Kitson's Mission

The second time I tried to get to work this morning I bumped into Michael Georgetti. I got off the tram I was on when I saw him, because it was only traveling as far as the casino, and I was heading to work in St Kilda on the 96 tram line, quite a way further than the tram I was traveling on could take me.

Michael was sitting at the stop on the corner of Elizabeth and Bourke streets smoking a cigarette, and drinking a take away coffee with Vittorio written on the front in brown flowing script.

He was on the way to an artist run gallery on King St to set up his exhibition, opening tomorrow night, and I, as I explained to him, was trying to get to the Prince of Wales where I work and where I had met him, for the second time today.

I had woken up hours before my alarm was to play it's calypso tune this morning, got up, and had breakfast while sitting at my kitchen table writing about Daniel Kitson's stand up show I'd been to last night.

I was particularly entranced by the economy of Kitson’s narrative offerings, effortlessly belying the rich verbosity and deliberate tangentiality of their delivery. What could be summarised as a few tales about his travels on a bus, and a woman walking down the street at 3.15am bleeding down her legs, was exponentially more dense, and took an infinite number of routes, and several hours to deliver.

I sat in my seat holding my breath as Kitson spoke, not wanting to interrupt his flow, or jinx him, and also as a mark of respect for his brilliance, my reaction to most things of incredible wonderment.

And so after I had written for a time, and eaten my muesli, I then showered, and dressed, at which time my boyfriend woke up and sat eating the breakfast I had prepared for him on my balcony.

We left my place together, he out the front door, and me out of the car-park where I went to collect the dvd’s I planned to return after work. I called out to him, "See you tonight," as we parted, and began my journey which was to eventually find me at the tram stop where I realised I didn’t have my tram ticket and had left it in my jeans pocket.

Not having coins on me, and only a $50 note - too big to be able to change with another passenger - I went into the closest 7/11 to pre-purchase a ticket.

I could see the tram arriving at the Bourke St stop and so explained to the man working that I was in a bit of a hurry because my tram was there.

I can't say for sure what he was thinking, if he moved deliberately slower because I had asked of him the opposite, or if he was a slow man who took a long time to process information, and even longer to translate the information into coordinated movement, but I stood watching him look at me looking first at him, then at my tram still allowing passengers on and off at the stop, then back at him.

He chatted for a few moments to his co-worker, then put away some chewing gum, and then began leafing through the ticket box moving some cards into different sections as though this was the perfect time to do his stock-take and spring cleaning.

"My tram is here," I heard myself say quietly as though he had asked, "I'm on my way to work." And when he continued shuffling the tickets in the box I said, "I'm kind of in a hurry, can I please have my ticket." To which he began shouting, "You! You be quiet. You stupid girl, you idiot girl! Be quiet!"

"Please do not yell at me, I am not yelling at you," I said and turned my head to see my tram leaving the stop; I was no longer in a hurry.

"You fuck off. You not tell me. You fucking stupid girl."

His co-worker tried to apologise to me, or for him, and as soon as she said "Sorry, I'm so sorry," he started up again with, "You don't say sorry, I'm not sorry. You stupid fucking girl. I’m not sorry!”

I couldn’t hear any more and left the store because I was too close to tears and didn’t know how to respond without him realising how upset I was. For some reason at that time, this mattered to me more than responding.

I walked back along Swanston street, crying beneath my sunglasses, intending to go home and weep into my pillow for a week, but as I neared my home I decided it would be best not to let this overtake me, that the best thing for me, and the rest of my day, would be to go and have a quiet coffee and write in my journal.

And as if by way of divine reassurance, I entered the café and saw my boyfriend inside writing. And although I had stopped crying by that time, and felt slightly calmer and more settled, his kind eyes and gentle coos of "Are you ok? What happened?" set me off again and I crumbled into tears in his arms.

Daniel Kitson ended his show last night with a general message of hope- that humans are inherently good, and kind, and that there is a basic caring at the heart of most people, (even if it is secondary to the desire for chicken at 2.30am). My boyfriend is proof of that, so is Michael Georgetti, and even the apologetic lady working in the 7/11 that has to spend more time with the the mean 7/11 man than I would ever wish even my worst enemy, (incidentally the mean 7/11 man himself), to have to spend time with.

My second attempt to go to work was once again foiled as the driver explained he was only going as far as the Casino, but seeing Michael Georgetti made up for this, just as a my boyfriend’s arms had more than made up for being yelled at earlier.

There are small rewards and victories in life, even if they are preceded or disguised as set-backs and small defeats, like when you win a game of pool your boyfriend has allowed you to cheat in, or when you feel unconquerable for throwing a scrunched up piece of paper into a bin quite far away and getting it in.

Even when no-one else is around to see.