Jem is standing under a small shelter in a park a few tube stops from work looking absolutely miserable. That’s probably because it’s both freezing cold and pelting down rain, his breath coming out of his mouth in white bursts. The situation isn’t helped by his constant and stubborn refusal to ever wear a jacket.
The park is usually filled with tourists and families, lovers and dogs, but today, in the pouring rain, it’s just us. I’m about ten metres away from Jem, dancing around in the rain like a lunatic with my old Canon camera around my neck.
“You’re an awful person and I hate you,” he yells at me in white bursty exclamations.
I’m having a great time, whilst yelling out instructions for him to move an arm, an eyebrow, to smile or to frown his infamous scary dark frown. I’m not sure how I convinced him to come and do my latest photography project with me, but I seem to have cast some magic, because here we are.
It isn’t the first time I’ve asked him for help, but it’s the first time where it’s been necessary for him to be freezing cold, wet, and really quite unhappy. I’ve promised beer and pizza in return. And fun.
I’m certainly having fun.
Apart from laughing at Jem, I feel like I always do when a camera is slung around my neck. Joy.This is my art. This is what I think I am great at, how I want to show the world who I am, and how I learn about the world. There’s something so proprietary about creating a scene photographically. You’re telling a story, invoking emotions and passions and sentiment. Even if that’s only my objective, and not always my outcome, it still seems worthwhile in a life-building kind of way.
Today I’m aiming for a light in darkness, a smile in misery, charm in the gloom. The pouring rain is fantastic, and not only because Jem is being so hilarious in giving me grief. I am lucky that we have the type of relationship where I can make him smile, occasionally, and he has a wondrous smile where his whole face lights up.
“Are we bloody done yet or what?” he yells at me. “You’re pretty funny to look at when you dance around like that but I’m not sure how much more light and charm I have in me. Also, you do remember we have jobs to go to, right? And now I’m soaking wet. If I die of pneumonia you’re… ”
“I’m what?”
“I don’t know! You’ve sucked all the wit out of me. You’ll die. That’s it. So are we done?”
I laugh, and nod. I think I’ve got it. Besides, he’s right. Work shortly beckons.
When we get inside the tube station we quickly become jammed in the middle of a wet, sweaty, smelly pack of people wearing mostly wet, sweaty, smelly suits.
“People in suits, man.” I say.
“Huh? What about them?”
“They, I don’t know, they fascinate me. Everyone does, I guess, but them especially. Confound me, maybe is a better word. ” I tell Jem.
“Why? Because you’re an alien backpacker from cliché land?”
“Probably explains it.” I say.
He smirks at me.
I start again. “Did I ever tell you about the Japanese guy I met in Marrakesh?”
“Nope. I bet you’re going to though.”
I roll my eyes at him, even though he’s right. “So, he was in the middle of this whirlwind tour of the world, because he wanted to see everything before he started work. He’d just finished university and he was about to begin work as an ultra fancy Investment Banker back in Tokyo.”
“Fascinating.” The sarcasm drips from his voice.
“When he told me this,” I continue, “I was impressed, I guess, but didn’t really know what to say, I mean what do I know about investment banking?”
“Nada.”
“Exactly. So, I asked him if this meant he had to wear a suit. He said he did have to wear a suit, but because the majority of his clients were American, he only had to wear the suit from 6AM until 5:30PM American time. Then he could change into regular clothes until they finished. Six hours later.”
“Fuck off.” Jem says, slightly more interested now.
“No, he was for real! Six days a week. Totally serious.”
“Why would anyone want to do that?”
“Well, on the upside, most of these people get to retire when they’re in their early forties, as millionaires.”
“Ooh, tough call.”
“Really? You think that’s a tough call?’”
“Definitely. On the one hand, you’re a success, a millionaire, to be able to provide-”
“Yeah, I get that, but think of the sacrifices.”
“There are always sacrifices.” He says, his blue eyes very serious. “Maybe yours are different. Maybe yours are less studied, and acknowledged, and you won’t even realise until later, when you discover what you lost.”
“Well, that’s deep.”
“I told you, I can be deep when I want to be, it just takes effort, and if you do it all the time, then people expect it of you all the time…” He shrugs. “Not for me. So did you ask this guy why he thought it was worth it?”
I smile, remembering his answer. “Yeah. He said that it was simple. Not only would he enjoy the success and the money, but, much more importantly, he was passionate about the work.”
“So what’s your point?”
“What do you mean what’s my point?”
“I’m not sure how I can say it any more clearly, what’s your point? Why are you telling me about this millionaire and his sacrifices?”
“Look at all these people.” I gesture to the people around us, in their smelly suits, scrambling to the edge of the platform as the train approaches.
We stand. “How many of them are dressing the part? I remember that guy and, when I see someone in a suit, I wonder if they are passionate about their suit job, and if the sacrifices that they make are accepted by them because of the love that they have for what they do, or if any of it is even conscious. Or, if it’s just out of love for money and an insecure need to be monetarily successful.”
“An insecure need? Not like it’s you know, fiscally necessary?”
“Look, I know people who were kind of, well, kind of losers growing up, you know? Or lost, or something. Cared about the wrong things. So I see them now and think maybe they feel a need to prove otherwise by earning a lot of money. Earning money in my experience is not a hard thing to do, but being really honestly happy with your life certainly is.”
He sighs, a small smile on his face. “You can be such a douchebag you know. Everyone sees this smiley little face and thinks you’re all sunshine and apple pie, when really, things like ‘I know people who were losers as children’ come out of your mouth at an astounding rate.”
“I won’t tell anyone you’re capable of deep thought, if you don’t tell anyone I’m a bitch.”
“Deal.”
We push out way onto the tube and manage to score some space near the door. As the train starts up Jem turns to me. “So, cliché alien backpacker, how long are you sticking around here for then?”
“Um, I don’t know, I mean a while probably because I haven’t got any money. Originally, I wanted to be able to go travelling every three months.”
“Too late for that.”
“Yeah. Well, I can most probably thank my friends for that. You know, with the expensive social life.”
“Friends? Social life?”
I punch him in the arm.
“ Ouch” he says sarcastically. “So where to then, when you can afford it?”
“Ooh.” I say. “I’m thinking, depending on money, and time, either India, or Eastern Europe. Either would be amazing. I want to go to Bulgaria, and Georgia, and Albania, and Hungary…Estonia… so many places.”
“Yeah. Ok. I guess a part of me is jealous.”
“You could do it too, you know.
“Yeah, but you know, I like having money. I like having a couch. Sitting on it, watching TV.”
“You do like sitting, don’t you…”
He nods. “Yup. Big fan of the sit.”
I giggle at him, and then realise that it’s our stop. “This is us.”
Walking through the train doors, I notice part of a newspaper lying on the platform. A headline catches my eye. I bend down to pick it up.
“What are you homeless? What are you doing?” Jem says
“It’s another one.”
“Another fucking what you crazy person?”
“Another Aussie murdered,” I mumble, softly.