Smoko
The initiation might be over
Saturday Short Story.
Smoko
Ten thirty was morning tea, an Australian staple. Workers down tools and head to the smoko room. Some are fleeting patrons; others stretch the window. I’m more middle ground, enough time to finish a brew and some topical discourse. Typical, boring, but I’m new to this.
Deano sits a top of the table, normally nut down switching between sangas and hot coffee, phone on Facebook mode. He's an improving bowler—lawn bowls, not cricket—I'll give him the benefit of the doubt. He doesn't say much, but everyone knows he's listening.
Tuesday was the same. Wednesday I had off—Melbourne, cricket stuff. Did I miss smoko? Not really. It's fucking freezing in there.
Thursday: time to break the shackles. “Deano, hello, how ya rolling ‘em?”
“Yeah, not bad.”
That was it. His eyes returned to the phone and whatever it was he looked at. Not even the slightest nod. I knew he'd played cricket back in the day. I had an inkling he knew I'd done similar, to better effect—can I say that? Fuck it, he gave me nowt, so yeh, I can say that. Deano stood and went back to putting together machines that help harvest canola. I went back to doing something similar with no idea of how it all worked.
A week or so went by, the weather improving. I'd let go of the Deano interaction. Truth is, I might have been fishing for comeback compliments on my previous life—what a wanker I can be. I did feel insecure in the foreign environs, though. Deano is well practised in this space. Consistent, metronomic, he did his job without fuss or fanfare. A given in these parts.
Friday came around. Smoko came and went without flurry. By now I had delayed my smoko window to let the first wave do their thing—it gave me more room and cleaner craic. I thought.
Lunch next, and the company address. With BBQ smoke still heavy in the air, the bosses did their motivational thing: machine assembly updates, harvest projections, where they were going. I just stood there like the imposter I was. They did call me Coach. Was that a compliment? I'll take it.
I want to mention Archie, but it will take this effort from a diabolical short story to a novella. He's Filipino. Archie is one of the nicest people I have ever met. We'll leave it there. I love Archie.
Back to what I did—I can't tell you, because I don't know. Snick, my offsider, did all the thinking. I was dreaming of brown envelopes. Some things never change. Haha.
Clock-watching now. Forty-five minutes to go. Deano drifted past the table we worked on. He stopped—I thought he’d left something behind.
No. He fixed a gaze my way.
“Hey Nicko, you staying for a drink tonight?”
Progress. “Yeah, why not. What time?”
“Four bells. A coupla Hahn low carbs to get you going.”
Hahn fucking low carb. Is he serious?
He was. They were fine. The craic was good. The initiation might be over.
We’ll see how Monday smoko goes. I might go back to the earlier window with new confidence.
Nick
