Jumped on a tram for the first time in a long time.
I looked around for a conductor. Nowhere. Then I remembered
- tram conductors have been downsized. (It's a curious
notion that simply shrinking people will improve the
economy. Won't they eat less? Won't their cars use
less gas?) I glanced around for a very small conductor.
Nope. I began to wonder why the Government would
go to the trouble of converting its employees into
Tom Thumbs when it could have followed the Patrick
example. Just tell the conductors their contracts
have been placed in the hands of a new contractor.
Who? Why, that little old lady in the window seat.
The one without any money to pay your wages. She's
so sorry, but she'll have to let you go...
As my dripping tap of consciousness leaked out these
useless thoughts, something caught my eye. Something
evil. My heart stopped. My breathing became like that
of a trapped wildebeest, shallow and furtive. The
Thing was mighty, terrible, god-like. Able to convert
the most capable passenger to a quivering, mumbling
dolt. The Ticket Machine. Implacable. Ruthless. Smug.
I imagine a deep voice in a cinematic THX gut-rumbling
stereo reciting movie promo: " The ticket machine
- be embarrassed, be very embarrassed. It got beaten
by the Transport Workers Union but now IT'S BACK!
It'll give you HELL. But it will never give you CHANGE."
The chances of having the right change, knowing which
zone you are in and successfully negotiating a ticket
without goofing up and drawing snickers from your
fellow passengers, are next to nil. Ticket Machines
are the pokies of the tramways. In the future, trams
will have banks of Machines down the aisles. Pensioners
with mugs of coins will sit staring dully at them,
pressing the Twilight Zone 2 button, waiting for the
big ticket to drop.
Just as I am preparing to leap from the speeding
tram, preferring death to indignity, a dreadlocked
bloke behind me saved my life. "Don't put anything
in it, mate. If the wardens come up, say you gave
it money but it wouldn't take it." Of course! And
if the machine works for them, I'll roll my eyes and
say, "Oh sure, it's working now. And by the way, why
are you so small?"
After the tram nightmare, on Wednesday I decided
to catch a taxi home. When I asked the cabbie to take
me to the northern suburbs, he frowned. "You don't
live there, do you?" he asked. "Thought you'd live
in Toorak or something." I responded by saying I don't
want to be surrounded by dickheads all the time. I
live in the northern 'burbs to escape. I was raised
primarily in the NSW bush so the suburbs are still
a novelty for me. Besides, there are no milk bars
in Toorak and a man needs a handy milk bar, I reckon.
We drove through Coburg. My neighbour assures me
everyone in Coburg is up themselves. "Arty-farty,
la-de-dah types," she says. This would come as news
to the panel beaters of Coburg.
As we drove along, a ditty came to mind and I sang
it to the cabbie.
Give me a home where the panel vans roam
And where mowers whine in the arvos
Where the magpies song, ca-dawdling and long
Greets the soft footballs of the garbos
Where potatoes are mashin', where flannelettes fashion
And perms infiltrate every hair
Where you never see beggars,
Lots of schoolgirls are preggers
And syllables don't come in pairs
Where the steaks are all whoppin',
Where the wives are all swappin',
'N' there's a pit bull behind every tree
Yes, give me a home where the panel vans roam
The Northern Suburbs for me
The cabbie told me I was up myself. "Maybe you should
move to Coburg," he said. "Be with your own kind."
Never.
Apart from catching a tram and a taxi, this week
was packed with the usual tomfoolery that goes into
running a corporate events and public speaking business.
Meeting with sound guys, band leaders and bean counters.
The phones run hot with nervy clients. Their nerves
will become panic on the day.
In my experience, when you arrive for a gig, it's
important to have everyone relaxed but one person
absolutely hysterical. The hysterical one will ensure
a heightened sense of alarm prevails. Cool, calm technical
people always operate better when they're in dread
of an organizers tantrum. Another rule is that all
shows run behind time. This is true of TV, radio,
stage, even the circus. If a show is not behind time,
someone's not doing their job. If a producer thinks
they're on schedule, their either deluding themselves
or drunk.
The whole world runs behind time, desperately trying
to catch up, steal a moment of idleness. Only when
we are aged does this change. Then, time runs behind
us, a hunter chasing its prey. Time catches up, and
then the game is over. But until then, shows run late,
taxis are always "five minutes away" and tram conductors
never come. Poor fellas, they are too tiny to get
up the steps.
