Pat Cash

Pat Cash 

Wearing “Stubbies” and Red Faction t-shirts we’d run bare foot through the suburb scrounging bottles to swap for mixed lollies at the corner shop. The bag would be torn into a tiny picnic blanket on the footpath to take turns choosing our share from the pile in the centre. That all stopped after I watched my first Wimbledon. “Cash for Cans”; I don’t know how many you needed for a bag of racing cars, pineapples, raspberries and milk bottles? 

 

Later we moved our search to the industrial bins on Burwood Road. Here we found out of date sweets, cans of drink and Shampoo, even magazines that Rob would quickly relocate to one of his hiding spots on the island in the middle of the river. 

 

Flathead

I stood thigh deep looking up at their shoes, hems and silk, listening to the clatter of the restaurant above. My toes had been leading my feet downward into the fine sand discovering shattered shells and coral fragments as I waited to see if there were any flathead hiding in the shadows of the pier.

 

My recycled mesh fruit bag lay hidden at the base of one of the pylons with some mussels, baby crabs and …. a cooked prawn. It’s all here, same as them, or similar at least in my mind. It’s better actually, apart from the view.

Shy

Part 3: Gregson Park

Shy 

 

Three spread across the path and grass moving like the hyenas, looking for opportunity in the last minutes of darkness. Their eyes painting over everything – except me, as holding my breath. I only look out of the corner of my eye in case they sense my presence. The cool air snarls with menace, along with the odd sound of unconcerned profanity emitted over the rustling of their pants. There is no one here yet today, they’re a little early for the walkers and a little late for me.

 

Minutes later two approach from either end, walking with man’s best friend. He’s oblivious to the hyenas that passed before yet she can see them leaving, glad not to be alone for long. Their dogs greet, whilst both smile and move their gloved hands into one another, kissing gently before they chat. It’s just a blissful stolen moment separate from one another’s reality, a sign I understand that life has passed too far and slipped between their fingers.

 

Finally now, alone I’m left – striking, grafting and watering before the park becomes alive with all others and their phones, headphones – megaphones. This park is mine for now. You won’t see me, lest you spot me shuffling home, I’ll never let you, help, tell or save you. Enter at your own risk as do I – shy and alone in the greenhouse.

Off the Beaten Track

I am safe here, off the beaten track. Everyone I know moves from north to south, up and down the street. They ride bikes and walk, rarely driving, rarely stopping – just a steady pace to Maitland Road and back again. I look through the newcomers and keenly scan for any of mine, friend or foe, those I always see.

Three blocks across at the park no one comes, except to rest. This rest surrounds me like a heated cotton wool cocoon, my skin comes alive to it’s every touch as my slumber accelerates. I grip the tiny blades of grass as best I can to stop me sliding down the small mound I lie on, you can’t see, but I can feel it getting steeper by the second. Soon it will flatten out again but for now I clench my jaw and hang on, hoping not to slide in front of you.

Now I am still, calm and paralyzed. I can here you walking past, I heard you fifty meters ago, talking to your dog. Now you are silent, hoping not to wake me, you can see I’ve come across from the street from my trips up and down. Don’t be afraid – I’m resting, you are nothing but a comforting sound. The closest I’ll ever feel to you, a newcomer, is now as I rest here in your world.

Eventually sleep comes so powerfully that I lose all understanding of my space, I can here the children on the other side of the park playing. I feel like I am beneath the swing and under the monkey bars, counting you all like sheep as I slowly slip away. My rest has finally peaked, just for now and close to you in my most vulnerable state. I thank you for the space we share off the beaten track.

The Fig Jury

He sat staring at his toes, punch drunk from arguing over intellectual territory. The park had been a battle ground for months now due to the thin walls of her apartment and the judgmental nature of his family. Here they could raise their voices a little and swear, their sides being pondered by the jury of Moreton bay figs that maintained a silent watch over all in the park, day and night.

 

As she continued with her particularly honest description of him a notion of generosity sprung from within, it alerted him to the incomplete nature of her life. He looked at her hands and saw those of a lonely woman whose caring labour was the sum of her company. Guiltily his eyes drifted toward his own hands and saw those of a man – hard but clean, perfectly acceptable in any social circle. His forearms were brown from sun and had pale wiry hairs. She, in contrast, trembled with the beginnings of defeat, or at least she would stop trying for him.

 

The light, now shining at her face through the trees, showed an increasing disregard for his opinion that bordered on revulsion. Realizing, he softened his stance hoping for a middle ground. It was too late, his words as usual were already standing there, naked like a childhood nightmare of school attendance in not a stitch. Why couldn’t he just stop talking? Everything he said just made it worse.

