Images Reversed

Some time back at North Arm Cove we were given a short story and asked to write from the other character's perspective. Here is my take:

So yes, Brad did seem like a bit of an arse back there. For all intents and purposes, he more-or-less just poo-pooed things and poured scorn over Lyn’s dreams. But don’t forget though- there’s always two sides to any story, and sympathies can be coaxed with a bit of tweakage. Try this:

The minute Lyn came home and proudly displayed her latest purchase, Brad inwardly sighed with resignation. Not again, he thought to himself in frustration.

'…and it’s got a 4 inch lense with a 15 megapixel resolution!' she finished excitedly, passing over the camera.

Brad took it in his hands and turned it over a few times.

'Hmm,' he said thoughtfully. 'Nice bit of gear- reminds me of the years I spent reporting on the IRA in Ireland. Don’t know though- aren’t printed photos a bit old school? Phones and all that- don’t they all have cameras nowadays?'

Lyn’s eyes flashed. 'I figured you’d go this way!' she snapped. 'Why can’t you support me in the things I love?'

Brad said nothing in response, knowing from experience that he would always be on the losing side. Never mind the hours he had spent traveling up and down the F3 to visit her dying mother on the North Shore. Nor the time he had raced all the way to Melbourne to collect her distressed daughter after her rental unit had gone up in flames thanks to dodgy insulation. And let’s ignore for a moment the countless afternoons he had slaved away in the kitchen preparing her one of her favourite meals ready for her to eat after a busy day at work.

The next few days were difficult enough. There were a myriad of chores to be done around the house, but now it seemed as though roles had been reversed, so engrossed was she in her new toy. Normally they were a good team- 'I’m the boss, as long as she lets me', so the saying goes.

But lately after breakfast she would grab he camera and zip out the door with barely a grunted goodbye. On one particular morning, she provided terse instruction as they ate. 

'Make sure you get those loads of washing done today. And remember about your column!' she called as she left

Brad looked over to the pile of washing sitting in the corner.  'Has she forgotten about my RDA?' he grumbled to himself. For a moment he wished he was back at work in the city- at least there’d be no chores there. Just then his mobile phone beeped, and he glanced at it, expecting the day's briefing. Drafts for Eco-Watch's international press release to be in by mid-day, it announced. Any staff not complying will be given the sack. AC.

Brad’s spirits sank. Not Alan again, he thought as he recognised the sender. This particular manager, whose office was in headquarters way over in Adelaide, was a difficult boss with a habit of barking out orders and who had absolutely no endearing qualities. Doesn’t he know it’s my day off, thought Brad in despair?

Still, it was beautiful weather- 'a good day to dry hard,' as his father used to say- and Brad got those loads done.  After lunch he sat down at his desk and got to work on that international press release. It was all about the degradation of the Barrier Reef and the potentially disastrous social climate in Newcastle. Strange combination, Brad thought as he scanned a number of reports from several major news vendors, but who was he to dictate proceedings from the hand that paid him?

After many discarded drafts, he finally reached 800 words. 'That should do it,' Brad finally thought, sending the document to the work email account just after mid-afternoon.  Not the most brilliant of pieces, he had to admit, but at least done his dash. Surely there’d be no sackage for him now?

With the sun just above the gum-tree line, he was busily cleaning up the cat’s vomit in the lounge room when his phone beeped again. Another message.

Be informed that your draft has fallen far below the firm’s standards. Please report to the main office tomorrow to commence dismissal proceedings.  Alan Cummings, CEO.

Brad’s stomach sank. What, he thought? How could they, he being a loyal employee and all? And what would he say to Lyn about all this?

Lyn came home from her photography ventures and went straight to her computer with barely a sideways glance. Typical, thought Brad bitterly. Evidently her outing had been a success, as she busily uploaded photo after photo. Feeling sad and forgotten, he opened the kitchen pantry door. 'What do you want for dinner tonight, love?' he called hopefully.

