Scanning the menu at a Thai restaurant in Camberwell. Already moderately liquored up on gin. "Everything looks so good," comments the off-duty senior constable on the opposite side of the floral centrepiece. The group agree, pointing out a variety of their preferred dishes. Not considering my pallet learned enough to make a dinner choice which will directly affect the enjoyment of my company and possibly get my car impounded if I happen to select a spice that disagrees with the two commanding officers, I renounce my dish, "I'll be honest with you, guys, I don't mind what we eat, I'm happy for you to decide, but if I don't see the alcohol menu soon I fear my jokes may seem as to dull to me as they are to all of you." McKenzie, understanding the severity of spending an evening completely dry while discussing the prices of white goods and comparative carpet colours quickly searches for the precious list. He's been in this situation before, he knows what can happen to a man when forced to give his opinion on bedside dressers in the latest Ikea catalogue while completely sober; like the
McKenzie's white fearful face, "I can't find it," he cries. He searches under the table in vain attempt that I know to be folly, but investigates with his know-how that has given him one of the Eastern suburbs leading arrest records. McKenzie's shaking finger pointing to the back of my menu which I've been rereading in hope it's transformed to include cocktails. The mocking laugh of the restaurant goes inaudible to the other patrons, but which McKenzie and myself hear like the Overlook hotel in The Shining when we recognise the most hurtful three-lettered curse the unprepared diner dreads they'll ever run into - B.Y.O. An oak tree that has lived for a thousand years collapses in a forest somewhere.
McKenzie showing the glazed, disbelieving eyes of a man who has just lost his only child to a rouge gangland bullet. Although air raises my chest to remind my body I am indeed alive, my heart has ceased pumping blood throughout my veins. It's all over. We're done. I don't recall seeing a bottle shop on either side of the street. I think McKenzie's about to cry when his better half consoles us, "Oh, well, a night without alcohol can't be all that bad, it'll do you both some good." Although the others can't see them, tears are rushing down the poor sap's face. I do all I can to stop myself from breaking down. We order and wait in silence for our food.
McKenzie in a burst of brilliance that reminds me why he's one of my dearest friends, "I might just take a walk and have a quick look if there's store nearby." But the mad bomber is always one step ahead of us, "I didn't see a any bottle shops on the street," she says echoing our fears. Did she plan this? Is this an ambush? Why? I'll look at your catalogue, lady, just not without at least 450mls of anything remotely intoxicating in my being first. She's an impenetrable roadblock and angry librarian with vengeance rolled into one. Her eyes scream, "You shall not pass!" McKenzie's genius counter attacks, "Oh, that's alright, Hun, I wouldn't mind getting some air before dinner anyway. Mark, you want to come?" Leading with my chin, I nod in affirmation, but my actions are translated to his ears as "I'd gladly take a bullet for you right now, sire! Let's roll."
Outside. The parked cars which line the street seem like sporadic cactus in a waterless desert. Dry cleaners. Take away Indian food marked by another F*** you on its sign - B.Y.O. A book store supporting one hundred copies of "The World's favourite Martinis" in the window. "We could always drive home, I've got a six-pack in my fridge?" I plea. "Too risky, it'd take too long and she'd know for sure what we were up to. No, we're best splitting up and hoping for the best." A fool's errand, McKenzie, but I'm all in.
Nothing. Nothing at all. I feel like one of those poor farmers you hear about in the bush who wait aimlessly for those precious rains to come, only far, far worse.
McKenzie opening the Christmas present he always dreamed he would receive, "Mark, quickly, over here." Even though I can't see him through the black forest, I follow his call and am soon standing next to him basking in the warmth of the celestial, glowing fluorescent sign that reads in capital letters WE CHECK ID ON ALL PURCHASES. "I'll get the beer, you take care of the wine," my commanding officer declares. Yes, Sir! Scanning the icy prison that is holding captive the most aggressive of poisons which my stomach is demanding like the hungry pelican. "There, that one. Written in italics," my brain commands my hands which are one step ahead and are carrying the sanctimonious beverage to the counter.
McKenzie laughing in glee with six of the store's finest ales under one arm and two bottles of a standard size which I don't recognise carried in the other. Looking over the mysterious label, it reads: Rubber Sexy Lager. McKenzie demonstrates that the baby blue swimsuit worn by the model on the bottle's side can be scratched away like a instant lottery ticket. Rejoice, for we are saved. I've never seen him so happy, he scratches away one breast to raise his spirits - a naked girl and beer together at last, I imagine he is thanking a God he didn't believe in until we walked through this church's most hallowed doors. We throw money in the direction of the cashier and return to the restaurant like two soldiers unscathed from D Day.
A moments glare as she gapes at our purchases. I sense her feeling for her mace - one of many I know she packs on her person at all times in preparation for a unsuspecting attack - but I quickly diffuse the ticket bomb by pouring a glass of my witches' brew for everyone. Our food arrives. The group toast to good health or something or other, while McKenzie and I share a private moment which only men who have come so close to death and survived can share.
Somehow four hours pass in a glorious haze of police raid stories and foundational plans for opening our own brewery. Staggering back from the fridge, McKenzie hands me my Rubber Sexy Larger while Keanu Reeves embraces a handcuffed Sandra Bullock as a train bursts through an unfinished subway on the television. Last men standing. Keanu stopped the bomb on the bus, McKenzie can't find one of his shoes and this beer tastes like a Rob Schiender movie, but I embrace it all the same...
