DAY FIVE

We really didn’t have too much time.  All we could do, really, was get up, pack our belongings and get to the Airport.  Virgin Blue is what they call a ticketless airline, so it’s pretty easy to check in.

Pete had a nice conversation with the woman at the ticket counter.  She was attractive and after she saw Pete’s military ID card, she told us the story of how her sister got married to an American in the Air Force.  She seemed to warm slightly to Pete’s modern-day Pirate style.

“That’s the problem,” Pete lamented.  “Why is it that I never seem to meet anyone like that in town or in the bars?”

“I don’t know.  It never seems to work out, does it?”  My mind was circling, though it seemed unable to touch the peripheral character storage portion of my memory to definitively verify his assertion, though I knew it to be true.  An hour later, while sitting next to Pete and an old dude, I saw a gorgeous dirty blonde sitting by herself in the row in front of us.  I continued the thought, “And this is what I mean about never working out.  How different would this flight be if we were sitting next to her?”

The flight attendants began their pre-flight spiel, “Good morning and welcome aboard VB Flight 145 from Sydney to the Gold Coast.  In the front and to the back, you’ll notice the emergency exits clearly marked.  Your flight attendants today are Brandy, Candy, Mandy and I’m Sandy.”

There were laughs from the cabin, and I whispered to Pete, “And I’m randy.”  I told him later it would have been the perfect time for me to shout that same line for all to hear so I could share in the glory of the live-action laugh track.  I missed my window of opportunity for this joke, though.  An hour and fifteen minutes later, we landed in the Gold Coast.

I could tell Pete was a bit worried.  “Well, now what?  Should we get some maps?  Where are we even going?”

“Let’s ask a cab driver,” I said flatly.

“What?”

“Yeah, he’ll know where to take us.”  No one has the level of general knowledge of an entire city or area, and no single person is as much a treasure trove as your average cabbie.

Pete pulled some money from an ATM and we stood in line for a taxicab.  We got one and sat inside.  “Where you guys going?”

“Well, actually, I was hoping you could tell us.  Here’s what I’m looking for:  Plenty of bars, plenty of women, nice location and not outrageously expensive.”

“Surfer’s, then.”

“Heard of it.  What’s it like?”  Name sounded funny to me…still does, kind of…probably due to the endless Point Break references and jokes that one can derive from it.

“Surfer’s Paradise is a fantastic place.  Lots of good bars and little clubs.”  He then gave us a list of the good area hotspots.  Though we never actively sought out any of them, we ended up going to about 75% of them anyway, so his advice was stellar.  “Well, this is the heart of Surfer’s,” he said, dropping us in front of the Holiday Inn.  “This shouldn’t be more than $200 per night.”  Right on budget.  That is what I expected to pay, though.  We tipped the cabbie well for his help and went into the hotel in the middle of paradise.

We went to reception and booked four nights, after we found out it was only a hundred and thirty-five Australian dollars per night.  “Do you realize,” I asked, turning to Murphy, “that our tickets just paid for themselves with what we’re saving in comparison to Sydney’s hotels?”

The two straightest, pimpest Gs in Surfer’s Paradise went up to room 816.  Our room was beautiful.  The tub was small, but we had a huge room, nice queen-sized beds, a well-stocked mini-bar and an expansive balcony with an amazing view of the city.

“I’m taking a shower,” I told Pete.

Minutes later, I emerged, cleaner, to find Pete sitting on our porch.  “You know,” Pete decided, finally convinced, “this was a really, really good idea.”

I laughed.  “Why do you say that?”

“Dude, just looking out on the street, I’ve seen…there are…beautiful women everywhere.  Just looking at the ratio here, we’re doing much, much better.”  Pete went to take his shower and I started to read The House of M to kill time before our new nightly adventures began.

When Pete came out, he had an epiphany.  “Dude, I’m going to go with this new experience.  I’m trying out all sorts of things I never would have before, like just spontaneously choosing a hotel.  So, I’m adopting a mantra for my time here, too.  Here it is: What Would Charles Bronson Do?  Whatever he would do, I’m going to do.”

