adamdaniel

Tales From the Punchbowl #16

Please Leave the Room

I sat surveying the dynamic sky – swathes of cloud in leaden tone, pregnant with the fire of electricity and ice of stony hail, cartwheeled over a wind-ravaged sea. Queensland’s heavens are an endlessly unstable affair, dashing lightning at whim and pouring down rain from hidden buckets in shirt-drenching displays of sudden temper. Deep greys, like thick concrete, meld into veils of twirling white with impressive contrast and speed, morphing like ghosts and looming ominously above a grey-blue Coral Sea. The sky proudly wields an apocalyptic armoury, commanding earnestness and reverence in any onlooker. Such was the supercharged morning beguiling my attention now, all the elements in smorgasbord array, wheeling spectacularly and delivering a bold smoke-and-mirrors spectacle in unstoppable evanescence, saying, in great gusto and heavy breaths, “I am the energy of God and fear nothing”.

I had completed one week of ad hoc handyman work in an impressive mansion perched on the Terranora ridge, a double story residence rendered in terracotta tones, with a sort of Tuscany ambience – ornamental tiling, plush furniture and a collection of art to satisfy any gallery owner or genuine enthusiast, incorporating visions of the African continent and wildlife, skilfully crafted sculptures and dolls, along with nostalgia in the form of plaques and black and white photographs. Their taste was impeccable. I had to stay my own hand from the temptation to take gratuitous numbers of photographs. Catching glimpses of the impressively vast open vista below, the landscape like a greener version of California, I replumbed their pool pump, designed and built a mobile pump box from aluminium composite plate and painted old lampshades in slick satin gold. Each night, after being paid in cash, I would head to Hanks, Kirra Beach, and chat to the Brazilian barkeep, sampling every variety of margarita on their relatively pricey menu. I learned that Hanks bar was named after a German shepherd of remarkable personality and verve, the focus of much human love and adoration. I looked respectfully at the black and white picture of the bar’s namesake, Hank, wishing the gifted canine a happy sleep in eternity.

Now, on this newly birthed Saturday, I wanted to get away, having approximated the basic semblance of a working week. I desire a holiday into Queensland’s emerald near distance, was my thinking. I zipped up the aluminium-infused fabric forming the walls of my fibreglass James Baroud rooftop tent, plucking my eyes from the mesmerising vision of the sea, and barrelling onto the Pacific Motorway – the very same route we’d traversed as a family attending World Expo thirty-seven years previous. I drove steadily in the indomitable 79 series, the hum of the V8 like a form of hypnotism, making for Beerwah, a town about an hour north of Brisbane. As I drove, I enjoyed impressions of thickly hung vines, sky-enamoured branches dressed in capes of greenery, and grass so redolent with chlorophyll as to make any bovine salivate in overbrimming lust. I followed signs for Australia Zoo, brave Steve Irwin’s haven for toothy creatures of the deep and slithering reptiles, which look like they desire tongue kisses and conversation at every moment. Bus loads of tourists are delivered into their competent hands to witness the Irwin legacy in action – the human-crocodile waltz, the snake-twirling performed with sleight of hand, the high-splashing water and daring do of Robert and company.

I pulled into the town of Beerwah. At the corner, at the main set of traffic lights, there is an old weatherboard house standing in total nakedness, perfectly visible from all directions, with no fence. You can see everything; the washing swaying on the line, time worn gardening equipment, the curious entrance to the cellar, rusted metal doors, the peeling white paint, the evidence of decades of existence under romping Queensland weather. The edifice is placed in stark view of bird and beast, and passing traffic, like a display home, though it is not one, with the plot opening to a paddock of luscious grass and open air. I stared for some minutes, captivated, transported back in time. It captured the ambience of the house from which Forest and Jenny flee to pray to God to be transformed into birds in order to enjoy egress from the perilous and jarring unfriendliness of reality. I drove around the corner and dozed in my rooftop a while, finishing a deep bag of corn chips before segueing into a languid midday flirtation with sleep and her ever-inviting troop of fairies.

