DAY SIX

We awoke the next morning, surrounded by our new landscape.  I took a shower an toweled off on the balcony, enjoying the view of the ocean and city.  Pete, in his usual chair, conveyed his normal sentiments, “You know, again, I think this is the best decision we could have made…especially considering how I thought it would be a disaster.”

I figured he was referring to the entire Australia trip, so I disagreed.  “I never thought that.”

“Well, I mean, coming here without a plan, letting the cab driver decide where to take us.  I thought it wouldn’t turn out this well, but this is way better than Sydney and like I said, just looking at the male to female ratio, I like our chances here.  They’re a lot better.”

“I plan all my trips this way,” I told him.  “There are two founts of untapped information in this world: I used to think only gas stations were great resources.  That’s true, but if you want to know the truth about anywhere you go, just ask a cab driver.”

“What’s the plan for today?”

“I want to go there, for sure,” I said, motioning towards the Warner Brothers Studio Store on the corner across from our balcony.  Even after AOL/Time Warner merged and the decision was made to close every branch in the United States, the franchise remained my favorite shopping spot, and whenever I see one overseas, I have to stop.  Finding one still in business again was, for me, akin to seeing a dead pet miraculously resurrected.

“That goes without saying,” Pete knew, as he was well-aware of my boundless love for comic-related merchandise.  “What else?”

“Well, we need to find some swim trunks, because I’m tired of looking at my ocean without being able to go down there.  I don’t know…I think shopping around today will help us get to know the area a bit better.  Oh.  And I need to get my hair done.”

Freeze.

I realize fully that last sentence should probably never be uttered by a heterosexual male.  However, if I must live with his accursedly long hair, I felt like I had to do something with it.  My pelt is unlike anything I’ve ever seen and yet it’s mystifyingly admirable in the way it so perfectly mirrors my personality.  It’s not curly, but it’s not straight, either.  It’s not terribly frizzy, but has no sheen.  I’m a huge fan of Lost, so I figured maybe if I straightened my hair I could emulate Sawyer.

“How long will that take?”

“I don’t know,” I confessed.  “Hour, maybe?”

“Are you sure?”

“Like I said, I don’t know.  I’m not really a hair-straightening expert, by any means.”

We went downstairs to hit up the Warner Brothers Studio Store.  We passed a salon in the shopping mall adjacent to our hotel, and Pete suggested, “Why don’t you go there?”

Partly because I was ready for some Batman action and partly because I wanted to go at off-peak hours, I declined, “Nah.  I’ll go to that place later, though, if we don’t see anything.  Good to know it’s there.”

We went into the DC Comics emporium and gazed at all the splendorous, overpriced merchandise.  I found a nice fleece Batman bathrobe, so I tried it on.  The sleeves were a little short, and they didn’t have any in extra large.  The XXL looked a bit too…roomy.  The whole thing kind of hung off my body, though the sleeves were nice.  I think most rulers have thick, powerful robes hanging off their shoulders, and much in the What Would Magneto Do vein, I decided I, too, deserved that kind of comfort.  It looked cock as hell, too.

“That’s definitely a Straight Pimpin’ G bathrobe, there.  SPG, totally,” Pete’s verdict had come down.

The saleslady who took it down laughed.  “We call them dressing gowns.”

“That doesn’t sound…quite as…I don’t know.  Masculine.  Upon reflection, I don’t know if bathrobe is the manliest of terms, either,” I said, my thunder pilfered.  “If I buy this, I may suffer from occasional bouts with post-purchase depression.  If I don’t, though, I’ll think about it all the time and hate myself.”

Pete nodded in agreement and I needed little encouragement, so I bought it.  Pete and I walked into the street, passing numerous travel kiosks along the way.  “We need to stop at one of those sometime,” he suggested.

I nonverbally signaled my approval of the idea, but we kept walking.  We noted the interesting bars as we walked and mentally logged their geographical location so we could stop by later.  We found no swim trunks, and no one seemed to know what we were talking about.  Another American colloquialism causing Down Under disconnects.  By the third store, a saleswoman finally cleared up the misunderstanding.  “Oh, here we call them swimmers!”

“Are they all made of this lightweight material?  It prioritizes the shorts’ fast-drying capabilities, but it doesn’t seem to take into account the…modesty of it.”  Somehow, I didn’t think the cloth could adequately cover when wet.  The search took hours and yielded no results.

We returned to the hotel late in the afternoon so I could get my hair done.  I took another shower so it would be freshly cleaned and I could justify the day’s purchases by using my Bat-Robe as soon as possible.

“Dammit, that looks awesome,” Pete said.

“Yeah.  Hawkeye colors, too.”

“I’m just going to go to the bar and get started while I wait,” he decided.

“Okay.  It shouldn’t take that long,” I reaffirmed, without actually having any sort of foreknowledge that this was the case.

The salon, reflecting the largest Australian minority, was staffed mainly with Japanese.

