Miner Magazine.
Thursday, December 15, 2011
Wednesday, December 14, 2011
Retribution
I used to live next door to drug dealers. I should say they used to live next door to me. To be even more precise, when they used to live, they lived next door to me.
They weren’t just dealers; they were cooking up what they were selling. Everybody knew, but nobody called the cops. There wasn’t much point, because it made life very uncomfortable if you did. They had friends in low places, clearly.
I left them alone though, until a kid died, shooting up on some of their speed. His mother was pretty upset about it, I heard. I’d had enough of living in such close proximity to that scum. It was time for retribution. It was for the kid, I suppose, and a little bit for his grieving mother, but I was sick of the smell.
Friday night I could smell that they were have a cook-up. I put on some gloves, jumped the fence and turned off their gas bottle. After a few seconds I turned it back on. I could hear the gas rushing through the valve. I smiled, and scurried home. I sat on the toilet, immobile, with earplugs in my ears and my hands over my head until the house shook with the force of the explosion. All my windows on the eastern side of the house shattered.
The police called around later asking why nobody on the street had called the police or the fire brigade. Everyone said they thought someone else would have.
This is my response to Three Word Wednesday (3WW) number CCL
This week's words:
Immobile; adjective: Not moving; motionless; incapable of moving or being moved.
Proximity; noun: Nearness in space, time, or relationship.
Retribution; noun: Punishment that is considered to be morally right and fully deserved
They weren’t just dealers; they were cooking up what they were selling. Everybody knew, but nobody called the cops. There wasn’t much point, because it made life very uncomfortable if you did. They had friends in low places, clearly.
I left them alone though, until a kid died, shooting up on some of their speed. His mother was pretty upset about it, I heard. I’d had enough of living in such close proximity to that scum. It was time for retribution. It was for the kid, I suppose, and a little bit for his grieving mother, but I was sick of the smell.
Friday night I could smell that they were have a cook-up. I put on some gloves, jumped the fence and turned off their gas bottle. After a few seconds I turned it back on. I could hear the gas rushing through the valve. I smiled, and scurried home. I sat on the toilet, immobile, with earplugs in my ears and my hands over my head until the house shook with the force of the explosion. All my windows on the eastern side of the house shattered.
The police called around later asking why nobody on the street had called the police or the fire brigade. Everyone said they thought someone else would have.
This is my response to Three Word Wednesday (3WW) number CCL
This week's words:
Immobile; adjective: Not moving; motionless; incapable of moving or being moved.
Proximity; noun: Nearness in space, time, or relationship.
Retribution; noun: Punishment that is considered to be morally right and fully deserved
Friday, December 2, 2011
It's Futile
“It's futile.”
“What is?”
“Everything.”
Bill rubbed his eyes and shook his head. “Whatta ya mean, everything?”
“Life, stuff,” said Graham. “Work, especially. Here we are, a thousand k's from anywhere, in Woop-Woop, working ourselves to the bone, twelve hours a day. Why? What's it for?”
“Don't know about you, but I do it for the money.”
“And what's the money for? Nothing lasts.”
Bill shrugged. “Food, a home for the family, cars, schooling, a boat, holidays. You need money for everything.”
“But none of that lasts. You can't take it with you when you go, can you?”
“I can't?” said Bill. “Well if that's the case, I'm not goin'.” He laughed at his own joke; it was his favourite kind.
Graham swore. “Can't you keep up a serious conversation for once?”
“Sorry mate,” said Bill, trying to look sorry. “You're very correct. You can't take your gear with you when you kark it.”
Graham sighed. He went to the wet-mess bar and got two more beers. He came back and handed one to Bob. They sat in silence for a few minutes, and watched the sun flood the sky with red and orange as it began to set. The brigalow and a few gum tree stood out against the brightness in black silhouette. The clouds looked like they were on fire.
Bob said, “Might be the middle of nowhere, but I like it out here. More than Brisbane.”
Graham said, “I hate Brisbane, actually.”
“You hate everything today. You sound like you're in a hurry to curl up and die.”
“No, but we all die, and then nothing's left.”
“You really think that? You die, and then that's the end of everything?”
Graham shrugged. “It's futile.”
“You mentioned that.”
Graham grunted.
After a minute Bob smiled. “Ah!” he said, to himself.
“What's up?”
Bob said, “Your girlfriend called it off, didn't she?”
Graham turned suddenly to face him. His surprise was obvious. “She wasn't my girlfriend,” he said. “She was my fiancée.”
Bob said nothing, but shook his head.
Graham mumbled, “Yeah, she called it off.”
“Even though it's futile, would you like another beer?”
“I hate you,” said Graham. “But: yes, I would.”
This story was first published in Shift Miner Magazine.