Lyn mumbled something about Moroccan Chicken in response. Immediately Brad’s spirits jumped. A great suggestion, he thought; the soft, pillow-like nature of the couscous and the aromatic scent of the cumin spices had always been a winner. Rustling about in the kitchen, his woes were momentarily forgotten.

As he was humming away a funky rendition of 'White Cliffs Over Dover', Brad heard an excited squeal from the study. His heart leapt- finally, a bit of spirit from Lyn! A moment later she came out and plonked herself and laptop on the kitchen bench.

'Oh Brad,' said Lyn breathlessly. 'I won the ‘Winter Warmers’ photography comp! Pan Macmillian want to publish a limited edition 500 picture collection of my photos! And NBN wants to do a story!'

Brad swallowed, filled with conflicting emotions. Disappointment would still follow once he told her his news, of that he was sure. But she had got so far, he thought- why rain on her parade just now? 'That's great!' he said, doing his best to share her enthusiasm. Giving his sweet Lyn a small smile he turned back to the stove, all the while the old adage about 'one door closing and another opening' ringing through his head...

 

 

The (Not-So) Invisible Man

Each month at North Arm Cove Writers’ we’re given a homework exercise for the next meeting. Here we were given a handful of opening sentences and asked to use each of them as a starting point. 

I am an invisible man. Ralph Ellison, ‘The Invisible Man’

            ‘I am [indeed] an invisible man!’ I thought, and thought to demonstrate this irrefutably. Daily, for example, Nurses will hand-over in the staff-room while I sit dumbly munching on a flavoured pie. Or one of the junior AINs might bring in her infant and a handful of colleagues will gather round, clucking and giggling as they bounce the child around on their hips, some looking positively radiant. To this I have nothing to add, so I simply quietly exit the scene.

            Yet the truth is anything but. I often remember the chat I had one day with that lovely American lass as we travelled to Sydney. Or the sweet gal from the UK I met at the backpackers’ who still occasionally writes. Then there’ll be the prompt responses from old friends and the warm welcome I regularly receive here, there and about.

            So am I invisible? Not really— just when it pays to be.

Workplace Blues

The scene: 

From the previous shift Patrick, poor green soul that he was, had left four trolleys of washing still to be folded: bibs, place-mats, table-cloths and mounds of personal linen. In addition, one of the residents had the day before suffered a catastrophic digestive explosion and so the mountains of linen from his quarters had swamped the laundry. All this had totally upset the usual morning routine and Becky was ropeable when Patrick arrived, casual and groovy like usual.  

As Patrick walked into the Sluice room, Becky immediately spoke her mind.

‘Do you know what time they have breakfast here?’ she demanded.

‘Uh…seven, seven-thirty?’ 

'Well, what about all the washing you left behind?'

Patrick mumbled said something about it being quarter-past six and how by then it should be fine to leave.

‘No!’ Becky snapped. ‘You finish your job!’

Evidently, as the scolding continued, she and Clarice had been working to make the afternoon shifts less demanding. She went on to mention having to deal with a load being left overnight in the washer. ‘It totally stank!! Tell me, why do I bust my butt?’ she said darkly. ‘I’ve had enough!’ With nothing to say Patrick meekly held her eye. Becky went on to say something about Clarice having shared similar frustrations before adding that, ‘we haven’t told the boss yet!’

‘But I feel like I’m getting better!’ 

‘No!’ she snapped again. ‘You’re getting worse!’

It was clear that several red bags were in the middle washer about to be processed. ‘Should I get these going?’ Patrick asked tentatively.

'It’s not my problem!' Becky said throwing her hands in the air Greek-style and stepping away from the machine. ‘I’m outta here in five- do it your fucking self!’ She headed back into the folding room to finish the trolley of personals before she left.

Patrick got that going before returning to the folding-room. ‘I know I need to pull my finger out,’ he apologised. Becky snarled something dismissive. Clearly he was not welcome right now— a wing run looked particularly appealing. Grabbing the nearest trolley which seemed fullest, Wing 2A, Patrick made a hasty exit. He looked over his shoulder briefly as he neared the doorway, but aside from the throw-away comment that ‘this better not be a mess when I come back tomorrow!’, it was it clear Becky had had enough of him for one afternoon.

