Wanderlost 2

by Simon Williams

  Wally Grout - part 3

  To get to the game we first must buy tickets. The internet doesn't exist. Stubhub.com doesn't exist. Lastminutetickets.com didn't exist. Life is a nightmare in the 80's. Everything is paper tickets and Ticketmaster charging an arm, leg, and kidney for doing nothing more than keeping vouchers in an envelope with a customer's name on it at Will Call. Dohers locates someone reselling his season seats in the newspaper. He phones up to let him know we will drive down on Sunday morning before the game to buy them. The golden rule of the scalping business is first in with the cash gets the tickets. How Dohers manages to convince this scalper to hold the tickets till Sunday morning is beyond me. Charm is its own currency. This explains why Dohers is a super successful lawyer today and has saved many a soul with his faith healer side business. I have never scalped a ticket before, but I have also never used the terms 'black ice,' 'mountain switchbacks,' and 'fucking hell I'm going to die' in a sentence before. There is a first time for everything.

  After a four-and-a-half-hour odyssey, that bumps Hannibal's crossing of the Alps from the top spot of ill-conceived mountain traverses, we arrive to the flat of Denver. The scalper’s house is way out in the suburbs and we find it with barely 40 minutes left to kickoff. Google maps didn't exist. This is the first suburbia of America that either of us have been in. It looks peaceful, just like it does in the movies right before a S.W.A.T. team shows up and raids a house. That is a uniquely American experience I am not interested in. I don't even think we have S.W.A.T. teams in Australia. We have police who stand outside the house with a bullhorn telling culprits to, 'get the fuck out of the house.' How safe is it in America to just walk up to a stranger's home and knock on the door? Extremely safe, moderately safe, or John Lennon safe? For all his bluster and charisma Dohers convinces me that I should be the one to pick up the tickets from the home. Bloody lawyers, talking people into doing shit they don't want to do. I go, while he stays in the car with the engine running.

  As I tap on the door all I can think about is the news stories of American gun violence that I saw while growing up in Australia. Firearms, the 2cnd amendment, and vigilante justice is as American as apple pie, 4th of July, and Jerry Springer. The cliché, if it bleeds it leads, isn't referring to restaurant customers who order a raw steak getting their meal first. The media here fuels the American fascination with people being shot, or protesting people being shot. All sensationalistic journalism does is scares the crap out of people when they want to purchase tickets for a uniquely American sporting experience.

  I tap on the door again, I feel an impending asthma attack waiting for a response to my knock. Crikey, I should be spending my money on a puffer. An African American man dressed in a bright orange suit answers the door and seems rather surprised to find a nervous white dude standing there. I explain to him I am here to scalp football tickets for him and he bursts out laughing. ‘You aren't scalping boy. I am doing the scalping,’ and with introductions accomplished he invites me into his living room.

  He has never met an Australian before so is absolutely intrigued. I have never met an American black man before, so I am scared shitless. My knees tremble at the pace of a flamenco dancer's castanets. I decide to take a leaf out of Dohers' book and bullshit my way through this. Go big or go home. Fake it till you make it. Who the hell is going to know if anything I say is true or not.

  The man wants to know all about my country, so I explain it for him starting from the beginning bit. Where Captain Cook sails up the East Coast in 1770 and names the Glasshouse Mountains because they remind him of the huge glass furnaces in his native Yorkshire. I wisely decide to edit out mentioning Cook ordering his expedition to shoot at the two aborigines in Botany Bay. A frantic pounding at the door interrupts me from regaling when Captain Cook is killed in Hawaii after he shit stirs the natives. It is a panic stricken Dohers, ‘you left me in the car by myself, you bastard.’ I point out to him that I didn’t leave as much as he desired to stay. ‘Did you get the tickets? We still need to find the stadium.’ The realization that, as enjoyable as reviewing Australian history is with an American, we have a game to get to compels me to hasten things up. I quickly outline: The First Fleet; how stealing a handkerchief gave someone a life sentence to Australia; Bushrangers; the Eureka Stockade; Federation; Gallipoli; Gough Whitlam being sacked as Prime Minister; the 1982 America’s Cup and Olivia Newton John freeing the slaves. Then it is time for us to go.

