Published: 9 Aug 2021

Greg Stanley had taken a trip down the coast for his first long motorbike ride after being legally licensed and becoming somewhat disappointed with Townsville returned to the slower pace Mareeba had to offer. He arrived back in the early hours of the morning and not wishing to return home at such an hour, decided seeing Travis’ had changed his bedroom to the bungalow it would be preferable to wake one person then disturb his cranky lot and receive physical bother in doing so.

Greg’s knock came as a scratching at the bungalow door, bringing Travis to wake.

“Fuck off Max!” Travis called in a low voice believing it was his dog but the scratching continued, becoming a muffled knock.

“Who’s there?”

“It’s me, Greg, let me in you dozy bugger.”

Still half asleep Travis opened the door and peered into the darkness, hiding his nakedness behind the door. “Shit Greg what time is it?” he demands as his eyes accustomed to the weak moonlight.

“I dunno – late I suppose, I’ll stay here tonight okay? I don’t want to wake the oldies,” he declared while entering without invitation, dumping his carry bag down with a loud thud.

“You don’t mind waking me,” Travis complained with a yawn.

“You can cope with it.”

“I hope you didn’t rev your bike up the driveway?”

“No I wheeled it in and it’s behind your old man’s car.”

“You will have to shift it as dad is leaving early.”

“There’s plenty of room.”Travis accepted his friend’s entry and closed the door then after pulling on a pair of underpants, quickly returned to bed, “You will have to strip down mate, you stink of bike oil and I’m not having that between my sheets – how was Townsville?” Travis asks as Greg stripped away his riding gear.

“Move over,” he demanded giving Travis a shove towards the wall. Travis obliged. “Shithouse,” Greg complained, “don’t like big cities.”

“How would you go with Brisbane?”

“I wouldn’t.”

“Have you thought any more about our trip?” Travis hopefully continued.

“Go to sleep, we’ll talk about that tomorrow.”

As soon as Greg’s head hit the pillow he was asleep and softly snoring. Lying on his back Greg’s handsome face collected the little moonlight that arrived through the small naked window, displaying a boyish calm. The snoring stopped as Greg fell into a deeper sleep. Travis leant on an elbow and watched, captivated by his friend’s expression. Now gone was the anger and stress of being young, replaced with an involuntary smile that brought Travis to want to kiss those full and handsome lips. Why he could not say. He had never kissed anyone before, either male or female. Not a true kiss, except for a peck on the cheek from an auntie, or woman friend of the family but never a sensuous union of willing lips. He leant towards his friend’s beckoning mouth and paused within a breaths reach. His eyes closed, his heart racing but prevention prevailed, pulling him back to his elbow, he sighed and closed his eyes against the sight of his friend’s lips but they remained burnt into his mind fuelling frustration, another sigh as he rolled onto his side to face the shadow of the wall but could not sleep.

“A – Australia, Argentina, Albania.”

“B – Belgium, Bulgaria, Burma,”

“C – Canada,

Such was Travis’ way of taking his mind away from a problem when he couldn’t sleep. He would go through the alphabet and mentally recite countries from A to Z, and if countries failed, he would employ capital cities, or animals or people’s names. This night he actually reached the letter S before he fell into a troubled sleep where dreaming replaced his list of countries.

“Wake up!” Greg growled as he bounded out of bed, his feet thumping on the naked floor boards of the bungalow.

“What’s wrong?” Travis gasped in fright at the intrusion to his sleep.

“I’ve gotta’ go, have a meeting with my uncle this morning,” Greg explained pulling his pants over an early morning erection, “Piss fat,” he explained forcing his stiffening member into a corner of his jeans.

“You can’t go to the toilet in the house, you will wake my parents.”

“I’ll piss in the garden it looks in need of watering anyway.”

“What is the meeting about?”

“Work mate, I have a job,” Greg says stretching his arms towards the low hung ceiling of the bungalow, touching its flaking white painted surface with his outstretched fingers, causing flecks of paint to dislodge and descend onto his hair appearing like dandruff. He shook them away.

“What about our trip?”

“It will have to wait.”

“What’s the job?”

“My uncle is working on the Tarzali pub, should take a couple of months and he has asked me to help him – good money I couldn’t say no, and he is offering me an apprenticeship.” Greg breathed onto the palm of his hand and smelt the exhale. He wrinkled his nose with displeasure, “got a tooth brush?”

