It Shouldn't Happen To A Bludger
Ian Kidd

 

IT SHOULDN'T HAPPEN TO A BLUDGER


BY


IAN KIDD





CHAPTER 1 : Back On The Dole Gang





July 1996.

Muirden was over. The worst period of my entire life had come to an end, and not

before time, and I breathed a sigh of relief as I woke up at a comfortable 10am on

Monday morning, knowing I didn't have to go into that hell-hole.

Not today. Not ever.

I was back on the dole.

Thank God for that!

 It was almost like the beginning of my "dole bludging" back in early '93, just

released from twelve years of High School and experiencing freedom for the

first time. It was like that again, with the added joy coming from the fact Muirden

had been far worse than High School ever was.

It was wonderful.

For the first week or so, anyway.

 By the beginning of the second week, the first stages of lethargy, boredom and

depression were beginning to set in. Not much, but enough to be noticeable.

 "Two weeks back on the dole," I remember telling Michael, "and I'm sick to death

of it already."

 Ah, Michael. At this stage we were still going out pretty often, and on one of his

always delightful "surprise visits" to my place, we went for a walk, talk, bitch 'n'

moan session etc.

 I don't know what brought it up, but one of Michael's bitches was (as usual)

about his parents, who, he told me to my alarm, was picking him up at my house.

I suggested we wait OUTSIDE for them, thus preventing them coming to the door

and meeting MY parents.

 "Just imagine if they became friends," I shuddered.

 Michael visibly paled at the suggestion. "Don't even think about it," he replied.

 It is thus with a certain amount of fateful irony that as we waited outside my house

for his parents, we heard a cry of "Hello!". Up the street, my parents - apparently

returning from a walk we didn't know they'd gone on - were heading for us. At the

EXACT same moment, in a coincedence so bad you wouldn't buy it if it happened

in a movie - a car swung up outside my house.

Michael's parents.

 "Move!" I urged Michael desperately. "Go! Go! Go!"

Michael made a brave and valiant run for it, but failed to prevent what we had

always feared.

The meeting of our parents, face-to-face.

 I don't know why this bothered me so much, actually. In England, my friend

Matthew's mum Marie and my mum were as good as friends as we were,

and that didn't bother me.

Then again, I LIKED Marie.

And so did Matthew.

Unlike Michael, who utterly despised his parents so much, the idea of meeting

them in a dark alley positively freezes the blood.

 Thus, it was for ten truly agonising minutes that we watched as our parents

began a long and painful conversation, with Michael and I watching in anguish

from the sidelines (Michael especially - even my mother commented on his

discomfiture, although not mine - I am a better actor/liar than Michael, when I

have to be) but, although the meeting was painful, it did not develop into any

kind of friendship (Thank the Lord! Praise Be!). They have, in fact, not seen

each other since.

Phew! That was close!

 In August, however, Michael told me about this new girl he'd met and liked,

Linda, who quickly became his girlfriend.

And that was the beginning of the end, essentially, for me and Michael.

Soon, our weekly outings became bi-weekly outings.

Then monthly outings.

Then bi-monthly outings.

I'm sure you get the picture.

 Slowly but surely, I was being dropped off. It was all Linda's fault, of course.

Unlike former Michael girlfriends, this one wasn't over and out within three

weeks, nor (from what little I could ascertain from what little I saw Michael) was

she a deranged psychopath or a two-timing hussy. She was, oh Lord, a nice girl.

 Now please don't misunderstand. I had no problem with Michael finally getting

himself a decent girlfriend. It's what we all want, isn't it? Under other

circumstances, I would have been happy for Michael (and a teeny bit envious).

But I didn't particularly like the fact that now he had a girlfriend, Michael was

treating me, and let's be fair to him, like a piece of crap - 99% of the time, when

we arranged to go out, it was ME who had rung HIM.

Including several times when I had rung him, and been told he was "too busy".

I was being made to feel like an annoying hanger-on, a pest, or some chore he

felt had to perform.

