Moving Out Of The Nest (Part Two)
The second part of my moving out story, where I learnt some valuable life lessons on growing up, having back up plans and how life can throw you curve balls when you least expect it.
Read Part One of Moving out of the Nest, first.
The coach from Mackay arrived in Brisbane sometime in the morning on a Saturday. At least, I think it was a Saturday. The memory feels like a Saturday, but it could be any day of the week, such as a Friday.
Writing is how I make my bread.
Want to engage and discover all of my anecdotes on how Adulting Sucks? Become an annual paid subscriber now.
My purse was filled with cash. It made me nervous.
First, I had to find a cheap hotel from where I would establish my centre of operations for the next week. My one goal over the next seven days was to secure accommodation for the year.
In 1989, The Queensland Conservatorium of Music was neatly packed into a multi-level building on the QUT Garden’s Point campus next to Queensland’s Parliament House.
The “Con”, as it was nicknamed, shared a cafeteria service with the university with access to a few other places, like a bookshop, gymnasium, squash courts and swimming pool. Still, it was an institution in its own right.
There were no associated student accommodations for the Con or any help from a student guild. There was a Conservatorium student guild. It just wasn’t helpful.
So, I secured a cab at the top of the Brisbane Coach Terminal on Roma Street and slid into the back seat.
My first day of adulting
“The Canberra Hotel, please,” I said, reading the name from the strip of paper where my father had written it down.
I remembered it as a charming old hotel. We had stayed there when I was twelve, so I could attend a week-long summer school dance workshop.
It was the sort of old hotel that would make an ideal setting for Stephen King’s The Shining. It had long shadowy corridors, flickering lights, shared shower facilities, a noisy elevator, and a lounge where guests could gather to watch TV.
The taxi didn’t move. The driver was staring at me through his rear-vision mirror.
“The Canberra Hotel?” My voice grew louder.
The driver turned to look directly at me. “Is there another hotel you’d like to stay at? They tore that place down two years ago. Don’t think you’d be comfortable in a big hole in the ground.”
I had not looked into an alternative venue. “How about a hotel that’s similar to it?”
The taxi driver seemed uncomfortable. “There’s another hotel near the river, but it’s shady. Can I take you somewhere else?”
Breathe in, breathe out. “That’s okay. Take me to the one down near the river, please.”
My first night alone
Standing in the neat, sparse hotel room, I unpacked my bag and considered showering. The cabby’s words kept echoing in my thoughts.
During that first afternoon in Brisbane, I quickly figured out the public transport system to inspect potential accommodation.
The first place was a rather lush three-bedroom apartment in South Brisbane. It would cost all of my Austudy allowance and more to rent it. Goodbye, sweet dreams.
Another place I had inspected turned out to be accommodation for ex-cons. It was much more affordable.
The manager showed me the doorless room for rent. Then, like the cabby, he encouraged me to look elsewhere.
So that night, sitting on my hotel bed wondering what to do, I reached into one of my bags, pulled out a notebook and called a number.
“Hi, Aunty? It’s your niece, Tina. I’m at the such-and-such hotel looking for a place to stay for uni. I’m terrified. Can I stay with you while I look for a place?”
My aunt was a kind-hearted person who liked to size men up by the shape of their backsides. She would score them on a scale of 0 to 10. I’d only met her a few times as a child, so I didn’t know her all that well and felt relieved when she offered to help.
“You can’t stay here permanently,” she said, “but you can stay for a week and on my day off, I’ll help you find a place.”
Living away from home
Aunty worked for some questionable business in South Brisbane as their bookkeeper. She was happy to share a few secrets but soon turned her attention to the rings I was wearing.
“Where did you get those?”
“Mum.”
“They’re mine. Barb must have stolen them from me.”
I didn’t know what to say and wasn’t about to offer them up. These rings had become part of me over the past year.
True to her word, my aunt helped me find share accommodation. We looked at two places, and I chose the second as it was closer to the city. My room had a built-in cupboard and a tiny single bed.
Cost? $50 a week. This left me with $130 (thereabouts) a fortnight for everything else.
The house was owned by a guy in his late twenties named Gray (not his real name but close enough). He worked for a big corporate company in IT and was quite tall. At 5ft 1 and a bit, everyone seems tall to me.
My live-in landlord seemed a happy-go-lucky guy who had no problem with me buying and moving a second-hand piano into the house.
Everything seemed fine, and I called my dad, who, true to his word, turned up a week later with a few extra things. Mostly fruit and vegetables from his garden.
As I was share-housing, I didn’t really need much else. The house and my room seemed fully furnished, and I was settling in as if I had always lived there.
Dad stayed for a night or two and then left to return home but not before taking me shopping to show me how to make my Austudy allowance stretch to include some healthy dinner meals, including steak.
University started a week later, and I immediately made a few friends.
Everything seemed like unicorns and rainbows until my landlord’s ex turned up for her furniture.
My first year of adulting
I had no bed.
That was the first thing I noticed when I returned home from college.
Gray had a sheepish, apologetic grin on his face. “It belonged to my ex.” He produced a trundle bed with a thin mattress. It took a few weeks to get used to sleeping near the floor.
