I
just answered a phone call from John from Habitat Hostel in St Kilda,
John was my contact down at Habitat during my year as a tour guide
for Peek Tours – the best job I've ever had. He was calling me to
ask how the tours were going... at least, I think he was, I didn't
really get the gist of what he was calling about as our conversation
was cut short when I told him that Peek Tours no longer does the free
tour. We got edged out by the competition ('I'm Free Tours'
/petulantspitting)
and had to shut up shop. This would be our last phone call, oh the
mildly shocking emotion.
The first time I met John I didn't really meet him, and for the first months of our relationship (is that the right word? Friendship? Not quite... professional relationship is too long, relationship is too... gay?) he existed to me only as a number saved in my phone: 'John – Habitat'. I would call him on Friday mornings when the groups he chaperoned on that day each week were late, or failed to arrive at all. “Anyone for the tour today dude?”
“Nah, no one was interested.” He would say.
“Aaite, cool. Catcha later.” And we would hang up. Click.
Our tour company suffered from a severe lack of promotional funds, and slowly but surely we were pushed from first to second position in the free tour market by I'm Free, but Fridays were as close as we had to a sure day of at least ten people. John – Habitat brought groups every week of fun tourists and backpackers, and after a while he started hanging out whenever I was on and chatting for five or ten minutes while his group lingered in the background acting awkward and not knowing to do with themselves. He'd usually ask my how my comedy was going and what I was up to, and I'd tell him, and then tell him my latest interesting story of some weirdo on the tour, or some shitty heckler at a show. Once a scary-looking, bedraggled homeless guy approached me in the Block Arcade while I was talking to a group of fifteen or so and yelled almost incomprehensibly; “LIAR! FUCKEN LIARRRR!” My group were fairly shocked and taken aback, and looked to me to resolve the tension and extricate us from the situation, I turned to them and replied:
“Okay guys, this is Dave, he's going to be one of our new guides but he's still training and learning the ropes, so everyone say 'Hey Dave!'”
I was pretty happy with that.
Whenever we talked on Friday mornings the conversations never strayed far from basic, surface level chatter, but I always liked how John – Habitat hung around for a little rather than bailing straight away. Maybe his job back at the hostel was a little boring, or maybe I was a little boring and he just felt obliged to make idle banter? Or maybe his job was great, but he just enjoyed talking to people. Or maybe he didn't work for Habitat at all? But was just a strangely motivated homeless man who would drag tourists who seemed lost from the streets, round them up, and take them to a free tour under the guise of working for an established hostel in St Kilda. Maybe, but probably not.
It's weird to think about how many people we meet in just one day, how many people you say “hi” to, how many people you make eye contact with, how many people you walk past on the street and share nothing but the air of an artificial city and the harsh streets covered in crushed-up rocks and chemicals. There are a lot of them. Our days are all a constant parade of changing faces dancing in and out of our tiny little personal worlds, some of them stay for a while, some of them leave before we learn their names. John – Habitat was a small part of my life for a year, and when I told him that Peek Tours was no longer running, we both understood that our professional relationship was about to come to an end.
I am very quick to attach undue meaning and emotion to these kinds of tiny events that, much like the aforementioned faces, crop up hundreds of times in every day. When we hung up the phone, I couldn't resist pointing out the harsh reality of this particular goodbye. What does it mean? I knew you for five minutes, every Friday for a year. Is that significant in any way? I'll probably forget your name in another year. Although John is a pretty easy name to remember... but then, it's John. Easy to forget too.
“I'll see you around them man... probably never.” he said to me as our conversation wound down and we prepared to return to our existences.
“Yeah man, have a good life.”
(together) “Haha...” Click.
Peace, Taco.
The first time I met John I didn't really meet him, and for the first months of our relationship (is that the right word? Friendship? Not quite... professional relationship is too long, relationship is too... gay?) he existed to me only as a number saved in my phone: 'John – Habitat'. I would call him on Friday mornings when the groups he chaperoned on that day each week were late, or failed to arrive at all. “Anyone for the tour today dude?”
“Nah, no one was interested.” He would say.
“Aaite, cool. Catcha later.” And we would hang up. Click.
Our tour company suffered from a severe lack of promotional funds, and slowly but surely we were pushed from first to second position in the free tour market by I'm Free, but Fridays were as close as we had to a sure day of at least ten people. John – Habitat brought groups every week of fun tourists and backpackers, and after a while he started hanging out whenever I was on and chatting for five or ten minutes while his group lingered in the background acting awkward and not knowing to do with themselves. He'd usually ask my how my comedy was going and what I was up to, and I'd tell him, and then tell him my latest interesting story of some weirdo on the tour, or some shitty heckler at a show. Once a scary-looking, bedraggled homeless guy approached me in the Block Arcade while I was talking to a group of fifteen or so and yelled almost incomprehensibly; “LIAR! FUCKEN LIARRRR!” My group were fairly shocked and taken aback, and looked to me to resolve the tension and extricate us from the situation, I turned to them and replied:
“Okay guys, this is Dave, he's going to be one of our new guides but he's still training and learning the ropes, so everyone say 'Hey Dave!'”
I was pretty happy with that.
Whenever we talked on Friday mornings the conversations never strayed far from basic, surface level chatter, but I always liked how John – Habitat hung around for a little rather than bailing straight away. Maybe his job back at the hostel was a little boring, or maybe I was a little boring and he just felt obliged to make idle banter? Or maybe his job was great, but he just enjoyed talking to people. Or maybe he didn't work for Habitat at all? But was just a strangely motivated homeless man who would drag tourists who seemed lost from the streets, round them up, and take them to a free tour under the guise of working for an established hostel in St Kilda. Maybe, but probably not.
It's weird to think about how many people we meet in just one day, how many people you say “hi” to, how many people you make eye contact with, how many people you walk past on the street and share nothing but the air of an artificial city and the harsh streets covered in crushed-up rocks and chemicals. There are a lot of them. Our days are all a constant parade of changing faces dancing in and out of our tiny little personal worlds, some of them stay for a while, some of them leave before we learn their names. John – Habitat was a small part of my life for a year, and when I told him that Peek Tours was no longer running, we both understood that our professional relationship was about to come to an end.
I am very quick to attach undue meaning and emotion to these kinds of tiny events that, much like the aforementioned faces, crop up hundreds of times in every day. When we hung up the phone, I couldn't resist pointing out the harsh reality of this particular goodbye. What does it mean? I knew you for five minutes, every Friday for a year. Is that significant in any way? I'll probably forget your name in another year. Although John is a pretty easy name to remember... but then, it's John. Easy to forget too.
“I'll see you around them man... probably never.” he said to me as our conversation wound down and we prepared to return to our existences.
“Yeah man, have a good life.”
(together) “Haha...” Click.
Peace, Taco.
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