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me. His arms are crossed
in front of his chest and he’s scowling. Nothing new there; he’s
always scowling.
    “ You heading
to lunch?”
    “ YEAH, YOU
WANT SOMETHING?”
    “ A word
before you go.”
    “ ALRIGHT.” I
tear off a chunk of paper towel and take the opportunity to
readjust things below as he walks toward the back seat of a sawed
in half Ford Falcon that Bob uses as a couch. I follow him over and
sit on an old milk crate that someone strapped some foam to at some
point to make a stool. The tape is worn around the edges, it sticks
to my jeans and the foam has worn down to nothing, picked away by
tiny fingers.
    “ You got a
problem with your ears, kid?”
    “ NO,
SIR.”
    “ Then quit
friggin’ yellin’ at me.”
    “ But I
thought—”
    “ Son, do you
own a shirt?”
    I glance down
at my tattooed torso, taking a minute to appreciate the fact that,
although I haven’t seen the inside of a gym for six months, my
work, the mini workouts I do in my room every morning and my daily
runs are enough to keep me pretty built. I look back up at Bob and
he’s not at all happy with the way I look. Maybe he’s into hairy
guys?
    “ Yeah, of
course,” I say, feeling a little uncomfortable at the way he’s
glaring at me.
    “ Well, why
the bloody hell don’t you ever wear it, instead of parading around
here like it’s the fucking Mardi Gras?”
    I grab the
shirt tucked into my back pocket and pull it over my head, utterly
confused. “I thought … I thought you were into that?”
    Bob turns
three shades of pale. No shit, it’s like I’m staring at a fucking
ghost. “Look mate, you’re a real good worker. You keep your head
down, you don’t carry on like a pork chop when I ask you to close
up late Fridays. Now, I gotta be honest, I wasn’t too sure about
this whole … arrangement in the beginning, and despite riding some
import pushbike, you know your way around an engine. I know you’ve
had some trouble in your past and I can see you’re trying to make
amends for that. You’re a good kid and what you do in your free
time is none of my business. I like you, Son. As an employee. If
you like blokes then … we’ll find a way to co-exist, but you’ve got
to start wearing a shirt. It’d be a shit fight if OH&S came in
and saw you—”
    “ Wait. You
think I’m gay?” I
start laughing at how fucking ridiculous that notion is,
considering I’ve been jacking off to the image of the same girl for
the last two weeks. The same girl that told me my boss was
partially deaf and that he’d require me to work half naked. That sneaky bitch. She
is so going down for this. “Dude, I’m not gay. I thought you
were.”
    “ Son, I am
not gay. I’ve been married twice. I have kids.”
    “ I didn’t
know you had kids.”
    “ Well, you
should, you spend enough time with them at the pie
shop.”
    “ Hot waitress
Ana is your daughter?”
    “ Hot
waitress ?” Bob’s eyebrows shoot all the
way back into his hairline. “Whaddya mean, hot
waitress?”
    Fuck! I just
said that out loud, didn’t I?
    I shoot up
from my stool. Bob’s standing now, too. His enormous arms are
folded in front of his enormous body and I’m not afraid to say I’m
shitting myself at the scowl I’m seeing on his face. This scowl is
different from all his other scowls: it’s a don’t fuck with my
daughter kind of scowl, and yeah, I may have seen plenty of those
in my twenty-three years, but none have ever been this scary. It’s
the disapproving dad scowl to end all dad scowls and what makes it
worse is that it’s also coming from the dude who pays my
wage.
    Fuck! I am so
screwed.
    “ I’m just
gonna head out now,” I mutter, as I take a step back, and then
another, and soon I’m half way across the shop.
    “ Take one
more step and I’ll bust your nuts with my favourite wrench.” He
smiles but it’s not a friendly smile. It’s