how a pro interviews slater and parko and doesn’t have to pay for the drinks
The worst job in the world is the one Rocky owns. Rocky he is because the job is so bad he’s a little rocky to deal with, but he liked the nick-name so much it’s now on his name badge.
Rocky. He runs the long bar in the Cathay lounge.
This needs a little perspective as the long bar is about 100 metres end to end and the stool bums are mostly workblasted 16th floor corporate execs in a 20-story stack of suit cubes back in Sydney. Four up to go. They might get the trip up and back in the nose of a 330 airbus but there’s a bucket of eyeblood to be paid for it.
This is their exit lounge, the job done, and all the booze is up for free for as long as the train takes to leave the station, plus there is a little noodle bar up forward. A good man will score twelve hours in here, you can shower.
There’s a journalist in amongst the dagged out corporates and spent-out tourists. He’s sitting at the end of the bar, way down where Rocky racks the 30+ liquor. He’s playing throw shesh besh.
Rocky also does coffee at this end of the bar, where the journo is, guys just wave him down. Rocky the runner. And because nobody pays in this bar, and because all their currency is back to home dollars, and because all the local silver and brass has been left in the hotel for the bed lady – Rocky never sees a tip.
Not a slingshot.
Not a tip in dipshit.
This is why Rocky goes stony; he’s giving the customer exactly what he wants and for no money – plus French champagne for the lady if she is wake enough to giggle – a loaded no cost trayfull that he, the lounge bum, can take over to the cushions by the wall TV which right now is showing the the quarter finals, from the water, or the English being beaten by their rugby master race. (that’s how long ago this was written)
Plug in the Ipad, plug in the phone, plug in the drink. Get onto the game.
This is the room where Dexter does his copy, he’s the journalist; they have beds in these lounges so he never has to leave the airport, and all the pros use this room going home from the event, or passing through, whatever. They get delivered. That’s the main thing.
You want coffee, you have an hour, and meanwhile your bagboys are downstairs checking in the boards trophies and money, later those guys get to fly home in the zoo at the back of the bus. Where the children play. So that’s them out of your day for about eight hours, and the only two guys in the lounge who know who you is are Rocky and Dexter.
This is where Dexter catches his fish, the lounge, because he slings Rocky, and Rocky sets up a couple of high-backed stools down by the coffee and liquor end for his pal the journo. He even runs a few noodle bowls down there from time to time, Dexter is always good on the munch after a breath of fresh air out the back with the two guys who put out the free noodles. Eddie and Joe-boy, the local body whompers. Not everyone runs away from typhoon seas when they come to town. Trouble is all their carnage stories are done by handwaving.
Dexter digs out a map of the island, ‘There,’ they point, then it’s back to universal surftalk with the hands and arms. How else can you describe a flat out streak of a ride without using your arms? These wok-wallahs know the faces on tour as well, all of them, and just a day after the power of money crosses their happy palms Rocky has pictures of everybody from Slater to ace Reynolds taped up behind the bar. Rocky is now the spotter.
Dexter slings Rocky a HK century everytime he sends one of them down the bar for coffee, or a bar hit. Maybe a game of backgammon, Dexter with his hat and eye-patch. Fucking pirate. Hasn’t surfed for thirty years.