I like a woman with a beer in her hand. And there she is. She’s walking through the party like she’s looking for someone. Her head turning this way and that. She’s smiling and nodding. Courteous and polite. But she doesn’t really care about any of them. She’s looking for someone in particular.
But what she doesn’t see is that they’re all looking at her. When she’s passed their eyes all follow her, looking her up and down. The men and the women. The husbands and the wives. They’re looking at her because she’s, what shall we say? a mature woman, she’s on her own, and she’s got a beer in her hand. To some of the women that’s a sign of danger. And the way she’s walking about, looking for someone or something, as if she’s not sure what, and as if she doesn’t care anyway, well, that doesn’t help. To the blokes on this street she’s a bit of a curiosity. They’d like to stop her and talk to her. They’d like a bit of her. But they haven’t got what it takes to stop a woman like that. None of them. Not in this street. She’s not interested in them and they know it. Not that it’s obvious or she lets it show. She’s no snob. She’s not standoffish. But she scares them a bit. Not that she’s the world’s best looker. She looks good, all right. And she’s a well-built woman. But that’s not what she’s got. There’s a bit of a challenge in the way she’s walking about. And this place can see it. The blokes, the women, the husbands and wives who notice her as she passes by. They can all see it. And that’s why she scares them. That’s why they all stand back a bit. This is the kind of woman who shakes things up.
And there’s the way she holds that beer glass. She holds it like a woman who knows her beer. Some women hold a beer glass like a non-smoker holds a cigarette, like they’re holding it for someone else. But the way this woman holds her beer glass leaves you in no doubt whatsoever that the beer is hers. Just as she leaves you in no doubt that she knows a few things about beer itself. And a bit more besides.
She’s standing in the middle of the room now, like she’s lost her way. She’s drinking her beer and looking about like she’s ready to turn around and go back to wherever she’s come from because she can’t find who she’s looking for. Then she props, she smiles and she waves – at me.
Before I know it she’s standing in front of me with an empty beer glass in her hand. That’s the other thing I notice, she doesn’t sip the stuff, she drinks it.
‘Hello handsome.’
That makes me laugh. Like she’s stepped out of a movie or something. Maybe she thinks she has. She’s always calling me handsome. I like it, but it makes me laugh.
We’re standing near the back door, there’s a bit of a breeze coming in through the wire, and she’s holding her beer out. I fill the glass with a bottle I’ve stashed away.
‘I’ve just left Rita,’ she says. ‘She’s at the front gate. You should go talk to her.’
‘Oh.’
I’m nodding. Should I? It’s not my fault she’s out there and I’m in here. Is it? Naturally, I don’t say this, but I catch her eye as I’m thinking it and it’s as good as said.
‘I promised her I’d get you out there.’
‘Did you?’
‘I like to keep my promises. So I might just hang around till you do.’
Suit yourself, I’m thinking. Suit yourself. But personally, I can’t see the point in coming to a party if you’re going to stand around in the yard all night. Well, that’s what I’m thinking. I’m not sure what she’s thinking but I give her the once over and with a bit of a shock I see there’s a look there. It’s just a trace, but it’s there. A look that reminds me of the days before I got hitched. And the music, the grog, the noise and all the people. It all helps. Neither of us is saying anything by now. But it doesn’t matter. This is better than talking any day. So we just stand there, side by side, listening to the old songs.
Sometimes it happens like that. You’re standing around doing the usual things and in walks a different life. No, not a different one. Not really. But a glimpse of one. It shakes you up a bit.
Like you’re driving along this single track in the night. The moon’s shining down on the rails and that track looks like it could just stretch out in front of you forever. And you feel like you could just put your feet up, boil the tea, lean back in your seat, close your eyes, and let the bloody thing drive itself. And then you realise that you, you are the bloody thing. It’s not driving. You are.
You pass a familiar station. A familiar stop. And then suddenly you spot a side track you’ve never really noticed before. It might only run for a mile into a wheat silo. It might run for a hundred. Suddenly it looks good. You could go off the rails. No section clearance, no staff in your hand, no permission. Bugger the lot, you might say. And before you know it you’re off. And you could be gone and back in a flash. No harm done. Nobody to know anyway. Or you could just take that track and never come back at all.
I see you in another time, sugar. I can see you in another room. With another me. And I hear your talk the way it might sound there. And it sounds good. And suddenly, another time, another place, don’t seem so far away.