‘How can you make a decision, before you know the starting salary?’ said her uncle. ‘Are you crazy?’
‘This fish is delicious,’ said her aunt. ‘I must get the recipe.’
‘If she does the librarian course,’ said her father,‘it will be another year before she even has an income.’
‘Three years, if she does the degree course,’ said her mother.
‘And there’s no guarantee she will find a job at the end of it,’ said her father.
‘Aren’t libraries downsizing because of the Internet?’ said her brother.
‘It won’t be long before everyone is reading e-books,’ said her cousin.
‘An e-book is still a book,’ said her mother.
‘In terms of opportunities,’ said her brother. ‘I know which one I’d be choosing.’
‘Likewise,’ said her cousin.
‘What about overtime and holidays?’ asked her uncle.
‘She’s not sure,’ said her mother.
‘Are you crazy?’ said her uncle. ‘Don’t they have a union?’
‘Who cares about unions?’ said her father. ‘What did unions ever do for anyone?’
‘The noodles are good,’ said her aunt. ‘But too spicy for me.’
‘Not for me,’ said her brother.
‘Likewise,’ said her cousin.
‘Wyn has always loved books,’ said her mother.
‘Being a librarian doesn’t mean sitting around reading all day,’ said her father.
‘In some ways,’ said her aunt, ‘a supermarket is like a library, with food on the shelves instead of books.’
‘Maybe Wyn should work in a bookshop,’ said her brother.
‘Selling cookbooks!’ said her cousin.
‘What about superannuation?’ said her uncle.
‘What about health and safety?’ said her father.
‘In a library?’ said her uncle. ‘Are you crazy?’
‘Anyone who works in a library is sure to end up needing glasses,’ said her father.
‘What happens if a bookshelf falls on her?’ said her cousin.
‘Even libraries have Workcover and public liability,’ said her brother.
‘What about the bean pies?’ said her aunt. ‘Has anyone tried the bean pies?’
‘As far as I’m concerned,’ said her father. ‘There’s no such thing as the perfect job. You work for the money, and the harder you work, the sooner you can retire.’
‘Wyn could do whatever she put her mind to,’ said her mother. ‘Her teacher suggested she study Psychology.’
‘What’s Psychology?’ asked her little sister.
‘It’s for people who are crazy,’ said her uncle.
‘Eat up, everyone,’ said her aunt. ‘There’s so much food left!’
‘Do you really want our daughter to spend the rest of her life listening to crazy people?’ said her father.
Wyn looked at her grandmother, but neither of them spoke.
‘She doesn’t want to study Psychology,’ said her little sister. ‘She wants to be a librarian.’
After the meal, a plate of fortune cookies was passed around and people read out their lucky messages:
Different flowers look good to different people, said one.
Once you pour water out of a bucket, it’s hard to get it back in, said another.
Even the most clever housewife cannot cook without rice, said a third.
Wyn sat and listened, but none of it seemed very helpful.
On the stroke of midnight they opened all the windows to let the old year go away. Outside, in the garden, Wyn’s brother let off crackers to scare away bad luck, then her uncle began launching the fireworks. Wyn and her grandmother stood on the grass, watching as each rocket shot up into the sky and exploded with bright colours. It was a new year. A new beginning.
Wyn took the old lady’s hand and squeezed it tight.
‘What should I do, Grandmother?’
The old woman shook her head.
‘It isn’t up to me to decide,’ she said. ‘You must ask yourself, What do I want?
’ ‘I want my family to be proud of me,’ said Wyn. ‘I want to be successful.’
‘Do you want to be happy?’ asked her grandmother.
‘Of course,’ said Wyn.
‘If you are happy,’ she said, ‘then you are successful.’
‘Did you like working in the clothes factory, Grandmother?’ ‘Yes. Do you like working in the supermarket?’
‘Yes, but I also like books.’
‘Working in a supermarket is a good job to have.’
‘I know, Grandmother.’
Together, they watched the last sky rocket fall back to earth in a fountain of light.
