The Simple Gift (7 page)

Sorry

I feel sorry

for swearing at the kid,

abusing him for bringing me breakfast.

Breakfast! Of all things.

A good kid,

living like a bum

and I knew he'd need money,

even bums need money to live.

So this morning, early,

far too bloody early for me,

I knock on his door

to return the bowl and spoon

and he opens it slowly,

invites me in,

and I tell him

about the cannery and work.

How every Monday during the season

they offer work,

and if he needs money

that's the place to go,

and he says,

‘Sure, great. Let's go.'

And because I'm still sorry

about swearing at him

I find myself

walking to the cannery

with the kid

looking for work,

work I don't need,

or want.

Walking with the kid

early Monday morning.

Work

Seven-thirty Monday morning.

Old Bill and me

at the gates of the

Golden Crest Cannery

with six other men

waiting

for the foreman

who saunters out

points at two blokes

then me and Old Bill

and tells us to follow him.

We do. We need to.

He takes us into the cannery,

the noise, the smell

overpowers everything

but my need for money.

He leaves Old Bill and me

on the tomato line.

A conveyor belt

of overripe fruit

circles the cutting table

where we stand

with apron and gloves,

a hairnet and a knife.

The head lady

shows us what to do –

cut only the black fetid bits

from the fruit

put the overripe mess

back on the belt

where it heads to the crusher

for soup

and sauce

and somebody's kitchen table –

while I

pick and cut and slice

and think only

of the $12 an hour cash,

waiting at the end of the week.

That bloody kid

Every morning this week

that bloody kid

has woken me at six-thirty

with Weet-Bix and milk

and the thought of another day

cutting up pieces of overripe fruit.

This is what I get

for feeling sorry.

I tell him to piss off, again,

but he ignores me now.

He thinks I need the money,

or the company,

or the early mornings,

when what I really need

is to be left alone.

Bloody hell.

Work.

I haven't worked in years.

I haven't done anything in years.

Look at me now,

walking along beside the kid

to the cannery.

And he never shuts up,

he talks about this girl he's met

and how friendly she is

and I've half a mind to tell him

to get her to go to work with him

and leave me alone,

but he prattles on

until we reach the cannery

and another day of rotten fruit.

But at least

I'm not drinking so much,

and I can't smoke in the cannery.

Bloody hell,

this kid's going to turn me

into a health freak!

My hands

At the end of five days work

my hands were stained red

and smelled of rotten tomatoes

and every night

at McDonald's

waiting for the leftovers

I prayed the burgers

were without sauce

and I couldn't eat the fries

splashed with blood-thick liquid.

I knew where it came from,

not fresh from the orchard

with a handsome farmer

holding up firm shiny ripe fruit.

I knew it came from a conveyor belt

where coughing workers

cut the mould

and the black growth

from squashed red mush,

and I remembered the fingernails

of some of the workers

and I hoped the gloves were tight

and disease-proof

as I watched families pass the

sauce packets

from sister to brother,

and I looked at my hands,

the hands of a worker

tomato red and raw.

Burning

I signed the form

and the lady handed me

the yellow envelope.

I walked out into

afternoon sunshine

and sat on the bench

with Old Bill.

I counted the notes

five days – thirty-eight hours

$456 minus tax

and I'm left with

more money than

I've ever had in my life.

I asked Old Bill

what he was going to do with his

and then I wished I hadn't.

He looked at me

and at the money

and at the fading sun

and he said,

‘Drink it,

drink it probably,

and piss it all away'.

He stood and walked out of

the dusty car park

the money

burning his pocket.

Rich

I stuffed the notes

into my jacket pocket

and walked into town.

I thought of what to do

with all this money –

a big meal at a restaurant,

some clothes,

a new sleeping bag,

a radio for the long nights,

and then I realised

how Old Bill felt –

with nothing

you're rich.

You've got no decisions,

no choice, and no worry.

Here I am walking

in the sunshine of another day

buying the world

and worrying over choices

I didn't have to make a week ago.

I wanted to spend the money

quickly

so I could go back to nothing,

go back to being rich

and penniless again.

Green

The thought crossed my mind

as I looked at the rings

laid out on the counter

while the jeweller turned

to get some more

to show his badly dressed customer.

But two things stopped me

from stealing one silver ring

and running out of the store,

the old bloke would never

catch me, no way.

First, I wanted to stay

in this town,

not have to leave,

afraid of being caught.

Second, I liked the jeweller.

I walked into his shop

on impulse,

smelling of overripe tomatoes

and looking far too poor

to buy anything

and here he is

showing me

his silver and gold rings

pointing out the best ones

pointing to his favourites

and letting me take my time.

And I choose

the thick silver ring

with the green emerald stone

small and shining

green like her eyes

and the jeweller said,

‘$109, but let's make it

$100 cash. It's a good ring, son.'

I give him the money.

He wrapped it for free.