 
### Minimum Trips

Bruce Greenhalgh

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2011 Bruce Greenhalgh

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

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****

Temptation. Give me temptation.

Give me something other than yesterday's news, today's hassles and tomorrow's disappointments. The entertainments, the compensations, the contrived distractions and manufactured diversions don't do it for me anymore. I'm not excited by football matches, rock and roll, one day cricket or some stupid fucking car race. I don't want to see a band or film or go shopping or fishing or walk a dog or mow lawns or raise kids or have a barbeque or get pissed or go on a holiday to a resort or anywhere.

Temptation. Lead me to temptation.

I mean real temptation, not the lure of having whiter teeth through using striped toothpaste or a great phone deal or low fat milk with all the taste and half the calories or the prospect of a comfortable retirement through astute investment in superannuation.

Temptation. Please.

I have had a gutful of the latest, traditional, quality, interest free, no deposit, value packed, world class, exclusive, guaranteed, internationally renowned, endorsed, coloured, flavoured, homogenised, certified, lauded and applauded thing.

Temptation. Is it so much to ask? Too much to ask? To be tempted, attracted, enticed, lured. To experience the pull of good and evil, the fundamental, monumental dialectic. I want temptation, redemption, indulgence, abstention, absolution and deliverance. Something.

Let me explain. I want to explain. I can't explain.

****

And he said, 'I don't think it is such a terrible thing. I really don't. It doesn't hurt anybody else, and even if it hurts me - isn't good for me - I mean, it does give me ... pleasure'.

He hesitated with that last word, embarrassed, like, and me a good mate, his best mate and eminently qualified, versed, experienced and capable of supplying understanding and empathy and sympathy and sharing. 'Let it rip' I thought, 'Tell me about it, everything, detail upon detail, make my juices flow. Tell me about the pleasure.'

'It's a weakness that's all. We all have our weaknesses.' A silence followed. Andy looked around the room as if searching for an escape hatch and settled on the television, his gaze suggesting we should turn it on and retreat from the conversation.

'It's broken.' I lied.

'Broken?'

'Yep.' And I looked at him in a way that said: 'So tell me about your weakness. Tell me about your failing. Tell me about this thing that casts you down.'

He continued, 'I should be able to control myself, Kerry is right. But on the other hand, well, it is my life.'

'Tell me what you want' I cajoled.

'Oh you know...'

'Well, y'know, you come 'round here and start talking about it, you wanna talk about it. TALK!'

'Nah, nah. It'll only make me want it.'

'Do you want a hit now?'

'No. Nah, not really. Maybe a bit. I mean, I guess, y'know, you always kinda want it.'

'I need it. I really need it, and I know a place near here. I tell you it's good stuff, bloody good.'

'Near here? I didn't know there was anything near here.'

'The genuine article, those tassle things hang in the doorway, lino floor, dago owner, big refrigeration display with stuff all in it, laminex counter and great fish and chips.'

Andy looked a bit guilty as we walked to the chippy, ill at ease, like a schoolkid going to the headmaster for a caning. Once inside, though, his mood lifted. Actually, it soared.

His face lit up. 'Look' he said They've spelt chicken with two 'i's, C-H-I-C-K-I-N.' Ever since Andy had worked out that 'Always we sell the freshest and best and fish and chips and chicken and chips in the Elizabeth' wasn't the epitome of the Queen's English, he had been fascinated with fish and chip shop menus. He scoured them for mistakes and was rarely disappointed. Usually it was a very minor mistake he found, an apostrophe where it wasn't needed, or maybe a mix up with the spelling of 'Hawaiian' in Hawaiian Burger (completely understandable). Occasionally, though, he would come across one that even to the disinterested eye screamed 'The illegal immigrant who runs this shop never went to school in his own country let alone Australia, and is proud of the fact.'

We both ordered two fish and minimum chips. There was a bench seat. Andy sat down and watched. He watched as the fish were dipped into the batter, wiped on the side of the batter bowl and then lowered into the dark liquid gold which reacted in greedy greasy effervescence. The chips were then scooped into a mesh basket and lowered into the same bubbling cholesterol.

I paced up and down. I could hear myself breathing. I made a quick mental inventory of the drinks in the shop's cooler. I checked out the pinball machine, considered the salads in the refrigerated display, and then just waited.

'Salt?'

'Yes' in chorus. We fumbled out the money, grabbed the precious paper parcels, power walked to the car, raced back to my place, burst in.

'Vinegar. Get the vinegar!' barked Andy as he unwrapped his fish and chips. Splashing on the vinegar he leant back, then he rocked forward and inhaled the aroma of vinegar evaporating from the hot slivers of ambrosia and with watering eyes he attacked them. I followed suit. Conversation ceased apart from Andy exclaiming, 'Fuck these are good. Fuck.' Olfactory, palatal, visceral, greasy pleasure (that word again) ran through us. Andy's eyes fixed on his chips, his nostrils flared, and small beads of sweat appeared on his forehead. The fish and chips kept disappearing, disappearing, going, going, gone...

When we had finished, after we had chased the last morsel of deep fried crispy fat around the rough white paper, we were silent. I screwed up the paper into balls and put them in the kitchen bin. The aroma hung in the air. Andy sighed, a deep complete satisfied sigh.

'Has it been long?' I asked.

'A week or so.'

'Pretty good then?'

'Yes.'

****

I switched on the television and there was a current affair show with a panel poised to discuss what the compere described as the chipping 'epidemic'.

'It's an epidemic in which young people consume excessive amounts of fish and chips, day in, day out without any regard to their well-being, in search of some elusive high. A convenience food has become a narcotic. Tonight with the help of our panel of experts and audience we will try to unpack the problem and, perhaps, even find a way forward.' The compere then introduced a dietician, a social worker and a psychiatrist to the audience. The dietician opened with a spiel about the importance of a balanced diet and explained how the diets of chippers are so out of balance. She added a few lines about the particular dangers of fat and salt. She spoke of cholesterol and high blood pressure and arteries and expressed concern that young people are establishing eating patterns – habits – that will be hard to break, that will lead to lasting damage. Then the social worker is asked her opinion of the magnitude of the problem. She first outlined the work she does with disadvantaged youth and then stated that she has become alarmed at the increase in chipping. A few years ago, as far as she could tell, there was no chipping and then a few, a very few individuals, presented with the problems associated with chipping. But today, she claimed, the problem was not only widespread but growing every day. There was a big hairy hint about the need to increase funding for programs such as the one she runs.

The shrink is asked, 'Why?' He qualified his remarks by saying that chipping is a phenomenon with only a small history on which little research has been carried out and one that he cannot pretend to fully understand. He suggested that addiction to chips may result from a combination of factors, perhaps different factors for each and every individual. 'But', he said, 'the essence of addiction, all addiction, is the pursuit of pleasure, a quest for a 'high' that is difficult, if not impossible to attain in everyday life. Somehow consuming chips must give a heightened pleasure to the 'chipper''.

'But Doctor', asked the compere, 'what pleasure can be had from gorging on greasy old fish and chips?'

'Well... there is the obvious pleasure which virtually all of us derive from eating.... Beyond that I do not know for sure. Personally I find the food difficult to digest and given its unhealthy aspects, as just described, I avoid it.'

'You don't deny it is a problem though do you?' joined a slightly worried social worker.

'No, no, not at all. Indeed, I have treated several people for the addiction.'

'Successfully?' asked the compere.

'So far, treatment is ongoing.'

The dietician popped up with 'Does the treatment involve working with their diets? By that I mean not just specifically cutting out chips, but dealing with their whole diet.'

'I have only referred them onto dieticians and written to their GPs asking that they consider the question of their patient's diet with due diligence. Programs for treatment are still in the early stages of development but they do include education on diets. It needs to be understood, however, that it is not ignorance of the nature of healthy diets that is at the core of the problem. Programmes which address simply dietary issues will not be efficacious.'

'I'd like to return to treatments later in the program, but first, I'm hoping, for the benefit of viewers who are still grappling with the very idea of this problem that the panel might give us some anecdotal insight into the problem.'

'I think this is a great place to start' said the social worker. 'There are many people out there who can't come to terms, can't even believe in the existence of chipping as a problem. Already, tonight, by questioning whether chippers do get a high we are admitting that we are still sceptical about the truth of this affliction. But believe me, it does exist, it is a problem, and it is a sad, sad thing.'

The compere nodded in agreement and said, 'Okay, good, but for viewers who haven't come into contact with a 'chip-head' could you describe a person as well as a problem?'

'Of course', replied the social worker. 'There is considerable stigma attached to being a chipper. In preparing for this show I discussed it with some of my clients and asked if I could, if appropriate, discuss their stories and circumstances. Some agreed, some didn't. One young man was quite keen for his story to be told, as a warning - his words - to others. When I first met him it was through his having been caught shoplifting. The shoplifting was just an isolated incident, a small aberration from an otherwise well-adjusted and healthy young man. Fortunately, I was able to arrange things so that this one rash act would not come to haunt him in later life. As we were working through this we built up a certain rapport. I believe that's why he came to me for help some months later. In that time he had put on considerable weight and broken out in pimples quite severely. His hair was greasy and he was generally unkempt. I was quite shocked. He said he was chipping, that since I had seen him he had got into chips in a big way, an uncontrollable way. We talked. He told me that he had lost friends, and lost something about himself he valued. We've been working through it since then. I really can't devote the time I would like to him, but we are working through it. There's hope.'

The compere then takes up there with 'In that story there seems to be an element of self loathing. There are parallels here, aren't there, with eating disorders, anorexia and bulimia?'

'Particularly bulimia,' remarked the shrink.

'Yes; are they one and the same? Can they be the same? Is chipping another eating disorder?'

'Not in my opinion. There seems to be a certain, shall we say, intersection between chipping and bulimia with some bulimics bingeing on chips and some chip addicts exhibiting the feast and fast behaviour typical of those with eating disorders. But I think we are dealing with two essentially different behaviours and motivations.'

All this talk got me hungry and interested though I was, I just had to dip out and get a serve. When I returned and settled into the couch and unwrapped a rather soggy and anaemic serve of chips they were still at it. The compere was up questioning the audience and a fish and chip shop owner grabbed the microphone and accused the dietician of trying to put him out of business.

'Nothing wrong with chips lady! You wanna turn everbody into rabbits? Alaways we sell good chips, good food. Come to my shop, and you will see.'

Some sad sack mum was asked about her daughter. She struggled to her feet and then struggled with the microphone. Slowly and softly she related how her suspicions led her to following her daughter when she left the house. One night she saw her in the local park eating chips, and the next, and the next.

'I cooked her good meals,' she pleaded. 'I hated spying on her but what are you supposed to do?'

'Have you talked to your daughter about her problem?' asked the compere. Through barely stifled sobs she whispered yes and sat down waving the microphone away.

'I put it to the chip shop owner that he should monitor his customers, ration the sale of chips,' declared the compere, all well rehearsed righteousness.

The chippy just shrugged.

'It's not his fault,' offered the mother. 'She went to different shops. She didn't want them to work out she was a, a, a ...' Mum collapsed into tears.

'A terrible thing, and while we have only touched on the problem here, tonight, I'm afraid we'll have to leave it there. I'd like to thank Doctor....'

I'd heard it all before, of course, being a chiphead sensitises you to any and all mention of chipping and I've noticed how increasingly it has become a favoured topic of the media. Pretty soon chipping will be described as a 'crisis' along with all those other crises, in education, in health, in the environment, in obesity and so on and so forth. But all the media coverage in the world wasn't about to change what I did. I want something and I know I'm not going to get it following advice given out on television.

****

Television, what bullshit. And I should know I've watched enough of it; Gilligan's Island, The Man from Uncle, Get Smart, Number 96, the Brady Bunch, Mod Squad, Please Sir, Homicide, Hawaii Five-O, Lost in Space, The Fugitive.... You name it, I've seen it. I'm not alone. I'm one of many who sat too near the TV, watched too much, watched when I should have been outside getting some fresh air and sunshine, watched the wrong programmes, got swayed by advertisements, bewitched by cartoons, puppets and animated plasticine, entertained by people in animal suits. There were plenty of us who whinged when we couldn't stay up to watch more TV and who were compensated by being able to get up early to watch cartoons before school.

I watched sport. I watched football, tennis, cricket, swimming, running, car races. I watched direct telecasts, replays, slow motions, edited highlights, magic moments, classic catches and goals of the day. I listened to experts, commentators, ring-ins, players, ex-players, coaches, ex-coaches, anybody who summarised, opinionated, pontificated, awarded best-on-grounds, explained cracks, seams, tactics, rules, scores, anybody who declared losers were gallant, winners deserving, decisions questionable and the weather perfect, appalling, scorching, wet, cold and with a wind favouring the river end. I even watched golf. That's right, golf.

I can only remember a handful of televised sporting events. A poor return for all the watching I've done. Occasionally I was inspired and encouraged to go out and sport around but just as often I was made to feel inadequate. There is something masochistic about watching people do admirable things that you find physically impossible. People reckon they enjoy watching the best of something (especially the world's best) but I dunno. I get a bit bored with perfection and superlative after superlative.

And let's not forget the music shows. Let's not forget Countdown and Music Express and Top of the Pops and, erm, all those other shows that I have forgotten. The one hit wonders miming badly, and the latest clips, and the chat and the charts, the charts! That tabulated nonsense which I studied with such ardour and without any questioning of its veracity.

I'm just another member of the television generation. Just somebody else who knows that the youngest Brady Bunch girl has curls but isn't too sure about their own blood group type. I slip into a thousand television shows like a foot into an old sneaker. Television is so familiar and yet, y'know, so foreign. It has little connection to my life. I'll explain by telling you that once I saw a short film - a short as they say - a low budget, no hype, vanish without a trace film. It was set and filmed in South Australia, in Adelaide, in suburban Adelaide and it was full of things that I knew and was familiar with and could actually go and touch; The Advertiser, a certain style of kitchen cupboard, West End beer bottles, a front fence, the clothes people wore, the way they looked. It was so Adelaide, and it was such a shock. It hit me with genuine force, it stilled me and confounded me. I had never seen these things on the TV screen (or the cinema screen) before. So what had I been watching? Something different. And I wondered just what that meant. I wondered.

****

I arrive at the fnc shop and find it crowded. People, people, people. Shit, shit, shit. Okay, it's not as if you get physical cold turkey type reactions when you're in a chip grip. No cold sweats, no itchy scratchy eyes, no fever, no stomach cramps, no nausea, and the room is still. And yet, I am an addict. Why shouldn't I have a bad reaction when I can't get my fix. It's my right, my fucking right!

So, understand, the frustration, the sheer frustration of waiting and queuing, and wanting, wanting bad. My life, so much frustration, so much time wasted, so much disappointment. I can't bear it any longer because this simple request - to have an empty fnc shop and the proprietors hanging out to serve me - is denied. It's not much to ask! I'm not asking anybody to contribute any of the social welfare budget to my rehabilitation. I'm not asking you to fix up the mess I am making of my life and other people's lives. I'm not stealing your video or breaking into your house or mugging your grandmother for loose change. I'm just asking that you steer clear of the chippy when I want a fix.

Don't laugh. Don't scoff. Don't ask me to be reasonable, fuck you. No talk about this is how society works, no 'community', no 'respect for others'. Get this lard arse asexual mother outa my way. Send her packing in her tracky dacks and K-Mart top and sloppy shoes. Forget her, forget her order, forget that kid 3 doesn't want lettuce on his hamburger and kid 4 wants extra sauce. Stuff 'em!

I'm not in the mood for waiting. I'm really not. No, I didn't have a bad day. I just don't want to wait. Do you want to wait? Ever want to wait? I never want to wait. Everything I want, I want now. In particular I want two dollars worth of chips and two butterfish.

