Laura Buzo - Good oil

Good Oil

Good Oil

Laura Buzo

This project has been assisted by the Australian Government through the Australia Council, its arts funding and advisory body.

First published in 2010

Copyright Laura Buzo, 2010

Extracts Kate Jennings. Reproduced by kind permission of the author.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the publisher.The Australian Copyright Act 1968 (the Act) allows a maximum of one chapter or ten per cent of this book, whichever is the greater, to be photocopied by any educational institution for its educational purposes provided that the educational institution (or body that administers it) has given a remuneration notice to Copyright Agency Limited (CAL) under the Act.

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Australia
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ISBN 978 1 74175 997 6

Cover and text design by Zo Sadokierski
Cover photo by Getty Images
Set in 12.5 pt Perpetua by Midland Typesetters, Australia
Printed in Australia by McPhersons Printing Group

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

To absent friends

Contents

Spheres of
No Influence

LIGHTS UP

Im writing a play, says Chris, leaning over the counter of my cash register. Its called Death of a Customer. Needless to say, its set here. He jerks his head towards the aisles lined with groceries and lit with harsh fluorescent bars.

It takes me a moment to place the reference, but then I remember Death of a Salesman from when Dad took me to see the play last year.

Sounds good.

Want to be in it?

I nod eagerly.

Cool. Were going to the pub after work to workshop it.You should come.

Who I squeak. Whos going?

Oh, Ed, Bianca, Donna... people.

I am only three weeks past my fifteenth birthday, but my braces came off a month ago so I could possibly slip in to a pub looks-wise. Trouble is, my scorching unease would give me away to the door guy, and even if by some miracle it didnt, I am terrified of interacting socially with my workmates. Except Chris.

Donna is my age, but she has no trouble keeping up with them. She wears eye make-up and pulls it off. She wears calf-high black boots with purple laces. She smokes and has been kicked out of home by her father several times. She has serious street cred. Unlike me. Ed is nice enough but hes eighteen and kind of vagued-out all the time. Bianca is twenty-three and ignores me so consistently that it must be deliberate. I am not going to the pub with them.

I cant, I say.

Why not?

I have homework.

This is not a lie. Im struggling in maths as it is. Getting behind will make it worse. My shift ends at nine oclock, so even if I go straight home I wont get to my homework until nine forty at least.

Chriss face contracts in annoyance. So? I have a 2000 word tute paper due on Friday. Life must still be lived.

I cant.

You can do it in the morning.

I shake my head.

Ill take you home afterwards. Youll be home by midnight.

Now Im torn. Two hours of sharing him with the others and then Id be rewarded by fifteen minutes of having him all to myself on the walk home.

Eds got his parents car tonight. Well drop you right at your door.

Crap. I cant.

Fine, whatever, he says, withdrawing his presence like a parent confiscating a favourite toy. He stalks off in the direction of the deli, probably to ask shes-big-shes-blonde-she-works-in-the-deli Georgia to go to the pub and join the collaboration on his dramatic masterpiece.

As Chriss name for her suggests, Georgia is in fact blonde, has big breasts and manages to wear the delis white tunic uniform in a way that is quite fetching. However, my point of envy is the fact that, at eighteen, she is a good three years closer in age to Chris.

No fair, I mutter as he disappears from sight.

LAND OF DREAMS

Chris never refers to the Woolworths we work at as Woolworths. He calls it the Land of Dreams. On nights and weekends, the Land of Dreams is staffed by casuals. Mainly high-school students (me, Street-cred Donna and several others who go to public schools in the area), university students (Chris, Kathy, Celene, Stuart) and a few other young adult types who obviously havent yet decided what to do with their lives and are working at Woolies while they figure it out (Ed, Bianca, Andy).

Come to think of it, that may be a bit of an assumption on my part. Ive never actually seen Ed, Bianca or Andy grappling with the mystery of their existence or their place in the universe. Theyre just there. Ed to earn enough money to support his pot habit, Bianca to flirt with the teenage checkout boys. And Andy? Well, who knows; he rarely says anything.

I started work at the Land of Dreams last year, almost on the dot of age fourteen and nine months. This was a move motivated by a passionate aversion to asking my parents for money, and the knowledge that there was not much of it going spare around our way in any case. Money is never openly discussed in my house, but I suspect that last year was a bit tough. My sister Liza moved out to go to university in Bathurst, and my dad was longer than usual between jobs. Asking for money began to stress me out. Dad would say he didnt have any cash and to ask Mum. Mum would sigh and look pissed off and give it to me with less than good grace. So I thought, Enough of that.

I went to the local shopping centre and asked for work at every shop except the butcher (eww) and the tobacconist (evil). I really had to push myself to go in each time and not stumble over my words. I did stumble at a few of them, but most took my details and said theyd call if something came up. One week later a lady from Woolworths rang and asked me to come in for an interview after school. I started a week after that.

The morning of my first training shift I came down to breakfast. Dad was reading the newspaper and Mum was wiping up some Milo spilt on the floor by my little sister.

Ive got a job at Woolworths, I said.

At Metro Fair, I added.

On the checkout, I concluded.

Mum nodded as she wiped.

Good, said Dad, looking up from his newspaper for a second. Thats good, darling.

Ever since then Ive been working three nights a week from 4 p.m. till 9 p.m., and from 12 p.m. till 4 p.m. on Saturday or sometimes Sunday.

Ive got my work routine down pat. At the final school bell I make my way to my locker amid hordes of girls stampeding to freedom. My locker is next to my best friend Pennys locker, so we always meet at the end of the day. I change out of my school tunic and shoes and into my black work pants and black shoes.