“Hallooo!” the receptionist cooed cheerfully, albeit reservedly.

As if lost, I said, “Hi, uh, yeah, I’m…not…um, sure, exactly, what I’m doing here?  Anyway, I want this…” tugging at a tuft of randomness from my head, “to be straight.”

“Permanent?   Permanently straight?”

“Yeah.  Can that be done?”

She brought out the price list, which, when I saw it, raised even further my level of respect for all those beautiful women shelling out all those hard-earned dollars to make themselves presentable to mankind.  “Three hundred and twenty-seven dollars and forty seven cents,” she said.

“Wow.  I know I want straight hair, but I’m not sure I want it that much.”

“It will take three and a half hours, so if you want to schedule an appointment…” Money, I can spare.  Time, notsomuch.  “We can also straighten it just so you’ll know what it would look like.”

At less than ten percent of the cost for permanence, I was willing to sacrifice 30 minutes to satisfy my curiosity.  She took me over to the chair and did me.  Heh.  We had a nice conversation while we were at it, too.  She finished and I put my glasses back on to see the result.  Damn if I don’t look a lot like Sawyer, I thought.  A little darker hair, but still.

I paid her for her services and she gave me the golden rule, “Okay, now, whatever you do, don’t get it wet, so wear a shower cap or something and it will last for three to four days.”

“Thanks,” I said, and now looking like a complete badass, I returned to the hotel bar to find Pete milking his Jack and Coke.  “Wow,” he laughed, “it’s a big change.”

“I know.  I look like I’m a hard rocker or something, now.”

“That’s it!  You reminded me of someone, but I couldn’t remember.  You look like the lead singer of Nickleback.  You should play it up and tell people that.”

“I don’t have to.  I should tell people to stop confusing me with famous people, because they should be more impressed to meet me.  Well, shit.  I guess I could order something.  I need to catch up.  Where the hell is the bartender?”

“That’s just it.  It’s been me and SHID all night.  This is only my second one, because he hasn’t been paying attention to his bar all night.”

“So you and SHID been getting to know each other, huh?”

“Yeah, right.  Every time I try to talk to that son of a bitch he doesn’t even respond.  Hell no.  Guy’s never around, for one thing.  Oh, and good luck getting a drink within ten minutes.”

Ten minutes later, I, too, was complaining about SHID’s inefficiency.  I ended up getting a total bonus, because I decided to wander off and hunt him down.  I didn’t find him, and while Jo wasn’t working, I met the most gorgeous Japanese woman I have ever seen.  Unfortunately, she was waiting on a forty-strong throng of Japanese businessmen, so our conversation was short, and we didn’t get much of a proper introduction.  I did get to watch her work, though, and I was unmistakably pleased at what I saw.

We had two drinks and waited another fifteen minutes to pay our bill.  I took my new hair for a walk around town.  We didn’t have to go far and stopped shortly thereafter at the Beach House.  “How’s it going, Eliza?” I asked, sitting at my usual stool.

“How are you going, guys?” she asked.  By the telltale physical signals indicated through the lines near the corner of her eyes and the broadness of her smile, I knew the happiness which arrived in her tone at our entrance was genuine.

I realized her reply of ‘how you going’ to my ‘how’s it going’ probably answered my question as to the origins of the phrase and the meaning of their similar-sounding expression.

“We’re doing good tonight.  Kind of dead in here, huh?”

“Yeah.  But there’s good news tonight, guys…we’re running out the taps, so a bit later I can give you some free pitchers.”

“Sweet,” Pete pretty much summed it up.  “Let’s try the stout.”

“I have to ask a woman’s opinion.  Do you like my hair better this way, or the way it was before?”

“I don’t know.  I can’t remember how it was yesterday,” she admitted.  In response to my one eyebrow risen in dissatisfaction, she claimed, “I have the worst memory!  I’m sorry!”

“Well, great.  How could you forget me?”

“I said I’m sorry.  Hey, I work tomorrow.  Come in and see me then with your hair the other way and I’ll decide.”

“You sure you can remember what it looks like for twenty-four whole hours?” I teased.

“Yes,” she laughed, throwing ice at me and, literally, hopping over to another customer.

“Check that,” Pete pointed out.  “All the waitresses carry their bottle opener between their tight pants and their asses.”

I looked over just in time to catch another stacked blonde as she pulled a flat metal bottle opener from its holster constructed from the malleable flesh of her right butt cheek.  In one fluid action, she twirled it around and ripped a bottle cap from its glass perch, returning the opener to its rightful place against her hindquarters’ cushioning.

“That’s pretty fucking hot,” I decided.

Pete agreed, “Who would have thought that probable health-code violations would be such a turn-on?”

“For guys.  I don’t know what girl in here wants to suck on a bottle that’s just indirectly touched female ass.”

