adamdaniel

Tales from the Punchbowl #9

Uber Lucky

I sat staring at four very fat gay men who were conversing in Mc Donald’s. One was bald, with big, round spectacles, clean shaven, and shovelling fries into his chomping mouth. The others were impressively hairy, as they were fat, all of them sporting a fantastic protrusion of beard, with hair on top that seemed to grow upwards, unaffected by the force of gravity. They were like four shaggy, overfed bears with a healthy abundance of fur. They were exchanging intimate strokes and gestures and caresses. I was perfectly intrigued as to the logistics of bedroom intimacy, thinking how freaking gnarly it would look, but then again that’s none of my business and as the old aphorism goes; where there’s a willy, there’s a way.

I finished my unhealthy meal and retired to the car park, my new Toyota waiting patiently, like a trusty steed at a saloon bar in the wild west. I yawned, stretched and removed my cherry coloured shoes, placing them on the step. There, in the glancing beams of neon street lights and rushing cars swinging into the drive through, I made my bed, the rear of the Estima a perfectly cosy place to hibernate for eight or nine hours. I pulled the covers over, my consciousness dwindling into soft repose, while the sure footed messengers of sleep whisked me into Neverland for another unknown journey. Ahh good. The world outside was no longer my prerogative. All the various planets that coordinate Melbourne life could continue their orbit through the night and into tomorrow, offering up a fresh, new morning as the fruit of their midnight labour.

The new morning was indeed a very fine offering from the black gloved hands of Nuit, the heavens soft and silver, with clouds like a billowing white blanket above. I drove to Port Melbourne and had an excellently oily breakfast at an Italian restaurant. Everything was cooked well, and I was given a complimentary newspaper to peruse while the coffee and eggs restored my sleepy constitution to life and perspicacity. Satiated, I drove further, to the seaside, and stopped, the rushing air of Port Phillip Bay whisking over the waves and plunging through the open doors of the car, like sporting sylphs. After a while, I got into the bed again, slamming the doors closed behind me, as the elements outside had added specks of rain to the wild air, which hit the skin like little darts. I jumped onto the Uber Eats app and started experimenting…

I invoked a credit card from years ago, now defunct, and attempted to buy something, anything, from the list. I selected KFC as an experiment. By some impossible freak of electronic happenstance, it worked. I let out a Mariah Carey squeal of glee. The birds outside thought I was talking to them directly such was the soprano pitch of my exclamation. Fifteen minutes later Natalia arrived on a bicycle with a three piece meal. Okay. Maybe this is just the beginning, I mused. I went to the alcohol section. I ordered five bottles of spirits, including gin, vodka and whisky, along with beer, champagne and wine. In thirty minutes my bounty of alcohol arrived. Okay Uber Eats, I’m going to go grocery shopping, I determined. I ordered a swag full of groceries from Coles, including gourmet items like smoked salmon and antipasto, as well as nice toiletries, shampoo, washing detergent and other various snacks, like muesli bars and fruit. I packed it all away nicely onto the car bed when it arrived. I say, by Jove, by my troth, by the saints above, by the star fish below, and the seagulls in the car park, I have been Uber lucky!

I drove off again, the various bottles clinking in the back, and somehow got lost on the West Gate Bridge. It’s huge, and I was stuck in sluggish traffic for ages. Those Docklands intersections and slip roads are a completely discombobulating spaghetti of options, as many would agree. After finally emancipating myself from the congested traffic, via a slip road, I ended up in Brunswick, on the cafe strip. Now, I affirmed to myself, I shall enter the guise of an alcohol salesman and alleviate my constipated cash flow. I stepped out onto the sidewalk and slicked my hair back. I said my American Beauty affirmation, “I will sell this booze today”. I spoke with enthusiasm as I interrupted various passers by, alerting them to the well priced alcohol in the back of my car. I had only a few takers, moderately interested, nonchalantly considering my wares, before declining to actually purchase anything. I was frustrated. I walked up the road and saw a girl struggling with a set of bags. I should offer her some help, I thought. I walked over to chat.