So, after ringing AGAIN and being put off, I asked him to ring me (as always,

but he usually didn't) and decided, this time, I wasn't going to crumble. If he

didn't bother, fine. That was his problem. I was just sick of feeling like a bloody

pest. I wasn't ringing him. He could ring me if he wanted to get together. I could

wait.

And I was going to have to.





CHAPTER 2 : Selfish Friends and the Bastard EAA!





September 1996.

By this time, things were not good in the Kidd household. I hadn't heard from

Michael in over a month, and was becoming increasingly determined NOT to

be the one to call, and increasingly resentful that our 'friendship' clearly meant

far more to me than it obviously did to him.

Ironic, really, considering that when he'd first turned up on my doorstep in Jan

'93 (see "Becoming a Bludger"), I hadn't exactly been 100% delighted to see him.

Now however, I'd grown so used to his company that I'd almost become dependant

on it.

Whereas he clearly could not care less.

 With my mood thus black, the CES (or rather the EAA - Employment Assistance

Australia) decided to step in and make things even worse.

I got a letter stating it was time to see my Case Manager. This was quite a shock,

considering that I had not seen my erstwhile Case Manager Sue Stewart since

July '95 (see "The Course") and, in fact, when I had rung up to get Case

Management assistance in my vain attempt to get on an Accounting course at

TAFE (see "Back on the Bludge") I had been told I was now too old to have

a Case Manager.

So finding out I wasn't was a bit of a blow, really.

 My new Case Manager, apparently called Carol, wanted to see me.

I had two weeks to get used to this news - or rather to wait, worry and generally

stress out over what stupid things they'd try to get me to do this time (remember

that the last "suggestion" made by a Case Manager had seen me with high hopes

of getting a job AND a girl, and ending up jobless and heartbroken).

Then, the morning I had to go in, I received a phone call, cancelling the interview.

I was slightly irritated by all thw worrying I'd been made to unnecessarily endure, but

still pretty overjoyed at being let off the hook so easily.

Or so I thought.

 But no. Because the EAA were rather more sadistic even than the thoroughly

sick people who staffed the CES, and wanted to torture, abuse and generally

get right up my nose.

 A few days later, I got a letter rescheduling the "Case Management review"

for another week.

Another week of sleepless nights, and thinking up nightmarish scenarios and

courses this latest deranged harpy would try to send me on.

The day before I was due to go, after another week of this, I got a phone call,

again cancelling the appointment.

A couple of days later, I got another letter, again rescheduling the appointment.
 
 By this time, I was becoming decidedly ill-amused and bad-tempered (even

more than usual). Actually, I wasn't too worried as I was half-expecting to get

another phone call the day or morning before to again cancel the appointment.

However, no doubt because the EAA sadists were probably EXPECTING me

to be EXPECTING them to ring and cancel, they didn't.

No last-minute reprieve this time.

 So, at the end of September, I trudged up Beach Road to meet my new

Case Manager (have you noticed - Case Manager. CM - the same initials as

Cancer Man in "The X Files" - coincdence? I think not).

Carol, as she introduced herself, was a middle-aged woman in a frumpy dress,

who looked suspiciously like a man in drag, and was far more cheerful than

befitted the situation. A pair of sparkling, 'zany' glasses, and she'd have been a

dead ringer for Edna Everage.

 I put on the "nod and smile" act I always reserve for the CES and other such

degenerates, and we waded through the usual garbage, looking at my

qualifications etc. At one point, as is no doubt standard in the Case Management

Rule Book of Suggestions Guaranteed to Irritate Anyone Who Resents Being

Exploited, Carol suggested I consider doing voluntary work.

I told her I'd certainly consider it.

 As per usual, by the end of the "interview", the CM had done nothing, and I

left the office with a large pack of leaflets and "information sheets", which I

immediately deposited in the nearest waste paper bin (which was probably

more than they deserved) and headed home.

 Only a day after the interview, however, I found this CM wasn't going to go

away so easily. A day later, she rang me up.

There was a clerical traineeship going at Elders Real Estate Agents in Lonsdale.

And she had gotten me an interview.

Over the next few chapters, you will glimpse some of the many ways I fantasised

about thanking her....but not the one involving the axe.





