G’day!
Welcome to Letters From the Road, and letter number 40.
This one is a bit out of order with my usual schedule of having your letters delivered each weekend. I apologise in advance, but things are going to be a bit squirrelly for the next couple of weeks with the letters. The four of us are on the road again, for the first time since our road trip across Australia. Nothing so exciting this time, but we’ll be doing some pretty cool stuff like climbing Mount Fuji. Maybe I’ll send you a letter from Japan.
Good on ya for reading, and for those of you for whom this is your first letter, Letters From the Road is the story of a family road trip in Australia, told one weekly installment at a time featuring my journal entries written during the trip. The journal entries are word-for-word, and you’ll see them highlighted in the letter.
If you missed any letters and would like to catch up, you can find the other 39 letters here, under a pile of empty bottles of Carlton Dry. Fuckin’ Carlton Dry.
Hooroo!
Luke
I am a strong believer that house rules should be public knowledge, and people should be required to prominently post their version of the rules so that these things are understood.
Those OH&S posters that we put up at work could be a guide, but instead of catchy titles like ‘When you are injured at work’ you could have one that says ‘When you should pay for the meal’. Instead of ‘Know your forklift safety rules’, you could have one saying ‘Know where the dishes go’.
But this is not the case. Instead, things are awkward you have to figure it out on the fly.
We were staying a second night in Geraldon, WA, at the home of Jo, Wayne, and their daughter Sienna. The four of us were being overly nice and helpful, as you do when you’re staying at the home of friends. We were doing things like clearing the table after dinner, or tolerating their pet bird that flies around the house causing you to take cover every so often.
It’s like a dance you do with a partner, watching and feeling for that next move, always trying to sense what flows and what ends up with someone’s foot getting stepped on. Should we make our beds in the morning? Do we join them for breakfast, or fend for ourselves? Do we fill their refrigerator with our food, or help ourselves to their corn flakes?
Do we invite them to Thanksgiving lunch with us? In the end we did, however they declined, with Jo telling us that it seemed like a family affair and they would leave us to it. Whether it was a way for them to remove themselves from their accidental house guests for a few hours or an honest gesture, it was a dip well executed.
Thanksgiving lunch was passable barbecue at the Burnt Barrell, a place selling pulled smoked meats, chicken, and ribs from a random location 30 kilometres outside of Geraldton. Afterward we returned to Jo and Wayne’s house to settle in for what we expected to be another quiet evening.
The night before had been spent on the couch watching television, and I think we would have all been happy to do the same again. Wayne, however, had other plans.
Our friends had just completed a year and a half on the road. They’d been home for a grand total of five days when we arrived, so they were still going about the arduous task of settling back into a semi-normal life. Part of that involves catching up with old friends whom you hadn’t seen for months. On this night, Wayne was planning to go out to have beers, and he invited me to tag along.
And the question in my mind was, ‘Do I have anything to wear?’
I had one of those moments, where I worried that I wasn’t prepared for a social outing. And it wasn’t just the fact that it was an event with a couple of strangers. I worried that the clothes I had, most of which even when clean were penetrated with a dusty outback patina, would be unsuitable.
Wayne eased my worries, by presenting himself in the kitchen wearing a rumpled polo shirt that looked like it had been in storage for a year and a half because, in fact, it had. And Wayne’s one of those people that always look like they’ve got a 5 o’clock shadow, even when he’s just shaved.
Then he told me that this was not going to be a fancy night out, we were only going over to see his friend Gary.
Even so, I still needed to look presentable, or at least not like a vagrant. I wanted to look more like a respectable citizen, and less like someone who has been living in a tent in the outback for two months.
This meant showering, a proper shower in a bathroom with luxury acoutremonts like a door and a shower curtain, and the literal cherry on top, combing my hair.
Today I put on hair product for the first time in I don’t know how long. Over 2 months?
In the end it turned out that I’d had nothing to worry about.
Through the Strathalbyn industrial area.
Lots of power lines.
Past The Cattery cat boarding, and into Deepdale, a subdivision with a hard weathered sign announcing that lots are ‘selling fast!’
