On Saturday, I arrived at the depot at dawn. I flashed my lanyard at the guard and parked my ute in the area designated for competitors. I hopped out and wandered over to the Junk Toss launch zone and looked out and saw acres and acres of landfill. The sun crept above the horizon, and its first rays warmed my chilled face. A faint breeze stirred. I closed my eyes and inhaled deep and long. I am in the Lord’s own country, I thought, at one with nature and waste. God, how I love the smell of refuse in the morning. I craned my ears, hoping to hear a chopper or two swirl over, but all I heard were the dulcet warble of a magpie greeting a new day and a freight rig roaring down Kidman Way.
After lunch, the heats for my event were held.
I suppose I should give you a heads-up on my event. I’m competing in the Open Junk Toss. It’s the oldest event in the Games’ history, having been included every year since Garbage Games I, not like some events that have come and gone. It’s a simple sport. Competitors choose a random jumbo garbage bag—filled with waste and tied with a bag twist—and launch it from the launch zone into the junk zone. Each competitor gets five throws. If the garbage bag is not airborne when it passes over the launch line or if the bag strikes or goes over the wire fence that guards either side of the junk zone, the toss is ruled a foul.
The heats didn’t go quite as I planned. There were twenty tossers; only six would proceed to the final. With Chocka Williams absent, I got a bit cocky as I thought I was a shoo-in for the final six. I had my secret weapon, but I wanted to keep my powder dry and save it for the final.
There’d been talk about that the eastern-bloc councils had stacked their teams this year. There were all sorts of rumours swirling about: that these councils had imported ‘garbos’ on a Visa 482 despite them having never lifted a rubbish bin in their lives; about these councils granting staff time off in lieu to attend high-altitude training camps, employing high-performance sports scientists to introduce leading-edge technology to ensure their garbos peaked at the Games, and, worse of all, these councils paying their competing garbos to not collect garbage but spend all day pumping iron in the gym and all night listening to sports psychologists whisper psycho-babble in their ears. All paid for by the unknowing ratepayer.
On Saturday afternoon, as I walked about and greeted my fellow competitors with a ‘G’day’ and a handshake, I thought, what a load of rubbish. To me, they were just a regular dump of garbos, strict amateurs who, like me, competed for love, for family and for council. Why, even the muscle-bound bloke in the black hoodie and wearing sunglasses sitting above a bristly barber-quartet moustache, and who crushed my hand when we shook, seemed friendly enough. He said with a deep, deep voice that his name was Shane Mountebank.
Shane proved to be the man to beat. All five of his throws annihilated Chocka Williams’ world record. I’ll admit Shane’s performance rattled us all, and I put in a sub-par effort. Even my best toss wasn’t good enough, for that only netted me seventh place. I left the launch zone with slumped shoulders, and when I sat down on the bench, I buried my face in my towel and cursed my cockiness. To come all this way, to have my family and workmates’ undying support, to be so arrogant as not to use my secret weapon, and then to choke. How could I look my family, my workmates and the Smithfield ratepayers in the eyes ever again?
Chocka Williams wandered over and gave me a pat on the shoulder. Geez, that bar wall’s going to be crowded. He smiled and said, ‘Well done, mate, you’ve made the final.’ I looked up at him and shook my head. He grinned like a lottery winner as he pointed at someone. Shane.
‘She’s out,’ Chocka said. ‘Pumped to the eyeballs on ’roids.’
Then it clicked. It was the moustache that fooled me, for behind it paced a raging cow with bloodshot eyes, a foaming mouth and barely a bulge in her Lycra shorts. No need to confirm the lab results; there paced a drug cheat.
I was in! Sixth spot in the final! Ossie! Ossie! Ossie! Oi! Oi! Oi! Doing the green and gold proud.
***
On Saturday night, I slept under the stars in the back of the ute—not because I’m much of a stargazer but to save my legs for the big final. Cuddling up to Sheila in the Jayco on the night before competing was a big no-no. It took all my willpower to stay outside as Sheila cooed sultry sweet nothings from within, but once I’d bunged Kleenex in my ears, I snuggled up inside my sleeping bag and slept like the dead.
I woke on Sunday morning feeling confident.
The final was the last event of the Games, and it was up to me to bring home gold for Smithfield. The six finalists gathered at the waiting bench. We each drew a numbered bag-tie from the head official’s hand to determine the order of competing. I drew a six, the last to throw in each round, behind the raging-hot favourite, Dross Wilson.
But fate dealt me a shitty hand, for having watched Drossy launch record toss after record toss, I fouled my first four throws. A whirly whirly sprung up out of nowhere and pushed my first toss left and into the perimeter fence. My bag burst on my second toss, leaving its contents and my fading hopes strewn across the launch zone. My third toss, launched with a sweet click of my wrists, flew miles beyond the Games record, and I broke into a celebratory jig, but the red flag rose and my hopes crashed, for an official fouled me because of an illegal tail wind. And just before I released my fourth toss, a fly flew up my nose, and my bag sailed high and far but wide and exploded when it landed on the judges’ table, prompting yells of ‘Foul’ from the gunge-splattered officials.
