saved by Stacy Gougoulis
Danny Glover was forty years old when he muttered that he was “too old for this shit” – an affirmation for the afflicted of life experience.
It’s the same way that I feel as I wait for the train on another Saturday morning. I’m going to work.
I don’t work in hospitality, I don’t work in retail. No, I work in an office. A Monday to Friday, nine to five, paper shuffling specialist. Except for the three and a half years since the first lockdown, the Monday to Friday has consistently spilled into Saturday too. Forty-three of fifty-two available Saturdays last year.
When you’re a teenager, working the weekend is nothing. The work might be monotonous, but odds are you’re doing it with people who are becoming your friends. You’re all in this together.
When you’re forty, it is lonely.
I’ve left a family still sleeping in our home just to get here. They will live another day while I am gone.
Yet I also have company on these trips.
His name is Stacy Gougoulis and he’s been hosting Weekend Breakfast on triple j for at least as long as I’ve been doing this.
...
I’ve tried to explain Stacy to my friends in the past. It never quite lands.
Maybe you are reading this on your own solitary odyssey, in the right frame of mind to understand.
The way that Stacy brings light to his work. He starts his shift at six in the morning on a Saturday, backs it up on Sunday. There is no co-host for Stacy, no Hing to his Hobba. Stacy sets sail solo. He is ballast for the rest of us who might otherwise drift.
It feels safe. You would call it a bond if it weren’t for the one-way broadcast of radio. The connection is real but unrequited.
I had a confidence that needed to be exchanged. The train bore no takers, so I put it into my phone and out into the world via +61 439 75 7555.
Sixty seconds into the next song I received a message from an unknown number.
This is my personal phone. Your secret is safe with me – SG.
...
This Saturday I’m greeted with track work. The train has now become a bus, battling the rest of the traffic on the roads.
If going in to work on the weekend isn’t exciting (it’s not), the extra twenty minutes each way on the bus is a further let down.
It’s a week since I texted my secret to Stacy Gougoulis. I don’t usually tune in on a Sunday, but I had last weekend to make sure he was still there. I guess when you share a secret there's a terror involved. Have I done the right thing? What does the other person think of what they know? About me.
Begrudgingly boarding the bus, I plug in my headphones. I’m nervous when I open the app.
Deep breath.
Seventeen Going Under is being covered by Camp Cope. Seventeen doesn't feel all that long ago, even though the date says otherwise. I may still be going under. Coping is a veneer that is thinner by the day.
The song finishes and I hear Stacy is there in the studio. That breath can be released now. I can feel it in the back of my teeth, the veneer is buffeted at least another day by the sense of relief.
TrainLink will let you down. Stacy is ever reliable.
...
It’s Tuesday evening and I’m back at Dulwich Hill station. Thankfully this time it’s the return journey.
It takes an appreciation for a certain kind of Sydney beauty to treasure this place. The station’s nestled amongst a mix of those old brick apartments they built in the 1970s, and houses that no longer sell for a million dollars. They haven’t fallen, they just inexplicably start at two million(!) now.
There are some newer apartments too. There’s a bit of a renaissance on foot, they’ve brought new ground floor retail that can cure or create your ails as you please. A pharmacy, physio and a psychologist to put your body and mind right.
The Loose Dozen – I've wondered if it’s named for a selection of its products, or a selection of its frequent customers. You can drive through, or they’ll deliver the drinks to your door if you’re not quite up to it.
I feel the light buzz on my wrist that signals a new message.
Hey – I've been thinking about your message, and you. What's news today?
I wasn’t expecting to hear from Stacy again.
I guess I’d tempered my expectations. The first time I found myself depending on radio hosts to lift my spirits was the breakfast shift when I was only trudging to work on weekdays.
But then the duo came to an end. Alex was around lunch shifts for a cameo or two, then ended up running for Wannan in an election. Matt deserted the radio to pursue the oasis of writing and acting.
Still – this seems an invitation to knock about with what feels like an old friend, even though I know we're strangers. I never believed that you shouldn’t meet (text) your heroes.
Just got off the train. Fighting the battle between the good (walk straight home, have dinner and read a book) and the maybe better, maybe worse (stop in and buy some drinks first).
...
