I hate the smell of Rossco in the morning...

I saw him at the top of the stairs, and realised there was one thing I hadn't told the new work experience girl about the office. She was an old school friend of mine studying journalism who was visiting the Daily Advertiser for a short internship I had organised. She was staying at my house during her fortnight at the paper, so the night before I had talked her through all the quirks and characters of the office and the job, but with one glaring omission. The Glaring Omission was now hovering at the top of the stairs, obviously bewildered by the sight of an attractive 21 year old woman in what I considered an "asset maximising" (I overheard a group of the more unattractive women in the office later calling it "slutty") skirt.

"Haugch, Haugch!" the Glaring Omission said, by way of introducing himself to the new face in the office. The noise was halfway between a cough and a moan of ecstasy.

"You- you could say beauty and the beast, haugch haugch," it said.

"Thanks Rossco, this is Karina, the new work experience girl. Karina, this is Rossco," I said, hurriedly trying to move past Rossco into the safety of the corridor.

"Hello, Rossco," Karina said in a voice that she obviously reserved for toddlers and crazy old men. "Nice to meet you."

"I say, I say, there's a horse racing in Werribee this afternoon named after you, you know. Race four, number seven, Elegant Lines."

"Thanks Rossco," I said, seconds too late to stop him saying that but hopefully early enough to stop him saying...

"I didn't realise it was my birthday today, but here's my present coming right up the stairs, beautifully wrapped"... saying that. Bugger.

"That's nice, you're very sweet," Karina said, still using her "here's a sticker for being such a good little boy" voice.

"Not as sweet as some around here. Did you know that this strapping gentleman plays ruck for Collingullie first grade? Best in the Farrer League they're saying (I actually played second grade, so it was unlikely they were saying this at all)."

"Thanks Rossco, I've got to get Karina to the editor's office if she's going to get started doing all my work for me. See you later mate."

I hurried Karina down the corridor towards the editorial department, silently cursing myself for not warning her about Ross.

Ross stank. That's the only polite way I can put it. He haunted the editorial department of the DA like that really smelly ghost from Ghostbusters, I can't remember what its name was or whether it was from GBI or GBII, it's probably not important. He was a shambolic planet surrounded by a gaseous atmosphere made up mostly of BO and methane. The source of this special atmosphere, under which no life flourished, was his once-blue business shirt, which was now badly faded and streaked with yellow stains usually reserved for underarm areas but which had now spread to encompass the collar, back and cuffs. Rossco wore this shirt every single day of the year. How do I know that? Because Rossco came to work every single day of the year (excepting December 26 and 27 as his "mate on the gate" let him in to the Boxing Day Test every year, but he'd pop in to make sure the office was ok on the afternoon of the 27th). He checked in every morning at around 7.30 (8am on Sundays) and pulled his computer's power cord out of the wall at 6pm (except Thursdays, when he left at 2pm to do his banking). For this reason I, and everyone else in the office, had become intimately acquainted with Rossco's blue shirt and the eye-watering funk it produced. The sports journos, who had the misfortune of sharing their cluster of desks with Rossco, would argue each morning about where the smell fit on a scale of one to ten. It was common to be greeted with a quick "smell factor eight today" from Les the sports editor as you walked to your desk in the morning.
But to describe Rossco just in terms of his smell would be like describing the Mona Lisa by talking about how it felt to the touch. Rossco's appearance was just as striking as his unique musk. Of indeterminate age, probably somewhere between 55 and 85, Rossco was a model of poor health. Thick, sagging lumps of skin hung under his eyes and around his mouth, framing his yellow decaying teeth and equally yellow dim eyes. He was well over six feet tall, with a mop of wavy, ash white hair. Rossco wore his hair unusually long for a man of his age, and for good reason. By far his most prominent feature was a fleshy protrusion from the centre of his forehead known in the office as "the knob". Usually Rossco's fringe would be brushed down over it, but by mid-to-late afternoon, "the knob" could usually be seen poking through its hairy curtain. When deep in thought, Rossco could be found slumped low in his office chair, chin resting on his chest, one hand resting on his stomach while he absent-mindedly stroked "the knob" with a long, bony finger.

As Karina and I walked down the corridor I, for the millionth time, explained Rossco's history and his position in the company. This story had originally been told to me by Les- the chief photographer not the sports editor- when I was still a fresh-faced cadet of 17. I'll recount it in his words, because he knew more about it than I did:
"Rossco? What a f---in' character. They talk about bringing this paper up to an international standard, but then you walk through the door and that bastard's there, reading the international news wire and talking endlessly about share prices. You know he lives in a motel? Has done for at least 10 years. Room One, the Park Motel, opposite Bolton Park. A f---in' motel. Obviously they don't have a laundry service, have you smelled him? Course you have, otherwise you wouldn't be askin'. Anyway, he's worked here for 30-odd years, but he just got more and more crazy over the years, started making stories up totally, printing confidential minutes to meetings no one cares about, s--- like that. So anyway, they sacked him about seven years ago, but he just kept showing up. They sacked him on the Friday, and he was there on Saturday, and Sunday... just kept turning up. Can you believe that? Course you can, you've met him. Eventually they had him barred from the premises, and he started just sitting in his car in the car park. 24- hours-a-f---in'-day. Just sat there. Not eating, not drinking, not causing a scene, just sittin' there. So eventually they took pity on him and hired him back on just enough cash to keep him alive. He'd be on less than you [ie, <$9.80 an hour], I reckon."