Work At Long Last!

Published in 'Newslink', Headstart ABI Service; December, 2018

 In October, I responded to an ad for a ‘General Service Officer’ at a nearby Aged Care Facility. To my surprise, I was called that very afternoon and asked to come in for an interview! Shortly after, I was offered the position of Laundry Attendant. This has not been without its challenges, but already I am feeling a lot more confident with the job. 

 As it’s developed, my shifts loosely follow the same pattern:

From the Nurses, I have learnt the value of having a ‘hand-over’. I’ll clock in about fifteen minutes early, and be updated on where things are at. 'Wash these', I might be told, or 'deliver these trolleys’ of clothes’, which gives me a head-start on how the shift is to progress. Writing a few pages of key notes (‘hang these’ and ‘operate-like-so’) for quick reference has helped too. 

There is always a mound of personal linen to be sorted, which threw me in those first few weeks. But the alphabetical list of resident’s names made shortly after I started with their room number helps tremendously, as does composing a mental map of people and faces by delivering to them. ‘So-and-so?’ I’ll think. ‘Oh, he’s  in wing 2!’ and often look straight to the trolley.

I wrestled with those bothersome sheets and blankets at first! Then I was showed a neat way of folding those pesky fitted sheets and the handy-man told me about the '3rd Arm'. A tool used by the hospitality industry, it has a clamp and footswitch which allows you to fold linen sheets with minimal back-strain and zero ground-time. Haven’t looked back.

So for the first few hours of my shift I’ll alternate between washing, drying, folding and delivering, which will of course be guided by the hand-over. Then in the last hour I’ll set aside some time to focus on the cleaning routine. The lint filters must emptied, the soiled soiled linen trolleys must be cleaned (Residents’ can be quite care-free with corn-flakes), floors must be regularly swept and mopped, bins must be emptied and supplies need re-stocking. 

On a good day I’ll knock off maybe five minutes late. Sometimes I may stay back a little longer if I’m a bit behind, but there’s kind of an unspoken agreement there.  ‘You scratch my back, and I’ll scratch yours,’ I was told one day, and I get that. Can’t rest on my laurels just yet, mind you- still gotta pass the six-month probation- but they’re a good bunch to be working with, and I’m feeling optimistic about this...  

Nearer Than You Think

December, 2018

The sun peeked its golden rays through the surrounding gum-trees.

Tom leant back in his chair on the front patio setting his half-emptied glass of Kombucha on the ledge beside him. Sighing contentedly, he reflected on another productive Saturday. With his sister due to visit in a week, bringing with her the much-adored four-month year old infant daughter, he and his folks had made a point of tackling as many chores as they could. Mowing the lawn, doing the washing, cleaning the floors and bathrooms, heaping the yearly Spring mulch on the garden - mundane, true, yet ultimately satisfying.

But there was another, more wistful side to that sigh.  For some months now there had been a pretty blonde nurse regularly floating around the facility at the same time as Tom. Though from the outset he had been attracted to her, he’d at first held back, reasoning that ‘she’s not strictly my type’. In weeks of late this had all changed though, especially after one day he’d seen her quietly jiving about in front of the Nurses’ station. 

Finally he had made a resolution. ‘Next time I see her,’ he decided, ‘I’ll ask her out!’ Sure enough, there she was, the very next day.

‘So Molli,’ he said, catching her as his shift ended. ‘You wanna meet at the Pub tonight for a game of Trivia?’

 Mid-way through feeding someone sitting in a Princess-Chair, she squealed in delight.

‘Oh, I’d love that!’ Then she frowned. ‘Oh sorry- I can’t tonight. Got a new job up in Dungog, and I’ve got to finalise papers with the Real Estate.’

‘Oh,’ Tom said, disappointed. ‘Great career move though- when do you start?’

‘Monday,’ Molli replied, skilfully depositing another mouthful of mashed roast. 

