Free The Big Whatever by Peter Doyle Page B

they used to call a ‘nervous breakdown.’ Despite the electric jolts and the two-week stretches of sleepy time, I could still recall some non -drug-induced trippy sequences, not pleasant ones, and the acid sometimes brought those back too.
    Given all that, I could see the day coming when I would drop out of the performance side of Oracle, whether it was my own doing or Bobby’s. So I did my homework, practised my scales, brushed up on technique. I hung out at the St Kilda flat, working up songs, recording demo tracks on my tape recorder.
    I still did the occasional gig with those marooned-in-timeold bodgies the Rods, who played well, no denying it, and I also did a few dates with my jazz-fusion pals. There was always a bit of work there, generally paid union scale. Some of it loose and creative, a lot of it by the numbers. Weddings. Supper clubs. Private functions. You noodle away in the background, play pop songs. Do a bossa nova when the suburbanites want to cut loose on the floor. The Hammond was a work ticket.
    But dig, other pursuits were occupying your artistically inclined correspondent. Denise’s parents presented her with a new typewriter, so she gave me her old Olympia portable. Surprise you though it may, little ones, I’m no stranger to the ways of the scribbler. I even wrote a book once, years ago (long story, never mind). But now, with a typewriter sitting on the kitchen table, I was tempted once again to wax verbal. And holy shit, my young questers, I knew I had a story to tell, full of funkfulness and revelation and angelheaded whatnots. And guns of course, those staples of the storyteller’s art. But such jottings would be incriminating in the extreme, and I decided I could bide my time on that front.
    But I could sense the big wheel was still turning, and who the fuck knew where or when it would come to rest? Not me, young seekers. So I tapped away at the Olympia, bits of song lyrics and such, and kept the big story in my mind, waiting for the right time to tell it.
    RIPPING
    So there I was at home, listening back to a two-track I’d recorded that morning, when there came upon my door a loud, rapid banging. When I opened up, Stan, Denise and Jimmy the Thug stormed in, laughing and stumbling like ecstatic fools, carrying armloads of stuff: silk blouses, dresses, men’s suits, jackets. A 35mm camera, a pair of binoculars. Denise was beside herself. Even the Thug was chatty.
    â€œThe five finger discount, mate,” he said, to my raisedeyebrow enquiry.
    I shook my head and muttered, “High risk.”
    Stan looked at me, reached into his pocket and thumped a handful of jewellery down on the table. A gold chain, a pair of silver earrings, a brooch.
    Denise, flushed and grinning, said, “These boys are the champions!”
    Stan looked me in the eye. “Mel. A favour, mate. We need to leave this here for a couple of hours.”
    I shook my head.
    â€œGive you ten percent,” said the Thug.
    I said nothing, but the stuff stayed there for two days.
    Thereafter the three of them regularly used the flat to store swag.
    I didn’t want any part of the actual shoplifting – I knew I wasn’t cut out for it, had found out years before. Yeah, and I’m no good at poker either – what Mel feels, Mel expresses. But early in the piece – just once, at Denise’s enthusiastic insistence – I tagged along to observe her and Stan and Jimmy in action.
    As arranged, I got to Myer’s before them. I was well-dressed, making like an independent shopper. I pottered around, picking up this and that, checking out socks and ties and whatnot.
    A little while later Stan and Denise sauntered in. Playing a couple of straights, chatting, giggling, like they were planning their wedding. Denise was dressed smart and voluptuous, like a Toorak heiress. Jimmy came in a few minutes later, looking like maybe a respectable bachelor. Stan and Denise glided about