“In the house,”

“Doesn’t matter, I have to go.”

“Shall we plan for when you return?” Travis requests as Greg reached to open the door.

“We’ll see; why don’t you take Evan? He’s an eager little bugger,” Greg answered followed by a knowing smile.

“What’s the joke?” Travis asks observing his friend’s seamed guarded secret.

“Nothing – but he has spoken of joining us.”

“I don’t think so, he’s too young.” Travis answered despondently.

“He’s not that young I assure you,”

“What does that mean?”

“Gotta’ go; see you at the Royal tonight?”

“Maybe,” Travis sighed as the door closed.

“What time is it?” Travis growled rhetorically while checking the luminous face of the clock across the small room. “Six thirty! Shit Greg you get me at one end of the night and then the other,” he called after his disappearing friend. The only reply was the sound of the bike’s motor as it hit the street. “I told you not to rev it!” Travis protested, hoping his parents had not heard.

Greg wasn’t in the Royal and Travis wasn’t in the mood for drinking. He looked into the main bar and not seeing anyone he knew, waved to Dennis the barman before moving on up the street towards the Dunlop bar. Possibly Greg was there, although it wasn’t usual for him to frequent the Dunlop. Both lads being below the state’s drinking age of twenty-one, had to rely on the generosity of the barman or hotel manager. Dennis at the Royal was of the opinion if your appearance was close enough, than it was good enough, while those at the Dunlop were not always as accommodating. As for Sergeant Reg Shaw, as long as you behaved and was out of the bar by closing and kept of the spirits, he would disregard the fact that you were under the drinking age. Besides it was his opinion, if a lad was old enough to die for his country, he was old enough to enjoy a few quiet drinks.

The temperature that night was as it had been during the heat of the afternoon except now it was dark. Travis returned to the Royal when he ordered a scotch.

“How old are you Travis?” Dennis demanded while holding back the order.

“Old enough,”

“I thought you didn’t like scotch?”

“I thought it would be a change.”

Knowing well the lad’s age Dennis instead pulled a beer. He passed the beverage across the bar and took payment. “It will be beer for you mate for at lease a couple more years,” Dennis determined placing the money into the till. Travis smiled and accepted his drink, proceeding to a secluded corner as was his habit so not to look conspicuous among the adult drinking crowd.

The bar’s atmosphere clung like a wet sponge and the ceiling fan whirled without effect as it moved one lot of hot air to mix with another. Travis sipped his beer, which soon went from cold to warm to flat. Travis pushed his unfinished glass to one side and leant back into his chair. It was a busy night, mostly Tobacco farmers relaxing after a hard hot day in the field, still dressed in their sweat stained work clothes and of course hats.

This night there was a sea of broad brimmed sweaty hats smelling of everything from fertilizer to cow shit. Some tucked a colourful feather under the trim, some a fishhook but had never fished, maybe an old rail ticket to prove they had at least travelled to the adjoining town, or a memento given by some long forgotten conquest during a one night’s stand that had a story to tell if only for the asking.

A hard working man would never wear his hat in the house but it was considered somewhat mandatary to do so in a hotel bar. To be under his akubra was a farmer’s temple and the more battered and stained it was, the greater its value. Some demanded to be buried with his hat when that time came, or bequeath it to the oldest boy to prove his station. Others hung proudly on a hook in a dark hallway for many years past its owner’s demise.

Travis smiled at the sea of hats and mole skin trousers but didn’t fit into their congregation, nor had he wish to do so. His generation was the crossover from pre to post war, from the Andrew Sisters to Elvis Presley and even further to the Beatles. His generation had thrown away their hats and trouser braces but had continued with Californian Poppy hair oil with their hair in a ducks arse and a double wave to the front. Even so Travis by choice with his country upbringing, preferred short back and sides and dry, although of late had advanced somewhat beyond with influence from the

Fab-4’s mop. He had tried the sleek look but the oil dripped down the back of his neck and badly stained his favourite shirt beyond redemption.

Greg was the one for sleek and ducks-arse when he was on the town and with his dark hair it suited him well. Clothes were also Greg’s forte he could wear anything and look good, taking pride in his appearance if nothing else. Travis had often watched Greg in front of the mirror combing his hair into perfection with just the exact application of poppy while his hair appeared to stay where he wished and he never seemed to suffer from oil drip onto his white shirt, the collars turned up, or if wearing a tie, it would be black as sin narrow at both ends.