The old woman smiled.
‘It’s a good job to have,’ she said, ‘while you study to be a librarian.’
ACCOUNTS
Bev the accountant was talking on the phone. Louisa watched through the little window of her office, waiting for her to hang up. She looked at Bev’s desk, with the neatly labelled folders, the sharpened pencils, the coffee cup with her name on it and the framed photos of her two beautiful children. There was a fern in the corner and a picture on the wall. Bev had worked hard to make it feel like home.
When the phone call was finished, Louisa knocked softly on the door and Bev opened it.
‘Come in, sweetie,’ she said. ‘I bet you can guess why I wanted to see you?’
It was seven o’clock by the time Louisa got home from work. Her mother was in the kitchen eating her microwaved dinner from its plastic container. Louisa said hello, but Jacquie didn’t answer. On the table in front of her there were several bills with OVERDUE stamped across them in big red letters.
‘Why haven’t you paid them?’ Louisa asked.
Jacquie shook her head. ‘We’ve got no bloody money.’
Louisa told herself to stay calm and not get upset. ‘What about my account?’
Jacquie frowned at her like a resentful three-year-old.
‘I borrowed it, OK? I’ll pay you back.’
‘You mean you’ve gambled it all away? I should never have given you my PIN number.’
Three-year-old resentment turned to three-year-old self-pity. Jacquie pushed her dinner away. ‘What I do is my own business!’
Louisa’s face flushed with anger. ‘Not when you’re throwing away my money!’
‘Don’t worry, I’ll pay you back.’
‘When?’
‘When I get the money, of course.’
‘When you win it, you mean?’
‘What I do is my own business,’ Jacquie repeated.
This was the way it always went. The conversation became a snake chasing its own tail. It spun and spun until it ended up eating itself.
But this time Louisa wasn’t having it.
‘I’ve covered for you long enough, Mum! I’m not doing it any more,’ she snapped. ‘It isn’t just your business. It’s my business, too. The more I do for you, the more you expect me to do. I’m not supposed to be looking after you. I’m the child! You’re meant to be the mother!’
AISLE
ten
CAKES/ BREAD/HONEY/SPREADS
Marco the night security guard was waiting for the 2 a.m. freak show. Every night it was the same. You could set your watch by it. The freaks arrived, dishevelled and bleary-eyed, in their dirty jeans, their second-hand clothes, even their pyjamas, would you believe? They were like another species, blinded by the fluorescent lights and feeling their way around the store in search of the ultimate munchie food. But it wasn’t chocolate or lollies they were interested in. It wasn’t the snack foods or even the biscuits. Night after night, like turtles drawn by instinct towards the same moonlit beach, the freaks arrived mysteriously at 2 a.m. and dragged themselves along Aisle Eleven. They bought cupcakes and lamingtons, fruit muffins and loaves of soft white bread, jars of peanut butter and strawberry jam, easy-squeeze bottles of honey and cream cheese spread
. Elvis food, Marco called it. And the freaks could not get enough of it.
Not that Marco had anything against Elvis. Far from it. With his sulky good looks, his jet-black hair and long sideburns, Marco even looked like the King, some said. Not that he needed to advertise it. He wasn’t about to embarrass himself in an Elvis look-alike competition. Imagine putting on a rhinestone jump-suit and making a fool of yourself, only to be told at the end of it that someone else looked more like the King than you did. After all, there was only one real Elvis Presley. Marco didn’t know if Elvis had left the building or not. He’d read the stories. He knew the jury was still out on that one. If the 2 a.m. freaks wanted to deep-fry their peanut-butter sandwiches, he wasn’t going to stop them. But it was a tragedy, all the same. How could someone as talented as Elvis, so good-looking and so rich, become such a big fat loser?
