Dole day

The bar was like something out of a movie: chandeliers and lamps, a poster that doubled as a mirror, a moose head, jutting out from the wall. Tim sat on the stool and sipped his beer and looked around. Another nothing night with nothing to do but drown his sorrows and worsen his health.

He suddenly craved a cigarette and left his beer and stepped outside, pulled out a pack, tapped on it, lit one, coughed up phlegm and spat on the pavement, unaware of the worsening state of his organs, how black they were getting. He looked around at the afternoon, then stepped back inside. The barman looked down at him, whilst polishing a glass, reminded him of a giant lobster.

‘So, what’s on the agenda for tonight?’ said the barman.

‘What are you, my dad?’

The barman frowned.

‘Just asking, Tim, no need to jump down my throat.’

Tim looked back at him, finished the beer and pushed his glass forward, and the barman immediately poured him another, handed it to him. He sipped on it and turned on the stool and looked around: five pm, the witching hour. Just then, a woman dressed up in a cat-suit, stepped in, curves moving about, sat on the stool next to him. He looked at her and looked away, knew that it was better not to get too close, and she ordered a beer and suddenly turned and looked him up and down, said: ‘so, what’s your story?’

Tim smiled into his beer, turned and looked at her, liked what he saw, was surprised that he finally had the floor with a woman, and an attractive one at that. Then remembered not to bother becoming self-conscious, reminded himself that there were others, that it really didn’t matter whether or not it worked out anyway. And yet, she was divine. He wondered how much money he had left until his dole came through, and whether or not he could afford to buy her a drink.

‘Hey babe,’ said Tim.’ I’m here to tell the tale.’

She looked warily at him and said: ‘right,’ then buried her nose in her beer, and he suddenly imagined dating her. At that moment, magically, she looked back at him from the corner of her eye and said, ‘My name’s Kelly, Kelly Wentworth.’

Tim leaned in and looked at her and couldn’t help but admire everything about her, said: ‘So, Kelly Wentworth, what do you do when you’re not hanging out in bars in St Kilda?’

Inwardly, he shuddered at the question, but could never figure how else to open them up: the whole ‘what do you do thing’, to him, always seemed so coarse and crude, but what the hell else did you say to a total stranger? And, anyway, in the end he would inevitably have to take his turn, and the fact remained that he hadn’t actually figured it all out yet, even in his middle-age; the only thing that he could say for certain, was that what he liked doing was hanging out in bars with friends, all the rest was a mystery, and, in many ways, he was sick of lying.

Kelly Wentworth, turned and looked at him, said: ‘Well, I’m an accountant by day, have built myself up to lead executive. I’ve just bought a condominium place in St Kilda, which has decimated my savings account, and given me a pretty hefty mortgage, but what are you gonna do? It’s a nice place, and, at this rate, I’ll have it paid off before my retirement, and by then, it’ll be worth a squillian. Other than that, I’m into photography and art and music, you?’

As per usual, he was fucked. There was simply no coming back from that, which, really, for him, was pretty typical. He considered lying, and had actually done it before, but, in the end, the truth always came out, and inevitably, he would be left looking like a fool. And so, in exasperation, he decided to just come out with it: ‘Well, I’m currently living in a rooming-house, but then, I probably shouldn’t say, currently. I’ve been living in rooming-houses for about eight years, now. Am still on the dole, and semi-looking for work, though, not really. To be honest, I’d rather not have to work. Haven’t really had much of an experience with it. Found it to be pretty stressful. Am into art and music, like you…so, I guess that that pretty much covers -

When he looked over, he saw that the seat where she was sitting was now empty. He looked up at the bar-tender, who looked back at him.

‘Dude, you need to learn how to tone it down a bit, drop the intensity…’

Tim looked back at him, said: ‘One more word out of you, c**t, and I’ll bash your f*****g head in. You gettin’ me, ‘Mr. Drop the intensity?’’

The bar-tender looked back at him, bewildered, and Tim got off the seat and walked out, came out to the open street, where cars were roaring up and down, then started making his way home. Lousy prick of a bar-tender, thought Tim, always had to have the last word. And, how long had he been frequenting the joint? He couldn’t remember. Must have been at least five years…

By the time that he made it home, it was getting dark, the last rays of sunlight, eclipsed by a black cloud. He opened the big old door with his key, and then his apartment door, and landed on the lazy-boy: his usual place.

Sometimes, a few beers could unleash a beast, but other times, not. He found that he was getting tired, easier of late, and he wasn’t sure how he felt about that, either. But, then again, what did it matter? And, for that matter, did anything? One thing he did know: he needed to start showing more dash with women. And so, he sat, and tried not to think too much, closed his eyes.

The phone rang from within his dream. It was buzzing by the chair and he finally picked it up.

‘Where the hell have you been?

John, his long-time mate, and occasional drinking buddy.

‘What do you mean, I’ve been right here.’

‘Well, I’ve been trying you, all day, and there’s been no answer.’

‘I’ve been out, on business. Might have had my phone switched off.’

‘Right, well, you’d better got over here. I got my leg all bound up, but there’s blood coming out everywhere. You might have to get me to a hospital.’

‘A hospital! What the hell?’

‘That’s right. Look, I could pass out.’

‘What time is it? Jeez, can’t you just call an ambulance?’

‘God damn it, I could die here.’

