Beaconsfield Parade, at 7:30 in the morning, is as enjoyable a scenic drive as any in the fair city of Melbourne. Something like a Sunday drive with the Mother in Law; That is, if she was a19 year old ravishing beauty with legs up to her armpits and lips that could take the chrome off your bumper bar. However, by 8am it turns into Le Mans, Indianapolis 500, and Luna Park dodgem car circuit rolled into one major accident waiting to happen. That's the time when every car, truck, or for that matter, anything on wheels, take to the road hell bent on suicide.
If one could be bothered observing the competition, he'd see your average twit in his 500cc Topolino, blipping the throttle at the traffic lights, dreaming of being Ralph Shumaker in a red Ferrari. A sliver of runny egg hanging off his upper lip, curled up to give the sneer on his obnoxious rat face more emphasis. Drivers jostle for space as fumes and unburnt poisonous gases hang menacingly over a hundred Mad Maxes patiently waiting for grandma Fritz and her dog Gruber to cross the road in complete disregard to the panic stricken "DON'T WALK" sign, flashing imminent death at the pedestrian crossing. With a roar that probably left deep, unhealing wounds in the earth's crust, we hurtle down the road into a wide sweeping turn into a strait, where the infamous pub, The Pink Vic, revels in its obscene splendor. Another 20 Meters riding brakes to a screeching halt, gets you to Kerferd Road traffic lights.
A cutie in aerobic leotards with leg warmers clinging protectively to her shapely legs and a sweatband pulling at her hair for effect, glides across the road. Outlined against the tight, stretched material lay a matched pair of beautifully rounded, firm, perfectly shaped, mouth watering, ham and pickle bread rolls. Didn't know they made strech-transparent, shopping bags, did you? This immediately reminding me that the finely tuned rumble was my stomach and not the 100 watt sound system throbbing Love songs of the seventies. I look longingly at the bulge in my Taiwanese designer tee shirt, decorated with a scowling Mick Jagger with a white milk stain seemingly hanging off his nostril, in hungry despair.
Horns blare, as I'm a tenth of a second late in hitting the accelerator as the traffic light goes to amber. The clock on the dashboard says 8:05 as Dona Summer melts off the last dregs of 'Love to love you Baby…' while I neatly avoid the cement mixer intent on imprinting its front wheel on my 'Shit Happens' sticker, hiding a rust hole big enough to stash a medium sized Sumo wrestler, on the passenger door.
Majestically perched on a mattress of smog, the West Gate Bridge indicates my ordeal is nearly over. For the third time the news comes over the radio as I bump against the first and scrape over the second speed hump of the Holden car park. Thankfully the place is deserted and parking is a breeze. A quick turn, reverse and scrunch the tail lamps against the wire fence as the newsreader says, "and that's the end of the 8 o'clock news, today, Saturday, the 8th of December 1996…". It suddenly dawns on me, its Saturday and I don't work on Saturday! Calmly, and with exaggerated movements, I slide out of the seat, shut the door, take a deep breath, pivot on my heels and with a blood curdling scream, kick the fat, semi bald front right hand tyre. The last piece of rusty exhaust, hanging for dear life off the engine, falls to the ground, the tire develops a hiss and my foot hurts.
Life's a bitch when it's out to get you. A mental picture of Rufus skillfully inventing physical and mental abuse for my benefit materializes in my brain, suddenly, the 2 Kilometer walk to the service station, rolling a flat tire doesn't look so bad.
E-mail to Ray Agius: Ramel@bigpond.com
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