Sydney's Song, page 6
I noticed several famous faces in the restaurant. But my mind was wandering. I shook my head when Ettoré offered wine.
“Too chicken. If I choose not to drink even a bit, there’s no risk I’ll ever consume too much, right? I don’t think I like the idea of getting wasted.”
“Are you scared you’ll be lured to drink for the sake of drinking itself?”
“I’m scared of not being in control of myself. To prevent it, I’ve just decided not to drink. Even after I turn 18. Let others have their fun. Or make fun of me. For me, I’ll have the coward’s choice, thank you.”
“You have it wrong. Here in our society, it’s not cowardice but very brave not to drink. It requires strength of character. If it’s your personal choice, let the others bleat. Dare to be different. It’s okay to decline your host’s offer. There’s no shame in not frequenting pubs. Myself, I’m a connoisseur of wine, but I only drink a glass or two, and only when I’m having food. It’s the Italian way.”
He refrained from mentioning the trendy Aussie way was to drink for the sake of getting drunk itself.
I thought again of the close friendship Sinead enjoyed with her gang. I coveted their cheerfulness. Should I leave my comfort zone to join them one of these days? Would a wowser teetotaller ever be accepted? How would it feel to be the only sober one among friends who had written themselves off? Would I ruin their fun by being the odd one out?
And did I really need the torture of exposing myself to new elements when it was easier to bury my head in a book? Would I ever be ready to open up?
“Why the long face?” Ettoré asked as my thoughts drifted away.
“Whaat?” Now I felt worse. It was anyone’s bad luck to know me at this time of my life. “Bad company, aren’t I? And here you’re being really kind to take me. Thank you. And sorry,” I babbled.
“I’m no monster,” he smiled.
“Oh?” I rolled my eyes at this absurdity. “Checked your mirror lately?”
He chuckled.
“Tell me about your day,” he prompted.
“No way. You wouldn’t want to know.” Like I didn’t want to know how you woke up with my mother.
“Try me.”
I groaned. Reluctantly I started telling him about the absolute cruelty of the N80-bus driver. Somehow it became easier. I told him of my unforgettable calls. And the constrictive rules of the incentive system. He was laughing so hard when I detailed the Silverwater Jail and the Frenchs Forest quests.
“They made my day!” I also laughed now. “With my Quality bonus in, they saved me from being the lowest-paid Australian. I’ll never forget them all my life.”
“That’s very cool, Sydney. I’m glad you see the funny side of your job. So the horrible calls are the ones you’ll treasure because when you think of them you’ll laugh and laugh. You have to tell me more next time we meet. Unless you want to quit? I could perhaps find you a position at my office. As a receptionist? Admin staff?”
“Thank you. But no. Not at this stage. This is my fight. I have to win it. I have to conquer myself and my denigrating callers. One day, they will never forget me.”
“But your pay is too low. How much bonus are we talking about here, if you can pass all the hurdles?”
“They vary depending on the call volumes. The company sets aside money in the bonus pool according to how much work we get. The more months you pass the hurdles, the more percentage of bonus shares you build. After a time you can get 600 or 800 dollars a month from the Attendance Bonus alone.”
“So you’re determined to show them you’re unbeatable? Your own personal Olympics?”
I laughed. “The challenge of a horrible job.”
Little did I know that 2000 was going to be my personal Olympics.
We chatted more easily. I asked about his work and he taught me some general business rules. He explained the benefits of exports besides gaining a wider market and spreading the risks.
“To compete in the international market, you have to be better than others. So you’ll develop ways to improve your products. This eventually keeps your company on top even in Australia.”
“So, are you an Aussie now? There’s the faintest accent there.”
“My family moved here when I was twelve. But we went back home for holidays frequently. So I’m both Italian and Aussie in many ways.”
“Which part of Italy is your hometown?”
“Borgo San Lorenzo. Near Firenze, which you call Florence.”
“Borgo—whaat?”
“Borgo. San. Loren-zo.”
