Chapter 3: Gainful Employment and a German to Boot
Hey everyone! I've been to the beach! There was a day where it didn't rain -- crazy, I know -- so my London, Ontario friend (and Railway Estate neighbour) Nicole and I walked to The Strand -- then kept walking because we had to get to the stinger nets -- and Nicole-of-Irish-heritage was roasted before we even got across the bridge. I also got too much sun, but I seem to have more of a base tan than I thought, possibly because I have so desperately willed it to be so. (Though my butt hasn't gotten any smaller, so this might not be a sound theory.) And I only got the shoulder burn because the water was so gorgeous and the day so perfect that I couldn't bring myself to get out of the ocean and cover up, for fear that I would never see the sun again. (So far, my fear is completely justified.) So it was worth it.
The problem with getting a burn on your shoulders, of course, once the rosiness fades out, is the inevitable dead-skin peeling that follows. Frankly, Nicole's was worse than mine and possibly the grossest thing I've ever seen -- don't tell her I said that -- but mine was definitely noticeable and highly unattractive on Friday when I volunteered at a netball tournament. The kids, who have had the fear of cancer drilled into their little heads, were openly disapproving of my irresponsible sun behaviour. They would never allow any part of their body to stay out in the sun for longer than it takes to get from the car to the front door; by Australian standards, I am a terrible role model. (One six-year-old said to me, "melanoma is not a trifling matter." They're good with the sun smarts; maybe need to work on not making people feel like jerks.)
Netball, you ask? Well. One Friday I suddenly had an overwhelming (and largely unprecedented) craving for a hamburger. Jenny took me down the street to a little grocery store/diner and while we waited for our burgers to cook, we saw hundreds of kids and their parents in a field full of basketball courts. I thought this would be a great chance for me to get a first volunteering project going (we need fifty hours for teachers' college), working with kids and getting some exercise. And they obviously needed all the help they could get; the poor bastards couldn't even afford backboards for their nets.
I found the president of the association and discovered that there's a sport called netball, which is like basketball but you can't move with the ball. Kind of like basketball-meets-ultimate-frisbee. And no backboard, which means that pretty much nobody ever scores. Every player has a specific title and has to wear the jersey with the corresponding letters: Goal Attack, Goal Defense, Centre -- and others, but I can't remember them, and they don't matter because the kids all clump together and run after the ball, regardless -- and each position can only be in certain zones.
You can pivot, but only on one foot. Once you catch the ball, you can take a follow-through step, but a second step will disqualify you. It's very fussy and detailed and I can't really keep track of who's supposed to be where, so obviously they've asked me to be an umpire. I suggested that it might be a good idea for me to get to know the rules a little first, maybe watch a game or two, do some scoring at the next tournament...
So. I'm co-coaching a team of 11-year-old girls and I ran the concession stand on Friday, which was a lot of fun. (Once the kids had finished lecturing me about using minimum SPF-60, checking the expiry date and buying some long-sleeved cotton shirts, they were fun to hang out with -- which kids usually are.) They're going to give me a rule book this week and they're really wanting me to umpire at the next tournament. It's kind of ridiculous, but then it's nice to feel needed. What would they have done if I hadn't turned up? Do they realize how unlikely it was for me to have a hamburger craving? Do they have any idea how LUCKY they are to have me?
Several changes here on Second Street. The first is that we went bed-hunting because we had a new roommate moving in, and Jenny found an almost-new bed for only $50. Then when we went at the end of the day to pick it up with her dad's truck, the people said we could take the other one as well, since no one had bought it. So instead of a crappy little wire-frame bed with boards digging into my side all night, I now have a posturepedic, top-of-the-line bed that would be the most comfortable bed in the world if only it didn't have wheels that roll across the floor every time I shift positions. (I never know where I'm going to wake up; usually it's on a jaunty diagonal with my head wedged under the doorknob. But no matter -- nothing wrong with shaking things up a bit.)
The idea was actually for me to get a futon and then I'd give the new guy my bed, but the futon was sold by the time we got there and I decided to jump on the good mattress, even if it is a single. Doubles are more comfortable, sure, but let's tell it like it is: the only extra bed space I'll need this year will be if I decide to make a collage and I need room to spread out my magazine clippings. I've checked out the scene, I've done my analysis, and it doesn't look like I'm going to have to put up with anyone's snoring, unless you count Joogsie the cattle dog. If you catch my drift.
The new roommate, meanwhile, has moved in. His name is Rico, which makes sense, as he is -- wait for it -- German. Hm. Tricky. He claims that his mom just like the name, which is Italian -- which is not true (about the Italian, I mean, not his mom; I don't know that I'm in a position to judge how she feels about one thing or another), but then it's possible that he meant to say Spanish. He speaks very little English -- maybe 32 words? rough estimate? -- and it isn't always easy to get information across. (Needless to say, explaining "Rico... Suave..." was a long, tortuous and ultimately unsuccessful undertaking.)
Super nice, though, that Rico. I like his commitment to life. And really friendly, which is sometimes a pain in the ass because you aren't always in the mood to sign-language your way through conversations (and I use the term loosely) about where you were last night, but of course I have no business being impatient, considering how supportive and encouraging everyone was when I was working my way through broken Spanish. Let's hear it for karma.
