Green (41 page)

‘What do you mean? It's a way of building up customer numbers without spending a lot.'

‘It's marginal here already.'

‘Exactly. What have we got to lose?'

‘What have we got to lose? You don't know what I'm up against. This is camera money for you. Big Artie can't go up trees any more and he won't admit it. So Green Loppers is going to shit. This place has to keep working. I can't lose this job, and that includes the box of burgers you've got on your lap. Your family has always had money, right? Well, I pretty much come from a long line of tong jockeys, broom pushers and the occasional self-made man. It's a much more tenuous hold on things, okay? So we've got to make this place work.'

‘I know, dickhead. That's what this is about. It's about someone doing something to make this place work. As opposed to standing there all evening with your mouth open catching flies, for example. It's about trying new ideas, and I don't mean pronouncing names backwards. It's about everyone getting involved. That's what I'm doing, and I don't notice everyone doing it. And it's about not sleeping with people we shouldn't, and being on the same team instead.'

From that point, things deteriorate.

 

*

 

Frank starts in Labour Ward at eight-thirty in the morning, as far as I know. Perhaps it's busier than usual. We don't see him all day. The way I recall the night before, he's the one who owes me the apology, not the other way round. So I don't go looking for him.

I hang around at the Mater after the last tute, still shitted off with him and with the turn of events, and I try to get some study done. This year was supposed to be better than it's been so far. No one seems happy right now, not even Frank. He's plunged himself deep into a big mistake, he refuses to accept that and he doesn't even seem to be enjoying it. Not that I'm letting him any time I'm around. But he shouldn't push me. He shouldn't be the laziest bastard possible at work, and then criticise me when I try to improve things. It's for him, too, that I'm doing it, to keep him in a job.

It's not that I was expecting a glorious year, but I was hoping for better than this. The video camera, the trip to America maybe. I haven't given that a thought for weeks. The paperwork is sitting there at home and it still seems like an issue too big to deal with. I've got enough to deal with. I need to clear some space in my head some time, and work out what I'm going to do about UCLA. After this term, maybe, if the offer hasn't expired by then.

UCLA. I can't believe they said they'd take me. UCLA is like a place on TV—glamorous, gifted students all working hard, noise and guns and drugs on the streets, every bit of it several levels of intensity more than I can handle. Too big, too wild, too fast. And even if it's not like that, every frame of every movie, every minute of every TV show, every word of every article I've ever come across that has anything to do with LA tells me it is like that. So some of it must be true, and how do I take my place in it all, just me?

But I should stop thinking about UCLA for now. It's pay day on Wednesday. I'd forgotten that. And my maths tells me this might be the Wednesday that gets me there, takes me to the grand total I need for half a video camera.

I could walk away from it all then. It's a real possibility. I'm gazing at chapter twenty-four, ‘Foetal-Placental Dysfunction'. I'm there for the money, I could take the money now. I could spend time learning to use my video camera, instead of working at World of Chickens and dealing with Ron, and the unhappy Sophie who used to like me more (or fake better), and Frank who shits me, and the disastrous revelations that may not be far off.

That's what I could do.

I finish the chapter and, just after six, I walk down to the cab rank outside the hospital, I get into the first cab in line and I tell the driver ‘Carindale'.

I pull out the World of Chickens notes I made at lunchtime and read through them. I could stay a couple more weeks, see how things go. That'd buy me some blank tapes.

Sophie answers the door when I get to the Todds, and she goes to pay the cabbie. Ron leads me to the sunken lounge, where three new pads of paper and three pens are waiting for us on the coffee table.

‘Let's get some Diet Cokes happening,' he says, and goes to the kitchen, coming back with a large bowl of peanuts and three Diet Cokes on a tray. ‘Thinking food. Grab yourself a handful.'

Sophie fetches a couple of old assignments from her room and joins us.

‘All right then,' Ron says, realising it's up to him to start it. ‘Philip's called this meeting.' He turns to me. ‘So how do you think we should proceed?'