“Borgo—San—Lorenzo,” I repeated slowly. “And what’s special about it?”
“Apart from the fact that there are so many soccer fields and everybody is mad about real football? I could talk about football for hours. But Borgo San Lorenzo itself is magical. The country is simply beautiful in spring and summer. The area is quite hilly. It shines in spring with so many colours. And in summer you can catch moments of amazing view, especially at sunrise and sunset… I have great memories of my hometown.”
“Go on. I don’t know anything about Florence except Dante.”
“Well the streets are narrow. Shady. The town centre could be defined as a perfect example of medieval architecture. It was built with an ancient kind of stone called sampietrino, which gives a pleasant feeling of antique and elegance. Same as the houses. They’re painted with the typical colour of Florence, Terra di Firenze.A sort of old-gold colour.”
I felt better when we left the restaurant.
My friends were still by the free concert, singing along and holding liquor cans now. Sinead flashed me teasing eyes. But I was annoyed at Pete. He stood motionless, except for a polite nod.
“What now?” Ettoré arched a brow. “You just lost your smile again.”
“I like my friends boisterous and sincere,” I declared without thinking. “I don’t like it when people give me a polite, indifferent nod. It’s heaps annoying!”
We stepped aside to let a people-mover Li’l Train pass. Ettoré turned to me, eyes searching, contemplating. Slowly he said with a deadpan, straight face,
“I agree. How dare anyone do that! Don’t they know it’s your sole prerogative?”
I broke into a laugh, feeling an instant shame to realise how badly I must have acted.
“Exactly!” I joked. “How dare anyone!”
“So?” he asked. “Who was the handsome guy?”
“Who?”
“The one who looked at you.”
“They all did. How could you notice any difference?”
“Come on. The cool one. Who pretended to be indifferent.”
“Pretended?” This news made me feel better. “Did you really notice that?”
He needled me about Pete. And I could not tell Ettoré anything about him. Pete and I were not normally given the same break. The short chats between calls could only be superficial. We had no chance to get to know who our co-workers really were as individuals.
I kept thinking of them singing and dancing and getting totalled by the water’s edge. They were so happy. So together. So— belonging.
Why was I jealous?
We reached our expensive theatre. Before entering I looked around searchingly.
“What is it?” my baby-sitter-of-the-moment asked. He was an excellent escort. There was no doubt why Mum fell for him. Almost any female would be interested in a handsome god who happened to be cashed up and distinctly of good breeding. “What are you looking for?”
“I’m trying to find the exact bus-stop location for the 443. So I’ll know how to properly describe it to my customers.”
“Sydney, stop working!” He shook his head and steered me away.
Right. Here I was. Loving my city. Forever trying to be an advocate for our public transport when I knew for a fact that the bosses of Sydney’s trains and buses never used one. They never did when visiting my office, despite the fact we were conveniently located near Hornsby Station. Obviously, Sydney’s public transport did not suit their bosses.
I Lost My Dress On The Bus!
“Grand date. Where did you find him?” Sinead, already taking calls, asked when I arrived on Monday morning. Many agents had left as casualties of yucky shifts or abusive callers. But the remaining agents were by now skilful, had lower AHT, with better information accuracy.
“Not mine. He was only on child-minding duty ‘cause my parents weren’t available.”
“Blessed,” she smirked. “Pass him to me anytime.”
Pete’s unreadable eyes bored into mine from across the desk.
I liked his constant, unobtrusive presence. I liked his very pleasant voice. I liked his tone of speaking. But why did he prefer a silent method of communication? A look. An enquiring look. Why did he shroud himself with an aura of mystery?
I had to admit I had been thinking of Pete rather a lot lately.
“They took away my driving license!” sobbed my first caller, an elderly St. Ives man. Fury and helplessness coloured his voice. “Please send me the bus timetable.”
It was December. Parents asked for next year’s school transport. I gave a mum in North Strathfield a detailed travel plan to James Ruse High School.
“No! My friend suggests a different way!”
I showed her that her friend’s suggested route took considerably longer.