As Eliza brought us our first free pitcher of XXXX Gold, a man whose name I don’t recall, so I’ll name him Steve…well, Steve came up and asked, “Are you Americans?”

Fearing a reenactment of the night before, I suspiciously and tentatively answered, “Yes?”

“Right on.  Is it just the two of you?”

“Yes?”

“Well, why don’t you come join us?” Steve was probably in his early to mid-forties, so I looked over to see who he was with, and his wife waved at us.  Honestly lacking anything else, agenda-wise, Pete and I went to their table.

I sat down by who I thought was his wife and had a moderately pleasant conversation.  “Do you know who would be perfect for you?” she asked, after sufficient time to mull it over.  “My daughter!”

“Oh, no,” Steve advised.  “She’s a total mess, that one.  You’ve got it together…trust me, mate, you want nothing to do with it.”

Mother fished for some hidden bauble inside her cavernous purse.  Only after dumping half of it on the table could she search adequately.  “I know it’s in here somewhere…oh!  Here!  Isn’t she just the most precious thing you’ve ever seen?”

“Well, honestly, she looks about two years old.”

“That’s right!  She’s two in February.”

“No offense, but I think that’s a bit out of my age bracket.”

“Oh, no, this is my granddaughter Abby.”

“She is a cute baby,” I said, pondering the Mexican, Italian and Australian parentage of the child.

“She’s adorable!  She gets that from her mother.  My daughter, Rebecca.  Oh, you two should go out.”

“I’m telling you…” Steve shook his head in near fear.

“Oh, don’t mind Steve!  The only problem with Rebecca…well, you see, her father was not a good man.  He wanted a son and he never loved her.  All she wanted was her daddy’s love, so she thook it from the firtsh guy whoul gif it to her!”

Realization dawned on me as subtly as a bucket of ice water to the face.  Mother wasn’t overly friendly insomuch as she was drunk as a skunk.  Maybe it’s the way her face suddenly contorted into this Chad Covoner never-look-you-in-the-eye gaze.  Chad Covoner, name slightly changed to remain completely known to all who know him, was a high school classmate who had a tendency to look at the ceiling when he talked to you.  At least it wasn’t the floor.  Girls always thought they had shit in their hair as opposed to thinking he was staring at their chests.

Of course, it could have also been the word-slurring that was getting to be an exponentially larger obstacle by the minute.  I initially thought it was her accent, but I came to find that not the case.  Either way, I didn’t want to talk to Mother anymore.  However, I realized her daughter did put out and needed an understanding man like myself to give her the love she needed so desperately.  Love in the form of a good rogering.

So I continued the conversation until Momma pulled out her cell phone and drunkenly said, “I know!  I’ll call Rebecca right…where do I how pull up her number?”

After fumbling for a few minutes, Mom spoke into the phone.  “Hello?  Hello?  Rebecca?  How are you?  I have someone here I want you to talk to.  Hold on.”

She jammed the phone into my face uncomfortably, so I assumed operational control of the mobile device.  Mother shouldn’t have been using heavy machinery anyway.  “Hello, Rebecca.  You don’t know me.  I just met your mother down here at the Beach House and, apparently, she thinks we’re perfect for each other.”

I heard Becca’s laugh for the first time.  “That sounds like my mother.”

“So, what are you up to?” I asked, to sound casually interested though not overly so.

“Oh, I just dropped a payment at the bank and picked up my groceries.  I’m going to get my daughter, now.”

“Yeah, your mom showed me pictures of Abby.  I didn’t know a person could fit a photo album in their purse, but she did.  Actually, I don’t know how a person can fit half the stuff she carries into one bag, but somehow she manages.”

“Yeah, it’s pretty full.”

“I told your mother your daughter gets all her beauty from you, I’m sure.”

“That’s right!  Did she show you my photo?”

“No, didn’t see that yet.”

“Oh.  Well, let me talk to my mom a minute, would you?”

“Sure.  Nice talking to you, Rebecca.”

“Hello,” Momma cried a moment later.  “What?  Well, yeah, I’d say he’s hot.  I don’t know.  What color eyes do you have?”

Maybe she thought I’d lie with contacts, or something, but I’m betting she needed the help because her vision was impaired.  “Blue.”

“Blue eyes, long brown hair..”

“Six foot four,” I said in an attempt to preempt any further questioning.

“Six four, thin…yeah.  Yeah.  Okay.  I thought we’d BBQ or something.  Well, okay.  I’ll talk to you soon.  Bye.”

Eliza came to our table with a couple more free pitchers and I paid her the normal price.  “Oh, no, it’s free.  We’re running out the taps.”

“Well, you get a really nice tip, then.”

“Thanks,” she smiled.  It was more than worth the five dollars, that out-fucking-standing smile.

“Steve, I need to go home.  Why don’t you hang out with the boys?” Mom decided, after it was apparent she wouldn’t finish her drink before she’d succumb to Sleep’s scythe.