‘Well, I've got some ideas but they're mainly about how the place works, and things that might be selling points, so maybe we could go to Sophie first and get her thoughts on the prospects of media interest.'

‘Soph?'

‘No worries. Okay, it's a tough one, I've got to tell you that. If it was, like, U2 arriving in the country for a concert tour, it'd be a lot easier. But it's not. So don't expect miracles from me. Sure, it's good—it's a good place—but it's a chicken shop in the suburbs.' She's looking my way, as if there might be high expectations—three pads and three pens in front of us—and it's all because of me.

‘So what you're saying is that we have to be realistic.'

‘Realistic, and start small, but I think there are things we can try. Suburban newspapers first. They're not bad with local businesses, and maybe they'll go for something involving the chicken. Or maybe Dad—local guy making a go of it in the face of the multinationals. They hate multinationals. Also student papers. We're near the uni campus and there are lots of students in the area. Plus, they'd be a big part of our market. So maybe even sponsoring some student things at uni.'

‘Okay, okay,' Ron says, his eyes almost closed he's giving it such thought. ‘Would that be financial sponsorship, or in-kind?'

‘Depends on the event, and on what you're looking for in return. Also special offers. Handbills out at the uni campus, mailbox drops. Special student discounts on Mondays, since they're pretty flat.' She flips the first page over and runs her pen down the next one. She stops and clears her throat. ‘Is this okay?'

‘It's great. It's great, isn't it, Ron? If we're being quiet it's only because we're waiting for what's next.'

‘Yeah, that's right, mate. Didn't want to interrupt.'

‘Oh, okay. Moving right along then, it'd be good to look at radio station promotions. We could at least give them a call. I don't know if they'd take us. We'd have to offer some free stuff to listeners—probably food for people who turn up—but it'd give us a good plug if it worked. And then the dream'd be coming up with a feature angle or news angle for the
Courier-Mail
—I don't know what that'd be yet—or a quirky look at it all for a filler story at the end of the TV news.'

‘TV news?'

‘Hey, no promises Dad, remember? That's big time. We don't start off shooting for that. I reckon this week I might put in some calls to the suburban and student papers, and maybe see what the radio stations think.'

‘Good,' Ron says, nodding. ‘Great.' Nodding and smiling. ‘Bloody genius, if you want to know what I think.'

‘No promises, but,' she says, and her cheeks start to flush. ‘Got to give it a shot though. You don't get TV if you don't try for TV.' Then she smiles too, at the way she's sounding. As though TV might be big time, but it's not so big really. ‘Of course, TV'd give us our best shot at targeting the Jean-Paul Sartre end of the market.'

‘Yes . . .' Ron says warily.

‘It's a media studies joke, Dad. Hey, Phil?'

‘Kind of literary/media studies crossover. One of Sophie's ideas that we've been talking through at work. It's a niche market. I think that's what they'd call it.'

Then it's my turn. I tell them we've got a lot going for us with technique, for a start, and maybe we could be doing more with that. Most people deep fry, but we cook our chicken breast on a hot steel plate.

‘So what are you thinking?' Ron says.

‘I'm wondering if we can use that. Instead of just calling it “chicken”, maybe call it “hotplate chicken”.'

‘And that . . .'

‘That's a point of difference,' Sophie says. ‘You've got to go for those. Hey, how about this? “
Famous
hotplate chicken”.'

‘
Famous
?' Ron's looking troubled. ‘Can we say famous?'

‘Define famous,' Sophie says defiantly. ‘Of course we can say famous. It's like “ever popular” or “bestseller” or “cult classic”. You say it first, and then it becomes true.' She takes a mouthful of Diet Coke. ‘We can say famous, can't we Phil?'

‘Yeah, it's a great idea. I'd buy it. “Famous hotplate chicken”. Irresistible. Look what this degree is turning you into. And you always seem like such a nice honest person when you're in the chicken suit.'

‘Hey, chicken suits'll do that. You should never make assumptions about people in chicken suits. What else have you got?'