To Gary’s house we go.
We came out the other side of some of the more practical parts of Geraldton and into a quiet neighbourhood of medium-sized low slung modern houses, ones with green lawns, plastic front doors, and driveways full of cars. It was the type of neighbourhood where there were no footpaths, a concept that both encourages people to walk in the road, or to not walk at all. It seemed that the residents of Gary’s neighbourhood chose the latter.
Wayne’s friend Gary met us at the door. He was stout, with a bit of a verandah over the toy shop, if you get my meaning. His voice was powerful and gravelly, and he blustered about being happy to see Wayne again. This was probably the first time the two had seen each other in the last year-and-a-half.
We followed Gary through his tidy house that looked like it’d been decorated from a Bed, Bath, and Beyond catalog, and into the backyard where there was a sparkling pool, a bubbling water feature, and a wet bar. Over the bar was a sign that said ‘GBG’, which I would come to find out stands for ‘Gary’s Bar and Grill’.
We sat down at a glass patio table, and Gary began passing out beers and chatting with Wayne in a way that was filled with profanity.
Gary said fuck every other word and sucked down bottles of Carlton Dry at an alarming pace. When one finished, the empty only just hit the table before he went to the fridge behind him, pulled out another, and put the cap in a cardboard box that was precariously full to the top with glass empties.
It quickly dawned on me that Gary wasn’t just a another beer drinking bogan with a foul mouth. He was an artist. While some artists work in oils or clay, Gary specialised in weaving verbal tapestries out of the word fuck. Specifically, saying fuck as many times as possible in any given sentence. It was a bit off putting at first; artists are often misunderstood. But as with anyone who has achieved mastery, you learn to enjoy it for what an impressive thing that it is.
Gary caught Wayne up on what their mates had been up to, and regaled us with fishing stories. He told us about a recent fishing trip, when he’d come across an old guy who was having a big day pulling in fish. At least I think that’s what he was talking about. Sometimes I found myself wishing for a translator.
‘Fuckin’ old mate with the 13 footer with the little fuckin’ 25 horse on the fuckin’ back. Maybe it was fuckin’ 15, anyways, fuckin’ old mate, he was like ‘oooo’, he was in fuckin’ heaven. He was pullin’ in fuckin’ one after another, this fuckin' big,’ Gary said, holding his hands apart.
Wayne just nodded in acknowledgement.
I met Gary’s fucking wife Karen, who seemed lovely and didn’t curse at all. He talked a bit about his fucking landscaping business, and offered me some of those Carlton Drys out of the bar fridge that was perpetually full, regardless of how many bottles Gary kept pulling out.
‘Help yourself, I don’t fuckin’ care,’ he said.
Our conversation eventually turned to me, and I told Gary about the three month road trip around Australia that was the conclusion of the year we had spent travelling. I also told him about Katie and the boys.
‘Ahhh, 13.’ Gary said when I told him about my oldest boy, 13-year old Henry. Gary started making a gesture like he was masturbating. ‘I remember fuckin’ 13. Lot of fucking time in the bathroom.’
Gary also reported on all of the falling outs with people that he’d been having recently: some neighbor out the back, some guy named Chris, and the swimming pool company he works with.
The swill-and-swear-fest would have kept flowing all night if Gary had his way - there was plenty of swill left in the fridge, and I had a feeling that a guy like Gary would have an emergency 24 bottle slab stashed somewhere. And the swearing, of course, seemed to be in endless supply.
But thankfully Wayne pulled the plug once he’d finished the last of his Coronas, and we headed home.
Earlier, during our Thanksgiving lunch, the four of us went around the table and said what we’re thankful for. Henry surprised me with a list that was both long and appropriate: Our trip, my parents for letting us use their car, even Jo and Wayne for letting us stay with them. I didn’t expect as much.
Tonight he laid on the couch with me, his head on my chest. He was not wearing headphones for once. His hair smelled of body wash. It was sweet. It was nice.
I think tomorrow we will leave, but it’ll be hard. These guys have been so nice.
We’ll be on the move again in your next letter, with all of us a little more social, and a little less animal.