“Let me get you a cab,” he wisely advised.

“No, I’ll just walk.”

“Honey.  I worry.  I’d feel much better if I paid for a cab.”

“Save your money,” she said, kissing him.  “Bye.”

“Wait!  Don’t leave like that!  You sure you don’t want me to walk you home?”

“I’ll be fine,” she comforted.  “Have fun.”

“She doesn’t understand how much I love her.  She’s so trusting.  I think of the people who may try to mug her, or something,” he continued on his tirade in our emotional confessional until he came to the realization of, “Oh, no.  I wonder if she remembered her keys!” He checked his pockets and pulled out a keychain with about ten of the silvery buggers dangling from it.  “I don’t think she has her keys!  Oh, no, listen, boys, I’m going to run down and give her these.”

Seeing an opportunity for superheroism, I said, “That’s all right.  We’ll do it.”  It was instinctive, and I kind of surprised myself.  I wasn’t really in the mood for a midnight jog, so I don’t even know why I offered.

However, seconds later, Pete and I were running down the sidewalk, chasing Mother.  I laughed at the improbability of it.  The road split, so Pete veered left and I continued straight around the corner.

I laughed again as I ran by the tall statue of Bugs Bunny holding a surfboard.  This is what I love about nights out.  Even I didn’t think I’d be breaking my six-month sabbatical from any and all physical exercise tonight.

I turned the corner and rejoined Pete.  “Nice to see ya,” I greeted.  Half a block later, Mom was taken by surprise by a pair of sprinters.

“Oh.  Hello.”

“Did you forget your keys?” I asked succinctly, trying desperately not to breathe too heavily and maintain the façade of a strapping young man in his physical prime who would serve as a suitable suitor for her daughter.

“No, I have my own set.”

“Oh, well…” Pete shrugged at me, and it was apparent he was catching his breath as well.  Running and beer, while they tend to hook up often, were never made for each other.  I don’t know how the hashers do it.  “Steve wanted us to make sure.”

“He’s so sweet!  I’m almost home, too.  You boys ran all this way?”

“Yeah,” I said, now composed.  “It was only a couple blocks.  Since he was worried, anyway, why don’t we just walk you the rest of the way?” My Samaritan mouth was coming up with this shit on its own, now.  Apparently, her definition of ‘almost’ differed from mine, because it was at least five blocks away and it took forever to get her there.  She lived on a friggin’ island.  Chevron Island, I believe.

It wouldn’t have taken so long had she been less inebriated or under the impression that we were on a sightseeing tour.  She pointed out the scenic canal view, the former places she’d lived along the canal, the neighbors she hated, a tree of some historical significance and a pool in some guy’s yard.  Then, we were on her balcony.

She invited us inside so she could show me a picture of her daughter.  Rebecca was fine, but not so much that my gushing review, which was filled with adjectives like ‘ravishing’ or ‘breathtaking’, was in any way warranted.

After a few moments, Mom’s phone rang, and I wondered if Steve was worried his woman was going to be raped, or something.  That was an unjustified concern.  As Buster said, “Yeah, like anyone would want to ‘R’ her.”

I’d recall the conversation at the home, but I won’t because it was about as retarded as a drunken monkey, which, in a sense, is exactly what it was.  I also don’t want to delve into it, because I wanted to leave that apartment so badly and yet I was invited to stay longer through invented reasons like apartment tours, stories about shit hanging on walls, looking at kitchen magnets of all minute things, et cetera.  The visit dragged on and on very much like this description of said visit, and it was about as tiring as writing about it is getting to be.  Reading it hopefully has the same effect.

As negative as this part is, power through and remember the vacation is positive, overall.

Skipping ahead, on our walk back, at the spot Mom had pointed out as the site of a recent mugging, or the thought of a hypothetical one, I can’t remember, I wasn’t paying too much attention to her, but at that spot, by a granite wall, Pete and I were taken aback by a man jumping around the corner.

“Fuck!” I said, adrenaline subsiding, though it had effectively eliminated any alcoholic effects still lingering since my last drink.  “I thought we were gonna have to go back-to-back for a second.”

“Back-to-back?”

“Yeah, you know…the classic comic book pose where two heroes go back-to-back during an all-out brawl so they can kick ass and yet defend each other against a crap-ton of supervillains.”

Pete laughed, “Dude you know we have to get a shot of us doing that, somewhere.”  This was the closest we came to making to each other a bar promise, because we forgot to take the photo.

We finally got back to the Beach House to find it locked up.  Steve was outside, waiting for us.  “Aww, fuck.  Did this place close already?”

“Yeah.  It’s all right.  I know a place.  It’s just down the street and around the corner,” Steve told us.  He led us to the infamous Melba’s club.  Pete and I were admitted without incident, but they held Steve at the door, probably because he was older and couldn’t handle Eliza’s free pitchers as well as two Straight Pimpin’ Gs.  After they saw he was with us, they let him in, too.