I’d ended up posing the question about what was behind the naming of The Loose Dozen to Stacy while I walked back to the train station the next morning.
I did stop in to pick up some drinks last night. It was the most relaxed and care-free dinner I’d had with my family in a long time. Maybe it was the wine, but I think it was also the buzz fizz of a new friendship.
When did it flip that most of our new friendships and relationships started with messaging? I remember when it was going out with a friend who brought along another friend you’d never met before, or you just started talking to somebody at a gig.
In person often came with rejection, but at least when the hammer fell it was quick. Messaging is all anticipation and fear. You can’t read if the other person really wants to keep going, or if they’re just trying not to be rude. You just wait for those bouncing dots.
Making a new friend takes mettle, nerves of steel, or just the willingness to fall flat on your face.
Snow White and the seven dwarves, but they went pro so needed to add roadies, a social media manager and an agent?
The thirteen dwarves from Lord of the Rings, minus one after a raucous night with the Hobbit?
I can’t tell you what part of my brain took me straight from dozen to dwarves, but here we are.
He replied, so I haven’t hit pavement with nose this time. Hooked on the thrill that my radio friend might become my real friend, I’m all in. I reply:
Oh god, you have to stop. I'm so far down this rabbit hole and if I don’t come up for air I’m going to be on the train crying with laughter. People will think I’m weird.
...
My heart had stopped.
Stacy Gougoulis is leaving Weekend Breakfasts. When I’d seen it announced, I felt a little lost, and maybe even a little betrayed.
I knew it was irrational, that I wasn’t being fair. Still – I messaged Stacy with a screen cap overlayed with no message other than exclamation and question marks.
Exciting news right? I can’t wait!
Before I knew it, I was back at the confessional. I spilt it all in my reply – the grieving for a ritual lost, the fear that I would never again have his show pick me up from the doldrums. Pavement, meet face.
Heavy!!!
Fear not, you need to read it all!
Eight and a half years of Weekend Breakfast is done.
Four afternoons a week on Double J Arvos is why!
There are no goodbyes here – it's hello at a different time.
I had to go and make it weird, didn’t I.
Even though the relief was palpable, I could still feel the metaphorical pavement on my face.
Another message came in:
One last weekend shift before I sign off for weekday hours.
Might skirt the rules a little on the way out. Think about it for a while and send me a song request. Tick, tick, tune may not be a fair contest this week.
I knew right away that there was only one song for my request, but I wanted to let it sit a while before replying.
...
Good Riddance (Time of Your Life). I sent it through late Friday.
I hadn’t felt nervous at all when I first confessed my secret to Stacy – on the station text line no less. It had seemed so disconnected from anything real.
Now I held dread. I anticipated the hurt if the promise of playing my request had been empty.
Saturday morning had come and gone, and now it was Sunday.
There had been tributes from a series of newsreaders. I'd heard them across the station, nearly all had started with Stacy.
I’ve already decided that I’m not going to message next week.
A few days of messaging have altered the way that I look at the world. The joy has spilt over and my loved ones have felt it too.
Maybe we will have a lasting friendship, but just what it has been already, is rich.
I’d momentarily forgotten the dread that I was holding onto, and was lost in my own head.
A stuttering acoustic riff and a faint expletive brought me back to the real world and the radio world.
Under the guise of one last Tick, tick, tune Stacy had played my request. 9.57am on Sunday 30 June 2024.
...
It started with a confidence shared.
I’m not going to tell you what it is, that’s between me and him.
Holding it on my own had caused a strain in my neck, and the distension was spreading to my relationships.
Stacy may not know it, but at the toughest time of my life, he helped me to roll with the punches.
Thank you.
Origins
Beth had to explain to her friends what a buyer’s agent was before she could even start on what she did for work. Following a boy to move into a Potts Point studio had seemed like a good idea until she found that he too, was flat broke.
With no qualifications other than having finished high school, job hunting had felt like trying to fish in the harbour with only a piece of string.
Applications to ads on SEEK for anything with the word junior in the description resulted in nothing more than radio silence and the depression of checking her spam folder six times a day.
There had been the briefest of stints in a call centre selling double decker bus tours to retirees travelling overseas for the first time. After the two day training (brainwashing) program and three weeks on the phone with only a single sale, she had been enticed to leave with the promise of a reference that would attribute her exit to changing business needs rather than her meagre sales performance.
