THE TIP

Our local rubbish tip is fab. We’ve decked our entire house out with stuff – perfectly good stuff that’s been dumped by the too-well-off or the plain stupid. It’s taken us years, but that’s okay – it’s nice to build a portrait of who you are. And what’s even better about our local tip is that we only ever have to vie with a few others – mainly singles, but there’s also a couple, Jess and Charlie, who are as determined as we are to collect the homemaking items. We don’t know them really well, but we sometimes head down to the pub together after spending the afternoon filling our trailers. And we’re pretty decent about sharing what’s there. If one of us sees something and calls ‘mine!’, it’s generally agreed it remains yours no matter who reaches it first.

The singles who work the tip are pretty good as well, though Pete is a notorious drunk and is only in it for what he can sell. So we usually buy the homemaking items off him – well, us or Jess and Charlie – for a bottle or two of beer, and he goes for the stuff we don’t particularly want, like cool drink bottles and aluminium cans … stuff that brings an immediate return. And none of the others are as determined as we are. At the end of a day at the tip, we compare what we’ve got, and on the odd occasion even swap.

Our relationship with Jess and Charlie has been building over the years. We’ve never been to their house, nor they to ours, but it’s been on the cards for months now. It’ll happen. They are an attractive pair, and we like to consider ourselves hot as well. Not that looks matter, but it’s nice to be friends with a couple who also like to keep fit. And we understand each other. Sometimes in the pub, eighteen-to-twenty-somethings out having their first drinks will call us scroungers and scabs – everyone knows we jump on the stuff they dump. Actually, as an aside, I’ve heard it said some people refuse to dump their old stuff, just to prevent us having it. We’ve had a bit of a strategy meeting with Jess and Charlie about this, and it’s generally agreed that we should widen our orbit – check out some of the smaller satellite tips around the region. No doubt that’s where the spiteful ones are depositing their unwanted goods. And back to the occasional put-downs we cop – well, we consider ourselves collectors and recyclers. And in a world down on its knees from over-consumption, we’re sitting pretty in the ethics stakes!

We’ve got regular jobs, so we keep our collecting to weekends and, occasionally, after work. I work at a plant nursery, potting seedlings (at the moment), and Ben is a farm labourer – he’s carting hay until the end of the month, then back to general farm work. It’s dairy country and fully irrigated, so there’s a rich hay crop this year. He’s stuffed when he gets in from carting – it’s backbreaking work. As for Charlie, he’s a boatbuilder and Jess does leatherwork. She doesn’t sell it at a stall or anything like that – it’s on commission from some big-city outfit. See, I’m wearing one of her belts now. She sold it to me at the pub one night after collecting – cheap, real cheap … she doesn’t usually sell her stuff privately. It’s got her name on it, tooled in deep, but it’s a good belt. Boatbuilding inland? Yes, apparently. Charlie makes small sailboats that take forever to craft. It doesn’t matter that the sea is fifty k’s away … he says he never sails them anyway. When he was young, he says, he won trophy after trophy, but since hitting forty, and that’d be about eight years ago, he’s happier inland. Maybe that’s the primary difference between us. They’re mid-to-late forties and we’re just early thirties. A lot of difference, now I think about it. But I never do, usually. As I said, they are fit and attractive people.

Well, I am shifting time and stuff around here. What I want to tell you about is the day we’ve just had. We’re sitting in the pub now, having a cold beer with Jess and Charlie. It’s been a wonderful day collecting! I spent hours with Jess – she’s asked my opinion about every treasure she’s gathered. It’s nice to be someone’s confidante and advisor. And to balance it all out, Charlie and Ben have been working away together as well. And we had the tip entirely to ourselves. It was a day of rich pickings. I am telling Jess I really like the set of ceramic ducks she found – an entire set, with only a few chips. They could be mounted on the wall – kitsch, sure, but kitsch that has become art now. I really like them. I’m not saying I really mind her finding them rather than me, but it was the find of the day!

The boys are back at our table with another round of beers and Charlie is on at Ben about our visiting their block. Why don’t you guys come around tonight? – we could have a few more drinks and go straight around to our place. Jess is a great cook and could whip something up real quick, couldn’t you, Jess? he says. Sure, Charlie, sure. It’d be great to have our friends around. What do you say, friends? Both of us mutter something and somehow it gets sort of lost in the froth of the beers as we take deep, long draughts.

What we have on the days we’re together at the tip is special and almost spontaneous. We like that. And then we go home and collect our thoughts. That sort of collecting is as important as the real thing. Part of it. But Jess and Charlie are always suggesting we visit – it came up (yet again!) at the tip earlier today when Charlie found an excellent rake head and swapped it with Ben for a couple of oil drums – Charlie said he could clean them out and use them as mounts for one of his boats (… and wouldn’t we like to see his workshop?). We do that all the time. Bartering. We all stood as one when some bastard yelled, Scabs! Scabs! Dirty bloody scabs! at us. I’ve got to admit, I got a warm buzz up my spine when Charlie yelled back, Maybe, mate, but which of us drives a Merc? And it’s true, Charlie’s other car is an old Merc in showroom condition. Done up, loved and nurtured. He drives it down to the pub sometimes. When ‘tipping’ (Jess and Charlie sometimes joke and say tupping … we can get away with it because Jess was born in New Zealand … one of our in-jokes), we drive utes to cart away our collectibles …

… Anyway, I digress. So, Charlie asked again today if we’d go round sometime. He didn’t specifically say tonight, but sometime. And Ben said, We must, we must … And we were both satisfied that Jess and Charlie accepted this as just the way we are. Like it was an automated response and not meant to offend. Everyone smiled because the pickings were good and that’s the main thing.