“Are you sure?”
Gosh, I always wanted to murder a customer who asked whether I was sure. This one ranted on and on.
“Your choice, Ma’am. Please feel free to give your friend a call. Consult her. Sounds like she’s better able to advise what to catch. Thanks for your call!” And I pressed RELEASE.
“Good one Sydney,” Pete gave me a thumbs-up, his eyes now laughing.
“Thanks,” I smiled back. “Do you always listen to my calls?”
“I like listening to your voice,” he replied, looking into my eyes. Wow. My heart beat faster. My intuition said Pete was interested in me. I could see it in his eyes. But I wasn’t brave enough to confess that I liked his voice too. It floated across the workstation in a soothing tone.
In his quiet confidence Pete was different from the other guys. The others, Aussies or Brits, did their best to dance attendance and be charming. They hoped to win female hearts through their posturing, clothing, facial jewellery and hair styles. Sometimes I wondered how long it took Mike to gel his hair. Or how much it had hurt Kevin to have his tongue pierced in order to install the tiny ball he called a toy.
Pete was the antithesis of all that. He was uniquely unselfconscious and cool. So yeah, although I was determined to never fall in love, he had been troubling my dreams quite a lot lately.
The calls rolled in.
Melburnians, Queenslanders and overseas visitors were coming in for the holiday season. 1300500 could be accessed from interstate. Or from overseas by dialling our country code first. I had direct calls from England and Canada. At times I sounded like a Sydney tourism advisor because callers required it of me.
“From Central take bus 372 to Coogee. Stunning view along the cliff-walk up to Bronte, Tamarama, and Bondi. You can swim on these famous beaches, yes. Then take bus 380 to Watson’s Bay. Great seafood. A fabulous ferry ride to Circular Quay. Interesting buskers, fascinating Opera House, Botanical Gardens. Take a ferry to Darling Harbour. Casino. Aquarium. All on a day pass. Call us for timetables, we’re here to help.”
A guy from Newcastle was very impressed by me.
“Great service. You’re the nicest person in your office I’ve ever talked to, Sydney. May I have your phone number?”
Whaat? He was flirting with me? So I said, “One-three-hundred five-hundred.”
He burst out laughing.
I wondered if these callers imagined how we looked. Some of us were blond. Some bottle blond. And we all resembled Miss World contestants, you know. Just… some had to join our in-office Biggest Loser challenge.
When a nice old lady called, I imagined my smiling Nanna Véronique. Or my cousin Kirsten, a hairdresser on a cruise ship, each time a grumpy girl called. Whenever a pleasant young man called, my mind envisioned Christopher Reeves, strapped in his wheelchair, looking up at me with the brightest, most-peaceful, clear eyes. Eyes reflecting his tranquil soul despite his terminal illness. That was how I met him once. At the Queen Victoria Building in the City. He was my model for polite callers.
And no, you don’t want to know how I imagined a rude caller.
This particular morning I still received the you-wouldn’t-believe-it calls.
“I lost my dress on the back seat of the bus Saturday evening,” a girl announced. “It was the L90.” Right. I gave her the number of Mona Vale Depot’s Lost Property. I wouldn’t even ask how she lost it!
“What the (bleep) do you think you’re doing???” screamed a woman from Perth.” (Bleep) trackwork so close to Christmas?! Can’t you (bleep) pick a better time? I’ll be arriving in Sydney with luggage, a toddler, and a baby in a twin pram! How will I get on and off your ( bleep) replacement bus to Scarborough? And I’m a single mother! Who’d (bleep) help me?”
In lashing tones she raged against CityRail, swearing her head off. We weren’t paid to take abuse. If she had not mentioned the babies, I would have terminated the call immediately. Her kids—like myself—had not asked to be born, right? They could not choose their parents either. It was these helpless children I was determined to help. I gave her the station’s phone number for assistance in moving her luggage and kids.
Now what exactly was the privilege of a single mother? Did it entitle her to unrestricted tolerance? Was her offensive language justified? Could we take a poll on this? Or, was she a single mother in the first place because she was so vicious her man couldn’t stand her?
