Slow Grind (Men of Mornington)

Drew

“Drew, you’ve been on that thing for the last hour. It’s a five-minute job. You’re welding two bits of metal together, not performing lifesaving surgery. You doing all right?”

I lift up my shield and wince. My boss, Wayne, hovers over me, a concerned expression on his face. I struggle to my feet and switch off the welding machine.

“Yeah, sorry, man,” I say, wiping the thick film of sweat from my forehead with the back of my hand and drying my hand on my coveralls. I step back to examine my job. It might’ve taken me half the fucking day, but you can barely see the joint because it’s soldered together so tight.

“You sick or something?” he asks. His eyes dart around awkwardly, looking anywhere but at me. I swallow a laugh. Wayne is a great boss, but he’s a real man’s man. He doesn’t handle emotion or feelings or anything like that. Footy and beer is as far as our conversations travel, and I’m fine with that. I’m not a real open guy myself, and I have my friends to give me shit and listen to me complain about the merits of the privileged life we had before we grew up and had to make a living of our own.

“I’m fine. Just got some bad news about a friend.”

“Anyone I know?” he asks with interest. I hesitate, not sure how open Max is being about his illness.

Being from a small town, Wayne knows many of the same people I do. While they can be a great support, they can also be the nosiest shits in the world. Though I live close to the city, the workshop where I work as a welder is in Mornington, where I grew up. It’s a fifty-minute commute each way, but honestly, I love it. The drive down the coast every day to get to work gives me time to think. And if I ever can’t be bothered with the drive home, I’ve got Mum’s place just around the corner.

“Max,” I finally say. “Cancer. I can’t get it off my mind, you know?”

“Wow. Shit, hey.” I can almost see the internal struggle poor Wayne is having trying to react. What kind of response can you have, though? When Max was sick before, I questioned it the same way. Do you say you’re sorry? If so, what do you have to be sorry for? Sorry for the shit circumstance life hurls at you when least expect it? That’s what I think of when people say they’re sorry. Lucky for me, Wayne is a really good guy and keeps it super simple. “If you need anything, I’m here. Days off, whatever. Just ask.”

“Thanks, Wayne. You’re a stand-up guy. Without you feeling like I’m taking advantage, would you mind if I shot out of here early today? My head’s just not in it, and that’s a recipe for disaster.”

“Absolutely. I’ve known you boys since you were in grammar school. You and that group of mates you had were always causing some kind of trouble. Just make sure to clock out, and I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Doing as he asks, I mark my time out for the day and waste no time heading straight for my car. As much as I need the hours to pay off the stupid debt I accumulated in my early twenties, I need to let this settle in for a second. Last time with Max, it was scary, but not as scary as it is now. As a teenager, learning about mortality and how quickly someone can be taken off this Earth for absolutely no reason is terrifying. To have to suffer through it again, knowing it could all end in a blink of an eye … there isn’t even a word to describe the feeling.

Instead of heading to my apartment, the overwhelming feeling of wanting to be with my family overcomes me. My mother is amazing, as is my dad, though I don’t see him much anymore—our work schedules don’t seem to mesh. I work days, and he works nights—always has and probably always will—and living so far away doesn’t help. My parents divorced when I was pretty young. Though, for the life of me, I can’t understand why they separated. They probably spend just as much time together now as they did then. They told Em and me they weren’t in love anymore. Fair enough. The last thing I’d have wanted would be for them to have stayed together for our sake and been miserable because of it. Everyone deserves a shot at happiness, especially my parents, who are great people, just obviously not meant to live out their wedding vows.

That’s probably the reason I don’t think love is a real thing. If they couldn’t make it work, it’s doubtful anyone could. Add to the mix the one time I did put my heart out there, and it got smashed into pieces … what’s the point in setting yourself up to be hurt? Give me no-strings fun any day of the week.

Getting out of the car and walking up the footpath, I look up at the house I grew up in with pride. My childhood might not have been great with everything Max went through. My parents might not have been home much to provide for us kids, but we had everything we ever needed and more. After they had split, it’s like they tried to make up for it by showering us with material things. Maybe if they’d spent a little less time working, and more time on their marriage, they’d still be together. Who knows? Either way, the mud-brick house with the red shutters and matching front door will always be where home truly is, no matter where I find myself in life.

“Mum?” I holler, letting myself inside after knocking loudly on the glass-paned door. In the faint distance I can hear music, and as I make my way down the hall, I recognise it as Tom Jones. I call out again as I round the corner into the lounge room.

“Fuck,” I growl, squeezing my eyes shut, trying to get the image of my half-naked parents making out on the couch out of my head. “Jesus, guys, get a fucking room.”

“Last time I checked, we have a house. One that our last child moved out of last week,” my father grumbles, buttoning his shirt as Mum fumbles to tidy up herself. At least she has the decency to blush.

“Last time I checked, you guys were divorced,” I mutter. “And last time I checked, this was Mum’s house, not yours.” I direct the last comment at my dad, who just laughs, whacking me over the head as he walks into the kitchen.

I wish I could say this is the worst I’ve seen, but unfortunately, it’s not. My parents have never been shy in displaying their affections toward each other, and in my younger years I saw some shit that has scarred me for life. Why they couldn’t stay married is beyond me, but this latest episode is going to cost me another year in therapy. I should start sending them the invoice.

“I’m sorry, Andrew, I didn’t realise I’d be seeing you today,” Mum says, rushing over for a hug. I smirk.

Obviously. I give them shit, but it’s pretty cool that after all these years they’re still into each other. Obviously being married just wasn’t in the cards for them. I’m pretty sure I take after them in that aspect. As much as I don’t believe in love, I’d never rule out the idea of coming home to the same chick, but getting married? Giving a woman my last name? Having her carry my child and being linked to her for eternity? I’m not sure that’s something I want to sign up for. Something about having to hire a solicitor to break up with someone rubs me the wrong way.

“Can you stay for dinner?” Mum asks as she walks through and into the kitchen. I follow, the aroma of her famous Coq a vin floating through the air. It’s not family dinner day, but I’d be an idiot to pass up a home cooked meal.

“You know me, I’d never knock back a free meal, especially from the best cook I know,” I tease. Mum laughs and throws a tea towel at me.

“Good. Your sister is coming over, too.”

I grab a beer from the fridge and park myself on a stool on the other side of the counter and watch Mum peel potatoes. Em and I have a great relationship. She’s a fiery little thing with loads of spark, so I love giving her shit, and she gives it back to me just as hard. But at the end of the day, I’d do anything for her, and she knows it.

I take a sip of my can, swishing it around my mouth before I swallow. Anxiety stabs at my stomach as I remember why I’m here.

“Max is sick,” I blurt out, cutting to the chase. Something about being in this house brings out the honesty in me. It’s almost as if I check the bullshit at the door when I enter.

Mum, standing at the sink, stiffens. She looks up at me, her blue eyes—identical to mine—full of concern. I don’t think she has to hear the full story to know it’s bad. I’m sure it’s written all over my face.