 

This park was like a trap, like a seductive, serene, beautiful trap that drew them here to quarrel in relative privacy. It was a lectern for all his anger, sadness and fear, it had tricked him again making him think he was right. Sadly the figs don’t agree and increasingly neither does he.

 

Sleep Walking in Eden

I walked out the back door and across the veranda, to the left and into mums fern garden. It was cool and dark walking through there with gentile looking elk horns growing off the wall on planks, there were herringbones everywhere like the ones that grannies grow inside their outdoor dunnys. There were other ones, maybe you know their name, they had trunks with tarantula legs coming out of them and was important not to brush up against them, in my experience.

The grey light of dawn shone through the end of the fern garden, next to the tap on the back corner of the house – I walked towards it. Dad had scrubbed  my mouth out for using the ‘b’, ‘f’ and ‘s’ words that I’d learnt at soccer camp. It was a powerful tap, he only used it once and after that I learnt to mutter under my breath the fruits of that holiday’s camp. I don’t think he liked doing that much, it’s probably the roughest he ever was with me.

After the tap I could see down the side of both our place and Grandma and Grandpa’s. I came to the gate that connected our fern garden to their Eden. Grandpa was already out the back pottering around, I couldn’t see him, but I could hear his sandy shuffle as he moved around his back yard. I looked over the gate at the old Vauxhall that he painted every other year. He thinned the gloss white paint out with turps to flatten the brush lines, painting always from front to back. This was his way of keeping the old girl beautiful, in a thrifty way learnt from growing up in the depression.

In their Eden there was a homemade irrigation system that ran along the fence, it ran on bore water so all it’s pipes were stained yellow, with little hints of cobalt blue where they were joined with a generous amount of candy smelling PVC glue. There were ‘forty gallon’ drums at the base of all the gutters, their water smelt like metal on account of grandpa dipping hot bits of welding in to cool down. I do remember the water tasted sweet though.

Both Grandma and Grandpa patrolled the garden constantly, in between their jobs.  They were looking for grubs on all the veggies as well as the dreaded onion weed, if either were allowed to get a foothold would they would surely ruin Eden. If you looked closely along the walls there were weapons always within reach. Tennis and badminton racquets, as well as home made versions of both. They were manufactured with chicken wire and were all on hand in case a moth was spotted, then dealt with swiftly with an overhand swat. “There, that’ll stop him smiling,” Grandpa would say.

Grandpa spotted me peering over the gate and walked over, “Armino…., Benjamino,” he called out in his best Italian accent.  He learnt Italian and Greek words for tools and stuff in the MTT workshop fixing busses, He learnt that one for me. I remember looking at him, not being able to get a word out. He smiled, patting me on the head with his big white haired arms and told me to go back to bed, which I did, leaving him in Eden.

The Member’s Stand

I drive down past National Park Street pondering what she’ll look like today, shimmering in the heat perhaps, or striped with neat curves lined up finishing at my toes. She might  be angry and bursting at the seams today, frothing at the mouth in rage over a lover in the North. Pounding her fists against the sand, taking her rage out on the men down here, chewing them up and spitting them out. Either way I know she’ll be beautiful, I can’t help but be in love with her, no matter how she looks.

 

I turn right off Parkway and catch a glimpse, not all of her – just a flash. I can only see her shoulders and head giving away a little, but not enough to tell her mood. The sun reflects off them leaving white spots on my eyes as I try to focus on her endless skin. I can’t see her face but I can tell she’s a little sour, getting ready for another tantrum as men play around her, showing off in their rubber suits. They know her anger, but have never calmed her, they can’t when they see her as a play thing, something to discard on days when she’s not at her best, I’m not like that. I’ve loved her always in every form.

 

Glancing down the southern side of the surf club I spot her hands slamming into the sand in a back handed fashion – left and right in no particular order. The lesser men are already being issued their marching orders, the more skilled are still busy dancing around her shoulders, staying out of reach of her hands. The more respectful men sit near the small of her back gazing toward her horizon, waiting for the first sign of anger as it brews out by her toes. I drive on, I know how to sooth her pain.

 

I park at the top of the baths, reversing parallel to the right with my door next to the wall with only just enough room to get out. I see her now complete, in a tribal dance on the sand and rocks. She flutters her fingers with graceful menace toward the edge of the baths and is mad as hell, ready to throw a shark in if she could find one. She’s angry at the men that built it, stealing sweat from her neckline to bathe in, anything not to dance with her. I walk South and around the cliffs knowing the spot to calm her, to speak soothing words, easing the pain in her right foot as she lies on her belly – angry.