  Mile High Stadium is so named because the city of Denver is at a mile altitude above sea level. This puts it 250 meters higher than the base elevation of Thredbo, Australia’s premier ski resort. From Denver, which is dead flat, you must then drive up into the mountains to ski. It shows the disadvantage that Australia has in terms of having a ski run longer than 30 seconds. Our mountains suck. The mile-high football arena was built in 1948 for a baseball team. Ironically it was originally named Cold Stadium. This is the shortened version of the full name which was Fucking Cold Stadium. The design of the place in a horseshoe U, which perfectly allows freezing artic blasts roaring down the Midwest plains from Canada to be captured inside its high banked seating arrangement. I consider playing barefoot rugby as a child during the mild winters of Queensland as brutal. Queenslanders whisper the words '10 degrees Celsius' like they are referencing the Holocaust. Playing American football fully clothed in Denver is a hundred times worse. Merely watching football here while sporting 12 layers of clothing is terribly uncomfortable.

  One Denver supporter famous for being impervious to frigid temperatures is the ‘Barrel Man.’ The only item of clothing this guy wears to game is an orange barrel around his waist like the ones used by rodeo clowns. Dohers and I see him; we are duly impressed by both his devotion and stupidity. I never see Australian rugby fans willing to freeze their balls off supporting their team by dressing up like a nudist stuck in a wine cask. Still, something to aspire to.

  Seated beside us is a sociable couple. I notice they have snuck in a bottle of Jägermeister inside one of their coats. In an outdoor stadium as frigid as Denver's bottles of spirits are probably tucked away inside all spectator coats. This explains why everyone wears coats and coats have deep inner pockets. Everyone at the stadium is well satiated, except in the case of two dumb novices like Dohers and I. Down on the field the Broncos intercept the ball and the crowd goes ballistic. Dohers asks the couple, with their own personal 7-11 inside their clothing, why the excitement over the play? I give him a sharp nudge in the ribs.

  ‘Dohers that is an interception. You know what it means.’

  ‘Be nice to people sitting beside you in football stadiums, and they will be nice to you,’ he smugly replies.

  The couple are as excited to bestow on us their knowledge of the game as I would be to teach them Australia history. ‘This is an interception. GO BRONCOS. This is good for our team, the Broncos. GO BRONCOS!! We have the ball back. We need to head on down and score a touchdown. GO BRONCOS!! Would you two fellas enjoy a drink?’ He opens his coat and produces the bottle.

  ‘Don’t mind if we do,’ speaks Dohers, on behalf of both of us. A solid scull of Jägermeister and I can see where the Barrel Man finds the resolve to ice up his testicles during home games. Dohers employs the same tactic for the rest of the game to get us plastered, while assisting our input of concepts such as: the number of downs in a series; why too many men might be on the line of scrimmage; the offside rule; scoring a safety; and the extremely rare fair-catch kick rule. This last rule is so bizarre, that it warrants the revealing of another bottle of Jägermeister for Dohers and I to fully grasp the banality of it. The rule has only been used 24 times since 1925. Hell, if I ever got a job as coach of an NFL team I'd use it every game.

  We merrily trudge through the car park snow after the game. Denver wins but is already eliminated from playoff contention. That is a small disappointment that two bottles of German bitter liqueur fixed right away. To cap off the first day in my life that I stepped out of the shadow of my fo
rmer apprehensive self, I successfully argue to have Dohers be the one to drive the four hours back to Steamboat. I like this growing in confidence thing. Maybe I should think about taking up faith healing?