Two hamburgers with the lot (except no lettuce on one and extra sauce on another), two dim sims, a chicken yiros, six butterfish, a chiko roll and ten dollars worth of chips later I get my order. And d'y'know what? The urge has almost gone. Whatever it was that electrified me five orders ago has dissipated. Withered, I am withered. I eat the fnc with scant pleasure. A need is met, an itch is scratched, night follows day, day follows night, salt and vinegar, minimum trips.

****

At twenty seven. At twenty seven Janis Joplin died of a drug overdose. Jimi Hendrix also died at twenty seven of a drug overdose, ditto Jim Morrison. At twenty seven if you die, you die young, after that I'm not so sure.

And I'm not so sure about death. Of course I know it happens. Every night the television news reports on deaths. These deaths are facts and I don't dispute them. But I really don't understand death either. Is it really going to happen to me? It happens to other people but apart from Uncle Bill and Rob Prestwood (who was in my grade five class and died in a car accident) they seem to be people somehow outside of my life. And, look, I have to tell you this, I didn't like Rob Prestwood. In fact I was rather pleased to learn that Rob was 'not with us any more'. Rob used to punch me when we played footy, was merciless in his mirth over my failure to perform a decent drop kick and, y'know, other stuff like that. We had all these school assemblies and silences and everything after he died and everybody was supposed to be sad and, I suppose, understand about death. Well I wasn't sad and I didn't understand.

****

I slept in the next day, Saturday. It's not what I normally do. I'm usually up and about pretty early doing stuff, something. I dunno. But Michelle, one of my two house mates, was moving out and I didn't want to get involved. She would want a hand and I didn't want to lend one. It wasn't so much that Michelle had never helped me in any way. It wasn't because she was so bad at coughing up money for rent or whatever. It wasn't because she caused so much hassle and stress and crap. It wasn't because she was always after you for some assistance or money or consideration. Nah. It was because she did all that believing it was okay because she was beautiful. It helped. I gotta admit it helped. Boy, did it fucking help. But, hell, you got sick of it. I don't want to go into it.

At about eleven I gave up hiding. I got up, dressed and made a coffee. As I sat in the kitchen Michelle wandered in from the shower. She was wrapped in one of those bathrobe thingys and she flicked her long wet hair.

'Did you sleep well?' She asked. Don't start, please don't start.

'Okay.'

'I had a lousy night's sleep.' She sighed and continued 'And I've got such a busy day. Y'know moving out and everything.'

I know, and I also know you moving out to live with some stud with brains and money (whatever). So why do you even think I'm going to bother?

'I haven't even started packing yet. Can you believe that?'

Yes.

'I wish it wasn't such a long trip to my new place.'

I don't want to help you Michelle, don't my manifestations of total indifference mean anything to you?

'I reckon moving's not that bad.'

'Well, maybe for you. You're a pretty together sort of guy. I guess it would be easy for you.' I knew I shouldn't have said anything.

'Perhaps you could organise the stuff that's mine in the kitchen?' Perhaps. 'Oh, make me a coffee would you please? I'll be dressed in a minute.' Yeah, yeah.

I made the coffee, and later I collected together her kitchen things. And I went to the shops for boxes for packing. And I packed things. And took them to her car. Michelle made phone calls, had fruit salad for lunch, things like that. Eventually, somehow, she was gone. Her room was empty apart from a couple of bags of rubbish. It looked real empty. I stood in her room for a while. I just stood there. Kinda strange. I dunno.

Later, it rained. It was a good Adelaide late spring rain, falling out of the sky with real gravity behind it. The air chilled enough that I had to put on a windcheater and as I was doing so the phone rang.

It was Andy and Andy was asking what I was doing and had I eaten and telling me that Kerry was away for a few days at her sister's and she had left him with no groceries in the flat, well, nothing to speak of, nothing he could do anything with, and how about chicken and chips?

'Yes.'

I waited, contemplated, anticipated, and masticated imaginary chicken 'n' chips. I watched the rain and forgot about things.

Andy bustled out of his car clutching a white plastic bag in which I could discern two packages. The first was a foil backed paper bag containing the chook. The bird was rather small but plumpish and unhealthily greasy. The second parcel held the chips, and there were mountains of them.

'How many chips did you get?'

'Three bucks worth.'

'Bloody hell, generous' I muttered as I lashed the chips with lines of vinegar and powdered them with salt. Andy tore the chicken apart and shovelled meat and skin into his mouth. He compressed the stuffing in his hand and swallowed it after a few manic jaw movements. I slid down a couple of rips of chook flesh and then began on the chips. They were dark gold in colour, really a little too cooked and there were too many crackly fatty bits and not enough decent sized potato rich chips. But I hadn't had lunch and I didn't care. I went at them like a mad thing.

Michelle came into the kitchen as we ate. She was saying something about boxes or something but I wasn't listening. I couldn't listen. Andy was smiling benevolently at her saying things in an apologetic tone.

'Sorry, I can't help you, sorry, you'll have to talk to Alec. Alec?'

'Wha' I said with a mouthful of chips.

'Michelle is missing something.'

'Michelle Michelle'. Go away Michelle, I thought you'd left Michelle. What do you want Michelle? Don't tell me Michelle. I don't want to know Michelle. And then she was screaming at me.

'You're weird! You're sick! Stop eating you pig!' I looked at her with vinegar vapour smarted eyes and belched.

Michelle left again.

****

Waking up and thinking, 'This can't go on'. At twenty seven. In the morning, a working week morning when life, my life seems pathetic, prosaic, a bum note in a bad tune. When there is thick dew on the car windows and the motor doesn't want to run, then, now, I think things have to change, should change, I hope they'll change. I'm not going to chip again. I'm going to kick the habit. I'll focus my energies on something worthwhile. I shall eat from the major food groups with an emphasis on fruit and vegetables, fresh fruit and vegetables. I'll progress at work, my career, through effort and talent. I'll have a car that starts without an argument, things that work. I want a decent television.

And there is hope, like a spark amongst damp wood and lots of smoke. But the day passes and my self improvement designs weaken. I pretend to fight it, tell myself I'm not going home this way because there is a good fix to be had at the fnc shop on the corner. I'll just buy a drink and, maybe, just look at the chips. But it ends up 'One fish and minimum chips, and the Coke thanks'. And so it goes. Stealing out of the shop with guilt and excitement and desire humming through me and the ripping of paper and the ripping of fish flesh. And the hit!

Waking up and thinking, 'This can't go on'. At twenty seven.

****

I told Andy, 'I'm quitting'. I explained that I had come 'round to thinking that chipping was a pretty dumb thing to do, maybe outright stupid. I pointed out, not that he needed it, that chipping was harming his marriage. I reasoned that hanging around grotty fish and chip shops was bad for your image, your self image, and, who knows, maybe your soul? I said, 'There are restaurants, you know, places to eat that are civilised and held in esteem where you are treated well and which you're not embarrassed to be seen in. It's a decision. It's time I made a few decisions. I'm not a teenager anymore.'

It fair gushed out of me, word after word, reasons and justifications, explanations and plans. Everything I'd ever thought was bad about chipping and everything I'd ever heard. I don't know if it was, in the end, comprehensible, but it must have been convincing because Andy came out with

'So that's it eh?'

'I want it to be' I said with as much conviction as I have ever breathed.

'I'll give it a go too.'

'Great. That's great. We can help each other and all that.'

'Yeah. Y'know I've been wanting to kick it for a while now. I guess I needed something to get me started...right?

'It'll be okay. No! It'll be good! Just wait'

'I know. Dead right.'

It's easy for a day or two. I mean, my resolve was strong and was novel, and really, everything just seemed great. Andy would ring and say that he'd not chipped, again, another day. We'd say one day at a time, but count the days since our last chip and congratulate ourselves. About a week passed and Andy told Kerry, which was a big step since it meant admitting to a lot of previously kept secret chipping, and Kerry was 'over the moon' about it he reported. Swimmingly, it went swimmingly.

I felt better, or thought I felt better. Andy felt better, or thought he felt better and isn't it the same difference? Another week passed. I was starting to think of myself as an ex-chipper. Not like those 'ex' types who appear on telly in silhouette telling their tales as a warning to others but just as somebody who had put something behind them. I told Andy this and he agreed and said, 'I think we've come a long way' and I didn't even cringe, not so much as a wince.

It was like arriving at a new place, like another country or something; and thinking that it was alright and just being pleasurably overwhelmed by the possibilities. Yes, the possibilities, because being freed from the grip of the chip I could now do something with my life.

Or so it seemed. The only thing was what? Join a club, play sport, educate myself, take up pottery? Nothing grabbed me. No beacon in the darkness, no inspiration or even ideas. The new place started to feel pretty much like the old place. Whether I was a chipper or an ex-chipper I was still me. Y'know I've never quite understood when I've heard, or read or whatever of people whose life has changed because of something they've done. They may have seen the light, or converted to Buddhism, or shed 109 kilograms or given up smoking to take up jogging. They report that their lives have changed, for the better, in so many different and wonderful ways. They've won promotions at work, improved their sex life, they get along better with friends and family, they cope better with problems and crises and emergencies and so on and so forth. Their lives have changed. They are new people. New people.

I would like to do that. Sort of. I'd like a better sex life (okay, a sex life), a promotion at work, and, yes, I'd like to be a success. A great screaming, rub your face in it, steal your woman, house on the hill, exotic automotive excellence in the driveway, letters after your name, people after your time, girls after your butt SUCCESS.

But it's not me. I'm not really cut out for promotions and an enviable sex life. Sad, but true. So if I became a success (as defined) I would no longer be me. I'd be somebody else, I guess. 'Me' would no longer exist. Sad if that happened, at least in my opinion. And therefore and ergo and all that I can't believe, or maybe just not understand when people report they have changed.

And it seemed, after the weeks of abstinence, when my car finally stopped stinking of fish and chips and my weight dropped and I'd become overly familiar with fruit and vegetables, it seemed as if chipping was part of me, an intrinsic, vital, necessary part of me. I could no more quit than top myself. Sure it was unhealthy, but what could be more unhealthy than to deny your own identity?

Anyway, that was how I intellectualised it, if you can call that intellectualising. Of course intellect never got much done by itself. What actually got me was the pain in my gut. That's the best way I can describe it. It kinda goes beyond words. As those chipless weeks dragged on I developed this vacuum in my gut. A great greedy vacuum that sucked and sucked and couldn't get enough, couldn't get anything. It was so powerful, it ran off all the nervous, electric, potential energy that kept me tense and agitated and irritable and empty.

It wasn't a physical thing, it's not like I was starving or malnourished or whatever. I stuffed myself with pasta and rice and veggies, cake, chocolate, pizza until I was bloated. Still it was there, still the need. I knew I wouldn't last and that I would wind up chipping again. I knew it when I'd catch the aroma of a fish and chip shop or even McDonald's or KFC. I knew it when there was nothing in the house to eat and I had to work my butt off to steer clear of the chippy. I knew it whenever I read or heard anything about chipping. I was a junk food junkie and not having my fix simply heightened the need for it. Part of me tried to pull away but part of me pulled me back and so I was tense and full of energy and strung out.

And when I went back, I just went back, no drama. I went to the chippy got one and a minimum and consumed. It felt good, not great, just good. I didn't feel any regret or remorse or anything like that. Previously when I'd tried to quit and failed I felt bad when I failed. I remember resolution breaking chips sitting like hot bricks in my stomach. But not this time. It was like I had come home after a long journey and knew and liked all that was familiar to me.

It was tough on Andy, though, when I told him. I think he had become the genuine article, a reformed addict. He said, and I believed him, that he wasn't going back. He said he'd miss my help, that it had made the difference. He said he felt let down.

What he didn't say was that we were through as mates. He knew, we knew, that he couldn't hang around with a chipper because the temptation would be too great. And we had been mates since primary school.

Andy came to our primary school as 'new boy', that is, as somebody who had moved to our area and transferred to the school. Miss White introduced him to the class as Andrew Cooke but we called him 'the fat new kid'. He was slow at chasey, afraid of cricket balls ('why do they have to be so hard?'), and the last kid to be picked for sides in games of soccer or footy. For a good while (and for him it must have been an eternity) he was friendless. Then he tried buying friends. He received quite a bit of lunch money and bought kids things in an effort to win their favour. He tried it with the more popular kids who held sway through force of their personalities or sometimes just force. Of course it didn't work. They took the sweets and cakes from him and then treated him just as badly, if not worse.

So he gave up on that idea. He kept his lunch money to himself and spent lunch time munching through pies and cakes slowly and deliberately.

One day I lost my lunch money. I realised it at lunch time and was in despair. The actual want of food wasn't the problem it was the loss of the money. It was as if I had, through carelessness, committed some crime. I had a drink of water and sat in the lunch shed while other kids ate their lunches. It was a fine autumn day so after the lunches were eaten, the shed emptied. Andy and I ended up as its only occupants. He must have been watching me for some time because he asked, 'Didn't you have any lunch?'

'I lost my lunch money.'

'Oh' he said and then got up and walked over to me and stood in front of me.

'Do you want these chips?' he asked showing me a brown paper bag full of the local fish and chip shop's finest.

'Don't you want them?'

'Not really. Go on you have them.'

'Okay' but I wasn't that hungry what with the crime of lunch money carelessness carrying a sentence of reduced hunger, so we ended up sharing them.

'Do you like vinegar on 'em?' he asked all happy like. Happy, happy, happy.

'Yes. At home I always put vinegar on my chips. Mum says I put too much on. She says 'flavour them don't float them''. He giggled. He was happy. We were friends.

And we had been friends ever since, so for a while the friendship was strained by my returning to chipping and Andy remaining reformed. But only for a while because before too long his Cortina was pulling into my drive with Andy emerging with plastic bags full of white paper parcels holding our undoing.

I came up with this wave theory. As we ate, I explained to Andy that during our cold turkey time I had thought long and hard about chipping, not just chips, but the big picture. I said the need came in waves, for a time, on the crest of a wave (or the trough, take your pick) you had to chip but at the opposite point of the wave cycle there was no need and then the need built up and dissipated in a way that could be represented in a wave like manner, on a graph or whatever. I explained that what we had been through was a complete wave and that just as we were chipping now (again) so there would come a time when we wouldn't be chipping and so it went. So it wasn't that bad. We weren't sentenced to some mad, non-stop escalation in chipping that would lead to a terrible end. No, what we had was a manageable case of recreational chip use.

A lot of shit really, one of my less convincing performances, if Andy believed me it didn't show. He finished his chips, bundled up the greasy paper and tossed it in the bin.

'Whatever' was all he said.

****

Lemme tell you about Adelaide. Improbable.

In the middle of not much there's this city of a million people. There is nothing about the surrounding towns; the Murray Bridges, the Tailem Bends, the Truros, the Port Wakefields that even hints at this aberration in settlement.

In the middle is the square mile of Adelaide, the CBD, surrounded by parklands and then the suburbs. That's it. Of course there are airports and shopping centres, hospitals and factories but Adelaide is a square mile of urban surrounded by a lot of suburban.

And don't we get excited about the suburbs? The right suburbs with the right people and their late model cars and two point five snotty privately educated offspring versus the wrong suburbs with the people you don't want as neighbours and the slowly declining real estate values. A fate worse than death that, to have the value of your property decline.

****

I remember I arrived at the bus stop ridiculously early. My first day at work, at permanent full time work. The bus was late, and even though I had more than ample time to get from the bus to my new job I was anxious. I worried about my shoes, were they, were they...right? And I worried about my pants, and my shirt too. Oh and that tie, it felt so uncomfortable how could it possibly look right?

