Dangerous Mind Games - Cocklebiddy, Australia

…Nick rolls his eyes with delight.
Madam, he purrs, you are making me quite excited with your aggressive behaviour. But let me tell you what your problem is. You are a woman who thinks like a man. You are…
He never finishes his sentence. Tara is out of her seat and clamps her hand around Nick’s throat. She shoves him back so forcefully that his chair tips over backwards. Instinctively I catch Nick’s head as it drops toward the concrete floor, where he lies on his back, stunned…

Penong is a pretty boring place to spend a Tuesday night. I don’t have much choice, though. The sun is setting, and only three vehicles have passed me in the last half hour.
People who know the desert roads in outback Australia avoid driving at night. After twilight, kangaroos are a common sight, bounding across the highway, and if a seventy-five kilo roo launches itself in front of your car, and you are doing a hundred and ten kilometres an hour, and the roo bounces over your bonnet and comes through the windshield at you… I can testify from first hand experience that the results can be traumatic and costly at best.
At nine-thirty, when the sun finally sinks below the horizon, I give up, throw my swag down under a clump of trees and call it a night.

Wednesday morning is hot and windy. I set up my bag, put out my cardboard sign, and stick my thumb up. The first car that comes along the road out of town slows and stops. I can’t believe my luck, the previous night I waited here three hours, and now I get a ride in five minutes flat. That’s hitchhiking for you.

Nick is Serbian, and an alcoholic. The former fact he tells me proudly as soon as I climb into his car, the latter I discover for myself later. Nick is fat, balding and sounds like Jack Nicholson impersonating Arnold Schwarzenegger.
It’s your lucky day, Nick tells me as he lights a cigarette. I am going all the way to Western Australia. I used to be a trucky, so I have driven the Nullarbor road many times before. Do you know how long it will take us to get to W.A.?
A long time? I guess.
Two days, my young friend. It is one thousand, and three hundred kilometres!
I raise my eyebrows appreciatively.
It’s your lucky day too, I tell Nick, I had a shower yesterday.
Nick looks at me for a moment, then laughs.
It is good for me to have company, Nick says. This road is very straight and very dull. You must make good conversation with me. Can you do that?
I’ll do my best, I tell him.
Nick nods, satisfied, and draws on his smoke.
OK. What do you think about Adolf Hitler? he asks me in his loud, gravelly accent.
I’m a bit taken aback, because I only met Nick five minutes ago.
Well, I think he was a famous psychopath. A mass murderer. A charismatic tyrant with small man syndrome.
Nick shakes his head slowly.
Your answer is very predictable, he says.
Inwardly I take a long, deep breath. Am I going to be spending the next two days with a Neo-Nazi?
Adolf Hitler, he intones stentoriously, was a great strategist. A great leader of men. To accomplish great tasks, one must sometimes make controversial decisions, no?
I think sending millions of innocent families to slave labour and execution is a bit more than controversial, I reply. I mean, if killing a large percentage of your country’s population is the best solution a statesman can come up with then in my opinion he is not a first class thinker. But then I am half polish, so I am a bit biased I suppose.
Nick considers this for a moment, then smiles.
You are not an idiot. You will be good company, he tells me.
OK, my young friend. What is the matter with the Australian government?
Our government is too big and bloated. We need less politicians and a more effective public service, I say.
Nick grunts, disappointed.
I agree with you on this matter. Never mind, I will think of a new topic.
Why are black people so lazy?

For the next four hours Nick and I argue. We argue about the renaissance, religion, interracial marriage, immigration, economics, third world aid, unemployment and health insurance. Whatever opinion I express, Nick adopts the opposing stance, and argues his case energetically. Whenever he tires of a subject, Nick lights a fresh cigarette, and announces a new topic:
What do you know about communism?
…Why do you think Europe is failing?
…Do you know the history of Ancient Greece?
…What can you tell me about crop circles?..
…Did you know 9/11 was a government conspiracy?
…What do you know about genetic engineering?