My favourite thing is when he talks to someone on the phone and I get to hear him function in German. Remember in Waiting for Guffman when Corky says something about Germans with that "muck muck muck muck" thing -- and you think, "that's not what German sounds like, you nutter!"? Well, whether it's a Dresden thing or just a special Rico thing, that's what he sounds like. You hear all the "shtein" and "schwarz" and "aufden" type sounds that you expect to hear, but then there's a whole lot of "muck muck muck muck muck." It's pretty exciting.
Also, he's a chef and has promised us a home-cooked German meal one of these days -- he claims to have really enjoyed the lentils-and-dumplings I prepared but I think it just made him want meat.
My least favourite thing, however, is his earthy European approach to personal hygiene. He rides his bike to work, spends eight or nine hours in a hot kitchen and then rides home, all in the context of muggy, stormy, 35-degrees-celsius Townsville. Maybe you should take a moment to imagine how much sweat might be produced under these circumstances. Okay? Now do you think it might be a good idea to have a shower? Thirty seconds, forty seconds, no big deal. But let's get some soap involved here, ya? Nein. Not so much for Rico. His course of action is to take off his shirt, scratch a lot (though this is by no means restricted to sweaty moments) and plop down on the couch, while his sweat seeps into the cushions. Needless to say, that couch and I have become estranged. Who needs contaminated cushions when I can just as easily sit on a hard-backed chair, right?
The sweat, the pee on the bathroom floor, the jar of cigarette butts on the deck -- these things would be annoying enough in a happy home. But these last few weeks Flomby has become a live-in boyfriend, even showing up when Jenny's not here because he wants to watch cable tv, and Jenny's party-hardy British friend Maggie has been desperately trying to get everybody to go clubbing with her, so there are people here all the time. Loud, smelly, crass people. All the time. It was getting so that I was taking long, complicated detours on my bike ride home because I was so reluctant to walk in the door and find people sprawled all over the furniture with the smell of beer and greasy food in the air and the tv blasting "Girls of the Playboy Mansion" or "Britney: The Life Behind the Scenes" or "America's Hardest Prisons," as my regression into the student life I wasn't willing to live in the first place continues.
School is so shitty (yes, for those of you who have asked, it is still awful and clearly will be for the rest of the year; I have resigned myself to this fate, as I have made my bed and must now lie, squirming and clawing my eyes out, in it) that I really need home to be some kind of sanctuary, and these days it is anything but that.
However. While I feel a bit as though I've been duped, paying a higher rent so that I wouldn't have to live residence-style in a house full of dirty, messy idiots and somehow ending up doing just that, and while I will keep my eye out for any available single rentals (they don't really exist in Townsville but I'm hoping the karma thing works both ways), I think things will be better when I get involved in more volunteer activities with interesting people, as a big part of my crisis was just being in such a shallow, knowledge-free environment. I felt myself getting stupider by osmosis, between the vacuous readings and discussions at school and this household's appalling absence of basic facts -- including, but certainly not limited to: where is Haiti? Doesn't Canada have the same president as the States? Who is Al Qaeda? What is communism? What exactly is colonization? (I AM NOT EXAGGERATING - these are actual questions. I am an amazing, all-knowing genius in this house.) Hopefully, a bit of intellectual stimulation will come my way. Clearly not at university, but maybe elsewhere.
My New Job
And the other thing that made the last few days better was that I was working. This is good for the bank account and for the morale, and since it's in a restaurant, it keeps me on my feet. I saw a posting on the career website at school and thought I'd drop by to hand in my resume, since my work permit had finally come through. The manager didn't even look at my resume, but complimented me on my green eyes and asked me to come in for a trial the next day. My trial became "you're hired. Here's your section, and we need you to run drinks from the bar, too, and can you stay tonight and work a double shift?" In like Flynn, my friends. In. Like. Flynn.
The restaurant - which I will call Island Man Sam - is an open, breezy restaurant/bar on the beach - with a great view of Magnetic Island - really busy most of the time, and the clientele is laid-back and friendly because they've just wandered in from strolling hand-in-hand along the beach or playing Aussie football in the park. The staff is great and surprisingly affectionate towards my Canadian self (though that might get old) and the manager is not as sleazy as he sounds, but rather funny-sleazy. He's from Chicago, he's good-looking and he likes the beach and the ladies. Funny. Sleazy. I like it.
I am pleased to report that the Townsville policy of "no shirt, no shoes, no problem" -- which includes the grocery store, where people just wander in, barefoot and wearing only a pair of shorts -- does not apply at Island Man Sam. There's also really good live music and the food is yummy. The shirts we wear are an unfortunate and unflattering grey-beige polyester, but you can interpret your denim bottom however you choose, so it's okay. And I'll do exciting hair things to make up for it: a fun project. (Let's play Barbie!)
And when the rain stops (they swear it will be any day now), I can go to the beach before work. Everybody wins. (Well, I win.)
So there you have it: the ups and downs of Townsville. I think, on the whole, that we're moving in an upwards direction; interesting things are appearing on the horizon, just under the rain clouds.