I took a deep breath when I arrived at the office. 'Here goes' I thought. Naturally I had to wait and naturally it was an uncomfortable sort of wait. I was anxious and excited and apprehensive and sweating like a pig. Suddenly I was shaking somebody's hand and being told their name, and their position. We were walking around the office. More people were introduced. There was a Gary (or was it Grant?) and a chick called Sue. I remember Sue (young women like Sue were 'chicks' back then). I met my immediate supervisor, a rather distracted woman who looked at me as if I were a problem, which I suppose I was. My supervisor, Gayle Bagadonas was her name, showed me to my desk. Apparently a smoker had been the previous occupant because fine drifts of cigarette ash covered forms and folders and other office paraphernalia. In one of the drawers there was a near full jar of coffee and some loose change. This office inheritance I took to be a good sign.

My first job was to process a stack of form 23BA91 or whatever it was. 'Call me Gayle' (I was over polite and addressed her as Mrs Bagadonas) explained the processing. If they were completed in a particular way I stamped them and placed them in a basket. The others I put aside 'at least for a couple of days' until I had the 'hang of things'. I approached the pile of forms as only a brand new, fresh from school employee could. I was thorough to a fault. I concentrated hard on every form and every question. It seemed important that I get this right, if nothing else, to make up for my shoes and my shirt. Not to mention my pants. And the tie.

At lunch time I brought my lunch from the sandwich bar opposite the office block. People from the office recognised me and were nice toward me. I took my lunch back to the tea room which was empty. I ate my lunch in silence until Grant (Gary?) came in, made himself a cup of coffee and launched into a monologue about 'head office' and how they had done him wrong. At the conclusion of the harangue he told me 'the one bit of info I had to know'. Whatever it was it can't have been that profound because I haven't a clue what it was.

After lunch it was more forms until Gayle told me to go and help so-and-so shift some files. I helped so-and-so, a monastic creature who even to my untrained eye was patently inept and who resented my help. I went back to my forms. Gayle explained what I had done wrong. I was shattered. I didn't know whether to cry or to commit hari kari or what. I processed all the forms again which saw out the day. I had a long wait at the bus stop having just missed the bus.

****

With some drugs, I believe, the side effects can include paranoia, very unpleasant. It's all to do with chemicals and reactions and effects and such happening in the body and brain, that is, actual physical events but only actual in the body and the brain, nowhere else. There aren't reds under the bed or menacing aliens around the next corner or whatever. It's just an effect without substance caused by a substance.

But with speeding, well, the paranoia has a real dimension to it. People work it out, people know about speeding. They know the term is a play on the word 'fasting', fast - speed, get it? People know that chippers go without meals, starve themselves even, to enhance the high of chipping. So people, especially people who suspect you of chipping, take note of what you're eating, or rather what you're not eating. In the tea room at lunch time you know that they know that you have only had a coffee for lunch. The real bastards offer you things to eat; biscuits, cake, fruit, to test you, to see where you're at.

At times I speed, but, I dunno, I guess I've got a good metabolism or something because I don't need to speed to get a fry high. So I don't do it that often. I have to admit, though, that the high can be tremendous. As well as the need to chip there is simply the need to eat. One need amplifies the other. You end up anticipating and waiting for the hit so much that even the act of going and getting the fnc and positioning yourself to chip gives feelings of narcotic proportions.

Yeah, so I know why chippers can wind up speeding on virtually a permanent basis. But it is a real roller coaster ride, real highs and real lows. Low when you know that people are sussing you out maybe all day long, all food-less day. Low when you get it wrong and you speed too long and the chips, on too empty a stomach, bring on just the worst nausea. Sick as a dog. And, let's face it, even I concede it's not a healthy or even half viable diet. You have to get crook on a diet of nothing but fish and chips.

****

Nick's Fish and Chip Shop Main North East Road

It is a singular shop. It stands alone festooned with signs that blare 'NICK'S FISH AND CHIPS' and 'Coca Cola' and such out at the main road. There are two doors, rather unusual, but as usual they have the plastic strips hanging from the doorways. Inside the shop you find that it is wider than it is deep. On the floor are beige coloured lino tiles. On one wall is the 'Refreshment Centre' a large drink cooler that chills a full range of drinks and cup cake desserts and, yes, jars of mussels! The other side wall carries an assortment of goods for sale: cigarettes and lighters, chewies, a few packets of sweets and an odd and limited array of grocery items including tomato sauce, coffee, sugar and biscuits. On the same side of the shop lives the chicken rotisserie alongside stands for potato crisps and loaves of bread - white fibreless stuff in colourful plastic wrappers. Along the back of the shop is, naturally, the main counter, comparatively high for most of its length and covered in laminex of an uninspired mottled brown. The top of this counter is a glassed display, but apart from a stash of tomato sauce sachets nothing is displayed. Behind the counter are the deep fry cookers filled with molten fat, a separate hot top for the 'burgers, a sink complete with dripping tap, and a small amount of bench area. Above this hangs the range on which the 'menu' has been painted. The items on the menu are organised in the usual fashion, namely in the groupings of fish, hamburgers, steak sandwiches, chicken, and special items like Dim Sims and Chiko Rolls. The popular practice of adding to the menu by sticking paper notes to the display has been followed. Cigarette 'Point of Sale' promotional rubbish, a display and entry forms for a dubious competition, charity sweets and a cheapskate calendar provide decoration. As ever the calendar's picture is at odds with its environment. Decoration is also provided by tiles with fishes on them being interspersed with the plain white tiles that sit on the back wall behind the cooking apparatus. The entrance to the back room has the plastic strip fly screen through which can be seen a few odd and aging items of furniture press-ganged into service in the fast food industry.

The guy working there, I presume the owner, is on the shortish side with a wide but not remarkable girth. His thinning dark hair is cut in a way that it must have been cut for decades and slicked back. His olive complexion suggests he might be 'Nick' but his features suggest a more Northern European lineage. He performs his tasks with the very minimum of energy seemingly long practised and long past being interested in what he does. He offers a 'How's it going' but nothing else in the way of customer relations. He asks the usual questions about salt and sauce and counts back the change and murmurs a 'Seeya' as you leave.

****

A couple of nights later when I got home Dave, my house mate, was there.

'Somebody rang for you. Jason somebody. A mate. I think he's interested in the room.'

Jason! No! No! No! Not Jason!

'How did he know about the room? Did you tell him about the room?'

'Well, he sorta asked about Michelle, and I told him that she'd left and he asked if the room was free and I said it was and he asked if we were looking for somebody and I said that, yeah we will be and'

I cut him short, 'You didn't say he could have it did you?' I don't know how desperate I sounded but Dave got the drift.

'I thought he was your friend?'

'You didn't say he could have the room did you?'

'No, he just said he'd catch up with you - 'cop ya later''

'Okay, good.'

'If he's not cool, he's your friend, so it's your problem.'

'Okay, fine, thanks.'

Later that night Jason rang and asked me about the room.

'Aw sorry mate, it's just that when Dave said that the room was vacant he didn't know Michelle had lined somebody up. And there's this guy at work who asked a few weeks back and I sorta said... I s'pose that puts you third on the list?'

'Yeah, shit yeah, great!'

Oh no. It was a good try. I thought being put 'third on the list' would finish him off; no luck, no interest, no worries. But Jason sounded as keen as if I'd offered it to him rent free. Never mind.

Later on I said to Dave, 'Y'know, about Jason, I just think we have to be careful or whatever about who we share the house with. I don't know about Jase.'

'What's wrong with him?'

'Well, y'know,' I say launching into my best matey mate, we're all blokes here, salesman type routine. 'Y'know, he's just too much. Jason. Mate!' The mate is shorthand for something like: 'Dave we are friends – mates. You can trust my judgment on this, because your judgment, were you armed with all the facts, would be exactly the same. And we are Aussie mates so we don't talk about our friendships and relationships. It's just not done. Hell, there are better things to do, like drinking beer and watching footy and working on our cars and so on and so forth.' It wasn't good, but it was good enough. I continued, 'Remember we said we'd try and get another girl. I think it'd be better. Sort of a balance thing.'

'Yeah, yeah I see whatcha mean.'

He was thinking about what I was alluding to, namely that it was conventional wisdom that living with girls improved your chances. Not necessarily with the female house mates, in fact, according to theory, almost definitely not with them. Rather it was with their friends, and their friends' friends, and maybe even their relations. Who knows? The wisdom/theory was a little short on details. Anyway, what I meant, what I really meant to do, was just take him as far as possible from the idea of renting the room to Jason. I didn't want to share a house with Jason.

A few facts about Jason; Jason is a bullshit artist, Jason lives at home with his mum and dad, Jason talks endlessly about sex, cars and drinking. Jason has no other interests. Jason spends a lot of time driving or working on cars, a lot of time drinking and, as far as I can tell, absolutely no time engaged in sex (I discount meetings with Mrs Palm and her five daughters).

So what happens with Jason's sex drive? It goes driving. If you take an afternoon spin with Jason you're likely to end up in Melbourne. He drives aggressively, lead feet, lead head. And while he drives he talks endlessly about sex and getting smashed. There is a constant stream of scenarios, anecdotes and hypotheticals on the subjects of sex and drinking.

'What if you were banging away with some chick, really pumping her - and she yawned! What a bummer! 'Course it's never happened to me, but just imagine...'

'I was so pissed I didn't know what I was doing so I slammed down a few more Jim Beams, woulda killed most people, but it fixed me up, sober as, sober as...'

'A judge?'

''At's it. Sober as. Anyway...'

'If I could just get my mind off of fucking her, y'know, I reckon I could get somewhere. Thing is, soon as I see her it's all I can think about. She is so hot!'

'Now take Andy's wife, Kerry, I mean would yer? Okay for Andy, but I reckon you're like me, y'know. You'd kick her outa bed. The fish John West rejects, know what I mean? Still, paper bag...eh?'

'I lost her phone number. She was practically begging me for it. But I was so pissed. Sooo pissed. She writes out her phone number - and she's not bad, not fucking bad - gives it to me says "Ring me." I lose the number! Unreal!'

'All night. I mean all night long! I bet she couldn't walk the next day. I nearly wore the old feller out! Jesus!'

And so on and so forth. The auto anecdotes, well, I don't even want to think about them.

On one level I guess it's okay. Jason has this energy, he's constantly on edge and in a strange way it's not a bad thing. It seems to get you going, like it charges you up and even though sometimes all it means is that you get annoyed with Jason, well, it's something.

But, I dunno, aren't we supposed to grow up? It's okay believing in the validity of the Holden versus Ford debate, and that the letters in Playboy are sent in by readers, but only for so long. And while Jason is a sort of a mate, well, I just want to be rid of him now. I certainly don't want to share a house with him.

But whadya do? I owe Jason in a way, because once when we were all just a mess of pimples and bum fluff Jason had the only car. And Jason was happy to drive endlessly around the suburbs and into town, and out to the beach, and down to the south coast and up the river; just anywhere where we could make noise, buy chiko rolls and think something exciting might be happening. Later, too, when more of us had cars Jason was happy to work on them, to advise us on oils and settings and pressures. He knew how to fit radios and tachometers. He was an expert on whip aerials and surf racks.

Did we use him? Did I use him? Yes, I suppose I did. Do I want to analyse this? Do I want to weigh up the pros and cons, the justice, morality and fairness of all this? No bloody way!

****

In my second year of High School, in my class, was a girl every boy wanted. Let me repeat that, for emphasis and to assure you that I mean what I say; every boy wanted her. Her name was Jan Johnson. While every boy wanted her there were only a few who had any idea about how you went about 'getting' a girl and even less who knew what to do once you 'got' one. Naturally there were boys who were making giant strides toward such vital knowledge but I was not amongst them. I remained firmly in the group defined by its almost immaculate ignorance. So like a lot of other boys I spent a fair amount of time wanting Jan Johnson without any perceptible effect.

I'm not sure why I am telling you this. It is both a huge confession and a matter of microscopic moment. But if I told you of my first girlfriend then you would know about her and our little schoolyard romance and that would be fine and dandy and you would know a little (more) of my life. And yet, if I tell you about the class beauty and my unrequited, embarrassing and completely useless yearning for her, then, somehow, you know more about me. Y'know traditional narrative, convention, paradigm, whatever decrees that I should relate the genesis, development, climax (climax?) and denouement of my first schoolyard romance. In describing that innocent, unconsummated and entirely predictable little affair I would be telling you about my life, but not about me. And I'm not here to tell you about my life, that's not important, I'm here to tell you about me, which is important, to me if nobody else.

So there you go, nothing happened, this great youthful wanting that came to nothing. Those hot, wooden class rooms, the light angling in and illuminating a 'double math' or a social studies lesson. Those cold, prefabricated classrooms, wet shoes dripping on bare boards and kids wearing their parkas inside. And Jan Johnson, the most perfect expression of a female object of desire I have known, and me, and nothing, now, or then, or ever.

****

But there was that story, more than a story, actual events, about that woman who lived in a house with her two kids and fed them nothing but fish and chips. Every night, without fail, they would trundle off to the chippy and purchase the day's sustenance. The local kids called them the 'Fish and chip family' but the local adults ignored them and lived with the fact that their garden was a mess. Eventually one of the family's neighbours complained about the stink from the house and the authorities made an inspection. They found rooms piled high with rubbish and a nauseating stench. The Advertiser got a whiff of the story and gave it the full tabloid treatment - the neighbours from hell thing. Good citizens wondered how anybody could live that way and, more incisively, how the neighbours had allowed the situation to get to the point it did. There were concerned noises about the 'kiddies' like 'I feel sorry for the kiddies' and such.

But what about the chip shop owner? He lost his best customer through it all.

****

'Bats.' he said.

'Whadya mean, bats?'

'Bats, y'know, those things that fly at night, use sonar, eat fruit, scare women, bats...'

'So...?'

'Well it was just that I was watching this wildlife programme on TV about bats.' Why was Andy watching wildlife programmes? 'It was kinda interesting. And they had this expert on bats, this bat man (Andy chuckled). And this guy is really into bats. He travels the world investigating bats, photographing bats, measuring and counting bats. He knew all this weird information about bats, even about bat crap.'

'Yeah' I said, meaning 'So what?'

'He was really enthusiastic about bats. He seemed like a really happy, contented guy, y'know. He made bats interesting.'

'Oh.'

'No. I mean, I'm not saying let's go check out some bats or something. It just got me thinking it would be nice to have got into something like bats, or, or, whatever. Don't you think that sometimes? Y'know, just suppose you got interested in bats at school and you studied biology and completed a thesis on bats and you have this career in bats. You go all 'round the world and you're on telly. People actually listen to things you say...'

'But you're talking about bats!'

'I know. I know. But, well, do people listen to you much?

'Sometimes.'

'What about at work?' I thought on it for a moment. 'C'mon, do they value your opinions at work?'

'Nah.'

'See. Now if you were an expert on bats people would actually repeat your opinions.'

'I'm an expert on chips.'

That stalled him. I knew the point he was making but I couldn't just agree with him. I mean, bats for fuck's sake. And I was something of an expert on chips and fish and chip shops, and nobody was beating a path to my door.

'Y'know what I mean,' he concluded with some success.

'Yeah, 'course I do. So are we getting a deal or what?'

****

Sometimes, y'know, nothing happens. Time hangs around like a bad smell. It can happen quite unexpectedly. Things are chugging along okay and then nothing's happening.

****

When I got home a few nights later Dave was screaming and yelling and throwing things around. Gone troppo.

I dumped my bag and went for some fnc. When I got back he was still at it. It occurred to me that he might be wrecking my stuff but he seemed to be staying in his room and, anyway, I had some chips. There were more important things to do than save my worldly goods.

The chips were very pale and a degree too soggy, limp like, but they were of admirable dimension with a good potato to fat ratio and even with Dave's ranting and destructive activities I was getting a good high. I looked up from the objects of my desire and saw Dave standing in the kitchen door way. He was breathing heavy, fast. deep draughts of air. His face was red. His hair was unkempt.