“What is?”
“Everything.”
Bill rubbed his eyes and shook his head. “Whatta ya mean, everything?”
“Life, stuff,” said Graham. “Work, especially. Here we are, a thousand k's from anywhere, in Woop-Woop, working ourselves to the bone, twelve hours a day. Why? What's it for?”
“Don't know about you, but I do it for the money.”
“And what's the money for? Nothing lasts.”
Bill shrugged. “Food, a home for the family, cars, schooling, a boat, holidays. You need money for everything.”
“But none of that lasts. You can't take it with you when you go, can you?”
“I can't?” said Bill. “Well if that's the case, I'm not goin'.” He laughed at his own joke; it was his favourite kind.
Graham swore. “Can't you keep up a serious conversation for once?”
“Sorry mate,” said Bill, trying to look sorry. “You're very correct. You can't take your gear with you when you kark it.”
Graham sighed. He went to the wet-mess bar and got two more beers. He came back and handed one to Bob. They sat in silence for a few minutes, and watched the sun flood the sky with red and orange as it began to set. The brigalow and a few gum tree stood out against the brightness in black silhouette. The clouds looked like they were on fire.
Bob said, “Might be the middle of nowhere, but I like it out here. More than Brisbane.”
Graham said, “I hate Brisbane, actually.”
“You hate everything today. You sound like you're in a hurry to curl up and die.”
“No, but we all die, and then nothing's left.”
“You really think that? You die, and then that's the end of everything?”
Graham shrugged. “It's futile.”
“You mentioned that.”
Graham grunted.
After a minute Bob smiled. “Ah!” he said, to himself.
“What's up?”
Bob said, “Your girlfriend called it off, didn't she?”
Graham turned suddenly to face him. His surprise was obvious. “She wasn't my girlfriend,” he said. “She was my fiancée.”
Bob said nothing, but shook his head.
Graham mumbled, “Yeah, she called it off.”
“Even though it's futile, would you like another beer?”
“I hate you,” said Graham. “But: yes, I would.”
This story was first published in Shift Miner Magazine.
Thursday, June 16, 2011
Apology Accepted
He looked out the kitchen window and saw her hanging washing on the line. The breeze tugged at the towels and shirts, and the line danced as it fought to hold them back. The breeze pulled her skirt up around her legs and made her hair a long, blonde banner. She was so beautiful; but, so stubborn. He sipped the cold water in his glass, then sighed. He put down the glass, and went out to her.
“Hello,” he said as he approached. She didn't react, except that she may have flinched, slightly. She kept hanging up the clothes.
He reached into the basket, took out a towel and put it on the line. He took one of his high-vis work-shirts from the basket. He started to peg the collar to the line.
“Upside down,” she said, startling him. He turned toward her. She stood, her hands on her hips, looking at him.
“Sorry?” he said.
“You hang shirts upside down,” she said, pointing to two, already on the line.
“Oh,” he said. He took off the peg and hung the shirt the other way around, checking his work against the two templates. He glanced at her. She hadn't moved. Her hair was flicking around her face. He saw the curve of her body under her clothes and the trace of a smile on her face. Maybe a smile, anyway.
“Why don't you go upstairs?” he said. “I'll finish this off.”
She didn't move as he awkwardly hung a bra beside the shirt.
“Go on,” he said. “Put you feet up. I'll be up in a few minutes.” He leaned over and, holding the back of her head with both hands, kissed her forehead. The smell and feel of her hair reminded him of better times. He fished a lone sock from the basket and hung it beside the bra.
She stepped toward him and kissed him on the cheek. “Come find me inside,” she said softly. Her words were almost stolen by the breeze. It seemed right then that her eyes were shining wet. He said nothing. She turned and walked toward the stairs. He watched her as she walked, until she was in the house.
He smiled as he reached into the basket for a pair of shorts. He kept smiling as he felt the wind jostling around him as he hung the rest of the washing. A line, a quote from sometime in the past, kept echoing through his head. “The wind bloweth where it listeth.” Must be Shakespeare, he thought.
He noticed there were only two pegs left when he was finished. He put the two pegs in his pocket and walked towards the stairs, carrying the empty washing basket over his shoulder, thinking again of happier times. As the screen-door flapped and slammed behind him, he decided those times were now.
This story, like almost everything I post lately, was first published in Shift Miner Magazine. Incidentally, it was first not published in one or two other publications. I think I learned to love this piece more than it deserved. I hope you get something from it.
“Hello,” he said as he approached. She didn't react, except that she may have flinched, slightly. She kept hanging up the clothes.
He reached into the basket, took out a towel and put it on the line. He took one of his high-vis work-shirts from the basket. He started to peg the collar to the line.
