3:AM Magazine

By Joseph Ridgwell.

I was living in a street that contained seven brothels, two strip clubs, and oddly a dental clinic. After a couple of months I was on first name terms with several of the hookers. At the time I was working as a hospital porter, drinking heavily, and slowly going insane.

After a while I began to feel claustrophobic. One morning whilst doing the laundry, watching the clothes go around and around and around, I knew something had to be done. I had to get the fuck out of Sydney.

The very next day I became determined to make something happen. I grabbed a cold one from the fridge, drunk it in two big gulps, and then stepped outside. The 45 degree heat hit me like somebody had just opened an oven door, sunstroke conditions. I ducked into the nearest bar with twenty dollars to my name. I ordered a schooner and headed to the Pokies. I placed a ten in my favourite machine, one with a leopard feature.

I gave a quick prayer to the god of lost causes and pressed ten-dollar play. The reels spun, lights flashed, and there it was. The jackpot! More lights and some jingle jangle electronic music. Freakily I’d won $1000. Sweet Jesus.

I stepped out into white sunlight so bright the NSW government should have been handing out free polarised sunglasses to all its citizens. I staggered over to Simone’s Club for Gentlemen. Nong was kissing some John goodbye, some fat old fart, treasurer of the local tennis club or the city Mayor. When Nong saw me she smiled,

‘Hey Jo-Jo, wan see a lady?’

For twenty seconds I contemplated it, but no more than that, ‘Nong, I need to get out of the Cross, can’t breathe, stifled.’

Nong was wearing a see-through negligee and two cigar-butt nipples swung free and easy. She also had a nice ass, but overall was slightly out of proportion, short legs, thick ankles, long nose etc. And beneath the layers of make-up I discerned a bad case of acne. She took me by the hand and squeezed tight. I caught a whiff of semen and condoms, ‘You go Queensland baby, go Big Pineapple, all people say really fun time!’

Now I knew what had to be done. The oracle of the bordello had spoken. Nong was a Buddhist, maybe even a Zen master or Zen lunatic. The advice was probably some warped form of Zen koan, passed down from generation to generation in the village she came from in Chang Mai or Laos. The Big Pineapple, whatever the fuck that was? I gave the lunatics delectable derriere a firm squeeze,

‘Ok, see ya when I get back!’

Nong giggled and shewed me away, ‘That’s if you get back laughing boy!’

An hour later I had hired a car, a brand new Mitsubishi, and stocked up with all the essientials for a long road trip. Two crates of VB, 200 Mild Seven, and eight cans of chilli tuna.

I headed out onto the Pacific highway. I drove for miles and miles and miles and miles and miles and miles and miles and miles and miles and miles and miles and miles and miles and miles. Well, Australia is a big country. My only company was the Pacific Ocean, silent, sparkling, iridescent, magnificent, and the white lines in the middle of the highway, ominous and never-ending.

At first I tried to keep my energy levels boosted by drinking bottles of VB at hourly intervals. This worked until eventually I began to feel drunk and exhausted. Somewhere I stopped and checked into a motel, Port Macquarie, but beyond that. I slept soundly. In the morning I was still sleeping.

The next day I kept going. I was still using my one beer an hour tactic, although I didn’t have my first until noon. By now the beer was so warm it was like drinking tea, but after crossing the NSW/Queensland border it a least felt like I was making progress. Brisbane passed in a blur and so did most of the Gold Coast, Surfer’s Paradise included.

On the way I passed a couple of other big things. The Big Banana and the Big Prawn, but they hardly registered, even the Big Lawn Mower making little impact. I drove on, on.

I hit the Sunshine Coast in an almost zombified state. I was unaware of this until cars began flashing and tooting. Even then I was unaware of it, until they really began tooting and flashing. Finally, when an old granny in an ancient Holden began giving it some with the toots and flashes, I knew something was up. I tossed the bottle I was drinking out of the window, watching as it smashed into a million brilliant fragments, and then clocked the speedo. I was doing fifteen miles an hour!

I was in pieces; unable to move from the position I’d been in for hours, stiff as a board. I pulled the car into the next lay by and promptly fell asleep next to a sugar plantation.

