Shelf Life

by Robert Corbet

  ‘Not the big fat Elvis. The cool Elvis, before he made all those crappy movies.’

  ‘Some of them weren’t that bad,’ said Marco.

  ‘Yeah? Name one.’

  ‘King Creole was OK.’

  The leader thought for a moment. ‘You like Elvis?’

  ‘Sure,’ said Marco.

  ‘I got his Best Of,’ said the leader. ‘But it didn’t even have Blue Suede Shoes. What kind of Best Of is that?’

  ‘You got ripped off,’ said Marco.

  The gang leader shook his head and laughed.

  ‘Here you go, Elvis,’ he said, handing back the walkie-talkie.

  The gang moved away, leaving Marco trembling at the thought of what might have happened. He imagined himself getting beaten to within an inch of his life, while Gavin watched from a safe distance. When he had finally composed himself, Marco turned and walked back to where the night manager was standing.

  ‘Everything under control?’ Gavin asked.

  ‘No drama,’ Marco nodded.

  ‘Stupid kids,’ said Gavin. ‘Got nothing better to do.

  The up side is, none of them are going live to see twenty, if they keep on like that.’

  Marco looked at him without speaking.

  ‘Back to work, then,’ said Gavin.

  As the night manager was walking away, Marco called out to him:‘You forgot to say “please”.’

  TEAROOM

  Graham the store manager had disappeared. No one had seen or heard from him for almost two weeks. According to the rumours that were going round, Graham had nearly died in a parachuting accident. Alternatively, he had been imprisoned for heroin trafficking, kidnapped by political extremists, converted by Seventh Day Adventists, chased by cannibals, fallen into a volcano, killed a pig and drunk its blood, and/or had a sex change operation and changed his name to Goldie.

  Adam was in the tearoom, washing the cups and plates, when Graham appeared in the doorway. Wearing casual shoes and an open-necked shirt, he came in and made a cup of coffee while Adam wiped down the benches and table.

  ‘How’s the old man?’ he asked.

  ‘Fine, thanks.’

  ‘What’s his handicap these days?’

  ‘Bourbon whisky,’ said Adam.

  Graham laughed.

  Louisa walked past the doorway and Graham called her in.

  ‘Do you two know each other?’ he asked.

  Before Louisa could answer, Adam leaned across and shook her hand.

  ‘It’s a pleasure to meet you,’ he said.

  ‘You too,’ said Louisa, keeping a straight face.

  Graham grinned at them. ‘I hear you’re both doing a terrific job. Apparently there were several comments about you in the box this month, Louisa. Someone even said you were “inspirational”!’

  Adam looked down at his feet.

  ‘Bev said she spoke to you about the full-time position,’ Graham went on.

  ‘It sounded pretty good,’ said Louisa. ‘But I want to continue with nursing.’

  ‘Got your results back?’ asked Graham.

  Louisa shook her head. ‘Not yet.’

  Graham took a sip of his coffee. ‘Anyway,’ he said. ‘Got to fly.’

  ‘Are you off on another holiday?’ asked Adam.

  ‘What holiday?’ Graham laughed. ‘I’m attending a two-week seminar on management practices.’

  When Graham was gone, Adam washed his cup and Louisa dried it. Then, together, they organised the coffee mugs according to size and colour. They sorted the cutlery, restocked the teabags and refilled the sugar bowl. It was not often that the tearoom received such care and attention.

  AISLE

  twelve

  FLOUR/SUGAR/EGGS

  ‘Weevils?’

  Abdi had never heard the word before.

  ‘Big fat ones, in the flour,’ said Jared. ‘Check it out, dude.’

  Abdi watched doubtfully as Dylan looked into the paper bag that Jared was holding. The label said Self-Raising Flour. 2 kg.

  ‘It’s a weevil-fest. They’re pigging out!’

  ‘It’s weevil-ution, dude. The survival of the fattest.’

  ‘It’s the eternal struggle.’

  ‘It’s Good versus Weevil!’

  Abdi had no idea what the storeroom boys were talking about. Cautiously, he approached Jared and looked down into the bag.

  ‘See anything?’ Dylan asked.