Beth had dragged herself in to get a coffee after yet another interview that went nowhere. The job had been to sell training courses to desperate job seekers, or those who just wanted a course to satisfy their student visa requirements.
She knew she could barely afford the coffee but needed a moment to escape the traffic noise and the rain. The barista barely looked up as she ordered, and there was none of the flirty friendliness she might have been looking for as much as the caffeine that the coffee provided.
So it’s fair to say that Beth was not expecting a break in the clouds, but there it was. Posted on a small corkboard was an old-fashioned notice with the tabs you tear off the bottom.
HELP WANTED. NO EXPERIENCE REQUIRED. MUST BE ABLE TO USE A COMPUTER AND LEARN QUICKLY. IMMEDIATE START.
Beth grabbed a tab with the phone number to call Jasmine.
By the time the barista handed over her coffee she had decided to narrow the odds. With coffee in one hand, and the entire notice ripped from the board in the other, Beth made the phone call that would change everything.
...
Fast forward eighteen months and Beth is living the high life.
Well, kind of.
The main skill she has developed in this job is to be a dab hand at photoshop. So a casual browse of Beth’s Instagram feed suggests she is adorned with chic clothes and designer accessories. The truth is that it's all a fabrication, the trappings of wealth artificially dropped in to her photos while she killed time at the office.
A little bit of embellishment here and there has become part of the repertoire.
...
“What we do here is we help with buying investment properties, usually up north” is how Jasmine had explained it to her, at an interview booked all of two hours after she had walked out of that cafe.
She started working in the office the very next day.
Beth had watched Jasmine’s mobile sit on the desk during their interview. In the entire ninety minutes, there was barely a second where the phone wasn't lit up with somebody trying to call her, or the ding of a new voicemail notification. Calling it an interview might belie its informality. It was mostly Jasmine talking about what she needed to do for the rest of the day, punctuated by the most personal of enquiries about Beth’s life.
What wasn’t on the desk however, was a computer of any description. No laptop, no screen, not even a tablet. It was just the mobile, its charging cable, and a paper diary.
Beth started work on a Wednesday, for no other reason than it was the day after the Tuesday that Jasmine had interviewed her and told her she had the job as soon as she wanted it.
Jasmine intrigued Beth. When she had Jasmine’s attention it was undivided, and it was like there was nowhere else in the world to be. Just there, absorbing. It was this mild obsession with her new boss that had Beth alert and awake at five-thirty in the morning. She decided to use the burst of energy to start her day earlier than planned.
The previous day’s rain had cleared, so taking advantage of the bright weather let Beth walk to the office rather than catch the 311 bus. It didn’t take much longer to walk and it meant she wasn’t relying on a bus that might not come to be on time for her first day.
They had agreed on a nine-thirty start – Jasmine was “not a morning person.” Confirmation of this attribute came with Beth's wait at the office’s front door before Jasmine stepped out of the elevator and let her in, forty-five minutes after the agreed time.
Beth’s eyes wandered to the desk that served as a small and solitary barrier between the front door and Jasmine’s office. There was simply no other space in the office, so it was clear that was where she would work. The desk was completely bare, the drawers cleared out by anybody who may have occupied it previously.
“You’ll need to start with the tools of the trade. I’m useless with a computer, so I don’t have one. Your job is anything that needs doing on a computer.”
Which all sounded wonderful to the (previously) tragically unemployed Beth, as she swivelled her head left, right, up and down, seeking any signs that a computer may actually exist in the office.
While Beth remained perplexed, Jasmine had unlocked a drawer in her filing cabinet and produced a wad of plastic gift cards bearing the trademark yellow and black of JB Hi-Fi. They were all marked as being worth $250 each.
So it began, Beth’s first task as operator of the computer, was to source the computer.
“Get yourself a mobile phone for internet too. We don’t have an office connection and you never know when we’ll need to work on the go.”
...
