Lessons in Life: A Series - The Unemployed

They sit beneath an old oak tree, its branches a cocoon from the newly awakened sun. They look at each other, each wondering who will break first and fish into his or her tattered pockets to for whatever monies happened to land there. The single quart of Black Label beer that has been circulating around the five of them stands empty in front of them. The smokers fidget uneasily, the craving for nicotine making them unsettled. If push came to shove, they will sacrifice what they have for a loose cigarette than contribute to the liquor kitty.

Finally, neither of them can take it anymore;

“I only have R3 guys,” says the tall woman who holds a teacher’s diploma but has never had a job. On her tired face there remains a vestige of beauty and her now emaciated figure reveals that she was once robust.

“Chaps I have R2.10,” her car mechanic live-in lover claims, his calloused hands, blackened by his work, revealing the coins from the depths of his dirty work overalls. He’s a smoker; you can be assured he has another R2 hidden to buy his loose cig. You would think he would have more money but his work sporadic and he drinks most of what he makes.

“Okay that makes it R5.10, we need another R5 guy, I’ll go buy,” the apparent simpleton of the group offers. While the man is in full possession of his faculties he seems to allow the others to treat him like a child. His live-in-lover and the mother of his various children doesn’t drink and therefore he looks cleaner and more cared for. He has the money but will only contribute in private, not wanting the others to know how much he has.

“I have nothing! Yesterday I managed to get two beers from that guy at the pub but I don’t even remember spending it!” says the young woman who has been chewing her nails nervously. If this were the city I would bet she is the resident crack head but I know she just wants a drink and a cigarette.

The last member of the five sits quietly. Nobody expects him to fork out any money although he is the only one who is employed. He often buys alcohol for them and they would never dream of offending him by asking.

Eventually, the young woman throws her hands up in the air theatrically and cries, “Well I was going to buy for your guys later!” She pulls out crisp R10 note and a cheer goes up around the group. Hooray. Smiling, the Simpleton picks up the empty bottle and looks for another one. He will now buy two beers.

By mid-afternoon the five is merrily tipsy, the kitty exercise having being repeated numerous times. There have been comings and goings but the core has remained. They all live in the same yard, where they rent the dingy rooms from an ornery landlord who collects the rent in beer sometimes. By nighttime the will be well and truly drunk, fighting among themselves. Someone will be beaten and most of them will sleep without having put anything besides beer into their stomachs.

These are the unemployed of a little rural town. They have nothing better to do but drink all day. They see no other choice. But however idle their days are, the conversations are awe-inspiring. In each of them you realize an intelligence that is denied by the dirty clothes, the drunkenness and the lack of motivation. Their conversations are what constantly bring me back to them, to sit listening, rarely participating. Once I tried to introduce to them the concept of taking time out to eat, bringing bread and sausages but they begged me to bring them liquor, if I want to spend money on them.

They discuss politics; they don’t ramble like uneducated people but have decided views on matters. They may use unsophisticated language but they understand the nuance. They discuss social issues ranging from wife-beating (even though all are in abusive relationships), to rape, to the impact of corporal punishment in schools. They discuss religion, world wars, in fact conversation you would most likely witness in a newsroom. They’re vivacious in their debates; they stand up to defend a point, sometimes accidentally kicking a beer in their excitement.

And yet they are unemployed drunks living off each other and spending their days wondering where the next beer is going to come from. They are the legacy of wrong turns and bad decision compounded with socio-economic conditions. They have no dreams; I’ve yet to hear any of them wish for a greener pastures (except perhaps a pasture with some whiskey). They accept their circumstances as the norm. Someone with dreams is a fool to them; they know dreams don’t come true.

And yet in each of them I have found something worth learning.