***
So here I stand. Only one toss remains to determine the gold. My final toss. My last chance. My moment for Games glory. It is time. Time to reveal my secret weapon.
Now, I know I went on before about all those rumours about rule-bending I’d heard, and how I thought they were a load of rubbish. Well, I’ll let you in on a little secret. I’d been working on a little innovation myself. You see, I met a mate of mine, Artie, down at the pub a couple of months ago, and we got talking about this and that, and we ended up chatting about the upcoming Games and my chances of capturing that elusive gold. He told me he had a mate who was a mate of a mate of a bloke down at Glad. He worked in research, and Artie gave me this bloke’s number so I could have a deep-and-meaningful with him.
So I gave him a buzz, and the next thing I knew, he’s giving me the cook’s tour of the manufacturing plant. After, we got down to business, and as I described the Junk Toss, he pulled out this huge whiteboard and scribbled down formulas and drew arrows and curved lines and punched numbers into his computer. He ummed and ahhed and said, ‘Leave it with me. I’ll call you in a couple of weeks.’
Sure enough, two weeks later on the knocker, he phoned me and said, ‘Mate, it’s done.’ The secret weapon. We met at the depot on a Sunday afternoon and put the weapon to the test. It worked perfectly, every time.
I was wrapped. I said, ‘How much?’ He said, ‘Nothing.’ I said, ‘Bullshit.’ He said, ‘No bullshit.’ He told me he’d done it for free, and all he wanted me to do was shoot a commercial to promote the weapon straight after the Games. He even said he’d pay me. I told him, ‘No way, I’m strictly an amateur.’ He said, ‘OK, I respect your integrity. How about we put the money towards this year’s Smithfield Garbos’ Christmas party?’ Look, I’m normally a man of principle, but only up to a certain point. And that point had been breached.
I shot the commercial under bright lights and even got to keep the singlets and shorts I acted in. Later, I had to let Sheila in on the secret weapon because I came home with make-up and lipstick on my singlet.
I’ll admit technology is changing our industry, mainly for the better, but sometimes I feel we’re losing touch with the ratepayer. No one leaves a six-pack out at Christmas anymore; I guess everyone’s lives are too busy. We’ve all got our deadlines, our priorities, but when I feel the need to slow down a little, I’ll hop down off the truck and stand a wheelie bin upright or push it inside the gate for the oldies. It’s them folks that made this country of ours so great, and it’s my little way of saying thank you. Besides, it’s nice to feel the rub of a wheelie bin handle on my hands every once in a while.
***
The marshal calls me to the launch zone for my final toss. I place my tracksuit pants on the bench. I stand and pause. The crowd’s hubbub quells to anticipatory silence. Still I pause. Drossy gives me a strange look. I return him a wink, then crouch and remove my steel-capped boots and work socks. I walk barefoot to the zone, pause and look out over the dump towards the horizon. The moment has arrived. My moment. My date with destiny and Junk Toss immortality. And I am ready.
I pick up the last garbage bag and test its weight in my hand. Turning, I carry the bag away from the launch zone, beyond the benches, beyond the warm-up area, beyond the medal podium, until I reach the car park fence. I turn again. Thirty metres separate me from the launch zone.
I place the garbage bag on the ground at my feet and remove my tracksuit top, only to pause when it covers my head. I wiggle within, finish its removal and let my arms drop to my sides. The crowd gasps as one, for they see a revolution in the sport of Junk Tossing. Before them stands a barefoot garbo wearing a green and gold jumbo garbage bag that covers his head, arms, body and most of his legs. Only his feet and ankles, pallid from wearing steel-capped boots and socks, and the tanned flesh of his calves remain exposed.
It’s my secret weapon: the GladWrap. The ads hit the airwaves tonight.
I peer out through the thin eye-slits and rehearse my toss in my mind. I know I have done the hard work: the testing, the training, the preparation. I am ready.
Releasing a deep breath, I free my arms and pick up my garbage bag. I reach forward and pull out a flap built into the front of the GladWrap. It is a pouch, modelled on the Eastern Grey, able to house a dozen joeys but designed to carry a single object—a Junk Toss bag. I squeeze my garbage bag into the pouch. It fits as planned: tightly.
The crowd goes silent.
I take another deep breath and exhale and calm myself. I am ready.
I place my arms by my sides and take a tentative step forward. I follow it with another step, quicker and more confident this time. Then another, until step becomes walk becomes jog becomes run becomes sprint. The crowd blurs at my periphery, and its roar dissipates to silence in my ears as GladWrap and I become an all-consuming one.
As my foot hits the launch zone and I rise in the air, I know in years to come garbos will talk about this great day with veneration. Legend and myth will stoke the crowd attendance to swell from hundreds of actual spectators on the day to tens of thousands of self-proclaimed witnesses in the future. And just like those who saw the Fosbury Flop in Mexico City in 1968, they will say with misty-eyed reverence, ‘I was there that day. That day, I witnessed the very first Osbourne Toss.’
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