“Upside down,” she said, startling him. He turned toward her. She stood, her hands on her hips, looking at him.
“Sorry?” he said.
“You hang shirts upside down,” she said, pointing to two, already on the line.
“Oh,” he said. He took off the peg and hung the shirt the other way around, checking his work against the two templates. He glanced at her. She hadn't moved. Her hair was flicking around her face. He saw the curve of her body under her clothes and the trace of a smile on her face. Maybe a smile, anyway.
“Why don't you go upstairs?” he said. “I'll finish this off.”
She didn't move as he awkwardly hung a bra beside the shirt.
“Go on,” he said. “Put you feet up. I'll be up in a few minutes.” He leaned over and, holding the back of her head with both hands, kissed her forehead. The smell and feel of her hair reminded him of better times. He fished a lone sock from the basket and hung it beside the bra.
She stepped toward him and kissed him on the cheek. “Come find me inside,” she said softly. Her words were almost stolen by the breeze. It seemed right then that her eyes were shining wet. He said nothing. She turned and walked toward the stairs. He watched her as she walked, until she was in the house.
He smiled as he reached into the basket for a pair of shorts. He kept smiling as he felt the wind jostling around him as he hung the rest of the washing. A line, a quote from sometime in the past, kept echoing through his head. “The wind bloweth where it listeth.” Must be Shakespeare, he thought.
He noticed there were only two pegs left when he was finished. He put the two pegs in his pocket and walked towards the stairs, carrying the empty washing basket over his shoulder, thinking again of happier times. As the screen-door flapped and slammed behind him, he decided those times were now.
This story, like almost everything I post lately, was first published in Shift Miner Magazine. Incidentally, it was first not published in one or two other publications. I think I learned to love this piece more than it deserved. I hope you get something from it.
Monday, May 9, 2011
The Least I Could Do
What people noticed first and remembered longest about Bernadette when they met her was her scowl. The everyday look on that woman's face could peel the paint off walls. She looked like she was angry and in pain, at the same time, all of the time. It wasn't unusual for kids to come away crying. Behind her back, Bernadette came to be nicknamed The Scowl. I had nothing to do with that, of course. Well, very little.
The other thing people noticed about The Scowl was the constant criticism and put-downs that she aimed at her dear husband – and my best mate – Stan. It made people cringe. Stan put up with all this with the patience of Job. I don't think he ever complained or told her off. That's how Poor Stan got his nickname.
But every man has his breaking point.
I was having a drink with Poor Stan at the Mount Morgan Arms Hotel one Saturday afternoon when The Scowl filled the doorway with her whole self, and screamed above the noise of the rowdy crowd, "Stan, you've had enough to drink; come home!"
Poor Stan went as red as Karl Marx. The pub went quiet. People looked at their shoes and fidgeted with their coasters.
I expected Stan to put down his glass and shuffle off after her, like he usually did.
Instead, he took a long drink from his beer.
He said to me, "If I'd of killed her when I first wanted to, I'd be out of jail by now."
That's an old and tired joke; but I was pretty sure that Stan wasn't joking. He never joked.
"I suppose it's better late than never," he said.
I could see he was close to his breaking point, and that cut me up inside. Poor Stan was a bit spineless, but he was still my mate.
I said, "Don't go back to your house. Why don't you buy a carton and go round to my place? I've got to take care of something here in town, and then we'll get on the grog. How's that sound?"
Stan put his hand on my shoulder, said that sounded good, and went to the takeaway window. I said goodbye to Bob behind the bar, and left.
In half an hour, we were at my place, drinking.
We were still throwing them back, watching the sun set, when Sergeant Ted, the local police force, came around. He broke Stan the news that his wife's body had been found only an hour ago. She'd been found behind one of those big steel rubbish bins in the narrow lane behind the shops, on the top side of the main street. Sue from the fish and chip shop got a real fright, apparently.
Stan took the news of his wife's sudden passing really well. He looked a little stunned, but more like a man who'd won lotto, than a man who'd lost his soul mate.
Sergeant Ted started his investigation right there by asking Stan if he'd killed Bernadette. Motive, the man had.
Stan didn't reply straight up, then said it was obvious that it wasn't him. Ted asked why that was.
Stan asked, "You said she were stabbed once in the back?"
Ted nodded. "That is correct."
"Well," said Stan, "I always dreamed o' stabbin' her right here in the front." He pointed to his own chest. "And never, ever, just the once. Maybe a dozen times. That's what I always dreamed of doin', and I reckon that's the way I'd of done it, if I'd of done it, which I didn't."
It didn't seem that this was the kind of evidence Ted was looking for, because he had a few words to say about that.
I butted in. "He was with me, Sergeant."
