I’ve been having absurd dreams of conflict and anxiety. In one dream I parked my car inside a city building and flew into a rage when it was towed away, abusing a man in a wheelchair because he’d ordered the tow.
In another dream I blew up at my sister and brother-in-law over a delivery of plaster screws. Last week I was running from crocodiles or trying to save fish.
It had been three months since I was sacked. I’d been through three interviews, one over the phone, another by Skype and one in person. As Christmas neared I hadn’t heard about any of them. My life seemed in slow motion, but the days are moving in hyperspace. Three months is a long time but it went fast.
I thought about the dreams for a few days. They were probably a symptom of the interviews and my lack of employment. It’s been eighteen years since I was unemployed this long, and that was way back in 1992, when I finished uni the first time. Australia was in a recession back then.
I was a bit lazy back then, too.
We went to Banyo for a few supplies and to pay some bills. Kristine went to the supermarket for vegetables. Angus and I went to the post office.
As we walked home I detailed the expenses to Kristine. ‘Water, rates, phone, electricity and insurance costs us about $670 each month.’
She looked at me. That doesn’t include her mobile phone bill. It doesn’t include the mortgage, food or petrol.
‘I will go back to work,’ she said.
I pointed out a magpie to Angus.
A few days later Angus had his first swim. I ripped half of his big toenail off against the pebble mix. It bled but he didn’t notice. The following afternoon we were back in the pool and he dropped his bottom lip, wanting Kristine.
He still didn’t understand the joy of swimming.
I hadn’t been for a run in two months. The lack of kilometres is easy to go without, but my muscles still cramped occasionally. I needed massage but didn’t want to spend the money so I spent an hour on the computer applying for work.
Checking my bank balance on Monday provided some joy. The tax return was better than expected thanks to my expired university debt. It offered comfort until February.
Kristine smiled when I told her. ‘Go Frank,’ she said. Frank does out tax. It took him a month to send the bill. No hurry, Frank said during the appointment.
On ABC’s drive program, former ABC journalist Ian Eckersley suggested some people might enjoy being out of work.
‘There are people who now have the time to do something they’ve always wanted to do,’ Eckersley said. ‘It might be something totally different to what they’ve been doing.’
I appreciated his sentiments but aside from fantasy, I liked the job I had. I loved walking through the Nambour General Hospital, talking to staff and patients. I handled the executives and haggled with journalists. Importantly I was writing every day, about patients, new machines or ward renovations.
Without a job I’ve got plenty of time but don’t want to do anything different. I don’t want to be an electrician or go back to wholesaling. I want a job I’m qualified for.
For months I was qualified to grow vegetables. The patch responded beautifully throughout spring and into summer. A week before Christmas I planted beans, zucchini and squash seeds. Only the squash are responding.
A wise man once said if you can’t grow beans you’re doing everything wrong. I went inside to complain to Kristine. Angus was in the bouncer, quiet and still. I looked at him, seeing the poo face.
You don’t need to be wise to realise why we don’t have mirrors in the toilet. Poo faces are humiliating. Angus was red, his lips pushed out. When it was done the smile reappeared and I fled out the back door.
From beneath the house I heard Kristine call out. ‘Matt I need a hand.’
Instead of pretending I didn’t hear, I went upstairs, finding them in his room.
‘He had a blowout,’ she said.
I sighed. She was laughing. There was poo on his left leg and clothes.
‘There’s poo on the bouncer seat too,’ she said. ‘Can you hold him while I lift his suit off.’
I held my son as she rolled up the suit. ‘Don’t get it on my fingers,’ I said.
Kristine frowned at me, giving me the suit. ‘It needs to be soaked,’ she said.
I took it downstairs and scrubbed it with a nailbrush. She appeared in the laundry, carrying Angus and the bouncer seat. ‘I’ll wash this,’ she said.
About six, when it was time for a bath I approached the nappy removal with confidence. He’d already done a big poo. Kissing his belly, I made funny sounds and asked if he was ready.
Opening the nappy, I wasn’t ready for it and let out a moan. Poo was smeared all over his backside and groin.
Kristine hustled into the room. ‘What.’
‘Poo,’ I said. ‘A lot of it.’
She maintained her distance.
Frowning in horror, I wiped it away without getting it everywhere. Kristine demonstrated, once again, how to fold a poo nappy neatly for disposal. She was wasting her time. I was in the doorway, wanting to bolt.
‘It’s just poo,’ she said.
Sunday afternoon, Kristine’s parents came over for a barbeque. There wasn’t much to do so I made bread, showed them the vegetable patch and we all took turns at holding Angus.
I didn’t smell the poo, Jan did and she asked for permission to change his nappy. ‘Really,’ I said. ‘I’m happy to do it.’
When Jan came back to the kitchen she held up her hand. ‘I got poo on my hand,’ she said.
‘Are you okay?’ I asked
‘It’s just poo.’ She went to the bathroom to wash her hands.
‘Matt doesn’t like any of Angus’s bodily fluids on him,’ Kristine said.
‘I’m not sure why anyone would like it,’ I said.
About twenty years ago, my mate Jamie described the nappy change process. ‘She’s my daughter,’ he said. ‘It’s just shit.’
Everyone keeps saying that. I need to change my attitude to shit if Kristine goes back to work.