Anything that needs doing on a computer so far had included:
Typing anything that Jasmine had dictated to be sent as an email
Taking scraps of paper supplied by Jasmine and entering them into templates for property purchase contracts
Writing fake negative reviews for competitors; and restaurants that Jasmine felt had wronged her
Jasmine’s internet banking to pay bills (Jasmine hovering what felt like milliimetres from the screen throughout)
Photoshopping property photos to replace an overcast sky with a sunny day, removing a scuff mark on a wall, and occasionally adding a window where none existed
A lot of personal browsing and social media for Beth
Beth hadn’t started with a lot of computer skills, but there was a ton of downtime between requests so she just used Google and Youtube tutorials to figure it out.
The first time that Beth was asked to replace a cloudy day with a bit of sunshine it took her three days until she was happy with it. Jasmine didn’t mind at all, she hadn’t asked for anything else in between, and was thrilled when Beth showed it to her. These days, Beth has a folder on her computer desktop, chock full of sunny skies ready to go. She has taken to snapping a shot of a bright blue day on her walk into the office.
The walk to work is the highlight of Beth’s day now. The boy and the Potts Point studio hadn’t lasted all that long after securing the new role. The job interview’s pointed questions about Beth’s personal life hadn’t stopped there, and if nothing else had intensified during the gaps in the working day with Jasmine.
They hadn’t exactly discussed remuneration in the interview, but Beth’s first pay was a welcome shock. The second pay had been even more surprising, because Beth had assumed when she received her first pay that it was how much she’d be paid every fortnight. It turns out it was that much every week. Jasmine had asked where Beth was living, who she was living with, and Jasmine’s disdain was palpable.
“I’m paying you enough that you don’t need to be weighed down by a cramped studio, or the starving artist type now living the high life by your good grace.” The disapproval made Beth’s cheeks sting. It wasn’t long before she moved into a new apartment in Darlinghurst. By herself.
So now her walk to the office took her through Hyde Park in the morning, with ample opportunities for a picturesque skyline. The photoshop work on the properties took her ten minutes now, rather than hours. Her (virtual) ability to re-model a property was worthy of The Block.
...
It was two weeks before her trip back home that Beth realised she had miscalculated. She hadn’t left Sydney since moving, but now she was going back home for a cousin’s wedding.
For close to two years now, Beth had been curating her Instagram feed. Curating was a nice way of saying lying of course. She did not own a single item of designer clothing, jewelry, or accessories – but this is not the impression she had cultivated. She would be home for five days and people she had been to school with, had expectations that her wardrobe would not meet. Comments suggesting these people envied Beth’s success were an irresistible hit of dopamine.
Between the ego boosts and the realisation that Jasmine’s requests for a little photoshop sprucing were growing grander in scale, Beth’s moral compass may have been a little off-piste.
She figured that she could solve her deficit of finery with a focused binge of retail therapy. It was time that her wardrobe was updated anyway. Amongst the various emails that Beth had typed on Jasmine’s dictation, every six or so weeks was a request to the bookkeeper to obtain and send a new bunch of gift cards to the office.
The types of cards always varied. There had been plenty of JB Hi-Fi cards like she had been handed that first day, as well as Officeworks, Dan Murphys, KMart and Google Play gift cards. Jasmine explained that she used them as gifts for clients who bought properties through her, and that it also helped her put a little bit of personal fun through the business for a tax deduction.
Beth had seen the bank balances while doing internet banking. She didn’t think that Jasmine would miss it, and she could pay it back later, it would just take her a few months. She knew she wouldn’t find what she needed at KMart, so even though it would be taking a risk, Beth had to request a card from the bookkeeper she hadn’t seen in the mix yet.
“K – can you send another twenty $250 cards as Westfield gift cards, have run through the last lot – J xx"
Beth’s heart skipped a beat as she hit send.
...
The cards arrived in the mail eight days later. Beth slipped the envelope into her bag on the way back from the post office.
Compulsive is the word you would use to describe her checking of the email to see if there had been a response from K. There had been nothing until the gift cards arrived, and Beth still had to find the time to shop before her trip home.
While there was nothing from K, one email had piqued Beth’s interest.
It had arrived while Jasmine was out for the morning – she had told Beth that she had a personal matter that required her presence. The email’s subject line read LETTER OF DEMAND, which sounded ominous.
Even though she knew that there was nobody else in the office, Beth’s movements of the mouse were slow, cautious, and she felt the hairs on the back of her neck standing. "Anything that needs doing on a computer” was clearly part of the job description, and Beth had been reading Jasmine’s emails on her behalf for over a year. Nevertheless, there was something about reading this email that felt not quite right.