CHAPTER 3 : The Traineeship





Of all the (admittedly few) job interviews I have had, the one that took place

at Elders Real Estate in Lonsdale one morning in early October 1996, is one

of the most disastrous, and the one that most closely approximates being a

French farce.

 The interview was to take place at 10am, and as such we arrived down in

Lonsdale in plenty of time to make this appointment.

This is the point the situation gets complicated, and more than a little absurd.

For some reason, because I had yet to set my watch back following daylight

saving, that the time was actually 10:55 when I wandered into the Real Estate

Office, now believing the interview was at 11.

I told the receptionist I was there for a job interview.

 "Name?" she inquired.

 "Ian Kidd," I informed her.

 "What time was your interview?" the receptionist inquired.

 "11," I told her, incorrectly.

This is where it started to become rather surreal.

 "Bit early, aren't you?" the receptionist commented.

 I did a doubletake. "Well, not really. It is 10:55."

 Now it was the receptionist's turn to do a doubletake. "No, it isn't," she said, "it's

9:55," she pointed to her watch.

 I pointed to my watch. "No, it's 10:55."

Within a few minutes, the whole office was in on the discussion, and I had

practically convinced every one of them that all the clocks and watches in

the entire office were wrong.

 Then the big boss - the man supposed to be interviewing me - came in, and

settled the argument. It WAS 9:55, now 10am. "Come back in an hour," he told

me.

It was only when I was out of the office, trying to amuse myself for an hour in

Lonsdale - not an easy task - that I twigged.

My watch being wrong had thrown me off.

It had been 9:55.

But my interview had been for 10, not 11.

I had been on time, yet had somehow managed to convince the entire office

that I had been an hour early. So ultimately, I had been on time but was going

to end up an hour late.

There's only one problem: Why hadn't THEY known my interview was for 10am?

Brains of Britain, clearly. Then again, I could hardly talk after this farcical escapade.

 Anyway, eventually I did get to go for the interview. Which was a waste of time,

as always.

Whoever they were looking for - a sort of a cross between a fifteen year old they

didn't have to pay much, a fifty year old who didn't have to be trained, and Superman -

it wasn't me, that much was clear.

 The interviewer - a dead ringer for Jon Voight in "Heat", only even fatter and

uglier - did make a couple of 'helpful' suggestions to improve my job prospects.

He said "You know what you're going to do this afternoon? You're going to join

a Rotary Club, and start doing voluntary work."

 "I am?" I replied, genuinely surprised.

Needless to say, I didn't get the job.

Needless to say, I didn't take his 'advice'.

 On a lighter note, however, the good news was that over eight months later,

I still hadn't heard from CM again. Every cloud has a silver lining...


 At the end of September/October, after over a month of no communication,

Michael finally got in touch. Yes, you read that correctly. MICHAEL got in touch

with ME. I almost died of shock as HE suggested we go on one of our formerly

regular outings.

With a difference. Now, weekends were off-limits. Only evening outings were

allowed.

In other words, our outings now lasted 1-2 hours at most.

Still, it was something, and the fact HE had phoned ME did my petty spirits

no end of good.

My gamble had paid off.

The question was - for how long?





CHAPTER 4 : For Whom The Phone Doesn't Ring





A couple of weeks after mine and Michael's last outing - to the Noarlunga

Snooker Centre, I believe - I rang him up, to arrange another, in an evening (if

he insisted).

However, as was becoming disturbingly commonplace, Michael was again "too

busy".

Saying it was now his turn to ring then, I rang off.

A month later I was still waiting.


 My parents were going away for a week, and my brother Richard had arranged

to have time off work, a holiday, to have some peace and quiet.

It sounded like a good idea, and would have been, but for one thing.

His bosses didn't seem to realise he was on holiday. Every day, without fail, a

prat from Richard's office called Justin, would ring, begging for Richard's

'assistance' with a problem. Richard eventually got so sick of this that he stopped

answering the phone altogether, telling me to answer it and, if it was Justin, to

tell him Richard was out. Eventually, however, I got so sick of this little twerp

ringing up, that instead of my usual "Oh, he's out" response to a query about

Richard's whereabouts, I replied instead:

 "Oh, sorry. He's dead," and hung up.

