WELCOME BACK
Copyright
2005 Jarad Henry
The danger is all around. I feel it everywhere. In
the beer-soaked carpet and sticky tiles. In the
bathroom and by the jukebox. Even in the haze of blue smoke above the
pool tables. But it’s at the bar that I feel it most. Fear,
stark and vivid. It keeps me
sharp, alert, ready. A cacophony of laughter and human conversation surrounds
me as I stand in line, painfully aware that my back is exposed to at least a
dozen people, anyone of whom could be waiting for a sign of weakness, an
opportunity to strike. Fists clenched, I draw hard on a cigarette and eye the
crowd warily.
This bar had been my local – my stomping
ground – before I went away.
It’s been five years since I last ordered a drink here. Now
I’m back, hoping no one recognises me. I’m also befuddled by the
changes. The crowd is younger and more chic than I remember, not one familiar
face in the whole joint. Even the bar staff are new. Good. Then there are the
crowd controllers. They didn’t
even have security when I last drank here. Out of the corner of my eye I watch
the beefy Pacific Islander stand atop a raised platform, surveying the crowd,
tight black t-shirt stretched over a rotund torso. For a moment our eyes lock. A bolt of electricity pulses through my
chest, stiffening the muscles under my shirt, blood pounding in my ears. One second, two, three … the man
is still watching. What if he
recognises me? Maybe he knows who I
am? I’ve learnt never to look
away from a man who stares you down. Those are the rules; you don’t back
down.
Finally – thankfully – the Islander
averts his gaze and continues to survey the crowd. Squashing my cigarette, I
step to the bar and place my order.
While the barmaid fixes my drink – a scotch and coke – I dig
out a handful coins and spread them on the slick-wet bar. Guarding them with my hands, I count out
the correct change, mindful of the man standing next to me, watching my money.
Will he make a grab for it? Maybe
he’s scoping me out for a move later in the night? I turn to face him, a twenty-something
yuppie, and I’m about to ask what his problem is when he looks away. Smart move, Son.
Drink in hand, I step away from the bar, snaking my way back to the
corner. Now I’ve got my back
against the wall, I scan the crowd again, suddenly aware that I’m being
watched. A group of heads I
recognise from my football days are on the other side of the bar, staring at
me. So there were some of them here. I curse myself, for I should’ve
known it would come to this. It was foolish to think no one would recognise me.
Sipping the sweet liquid, adrenaline pumps through my veins
as I focus on the vitals. There are three of them, fit and athletic, all
packed with muscle. That doesn’t matter. Size doesn’t concern me;
numbers do. Scanning back and forth, I locate the security guards; one on each
side of the bar, one by the front door.
But they are not the main threat.
It is those who recognise me. How many others are there? A brave man
never backs down, I tell myself, but a smart man knows when it’s time to
retreat. Now is that time.
Finishing my scotch, I set the glass on a table,
sidestepping behind a group of women smoking and typing text messages into
mobile phones. Ignoring cleavage
and seductive curves, I stare through the group as the three men make their way
through the crowd. Edging toward
the door, I’m suddenly blocked by a pool table. I curse again, angry
now. What the hell do they
want? I skirt the edge of the pool
table, nudging yuppies and two-bob snobs out of my way as the three men move
toward me. All three carry pots of
beer. Glass pots.
Instinctively I reach to my back pocket in search of a weapon. Nothing. All I’ve got is a set of car keys, about as
useless in here as pockets on a singlet. I realise then just how unprepared I
am. I should never have shown my face in here without protection. There were
too many unknown factors, too much history. Looking around, I find a near empty
champagne glass and snatch it up. Shifting to south paw – my preferred
stance – I hold the glass tight in my left hand as they approach.
The man in front smiles. Scott is his name, I
think. The other two are brothers,
Jamie and Guy, if memory serves me correctly. What’s wrong with these people? It’s
been five years, for God’s sake. Lowering the glass, I brace myself for
the inevitable, ready to strike when the man named Scott holds out his right
hand.
‘Karl?’ he says, ‘Karl Bremmer?’
I step back, hiding the glass, annoyed he
remembers my name.
‘Scott Marx,’ he continues, ‘we
played footy together, remember?’
I do remember, and shake his hand warily.
Scott introduces the others, ‘You remember
these two goofs don’t ya, the Donald brothers?’
They step forward and shake my hand. I am
suddenly aware of the wall behind me, the three brothers in front, crowding my
space as though I’m some kind of celebrity. Then they notice the champagne
glass. ‘On
the bubbly, Son? Thought beer was more your style. Can I can get you
another?’
I hold up the glass, nervousness beginning to settle
and embarrassment taking over. ‘No, I’m okay. Thanks.’
Scott does a good job hiding his confusion, but
it’s there just the same.
‘Suit yourself. So what gives, I haven’t seen you in what,
five years?’
‘About that.’
‘I heard you went away. When did you get
back?’
‘Just last week,
actually.’
‘Fair dinkum?’ Scott looks back at
his two mates. They all smile and hold up their glasses. ‘Cheers. Welcome
back!’
I nod my thanks, not wanting to talk any more.
Not about this. Not about anything.
Now I just want to leave, be alone. Eventually they shuffle away. Now
I’m free to go, but I don’t want to leave, either. I don’t
know what I want. I realise then
how hard it is to make even the simplest of decisions. Probably
because I’m not used to it. In the end I decide to go. There is no
place for me here. As I walk through the car park, a deep sadness engulfs me.
Life here has no sense of order, no certainties. Everything’s a guess, a
punt. A choice. Crowds unnerve me, make me
paranoid. If I can’t handle a
drink in my local, how will I ever get on with finding a job or building
meaningful relationships?
As hopeless as it seems, in so many ways I
can’t wait to go back to jail.