What a Perfect Kebab Tastes Like Paul Mitchell (bio) Lipo's souva van was white with red, green, and blue lightbulbs flashing all round the window. It lured us in. And so did Lipo. Tall with black shiny hair, in a greased-up powder-blue coat, he stood next to his rotisserie cooking souvas, kebabs, hamburgers, chicken rolls, dimmies, chips; whatever hot stuff you wanted. Kebabs were the standout. He piled on the meat, but he didn't put so much garlic sauce on that the bottom of your paper bag got wet and all the lettuce fell through. We hassled Lipo because he didn't have a mo. What's a Lebbo doing without a mo? And then there was his name. When he first turned up and plonked his van in the empty carwash yard across the road from the plant, we saw "Lipo's Kebabs" in blue letters above the window and didn't know how to pronounce his name. I thought Lippo, as in lippy, as my missus called her lipstick. George Callan, expert on everything, he reckoned it was Leap-o, as in jumping around. One night on dinner break, which on night shift is three in the morning, I asked straight out. "Howdya say ya name, mate?" He gave me my change and smiled, which always looked a bit wrong with his one front tooth missing and his face always five o'clock shadow. "It is Lie-poh. What you think?" "Liepoh. Yeah, it's all right, mate. It's a name." "No, I mean, what you think it is?" "Oh, right, yeah ... I thought it was Lippo." Lipo laughed. "Toldja ya fucked up!" George was standing next to me, wallet open. "Lippo! My wife wear!" Lipo said. "They can't get enough of that shit," I said, opening my kebab bag. Smelled hearty. "My wife, she work at airline." I took a bite out of my kebab and talked back with a mouthful. "She a hostie?" "No, a cleaner. All tables." I swallowed chunks of lamb. Tasted so good it was probably illegal. [End Page 400] "Least she's doin' somethin'. My missus, after the boys started their apprenticeships, she just sits around all day. Workin' on the family tree." "Family important," Lipo said, handing a bag of dimmies to one of the kids from the production line. I told Lipo family were important, yep, but they could be expensive when they wanted video games and big-brand sneakers. ________ I'd been working at the plant twenty-four years when Lipo turned up. But you lose track of time. Feels like yesterday the boys were little enough to chuck in the air in the backyard on weekends. Now the three of them are out working, two of them old enough to drive, and only one still at home. They've got bloody dangerous cars if you ask me, with all that extra crap they put in the motors. They do the street drags and I should say something to them, but, Christ, they've gotta have a bit of fun. They all work bloody hard. I'm glad they didn't end up working at the plant. Two on the docks and no night-shift for any of them. Can be rough, nightshift, but I try not to complain. Anyway, I had nothing to complain about compared to Lipo. Christ, what a run he'd had. I could probably get another job, but, shit, Lipo parked near us as a last resort. I got to talking to him most nights. I'd never been much of a natterer, but Barb was a stick in the mud at home, family tree and not much else, so I suppose I was up for a yarn. I nicked off to Lipo's a bit before the tea break so there weren't too many other blokes around. I could have a good old chinwag. Lipo started giving me this Lebbo Greek sort of coffee, no charge. Tasted like engine oil but I had a go. "You like?" "It's good, mate," I said the first time I drank it, trying not to spit it out...
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