Seven grand, total.Seven thousanddollars.
Dad will never cover that. He might scrape together enough for the local bills, but if he’s in trouble with a bookie, things could get dirty real fast. And he’s gonna drag me down with him if I don’t do something about it.
But it’s bigger than I’d anticipated. Seven grand is more than I can possibly repay. The size of it makes me feel like a tiny boat rolling on a giant sea.
I rub my forehead. ‘Jesus. Thanks for telling me, Col. I can’t pay you tonight. I don’t…’ I don’t know how I’m gonna pay at all. I try to screw my head on straight. ‘Look, I’ll get you what you’re owed somehow. Let me sort it out, yeah? Just give me a few weeks to find it.’
Col looks at me, nods, moves along the bar to serve another customer. I turn around, lean against the wood, pop the ring tab on my can. The first long slug is to anchor me. The second is to help get my mind around this fucking ridiculous concept: I’m broke, I’m injured, I’m unemployed, and I’ve just taken on a seven thousand dollar debt.
This is insane. My father has lost the plot. What the hell is he doing, getting in deep with a bookie? How did he manage to rack up such a huge tab? How in hell am I gonna pay it back?
I’m jerked out of my contemplation of the pub’s wooden floorboards by a slap on the shoulder. The slap knocks me off balance; I right myself before I slip off the bar.
‘Hazza!’ Snowie Geraldson grins at me, opens out his hands.
‘Snow.’ The colour has dribbled out of my voice but I give pleasantries a try. ‘Hey, man, good to see you.’
‘Shit, mate, they told me you’d been wounded in action but I didn’t believe it.’ Snowie gestures at my leg, and the crutches, just as one of them slips off the bar and clatters to the floor. ‘You should be at a table, yeah? You want your crutch back?’
‘Yeah, cheers.’
Snowie retrieves my crutch, and between the two of us we get me to a table. One of the pub regulars puts some grey-bearded Jimmy Barnes song on the jukebox. Jesus, don’t people here get enough of Jimmy Barnes?
‘Mate, you look like death warmed over,’ Snowie says. ‘Get some booze into you, that’s it. What’s been going on?’
Skinny, with a loud-coloured silky shirt that practically screamsI Am Not A Farmer, Snowie Geraldson is Colin’s second kid, and the only one who’s stayed local. Snowie’s a year older than me and, in a shocking break with the tradition of country nicknames – where redheads are called Bluey, and tall men are called Shorty – Snowie’s hair is actually snow-coloured: white-blond and upstanding. He’s always had fair hair, but I think he bleaches it now.
He listens while I give him the heavily edited version of how I got shot in the leg, whistling at the emergency bits. Snowie always does a good impression of listening to what you’ve got to say. When I’m done he buys me a beer. I wouldn’t trust him as far as I could throw him, but Snowie’s an okay guy.
He’s also my dealer.
‘So, no goodie bags to tide you over?’ he asks, waggling his eyebrows.
‘Nah, mate. Not exactly cashed up at the moment.’
‘And I’m guessing Col told you the bad news.’ His eyes flick towards the bar. Snowie and his father call each other by their first names, something I’ve never quite understood, but each to their own. ‘Your dad got up to a bit of mischief while you were in Melbourne, eh? Got in a bit of a pickle.’
‘Yeah, from being too pickled,’ I quip. Thinking about the debt still makes me feel sick.
Snowie shakes his head. ‘Hard call, mate. Feelin’ your pain there – I’m trying to help Col keep the pub propped up. Been working in Mildura to make some extra dough. This place…’ He waves a hand to encompass the bar, the pool room, the whole palaver. ‘Well, it’s not quite holding its own at the mo.’
‘I thought the pub was doing okay?’
‘Yeah, not so much. Lotsa people have left town. Lotsa businesses are hurting – ask Bev Metcalfe at the grocery how much she owes the bank. These old joints have got heaps of problems too – broken plumbing, shitty wiring. Be all right if it was just the business, but the upkeep’s a killer.’
I finally catch on. ‘That’s why Col’s calling in my dad’s debt.’
‘Yep.’ Snowie makes a snort. ‘Can’t give beer away for free, eh? Col loves this place. It’s all he knows. But if he can’t make it pay…’
So I’m not the only kid in town trying to help a parent stay solvent. That makes me feel slightly better, somehow.
I lean back in my chair. ‘And you’re working in Mildura? What’s the job?’
Snowie grins. ‘Let’s just say I got irons in a few different fires. I’m still around on a Friday night if you need anything.’ He winks at me.
‘I’ll let you know.’ I sigh. ‘Be a bit easier if some rich relative died and left us a few handy million, yeah?’
‘Too right. If I win the lotto or something, I’ll give you a call.’ Snowie laughs, nods at my drink. ‘Anyway, get that into ya. Can’t be depressed on your birthday.’
‘What?’
‘Well, you were rockin’ it up big this time last year…’
‘It’s the ninth of August?’ My face must look pained.
‘Yeah, mate.’ Snowie stands up. ‘You have that one, and I’ll get your next UDL on the house, while Dad’s still feeling generous. That’s a good pressie.’
He slaps my back, moves away to talk to another mate at the bar. I look at my can. It’s my birthday. I’m twenty years old today.
Twenty years old, and I feel like I’m a hundred.