Justin apparently told Richard when he returned to work that he thought I was

a "wanker". Ah. Diddums.

Tell you what, though. On any of Richard's holidays since, he didn't ring again.

I think maybe he got the message.


 Mid December 1996.

December 13, I received a Christmas card.

From Becky. Yes, Becky from Muirden (see "How to Succeed at Failure

Without Even Trying").

Together with a letter.

A LURVE letter.

No, SERIOUSLY.

I won't transcribe it word for word, but the general gist of it was that she had

a crush on me and wanted to "catch up" sometime. Ending the letter with "Lots

of love, Becky", and leaving her phone number and address on the back.

 Needless to say, I wasn't exactly overjoyed by the letter. It's difficult to say how

I felt, really. 'Sad' probably sums it up. The whole situation was just awful. I liked

Becky, I really did. As a friend. But there was no way I could ever see myself being

romantically involved with her. And I could not see how we could possibly friends

if she felt more for me than I possibly ever could for her. Trying to be friends with

her would probably have ended up even messier in the long term.

So the answer was no.

Two things ran through my mind:

1) I did not want her ringing up, writing again, or (God Forbid) coming to see

me uninvited. So far I had kept all the horrible Muirden business from my family,

and I meant it to stay that way. To safeguard this, I could not just not reply, which

would be open to misinterpretation. On the other hand, like I said, I didn't want

to hurt her.

The other thing running through my mind was a blazing sense of anger that I

had to do this at all.

I couldn't have gotten a love letter from Kathryn, could I? No, of course not. That

would have been a GOOD thing, wouldn't it? No, I only get letters from girls I'm

not interested in and therefore have to hurt the feelings of.

I had to write a letter, saying thanks but no thanks. But what the hell do you say

in a rejection letter? How can you possibly reject them without hurting them?

It's impossible. I mean, I wasn't about to 'do a Kirsty' or anything (write her a

letter saying 'Stop harrassing me' and get Michael to make a threatening phone

call to her) but I didn't want her to have any doubt about what I meant, either.

But what about my reasons?

"I'm not attracted to you"?

"I just don't see you that way"?

"The thought of physical intimacy with you makes me gag"?

Not exactly nice. And, despite what it may look like sometimes, I do TRY to

be nice.

So I lied through my teeth and told her I already had a girlfriend, Sally (a girl

I had actually had a crush on back in the UK) who wouldn't be impressed if we

kept getting together.

I never heard from Becky again.

Don't get me wrong, I'm not proud of it. The whole scenario made me feel

quite wretched.

But then, that's the game of love for you.





CHAPTER 5 : If The Tooth Be Told





Only a few days on from receiving my Certificate for First Official Heart Broken,

it happened, almost as if by divine retribution for my rejection of Becky.

A small but significant part of one of my front teeth came out. Not much, but it

depressed me anyway. It also got me worried - if every time I lied through my

teeth, I was going to lose part of them, I'd pretty soon have none left whatsoever.

A worrying prospect, I'm sure you'll agree.

 Christmas and New Year came and went, as Christmas and New Year are wont

to do, and I for one was just hoping 1997 was going to be better than 1996 (yes,

I'd made my annual speech again to Michael) although I didn't fancy my chances.

 Ah yes, Michael. I'd seen him early December, just after I'd received my first

ever 'love letter' from Becky (Michael cringed when I told him about it) but six

weeks later, voila - no contact.

I KNOW he had other friends beside me. I KNOW it was Xmas. I KNOW he

had a girlfriend now. But was a couple of hours a fortnight too much to ask?

Clearly, for him, yes it was.

 Late February (Michael...who?) I received a letter from local friendly CES

branch, ordering (sorry, REQUESTING - I always get those two mixed up)

me to go to an "Information Session" one particularly hot and sticky summer

afternoon.

