What happens when a surfer gets old? It's worse
than you think!
Me and Rudy are standing out front of the cafe
in our usual morning spot. On the pathway between the two
trees. Both in our hairnets and grease-stained work polos. Looking
across the industrial estate as it begins to stir. The low winter
sun is just protecting us from the ice-tipped westerly hurtling
down the valley. It’s second smoko. Only a couple of hours now
until knock off.
This is where we come to untangle life. Amongst the
forklifts, the hi-vis, the beep of reversing trucks. We talk about
work, kids, husbands, the footy. Whatever. Sometimes we can’t get a
word in edgeways. Other times we say not much at all.
There’s shade from the trees when it’s too hot. A
couple of plastic chairs from the diner when we need them. To the
north, between the aluminum wholesalers and the educational
supplies building, you can see a slim finger of mountains pointing
off into the distance.
I light up a cigarette.
I didn’t tell you about this one, I say to Rudy as she
looks at her phone. Came home the other day after my shift and
found him barbequing. At lunch time.
She turns to look at me. What do you mean?
He’s out on the verandah, with the mini Weber. Cooking
up a big plate of chicken. On a Tuesday.
What’s so wrong with that?
Whaddaya mean, what’s wrong with that? I take a drag
of the cigarette. Think it over.
I mean, I guess there’s nothing wrong with it. At face
value. But picture it. He was there with his shirt off, his big
hairy belly hanging over his Ruggers like a Christmas puddin’. And
he was barbequing.
Rudy shrugs, looks back to her phone.
I said to him, I said, what are you doing?
And he looks at me with those doey eyes. That
expression like he knows what I’m talking about, but he’s still
gonna play dumb anyway.
What? he says. I’m just cooking up some chicken.
Now? I say. It’s lunch time. On a Tuesday. Aren’t you
on the clock?
Well you know he’s been working from home for almost
three years. But still.
A group of office types push past us on the narrow
concrete strip. I take a step back to let them through.
I’m on a break, he says. I can do what I want.
So what happened? asks Rudy.
I take another draw of the cigarette. Breathe in deep.
Hold it there, for a moment. Can feel it percolating down the
bottom of my lungs. I let it out.
Well, I just ignored him. Tried to, at least. Headed
towards the kitchen, to make myself a sandwich. But there’s mess
everywhere. Piles of washing in the lounge room. Dirty dishes in
the sink. And the smell. That smokey barbeque smell. It’s just
wafting through the house. Soaking into everything.
So I go back outside. I say, you know you could at
least shut the doors or the windows when you’re doing that. Keep
all this smoke out.
I need to keep the door open, he says. In case I hear
the work phone ring.
I say, Why don’t you bring it out with you?
He just sits there, turning the chicken slowly. It’s
already burned to shit. Looks like charcoal.
Because, he says, then I’d have to set it all up out
here. Plus, he says, I like to get away from work a little bit. You
know, keep up the barrier.
Rudy says something like mmmm but I don’t know if
she’s talking to me or her phone. The wind is picking up. I have to
watch that the ciggie isn’t blowing back into the diner door. The
new owners don’t like it when I do that. I wish I’d worn my
jacket.
Ever since the kids left and we’ve been through the
lockdowns he’s just always there, you know. A presence in the
house. Heavy, like. He mopes around, half working half mucking
around on that bloody men’s surfing forum. Just generally making a
mess.
And I can appreciate that he likes to be at home.
Better than at the pub, I suppose. Or when he used to disappear for
days at a time chasing waves or whatever it was. But barbequing? At
lunch? On a Tuesday? I mean come on. He’s just too…
comfortable.
The diner is getting busier now. More office workers
stream along the path, heading for their morning coffee. I look at
my watch. 8:45. We’ll have to head back in soon. I ash the
cigarette under my shoe and put it in the bin.
I turn to Rudy. Eye her up directly.
I’m the one leaving for work at three am every
morning. He just wakes up whenever he wants. Sits at his desk
doing god knows what for most of the day. And barbequing. Bloody
barbequing at lunch.
I stop, clear my throat. Kiss my tongue to my
teeth.
I look at him and think, you’re just another thing in
the house now. Something I need to navigate around. Like the
furniture. Or the bills. Or the washing. He just gets to me, you
know?
Rudy still doesn’t say anything. She just keeps
scrolling her phone, nodding silently.
And that barbeque smell. It sticks to the walls.
Creeps into the roof. Marinates. Bloats the woodwork. It’s his
smell. It’s suffocating. It’s-
I feel my stomach tighten. I think I know the words
I’m looking for, but I expect I’ll choke on them if they make it
out.
I reach for another cigarette, but remember the time.
Smoko’s almost over.
I sigh.
Some days I just wanna stay at home too. Stay at home
under my blanket with the power points switched off and the
curtains drawn. Let it all come to me. Just once.
I look out to the mountains. If I squint my eyes tight
all I can make out is their silhouette against the light blue sky.
I could be anywhere.
‘Course I never will. Like my mum always told me. Ask
for nothing, expect nothing in return. It’s the only way to be.
Rudy looks up from her phone.
Mmmm. What was that, hon?
I said, I’m gonna throw that fuckin’ barbeque out when
I get home.
A cloud falls over the sun and we both shiver.
