Tuesday 200 — one hundred fifteen
This wasn’t Jess’ first phonebank rodeo.
What in Cher’s name is a Tuesday 200?
This wasn’t Jess’ first phonebank rodeo. Back in Manhattan, she’d been 1983's top Public Theater fundraiser.
Now, in a dingy Melbourne office, she asked strangers if they’d like to buy small ads in the Queensland Police Gazette. The White Pages dealt out numbers like Telecom Australia’s mission was supplying cold-call lists.
Clive, her boy-boss, adored her American accent. She adored his endless weed and bad boy Ozzie charm. Sure, red flags waved harder than a JFK tarmac crew, but she and her brother Kurt welcomed the extra cash. Cushion for the next leg of their world-wide adventure.
With Clive gone near Twelve Apostles, she found Kurt at a newsstand near Dogs Bar, their local.
“Look,” he said, holding up a paper, “the rag you’re flogging.”
“First sighting in the wild,” she replied. “Or anywhere.”
He pointed at the masthead. “The Queensland Police Force Gazette. Cool.”
“Yeah, not so sure,” Jess muttered, flagging the newsagent.
“Sorry, is there something like this, but called Queensland Police Gazette?”
“Never heard of it,” he said. “Been peddling papers for forty years.”
Jess laughed without humor. “Great.” She headed Kurt toward the Dogs.
“Methinks your sister’s a moll. We need outta Oz.”