face in the windscreen, he holds up a beer can and points to it. Shall I? I can’t decide. Shall I? Shall I? Looks like I will. I get out of the car. Turns out his name is Frank. He’s a furniture polisher. The beer has been in the back of the van a bit long, but hey, this is better than frying in a line of cars that aren’t going anywhere. While we stand there drinking, the driver behind me gets out of his car and walks sweatily towards us. He wants to know if he can borrow a mobile. His battery is out. He’s late for a meeting and needs to send word. I give him mine. He turns away but we can hear him clearly. He very definitely sounds middle-management. The way he talks up the problem. For the benefit of the other motorists there’s a bit of posturing. His gestures are unequivocal. He cuts the air with his hand. He signs off with a Latin thrust of hand-in-the-air. He hands me back the mobile, and without any hesitation at all accepts a can of beer from Frank.What a day, he says. ‘Crazy,’ he says. ‘Absolutely crazy.’ His name is Graham—office systems. He says what that is but neither Frank nor I follow up with a question. We sip our beer and watch the traffic shuffle up one place in the outside lane.
Soon—well, we are onto our second beers by this time—a banged-up Subaru nudges forward. We raise our beer cans above our leery faces but our buffoonery barely registers with the man. His hands are stuck to the steering wheel as though he might be going somewhere. I don’t know why he can’t just abandon ship and slip out for one of Frank’s beers. We are all giving him jeering looks when his body slumps forward. Frank looks at me, and strokes his moustache. Graham calls out to him, ‘Hey fella. Oi.’ He taps on the passenger-side window. Nothing. He opens the door and leans in. Then he stands up and quietly closes the door after him. We watch him straighten a tie, watch him draw a deep breath. He says, ‘We have a dead man here.’
The traffic in our lane shuffles forward. The traffic banked up behind has just seen that fresh land opening up in front of Frank’s van and they start honking their horns.
So what we do is this. We push the dead man’s car to the side of the road in front of Frank’s van. I jump in my car and follow Frank up onto the shoulder. Graham parks behind me. We get out of our vehicles. Horns are blaring at us, at the dead man’s car holding things up. I try to copy Graham’s look of complete indifference. I notice Frank attempting the same. Neither of us are as convincing as Graham. He appears to be genuinely unmoved by the horn-blowing. We wonder whatwe should do next; there are obvious options and responsibilities, such as phoning the police or an ambulance, but is there any point just yet while the traffic is banked up? We can’t leave the dead man there on his own. So we pile into the banged-up Subaru. Frank sits in the front with the dead man. I sit in the back with Graham, all stomach and short knees. We talk about what to do. There’s not a lot we can do. We are stuck. Frank has a sound point though. We should try to find out the man’s name. Now Graham mutters negatively about tampering with dead bodies. Frank turns around to see what I think of that. Actually, I don’t have a problem. We’re not going to rob the man. We just need to know who he is. Then what happens is this: the man’s mobile phone rings. It’s on his person—possibly in the jacket pocket. Frank lets it ring. He waits for the sound of a voicemail message, then he plunges his hand into the dead man’s pocket. He’s clearly over the consultative thing. He retrieves the message and holds the phone up for me and Graham to listen to a woman who is obviously pissed off. ‘I waited for you by the gate. I can’t wait any longer. Katie’s show begins in ten minutes. I can see her and the other kids looking around for me. In case you’ve forgotten we’re at the park entrance.’ In a more
Soon—well, we are onto our second beers by this time—a banged-up Subaru nudges forward. We raise our beer cans above our leery faces but our buffoonery barely registers with the man. His hands are stuck to the steering wheel as though he might be going somewhere. I don’t know why he can’t just abandon ship and slip out for one of Frank’s beers. We are all giving him jeering looks when his body slumps forward. Frank looks at me, and strokes his moustache. Graham calls out to him, ‘Hey fella. Oi.’ He taps on the passenger-side window. Nothing. He opens the door and leans in. Then he stands up and quietly closes the door after him. We watch him straighten a tie, watch him draw a deep breath. He says, ‘We have a dead man here.’
The traffic in our lane shuffles forward. The traffic banked up behind has just seen that fresh land opening up in front of Frank’s van and they start honking their horns.
So what we do is this. We push the dead man’s car to the side of the road in front of Frank’s van. I jump in my car and follow Frank up onto the shoulder. Graham parks behind me. We get out of our vehicles. Horns are blaring at us, at the dead man’s car holding things up. I try to copy Graham’s look of complete indifference. I notice Frank attempting the same. Neither of us are as convincing as Graham. He appears to be genuinely unmoved by the horn-blowing. We wonder whatwe should do next; there are obvious options and responsibilities, such as phoning the police or an ambulance, but is there any point just yet while the traffic is banked up? We can’t leave the dead man there on his own. So we pile into the banged-up Subaru. Frank sits in the front with the dead man. I sit in the back with Graham, all stomach and short knees. We talk about what to do. There’s not a lot we can do. We are stuck. Frank has a sound point though. We should try to find out the man’s name. Now Graham mutters negatively about tampering with dead bodies. Frank turns around to see what I think of that. Actually, I don’t have a problem. We’re not going to rob the man. We just need to know who he is. Then what happens is this: the man’s mobile phone rings. It’s on his person—possibly in the jacket pocket. Frank lets it ring. He waits for the sound of a voicemail message, then he plunges his hand into the dead man’s pocket. He’s clearly over the consultative thing. He retrieves the message and holds the phone up for me and Graham to listen to a woman who is obviously pissed off. ‘I waited for you by the gate. I can’t wait any longer. Katie’s show begins in ten minutes. I can see her and the other kids looking around for me. In case you’ve forgotten we’re at the park entrance.’ In a more
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