by Paul Carter
Having over the course of the last year got married, stopped working offshore, knocked up my wife and moved to the ’burbs of Perth, I was now officially middle-aged and boring. Let me tell you how I learned this.
Clare’s brother Mathew came to Perth the first week we were there, in his role as manager of a band that was playing a gig in a city club on Saturday night. It was all a bit last minute and rushed but my wife is very tight with her family and it was her only opportunity to see her brother. So, even though she was eight months pregnant, we went along.
We got to the venue, parked out the back, and Matt was there, grinning. He told us the band was a breeze to look after. As well as managing a band, Matt also plays with his own group, The Drugs. The Drugs play hard and party harder. To give you some idea of just how hard, Matt’s stage name is Ian Badly. After one of their tours, I once saw Matt with a laminated card around his neck that read: ‘My name is Ian Badly. If I am drunk and/or wasted, not making any sense or passed out, I am staying at the Holiday Inn. Please contact our manager on . . .’ By contrast, the biggest problem Matt had getting these other guys on stage was dragging them away from their hairdryers and make-up.
Matt is the funniest and most disturbing of all my relatives and in-laws; his sense of humour is sharper than a new razor and equally dangerous. He often has pink streaks in his hair and most of my oilfield mates would assume on first appearance that Matty is gayer than two cocks touching. Matt’s short stocky frame and boyish good looks often lead people into making benign assumptions about him, when in fact beneath his good looks and quirky charm is a head space that should have danger signs around it.
The three of us chatted for an hour or so, then the band went on and about a thousand chicks rushed the stage. I wandered to the bar to get a beer; pausing to look into the back of the venue, I saw a group of eight girls staring at me. I smiled, they smiled, and the cock-eyed optimist in my pants shouted up to my brain, ‘Yup, you’ve still got it.’ Then one of the girls broke free. She was around twenty, or probably not, and she was wearing a very short skirt and a push-up bra. My balls twitched; it was like a koi pond down there—I was doing my best not to clap.
‘So are you with the band?’ she asked, thumbing a Bic lighter.
‘What makes you think I’m with the band?’ There was no way she saw me talking to Matt, I told myself; I have so still got it.
She snorted smoke out. ‘Well, you’re either someone’s dad or you’re with the band.’
I was crushed. That’s right, I’m thirty-nine. Where’s my pregnant wife? What the fuck am I doing here?
On Monday morning I was sitting at my desk con- sidering this same question. What the fuck was I doing there? I was the Rental Tool Manager; I’d been in the job for a week and already I was making quite an impression. The previous Wednesday I sent a quote to a drilling company for a bit of kit called a split bowl. Not a difficult task, and I certainly knew what a split bowl was. Problem was, my business writing skills were not quite on par with my equipment knowledge: I sent them a quote for a split bowel. And then I signed off as the Rectal Manager. Oh yeah, I’m the man. The drilling manager responded a few days later; a guy I’d worked with years earlier, he signed off by saying he always knew I was an arsehole.
Simple things that others took for granted mystified me. For example, on my first day the bloke at the next desk emailed me a request. I read it, looked to my left and said, ‘Sure, no probs.’
He gave me a sympathetic smile and responded via email, explaining as a footnote that I needed to cover my arse by putting absolutely everything in an email from now on. This struck me as both good advice and a horrible thought. It didn’t matter if the person you were talking to nodded and said, ‘Yes, I understand, I’ll do that today.’ No, I had to follow up with an email, get t-shirts printed, and put post-it notes on the wall in front of me to remind myself not to let him forget so that I would have some proof when he did forget and so we could assign blame correctly.
What the fuck did we do before email? How did we assign blame? Or was the ‘give a fuck’ factor just higher then?
How many emails would I have to write, just to cover my arse?
I was not the boss anymore, this was not a drill floor, and my fragile male ego made me want to tell everyone politely just to fuck off. Instead I had to suppress my urge to kick people as they sleepwalked through their day doing just enough not to get fired. There was no work ethic like I was used to. On the rigs, the crew would back each other up in every way. But onshore, in a regular job, I was clearly on my own.
The drilling guys would quickly weed out the weak link in the work chain, or just refuse to go offshore with someone lazy or indifferent—they’re too dangerous. Years ago, I was sent to work at a supply base for a month while the rest of my crew went offshore. I was being punished for destroying a hire car—but that’s another story. I was on half pay, working seven days a week loading out drill pipe and prepping it for inspection. Buffing tool joints with an angle grinder in the sun for twelve hours a day and being made to work with guys I looked down on was a good head check for me.
That was the first time I experienced the kind of slack, hide-from-the-boss bullshit that made me rage—mostly in the slovenly form of Victor the forklift driver. One morning, I wandered into the workshop, and there was Victor floating around the entrance like a vegetarian turd. He was wearing an orange t-shirt that read ‘Drink More Piss’. I vented at him simply because he was there.
‘What the fuck are you doing, Vic?’
He looked at me. ‘I’m waiting for the Jiffy slut,’ he responded matter-of-factly.
‘The fuckin what?’
Right on cue the Blue Jiffy Food Company van pulled into the car park.
