The Pest

He is sitting in the pub, 4.30 turns over on the clock with an audible click that has him glancing up. Two hours down, he would give it another half hour. It has been a slow old Saturday afternoon. His mobile hasn’t rung once and he is hoping that the peaceful interlude may see him sleep more than his usual 4 hours tonight. A folded form guide from Friday’s paper is by his left elbow, a half empty pot of 50 lashes sits slightly higher up and a pen is being thoughtfully chewed into a mangled ended thing whilst the punters eyes dart between two television sets. The screens are showing separate horse races in 2 states. A decent outlay of cash some time ago has the betting man highly interested in the forthcoming show. He isn’t a serious gambler but enjoys the game when it is going well and it is going well this afternoon.

One race is more important than the other. Doomben has a filly called “Miss High Socks” running with his $200 on its nose. A highly regarded tip off earlier assured him that she is a sure win cash cow dressed in horses clothing. The animals are still being led into the barriers at Doomben and his eyes follow the touted cash cows progress. The other screen shows them circling outside the gates in Sydney. He is following a gut feeling in Sydney with “Captain Lightfoot” and to that end has placed a more cautious stump of $50 each way on the young grey.

Male voices rumble about, filling the bar with noise. Some are sounding a bit bleary and slurred. Others have gradually grown louder in volume throughout the afternoon. John’s tuned ear picks up various acquaintances, including the mate he has been drinking with, currently engaged in a half serious argument regarding the dubious reffing in last nights footy match. He sighs as he finishes the dregs in his glass and hopes Col wraps up the pointless debate soon. His mate was in charge of the last round of beers and anticipation of a possible windfall has John’s mouth running dry.

They are away! The horses in Brisbane have shot out of the barriers and John’s eyes are fixed to No. 10 and the streaking flash of blue and white the jockey wears. Round the turn they go, things are looking good. The punter is murmuring quiet words of encouragement that gets louder as the horses round a further bend “go you good thing go!”, excited eyes bounce over to Sydney and oh it is all too much, the Captain is indeed looking well placed high on the inside about third from the lead “Yes!” Adrenaline has the man riveted now as his eyes bounce back and forth between the screens. Amongst all this he feels a shadow at his shoulder.
“Good work, good work mate” he barely glances sideways as he hand reaches for the anticipated beer from Col. “Go you little beauty, go High Socks, go!” Johno’s voice has a hoarse jag to it and the filly has moved up into a very likely position now, it all looks like it might be in the bag. The beer is missing from his grasping hand though and suddenly he smells a different smell. “Oh shit” he thinks to himself, this is not his mate returning with the goods, instead it is the resident pest that everyone tries to avoid of late. Kevin the overbearing, never shuts up, in everyones face with his tobacco and rotten tooth breath. Kevin bloody Madden! Just bloody great.

“Gday Johnno me lad, what are you ridin on here then” The big man moves in far too close, his boundaries have increased with each beer downed throughout the afternoon and now his elbow threatens the vertical nature of Johno’s empty glass. The race! Reminded of his impending win, Johno’s eyes flit distractedly back to the screen “Yeah g’day Kev, uurrrm the little filly in the lead there, or it was Oh shit! Go High Socks, oh no!…. oh fucking no way…. What???? “ No. 10 has been overtaken in the dying minutes of the race by the big bay “Soundslikeawinner”. “Bullshit and bugger, typical! “. Johno slaps the counter top hard, his hand comes away stinging as a result.

He is not sure whether it is Kevin’s sudden appearance, the loss of the race or the whole thing combined that has the afternoon suddenly looking so sour.
“Oh well then that is no good mate” rumbles Kev supposedly sympathetically though it is clear he couldn’t care less. The older man just wants to get to the point of why he came over here and it wasn’t any particular interest in this young idiot – too much money the lot of them had if you asked him – not that anyone ever did. “Don’t bet on the nags meself – just a waste of bloody money if you ask me “ . He hadn’t and Johno feins deafness, his eyes are on the other screen. Although he is cranky as a hornet about the loss in Brisbane, he just knows that Sydney is going to come off for him.

As Kev takes a swig of his beer and John morns the lack of his, onscreen the Captain fails dismally to command the remainder of the race, not even a place does he garner to offer up a dollar or two. Sighing and softly swearing as his arm is jostled with Kevin’s all too close movement, Johno throws the mangled pen down in disgust. As he rips up the useless tickets a thought, miserable as it is, enters his head - that Kevin is to blame for the sudden downward spiral in what had previously been a lucky afternoon. There he had been, having a bit of a punt for fun, the first in months backing 3 winners and a couple of placements that had his afternoon funded by the TAB. A nice beer buzz going on, not a care in the world and now it was all suddenly crashing down. He shuffles over on what had previously been a good winning streak and glowers at the bad news on the screen confirming his losses.

