#21: Together Seven Years Apart

Memoir - Week 21

I phoned Erin like this for months before it dawned on my love-stricken mind that a confession to my supervisor would be prudent. I told my supervisor I’d been phoning Erin at the Australian Federal Police’s expense in the wee hours. He advised me to further self-report with the accounts section, while his narrowed eyes and subtle grin conveyed to me an understanding of the situation.

“I see”, was the surprisingly friendly reply. “Well, Accounts doesn’t have the ability right now to itemise international telephone calls. We wouldn’t be able to work out what you owe. So, perhaps you shouldn’t make any further calls to the US”, the accounts team member kindly finished suggesting to me. I had taken a liberty and emerged unscathed. 

#20: Together Seven Years Apart

Memoir - Week 20

But, lurking within the nightshift shadows was another nice little fringe benefit. The time difference between Canberra and Virginia allowed me to chat with Erin at what was a good hour for her, while I was still in the office. There was some variance in hours depending on daylight savings either country, though I had a decent window of opportunity in which to phone Erin.

Our team was small and the floor, let alone the other floors of the Australian Federal Police headquarters, was otherwise people-less during nightshift hours, except for the two security guards on ground level behind a long pane of secure glass, probably discussing the cricket or the football or whichever sport was in season. Picking a moment between the hours of midnight and 4am, I would wander away in a nonchalant manner from my desk and sit down at another desk located on the opposite side of the floor, dimly lit and entirely private. There I’d dial up Erin and chat with her for a good half hour, often quite a bit a longer.

#19: Together Seven Years Apart

Memoir - Week 19

The other exception was during 1992, when I’d rise to croaking green tree frogs and heaving humidity in Cairns at 4.30-5.00am, summer time. Leaving my one-bedroom apartment at Pease Street, Manoora I would drive almost an hour north to Palm Cove, fire up the big BBQ stationed outside on the lush tropical grounds of The Jewel of the Reef Resort and begin flipping fried eggs, turning bacon rashers and swivelling breakfast sausages into their dedicated hotplate positions. This hot food I served directly to eagerly awaiting Germans – as I more prominently recall for some reason – and other mostly chirpy Europeans and Japanese. You’re usually chirpy while on vacation.

Now, mornings and I have never enjoyed a free and easy relationship. Ever. We still have an ongoing stand-off. Needless to say, afternoon shifts in any job I’ve ever had have always circulated well within my night-owl blood. I’m just not good in the mornings.