Partners in poverty

Press, 30 January 1984, Page 12

Partners in poverty

Helen Brown

The blue-suited waiter placed me at a table with a young, dark-haired man. That was all I noticed about him at first — and the fact that he had no food in front of him. I averted my eyes to the scenery skimming backwards outside the window. It would have been less disturbing to have taken a seat facing the front of the train. They call it the dining car, but it is really the snack bar on roller skates. Sandwiches in gladwrap, pies, salad rolls and booze in the evenings. Breakfast was more civilised with stewed fruit, toast and miniature boxes of rice bubbles on offer. There was a tiny gleam of respect in the waiter’s eye as he cocked his head and took my order for cereal, fruit and orange juice. He returned a few seconds later, placed the food in front of me and waited to be paid. I rustled through my purse for a $lO note I thought I had. It was not there. With a nasty, closingin feeling, I realised I had spent most of it on a com-ing-home present for our kid. My fingers fumbled over a small collection of silver worth about $2. I looked at the price list. My ears burned with embarrassment. “I’m sorry,” I told the waiter. “I can’t afford . . .”

His mouth went straight as a ruler. The respect faded to distant politeness. “. . . the orange juice.” I longed to remove my fingers from the bag, but they kept scratching around the seams for the godsend of a few extra coins. “Oh,” he said with a look cool enough to set ice cream. He swept the can of juice from under my nose — swiftly, in case I fell on it and devoured it before he could return it to safety. As I sifted out enough coins to pay for the rest, I seemed to shrink, my shoulders rounder than before. The waiter grew taller and squarer by the second. He took my money, refused to look me in the eye, and disappeared. I settled to the fruit and rice bubbles with more humility and gratitude than

I had felt for any breakfast before. “You’ve got three cents left,” said a voice. I looked up and saw the dark-haired young man across the table. He was a handsome Polynesian, about 17, with a silver ring through one ear. There was neither amusement nor compassion in his face. Simply a look of down-to-earth involvement. Resting between his elbows on the yellow formica table was a chequebook, well used. He had thrust it there like a sorrow, hoping, perhaps, if it stayed there long enough it might grow into something else. “I spent $350 last week,” he said looking glum. I tried a line that had worked on some friends a few days before. “More fun spending it than keeping it.” He didn’t think that was funny. In fact, it seemed to make him more depressed. “What did you spend it on?” He shrugged and glowered at me, an accusing mother figure. “Oh, this and that.” Suddenly remote, he gazed out the window and run a smooth brown hand over the shoulder of his tattered tee shirt. It had been a mistake to assume that our friendship went beyond normal courtesy. I suspected he had given some girl the time of her life during the past few days. Movies, McDonalds, space invader parlours. The works. He had not wanted to spoil it, seeming mean and counting cents. Assuming that the conversation was over, I took a large mouthful of cereal and tried not to look at the hills and houses going backward outside.

“Trouble is I didn’t keep a record on the butts,” he said. “I’m scared they’ll bounce them.” “Some banks don’t mind you having an overdraft,” I said. “They charge high interest for it.” “This one minds.” There was a sad wisdom in his eyes. Now I knew why he had been sitting there with nothing but a chequebook. The dining car was a place where you could make a cup of coffee last several stops, even after they have taken the empty cups away. The signs above our heads said “Please vacate seats promptly.” But if you were sitting there working through a banquet in your head, nobody seems to mind. For a while anyway. The waiter walked past and said “We’re closing people now.” We shuffled through to other carriages. “Good luck with your finances,” I said. He did not give me a smile, but stared moodily over my shoulder as if I was a stranger again.

Mutual financial embarrassment had brought us together. But as the train drew into the city, we knew our situations would soon be different.

I could not guess what lay ahead for him.

I half-hoped he would walk with me along the platform to seal our strange, brief friendship. But he sprang ahead without even looking back. As I followed the straggle of passengers looking for luggage, it occured to me that he had not smiled at me once.