Kev seems oblivious to John’s mood and he clatters on“You know I’ve been meaning to catch up with you John me lad, but that mobile number you gave me, I must have written it down wrong, it is about that little dozer of mine that you were interested in, you know the one that – oi Johno are you listening mate?” Kev is pushing his head almost into Johno’s ear now and the smell is overwhelming at such close and unwelcome quarters. John’s whole body is a rigid mass of annoyance. He briefly wonders if his bristles are up visibly, like those of a dog. Shit though, you have to be polite, he was bought up to respect his elders and he is not the only hapless recipient of Kevin’s attention this afternoon. Indeed the pest’s voice could be heard all over the pub chewing ears. It was simply his turn, much as he would have it otherwise.

“Do you want a beer mate? My shout?” Kev has suddenly cottoned on to Johnos less than affable mood and puts it down to the recent losses incurred. “Here mate, you sit tight and I’ll get you a real one not that gay slop you are drinkin” Kev is away for the bar. Johno, feeling like a bastard but legitimately needing a piss, exits out the side and into the less than pleasant (But better than Kev) smelly confines of the urinals.

Another presence appears beside him, and Johno, hooky about Kev following him in nearly pees on his foot, such is his jerk of fright. “Fuck me Col, you scared the shit out of me, I thought it was bloody Kev”. Col grins benignly, he has his own beer buzz going on by now. “Oh Kev’s alright Johno, he has had a pretty crook run of late, it’s why he is always here no doubt”. Johno snorts derisively. “Like fuck, he annoys the shit out of me, it used to be a nice afternoon at the pub away from everything and just having a few bets, now I have to keep a look out over my shoulder in case that old bloody know it all is looming up on me”. Johno is not normally so mean and he feels his neck recoil a bit at the blunt words but the horses have got his dander up and now Kev will be waiting with his beer – the wrong sort it always is – and a long bloody boring yarn about that fuckin broken down machinery he is trying to flog to anyone that will listen. Arrgh, the afternoon is well and truly shot , he may as well go home- instead he continues his rant.

“ He certainly has no respect for me, told me last week he thought I was in way over my head, all I cared about was money and that if he ran a company the way I did then he’d be fuckin ashamed to stick his head up in public let alone make page 2 of the newspaper like I did Friday”. Col rolls his eyes sympathetically but then continues in Kev’s defence. “You know his wife has got MS, she is going down hill at a rapid rate” Col is zipp\s up heading for the sink. Johno leans into the wall a bit in shock. MS, his aunt had died with MS after a long and terrible battle, awful disease, he wouldn’t wish it on anyone. “Really?” is all he can manage for a moment, he hadn’t known and suddenly he feels drained of all anger and unlucky feelings.

“Yeah, Kev’s her main carer and their business is in the shithole because he can’t spend the time there that he needs to – the daughter comes up on a Saturday from Surat, gives him a bit of a break but by then his head’s stuffed so he comes here” Col shoves paper into the overflowing bin and turns, eyes soft. The look targets Johnos usually good heart and better nature, he feels the gentle tap where it is intended and nods. “Right, I’m glad you told me mate – anything we can do?”. Col thinks for a minute, hand on the door. “It’s tricky, like any of us Kev’s pretty proud I guess, I had a thought though. The big fella’s unloading machinery and trying to get what he can for it. If you need that dozer like you thought you did last week you might give him an offer” Fair isn’t mentioned doesn’t need to be. Johno nods but doesn’t look up, he had immediately had the same thought himself, he just has to figure how to manage it.

Johno pushes open the swinging door into the public bar. Late afternoon sunlight filters in through the windows, golden dust motes sparkle in the places where natural light rarely reaches. Kev is by himself, two beers parked at his elbow, deep in conversation on his mobile phone, hand cupped over his eyes as if to shield them from the pain that seems to stem from the ear piece. It is not a happy conversation, his body tells the story though his words are too soft to hear. The set of his shoulders, the tilt of his head, the worried brow that suffers under attack from a scraping, never still hand. For the first time Johno notices the deep rivulets of wrinkles running down Kev’s face, the grey peppering his hair and wonders at the older mans actual age. He has heard Kev talk about his wife in happier times, before he became such a pest. Kev adores his Marie, always talking about her fierce temper her smart wit, pretending he’s scared of her and bolting with a happy cherio when the car horn sounds outside the pub. Johno hasn’t seen him do that in a while.