What are you up to? She asked. I’m trying to sell some alcohol, I said. What? She said curtly, pausing, attempting to process my answer. Then, after some scrutiny, she declared frankly, that’s exactly what I’m trying to do. Really? I said, very interested in my new bird of a feather, my new kindred spirit, my female doppelganger. Yeah, she went on. And I know where. I just don’t have transport. I know exactly where to sell alcohol. It’s guaranteed to sell, in fact. My eyes lit up like sparkling Christmas decorations. Mademoiselle! I am your chaperone! Your chauffeur! Your copilot in your mission! Pray let me assist you with those bags! I helped her to convey her three or four fairly weighty bags into the back of my car and we drove off.

As we headed to Campbellfield, she offered me a strawberry Mars bar as a gift. Milady, I accept, I said, demolishing the noxious confectionery as I navigated the darting Saturday night traffic. What is your name? I enquired. She stared at me blankly as she secured her fluffy black hat, which made her look Russian. Okay, I see. You don’t have to tell me. I’m Adam, anyway. I thought you were a fucking cop at first, she admitted, referring to the extended scrutiny she’d applied upon meeting me. No ma’am. I am nothing of the sort. Quite the contrary. I jettisoned my morals some years ago when I realised my parents were just a pair of lies. At her instruction, I pulled up at a set of shops with an open mall adjacent. It was pretty dark. Very dark, actually. Only a few strips of light here and there, angling across the paved area.

Get your liquor out – we’re going to sell it. My arms full with the bottles I’d elicited from Uber Eats earlier in the day, we walked towards a shop at the other end of the lightless mall. I could see bright white neon radiating from behind the windows. Only one shop open, a small distance away. Someone at a table outside pitched a bottle across the space and it smashed. A few random shouts ensued. My heart rate increased. I looked at my fluffy friend for assurance. She was unphased. Keep walking, she said. We got to the shop at the far end of the mall. We did not enter. On a table outside we plonked down our wares, setting it all out clearly.

The black fluffball, as she shall be named, produced several bottles of reserve bourbon, and I presented my array of vodka. The stout, dark eyed shop owner emerged with several friends. Inside there were a gaggle of Greeks in festive spirits playing poker, gambling away merrily. The owner surveyed the offerings, while his various side kicks looked on, interested in his reaction. How much? The black fluffball set her price. One hundred. And you? He said, looking at me squarely, referring to the bottles in front of me. Two hundred, I offered. Sold! He declared, his comrades pleased, and walked back into the shop. He returned moments later with the cash. He paid us both our asking price. The black fluffball smiled at me. Let’s go hun.

We departed that strange, black void and returned to the car. I drove the black fluffball home, an address near by. I texted her afterwards. Nice to meet you. If you’re in trouble let me know. In a state of fresh jubilation at the influx of cash, I filled up the car with fuel. Aww yes. That’s how it’s done, I gushed to myself, as 98 unleaded replenished my thirsty car. Free cash is the right price! I went for a big drive and landed in Glen Huntly. I slept outside a nice mansion. Quite a good area. Leafy green with manicured gardens. I drifted into sleep staring at the shady, vine-covered palisade. The next morning, I delivered the car to the mechanic in Coburg and lolled on the ground all day, looking at my phone, playing chess and drinking wine. By evening, the car was not finished and I was being unceremoniously consumed by mosquitoes. I borrowed a few dollars from friends and booked a motel.

I started walking to the train station, to get to the city. I stopped at a house on the way as my phone was dead. A shirtless character in army khakis was in the garage, hanging out with five large and exceptionally fluffy cats. Can I use your power point a few minutes? Sure thing bro. I marvelled at the potential of his feline comrades to generate their own electric field or power supply to the suburb by dint of their sheer capacity for static charge. Thanks! I said, and left.

There was shouting nearby. What’s going on? I wondered. I walked a few hundred metres and stared. A car had cornered someone up against the fence of an industrial area. I heard a long, protracted scream. Hey! Get in! Get in! More shouting. I walked straight up to the scene, other side of the fence. What is going on? I demanded. Can I help you? Said the car driver. He’s a retard – down syndrome. I looked at the pudgy character up against the fence, the car lights on him like a roo, and he returned my stare. Indeed. A mongoloid boy was attempting to escape the clutches of his family. We love him, they said. We’re trying to get him into the car. I was convinced and left. Such a strange sight, I sighed as I walked off. I made it to the city and slept in a wonderfully comfortable motel bed, dreaming of danish pastries and large women.