Not quite right was, of course, a slope that Beth had long slipped down.
We are instructed by our clients in relation to funds of $320,000 provided to you in your capacity as the sole director of 22 Nudgee Road Hamilton Pty Ltd, in accordance with the Finance & Development Agreement executed between the parties.
Following independent due diligence on the status of the promised development, we have reason to believe that requests for investment progress payments were made on a fraudulent basis. We attach:
1. Photographic evidence of no construction activity on site, other than the erection of temporary fencing.
2. Forensic expert’s report alleging that progress photos provided to our client were electronically created and manipulated.
Our client wishes to resolve this dispute in an amicable and prompt fashion. We have been instructed to accept a return of the $320,000 provided, plus a sum of $20,000 to cover due diligence and legal expenses, as fair consideration for the premature termination of the Finance & Development Agreement. These funds are to be provided by bank cheque within thirty days.
In the absence of an agreed resolution, our client intends to contact Queensland Police.
The sound of the door closing is what drew Beth’s attention back to her physical surroundings. She could feel beads of sweat up and down her arms.
“You look like you’ve seen a ghost” remarked Jasmine. Beth knew by now that a remark often masked a question, and the more that Jasmine’s attention lingered, the more probing the questions became.
“My cousin just sent me a message – she's having second thoughts about the wedding.”
...
When Beth arrived home that evening, her first priority was a little bit of desktop research. She hadn’t been game to do it in the office with Jasmine present, even if her attention span was notoriously short.
The clicking of the mouse was the only sound to keep her company now. The satellite view on Google Maps showed an old Queenslander house at 22 Nudgee Road. A couple of old cars in the front yard, rusted tin roof, and an inflatable pool in the back, all gave the strong impression of cheap rent and a student sharehouse. The imagery was dated 2021 though, so Beth knew it wasn’t conclusive proof of anything today.
Street view painted a more recent picture. The old Queenslander had gone, and in its place was an empty lot with temporary fencing bearing the hoarding of Hobson Developments. It was a name that Beth recognised from the contracts that Jasmine had her prepare, and narrations on payments landing in the bank account.
If an observer had been watching, they may have noticed that Beth had gone from sipping a glass of wine to sooth her nerves, to a relieved swirl of the last drops.
Until she noticed the updated image capture date. This untouched site had been snapped only a month ago.
At the very same time the street view represented, Beth knew that Jasmine had her working on Photoshop renovations for the very same development. She was tasked with taking a photo of a near-finished lounge room, and increasing the dimensions of the window.
“Alex is planning to put in a larger window once the frames arrive, he doesn’t like the way these ones have turned out” had been the explicit instruction. That the slightly overcast day seen through the original window ought to be enhanced with a bright blue sky was implicit.
Beth opened a new tab on the browser, adding an extra flight to her holiday itinerary.
...
The combination of shock and creeping doubts had almost led Beth into a grave oversight. She woke early on Friday morning and realised that she still had the gift cards in her bag, with a flight to catch to Brisbane in the early afternoon.
Beth was relieved when Jasmine answered her phone at seven in the morning. Partly because she had been worried that she wouldn’t pick up at all, while also knowing that Jasmine was less likely at that hour to closely scrutinise her last-minute request to take the extra day’s leave. She seemed to buy the excuse that there had been an urgent family request to head home earlier to help with wedding preparations.
Given that little of Beth’s current wardrobe was suitable for the impression she desired to make back home, her packing had involved cramming toiletries and make-up into a suitcase, and calling an Uber.
She had been a store clerk’s dream when she arrived with a desire to shop, a deadline to leave, and a wallet full of gift cards. Decisions were made without delay or fitting room review, so long as the brand was upmarket and prominent.
It was all done by twelve-thirty, with a now-full suitcase placed into the Uber heading this time for the airport.
...
The week away had been a heady cocktail.
There was an intense thrill in the jealous stares and disbelieving comments from the people she had grown up around. Beth was noticed.
Waiting just on the periphery of that thrill however was abject terror.
Because before she had arrived home, for the wedding first, then dinner and drinks with the people she had known from school, there had been a moment of disbelief.