  As Abdi looked, Jared puffed the bag like a bellows and a cloud of flour flew into the air, covering Abdi’s face with white dust.

  Jared and Dylan fell about laughing.

  ‘Watch out for that flour, dude!’

  ‘They don’t call it Self-Raising for nothing.’

  Before Abdi could speak, he saw Shane the storeroom manager standing in the doorway.

  ‘Back to work, you blokes,’ he said. ‘Abdi, can I see you for a moment, please?’

  With his face still covered in flour, Abdi followed the storeroom manager into his cramped little office. There was a desk and two chairs, but Shane remained standing.

  He handed a roll of paper towels to Abdi.

  ‘Here you go,’ he said. ‘Wipe that crap off.’

  Abdi did as he was told.

  ‘What the hell was going on out there?’ asked Shane.

  ‘It is not their fault,’ said Abdi. ‘It was just a joke.’

  Shane squinted at Abdi as if he needed sunglasses.

  ‘I don’t care whose fault it was,’ he said. ‘I don’t want you clowning around in my store. Understand?’

  Abdi nodded. It seemed unfair that he was getting into trouble when the joke had been played on him.

  ‘I did not know . . .’ he started to say, but Shane cut him off.

  ‘I’m not interested,’ he said, abruptly. ‘You blokes can sort that stuff out for yourselves.’

  He picked up a leaflet that was lying on his desk. Abdi noticed that his hands and fingers were wrapped in elastoplast tape. ‘Seen this?’ he asked.

  Abdi read the title: Protecting our way of life from a possible terrorist threat.

  He nodded.

  ‘Of course you have,’ said Shane. ‘Everyone got one, didn’t they? I thought I’d show you anyway, just in case you hadn’t.’

  Shane flipped through the pages until he found what he was looking for.

  ‘If you see anything suspicious in your workplace, it says to ring the 24-hour National Security Hotline. And here,’ Shane pointed, ‘it says that all businesses need to review their security measures.’

  Abdi did not like the look on the storeroom manager’s face.

  ‘And what do you think that means?’ asked Shane.

  Abdi shook his head. ‘I am not sure.’

  Shane looked at him for a long time.

  ‘Have you got your papers yet?’ he finally asked.

  ‘Not yet.’

  ‘How much longer, do you think?’

  ‘The Immigration Department said six more months.’

  Shane dropped the government leaflet back on his desk.

  ‘Still plenty of time, then.’

  ‘I hope so,’ said Abdi, uncertainly.

  ‘And you’re still studying?’

  ‘I am doing English classes and the first year of my hotel management course.’

  ‘Still working at the casino?’

  ‘It is part of my training,’ he said. ‘I am learning to be a drink waiter.’

  ‘Two jobs?’ said Shane. ‘You’re a busy boy, aren’t you?’

  Abdi shifted uncomfortably on his feet.

  ‘Together, they do not make one full-time job,’ he explained.

  Shane looked at his hands and began picking at the threads of elastoplast.

  ‘I know about you,’ he said. ‘I know about your circumstances.’

  Despite everything he had been through, Abdi felt ashamed.

  ‘I’m not going to insult you,’ Shane continued, ‘by asking if you’ve ever associated with terroris
ts. Because I know you wouldn’t tell me, even if you had. I just want you to know that I’ll be here. And I’ll be watching you. Understand?’

  Abdi made a good waiter. He brushed up well in a suit. He had a nice smile. He remembered what drinks people ordered: Manhattans, Margaritas, White Russians and whiskey sours. Abdi knew how to make them, even though he had never tasted one. He was legally old enough, of course, but his religion did not allow alcohol.

  He had seen them all in the piano bar: the happy drunks who bumped into walls, the crying drunks who had lost everything in a single hand of poker, the angry drunks who cursed and swore at the security men who escorted them out the door, the pathetic drunks who ate the complimentary sticks of sugar. Abdi would stand behind the bar, mixing their drinks. He would smile at the women and nod at the men. Abdi knew that if he married an Australian girl, he would automatically get Australian citizenship. But these were not the kind of girls he could ever marry. They belonged to a different world—a world where he was invisible. There were girls from his country in the flats where Abdi lived, but he had never spoken to them. In his evening English class, even when the teacher divided the students into pairs, he found it hard to speak to girls. In his country, girls were not allowed to talk to boys alone.

