This story was first published in The Great Outdoors with the title Coming Home. An editor advised against using the title The Prodigal Son as it was too obvious. “Let the readers work it out for themselves.” As it turned out most readers didn’t recognise it as a retelling of the biblical parable of the prodigal son of Luke 15 or pick up the biblical motifs. You can’t assume bible knowledge these days.
For Brian life on the farm was all right when he was a kid but you grow out of climbing trees and catching eels. He was ready to take his chances in the city. He could have made the break sooner but it was worth hanging on for the money so he could do it properly. There wasn’t much money in working on the farm but there wasn’t much to spend it on either, living out in the sticks, half an hour’s drive from the nearest one horse town. He didn’t have to pay board so he’d managed to save a bit.
But it was the $50,000 he was waiting on. He didn’t even know about it till two years ago when Owen turned 18. Their parents had taken out endowment policies on both their sons, along with their own life insurance. The money could have been for Brian’s education but he had had enough of school too. Another alternative, as his father explained, was to convert the endowment policy to a life policy, as Owen had done. “You’ll never get a better deal on life insurance,” he counselled.
“You mean I get the money when I die,” said Brian.
“Well, your beneficiary would get it.”
“Who’s that?”
“Your wife, most likely.”
“But I’m not married.”
“You probably will be one day.”
“Maybe, maybe not. Anyway, that’s not much good to me now. I can just take the money, can’t I? I mean it is mine when I turn 18.”
Brian’s father conceded this was so and, from the sun baked veranda where they stood, he gazed across the flats to the olive grove and frowned at the distant hills. Magpies cackled in the macrocarpas and cicadas grated. Gump, the old Border Collie flopped languidly onto the worn clay in the shade of his kennel and jangled his chain as he scratched at his collar.
Owen was investing in the farm, making improvements and diversifying into cash crops, like the olive trees. It was understood that he would eventually take over the farm, and he was practically running it now. He was hard working and very capable. He was good with animals: horses, dogs, sheep, cattle. He could shear, hunt, butcher. All their meat came off the farm or, occasionally, out of the bush. Owen was the loyal son, responsible and clean living. His only apparent vice was swearing, obvious to anyone within earshot when he was working with the dogs.
Brian had become aware recently that his parents and others had some sort of expectations for his future, including this idea that he would marry Fiona Lougher. Owen had recently become engaged to Ruth Meyer. The Meyers were another farming family in the same district and Ruth was their only daughter. It was almost like an arranged marriage between land-owning families back in the middle ages.
Brian’s parents were very approving of Ruth and had similar feelings about Fiona, the Loughers’ only daughter. Fiona was Brian’s girlfriend all right, his only ever girlfriend, in fact, but that didn’t mean he automatically wanted to marry her, for God’s sake. The fact was there was a very limited choice of mates in the area. But why should the choice be limited to this tiny community? There were plenty other fish in the sea. Fiona herself seemed to be making certain assumptions and her resolve to “save herself for marriage” had become a source of contention in their relationship.
Not that it mattered now, now that Brian was on his way to Auckland with over $50,000 in the bank. His father stood by the ute and waved him off, by the few sad shops where the tar seal started, or ended. The whole scene receded through the back window of the bus and more brown paddocks undulated past the side window before giving way to larger towns and finally the big smoke.
First stop was Gary’s place. It’s not like Brian was totally unprepared; he had his accommodation jacked up. Gary was an old school mate who had shifted to Auckland a few years ago when his parents sold their farm and bought a small business. They were tough times and they didn’t want to be slogging it out in their old age.
It doesn’t take long to settle into one room with one set of belongings and Brian was off downtown next morning to the motorbike shop and the bank. He could hardly contain his excitement. A single guy doesn’t really need a car but he needs to get around and if you can handle a farm bike on dirt tracks a decent sized street bike on sealed roads is no sweat. He could easily afford a good bike, and had decided on a Kawasaki Ninja. Not a new one but new enough, plus a helmet and some leathers and still money in the bank. He didn’t have to be in a hurry to find a job. He cruised around town and he could take a trip back to the farm any time.
Gary was on the dole and a bit behind with the rent since his last flatmate had left owing rent. So Brian turning up was a bit of a godsend for Gary. He was an old mate with money, needing a place to stay and didn’t mind helping out with rent in arrears and heading off the repo man for the 49 inch widescreen.
“Why don’t you just go on the dole till something else turns up,” Gary advised. “It’ll keep the money coming in.”
WINZ1 was pretty straightforward: just filling in forms, answering nosy personal questions and some questions about work experience.
“What else have you done besides farm work?” the interviewer wanted to know.
“Nothing, really.”
Brian would have to show he was looking for work and then if after two weeks… Were they going to find him a job on a farm in the city? Report in every four weeks. Simple. Work and Income was a place where people filled in forms and waited. It was crowded with people waiting, mostly young people, looking bored and irritated. It was a warm humid day and Brian’s back stuck to the back of the vinyl chair through his T shirt while he waited for his interview. The interview was a brief formality, checking forms and he was finally out of there.