 The upshot of this "Information Session" (ie lecture) was they wanted us to

go on a week-long course, where we would be "assessed and assimilated"

(did someone say "Borg"? Quiet there, at the back!) to go on a 20-week

on-the-job training course with employers, which had already been arranged,

and we would ALL get places.

Famous last words, as always.

Considering that I had little choice in the matter (those whose answer was "no"

were being collared at the door and interrogated as to their reasons - I'm sure

I heard a conversation where one youth said "I didn't expect the Spanish

Inquisition", to which the CES officer replied "Nobody expects the Spanish

Inquisition" - pretty sure, anyway), I agreed.

I put my name down for the course starting March 3 1997. And off we jolly

well go again.

 Remember Karen (see "The Course")? Of course you do. The beautiful redhead

who broke my heart on the four-week "Employment Connections" course at

TAFE in July 1995, nearly two years previously? Right, that's her.

As I wrote when discussing that situation, I saw her again in December '95,

albeit briefly, in Colonnades Shopping Centre, at the Noarlunga Centre. I was

with my parents at the time, so couldn't stop, and anyway, as I said, I wasn't

sure if she would have, anyway.

Well, Friday 28 February, wandering around the Noarlunga Centre, waiting

for my parents to catch up to me, I saw her again.

Karen.

This time, she didn't see me, but that wasn't the point. The point was WHERE

I saw her. In a shop. Rabbit Photos. BEHIND the counter.

Karen was working in a shop at the Noarlunga Centre. Just up the road from

my house, and had been for many months. I had dreamed for nearly two years

of seeing her again. And now I had. Not only that, but I knew exactly where she

was if I wanted to see her.

The opportunity was there.

The question was : What was I going to do about it?

The answer, of course, was obvious.

I was REALLY going to cock it up.





CHAPTER 6 : Here We Go Again





Monday March 3, I began the Pre-SES course. Don't ask me what it stood for,

I have no smegging idea.

Thankfully, unlike previous courses, there was no chance of me acquiring some

awful, unrequited crush on some girl there. There were several reasons why this

wasn't possible this time:

1) The course was only one week long,

2) There was only one girl on the course, and she wasn't particularly attractive, and

3) I already had an awful, unrequited crush - on Karen.

No worries on that score.

However, as you might expect, the absence of hot young girls did mean a

decided lack of scintillating company, for those that were left did not inspire me

with feelings of comradeship. They were

a) a few typical, uncouth, obnoxious Aussie youths - y'know, the kind you want

to hit over the head with a cricket bat,

b) a few middle-aged women, one of whom was a former mental patient (it

was that kind of course), and

c) a selection of weird men, from one young guy who looked incredibly - and

disturbingly - like the maniac killer on that week's episode of "The X Files", to

one overweight, disturbingly cheerful middle-aged man who went around

happily reciting to anyone who'd listen how being gang-raped by bikies when

he was 21 irrevocably changed his life.

Oh- KAY....

 So, the company wasn't exactly great. And the lecturer wasn't much better.

The lecturer, a stick-figure ginger-haired, incredibly boring man - so boring

I can't even remember his name - had no teeth, which meant he talked with a

peculiar lisp, which meant I often couldn't understand what he was saying.

Which may have been a good thing.

If you're getting the impression I was stuck on this course with a gruesome

gallery of grotesques, then you're getting the right impression.

By 10 o'clock I was having violent fantasies about slicing Stick Figure's head

off with a particularly sharp scythe.

Anyway, although it was dull, I could handle it. The course was not my main

concern. I had more important things to think of.

Namely, Karen.

 I spent the morning psyching myself up, mentally playing out the scenario in

my head. I would go into the photo shop, say "Oh hi, Karen" in incredibly

fake surprise, and wind up asking her out. When lunch time finally came, of

course, I did no such thing. I didn't even go in the shop. It was like there was a

force-field around the doorway or something.

I couldn't do it. I just couldn't.

 Tuesday morning I convinced myself that I hadn't been properly ready the

day before, and spent the morning psyching myself up. Tuesday lunch time

WAS more successful.

I did at least go in the shop.

Karen wasn't there that day, but I didn't know that, so I took it as a good sign

and said "Wednesday. Definite,".