We found a table and placed our drink orders.  That’s when Steve discovered he had forgotten his credit card at the Beach House.  I felt sorry for him.  It was pretty obvious to me he didn’t have the opportunity to get out much, which was why Mother let him come out.  I’d wager he had a better time that night than he’d had in ages.  He probably still tells his buddies about it.

“It’s all right.  We gotcha.”

“Are you sure?” he asked, counting the two or three Australian dollars he had in his pocket.

“Yeah,” I decided, but his end of the conversation became rather limited for the rest of the evening.  He even told us how he was so happy we were Americans, because Americans are trustworthy.  He said he did call the house because with any other nationality, he would have feared for the safety of his girlfriend and he would be scared they would rape her.  Like I said, his conversation wasn't the brightest or the most interesting, by this point.  That is, until I happened to mention, “…like Steve Irwin, or something.”

“Steve Irwin?” I always heard Australians hated the guy, but that’s not true, because every time we brought it up, people were proud to talk about him.  Our Steve, too, apparently.  “Aw, mate, his zoo is only about an hour from here.”

“Really?” I thought the place was in Northeastern Australia, but for some reason, I was way off base.  “I’d like to see that.”

Steve discovered a newfound sense of strength and energy.  “Tell you what, guys…do you have any plans for Sunday?  I’ll get you, Rebecca, Abby and everybody together and we’ll drive out there.”

For some unknown reason, he suddenly approved of the idea that I would meet Rebecca.  At least in the bar promise sense.  We made plans to hit the Australian Zoo in three days, as it was Thursday morning, at this point.  Steve was excited and also wanted to barbeque afterwards.  I told him I wanted BBQ ‘roo, and he said he knew how to cook it.  He took down our room number and the name of our hotel.

I went up to the bar to get another beer and was awed by a young woman flipping bottles and mixing drinks with Spider-Man’s level of agility and skill.  Her silver, chandelier earrings danced in synch with her amazing display of bartending prowess and nicely complimented the sky blue dress she was wearing so well.  She looked at me and smiled.  Since I knew the question anyway, I said, “Stout.”

She pulled a fresh one from the refrigerator and from behind her back, flipped her opener end over end through the air and above her head, catching it in midair and removing the metallic seal of freshness and quality in a singular, smooth motion.

I couldn’t help but applaud in my mind and I wanted to devastate this buxom beauty.

Gentlemen, when attempting to seduce a woman, here’s a tip: Women are psychotic.  Not psychotic in the criminally insane sense, but in that they psychoanalyze every miniscule detail in every facet of everything.

You know the profilers for serial killers?  Do you know what their job is?  Their careers lay in a field of study and determination.  They must discover why this killer always puts dimes on the eyes of his victims.  Or removes the gall bladder.  Or shoves the stems of roses into open flesh wounds but rips off all the petals.  Or brands the word mouse on the left buttocks.

Because there is always a reason.  So maybe this is a bit like the criminally insane.

The tip is, be that profiler.  Women, unlike men, rarely do anything without thinking about it.  They make two trips to the store to drive by your ex-girlfriend’s house a few times.  They wear a toe-ring, hoping someone will notice how cute it is.  They paint their nails to impress us just a little it more.  Everyone knows the underwear code.

Find the subtleties.  Praise them.

Although the waitresses were all wearing the same uniform, the earrings were unique.  “I like the earrings,” I told her.

She beamed expectedly.  “Thanks!”

“How’s the night going?”

“Oh, not too bad.  I’m off in fifteen minutes, which is good…I’m tired.”  We had a conversation.  I would say it was a nice conversation, but I can’t, because I don’t remember what we discussed.  Trivialities, I’m sure.

“Check this chick out, dude,” I told Pete upon my return.  “She’s got some definite bartending talent.”

Observation time passed, and Pete agreed.  “She’s got some motor skills.”  We continued to drink in her alcoholic artwork, watching a bottle of Banana Liqueur make three full turns in the air before pouring itself into a daiquiri.  “Look at Motor Skills go!”

Having successfully nicknamed another local permanently, we made our way to the second floor.  The bouncers were culling the crowd, sending half outside and half upstairs, though the three of us luckily avoided the sickle and volunteered to keep drinking.

The second story sucked.  It was, as it always is, too damn loud and busy.  It took me ten minutes to get to the bar for our next round.  I was surprised to find Motor Skills there to serve me.

Another rule that I failed to follow on this occasion was to prevent being overly complimentary.  It didn’t burn me this time, thankfully.
“I like the uniform outfits.”

“You think?  We have a different dress code every day.”

“Well, that’s gotta be nice.”

“At least you don’t have to think about what you’re going to wear.  Tomorrow we have the black ones.  They’re my favorites.  Same?” she held up my empty glass chamber.

“Sure.  Did you teleport up here or something?  I thought you were about to leave.”

