It’s been three or four weeks since Robbie checked his email. His phone got stolen a while back, swiped from his pocket while he was sleeping rough. The one before that got smashed when he fell over. Another one got water damaged. Every now and then he’s offered a new phone – second-hand, of course – which he accepts and tries to keep from harm. In between, he can use the computer facilities at drop-in centres like this. He doesn’t really mind: half the time he isn’t in the right headspace to check his messages anyway.
‘Hey, Robbie. How are you? Haven’t seen you in a while.’
The fact that they like to remember his name is intensely annoying. There’s an unofficial dress code: jeans and check shirts, male and female volunteers wearing more or less the same clothes. Most of them are Christians, their gormless smiles designed to reel you in, to save your soul. No fucking chance of that.
‘Yeah, fine,’ he eventually answers. Better be civil because he needs stuff done. For a start, there’s his laundry: it’s been building up and now everything’s rank. He also needs a good feed: he’s been living off noodles and tinned soup since he was last here. He has the mindset to check his emails today, so he needs one of their computers too. ‘Bit hungry, though.’
The volunteer is excited to hear this. That’s exactly why he’s here. To feed and nourish the less fortunate, the strugglers, the down and out. To slap some food on a plate and think he’s exonerated from all other responsibility.
‘Is that all your laundry?’ Another volunteer, a girl, twenties, too old to carry off the pigtails resting on her shoulders. And another gormless smile as she relieves him of the refuse bag packed with dirty clothes. Good luck to her. She’ll gag on opening it.
Robbie lines up at the canteen. There’s a sour smell coming off the old man in front of him. A woman of indeterminate age – mottled, bloated face – slides in behind him and she doesn’t smell great either. The truth is, it’s impossible not to smell. You can wash your face and hands at public toilets as much as you like, and occasionally scrounge a cold shower, but nothing can substitute for a long hot shower, morning and night.
The meal on offer today is beef casserole and rice. Robbie is disgruntled. He was hoping for roast chicken and mash, the last meal he had at this facility, the reason why he returned today. He had an appetite – he doesn’t always have an appetite – and couldn’t get the thought of the roast chicken out of his head.
The laundry will take a couple of hours to run through the washing machine and dryer. In the meantime, Robbie can avail himself of the facilities: hot shower, fresh razor for a shave, a rummage through the clothes bin, and internet access – the biggest draw card because most of the patrons, like him, have trouble hanging on to phones.
He has eight new emails. Six are junk. Two are from his sister.
From: celiamc@optusnet.com.au
Subject: Hello
Hi Robbie,
Hope you will read this at some stage. Just letting you know that Dad is in hospital. Nothing too serious: just some clotting on his leg that they’re a bit concerned about. He’d love to hear from you. Even better if you came to see him and Mum. You have no idea how happy that would make them.
I think of you every single day. Hope you think about me, too.
Xxx Celia
Celia sends a message every couple of weeks. She never falters in her efforts to stay in touch. The births of her children, the breakup of her marriage, various illnesses and busy periods, nothing has deterred her from thinking of him and sitting down to type a few lines. He’s grateful for the effort she puts in, for keeping him up to date with what’s happening in the family, for always letting him know that he’s loved, but he never sends a response. He has nothing to say. No words to explain his failure, his embarrassment, his self-loathing, his stubbornness, his defectivity, his utter inability to change himself.
From: celiamc@optusnet.com.au
Subject: Dad
Hi Robbie,
Dad’s out of hospital and doing well. Mum is fussing over him and they’re bickering like crazy, which is a sign that everything’s back to normal. We’ve had some contact from old school friends of yours. There’s a reunion coming up. Twenty years, imagine. The organiser, Katy Buckley, said that she’d love it if you can come. The details are below, along with some questions she wants answered for an updated yearbook. That’s a nice idea, isn’t it? Finding out what everyone is doing and where they are in life. Maybe the reunion is the incentive you need to finally come home?
Where are you these days? I assume you’re not in Sydney. I look for you everywhere I go. Can’t stop myself. I hope you’re somewhere safe.
We love you and miss you and hope that you come home soon.
Celia
Twenty years! It slams into him. Robbie stands up, sits down, stands up again. Twenty years. Twenty fucking years. It’s confronting, seeing it in type. Those years have been a haze of nothingness, a void in which he has managed to exist and little else. What’s weird is that he can still see their smug, superior faces clear as day.
Annabel Moore: pretty, popular, poisonous.
Grace McCrae: couldn’t go to the toilet without Annabel.
Zach Latham: thought he was so fucking funny, the idiot.
Melissa Andrews: stuck-up bitch.
Luke Willis: gay as Christmas.
Katy Buckley: always trying to be everyone’s friend.
Jarrod Harris: Annabel’s on-and-off boyfriend till he got her up the duff and became full-time ‘on’. Jarrod is the one he despises the most. Robbie still dreams about him. Recurring nightmares of Jarrod chasing him across the uneven grass, his voice a shout from behind. Jarrod gaining ground, his yells coming fearfully closer. Jarrod tackling him to the ground, Robbie’s face crashing into the turf, the taste of dew and dirt in his mouth.
Maybe Celia is right. Maybe it is time to finally go home. Maybe he’ll turn up at the reunion, surprise them all. He could scrub up, get a suit from the clothing bin, convince them he’s a successful businessman now. Then, when they’ve had a few drinks and their guard is down, he could settle a score or two.
Robbie stands up again. Clenches his fists. Jabs one forward. Undercuts with the other. Long time no see, Jarrod. Take that and that and that. You fucking bastard. You ruined my life. Hey, Zach, come to say hello? How’s a nice punch between the eyes, you shitbag!
‘Are you all right there, chum?’ It’s yet another volunteer. The place is teeming with them. This one’s a pale nerdy-looking bloke. His job is to watch over the antiquated laptops in the ‘technology room’. As if anyone could be bothered stealing these old heaps of shit.
‘Yeah. Fine.’ Robbie forces himself down, grinding his backside to the seat. He tries to distract himself with football news and other headlines. He tries to quell the feelings of inadequacy, self-hatred and bitterness that go hand in hand with even the most random thoughts about his schooldays. He tries a breathing technique some doctor taught him that’s supposed to help him feel less agitated. He tries to convince himself that Jarrod, Zach and the rest of them don’t matter a fuck.
But as with most things in life, he fails.
Name: Melissa Andrews (aka Snow White)
What you will be remembered for: Being smart. Maybe being a bit too serious.
Best memories of high school: Awards night. I like celebrating everyone’s achievements.
Worst memories of high school: Slicing my finger instead of the celery in food tech.
What will you be doing ten years from now: Working my way up the corporate ladder.