Oh yes. Wednesday.

Definite.

 Wednesday lunch time. I muster all my courage, and march into the shop.

Karen is there.

A feeling of utter panic seizes my mind, and I am suddenly convinced that if I

so much as say "Oh hi, Karen", she will start screaming obscenities at me, or,

as the saying goes, "do a Kirsty" on me.

I panic, grab the nearest, cheapest item I can find - a $2 picture frame - and

buy that, and say nothing to Karen. She recognises me - I'm sure - but says

nothing,

I leave, feeling like the lowest form of life on the planet.

Thursday and Friday I try to go in but cannot. The impetus is gone. What do

I say now?

 "Oh hi, Karen. I recognised you yesterday, but was too fwightened to say hello"?

Er no, I don't think so.

I spent the rest of the week banging my head on walls, tables, and any other

surfaves I could find, and trying to figure out what the hell was wrong with me.

 Friday, the people running the while "Job Placement Scheme" came in to

assess our "suitablility". I was alternately met with surprise that someone with my

"qualifications" (I had to laugh) hadn't gotten a job, and astonishment at my choice

of career ("Clerical? Er...we hadn't planned on that. We've just got jobs like

berry picking"). They said they didn't actually have anything lined up in the clerical

field, but promised me sincerely they would do their best to try and find something

suitable for me.

Sincerely, I repeat.

Of course, I'd heard all these promises somewhere before.

So I wasn't about to hold my breath.





CHAPTER 7 : Just When You Think Things Can't Get Any Worse...





I don't take rejection well.

However, there's something I like even less; the idea of giving up without even

trying.

 I am referring to Karen. The idea of doing nothing repulsed me; one one hand I

half-believed nothing less than Fate itself had placed Karen in a job just up the

road from me, and even if it was just a coincedence, it was such a large one

that I might always regret it if I didn't at least TRY.

 Monday March 10 was my 22nd birthday. I was off to town to spend my

birthday money, but before I caught the train I was going to go into Colonnades,

go into Rabbit Photos and ask Karen out - or at least talk to her, and try to

subtly ascertain if she still had a boyfriend or not.

That was the plan, anyway.

What wrecked that plan was failing to take into account one factor: My

complete and utter cowardice.

I couldn't do it. I could not go in that shop. The forcefield was impenetrable.

I wasn't getting in.

I spent two hours, and missed three trains, walking backwards and forwards

around the latter half of Colonnades, trying to force myself to go in that shop. But

it was no good. I was sweating, my palms wet with perspiration, and I felt

physically sick. No matter. I COULD NOT GO IN THAT SHOP.

After two hours of this, I gave up and went to town, feeling sick and like a

stupid, gutless coward for the rest of the day.

It was a GREAT birthday.

 That night, I rang Michael to arrange to go out the following day (note: I rang

him) and briefly mentioned the situation. "I hate it when I get like this," I moaned.

He just laughed.

 But the following day, before I met him in town in the evening, I did something

stupid.

Very, VERY stupid.

It was clear I was not going in that shop and talking to Karen. I had tried. I

had nearly given myself a seizure trying.

But it wasn't going to happen, that much was clear. On the other hand, I could

not just leave it, sit back and do nothing. I couldn't talk to her in person. So what

were my options? I couldn't ring her. I could hardly ring her up at work and I

wasn't about to search the electoral rolls etc with Kirsty's screeching still echoing

in my head. So, what I did was very simple.

I wrote her a love letter.

Yes, REALLY.

I won't actually recite the letter word for word, as frankly writing this down

at all is humiliating enough. But let's put it this way: I never heard back from her.

She wasn't interested. I'd given it a shot, and the answer was no. It hurt, but at

least I knew. I'll take rejection over regret anyday.

 Anyway, it was now heading up to 2 weeks since I'd concluded that 1-week

course, and the Job Placement fellows weren't exactly beating the door down

with interviews for me. I assumed I'd never hear from them again.

I was wrong.

Unfortunately.





CHAPTER 8 : More Trouble Than They're Worth





They called, on Thursday March 20, scheduling an interview for 2 in the

afternoon on the next day - at Bunnings. A hardware store.