 

Walking out carefully on the slippery rocks at Burwood, hoping not to annoy her. Taking no notice she continues with her head down and pointed west, hands working in the sand and feet hidden far to the East. I look toward Legge Point and she is everywhere; sad, lonely and enraged. Her tantrum being fueled by those in the ‘Member’s Stand’, wearing not a stitch apart from flannel hats. They hide behind the dunes drawing confidence from the sun, occasionally jumping up to look around – sausages jangling they strut down to tease her, dancing around her fingers, too scared to stay for long. They are not like us; couples skinny dipping late at night, chef’s dropping their checkered pants and refreshing in her icy shadow, or me with total trust and respect exposing my all to her every whim.

 

I stand alone next to her, out on the rocks and watch her perfect shoulders as she continues with her violence. I talk to her softly, complimenting her beauty and power, my toes sometimes touching her as she writhes around. She is still mad but trust her, I reach down and dip my hands in the small of her back then back away – never turning my back. I love everything about her, but I doubt she loves me.

 

Ive` the mistress & co.

The beginning of Ive`s time is always gentle as the sun sets on their journey to market.  They leave quietly across the yard and through the creek past the ducks, only just getting her feet wet and just the faintest splash upward tickles her gently on her way through the gate. In her left she carries clean clothes and on the right he accompanies her, showered and fresh – knowing he is sad giving his farewell yet he leaves with her, his mistress, feeling two glowing green eyes behind, watching with a faint understanding of why.

 

She feels a little warmer by the time they wade through the river together, he urges her forward gently before encouraging her firmly up the bank on the other side. He is strong but gentle which she likes, unlike some of the men she has known before yet as his mistress he treats her different to his love back home. He has expectations of their relationship that are purely functional and the lack of love is apparent, although he is still her keeper, a nice one at that.

 

The hill out of the valley is long and windy, he pushes her a little, although not so much as to be cruel, but enough to know he is in a rush. They approach the nearest farmhouse halfway up the hill and the farmers dog races out, nipping at her heal as they skirt the boundary of the property. He is mostly oblivious to this, sometimes saying, “Good evening Jessie,” yet never shielding her from the dog. As a mistress he needed her to be strong and paradoxically faithful, like his green eyed love down the hill, who was that way too.

 

Once at the top of the hill they began their special time together, as he gripped her firmly and danced down the snaky road toward Woodville. Here they played like children, moving fast and slow, swinging around the bends in the road and trotting across the wooden bridge near Mt Rivers. She could tell he enjoyed being on the road with her as he urged her forward shining both their lanterns against the trees, yet his heart was back at home where his love’s eyes had lost their green tinge now and had just a little sparkle again.

 

Apart from their trip to Woodville together their relationship was business, drop this here, carry this there, wait here – as he sprinkled his chickens around town. He was soft with her and encouraging, only annoyed occasionally when she struggled to keep the chickens cold. They worked together until the end of the day when he stopped at Mavis’s for the night. Here she stayed outside alone, waiting until the morning, along with all of us, as he went in alone thinking of his love back home.

 

The morning came and Ive` stood in the driveway waiting faithfully, his love back home was up already feeding the chickens and welcoming in the day. ‘What a day,’ she thought, as she looked across the yard toward the creek, remembering him in the van leaving for market, splashing the ducks as he drove through.

 

Tom the tramp

I met Tom once when I was eight, over an old car battery in a vacant lot across from our house, he asked me in his simple, rough, yet polite way to borrow a hammer to smash it open so he could get the lead to trade. Often he’d be walking around Vic Park, always a long stride and in a collared shirt and pants with an old belt and leather lace ups. His clothes were worn, stained from sweat and dusty from living outdoors. He was clean enough not to attract attention, yet perhaps a little dirty to sit on a bus – in those days.

 

No one ever saw his eyes, they’d been sent forever south after meeting his first loves father, for the second time, after the war had finished.  At school he’d captained the Aussie Rules team, Anne’s father would sometimes come to the game to watch, she did too. They only had the odd talk after the game, they’d not even held hands.

 

“He’s a good young man, keep an eye on him,” he’d heard Anne’s father say from in the Grand Stand. He blushed and puffed out his chest, later that year Anne’s father had pulled him aside and said, “Write to us from Europe, then come  and see me, maybe you come over for lunch after church and talk to Anne.”

 

When they met for the second time it was on the steps of the church, five years later, Anne’s father cut him short mid sentence. “You never fought son, did you? Anne’s married now you know, to a policeman, he’s a war hero. Good day!” At that he walked off with his paper under his arm.

 

‘There you go, I couldn’t fight with flat feet, and now she marries a flat foot.’ Tom had thought as he walked off, never really stopping again.

