DRY ARGUMENT
Posted: Tue May 03, 2011 9:02 am
DRY ARGUMENT
by Maureen Clifford © 24/09/10
It was one of those towns that if you blinked you missed it.
Spanning both sides of the highway – miles from anywhere but close to somewhere. Baking in the hot midday heat out on the mulga plains - where the heat haze shimmering off the bitumen created mirages of lakes in the distance. A couple of black crows stalked across the road towards their lunch – a ragged putrefying bloated mound of roadkill.
Telegraph poles marched relentlessly onwards as far as the eye could see – each connected to his neighbour by wire shackles – their only means of communication. Termite mounds stood on their North South axis like decaying monoliths of a forgotten age, casting barely a shadow at this time of day.
It was like a ghost town. Empty spaces waiting for the end – which was nearly here from the look of the place. One service station – closed now – with its pump rusted and dry and its windows boarded up. Red sand thick across its forecourt and the sign dangling askew at a rakish angle advertising, petrol, cold beer, meat pies- last for 300 kilometres.
A red phone box stood empty, minus phone - with all its glass panes shattered. On the other side of the highway stood the pub – a run down, paint starved, lackluster building. Iron roof red with rust, dust covered trees and shrubs limp and listless around its perimeter. Weatherboards sagging, verandah posts listing as if it too had given up all hope.
A dog – thin, brown, nondescript lay on the verandah in the shade – flat out like a lizard drinking and too lazy to stir his stumps. The old fellow sitting on the bench behind him said a few mumbled words that I didn't catch. “G'day Mate – is the beer good and cold?' I asked him as I bent to fondle the old dogs’ ear. I guess he didn't hear me as he began to stumble and fall down the three steps to the beer garden. Oh well – maybe he was a solitary type.
I entered the bar – the shade offering welcome relief to the 40 degrees outside. It was clean enough – shabby and run down. Brown carpet, brown walls, brown upholstery – kind of colour coordinated with the dog, Serviceable like – didn't show the dirt and god knows there was plenty of that – acres and acres in every direction.
“What can I get you Mate?” asked the bloke behind the bar. I figured it was a rhetorical question – doubt they did champagne cocktails here. “Just a beer and a couple of pies will do Mate. Bloody hot today.” The beer duly arrived. Cold, wet, light golden with a froth of foam on top. Nectar of the Gods. Condensation beaded the glass and left a ring of moisture on the wooden slabbed bar top. A fly crawled up to it and started to drink – never let a chance go by.
The Pies looked good. Homemade, big, meaty puff pastry encased cholesterol raisers. Gravy rich and brown oozed from their sides and they smelt divine. I was going to take a bite. A big bite and wash it down with the beer. It doesn't get any better than this I thought.
Tucker finished, thirst quenched and it was back to business – didn't really look forward to this but it had to be done. No sentiment in business so they say and no doubt the old bloke had known it was coming. Bit of a shame though but ever since the new highway had bypassed the old town things had been heading on a downward spiral. Custom had fallen off – hardly any one used this road any more – beer sales were down You know how it goes.
“Sorry Mate” I said handing him the envelope “but this here is the message from the Brewery. They won’t renew your liquor license – not enough beer being sold here now.” He knew it was the end – no way you can keep a pub with no beer going.
He took it rather well I thought, took it like a man - on the chin. " Have another Beer Mate" he said "No good letting what's left go to waste" and he put two tall glasses of amber nectar on the bar between us.
by Maureen Clifford © 24/09/10
It was one of those towns that if you blinked you missed it.
Spanning both sides of the highway – miles from anywhere but close to somewhere. Baking in the hot midday heat out on the mulga plains - where the heat haze shimmering off the bitumen created mirages of lakes in the distance. A couple of black crows stalked across the road towards their lunch – a ragged putrefying bloated mound of roadkill.
Telegraph poles marched relentlessly onwards as far as the eye could see – each connected to his neighbour by wire shackles – their only means of communication. Termite mounds stood on their North South axis like decaying monoliths of a forgotten age, casting barely a shadow at this time of day.
It was like a ghost town. Empty spaces waiting for the end – which was nearly here from the look of the place. One service station – closed now – with its pump rusted and dry and its windows boarded up. Red sand thick across its forecourt and the sign dangling askew at a rakish angle advertising, petrol, cold beer, meat pies- last for 300 kilometres.
A red phone box stood empty, minus phone - with all its glass panes shattered. On the other side of the highway stood the pub – a run down, paint starved, lackluster building. Iron roof red with rust, dust covered trees and shrubs limp and listless around its perimeter. Weatherboards sagging, verandah posts listing as if it too had given up all hope.
A dog – thin, brown, nondescript lay on the verandah in the shade – flat out like a lizard drinking and too lazy to stir his stumps. The old fellow sitting on the bench behind him said a few mumbled words that I didn't catch. “G'day Mate – is the beer good and cold?' I asked him as I bent to fondle the old dogs’ ear. I guess he didn't hear me as he began to stumble and fall down the three steps to the beer garden. Oh well – maybe he was a solitary type.
I entered the bar – the shade offering welcome relief to the 40 degrees outside. It was clean enough – shabby and run down. Brown carpet, brown walls, brown upholstery – kind of colour coordinated with the dog, Serviceable like – didn't show the dirt and god knows there was plenty of that – acres and acres in every direction.
“What can I get you Mate?” asked the bloke behind the bar. I figured it was a rhetorical question – doubt they did champagne cocktails here. “Just a beer and a couple of pies will do Mate. Bloody hot today.” The beer duly arrived. Cold, wet, light golden with a froth of foam on top. Nectar of the Gods. Condensation beaded the glass and left a ring of moisture on the wooden slabbed bar top. A fly crawled up to it and started to drink – never let a chance go by.
The Pies looked good. Homemade, big, meaty puff pastry encased cholesterol raisers. Gravy rich and brown oozed from their sides and they smelt divine. I was going to take a bite. A big bite and wash it down with the beer. It doesn't get any better than this I thought.
Tucker finished, thirst quenched and it was back to business – didn't really look forward to this but it had to be done. No sentiment in business so they say and no doubt the old bloke had known it was coming. Bit of a shame though but ever since the new highway had bypassed the old town things had been heading on a downward spiral. Custom had fallen off – hardly any one used this road any more – beer sales were down You know how it goes.
“Sorry Mate” I said handing him the envelope “but this here is the message from the Brewery. They won’t renew your liquor license – not enough beer being sold here now.” He knew it was the end – no way you can keep a pub with no beer going.
He took it rather well I thought, took it like a man - on the chin. " Have another Beer Mate" he said "No good letting what's left go to waste" and he put two tall glasses of amber nectar on the bar between us.