'Chips!' he screamed, his voice scratched and wild. 'Fucking chips, always fucking chips! Fucking chip head! Fucking wanker! Always fucking eating fucking chips. You give me the shits. The fucking shits!'

I was pretty calm about everything. I turned to him and opened my mouth wide and popped in a chip. I masticated with enthusiasm, swallowed and asked

'So what's up?' this started him off again.

'Fucking chip head fucking chips' and so on and so forth. This continued for some time while he charged around the house. He went to his room and I heard him kicking something, and then it was quiet. A bit later he returned to the kitchen looking, not wild, but worn out.

'I got fired' he announced softly.

I gestured with my hands opening them as if to say 'Gee, bad luck' and things like that. But what I actually said was 'D'you want some chips?' He shook his head , an action he repeated sporadically as I finished off the crisp fatty bits.

It's bad, of course, losing your job and perhaps, y'know, I could have been more sympathetic. But I wasn't, I just wasn't. And maybe, this isn't an excuse, but maybe it was because I know that Dave regularly loses jobs and then gets new ones so I didn't see it as such a disaster. I imagine he presents quite well at a job interview, I'm sure he'd be enthusiastic but, unfortunately, he doesn't seem to get on all that well when he is actually at work. He's kind of erratic, impulsive, restless, moody. He gets bored easily and he's a bit confrontational. He's too smart for process work, doesn't like being in an office and he's too old now for a trade, although, briefly, he was an apprentice butcher.

The latest job was one of the better ones he'd had. He was a salesman for a firm of tool suppliers. I think he thought things would come from it because from what he said they had training programs, scheduled development and progression, that kind of thing. So, hmmm, maybe I should have been sympathetic. But how do you do that? Pat his shoulder? Make him a cup of tea?

****

The next night Dave still looked worn out and he wasn't saying much, but when I offered him some chips he accepted. I'd bet that he hasn't eaten all day and his enjoyment was almost a tangible thing.

'Yonks since I had chips' he said.

'Mmm.'

'Your always eating them kinda put me off.'

'Yeah?' I asked but with no real interest. We ate some more in silence and then I added 'So you been missing out then?'. He shrugged his shoulders. 'Bit like an old friend aren't they - chips?'

'Yeah I s'pose.'

'Something you can count on.'

'Count on?'

'Sure. I mean, they always fill you up. Don't let you down. Leave you satisfied. Not many things like that.'

'Is that why you're a chip head?'

'Maybe. Maybe I just like chips.'

'Nah, come on, you're an addict right? I've seen it on the TV about you chip heads. It's like that anorexia thing. It's an eating disorder, something makes you do it.'

'The taste?'

'Bullshit. The way you eat them, night after night, and your mate, that's not natural.'

'Not natural to eat?'

'Not natural to eat chips every night.'

'You ever do anything "not natural" you enjoyed?'

'Maybe.'

'There you go...'

****

'A guy held up a bank with fish and chips once. Didya know that?' I asked Andy.

'What!?'

'Didn't you read about it in the paper?'

'Rubbish, Bullshit.'

'It's true,' I persuaded. 'This guy walked into a bank. It was sort of a spur of the moment thing. Maybe he got pissed off waiting. Y'know what it's like in a bank. Anyway, he queues up, with his fish 'n' chips and when he gets to the teller he shows a bit of the parcel and says 'This package contains something deadly, hand over all the money.' Of course he wasn't lying, I mean all that salt and cholesterol and everything. The teller just assumed it was something that was faster-acting-deadly, like a bomb or a gun.'

'So what happened?' asked Andy half sucked in.

'Well, while the teller is collecting up the money someone says something about smelling fish 'n' chips and the penny drops with the teller, and, y'know, the guy gets caught and prison and ...crazy, just for a silly prank.'

'Rubbish.'

'Ridgey didge.'

****

The weekend came and Jason rang me and asked me if I wanted to go for a drink. I knew what it was about - getting the room - but it was JASON and I couldn't shake him and so we ended up going into town for a 'few beers'.

It was dead boring. I didn't feel much like drinking and town felt particularly lifeless. Or maybe it was just me. But there is always the possibility...

I had a beer in my hand. It was my ticket to remaining in the bar. As you know you just can't stand around in a bar, you at least have to order a drink. Maybe, just maybe, if you went to the bar staff and explained that you weren't interested in drinking, that you were just there for a bit of social interaction, in particular with a mind to meeting somebody compatible of the opposite sex who, in a best case scenario, is, well, 'gagging for it', and would they mind if you just sort of hung around, without buying a drink and so on and so forth. Maybe, they would agree to this, think that you were a bit odd but, nevertheless, agree to your request. But, and this is a big but, could you do it? Could you just hang around without the prop, the excuse of being at the bar for a drink? As pathetic and transparent an excuse as it is I just can't do without it. So I was sitting on a beer. And I was sitting on that beer because there were a couple of nubiles sitting at a table nearby, sitting at a table whose relation to my position is such that, for no good reason, it seemed there was a chance that we could make contact. Jason had found some mate/acquaintance/fellow imbecile and had wandered off deep into a Holden versus Ford debate. Things were possible, if only the girls (well, women I suppose, they were more-or-less my age and I'm too old to be a boy) would throw themselves upon me.

Want.

No, it was up to me. I had to make an approach, some opening, introduction or excuse. I thought (again) how unfair this business of the guys always having to approach the girls and then checked myself for wasting precious time. A line, think of a line! If I was at school, that is, as a school boy, well, maybe I could have thrown something at them and if they liked me they could have thrown it back and then, and then... well, not much really. Not in the schoolyard. But at twenty seven you can't throw things at women with any good effect.

What I needed was divine inspiration. Divine facilitation. Just once, I thought, oh powers that be, just allow it to, make it, happen. All by itself. I'll be eternally grateful, and, trust me, I'll learn from the experience. After this, you have to admit, fairly small favour I'll be set. I'll have confidence with women. It has eluded me so far in my life but only because I've never had a break. Well, maybe I have had breaks, and I wasted them. I was too young! Then, but that is then and this is now. I'm twenty seven, I'll realise the value of what I've been granted, trust me on this, and I won't blow it! And after this one small favour, as I say, I'll be eternally grateful, and I'll be able to make my own way through the capricious, shifting sands of relationships. I'll be a credit to you. I'll humbly admit that it was an 'act of god' that turned me around, that opened me up and allowed me to, as they say, GET DOWN! Rest assured that in performing such minor acts of evangelism I'll be the epitome of discretion and moderation. I won't brow beat anybody about my conversion to a belief in god. I won't hold people, foot in door on the front steps too early on a Saturday morning, already with the day getting away from them, so many things to do, shopping, and I said I'd return that thingame to whatshisname and... I digress. I hope you understand what I'm saying. A small favour, just one, just me, right here, right now. Do it!

For half a second I thought I might have caught the eye of one of the girls . But then I figured I hadn't. In terms of lines I had come up with 'Hi' - not real good. Oh dear.

It happened! It happened, I told myself to keep calm. The girl approached me. I had caught her eye (praise the lord!) and she made the first move and (hallellujah!) I had enough guile to follow up. One thing led to another. We swapped names.

'Alex.'

'Deborah.'

And I was about to comment favourably on her name, 'Deborah, yes...' and then realised that there was nothing to say about the name Deborah. It's not exotic or unusual, or especially pretty or sweet or beautiful, it's just a girl's name. And for a horrible moment I thought I'd blown it. But the moment passed, unnoticed. Small talk followed, there was forced discrete sophisticated laughter, smiles, looks, advances and retreats, drinks bought and glasses handled; the full delicious agony of it all.

We went to a coffee shop and we talked. And then we talked some more. It was going swimmingly. But the swimmers tired, our conversation flagged and we were into the denouement of things with me increasingly desperate for a happy ending. Disingenuously she looked at her watch and declared that she had better go, and while I was working out that I couldn't offer her a lift because I didn't have my car she wrote my number in her address book and noticed a taxi and was gone.

And left me. And left me thinking that I had thought it was going great but that it hadn't gone good after all and that I had stuffed up somehow, some way. After having been selected and picked up I had failed some critical test or criteria and become something to leave in town with his mouth open and his system full of frustration, despondency and re-runs of the events of the previous hours. And, maybe worse, I have to acknowledge the possibility of some higher force, as if life wasn't complicated enough as it is.

Anyway it was late and I was hungry. Nothing for it really. I walked to the Hungry Jack's on Rundle Street and ordered a large fries. Understand that 'fries' aren't chips, methadone not heroin, and I ate them with mixed feelings and reactions. The fat, salt and potato satisfied part of a need but amplified a feeling of dissatisfaction. A great night; not a great night.

****

There she was at the door. Michelle. She looked low, kinda deflated and as if she'd slept in the car or something.

'Alec.'

'Michelle. Yeah. I mean, come in...' She sighed and made a funny expression as if to say, though obviously it didn't need saying, 'Yeah, Alec, it's me, Michelle.'

'Where's Dave?'

'Dunno, he went out.'

'And, ermm, is there anybody else living here?' she asked with palpable trepidation.

'No, no, haven't been able to find anybody yet. Been a bit slack.'

'So can I move back in?' Well, I was surprised, but, y'know, life is full of surprises (except the long, drawn out, boring bits) and while I should have probably considered her request at some length, weighed the pros and cons, consulted Dave, discussed arrangements viz-a-viz payments and fridge rights and so on and so forth, the only thought that came to me - it blocked out all others -was Michelle or Jason? It wasn't really a contest.

'Fine by me.'

'I've got my stuff in the car. Jesus I need a shower.' She got her stuff. Her car was crammed with all manner of possessions. She showered. She went to her room and, as far as I could tell, she went to sleep.

I went out. I went to the beach. A cool change had blown in and the beach was pretty much deserted but the water was quite warm and comforting and I spent ages lazily swimming or treading water. I probably should have wondered what had brought Michelle back, but I didn't. That's youth, I suppose, only think about themselves, totally self centred. At twenty seven.

****

Back at the house there was Michelle at the kitchen table. A cup of coffee sat in front of her, untouched and somehow it looked cool if not outright cold. Her eyes were red and bleary and I thought I could detect the pathways of tears on her cheeks. Not really my scene this, not really my forte. And yet... if I was ever going to get beyond being totally useless with women I figured that perhaps I ought to take any and all opportunities to talk to women, to relate to them, even if it was a shitty scene and I felt like running a mile. So instead of sliding out of the kitchen I offered a 'So do you want to talk about it?' I was curious too, about how she had come to be back with us. It helped me get over the desire to 'not get involved'.

A stuttering sequence of non sequiturs was followed by a torrential downpour from the dark skies of a woman done wrong. In a nutshell, the guy she had moved in with, her knight in shining armour, turned out to be an arsehole ('No. Oh no, Michelle' with a look of compassion I might add) who wouldn't commit, had several gross habits, screwed around and even screwed some money out of Michelle. At this final straw they had a blue and Michelle packed her bags and left. I say in a nutshell because the live monologue took several ages.

She seemed better for it though; it seemed like I had genuinely helped her, or helped her help herself or whatever. Her mood had lifted and she appeared appreciative of my having listened and made noises at suitable times. Anyway, I thought this is a good time, and I knew what to say. I had a whole stream of conversation mapped out. Beautiful.

'Y'know, I've been swimming and that, down the beach, and I'm a bit hungry now.' I paused. 'It's getting on' and then 'I might get something for tea. You interested?' She looked a bit blank and said

'What do you mean, what are you getting?'

I parried the question with 'I bet you haven't eaten for, what, twenty four hours? You could probably do with a good feed.'

'You're probably right...'

'Look, I know you're pretty down on them, but, y'know, sometimes it just feels good to pig out a bit.'

It dawned on her.

'Fish and chips,' she said with a distinct lack of enthusiasm.

'Okay. Forget it. Just a suggestion. I thought maybe you wouldn't want to cook, or go out anywhere special. I just thought, y'know, good ol' fish 'n' chips. An old friend. But, hey, I know, not your bag. I was going to the chippy anyway, I thought I'd just ask.'

She did consider it for just a while and so I continued 'It's good stuff, nothing worse than crap junk food, I know. But this shop makes a real meal. It's a meal. Yes! Potatoes, fish wholesome, and bloody tasty.'

She was amused, it was a bit of a performance and it entertained her but in the end she said 'It's nice of you to offer, but no thanks. Okay?'

'Fine.'

When I returned Michelle was still there and as I unwrapped the chips and launched into them she watched.

'What is it with this chip business?' she finally asked.

'It's about letting go.'

'Letting go?'

'Yes' I intoned softly, with a hushed sibilance to the word which lent it an air of authority. 'It's about letting go. And you fall, effortlessly, painlessly, satisfyingly into an excess of something you wouldn't normally allow yourself because it is unhealthy and fattening and pimple producing. And cheap, working class, unfashionable, smelly, greasy, worthy of scorn and derision. That grip you have on all the beneficial and fashionable things, that tenuous grip which is so painful and exhausting, you no longer have to keep. You let go and fall.'

'You break taboos so pervasive and endemic that breaking them excites like kinky sex or a heroin rush. It's like everything you aren't allowed to do for some fool good reason, you do... It's liberating. It's liberating in some strange, perverse, paradoxical way. But it is liberating.

Remember when you were a kid? Remember really wanting a lolly, or ice cream, or a soft drink? Remember that pure want? You didn't care that the sugar in the sweets would ruin your teeth, or that the ice cream would spoil your appetite. They weren't considerations. And do you remember if you got the sweet? How good it felt? But do you remember, too, how the adults controlled those things? And how that annoyed you? Well, you hold the lolly bag now. So if you feel like gorging on fish and chips then do it. Just raise a finger to all those things you're supposed to do, and not do, and to all the controls and limits and considerations. Be a kid in his own private sweet shop. Take the trip. Eat the chip.'

I stopped talking. The silence, for a few poignant moments, was complete. I didn't look at her. She didn't look at me. I contemplated the chips and ate one slowly. She stared at them, captured and intense. And then she said 'Oh.'

I pushed the chips towards her. 'Actually, I am fairly hungry.'

'Take some.'

'Okay.' She didn't have many, an entrée serve if you like.

But the next night she spun some story about not wanting to cook and feeling especially hungry as she had worked all day and had to skip lunch and et cetera and so on and so forth. I didn't even smile. Just accepted her order of one fish and minimum chips as if I'd done it a thousand times before, as if it were the most normal, usual thing in the world.

****

I drive through the valley of car yards. 'Drive away, no more to pay.' Funny how they can make a bonus out of something that should be a matter of course.

****

I have this theory about the course of history following the demise of the dialectic between the super powers of the twentieth century - the USA and the USSR. In turn, and in time, they will be replaced by the new super powers - McDonalds and Burger King. These two super powers will enjoy hegemonies that extend over pizza merchants, pasta outlets and all manner of fast food franchises. Not only armies but whole populations will march on their stomachs. They will march down to the local burger franchise, each one identical to all others. They will sing the praises of Big Burger in an ironic parody of Orwellian prophecy. Not only children's birthday parties but weddings, christenings and funerals will be held at the burger emporiums. Brides and grooms toasted with thick shakes and large Cokes with liberal serves of crushed ice. Turkey burgers for Christmas, hot cross burgers for Easter and flap jacks at lent.

Instead of merely sponsoring sports teams the two companies will own them. The teams will be named after company products: the Cheese Burgers, the Apple Pies, the Thick Shakes and so on and so forth. And the fortunes of the teams will be reflected in sales of the products. Schools, hospitals, universities, police forces, social services will all be paid for by the burger giants.

When I explained this to Dave he said, 'Nah, bullshit. You reckon?'