1 Work and Income New Zealand (Dept. of Social Development)
Brian did look through the Situations Vacant section of the Herald but most of the jobs demanded qualifications or experience he didn’t have. He applied for a job as a builder’s labourer, but so did a lot of other men and a couple of women. At least he could say he’d applied.
“This calls for a celebration,” Gary announced, “a housewarming. We can sink some piss here on Saturday night and you can meet some of the guys.”
“And some of the sheilas,” Gary added.
“God, I haven’t heard that for a while. Don’t say sheilas at the party. They’ll call you a hick or something.”
Brian didn’t mind shouting a few crates of beer. After all, he was the one with the money, and Gary was keeping $100 to buy a deal. Brian was surprised at how small a $100 deal was, and disappointed that the effects of smoking it were also rather small. Still, he did enjoy getting drunk and relaxing into his new home with young people who liked to let their hair down.
The music was loud, aggressive rock or heavy metal, the sort of stuff he’d picked up on FM but no one else at home could stand to listen to. The TV was going too. Some of the guys sat and watched Gary’s porno DVDs. Some of the girls too. You couldn’t hear them above the music and the rest of the noise but, as Brian later discovered, the dialogue was pretty minimal and irrelevant. He watched and was careful not to show he was a bit shocked by what he saw. He didn’t know you could just go into a shop and hire such things for $14. Watch. Laugh it off. Don’t say sheilas. Be cool.
Going to the pub became a routine and sometimes Gary and Brian would go from the pub to a massage parlour. This seemed a sensible arrangement: a sexual outlet without emotional hassles, no attachments, complications or demands, except money, of course. But then it lacked… warmth or something.
The money dribbled away bit by bit at the pub and by larger chunks on the occasional massage with extras, but Brian had started getting the dole. Gary usually made his payments last from Thursday to Thursday, or not quite till Thursday when there was another tinny to buy. He rolled up a joint on a quiet Sunday morning at the flat, just the two of them and Metallica on the stereo. Brian got a good rush this time, unexpectedly. The music wafted round his face in sensuous waves, almost lifting him out of the tattered old armchair.
“Do you ever get homesick?” Gary’s voice drifted up casually from the well of the other armchair and his legs hung limply over the arm. “Ever miss the farm?”
Brian was suddenly aware of the contrast of Gary’s languor and his own feeling of exhilaration. “Not really. Not at the moment anyway.”
Brian hadn’t given the family much thought. What would they be doing now? Sunday morning. They’d be at church. He used to go to church with them just to keep them happy and because there was nothing else to do. Thank God he was now spared the boredom of listening to Pastor Lougher raving on and singing dreary hymns. Now, if church was like this he’d be happy to go.
Brian had phoned his parents to let them know all was well and they had sent him a letter, in a tube with a poster, as a housewarming present, a picture of Jesus, with his flowing hair, his beard and his eyes gazing up to heaven. They never give up. He tossed the poster into his wardrobe and shut the door. But three days later he brought it out and pinned it on the blank wall opposite Gary’s poster of Buddha. Brian took another toke on the joint and Jesus’ face seemed to glow as he looked at it now, but then so did Gary’s.
“I sometimes think about our old farm,” said Gary. “It was a good farm; good fertile soil and lush native bush up the back. There was a little clearing by a stream I used to go to; a nice sunny, sheltered spot. It would have been perfect for growing dope.”
Brian got a call from WINZ to say he should report to Elders for a job interview and then he found himself behind a counter selling fencing supplies and stock food to farmers having a day in the city. It paid a bit better than the dole and it was easy, though boring, work. It was a struggle at first getting up at 7:30. To think he used to get up at 5:30 to do the milking. Farmers were the same everywhere and he found them easy enough to deal with. One day a customer asked about solar powered electric fence energisers. Brian knew there were none in the shop but he remembered seeing them in another shop in town and he was able to direct him there.
The manager was not happy about this. “We could have got one in for him,” he said.
“But this way he can get what he wants today,” said Brian.
“That’s not the point. You should have some loyalty to the firm.”
“But this isn’t even a New Zealand company. It’s Australian.”
The manager was unhappy about Brian’s attitude, not only over this incident it turned out, but generally he thought Brian was too casual and could be making more sales. Also, too casually dressed and too often late for work. He must have been saving it up. Brian didn’t like the manager’s attitude either and told him he could stick the job.
There was always the dole. When Brian went back to WINZ, however, he was informed he was no longer eligible for the unemployment benefit since he had quit the job they had found for him. Now it was Gary’s turn to carry Brian until he could find another job. They were sometimes short of food on Tuesdays and Wednesdays but they got by. There was usually enough money for beer on Fridays and Saturdays and the occasional tinny.
Brian was smoking dope more often with Gary and sometimes on his own. It gave him a buzz every time now but never quite like that first rush, no matter how much he smoked. Maybe that was why he was smoking more, trying to recapture that feeling. It was harmless enough, not as though it was addictive, but it did leave him feeling a bit drained some days. Money became scarcer and the widescreen was gone, but Brian still had the Kawasaki. He would never part with that.
