You might remember from the first book that during my schooldays I slaved part-time at Woolies. It’s not a bad job, especially if you get on the checkouts and can avoid the big family shoppers.
Usually, most punters coming through just want to get their tucker and rack-off. But occasionally, you would get a couple of good sorts making their way through. The trick was to make cool conversation but not to look desperate.
I would usually start off and end with a ‘How ya goin?’ My strike rate was pretty poor. But I’m sure the Santa hat had more to do with it than my pimply noggin.
Anyhow, soon pronounced dead from boredom and having earned the ire of management for my unwillingness to wear the Santa hat, I pulled the pin and signed up with the old man and became a landscaper. Good for the rig, but very few women on the job site in Years 10–12.
They reckon hard work never killed anyone but I don’t go along with that. How many blokes have had heart attacks on the job? Exactly. I don’t reckon there would have been too many happy campers building the bloody pyramids or rowing in those slave boats – especially if the captain wanted to water ski!
But I’d signed my life away to the family business with a contract Dad insisted was legal – unlimited hours and little pay as a striped paint specialist.
But it was all right. The old bloke ran a tight ship and expected good quality work, but he also loved a yarn and a feed at smoko with the troops. Israel Folau couldn’t beat the old man to a smoko truck.
Smoko was always something to look forward to. After busting your arse since 7am, carrying things and pushing wheelbarrows, 10am seemed like a great time to eat, reflect and eat some more.
It quickly became evident that Jimmy, the smoko go-getterer, was average at his job. It never ended well and was a real lucky dip. Jimmy meant well but, in the two years I toiled for the old man, Jimmy never got one smoko order correct, and there was never any change.
And it’s not like the orders were tough. They usually consisted of a rat coffin or a leper in a sleeping bag (sausage rolls), maggot bag, dog’s eye or mystery bag (pies), dead horse (tomato sauce) and battery acid (cola). Pretty straightforward stuff. So you can imagine, when Jimmy provided the foreman with a dog’s eye instead of a rat coffin and dead horse, he was filthy.
One Friday, the foreman had had enough. He confided in me that he was going to eat baked beans for every meal until Monday so he could punish Jimmy in the most hideous of fashions. He was a man of his word.
Jimmy was gassed from sun-up to sun down, and in every situation you can imagine. Mercifully it finally stopped, but only due to the high chance of a follow-through.
It was a long way from Woolworths but good preparation for my rugby tours to come.
One arvo, Jimmy and I were tasked with bringing the trailer back home. Dad didn’t trust him to back it down the driveway, so it was agreed that I would do it. Dad’s new ute was parked out the front as Jimmy and I drove around the corner. Bang! Jimmy had side-swiped the old man’s pride and joy. ‘How is this possible?’ I thought, with a puzzled look on my face. It was the only car for 200 metres!
Jimmy was feeling pretty average about telling the old man. I told him it would be OK and just man-up! The old bloke, always with a keen sense of hearing when it came to the dinner bell, happy hours or his ute – walked up the driveway and saw the damage.
Jimmy cried out in agony – ‘I did it. I did it!’
Dad replied, ‘Forget it.’ And just as quickly, Jimmy said, ‘Consider it forgotten!’
Dad: ‘Not that quick, you stupid bastard!’
Jimmy had short-cropped hair with a bleached mohawk across the top of his head. He bore a strong resemblance to the second-last of the Mohicans and stood out like a prop forward on a catwalk.
So the boys started referring to Jimmy as ‘Skunk’, an endearing nickname if I’ve ever heard one. Obviously, Skunk took offence and complained to the old boy. Dad spoke to the boys at smoko, telling everyone to cut it out. Fair enough.
From that moment on he was known as Pepé (Le Pew).
Apart from Jimmy/Skunk/Pepé’s normal issues, he always seemed to have mechanical dramas. One day after work his car was parked out the front and refused to play the game.
We were all having a couple of frothies down the back when John, the carpenter, offered his assistance. John walked up to Jimmy’s ute, grabbed a hacksaw and cut off his muffler. That was of little use. The car didn’t start and now didn’t have a muffler.
Finally, an RACQ road service truck arrived. The bloke informed Jimmy that the ute refused to start because the Blu-Tack he had put in the carburettor as a temporary repair had been sucked into the carbie.
The mechanic shook his head and dragged the mufflerless, Blu-Tack-ridden ute onto the back of the recovery truck. Jimmy tagged along.
But as the cabin of the recovery vehicle only had a single driver’s seat, Jimmy had to sit on a wooden crate. You could just make out his mohawk above the dashboard.
Jimmy, in spite of his shenanigans, lead an ordinary existence. But one time every year, Jimmy was king.
The big moment in the landscaping calendar is the annual Amazon Landscaper of the Year Awards night held at the old man’s ranch. This year, the event kicked off mid-afternoon with the Amazon Gift – a 50-metre, flat-out, do-your-best foot race modelled loosely on the Stawell Gift. Bar the allowance of cheating.
This explains why the old boy picked up third each year despite finishing last.
Following the main race, the barbie fired up and people became lubricated. As the night began to pump, the Landscaper of the Year Awards were announced.
Jimmy always won it – eight years in a row in fact. This year was a big one for him as he picked up both the Gay Landscaper of the Year and the Straight Landscaper of the Year awards – he didn’t discriminate.
These were bloody funny nights, especially when Jimmy had to borrow the trolley to remove the rock, sleeper or whatever other massive object he’d won.
Life was much easier back then, even if the social side was just a touch bent.