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His drinking started subtly, socially, but soon the late-night partying and private poker games began to eat into the profit. A few weeks ago, I walked into my shift to find bottles missing and money gone from the till, and all I thought wasHow have Ifound myself in this situationagain?
It’s like I’m a fucking magnet for this kind of shit.
‘You okay?’ I ask Mark. I want to try to find Gabriel, but I also don’t want to leave him like this. ‘Rough few days?’
God, am I really trying to communicate and showempathy? To the same man who once called Peaches the f-word slur and banned her from the bar?
Seems I’ve given Mark far more credit than usual, because he waves me away with a grunt. I’m so low in his view that I’m not even worth words.
‘See you tomorrow,’ I reply. I don’t even want to remind him that Monday is payday.
Instead, I make a plan to update my résumé as soon as I get home.
Locking the door behind me, I hurry down Chapel Street. Weaving through the crowd, I keep my eye out for a head of curly hair, but the streets are busy and the trams more frequent. By the time I get to a tram stop, I’ve accepted that Gabriel’s gone; lost to the bustling churn of Melbourne. Oh well.
A tram pulls up to the stop and I jump on board. Immediately, I regret it. With all the hot, sweaty bodies crammed into the narrow cabin, it’s stifling. The air conditioner rattles above me, its breeze barely cooler than the air outside.
I ride the tram from Chapel Street, up the wide streets past the National Gallery of Victoria, and into the city. The last of the day’s sunlight dapples through the thick canopy of plane trees that line the city streets. Outside, a busker in a Batman costume plays the saxophone on the corner. The melody of ‘Careless Whisper’ slips through the opening in the tram doors before they slam shut.
Getting off the tram once it veers into Carlton, I begin the long trek up Lygon Street. Famous for its blocks and blocks of mouth-watering eateries and upmarket bars, Lygon Street is a vibrant mix of culture and community. Party lights hang from awnings, flickering in the twilight. Waiters stand in the doorways of their restaurants, menus tucked under their arms. Each of them attempts to catch my attention as I pass, but I wave them off politely.
The vibrancy of Lygon Street peters out as I walk further north. Narrow streets sport rows and rows of thin Victorian houses that scream,We’re cramped, we’re old, and we’re very expensive.
Mine is the third in a row of eight: a white terrace house with a striking yellow door—because, individualism—and a huge bush of crimson roses that dominates the small front yard. I do my best to avoid the bees that buzz around the flowers as I open the gate and grab my keys from my satchel.
‘Just me!’ I call as I unlock the door.
‘You’re home early,’ Margie replies, her voice echoing down the hallway.
The lounge room is at the far end of the house, and Margie’s slightly deaf and in her mid-sixties, so she keeps the front door locked. Cool air rushes out as I step inside, so I quickly close the door behind me. The house smells like vanilla and spices. One of Margie’s favourite candles glows on the hallstand. Just in case she’s forgotten it’s burning, I blow out the flame as I slip off my shoes.
‘Mark took over,’ I call back as I throw my satchel into my bedroom. Sadie, Margie’s caramel-coloured cavoodle, wanders down from the lounge room to greet me, and I give her a quick scratch behind her ears.
‘Dinner’s in the microwave,’ Margie says.
‘Thanks, Marg!’
Our yell-greeting complete, I peel off my sweaty work clothes and deposit them into the laundry basket. After a quick shower, I pull on a pair of old shorts and a vintage Carlton footy club t-shirt I thrifted.
I run the microwave for a minute before opening the door to find a plate of silverside and vegetables. It’s hot enough, so I take it over to Margie’s little kitchen table and dig in.
When I first moved in, I used to hate that she left me a plate. It felt like pity. Fed up with being fed, I confronted Margie about it only to be told that sheenjoyedmaking me food—and of course, then I felt like a major dick.
Before I met Margie, I’d been sleeping rough, working the phone lines, and living off sandwiches from the servo. Margie’s dog-sitting ad had popped up on a house-sharing website one afternoon, and I’d applied without hesitation. A place to stay with a cute dog? It was a no-brainer. When she accepted my application, I thought it’d be two weeks off the streets, but when Margie got back from visiting her daughter, Lucy, we got to talking. Turned out, as an older woman living alone, she was more than open to finding a roommate who could offer a sense of security and help a bit around the house. Cheap rent for a bit of security work and vacuuming? Sign me up.
Sure, maybe we’re unconventional roommates, but we make it work.
Margie doesn’t know about anything that happened before I came to stay with her—my violent dad, his alcoholism, our late-night escape—though I think she can sense that my situation wasn’t ideal. But she doesn’t ask, and frankly, I don’t really want to tell.
‘You have a nice day?’ Margie steps into the kitchen to grab a drink. Her salt-and-pepper hair is set in curlers and her robe is tied tightly around her waist. Sadie sits patiently by the door, hoping for a tidbit as Margie rummages through the fridge.
‘It was fine,’ I reply. ‘How was yours?’
‘Good. I received an email saying there’s an information session for uni admissions next week,’ she says as she grabs a bottle of lemonade. ‘I can forward it to you.’
‘I’ll have to check if Mark wants me at the bar,’ I say. ‘But thanks.’
Like Peaches, Margie’s big on me starting university. To her, going to university is the start of any successful career. Not only does she have a doctorate, but her three children went to university and now they’re all over Australia doing interesting and successful things. She doesn’t understand why I put it off.
