‘I have.’
I toy with the idea of saying ‘The network has gone down’. It happened a few weeks back and it was the most glorious catch-all for every printer or photocopier enquiry that came my way. Sadly, it hadn’t remained ‘down’ for long. I am about to give this excuse a go when I notice Carmel still hovering nearby, watching us. I sigh. ‘Fine. Let’s take a look, shall we?’
I follow Wally to his computer. The last time I saw Wally I’d thought of him as lanky, but as I trail along behind him now, I notice he is more athletic than I gave him credit for. His stature reminds me a little of those golfers I enjoy watching on the television during the Presidents Cup. Wide shoulders, narrow torso, firm buttocks. I enjoy this view until we make it to Wally’s laptop when, again, I’m instantly bored. I try pressing Print, and when that doesn’t work, I fiddle with a few of the settings. I figure I can do this for a few minutes before declaring it a mystery and suggesting he come back tomorrow. In the meantime, in case Carmel is looking, I frown intensely at the screen as if I’m deep in thought. And I am. About Tinder. Apparently, I’ll need to set up a profile with a photo, which shouldn’t be too difficult. I’ll ask Gayle to take the photo. Then I’ll have to vet the suitors. Someone handsome would be good, for the baby obviously. Someone with a few brain cells. Good health.
‘What on earth are you doing?’ Wally asks, which is annoying, as Carmel is still within earshot.
‘What does it look like?’ I snap. ‘I’m trying to print your document!’
I press another button, and a document pops up on the screen. ‘Rocco. Ryan,’ I say, reading the name printed at the top of the document. I scan the rest of the document. It looks like a proposal of some sort. There is a list of credentials on the screen. I scan them, then turn to him, aghast. ‘You’re a computer programmer?’
‘I am.’
‘And you’re asking me for computer advice!?’
‘I’m not asking for computer advice,’ he says. ‘I’m asking about the printer.’
‘Pat-ay-ta, pot-ah-ta.’
‘Right.’ Wally exhales. ‘I don’t think we’re getting anywhere here.’
Anywherrrrre. Herrrrrre. Despite my irritation, I find the cadence of Wally’s voice pleasant. The neutral mouth movements, the distinct pronunciation of each syllable, the way he holds onto his r’s – it’s lovely. I close my eyes. ‘Anywherrrrre . . .’
‘Excuse me, Miss,’ the old man seated across from us says. ‘I’m having some trouble with my computer.’
I open my eyes. ‘Don’t ask me! He is the computer programmer.’
The man looks at Wally, who rolls his eyes but then squats in front of the man’s computer. Within a minute, the man is thanking him profusely and Wally is saying, ‘Sure thing,’ in his gloriously American way. Surrrre. Thaang. The man beams at him and Wally nods.
The interaction gives me an idea.
‘Are you looking for a job? You could work here! Printer and Photocopier Specialist! Do you live locally?’
He pushes his glasses up on his nose. He seems to do this with astonishing regularity. ‘I guess.’
‘You guess?’ It will never cease to amaze me the way people understand things in an instant. I, on the other hand, need to take my time, consider the statement from all angles, and if possible, put it back to the person by way of a question to make sure I’ve interpreted accurately. In the back of my mind, I’m always aware that I can get it wrong, and the consequences of this, I’ve learned, can be disastrous. ‘What do you mean you guess?’
‘I live in my van. Which, currently, is right outside. So . . . I guess that’s local.’
‘You live in your van,’ I say, taking in this peculiar piece of information. ‘So . . . you are homeless?’
‘I’m not homeless.’
‘But you don’t live in a house? Doesn’t that make you homeless?’
I feel oddly victorious. I’d been unsettled by the idea that I’d wrongly assumed he was homeless. I know I have a tendency to get things wrong, but if I can spare myself yet another example of my not being able to trust my own judgment, it’s a definite win.
‘Technically, I’m houseless,’ Wally says. ‘But the van is my home. And, for your information, there are many virtues of van living.’ He uses his fingers to allocate each virtue. ‘Vans are affordable,’ (thumb). ‘They have a low carbon footprint,’ (pointer). ‘They allow for freedom,’ (middle). ‘Travel’ (ring) . . . ‘And it means I can work freelance, choose my own hours,’ (pinkie; replaces hands in pockets). ‘So thank you for the job offer, but I prefer to do freelance work.’
I try to focus on the words he is saying, rather than the accent, but it’s difficult. ‘You mean you . . . choose to live in your van? And other people choose it?’
‘Sure. Look on Instagram under the hashtag “vanlife”. A lot of people my age are doing it.’
I frown at him. Wally looks to be about my age, perhaps a few years older. It feels astonishing that a person of around thirty years old – a computer programmer! – would choose such an unorthodox way to live.
‘Well . . . what kind of van is it?’
‘A kombi. I have a bed, a kitchenette, a table where I can sit and eat. I use public facilities for showers, like here at the library. I use the laundromat for laundry. And I have pump water to clean my dishes. It’s really not as difficult as people think.’
I am still dubious. ‘Where do you keep it?’
‘Right now, it’s in the parking lot outside. At night, I park it at the Uniting Church on Wilson Street, they let people park there all night. During the day, I try to find all-day parking, or I move it every two hours.’
‘Sounds . . . tedious.’
‘It’s a lifestyle choice,’ Wally corrects.
‘Oh-kay.’ I nod, making my eyes wide to indicate that I have not been convinced. ‘Well, I’m afraid I can’t be of any help here. Unless you are looking for a book recommendation?’ My mood is immediately buoyed. ‘What do you like to read, Wally?’
He frowns. ‘Oh. No, thanks.’
‘No thanks?’
‘I don’t really . . . read.’
I blink. ‘You don’t really read?’
I’m aware, of course, that there are people who don’t read. There are those who insist they are far too busy to read and who instead spend their time watching Netflix and scrolling social media on their iPhones or Androids. Those who say they read so much for work that they couldn’t possibly come home and read any more. There are those who cannot read. But, judging from the document on the screen, Wally can read. Hence my confusion.
‘Do you know how to read?’ I ask.
Wally looks affronted. ‘I have an IQ of 141.’
‘Mmm-hmm.’
‘I used to read when I was a child,’ he says, almost thoughtfully now. ‘I stopped at some point, I guess.’
‘What were your favourite books when you were a child?’
He appears to think about this. ‘Let’s see, well, I enjoyed The Outsiders. The Chocolate War. To Kill a Mockingbird–’