“Oh, I was.  Someone else wanted to go home, though, and I figured I could use the extra overtime,” she explained.  I smiled.  Nothing without a reason.  I thought the reason could have been me, arrogantly, but it may be she really did need the overtime, because she then said, “Well, I have to get to work.  See ya!”

This ended all pleasant dealings with Motor Skills.

I returned to our table and the beer stared to hit me.  I was briefly nauseous, but, like all true champions, I power drank through it and the feeling quickly passed.

I watched all the happenings around our table as Pete scouted the club.  When he came back, I apprised him of all that had happened in his absence.
“Where’s Steve?”

“I don’t know,” I said as I looked around.  “I think he went outside to go to the bathroom.  He probably won’t be back, either.”

“Why’s that?  And why the fuck do we have to go outside to piss?”

“I don’t know.  There’s no pisser up here, I guess.  But it’s dangerous, because there are bouncers at the door and they don’t let everyone back in.  I was fine, but Steve was starting to get pretty drunk, I though.  I saw one of the bouncers chewing him out in the corner.  I don’t know what he was doing, but he was harassing some girls.  Said he was getting them for us.”

“What?” he asked.

“Yeah.  He didn’t get in trouble for that, though.  He was walking around all weird.  He might have peed in the corner or something, because they were over there yelling at him and he returned to the table ready as hell to get out of here.  He wanted to go to some club called the Avenue, or something.  He said he met his fiancée there.  Or whatever.  Said it was full of older ladies who wanna fuck.”

“Yeah, well, if they’re not open until five it won’t make a difference.  We’re kind of dedicated here, now,” Pete decided.  Aussie bars could stay open until five o’clock in the morning, if licensed, though they couldn’t let anyone new inside after three.

“Did you recon this place for chicks?” I asked him.

“No, it looks like pretty slim pickings.  There’s that blonde over there, though, and she’s been by herself for awhile.”

She doesn’t look too bad,” I thought.  “Nice body from behind, long hair…”

“Yeah, I’ll probably go for it, if nobody shows up.”

“Seize the moment, dude!” I encouraged.  “Go for it!”

“What?”

“Yeah, don’t wait…just go.  NOW!”

He followed my order, surprisingly.  I wouldn’t have, out of principle, because I hate adhering to the suggestions of others.  On second thought, I might have, if I was drunk enough, which I guess I was.

I headed out to the dance floor to scope out my options.  I had surveyed ninety percent of the area and was beginning to get dismayed until I saw a woman with her back to one of the pillars on the dance floor.  She was rubbing her back against the cylindrical wall like a cat in heat and I was a bit concerned she might be on ecstasy or some such garbage, but she was siren singing softly to herself.  I go for the crazy chicks anyway, so I figured what the hell.

I started dancing with her and she didn’t care.  I mean, she was truly ambivalent.  After half a minute or so, I began to feel pangs of self-consciousness due to the fact that my style of dancing usually doesn’t go unnoticed, so I lied and told her she sang well to prod some kind of reaction or at least acknowledgement as to my existence.  The truth was, I saw her mouth moving, though hearing what came out in that bloodbath of volume was next to impossible.

She nodded distantly and kept right on scratching her back, so I told her it was nice meeting her and stepped back.  She shook her head again abstractedly and I returned, defeated, to our table.

Pete had also come back to sit.  Disappointed that we had both failed in our respective missions, I decided to place the full brunt of our shortcomings on Pete.  “Dude, what happened?  Did you fuck it up, or something?”

Pete looked up at me and I could almost taste the horror in his eyes.  That is, if horror had a flavor and I had licked his eyeball.  “No, man.  She looks fine from here, but I went over there and she turned around, and…uguh.  Her face is seriously fucked up.  She has eyes like Skeletor.”

“She can’t be that bad.  She has an awesome body.”

“Trust me.  I’m pretty desperate and she’s pretty damn horrible.”

“I’ll go check it out,” I said, but I could see Pete didn’t want any red flags to rise, so I added, “Nonchalantly.”

In an elaborate display of subtle maneuvering competency, I walked towards the bar, passed the target, check my pockets, snapped my fingers as if I’d forgotten something and turned around.  Brilliant planning, but the execution was a bit sloppy and it probably made the whole incident look contrived, if anything.  Luckily, if there’s one thing I’ve noticed, it’s that people rarely pay attention.

I’m not immune to this criticism, either, by any stretch of the imagination.  I’d undoubtedly had a dozen chances to view this chick throughout the night, but I’d never really looked.  Which is why, she, too, was unaware when my cover was completely blown by my look of terror at the sight of that which Peter had understated.

There are many versions of Death, but I’ve always preferred Marvel’s.  As Thanos and Deadpool can attest Death herself in the Marvel Universe is a fine-ass woman with a skull-face.  Which really is the best way to describe my view at that moment.