Upon waking, I drove up into the hills, looking out silently over the massive expanse spread below, veritably a land for dinosaurs or prehistoric beasts, hazy in aspect and comprising sharp jutting landforms – the Glasshouse Mountains – consisting of trachyte and rhyolite in combinations that sometimes resemble ripples or the stripes of a tiger. The sight of a triceratops casually perusing the expanse would not render surprise in the slightest. I peeked into the entrance of Mary Cairncross park, such a pretty window into the tropical flora that Australia puts on display with total aplomb. Up the hill further and then a downward wind to Maleny. I had been here twenty years previous, I remembered, but the recollections were indistinct. I’m hungry, I ascertained suddenly and entered “public barbecue” into Google maps. I navigated accordingly by the prompts of the well-spoken woman that lives inside the phone. I pulled up at the local park, which includes barbecues, tables and amenities, lumbering out of the Landcruiser and stretching my aching back.

Before I had much of a chance to retrieve my charity-sourced provisions, magnanimously gifted by Vibe Church, Tweed, I heard a sharp and jovial voice. Is it Saturday or Scatterday? What? I baulked, looking around feverishly for the origin of this quip. You heard me. Is it Saturday or Scatterday? I walked directly up to the comedic voice once I had fixed my vision on the source, a somewhat dishevelled character, young, shirtless, and holding a Bundaberg rum can, wishing to jolt my thinking (with a very perplexing question). My friend, I confessed, given that my navigational compass was irreparably damaged in the panicky fray of 2020, I can confirm with certainty that it is indeed Scatterday, an epithet even more apposite given my post-sleep propensity to inattention. He chuckled, revealing a big smile and an evident problem of toothlessness. Name’s Job. I’m a stumper. I stump houses and do foundations and other tradie work. You know those Irwins at Australia Zoo? I do some of their roofing. We’re away for a celebratory weekend. What are you up to? I’m about to stuff my face with barbecued onions and tinned spaghetti. Do you care to join me? He lit up at the solicitous invitation, twisting around to yell at his missus. You wanna feed, darlin? His long-haired partner was standing casually next to a blue sedan, kids inside. On second thoughts, he mused, proffering a Bundaberg rum can, how about you join us? I got a sweet motel booked. Spare bed. You want it? We’ll party the fuck down. Okay, sure, I agreed. Maleny hotel. Follow us there…

I clambered back into the red-streaked 79 series Landcruiser, my pride and joy, envisioning crisp sheets and milky pillows and nicely stacked sachets of coffee as my immediate future. I smiled at this new intercession of serendipity. In my reverie, I almost hit a frilled-necked lizard, managing to avoid it, the noisy V8 prompting the reptile to a flurry of movement and wind-up-toy legs gone berserk, the lizard scampering up a driveway in mad abandon. My eyes could not help a brief smile at the unwieldy contraption that is the frilled-neck lizard. They are such funny creatures to witness. This’ll be good, I mused, chugging on my rum, this will be most agreeable. We pulled up in the car park. Job’s partner, Sapphie, retrieved her two children from the back seat. They were gorgeous kids, one blue-eyed toddler, Elle, and a brown-eyed boy of about four, sucking a dummy, Ford. These are my lil tackers, Job declared proudly, picking up the drowsy Ford and displaying him to me enthusiastically, the kid gobbing on his well-used pacifier as he examined me with his walnut eyes. I smiled affectionately at these pristine children, noting the brimming joy inside them, the satisfied sparkle in Elle’s sweet eyes, the abiding glee in Ford’s chest. They are a veritable achievement Sapphie, I declared plainly. She smiled handsomely and in clear pleasure, pleased with the compliment. Let’s go, Job ushered, pointing towards the historic hotel. I glanced around at the well-lit garden, stepping up the wooden stairs and inside to the upper room they had paid $550 for, for two nights. Considering the expansive dimensions and pleasant view, along with the historic vibe, they had done well. This is your bed, Job said, pointing out the neatly presented bed in the corner.

I slumped down on the lounge chair, relaxing, drinking rum, and witnessing the children in their natural mode – having fun. Elle and Ford were a dynamic duo and raced around on the carpet like it was their personal racetrack. I smiled at their clumsy exuberance. Job was pleased and in good cheer, glad to be showing off to me, but there lurked a strange nervousness in his demeanour also and I knew something wasn’t right. Still, I was undeterred. I had brought some provisions with me from the car and put these at their disposal. Sapphie – these avocados and bread are for you, and these bananas are for the kids. Please, help yourself. Thanks kindly, sir, she acknowledged, peeling back two bananas and proffering them to the sprightly children, who, in minutes, had consumed them completely and were both rendered with a frill of yellow goo for their efforts. Job was determined to make merriment and danced with his kids to music, and I was duly elated, a happy witness to this energetic display of fatherly joie de vivre. After putting on the television for the benefit of the kids, to keep them occupied, and making some small talk, Job brought the conversation to the pith of the matter. I’m going to jail in a week he told me with a quavering voice, his eyes forlorn. Ahh, I noted. I am sorry. Is it decided conclusively? Indeed, sir, there is no hope – absolutely none. I’m fucked. I see, I said, looking at him squarely, the effervescence of the prior minutes suddenly replaced by biting melancholy and mutual destitution. I am a father for but fleeting seconds; this is a dalliance, this weekend, a frivolity soon to escape like a vapour. Soon these innocent souls, Elle and Ford, new to the gift of life, will only know the semblance of male love via their extended family, which, inevitably, will be sporadic only. The depth of my sympathy made him baulk. You’ll make me cry, you terror. I considered privately that a river of tears would assist him immensely, considering the concentration of hurt dwelling within. Sapphie is quite beside herself with anxiousness, he went on, bereft.

