ERROL PARKER | Editor-at-large | Contact
A Queensland Health worker, who does something with a computer in the department's building on Rorschach Street, felt the whoosh of air through the metro bowels this morning and experienced an ease that has become increasingly unfamiliar in recent years.
Smiling to himself, Mark Smith still can't believe how good that budget was, for people like him.
The clean, modern metro train whispered to a halt in front of him. One of the perks of living so close to the end of the line is that he almost always gets a seat. Just 97 metres above where he's sitting is his apartment. With his things in it.
A mid-tier road bike. A PlayStation. IKEA furniture.
On the way in to the office, he listens to Diary of a CEO and wonders which flavour of supermarket sushi he will get for lunch. The tuna, chicken schnitzel with avocado and mayo, or treat himself to salmon.
The train is starting to fill up now. There are now two other shoulders rubbing against each arm of his Ben Sherman button up. Two knees knocking against his navy chinos. Someone has stepped on his faux suede baby shit brown chukka boots. He's annoyed but not enough to do or say anything.
He's at the office.
He's 2 hours early to build up his flex leave. What he's doing in the 2 hours before 9, is known only to him and God. Some days, he plays Soccer Star and looks at homes in Betoota Grove he'll buy when he wins Oz Lotto or starts his own business, something to do with things he cares about like making sandwiches for homeless people.
Other days, he runs the Uber for cat sitters idea past an AI, which tells him he's onto something. He takes that little suck of serotonin.
A colleague walks in that he once tried to ask out for a drink. She said no. She doesn't even look at him anymore.
The tuna from the Woolworths Metro under their office was disappointing. The tuna itself was still frozen. He ate it standing up in the street with his bare fingers. Where people usually smoke.
He hears his colleagues marvel at Jim's budget. Finally, someone had to stand up to those small business owners, says one of them. Another remarks it's high time those greedy property investors got the fiscal sodomy they've richly deserved since Keating got booted to the curb. He nodded and agreed.
Alone in his cubicle at 3pm, he's done all his tasks for the day. He rocks back in his chair and smiles. Jim's giving him some free money when he does his tax. Not this time, but next time. 2027. He'll be 38 then. He's already spent the money in his head. New bike tyres and GTA6. If he gets a pay rise, he might even go to Japan.
The school bell has been replaced by seeing his direct manager leave at 3:30pm to collect her teenagers, who don't like getting the bus.
As he parks his arse on the metro home, Spotify suggests a band called Geese. He declines and instead goes back to his On Repeat playlist, made up exclusively of mashup remixes of once-popular songs from the mid-2000s. He marvels at the skill needed to transition Seven Nation Army into Kesha's TikTok. It makes him shake his head and giggle.
Other passengers think he's listening to a podcast.
He's home. Dinner is a My Muscle Chef skinless burrito. He eats it standing up in the kitchen with his AirPods in, listening to Skrillex for no reason.
After clicking through rubbish for 15 minutes, he chooses The Santa Clause with Tim Allen.
Before bed, he has a shower pull.
Somehow, he's able to go to sleep in less than 5 minutes. He doesn't dream, it's just black when he closes his eyes.
More to come.
