Joseph is a big unit, about 150 k’s, not in good shape.
He told me he’s 21.
Joseph works in the local supermarket chasing trolleys, packing them together and rolling them back into the store, an eight hour a day job and Joseph, for one, needs deodorant.
When he’s on a break Joseph sits by himself on a windy seat by the supermarket’s back door, there he pulls out his phone and escapes. He doesn’t look up at anyone passing by and I’ve never seen a friend sitting with him.
I introduced myself to him today as he pushed a line of trolleys into the store.
‘You know,’ I said as we walked together, ‘this could be considered a shit of a job for a young bloke.’
Joseph nodded, sorry-like.
I went on.
‘When I was a young bloke in ’62, up in Byron Bay, I had a job shovelling dried slaughterhouse waste into hessian bags.’
Joseph’s face almost curled.
I slapped him on his meaty shoulder.
‘So you’re not doing too bad after all.’
I heard his chuckle as I walked away.