Raised on Robbery
Nash is in the passenger seat of Dad’s truck – the old, blue Holden HQ ute, his ‘work’ truck – parked at pump number seven. It’s 11.42 pm and Nash is playing a game on his phone. His eyes sting and he wishes he was in bed already. He looks out through the hot-breath-fogged side window towards the shop, but his view is blocked by the petrol bowser. He leans forward to peek around it and sees Dad at the drinks fridge – black hood up, the bill of his ‘lucky’ Eels cap poking out, bandana over his face. Nash knows right away that something’s about to go down.
The service-station attendant, an old guy with a big nose and a red cap, sits on a stool at the cash register on the far right of the store. The attendant looks on as Dad moves quickly towards the counter, up an aisle between two rows of shelves.
Nash ducks down, eyes peering, crocodile-style, through the trickles of condensation racing each other down the gl ass, watching events unfold through the widescreen of the petrol-station shop window.
Six months ago, Dad had promised Nash he would stop committing crimes. As far as Nash knew, Dad had kept his word. But in the past week, Nash could tell Dad was on edge about something. He has two strikes to his name from a year ago – one for break and enter, one for stealing tools from a worksite. They were the only ones he was charged for. The judge said one more conviction and he’ll go to jail.