‘Could I have a rain-check then? Tomorrow night instead?’

‘Of course! Find me on Facebook- it’s Molli MacBeth, with a ‘k’.’

Later that afternoon, Tom found his fancy and sent her a message. 'Still up for dinner tomorrow night? 

She replied shortly after.  Not sure, she wrote. Got a friend coming up for a visit over the weekend and I’ve still got plenty of packing left for the move.

 No skin off my back, he’d replied. We’ve plenty of time left yet and at least we’re talking. Good luck with the move!

She had not responded to that last message but it seemed wisest to let sleeping dogs lie.

            

Tom reflected on all this now, sipping on another few mouthfuls of Kombucha under his patio. His was a commanding view from where he sat, the front door being two-levels above the street. The view tapered off to down the street to the right down to where the local boat-ramp entered the Bay. Hammering could be heard from the Resident Carpenter’s workshop across the road; in a clump of weathered Eucalypts to the left, a pair of Kookaburras suddenly broke out into maniacal peals of laughter.

He lifted the dregs of Kombucha to his lips, remembering an old Zen story as he did so. ‘What’s the best way to practice?’ one disciple had asked. ‘Don’t cling; don’t seek,’ said his Master. So Tom closed his eyes and began to breathe deeply, in and out, returning his focus to the constant sound of his breath imagining, as he often did, floating in a sea of thoughts but latching onto none.

Eventually the sounds around him faded into obscurity. You could say they became like background or white noise, the sort you might hear when you are at a party but just contentedly letting the surrounding conversation wash over you. A few moments later he heard a car pull up out the front of his address.

‘Hullo!’ Tom thought, opening his eyes. ‘Who’s this?’ He sat forward as the car’s driver stepped out and it was none other than that same pretty nurse.

 ‘Molli!’ he cried in surprise. ‘Didn’t expect to see you before you’d leave!’

 'Neither did I,’ she said, walking up the driveway. ‘But we did have a rain-check, and I wanted to see you before I left.’

'How did you find where I live?'

‘You spoke once about being out here,’ Molli replied. ‘And I do haf my vays,’ she added, adopting a mock-sinister accent.

Tom laughed. ‘Just think— if I hadn’t asked you out I’d never have known why you were leaving at all. You’d have just disappeared!’

‘I wouldn’t be so dramatic,’ Molli said, rolling her eyes. ‘Surely one of the other nurses would have explained and I’d have come back at some point— I’ve still got family here.’

‘That’s true,’ admitted Tom, feeling slightly abashed. Suddenly he had a flash off inspiration and reached down into the esky by his side. ‘Say, while you’re here— you wanna drink?’

Molli looked at him warily, but relaxed once she recognised the sincerity in his eyes. ‘Sure,’ she said, ‘why not? Let’s drink to the future!

The Washing Machine

Published in 'Newslink', Headstart ABI Service; December, 2017

 

This month I've decided to contribute one of the stories I have been writing for the North Arm Cove Writers. They're a good bunch and being involved with them has provided a good avenue to flex  the writer's muse, where each month we look at one aspect of writing and then are given a topic to work with. Back in April, we were presented with a list of objects and had to choose from that- mine was 'a washing machine'.

        It was an ancient washing machine, rusted and covered in dirt. Across the front was scribbled 'wash me!'- evidently some smart-arse's attempt at originality. A front loader, it's glass face allowed for it's contents to be monitored- mandatory since the Sards Wars of 2035 where hordes of tiny robotic killers had spewed out of innocent-looking machines and aided Karl's Robotic Army.

      Within, you could see masses of lint and fluff-balls in the water and oxygen valves. Where once it had stood on dainty little feet, it now sat awkwardly balanced on a plank of two-by-four. Evidently some needy individual had pinched those on one side, but had been thoughtful enough to leave some compensation. 

       Not so commonly known, however, was the function where if a certain button was pushed and the correct sequence of controls activated, the hidden motherboard would spring to life.  In all it's glory, it would then resurrect the machine in it's true identity: 'Washobot'.