‘I go’a do wot?’ asked Jack, frowning so concertedly
that the furrow in his brow was as deep and hard as Tony Hawkins’ butt.
‘Take out the trash’, I answered.
He looked back at me from under what he called his
‘Riviera look’, which was essentially a gelled up hairstyle that he used a hair dryer to achieve.
‘Dude, I can’t even lift it. Besides, it’s your job’ I
continued, ‘you know, work?’
The concept of hard work was lost on our slothful
friend who spent his nights DJ-ing and days sleeping before he decided to try
his hand at yachting. Up until now the crew had gone easy on the lad as he
transitioned into the life of working for his money, and he passed as much time
onboard as he could pretending to look busy and finding any excuse to go flirt
with Charlie. God, I could even hear them flirting in my sleep. I could even
hear them flirting in their sleep.
But now that Charlie had moved on and Mini Me had returned, he had lost his
will to live (onboard).
He ran his fingers through his hair, his gold Casio
catching the light.
‘Just take out the fucking trash and don’t forget to
put a bag back in’, I said walking out.
So as Kay and I had initially predicted, it was no
surprise when Jack handed in his notice after just three weeks. He spent the
rest of his time onboard counting down the hours and obsessively unlocking his
iPhone to look at his screensaver of a pair of tits, self-snapped and sent from a
dolly-bird back home. Good help is so hard to find.