Ted didn't like being interrupted either, apparently. I never really liked Ted, so I got over it, and told my story.
"We left the pub not long after The Scowl showed up, about three..."
Stan interrupted, holding up his hand. "Don't call her that," he said, "please."
"Sorry." I shrugged. "We left the pub, with a carton, and came back here. We've been drinking since then. We haven't seen her since. Have we Stan?"
Stan shook his head. "Not since she was at the pub."
Sergeant Ted scowled, reminding me a bit of the late Bernadette. I shivered. Ted said good night, told us both to stay in town, and left.
Stan went inside and then came back with two beers. He handed one to me. "There's only two left now," he said, "and we'll have finished the carton."
"Then we'll go for a walk and get another one."
"Good idea."
We drank, and I listened to the cicadas out in the scrub. We didn't say a word until our beers were empty.
Stan said, "Thanks for covering for me mate. I didn't kill her; but thanks for covering for me. Makes things easier."
I slapped him on the back. "No worries, mate," I said. "I know you didn't kill her. It was the least I could do."
This story was first published in Shift Miner Magazine.
The other thing people noticed about The Scowl was the constant criticism and put-downs that she aimed at her dear husband – and my best mate – Stan. It made people cringe. Stan put up with all this with the patience of Job. I don't think he ever complained or told her off. That's how Poor Stan got his nickname.
But every man has his breaking point.
I was having a drink with Poor Stan at the Mount Morgan Arms Hotel one Saturday afternoon when The Scowl filled the doorway with her whole self, and screamed above the noise of the rowdy crowd, "Stan, you've had enough to drink; come home!"
Poor Stan went as red as Karl Marx. The pub went quiet. People looked at their shoes and fidgeted with their coasters.
I expected Stan to put down his glass and shuffle off after her, like he usually did.
Instead, he took a long drink from his beer.
He said to me, "If I'd of killed her when I first wanted to, I'd be out of jail by now."
That's an old and tired joke; but I was pretty sure that Stan wasn't joking. He never joked.
"I suppose it's better late than never," he said.
I could see he was close to his breaking point, and that cut me up inside. Poor Stan was a bit spineless, but he was still my mate.
I said, "Don't go back to your house. Why don't you buy a carton and go round to my place? I've got to take care of something here in town, and then we'll get on the grog. How's that sound?"
Stan put his hand on my shoulder, said that sounded good, and went to the takeaway window. I said goodbye to Bob behind the bar, and left.
In half an hour, we were at my place, drinking.
We were still throwing them back, watching the sun set, when Sergeant Ted, the local police force, came around. He broke Stan the news that his wife's body had been found only an hour ago. She'd been found behind one of those big steel rubbish bins in the narrow lane behind the shops, on the top side of the main street. Sue from the fish and chip shop got a real fright, apparently.
Stan took the news of his wife's sudden passing really well. He looked a little stunned, but more like a man who'd won lotto, than a man who'd lost his soul mate.
Sergeant Ted started his investigation right there by asking Stan if he'd killed Bernadette. Motive, the man had.
Stan didn't reply straight up, then said it was obvious that it wasn't him. Ted asked why that was.
Stan asked, "You said she were stabbed once in the back?"
Ted nodded. "That is correct."
"Well," said Stan, "I always dreamed o' stabbin' her right here in the front." He pointed to his own chest. "And never, ever, just the once. Maybe a dozen times. That's what I always dreamed of doin', and I reckon that's the way I'd of done it, if I'd of done it, which I didn't."
It didn't seem that this was the kind of evidence Ted was looking for, because he had a few words to say about that.
I butted in. "He was with me, Sergeant."
Ted didn't like being interrupted either, apparently. I never really liked Ted, so I got over it, and told my story.
"We left the pub not long after The Scowl showed up, about three..."
Stan interrupted, holding up his hand. "Don't call her that," he said, "please."
"Sorry." I shrugged. "We left the pub, with a carton, and came back here. We've been drinking since then. We haven't seen her since. Have we Stan?"
Stan shook his head. "Not since she was at the pub."
Sergeant Ted scowled, reminding me a bit of the late Bernadette. I shivered. Ted said good night, told us both to stay in town, and left.
Stan went inside and then came back with two beers. He handed one to me. "There's only two left now," he said, "and we'll have finished the carton."
"Then we'll go for a walk and get another one."
"Good idea."
We drank, and I listened to the cicadas out in the scrub. We didn't say a word until our beers were empty.
Stan said, "Thanks for covering for me mate. I didn't kill her; but thanks for covering for me. Makes things easier."
I slapped him on the back. "No worries, mate," I said. "I know you didn't kill her. It was the least I could do."
This story was first published in Shift Miner Magazine.
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