I asked him to consider what they have achieved already. Selling nothing but tasteless, nutrition free food in garish packaging they, the burger barons, have established huge international companies whose logos - icons if you like - are recognised worldwide. They have moved into areas, regions and countries where their food had no history or acceptance and they have made them a desirable part of local diets and household words.

'But forget about third world countries and what they're doing there, it's what they're doing here that matters' I implored. 'They're killing off the making of real chips at real fish and chip shops. How can the little man compete? That's why there are less and less fish and chip shops. You never see any new ones. It's a tragedy, mate, it's criminal. Fuck knows where it will end. Maybe nobody will make chips and all we'll have are those lousy french fries...'

****

It gets so the wog at the chippy starts giving you this look. He knows. He knows you are a good customer, but he knows about the darker side of your patronage. He doesn't so much as ask for your payment as expects it. There is this half smile, a smart arse, knowing smile as he hands the deal over.

He is not uncomfortable in his role as pusher. Sure, he knows about chip addicts, heard it on the radio, read it in the papers. Just a businessman making a dollar, supply and demand. That's his line. His product is legal. It's not necessarily bad for you. It's a free country. He's gotta wife and kids. The gearbox in his Commodore is playing up.

And I hate those sods who decide to kick the habit and go into rehab and tell all. They're on the telly, in silhouette in an average looking lounge room, describing the amounts of chips they used to take. They're using words like 'cholesterol' and 'nutrition' and talking about looking forward to a chip free future. They want to help others. You know the line, 'If only others can learn from my mistakes then something good will have come from this' and so on and so forth. Sometimes it seems like everybody is against me.

****

One day, not even that, one night and so much happens. Not events so much as, well, emotions, highs and lows. I dunno if I can stand this kind of thing.

Deborah (Deborah!) rings me (rings me!) after work and its 'Am I doing anything?' And 'No' and an invite to see this film with her, some film she is desperately interested in, it's a foreign film with sub titles but don't worry as you quickly get used to them and et cetera. I'm thinking that if I were blind and it were a film on mime I'd still be desperately interested. And 'Yes'. Yes! Outrageous fortune you little ripper! On a high. Coursing through me like a narcotic, through pulsing veins are just the best feelings of expectation and belief in myself and belief in my worth, because, you see, it is a chick that has chased me up. Fantastic. I'm singing, I'll admit it, I am singing.

Then all those minor agonies rise up and assault me. A charge at my left flank. Doubts about what to wear, and whether I should have sounded quite so keen and wishing I hadn't put off getting my hair cut and so on and so forth. Y'know just the usual crap you think.

But I cast them aside and get my shit together. I shower shampoo, shave and shoe shine. We had arranged to meet at the cinema and I arrive early but not too early. Even better she is only the smallest minute late and comes up close and personal like and touches me on the arm in an intimate sort of way. And she is impressed (mildly, but impressed) that I have already bought the tickets and that I shout those choc coated ice creams. And she looks good. She looks good.

The movie is a dog.

Even if I could speak French or whatever it would be a dog. People leave, muttering, at regular intervals. I don't really mind, would have preferred to have been distracted if not actually entertained, but, well, there you go. The lousy thing is, though, that Deborah is feeling uncomfortable about the invite. After about an hour of pointless cinema I can just about feel, physically, her apologies and I want her to feel me responding by saying that it's okay that the film, yeah, sure, isn't very good, but it's interesting, and isn't it amazing how much French you learnt at school that you forget? But I know that's not happening and after the film, in the foyer, when I actually get to speak words that might ameliorate the situation it all comes out wrong and I am busting to say something like 'I'm attracted to you. I want to get to know you. If the film or band or party or whatever isn't great, that's okay. It doesn't matter. You matter. I matter. Together, who knows, we might matter more.'

But I can't. Don't ask me why but I just can't. I'm afraid of sounding stupid, of coming on too strong and sounding too weak. The time is wrong, the place is wrong, the planets are out of alignment. Who knows?

I am granted a minor miracle in that Deborah accepts a lift home. And then the bloody car won't start. There seems to be enough battery getting through, lights are coming on and motors are clicking and whirring but there is no internal combustion (in the car motor at least, I'm burning enough emotional energy to power a couple of freight trains). I dunno, the carburettor, the fuel, the timing, the hub caps?? After an age the motor catches and I drive Deborah home. I say 'Seeya' but she says 'Bye'.

****

I did an adult thing. I made an appointment with the dentist. Think about it, making a dentist's appointment is about as grown up as you can get. When you were a kid your parents, most likely your mum, arranged all that kind of thing. As you got older, into your teens, they sort of left it to you only supplying reminders and such. Of course, as a new adult you don't bother with the dentist unless you have to which is fairly rare. Years pass and nobody suggests you're a kid any more but the dentist has forgotten what you look like. Then one day it happens, you realise that you really ought to look after your teeth and mum isn't going to make an appointment or even nag you about it, and you find yourself talking to a receptionist and then with a time to have your teeth inspected.

I feared the worse; I guess everybody who hasn't been to the dentist on a regular basis does. I figured fillings as a minimum.which means you don't feel like eating much afterwards. As the appointment was in the afternoon I thought I'd have a good fix for lunch and forget about tea. As it turned out I got to lunch late and had to bolt down the chips and didn't have time to clean my teeth or anything before seeing the dentist.

He asked me awkward questions about when I had last had my teeth checked which I dealt with in the vaguest terms possible. Then it was open wide and he started poking around in my gob.

'I see, a bit of lunch still in here.'

'Nngh.'

'Looks like potato. Chips perhaps?'

'Nmnn.'

'I hope you're not one of those chip addicts, are you?'

'Nnnn.'

'Of course not.' He then paused and sighed and took his instruments from my mouth.

'My daughter is an addict. A chip addict. It's terrible. She was quite an athlete, had been selected in the State lacrosse team for her age group. Then, I don't really know what happened, she just got in with a bad crowd. Ruined herself. I can't believe she would have done it alone.'

Call me a prick if you like but I'm not convinced honours in sports nobody plays qualify you for things like 'quite an athlete'. But I didn't dwell on this because he then said,

'I'd like to get my hands on the people who pushed her into it - the people who peddle such practices. God! It makes me angry.' I detected an unnecessary muscularity about the way he re-entered my mouth. It made me sweat. It wasn't a particularly warm day but I could feel drops of sweat running down my side. I knew, I just knew, he was after a raw nerve and he was going to hit it with maximum suction, or a hard jet of cold water, or a stainless steel instrument of oral invasion. My body was tense. The lights grew warmer.

Then he said, 'Yes. Everything looks fine. Although I would recommend flossing.

And I would like to see you in another six months.'

'Good. Thanks. Flossing, I should do it more. So, erm, another six months. See the receptionist?'

'Yes.'

Out on the street a slight breeze chilled me through my sweat soaked shirt as I marched purposefully away.

****

Call me a prick if you like, I mean about the lacrosse thing, but lemme explain first. It's not that I have anything against lacrosse or badminton or synchronised swimming or whatever. What I'm against, what presses my button is that people tell you about success in such sports. I'm not talking about straight forward, old fashioned big headedness here because it's rarely the 'athletes' themselves who inform you of their success. Nope. It's some friend or relation or contemporary of theirs. You know the sort of thing:

'My son won the best and fairest trophy for his football team.' Or

'I used to go to school with (insert name of sporting luminary), to think he's playing for Australia now.' Or

'My brother is good mates with (insert name of another sporting luminary).'

It's hard enough to take when you know about the sport and the sportsperson, it's a double whammy when it's somebody you have never heard of in a sport you can barely imagine.

It's not just sport, though, everybody tells you about their connection to somebody notable in entertainment or politics of business or art or... anything. Maybe it's just me, but aren't they, at least partly, trying to put me down when they do this? Aren't they saying, 'I'm better than you, you no talent, unremarkable, forgettable jerk, because I know so-and-so'. Aren't they suggesting that the admirable qualities of the so-and-so are, somehow, replicated in themselves because of the association? Or that they are important because they move in the same circles as important and notable types? And who are they trying to kid? I don't think for one second that they are any better for knowing so-and-so. I resent the implicit demeaning comparison between the so-and-so and myself. I'd like to tell them to fuck off. I'd like to say to the footballer's father; 'Must come from your wife's side of the family.' I'd like to tell the school mate of the Australian team member; 'Since you went to the same school I guess it was simply a lack of talent that explains your sporting anonymity.' And to the brother of the friend of a so-and-so I would like to say; 'So what?'

****

I did a daring thing. Sort of. I guess not really daring, I just pushed my luck. I rang Deborah. I agonized over it for a fair while. I mean, it seemed like it was 'Goodnight Irene' when I dropped her off that night and, therefore, I'd be wasting my time and creating an awkward and embarrassing situation. But I thought I would give it a go. At twenty seven I thought maybe it's time to stop being so precious about these things. Anyway, I rang her...

Look, it was a bit difficult at first, but my punt came off. I asked her out for a meal and she accepted. So, yeah, good. I can't say I was actually leaping around, but, I'll admit, I was excited, nervous with anticipation and all that. I booked a table at an Italian restaurant on Melbourne Street. I told Deborah that I had been there before and that the food was good. That was a lie. I had never been there before and I just hoped the food would be good. I rarely went to restaurants and never went to them if I thought there was a possibility that chips weren't on the menu. I didn't want Deborah to know, though, that I was both uncultured and a chiphead. Maybe later, maybe when I had a bit more culture and felt comfortable with the idea of her knowing about my addiction. Maybe. In the meantime, going to an Italian restaurant where I couldn't order chips seemed like a good idea.

As evening go, it went. I had worked up a great fear of the waiter asking me if I had been there before and from this being 'found out', but it didn't happen. I selected my meal, a carbonara pasta.

'That's not very adventurous', commented Deborah.

'Well, erm, you see, it's a... it's filling. I'm really hungry and it's a dish that fills you up.'

'Oh', was all she said to this hastily contrived justification.

'Do you have a favourite cuisine?' asked Deborah.

"No, not really.' I knew that fish and chips didn't actually rate as a cuisine and even if it did I knew that it wouldn't be a good answer.

'I think I like Asian cuisine the most, Thai in particular', said Deborah. She then reeled off the names of a number of dishes and went on to say that she would like to try more French cooking but that Adelaide wasn't well served by French restaurants and so on and so forth.

I felt a gap opening between us. I didn't have anything to contribute to the conversation. I could have rattled on about the relative merits of all the fish and chip shops in a twenty kilometre radius but I didn't think this would close the gap. I just tried to look interested and amiable and, thankfully, the conversation drifted to other topics. And after this awkward start things did improve. At the close of the evening I received a thanks for a 'great night' and a quick kiss. But great night or not I felt confused by developments. Where were things headed? The epicure and the chiphead? I dunno.

****

Arterial roads, major arterial roads, the spare red cells of the arteries are stored in lots next to the bitumen channels. The lots are decorated with banners proclaiming; 'Auto', 'Turbo', 'Air', '5 Speed' and numbers forever ending in nines and zeroes. All through the night and every night the lots are flood lit as if to say that the business of selling cars, like the business of pumping blood, goes on night and day. And is this wrong? No, not at all says the steady stream of tyre kickers and time wasters who pull up in their present autos to examine prospective autos. They pull up night and day, in all kinds of weather irrespective of what is happening in the world, earthquakes, wars, crises, scandals, breakthroughs. What could stop this relentless automotive interrogation? Nuclear holocaust? But perhaps even then, in the darkened car lots of a seared land potential car buyers will scurry alongside cockroaches as the sole survivors of the end of Adelaide.

****

Dave, Michelle, Andy and I were finishing off a fix. As Andy began to scrunch up the wrappings he stopped and said, 'Remember when we were kids Alec, and they still wrapped fish and chips in newspaper?'

'Sure. I wonder why they stopped doing that?'

'I don't know. Wasn't it something to do with there being something poisonous in the ink? Anyway, remember when we took a whole load of old newspapers to the chippy? And remember he gave us a helping of chips in return?'

'Yep. I can still taste them', I said with a big grin. 'Now that's something you could never do with 'Burger Multinational'. Imagine returning a whole load of their packaging. They'd probably sue you for dumping rubbish.'

****

One of my favourite chipping places, perhaps my most favourite, was the beach. No beach in particular, just the beach. I dunno why. Maybe it goes back to my childhood. Maybe it goes back to the time, one winter, right in the thick of winter, when Dad took the family for a drive down to the south coast. It was a lousy day for driving anywhere. It was windy and raining and one of those few Adelaide winter's days when it was genuinely too cold to be outdoors. Late in the day we ended up at Port Noarlunga. We stopped by the Onkaparinga River and watched its flow being rippled by the wind. We took a walk down to the river to throw stones in. Then we ran back to the car when a shower of rain spiked us. Mum suggested that we get fish and chips for tea because it would be 'too late' when we got home and so on and so forth.

So we went to the local chippy, just down from the sea front, and Dad bought a mass of fish and chips and we parked on the esplanade. And as we noshed through the fnc the windows fogged up obscuring our view of the grey sea, and the slanting rain, and the darkening sky, and the reeling gulls, creating a special little world. And I was so, so happy in this close, familial fish and chip scented world. I guess, since then, eating fish and chips by the sea has been a pleasurable experience.

Or maybe it's because it's just right to have fish and chips by the sea. Salt air, salted chips, fish near (maybe) where they were caught, sea gulls animated, vital and greedy, all flocking around and wanting, needing, happy to accept all the crisp, fatty detritus of a good fix. And, look, I have to admit there is something about the 'in your face' aspect of chipping in public which is perversely pleasurable. Like when old people walk passed with their pooches and prejudices and you can sense them judging those 'young people' as wasters and addicts. They tut tut almost audibly and quicken their step.

Michelle, in particular, liked this aspect of beach chipping. She was always up for a coastal chip trip. It became a regular event for Dave, Michelle, Andy and I. We sussed out a real good chippy too, near the sea. It was tucked away in a small shopping centre a few streets back from the esplanade. It was a bit of a hole-in-the-wall affair but the product was of the highest order. The guy who ran the show was one of those appalling people who switch, in an instant, from screaming abuse at their employees to sucking up to their customers in the most nauseating and false way possible. Not that it mattered, in fact, it somehow kinda fit the mood of beach chipping.

Michelle, as I say, was always charged by the beach fix. It seemed to release her from her inhibitions. It was a flamboyant, carefree, careless, open Michelle who ate chips by the sea shore. Once we settled down with a fix near a family group. Part way through our feed Michelle let out this almighty belch. She giggled and put her hand over her mouth and offered a very insincere apology. The parents gave her a filthy look. So she belched again. And later, again. The family with the youngest boy beginning to laugh hysterically decamped as mum and dad hissed invective.

'I don't care,' said Michelle after they left, and down market though it was we all shared the thought.

It was at the beach too, where Michelle opened up to us the most. She told us about herself and asked about us. Normally, she kept a distance and something of a disinterest in us, but at the beach it was different. She would ask Andy if he was looking at having kids and whether he would still chip when he had a family? She would ask Dave about his looking for work. One time, after I had briefly mentioned Deborah she came out with 'Alec, tell me, Deborah, is she the one?'

'The one?'

'You know...'

'We've been out a few times.' And while I liked Deborah, I had no idea where things would go. I thought about her a lot. But then I thought about lots of girls lots. I thought about Michelle. The one? How do you know? Does the knowledge come suddenly, over time, or what? I was confused. I really didn't want to discuss it. 'I dunno. Maybe...maybe not.'

'Maybe', she says with an arched eyebrow, 'Now what does that mean?' And she would suck the grease and salt off her fingers oh-so slowly...

When I went to the beach as a kid my Mum would stop us from going swimming after lunch for some period to stop us getting cramps or something. I can't remember how long the period was but the idea of allowing time to digest food before going into water has stayed with me. But there were times when Michelle's interest and arched eyebrow and finger licking and everything meant that I had to take a swim straight after eating. Even while I was eating sometimes. If you know what I mean.