‘That lady is very nice, Vic; don’t call her a slut, OK mate?’ I said, trying to keep things civil.
But Victor was already mentally inhaling sausage rolls, visibly salivating as he meandered in a Jiffy trance towards the back of the van. He was a cross between Pavlov’s dog and Homer Simpson, only more food obsessed. Every day before lunch he devoured two jumbo sausage rolls with extra salt and sauce, then choked down two smokes. Vic’s colon must have been the size of the Hindenburg; his gut was so big that his belly still rubbed against the steering wheel even with the seat on the forklift racked back as far as it would go.
Like clockwork, at 10 a.m. the next day he was lurking in the shadows of the workshop entrance like a fat ninja. This time I snuck up on him.
‘Who you waiting on, Vic?’
He turned, smiled and grunted, ‘The pie mole.’
Nine months into her pregnancy, Clare started to get pain- ful back spasms; she looked like she had been shot in the back with a nuclear submarine. At first I felt helpless, but after talking to her and asking lots of questions I rigged up a rope harness in the garage. Clare would dangle there in among the motorcycles, gently swinging, relief spreading across her face.
The day Clare finally said it was time to go to the hospital—13 December 2007, the day Lola arrived—changed everything for me forever. It was like joining the Mob; I was in for life, no backing out. The fuzzy ultrasound image that I’d stared at in disbelief was about to breathe new life into my corner.
The birth was a lot like being in a Roman Polanski film: confidence seguing into terror, followed by an epidural, followed by an emergency caesarean, followed by a double Scotch. I knew my wife was mentally and physically strong, but Jesus. She comes from a long line of hard-core Catholic working-class ladies; her mother produced five children, in each case working full time until her waters broke, then she mopped the floor, knocked off and walked to the hospital.
I’ll spare you the details of the labour, but suffice to say after being an observer I’m sure there must be a special thing that helps women forget the months of pregnancy and the delivery once it’s over. I now k
now for certain that men would never have the balls to nut out a sprog; we would rather have sex with a bear trap. Here’s to all the mothers: we men salute you.
Lola was perfect, a mini me: bald, blue eyes, with a breast fixation. Clare says the only reason she looks exactly like me is so I won’t eat her. But I was in love, beyond smitten; I could have been the Dean of Smitten at Smitten University. Lola shat on me, threw up on me, peed on me, ate the buttons off my favourite shirt; it was like being in a country and western song, but I didn’t care. This, as my fellow parents well know, is the way of the universe.
I struggled with the simple things, like trying to dress her, paranoid that I would snap off a finger or throttle her in an attempt to put on her jumper. Bathing her felt like handling a particularly slippery unexploded bomb, a scenario that made me sweaty and unsure about so much more than just cutting the blue wire.
I felt a wonderful new parental sobriety surround me. Lola had been there for the last nine months, the bulge in Clare’s belly; each night I had talked to the bulge about my day. But now—when she was quiet—I had the privilege of talking to her face to face. My life would never be the same again. It was like there was a lamp in my head, and it had always been there, only Lola had just turned it on.
I’d been living the last nine months underwater and now I could suddenly breathe. I was about to turn forty, and finally I felt like I’d come full circle, from a happy-go-lucky arse wrangler, to a semi-functioning wino, to proud father and husband.
We took lots of photos—at first most were a bit reminiscent of Sid and Nancy—and within days whole hard drives were full. Floods of gifts arrived and the house started to look like the Myer baby department during a stocktake sale. My life was becoming textbook white picket fence; it was like living in a Hallmark card. I knew it couldn’t last.
Indeed, while home was great, my desk job wasn’t improving on closer acquaintance. And the sleep deprivation caused by a new baby didn’t help. I came home from work late one Friday, exhausted after a really shit day. On any given Friday someone pivotal would not show up. On this particular day, it fucked me up royally.
We’d received a last-minute order—the only sort there is in the oilfield—and so I had spent the entire day in the pipe yard moving drill pipe from one rack to another, trying to sort out what was good to go. It was a stinking hot summer day, the dust, grease and sweat were staining my shirt, and the whole time I knew there were dozens of other things I had to get done. My mobile went off constantly, the receptionist kept paging me, the paperwork kept piling up; I worked through lunch, then through dinner, and finally left work at 9 p.m.
Pulling into the driveway I could already hear my daughter screaming inside the house. And I was in the car. With the windows up. And the motor still running. I took a deep breath and headed inside.
Clare was sitting on the couch in the living room. The day had been a scorcher, and even at this late hour the house we were renting—an old sprawling 1930s uninsulated heat trap—was stifling. She was lathered in sweat; I had never seen her look so stressed. Lola’s screams penetrated my inner brain box like a 9-mm hollow point. Neither of us had the energy to do anything, but I told Clare to give me the baby so she could go and have a shower and take a break. Her response was immediate and vocal.
‘The washing machine has flooded the laundry,’ she screamed. ‘I can’t get anything done. Go and fix it!’