 

By the time Tom had finished walking he was 48, he’d been tramping around the wheat belt, out to Kalgoorlie working where he could, shearing, mining, he even lived in and cleaned a pub for a while, until he discovered his weakness. After that it was back outdoors, sleeping under the stars and a ration of one King Brown a night, on his own. No trouble that way.

 

Last I heard of him he slept down by the Coode St Jetty under an old pontoon up on blocks. It had overgrown grass under and just to the edge of it where the council mowers couldn’t reach, he’d cleared his own little private area just inside. I heard him snoring early one morning as I went down to drop a line in, just before I turned eleven and began the years in which I was ‘more important’.

 

Man down Karate Kid, I love your wings.

Everything cracks in a heatwave, I try as best not to myself. Today everything is pushed to the limit, today is no exception and it’s Janet the head Chef’s day off.

 

6:50 am Dallas is down, barely functioning. He’s apologetic, although the fight isn’t knocked out of him yet, of all things he has pneumonia. I immediately move to the phone, looking for staff, the restaurant is booked heavily and running without him is going to be a battle, all the phones ring out.

 

I don’t tell him yet that I am planning to send him home, I don’t want to make a promise I can’t keep. In a tight kitchen like this one, no one leaves the team unless sent, it’s bad form, they all know what it will do to their mates. They all have to trust one another to turn up and they always do.

 

The atmosphere is silent, Dallas has already backed off from the stove and is on the toaster whilst running through the checklists, making sure the menu is complete for the service that is about to begin. He looks like shit, he couldn’t even drive this morning, he got his brother to drop him off. Amy is alone on the stove, already cooking as though for a hundred people, she’s getting her rhythm, waiting anxiously for Sam to arrive at 8:00 to hand over to him so she can move to the pass, the centre of our kitchen.

 

Lauren answers her phone, we can expect her at 8:30. The floor will be fine between her and Shanelle, I can focus on the kitchen if needed. The kitchen can expect Beau and Taze at 8:30 and Jordan at 9:00.

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We send Dallas at 7:50, Sam is early as usual, but he won’t leave until the final lists are checked and he grunts a couple of orders in his gruff, but warm style.

 

“You gotta shred the veal before lunch, and cook those chicken breasts ready for the salads on Monday. Stick Taze on dishes all day, Sam on the stove, your on the pass Amy and let Beau plate up and get Jordan on the toaster.”

 

8:10 Dallas sticks his bag on his shoulder and walks out the front to wait for a taxi.

 

First strike is at 8:40, a table of 20, already the kitchen has cooked for 40 and is under a ‘moderate load.’ Measured by a wait of 18 minutes on meals. They cleared the big table in just on 20 minutes, although this has pushed docket times out to 25 minutes, so they dig in and fight to bring the times back in to 15 minutes before the next attack at 9:30.

 

When it’s this hot customer behavior is like guerilla warfare, not so much their actual personal behavior but in the timing of their arrival, one minute a rush, next minute a lull. The whole daily routine seems to change and nothing can be predicted. Regardless we have a no excuse policy. As I have said before, ‘there is nothing any one of us would like more than to serve your breakfast, coffee or lunch no matter how crazy the place looks, we are here for you!’

 

9:30 – 11:00 could be best described as “intermittent in intensity, with some heavy bursts of machine gun fire,” nothing Sam and his team couldn’t handle. Around 10:45 the cafe lulled for ten minutes before you could feel the room start to ‘line up,’ the baristas got hit first, with waits on coffee going out to 7 minutes at the peak, meanwhile the kitchen braced themselves, preparing for war.

 

In case you hadn’t noticed I think in crazy analogies, which fun to do in a restaurant, sometimes it’s war, sometimes love, car racing or even riding a bike. Today I looked at the kitchen just before 11:00, I imagined a fighter jet banking over Merewether Beach and heading back to Williamtown. That was how calm, smooth and powerful they were, not one raised voice, not one harsh word. Not once did anyone give up or make an excuse.

 

I also imagined them all holding hands in a line before morphing into the ‘Karate Kid’, with his arms held high above his head, calm, yet punch drunk, before he delivered his final kick. If you dined between 11:00 and 12:00 you would have felt that kick, in the nicest possible way. We hope you liked it, I did, and I feel honored to be around these young people who I don’t think realize how special they really are.

 

Thank you Dallas, we hope you get better soon, thank you Sam & Amy, Beau, Jordan & Taze, we ‘love your wings’ and your kick.

 

Statistics

 

Kitchen

Dallas 19 2nd year apprentice

Sam 20 2nd year apprentice

Amy 19 2nd year apprentice

Jordan 16 1st  year apprentice

Taze 22 1st  year apprentice

 

Breakfasts 220

Lunch 40