We smashed it, broke a world record.
Pete was an old hippy, his shoulder length hair in ponytail. He didn’t quite look as alluring as the blonde Brazilian, who also had her hair in a ponytail.
But I didn’t need to tell him that.
Nor did I need to tell him to stop gawking at her pink hot pants, that were hugging her amazing youthful contours.
Did they give a bonus for breaking the world record, I asked Pete.
No, they didn’t.
I said it was just a way to make you work harder.
Then I asked him who was timing the load out. Exactly, he wasn’t sure. And what time did they start the stopwatch?
Was it at the end of the last song?
Or was it when security said it was time to get on stage?
Pete didn’t know.
I said the same thing happened in Perth, where I worked.
We were always told we smashed the national record.
I said it was a piece of shit we were fed to make us work harder.
At least if you get an injury in the Vietnam war, they give you a purple heart.
But for breaking the world record, did you get a badge, or a shirt, or even a cash gift?
No, he didn’t.
I just smashed his illusion.
I walked away. I could hear Pete talking to someone else.
Did you hear what that burnt out junkie had just said?
Of course, he did. I said it loud enough for anyone within ear shot to hear.
When you are right, you are right.
Now if you want to talk about bonuses, consider these Brazilian English student’s your bonus.
Pineapple, our crew boss, knew that. He was responsible for hiring them.
‘Helps with morale,’ he told me.
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