Jenson looks at me, out his window, back at me, then out his window again and, finally, back at me. While he looks around I smell myself. I stink. His nose is larger than I remember. The blood-red veins look ready to burst.
We had high hopes for you, Muir, he says. What a disappointment.
Sorry, Mr Jenson, but I don’t think I’m cut out for a banking career.
You certainly are not, Muir, and that’s why we are asking you to leave.
Are you firing me?
I think that’s the term they use. I’ve never had to do it in my three years in the islands.
There’s always a first, Jenson.
Mr Jenson looks at me with a hard sharp look that months ago might have had me worried, but now I don’t care, not at all, not about Jenson or his fucking bank or any of the white-shirted pricks who work in it. They can all go and get fucked.
You’re a disappointment, Muir, and if you were any younger I’d write to your parents and let them know how much of a disappointment. Look at you. You haven’t washed since yesterday, no doubt. You stink and your work stinks. You’re a disgrace.
I want to punch Jenson in his fat face, bust his bulging bloody nose. He is a racist prick, but he is right, I am a disgrace.
You’re right, Mr Jenson. I’m sorry.
Get out, Muir.
A large part of me wants to burst into tears, fall on the floor and beg for forgiveness, but another, more manly part, is very clear that, simply, I am finished, done, dusted. I find a smile, bring it to my face and leave Jenson’s office with a tall stride, walk to my desk and Beast, kick her, pick up my favourite pencil, grab my pocketknife, walk to Higgs, the ledger examiner, smile and say: Higgs, you’re in charge now. Higgs looks up, then down, like he knows what was going to happen in Jenson’s office before I entered.
You knew, right? That Jenson was going to fire me?
He busies himself with a stack of paper.
You suck, Higgs, you fucking suck.
I walk back to Franky.
I’m sorry, mate. I’m a fucking prick. Let me clean your room.
No need, Jack. Tarbo already has.
You’ve been a good mate, Frank. Thanks.
Things haven’t turned out, Jack. You’ll be right, once you find out what it is you want to do.
I don’t think there’s a living in what I want to do.
And that’s that. My banking career over. Almost. The final details are worked out with Watkins. I want to go now, get out, through the front door, walk out with the Beast on fire behind me, but Watkins makes it clear that if I want a superannuation payout, and holiday pay, I better give a standard notice.
I thought you sacked me, I say.
We have, but we are giving you a chance, Muir, says Watkins, one you don’t deserve. And, besides, we can’t get another machinist up here for three weeks.
So that’s it, they need me. They call for a replacement from the capital and when he arrives I work with him, another Tasmanian, for two weeks, and Jenson says I can stay in the mess for another fortnight until I get sorted. I thank him. I tell him it’s very generous. I mean it.
Work is better than it has ever been because there is so little of it for me to do. I help the Tasmanian as best I can. I show him where to sit, how to hold forms, statements, using most of the fingers and a thumb. When I show him how to get out of the chair and walk to the enquiry counter, he realises my mind is no longer in the building, but somewhere else. The Colonial Bank of Australia no longer has any hold over me. Did it ever? It was a job I had to take because Dad made me take it.
What’s the smell? asks the Tasmanian.
It’s her fluids, I say. You’ll get used to it. Franky loves it. He takes a small bottle of it home with him every night and rubs all over his naked body before he goes to sleep.
Fuck off, Muir, says Franky.
When work is over I wait for dark and walk over to May’s. Then I walk down to the Moroki Club and get pissed. I have no idea how I get back to the bank mess. I begin to enjoy the smell of my body. My skin has a new texture, somehow silky and smooth. I don’t always shower in the morning.
On my last day I walk up to Watkins.
Watkins, I say.
He looks at me.
Yes, Muir.
I’m sorry about coming around to your house with the truck.
He’s not sure about the apology, I can see it in his face, and he’s right, there’s more to come.
But I’m not sorry about calling you a racist, I say, because you are.
His head goes back into his paperwork. I stand and look at the top of his head. There’s a bit on the crown that is losing hair. He looks up.
Is that all? Muir.
No. You might want to think about a hair restorer.
His face runs a bright red. I almost feel sorry for him. I shake my head and walk out of the bank. Revenge is not sweet, it’s nasty, but I don’t seem able to stop wanting it.