Brod and Shearer - almost fiction
Posted: Wed Jul 08, 2020 1:53 pm
Brod’s a banker. Solid young bloke about 30, square shoulders under the tight. white. business shirt. And Brod knows how to knot a tie. On first glance, bankwise, totally acceptable.
Brod’s on teller duty today dealing with a couple of Vicco refugees whose credit card has failed three times. I wait by the three enquiry desks, all empty. Brod and the Viccos are exchanging life and business histories which only ends when he leaves his position and comes around outside to direct them to one of the empty enquiry desks. The one right in front of me. Where I’ve been waiting for ten minutes. No please or thank you. Then they go at it again.
More waiting.
Now we’re face to face at last, me and Brod.
The problem is my card was knocked back twice in Dan Murphy’s twenty minutes ago and ten miles away, no reason printed on the slip, so here I am, Brod. Six two-litre bottles of Bacardi not in my possession and everybody behind me in the Dan Murphy’s queue picking me for being broke and alcoholic, and believe me of them in this town there are more than several. But a man has to make his friends where he finds them.
Brod takes the card and swipes it.
One of the requirements of getting a job like Brod’s is not to be able to do two things at the same time.
This became evident when he told me I’d probably need a new card. Takes about ten days in the mail he says. The bloke eye’s are focused on his computer screen. He must be reciting this stuff.
‘Does that mean I’ll have to use cash for ten days, Brod?’
‘Yes.’
‘In a town with signs on nearly all shop counters asking customers not to use cash, Brod?’
No response. Lots happening on his screen though.
‘In a town that has an airport that has been disgorging untested Vicco refugees by the hundreds over the last couple of days, Brod?’
Brod’s an ignorer. He wants me gone. Now.
‘Like the two before me with what sounded like the same problem. Am I right, Brod?’
He finally looks up.
‘I don’t think I like the sound of your voice, sir.’
Brod’s gotta be a local surfer. Probably an inside legend up where Shearer lives. We can tell these things, sometimes.
So here’s Brod scratching for a wide one at the point one lovely morning, not noticing Shep deep on the inside line, flat out.
Locked in.
Shep watches Brod coming down on top of him, and only by exhibiting the supreme waterman skills he was possibly born with does he ride up real close to Brod’s left ear and tell him to F.CK OFF!
Later in the carpark Brod walks over to where Shep is trying to stuff all the fifties he’s collected selling fish steaks to Queenslanders into six pairs of booties, and with that insensate, smouldering rage some surfers can summon, like JBG could, like after being told to f.ck off by a bloke who looks like he should be fixing boat engines.
Brod towers over Shearer, arms loose, fists clenched, then through gritted teeth, says.
‘I don’t think I liked the sound of your voice, sir.’
Brod’s on teller duty today dealing with a couple of Vicco refugees whose credit card has failed three times. I wait by the three enquiry desks, all empty. Brod and the Viccos are exchanging life and business histories which only ends when he leaves his position and comes around outside to direct them to one of the empty enquiry desks. The one right in front of me. Where I’ve been waiting for ten minutes. No please or thank you. Then they go at it again.
More waiting.
Now we’re face to face at last, me and Brod.
The problem is my card was knocked back twice in Dan Murphy’s twenty minutes ago and ten miles away, no reason printed on the slip, so here I am, Brod. Six two-litre bottles of Bacardi not in my possession and everybody behind me in the Dan Murphy’s queue picking me for being broke and alcoholic, and believe me of them in this town there are more than several. But a man has to make his friends where he finds them.
Brod takes the card and swipes it.
One of the requirements of getting a job like Brod’s is not to be able to do two things at the same time.
This became evident when he told me I’d probably need a new card. Takes about ten days in the mail he says. The bloke eye’s are focused on his computer screen. He must be reciting this stuff.
‘Does that mean I’ll have to use cash for ten days, Brod?’
‘Yes.’
‘In a town with signs on nearly all shop counters asking customers not to use cash, Brod?’
No response. Lots happening on his screen though.
‘In a town that has an airport that has been disgorging untested Vicco refugees by the hundreds over the last couple of days, Brod?’
Brod’s an ignorer. He wants me gone. Now.
‘Like the two before me with what sounded like the same problem. Am I right, Brod?’
He finally looks up.
‘I don’t think I like the sound of your voice, sir.’
Brod’s gotta be a local surfer. Probably an inside legend up where Shearer lives. We can tell these things, sometimes.
So here’s Brod scratching for a wide one at the point one lovely morning, not noticing Shep deep on the inside line, flat out.
Locked in.
Shep watches Brod coming down on top of him, and only by exhibiting the supreme waterman skills he was possibly born with does he ride up real close to Brod’s left ear and tell him to F.CK OFF!
Later in the carpark Brod walks over to where Shep is trying to stuff all the fifties he’s collected selling fish steaks to Queenslanders into six pairs of booties, and with that insensate, smouldering rage some surfers can summon, like JBG could, like after being told to f.ck off by a bloke who looks like he should be fixing boat engines.
Brod towers over Shearer, arms loose, fists clenched, then through gritted teeth, says.
‘I don’t think I liked the sound of your voice, sir.’