I rushed back to the table to offer my condolences.  “Wow.  Just…wow.  A pity such a nice body has to come in such a bad package deal.”

“Yyyyyyyup.”  We both sat in silence until something interesting happened A brunette approached the blonde to whom Pete had been talking.  They exchanged a few words and we did, as well.

“Hey, that gal’s pretty nice.”

Pete agreed, “I know, hard to believe.  The blonde must be the ugly friend.”

The brunette looked at us, pointed, turned her hand and, without saying a word, beckoned us to come near.  This threw our world into chaos for the next ten seconds.

“Is she talking to you?”

“Is she talking to me?”

“Does she want both of us?”

“Should I go?”

“Should I go?”

“You should go.”

“She doesn’t even know me!”

“Let’s both go.”

“How about this…” I decided.  “You go and rub your eye when and if you want me to join you.  This is your crew, anyway.”

“Sounds good.”  Pete left and I waited for my signal.  The brunette wasn’t fantastically attractive, but she was okay.  And I was desperate enough to think, Hell, I’d take both of them to do her, if need be.  Which was interesting, considering.

Pete signaled in a matter of minutes, thus allowing me to avoid too long of a soliloquy or too much of a monologue at my solo table.  “This is Seth,” he introduced, immediately upon my walk-up.  “He’s the friend I was telling you about.  He’s the lead singer of Nickleback.”

The brunette extended her hand for the requisite greeting and said, “Victoria.”

“I’m not really the lead singer of Nickleback,” I dissuaded, but she simply grinned and gazed at me suspiciously.  I believe the illusion was merely fractured, despite my best attempts to shatter the damn thing.  Lady Death introduced herself as well, by saying, “Stephanie.”  This further solidified my theory that I will never come across an attractive Stephanie in my lifetime.  From the accomplished feat of being the most annoying character on Full House to the idiot-child in our high school that in her senior year got knocked up by the meat-bag illiterate wrestler in my graduating class, every Stephanie with whom I have had even a grazing association has been nearly valueless.

Besides, naturally, the intrinsic value of human life in general.  Though my experience have led me to believe that value is in a constant state of depreciation.  Not much long-term investment potential, there.

The four of us sat and talked for a while, but I did more listening, for once.  I feel like the Watcher, sometimes, as events tend to happen around me as well as to me.  Not the best metaphor in this case, really, due to the fact that a hand tapped me on the shoulder.  I turned to see the woman who had previously used the dance floor pillars as scratching posts.

“Hey,” I greeted, surprised.

“Hello.  Do you…know my friends?”

“Yeah, we’ve met.  Recently.”

“My name’s Alex.  This is my drummer, Dave,” she indicated, jabbing a thumb at the large man behind her.  He shook my hand without saying a word.  They were suitable companions, as he said nothing his entire stay, as she had remained silent before.

“Drummer.  See, I told you I thought you were a good singer.  I can recognize musical talent when I see it.  I used to run a Karaoke show.”

“I love Karaoke.”

“Me, too!  Do you know where they have it around here?” I looked up and saw Pete’s newfound friends were heading outside towards the bathroom.

“Sure.  Pacific Pines has it tomorrow night.”

“Pacific Pines?” we asked in unison.  Would have made for a killer commercial.

“Where’s that?” I asked.

The pseudo-singer went on to give me long an convoluted directions I didn’t really understand, save for the fact that the destination was the lone bar of the Pacific Pines Mall, which instantly conjured up visions of the Twin Pines Mall from Back to the Future.  I had enough of a description so any cab driver could find the place easily.  She assured me the town was only about ten miles away or so, and we then went on discussing song preferences and the lack of country music in Australia.  Predictably, Alex was exceedingly non-confrontational, as are most Australians, and she extolled the virtues of Country Western, all the while admitting she did not listen to it, herself.

“Where did my friends go?” she asked, about fifteen minutes into the conversation.

“I don’t know, for sure,” I admitted.

“They went to the bathroom,” Pete informed her.

She took the information without thanking Murphy and imposed upon me, “Would you watch my purse?”

I nodded, awed at myself for making at least a decent enough of an impression that I was honored with the responsibility of safeguarding such an item of importance.  Alex made her exited and I noticed her limping away, though I thought at the time it was due to an ass cheek falling asleep I didn’t have too much time to ponder the mystery, as Pete immediately began discussing our prospects.

“What do you think?” he asked.

“I don’t know.  They’re kind of cool, I guess.  At least we found Karaoke.”

“Yeah.  Well…” Alex came storming back, flushed and interrupting our conversations about their trio.

“Okay, I just want to tell you that I just met those girls,” she explained.  Confusedly, Pete and I looked at each other as she continued, “I just moved into a new apartment and they’re my roommates…I didn’t know anything about them.  I just went into the bathroom and found out they were going down on each other.”

“What?” Sometimes I hear, but I’m not sure if it’s my active imagination or reality.  It added a whole new dimension to my experience of going Down Under.