What happened, I asked frankly. Someone very much provoked me. They fucked around and found out, as did I, he noted with wry humour. I will not divulge the background in any gratuitous extent, but let’s just say I will be eligible for parole on the charge of grievous bodily harm in one year. I lost a tooth, he said, baring the stark gap in his smile, but my provocateur lost his entire face. It needs to be rebuilt from scratch – that’s how brutally angry I was. I gulped nervously in dismayed horror. He was in complete earnest. My imagination briefly entertained impressions of the altercation, flailing weapons, irate words, and a gang of people inept to placate the combatants. I spoke as comfortingly as I could. I’m so sorry my friend. Those kids of yours are cute as. He sank in woe. I love them to infinity, he whimpered. Look, look, he stammered, bustling forwards, baring the knuckles of his hands. Both the names of his children consisted of four letters, and both hands were tattooed accordingly. On the digits of his left hand, E L L E, and of his right, F O R D. Let’s drink, he said, unable to contemplate his situation any longer. More rum and bottles of beer were procured for this slightly mad and downright tragic moment. Harbouring a sort of excruciating pity, I enthused and clapped as he danced again with his children, Job clasping them in a sort of forced delight, moving merrily to the music and speaking to them dotingly. Oh how I longed for this space to resemble something of unadulterated good cheer, rather than the present thin varnish of happiness plastered over an impending calamity. Surely a family as cute and affectionate as this deserved a reprieve and uninhibited happiness. Then again – the law is the law and I would probably recoil in nausea were I to learn the actual facts.

Job sat down again on the couch, pursuing a brighter line of conversation. I try to inspire myself to resilience and toughness via historical personages and fighters of note from Australian history. Fighters? I queried. Yeah, boxers. My most cherished book – and I have a signed copy – is Fighters of the North, by Bob Power. It illustrates the culture of boxing —the camaraderie, the bravado, the bravery— that defined the boxing circuits of northern New South Wales in the late nineteenth century. These boxers engaged in various formats of fisticuffs as a type of masculine culture, expressing brawn, showmanship, resilience and all out guts in the boxing pavilions of the Hunter Valley and surrounds. Characters of note include, Paddy Slavin, Paddy King, Bill Squires and the Boy Darcy. They represent salt of the earth grit and stamina and I manage to restore my own will to live by contemplating their temerity and gall. I invite the spirit of the intrepid boxer to dwell in me that I might conquer any given adversary or voice of despair. I knock my fists together, think on their will to fight, and I punch on. Interesting, I mused, the ambit of my historical knowledge unacquainted with this aspect of Australia’s colourful past. I gleaned a quick impression of the cover of the book from Google. Job held up a swarthy can of Bundaberg in cheers and insisted, “never give up – simply do not do it”. I smiled with a twinkle at this pithy tenet.