In these situations it’s better to comply with instruc- tions and just do as you’re told, so I went to the shed, got the tools, and within ten minutes the washing machine was sitting on bricks with me lying in dirty, foamy water underneath. Now, I’m no washing machine mechanic, but a scan around with my torch soon revealed that the drain hose was blocked, so I stuck the end of the torch between my teeth, took off the hose clamp and pulled on the hose.
It immediately jerked free, shooting said blockage—a turd consisting entirely of pubic hair and congealed soap—straight into my waiting open mouth. Almost as quickly, I started to vomit. I tried to sit up, but I was under a washing machine, so instead I bashed my vomit-covered face into the side of the drum, leaving me with a deep gash just above my left eye. The large amounts of claret gushing from my new head wound were staunched by winding half a roll of toilet paper round my head.
It wasn’t pretty, but some time later I emerged from the laundry, the machine fixed and running, floor mopped, vomit, blood, soap and pubes removed.
My head was throbbing in tune with Lola’s screams, which hadn’t subsided the whole time I’d been gone. Poor Clare was sitting in exactly the same spot with exactly the same stressed, sweaty expression on her face. I was so hungry I could have eaten dust, but I was far too fearful to ask what was for dinner. I instead suggested again that Clare give Lola to me so she could go and have that shower. This time she gave me a tired smile and passed the baby over. ‘What did you do to your head?’ she asked.
Lola was wrapped up tightly in a light pink muslin cloth. She was about a three and a half inch outside diameter, two feet long, with a shiny bald purple veiny head sticking out the end. Naturally I thought, ‘Wow, she looks just like an erect cock.’
I sprinted into the study where I drew a Jap eye with crayon on Lola’s head, tucked her feet into my pants, and re-emerged into the lounge room shouting, ‘Hey honey, check this out.’
I stood side-on so Clare could get the full benefit of my genius. Lola was rigid and I was holding her around the waist. ‘Get the camera, get the camera!’ I was laughing so hard I couldn’t see straight. Clare snapped, grabbed the baby and disappeared back into the bathroom, slamming the door behind her.
Sometime later they reappeared: baby fast asleep, Jap eye removed. Wife was weird-calm. She sat down next to me on the couch, where I was nervously channel-surfing. Without looking at me, Clare spoke in that slightly deeper voice that women use when they really disconnect, and are about to lift cars or kill you with a blunt instrument.
‘Don’t ever make cock jokes using your daughter as a prop, OK?’
Months later at a public speaking event a bloke asked me if I had learned anything since becoming a father. In front of fifteen hundred people I went blank, then said, ‘Don’t ever make . . .’
Not used to being so housebound, previously simple matters—like getting myself around the world at short notice—became surprisingly complicated. In one particular case, I had difficulty leaving the state.
As you’ll likely have gathered by now, as well as having a full-time job, I’m also a part-time writer. And one of the things that happens when you’re a writer is you get invited to speak at writers’ festivals. I had done three; no matter how many times I do it, I still freak at the thought of talking to large groups of people. Then along came the Melbourne Writers’ Festival. Even the invitation letter was flash. It’s one of the premier writing events in the country—how the hell did I get an invite? I promptly phoned my publisher, who confirmed that I was indeed on the billing. So naturally I responded telling them I’d be delighted and thank you very much for thinking of me. Months later I got an information pack from the festival organisers, containing my flight itinerary, hotel reservations, books by the other authors attending, and information on where in Melbourne to get everything from a bikini wax to a good cappuccino.
When the festival dates rolled around Clare was visiting her family in Sydney with eight-month-old Lola. She phoned me the day before I was due to leave for Melbourne, asking if I had remembered to get her car registered. I had purchased Clare a small hatchback just before she left for Sydney, and of course I had completely forgotten to register it. If I didn’t drop what I was doing at work and get to the licensing centre pronto, there would be all kinds of shit as a consequence, so I raced out the door and drove to the nearest one, took a number from the machine and sat in the packed waiting room looking at the big red digital numbers clicking over from 28 to 1
9998.
Several hours later my number appeared and I approached a spotty bored kid with ink all over his hands. He was however very helpful and explained that in order to register Clare’s car I would have to give up my New South Wales licence, which he would cancel, then he would give me a Western Australian licence, and then I could register the car. So I handed over my Sydney licence, and he gave me this shitty interim piece of paper, as it takes a week to make a plastic licence in WA. I folded it up and stuck it in my wallet, walked out and rang Clare to tell her everything was sorted and wasn’t I organised.
The next morning I woke up nervous; I had packed the night before but I double-checked everything. Hours went into thinking about what I was going to wear for my appearance on stage. I don’t usually worry about such things, but at this event I was going to be in the sort of company that makes me anxious. People I’ve read and admire; gifted, intelligent, articulate writers, like the brilliant Clive James and John Clarke, who would no doubt be wondering what I was doing there. People who would think I’d feel overdressed if I was wearing a belt.
As I made last-minute shoe-change decisions, I paused to calm the fuck down. This is not that big a deal, I told myself, it’s just fifteen minutes on stage. I think I know what I’m going to talk about, I know what I’m going to wear, and besides, when I get there we’ll have a nice long meeting on who will go first and all that good stuff, so just relax and take your time.