‘Alright, alright, God damn it. But I still say, you should call an ambulance.’

With that, he had hung up the phone. Tim sat there, looking around, in the dark, not knowing where to start. God damn the man. Him and his stupid ways. And then, it dawned on him: he would simply call one for him. And so, that is what he did, and then went back to bed.

In his dream, a woman was gesturing to him, blowing him kisses; a woman he had never met before, or maybe had, but he couldn’t remember.

*

When he woke, it was already midday, the sun was streaming through the blinds. He got up, wondering why he had slept so long, then took his shower, got dressed and made it out into the day. Dappled light and the street full of cars: a weekday. A text message landed on his phone, said ‘Important, you have a meeting with your job network provider, at 8.30 in the morning.’

He kept walking and made it to the beach, looked out at the blue water and white sand underneath a blue sky. Then wandered back up the beach and cut through the park to get back to his apartment. When he came to it, he spotted his neighbour, sitting with a hose between legs, holding it up to the garden, all the while sipping on a beer.

‘You’re back early.’ Said his neighbour.

‘What can I say? Life in the fast-lane.’

‘Well, slow down buckaroo, you might catch a hernia.’

‘You get a hernia from lifting too much weight.’

‘That’s what I meant.’

‘Right.’

Tim looked around and admired the garden, then walked into the house and sat down, and, after a while, made a simple meal and ate it, watched the television for a while, then went to bed. The next morning, his alarm woke him, and he reluctantly got out of bed and took his shower and looked at himself in the mirror. The same old horse-like face. Was he attractive to women? He couldn’t be sure. One thing he did know: his dole payment was due today, but so was his appointment with his employment officer. He got dressed and made his way out of the house.

As per usual, he made it to the appointment early. The office was empty, except for the sound of the officers and their clients, behind a partitioned wall. He sat and fidgeted and tried not to get too nervous, poured himself a cup of water from the water cooler sitting next to him. After a while, a woman came out from behind the wall and told him that he was ready to be seen. Tim stood and made his way deeper into the office where there was a bench and partitions. A number of people, sitting behind it, dressed up, and all apparently working. He was ushered over to one of them, then sat down. A woman sat on the other of it, behind a computer, welcomed him with a smile, asked him to sit down.

‘So, Tim, is it? Let’s bring up your file.’

‘Ok.’

‘Ooh, looks like you’ve been out of work for a while. We’d better make you another appointment while you’re here, check in with your job plan. And, look at that. It looks as though you’re overdue for your work-for-the-dole phase. I’d better set that up right now.’

She started typing things into the computer, and then giving him instructions on where he had to be, and when. In the end, he left the interview feeling as though he had lost something of himself, which, indeed he had: now, he was to report to an office three days a week to qualify for unemployment benefits: the latest government scheme. He could only marvel at how much he was at the mercy of politicians. As he walked back to his apartment, a series of text messages landed on his phone, telling him where to be, and when. By the time that he got home, he was completely flustered, could feel that government all over him like a rash.

In moments like these, shame would hit him. Broke and middle-aged, he wasn’t meant to turn out like this. He shuddered to think what his parents had gone through with him as a child. The money spent on private schooling, all the sacrifice. Still, those days were long gone, he reasoned. And yet, he had nothing to show for all the years gone by. He sighed and sat in his chair and wondered whether or not it all actually mattered: the one and only consolation, then fell back to his belief in eternity.

The next day, he woke with his alarm, showered and got dressed and made his way to his ‘work for the dole scheme’, feeling, again, like a complete failure. Funny, the only thing that he really wanted to do with his life was create art, but none of his creations seemed to resonate all that much, and it was only another point of shame. But maybe he was going about the whole thing the wrong way, he reasoned. Maybe, all this striving wasn’t really what life was all about. After all, he was alive, wasn’t he? And that was what mattered, wasn’t it? He thought about his parents again and shuddered. But, after all, they had their own plight, didn’t they? And, failing to live up to their expectations was only pride, wasn’t it?

He made it to the tram stop and sat down. A perfect blue sky and still he hadn’t found a way to make any money, all his life. But, did that matter, either? Arguably not.

He pulled up google maps on his phone, and found the address: a community room, full of some of the most interesting people he had ever seen before. A man with a beard down to his waist line. Another man that looked like an elderly woman, wearing a t-shirt that had a picture of ‘the Beatles’ on it. A woman with white hair, who was a little old lady, except that she was chatting with the others, as though, somehow adjudicating some important conversation between them. And others, of lesser zany appearance. He was introduced around the place, and felt as though, he was let in on some big secret, as though there was a population that he had always wondered about �" some, his heroes �" who had somehow ended up here.

Little did he know, that it was the end for him. For he had finally found his own. And there, he would stay, conceivably until the end of time. The man with the beard suddenly turned to him, and said ‘morning brother!’ And the statement was apt. He suddenly grew excited and could see that he was finally part of something good.

Apparently, they were creating a newspaper, though, there was more conversation than creating. He was introduced to the editor, who was a youngish man, who always wore sunglasses.

‘Welcome aboard,’ said the editor.

Tim looked around the room and could actually feel the good will in the place. ‘Well, what do you want me to do?’ asked Tim. To which they all looked at him and laughed. The editor leaned in close and looked at him from beneath his sunglasses. ‘Do whatever you want, dude. Just try not to wreck the place.’

‘That, I can do,’ said Tim.