Eating alone had to be one of the saddest and loneliest activities on the planet. Eating alone forced on you the excruciating fact that you had nobody to love and nobody was there for you. Simply unbearable. At home, I never ate except a bit of fruit on my days off.
I forced myself to eat while I had company, whoever was scheduled to have the same lunch break. Yesterday it was Bristol’s backpacker Mark, who looked so English like a young Paul McCartney. Before that it was new manager Ratko, a Czech.1300500 was a revolving door. My manager Justin would soon disappear to a lucrative job in Kings Cross, where the lifestyle was also convenient for his sexual preference.
Today I lunched out with former-geophysicist-turned-mum Nina.In the lift we encountered our then Immigration Minister, whose office was one floor down, with his hulking bodyguards. He nodded quietly and we nodded quietly back.
“I don’t think he likes migrants,” I told Nina.
“On the contrary. He’s friendly with our community because we’re migrants-through-the-front-door. He occasionally attends our events.”
Hornsby’s Mall makeover was a complete mess, with only takeaway food. We ordered grilled fish and sat in the Florence Street promenade.
“Aren’t you scared racist people will treat you badly?” I asked Nina.
“No. Australians are very friendly. I’ve heard of some racist ones. Perhaps I’ve unknowingly encountered some, but when you behave like a model citizen they wouldn’t have any reason to express their leaning, would they now?”
She explained migrants-through-the-front-door meant the UN gave them priority due to the persecution against their religious community. In their homelands others attacked and killed them and theirs, while authorities watched. As they were an anti-violence community with the principle “Love for all. Hatred for none”, they peacefully left.
“This is home now. It’s no hardship to show gratitude to Australia.”
“I’m proud Australia assists the oppressed,” I offered. “But some people look down on people they don’t know, thinking the women are backward and oppressed by their men. They wouldn’t know you’re very smart.”
“It’s no big deal. No one will think badly of me, except the low people. And no one will honour me, except the honourable.”
She further told me there were over 1100 ethnic-groups and over 700 active languages in Indonesia, which made me sad thinking of our vastly diminished Aboriginal languages.
Nina belonged to the Minang ethnic-group of West Sumatra, a strongly matriarchal people. For over a thousand years women had been the heads of families. Only daughters can inherit.
“How cool! I’ve never heard of that before. Western suffragettes were only a hundred years ago. But who is persecuting the Minang people?”
“No, I didn’t explain it well. Minang is my ethnic group. But the one being persecuted is my religious group, Ahmadiyya. In Muslim countries we’re persecuted by other Muslims, the majority, who refuse to accept us as Muslims.”
“Why?”
“Many issues. We don’t believe in any form of violence.”
In her sect women received equal treatment to men, with most of the women highly educated. She had a cousin who was an actual rocket scientist in the literal sense of the word. No kidding.
Pete flashed his light when I floor-walked after lunch.
“This guy’s yelling his lung out ‘cause his 178 is shockingly late,” he told me. “What’s happening?”
I checked with Ratko. He walked to Pete while calling Sydney Buses on the cordless phone.
“No reported delay,” Ratko reported.
“Whaat?”
“Sydney, that’s what we’re told. We’re under the obligation to tell customers exactly what we’re told.”
“But Radio Room fired that out right away! They didn’t check first!”
Ratko lifted his arms, giving up.
In helplessness I turned to Pete, who was watching me closely. We looked into each other’s eyes—feeling bad, guilty, very sorry for the caller. There was a shared understanding there…
Tuesday was my day off. I had asked our cleaner Vivian to come only every fortnight. Her pay came automatically from Mum’s bank-account—Mum’s way of showing me she cared.
“Rent out some rooms to students,” Vivian suggested. “Extra money.”
“No. The house isn’t mine.” Mum earned a lot as the finance director of a multinational trading company, while Dad earned obscene pay with an American oil company in Indonesia. But the house still belonged to them.