“Damn.  That’s awesome.  I need one, too.  Hmm.  How about: What Would Magneto Do?”  I’ve since applied the axiom to my entire life.
“Sounds like a plan to me.  Speaking of, do you want to start at the hotel bar here, too?”  Pete asked.

“Well,” I said, looking up from Magneto’s New World as reflected by small caricatures, “It is kind of our tradition, now.  Probably not a bad idea to stick with our signature moves.”  In truth, it was one of the best decisions we made on the trip.

We went to the hotel bar, Sirocco, a posh establishment that opened less than a week prior to commemorate our arrival.

At first, we couldn’t get served.  “What the hell?”  Pete asked, referring to the blonde guy with the over-gelled hair.  “Why doesn’t he ask us what we want?”

“It’s not like we’re out of sight, either.  We’re sitting right here at the bar.  What a douche.”

“Spiky-haired douche!”

I laughed.  “Spiky-haired idiot douche.  SHID.  That’s his name from now on: SHID.”

Suddenly, a middle-aged man appeared.  “What will you boys have?”  His nametag read Pieter.

“Stoli and Cranberry, I think,” I said.  “So…what are the good places to go around town?”

“Depends on what you’re looking for,” he wisely responded.

“We’re looking for a nice, cool, laid-back bar,” I said.  “Not blasting music, but not dead, either.”

“Well,” the other Pieter said, “All you really need to do is walk out here to the right and go down the road.  There are bars everywhere.  You may like Melba’s, but it does get a little loud.”  This was the second time I heard about the place, considering the cab driver mentioned it, as well, so I took note of the name.

Pieter left to fill our drink orders and a young woman came to fill someone else’s.  She was blonde and had that good girl quality about her that made you think, Now this is a girl my family would approve of.  Usually, though, that’s not a great sign, but she was so damn cute.  And she also had this devilish aspect to her that made me think she’d rock the sack pretty hard, as well.

“What’s your name?”  I asked.

“Jo,” she kind of giggled.

“Jo…what’s that short for?  Jo Lee, Jo Ann…”

“Jo Ann, yeah!” she let out a little laugh again.

“Nice to meet you, Jo.  I’m Seth.  This is Pete.”

“Hey,” Pete nodded.

“Hi, guys,” she smiled and departed with her drinks.

We, too, left shortly after that in pursuit of a good watering hole.  At the street corner, the light turned green and Mouser squeaked, letting loose his trademark rat-a-tat-tat-tat-tat-tat-tat defense against vehicular homicide.

“Holy shit!”  Pete exclaimed.  “Mouser’s here, too!”

“Nice to see an old friend.”

We walked south down the street and soon passed a bar called the Beach House.  We almost passed it when I grabbed Murphy and suggested, “Let’s check this place out.  It doesn’t look too busy, but we can at least have a beer.”  Almost as soon as I walked in, it became my favorite bar in Australia Good music, fine service and great beer.  We sat at the bar and marveled at the waitress staffing.

“Look at this shit,” Pete noted in a low voice.  “All of these chicks have South Beach bodies.  Makes you realize how fat girls in the US really are.”
“True.  Should have called this place the South Beach House.”

“Hey, guys!”  the most beautiful of them all announced.  “What will you have?”

“A couple of XXXX Golds,” Pete said.

“Schooners or pints?”

“Whichever is bigger,” I added to the order.  “What’s your name?”

“Eliza,” she said, showing her perfect, white teeth.”

“Eliza.  That necklace is awesome,” I complimented, pointing to the multiple brass-colored discs on her ample chest.  It gave me a reason to stare at that glorious cleavage.  “What is that?  Copper?”

“Thanks, I love this necklace.  It’s not metal.  You know what this is?”  I shook my head from side to side.  “These are seashells.”
“Really?”  I asked, fingering them.  “I never would have guessed that…”

“All my necklaces are seashell,” she confided, handing us our beer.  We paid and then she asked, “Are you American?”

