JARRAH was at the door with a smile as bright as the arvo itself, his white Ceridwen Plumbing van making coughing noises in the midday-heat in the driveway. He was wearing a loud tropical shirt with palm trees that promised paradise but was purchased at an op-shop. He seemed to call out from the scene when he said, “You called for a plumber?” We couldn’t stop a leak somewhere in the pipeline and it was seeping through a crack in the cement floor. My partner and I didn’t know what to do. We needed someone immediately, as the water had created a small pool in the laundry room and threatened to spread into a nearby bedroom and beyond. So, we called Ceridwen, which had a nasty reputation for overcharging customers, but was willing to come immediately. And here was Mr Smiles, introducing himself as Jarrah, an Aboriginal fella. 

“Come in,” I said, and led him to the watery mess. 

He eyed it quietly, and then said, “I’ll have to tear it up to get to the leak.”

I wasn’t happy, but nodded my assent, and he set about tearing up the large tiling near the leak. I grimaced and headed to the den to watch the replay of a baseball game between the Yankees and Red Sox broadcast from America on ESPN. A-Rod had just launched a homer to straight away centrefield at Fenway. Fucker. Pedro might just as well admit that the Yankees were his Daddy, pitch like that.  

Jarrah kept hammering away at the floor out in the laundry room. I might have been imagining it, but I thought I heard a gushing sound. “Everything alright, Jarrah,” I called out.

“No worries,” he said.

I hated the Yankees. I imagined for a moment that I was the one who shot Derek Jeter in the film, The Other Guys. And when he said, “You dick! I’m Derek Jeter. You shot me.” I shot him again. More gushing sounds, and then I saw from the sofa water making its way into the kitchen. It was like the old film, The Blob, with Steve McQueen, in which he makes a pass at a girl high up the hill at Lover’s Lane (coincidentally a favourite suicide spot), saying to her rebuff, “Aw, Janey, I didn’t mean anything,” and her snapping back, “Steve, I know what you mean.” Suddenly, the evening was getting late for Steve and his hand was back on the steering wheel. What I’ve never figured out is why the Blob absorbed the small town’s auto mechanic first. F***ing guy is holding a wrench, not knowing what hit him, in suspension inside what looked like a f***ing strawberry JELLO bubble.

I got up to check out Jarrah’s work. No worries, my arse. Big worries. The dam had busted. The leak had gone from an unwelcome nuisance needing quick attention to what looked like a guy f***ing up the Hoover Dam and letting loose the waters of the world. Dylan used to sing that if you go down in the flood it will be your fault. But no, I was sure this flood was Jarrah’s fault. “What the f*** is going on, Jarrah?”  

“I can’t get to the leak,” he said quietly. The leak hadn’t gotten to him. He walked past me saying brightly, “I have to go get something from the van.” The time was mounting up. He’d been there almost an hour. I remembered the rates suddenly. Then the warnings. I started to panic. The water was now streaming out of the kitchen and into the dining room and toward the front door. What the f***?

He rummaged around in the van. Heat so hot I stepped back into the house. He returned with a gadget I couldn’t identify. Some kind of machine, maybe a saw. I dunno. I said to him, tapping my wrist where a watch would be, “It’s starting to take a lot of time, and you’ve flooded the floor.”  

And he smiled and went, “No worries.” 

“No. Worries,” I said. “We’re not rich. This is getting expensive.” I kept my temper. Go figure.

He didn’t answer and went back to work.  I went to the game. A buzzing sound began. Unless I was hallucinating, A Rod had just parked another one. Motherf*****. 

Then Kaz, my wife, came home from work (I had been diagnosed with paranoid schizophrenia, thinking everyone in Australia was out to get me, and lolled about the days on Clozapine — “the gold standard” — pushing back against hallucinatory environmental events, laughing kookaburras at dusk scaring the shit out of me). She was a quick study and looking at the flood said, “What the f*** is this?” Then she sloshed through the water toward the drilling sound, where there was an unfortunate exchange of words. She came out to me and asked me to explain. All Pauline Hanson, arms akimbo.

“How long has he been here?” she inquired.

I said, “About an hour.”

“What the f***?”  She knew how expensive it could get. She sloshed back to the plumber and told him to leave, quite curtly, adding that we had no intention of paying for the catastrophe.

Jarrah smiled. “No worries. I’ll leave. I’ll just go out to the van and tally this up.” He left for a few moments during which Kaz’s fire met Jarrah’s flood. As if A Rod wasn’t enough of a problem to deal with. 

Jarrah came back and presented the Ceridwen bill to Kaz. She went nearly berserk, the hour of flooding costing nearly $1,000. The leak now a flood. I stayed out of it, as she went to work on his ego system. She reiterated that she wouldn’t pay the bill. Jarrah kind of shrugged without malice. He said goodbye and left. Kaz paced, cursing to herself, but I thought I heard her say under her breath, “F***wit.” 

Jarrah knocked at the door. Sheepish grin. He said, “My van won’t start.” He was sweating. “I’ll have to call someone to charge my battery.”

“Well, come on in,” I said. “Have a seat.” I saw him dripping. “Wanna a glass of water?”

“Sure,” he said.

I led him to the den. I’d turned off the TV after the second A Rod tater. Jarrah took a seat. And I went to get his water. Kaz fumed. Whispered, “Don’t give him any water.”

I brought back his water. He had picked up one of our guitars and began stroking the strings idly. “Wanna hear a tune?” he asked.

“Know any Marley?” I asked.

“Sure,” he said. He began playing “Redemption Song.” I was stunned for a moment. I hadn’t known that aboriginals knew of Marley. And why that song? He could play.

Kaz came out through the water, gobsmacked to see Jarrah playing. She had her smartphone in hand and was pecking at some numbers on the screen.

“Who are you calling?” I asked.

“A plumber, what else,” she said, glaring at Jarrah, his head down as he played.

“F***wit,” she said, looking at me. “I know a local we could have called.”

I ignored her, as she walked away. When Jarrah stopped strumming, I said to him, “Do you know any Dylan?” He shook his head and swept some idle chords. 

The water kept coming and coming, like the beginning of the flood to end all floods. 

Kaz cursing from the bedroom. Kookaburras laughing fiendishly from the old gum trees. After a while, another Ceridwen van pulled into the driveway and Jarrah’s mate let out a hoy. He left to join his mate who had jumping cables. And after a few minutes, Jarrah’s van started, and the two drove off.  On the street, Jarrah gave a toot-toot goodbye. 

It just kept on gushing.

Pauline Lee Hanson is an Australian politician who is the founder and leader of One Nation, a right-wing populist political party.

John Hawkins is freelance journalist, poet and fictionalist.

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