Crisis of Identity

The forecast of unseasonable torrential rains well and truly drenched any outdoor plans I had for my Saturday. Mitch’s timely text suggesting a few beers and dropping some coin on the interstate races was just the distraction I needed, to keep me from focussing on my hatred for Dawes.

My favourite water hole is less than one kay from mine, so normally I’d walk, but not today. The rain was sheeting at forty-five degrees with drops the size of five cent pieces.

I parked the car and sprinted to the pub’s front door. By the time I reached the entrance, water from my drenched hair dripped down my forehead.

The pub sparkled from its recent $3 million upgrades. Natural light flooded the complex. The fresh new décor, atrium style high ceilings, new and improved restaurant and expanded poker machine lounge were all courtesy of the pub’s hungry pokies, which through no coincidence, grew in number following the extension.

A symphony of sounds welcomed me on my stroll through the pub to the TAB at the rear; laughter and chatter, the side show-like warbling sounds of the pokie machines, footy commentators from game replays and the monotone race caller blaring from the sports screens spotted around the bar.

In the rear of the bar, small TV screens showed the field for the next race from Sydney, Adelaide and Melbourne, while Race two in Brisbane had already jumped.

Blokes of all ages, each holding a form guide, were glued to the televised call, but none of them was Mitch.

After a watching Scent of a Woman bolt home by three lengths, I ordered a schooner and leaned on the bar watching the 2nd at Randwick prepare to jump, while I waited for Mitch. I checked the time, then my messages. Nothing.

If Mitch doesn’t hurry up, we’ll only have half a card to bet on. While watching the favourite sneak home by a nose at Randwick, a voice from behind caught my attention. ‘Hey… you’re that kidnap kid…’

I glanced over my shoulder at the voice. Two t-shirt wearing guys in their early twenties, both with shaved heads, grinned back at me. Tattoo sleeves covered their exposed arms.

The taller of the two flicked a finger at me. ‘You’re that missing kid from the paper…’

‘I think you’ve got me confused with someone else, mate…’ I turned to check the odds. How could he possibly link me to that article?

‘Nah. It’s you... You’re the missin’ kid from Queensland all those years ago…I read about you in the paper.’

I shook my head, ignoring the comment. Fucken’ newspaper.

Both guys moved around and stood in front of me. The smart-mouth of the two leaned an arm on the bar and glared at me, grinning. Several seconds of silence ticked by. ‘Buy us a beer, kidnap boy…’ He eventually said. ‘Come on mate, you can afford two beers...’

‘Look, buddy… I don’t know what you’re talking about. I’m waiting for a mate, OK.’ I took a sip from my beer. It was my attempt at a passive action, to show I didn’t want any trouble.

‘Too good for us are ya…?’ he looked to his mate who nodded and grinned his support.

‘I’m not who you think I am. So give it a break buddy, OK.’ As I was lifting my beer to take another sip, smart mouth knocked the glass from my hand in a sweeping swipe. I never saw that coming. The aggressive action startled me.

The schooner flipped end-over-end spraying beer as it cart wheeled across the room and crashed to the carpet.

Smart mouth stepped right up into my personal space. His acne scarred face was so close I could clearly see the pitted pores in his skin. ‘Fucken rich pricks like you give me the shits,’ he said through gritted teeth.

As the bar man moved to our end of the bar, I raised my open palms to the smart mouth and moved back, creating more space.

Under ‘Blokedom’ rules, he who knocks a beer from your hand either apologizes and buys a new one, or gets sat on their arse by a right cross.

For me though, it was more a case of can’t be bothered with this shit, rather than being intimidated by these muppets. I wasn’t in the mood to throw down, so I tried the calm approach. ‘I don’t know where this is coming from, mate, but I don’t want any trouble, OK.’

The aggressor closed the space up again. ‘Well ya shoulda bought us that beer…’ He said with his nose almost touching mine. His pungent breath was a mix of stale beer and sardines.

I’m no different to the next bloke. I like a beer and a bet at a pub, usually with mates. But I prefer it to be without some piss-fuelled simpleton with an entitlement complex, hassling me. But continue to get up in my grille and we are going to have a problem. I’ve seen this scenario too many times before.

In a strange moment of clarity, it occurred to me that all the shit things happening to me lead back to Dawes. Now I have this tattoo covered piece of shit having a crack at me because the West Australian newspaper ran Dawes’ lies.

It was obvious where this was heading. This idiot was calling me out. It was the modern day version of a glove slap in the face, from eras gone by. It was a challenge.

Time has come to escalate this. ‘Get the fuck out of my face…’ I said through gritted teeth. I’m not a bluer. I don’t look for trouble, but I can handle myself. This guy is your typical bully and if he senses weakness, he’ll pounce. So I had to respond in a way that shows I’m not intimidated.

The idiot edged closer. ‘Either you buy us a beer, or I’ll knock ya out and fucken take ya wallet and buy it meself… your choice.’

It was evident smart mouth misread my inaction to this point as a sign of weakness. I quickly ran the various scenarios through my head. Option one – I can take a hit to my machismo and simply buy them a beer in the hope they will go away. Option two – start filling the air with upper cuts, or Option three…

‘OK. You want a beer…?’ I said. I eased myself back slightly and feigned reaching for my wallet. As soon as loud mouth’s eyes dropped, watching my hand, I snapped my head forward striking him across the bridge of his nose.

A crack resonated as the loud mouth’s head snapped back. The force of my head butt sent him and his blood splattered face reeling backwards over the top of a bar stool behind him.

While his mute friend watched his buddy crash to the ground, I snapped out a hand and grabbed his skinny throat. My hand tightened. He gasped and gurgled, feebly trying to free my grip.

Using all my body weight I forcibly shoved him backwards. As he stumbled and fell heavily to the floor, someone grabbed me from behind, pinning my arms in a crushing bear hug.

‘Not him…’ the barman said. ‘He didn’t do anything.’ He flicked a finger at the trouble makers on the floor. ‘It’s those other two on the ground.’

The pub’s 130 kilo islander security guard released his grip. He ‘rag dolled’ the last guy to hit the floor and dragged him to the entrance.

A second security guard lifted old mate loud mouth from the floor. Blood splatter covered his face. A two centimetre vertical split run up his swollen, clearly broken nose.

‘Maybe next time… buy your own beers…’ I casually said as security dragged him away. Loud mouth’s eyes fell heavily to the floor.

I didn’t have to say anything; probably shouldn’t have said anything. But adrenalin being what it is, I suppose I had to get the last word in. I had to rub it in that I didn’t start it, but I finished it.