‘Okay, spices. What I'm thinking is that we're already the only takeaway place in the western suburbs doing five sauces—I'm pretty sure of that—and I wondered if there was an easy way of adding something more. And I thought, spices. Get some commercial spice mixes, like Cajun and oriental five-spice, and put them on the chicken fillets before we cook them. It wouldn't be hard, and it'd add to the “World” idea. Most of them would go with the sauces we've already got. You'd probably only have to add soy.'

‘It's very gourmet.' Ron's wary again. ‘Very top-end.'

‘No, it's good, Dad. And it doesn't stop us doing anything else we do, including the whole and half chickens and the regular burgers without spices.'

‘Which,' Ron says, clicking his fingers, ‘we can call “classic”. Your basic burger becomes “classic hotplate”. Are we writing all this down? Is someone writing all this down? Famous? We can call this famous. It's going to be bloody famous. Hey love,' he says, and turns to Sophie with his chin on his hand, ‘which'd be my best side for TV?'

 

*

 

On Wednesday, I meet Ron in town. He said he wanted to see a serious film, so I've chosen
The Killing Fields
. I asked him if he'd be okay with a film with some southeast Asian war content and he said he'd manage. That was all years ago now.

Plus, I wanted to say, you were never there. But that's a place we don't go.

It'd be an understatement to say that Sophie's performance last night exceeded my expectations. There I was thinking, I bet Ron's underestimating her, and I was underestimating her too. At least I'd thought about involving her. Why hadn't she involved herself already? There must have been times over the past few months when she saw opportunities going by.

Ron's in the foyer of the cinema, tickets in his hand, when I arrive. He asks if I want popcorn—his shout—and I tell him I don't eat in movies.

‘I don't eat,' I tell him, ‘and I don't talk. I should be clear about that up front.'

‘Ah,' he says. ‘An aficionado.'

‘I just figure I'm there for the movie experience. I don't go to a restaurant expecting a video, so I don't go to a cinema and buy popcorn.'

‘Exactly, exactly. The movie experience . . .'

‘Plus, food noises. Food noises drive me crazy in there. Don't they get to you too? It's like, some important character's got a gun to their head, munch, munch, munch. Two people are breaking up, hand in the chip bag, fistle, fistle, crunch, crunch. Atmosphere. It counts for something. The beauty of the cinema is that it's not like TV. You get to immerse yourself.'

‘Good. This'll be good, then. I like the way you're thinking. This is absolutely what we're here for. Just one thing—could I get myself an ice cream if I promise to eat it before the film starts? There'd be ads, wouldn't there? I've kind of got my heart set on it.'

He buys a choc top and slurps his way through it during the ads and the previews. But he got my message. I made it as clear as I could that he wasn't going to be doing what he likes. It would have been family-size popcorn if I hadn't spoken up. Somehow I just know he's the kind of guy who tongues the chocolate off Maltesers, keeps his drink ice so that he can suck at it periodically and steps on all his old wrappers exactly when dramatic tension's essential. With some people you can tell. They never eat this stuff the rest of their lives, in cinemas they go mental. It's as though if you eat shit food in the dark, it doesn't count.

Ron flinches often during
The Killing Fields
and there isn't one long jolly musical number to break the tension, but he did say he wanted a serious film.

‘Jesus,' he says when the closing credits roll. ‘Holy bloody Jesus. Makes you grateful to be an Australian.'

‘Quite a film, wasn't it?'

‘Mate, it was awesome. Leaves you feeling pretty rough, though.'

‘Exactly. And that's the point sometimes. It's got to be. That's why we picked it. I'm not against entertainment, but sometimes you've got to shake people.'

On the way out of the cinema, Ron's limp is more pronounced than usual. He's had to battle his way through the last two hours.

‘Ah, daylight,' he says. ‘Beautiful Brisbane daylight.'

He pulls his wallet from his pocket while we're standing in the foyer, and tells me he wants to fix me up for the movie now, before he forgets. He leafs through some notes and pulls out a twenty, and I tell him it's okay. I really don't need to be paid to go to a movie.

I particularly don't need to be paid the same amount that Frank gets from Zel for sex, but that's one point that's better left unmade.