Stovepipe tight trousers were also the go when out on the town and pointed shoes, winklepickers, while being over cautious not to scuff the toes or bend them out of alignment. Greg would polish his patent leather winklepickers until he could see his reflection while bragging they were perfect mirrors for looking up dresses. Travis mostly wore his dress riding boots and seldom tight trousers as they showed much too much in the crotch department, while Greg’s motto was, if you’ve got it – flaunt it and his were usually so tight you could see his religion and he was obviously not Jewish.

Pushing himself further back into his chair with his hands clasped behind his head Travis searched through the haze of smoke and weak light for a familiar face. There wasn’t any but on the near side of the bar he spotted Greg’s Uncle Philip. Greg had five uncles, three his father’s brothers and a further two and an auntie from his mother’s family, with the youngest William on his mother’s side and a year junior to Greg himself, which gave Greg a continuous sense of amusement, never calling William by his name or Will or Bill but Unc. In time it became William’s nickname, which William wore most honourably and was common to hear, hey Unc called across a crowded bar and there would be William.

Travis caught Philip’s eye and received a slight nod of recognition bringing Philip to his table. Philip Stanley at twenty- nine was the odd brother of the brood being shorter than the others and inclined to carry more weight, which fluctuated with what work he had at the time.

Without invitation Philip turned an unused chair around and sat with its back towards the table. “You’re a little young to be drinking Travis?” he stated, placing his beer on the table, while reaching for his packet of Log Cabin tobacco. He opened the packet and removed the rolling papers.

Travis didn’t answer as voices lifted from the bar followed by much merriment. Philip turned to the distraction and as it died away back to conversation with Travis.

“Do you smoke Travis?” Philip questioned while teasing a measure of tobacco strands from his supply, it smelt slightly of rum.

“Nope,”

“Young Greg does, I’ve caught him,” he laughs ironically.

“Greg does a lot of things,”

“Anyway if you do, always place a fresh potato peeling with your ‘bacca’ – it keeps it moist and if you don’t have spud then apple peel.” He declared and commenced to roll the leaf in the palm of his hand, “rolling warms it and releases the oils,” he explained his action.

“I was supposed to meet Greg, have you seen him?” Travis requests while lifting his beer to his lips. The warm beverage touched his tongue but travelled no further. He returned the glass to the table.

“That looks flat young feller’, want another?”

“No thank you Philip, I’m not in the mood tonight.”

“Good for you. Greg’s gone with Owen to work on the Tarzali pub, won’t be back for about three weeks,” Philip answered. Lighting his cigarette he replaced the chair and ruffled Travis’ hair. “Good for you,” he repeated as he returned to the bar.

“Good for me,” Travis softly spoke.

“Bugger you Greg, I don’t know why I bother,” he quietly sounded.

Travis was finding the atmosphere in the bar somewhat stifling. It smelt of cigarette smoke, sweat, testosterone and stale beer. Resembling more a public toilet than somewhere people would wish to congregate. Thinking of that brought Travis to the realisation he needed to urinate. The facilities were to the side of the bar and to reach them he passed the door leading into the lady’s lounge and Mrs. Ross, who seeing Travis smiled and raised a hand in greeting.

“Mrs. Ross, how is Warwick going in the new house?” Travis questioned from the door to the lady’s lounge.

“Excuse me lad.” Mr. Ross pardoned while pushing past from the bar carrying a large beer and a small sherry, a tailored made cigarette parting his lips as he passed the sherry to his wife before returning to the bar. “Travis,” he simply says in passing.

“Warwick’s fine, he’s familiar with the house now,” her voice came as an apology for leaving her son home alone. She sipped her drink, smiled once more and thanked Travis for his concern.

“Would it be alright if I called in to see Warwick sometime?” Travis offered.

“That would be nice Travis, Warwick would appreciate the company.”

If the bar smelt stale, then the urinal was a total nasal attack. As Travis unbuttoned he sensed someone behind, then beside him.

“Hey there young fellow whatya’ upta’?

