It’s Labour Day weekend, and I’m sitting at the end of the competitors’ bench. Dross Wilson just broke the Games record for the Open Junk Toss, and the crowd’s going ballistic. I’ll admit it was a mighty heave.
Drossy comes back to the bench and gives me the old ‘what do you think of that, shit-for-brains?’ wink.
I swat a fly and return a smile.
I stand and remove my tracksuit pants. It is time. Time for my last toss. Time for my last chance. Time for me to capture the gold medal that’s eluded me for two decades.
You’d think I’d be nervous, having seen Drossy produce a record toss, but I’m as cool as an esky at the annual Garbos’ Picnic because I’ve destiny on my side. That, and my secret weapon.
***
I’ve been competing at the Garbage Games for twenty years. Ever since I started as a garbo at Smithfield Council. Straight out of school I was. My mum wanted me to be a plumber, but the thought of being knee-deep in shit all day left me cold. Besides, I ain’t that good at maths, and having to measure all that pipe, day in, day out, would have done my head in.
No, it was a garbo’s life for me. After all, it’s in my blood. My dad was a garbo for forty years, as was my pop and my dad’s pop. All for Smithfield. Some of you older folk might have seen my dad in some of those Chesty Bonds ads on TV, grinning at the viewers with a singletted chest of steel, a clean-shaven jaw of granite and a quiff of gold.
None of my forefathers competed at the Games. My dad was selected one year but pulled out because my sister arrived. He was tickled pink the first time I phoned and told him I’d be wearing the Smithfield green and gold. He said to me—and I could hear him choking back tears over the phone—he said, ‘Rufus Osbourne, my son, I’m so proud of you.’
That’s me. Rufus Osbourne. So’s my dad. And his dad. And his dad.
***
As I fold my tracksuit pants, a chant goes up in the crowd.
‘Ossie! Ossie! Ossie! Oi! Oi! Oi!’
It’s my workmates from Smithfield Council: Majid, Usman, Taylar, Johnno and the Svensson triplets. They’re wearing green and gold singlets and the cardboard wheelie-bin hats Sheila whipped up at home before we headed up here for the long weekend. Sheila’s my wife. She painted the bins a municipal green and cut viewing holes through each lid. Smart woman, my Sheila, to have them stand out in the crowd and be sunsmart.
Each crew member has a letter on the front of their singlet. A big capital letter the same colour as the bins. I run my eyes down the line and spell out ‘SSOOGIE’. How can you lose if you’ve got the world’s best support team on board, even if they’re a tad dyslexic? I’ll forgive the typo. It’s been a big weekend for them. They won bronze in the 2K endurance trial. They’d of got silver if Sven Svensson hadn’t pulled a hammy within sight of the finish line.
They were wrapped to win the bronze, which was the first medal ever won by Smithfield Council. I tell ya, it brought a tear to my eye as I watched them on the podium receiving their medals—made of 100% recyclables, of course—and belting out the national anthem arm in arm.
***
I look to the left of the crew, and there’s my Sheila wearing this cute little T-shirt with ‘Team Osbourne’ stretched to bursting point across her chest. If I wasn’t a happily married man of 22 years, I’d wander over and ask for her phone number.
She gives me a wave, and I smile back. What a lass. Stood by me through thick and thin. Rising with me for all those early shifts, preparing my lunches with those little ‘Rush home, Bear’ notes wrapped around a Monte Carlo, washing and ironing my singlets and shorts—all without a word of complaint despite me coming home smelling like a tip. She’s never spluttered nor gagged. Not once. Personally, I suspect she has no sense of smell, but she’ll never admit it.
Her friends ribbed her a bit while we courted, but she soon put them in their place. We met at the local hardware. She was dithering over a kitchen tidy bin when I walked down her lane, holding a pair of steel-capped boots. She asked me if I worked there and, if so, could I give her some advice. I was happy to oblige, and the next thing we knew, we’d tied the knot and were spending the Queen’s Birthday weekend honeymooning in a little caravan up in the Blue Mountains. Froze my nuts off, I did, but I barely noticed.
Every year on our wedding anniversary, Sheila gets up early, packs a hamper and a thermos and joins me on the Smithfield run. It’s our old stomping ground—where we grew up, courted and now live with our Deirdre and our Samuel. Sheila snuggles up next to me in the front cab, and we talk and laugh and reminisce. I even let her pull my levers.
Deirdre and Samuel wanted to come this weekend, but they couldn’t make it. Our Deirdre only commenced her hairdressing apprenticeship last month at a little salon down at our local shopping strip. Her boss said she could come, but Deirdre knocked back the offer. Said she couldn’t live with herself knowing all that hair was piling up on the salon floor. Yep, she’s been there a month, and she’s already in charge of waste management. A real chip off the old block. And she’s going to TAFE. First Osbourne to attend post-secondary education. She’s a great kid, so like her mother. She even gave me a buzz cut in our kitchen before Sheila and I headed off this weekend.