****

Andy told me over a minimum, that Jason had been round to see him. That he had a girl. I'll confess that my initial reaction was a mixture of envy and anger. Jason has a girl. What is wrong with women? Can't they see what he is? Grease and testosterone.

'What's she like? Did you meet her?'

'Oh yeah. Yeah. That was the reason he came round - to show her off.' Andy replied. 'She's young.'

'Young?' I said, the meaning of what Andy was saying was lost on me for a moment as I grappled with the idea that we might not actually, in some assessments, be young any more. 'How young?'

'When he was leaving, she went on ahead, into the car, and I said "She looks pretty young" like. And he said "Eighteen". Andy paused, 'I reckon she was only about fifteen.'

'Hmmm.' I had no idea what to make of this information although it seemed, somehow, to bring some sense to the news.

'What's she like?'

'Sort of... okay I guess. Very skinny. Had a mass of frizzy fine hair. She didn't say much. She smoked almost non-stop. I couldn't work her out. Kerry was NOT impressed. And, of course he did this stupid big burn out when he left. Had the old guy next door out and complaining and that...'

****

You know when you've got it bad when you go for a big chip trip on a forty degree day. Forty degrees celsius. That's stand in the shade and do nothing and still drip sweat type heat. Hot, hot, hot. I'm not going to go on about it. Hell, everybody else does, so why should I? Endless earnest conversations on the merits of evaporative versus refrigerated air conditioning. And 'What's the forecast?' asked interminably and receiving replies in numbers, thirties and forties, and something vague about a cool change.

Not the weather for launching into big sizzling, steamy, greasy meals. Not the weather for chipping, but I hadn't had a good fix for days. Practically speeding. When Andy came round wanting to whine on about his job or marriage or some other equally trivial matter I told him we had to trip.

'Shit it's hot Alec. It's forty degrees Alec.'

'Yeah, true, okay. I gotta chip.'

'I dunno, it's so hot...'

'Have you eaten?'

'No, I ...'

'And would you like to forget the heat for a while?'

'Sure, of course.'

'Then let's chip. C'mon, let's go.' As we were leaving Dave arrived from work. He had (yet) another job. We told him what we were doing.

'You're mad, fucking mad.'

'You coming?'

'I s'pose. Let's pick up some beers on the way, eh?'

'No worries.'

We went to the bottle-o. 'Quick, piss off before he brings the change!' Andy nearly fell for it. He revved the motor and dropped the clutch, and stalled the car. It wouldn't start.

'I dunno what's wrong with it' said Andy 'when it's hot it's really hard to start.' What's that noise a car makes when it won't start? Sort of urrrh, urrrh, urrrh. Well there was lots of that. The attendant, some old wacker with a red alky's nose and shirt stretching gut, gave us a tired, contemptuous look. Dave opened one of the beers. It got hotter in the car. Finally the car started and we were away.

People don't want to cook on hot days. They come home from work and say, 'Aw, let's just get some takeaway.' It's not the weather for takeaway, it's the weather for salad, but who wants salad for a main meal? So despite the fact that buying and consuming hot, greasy, filling takeaways is, really, the last thing people should do, they do it anyway. They wait in hamburger joints, and pizza shops, and fish and chip shops with blank and bothered looks and let somebody else do the cooking.

So we weren't alone in the chip shop and even though the guy serving is looking like an extra in Beau Geste or something he's sticking with it because he's making a buck. He's making our fish and chips which, when wrapped up fresh from the broiling fat, seem only to be at room temperature. The car had got hotter. Dave burnt himself on the seat belt buckle. You could almost see the chemicals vaporising from the vinyl seats. Nothing was going cold on the way home. Dave passed Andy and I a stubbie. They were tepid.

Back at the house, in the kitchen, we put the fish and chips on the table. Andy leant over them and a couple of drops of sweat hit the butcher's paper. 'Open up some more beers Dave. Alec, get the vinegar.' Then it started, the packages were opened, the vinegar splashed around and sweaty fingers reached for the objects of our desire and downfall. Pleasure and pain. We were knocking back the beers like mad things and stuffing ourselves stupidly, senselessly - I mean without any real sensation - with fish and chips. Andy was saturated in sweat. Dave looked ill. I just wanted to die.

Dave wandered off to his room moaning and collapsed (I guess). Andy stuck his head under the shower. I went and lay in the lounge on the floor thinking that hot air rises so it should be cooler on the floor and also thinking it wouldn't make a blind bit of difference. I dunno how long I lay there. Five minutes? An hour? Andy came into the lounge.

'Sorry mate.' I said, and I think he left, at least when I dragged myself to bed he wasn't around.

****

Jason said that the best burn out he ever did was so loud that it left people bleeding from their ears. He said that the burn out created so much smoke that it altered the weather. He said that a cloud of burnt rubber hung over Adelaide for several weeks creating tropical conditions. The burnt rubber particles acted as rain drop nuclei and the rain fall was way above average. Jason said that to celebrate this humungous burn out he and his mates drank twenty kegs of beer. Each. He said they were sooo sick afterwards that their combined spew ran like a landslide out to sea carrying with it several homes, a bridge, seventeen cars and three kilometres of bitumen road. The young women of Adelaide were so impressed by it all that they lined up to be screwed silly by Jason and his mates. Each and every one of these randy nubiles reported that they had never had better sex and thought that only horses and so on and so forth...

I didn't believe him though.

****

So there I was, packet of fish and chips in hand walking to my car. It was about half past eight, gone dark, but not long gone. I was salivating. The fish and chip shop was a new one to me and their product looked like good stuff. Happy, happy, happy. I was in a little world of my own.

I guess that's why I bumped into the guy. I really wasn't all there. 'Aw, sorry mate' I said. I got this look. One of those looks you really shouldn't meet. The guy was saying things like 'fuck' and 'shit' and 'cunt'. On the one hand I don't know why; I only bumped him a bit, I apologised, there had been no harm done. On the other hand I knew exactly why. Something black and twisted in him wanted to hurt and humiliate me, wanted to spit on me and kick me in the head and groin. He had some need, maybe because he was a bit thick, or psychologically flawed, or had a bad upbringing or got sexually abused as a kid and needed to assert, or find, his masculinity or maybe he was insecure and had to run some Neanderthal rite of passage or maybe he was on drugs. Or maybe he was just born a prick. The exact reasons I dunno.

I do know the look though, and know you shouldn't meet it. You should check out your feet like they have suddenly become so very interesting, as if it's almost physically impossible to look anywhere but down. And I know you should clear out just as quickly as possible. Don't say a thing, maybe cop a few whacks. Then when you're clear say things like 'What a jerk' or worse, 'y'know, if all his mates weren't there...'

But I didn't do that. I returned his look instead of examining my feet. I turned to stand face to face. It was a moment or two of madness or at least indiscretion, but, y'know, I've played the part of the humiliated one too often. I remembered every school yard torment and back down and they sickened me. Not this time. Not at twenty seven.

Four or five of his mates stood around as I stared back at him. I figured the chief moron couldn't be that lethal. He was a slightly beefier build than me but shorter. He looked faintly ridiculous. He was years younger than me and his posture suggested some regression down the evolutionary line. I just wanted to slap him down.

'Whathefuckryalookinat?' he demanded. I didn't say anything. If you say anything it goads them, tells them something about just where you're at; better to shut up.

'Carn then, whodya think y'are?'

'Hey he's got chips,' said one of his mates. 'Give us a chip, pal.'

'Fuck off!' I snapped. Then one of his mates came from behind and snatched at my chips. He had sneaked behind me and meant to dart past me with the chips but I tightened my grip which upset him a little. I kicked his feet from under him and he went sprawling.

'Right!' yelled the leader and launched this kung fu style kick at me. It was pathetic, almost laughable. I was going to have him. He had pressed my button and now he was going to suffer. I slung the chips at him and then flew at him all fists and feet. It was ugly stuff. I was just hitting and kicking him as hard and as quickly as I could. He hit back a bit but I didn't feel a thing. I cracked him hard in the jaw and blood spurted from his mouth. Then I landed him a kick right between the legs and he fell to the ground in agony.

Then I felt this sensation beyond pain from the back of my head...

****

While I was unconscious and in hospital and everything Deborah found out about my chipping. I don't really know how I guess it just came out when it was explained that I had been visiting the chippy and et cetera.

It seemed pointless to deny it. 'Yeah, well...' was the best I could come up with when she fronted me about it.

'You kept it from me' she said. It was half statement, half question.

'Yeah, well...' (again).

There was a long silence and then she asked in a disarmingly cool tone,

'Why?'

I couldn't look at her. I wanted to know what she was thinking, exactly what she was thinking before I said anything.

'C'mon Alec, why?'

'I dunno. I'm a chiphead. I was a chiphead when you met me. I'm still a chiphead. I think I was just waiting for the right time...'

'It's sort of deceitful. Hurtful.'

'Oh gimme a break would ya!'

'A break? Why? After...'

I interrupted, 'Aw fuck knows. Don't give me a break then. I don't care. You know now, make up your own mind.' And then I could look at her and on looking at her I knew instantly her mind was made up. I let out a sigh. She got up, collected her handbag, and a few thoughts.

'Sorry Alec. It's not what I want.'

'Okay. Fine.' And it occurred to me that I probably wasn't cut out for somebody who knew what they wanted. It crossed my mind to ask her to consider chipping as 'bad boy' behaviour and to suggest that women got a kick out of bad boys and therefore and so on and so forth. But it didn't cross my lips.

'You will be okay, won't you?'

'Yes' I replied, matching her earlier coolness.

'Bye'.

'Yeah, good bye.'

I felt if not totally gutted at least on the gutted side of things. It's not the worst thing that has happened to me, and worse things will happen to me. Still every failure, disappointment, sadness, cruelty, twist of fate and et cetera, et cetera has its own brand of poignancy that can't be denied. So there you go.

****

I dunno why we went there. I told him that their chips were ratshit but Dave got it into his head that he wanted KFC. He raved on about how long it had been since he'd had any Kentucky duck, and how he liked the chicken what with those eleven herbs and spices and how it was quick and so on and so forth. He was in a crap mood too, so I just gave in. I said 'Okay'.

I wish I hadn't. We went to the KFC and ordered chicken and chips, well, y'know, fries, and as usual, faster than y'know it there they were. The girl handed them over, beamed the compulsory smile and all that. Dave checked the food.

'What about the chips?' he asked in a smart arse confrontational sort of way.

'The fries are there sir' said the girl with appropriate measures of concern and helpfulness.

'Yeah, sure, is that it? Is that all you get for two bucks?'

'Erm.. That's the large fries serve. Yes sir, large fries.' she said as she examined the order. The girl was kind of worried. Not overly, mind you, because, as you might know, fast food outlets are often the scene of young male aggro. I heard that a certain McDonalds averaged three calls to the police per Saturday night. Anyway, it's likely this assistant has encountered 'trouble' before.

'Look at 'em would ya, they're shit. There's fuck all of them and they're shit!' ranted Dave.

'I'm sorry...'

'Sorry! Fuck, give me a decent serve of CHIPS!'

Then the manager bustled in. He had a badge with his title; 'Manager' and his name; 'Joe Chickenplucker' or whatever.

'Is there a problem here?' He was polite but firm, like granite actually.

'These chips are no good, they're a rip off' said Dave totally unfazed by the Manager's approach. And he was a big guy too.

'Exactly what is your complaint sir?' the manger asked in a way that mixed civility and menace.

'They're lousy chips and there's fuck all of 'em.'

'Fine, what was your order?'

'My order?' The manager checked the till record. He pulled some money out of the cash register and counted it out.

There's your money sir, seven dollars ninety five, I'll take the food, thank you. Now good bye. You know where the door is.'

Dave worked it out. 'Hey.'

The manger lunged across the counter and grabbed Dave by the throat. Shit. 'Listen pal, I've had a gutful of your sort. Don't like what we do here then fuck off. Don't fuck off and I'll beat the living crap out of you. All my staff want their jobs so they are gonna tell the police that you started it. And the police are going to believe them, not you. Okay?'

It made sense. And we were, well, scared and we left, kinda in shock. But by the time we got to the car Dave was fuming.

'I'll get that fucking bastard! He screamed 'Fuck you, you cunt'. But, as happens with most of these type of things, not knowing really what to do means you do the obvious thing which in this case was getting into the car and driving off.

That might have been the end of it, apart from Dave insisting that he was going to 'get that bastard' for the following twenty four hours, except that the neighbour knocked on our door a few nights later and asked if we had seen any rats. Apparently he'd seen at least one and he figured that it, or maybe they, were living in the back neighbour's old chook run. As we rarely ventured beyond the back porch of our place we hadn't seen any rats so we couldn't help, or confirm, or whatever but we said we'd keep an eye out.

As soon as the neighbour had left Dave exclaimed, 'Thats it!'

'What?'

'The rat, it's how we're gunna get that KFC cunt.'

'With a rat?'

'Yes, yes. Haven't you heard about that old lady who bought some KFC and found out she was eating rat? She had a heart attack and died and her family sued the company for millions.'

'Oh.' I knew what Dave was proposing. 'So we catch this rat and somehow make out that it was KFC? Like we cook it, stick it in with an order and pretend that they served it and get sick and...'

'That's it, that's it.'

'I don't wanna catch a rat. Fuck, I sure don't want to cook it.'

'Aw c'mon, it won't be that hard. We can leave some food out, maybe lots of food so it eats up big and gets fat and slow and we just club it with something.

It was kinda funny. I mean, if I hadn't know that Dave was serious about it I probably would have laughed, but I knew he was at least going to give it a go. And how hard can it be to catch a rat?

'But you'll have to make it look like Kentucky chicken won't you? You can't just stick a rat in one of those boxes. They'll know what you're doing straight away. And remember it's not just herbs and spices it's secret herbs and spices.'

'They're just details. No problems, we'll get around them.'

'We'll? You mean me?'

'Yeah, you 'n' me, otherwise next time you crap on about American imperialism in food and all that I'll tell you where to shove it. You're in this. You got me into chips in the first place.'

Dave had a point, It was really down to me that he was a chipper. I was accountable and I was being called to account.

At the best of times I am not what you call 'optimistic'. I'm not a ray of sunshine. This venture with the rat would, I guess, strike most people as being unlikely to succeed. To me it seemed like a guarantee of embarrassing trouble of the highest order. I was certain, and I mean certain, that it would blow up in our faces in the worst possible way.

So I lay awake at night considering all the things that could go wrong, that stood in the way of a successful rat conspiracy. I figured that if I could come up with enough problems Dave would be overwhelmed by them and would give the game away.

It didn't quite work that way. Instead of being overwhelmed Dave was armed with the detail that seemed to insure the idea's success. It went like this:

'So, how are you gonna catch this rat then?'

'I told you, we leave some food out and when it comes to eat it we club it.'

'What food?'

'They reckon that mice love bread soaked in fat, leaves cheese for dead. I figure rats will be the same.'

'Well, have you got a club?'

I got a piece of wood sorted out, yeah.'

'You'll need to skin it and gut it and...'

''Course, it'll be like science back in high school, remember when we dissected mice? Those little handy man's knives are just like scalpels. Know the ones I mean? Anyway, I was a butcher, remember? It'll be good enough, no worries.'

'But you'll need to keep it won't you?'

'In the freezer. Y'know that thing designed for keeping dead animals?'

'Aw I dunno. I'm not sure I like the idea of a rat in the freezer. Y'know it might have some disease which could spread to all the other food in the fridge.'

'Look, it's in a plastic bag, okay? And have you looked in the freezer lately? It's empty. In fact the fridge is pretty much empty most of the time.'

'Okay, okay, but what about the herbs and spices, eh?' That stumped him, for a bit.

