Chapter 10 #2
“I... I'm actually looking for Beth. About the job?”
She tilts her head in surprise.
“I'm Beth,” she smiles. “Follow me out the back.”
I walk behind her with an eager smile.
Being an adult is harder than I thought.
“Kind of got my hands full at the moment, love. It's not the best time.”
“Yeah, I just…”
“If you leave your CV and credentials on the bench over there, I'll take a look when I can.”
“My what?”
“Your resumé and bar certificate. Have you worked in a restaurant before?”
“A pub,” I lie. “Well… my dad goes to the pub all the time and sometimes I…”
My words trail off.
“What’s your name, darl?”
She grabs a notepad from her pocket.
“Mike,” I bluff.
“How old are you, Mike?”
“Fifteen.” My first honest answer. “Almost sixteen.”
Her sigh makes me nervous.
“But I'm a hard worker, and I'm good at cleaning dishes. I can sweep floors. I can…”
“You look older with that stubble, I have to admit.”
“It’s my birthday on Thursday.”
“Need your folks to sign a consent form if you wanna work here, kid.”
Obviously that’s not an option.
She’s being as patient as she can.
I’m sure she really needs to get back to serving.
“I can't hire minors, sorry. You can't serve behind the bar til you're older.”
I hesitate. I can’t tell her too much.
“My parents don’t have a phone.”
And for the first time, I’m relieved.
It’s partly true, anyway.
Dad hardly ever pays the Telstra bill.
I can tell she’s trying to be kind.
Even though she really doesn’t have time for my bullshit.
I long to tell her what she wants to hear.
“Bring them in to see me in person,” she suggests.
I swallow.
“They’re not in Longreach.”
“Look I'm sorry, Mike. But the law’s the law. I can’t lose my permit. Come back when you’re older. And maybe do something about those cuts on your face, hun. It's not a good look in front of my customers.”
“My birthday really is on Thursday," I reply.
It’s the truth, even if I have no way to prove it.
Her voice is laced with a tinge of empathy.
The bell from the cook signals that the next meal is ready.
“As you can see, I’m very short staffed,” she says, loading the next tray with practiced precision.
“And I could really use an extra pair of hands. Even just a kitchen hand. That's what I need most. Got any ID with your birthday on it?”
It kills me to say it.
“I don't.”
I wish more than ever that I did.
Maybe I can print something fake at the library.
“Can't help you mate, I'm sorry. Do you mind using the back door this time?”
She looks worn out, as though she hasn’t sat down in days.
And yet the conversation is clearly over.
◆◆◆
I step outside onto the driveway, walking past a linen cupboard and a row of buckets.
The restaurant adjoins a small motel.
Comfy beds, cooked meals and hot showers.
Three things I very much crave.
But there's no chance in hell I’m going back to Jundah for my birth records.
If my mum even has them.
What the fuck am I going to do?
Without that stupid piece of paper, I’m screwed.
Nobody warned me that the outside world was paved in paper trails and red tape.
I circle the streets for more than an hour.
I’m starving but reluctant to open the packet of chips in case I wolf the whole lot.
Without a job, I’ll have to be extra careful rationing the little food I have left.
Either that, or steal it.
In hindsight, that tin of cold lentils on Mum's shelf doesn’t seem so bad.
It’s starting to cloud over a bit.
Hope it’s not too cold tonight.
Guess I’ll have to wear every item of clothing at once to fend off the chill.
Not too late to retrieve Dad's stinky shirt and beanie from the trash.
Would it be worth it though, to warm myself in that monster’s clothes?
The smell would keep me awake, a constant reminder of everything I’ve run from.
Nah, I’d rather freeze than have that shirt touch my body again.
I peruse the job board at the library again.
Maybe I missed something.
Forklift operator, must have a license.
Stock yard manager, must have at least five years experience.
Kindergarten teacher, must be police vetted.
Must have, must have, must have.
I have nothing.
I’m nobody.
Even if I wanted to go home, which I don’t, I’d have to walk for at least two weeks.
Just to get the beating of my life when I return.
If only I could find a way to get to the city.
At least in the big smoke, living on the streets would come with options.
More job vacancies.
More food scraps to rummage through.
And the beach.
I could sleep on the beach.
I find my way to the main highway and stand there with my thumb out.
At least until the queasiness in my stomach makes me dizzy in the heat.
Nobody bothers to stop.
Not even a horny pervert.
Three little thumb lengths on the map, yet nineteen hours on the road.
So close, yet so far.
And now, with my hand out, even one thumb can’t get me there.
