“A pub,” I lie. “Well… my dad goes to the pub all the time and sometimes I…”
My words trail off.
“What’s your name, darl?”
She grabs a notepad from her pocket.
“Mike,” I bluff.
“How old are you, Mike?”
“Fifteen.” My first honest answer. “Almost sixteen.”
Her sigh makes me nervous.
“But I'm a hard worker, and I'm good at cleaning dishes. I can sweep floors. I can…”
“You look older with that stubble, I have to admit.”
“It’s my birthday on Thursday.”
“Need your folks to sign a consent form if you wanna work here, kid.”
Obviously that’s not an option.
She’s being as patient as she can.
I’m sure she really needs to get back to serving.
“I can't hire minors, sorry. You can't serve behind the bar til you're older.”
I hesitate. I can’t tell her too much.
“My parents don’t have a phone.”
And for the first time, I’m relieved.
It’s partly true, anyway.
Dad hardly ever pays the Telstra bill.
I can tell she’s trying to be kind.
Even though she really doesn’t have time for my bullshit.
I long to tell her what she wants to hear.
“Bring them in to see me in person,” she suggests.
I swallow.
“They’re not in Longreach.”
“Look I'm sorry, Mike. But the law’s the law. I can’t lose my permit. Come back when you’re older. And maybe do something about those cuts on your face, hun. It's not a good look in front of my customers.”
“My birthday really is on Thursday," I reply.
It’s the truth, even if I have no way to prove it.