“They were EATING EACH OTHER OUT!” Well, that pretty much left little open to interpretation.  “I still have to use the bathroom.  I’ll be right back.  Don’t tell them I said anything.”

We sat for almost three whole moments while it sank in, but then we had to discuss it.  “You know,” Pete finally mused, “this may be my best chance at a three-way.  Too bad the one chick is heinous.”

“It’s okay.  Just make her do all the prep work.”

The threesome returned together and Pete and I continued our respective conversations, though there was a considerable change in tone, especially at the sight of a think row of sweat beads which had formed on the hairline of the moderately-attractive, bi-curious brunette.  We were soon escorted from the premises, as none of us had realized it had gotten to be 5:30 in the morning.  We left Melba’s and bore witness to the dawn for the first and only time on our vacation.  The whole dawn, anyway.

Alex was still limping and she saw I noticed, so she related a story on how she was hit by a drunk driver, broke both her legs and was still in recovery.

“Let’s head back to the hotel!” one of the lesbians cried, and we began to walk in that direction.

It must have been quite the sight for any early morning spectator, this dissimilar troupe walking down the street.  In the faint rays of daybreak, there we were: A gimping, would-be rock star, the legend that is Pete Murphy, two lesbians and a man who may or may not be the lead singer of Nickleback.

“I’m hungry.  Let’s get kebabs, Pete.”  Surprisingly, this, too, was met with a chorus cheers from the Lesbian and Gay Alliance representatives.

Of course, in our inebriated state, we were all happy and laughing which is partially why we met the kebab man, Freddie, with such exuberance.  We asked his name and all shouted it back to him.  He laughed and we put in a hefty order of two kebabs and two meat skewers.
Pete with Freddie, the kebab man
The girls ordered a dozen of these corn balls, for some reason.  The balls were like hush puppies, I guess, with less flavor and not as much moisture on the inside, if one can even imagine such a thing.  At this point, I glanced to my right, to the eastern rising sun and saw the ocean a block away.  Suddenly, I was infuriated at the previously pointed-out piece of information that I had yet to swim in its gorgeous waters.  I was also quite possibly pissed at the fact that my efforts to find suitable swimwear earlier in the day had proven fruitless.

Following my WWMD maxim, I proclaimed, “I’m going swimming!”

I noticed my rock-star would-be girlfriend was the least enthused of the group, but I had passed the point of caring too much and figured she was still digesting the fact that the moans she heard the night before as she slept in her new bed were not the sounds of the home settling as she had initially thought.

It was a quick trip to the beach and fortunately had not completely lost my senses and was wise enough to remove my valuables from my pockets and stick them in my shoes.  I ran towards the water as quickly as I could, though I had no idea I was breaking so many rules:

1 – Do not let your hair get wet.
2 – Do not go swimming at dawn or dust to avoid shark attacks.
3 – I’m throwing this one in here because I’m sure I violated some unwritten female code by leaving an irritated, recovering hit and run victim on the beach by herself.

To put it in Mogwai terms, it was like shoving food into Gizmo’s mouth at one in the morning while hitting him simultaneously with a strobe light and a water hose.

Initially of course, it was like all points in which I’ve entered the oceans, but it soon became apparent, as my journey to the outer sea became more difficult, that the ocean in Surfer’s has a mean streak to it.  Pounding waves, the strongest I’ve ever seen, hit me with considerable force and regularity.  After being rolled numerous times, I was winded, so I crawled back to my woman lying on the beach.  I was out of breath and I greeted her and knelt down to make out with her, but she was either sleeping or seriously squinting at the arrival of the day’s sun.

I kissed her on the forehead.  She smiled and we talked for a few minutes.  I stuck my hands in my drenched trousers and felt a tremendous amount of sand had found its way into my pants – likely when I was tumbling ass over head beneath the water’s surface.  Pete and the girls returned and we started heading back to the hotel.  At the intersection, though, the Rockerette led the other two away for their home.

I didn’t mind as I was far, far too spent at this point to deal with the purchase of another room and requisite time I would have had to invest on a woman if she were to have come up to my place.  The three promised to meet us at Karaoke that evening.  Pete and I returned to room 816 and I remembered, “Fuck.  I left my kebab on the beach.  I only ate half of it!”

“That’s okay.  The girls fed all the corn balls we bought to the seagulls.”

“What?  Fucking rats of the air.  Plague spreaders.  If I’d have known that, I’d have told them to pay me back for it.  Damn.  Look at these pants!” I laughed.

They were in poor shape.  Sand crusted on the legs…the inside wasn’t much better.  All the pockets were half full of silt.  I wouldn’t have been surprised to find a starfish crawling out of there.  Instead of attempting to clean them, I put them in a plastic bag and tied it off.
After a quick rinsing in the shower, Pete and I slept.

Clocking out at approximately 7:40 in the morning, we ended the longest day of our vacation.