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his story has to begin with fish and chips, because right from the beginning it’s all I’d ever known. My parents own and still reside in a quaint shop that’s renowned and prized for the best fish and chips in town. This was a major achievement and we had all suffered for our success. Growing up I was hassled by people calling my parents delightful names such as ‘Fish Scums’, ‘Fryers’ and ‘Shark Meat’. I was known as ‘Mini Squid’, but no matter how cruel the kids were they could never take away the pride that I had for my parents and that little shop.
Mum and Dad may not have been the smartest, prettiest or best smelling people in town but they did know how to make the perfect fish and chips. Frying is an art, you see, where everything has to be cooked to crispy perfection. It’s hard to stay on top, let alone get by in the fast- paced fast food industry. Then again fast food is not a label that my parents liked very much; they liked to think their product was more your gourmet type. As for health, well, way before McDonalds was offering ‘healthy options’ my parents were selling salads and pasta at their shop. In their eyes they have been both revolutionary and evolutionary.
It was always presumed that I too would one day become a Top Chipper and take over the business. Not that I’d actually decided this fate; it was simply my parents’ plan for me and I had never questioned it.
My brother on the other hand had been far too smart to fry fish in oil. He had ideas of frying bigger fish elsewhere, say in the middle of Australia. He left the small smoke to join the big smoke, i.e. a mining firm, working as an engineer. He calls and sends us postcards letting us know how much he loves what he’s doing and how much money he’s making doing it. Just recently he bought himself a convertible; he sent us pictures of it and all. I must say, though, I think he would look bloody ridiculous driving a shiny red convertible in the middle of what looks like Uluru.
It was a given that he would go places, it was common family knowledge that he would be the token ‘do it all’ child, the star of the family if you will. I remember we would sit in the sand-pit in the back yard as children and I would be making an intricate sandcastle with all the trimmings and creativity of a child prodigy.
Then my bully brother would ride in on his orange Tonka truck and demolish my hard work, leaving me in tears while he received pats on the back and cheers from my parents for his participation. He was over-encouraged; he was clapped for picking his nose, for god’s sake.
It’s like my whole life I’ve always just been there, somewhere floating around unnoticed, blending in with the beige of the world. And right there was my dilemma. I always thought that I would have to work in the fish and chip shop. You know, help Mum and Dad run the place so eventually they could have some time off. However, I found myself growing tired of greasy skin, lank hair and the monotonous task of dipping fish in oil. I had worked in the shop for years and figured my life’s timeline was pretty much already written and set – UNTIL THAT LIFE-CHANGING DAY.
It was a Tuesday and we were prepping for the lunch rush. The shop was conveniently located near some small corporate offices – and if you think business people watch their weight then you’re wrong. Unless of course they opt for salads and the grilled fish, but mostly our $5.00 lunchtime fish and chip special won out every time. They would ring up at 11 a.m., obviously big breakfast eaters! Then at 12.00 like good little students they would line up in orderly fashion and collect their lunch. They were nice enough but my dad really has a problem with the White Collar workers as he calls them. I mean Mum and Dad own the business but they do not see themselves as suit and tie workers like our lunch crowd. We had our regulars that I used to make idle chitchat with; I was always a little envious of what they represented. The girls wore lovely skirts and blouses and had manicured hair and nails. And the shoes! I probably couldn’t walk in them to save myself whereas they could run blindfolded in an egg and spoon race. I just liked how perfect they seemed. It was a bleak comparison to me in a blue polo shirt, pants, sneakers and hair that seemed to absorb the shop’s grease. Plus the nails – well theirs and mine wouldn’t be classified as the same body part.
“Jane, what are you staring at, you can’t have nails like that, it’s not practical. Why, nails like that can be weapons and workplace disasters.”
Mum was a loving lady with the very best of intentions but I didn’t know whether I wanted to be wearing a polo shirt and sneakers all day for the rest of my life. I noted how the manicured girls would look at me or rather stare right through me. One girl asked my name once and I was ashamed to say it. To even utter that one word that had labelled me since birth was too insignificant and ordinary for people of their corporate calibre.
“Jane, my name is Jane,” I whispered.
‘This is Andrea, and my name’s Devinia. I am addicted to your potato salad, it’s the best,” Devinia cooed.
“Ändrea, we so totally have to go to the gym this afternoon, I’m beginning to feel my arse when I sit down.”
Even their names were classy and upmarket. I bet they were thinking my name suited me, or more appropriately Plain Jane. Plain Jane had stuck with me all my life, like bubblegum to the bottom of a shoe. But it wasn’t until now, standing beside these girls, that I really felt ordinary. These girls had left school when I had and they’d probably chosen their path while I was destined to take my place here, next to the potato salad.
“I’ll have two serves of the lunch special please,” said the lady in the red blouse laughing and signalling the joke to some yuppie guy dressed in shirt and tie in the far corner of the shop.
“OK, sure, coming right up,” I said, taking her money and turning to walk to the cash register. As I made my way back I could hear laughter and see the object of it bent over hard at work. Yes, Dad’s crack was earning the usual lunch special jokes and giggles. At least his sea tackle wasn’t on show today – thank God. I was walking subtly over to my dad to tell him to cover up when I caught a glimpse of my reflection in the stainless steel bowl. I was wearing a fish suit, I had whiskers (what sort of fish has whiskers – a catfish? a blowfish?) I had finally, officially turned into my product. People were laughing at me and all I stood for.
I had known it for a while but now I was really beginning to feel different about this shop. It was trapping me and I wanted to go and do something else. These corporate types always seemed happy and maybe that professionalism filtered into other parts of their lives like tree roots under concrete. Little did I realize my thought process was beginning to turn the axis of my universe. It had begun, and soon gravity would pull me down to an abrupt realisation.
At work the next day, I was doing the usual simple tasks I had done numerous times over. I walked to the fridge to prep the day’s fish for the fryer and as I opened the door, a big hunk of frozen fish fell right onto my bloody foot. “YOUCH!” I shrilled. The intense burning, aching pain in my foot was completely surpassed by the enormous feeling of relief as I hit the ground crying; finally I had my ticket out. Do you ever believe in those moments in your life that change your direction forever? Well this one did. Mum and Dad sent me home to take the weight off my foot. It also gave me a chance to weigh up my options. That fateful piece of fish had given me the chance to sit at home and reassess where I was headed. It hit me like a hammerhead. It was time to try it, to see what all the fuss was about. Me, little old Plain Jane. I wanted to buy a blouse and a skirt and pointy triangular uncomfortable shoes and let everybody see me and respect me. Very superficial, I know, and yes, clothes don’t make the person, but even if it was just an experiment for me, it could give me the peace of mind I needed.
Mum and Dad took it hard when I broke the news of my epiphany with the frozen fish. They were worried about my proposed launch into the world of two-legged sharks and dangerously high egos, but they were encouraging. They thought I would come running back, with blisters and a broken heart, no confidence and square eyes from the computers. But this wasn’t about them and what they thought. I was about to jump feet first into the deep blue and for once fend for myself.
OK, so how was I actually going to do this? Get out of the frying pan and into the high flyer? Wanting it wasn’t going to be as easy as strapping on a parachute and jumping off the tallest skyscraper with a new laptop and Gucci heels. Everybody knows that you have to start from the bottom and work your way to the top. Unless of course you’re on top of a top executive, and this week wasn’t the best week for me in that department. Apart from a face full of pimples, I had the hormone levels of a pregnant rogue she-whale who’s just missed dinner. So along with feeling low levels of attractiveness and self-esteem, I needed to make the executive decision to jump to plan B.
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