To tell the truth, I wouldn’t mind hanging out after-hours with them, and I’m kind of curious to see their place. We’ve heard so much about it. I’d like to see the treasures they’ve accumulated over the years. But Ben likes to consider things and do them in his own time – our own time – and doesn’t like a change of plan. And I should add that Ben has this thing about Jess getting a bit too keen on him when she’s had a few drinks, but I’ve always been there when that’s happened and it’s no more than friendly flirting. Women do that. It doesn’t mean anything if you don’t make something out of it. Ben looked sheepish when I said this to him once, but I know it’s an issue, if only a small one.

So the evening gets away from us all and we’re sitting and drinking and playing pool and darts and singing and drinking and laughing. I go to the bathroom and Jess follows me in and says, Why don’t you convince Ben to come around tonight … now? I could whip up some burgers for us. I go gently if tipsily to make an excuse and Jess lifts her index finger and touches my lips with it, and says, Now, now, girl … I know Ben’s the piker. I know you want to come over. We can have some fun – look at stuff, have a natter, eat and drink. It will be good. Now, you have a piss and go back and convince your man! She then laughs and goes off to a cubicle. I must confess, I am not one for coarse talk like that and it puts me off her a little. But I am tipsy and say to myself, Don’t be a prude, and decide on principle to convince Ben!

Back with the men, I catch Jess’s eye. She takes the cue and leads Charlie off to the bar. I focus on Ben. Ben, let’s go. I know you want to see Charlie’s shed. Want to see the boat he’s working on. What’s to stop us? Ben is annoyed and speaks harshly under his breath. Not here, darling, not now! Ben, you knew it was going to be asked. It’s always asked. There’s no logical reason why we shouldn’t go. Ben glowers and I know he is about to bring up the Jess thing when Charlie and Jess reappear, so he just lifts his glass and drains his beer instead. I take the opportunity to leap in and say, We’d love to come over! Before Ben can react Charlie pats him on the shoulder and Ben finds himself nodding yes to everything.

I go skipper. I’ve had much less to drink than Ben. We follow them out to the back of beyond. Didn’t realise they lived so far out of town. Charlie is driving their car, and though he knows he’s over the limit, he says the cops never come out that way. ‘Only risk is leaving the pub,’ he says. It doesn’t stop him.

Their place is a dream. Some might describe it as a tip in itself, but only those who lack the collector’s eye. Old cars, piles of wood, drums, this and that, all neatly sorted and spread over a couple of acres. Systematic, logical. Charlie shows us his workshop – we recognise a lot of his takings from the tip, all put to good use. And then inside the house! Every wall is covered, every shelf and spare cupboard top – A plethora of collectibles, I joke. We have reached nirvana or found heaven on earth, or both. Ben subtly nudges me in the ribs and I follow his eyes to a huge pile of adult magazines. You see a lot of them at the tip – we tend not to collect them, just the occasional bodybuilder mag. We’ve noticed both Jess and Charlie scooping up the odd one, but we’ve said nothing – that kind of thing isn’t anyone’s business. Maybe Ben’s nudge or our glances aren’t so subtle, as Charlie laughs his big-framed laugh, biceps twitching and straining his T-shirt, and says, Some beauties in there! Things people throw away – can’t imagine where they get it. Sure most of it isn’t legal.

This gives me a chill – a real shudder runs through my entire body … and I know Ben is shaken as well because he increases the space between his feet – spreads his legs apart – which is his defence stance. I’ve seen him like this when we were younger and he was about to fight some guy in a pub. Jess pipes up, Let’s all have a drink …, and takes Ben by the hand and leads him into the lounge.

We drop down into deep armchairs and Jess disappears for a minute to return with a tray of nibbles that she must have prepared earlier, expecting our visit … Have a canapé, says Charlie, as he pours us a riesling in beautiful stemmed glasses. We take a sip, running in auto mode, and Charlie flicks on the television and DVD. I feel really woozy; things are wavering.

***

Jess chatters to me through the door constantly. She tells me nonchalantly that Charlie has killed Ben and dumped him at the tip – he knew exactly where to put him in time for the bulldozing. He was like an expert. Jess is proud of her husband. And now Ben is landfill.

I don’t believe her though, because in the same breath she tells me that Ben is as hot as she thought he’d be, and He’s up for it, so why not you? – that you being me. Well. I am underground. A bunker, apparently under an old car. Jess says it is quite comical going through the back doors of the car, opening a hatch, then another hatch, then climbing down to a small chamber, then another door through to me. It’s very elaborate. There’s little air, but enough. I wonder if Ben is in a bunker like mine. If it’s nearby. I yell and yell and bang on the walls but hear nothing back. I always wait for that tap tap morse code contact from him. You know. I love you. Save Our Souls.

They ‘confessed’ they ‘made love’ to me while I was unconscious, but would be happier if I were a willing participant. I have refused their love and their food, so the jury is out on all counts. I am shackled, and can only move as far as the bed and the waste can. There’s an urn of water and a cup. There’s a single light bulb. I know no one can hear me when it’s all shut up. It’s stifling. Otherwise, as I weep, I look up at all the bric-a-brac, all the rubbish Jess has collected from the tip and asked me if I liked over the months, the years. Every item I approved of or desired is in here. Even that late entry, the ceramic ducks. They are flying up the wall to an imaginary, eternal freedom. Every piece of shit of which I politely said, at the time of finding, I am happy for you coming across it first … but resented, is in here: on the walls, in piles, filling the corners. Refuse. Refuse. Refuse.