“Yeah,” Pete told her.

“Do you know how I knew?”  she asked.

“Our accents?”  he guessed.

“Nope, she said, letting the mystery dangle for a second.  “You tipped me.  Only Americans tip.  Australians…” she made a puffing noise and lipped her hand through the air as if brushing away an annoying fly.  She left to wait on another customer.

“That’s amazing,” Pete told me.  “A woman who looks like that in the states would have set down your beer and would have been a total bitch.”

“Much less actually appreciate a tip as opposed to believing it was owed to her,” I observed.  Amazingly enough, all the other women looked almost as good, but this was our first night and we had to explore.  After a few more conversations with Eliza and another beer, it was time to move on.  However, we did take note that Karaoke was playing at the Beach House every Monday.

“Damn,” Pete complained, as we stepped outside.  “We missed that by a day.  Now, we’d have to wait a week for a chance to sing and totally own that place.”

“I know, but at least we’ll be able to do it, if we want.  Look…there’s an Irish pub about a block and a half up the road.”

“Maybe this one won’t suck like the one named after me.”  We went inside and sat down at the bar.  Some hot redhead gave us our beer and I complimented her hair.  She smiled, but was far too obsessed with the toolbag slaughtering American songs at the jukebox to really notice me.  Pete and I went outside to smoke.  On the patio, I saw a dude with a shirt that said, “Bend It Like Beckham”.  Beneath the quote was a picture of a stickman banging a stickchick doggie-style.  I laughed my ass off thinking of Posh Spice taking it while Pete complimented the tee.

“I like yours, too, mate!”  the Aussie said, referencing Murphy’s classic GI Joe logo top.  We struck up a conversation and found out he was part of a larger group consisting of two New Zealanders, a Frenchman and two other Australians.  They invited us to join their party, and although we made a feeble attempt to deny them, we couldn’t really say no to such a motley crew.  Plus, I figured we’d go enough places to learn our way around town.

Which was true.  We left the Irish Pub and went to a place called The Beer Garden.  I started talking to the Frenchman, “So, do you guys really hate Americans?”

“Ah, no, I love zee Americans!  I love everyone!  I love the American pussy!  I eat it and then I…” If you are anywhere as uncomfortable as I was by this point, than you’d probably be even moreso when hearing the remainder of his illicit and sometimes disgusting details of the Frenchman’s rather graphic fantasy fuck.  However, I found I preferred the horny frog as opposed to some fascist socialist bastard I’d expected to encounter.  So, he was all right in my book.  I went to the bar for another beer and saw an attractive Goth woman.  She poured my beer and came around to my side of the bar to smoke.  We talked briefly, but I began to worry about my sidekick.

I couldn’t find him, so I went outside on the patio.  He was sitting with a guy and a gal I didn’t know, so he introduced them as, “Kim and James!  This is my buddy, Seth.”

“Nice to meet you,” I offered, in conjunction with my handshake.

“Would you like to see a magic trick?” James asked.

“Uh…okay,” I thought.  A bit out of place, this strange introduction, but I went with it.  He took of Kim’s top, exposing the curves of the fantastic ridgeline of her chest.  Baby Zombie, tattooed breasts.  James took the cigarette from his mouth, put it out on her top and then rolled it up.  He then pulled the overshirt taut to reveal…nothing.  No burn, no butt, nothing.  He set the top down and opened his hands, showing the cigarette had disappeared.

“Very nice!”  I applauded.  At that point, Beckham came out and told us it was time to move on, so we invited Kim and James to join us.

We walked down the street and ended up at an outdoor bar.  I sat across from one of the New Zealanders and he began to ask me what I thought of the war.  “Well, it’s not like what the news tells you.  They, naturally talk about all the crap and none of the good.  Generally, it’s not nearly as bad as they say.  Rarely, it is.”

“Yeah, but how can you justify going against the United Nations to invade?”