  Abdi shared a flat with three other boys from his country. Each week they pooled their money to buy food and pay the bills. There was never much left over. He worked at the piano bar on Friday and Saturday nights. He was paid from the till and given a staff discount for all his meals and purchases. After work, he would walk home through the city, stopping to look in the bright shop windows, reading the labels and the price tags of things he could never afford. He wondered about the people he saw, what jobs they did and what countries they came from. How many years or generations did it take, he wondered, before a new country felt like home?

  It was the long weekend and the piano bar was full. Abdi was carrying a tray of drinks when a man stood up abruptly and knocked them onto the floor.

  ‘Hey! Watch where the hell you’re going!’

  ‘I am sorry,’ Abdi apologised. ‘I did not see you.’

  The man frowned at Abdi.

  ‘Sure is dark in here,’ he said, as he sat down heavily.

  Abdi picked up the spilt drinks and went back to work. He could not be sure if the man had said something racist or not. Had he meant his skin was dark? Abdi looked at the table where the man and his friends were laughing and drinking. His English was not good enough to be absolutely certain. It was a confusing language. Quite often, the way someone said a word could completely change its meaning. It was hard to tell when people were being friendly. He couldn’t always tell if they were joking.

  Later, as the man was leaving, he came over to shake Abdi’s hand.

  ‘No hard feelings,’ he mumbled, even more drunk than before.

  Abdi felt the man put something into his hand. It was a fifty-dollar note.

  ‘Please. I cannot accept this.’

  ‘Have a flutter.’The man gave Abdi a wink.

  ‘Pardon me?’

  ‘Go on! You never know your luck.’

  Abdi had been inside the casino before. He had watched the people sitting patiently by their poker machines. He had seen men stub out the cigarettes they’d only just lit. He had seen women crossing their fingers for luck. Like drinking, gambling was forbidden. But Abdi couldn’t help wondering how it would feel to win some money. He wouldn’t need to tell anyone.

  He took out the fifty-dollar note and looked at it. It was a lot of money, but not quite enough to buy anything. If he bet it, and won, he might have enough to buy a stereo, a Playstation or a DVD. He could tell his friends he had saved up the money. They would all be so happy. No one would ask any questions.

  Abdi exchanged his fifty dollars for a single plastic betting chip. It didn’t feel like very much money any more. Compared to the amounts that other people were changing, it was nothing. Abdi turned the chip over in his hand. He tried to calculate in his head how many wins it would take, at double or nothing, before he could afford a car or a deposit on a house. He imagined what might happen, if he was really lucky. If he won enough money, would the government let him stay?

  He thought about leaving his family. The boat trip. The waiting. Wasn’t it all just one big gamble?

  Cautiously, Abdi approached the roulette table. He watched as the people placed their bets. He knew he could go and get his money back, if he wanted to. With a flick of his wrist, the croupier spun the wheel and rolled the silver ball. Everyone stood at the table and watched until the ball had landed in the square.

  ‘Fifteen red,’ said the croupier and a woman kissed the crucifix on her necklace.

  The man in front of him picked up his betting chips and left the table.

  The croupier looked at Abdi. ‘Are you playing, sir?’

  Abdi stepped up to the table and placed his chip on Black.

  The croupier asked if there were any more bets, then he spun the roulette wheel and rolled the silver ball. And for just one minute while the ball was rolling, before it landed on red and the croupier raked his money away, for that short space of time, Abdi had as much chance as anyone else. His fifty dollars had given him the right to stand there at the table in a suit and bow tie, not as an off-duty waiter, but as one of them, someone who the croupier had called ‘sir’.

  For that one golden moment, it was worth every cent.

  Dylan and Jared watched as Abdi took an egg from the packet and held it theatrically between his fingers.

  ‘Let me show you something,’ he said.

  Abdi sat cross-legged on the floor and placed the egg in his open hand. With his fingers interlocking, he began to press the egg between his palms. Dylan and Jared could see the effort in his face and the muscles straining in his arms as he pressed harder. But the egg never cracked.