Lowering my arm, I trudge back to the park in defeat.
◆◆◆
Sip some water, I remind myself. At least water is free.
I round the corner just in time to see a woman lugging a huge suitcase.
A motel guest, perhaps?
Nope.
She waits at the bus stop, soon joined by two others.
Within minutes, the red bus I saw earlier appears at the end of the street.
Looming large, it pulls to the curb.
Brisbane, says the neon sign in its window.
Sitting beneath a tree, my eyes remain glued to the stairwell.
The first passenger embarks.
I so badly want to get on that bus.
The driver has his back turned, shuffling through the paperwork.
Make a run for it, I dare myself. Go now, before he sees you.
Bolting across the foot path, I crawl into the open luggage compartment.
Arranging the bags around my body, I curl tight into a ball.
It’s dark and suffocating.
What if I have a panic attack when the door locks?
What if nobody can hear me?
“Oi! Get out of there!” booms a voice.
Someone must have been watching from the window.
They’ve alerted the driver.
A wrist grips my ankle.
Bugger.
My shoe was sticking out.
“Piss off before I call the cops!”
I slink into the shadows, cheeks burning with shame.
Desperation claws at me, anxiety surging in my chest.
From behind a tree, I watch the bus depart.
◆◆◆
By nightfall, my nerves have peaked.
I’m so anxious that I puke my chips and fizzy drink all over the grass.
So much for making every bite of food last.
For the first time ever, even the stars aren’t enough to calm me.
They only make me miss my mum.
I sketch them in clusters on an empty page of my notebook.
Smaller and smaller until they disappear into the margin.
Hot tears prick my eyes.
They threaten to spill but I wipe them away.
The ground is so hard it makes my butt numb.
I sit on a wooden bench. It’s covered in bird shit.
And within an hour, the cold begins to bite.
Longreach is so different than I’d imagined.
Not the magical wonderland I envisaged as a kid.
Not for me, anyway.
Somewhere in this town, lives the kind man who drove me here.
I picture him sitting inside a warm house.
Soft couch, hot dinner.
Maybe a dog at his feet.
I should have begged to stay with him.
Nearby, the glow of the restaurant windows is the closest thing to comfort.
It helps me feel less alone.
Beth is still here, for another hour at least.
I watch as she moves from table to table, plate after plate carried on her tray.
She must be a little older than my Mum.
She feels like a Mum.
Perhaps she is one, to someone very lucky.
I shiver in the dark, goosebumps prickling along my arms.
But knowing that she’s nearby helps lull me into a trance.
Soon my eyelids grow heavy.
I rest my head against my lumpy backpack.
It’s impossible to drift off for long, though.
I can’t let my guard down.
Probably isn’t legal to sleep here.
One mention to the police and I’ll be back in Jundah.
I need something bigger than this tshirt to hide under.
A blanket, maybe. Or a towel.
My eyes dart to the motel driveway.
The restaurant lights have dimmed now.
The last patron has left.
I spot Beth behind the bar, polishing glasses and cutlery.
Where did I see it? Near the recycling bin?
I remember walking past a supply room on my way out of the kitchen.
Stacks of linen piled high.
Tablecloths. Sheets. That kind of thing.
Surely I could borrow one, just for the night.
I’ll bring it back as soon as I can.
No one needs to know.
It’s either that or get eaten alive by mozzies.
◆◆◆
Tiptoeing along the side of the building, I check twice to make sure the coast is clear.
The kitchen door is wide open, lights beaming a thick triangle across the concrete.
A crate of empty milk bottles waits next to the drain.
I can hear the clatter of metal pans, and something on the radio.
The cooking crew are creating order from sticky chaos.
And there it is.
The linen cupboard, directly opposite the entrance.
I’ll have to be quick.
I turn the handle as quietly as I can.
It’s the second time today that I’ve had to open a door without being caught.
Shelves tower above me.
White upon white, neatly folded in crisp neat rows.
The fluorescent light makes my hand look almost villainous against the cloth.
Dirt under my nails, and a gash along my forearm.
Tomorrow I can wash it off in the…
“Back again, Mike?”
A familiar voice.
It’s her.
My heart lodges in my throat.
“Mark,” I say quietly. “My name’s actually Mark.”
“Uh huh.”
“Please don’t hurt me.”
“Love, I’m not gonna hurt you.”
I turn slowly to face her.
The light shines brightly in my eyes.
Moths circle around the bulb, seeking warmth as much as I do.
“Wanna tell me why you're nicking one of my tablecloths?” she asks. “Off for a midnight picnic?”