'It's mostly salt, maybe pepper. How many herbs are there? Put in some parsley, sage, rosemary and thyme (thanks Simon, thanks Garfunkel). Nobody's gonna eat it anyway. You gonna eat rat? You don't even want it in your fridge.'

'But if you're saying that KFC cooked and served it then it will have to be exactly like they really had cooked and served it.'

'So we experiment a bit. We deep fry some chicken with different herbs 'n' that. Different temperatures. Whatever. When we get it looking like KFC then we just repeat it with the rat. Sure it's a bit of a hassle, but, aw, y'know...'

'Alright, alright. You cook this rat to look like KFC. And it looks like KFC. How they gonna know it's a rat?'

'The tail!! We cook the fucking tail! Imagine being in KFC, a busy KFC - we gotta go when it's busy \- and holding up a rat's tail and saying 'Hey, everybody, do chickens have tails? Rat's tails? Beautiful!'

It almost sounded plausible.

'Won't you need a lawyer or something to sue them?'

'Aw, who cares? I just wanna get that manager cunt back. Maybe they'll give us a few bucks to shut up. Who knows? If we just do it during a busy time the word will get out. We just play it by ear from there.'

The back fence of our place was one of those old wooden affairs, full of places for rats to run through. We selected a likely spot by the old chook house and spread a bit of fat saturated bread around and waited, me with misgivings and Dave with a hunk of wood. I guess we lasted about five minutes before I suggested we just leave the bread out for a few nights until the rat got used to the idea of it and then do the waiting around. Dave agreed.

Michelle, by the way, knew nothing about the rat gig. We both decided, without actually discussing it, that it was better that she didn't know. She wondered about our sudden interest in fried chicken, 'What happened to the fish?' etc. And she saw the fat soaked bread in the fridge and asked about it, asked me and all I could think up that was vaguely plausible was a variation of the truth. I said that next doors had seen a rat in our yard and that we were setting a trap with the bread as rats really went for fatty bread, and so on and so forth. Her reaction to this ran along the lines of minor hysteria, 'Oh god! Rats! Filthy things! They scare me. I hate them. Just don't let me see it that's all. I don't know what I'll do!'

After three bread layings we went out again with intent to kill, or at least with sticks. Some things are easier to say than do, like, 'hit the rat on the head with the stick.' I had an inkling of this when it started to get dark. We found a torch and waited some more.

'If it comes out of one of the fence holes, like we reckon it will, then get between the rat and the hole' Dave instructed me. 'That way if we don't get it with the first hit it won't shoot back to its hole, and maybe we can have a second crack at it.'

'Okay.'

'Hit it with the light too, maybe they're like 'roos and rabbits in car headlights.'

So we stood either side of the likeliest looking hole with our backs to the fence, sticks in hand, contemplating fatty bread growing indistinct in the fading light. Having got to this stage I had gone beyond considering how stupid it all was. I was actually quite intent, if nothing else, on killing the rat. My concentration was total, even as the minutes started to really mount.

Then it appeared a filthy big white rat. The white bit was handy because it was pretty close to dark. I heard Dave suck in a breath, and then we quickly glanced at each other. I was closer to the rat which had moved around to one side of the bread so Dave indicated I should hit it. I didn't hesitate, I smashed the stick down on the rat's head. I missed! It squealed and shuffled desperately away. I had hit one of its back legs and it couldn't walk properly.

'Fuck! Hit its head!' spat Dave and he swung and missed, and I swung and missed. We chased the rat toward the house. It was awful. Horrible.

'Kill it, kill it' I panted. Finally Dave landed one on its head. Dead.

We both breathed athletic sighs of relief. Dave shot me a look. In the dark our Kentucky Fried adventure seemed not only insane, but also decidedly macabre.

Dave did a good job of skinning and gutting the rat. He cut off a fried chicken sized piece including the tail. This was placed in a plastic press seal bag and then a coloured plastic bag and then into the freezer. I hadn't handled the rat that much but I scrubbed my hands maniacally, then took a long vigorous shower after which I sat around wondering what the symptoms of bubonic plague were. Dave was also at pains to wash away the horrors of the slaughter.

Somehow, though, having the rat in the freezer domesticated it, made it safe, and when we came to cook it the prissy revulsion we both felt had subsided and we were operating with purely practical considerations. As it turned out the hardest part of cooking 'Ratty' (as we came to refer to it as) was making sure Michelle wasn't around. We had decided on a Sunday night for the rat show. It seemed, from our incomplete observation, that Joe Chickenplucker worked the weekend nights and that Sunday night was almost guaranteed to be busy. I guess people opted for a lazy, cooking free night in front of the telly after a full day of recreating or whatever. Anyway, when Michelle mentioned she was going out the first Sunday night after the killing of Ratty we started defrosting. But, at like the eleventh hour she began vacillating and said she might stay in. When she said this the rat, which was in Dave's room, was half thawed. It was getting tricky. I didn't like the idea of refreezing the rat and everything was set up. But I didn't want Michelle to know we were going to deep fry rat. I wasn't sure what she would do if she found out. Dave was intent on doing it tonight and tried just about everything to persuade Michelle to go out. He said there was nothing on the telly, said he thought we ought to use the time to clean the house a bit, discussed rent and, well, anything else he could think of to make staying in a pretty unattractive proposition.

Andy turned up. Time started pressing and Dave figured we should go ahead anyway. Michelle was doing a bit of speeding lately so maybe she wouldn't want to eat. She knew Dave was a lousy cook so that helped. Dave reasoned that it wouldn't take that long to cook the rat, that it wouldn't be more than ten minutes before we were at a stage where what Michelle thought or did wouldn't matter. Having made a practice of going along with the exercise so far I couldn't just not continue in that way so we started mixing flour and salt and pepper and heating fat.

Then Michelle left; she answered a phone call, then took her keys and was gone. I thought of it as a sign and so must have Dave who discreetly gave the air a quick triumphant punch. We cooked the rat and it looked pretty good, it looked the part. You had to really look at it (ignoring the tail) to know it wasn't Kentucky Fried chicken. We wrapped it in a couple of layers of alfoil and then paper. We placed it in a small sports bag. We made quick time to the local KFC.

When we arrived it was busy. 'Bewdy' whispered Dave. I still had major doubts but things were going our way. Joe Chickenplucker was there. Families were milling around. It was like playing soccer as a kid when the ball was at your feet and an open goal a poor kick away.

Andy took a seat smack in the middle of the 'dining' area. We ordered chicken and chips while Andy guarded Ratty. We had planned the plant pretty well I thought. As soon as our order was ready Andy unzipped the bag and unwrapped the rat in the bag, so nobody could see it. When we sat down and opened the boxes Andy quickly slid the rat in. Ratty looked the part lying next to the chicken and fries.

Dave took a deep breath, hesitated, and then yelled 'Fuck what's that?' Everybody in the place stopped. There was a moment of complete silence. 'It's a rat! A fucking rat!' He picked Ratty up and started waving the tail around. 'This chicken's got a rat's tail.'

The manager was at our table. He recognised us, or at least Dave, and his 'dealing with another arsehole' demeanour took on a new dimension of aggression. 'A rat you say sir? Could I see? Dave handed over Ratty. The manager took a quick look at Ratty. We watched the manager. Everybody in the store was watching. Silence. There was near complete silence. The manager then looked at us and half smiled and then he ate it. ATE IT!

He bit the tail off, took a couple of big chews and a big swallow and then did the same with the rest of the rat. He stood dead in front of Dave, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and quietly said. 'I don't see any rat. There is no rat. I ask that you stop upsetting my customers. Right now. There's the door.'

I was stunned. We were all stunned. It was like being punched in the head. I can't remember leaving or even getting in the car. I remember Dave not saying a thing as we drove back and I remember Andy saying as we left the car, 'There were bones in that rat. He ate them.'

****

I can hear my watch ticking, tick, tick, ticking away. Time is tick, tick, ticking away. I am desperate. I am ready, metal bent to the point just before it snaps with horrific violence.

And nothing happens. Moments come, and moments go, each fecund with opportunity and desire and frustrated by circumstance.

****

I dunno what happened. Suddenly a load of chippers we didn't know were chipping with us. Suddenly we had a veritable rage every meal time. At night, in the lounge and in the kitchen, when we unwrapped the chips and splashed the vinegar around there was a crowd. That's right a crowd. Ten, fifteen, twenty chipheads salivating, masticating, swallowing and digesting. The air was tangy with vinegar, thick with the smell of deep fried food. The rustling of chip paper was a continuous sound.

Maybe it started with Les. Les lived in some flats a couple of streets away. Les was alternative - all sandals and no soap. He said 'man' a lot. It kinda bugged me, but, anyway. We saw Les a few times at the local chippy. I guess we just knew he was a chiphead and guess he knew we were chipheads and I guess we both knew that the other knew and all that. So what. But then one day Dave was feeling amicable, or garrulous or something and said to him, while we were all waiting for deals at the chippy 'So you're a chipper too?' If Dave had intended to include Les in our circle, if that had been his intention, then it was a clever opening. It confirmed everything we knew and joined him to us immediately. I can't remember exactly what was said after that, I guess I was occupied in contemplating the deal, but it ended up that Les came back with us and shared vinegar.

Les was, for all his alternative shit, a bit of an eager Ninja. It was the clothes, it was the talk, it was the enthusiasms and the contempts, it was trying so hard to be cool. He loved chipping with us. I reckon he would have been chipping away on his own for a while and maybe not feeling totally cool about it. Perhaps he tried it and got hooked but didn't know why and wasn't sure if it was a good image and so on and so forth. And then he found us, latched on to us like snot to a footy scarf, and it became so cool. It was cool because it was something shared by a group of peers and therefore verified, justified, authorised, desired and all those sort of things. There was Michelle too, the opposite sex. And the rambling, run down old house we lived in which for me, and I guess Les, was such a radical change from the post-war suburban bricks and mortar we grew up in. It was opulent in its seediness, rebelliously neglected. It must have worked on Les's mind and counter culture notions.

Les turned up for one of our sessions with this bird in tow. She chipped, then produced and smoked a joint, then free loaded some beer, then threw up, then crashed on our lounge and became almost a permanent fixture there. That was until her mother turned up and dragged her away while spearing us with a look designed to fossilise.

So it was a bit of a bumpy start but once it got under way it roared. People just started turning up. How they knew I dunno. Say 'the word was out' or 'the word got around' whatever happened people who we didn't know were pouring into our house We had a sort of cachet as the hard core chippers. People came who had never chipped. They had seen or heard or read about it or something and were interested, attracted to chipping and they wanted to know, to be in on chipping and we exuded that knowledge. People like Les came who had been lone chippers and suffered in solitary the slings and arrows and slights of a general public that did not know or understand and they looked to us as if we were their saviours. People came who weren't really interested in chipping. They came because it was such a great party, a carnival of excess and carelessness. They deferred to us for we were the epicentre of this fantastic slap in the face of all that bored and inhibited and constrained them in their lives. That we didn't know them didn't matter. We didn't care. It was good. Yep, good.

In fact, it was bloody brilliant!

Every night was a party and every party was fantastic. Lemme say, too, that I am not big on parties as a rule. But, really, calling them parties is doing those nights a disservice. Most parties I go to consist of somebody else's favourite music played loud, varying amounts of booze and people trying to party. This wasn't like that at all. There was music, there was booze, but everything just happened. The great communal chip was amazing. Getting twenty or so people to fry high simultaneously was a fabulous rush. I can't describe it. It put everybody in a terrific mood. The atmosphere was just the best. It was so removed from the rest of my life, so much better, a different place. And, wonderfully, it was a place where I mattered, was respected and regarded and liked and wanted. And all I had to do was be me. Alec the chip head.

Casual sex. Lemme tell you about the casual sex. I'm not one to kiss and tell, but, look I just have to say that, for once in my life, I had what I regard as a fair share of sex, actually, more than my fair share of sex. It just happened. Without effort. Something I had given up on, dismissed as pure fantasy, was becoming every day. Well, maybe that's an exaggeration but, hey, I was satisfied.

But it wasn't just that I scored, scored frequently. It wasn't just that I had the best fry highs of my junk food junkie career. It wasn't just that it was this great group experience. It was more than that. It was everything. Everything.

The weather! Even the weather was perfect. Long late summer into autumn nights, rose coloured, balmy, easy, soft and tender. That time of year when no external events crowd in on you and demand your attention and take you away from yourself. Away from who you want to be. No Christmas, no New Year, no Melbourne Cup, no tax return, no footy final. Nothing. My job didn't matter, my car didn't matter, my future prospects didn't matter, time didn't matter. Conversation easy and natural and meaningful and capricious and silly and serious. Belly laughs and quiet, smile eliciting moments. My body sensitive and sensual, receptive to the caresses of food and drink and other warm bodies. My mind receiving a thousand positive strokes. Good, better, best, bliss, joy, happiness, euphoria, satisfaction, satiation, emancipation. Let me explain. I want to explain. I can't explain.

It couldn't last. It didn't last. At its best it maybe lasted close to a couple of weeks. Probably not even that long. The end came about through a combination of things. What doesn't? Describe and discuss the factors which led to the demise of the best time of your life.

In the late summer of his twenty seventh year Alexander Smith experienced what was, arguably, the best period of his life. While there is some debate as to whether it was the 'best period' this essay does not entertain that question but will identify and, to some extent, rate those factors which lead to the close of that period.

Firstly, and ostensibly most importantly, the parties or rages or sessions or whatever you want to call them at the house simply became too big. At first there was just at lot of people in the house chipping along with Alec, Andy, Dave and Michelle. Then the house was crowded and people spilled out into the yard and driveway. The people flowed out into the street and there were cars parked all along the road and gatherings of people literally in the middle of the road. It put the neighbours on edge. The sessions became longer and louder and impossible to ignore. This primed the situation for its downfall.

The trigger for the downfall has been identified as an argument that erupted about a girl. It seems that some testosterone addled jerk's designated girlfriend was becoming too familiar with another guy, or that the guy was becoming too familiar with the girl. Whatever the exact facts of the liaison were are of little moment. What was important and which precipitated the calamitous events that followed was the jerk warning the other guy to lay off his girl. The other guy (whose identity has never been satisfactorily established) told the jerk to 'Fuck off.' The jerk responded by asking, 'Who you telling to fuck off?' As events rapidly moved toward violence it seems most of the participants of the particular session were drawn into the dispute. Accounts vary as to which of the two protagonists enjoyed the most support. It seems some sided with the jerk in their belief that he enjoyed what might be termed 'property rights' over the girl. That this particular occurrence has attracted much interest from feminists is hardly surprising. Others at the session supported the other guy regarding, and expressing their regard, that the jerk was acting like an arsehole and ought to fuck off out of it.

Before describing events further it is necessary to see the events in context. It seems unlikely that in the early days of the 'best period' anything like what happened would have occurred. Participants in the early sessions were almost exclusively hard core chippers, or at least headed toward that state. They were simply not interested in events on the periphery of their chipping activity. Even assuming that the initial altercation had occurred it seems impossible to conceive of it diverting anybody's attention for all but the shortest of periods. It is worth remembering that the early days were characterised by an exceptionally friendly ambience. However, as the days passed it seems that even the most good natured of the participants had their equanimity frayed by simple tiredness. While there were lulls, if not out and out breaks, in the chipping and general partying it would be fair to describe it as continuous. That continuous activity took its toll on participants and left them primed for inflammatory behaviour and anti social activity. Moreover, the sessions attracted more and more people who were interested in finding some action and not really interested in chipping. The jerk was one such person.