The voice was deep and somewhat coated with humour and delivered through a drunken smile. Travis nodded but didn’t answer. He released his steady stream which played music with that of the stranger against the back- splash of the lengthy galvanised urinal. The stranger gave a giggle. “Have to give up the piss mate, its doing me in.” He shook his handsome head and long dark hair danced about its crown, while his lightly stubbled face displayed a natural happy appearance. He took a deep breath then released a sigh of relief.

Travis stole a glance at the stranger’s appendage then as quickly drew his gaze away from its form. The stranger once again giggled, farted, “that’s better out,’ he commented and buttoned his fly, while the last few rogue drops fell loose onto his denim covered thigh.

The stranger was gone.

Travis stood motionless for an age. It was as if the handsome stranger had been a messenger; even a warning. Looking down he realised he was somewhat arouse brought on by the sight of the strangers member. He also realised he had felt an urge to reach out and touch. Travis had the same impulse while riding pillion with Greg but this he considered to be dissimilar as Greg and he were friends and of the same age. This was a man in his late twenties, or more, who made no approach other than the release of a friendly smile and attempt trivial conversation while relieving the effects of alcohol.

Gone now was the hum of the public bar and the acrid smell of the toilet, leaving Travis under a new realisation which distressed him as the memory of school horseplay and sexual experimentation flooded into his thoughts. He could feel Greg’s developing erection cupped in the palm of his hand while his fingers fumbled for fly buttons as they sped along the Atherton road. Those experiences he believed innocent, while what he now felt was raw and sexual and abhorrent to his understanding of self. It was only the sound of the door opening behind him and heavy work boots upon the urine stained ceramic floor that drew him away from his anxiety and without lifting his head quickly returned to the bar.

Back in the bar Travis felt as if all eyes were upon him and could read his very thoughts. He felt the blood drain from his face and in its place a prickling of embarrassment. Philip Stanley once again acknowledged him with a smile and rising of his glass but Travis quickly turned away believing Philip was reading his mood, instead he bumped into the back of Stella Ross while departure through the ladies lounge. He quickly apologised. “I should watch where I’m going; I do hope I haven’t hurt you Mrs Ross.”

“Not at all Travis, are you unwell, you look flushed.”

“I’m fine; I guess it’s the atmosphere in here.”

“Yes it is a little thick tonight.” Stella answered and lit her own cigarette to add to the blue haze of the bar.

“Good night Mrs. Ross,” Travis nervously greeted and with his head down advanced towards the cooler air outside.

“Good night, I will let Warwick know you enquired after him.”

The walk home was confusing. Travis was analysing his emotions as he often did when stressed but couldn’t translate his anxiety into language. Why had he become aroused at the sight of another man’s appendage, he wasn’t homosexual, he knew that as by all accounts poofs were effeminate. Travis was most definitely masculine even as far as often over compensating the fact while in company.

A deep worrying breath as Travis approached the Tip-Top café.

A pause at its door, noticing the young crowd listening to music in the seating bays. The sad strains of trumpet as Nini Rosso’s Il-Silenzio played on the jukebox. It transported him back to his first day at the Hostel and the sound of the army cadet’s bugle.

He forced the memory away.

Three girls, early teens were leaving while talking. They noticed Travis and all three spoke at once with teasing in their tone, “good evening Travis.

“Hello girls, Travis answered in his best masculine voice,”

They giggled and passed him by; one turned and was about to speak but instead quietly spoke to her friend. The second whispered something and all three laughed.

Travis realised he was centre to their humour, “Lorna May does you mother know you are out chatting up boys?”

The three giggled once more, “I saw you with Greg down at the river last Friday night,” Lorna says.

“So,”

“Where is Greg gone?”

“He’s working at Tarzali with his Uncle Owen,”

“You both were down at the river with Sam Hinds,” the second girl admitted.

“Sam was there,” Travis agreed.

“So was Raelene,” Lorna proclaimed.

“Was she, I can’t remember,” Travis lied with concern she may have witnessed the goings-on between the group and Raelene.

The three again tittered once again and moved on into the shadows by the post office without further reference.

‘Funny that,’ Travis thought. ‘It is always Greg who attracts the girls and he treats them like shit.’

“Oh well,” Travis softly spoke and moved on forgetting his bother at the bar.

Gary’s stories are about life in Australia as a gay man. Your emails to him are the only payment he receives. Email Gary to let him know you are reading: Gary dot Conder at CastleRoland dot Net

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