I think the mouse that crawled up my leg one night was more surprised than me when my hand shot down through the blankets, grabbed it and catapulted it against the far wall. The bite hurt, but it never tried to sleep with me again.
Life rolled on until a bill appeared on the kitchen bench several weeks later. The amount divided into three was almost my fortnightly Austudy payment.
It is incredible how many “firsts” parents miss out on when their children begin adulting. Like the first shared electricity bill. Then came the telephone bill.
How was I going to pay for it all?
Growing up fast
I looked at the things I wasn’t using and could hock with a pawnbroker. Of course, I wasn’t pleased about having to pawn my few assets, but I was too proud to ask for help.
So, I hocked:
A hairdryer.
An electric knife.
The three rings my mother gave me.
I had full intentions of getting the rings back, so I started looking for casual work to do between my lectures, workshops and voice lessons.
My first interview was with Hungary Jacks, a national franchise similar to McDonald’s and also known as Burger King in other countries.
I must have really sucked at the interview, as I never heard back from them.
Being rejected was the best outcome because I discovered the Conservatorium Box Office was looking for students to fold and stuff envelopes.
So, my first paying job was in a small demountable building behind the Conservatorium. I loved it. Even the millions of paper cuts that came with the job.
Unfortunately, the work was sporadic. When the three months were up, I still didn’t have enough money to recoup the rings.
Eventually, the mailroom job expanded into an ushering position at the Basil Jones Theatre inside the Conservatorium.
Then, this led to a Front of House Manager role, and sometimes a kiosk server role during intervals, and as an after-performance sever in the “green” room where guests and performers mingled.
I took what I could get.
On the plus side, I never had to hock anything again.
Moving on
The first year passed quickly. Between February and April, I dated a pianist about the same age who lived at home with his mum just outside of Brisbane.
He took me to meet his mum. She seemed lovely, but I had the feeling she thought I was a hussy because I no longer lived at home, and she felt I was giving her son ideas about moving out.
Our relationship did not last long. I learnt boys are fickle, and I went home to repair my bruised ego for the Easter break.
However, I returned to Brisbane with a heavy heart after discovering the family cat had forgotten me. This busted relationship hurt more than being dumped by the pianist.
Later that year, I had some decisions to make. I could go home again for Christmas or stay and find a holiday job. I decided to do the latter.
After attending a job interview as a children’s face painter, I spent some time canvassing the food court in the Roma Street Transit Centre. I handed out several resumes to the shop owners before catching the bus home.
One of those interactions turned into a weekend job and a romance that would blossom for the next few years.
I would be lying if I told you that it was only with hindsight that I realised this was me, moving out of home.
The desire to remain independent in Brisbane, acquire more income and keep my lodgings was strong.
Taking control of change
“I need you to move out,” said Gray.
My head was spinning. The request came out of the blue and my new job as the Top Chook Chicken checkout person started the next day.
While I had focussed on passing my final university exams for the year, Gray had found God and become engaged to a parishioner at his local church. So, naturally, she (his new fiancée, not God) was not pleased that I was his border.
Chaos ensued as he gave me a week to find a new place. I may have been slightly emotional as I had felt content and safe in Wardell Street. I had grown to think of Gray as a big brother rather than a landlord.
I called a cousin to see if I could stay with her for a few days while I sorted out alternative accommodation. Fortunately, even though university had just finished, I found my next share-house situation with a close friend from the Con.
B’s parents owned a renovated Queenslander in an affluent suburb. Their three children stayed there while going to university and they rented out the spare bedrooms to students. B’s parents continued to live outside of Brisbane.
The room came fully furnished (for real this time), and there was space for the piano.
It took two trips to move most of my things on the train. Oh — the strange looks I received. The piano required professional movers and retuning, so thank goodness I had a weekend job to pay for it all.
Getting up for a 6 am start at work on Saturdays and Sundays didn’t seem so bad.
Standing on my own two feet again
The holidays went quickly. Before long my second year of studies commenced. I continued to work weekends, had a new boyfriend (albeit long distance) and I still ushered occasionally at the Conservatorium Box Office.
Everything was settling into place again.
Until it wasn’t.
As life would have it change lurked once more around the corner.
As I left my lectures one day, I saw my dad standing outside on the QUT campus lawn in a work uniform.
Dad had been feeling lonely in Mackay. So, he had successfully applied for a job as a refrigeration and air-conditioning maintenance person at the university.
A few weeks later, we moved back in together.
I was “home” once more. The first great experiment of moving out on my own was over. It would be another four years before I officially moved out again.
P.S. Living with Dad in Brisbane was not as stifling as seems. Being an adult, I was granted all the freedoms I wanted but with the support of a parent to fall back on if needed.
About eight months later, Uncle Richard joined us Brisbane. He bought a house and Dad and I moved in with him — I still had my freedoms. I bought my own groceries, house cleaned, did my own washing, mowed the lawn and could come and go as I pleased.
P.S.S. This ends Moving out of the Nest or The Great Experiment of Adulting as I’ve thought of renaming it. There will be other stories on how Adulting Sucks, so stay tuned for more.