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(adj. incapable of being rectified, remedied, or made good)
It’s afternoon, and I’m squatting at a low shelf in the storage room, loading up with limes to stock the bar. Prepping is like therapy for me: time to centre myself before the crowds filter in after five. I slice lemons and limes into fine half-moons, lining them up like fallen dominos on a tray, ready to pinch into bottles of boutique beer, or slip into fizzing gin and tonics. Half strawberries, dipped in castor sugar, and little pineapple chunks sit on a separate tray. That’s as far as we go here – no paper umbrellas.
Normally, my mind is a blank, relaxed, but for the past five days there’s been something niggling me: Harry. I keep expecting him to show up again. To settle at the bar, wanting to reminisce about old times. ‘Do you remember that ram in the back paddock? The time we forgot to shut the gate, and he got into the garden and ate all that clover, then blew up like a balloon and Dad nearly killed me? Or what about when you snuck over to my place when you were supposed to be studying and your bike got a flat tyre, and you had to push it all the way home, and Samuel went off his rocker?’
Samuel. Why did I have to think of him? That life is dead. Buried. Literally. I shake it off. It’s Harry’s fault. Why did he have to turn up? And the bigger question is, why hasn’t he been back to ask me about the fire? I can’t help but wonder if he’s dobbed me in. Surely not. Surely the police would have turned up by now?
As I stand and straighten, I bump into Bob who’s on his way out back for a ciggie.
‘Careful, love.’
‘Sorry, boss.’
He stands there regarding me. ‘You know, I can’t figure why you won’t listen to me. Here.’ He sticks his unlit cigarette in his mouth and steps forward. Before I know it, he’s popped my top two buttons and pulled my blouse open halfway down my chest, revealing my bra.
I’m dumb with shock.
‘There,’ he says, flattening out my collar. ‘Much better. Bit of cleavage. You watch. Your tip jar’ll double tonight.’
Suddenly limes are thudding all over the floor, and my hand is stinging from the slap I’ve landed on Bob’s face.
‘Fuck!’ he says, stunned. He reaches to pluck his crushed cigarette from his mouth. ‘What was that for?’
‘You’re a moron!’ I snatch my shirt together, turn and scramble through the plastic strips that separate the storeroom from the bar. My arm catches in a tangle, and I yank hard, tearing half the strips from their mooring. Snap has just arrived. He looks startled.
‘Kitten? What’s happened? You okay?’
‘Enough’s enough,’ I mutter, ripping off my apron. ‘I quit.’ I grab my bag from underneath the counter.
‘What’s he done?’
‘Broke the camel’s back.’ I try to push past Snap, but he blocks me.
‘Honey, slow down. Tell me what happened.’
I glare at him. ‘Get out of my way.’
He looks unsure, but finally says, ‘Do you want me to drive you home?’
‘No.’
‘Well, if you’re going to go ...’ he reaches up to the top shelf and takes down a bottle of Famous Grouse thirty-year-old scotch, ‘you should go out with a bang.’
‘I can’t take that. It’s worth a fortune.’
‘Sure you can. You’re never going to get your back wages out of him. So shhh.’ He shoves it in my bag. ‘Go.’
I round the bar and continue through to the bistro, where the only patrons – a couple of grey-haired veterans who spend their pensions sucking on pints all afternoon, every afternoon – glance at me, then return their gaze to the sports channel on the overhead telly.
‘Give us a top-up would ya, love?’ one says, holding out an empty beer jug. I pause for a moment, then take the jug from him, pull the scotch out of my bag and stick it into his hand. ‘Merry Christmas.’
The veterans’ cries of surprise are cut off as the door swings shut behind me. Out on the street, I lean back against the brickwork of the pub, bag clutched to my stomach, waiting for my shaking to subside. A couple of tradies in shorts are approaching. One stubs a cigarette on the footpath with his Blundstone while the other, the one wearing a grubby singlet, looks me over. He seems about to speak before his mate pushes him through the door and into the pub.
The bistro will be filling soon – punters wanting their Wednesday night Ten-Dollar-Parmas. Bob will be swearing at being short-staffed. Good. He should have thought of that before he put his disgusting hands on me.
As I move to heft my bag over my shoulder, I notice my bra is still showing, the white satin stark against the black of my shirt. I button up properly, wondering if that’s what caused the singlet bloke to stare at me. Creep.
A little calmer now, I wander off towards a music store two blocks away. I can’t afford to buy anything, especially now, but I don’t feel like going home yet. I need to walk. To think. I’ve screwed up. Snap’s going to have to cover my half of the rent now. And I was just starting to get ahead with a bit of savings. Now I’m wishing I’d kept that bottle of scotch. Wishing I’d at least taken a double shot of it before I stalked out. Even if I don’t know whether I like the stuff or not.
I should probably start door-knocking the restaurants further up the strip, before word gets around. Ha. Sometimes my thinking is so small-town. Not everyone in the city knows everyone else’s business.
Brunswick Street traffic is crawling. I stand at the side of the road waiting for a gap so I can cross. Some jerk blares his horn at me as if I’m about to step in front of his SUV. I startle at the jarring blast. ‘WHAT’S YOUR PROBLEM?’ I yell. Does he think I’m going to risk my life to put a dent in his blah-blah-custom-coloured metallic paintwork?
Why can’t people be decent? Look at those drivers, smug in their cocoons of personal comfort, pushing and edging forward to own a few more inches of the road. As if getting home five minutes earlier will make all the difference to their survival of peak hour. Arseholes.
Here’s a gap. I sprint across the road, then stalk up the footpath towards the music store. As I shove my hands in my back pockets, something catches on my fingernail, and I pull out a crumpled note. Harry.