As he paced the floor of the supermarket, Marco’s shoes made tiny squeaking sounds on the lino floor. He passed the contract cleaners with their grey overalls and grim faces. He nodded at the shelf-stackers, tearing open their cardboard boxes. He smiled at the girl behind the register. Every night, Marco walked the same circuit around the perimeter of the store. He did it in the same number of footsteps, give or take, with the same number of squeaks. Five times in the hour, eight hours a night, his feet fell in the same places, avoided the same cracks and cut the same corners. But that was the job.
Marco liked to think about Elvis. The King had the Colonel to organise his business affairs. He had a wife and a beautiful daughter. He had legions of adoring fans and the Memphis Mafia to protect him. He had women falling at his feet. But what the King had really needed, more than anything, was a personal trainer. If Marco had been Elvis’ personal trainer, he would have known what to do. First, he would have started with some cardiovascular work, some weight training and some gentle stretches. A stroll around Graceland for a bit of fresh air. And a stricter diet, of course. The chocolate banana sundaes would have had to go. It would have been a challenge, especially at the end there, when Elvis could hardly get up out of his chair. But with a bit of willpower and positive thinking, who knows? When the King was in better shape physically, then you could tackle the more complicated business of rebuilding his self-esteem and confidence. In life, Marco believed, there were winners and losers. With the right motivation, provided by a topnotch personal trainer and life coach, the King might have taken control of his destiny and realised his enormous potential. By setting the right goals and harnessing the raw power of the mind, Elvis might have gone back on the road and into the studio. Who knows? History might have been rewritten.
‘Black Knight to the front desk . . . Could Black Knight please come to the front desk?’
The announcement snapped Marco out of his reverie. He stopped walking and for a split second his foot seemed to hover uncertainly in the air. Something was up, something important. The King would just have to wait.
Gavin the night manager was at the front desk, looking hassled. Marco followed him out of the store and through the empty food court. At the doors to the shopping centre, Gavin stopped and pointed across the empty carpark.
‘See those kids,’ he said. ‘They’re off their faces. Go and tell them to nick off, before they do something stupid.’
There were five kids, each carrying a plastic bag with the supermarket logo on it. They were passing around an aerosol spraycan. One after another, they filled their plastic bags and inhaled the fumes. They were fourteen years old, maybe, and looking for trouble. As Marco watched, one of them picked up a bottle and smashed it against a wall.
‘Do you think we should call the police?’ he asked.
‘I don’t want you to arrest them,’ said Gavin. ‘Just tell them to go away.’
Marco didn’t think much of Gavin. His clothes were shabby, his hair was a mess, and he never did much managing, as far as Marco could see. While the big trucks were making their deliveries and the trolley boys were whizzing around the aisles like an all-night Grand Prix, Gavin stayed in his office, painting his toenails, most likely. Maybe that was the skill of a good manager. Maybe the man was more organised than Marco gave him credit for. But Marco was sure of one thing. He wasn’t taking a bullet for Gavin.
‘They look pretty wired,’ said Marco uncertainly.
Gavin took out a walkie-talkie like the one on Marco’s belt.
‘Stay in touch,’ he said. ‘And don’t take any crap.’
Marco walked out into the carpark feeling very conspicuous. His shoes were squeaking loudly and he probably should have gone to the toilet first. Remember the power of positive thinking, he told himself. He tried to show it in the way he walked and in the look on his face. It was essential to maintain self-esteem. He was a winner and they were losers. It was as simple as that.
Halfway across the car park, before the gang had even noticed him, Marco stopped and called out to them in a loud, authoritative voice,‘CLEAR OFF, YOU LOT!’
The kids in the gang turned around and looked at him. Marco stood still, with his hands by his sides. Not like a gun-slinger, exactly. More like the King in Viva Las Vegas, standing in the spotlight, all eyes on his every move.
‘YOU HEARD ME!’
There was a moment of uncertainty. A flicker of doubt seemed to pass through the gang. Then they laughed at him.
Marco reached for his walkie-talkie, so they would see he wasn’t alone.
‘What’s happening?’ asked Gavin. ‘Everything under control?’
‘No drama,’ Marco reported.
