So they closed down the factory I worked at with my Brother. Or at least let all the union people, like us, go. They bussed scabs through the barricade to keep the lines running until the liquidators realised there was nothing left to save. That took about a week. I stood in the picket line for a few days with my cardboard slogan, somewhere near the back. My sweaty co-workers bellowed the choruses of organised labour under a hot December sun. They always do these kind of things before Christmas. Companies aren’t run for families. I hoped no one in the movement would realise I didn’t really give a shit. They didn’t. Organisations don’t care about you.

I sat in a North Melbourne pub with one of the leading hands from the plant. He told me there was good money driving five kilo packs of meth in from Adelaide. He knew a guy.

‘Don’t look so shocked man’ he said. ‘I’m just trying to help you out.’

I drained my glass, left a red twenty on the bar, and walked out. Despite my life as an impending disaster I had made some promises. I didn’t always know myself, but I knew that wasn’t me.




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