One hour and forty-one minutes. That is precisely how long my newfound freedom lasted before the umbilical cord of my former employment attempted to snap back into place.
I was sitting on the balcony, my first official morning as a gentleman of leisure, when the phone on the table began to vibrate. I stared at the screen with detached horror usually reserved for spotting a venomous spider in your shoe. The caller ID read, simply and chillingly: The Boss.
Now, normal people might answer, spurned by a twinge of guilt. I, however, had spent the previous evening erecting a magnificent digital fortress. My voicemail greeting had been carefully re-recorded to say, in a tone of airy, unreachable detachment: “Hi, you’ve reached Adam. I am currently overseas for the next two months and will not have access to this number until my return. Bye.” It was a beautiful lie, mostly because I was currently standing in my underwear in Darwin, but it set a boundary, or so I thought.
The phone gave up, realised it was being snubbed, and immediately pivoted to passive-aggression. A text message blooped onto the screen.
“Hi Adam, the FC450 is sold.”
That was it, no punctuation to indicate whether this was a tragedy or a triumph. I stared at the words, interpreting them the only way a recently paroled salesman could: It has been sold to someone else, it is a disaster, and somehow, it is your problem.
I looked at the message, took a sip of my coffee. What, exactly, did he expect me to do about a dirt bike from the comfort of my unemployment? Was I supposed to call the customer from my imaginary overseas location? Was I meant to sprint back to the showroom, slide across the polished floor and undo the transaction?
Instead, I chose the most therapeutic option available in the digital age: I left it on Unread. There’s a distinct, almost addictive pleasure in watching a notification sit there, unanswered, burning a tiny hole in the atmosphere of someone else’s emergency.
With the bike shop firmly relegated to a parallel universe, I began the rigorous work of doing absolutely nothing of substance.
10:00 AM: Consumed a hearty, spite-fuelled breakfast.
11:00 AM: Embarked on a high-stakes expedition to Kmart to purchase packing cubes, those little zippered nylon bricks that promise to turn your backpack into a triumph of Scandinavian efficiency.
12:00 PM: Began scrubbing the apartment within an inch of its life to satisfy the upcoming Saturday inspection. There is nothing quite like cleaning a home you are abandoning to make you realise how much dirt you’ve happily coexisted with for months.
By 3pm, the e-visa was sorted, the bags were packed, and I finally allowed myself to slide into a state of actual relaxation.
Tonight, we eat out, and tomorrow, the grand bon voyage begins. To anyone holding a wrench, a sales contract, or a grudge: please don’t try to call me. As previously stated, I am entirely imaginary for the next two months.
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