 I was decidedly suspicious about this. "This is a clerical job, isn't it?"

 There was an ominous pause. Then, "Yes," the man's voice was cheery,

positively high, "of course it is."

He didn't sound terribly convincing.

And nor should he have.

 The next day, as I went into Bunnings for the interview, it became very clear

what the job I was applying for actually was: Working as a Sales Assistant. On

the shop floor.

 "To be frank," I told the female interviewer. "This isn't the job I'm looking for."

She asked why. I explained to her that I was looking for a clerical position, had

STUDIED for a clerical position, and had been told this WAS a clerical position.

 "I see," the woman paused. "Well, I'm afraid we don't have any clerical positions

available."

My demeanour began to change rapidly from mildly irritated to very annoyed.

 "I have to tell you," she continued, "Clerical is a very difficult area to get into

nowadays. Why don't you consider broadening your options?" (Another way of

saying: Lower your standards.)

At this point, my demeanour changed from very annoyed to majorly pissed off.

 You'll forgive me if I get a bit emotional here. It's just that clerical was hardly my

dream career as it was. I had gone down from video production/writing on my

Case Manager's "advice", as they were "difficult to get into", and now I was

being told I was going to have to lower the target even lower. This got me mad,

as did being sent to this interview in the first place. Don't get me wrong, I didn't

blame the interviewer for that. That was hardly her fault. I blamed the pencil-pushing

prick who'd been looking at my file and thought "Clerical? How about a Sales

Assistant job? Yeah, they're pretty close,".

Twats.

I made my excuses and left. The interviewer promised to look out for clerical

positions and call me in a week.

She didn't, of course.

 And so, the fun continued.

At this point, my life was beginning to look bleak, and really rather depressing.

And then Michael turned up, after another month's silence. Which didn't exactly

help matters.

 It was a Bank Holiday Friday, and Michael came to visit me because, he told

me, he was bored and had nothing better to do, and he had to pass the time

until dinnertime when he was going to his folks (nearby) and was the only

reason he'd come by (charming, eh?), After a bitch, moan and general catch-up,

we made arrangements (on my prompting, of course) just before he left, to meet

in town the following Tuesday, at 5:45pm outside the Myer Centre, as usual.

So, come Tuesday, I toddled off down to town like a good little boy, and stood

outside the Myer Centre at 5:40.

And waited.

And waited.

And waited.

At 6:15pm, standing alone in a completely deserted and extremely dark and

sinister Rundle Mall, I went, with boiling rage, to the phone box, and rang his

number. He'd better not be there, I thought, and if he is, he'd better have a

bloody good reason as to why he's not here.

He was there.

 "Hello?" he said.

 "HELLO," I said between clenched teeth, with icy fury.

 "Hello?" Michael, utterly bewildered.

 "HELLO," I said, loudly and meaningfully.

 "Hello?" Michael repeated, like a less-bright-than-usual parrot.

 I exploded. "Where the FUCK are you?" I roared.

 "Oh, it's Tuesday, innit?" Michael groaned. "Oh shit, I forgot."

He forgot. FORGOT. It was four fucking days since we'd made the arrangement,

and he'd FORGOT. How fucking stupid was he? This was the last straw. I was

really angry. I had the feeling Michael had FORGOT, not only because he was

stupid, but also because, quite simply, he just didn't care.

 He finally turned up at 6:40, almost an hour late, offering a lame "Sorry". I

was pissed, and let him know, but he clearly didn't care less.

The least he could have done was buy me a burger at Hungry Jacks where

we went to eat, or pay my share of Pool (the whole thing only came to$7.90)

but no. It wasn't the money, that wasn't the point, it would have shown that he

WAS sorry, shown that he gave a damn. But he didn't.

As the icing on the cake, he even made me PAY HIM for giving me a ride home.

That night was the last time I ever saw Michael.

Sorry.

My FRIEND Michael.

Yeah, right.





TO BE CONTINUED...













 

 

Copyright © 1997 Ian Kidd
Published on the World Wide Web by "www.storymania.com"