adamdaniel

Tales from the Punchbowl #10

The Fireball Dance

Two pretty rough characters walked across the grass and joined the table. They were wearing checkered shirts and were evidently wasted, but in good cheer, eyes atwinkle and laughs forthcoming. Where are you two from? Morwell. Haven’t slept. Been pinging off me guts for two days. Good gear. Ah. I see. As the kids in Mount Magnet would say, “the good sniff”. One was missing his middle front teeth, giving him the aspect of a vampire. You want some of this? I pointed at the food on the table, pushing the nicely decorated coffee cup aside to reveal the seafood and bread we had been enjoying. Nah, I’ll go some of the whiskey though. Yessir. I passed the Jim Beam bottle. He took a hearty slug of the poisonous imbibe. They chatted and guffawed as they related the experiences of the last few days, assorted escapades with friends in the area. The glinting afternoon sunshine lit up the distant hills and I peered at these vaguely as I listened to the details of their confabulation. Truly, it had been a colourful waking dream for both of them, all couched in the lovely comfort of reality defying substances.

The pleasant afternoon glow dwindled into long, sloping shadows and an eerie blue night shade enveloped the park. I retrieved a jacket from the trolley. I think the change in temperature prompted the two comrades to leave. Cheers for the drinks. Catch ya’s. They left, continuing on their merry, drug-addled journey. Not long after, a young boy approached. He had light hair, a slight frame and blue eyes, wearing a track suit. You got any bud? Wanna buy. Mr. S stood up. Let’s go for a walk lad. What’s your name again, asked Mr. S. ‘Zayd’ or ‘Zay’ is what I heard. They walked off together across the park towards the old hotel. Fifteen minutes later Mr. S returned by himself. He sat at the table and looked at me destitutely, his eyes quaking with sadness. He perched his head on his crossed arms, slumping over the table, keeping my gaze. Jesus fucking fuck, he blurted, angry and disturbed. Kid reckons his dad raped him two days ago. Jesus. Fuck. I blanched in disbelief. Mr. S was deadly serious. My stomach knotted up at the thought of that bright eyed and gentle presence I’d met moments before being done over in such a fashion. We looked at each other blankly, not knowing what to say.

We made a camp and slept on the concrete pavilion. This spot is great. Power. Everyone plugged in their devices. I sat staring at the huge black maw of the star speckled Milky Way. I had a nasty black secret tumbling through me, a real ugly one. I don’t like this. I thought of Julian Assange and how he had his life strangled for speaking and revealing the truth. Maybe some things do belong in the dark? Then again, Assange famously said, “The only way to keep a secret is to never have one”. I don’t want this secret, I mused. I asked a friend for advice, nervously telling him what I had overheard. I received a one word answer. Police. Okay. Fair call. I wrote a description of every detail I could muster and sent it to the local police depot, along with a raft of invisible prayer, well wishes and secret hopes for justice. Zayd, my young friend, I hope something can be done for you. The inert blackness of the heavens gave me comfort as I tried to stomach the level of extreme disgust coursing through me.

We had a team meeting in the early morning light. Mrs. S had sold something the day before. I have five hundred dollars, she declared boldly. This represented a rare moment of comparative wealth. Unanimous excitement kindled in our bodies. We want to include you in the spoils, Adam. Well, I’m much obliged. How should we express this triumph of income? The consensus was a luxurious hotel, good food and prodigious amounts of alcohol. I shall be pleased to play chauffeur for this venture, I offered, referring to my recently acquired car. We booked a cabin with two queen beds, in a place with a huge pool and games room. We arrived and paid in cash. Then a shopping run. The result was a heap of salad ingredients, seafood, chicken, bread, cookies and juice, along with vodka, Baileys and a large bottle of fireball.

