Demolition man

The man catches me at the lights. I don’t notice him at first; I’m thinking about the blonde girl in gym shorts I saw at Aldi, with braids, whole futures imagined within the span of a few breaths. I say excuse me and squeeze past her with my budget steak and Roma tomatoes. I tell myself that I will never forget her.

The man matches my pace exactly. Most people drift ahead or fall behind, but he slots into the space beside me as if we’ve arranged it beforehand.

“You look like you’re heading somewhere important.”

His voice is quick. Every sentence seems to be chasing the next.

“I’m late for work. I’m going to Centrelink,” I say.

“You work at Centrelink? That’s an important job.”

“I’m a dole bludger. What about you?”

I’m not on the dole, or whatever they call it these days. The New Journeys Allowance for Good Citizens. I swore to myself I would never go on the dole again after going through a rough, self-made collapse.

Something like ninety per cent of my income went towards rent. I showed up at a Centrelink office one day and asked them for help, food vouchers, anything.

“I haven’t eaten in a few days,” I said quietly to the person behind the computer.

“Why? Plenty of places to eat around here,” was the reply from the Asian woman.

I never felt more capable of violence than in that moment.

Back in the present, the man tells me he works in demolition.

“Demolition?”

I try to picture him swinging a sledgehammer, tottering backwards like a cartoon character after trying to lift a giant mallet. The image is ridiculous enough to make me smile.

He catches the smile.

“You don’t believe me?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“You didn’t have to.”

We cross the street.

His skin resembles a leather couch, maybe from years spent outside. Mirrored sunglasses hide his eyes. I see myself in the reflection and automatically recoil.

“I own a few properties.”

“Yeah?”

“Disgusting conditions they’re in. Makes me a slumlord, I guess.”

The man gestures towards a pub.

“We should disappear for an hour.”

I know what he means. Disappear into a few beers. Two, three, seventeen.

“It’s ten in the morning,” I reply.

“Exactly. Nobody expects adventure at ten in the morning.”

I laugh. He seems pleased by this.

“What’s your name?”

I tell him.

“I’m Albert.”

A few metres later, he asks for my phone number.

“No.”

“Fair enough.”

Another few metres.

“What if I asked politely?”

“No.”

“I’m not a homo,” Albert says.

“That’s good to know,” I say, and after some time add, “Neither am I,” although that topic is up for debate.

At the corner, Albert stops.

“This is me.”

I don’t know why, but I expect a farewell. I imagine him later that afternoon in a small, mouldy apartment. He sits on the edge of his bed. Not lonely exactly; occupied, rehearsing. Testing new versions of himself.

I arrive home and put my groceries away: steak, tomatoes, and an $82 packet of cigarillos.

There’s a spill on the floor. It looks like laundry detergent. I knock on David’s door, my roommate. I always announce myself now due to learning the hard way what can happen when I don’t.

“David, what’s the spill in the living room?”

“I spilled a bottle of Cold Power when I was doing my laundry. Sorry.”

David is flushed and sweating. I don’t want to know why. I just want to know why he can’t clean up after himself.

“It’s a chemical spill. What am I supposed to do?”

I close the door to his bedroom and think to myself that I might be able to catch Albert if I hurry.