Pluto Belt

Jeremy

Among the many commuters driven to curse the morning traffic on November 6th was Jeremy Sarkiss, Deputy Head of Saint Alban's Catholic School. However, for this man, all the damned lights, "every bastard from Sydney," and the slow prick in front were no excuse for his being late for work. He, more than anyone, should have seen it coming and left early.  And so, had the others now gridlocked between Plover's Point and Fetherstone been aware of this man's lack of justification, they may well have left their cars, broken his window, dragged him out and administered justice mob style.

The reason for this?

The traffic, bumper to bumper from Guradaramu Lutheran all the way to Kowbra, was because of Jeremy Sarkiss and his insistence on celebrating an Australian icon. It was for this grand occasion that the greywash sky, amid its cacophonic thunder, roared occasionally with helicopters – bodies emblazoned with household media names. Mini-vans and buses from as far as Oberon, Campbeltown and Gosford clogged the usually free-run arteries to and from the mountains. Direly unequipped, ill-humored law enforcement officers stood beneath the late-year downpour, waving coloured batons at the sluggish traffic, often losing temper and gesticulating whenever someone took the shoulder, hoping to gain some precious meters, like the cause of all this havoc lay just in the next few cars. Like the backdrop to a film set in New York, horns blared furiously, futilely, more a vocalized protest at the general situation than a jab at any particular driver. And Jeremy Sarkiss, caught within all this, felt like the guy who had let one off in the crowded lift.

His eyes fixed on the rain-blurred windscreen, the wipers flicking left and right. The air-con breathed cold, sobering air into the car. He caught his fingers inching for the radio dial – willed himself to stop. He had been waging this private battle for the last fifteen minutes, having turned it off before because the talkback kept checking in on the "mountain gridlock" and this made him feel even more like throwing up. He was responsible for all this; and he was supposed to have been at the school going on ten minutes now.

Desperate for something to divert his mind, he checked his rearview mirror.

"You alright there, boys?"

Oscar, his youngest, looked sallow and fidgety. His face barely registered Jeremy's words. Sebastian, two years older at eleven, piped up.

"Can we please listen to something, Dad?"

"I'd rather not, Seb. I kind of need to think right now". Jeremy peeked another glance at his other son. "Something wrong, Osky?"

Oscar sighed. "I don't want to be the dog".

"What's that?"

"He's playing the dog," Seb reminded him. "His class is doing The Loaded Dog. Remember?"

"Right," Jeremy said, smiling slightly. "What's wrong with being the dog, mate?" No answer. "Oscar?"

"Miss Jennens told me I have to bark as loud as I can," he moaned. "She said I'm not doing it good enough. I don't like barking. Everyone always laughs when I do it".

"That's because it's funny," Jeremy said. "It's supposed to be". Finally, the car ahead crept forward. Jeremy released the brake, let it run, then pressed it down again unconsciously.

"That's what I keep saying to him," Seb said.

"Can't you tell Miss Jennens," Oscar pressed, "that I'm not going to be the dog?"

"I don't think I can," Jeremy said. "Sorry buddy".

Oscar still would not look up and meet his dad's eyes in the mirror.

"But you're her boss, aren't you?"

"Oh my God," Seb jumped in, theatrically exasperated. It was adorable, Jeremy thought. He sounded so wog when he did it. "Dad's only the Deputy Principal! He isn't the boss of anyone. Are you, Dad?"