Resurrection

Chapter 3 : The Rabbit's Foot

From the outset, the place would look nice to the untrained eye. Part of a chain of revamped pubs; the Rabbit's Foot was the perfect blend of the aesthetic for the rich and pretentious to salivate over, as they yearned for the mason's equivalent of a mistress they could escape to and feel up the folds of its silken negligee like a fumbling guffawing mid-life virgin.

The pub was a recently renovated quasi ancient two storey building that sat upon the seasonally old green field that was once used for training horses. The outside areas offered a vast network of oak timber tables that guests regularly used to sit in the sun and slowly get inebriated through a sordid mixture of margaritas and g and t's while contemplating how to waste their money in a dwindling global financial crisis. The irony of this juxtaposition was not wasted on me as I watched them throw down drinks and inhibitions, watching cougars attempt to stalk young male gaolbait in the open wild. Each one was hoping for a midnight cowboy in favour of a salivating Kim Cattrall wannabe.

The elm trees that covered part of the yard provided a perfect shade cover and the ideal spot for men and dogs alike to cock one leg and relieve themselves on a Saturday night.

Flashes of murderous mayhem penetrated my psyche as I imagined cutting open a bunch of the desperately pathetic patrons, each vertical and horizontal slash laid heavily on my mind and I tried to force the image back into the recesses of memory purgatory, but it was hard. A sharp migraine  jolted my mind back into reality as the image of the bloodied chiv faded like a cheap film dissolve.

I threw on a shirt and tie and started setting up the bar. Metal benches over timber shelves; the bar was home to a wide selection of boutique beers; as I started indoctrinating the work gospel that formed part of our spiel. The wine list provided a vast range of slightly pretentious yet highly digestible beverages, boasting a bourgeois' collection of Italian, French and Spanish wines that were bought cheaper in England than the lands they hailed from.

The kitchen staff had already started their prep work, as the IDock pumped out a playlist for the apprentice pill-poppers while routinely chopping up vegetables and prepping industrial ovens. A new phase of Euro trash and some industrial German techno set an out-of-sync rhythm that swayed them to their monotonous preparation. The Sous chef was the busiest: Setting up roasts, delegating stock rotations to the Kitchen Porter and arguing about the specials with Manager. He still managed time to break away and make fun of me and my mother, letting that harsh northern accent of his conjugate the punch-line, letting his vernacular crawl out over his buck teeth.

"Adam, how err yer, yer reet fooker?" he asked.

Was that English?

"I'm good", I replied hesitantly.

He gets to his point, adding: "Yer ma was good too, worth the pound oy paid her."

The old: Your ma's a prostitute joke again. Never gets old.

"Yeah fuckoff and I love you too." I joked.

"Oi, she said that ers well." He replied.

I couldn't help but remark: "You know Kojak; you should really come with subtitles."

It was true: Wayne's accent was even thicker than the Pikey I had encountered earlier. I had the guile to call him Scottish once, only to be reminded that he was a Yorkshireman, not a Scotsman. According to the locals there was a huge difference, and not a mistake I should be making in the near future. Wayne would sit about halfway on the freak-show band-width that represented the staff of the 'The Rabbit's Foot.' His humour delicately masked the receding hairline and the widow's peak which barely lingered on to his scalp.