Motel View

by Forbes Williams

  When I allowed myself to openly contemplate what work would be like I inevitably felt a dull grasping in my chest. It scared me. Somehow I wanted to postpone this business of adulthood, all its trappings of responsibility and things you had to know and understand. For years I'd watched with this same vague fear my father shave, mow the lawns, run the car, fix the house, pay the bills, fight the neighbours, go to work … once I had a job I knew I'd be kissing the easy life of childhood goodbye forever.

  It was my mother who saw the advertisement for vacancies at the local supermarket. She mentioned this to a woman she knew who worked in the Butchery there who said there was new management and they were taking on lots of school kids. A bright boy like me would be a dead cert, she told my mother.

  So that was it. I passed the moronic maths test—I did for a moment contemplate getting it all deliberately wrong but I knew too many suspicions would be aroused—and I was judged by Mr Walls, the thin young man with dark sweat stains spreading out of each armpit who briefly and dismissively interviewed me, to be physically and emotionally adequate. The following Friday I walked straight to the supermarket from school, did up my top button and tightened my tie on the footpath outside, and with a wistful glance at some kids I knew vaguely from the year behind me who were hanging around outside the record shop drinking milkshakes, smoking and laughing, took one more irrevocable step into the brave new world of adulthood.

  For the most part my job was to restock shelves—which could be deceptively difficult and heavy work—and to help with packing up at the checkouts when things were especially busy. I didn't mind working up the front of the place: once you got the hang of it packing was a breeze and I preferred the company of the customers and the women who worked the checkouts—where I could earn admiration simply by being polite—to the tough male world out the back, where physical prowess was the ticket.

  There were large rubber double doors separating the shop itself from the space out the back—which was mostly filled with pallets stacked high with boxes of merchandise—and it always impressed me how so vastly different two immediately adjacent places could be. You'd see someone like Mr Walls dealing with a customer problem out in the shop and he'd be all smiling and polite and reasonable and then he'd come through the doors and his face would change completely.

  There's a stupid bitch out there moaning about her fucking bread. Fucking old tart. Who wants to sort her out?

  It was Mr Walls who had responsibility for all the casuals and though he retained a veneer of friendliness in his dealings with me his loudness and tendency to backstab, along with the way he openly leered at the schoolgirls who worked the checkouts—not to mention the unfair way he allocated us our work—meant that overall I mistrusted him. I was in awe of his audacity, contemptuous of his stupidity, but above all frightened of his power over me. One day when I was feeling brave I asked him how things had gone the previous Saturday.

  Fine, he told me—once we'd established I meant Saturday afternoon. Really good, in fact.

  What club do you follow? I asked him.

  What? Not football! I thought he was going to spit on me. The horses mate! The dogs! Fuck fucking football!

  I never got it right in these rare conversations. I knew he thought I was basically just a deadshit, and that he recognised in me the physical weakness of boyhood. Not long after I started he began regularly sending me down to the basement carpark to get the empty trolleys back upstairs. He knew it was the toughest work of all, and as I pushed the long, heavy, barely controlled centipede of trolleys back up the driveway with the sweat running off my face in rivers and my breath all out and my arms almost too weak to continue, I'd imagine him out the back with the other boys, laughing at his little joke.

  I sent that runt down to get the trolleys again. That should keep him out of our hair for a while.

  Nowadays I notice those same boys like me have tractors with special trailers to do the job: it's probably a popular task now.

  Of course I didn't complain or give any direct indication to Mr Walls that I was bothered by his intimidation. I knew that would be fatal, that he would only be encouraged to continue if he could openly see it hurting me. I'd long since come to realise that Mr Wallses were a fact of life, like school bullies or vindictive teachers, and that the tasks he set and humiliations he inflicted were simply more of the many natural hazards encountered by all boys attempting to make it to manhood. I knew if I could endure it without breaking for long enough his attentions would eventually move to someone else. As a boy there's always this thing about keeping a brave face—and there are men who will go to great lengths to get a boy to cry. You just have to grit your teeth and hang on.

  Although some of the other boys were from my school, to start with I didn't know many of them all that well. Some were preparing for full-time positions in the business when they left school and took their work seriously. Most were like me, however, casual acquaintances of the place with no real sense of obligation or responsibility. Furthermore we were ridiculously over-staffed. Only the boys that Mr Walls picked on really had to put in any honest labour. Even then a lot of the time we'd just end up pissing around playing cricket out the back, and a couple of guys who were particularly on side with Mr Walls—guys who could talk horses and girls—basically did no work at all.

  As time went by I learnt more and more how to fit in out the back, how to map out my friends and enemies and gain some kudos and power amongst allies. I wasn't too bad at cricket, which helped—not the star, but good enough to escape ridicule—and probably one of the most effective thieves.

  Everyone took stuff. We got paid bugger all—good Friday night time lost for a dollar-and-a-bit an hour—and graft was the only way of making the deal fair. Mainly it was just biscuits and soft drink, cigarettes, but sometimes you'd get a bit more daring and my second year there I managed to get Christmas presents for my whole family in one delirious Friday night swoop. At times like that I could see that independence and adulthood did have an upside.