  Wally Grout - part 4

  There are few things in life more certain than it is always a bad idea to have a who-can-eat-the-most' competition. They are: politicians will promise us the world to be elected and then do nothing; the winner of The Bachelor will later be found to be secretly in the love with the runner up; and that once you move houses to live in an apartment right on the ocean, you will end up going to the beach less often than when you lived miles away. The idea of eating a greater amount of food than is humanly possible was spurred by the famous scene in Cool Hand Luke where Paul Newman announces he can consume 50 hardboiled eggs in an hour. Eating competitions are stupid enough when professionals do it. They are idiotic when amateurs try. Never a good time, never a good reason, no matter the circumstances. Especially when you are drunk, which is 99.8% of the times these things happen.

  I have been challenged to an all-you-can-eat type encounter twice in my life. The first time was mostly a battle against myself. Ala Cool Hand Luke. My mate Dono challenged me to consume two WeetBix in under two minutes at an Australia Day bar-b-que. Easy to do, you say. I said the same thing. Basic math, one WeetBix per minute. I'll just wait now while you go and give it a try. There is a reason the Bachelor always goes back to the number two girl he passed over, humans don't always make smart choices when giving limited information and under pressure. I regret accepting the challenge within two seconds and failed atrociously. It was a humiliating moment in front of my peers, but never in the reckless, life threatening realm of a Tide pod challenge. Stick to WeetBix you stupid kids. The second time was more of your classical style eat-off. Mano y mano. It takes place while I am enjoying this winter in Colorado.

  My job is working halfway up Steamboat Mountain on the Burgess Creek lift. As a lifty, I keep the chairlifts operating smoothly and tend to the smallest whims of the mountain's clientele to ensure they have an enjoyable time. Customer service is my forte but here in the USA they take it to another level. No amount of blatant stupidity on behalf of the customer excuses me from tending to their needs by licking their arse. The customer must always be right. They may well be as dumb as a box of nails, but they can never be at fault for anything. Dohers works at the bottom of the mountain on the kiddie lift. Dohers is never more in his element than overseeing 100 three to five-year-old children who are jacked up from not taking their Ritalin and getting their first taste of being on the slopes. He riles them up with his overwhelming enthusiasm for life. He is Rolf Harris minus the deviant tendencies. He has the happiest job on the mountain, while never worrying about inserting his tongue anywhere to help keep his cliental content. Unless he secretly wants to be like Rolf Harris.

  One Tuesday, there is a call for me on the mountain phone from the kiddie lift. Dohers’ excited voice pummels me over the line, ‘let’s go for Taco Tuesday happy hour at the Holiday Inn after work. I am starving.’ The Holiday Inn in Steamboat is revered among the budget constrained ski lift operators for its daily happy hour. Every day between four and six they lay out a table with piles of delicious nourishment. It is worthwhile to point out that we are two of four Australians staying in a one-bedroom apartment who only ever had trays of ice to eat at home. We have no cooking utensils. As young men we didn't possess the prerequisite skills to know how to grocery shop, so we spent our days in a perpetual state of constant starvation. Until we got at the free food served during happy hour. ‘I can eat at least ten tacos,’ says Dohers.

  ‘Pfft Dohers. I once ate twelve McDonald's junior burgers during a school swimming fundraiser that gave me a two for one deal.’

  ‘You think you can eat more than me?’

  ‘I know I can eat more than you,’ I respond.

  ‘Challenge accepted. Taco Tuesday happy hour. As many tacos, as either of us can eat in the two hours.’

  ‘Are we drinking beer?’ I ask.

  ‘Are you an idiot? Of course, we’re drinking beer,’ he scolds.

  That is how simple it is to propel two people into a situation which will test the limits of the elastic properties of their stomach lining. Hubris and food. Man's greatest follies. Our individual pride is dented due to our feeble hunger possessed minds. The gauntlet has been thrown down and accepted. Rather than pistols at dawn, it is tacos at twilight. We take this as serious as two people could. We each bring a second. I bring a girl I like named April. Dohers brings our mate Jim, who works at the ski rental shop in the Sheraton Hotel. Cool Hand Luke in après ski wear.