By the time we pull into the Cocklebiddy Roadhouse, I am exhausted. I feel as if I have gone fourteen rounds, no holds barred with Rush Limbaugh.
Cocklebiddy: population eight, says a sign outside the pub / restaurant / service station, that is the only building in the vast emptiness, besides a dilapidated row of motel rooms.
Three of the eight residents of Cocklebiddy are sitting outside the pub drinking when we arrive.
Nick plonks himself down at their table and orders a round of beers, which the locals accept gratefully. A can of beer retails for nine dollars fifty in Cocklebiddy, so their gratitude is sincere.
Your health, friends! Nick toasts the locals and we all take a long pull of our beer. The heat of the day is starting to fade, but it is still around thirty degrees under the awning of the pub.
The locals are Shane, Shane’s girlfriend Wendy, and Tara.
Shane is a former biker. His father and uncles were all Bandidos. Shane left the gang life in his early twenties, but has been haunted by his past ever since. Shane’s girlfriend, Wendy, is a former drug dealer. Four years ago she was living in Adelaide, selling meth’, and making a very handsome income. One day, she tells us, she decided she wanted to make a fresh start and earn an honest wage. She left the city looking for isolation and serenity, and found herself in Cocklebiddy.
Tara is a tough looking woman with a slow, deliberate way of speaking. She used to be a prison warden, but had a nervous breakdown.

Nick seems to be fixated on Wendy. After several more beers, he begins to throw provocative questions at her. What does she think about pornography? Are men and women like animals when they meet? Are women attracted to violent men? At first Wendy seems irritated by Nick’s questions, but once she starts to argue with him, I can see that she is enjoying crossing swords with him. Nick’s intentions are quite obvious, and I begin to watch Shane nervously, wondering how he will react if Nick takes the flirtation too far. Shane is quiet and impassive, but Tara, the former prison warden, is stewing. As Nick becomes more and more brazen in his attempts to provoke Wendy, Shane never flinches, but Tara’s face becomes a mask of hostility.
I have studied women for many years, Nick lectures. I am not a doctor, I am not a professional psychologist, no. But, I understand women. Every woman fantasizes about rape. All women are secretly attracted to men who are powerful, dominant, this has been shown to be true by science!
Tara suddenly reacts.
What the fuck sort of shit is this? she demands of Nick. You’re talking about women like you know something about us. You don’t know shit about women! What the fuck you know about sexual violence? You ever been raped? You need to shut the fuck up mate!
Nick apologises with exaggerated courtesy.
I am very very sorry if I have offended you madam, he says to Tara. I have no intention of being offensive. I am merely a curious person, a man who enjoys a discussion.
No, says Tara, you’re just a fucking wanker, and I’m telling you, you better shut your fucking mouth, or I’ll put you on your fucking back.
Nick rolls his eyes with delight.
Madam, he purrs, you are making me quite excited with your aggressive behaviour. But let me tell you what your problem is. You are a woman who thinks like a man. You are…
He never finishes his sentence. Tara is out of her seat and clamps her hand around Nick’s throat. She shoves him back so forcefully that his chair tips over backwards. Instinctively I catch Nick’s head as it drops toward the concrete floor, where he lies on his back, stunned.
Tara picks up her beer, and walks away.
Fucking wanker, she snorts, as she pushes through the door into the pub.

I help Nick back into his chair, and he quickly recovers his composure.
Don’t worry about her mate, Shane consoles him, she’s a fucking cunt. Don’t think badly about Cocklebiddy because of her.
Wendy nods in agreement.
Please, don’t worry, Nick says suavely as he dusts himself off.
She is a person with poor self esteem. I think she must have some scars from her childhood, and she reacts toward me because of some long ago trauma. My problem is that I am always right. I see people for who they are, and no-one likes the truth. There are no hard feelings on my side.
Nick orders yet another round of beers.
Shane raises his can and toasts Nick’s health.
The drinking continues.

When the pub closes, Nick buys a carton of cans, and the party moves to the porch of the motel.
It begins to dawn on me that I am surrounded by alcoholics.
Nick continues to pursue Wendy’s attention, and she is becoming less and less defensive.

Shane is intent on telling me his life story. At eighteen, his father told him that he would be initiated into full membership of the bike gang. There was just one catch. First he had to take a life. Shane was put on a plane to Indonesia, and given an address in Jakarta. His brief was simple. Go to the address, and kill everyone he found in the apartment. Once this mission was complete, he would forever be a member of the gang. He would get the Bandido tattoo, and be entitled to all the privileges that full gang member status conferred. But Shane knew that once in, he would never be able to leave.
As a kid, Shane tells me, I worshiped the Bandidos. Me dad. Me uncles. They were tough men, who never had to work real jobs, and always had plenty of women. I was sitting on the plane, with the bit of paper in my pocket, with that scribbled address, and I’m thinking about what i have to do, to get that life. By the time I landed in Jakarta, I knew I could never do it. But it was too late to just go home. I’d started down that road, and if I turned back, I knew what would happen. So I just got lost. I wandered around in Asia for a couple of years. I did some crummy jobs, smash and grab stuff. I worked as a bodyguard. In the end, I got homesick. I came home, and I thought that after years had gone by, I’d be OK. But they come after me. Me own dad put a fucking bullet in me leg.
Shane pulls up the leg of his jeans, and shows me a pair of massive round scars on his calf muscle.
They kicked the crap out of me, but they were me own blood, so they told me to keep me head down and left it at that.
Nick nods his head as he listens to Shane’s story.
I am familiar with this life, he says. Many years ago, I was a soldier in the Serbian army. We were a powerful force to be reckoned with. We followed just one law. Brotherhood. What a man may do, and what he may not, is a matter of opportunity, not reason. If you belong to a powerful fraternity, you live with this power, or you are crushed by it, the choice is yours. Never think brotherly love is unconditional.

