We All Fall Down (37 page)

‘Sorry?'

‘Worked in a sandwich bar before, have you?'

‘No, but I make a really good sandwich. My wife always said that about me. “Hugh makes a really good sandwich.”'

His attempt at levity was ignored. ‘We need someone with experience.' And the man turned his back on Hugh and started to make a coffee.

‘I certainly have more experience with hygiene than you.'

The owner walked back to the end of the counter. ‘What you saying?'

‘I could report you for this.' Hugh indicated behind the bar. The owner leant forward. ‘Fuck off, mate, before I thump you.'

He left.

Some people were willing to try him out, usually for one day or a weekend, but he was never paid. ‘It's only a trial,' they said. ‘We'll pay you if it works out.' It never worked out. He washed dishes in a restaurant. He did a stint in a bottle shop. Once he got a job cleaning up after a rock concert in the Domain. None of these trial jobs led to anything. He performed his duties well, but it seemed that there was always something unsatisfactory about whatever he did. Centrelink put him onto working for the dole. He wasn't enthusiastic about this. ‘I'm happy to work, but I'm not keen to work on pretend jobs just for the sake of it, just so you can feel justified paying me.'

‘Mr. Drysdale, I'd remind you that Centrelink is not a charity. We have to
employ
people. We have to run this organisation as a business. You of all people …'

The people at Centrelink had the Liberals' mindset, which was not so unexpected considering that Party had been in power for many years, and only recently been thrown out. Their basic belief was that people should look after themselves, and no one should rely on the State for handouts. He knew he was wasting his time even discussing the matter, so he went to work digging holes for fences and constructing paths through bushland. Many jobs involved cleaning up the waste of the well-off, those who had been in the great outdoors enjoying themselves and felt obliged to leave behind some sign of appreciation. Plastic bottles (which always reminded him of Penny), cans, cartons, paper, plastic shopping bags and bottle tops took over his life in much the same way that they'd infiltrated the streets, parks, wasteland, riverbanks, industrial sites and beaches of Sydney. On one of these jobs he met Joe. He was a good ten years older than Hugh, and he punctuated the beginning and end of every remark by rubbing the flats of both his hands furiously backwards and forwards across the top of his head. Whatever the reason for this – whteher it was a nervous tic or to stimulate his mind – Hugh found it disconcerting.

‘Spend my days in the State Library. I'm an autodidact' – thrown in his listener's face like a challenge to be denied. ‘Taught myself everything I know, and a little bit more. Left school at fifteen, mate. Only thing I learnt there was that education's a complete waste of time.' And down went his head for a quick rub.

They were picking up rubbish on the shores of the Harbour, around Elizabeth Bay. So far as Hugh could tell, Joe hadn't known any other kind of work. Although he was well into his fifties, probably nearer sixty, he had maintained his anger, he hadn't been beaten into silence. On the first day they met, they sat in the shade of a tree enjoying a break. Joe was opening up a tobacco pouch and, although both hands were occupied with rolling a smoke, he managed to point to his nose. ‘See how crooked it is? That's 'cause I talk straight. Gets me into a lot of trouble that does, talking straight.' He stuck the cigarette in his mouth and lit it. ‘At the risk of making myself sound like a washing machine part, I'm something of an
agitator
. Like a couple of weeks back. You hear about those businessmen sleeping out in Central Station to raise money for the homeless?'

‘Heard something about it on the radio.'

‘Well, I was there, mate. Went down there 'cause I couldn't believe it. Had to see it with my own eyes. Got myself into a spot of bother, of course.'

‘Yes?'

‘I walked up to these rich blokes playing at being poor, wearing beanies and duck down jackets, and thermals no doubt, with their piles of blankets and their hot soup, all chatting away to each other as excited as kids on a sleep-over, and I asked if there was a banker among them.' He laughed. ‘And there was, mate, there was. Can you believe it, a banker?' He turned and stared fixedly at Hugh.

‘Am I missing something here, Joe?'

Joe took a suck on his rollie. ‘Well, this idiot puts his hand up, and there's this TV crew moving in on us – you know, like they do when they think there's a chance of tears or blood – and I ask him straight out, “Why do you think there are homeless in the first place, mate?” And he stares at me blankly, like I was a bleeding Martian or something. “It's 'cause you lend them huge effing mortgages they'll never be able to pay back, then kick them out their homes. That's why they're homeless.”'

