I’d booked a table by the fireplace and spent the working afternoon congratulating myself. I chuckled as I imagined Claire by the crackling flames melting into her Chesterfield, nursing a pepperminty Coonawarra cabernet, and smiling at me with involuntary, eternal appreciation. However, proudly marching us into the fireplace room, we stop and grimace as it’s more like a shopping centre café with severe, unforgiving lighting and utilitarian tables. It had less appeal than the pool chemicals aisle at Bunnings.
Stools were urgently pilfered, and we claimed a spot at the bar. With white wine and a Pirate Life ale (R) in front of us, we unwound into our visit and dissected the surroundings. The absences were gladly met. No TVs, no thumping house music, no maddening distractions. Just a pub bursting with punters. Occasionally, it’s elevating to be slap in the middle of the bellowing din, to be among boisterous strangers, and relish their anonymous shouting and thrumming oomph. A young, beardy man offered us oysters from a tray. ‘No, thanks,’ we chorused, glaring at the cold globs of snot.
Contrasting with the naked women artworks decorating the pub innards was an interesting image. ‘See that picture on the far wall,’ I said pointing like a self-pleased museum tour guide, ‘that’s similar to a famous album cover.’ Claire surrendered to my mansplaining, powerless. ‘It’s like the album Goo by Sonic Youth.’ A great record, the cover art’s inspired by Maureen Hindley and David Smith, key witnesses in the 1966 Moors Murders trial involving a couple of (crazy) Mancunian serial killers. ‘Thanks for that!’ Claire could’ve chirped.
We returned to our endeavours which, being a Friday approaching six o’clock, meant our second and final (boozer) drinks. Mystery Pub issues a license for us (Claire) to be alcoholically adventurous — this monthly boldness finds expression in cocktails. The arrival of a concocted refreshment is an event — her Long Island Iced Tea comes with aromatic New York cool and dreamy Gatsby evocations. Claire takes a purposeful sip. Then another. Her assessment: blah.
A camel plops in the desert, the caravan moves on.
Zinging along Greenhill Road and homeward bound (I wish I was) when a deplorably monstrous truck — a ute, to you and me, Gladys — veers into our lane. On its whale-sized rear bumper were two stickers. One read: Pray for America. Neither Claire nor I could tell if this came with irony or sincerity for Friday night, as we all know, is not the time for considered subtextual appraisals.
The other was for Alabama’s Crimson Tide — the college football team Forrest Gump played for — not a sticker you often spot on Adelaide utes. The Crimson Tide is mentioned by 1970’s act Steely Dan on their Aja album in the song ‘Deacon Blues.’ It’s about elegant failure and I thought of my fireplace booking and Claire’s Long Island Iced Tea. The chorus goes:
Learn to work the saxophone
I, I’ll play just what I feel
Drink Scotch whiskey all night long
And die behind the wheel
They got a name for the winners in the world
I, I want a name when I lose
They call Alabama the Crimson Tide
Call me Deacon Blues.
Safely home in my wicker chair, beer in hand, Aja spun on the turntable. ‘Deacon Blues’ glided about the living room — to my delight, if not Claire’s. Mystery Pub had begun at The Colonist, but we’d detoured to far-flung Americana. This was intriguing and soaring.
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About Mickey Randall
Now whip it into shape/ Shape it up, get straight/ Go forward, move ahead/ Try to detect it, it's not too late/ To whip it, whip it good
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Pretty sure the ‘bama sticker rules out the intentional use of irony.
Yep, fair call Greg A. I don’t have an American college football team but if I did it would probably be the Purdue Cornhuskers. Of course, this is based largely upon the exotic evocations of the name and West Lafayette location.
The Traveller section of The Age reveals that Passport Control at US Airports now requires visitors to disclose their Social Media passwords.
The Footy Almanac cannot be far behind. A known hotbed of dissent originated in the Peoples Republic of North Fitzroy. In alliance with Adelaide Festival Writers Week.
Fortunately your talent for ambiguity and nuance should still permit entry. Your piece might even serve as educational material at ICE agent training sessions.
Mickey R – Yes or No? Place crayon here.
Extra points for S&G reference.
Thanks, PB. I know a few people who’ve recently gone to the US and as advised they deleted their social media accounts. We’ve keen to drive Route 66 but might delay this until the current administration is done however, I suspect this could be irrelevant.
The words ‘irony’ and ‘America’ should not be uttered in the same sentence !!
Mickey I may call in to The Colonist especially in warmer weather to see if I can help the punters re reading wise at times
Of course, Smokie. The old rule! Among the most serious experiences of my life were going through customs in Washington at Dulles International (not a time for a joke) and hearing the national anthem at a bar in Anaheim just prior to closing time. I dared not also stand to blend in despite my misgivings!
Rulebook: my fondest memory of The Colonist is going in there late 90’s in the depths of winter and spying G. McIntosh at the bar nursing a stout and a cigar. It was freezing and he was wearing shorts and thongs. He was alone.