  Not long after this Christmas bonanza I arrived at work one Saturday morning to find someone had neatly written the word RESIGNED in the exact space on the timesheet my arrival time was meant to go. I noticed quite a few other casuals had also RESIGNED in similar fashion. Half of us, at least.

  I was uncertain what to do. Obviously I hadn't really resigned and I'd been given no reasonable warning of being sacked either, but on the other hand the dark thought hung over me that maybe our thieving had been discovered en masse—like maybe someone had dobbed us in—and that we'd all been summarily dismissed. I suddenly thought of the police. What if they became involved? Maybe they were on their way to my house right this minute … but then maybe the deal was if we didn't make a fuss about being resigned then they might just leave it … perhaps I did still have a small measure of control. If I just went quietly … I decided it was better to leave then and there without talking about it to anybody. In my panic I even thought about going without picking up my final pay but when I finally built up the courage I found the cashier as friendly as ever and sorry to hear I was leaving.

  You keep being polite now, won't you? she said.

  Of course I had to tell my parents I'd lost my job; there was no way round it. Naturally they wanted the whole story and I decided a limited version of the truth was safest: that I'd gone along and found RESIGNED on the timesheet. This seemed the easiest way to let the whole thing die without further enquiry. I waved my hand airily and assured them there was plenty of work and I could get more no trouble. I had a work history behind me now. People would be lining up to hire me.

  I misjudged them badly. It's funny how you can live with someone all your life and still make these fundamental mistakes. They were both immediately and passionately outraged at the manner of my dismissal—once I'd convinced them it really was the truth—and on the spot my father announced plans for a letter to the chain's head office to complain about this shoddy nineteenth-century treatment
.

  Throughout childhood I suffered this terrible habit of my parents of writing letters and complaining. So many times they'd embarrassed me at school when they went up to voice their opinions on something they thought unfair or in need of improvement. But this was a disaster. I pleaded with my father not to write the letter. They'd wanted me to get a job to be independent, I pointed out, and now they were going to spoil it all by interfering.

  What nonsense! said my father. I'm not spoiling anything. This is a completely separate issue. I'm writing the letter because there's a greater principle here. You're not the only one this place has treated this way. There are other people to think of besides you.

  But they've got their own parents, I argued. Please, Dad.

  He smiled. I'm writing the letter whether you want me to or not.

  Over the next few weeks I waited with agitated resignation for the police to come. Every time someone came to the door I knew it was them; every time the phone rang I knew it was the sergeant asking my parents if they would mind coming down to the station.

  It's your boy, Mrs Abrams. I'm afraid he's got himself into a bit of trouble.

  At first I tried to make sure it was always me who answered the phone and the door, but this soon proved impractical, and I wasn't always home anyway. At night I'd lie awake in bed, turning it all over in my mind, trying to develop the story which would get me off the hook with both the law and my parents, though I knew in my heart this story didn't exist. I stopped eating, lost weight, failed a couple of tests at school.

  Finally, one evening about three weeks after my father had sent the letter, the supermarket manager came round to our house. At first he talked to my parents alone while I waited in my bedroom for the axe. At least it wasn't the police. After about ten minutes I was solemnly called in to join them.

  He was a big man and he seemed out of place in our living-room. In the back of my sick, swimming mind I saw myself quickly gathering up all the ornaments before he could knock them over trying to negotiate his way around. He leant forward to shake my hand and we all sat down.

  He was sorry about the business with being resigned, he told me; this was not the way things should have happened. The thing was he'd only recently started there as manager himself. One of the first things he'd noticed was that the place was markedly over-staffed, and so he'd asked Mr Walls to cut back on the numbers of casuals. He'd been horrified when he found out how the matter was handled; it was certainly not any policy of the company—he wanted to emphasise this point—and in fact he thought we should know there was quite a bit more to the Mr Walls story than this particular incident … he hinted at financial irregularities, harassment of female staff—he had, for instance, repeatedly asked several of the checkout casuals out—but really that wasn't the point here and it would be improper of him to divulge anything particular. He was very sorry about what had happened. Unfortunately I couldn't have my job back.

  When he'd finished he got up and shook my hand seriously, wished me well for the future. In the whole conversation he'd addressed himself only to me, as if he seemed to think that I'd made the complaint and my father was simply my secretary. I thanked him for his time and my mother saw him to the door.

  After they left the room my father put a hand on my shoulder. Well, Jack, he said, that wasn't so bad after all, was it?

  I allowed myself a sheepish grin. In fact it'd been pretty hard not laughing out loud once I'd realised I was off the hook, the same difficulty I always had if I heard someone had died or was seriously ill.

  No, I said. It wasn't.

  Do you think we might even have achieved something here tonight?

  Yes Dad. I tried to think what. Peace of mind?

  The thing is, if you don't make a fuss about these things nothing ever gets done. It's important to write those letters.

