The East Coast Road Trip

by Steve Deeks

  I checked to make sure he was still breathing and watched over him helplessly wondering where it all went wrong. Then, after a considerably painful amount of time, Sam finally appeared having wondered where we were. On inspection of his good friend he rolled his eyes like a disappointed parent and started talking Swedish to him, though this had the exact same affect on him that my words had done. Nothing. “He’s a fucking retard,” Sam spewed, unable to hold back his rage. “Downing those chocolate milk vodkas was stupid. I should piss all over him for the hassle he has caused us.”

  “No need by the looks of it,” I said pointing at Simon’s groin area.

  Rolling his eyes in disbelief this time, Sam ducked his head close to Simon’s body to make sure his eyes weren’t deceiving him. “He’s now fucking pissed himself. Maybe I should take a crap on his head as well.”

  I fought back laughter. “Careful what you say…that could be next.” I prayed that would not be the case. We had already suffered enough.

  We both decided to take it in turns to look after our stricken friend so we each got a break from the torment. When I returned outside after a couple of swift lagers to numb my pain there was something of a gathering, as everyone stood about looking concerned from afar. Embarrassingly for Simon one turned out to be the female he had been intimate with on Fraser Island. She had a look of pity written all over her. “I don’t think he will be seeing her again,” Ben smirked. Lying in a pool of his own piss and puke it was decided the ambulance should be called, particularly as none of us could get hold of Mark. “He’s probably beating the meat in the tent,” I suggested to Sam, who nodded knowingly.

  We decided that we should move Simon from his concrete pit and get him out of his soaking shorts. By sheer good fortune Simon’s conquest had a spare pair, though in truth they looked more like hot pants than shorts. Nonetheless, without a second’s hesitation, we pressed ahead with putting the female attire on our friend. “This is pay back for all the suffering you have caused me,” Sam said mischievously.

  “Look there’s a hose,” I said, pointing enthusiastically to a cable a few feet away. “We should wash him down first.” So, without further ado, four of us held him up and began the necessary cleaning process. Off came his shorts and boxers, leaving him horribly exposed, and on came the water as he was sprayed as if he was a fire that desperately needed putting out.

  An ever increasing group of around 20 curious onlookers had by now gathered to see what the fuss was all about. The first thing they would do, after rubbing their eyes to make sure they weren’t deceiving them, was laugh, which was quickly followed by a thorough round of photos. “I can’t wait to show my friends this one,” one girl sniggered, before hysterically pointing at Simon’s bare shrivelled manhood to her friend. Needless to say there were a variety of photo opportunities, which generally resulted in people holding the hose like a man would his anatomy and then pretending Simon was the urinal. All this, of course, was done with wholehearted smiles and really brightened up everyone’s night, which had been on a downer ever since Simon’s collapse.

  The moment we forced on the hot pants, though, was the crowning glory and made all the suffering worthwhile. They looked particularly uncomfortable as they cut into his flesh, while leaving nothing to the imagination in terms of what was down below. Not that this made any difference with everyone having already seen the Swede’s lower regions. We attempted to persuade the German girl that it would be nice for her to have a picture taken with Simon while he was in such a predicament, though being the sensible type unfortunately our best efforts fell on deaf ears. “Will you be seeing Simon again?” I asked out of interest. “You need your shorts back?” But I was met by stony-faced silence. It looked like the chances of rekindling this love affair were doomed to failure.

  “He gives her a great time in a sandy tent and she won’t even do this. What a bitch,” Sam added dryly.

  The ambulance turned up and after careful inspection the paramedics expertly concluded he had drank too much alcohol, but wouldn’t need admitting to hospital and was, surprisingly, safe to go home – or in his case, to his tent. Having no idea where our campsite was and with it highly unlikely a taxi would give us a lift in any event, myself, Sam and Julie, who had showed up, decided we would head in the rough direction we thought we had come from. But just as were facing up to the gruelling prospect of what would inevitably be a slow painful hike through the outback, Mark saved the day and announced he was on his way to picking us up.

  As he pulled into the car park we had never been so pleased to see him. It took an almighty group effort to help Simon in, as he was limp as a corpse. “It’s like getting an old person into one of those special disabled vehicles,” Mark said as we belted the Swede into the front passenger seat. He sat there motionless, with dribble coming out of his mouth. “Look what happens when I leave you lot on your own,” Mark smugly added.

  “Where were you two hours ago when we called?” I asked inquisitively, ensuring he would not be taking any undue credit, especially when I felt that without my heroic performance the Swede might not have made it at all.

  “Probably jerking off,” Sam, chipping in, said.

  “I bet you were. You better not have got any on our blow up bed or you’ll be sleeping outside.” I shivered involuntarily, genuinely worrying about the likelihood of this prospect.

  Once we were back - and after I inspected our bed for any stray semen - I helped the others cart Simon, head wobbling uncontrollably, into bed. I now realised why the term hammered had been invented to describe people who had consumed too much alcohol, as he looked like he had been remorselessly bashed until he could no longer stand. Rarely, if ever, had I seen anyone descend into such a vegetative state after a night’s drinking. “I think we’ve all learnt a lesson from tonight,” I boldly declared. “Next time we do the large cups of chocolate milk with vodka we must make sure Simon drinks it slower.”

