A Fool's Loop

Jan 09, 2024

The chicken rubbed an Alcoholics Anonymous chip under her wing and crossed the road. On the other side was Easy Rick’s, a dive bar with chewing-gum carpet and a jukebox that only played Jimmy Barnes. Inside, a fist fight for a woman’s affection was into its fifth round (of a scheduled twelve). The bartender was refereeing. He always wore a Kevlar jacket and motorbike helmet to protect against stray pint glasses and ICBMs. In summary, this was a rough place, the perfect spot for a chicken to toss away her sobriety.

At the end of the round, the bartender used his favourite blood-swiping towel to clear his visor. He then asked the chicken what she wanted, the words coming to her muffled and vague. Deep down the chicken wanted to give up; she was so tired. For some chickens the uncertainty of not knowing how things will pan out is too much to peck. It can seem preferable to toss oneself willingly to the foxes and hawks than to forge on, and on; it’s life itself–the terrifying uncertainty–that many can’t endure, not just the drink. So to hell with it all!

The chicken’s beak opened to squawk, but another shrill voice (very chicken-like) silenced all in the bar. It belonged to the woman in the barfight love triangle. She had just changed allegiance after a stocktake of the fighters’ remaining teeth. She now cried of divorce, which filled the toothless man with broken-hearted fury. All three would now die alone. The chicken, however, was granted a fool’s reprieve. Enough time had been bought–or borrowed–for the bird to change her mind; she would not give in–not today.

I was alone at a bar called Easy Rick’s. It’s a place where the beer is flat and the mechanical bull won’t buck (or inseminate). I drink here to experience being absent, résumé-less. Though if I’m honest, I also come here because the bar shares my brother’s name and I like seeing the flashing letters above the beer taps in neon green. I shouldn’t, of course; it’s better (wiser) to accept things as they are and we no longer talk.

On the stool next to me a woman was lit up in the downlights like a display model Porsche. She spritzed perfume in the air, and I watched the mist fall upon her bare arms and neck. For one full heartbeat, stars glistened and I did not exist. Then, a beat later, my gaze returned to my chicken nuggets.

I had just imagined this whole thing–I won’t go into it–about an alcoholic chicken intent on breaking its sobriety. The chicken was brave but unaware of what was tugging at her soul. Like many, she was blind to her own foolishness. What she craved was certainty in an uncertain life, and the only path there is ruin.

‘The chicken was in a loop,’ I said to the woman. ‘The chicken needs to accept things as they are. Then she won’t knees… serpent… peas...’

I held the nugget aloft so the woman could understand my meaning. Then I burped and felt the sweet weightlessness of a playground slide as I fell off the stool, my head careening towards the woman’s lap. Fortunately, she caught me on the way down and held me by the shirt using her fingers like clothesline pegs. I began to think I might be drunk.

‘Life is uncertain,’ I continued. ‘Nuggets need to accept things as I have. Then nuggets…nuggets…’ My god she was beautiful. Her face was like one smooth nugget and her eyes were clear nuggets with even smaller darker nuggets inside. Nuggets are the windows to the soul nugget.

The woman under-hooked my armpit like a wrestler and heaved me back onto my stool. I felt the warm cushion under my bum as my legs dangled. I put my sleeve in a puddle on the bar top.

‘You know,’ she said, ‘I, too, have a saying about life. I use it all the time, and I made it up. It’s entirely my own invention. I thought of it myself and then brought it into being. Do you know what I mean? It’s important to me that you get it; do you? Well, do you? I won’t continue until you do.’

I was inside a riddle, on the verge of wetting myself; perhaps that is life. The woman argued for two boxing rounds and a bartender refill that what she was about to say was her own invention. To solve the riddle as best I could, I told myself it didn’t matter; I nodded. Of course it was her own invention–who cares?

‘My saying is this: life is a highway–now remember I made this up–life is a highway and I’m going to ride it all night long.’ Her tender thumb lifted my chin from the floor and I reopened my eyes. ‘How good is that?’ she continued. ‘Tell me now. Now. Tell me right this second that it’s good.’

Before I could respond, her phone rang. The ringtone was a little song called Life is a Highway by Tom Cochrane (1991), written when the woman was probably three years old. It was literally the most incriminating piece of evidence imaginable, spare the prosecution bringing in Tom Cochrane himself as a surprise witness. Yet the woman, in the face of this damning evidence–in fact having been the one to present it–made no attempt to shut the phone off or apologise or confess. No, she looked more determined and confident than ever.

‘Well, tell me how good my saying is. Tell me.’ She seized my wrists and stared into my eyes like a featherless bird. There was no escape.