I knew it was just a debate and he didn’t really want to learn anything, just attempt to convert me, so I went the other way with it, sticking with truth, but adding offensiveness.  “Ah, so what?  The UN is an archaic institution designed to prevent the Cold War.  Mission Accomplished!   The only reason the UN didn’t back it was because each one of the vetoers were found to have backdoor deals in violation of the UN sanctions themselves.  Whether it was the Oil for Food scandal that went all the way to Kofi’s kid, the French trading off rockets Iraq was never supposed to have or the Russians giving out night vision goggles to help kill Americans, the ones opposed were not necessarily on our side, anyway.  I could give a fuck about those guys.  Big deal.”

“It is a big deal!”  he shouted.  “It sets a precedent for blah blah-blahing…” He went on to espouse opinion and conjecture, never dealing with statistics and facts.  When I provided numbers for him, he accused me of being brainwashed.  Brainwashed by reality, maybe.

“Well, I guess we’ll have to agree to disagree,” I conceded, offering my hand as an olive branch.

He stood up yelling, “No way!  I’m not shaking hands with some brainwashed imperialist!”

I laughed and took another drink from my beer.  Be the bigger man and all that complete horseshit.  Really, he was just so far beneath me, I couldn’t care less.

“Don’t worry about him.  He’s crazy,” Beckham comforted.

“I’m not worried, trust me,” I assured.  “He warrants not even a second thought.”

I’ve always heard Australian men are kind of assholes to women, but I never saw it in action until Beckham yelled at one hot passerby, “Hey, come over here, gorgeous!  Hey, nice ass!  Come on, bitch, come here!!”  It was an interesting approach I wouldn’t have thought of and never would have employed.

After one beer, the group moved once again to a loud-ass club down the street called Shooters.  It was filled with a Bachelorette party dressed as angels or devils…I assume it was some dress-code for who was friends of the groom and who was with the bride.  I found Pete, Kim and James in the back of the club and we all hung out there, due to the relative quiet sanctuary it offered.

Pete, after about half an hour, told me, “I’m going to do a walkabout.  See what our prospects are, here.”

“Okay,” I said.  I talked to Kim for a while.  She was difficult to read, which was probably the result of being difficult to hear.  On one hand, I thought she was interested, but on the other, she was with James.  Given their relationship and its nature were enigmatic, I gave the boy the benefit of the doubt and didn’t pursue any avenues.  I was charming, still, naturally.  Kim said, “I have to leave, but…wait here.”  She disappeared into the bar briefly and came back with a coaster.  “Here’s my number.  Give me a call!”

“I will,” I bar promised.  We kissed, then I shook James’ hand and they made their exit from my life.

Pete returned shortly thereafter and divulged his findings, “I didn’t see any real women out there.  Hey.  Where did Kim and James go?”

“They left,” I informed him.  “But they gave us their number.”

“Oh.  Cool.  Is she calling you a hottie?”

“What?”  I looked at the coaster and hadn’t noticed Kim’s little personal message.  “I’m sure she’s talking about me.  Come on.”

“You wanna go?”  he asked.  “I don’t see those other guys here, either.”

“Yeah, lets get out of here, I’m pretty blitzed already.”

We walked outside and started down the street.  “Hey, look at that!”  I shrieked, pointing at a sign which read, ‘Theo’s Kebab.’

Pete walked up to a man outside the shop and asked a question which caused me to burst out in laughter, “Are you Theo?”

The man seemed a bit pissed, and said stoically, “I might be.”

“Can I get a beef kebab and…” I paused, thinking.  “Lettuce, tomato, cheese, some of that…”

“Hot sauce?”  he asked, holding a bottle filled with red liquid.

“You know what?  Yeah, put hot sauce and ranch on it.”  The guy didn’t understand and held up the white sauce.  “Yeah, the white sauce.”

“Give me the same,” Pete ordered.

“Hey, look Pete.  It’s the devil and angel chicks from the club.”  I motioned towards the table of women.  “What’s up, LADIES!!”  They completely ignored my drunken advances and I laughed.  Theo handed us our kebabs and we sat down to eat.

“Holy shit, that’s hot!”  Pete said, biting into his before I had the chance.