We descended to the garden. Maleny Hotel is nicely manicured and by night glows prettily with fairy lights and the ambience of a well-kept homestead. We’ll shout, he offered. We sat down to duck pizza and beer, while the kids capered around on the grass. Do you ascribe any reality or relevance to the business of witchcraft, he queried. A strange question, which hit me from out of left field. Well, of course I do, I replied readily. It’s generally the misuse of divine light – the employment of occult strategies to render some manner of selfish or egotistical outcome, eschewing Jesus with some ulterior motive. Well, he informed me, there was a witchcraft racket shut down not far from here – all sorts of black business were exposed, a multifaceted and organised attempt to garner power and influence by bending the heavens with magic, and it included physical trappings too, possessions, resources, property, assets. In fact, while I do not subscribe to that brand of godlessness, I do have an ointment which they made and I love it. He pulled a small vial from his pocket. Here – rub this on your wrists and neck. See what you think. I inspected the curious container. The title of the oil was, “Murder is Not OK, N.M.I.” Reading the label, I learned that it included coconut oil, lily oil, blue lotus essential oil, and black musk. Upon hitting my olfactive senses I deemed it quite delectable. It’s wonderful, I said, handing it back. Strange to consider a man of such bravado, with a fierce love of boxing, as an enthusiast for perfume and unexpected tinctures. Elle fidgeted in her kiddy seat. May I? I questioned, looking over. Sure thing, Sapphie encouraged. I picked up the bouncing, blue eyed princess from her seat and bobbed soothingly to calm her. She was perfectly entertained, examining me with the odd giggle and smile. Here I held a precious innocence, more valuable than all the remedial elixirs and medicines concocted in time’s great vault. Youth is indeed the only thing worth having, as Oscar Wilde observed.

Back in our room, we settled down for the night. Sapphie tucked the children into bed while soothing music was piped through the Bluetooth speaker. I lay in my nicely presented bed playing chess, a game I still succumb to on regular occasions. Job strode over bearing a heavy metal T-shirt in his tattooed hands. Behold, my signed Angels shirt. They live in the same Valhalla as ACDC and I worship them with the same avidity as a religious zealot. Australian rock sports the biggest dick, in my opinion. Okay, I said agreeably. The Angels are an iconic band. Every member signed. That is perfectly awesome, I agreed, having played the song ‘Longline’ in my pub band back in Perth. Oh, I know The Angels, I rejoined with hearty cheer. We had sundry bikers dancing in Kwinana tavern to their music. While on the subject, Job said, my mum is at a concert tonight. Jelly Roll. He’s excellent. I am aware of Jelly Roll, I noted in response. He made a five-million-dollar donation in the interests of helping the homeless of his hometown in America – Nashville, Tennessee to be exact. Well, Job said proudly, my mom has VIP tickets. She’s going to make his acquaintance this very evening. Haha, I laughed. I wish that was me. What a neat experience!

My eyes opened sharply to a curt voice at 3:30 am. In unexpected discombobulation, I processed the data. Please leave the room. I turned and looked up. Job was there looking at me, eyes bright. What? Are you okay? What’s up? Bro – this is the last moment before my unhappy incarceration. As you are aware, the law has a claim on my ghost and I will be in the straight jacket of their keeping very shortly. I want you to leave the room so I can root my missus. Very well, sir, I said respectfully. As you wish. I stumbled to my feet awkwardly and lumbered down the hall. I plucked a book from the bookcase and perused the nicely constructed prose for some fourty five minutes, my sleep addled mind determined to fathom the narrative and style of the randomly selected material. I leaned onto the door in the wee hours of the morning. It’s all good, Job confirmed, having executed his amorous plan with success. I slumped into bed and lost consciousness.

I awoke to the gentle prompt of the morning sun, the dawn bathing my face in ethereal grey. I looked out the window at the old RSL club which stood stalwartly on Bunya Street. They were all in a rush. The kids were hopping around exuberantly, and Job was adamant to sequester his possessions in their proper bags. I lolled awkwardly, semi-conscious, in the aftermath of pizza, beer, rum, perfume and broken sleep. I spied those beautiful children darting about and smiled at their lively presence. Haha. What wonders they are, children, apt to remedy any brand of adult disgruntlement in seconds. I sat upright, the covers over my lap. Job was thankful. Well, my dear fellow, I thank you graciously for your friendship and, with an aching heart, yet with the indomitable will to persevere, as modelled by Australia’s finest boxers, I bid you adieu. Job, Sapphie; thankyou so much for this unanticipated boon. I’m glad I met you. I wish you unbending endurance for the coming year, I said, gulping back an involuntary infusion of raw emotion. I know undoubtedly you will both conquer this mountain and these bright children of yours will again be gazing upon their biological parents with fondness and the unquenchable fire of love. Honestly – thank you for your generosity. Here’s the key, Job offered. Just bung it in the box downstairs when you leave. I slept soundly for another few hours before hopping in my cruiser. As I drove back to Coolangatta, I meditated thoughtfully on the lives of the boxers of the Hunter Valley and their pioneering characters, pitted against multivarious adversaries, from the perilous ring to the grind of poverty, to the ravenous weather pounding inclemenly on their lives, and those echoing words Job had espoused, “never give up – simply do not do it”.