In the beginning...

The new car

I'm not sure if I'm ready for this, but let's see where this particular ride takes us.

I bought the car, the new job never lasted, the cash flow was dubious, and on a suggestion, and a whim, I began driving for Uber. After all, how many employment options does a young woman in early old age have at her disposal? Not that I'm one who loves driving, or anything - it's always been just an A-to-B sort of thing. Apart from enjoying people, the thing that's taken a hold is the random nature of the gig. It somehow reminds me of The Dice Man,  a cult classic from my youth. I never quite know where I'm going, nor of course who I'll be driving. When I press my 'Go Online' button, I  slip into an Uber state of mind, and let chance take me where it will.

One of my very first encounters was with a young man who looked like an Aussie version of Tom Cruise (more Top Gun than scientology). He got into the car and immediately set the radio to Triple J. Told me he loooved the station. Said it had put him onto Uber, and that Uber was 'ace'. He talked about how he'd had to bribe a taxi to take him home from the city on a busy pre-Christmas Friday night. 

Many a journey starts, and sometimes ends, with Uber talk, but this was just the beginning.  He talked about Afghanistan, which prompted me to ask if he was in the army. He told me he was briefly home for more training before for his next deployment - it was his third or fourth tour coming up.  There was no time to get back home to Brisbane for Christmas with his family. From my captioning work, I was familiar with the places he spoke of, or at least I knew the standards we adopted to spell them.  Oruzgan, Tarin Kowt, Helmand province (whether the 'p' should be capitalised always stumps me).

Tom, let's call him that, casually mentioned he served in the Special Operations Engineer Regiment, and their main job was dismantling IEDs. They cleared the way for another special operations unit to tackle insurgent networks. We spoke about the psychological fall out from war, and those who handle it, and those who don't. He said he was okay with it.

And as he spoke so matter of factly, I could only think of my son, who is roughly the same age.  I was suddenly overwhelmed. I thanked him for doing what I would never want my son to do. I felt ashamed, just like one of those mothers who I judge harshly. Those who don't believe in vaccinating their own children, but who can afford to take this stance because enough others make sure their own babies are innoculated.

As we neared his destination, he told me that this would probably be his last deployment. He was ready to quit. Then, just before he got out the car, he asked something of me.  He said, when the next Anzac Day rolls around, would I please have a drink for his mate Scotty Smith, who died over there. When I came home, I looked for Scotty Smith on Google. He had died dismantling an IED. He was just 24 years old.

Corporal Scott James Smith

Like a dream that affects one's day, this encounter stayed with me the whole week.

And yes, come Anzac Day, I'll definitely have one for Scotty. At the same time I'll be thinking of Tom and hoping he's home and safe, and as nonchalantly upbeat as he was when we shared a ride on that hot December afternoon in 2014.