“Hell, yeah, it is!”  I agreed.  My mistake was that the white sauce was not ranch at all, but a white garlic and onion sauce, now used in combination with the aforementioned hot sauce.  “Damn good, though.”

“Hey!”  a voice shouted from three tables down.  I looked up.  “Are you American?”

“Yeah,” I answered honestly.

“No offense mate, but I hate your fucking country.”

“Fuck you, you fucking cocksucker!”  I told him.

“Holy shit, calm down dude!”  Pete pleaded. 

“Where the hell are you from?” I asked the instigator.

“New Zealand.”

“Well, all of you ingrates can go to hell, because you’re just pissed off we’re the only ones protecting you’re fucking ass!”

I ranted and Pete chastised my handling of the situation, “Let's just go back to the hotel."

“All right,” I conceded, and we got up to walk away.

“You have to realize we're kind of like ambassadors to the world.  How they view us is probably how they'll view America.”

“Something tells me that guy never liked America to begin with.”

“Okay, but you shouldn’t start out blasting the guy, though.”

“Maybe not,” I conceded, “but he’s the one who introduced himself with both barrels blazing, not me, so you'll have to attribute that flaw to him.  And as ambassador, I'm here to tell this guy the US isn't going to put up with his shit.  We're ambassadors to the greatest country in the world, and we are the greatest because less than fifty years from the inception of our country we were out making an impact in global events, as we are now, and this douche doesn't like how we're doing it currently.  Well, fuck him.  We've been to Iraq.  We know.  What the hell could this guy know about it when Australia is probably as far away as he's ever been from his country?  He hates us, admittedly, and throws this bullshit because he thinks we have a perspective limited to our own country when he's worse, because he's not even from the greatest country in the world; he's from New Fucking Zealand!  We attempt to make a difference while this guy sits on his ass, does nothing and criticizes, and yet we are still in the wrong, because we can't even defend our country's actions verbally.  What the fuck could he possibly know about the world from his isolated little kindergarten of a country?  And who will teach him if we constantly back down and walk away?”

Pete was suddenly super-motivated.  Both of us had just come from the war.  And we were shying away from a pseudo-intellectual.  Pete agreed, “You're right.  Why are we walking away?”  We both went back and tore into the guy.

“Fuck you, asshole!”  I said and then continued, “You may think all Americans are bastards, but let me tell you something… and you have absolutely NO power or influence in this world.”  The angel/devil chicks looked like they were about to say something totally inconsequential, so I cut them off and told the bitches, “You shut the fuck up.”  Then, the women left, and the argument belonged to the men.  At least they mind.  I relished debating this fucker face to face.  “You can hate the US, but I know this fact:  There is no fucking way, if you were to visit, they would tell you they hate your fucking country.  You can’t preface a sentence with ‘no offense’ and then follow it with the most offensive thing you can possibly think of and expect it to be okay, you fucking retard.”

Now, I realize I probably didn’t make my point tactfully in the slightest.  In my defense, I was drunk and this bastard was looking for a fight anyway, obviously, because the jackass continued to preach more and more of his insulting anti-American propaganda.  Pete found the guy's friend to be a little more receptive, so he took over with a more…subtle…approach.  I let him and paced angrily for awhile.  The friend listened, though he disagreed, and the pair of Kiwis eventually ended up backing down and walking away.

The douche attempted to get in the last, sarcastic word, “Have fun in great and wonderful America!”

I said something fantastically classic and memorable like, “Fuck you!”

Pete yelled, “Have fun on your island in the middle of fucking nowhere!”

“Asshole,” I sneered.  “Pussy, to boot.  Where the fuck are we, anyway?”

“I was following you.  I thought you knew.  I think maybe…the hotel is that way?”  Pete hypothesized, but at this point I was too pissed and pissed to mess around with location exploration, so I hailed the taxi I had seen come around the corner and paid him the five bucks it cost to take me the eight blocks to our hotel.  Pete and I stumbled in and made our way to the elevator, our room and bed.