  The next morning the sun was scorching down as we slowly collected ourselves before making breakfast. The only conversation, naturally, was of the previous night, though the Swede was conspicuous by his absence. When Simon did rise, he walked to the shower area before returning and collapsing arms and legs sprawled on the blow up bed that was now in full view of all the nearby tents, having been placed near the car. He was, of course, still wearing the hot pants. “I don’t think we should say too much about last night to him. Let’s go easy. You know how it is when you feel like crap,” Mark thoughtfully suggested. We all agreed, after all he did look like someone who had spent the last few years rough.

  After ushering Simon on board Stevo – still without uttering a single word – we made our way out the campsite in painful silence, before it was broken. “You remember last night Simon?” Mark asked, in a surprisingly concerned voice. No answer. Though there was eye contact and the very slightest of shrugs as acknowledgment. The pain and embarrassment was shining through and it wasn’t long before our agreement not to mock him was breached. “You’re wearing girl’s hot pants,” Sam then helpfully pointed out, causing a visible look of bewilderment from his friend. “You were lying in a pool of your own puke and piss so we had to wash you down and put you in those.”

  Whatever agony Simon had been going through just magnified in that moment - with the way he turned his head further toward the window making it all too clear that he instinctively knew it was all true. Why else would he be wearing a pair of girl’s hot pants? “Unfortunately we had to get your little chap out and spray you down. Luckily there was only about 25 people watching - it could have been a lot more.” My attempt to allay the Swede’s worries didn’t help as he put his head deeper into his hands, wishing he could vanish into thin air and escape our commentary on the previous night.

  Mark continued to paint the picture of events for our beleaguered friend. “Not sure that German girl is up for seeing you again mate….oh it’s her shorts you’re wearin
g by the way.”

  Sam’s anger had transformed from disgust into jubilant mockery at the prospect of being able to get one over on his good friend. “She had a look of pity on her face when you were lying face down on the floor with your soaking wet shorts from where you had pissed yourself.”

  Chapter 9 – Brisbane

  We arrived in Brisbane with the weather more like that of the British summer time – a sea of grey clouds that seem to take a deep satisfaction in violently chucking down water for an eternity that once again leave you feeling robbed of the summer sunshine. Despite our general isolation and blissful ignorance of what was going on in the world we had caught the odd newspaper headline while in various shops and heard on the grapevine of the unprecedented levels of rain during the Australian summer.

  Stories of severe flooding, including whole towns being left submerged under an ocean of water had caught our attention, especially as we had only recently travelled through some of these places. Gympie happened to be one of them and after catching a glimpse of it on the television now looked totally unrecognisable from when we had passed through - with it now bearing the appearance of a large lake. It suddenly dawned on us how close we had come to getting caught up in the carnage as we made our way down the coast, but now in Brisbane it felt like it had finally caught up with us.

  With twilight descending we pulled into a shopping centre to get some supplies of food and alcohol. The precinct area was remarkably desolate considering Christmas was soon upon us. After squeezing our goods into the car we made our way through the city traffic to our destination, Brisbane Backpackers.

  After the pain of signing in and handing over what felt like a fortune for our two night stay, particularly having paid peanuts for our accommodation (if indeed you can call it that) at various campsites, we trudged up to our room looking like we had just returned from war. The intention had been to go out but everyone was totally knackered and having the luxury of an almost normal bed with a pillow was too much of a golden opportunity not to make the most of. Before long everyone was snoring their heads off.

  Waking the next morning I summoned the energy to glance at my phone and checked the time, which showed it had just gone 11am. I had spent over 12 glorious hours in bed. The rest felt cathartic after all the roughing it and drinking my body had recently been through. Being the only one left in the room I made my way down to the kitchen area where I found the others. The Swedes had found the “free food” section and were helping themselves to toast, cereal, coffee, melons and anything else they could get their hands on they didn’t have to pay for. Without delay I joined in and was sumptuously stuffing my face before I knew it. With only one toaster working we made sure no one else in the kitchen could use it while we did ourselves several rounds.

  Out of nowhere a man with broken English - and great arrogance, it must be said - asked if could put some bread in. “You can use the one over there,” I said helpfully pointing across the room at one of the faulty devices. After all, we hadn’t yet finished with it.

  “No work,” he replied hesitantly.

  I made a deep sigh, before my good nature reluctantly took over. “Ok, you can use this one when we finish then yes?” He smiled excitedly before having to wait in excess of 20 minutes while we tucked into our delightfully warm and fluffy toast. His smile even turned to a scowl when he foolishly jumped the gun and went to put his bread in, only to be met by a firm shake of the head and an outstretched arm to prevent him going any further once it was made clear that we hadn’t yet finished.

