MEMOIR

The View From Here

A fringe-dweller’s story about making a contribution to society

Self-portrait with spoiled fruits. Photography by author.

“You should ask the manager for a job on the checkouts. You’ve done your time collecting trolleys, now go and ask for a job inside. That’s what everyone else has done…”

Alan is always forthcoming with the advice — everything from proper hydration to personal grooming. “Just sweep your hair over one shoulder and secure it in a single tidy plait. It’s very elegant and easy to do,” he offered one day after a reproving assessment.

I’m used to receiving personal comments from strangers. At first I found it confronting, downright impertinent, but now I understand. It’s the familiarity of the small-town supermarket car-park.

They think they know my story.

I am a skinny woman in my late fifties, who collects shopping trolleys for a living. I make barely enough money for survival, and none for comfort. I am an apparent object of pity: toiling outdoors in the car-park, enduring the heinous heat of an Australian summer, or all day long in the rain.

For a while, I was routinely accosted by a well-meaning gent who made a point of telling me that I am a valued member of society who is doing an important job. And, “keep up the good work.”