Samuel was set to come, but at the last moment he scored Saturday detention. Some little shit made a smart-arsed comment about what I do for a living, and good old Sam upheld the Osbourne honour with a left hook and followed by a right uppercut. His principal only caught the second half of the exchange, so Sam’s spending Saturday in a classroom.
I know the kids cop grief at school about me and what I do, but I also know they’re proud of me. I love them to bits. Last year, I rolled up unannounced to Deirdre’s classroom to sort out a bit of the bullying. I knocked on the classroom door and walked in. I saw Deirdre looking like a stunned beetroot, so I gave her a smile and a wave and spent the next hour giving her classmates an overview of the waste management industry—about how we’re an underappreciated yet essential service and how we do our bit for the environment. I even took time to demonstrate how they should separate their recyclables. And during that whole hour, the kids just sat there in silence and awe. They gave me a big clap at the end, and some even came up and thanked me and sought career advice.
That’s how Taylar ended up in our crew. She’s Deirdre’s best mate. She joined the council last December, and I’ve got to admit she’s a real trooper. Fitted in with the lads like she’d been born with steel-capped boots on. I give her a bit of ribbing occasionally, saying she’s breaking down the recyclable glass ceiling. I reckon once she’s off her Ps, she’ll get her own truck.
It’s been great having fresh blood. Working with the same crew, year in, year out, well, they can get a bit stale, a bit on the nose, if you know what I mean. Mind you, I’d walk in front of a garbage truck for any of them, but a little change every once in a while can freshen things up.
Taylar competed on Saturday and finished fourth in the Recyclables Sort. She would’ve medalled, but she scored a rogue nappy in her bin. She was a bit teary afterwards because she had her heart set on having her name on the honour board back at the Smithfield smoko room, and Sheila gave her a long, long hug. I told her, ‘Never mind, shit happens.’ I’m not sure that helped much.
***
This year, the Games are being held up the back of Bourke at the North Bourke Waste and Recycling Depot. Sheila and I rattled up the Mitchell Highway, towing our little Jayco pop-up behind the ute. Majid, Usman and Taylar followed us in a Smithfield garbage truck. We’re mighty pleased senior management is getting behind us this year. Things sure have settled down since the wage dispute and strike a few years back. It caused a huge stink at the time.
I drove to Dubbo, and then Sheila took over behind the wheel while I carbo-loaded in the passenger seat. We sure did chuckle when we saw the sign for Bogan Shire Council when passing through Nyngan.
We all took three days of annual leave this year so we could arrive at Dubbo on Wednesday. That way, we’d allow ourselves enough time to acclimatise to the time zone and do a walk-through of the event facilities.
The opening ceremony commenced at 9 am sharp on a coolish Friday morning at the Henry Lawson Memorial Oval. You should’ve heard how loud the crowd roared as we entered the oval, marching behind our truck. Taylar was our unanimous choice as flag-bearer, and the rest of us followed, decked out in our green and gold tracksuits and with our arms and legs pumping together in unison. I’d never been prouder to be a Smithfieldian than at that moment. I looked back and saw truck after truck driving onto the oval, each followed by a team of garbos waving little flags and smiling and recording proceedings on phones held high above their heads. Some even broke rank and ran up to the crowd and handed out what looked like bin liners.
When the last truck entered and parked, the teams lined up and the speeches started. First, the mayor of Bourke acknowledged the traditional landowners, and a local elder welcomed us with a smoking ceremony that left those in the crowd downwind coughing and spluttering. The Minister for Local Government and Essential Services stepped forward, and we gave him a bit of a boo, and he swatted away a dozen flies and launched into a spiel that went on and on. By the time he finished, most of us had our heads in our phones, updating our social media status.
When the mayor regained control of the microphone, she invited a competitor to the podium to take the Garbo’s Oath, and—blow me down—our Usman stepped up. Our Usman! The crafty bugger never let on. It was a first for Smithfield, and Usman read the Garbo’s Oath beautifully, enunciating his vowels as if he had the family silverware lodged up his backside.
As a competitor and an official raised the Games flag, our team locked arms and belted out the national anthem.
Later, after the opening ceremony finished, I bumped into Chocka Williams. He’s an absolute Games legend: six-time Open Junk Toss gold medallist, world record holder and my idol. I’m a bit embarrassed to admit this, but I’ve got a picture of him inside my locker at work from when he did the big spread in Waste Weekly a couple of years ago. I stammered out a ‘G’Day’, and he shook my hand. If I could, I wouldn’t wash my hand for a week, but that’s against OHS policy. He gave me a nod and called me ‘mate’, and my head tingled as he told me he was an official this year because he’d had a shoulder reconstruction late last year. He said he worked in middle management now. An absolute tragedy, that, losing a gun garbo on the front. What a waste!
Chocka wished me all the best and patted me on my shoulder. There’s no way I’ll be letting Sheila put that treasured tracksuit top through a spin cycle. Nope, I’m thinking I’ll frame that beauty and hang it, pride-of-place, above the bar at home.
martinsmithstories 