When I awoke I didn’t know where the fuck I was. For a few suspended animation-like moments I thought I’d died and gone to heaven. I couldn’t see a damned thing. The car was engulfed in white cotton wool. Freaked, I kept my eyes peeled for God or one of the archangels, or even JC himself.

Then I smelled burning. The cotton wool wasn’t cotton wool, it was smog, fog, smoke, and it began to enter the car! What the fuck? Suddenly I realised I had to get the fuck out of there before I suffocated. I opened the car door and touched bitumen. Visibility was down to zero. I rolled the car onto what I suspected was the middle of the highway.

I couldn’t see shit, but it was becoming hard to breathe, so I turned the key in the ignition and hit the accelerator. If anything was coming in either direction I was toast, but then so where they.

Then, like a miracle, the smog disappeared and the highway and surrounding countryside suddenly revealed itself in all its panoramic glory. Within seconds it was a bright sunny day again, blue skies, no clouds.

Some way up ahead was a roadblock. I stopped the car. Two fat Queensland cops approached; one blonde, one ginger. I wound a window down,

‘How did you get here mate?’ Asked Ginger.

‘I fell asleep in a lay by, been driving from Sydney, underestimated the distances.’

The blonde one looked at the smoke and then adjusted his hat, ‘Jeez, you were lucky Pom, that bush fire’s been raging all night.’

I mumbled something about being born under a lucky star, or some other shit. Then I was asked to show my driving licence, prove of car hire, other law stuff. Once satisfied the highway cops advised me to always check on weather conditions and bush fire warnings before driving anyway in Queensland. ANYWHERE!

Afterwards I wondered if I’d cheated death, maybe, maybe not. I drove on. The Zen Lunatic had told me the Big Pineapple was somewhere on the Bruce Highway and I was now on the Bruce Highway. I recommenced my bottle of VB every hour routine. After my near death experience I needed a drink, I was getting jittery.

A couple of hours later I saw the first sign, Big Pineapple this way. I hit a town called Nambour, took a sharp left, and headed to a place called Woombye. Then I saw it, the Big fucking Pineapple. I checked my reflection in the rear-view mirror. I looked like a crazy person, tangled hair, bloodshot eyes, dirty clothes.

I parked the car and got out. The Big Pineapple was a huge fibre-glass structure in the shape of; yep you’ve guessed it, a pineapple. Some demented looking tourists milled around like lost people. I thought about Nong, telling everyone the story of me and the Big Pineapple of nothingness. I’d driven over two thousand kilometres to see this plastic abomination out in the middle of fucking nowhere. Well, now that I’d made it.

I strode up to the structure. You could climb inside. I entered the massive fake fruit and came to a viewing platform. I gazed at what there was to see. A gift shop, a huge pineapple plantation, a small train, and something called a nut-mobile. The only surprise was that pineapples grew on bushes not trees.

Then I felt suddenly nauseous. I leaned out of the pineapple and threw up, mostly beer and chilli tuna. Two or three kids looked up in disgust and started pointing. I didn’t feel so good. I climbed back down the pineapple and walked over to the gift shop. I queued with a bunch of sub-normal freaks and purchased a leather key-ring that had a picture of the Big Pineapple on it. It was a souvenir for Nong, a koan from me to her.

Then it was all over. I had visited Queensland’s Big Pineapple. I would never go back. All that was left was a two thousand kilometre return drive to Sydney. I drove late into the evening. The vast southern sky was dotted with thousands of stars. The ocean roared darkly and some eucalyptus trees stood tall and haunted.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Joseph is a writer. His work has been published. Joe grew up in the East End of London and left school with few qualifications. He then embarked on a succession of menial jobs. After being stabbed in a bar brawl and getting robbed at knifepoint he decided it was time to leave the country and promptly travelled the world. He lived in Australia for a good while living mostly in the Kings Cross area of Sydney until he became an illegal immigrant. To avoid being deported Joe then went to Thailand and brought a share in the world’s smallest bar, the defunct Barcelona bar. Joseph now resides in London.

First published in 3:AM Magazine: Friday, September 19th, 2008.