Mr and Mrs S explained that with the ingestion of the fireball cinnamon whiskey there is an important rule and tradition which must be kept alive. Pray elucidate said tradition, I stated. When you finish your shot you have to invent a dance each time. Say what now? You heard us. You drink with us, you invent a dance or go home. Okay, I think I can acquiesce to this instruction. We started doing shots, allowing each person to craft a completely unknown and innovative dance with the disappearance of each shot down the rabbit’s hole of the gullet. These were pretty zany and amateurish innovations and blurting laughter marked the afternoon. We even filmed them for posterity, giggling at the replays. I think even Doug Hastings from Strictly Ballroom would have approved. The titillating taboo of innovative dance steps was being gleefully enjoyed here in cabin 61, Braybrook. Now, somewhat wobbly but highly entertained, I stood as a level one initiate of the fireball dance.

After two days of indulgence and dips in the pool, we decided to go for a road trip. Great Ocean Road. Let’s do it. We packed up our gear and headed down that iconic route. We stopped at an op shop along the way, in Geelong, obtaining a heap of gear and free food. How the hell did you manage this, I asked Mr. S, examining the bulging armful of gear. Just told them I had nothing, he explained. We have lasagne, penne pasta and several curries, along with a stack of bedding, pillows, doonas, the works. Score. We continued on in the hot weather, cranking the air conditioner for relief, gladly perusing visions of the ocean waves and plunging surf, the azure brilliance a balm to the mind. I got the Lorne fish and chip shop to heat up the lasagne and had lunch. We parked at the beach. Mr. S went shirtless and took a dip in the ocean, then greeted passers by ebulliently saying, nice afternoon eh? We set up shop in the open area near the gazebo and I crashed out on the bed in the back. A hippie came over and talked to us, female, with a shaved head and super friendly. Mr. S went to her van, returning with three LSD tabs. Mr. S was stoked. Gonna save these for later. That evening, Mr. and Mrs. S argued. It was bad. He punched her till she squealed. I was scared. Hadn’t seen this until now. She walked down a bush track for respite and relief. We camped next to the gazebo, with Mr. and Mrs. S on the ground outside.

I had slept in, long into the sun bathed splendor of mid morning, undisturbed by the flooding summer sunlight. The warm and sultry air was a compelling opiate and I had felt plenteously safe in the womb of the foam mattress. Mr. S had been up for hours evidently and had obtained two bottles of port, one of which he had already finished. I’m takin the LSD he said. The two of them ingested the fluorescent, rectangular tabs. Here’s yours. I put it in the glove box, declining to participate. I was genuinely uncomfortable about what I’d witnessed the day before, the striking and abuse. I’m going to ditch the dodos, I resolved to myself. When the two of them went to the beach again for a swim, I removed all their gear onto the nature strip and bolted. Gone. Done. Outta here! I removed myself to the lookout and marveled at the breezy, sparkling seascape. Later, I went to the restaurant for dinner then slept by the sea. The next day I parked next to the petrol station. No money until Monday. Stuff it, gonna sleep more. I dossed down in the back. I looked at my phone. A few messages in message bank. I called 101. Adam you scummy mother fucker. Why’d you leave us here? Yes, I have your bowie knife and yes I’m gonna slit your throat with it when I find you, Mr. S declared with blood curdling conviction. I sighed in annoyance then snoozed. Then a tap at the window. Three police officers. I stepped out.

What’s up mister? We noticed you sleeping here. Yeah, no place to stay, I answered. Living in the car. We saw you with a couple of characters that are already stirring up trouble. Mr. and Mrs. S had obviously been remiss in their shoplifting or something to that effect. What’s your connection to them? I explained I’d given them a lift and had hung out for a few days. We want them gone, and you. I don’t have petrol. No money, you see. They checked my ID and said, we got this, we know this petrol station. They said please fill up to a value of one hundred dollars and beat it. I advised them that if they did have an altercation with Mr. S or made an attempt to apprehend him that he had a large bowie knife and may use it randomly whilst under the influence of psychoactive drugs. I filled up the car and drove away into the afternoon haze towards Melbourne, cranking the stereo and entirely pleased that I’d scored one hundred dollars of fuel, at the right price.