‘What did he say?'

‘He muttered something or other. Tried to make out it wasn't true. Usual crap. A minute later this cop's asking me to move on, says I'm causing a disturbance. “I'm homeless, mate,” I say, all innocent; “I've nowhere to move on to.” And this camera crew is still filming us – they were on my good side, too, which pleased me. See, that's my best profile.' He turned his head to the left, lifting up his chin, grinning all the while. ‘And this cop and this banker were getting more and more agitated, and eventually I was manhandled out of there. It was on telly, mate – my ugly mug all over the screen.' He laughed until it made him cough, and then he spat and lay back on the grass. ‘They were going to charge me with disturbing the peace; how about that? It's them business folk who were disturbing the peace.'

On another occasion Joe said, ‘The older I get, the more left wing I become. Funny that. I always understood a fellow's supposed to become more right wing as he grows older. Can you account for that, Hugh?' He was resting on his spade, having a short break. He believed in breaks, and was always on at Hugh for working too hard.

‘Trouble is, the lefties are such a miserable bunch. Never satisfied, that lot, always something upsetting them. They've been that way since the eighties. Those were the days when kindness died, killed off by the likes of Reagan and Thatcher. The only kindness shown in society in the eighties and nineties was institutional kindness,
paid
kindness from those leftie, sandal-wearing do-gooders and professional carers. But it wasn't until a few years later, when George W. Bush, that traitor Blair and our own nonentity of a Prime Minister, the despicable Howard, arrived on the scene, that it really became every man for himself. That's when society was split into winners and losers. Competition was everything, for people and for companies. And it's still like that today, Hugh, twenty years later. No different here to America or Britain, that's the sad thing.'

Hugh felt he was listening to words that Joe had spoken many times before, but that did nothing to detract from the sincerity with which they were delivered.

‘Know what's so surprising, mate? We all put up with it. One per cent of Americans own over forty per cent of that country's wealth, and we're going exactly the same way in Australia. And what do the poor and the vulnerable do about it? Nothing.' He shook his head in wonder. ‘They've taught us the virtues of self-reliance, of not depending on the government for handouts, and they've taught us well: we all put up with it. They call it compassion with a hard edge, and it's practised by employers, politicians and those well-fed moralists who are all around us today. “Don't rely on us to help you out,” they say, “you have to look after yourself now. We're too busy helping companies. Prosperous, profitable companies are good for all of us.”' Joe raised his spade high into the air before striking it back hard into the sandy soil with an emphatic, conclusive thump. ‘Well, you could have fooled me! Certainly put me on easy street, as you can see.' He stopped work again just a minute later to add, ‘The irony is, my friend, now that they've stopped taxing the rich and deregulated everything – it hasn't brought about a golden age. Quite the opposite. It's finished off the family and the community, the very institutions they once relied on. Work's become more stressful, people have become more anxious, isolated and lonely – and, of course, overworked. Look at the hours people are expected to work today. Is that progress?' He shook his head, unable to comprehend such a puzzle. ‘But now I'll get off my soapbox.' And he started digging again. ‘Get back to digging my own grave.' And he chortled.

Hugh marvelled at how Joe had managed not to be crushed by the system he so obviously rejected and despised. There was something indestructible about the man, the small, wiry frame, the furtive eyes, and the quick, darting movements. He was a skinny version of those round toys that always bounce back to the vertical every time you try to knock them over.

‘The system works like the lottery, see. They let you win ten dollars every now and again, maybe twenty once in a blue moon, little handouts that encourage you to keep going, always in the hope of the big payout. The system's no different. It can be a job with a small wage attached. It might be that some of us get to purchase a house, get a foot in the door. The more educated you are, the more they have to give you. That's how it works. If you've not got too much up top, they reckon they can get away with giving you very little. That's because you don't really understand what's going on, and you're not ever likely to work it out.'

Hugh laughed. ‘Come on Joe! That's a bit far-fetched.'

‘I'm serious!' Joe suddenly looked annoyed, exhaling a stream of cigarette smoke through his nostrils with a kind of dragonlike fury. He removed a shred of tobacco from his tongue. ‘That's how it works, mate, believe me.'

‘But who are “they”, Joe? I've never understood who “they” are. Do you know?'