  We arrive a few minutes late, so we can’t make full use of the 120 minutes of unrestricted eating. First order of business is to order two beers. Then we have a brief discussion on the rules of competition. Each man will collect five tacos on his plate come back to the table and devour them. We then return to the serving table together, so it is easier to keep track of rounds and the number of tacos consumed. Unless we find out we can only really eat six or seven. That is essentially it, now down to business.

  Dohers is consulted on the writing of this story, I asked him for permission to use his name. He is content, provided I do not expose his lifelong love of Celine Dion. Which I will never do. He is sworn to never disclose my love of Rolf Harris's song, Two Little Boys. Which considering the child abuse charges against him that piece of music is now framed in a whole new light. Pedophilia is much like school shootings. We somehow never see the signals being given off by the perpetrators beforehand, but the minute it is discovered it is suddenly all so obvious in retrospection. Why is that? I blame the fact that no one has given a TED talk on the subject yet.

  Dohers and I fill our plates for the initial round. I pass judgement that Dohers is not overly generous when filling his hard shells with meat, fixings, and condiments. Taco night in my childhood home meant I loaded my taco with as much mince; chopped lettuce; cheese; tomato; sour cream; and guacamole as I can fit in the damn thing. I am not skimping on free food, even during a competition format. Wednesday night’s happy hour is prawns and I am horribly allergic. After tonight's feed, I must survive on ice cubes till Thursday. In all honesty, I did eat prawns the last three Wednesdays. But have run out of my prescription allergy tablets so I no longer have a, 'get out of jail free card.' I would be insane to try and eat prawns from this point. The stupidity of youth versus the human body's tolerance for anaphylactic shock. And the winner is… Anaphylactic shock.

  Round after round of five tacos sets pass with neither of us giving an inch. Beers are consumed to keep our palates moist while the stage is set for a nail biting finish as 6pm approaches. Right on the hour the hotel servers appear to clear the table of the remaining food. Dohers and I jump up and quickly load a final five hard shells with fillings onto our plates. At this point we have both consumed 40 tacos a piece. We are engorged, like a dead seagull lying on a beach with its stomach filled with nonbiodegradable plastic. The serving table is now empty and there is no going back. My manhood rides on this last plate. Somewhere in the bar the haunting theme music from the final gunfight scene of The Good, The Bad and The Ugly begins to play through the sound system.

  Dohers and I chow into the last plateful. We polish off the first taco. I watch the last of the meal spread being taken back to the kitchen and start to laugh. My competitor laughs back.

  ‘Don’t know what you are laughing for. This is headed to a draw,’ admits Dohers.

  ‘No. I’ve won,’ I say, smiling through the mince and cheese.

  ‘How can you have won? We are dead even.’

  ‘Yes, we are. But I will eat more tacos than you.’ I boldly proclaim.

  ‘How do you think you will do that, if we both finish our plate?’ Dohers questions.

  ‘Easy. I put six tacos on my plate. You put five,’ I spread my hands wide to show five remaining crispy Mexican delights sitting on my plate to the four that Dohers has
on his. ‘Doesn’t matter what you do now. You can’t eat more tacos than me.’ I tell him.

  Dohers looks at his plate and expels a deep sigh, ‘thank fucking god.’ He stands up runs to the parking lot and throws up for five minutes. I finish off another one and a half tacos to seal my victory and to rub it in Dohers’ face. You shouldn't have bought a knife to a gun fight, mate. By losing it is his duty to do the Wally Grout and pay the bar tab.

  Despite the victory my stomach pains like I am carrying triplets. Women say that men have no idea of what it is like to carry around a baby for nine months. Well we know, because we are stupid enough to engage in all-you-can-eat contests. I feel like I have taken on the world and won. Not since my under 6 soccer team won the grand final have I felt so accomplished. What a great feeling. Life is perfect. After my triumph, I have an overwhelming desire to say that the taste of victory is sweet, but it is decidedly more like salsa.

  Stunned Mullet

  Every story ends with a moral lesson. To arrive at that point, one must get through a lot of pontificating crap. Avoid the crap, you lose the message. Lose the message, well good luck learning to navigate the poorly marked channel past the treacherous, rocky shoals of this thing we call life.