Compassion floods the younger man further as he imagines himself in the same situation. How he would be if his own beloved family were struck by such an illness. How would his business survive without his helpmate wife, what would be the point of it all without her. It was a team effort being self employed and didn’t he know it. They were chilling thoughts.

Gathering himself as he sees the conversation ending, Johno pushes off and walks towards Kev. He pats the big mans shoulder as he moves around to take the seat opposite, funnily enough the smells don’t concern him anymore. The races still burble on behind him and although he is aware of another couple of bets coming home they have entirely lost importance now. Instead he is fully occupied with how to help the man that sits before him. It would have to be careful. Have to be canny or the old goat would sniff a plot afoot and cry charity. The worst insult of all.

“So Kev, that dozer mate – the little D9 – what do you reckon you can let me have it for?” seeing Kev’s gobsmacked look, Johno plunges on quickly “ I’ve got a bit of work for it on this new oil and gas thing I’m onto and I reckon it’ll be cheaper for me if my bloke drives it rather than getting you – bloody hiway robbery last time you mug and don’t I know it”
A big grin spreads across Kev’s face, Johno avoids looking too deeply at the light of relief that also shines clearly. “Ha! It’s a good little dozer that one Johno, hardly taken a spanner to it in two years, can’t give it away for nothing you know but I might be able to give it to you for a neat 50– if you can give it to me in the quick and readies”

From the slightly sheepish look in Kev’s eyes Johno is sure that the tidy 50 might be tad high but bugger me the man needed a break and there was a fair profit riding on this new project that he had netted. It was a good little dozer and perfect for the work he wanted it for too. Johno peers down at the beer for a minute, notes that it is a xxxx gold not a 50 lashes and cracks a rueful smile. Kev never wavers from xxxx gold and figures everyone either drinks it or should – hence it is all he buys in a shout. He takes a sip anyway, tastes like… oh well “Bullshit Kev, it isn’t worth that much, I can buy one new for barely another 30” wouldn’t do to have him wrapped up too nicely, couldn’t have the old bugger lying in bed tomorrow night wondering about the ease of it.

A half heated argument ensues. Back and forth the quips are traded. “You could get one of those Jap made pieces of plastic but I tell you this is good german engineering, never give you a days trouble you silly bastard, waste money on that stupid jersey you bought at that charity auction but can’t see a smart move when you’re looking at it”. “Bullshit Kev, the Japs are making some bloody good stuff now days and speaking of looking at it - that auction was in aid of prostate cancer – have you checked yours? Oh of you course you do – every time you stick your head up it” Johno beams happily at his wit and almost enjoys his beer but it is wasted on Kev. “My arse is fine you gay bastard -you must be! look at that shirt you’re wearing - now you want the one of my back? I can see why - 50 is cheap and you know it - you should get your bloody prostrate checked or is it too tight for the doctor to get a gander up there?”

Col arrives back and adds his 2 cents worth and handily enough the right brand of beer, but that only goes the round or two before Johno is back to gloomily drinking Kev’s beloved gold again. A half hour is wasted, minds are taken to other places. The wrinkles on Kev’s face are more often turned up in smiles than down in frowns and finally the deal is done.

A slap on the table and a sweaty handshake pronounces the dozer sold at $55 grand and Johno for the life of him can’t remember how the tote went up instead of down but he reckons it is worth it when Kev’s phone rings a few minutes later.
Kev turns away to answer but he whole bar can overhear his booming conversation such is his enthusiasm. “I sold it darling, the little D9 - yes for real, I’m not joking- no, to that dickhead Johno Watson” A wink is hastily sent Johnos way to soften the insult but it is the big smile on Kev’s dial that soothes it quicker. The conversation drops down a notch or two in volume but still Johno hears a snatch. “It’ll be right the treatments paid for darl, paid for! tell Mum though when she wakes up won’t ya as she’ll be wantin to know” Kev swings back a bit louder again “ I’m just havin a final one with the boys and then I’ll catch a left jab, no you stay there darl, I’m alright, won’t be long, can’t walk out on a shout when these young pricks who think they’ve got money are throwing it around can I?”.
Johno smiles at Col and moves off to the bar to gather a final round for the road. Col grins serenely at nothing out the window. He is feeling a warmth not bought on by beer buzz .

Blokes at the pub, not exactly the Mother Teresas and Ghandis of this world but they do what they can. No tea parties here, no bandanas or pink ribbons, tickets or fun runs –just blokes looking out for blokes. There but for the grace of God after all. Col shakes his head and shoves his hands in his pockets bouncing lightly in his shoes. Pure gold his mate is, pure gold old Johno, not that bottled crap that Kev drinks either!