Beth had stood at that corner where there ought to be a near-complete apartment development. What should have been a boutique block of twelve remained simply a patch of grass. Not even the temporary fencing was there – replaced by a For Sale sign with photo of a grinning agent, and a headline of “Development Approval secured.”
She had waited until after the wedding was done to call the agent’s phone number. His veneer of politeness fell aside rapidly when she had explained she wasn’t in the market to buy, she was trying to find out about the development that was supposed to have occurred.
“Did you know that I’m keeping a count? You’re the twenty-third person to call me in the last five days, trying to dig up details on what happened with this supposed development. And it’s only approved for twelve apartments! I’ve been hired to sell the fucking block, nothing else.”
He texted her a link after he hung up. The precise detail of it escaped Beth, but she knew that “Notice of Appointment as Liquidator” had no good news for investors.
Beth had partied more than she was used to, in an effort to avoid connecting more dots. It had been futile though. She didn’t have the files with her, but she could recall enough of the contracts she had drafted, the photos she had edited, and the transactions in the bank account.
The knots in her stomach betrayed that the brain knew something was awry.
Despite the crushing sense that this was trouble. Two thoughts remained constant. She had to know what was going on – and...
...no amount of impending doom could take away that when Beth felt noticed, she had felt irredeemably scintillating.
...
So she had fronted up at the office on Monday morning. Jasmine was waiting, and thus began the monologue that would change her life.
“It appears that we need to talk.”
(Turns out it was possible for nerves to climb further from Beth’s stomach to her throat.)
There was to be no chance for anybody to sit down, or run. Jasmine had moved to position herself between Beth and the door.
“You're a smart girl, but you’re at best naive. At worst two steps behind where you should be.
K called me Friday morning. It took me a moment to realise I definitely hadn’t asked for $5,000 in Westfield vouchers, but then the gears started to turn. It may have been a few hours after you’d called me – shrewd work to get me while the brain fog was heavy, by the way – but I knew nobody would be open before at least ten.”
Hearing it was like listening to a true crime podcast. Jasmine had arranged for somebody to find her at Westfield, and tail her from there to the airport. They had watched her board a flight to Brisbane.
“I know by now that you’ve pieced together at least part of what goes on here. It’s not exactly above board.
That also means I keep a wide network of contacts. It’s a ninety minute flight to Brisbane, and that’s before you’ve had to wait to pick up your luggage. I could have organised it with my phone and thirty minutes, so you even left me with time to get coffee.
No need to fix up the weather on these ones.”
Jasmine laid out photos that showed her getting into a taxi at Brisbane Airport, from across the street at 22 Nudgee Road, and again of her boarding the onward flight that evening for her actual visit home.
“There are some obvious risks for me here, but I’ve also had a week to plan the ways that I could bury you.
Do you remember your first day with me? Did you think it was an accident that every contract that was sent, was done on a laptop that you bought with gift cards, connected to the internet with a mobile phone you signed up to in your own name?
I didn't plan this part – but you really helped it along with your shopping spree at my expense. You’d be surprised how willingly those stores will send my colleague the video footage when they’re told it’s part of a fraud investigation.
I know you've got some picture of what this is now. What you don’t know is how successful it is, and how deep it goes. It’s more than just me.”
Beth tried desperately to read Jasmine’s expression. It was made difficult by the sense that she was looking down on the whole situation from above. She could see her desk, adorned with the laptop that had caused so much damage. She could also see out of the corner of her eye that in Jasmine’s office, the filing cabinet and drawers were cleared out into a single moving box.
She expected to see fury in Jasmine’s eyes. Beth had seen it before – Jasmine was not slow to anger, but Beth had never felt that harsh glare directly. That was not what she could see, it was something else. Beth was jolted back as Jasmine started again.
“So there’s no use in running. But maybe you knew that already, because the one thing I didn’t expect is that you would turn up here today.
I like you Beth, and you have the skills to do this well.”
Jasmine kept talking. Beth had stopped hearing the exact words that were being said. But the body knew. It was the same electric feeling that came from turning heads at the wedding. The glisten she had seen looking back through the mirror when she dressed herself in deceptively-obtained glamour. It felt scintillating.
Beth crashed back into the present on Jasmine’s final words, before a drawn out pause.
"So what do you think, partners in crime?”