At two thirty, Wendy and Shane rise, and wish us a bleary goodnight.
Nick kisses Wendy’s hand, with pantomime gallantry, and a good dose of lascivious implication.
Shane hesitates for a moment, as if thinking something over. He moves close to Nick, and leans over his chair. Nick looks up into the bearded face, and I see just a trace of apprehension in his eyes. Shane leans forward, and speaks very softly, very close to Nick’s ear. Nick seems to be listening closely. He is quiet for the first time in hours. He nods a few times. Shane draws back and studies Nicks face.
Deliberately, carefully, Shane reaches into the pocket of his jeans, and withdraws a small, bone handled pocket knife. He opens it, and holds it in front of Nick’s face.
I want you to have this, he says, his voice unsteady with emotion. It was my uncle’s knife, and it’s got a long history. I don’t want it anymore. I been looking for someone to give it to, for a long time. You’re the right person.
Shane presses the knife, blade still open into Nick’s trembling hand.
Thank you, Shane, Nick says, his voice unusually meek.
Shane straightens.
It’s yours mate. I had a dream a few nights ago. I knew just now that this was what happened in my dream. This is how it was.
Shane takes Wendy’s hand and they walk together, unsteadily, into the darkness.
There is a long silence.
Nick places the knife, gingerly, on the bonnet of his car.
He is drunk, and crazy, he mutters.
What did he say to you? I ask him.
He is fucking delusional, Nick snarls. He thinks he knows me. We are nothing alike. I must sleep. It is a long day tomorrow. Goodnight.

In the morning, when I meet Nick at his car, he looks haggard and pale.
Good morning, I greet him.
What did I do last night? Nick asks me, urgently.
What do you mean?
Did I say anything to anyone? Did I offend somebody? I can’t remember anything. I remember drinking at the pub, and then nothing.
Well, you got slammed by a lady prison warden, I remind him. She grabbed you by the throat and put you on the ground.
Nick rubs his throat thoughtfully.
I don’t remember. My neck is sore, though.
I saved you from cracking your head on the concrete, I tell him.
Nick shakes his head in confusion.
I should have told you. I am an alcoholic. If I have two or three drinks, then I cannot stop, and after five or six, I forget everything after that.
Nick notices Shane’s knife on the bonnet of the car. A look of deep concern falls across his face.
What about Shane? Did I say something to Shane? When I came out to the car this morning, I found this on the bonnet.
Nick holds up Shane’s pocket knife between his thumb and forefinger, like a smelly prawn.
He gave you that as a gift, I think. He said he dreamed about you, and he wanted you to have it.
He wasn’t angry?
He didn’t seem to be. I don’t know why. You were flirting with his girl all night.
Wendy? I was flirting…
Nick squints, as if straining to find a memory. He shakes his head and throws his bag into the back seat of the car.
OK. We are leaving. Are you ready? Can you drive?
Sure, I can drive.
OK, let’s go then.
Nick clambers into the car, and I climb into the drivers seat.
Let’s go, let’s go! Nick urges me as I put the key in the ignition.

We drive along in the glaring morning light. The Nullarbor plain is a huge orange expanse in every direction, except to the south, where the land falls away into a steep cliff, and the shimmering green sea.
Nick sits slumped in the passenger seat, sunglasses over his puckered eyes, smoking a cigarette.
This is so beautiful here, I say to Nick.
There is nothing out here, Nick snorts. People come from all over the world, to see this place, to drive on this road. For what? I have driven this road a thousand times, and I can tell you, the novelty wears off. This is the arsehole of the world. Lets talk about something interesting.
He draws on his cigarette and coughs.
OK, my young friend. New topic. What can you tell me about psychology?