Walked by the local today. The smell of stale beer lurched into the street like a sleazy drunk. The sweet yeasty aroma caught in the back of my throat causing my top lip to curl with discontent. It reminded me of my childhood; congregating in the pub after a long winters day at the local footy. My brother and I, along with any number of school friends who happened to be in the same boat, wandered like aliens amidst the tall oaks that were other adults. We small things clutched bags of salt and vinegar chips, and carefully weaved our way through a forest of denim swathed legs, mindful to steer clear of those with drinks in hand, so as to avoid a dousing of sticky beverage down the back of our shirt collars.From the mere smell wafting from the local, I could imagine the decor inside: dart board on one wall, an orchestra of alto voices rumbling incoherently like a turbulent sea. The only recognisable word being an intermittently barked "FUCK", which always seems to beam out from a jumble of mixed voices like a search light onto unsuspecting thieves. In my mind's eye, I could see the bar: a Johnny Walker mirror gleaming in front of a terry towelling swathed counter top. The mirror reflects an organised line of glass bottles filled with the full spectrum of colourful tonics, and captures the movements of fellow patrons; those drinking, those queuing to buy the next round and those leaning on the bar with no other purpose than to be swallowed up by the transient crowd, in an effort to feel less lonely.
The carpet on the ground is dark, with an unsightly geometric pattern of the likes never seen in any domestic arena. It's pattern blares over creaking floor boards, and although ugly, is appreciated for its practicality and effectiveness in disguising peanut kernels, chip crumbs, dirt, spilled drink and vomit.
Like the expected cuckoo bird from a German clock, a scruffy bloke staggers through the heavy wooden pub door - the sign says "saloon". He flinches at the bright sunlight. He did not shave his beard this morning. The man's uniform suggests he has probably been on a construction site of some sort. He wears Rossi boots smeared with the remnants of dried clay, and navy Yakka work trousers that sag in the behind, due to the absence of an arse.
Thinking back to the pub in my memory, I half expect a similar crowd enjoying the sociable atmosphere inside the local - leathery, mulletted, and for more than a few, sparse of tooth. There was a friendly coarseness about these blokes- the epitome of rural masculinity. They were harmless enough though - laugh out loud type of blokes; "she'll be right ya old bastard" type of blokes; take it on the chin type of blokes, comrades; diggers, mates. I smile at the thought.
As the pub door swings to a close, a great gust of stale beer air hurtles in my direction. It is pungent, sickening, overwhelming; not unlike unwashed urinals in an all boys high school. I move along, considering it no mere coincidence that these two amber fluids should share the same euphemism.
