My first day in teller’s box number two almost convinced me I had a career in banking. I felt like the new Australian prime minister, John Gorton, who had been elected PM even though he was a senator and thus a member of the wrong house of parliament. Here I was wrongly appointed well above my capabilities, to a teller’s box I didn’t belong in, with a float of fifty thousand dollars, more money than I’d ever seen. I shared the box with Tom Hallett, the bloke leaving, going home after his two-year tour of duty. That’s what we called it. National Service was in full force in Australia and to do your time in the islands you had to apply for a stay on your conscription papers. As soon as I headed home I’d have to let the defence department know and it would chuck my marble in the barrel and that could mean another tour of duty in another tropical climate fighting slimy Viet Cong communist bastards. Hallett was going in the barrel as soon as he got home to Melbourne. He was a tall, good-looking man and an Aussie Rules footballer. If his marble came out, he was sure to go to Vietnam.
I play for one of the local teams, he said. You interested in a game?
Yeah, maybe, I said. I wasn’t too bad in school and I played a few amateur games in Perth but I’m a bit off the boil.
I’ll take you down to training one night and you can see how you go.
Great.
The day was a blur. As soon as the doors opened the customer tide rushed in and didn’t go out until the doors closed. All kinds trooped up to the counter: wealthy whites, drunk whites, whites in whites, whites in suits, handsome whites, very pretty whites, glorious looking blacks, blacks in whites, blacks in skirts with naked breasts, blacks with bones in their noses, blacks who stank and blacks who looked at me as though I was some kind of film star. All the while Hallett stood beside me and commented.
You see that bloke, he’s worth a million. She’s been around. Phil’s played Rugby League down in Sydney. I saw her the other night, after the footy game, mate, she scrubs up well. Whatever you do, don’t lick your fingers when counting the notes, you never know where these maries have kept their money.
What?
Yeah, that’s what they call the women – maries, said Hallett. They’re all called Mary and they keep their notes up their fannies.
You’re bloody joking.
Nuh. You see that one down the end of the line? After you count her notes you better go and wash your hands.
I started with fifty thousand dollars, I took in over forty thousand and I handed out over twenty-five thousand and, at the end of the day, I balanced. I couldn’t believe it. The old man couldn’t believe it. Okay, he wasn’t there, but I felt him breathing down the back of my neck, waiting for me to fuck up, to lose count, to mess the numbers up, but I didn’t and inside I said a quick, silent, fuck you, you prick.
My little teller door opened. I turned and saw Symons. His hand was out, looking for mine.
There you go, he said. I had plenty of confidence in your ability to master this position. I knew you’d handle it. Knew you wouldn’t let us down.
Phew, I said. Good to know I’m no John McEwen.
Symons looked at me.
You know, forced to take charge because someone died, but the wrong man for the job.
Would have been better to shove in Billy Big Ears McMahon, said Hallett. Billy might not be up for the top job either, but looking at his wife would make up for it.
McMahon had not long married a delicious woman twenty-five years younger than him and the best looking politician’s wife ever. No one could explain how such a big-eared dill got to marry such a beauty, especially after so many thought he was a poofter. And no one could explain why I was still a virgin in a world gone mad with promiscuity. Not that anyone knew. It was my pathetic little secret. Along with all the others, like the lingering, occasional conversation I had with Jesus and the reason I ate so much salt.
What a day, that first one in the second teller’s box. I was pumped. I needed a drink. That’s the way to make euphoria last: you win a game, you get engaged, you win money, you get a pay rise – you go out and get pissed. Sober, euphoria only lasts a couple of minutes; pissed, it lasts for hours. That’s what it was to be Australian. I had begun to think of myself as Australian, as belonging to a nation of people. I wondered if it had happened to the other expats, if before they had arrived they had considered themselves Queenslanders, or Victorians, but once away from our island continent, they began to think of themselves as Australians.
That whole first week in the teller’s box was sweet and amazing. One night I also had another one of my flying dreams. A good one. They aren’t always pleasant and sometimes I can’t seem to get off the ground, no matter how hard I frog-kick or stroke with my arms. That’s how I move through the air, with the breaststroke kick and stroke. It never ceases to amaze me how I do it. I never see anyone else up there with me. People look up and wave or try to get at me but they never get off the ground. In this dream I was shooting through the air, just flying, feeling the air, doing a few rolls, having fun. And when I came down Mum was waiting for me with the evening meal. She watched me land but she didn’t look surprised and didn’t say anything other than: Dinner’s ready. I looked around for Dad but he wasn’t there.