Spiritual Refreshment

4 minute read
Steve Waterson

If the curtains drawn against the daylight didn’t ring a warning bell, the grilles covering the windows should have. But after 300 km in the glare of the Western Australian sun, the only thing to do is ditch the car, head for the nearest pub and dive into a frosty beer. Dive is the word. Up the steps, through a wooden door into a neon-lit room with battered furniture, dog racing on a couple of TVs, a pool table in an alcove illuminated by the cold blue light used in public toilets to discourage intravenous drug users.

Most of the four dozen drinkers look to be in their forties and fifties, men with hard resentful faces and the kind of haircuts and beards that you see when the police blankets slip; a few younger lads have surf-bleached hair and sinewy muscles. They are drinking and smoking at the bar with iron determination. Empty glasses lie on their sides on the beer mats and are swiftly retrieved and refilled by the only two women in the room, one middle-aged with cold eyes, the other a pretty blonde in her early 20s. Raymond Chandler might have described her as “stacked.”

The men are dressed in the bush uniform of thick check lumberjack shirts or denim, but it is the young girl’s outfit that catches the eye. She is nonchalantly wearing a plunging bra under a tiny knitted opera jacket, and around her hips is a sarong made, it appears, out of a doll’s handkerchief. By her accent she is from some Nordic land, but you sense the locals wouldn’t welcome an outsider’s attempt to chat to her.

A frowning Aborigine approaches the bar, complaining that he’s put money in the jukebox but can’t hear his song. The older woman nods toward a wall-mounted TV, where the greyhounds are in their traps at Warrnambool. “No music till the dogs are finished,” she says. Her young colleague is now circling the bar clutching a large glass jug, coins and notes beginning to fill it. “You have some money for my jar, please?” she says. Presuming she relies on tips, you drop in a couple of bucks.

Moments later, the older barmaid slaps green paper napkins on the bar in front of her customers. “You’re gonna get fed,” she announces. In the corner of the service area, the blonde seems to be having some trouble with her upper clothing, and a barman is gallantly helping her. Out of the kitchen comes a giant silver tray of chicken wings, and the young lady emerges from behind the bar to offer around the tasty appetizers. Except now she’s topless. Ah, so that’s what the tip jar was for.

There are no whistles or catcalls. The rough-looking mob of drinkers are almost comically polite, fighting the urge to look anywhere but straight into the girl’s eyes as they take their food. “I have chilli and satay,” she smiles, and moves on. After two circuits of the bar, she pops her things back on and resumes drinks service as though nothing has happened. A grubby, grizzled old man nudges the stranger to say goodbye. “What about that, eh? I was f___in’ waitin’ for that. Gotta go for me f___in’ tea; me f___in’ missus is waitin’ in the car.” The walk back to the motel passes the grandeur of St. Francis Xavier Cathedral; between the rooftops come glimpses of the eternal flame in the memorial to hmas Sydney. It’s 7:15 on a Wednesday night, and time for alcohol-inspired reflection on the nobility of man.

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