  Following our wholesome breakfast we held a meeting about the plan of action for the day. Despite it still raining we decided we had to explore the city even though we all agreed it looked about as exciting as viewing a swathe of grey concrete multi-storey car parks. Later on we would be going for dinner at an old friend of Mark’s from back home, who we were given the heads-up on. “She was known round my way for being caught by her boyfriend having a threesome with two lads she met one night – one was doing her from behind while she was sucking off the other one. But don’t anyone ask her about it. Ok Steve?” I didn’t want to promise anything but nodded my head to appease him, even though I knew an innocent question could slip out after a few drinks.

  We were dropped off by the hostel shuttle bus at one of the famous multi-storey car parks in the city and then proceeded to wander through a bland shopping centre before coming out onto the centrally located Turbot Street. With few distinguishing features and a mass of high rise buildings that looked like clones of each other it was hard to know exactly where you were. After walking in a giant circle for nearly an hour before realising we had already been past the same spot three times we found the river, which at least broke up the concrete building monotony.

  Soon bored we went to the nearest McDonald’s to get some food and entertain ourselves. It was at times like this that I really appreciated the fast food chain as I ravenously stuffed an assortment of salty and sugary foods down my throat. The place offered a visible sanctuary for all sorts of undesirables and lost souls, including tramps and weirdoes with nothing better to do than kill countless hours of boredom. Though, in fairness, many of them had shown tremendous initiative by taking advantage of the wash facilities and using the place to get some shut-eye, having made a cheeseburger last five hours first.

  Simon needed a pair of shorts after his unfortunate episode at Noosa Heads, so once we had filled our faces we left McDonald’s feeling contented and skulked about from shop to shop scoffing at the ridiculous prices, before the Swede desperately plunged for the cheapest pair he could find – a preposterous $25 for a bang average blue cotton pair. “They just love taking you from behind in this country. The shorts haven’t even got a back pocket,” Simon grimaced, like someone had just robbed him in broad daylight, which of course they had.

  “At least you’ve given us something to do,” Sam added, untroubled by the small fortune his friend was forced to hand over for a particularly unmemorable pair of shorts.

  “And they’re nice and shiny,” Mark said smiling like a clown.

  I was more concerned about the material. “I hope they have the inner layer to support your package…and to soak up any potential accidents.” There was not a lot Simon could say, so he said nothing and pretended none of us existed.

  Bored of the bland city already we gladly headed back to the hostel where we began getting ready for our night out. Incredibly the shower worked, so after a good lathering I was glad that I no longer looked like one of the tramps we had seen in McDonald’s. With it still pouring down we got a taxi to the apartment block across the city where Mark’s friend lived. Within seconds of hopping out everyone was drenched. But just in case I was not wet enough, a thoughtful driver decided to plough through a giant puddle to finish me off, leaving my clothes wringing wet like I had just been in a swimming pool. I gave him a solitary finger to show what I thought of him as he veered off, though I think it’s fair to say he had the final laugh.

  We waited patiently in the rain for an age as Mark’s friend made her way down from one of the top floor flats to greet us. By now I was sure I had pneumonia as water continued to pour off my body. “I’ve had showers that have left me dryer than this,” I muttered as we made our way inside and into the lift. Once in the flat I had no choice but to remove certain items of clothing. Fortunately I was able to borrow a jumper of Mark’s which felt heavenly once I had wrestled off the soaked skin tight t-shirt and jumper I had been wearing like a straightjacket for some considerable time. Although I am not one to readily expose my big toes in public, as I’ve already made clear, I had no choice in this instance and made my apologies to the host and her friends after declining the opportunity to borrow a pair of socks, which I was not comfortable doing with a stranger. Especially a stranger who makes a habit of being penetrated from behind by anyone except her husband.

  Finally, I was able to sink a few beers to he
lp relieve the pain I was in. And by the time we had eaten food I was beginning to recover from the pneumonia I felt like I had obtained in the soaking conditions. During dinner myself, Sam and Simon were merrily scoffing down the numerous sausages on the table, while subtly mimicking they were something else. “Ummm these sausages are really nice,” I said, before sliding the phallic shaped object slowly into my mouth before chewing heartedly. Eyes watering and face going purple, Sam suddenly broke out into a false cough, while struggling to prevent food spewing from his mouth to conceal the fact he really wanted to burst out laughing in the woman’s face. Mark instantly gave me a disapproving teacher glare, clearly worried I was sailing too close to the wind on his friend’s nocturnal activities. And when the creamy pudding was brought out his face contorted further as he sensed more mocking, prompting him to deliver a swift kick on my foot under the table.

  After just about holding it together during dinner we relaxed with a few beers before heading out into the city to the highly recommended Gilhooleys Irish pub. As I climbed out of the taxi I had to rub my eyes and do a double-take after thinking I had seen someone I knew. Incredibly, I had. It was none other than Veiko, the strange and repulsive Finnish blood-sucker who had latched onto me in Sydney all those months ago. The last time I had seen him he was sleeping rough on a park bench and talking about going fruit picking somewhere up the east coast. I assumed he would have been dead by now, either through his own fault or because someone had taken a deep dislike to him, which was perfectly understandable. I hoped my mind was playing some kind of morbid joke on me but the nearer I got to him I sadly realised it wasn’t.