Before Shooting Season

You wera bit soft. We all knew, but no’ne eva said. An’ in those few days before shootin’ season you were laughin’ again and you were ‘right and she worried less. Always made ya eat twice your size every night, more when she was happy. Workin’ boys, she said. You boys gotta eat. She made sweets then, custard and pie and I’d wolf it down and dig in for seconds. Get it intaya, he’d say. You’d be sittin’ there tryin’ ta shovel it onta to my plate when he wasn’t looking, when she’d be at the sink an couldn’t see. Never wanted to hurt ‘er feelin’s. He was hard on ya, always was so it wasn’t different then.

I rememba there was still the nip of cold in the air but it didn’t stop us kicking a bit after tea, him watchin' out the window. Ya drop punt was better’n mine and he hated ya for it. Shouldda been me, the burly one he said. But skill was nuthin’ if ya couldn’t hold it inna brawl, he reckoned. Get ya face packed in, he said, if they put ya on the field.

Ya couldn’t shoot a roo save yaself, he said, even if it was bout ta kick ya in the guts. The spot lights on the front of the truck had the tray dark those nights, us sittin’ in the back there with the gear in the season. Couldn’t see ya face but I knew ya wouldn’t look out. You’d hear the shots and he’d be pissed at ya for sittin’ there flinchin’. He showed you how to aim, watched ya jolt right back as the shotty kicked back on ya shoulda. Nah. He made ya come along every time, though he said your shot was shit. Wasn’t that night though. Not that one. Not the one we found ya.

(Image: Karl Edwin Scullin)

Charity: this time I'm giving it (an audio-video and lecture-rant)

They used to like the crowds—more of us to catch—be it the busy suburban mall or the crowded streets of the CBD, those places used to keep them happy. Now I head to my little corner supermarket and they're set up, quite comfy, with their fold out tables and chairs (though they rarely sit—they must be ready, muscles coiled, to pounce). Seems they've twigged that it's easier to get good folk talking when they're not in a visible rush—those excuses, "I'm in a real hurry", don't really cut the mustard when you're strolling into the corner shop in your ugg boots...

The humble charity isn't so humble any more. Gone are the nannas and pops or school kids who might be volunteering to razz up a little coinage for the Red Cross. Now they've bought in the big guns, the average British backpacker, desperate for the money to pay for a Wicked Van or cheap Combi, is a scary breed. They have made the good old fashioned charity a thing we near despise unfortunately.

Don't get me wrong: I support two animal charities with regularity. I thought that made me a sort of decent person, but my explaining this in response to having forms thrust into my belly as I totter out of the corner shop, bleary eyed in the morning, just makes me fairer game. So as they've gotten more aggressive, rather rude and very uncharitable, I've gotten wiser.

"That's a bright scarf," one demands, rather than compliments. "Thanks," I say. I keep walking. I am not tempted by their cat calls.  I now know that the abrupt "Excuse me, quick question..." does not guarantee it being an intelligent one and that "just a minute of your time" is never sixty seconds.

You don't really even need to be out on the street either: it's the same at home. Once upon a time I used to know it was Mum on the other end of the phone line (everyone else calls the mobile). Maybe I'd expect a sales call around dinner time once a week but not any more—they're trying to catch me out any old time and with more regularity. I suspect they think that if they call mid-afternoon I won't know its them—I'll be in between emails and I might even just appreciate their pitch, a diversion from my pottering or 'work' as I prefer to call it.

I had whinged about all of this for long enough. While I still need to fine tune my gruff 'No' at street level (I'm nice by nature) I suspected that I could politely educate the tele-workers with a quick lesson (no one likes long winded message) and so my new answering machine message was recorded.

I never expected a response to my education program but I arrived home on day two to find the following....

YourMic Home (Please note my answering machine never delivers the correct date or time. The tele-worker left his message for me on a Monday afternoon)   
(First Image: D. Mark Andrews)





 

Fuel

You asked to stop there for a can of coke, you needed to piss and the tank was empty so I pulled in. I stood by the bowser pumping gas to fuel dreams set on fire years before and you said to the attendant that you'd been short changed.

If only you knew the truth in that.

The tyres were near-bald and paint job robbed by rust and we were there ten metres apart, sliding doors between us and I was standing watching your mouth move.

You were telling the attendant that there were not enough coins—the change was wrong—and you were pleading with your eyes with one hand in your front pocket looking casual and honest.

And you looked at me through the glass and back at him and you picked at lint from your stained pull over.

I watched your mouth.

You were hoping like fuck that he'd give you that two dollar coin so you could walk through those sliding doors, flip that piece, lay it on the dash, shove your feet up and feel just a little richer for all those years we'd spent.

(Image: Tema Stauffer)