Almanac Fiction: Swifty Taylor and the Errant Husband (Episode 4)

 

Episode 4 – Corporates and Cane Toads

 

The room was large and murkily lit. On a small podium up the front stood a besuited man who was busily pointing at graphs and spouting off financial slogans that made not one iota of sense to me. I struggled to follow the thread of his speech, but words like “investment”, “opportunities”, and “dividends” regularly popped their heads up. At times, I felt myself drifting off, daydreaming about the television shows of my childhood, with Charlie Brown’s teacher particularly prevalent: “wah wah wah wah, wah-wah, wah-wah”.

 

 

In another time, I suspect that this man would have been arrested for attempting to sell snake oil to the poor and unsuspecting. Or tarred and feathered by a pitchfork wielding crowd and run out of town. The audience consisted of roughly one hundred people, mainly men, who were making like they were enthralled by the tired ideas and fake enthusiasm. They were all here not to listen to symposiums, but to enjoy a few days of tax-deductable enjoyment in the tropics. I was not yet sure if the devil was preparing a space for me in hell, but I was damn certain that Lucifer himself was reserving special places for most of those in attendance.

 

A few rows in front of me, clad in a Panama hat and a white open-necked shirt, sat Max McDonald, looking a little like the incarnation of Somerset Maugham, but without the Singapore sling. He didn’t even pretend to be interested in the suit on the podium. His attention was directed solely at the person perched to his left, and I couldn’t blame him. The woman had long dark hair, and was sitting so close to him that she could well have been atop his knee like a ventriloquist’s dummy. I was near enough to be able to study her closely, and could see that she was no dummy. In fact, had Gerry Gee copped an eyeful of this lady, his little wooden head might really have come to life. There was no attempt to disguise their flirting, so I happily obliged them by discreetly snapping a few photographs for my client, Max’s wife.

 

 

After what seemed like a month, some of the crowd applauded, not for the content but in appreciation that the lecture was over. Most stood to take their leave, and I did not hesitate to follow suit. Max and his girlfriend were just ahead of me, shuffling out toward the day. Outside, a young man in a singlet – obviously a backpacking type – was handing out cards. I saw Max grab one, so I veered toward the lad and accepted one also. “Cane Toad Racing. Tonight at the Mad Mouse” read the script. I had heard rumours about this amphibious spectacle and admit that I was interested in taking a look. Maybe I might be lucky enough to see Max there. But first, I really needed new clothes – some clobber that might assist me in blending in with these foreign surroundings.

 

I was never a picky shopper, so I let the assistant make all the decisions. She fussed about while I squinted out through the windows. I sniffed the air. I was no Rob Gell, but it felt as if the weather might be changing. The busy shop assistant returned with two floral shirts, and a pair of chinos. She suggested a pair of shorts too, but I baulked. I wasn’t a ten year old boy. Next, in order of proceedings, were a shower, a change into my new outfit, and a kebab washed down with a Jameson. I was beginning to feel like a brand new Swifty.

 

 

The ‘Mad Mouse’ was not much more than a giant tin shed with a long bar running down one side. It was only 7pm, yet the place was heaving with patrons of all shapes, sizes, and nationalities. The United Nations should really take note of bars like this – everyone dancing and singing along to the INXS track that was blasting out through the speakers. I felt a little more at ease: in my game, the last thing you wanted was to stick out like a sore thumb. I sensed a presence behind me, and before I could turn there was a tap on my shoulder. It was the girl from Café Diva, and she looked me up and down, nodded approvingly, and smiled broadly. She touched my shirt collar. “You look like a new pin,” she declared. “I’m trying my best,” I responded, and quickly added “Can I buy you a drink?” She pretended to consider the question and then answered in the affirmative. “Wait here, I’ll be back in a minute.”

 

 

I squirmed my way through the mass of bodies, and finally found myself at the bar, standing beside a figure who was screaming into his phone. Up close, his Panama hat looked slightly worse for wear. As did he.

 

 

You can read more from Smokie (and about Swifty Taylor) HERE

 

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