We live in what may be one of the quietest streets in the world. Dogs sleep in the sun in the middle of the street … even the school bus has to drive around them.
Of course we know who our neighbours are — and we know their names. We know their dogs’ names, too. Like Mojo, the one who sleeps outside her house in the street. And Jumpie, who just wanders around checking that we are all OK.
We’ve been here 12 years. We like the quiet.
Not long ago, the people over the road moved away. New neighbours moved in the next week. There were so many of them. It was impossible to figure out, but there was a multitude of boys and girls — I thought some lived there, and some were visitors.
It was like the senior class from the local high school had transplanted itself to right across the street. And they all had their friends with them, and they all came in separate, rather loud, cars. They all shouted quite a lot, and their cars made our little lane into quite a busy street. This all woke the sleeping dogs, who retreated to their own homes.
One Saturday there was a party that started early in the afternoon. It ended up with more shouting and loud cars as all the people left somewhere round midnight. And then it got quiet. Everyone must have gone someplace else, leaving behind them just a mum and a dad and a few kids. The whole street, and all the dogs, breathed a collective sigh of relief and went back to sleep.
Until The Thursday Night. Raised voices. Breaking bottles. A scuffle out in the street. Silence.
I saw the kids a few days later, playing soccer on the front lawn. I think our mailbox and the driveway were the goal. They eventually moved so I could drive in, and a little later a guy came to apologise.
No apologies necessary. He and his friend are looking after the kids for a while –mum’s in drug rehab again, dad’s into violence and has now gone forever they hope — and the “uncles” are teaching the kids skateboarding, cricket and cooking.
Which brings me, in a convoluted sort of way, to work.
I really enjoy my job. I work with some really good, and occasionally, challenging people with various disabilities. So when Barry (not his real name) got evicted from his home, I turned to his support worker, Lawrence (not his real name either), to find him a new place to live. Nothing happened fast.
Nothing happened slowly either. So with eviction looming, I had a conversation with Lawrence. I was getting a little worried, so the conversation was perhaps a tad terse. I am an easy-going sort of guy, so when my wife, who had heard me talking went, “Oh boy … wow!” I went and made myself a cup of strong tea.
Lawrence called back. He’d found a room for Barry for a couple weeks in a local resort. Barry could afford it, and the website looked great. While I was on the phone, I was checking. It was a nudist resort! The rest of the conversation was short and to the point.
Then Barry called. He didn’t know about the nudist resort — thank goodness. He’s not too worried about this accommodation thing. He thinks he would be OK just living in the park.
How do you explain to a guy with an intellectual disability and schizophrenia that his idea is really not all that good? Sometimes you’ve just got to be straight. I was.
The day had started off OK. Then the phone had rung …
I needed retail therapy. I drove to town, and pretty soon I was home with a car full of groceries. I opened the hatch and looked at it all. It was a real struggle, but eventually I had everything in my arms … precariously balanced, eggs on top, but I think I was going to make it.
On reflection, my work weeks can sometimes be exactly like me with that pile of groceries – juggling people’s wants, needs and sometimes, demands. Sometimes I get pretty stressed and really want to say … something. I rarely succumb, and more often than not I tread softly. But I wonder about a bigger picture and what it might be. Then I come down to reality again.
It was a quiet voice right behind me that made me refocus. Just a little 8-year-old kid from over the road, with a drug-ravaged mum and a violent dad.
“Hey Peter … do you need a hand with your groceries?”