Brian eventually got a job at a restaurant, operating dishwashers and scrubbing pots. It was a part-time job in the evenings and the pay wasn’t that much but it was better than nothing. It was quite a flash restaurant with expensive meals and the food was good, but probably no better than his mother’s cooking when it came down to it. He was surprised at the amount of food that came back to the kitchen, to be scraped into the pig bins and he began helping himself to it when no one was looking. Well, every job had to have some perks.
The job enforced new patterns on Brian’s life, particularly disrupting his social life and he got into the habit of sleeping till midday. One Saturday night Gary came home from the pub with some friends and friends of friends for a bit of a rage up, which was in full swing when Brian came home from work. Brian ripped into the booze, the dope and the food as though he was making up for lost time and he was soon staggering off to the toilet to vomit. Raucous laughter rang in his ears and he could hear Gary’s voice saying, “He’s calling Ruth on the big white telephone.”
The party went on louder and later than usual but Brian missed most of it. When he finally finished retching he shambled to his room and collapsed on his bed, which meant the couple in the bed had to vacate. He fell asleep instantly and woke up late in the morning, feeling cold, despite being fully clothed.
His head throbbed as he got groggily to his feet. At least he wasn’t the only one; someone had vomited in the bath. In the living room and kitchen the air was rank with stale beer and smoke. Every surface of table, bench and shelf was strewn with cans, bottles, food scraps, butts, roaches. There was a broken glass bong on the floor amongst other debris and soggy patches of spilled beer on the carpet. There was no one else about except some stranger sound asleep on the sofa.
Someone had had a go at Brian’s poster with a black marker pen; a crudely drawn pair of horns on Jesus’ head and scribbled obscenities, the least offensive of which was “Jesus sux.” Why? Why just Jesus? The Buddha poster had not been touched. Brian kicked a path back to his bed and lay face down, overwhelmed by a dark and baffling despondency.
Brian continued working at the restaurant and began to get sick of it. It wasn’t that he didn’t like work; he just preferred to work during the day and working outdoors. Even farm labouring wasn’t so bad, really. He eventually decided it was time to go home for a visit and he called to say he was coming. He decided to break the routine he’d got into and leave early in the morning. He would turn a few heads in the town when he cruised through on the Kawasaki.
A couple of hours out of the city he stopped to gas up and as he was leaving the petrol station a car blocked his path and two men jumped out and forced him off the bike. The Kawasaki could easily have outrun the old Ford but it was too late to get away and one of the guys was prodding him in the chest with a screwdriver. “Take off the helmet,” he ordered, “and the pack, the gloves, the jacket, the boots.” Then they sped away, one in the car and one on the bike. Brian felt cold and kind of naked without the leather jacket as he stood watching the bike till it was just a dot in the distance. His cell phone was in the pack so he rang the police from the service station and gave them the rego numbers of the bike and the car. Now what? Another car pulled up at the pumps and he asked for a lift. He could still make it home hitching. He didn’t feel much like going back to the flat; he had nothing of any value there anyway.
It was a slow journey but the elderly couple who picked Brian up took him about half way home and he had to walk through the town to the outskirts to get another ride. He kept to the berm where ever he could but he cut his foot on some glass in the grass. He waited at the roadside and eventually an old Valiant pulled up. There were three young guys smoking dope, or ganja, as they called it. They passed the joint to Brian and he said, “No, better not. I’m going home and I want to be straight.” He couldn’t avoid the effects altogether, however, as the car filled up with smoke.
They got to chatting a bit and Brian told them about getting his bike stolen. “Whoa, that really sucks,” They all commiserated. “Some asshole just up and rips off your bike. What a bummer!”
It was just getting dark when Brian made it into the town and there was virtually no chance of hitching any further. He didn’t fancy walking in the cold and dark over gravel roads in his
T shirt and bare feet so he went to the Loughers to ring home. He hoped his father wouldn’t mind picking him up and taking him back. He left bloody footprints on the floor as he walked inside and Fiona washed and bandaged his wounded foot. Dear, sweet, kind Fiona. Of course, he had to explain why he’d arrived as he had and the Loughers made little comment about his misfortune. Fiona just asked how long he’d be staying and Brian said he wasn’t sure; he’d have to see how things went at home.
Brian’s dad arrived very promptly considering he was usually such a slow driver and it was now quite dark. There was a Swandri and a pair of gumboots in the ute for Brian. The reception at home was surprisingly warm. Brian’s mother hadn’t embraced him like that since he was a child. His parents were full of sympathy, even about the bike. Only Owen made the obvious remark about being foolish about not getting around to insuring it. Owen thought his parents were making altogether too much fuss over Brian’s homecoming. There would be a special dinner tomorrow with roast lamb, Brian’s favourite. It would be a lamb off the farm and Owen begrudgingly agreed to take care of it. He went off to his room muttering, “Christ Almighty, a bloody lamb just for Brian.”