Originally published in Visible Ink #30: 'Trace'

Before I get into it, I have to say this: I was sure I’d touched on. I slapped my card across the reader at the edge of the Free Tram Zone and I got the beep of approval. I was sure I had money on it.

“Look mate, I am going to have to submit a report today.”

I was sure I had done everything I was supposed to do. I didn’t have to be reported.

This particular Authorised Officer was a veiny middle-aged man with a barrel-chest and biceps like hydraulic pumps. His thin, faded lips were concealed partially by an oblong moustache which filtered any traces of genuine humanity out of his voice.

“I definitely touched on though,” I said.

“That’s not good enough, mate,” he threw back, “and I’m going to have to report you either way, so just tell it to the Department.”

Shit. I didn’t even know what being reported actually meant, but I didn’t know what to say. I was startled like an animal on the road, and I just let this guy run right over me.

“Have you got any ID on you, mate?” The moustache man asked.

“What about my concession card?”

“Not good enough, mate.”

I never learnt to drive, and I definitely don’t take my passport with me to the market. I thought I was fucked.

“How about your debit card? It’s just in the front of your wallet there. Thanks.”

Three other Authorised Officers came over to compress my personal space. I handed my debit card to the one with the moustache.

“That’s fine, we just need to proceed with a couple more confirmation steps before I can submit the report. I’d like to take this opportunity to remind you that anything you say may be held against you in court. I would also like to remind you that we, as Authorised Officers, have the authority to use conducted electrical weapons should you attempt to evade being reported.”

I had to give him my phone. He read through my emails, my texts, my Facebook account. Everywhere I looked there was a pair of Authorised Eyes looking back at me, so I just stared into the rattling floor of the tram until something happened.

“Look, I can’t officially confirm your address from just this, so we’re going to need to take a couple more confirmation steps just to make sure.”

“Seriously?” I mean, the man had just been through all my private conversations! “What else do you need to make sure of?” He looked at me like I’d cursed his mother.

“Which stop are you getting off at, mate?”

“Ah… the next one, actually.” He raised his eyebrow.

“And you’re going home are you, mate?”

“Yeah, I’m going straight home.” Once I got home I could just forget about this whole ordeal.

But then he stepped off the tram with me. He still hadn’t given me back my phone. I tried to tell him that I had to leave, that I needed my phone back. “You’ll get your phone back, mate,” he said carelessly.

“I need to go home now, though.”

“Lead the way.”

“What do you mean? You’re going to come to my house?”

“Either that or I take you back to the Department and trace your digital footprint, mate; I need to confirm your address either way.” I was confused. “Look, you leave traces everywhere, mate. If you decline the standard method of confirmation I’m authorised to use what we call the ‘intrusive method,’ which is gathering all those traces from everywhere, public and private—and until I’ve done that you’re obliged to stay with me. And I’d like to take this opportunity to remind you that failure to comply with our policy can result in the duplication of the fine, and remember that I am authorised to use conducted electrical weapons. If I were you I’d be smart about it, mate.”

My flat is a small, one-bedroom box on the ground level of a brown-brick block in the pit of the city’s belly. Dying palm trees stand single-file down the pathway; they’re all brown as well. “This is it,” I said. The Authorised Officer’s moustache fluttered disapprovingly.

“Not good enough, mate.”

So I unlocked the door, and without saying anything he invited himself in. I chased after him. “Are you done? I have things to do!”

“Mate.” He turns to give me a stern look. “This could be just about anybody’s house, I’m going to have to take a few more confirmation steps before I can let you go.”

“And I would have the key to ‘just anybody’s house’?”

“Do you want to make this hard for yourself, mate? I’m authorised to use conducted electrical weapons, you know.” His gnarled hand hung on the taser at his hip. I took a breath. This was surely the last thing he had to do. If I just ignored him and got on with things, he would probably trudge around for a little while and take notes, and then he’d just leave. That’d be it. It would be like he was never even there.

The next morning, he was still there. He had slept on the couch. I woke up to find him under my blanket with a cup of coffee and a bowl of cereal.

“What are you still doing here?” I asked, both angry and curiously threatened.

“Look, mate, if you’re not going to let me get on with these last few confirmation steps, I’m going to have to take you back down to the Department.” He shovelled in a spoonful of Nutri-Grain. “It won’t be pretty, mate.” Milk soaked into the bottom of his moustache.

He never did his dishes. He never bought his own food. He never even showered; he was always wearing that stab-proof vest. He hardly ever left the couch, but if he did I wouldn’t want to sit on it. I’d be scared that the compression would make his Authorised musk dribble out onto the carpet.

I was almost getting used to it all by the time anything changed. I got home from work, and there they were: all different shapes, sizes, and colours of Authorised Officers were seated on my couch. They were all drinking my beer, watching the footy on my TV. Dropping chip crumbs on my fucking carpet.

“What the hell are you all doing? Get out of my house!”

“We just need to confirm some details, mate. If you don’t comply, we have the authority to use conductive electrical weapons, and your fine will be tripled. Also, you’re out of toilet paper.” On any other day that might’ve scared me. But I’d had enough.

“Fuck this! I won’t comply with this!”

On that word, they turned to me and began to get to their feet. Their hands gripped the tasers that hung like power tools from their belts. As they charged towards me, all the light of the TV screen was sucked into their scorched-black stab-proof vests. They crowded over me, with their tasers in my face and their bony hands constricting on my arms. In panic, the top half of my body went stiff—the bottom half, having communication issues with the rest, completely slackened. My knees hit the floor and I shut my eyes. “Okay! I’ll comply.”

As time went on, they started moving furniture in. The one with the moustache started sleeping in my bed. They had thrown out my record player and all my albums, they ate everything in the fridge, some of them even talked about re-painting. Everything smelled like sweat and Bunnings sausage sizzles. Every time I tried to engage with them, I got the same response: “We just need to confirm some details, mate. I’d like to take this opportunity to remind you that if you fail to comply with our policy we have the authority to terminate your life.” Eventually I just gave up. I moved back in with my parents. I still wonder what would have happened if I had’ve let the Department trace my digital footprint. Would it have been easier to live with that? I don’t know. I don’t know if the Officers are still in my flat either; I’m too scared to check.