  I looked at him carefully. People always said we looked alike, my father and me; at parent-teacher meetings teachers would pick him as mine before he'd even introduced himself. Lately I'd noticed he and I were now the same height. And here he was after all these last nail-biting weeks of near hell still trying to convince me it was a good idea to send whiny letters to complete strangers. It occurred to me that in some ways I really felt quite sorry for him.

  LET'S GO SHOPPING!®

  In the video game you must complete a supermarket shop within a specified time limit. You've only got so much money, and only so much soul, so it's usually best to buy cheap and green until time becomes too precious. Even on the easy levels it's not necessarily that straightforward: dementing shoppers get in the way, particular items you're after are out of stock; any time of the week picking the right queue can quickly become a nightmare.

  Level one is for the absolute beginner: just a few simple items on a quiet Thursday morning. Most people catch on pretty fast. Level two you've got more to buy and less time. Level three you have to drive. It's important to park as close as possible to the shop entrance, and don't forget to lock up. And take your carpark docket in with you. Without it a car thief won't be able to exit the carpark. Just make sure you don't lose the docket! You can see how quickly it develops. By level twelve it's Christmas Eve, you're eight months pregnant with one arm in plaster and you have your stepsister's two young children in a special wide push-chair. You're doing a week-and-a-half's shopping for fifteen, your trolley has a bung wheel and to fit in a couple more aisles the existing ones have been narrowed. A whole generation of pre-schoolers run amok with their own baby trolleys, your own want to sit on Santa Claus's knee, and at the checkouts everyone ahead of you is buying unpriced items, writing cheques, or paying by EFTPOS just as the system goes down … of course you can always try swapping queues, but you know where that usually gets you. Don't make the mistake of going to an express checkout either: in this game twelve items means twelve and no more … and be sure to unpack your trolley in the order that most limits the damage the checkout operator can inflict in hurling it down to the packer—a sacrifice you can ill afford. Even outside there's still the over-enthusiastic store detective to get past: the children took sweets without getting them weighed, your pregnancy is really a ham. And Jesus H. Christ! Watch out for that old guy reversing!

  INSTANTLY KIWI

  Late night shopping, Friday 13th. Without warning all the lights in the supermarket go off. Suddenly it's pitch black. The music stops as well. Rachel and I are in the Bakery.

  At first everyone falls silent, as if they feel somehow exposed, at risk. Perhaps this is a hold-up, some kind of natural disaster … a woman near us nervously calls out.

  Is anybody there?

  Gradually, though, an excited hubbub grows, spreading up and down the aisles till the place is as noisy as if nothing had happened. You can feel the thrill in the air.

  The lights stay off for maybe three minutes. Fumbling badly, I manage to get open a packet of shortbread, stash several more in my coat. Rachel gets a French stick and eats just enough that she can fit the rest down her dress. It's not even particularly pleasant, pigging food like that in the dark, hoping the lights don't come on just yet, worried that something you've tried to hide will be showing for all to see when they do, or you're making way too much noise … I feel sorry for the people stuck with the potato chips; the petfood too, I suppose … anything in cans.

  Afterwards everyone is happy and talkative; even the staff join in the jollity. The whole place feels strangely relaxed, like the Botanical Gardens on a Sunday afternoon or a rugby stadium after the home team has comfortably won an important game. Nobody really wants to leave. People even actually apologise when they get in each other's way.

  An old man in a fur hat winks at me. His coat looks suspiciously full. In a couple of aisles the floor is littered with empty packets and half-eaten bits of food. Students, probably. A grinning boy with a wide broom slowly collects it all into a pile.

  Now that's what I call a good Friday.

  THE TROLLEY FORGETTER'S DAYDREAM

  Som
etimes you'll fall in love with someone from your distant past, someone long since gone from your life. Most often you weren't in love with them when you did know them; it's only now the idea occurs. A past friend's brother or sister, their lover … a shy person perhaps, someone you only met once. A person you only think about years later and you remember, oh yeah, them.

  Of course you'll be inclined to believe that through some supernatural force they somehow feel exactly the same about you. You wonder should you maybe even get in touch—write a letter or send a card; take a real plunge and ring them … but of course, how will you ever find out where they are now? And what if they're married? Perhaps they're divorced …

  Just ask yourself this: have they aged in your dream as in reality or do you imagine them much as they were? Did you honestly ever even know them? Is it really so likely they too could have stumbled on this same sudden random longing? How is it these fantasies come to seem so amazingly real? And where in this babbling game park of monkeys have you left that goddamn trolley?

  CONFESSIONS OF A COMPULSIVE TROLLEY PUSHER

  As for me, I suppose there's a bit of the lazy shopper, a bit of the indecisive shopper, some irresponsible shopper as well. Sometimes the sulking adolescent; even, occasionally, the dementing or neurological-deficit-only-manifested-in-the-carpark shopper; now and then—presumably a result of my naturally personable nature—the inadvertent member of staff. Excuse me, says a woman with a port-wine birthmark over most of her lower face, can you tell me whereabouts the lemonade is?