Piss-Stained, and Plastic
It's a fucked gig but someone's gotta do it, says Robbo's brain to Robbo. And those two part-time unified scenesters, full-time local liquor dispensary shit-kickers sure ain't wrong. I mean, what's there to love about spending all day sweeping up ripped TAB tickets, cleaning dunnies that've come off second best after Carl's bubble-n-shit lunchtime special attacks the guts of some brave sucker and in-between all that spending a lifetime talking shit to never-wrong, one-every-two-hours locals. Ain't no rest neither, as sun sets and betting options narrow to weird overseas markets and those all-day drinkers linger too long, collide with the smooth-edge-seeking nine-to-almost-fivers, those blokes and blokettes keen to hastily paint some evenly-spaced residue lines on a Headmaster (or four) before hitting home for the replayed scenes of domestic bliss, rerunned repeats of Law & Order: Down Under Unit, etc. So fights are broken up between the two sides who've warred forever and daytimers are introduced to footpaths and more favoured, faster consuming part-timers, slowly unraveled from their suited-up daytime activities, are introduced to the dinner specials.
During this changeover there's a few seconds of solace, a union-fought allotment of time between double shifts which Bobby (as he's known by the night-time trade) usually spends sucking down a dart out the back of the pub in the beer-garden-turned-rubbish-tip. A meditative moment amidst the slog of $12.80/hour blue-collared bullshit which, on this particular occasion, is broken by the back-fire of a van pulling up to the loading-dock-come-load-in bay. Some shit band name sprayed on the side. Not a logo, but all DIY, as they'd proudly later say.
Oh shit, a band is booked for tonight, Rob's brain, dizzy from the hastily-injected nicotine, frazzled from another day of mundanity interrupts, politely informing Rob that it means he should get the storeroom keys from behind the bar pronto, as he'll soon need to lumber out that spare waist-high table for the artist's pedals, midi-keyboard or other gadgets.
"Nah, mate, there's guitars and shit."
Darren knows Rob. Or at least knows his brain. He's seen his eyes aimed at the direction of the incoming van, positioned himself four steps ahead of all jaded mind jumps and interrupted with his usual too-positive bullshit.
"It's a proper band tonight, should be Ace, aye?"
Is that question rhetorical? Rob's brain has no clue, he's already calculating how long it's been since a band with guitars/drums/amps were booked on the reserved Thursday night of "Live Entertainment, No Cover Charge." As far back as his memory archive goes: none. Not saying a great deal, though, given the data-crash earlier this year: long weekend, rack from cousin Richie on the pleasure end of a fly-in-fly-out route, blank scenes of clubs, disco lights, back alleys and blah blah, etc.
Regardless of when the exact last hit out was: this, tonight, is an exciting prospect. Maybe the start, or re-start, of something new. Or old. Back to where everything should be. Giving us some glamourous back-of-a-flatbed flashbacks, a little volume (quite literally), or, at the very least, a far snugger fit for this thread-hanging cathedral of alcohol-dependency. This ain't a disco, and we shouldn't treat it like one, so philosophies Rob to his brain. And for once, the two parties agree.
Bed Wettin' Bad Boys' new album 'Rot' is due November 10th.