My mind drifted to my brother Rick. It had been more than a year since the last time, armed with a gut-full of pints and memories, that I staggered to his concrete unit to try and mend things anew. But now I can accept things as they are, and this extends to other people, indeed to the nature of humans in general.

The world is full of idiots and liars. The older I get, the more I realise most conversations are just a form of verbal masturbation and you are merely the lubricant (or the vibrator, I suppose–the speech dildo). People just say what they want to say. You can’t influence them. Who are you to them anyway? You mean nothing to those you mean nothing to. You don’t even exist outside of a small circle, and even then, like a wound healing, that circle shrinks until there’s only a scar. It’s naivete that keeps you thinking your response matters, your opinion matters, your reputation matters… So why not nod and lie? The truth is for fools.

Still, I suppose understanding that reality doesn’t make it enjoyable. Of course, I wanted to call the woman out on her lies, her bravado, her disrespect in thinking she could fool me with such a lazy ploy. Yes, I wanted to call her a moron, an idiot, a lying moron idiot dick fuck loser slut, but what would be the point? Better to accept that these people exist and cannot be changed; that is wisdom. The world is as it is, people are as they are. It is not my place. I am not judge or jury, servant or saint. Let it all burn; I am the wise bystander.

‘What did you just call me?’ asked the woman. ‘What the fuck did you just call me?’

‘Ahh, whoops.’

Now, I’m not sure whether I was kicked out or I suddenly–and temporarily–gained the ability to fly, but either way, I left the bar horizontally. After a short trip, I crashed on the hot concrete and lounged there like a cold-blooded lizard. A voice from afar called, ‘and stay out! until next week,’ and I looked to the blue heavens and wondered if that was the voice of my late grandfather. The clouds shifted, sympathetically. I was not alone.

Through the still-open bar door, the jukebox began playing a Jimmy Barnes version of Life is a Highway. The track didn’t even make it to the chorus before the noise cut. Someone had unplugged the jukebox.

In the silence, the bartender shouted that the woman did not come up with Life is a Highway (he was furious, beyond consolation); then the toothless and soon-to-be divorced boxer came to the woman’s defence–hands-first; a third then yelled that if the woman believed she invented the saying then she did; a fourth argued that objective truth exists; a fifth gazed sceptically at the fourth and asked why he cared so much who wrote the song; then a sixth went and made a Molotov cocktail; and a seventh said he was Tom Cochrane’s illegitimate son and made reference to deceased estates. Once everyone had said their piece, in place of music, an almighty chorus of smashing bottles and broken knuckles followed. Still on the footpath, I muttered to myself: ‘Geez, that’s a rowdy sounding venue. I should check it out sometime. What’s it called?’

At the nearby pedestrian crossing, a mother stood with her two children. She had a boy’s wrist in each hand, and she held them as though a tornado was coming to take them away. The boys were dressed in their yellow school uniforms with oversized school bags and wide brim hats. They resembled miniature explorers on some mission to chart unknown lands. I imagined their backpacks like clown bags, full of an impossible number of objects for their journey: tent, Jeep, kayak… The image made me chuckle.

The closer and younger of the boys caught me laughing. He spat at me and the saliva slid down my nose and cheek but fortunately missed my mouth and eyes. The boy then alternated between grabbing his crotch and giving me the finger (his other wrist was still trapped in his mother’s grip). When the light went green, the mother had to rip at his skinny limb like a lawnmower starter. They crossed and entered the butcher’s shop.

Meanwhile, I climbed to my feet and took three hunched-over paces headfirst into a bench. On my second attempt, I stepped toward the crossing, then backwards three steps, and forward again. Finally, I plunged for the light pole like it was a ship mast in a black and deadly storm.

Across the street, I caught my reflection in the butcher’s shop front. Who stole my hair? Was it all plucked, one by one, while I was asleep, or trafficked for a wig? I wanted answers. But before I could feel too sorry about my egg-like appearance, the older boy started banging on the door and my gaze snapped to him.

On one side of the glass was the butcher’s, on the other was the entire world. The two boys were cursing and growling like rabid dogs on chains–the older boy holding the younger at bay–and the sight caused me to laugh openly, loudly, freely, stupidly. So before I could think–which meant to doubt, second-guess, curse, critique, question, insult, shame, judge, unpack, organise, order, accept–before any of that, I stuck my hands in my pockets and crossed with closed eyes. I gave no thought to the cars and trucks and blaring horns, only to what could be, what might be, what hopefully would be, if my brother is home.