I Was A Teenage Beard

Chapter One

I’m armpit deep in poo when Rob comes loping across the yard, mobile phone stuck to his ear, his brow furrowed. He stops when he sees what I’m up to. Where my arm is. He shakes his head.

‘No,’ he says into the mobile. ‘I haven’t told him yet, Mr Murphy.’ He closes his eyes and his face crinkles into a desperate grimace.

Old man Murphy must be tearing him a new one. But for what, though? It could be anything or everything – the old bloke doesn’t need much of an excuse to let rip. He reckons we’re all pretty useless.

‘Yeah, yeah. Yes, sir. I’ll tell him now.’ Rob hangs up, stuffs the mobile in the back pocket of his overalls and drops to his haunches next to the trench I’m practically swimming in. ‘What are you doin’, Banjo?’

That’s my name. My actual name – the one’s that on my official birth certificate. Banjo John Coughlan. When your old man gives you a name like that you’re never destined for high office (Ladies and gentlemen, please be upstanding for the Prime Minister, The Honourable Banjo Coughlan) or higher callings (Doctor Banjo Coughlan to surgery. Stat. Or, M’lord, ladies and gentlemen of the jury, the defence counsel, Banjo Coughlan QC)

No one takes you seriously.

‘What am I doing?’ I squint up at Rob. ‘What do you reckon I’m doing?’

He stands, clicks his tongue and gestures for me to get out of the pit.

With pleasure. I bunch my fist, just a little (I don’t want the glove to slip off), and ease my arm out of the pipe. There’s a long loud sluuuurp and flecks of brown water speckle my face. It’s just dirt. That’s all. Dirt.

‘Why’d you start on that?’ asks Rob.

‘Well, I’m the apprentice and I always do the shitty jobs, so I showed initiative and got stuck into the shitty job.’ I nod back at the crap I’ve managed to winkle out of the pipe. ‘You want me to put that back so you can have a crack?’

‘Ah, mate.’ Rob blows out his cheeks and shakes his head. Again. This is not the happy-go-lucky artiste who’s been schooling me in the art of plumbing for the past eight months.

Something doesn’t smell right – and I’m not talking about the Radkovic’s drainage system. ‘What’s happened?’

We can’t be at the wrong job. We dug the trench yesterday afternoon and were here at first light. I stand there, feet spread, arms, hanging by my side, browny-yellow gludge dripping, pooling by my boots.

‘Take the gloves off,’ Rob says. He doesn’t look me in the eye. He’s a gruff bugger, no-nonsense, no bullshit, but now he’s like a little kid who’s done something wrong and has to tell his oldies.

I do as I’m told, slipping the heavy leather gloves off my hands and let them drop onto the muddy grass. ‘What’s up, Rob?’ A knot’s growing in my guts like I’ve got a bad case of the squirts.

‘Old man Murphy says we have to let ya go.’ He’s mumbling a bit, so I probably didn’t hear him right.

‘Let me go?’ I repeat. ‘To TAFE, you mean? Let me go to TAFE today.’

But before I finish the sentence, Rob’s shaking his head; digging at the damp ground with the toe of his work-boot. ‘Nah, mate. You’re finishing up.’

I heard that all right. ‘As in I’m sacked?’

Rob bites his bottom lip; nods vigorously. ‘The economy’s buggered. Murphy can’t afford to keep ya on.’

‘But you pay me bugger all!’

’I’m sorry, Banjo. There’s nothing to be done.

***

Why Banjo you ask? (You have to!)

Coggo – my Dad – was a pimple squeeze short of his twentieth birthday when I happened into the world. It was his second year in the big-time and the newspapers reckoned that on the footy field he moved like ‘poetry in motion’. Poetry. Which made Coggo a poet (of sorts). So when the first-born was whelped, Coggo had to cash in on the trend.[1]And bingo: Banjo! After Banjo Patterson, of course. Mega poet.

But hey, Coggo, there were other contenders. Henry Lawson. I could live with Henry. Or Les Murray. Steven Herrick. And what about Nick Cave for Christ’s sake? But no, I must bear the Banjo cross. And that’s not all that I have to bear . . .

The old man glances up from the telly when I crash through the front door. ‘What’re doin’ home, now?’ His eyes are quickly back on the flickering images.

Oh, Hello, Ellen, what’s cracking? Any jobs going?

‘Got the bullet, Coggo.’ I kick out of my work boots, dump my bag in the kitchen doorway and take a can of energy drink from the fridge.

‘How did you muck that up?’

‘Not down to me,’ I call, popping the can’s lid. ‘Apparently the economy’s buggered and I’m one of the casualties.’

‘That’s just an excuse- Grab us a beer, Banj. Nah, nah. You did somethin’ and they couldn’t just sack ya, so they come up with the economy’s rat shit bullshit.’

I press a can of beer into his sweaty hand. ‘No. They can’t afford me and they had to let me go.’

‘So what about your apprenticeship?’

‘I guess we pay for that now.’

The TAFE course isn’t cheap either.

‘We?’ Coggo shifts in his seat; gulps his beer. ‘Are you jokin’? You want to be a plumber, you sort it out.’

I collapse onto the couch. It wheezes under my weight. ‘Gee, thanks for the sympathetic ear.’

‘Sympathy’s for losers.’

Well, we both know all about them. But still, I lean forward, hoping (not expecting) some parental pick-me-up. A little advice.

Coggo belches. ‘Talk to your Nan.’

‘No.’ No way.

He chuckles. ‘Look at you. So noble. So self-suf-frigging-ficent. You got no job, ya drop-kick! She’s happy enough to pay ya sister’s school fees. Why shouldn’t she look after you, too?’

‘Number One, I don’t want to be a hassle, money-wise for Nan. She does enough for us. Number Two, I want Dakota to get somewhere in her life. I’ve buggered things up, she won’t. Number Three, you should be looking after us.’

Coggo squints at me, as if I’ve spoken to him in Swedish, and then bats a hand at me. ‘Dunno what ya goin’ on about. You want an apprenticeship, ya pay for it.’ He snatches up the remote and starts channel-hopping, stabbing the buttons like he’s giving it C.P.R.

‘What’s for tea?’ I ask.

Annoyed, in half-sip, half-channel-flick, he half-glances my way. ‘How should I know? You’ll have to wait til Candy[2] gets home.’

‘So Candy’s still at work?’

Coggo turns the volume up, mutters, ‘What else?’

But mixed with the sounds of Ellen bleating and her audience’s inane cackling and rapturous applause, it sounds like he says, ‘Where’s hell?’

It’s here, Coggo, mate. We’re living it. At least at the moment, it feels that way. I look back at the telly. Ellen’s audience are looking under their seats. Are they searching for a bomb? A copy of Ellen’s life story?

‘Fuckin’ yanks,’ Coggo drawls. ‘Go to see a show get made and they give ya a car.’ He stretches out his leg, flexes. Winces. He calls this physiotherapy.

Ah, they’re looking for a car key or a very tiny car. ‘You’d have to be lucky,’ I say. ‘A bit of a mob there.’

Coggo shakes his head. His rat’s tail swishes around like it’s got a mind of its own, smacking against his chair. Then it perches on the headrest, like a greasy plaited pencil stuck in the back of his neck. Same hairdo for twenty years. Yep, my old man knows style.

‘They’ll probably all get one.’

‘Dead-set? Wish someone’d give me a car.’ Or a job. Yeah. A job. How’s that for dedication? Three hours out of work and I’m already chomping for another job.

#youngadult #humor #unemployment #sport #family #conflict #crime