Chef,â Jesse answers.
âSeriously, though, weâre close, you know what I mean?â
âYes, Chef,â Jesse repeats.
And really, if I had any dignity left I wouldnât ask him where heâs going or what heâs doing but I donât and I ask him.
âWhat do you have to do in town, Jesse?â
And the boys stop what theyâre doing, just for a beat, and turn to catch my back soaping up the wall.
âJust got to see a man about a dog,â Jesse replies, like itâs none of my fucking business.
And thatâs when I stop scrubbing and turn toward the boys.
âSee a man about a dog . . . You know my dog is the biggest and angriest dog of them all, donât you, Jesse?â
âYes, Chef!â Jesse laughs. âIâll be back for service, Chef.â
âHeâs not a little puppy dog that you take for a walk and follow behind picking up his doggy-do-do. Heâs a big fierce dog who eats little kiddies and small cows.â
âYes, Chef!â Jesse yells, and claps again. âService!â
âWeâre booked out again tonight, yeah? Thereâs work to be done,â I remind him.
âYes, Chef.â Jesse meets my eye. âI wonât be long, Chef. Iâve just got to go into town and then Iâll be straight back to box my section.â
âOkay. Sounds like a plan. You coming for a surf, Soda?â
âNah, Chef. Iâll probably just head into town with Jesse.â
âOkay,â I say as I return to my cleaning. Iâm nervous now. I know the boys are up to something.
And then, like a siren sounding, Sammy the barman gives the call weâve all been waiting for.
âVinnieâs in the house!â
15
Bruce, my friend from the Bondi Hotel days, was working with me again at the Pasta Man. He was a few years older than me, and one of those guys who always seemed to be at the party. He was a right-place-right-time kind of guy. But he wasnât into narcotics; he was more a champagne and bong man. And when he suggested a road trip back up the highway to our home state of Queensland, he did so because he was worried about my drug use. I think he felt that if I could get back in touch with something innocent, like Queensland or home, I might be able to arrest my self-destructive ways and actually make something good out of the opportunity that the Pasta Man represented. And the idea of the tropics was appealing. I had written off my last misadventure into Kings Cross as a silly mistake, a youthful misadventure.
I had lost my licence on three separate occasions as a drunken young apprentice chef, so I left it to Bruce to hire the car. Which turned into a nightmare anyway because between us we didnât have a credit card with any credit left on it, which meant I had to stump up a cash deposit. Obviously the seven hundred dollars required to rent the car wasnât hanging around in petty cash at this point, so I did my friends in Brisbane a favour and offered to transport some smack up to the Sunshine State if they were prepared to pay upfront. Amazing really, the optimism of junkies. No worries, mate; sounds like a plan. And the thing is, my âfriendsâ had recently robbed a bank in the manner of some idiots from a two-dollar weekly theyâd picked up at Video Ezy, and got busted. They were hungry for something to numb the pain of an impending prison sentence and, because they had been staying home with Mum, were able to come up with the money.
Getting busted on the freeway between Gosford and Sydney at two in the morning in the middle of winter for driving unlicensed and being fifty kilometres over the speed limit was not good. And what added heavily to that badness was the fact that I also had to dump the heroin out the window as we pulled the car over to talk to the police. This left me with some personal supply in the boot, which for a while there looked as if I was going to get busted
âSeriously, though, weâre close, you know what I mean?â
âYes, Chef,â Jesse repeats.
And really, if I had any dignity left I wouldnât ask him where heâs going or what heâs doing but I donât and I ask him.
âWhat do you have to do in town, Jesse?â
And the boys stop what theyâre doing, just for a beat, and turn to catch my back soaping up the wall.
âJust got to see a man about a dog,â Jesse replies, like itâs none of my fucking business.
And thatâs when I stop scrubbing and turn toward the boys.
âSee a man about a dog . . . You know my dog is the biggest and angriest dog of them all, donât you, Jesse?â
âYes, Chef!â Jesse laughs. âIâll be back for service, Chef.â
âHeâs not a little puppy dog that you take for a walk and follow behind picking up his doggy-do-do. Heâs a big fierce dog who eats little kiddies and small cows.â
âYes, Chef!â Jesse yells, and claps again. âService!â
âWeâre booked out again tonight, yeah? Thereâs work to be done,â I remind him.
âYes, Chef.â Jesse meets my eye. âI wonât be long, Chef. Iâve just got to go into town and then Iâll be straight back to box my section.â
âOkay. Sounds like a plan. You coming for a surf, Soda?â
âNah, Chef. Iâll probably just head into town with Jesse.â
âOkay,â I say as I return to my cleaning. Iâm nervous now. I know the boys are up to something.
And then, like a siren sounding, Sammy the barman gives the call weâve all been waiting for.
âVinnieâs in the house!â
15
Bruce, my friend from the Bondi Hotel days, was working with me again at the Pasta Man. He was a few years older than me, and one of those guys who always seemed to be at the party. He was a right-place-right-time kind of guy. But he wasnât into narcotics; he was more a champagne and bong man. And when he suggested a road trip back up the highway to our home state of Queensland, he did so because he was worried about my drug use. I think he felt that if I could get back in touch with something innocent, like Queensland or home, I might be able to arrest my self-destructive ways and actually make something good out of the opportunity that the Pasta Man represented. And the idea of the tropics was appealing. I had written off my last misadventure into Kings Cross as a silly mistake, a youthful misadventure.
I had lost my licence on three separate occasions as a drunken young apprentice chef, so I left it to Bruce to hire the car. Which turned into a nightmare anyway because between us we didnât have a credit card with any credit left on it, which meant I had to stump up a cash deposit. Obviously the seven hundred dollars required to rent the car wasnât hanging around in petty cash at this point, so I did my friends in Brisbane a favour and offered to transport some smack up to the Sunshine State if they were prepared to pay upfront. Amazing really, the optimism of junkies. No worries, mate; sounds like a plan. And the thing is, my âfriendsâ had recently robbed a bank in the manner of some idiots from a two-dollar weekly theyâd picked up at Video Ezy, and got busted. They were hungry for something to numb the pain of an impending prison sentence and, because they had been staying home with Mum, were able to come up with the money.
Getting busted on the freeway between Gosford and Sydney at two in the morning in the middle of winter for driving unlicensed and being fifty kilometres over the speed limit was not good. And what added heavily to that badness was the fact that I also had to dump the heroin out the window as we pulled the car over to talk to the police. This left me with some personal supply in the boot, which for a while there looked as if I was going to get busted
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