So this is what happened, the day I went to the bar.
I left our house, and kept looking down, always to inspect my new shirt. It is quite tight, but fits well enough. I actually liked the fact that it was tight and snug across my chest; all of my other shirts were a larger size than this one and tended to look really bulky.
I looked pudgier in those shirts, but in this tight shirt, I felt more confident about my body, even though in reality no discernible changes in my weight had taken place.
Train journeys are very relaxing for me, the only exceptions, when a train passes by us on an opposing line...
It was quite a warm day, not overbearingly hot, but warm enough that sunscreen was necessary and the shade felt quite pleasant. I had rolled up the sleeves half way up my arms, something I had mixed feelings about; my arms carried such a pale complexion and an abundance of hair. I cringed somewhat at the sight. At least going out on such a day may prove beneficial for my tan, or rather, the lack of it.
I mentioned on the Chat Room that I was absurdly hoping that Bill’s shirt may possess secret powers unbeknownst to the common shirt. Or perhaps it wasn’t the shirt itself that possessed the superpowers, but rather, the owner himself posited his own brand of magic upon the shirt, and this magic, a kind of lady killing magic that will drive all women mad with desire, if only you wear the shirt, because you have just stepped into the skin of the lady killer himself.
I stood at our local train station, hoping some of the women would notice me standing there in my impressive shirt, but from what I can posit, no one noticed my presence on that platform. I tried to make myself look busy. I’d brought a carry bag with me which contained a wallet, a bottle of water, and a notepad; I retrieved the bottle and took sporadic sips, all the while glancing into the horizon. Then a woman passed in front of my eyes and for some reason the expression on her face has always remained significant to me. I really envied that look. A look of complete indifference, of detachment. Someone so removed, nothing could bother her. A clear conscious. I wish I could find better words, but she was such an individual who existed on a plain totally separate from mine, where we could never see each other.
Boarding the train, I found my preferred seat by the window. Train journeys are very relaxing for me, the only exceptions when a train passes by us on an opposing line; during such moments, I recall horrible news reports about train collisions and silently I ponder to myself, what if that’s the fate of this train?
I have a tendency to eavesdrop on passengers sitting nearby, if they happen to be jabbering away loud enough. They didn’t have much to say, I can only recall a group of women talking about what they were interested in studying.
After I disembarked from the train, next followed the simple process of finding the Swanston St exit to Flinders St Station. To leave the station you’re faced with a row of leavers that will only retract back and allow your safe entrance through by using a Mikey Card. There was a little problem here, though. I was standing behind a group of people and the machine was malfunctioning. In the end to leave the station we had to cross over to the other side and use our card on another machine. It was a bit messy.
Finally I was out of the station but my problems were only just beginning. I was quickly realizing that this was a very poorly planned operation. As I said, I couldn’t go to Gin Palace, as Marie referenced, due to it opening too late in the day. So when I arrived I’d decided to check out a popular little abode known as Sister Bella. The problem was – it was notorious for being really difficult to find, being tucked away in one of Melbourne’s obscure laneways.
I kept walking through Swanston, through Collins, through Russell, all the streets in the CBD area! I got nothing! I was so frustrated with myself, and so exhausted, every chance I got, I paused for a rest at the traffic lights, but everyone around me seemed to be in constant motion, and the longer time passed, the more I felt the heat, it is warmer in the city compared to where we live, down by the bay, and as I always do, I began to contemplate the worst, oh Jeff, what if you get skin cancer, you know the rejection drugs make you more liable to picking it up. I reassure myself the sun cream will last and take effect, and I keep walking, nevertheless still frustrated at how poorly I’ve planned this excursion.
At some point, I come upon a traditional English pub, in Burke St. I suppose I’ve given up finding Sister Bella, well and truly, and I just want some kind of experience to write home about. Besides, it’ll give me the chance to have a rest, at last.
As usual I felt that same sense of weight upon stepping inside a moody, darkened interior. It was quite intimidating as everyone there all seemed to fit into the bar atmosphere, they were all so comfortable. Then again I needed to step out of my comfort zone. I did feel like an alien, an outsider, an intruder.
When I walked over to the bar counter, the guy asked me what I wanted, but instead I asked him if I could look at the menu before making my decision. This seemed to stoop him a bit. Perhaps as their menu is fairly basic, consisting of bangers and mash, fish and chips, and the like.
I ordered steak and chips and was eating so much, I was getting worried my shirt would burst. I tried to reassure myself, you’ve done plenty of walking at a fair pace, that should compensate; then I began to worry other diners would consider me a sloppy eater as I was starving and thus really getting stuck into my chips.
Have I included enough bar-room detail? There was the awkward moment where the man came along and claimed I was taking his seat; and one of the ladies at the bar who said beer in a bottle is the best way!
After I left I found myself lost, again. In my own city. I was trying to find my way back to Flinders St Station, and home again. It took a while, and I got exhausted again. Something humiliating happened just prior to reaching Flinders, though. A fairly large group of people had gathered around this man who said he’d performed across five countries, mostly in Latin America. At that point he was playing Spanish Romantic music. He was good and people would applaud after he’d finish, some would drop coins into his case.
I decided to do the same. Walking up to him, I bent across and tipped a few coins into his case, but just then, disaster struck. All this time I’d been carrying my Becks from the pub and some of the booze sloshed out into his guitar case. I apologized like a madman and he insisted it was OK, and I stood there awkwardly before leaving.
I headed across to Flinders where the train promptly took me back to my home stop. I was very glad to be home as it was a tortuous walk back.