‘
They
are the people who run it all, the ones who keep the lid on everything and make sure too many people don't escape.
They
are at the top of the big corporations, the banks, law firms and media outlets.
They
are also in government.
They
are the people who hide from us exactly what's going on.'

‘I'm not sure those people are clever enough to organise something like that, certainly not the ones I've met in business. They're too incompetent. They couldn't do it.'

‘Believe me, when it comes to looking after their own interests they're up to it. Capitalism's been like that for decades: enriching the few at the expense of the many.'

‘I think it's more like the Boxing Day sales, when they open the department store doors and everyone charges in, elbowing each other, pushing and shoving. Some people get trampled in the rush. They go down and they stay down. They're never quite able to get back on their feet. It's the others who grab the big bargains, the rewards. I think it's more like that.'

‘You're wrong, my friend, and I'll tell you this for free. We're living in an age that's morally and politically bankrupt. That's what you don't seem to understand. Look around you. Everyone's miserable, everyone's cowed, everyone's beaten. That's what rampant consumerism does to you. It doesn't make you happy, like they promise, it makes you miserable.'

Although Hugh felt there was a lot of truth in what Joe was saying, he couldn't believe that it was all true. Could people consciously decide to be so evil, to knife their neighbours in the back just to get one more step up the ladder?

‘You know the heights of happiness most people attain in this life, Hugh? Eating a Big Mac in front of some reality TV show with a beer in their hand. That's it, mate. That's paradise on earth for most folk.'

Hugh recalled an evening, possibly a year or two earlier, sitting in his boss's dimly lit office, when Murray, feet up on the desk, had been almost philosophical. ‘In the past, before you and I were born, Hugh, it didn't matter if you weren't a success. You weren't disappointed if you never made it to the top of the advertising world, never became a successful merchant or a famous High Court judge. Why? Because you had heaven waiting for you. That's when you received your reward. The truth is, you didn't want success in your own lifetime; you preferred to have it later. Much better to be really miserable here on earth, to be poor and downtrodden, then cash in later, in paradise.'

‘But no one believes in God now.'

‘My point exactly. For all of us non-believers, this is our only chance to make it. Right here, right now. We only have this one chance to be successful and happy – to live in paradise – before our candle's snuffed out for ever.'

‘You're saying that in the past a belief in the hereafter was a person's consolation for their miserable existence on earth?'

‘Of course it was. When you were downtrodden, in the mud, with the carriages of the rich and famous passing over your starving body, that's what kept you going. You said to yourself, “Don't worry, Wheeler old son, you'll get your reward in heaven. Then it'll be your turn to drive a carriage over the bodies of these rich and famous pricks – and you'll be able to do it forever and ever and ever …” That's what gave you the strength to put up with the Packers, Murdochs or even Russells in your life.'

And they had both laughed.

At the end of one of those days he worked with Joe, he dropped in at his local supermarket on the way home and stocked up on a few things he needed. He was walking along the street, carrying a couple of plastic shopping bags, heading back to the rundown flat he now called home. He was dressed in his habitual shorts, T-shirt and sandals. His face was shadowy from not having seen a razor blade for several days. The street was busy, the cars nose to tail as all those people with a job headed back home from their offices. A car horn sounded. Hugh, trudging along with his head down, was wondering if he had enough money to survive until his next Centrelink payment. The car horn sounded again, this time more insistently.
Must be one of those impatient, rude bastards
, he thought,
trying to force his way into the stream of traffic
. He kept his head down and walked on, weighed down by his shopping and his worries about money. When the car horn sounded again, a third time, right alongside him now, the car in question stationary in the line of traffic that was heading in the opposite direction to which he was walking, he looked up. He saw an immaculate, vintage Aston Martin DB4 in English racing green. As a child he'd once played with that very model on the floor of his home in Manchester, pushing it around the feet of his father or hurtling it across the linoleum in the kitchen to smash against the wall. It was his favourite dream car of all time. He looked away, knowing that whoever the driver was trying to attract the attention of, it definitely wasn't him. At that moment the passenger-side electric window glided downwards. ‘Hugh!' He stopped, bewildered. He was uncomfortable, almost alarmed, that he'd been noticed, in his state, by someone driving such a car. He peered into its dim interior. Russell Grant was leaning across the passenger seat, a wide smile on his face. ‘Mate!' Hugh would never have believed that just one syllable could be so prolonged, so drawn out, yet still be invested with such a degree of insincerity. ‘How's it going?'