brisbane. an untidy exit
The Northern Rivers, with its grass huts and grass-heads, is a community of open doors for both chickens and folks. Everybody wanders in and wanders out, and when the customary airs are taken in, they wander all-about.
Sometimes though, these people stay overnight in the city before they take a week away over the South China Sea. This short stay facilitates making successful airline connections and eases the passage of our attractive companion through the Brisbane Airport the following day, her slow passage through the Duty-Free emporium. Where it has more than once been remarked: why is it when the Hong Kong drinking population, not noted for sucking the necks of 2 litre bottles of Beenleigh OP rum, has on its shelves the most acknowledged rum of all nations?
Myers Jamaican PUNCH.
– and Brisbane, the home of rum, has only the metallic Beenleigh on its shelves, two litre bottles only and thousands of them, all waiting for State of Origin next year. Like big red fire stations all in a row.
This is the 3rd and final instalment of the Marriott series. One where we wish the kindly staff no ill – they tried as hard as they could – as usual, this tragic ending is down to the Boss. He needs finding.
Some people watch anything with Brad Pitt being paid to play. Inglourious Basterds, what a show, what a Tour de Force. The Marriott didn’t have that, they had bp in World War Z, the wrongest Brad Pitt movie ever made. It’s the wrong rum in the airport thing, and it runs like a virus through Brisbane. Here it is again, this time it’s the wrong Brad Pitt movie. So we watched.
That’s when the attractive companion looked up, suddenly, looked over to the Presidential Bar and Kitchenette, and with an entirely feminine elbow jolt into my kidney, pointed with alarm to a small asian gentleman who had just entered the room from over there, from a door the staff had failed to draw our attention to earlier on the Presidential tour.
The small asian gentleman could only have been the Presidential Room Service on their day off. No need to knock on the ‘other’ door of the Presidential Suite, the tucked away service door, just walkthe fuckrightin holding two cans of Diet Coke as ordered. Obama would be coolest on that, nobody would be shot.
There was no paperwork to sign, there was no tip expected, and I don’t think his overalls had pockets.
He left. Like slid.
About an hour later we left for the lobby, a drink or two there and a look at who may be passing through. Sitting comfortably on a large lounge in a hotel lobby and warming a drink beats watching Deal or No Deal. They run that show for three hours every afternoon in Brisbane. The drink was ordered from a small asian gentleman tending the bar, and who apologised for asking $7.50 for the 330ml bottle of coke. There was something familiar about his demeanour.
Flight time tomorrow 7.30am. Wake-up call 5.30am. A bowl of fruit for breakfast. Taxi to the airport. This is how travellers travel, slick, especially travellers who have an overnight slot card for the Presidential Suite of the Brisbane Marriott. The coke guy was ok, we can forget that.
So we leave the lobby, catch the lift and reach the floor, exit the lift, walk the hallway, and slot the card by the side of the door that
which has a gold plaque which that* says P..(etc) Suite.
The same door that was opened with such grace by the apologetic yet welcoming staff not six hours ago, and here the same small hallway and the double room adjoining. The Press Secretary’s room. There is a toilet just in there and rather than walk any further to splash the boots, a man turns to the right.
The door is closed now, but a turn on the handle proves it unlocked, then a small push opens it just a foot. So we rattle it a little because something in there is stopping the Press Secretary’s door from opening wide. Another rattle then, harder, and then we reach around the door and grasp the top of a wooden chair that has been tucked up against the door knob. Amateur hour, he must be a banker.
The chair is pushed away, and it upends and falls away into the darkness of the room – now the door is all-the-way open, and the dim hallway light illuminates the double bed and the poor bastard lying there who I’ve just woken up by crashing into his overnight hire of the Presidential Secretary’s double room.
Well, surprise surprise. He sat up, I took a step in, and we both said who the fuck are you at the same time.
Of course everybody soon backed out apologising, and rather than have the Duty Manager send up Security – because now we have TWO unlocked doors to the Presidential Suite and an unknown man sleeping behind one of them – we stack the six of the Presidential Dining Room Chairs on our side of the door, the side that opens. He sounded like a nice guy but in Brisbane he could be a serial killer, and the asian is still around somewhere.
So sweet dreams baby.
Brisbane. How I hate thee.
* you pick them