Out to Lunch

The traffic was heavy on Burke Road, two lines halfway up the hill from Toorak Road. Do any of these governments that build these freeways have even the slightest understanding how freeways, actually, increase traffic, not the other way around? When are they going to realise that they have to start putting money into public transport rather than roads.

There were two huge trucks, at the end of the two rows of traffic, like apartment blocks, in the middle lane, as my dwarfed car slipped next to them on the outside lane, as the whole conglomeration inched forwards at a crawl. What did I really care anyway, as I was turning off to my mum’s at the next side street, which was now in sight and in reach? But it was the principal that mattered, and even though it wasn't affecting me right at this minute, it was going to increasingly affect every driver into the future.

Without another thought, I pushed my blinker stick down and turned the steering wheel to the left. Ah, the relative quiet of the side streets, nothing but an empty road in front of me. The only cars in sight were parked. Freedom was laid out in front.

Cough, cough. My engine missed a beat as though it was running out of petrol. That's strange, I though, as I glanced down at the petrol gage nonchalantly to see that the orange needle was bending passed the letter E.

Eyes out like boiled lollies on sticks in the best tradition of Bugs Bunny cartoons.

What? Oh crap! How have I not noticed that? I've never run out of petrol in my life. In fact, I always tend to be a little OCD about it and go the other way and fill my car up once it even looks like it is heading towards a quarter of a tank. Strange that I hadn't noticed. I usually fill it up before I head to the country and as I hadn't been up to the country for the last few months, I guess I hadn't had reason to look.

Cough, cough, the engine missed again, as I turned the next corner. Should I head straight to the service station now? Oh, maybe that was being just a touch dramatic. Or is that my usual complacent self? I always get confused between those two.

Cough, cough, it sounded again as I headed up my mum’s street and parked.

“Come on mum, let’s go have lunch. Are you ready?”

“Yes,” she said.

“You better put your walking shoes on, as you may need to push the car.”

“Oh why?”

“Oh, I’m low on petrol…”

“We’ve got a tin for the motor mower, in the garage, perhaps we should go and get petrol in that, first.”

“Nah, come on, we haven’t run out yet.”

I started the car expectantly, you know, expecting it to go, what is it they say about the power of positive thinking? The car accelerated up the hill and around the corner without any protests. I turned onto Toorak Road and headed up the incline of the busy carriageway.

“Don’t want to run out here?”

“Oh, don’t even give it any thought,” mum replied.

We came up and over the rise. Cough, cough said the engine. The petrol station was in sight.

“We can roll from here.”

In we slipped next to the bright, white bowsers. Of course, they didn’t sell 98 octane, so I only put $10 in.

“We’ll have to go to the other petrol station now,” I said.

“Oh why?”

I attempted to explain the difference between 92, 95, and 98 octane petrol on the way to the next petrol station.

The car coughed and coughed and coughed as we headed out of the petrol station. I wondered, momentarily, if there was, actually, something else wrong with it and not a lack of petrol at all. But then he coughed his last and returned to purring like the kitten he normally is.

Note to self – I think that was really, fucken, close. Don’t do that again.

We parked the car in the far corner of the Camberwell car park. There was a bleach-blonde chick, desperately still trying to look in her thirties, in a Toyota Prado, wrestling the steering wheel doing a sixteen point turn to get her urban warfare vehicle parked. I don’t know, I thought as I strummed my fingers on my steering wheel, why do they drive these trucks?

We headed to our old favourite cafe for lunch, Cafe Moravia. The beautiful shaved-headed man, with the dazzling eyes, was still taking orders. He's amazingly good looking, just gorgeous. I melt just a little bit more every time I see him. We chose club sandwiches as they are a favourite of mine. Mum agrees with what I say. We sat in the window, so I can gaze outside. It's hard perving, though, with mum sitting opposite, as she watches me intently. She kept talking to me with her mouth full of sandwich crumbs, ugh!, so that I couldn’t understand her. I’d watch some cute man walk by to look back to the Muppet mouth with tumbling bread crumbs.

I gazed out the window, as much as I could. It's not that I'm not interested in what my mum says, but sometimes with everything being, them, that, those and you know what I mean, sometimes I need a respite.

There was a guy who came and stood outside the café, who had on a pair of light blue pants, that you would have had to have seen to appreciate, that fitted him so perfectly, his perfect arse and his perfect legs. You know, kind of chunky and curvy all at the same time. He looked a bit South American, Brazilian maybe; dark, black wavy hair, black eyes, white, white whites, dazzling smile... just beautiful. You know what they say about Italians and Brazilians… or is that just what I say? The two most beautiful races on earth. He was clearly waiting for someone, as he looked up and down the street and then made calls on his mobile phone. And when he turned around and looked back up the hill, the perfectly round plump bulge in the front… you know what they say, IQ over 100 and there is no fucken god.

Eventually, another good looking guy came up the hill to met him, who also looked Brazilian, maybe, and they smiled coyly at each other, reached out to touch but stopped short. They both stood and gazed momentarily. Did they want to embrace, but were being stopped by years of heterosexual oppression? Or was that just my imagination, my story writing brain – good to know I've still got it, if it is. They both headed into our café. Mr Cutie Pants ran his hand down the back of Mr Late in such a gentle caressing way, as he guided him to head through the door first that I rather decided that maybe I was not imagining any of it.

I looked passed them as they came in through the door and there was Carey Grammar boy walking up the footpath – cute, floppy-haired, blemish free, probably year eleven, or twelve. Now, I can tell you, the way his eyes looked intently, following at least one of those hot arses, he’ll have something to tell his mum and dad in the foreseeable future. He wasn’t just checking out the jeans Mr Cutie had on, you can tell, with that intensity of look and the way he looked back almost despite himself.

“What are you looking at?” asked mum as she tried to crane her neck around.

“Oh… um… just life. Guys being guys…”

Mum smiled, said something about that being nice and continued speculating about when my brother might be coming to visit next, crumbs plastered across her lips.