When Marco turned around, the night manager was standing there behind the glass door, looking like an idiot. How could a person in Marco’s position possibly establish his authority while this jerk was watching his every move?
‘Do you think we should send for back-up?’ he asked.
‘What do you need?’ said Gavin. ‘A tank division?’
Marco didn’t need a tank division, but he wished he had a gun. Not to shoot them with, of course. Just to scare them. The gun wouldn’t even need to be loaded. In fact, a water pistol would do the job. Marco wished he had something more than just a two-way radio. Even a big stick would have been handy. He weighed up his options. Obviously he would have to go closer. With his powers of positive thinking, combined with his greater experience and commanding yet relaxed presence, these young losers would soon know who they were dealing with.
As Marco walked up to them, the gang spread out into a line. They were mean-looking kids, there was no doubt about it. They were older and taller than they looked from a distance. And they were talking in a language he had never heard before.
Casually, so as not to appear uncertain, Marco took a step backwards.
His shoes squeaked.
‘Hey, Mr Rent-a-Cop,’ laughed the gang’s leader. ‘You want to join our party?’
‘Do us a favour,’ said Marco. ‘Just get the hell out of here.’
The leader smiled and scratched his chest. There was paint sprayed across his face. He looked as though he could barely stand.
‘You forgot to say “please”,’ he said.
The other kids laughed and began talking in softer voices. Marco had no idea what they were saying, but he guessed they were planning their next move. He considered his options. Running away was definitely one. Saying ‘please’ was not.
Silently, the line of kids began to form a semi-circle around him. They were all completely wasted. They were lawless. They were scary. The moment had come, Marco realised. The gang was watching him intently now. He had to act quickly, before someone made a move. Without looking down, Marco reached for his walkie-talkie and raised it to his mouth.
‘Proceed as planned,’ he said, trying to sound as if he was addressing a large number of well-trained and well-armed associates. The plan—as Marco imagined it—was something he was reluctant to do. It was a last resort. He had tried to negotiate, but now he had no alternative, considering the unco-operative nature of the young perpetrators. The pl
an would be swift and brutal. Some people might get hurt, but that’s just the way it was. When he gave the order to ‘Proceed as planned’, Marco spoke with so much authority he almost believed it himself.
‘What the hell are you talking about?’ Gavin’s loud voice crackled for all to hear.
The colour drained from Marco’s face as the leader of the gang stepped forward and looked him up and down. For a moment, Marco thought the guy was about to reach in and rip out his heart. Instead, he grabbed the walkie-talkie.
‘Hey, Mr Boss,’ he said to Gavin. ‘Why you hiding back there? If you don’t want us round, you should come out and tell us yourself, instead of sending a Boy Scout.’
The others laughed. There was no answer from Gavin.
The power of positive thinking wasn’t working, Marco decided. Maybe he had been a bit hasty, confronting them like this. Being assertive was all well and good, but only in the right situation. Going around asserting yourself sometimes could land you in trouble. Or worse, it could get you killed. Negotiation, Marco decided, was the next step. The trouble was, he had nothing to negotiate with.
There was only one option left.
Marco held out his hand to the gang leader. ‘Can I have my radio back?’
The leader stared down at Marco’s hand, then up at his face. ‘Say that again.’
Marco tried to hold the leader’s gaze. ‘Can I have my radio back, please?’
The leader smiled.
Marco got the distinct feeling he was about to be hurt. A knife in the guts, maybe. A kick in the balls or a brick over the head. The leader was taking his time to decide.
The gang was getting restless. Something had to happen.
The leader wasn’t smiling any more.
Marco didn’t want to die, he decided. Not here. Not like this.
The leader held up the two-way radio in his paint-stained fingers.
‘Can you get FM on this?’
Marco shook his head.
The leader was looking at him strangely now, as if he knew him from somewhere.
‘Anyone ever tell you you look like Elvis Presley?’
Marco nodded. ‘Sometimes.’
Shelf Life Page 9