"What's his story? Why does he live in a hotel?"

"Well, he used to be a bit of a drinker I think. He was the president of the Riverina Australian Rules Football Club for a while- don't ever call it the Rules Club in front of him either, unless you want an hour long lecture about how he would never have let that happen under his presidency- but it went s---house when he was running it, and eventually there was a boardroom spill and he got axed. He's never forgiven them for it, particularly because they've been so successful recently. He drank pretty hard after that I think. He's got two daughters, but I don't think he ever sees them. Just a bit of a lonely case, mate. You know he's technically on holidays at the moment?"

It was true. Because Rossco came to work every day, and filled out his timesheets to that effect, he had over the course of 30 years acquired some 135 weeks of annual leave, earning him the distinction of being the only employee singled out by name in the company's annual report. To protect themselves against a potential six-figure payout should Rossco decide to leave, the number-crunchers decided to enforce some compulsory holiday time. Despite this, Rossco turned up to work without fail, and took a year's holiday sitting at his desk. When questioned, Ross would get slightly cranky and mutter "I'll take my holidays when I'm good and ready, not like the rest of you bloody bludgers."

I finished the explanation just as Karina and I reached the editorial department.
"Smell factor nine today, Steve," Les said, standing on Rossco's chair, furiously wiping his feet on it. It was a sports department tradition.

"Yeah, I know. He threw himself at Karina as we came up the stairs."

"Really. I'm sorry to hear that. What do you think of the great man, Karina?," Les asked, hopping down from Rossco's chair, kicking it over in the process.

"He seems lovely. I like older men."

"Bloody hell, you'll soon change your mind on that."

I sat down at my desk and found a handwritten note with a story clipping stapled to it. As I read the note, long tendrils of foul air wrapped around my throat, threatening to choke me.
"Acgghh, I see you've got my note, I thought that story might interest you," Rossco said. "I think Brian's about to tip a bucket on the lot of them, and let me tell you I think after it's all over there won't be too many left standing, ho-ho, my word no."

"It interested me yesterday when I wrote the story Rossco."

I was in the middle of covering a protracted battle over the future of the Wagga Leagues Club, which was busy going tits-up while the board pretended everything was ok. Being a story about a registered club, Rossco was all over it like Schapelle Corby's fingerprints on a Glad bag. I constantly had to intercept Rossco's blathering, stream of consciousness articles before they reached the sub-editors' desk to prevent the robot-like subs from placing them in the paper as if they weren't fiction. Rossco's love of the club circuit (he referred to himself as "clubs reporter", as if that was a category that required a full-time, dedicated journalist) meant I was subjected to daily conversations mostly consisting of veiled statements about his mate Brian (club president) "tipping a bucket" on unspecified parties.
"I wish you'd tip a bucket on yourself, Rossco, you f---in' stink mate," Whitey said from across the office.
"Don't you start with me, you bloody bludger, or I'll be straight in to Mr Gorrell's (former Advertiser general manager, 10 years retired) office to let him know about a certain person's work habits."

"Me? You f---ckin' do nothing you stupid old c---. You walk around here talking s--- all day, then you go home to your hotel room and the little boys."

"Don't you bring the little boys into this," Rossco said cheekily, picking up a strand of a long running "joke" with Whitey in which Rossco alluded to being a paedophile.

At that moment Rossco's phone rang, and he staggered across the office to his desk.
"Hello? Hello? (loudly) Oh there's no one bloody there. Bloody mobile phones," he said, while Les turned purple at his desk, having played Round 458 of his favourite game- The Calling Rossco's Phone While He's Away From His Desk And Then Hanging Up So He Starts Talking About Mobile Phones Extravaganza.

"They should be banned, shouldn't they Rossco? Mobile phones?" he said, through the tears.

"Too right they should," Rossco said, interspersing his comments with a huge phlegmy snort.

"Bloody things never bloody work, leaving a man sitting like a dill on the end of a bloody dead line," he said as Les fell off his chair laughing.

Later in the working day, Karina and I were having lunch at the pub with most of the sports journos and a few of the general news team. Whitey decided to play one of his favourite Rossco games. Placing his mobile on loudspeaker, he called the sportsdesk.

"Ross Ingram."

"Yes hello, I wanted to speak to Whitey."

"He's not here, he's never here, he's a bloody bludger."

"What about Les?"

"No. He's bludging too."

"Steve Lloyd?"

"No, I keep telling you. They're a pack of bloody bludgers. Useless."

"It's Whitey here Rossco, who the f--- do you think you are?"

"Don't you swear at me, you bloody bludger, or Mr Gorrell will hear about it."

"Mr Gorrell's been gone for a decade Rossco. A fuckin' decade. He's not the f---in' boss any more."

"Well it's bloody news to me... beep.... beep... beep... beep."

I couldn't help but laugh later when I returned to the office to find a postcard on my desk, in Les's handwriting. One side had a crude drawing of the office floorplan, with a big X over Rossco's desk. The reverse side read:

"Dear Bloody Bludger,
Holiday's going good as gold. Wish you were here,
Rossco."


Epilogue: At one point one of the sports journos ran a sweep on how or when Rossco would die. Most money was put down on him being found, slumped over the international news wire, one finger on "the knob". For a further outlay you could bet on how long it took before anyone noticed he was dead. 24 hours was the most popular choice.