What Now?

It's your big day. It is the day you have sweated on. The day you suffered through 'Patriarchy in The Modern Maternal: A Re-Examination of Penises and The Envy They Invoke' for. The day you are stuck with since you missed the census date and realised you were too old to get an apprenticeship. It is your graduation.

Sure, you're not happy about shelling out four-hundred extra bucks to bring your unnaturally large family along. They say it is to cover 'refreshments', you don't know what is so refreshing about a four-hundred dollar curried egg sandwhich, but this shit seems legit. At least you get to wear the hat.

A Symbol of Fuck You AND Fuck Me. 

You sneak a cigarette, knowing full-well that this is not appropriate. You are a pillar of society now, and the Latin/Baroque Poetry double Bachelor you are about to receive puts that shit in writing. You are nervous and don't really know why. You ponder a quick wank but all the toilets are across the quad and there is not much hope of getting there and back without raising eyebrows.

You see your friends parents coming and ditch your cigarette in blind panic. Truth be told Jonathan is not your friend, he is sheltered and weird. But he wanted a pal and hey buddy you were saddled at birth with unconditional pity.

Jonathans dad tells you what a good company man he will make, they are so proud of him. Well done to you too, they say, shaking hands and slapping backs. Where are your parents anyway?

You spot them crouched behind a bronze statue of an Emo man from the 19^th century, covertly smoking in their black jeans and short sleeved white shirts. You want to think 'fuck it, they tried'. But you are an academic now and they are not on your level.

'They are stuck in traffic'

Jonathans dad shakes your hand again and makes hazy promises of dinner. He smiles heartily again, so proud of his son.

Did I Tell You He Doesn't Show Himself To Strangers Any more!

Your moment arrives somewhere in the noise of happy people. The chancellor calls you up to the stage, you shake his hand and grab your piece of paper. You can smell the stale hops, those fragments of liquid bread that caught the wind and found you. You pine so badly to drown this weirdness.

But no, first photos. Your parents have emerged from the traffic and want photo after photo. You with your degree, you with your mother, your father, the brother who is ten years your junior and super into dub-step, one of you on your own so they can cut Aunt Charline in when she 'gets out' and a fun one with faces pulled at the last minute.

Your father shakes your hand and gives you a stern look in the eyes. Meant to say 'you are a man now', instead you get 'my boy is probably a poof'. He unfurls your birth-right from a frayed rag in his hip pocket. You know what it is and you know it is bullshit. But hell, you have played the game til now, might as well plough through it.

A Casio watch. But not just any Casio, this one is the one with the mini-calculator. He got it from his father who found it after the Melbourne Cup in 1984. It's dead and they don't make that size battery any more, but it was worn by great men apparently. You embrace with one eye open and on the bar.

Downing the first you try to reflect on all this and none of this. You try to console yourself at having slugged through the first step in an 'academic career', it is a supposed time of joy, you should be elated you motherfucker. But with each drink one thought crops up and up and up. What now?

What the hell do you do now? Uni was a way to stave off getting a real job and spending three years in a bullshit arts degree hasn't exactly endeared you to employers. You knew your degree was a tough nut to crack, but that was three years ago. Three years ago when you were younger, dumber and had the advantage of not trying a career 'on' for three years.

What now?

Is it too late for that upholsterers apprenticeship?

What now?

Should I study more poetry?

What now?

I don't suppose Woolies is in the market for a noted Oxford Style referencing savant?

Then really.

What now? 

NP.