  ‘An egg is a perfect piece of engineering,’ said Abdi, when he had finished the demonstration. ‘It is able to withstand the greatest pressure.’

  ‘Let me try that, dude.’

  Jared sat down on the floor and Abdi placed the egg between his palms, making sure it was properly aligned.

  ‘Increase the pressure slowly and steadily,’ he instructed.

  But when Jared tried it, the eggshell immediately broke and the yellow yolk dripped between his fingers, into his lap.

  Jared leapt up, wiping the sticky egg off the front of his pants.

  ‘What the hell went wrong?’ he snapped.

  ‘I am sorry,’Abdi shook his head. ‘This never happened before.’

  Dylan tried to calm Jared down.

  ‘No egg-scuses,’ he told Abdi. ‘Please egg-splain.’

  Abdi’s face was hard to read.

  ‘I am not sure,’ he said. ‘But maybe this egg has weevils?’

  ‘Weevils?’

  Dylan raised an eyebrow. Jared looked suspicious. Abdi covered his mouth with his hand. Then, together, they started to laugh.

  TRAINING ROOM

  Adam found Louisa in the training room, watching a video entitled SO YOU WANT TO WORK IN AN OFFICE? She was sitting up close to the TV screen and when Adam came into the room she barely glanced at him.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ he asked, proceeding to straighten the chairs and pick up the magazines.

  When Louisa turned around, her eyes were filled with tears.

  ‘I failed my exam,’ she said.

  AISLE

  thirteen

  PASTA/PLASTICWARE/UTENSILS

  With a carry-case in each hand and a folding table under one arm, Gina stood outside the shopping centre, waiting for the automatic doors to open. Nothing happened. Gina looked up at the movement sensor. There was supposed to be a red light and it was supposed to go green when anyone moved in front of it, but this one had no lights at all. Gina stepped back and put down her things to give her arms a rest. The automatic doors opened and a woman came out. Gina picked up her things, but the doors had closed a
gain before she could squeeze between them. She turned away and moved to the other door. A man was holding it open for his wife, but he let go before Gina got there.

  Am I invisible? she wondered.

  Gina set up her table at the end of Aisle Thirteen, but closer to Aisle Fourteen, because thirteen was an unlucky number. Fourteen was a lucky number, she decided, because it was two times seven, and seven was a very lucky number. There were seven days in the week, seven Wonders of the World, seven colours of the rainbow, seven seas, seven dwarves and seven deadly sins.

  Today should be a good day for business, she decided.

  Gina laid out seven plastic cups in a neat row, with seven plastic spoons beside them. Seven fitted the length of the table perfectly. Gina plugged in the microwave oven and set up the plastic trays in alphabetical order: fettucine, gnocchi, ravioli, tortellini. She didn’t know why she put them in alphabetical order. They just looked better that way. On her blouse, Gina wore a badge that said ‘VISITOR’. No one knew what her name was and no one ever asked. Gina didn’t work for the supermarket. She worked for an agency. It was her job to promote food by asking people to sample it. Today, it was pasta.

  ‘Roma’s Pasta. La Prima del Mondo. Would you like to try some, madam?’

  ‘Good morning, sir! Have you tried our fettucine?’

  ‘How are you today, madam? Would you like some tortellini?’

  Gina had done in-store promotions for party pies, cocktail frankfurts, curry puffs, cheese and biscuits, frozen yoghurt, gelati, sorbet, canned soup, vegieburgers, mini dim sims and flavoured milk. She was good at her job. It wasn’t just that she knew all about the products, or that she was neat and tidy. It wasn’t even because she had a friendly face and happy smile. Gina was good at her job because she cared about people and what they thought of the product. It was important to her that the customer was satisfied. It felt good to hear the customer say they liked the product and were interested in buying it.

  ‘The ravioli is excellent, madam! Only the finest ingredients.’

  ‘It’s a traditional recipe, sir. It has no preservatives. No artificial colour or flavour.’

  ‘Have you tried the gnocchi, madam? It’s 97 per cent fat-free.’