It is clear then, that while an initiating event can be identified, it is equally clear that other circumstances allowed that event to have such effect. Nevertheless it can be argued that had the jerk not taken a swing at the other guy then the demise may have been delayed by days, perhaps even weeks. The fact remains though, that the jerk did take a swing at the other guy and that a brawl broke out. It spread quickly with the supporters of the two combatants throwing themselves into the fight causing something akin to a chain reaction with fights breaking out in the yard and the streets. Neighbours became alarmed and there were incidents of property damage. The police were called and arrived in a wail of sirens and a bellicose mood. They bashed all the people they felt they could safely bash and then proceeded to charge people right left and centre. Gaining the information from the neighbours that the trouble makers were chippers incited the police to bust as many as they could. Identities were checked, cars were searched, defect notices flew thick and fast. Warnings of the 'if I ever see your face again' variety were readily and enthusiastically handed out.

The police activities alone probably sealed the fate of the sessions. Had Alec or Dave the desire to somehow recreate the scenario the intimidation they suffered from the police would have dissuaded them. But they had no desire. They were 'wrecked' - badly in need of a rest and perhaps worldly and wise enough to realise that nothing lasts forever.

In conclusion and so on and so forth...

Fucking Jason! If he hadn't come around with that girl child we might have had a few more weeks at it. Well, probably only a few more nights. Even one more night. Shit. If he hadn't expected us to see her as such a prize, such a beauty when she was only another face in the crowd, our crowd, not Jason's. I mean what did he expect? He never chipped. He didn't matter. Did he really think we were all going to fall down at his feet in admiration and envy? Did he really think she was never going to work out that there were other apes in the world? Why'd he have to get so aggro? Dickhead.

It's over, fuck it, it's over.

Ah well.

****

'The essence of romance is this: boy meets girl, they fall in love but something separates them, the story relates their meeting and the way in which they overcome that which keeps them apart,' said Andy. 'Sometimes they fail in their attempts. I guess that's a tragic romance.'

'Really' I said, meaning 'So what?'

'Well it's just that with you and Deborah it was a romance. D'you see?'

'Yeah. I suppose.'

'So what were the obstacles? I mean, if you can identify them and work out strategies then perhaps, y'know... in the future...'

I looked at Andy in a weary, questioning sort of way and then I asked, 'So tell me, did you and Kerry 'identify the obstacles' and plan solutions on the way to your marriage? I'm seeing a large map type diagram here with lots of different coloured pins stuck in it.'

'Sorry. Just, sort of, trying to help.' Andy sighed, 'Really we just fell, fell in love (said quickly) and got married. I don't think there was much romance about it. A bit dull really.'

'Look' I said. 'I know what you're saying, fair comment Wally May, but honest I don't really care at the moment. I suppose I will meet someone some day but, hey, why worry. I'm not worried.'

After a short but poignant silence Andy said, 'I wish I was past worrying. See, the thing is, like with Kerry and me, well, it's sorta, y'know, not really working, like.'

'Serious?'

'Yup' he said looking away. 'Perhaps we're getting the romance bit after the marriage.' I realised (finally!) what he was on about. This wasn't about me, this was about him. Earth to counsellor Alec.

As I asked 'D'you want to talk about it?' I wondered why somebody of my limited life experience ever finds themselves in this situation.

'Nah. Fuck it.' Which didn't sound like Andy at all.'

'C'mon, you can tell me.' Softly, very softly I said 'Talk, Andy, talk.'

He couldn't resist, of course, and the words just tumbled out of him. Pretty soon I had heard it all, but he carried on explaining and particularising and reiterating and replaying and so on and so forth. In a nutshell, his marriage to Kerry wasn't really working. They were doing little more than sharing accommodation.

Then he talked about statistics, divorce statistics. One in three marriages (or is it one in two?) break up nowadays. Therefore, ergo and because of this, well its practically fated isn't it? He talked as if his divorce was signed sealed and delivered. 'What am I gonna do?' he whined 'And the house and everything. Jesus all that property settlement stuff. I don't wanna go through all that. Kerry won't even go to a counsellor. I mean, that says it all!'

Now what was I supposed to do? Just listen? Did he want my advice? And what the hell would that be? It didn't matter because Andy just kept talking without even hinting at wanting anything from me. It ended when Dave came in and started talking about eating, about chips, about who was going to the chippy, about how hungry he was feeling, how he felt the need to feed.

'Andy are you in?' Dave asked. Andy was still in marital breakdown mode and while tempted everything was tearing him apart.

'Yeah, he's in' I replied. 'Minimum trips, eh?' I said looking across at a gutted Andy.

As Dave left for the chippy Michelle arrived and she threw in a few bucks. The mood was decidedly down beat, low key. Surprising since a fry high was in the offing. Normally we would have been on edge, flicking through magazines, flicking through TV channels, looking at watches but it was different, kind of subdued. Andy, understandably, was quiet and contained. Thinking thoughts I suppose. Michelle was pensive, maybe thinking thoughts too.

This was always a bad time. This was when doubts needled you and you heard, again, hushed comments about chipping that you have overheard. You wished you were somewhere else, in some other situation. It's all right when the chips arrive but until then...

When Dave returned, well, I ate my share and I felt a brief high, a short escape as the vinegar vapours anaesthetised my brain and the sense of a hunger satisfied dulled my body. I don't know that the others got much of a high. The chips were overcooked, brown and hard a lot of them. The fish was similar with the batter too crisp and the flesh dry and reduced. There was too much salt on the whole deal.

Dave quit first, said he had enough, had things to do, and he left. Andy had barely eaten and although quiet seemed a bit more together. He said he had better get home. I couldn't think to do anything more than nod and see him to the door. Then it was just me and Michelle alone with the serve. She wasn't eating. She sat and looked across the fast cooling chips toward the wall. I sat down but had lost interest in eating, the moment had passed. 'The thrill is gone', as they say.

I turned on the light as it was getting dark. Our light wasn't much, a single bulb in a cheap paper shade that seemed to suck up most of the light. It gave the room a dark cinematic look. Very un-Adelaide I thought.

And Michelle just sat there.

'Is something wrong?' I asked. It was like she didn't hear me. 'Are you alright?' She threw her hands upwards in a sharp nervous jerk. You would have missed it if you blinked. I felt bloody uncomfortable. I didn't want to be in the kitchen but I couldn't move.

Then suddenly she lunged at the chips grabbed them and the wrapping and threw them violently at the wall. 'What's happening!' she screamed loud enough to make your ears ring. Then she stood there and convulsions shuddered her body. The next door neighbour's dog started barking. I could hear Michelle breathing, short desperate grabs for air. She looked at me and it was the look of somebody being tortured. Maybe. I dunno.

'What's happening?' she hissed. 'I'm a fat junkie. Look at me. Don't look at me! How did I end up like this? What's happening? I can't live like this! She gestured to her body with her hands and looked disgusted. 'This is pathetic! I feel like shit! What's happening to my life?'

'You got me into this, you get me out' she demanded giving me a full direct almighty eyeball. I met her stare and held it for... who knows? A while anyway. I took her by her arms and sat her down.

'You're out of it,' I said calmly and with conviction.

'What?'

'You're out of it. It's over.' She looked at me helpless and puzzled. 'Don't you see, chipping is just about wanting to do it. Once you don't want to do it, it's over,' I explained. 'You had a want to chip, I don't really know why. I suppose I could guess... It doesn't matter. But that want has gone and now what was once irresistible is now repulsive. So you'll stop. They aren't any withdrawal symptoms. Except, you'll probably lose weight, become healthier, pretty easy to bear those sort of things. That's it.'

It made sense to her, it made even more sense to me and I'd just made it up. On the spot like. There was a silence while we both thought on what I had just said.

Michelle broke the silence. 'But what about, y'know, those people on the television who can't stop chipping, and undergo treatment and, y'know...?'

'I suppose,' I replied, 'they still have a want, a need. Maybe they like the attention. Maybe they're addicted to the struggle. If you're fighting to overcome an addiction then you have a purpose, an identity, your life has meaning. Not all that bad a place to be. I dunno.'

'Oh' she considered and then asked, 'But how do you know, about me?'

'I just do I suppose. Tonight. What happened. I just know it's over for you. You get to a point I suppose. It was sudden, but so what? Why shouldn't it be sudden?

'Oh', and then after a long silence she asked, 'Would you help me? If it is like you say?' I said yes, of course, I had no option.

We stayed in the kitchen while the emotion dissipated and left when it seemed like all we were doing was hanging around in the kitchen. Michelle had a bath, I watched television and the neighbour's dog barked occasionally.

I didn't sleep well that night. I had a sense of something either happening or about to happen. It kept me awake. Early in the morning I heard Michelle get up and leave. It was Saturday. When I got up and went to the kitchen for coffee I saw that last night's chips were still lying around the kitchen. I cleaned them up while thinking how unappetising cold chips can be. There were dishes in the sink, mostly cups and teaspoons as we had almost stopped cooking. A pot, presumably the last meal anybody had cooked, was encrusted with something now unrecognisable. I washed all the dishes, and the floor, and chucked out some old papers and cleared the fridge of articles past their use by date or just unhealthy looking which made for an empty fridge. I went through the cupboards sorting out plates and bowls and saucers and all that stuff. I threw out old bottles of sauce, stale biscuits and potatoes and onions that had been in residence so long that they were virtually plants. I took the rubbish out and while outside I noticed some flowers, which I picked and put in a jar that I placed on the fridge. With difficulty I opened the windows and fresh air began to replace the odour of old chips and vinegar. I made a coffee, black no sugar - no choice, no milk no sugar. It seemed right, anyway.

Michelle returned to see me sitting in a clean kitchen that smelt, faintly, of flowers and coffee and into which the sun was now pouring.

'Oh, wow! Thanks for cleaning. I owe you.'

'That's okay.'

'No, really... I've got to have a shower.' Michelle had been jogging and was flushed and sweaty. She had a packet of Special K, a carton of skim milk and a banana. As she prepared a breakfast from these items she announced she was going to the market.

'The market?'

'The Central Market in town. The fruit and vegetables are the best you can get.'

'Right.'

Later that day the kitchen was crammed with fresh market produce and the table was covered in brochures for gyms and such. And Michelle kept it up. She booked into an aerobics class, and bought Ryvitas and squeezed oranges and so on and so forth. Admittedly, she gave up jogging pretty quickly saying that it left her too stiff and sore the following day but, other than that, Michelle had changed overnight from chip head to health fanatic. All I did to help her in this transformation was not eat chips in front of her, but I reckon it wouldn't have mattered anyway.

In fact, she ended up offering to help me stop chipping. I was touched, flattered, stimulated, but had no desire to quit so I said that it wasn't a problem, that I could control it and that maybe I still had a need.

****

I had another dream about Michelle last night. Nah. What would dreams know? What would dreams fucking know?

****

Let the tap drip.

Let the coke go flat.

Let the balloon go.

Wear a pink cravat.

Turn on the TV,

but don't watch.

Turn on the radio

but don't listen

Put out the rubbish

on the wrong day.

Let the telephone ring

and ring, and ring, and ring.

****

At twenty eight.

The chippy in Pulteney Street, just north of the Earl of Aberdeen became one of my regular and favourite destinations. It was a fairly traditional chippy, from its range hood menu down to its tired lino floor, the only unusual thing about it was that the proprietor was often playing cards with a few mates at a table in the public area when you went in. Provided the young girl, his assistant, wasn't too busy that was where he would stay, and that was most of the time because while the shop was rarely empty it also rarely had more than three customers at one time. I liked this measured patronage. I liked the proprietor's relaxed approach to business. I liked their product - generous serves of fish and chips that were never overcooked. And on darker wintry nights the place had a kind of noir ambience to it, thanks to the stingy lighting, that I appreciated.

But one evening I went there and on nearing the shop noted a peculiar lack of light and life emanating from it. And then arriving at the door I found it locked with a hand written sign proclaiming 'CLOSED' sticky taped to the glass. I peered inside and saw an empty room. The lino was still down but only boundaries of old grease and dirt remained of the fnc infrastructure. These boundaries seemed to amplify the emptiness and my sense of loss. I was quite stunned at first, one of those 'and there it was, gone!' type experiences that are weirdly unsettling. I lost my appetite. I went home thinking that maybe it was some sort of sign, some omen or direction. It occurred to me that I had struck a deal with the good lord viz-a-viz Deborah, and that I hadn't delivered on my part of the bargain and in some way this disappearance of a favourite chippy was a calling to account. But more likely, I thought, it was just the way things are, and are becoming. To my knowledge it was the last of the City of Adelaide's genuine chippies. There were no others in Adelaide's square mile while there were more cafes and restaurants and burger emporiums than you could shake a chiko at.

The proprietor confirmed this. By chance I met him some time later in a supermarket. He was spruiking and mid-way through extolling the virtues of the store's banana special he spotted and recognised me as I did likewise. After a pause he finished his spiel and then greeted me with a 'How's it goin'?' We talked a bit and I asked him about the shop and he said he got sick of the long hours and the poor money and saw no future in it and so on and so forth.

'I reckon you were my only chiphead, well regular chiphead anyway.' he said in a completely non judgemental way 'There just wasn't anywhere near enough regular customers, y'know? It's all McDonalds or pasta or something else nowadays. This ain't bad' he said indicating the microphone and with that he began again his recitation of the supermarket bargains on offer that day.

It was odd being referred to a chiphead in such a matter-of-fact way. Odd because the term was so frequently charged with so much feeling – good or bad – and odd because I was starting to think of myself as an ex-chiphead. I still ate chips, still in unhealthy quantities and I still enjoyed them. And I still had a great need, a great yearning for something I wasn't finding but my ability to find myself, or lose myself or whatever while chipping was fading.

At twenty eight I asked Michelle to marry me. It was just as the share house thing was ending. The landlord wanted to sell up. We weren't going out together or anything, we weren't an 'item', there was no relationship beyond that of sharing the house, a few experiences and some confidences. Yet, at twenty eight, I had something of a desire to settle down or similar, or at least to stop living as I was and although we weren't in the prerequisite relationship I felt we had established some sort of rapport. Something, anyway. And when I asked her I just felt that it was right, that an idea and a time had synchronised and I could do nothing other than pop the question.

Michelle was good about it. She understood that it was a serious proposal. She understood that I was saying that I found her attractive, that we had shared the same house reasonably successfully, that people did get married, that maybe the full romance thing wasn't necessary for a successful marriage, for a better life and that maybe, just maybe, it was worth the punt - long though the odds might be.

She thought about it. She thanked me. She said she knew I was serious but that she had to decline the offer.

Can I say how I felt about her response? No, not really, beyond me, beyond words. Everything.

Speaking of marriage; Andy's broke up. As he put it: 'We just came to the point where we could do nothing else.' But he seems better for it. He no longer chips and seems happy. He's getting on with life.

Jason, well I don't know what happened to Jason. And I don't fucking care.

I didn't see Dave for ages after the house split up, years in fact, and then I bumped into him in Rundle Mall. For a crust he was selling some home improvement product, insulation or security doors or something like that. I can't remember. Whatever it was he sized me up as a potential customer, realised I wasn't one and, at that point, almost wrapped up our reunion. But just as I could see him ready to turn away and mouth some excuse for having to 'dash' he turned to me and asked,

'Remember those last, big chip sessions?' He beamed a smile and glowed with the memory. 'Man-oh-man, they were something else, eh?'

'Yes. Yes.' I said nothing else, nor did he but we stood there for a good while grinning like Cheshire cats and laughing softly, shaking our heads as we did so. Finally I said, 'Time in the sun, eh? Can't beat it, can't repeat it. No complaints.' He looked at me as if I had said something truly profound, and maybe I had.

'Yeah, dead right. Hey, seeya 'round, okay?' he said as he shook my hand and left.

'Seeya.'

###

If you have made it this far I thank you for reading 'Minimum Trips'. If you have any comments, questions or want to discuss the novel feel free to email me at middlegreenhalgh@gmail.com.au. I'd really appreciate hearing from you.

