I looked up from my notebook at the long line of aggrieved, sliver-of-light-loving pensioners.
‘Are you listening to me?’ the woman asked. ‘We’ve already had a referendum on this.’
‘You’ve said that, ma’am. We’ve also already had a referendum on this government, but we will continue to hold elections. How are the scones?’
Believing that there were more important things to discuss in the public life of the state, my speech for the Premier wasn’t entirely devoted to the issue. But as was common, and sensible, the Premier abandoned my script for an improvised riff on the great issue at hand. ‘Now, I know a few of you are concerned about daylight savings,’ he would say, as if he were a neurosurgeon delicately broaching the risks of operating with a patient. ‘Personally, I don’t like it. I like to swim in the morning. I like the extra hour of light when I dip into the ocean.’
This triviality was received like a heroic confession, and you could sense the crowd softening their hostility. This guy was okay. He liked to swim in the morning. He had worked the room, but also confirmed for them that the only way to view the policy was through their own tiny preference. He had validated them. ‘See, he gets it,’ the old lady said to me.
Afterwards, the Premier said something about the rivers of mining royalties and what we might do with them, but it wasn’t clear to me what he meant, and it didn’t seem to matter to the crowd, who were already shuffling towards death and their second lamington, safe in the knowledge that their Premier liked to swim in the morning.
And this, ladies and gentlemen, was Community Cabinet.
And it thrilled me.
The conventional wisdom about the state’s opposition leader, Trevor Goodlight, was that he was a brainy larrikin — a boozer with an abacus. He appeared to enjoy this distinction, but in fact it cleaved him profoundly. To be both reckless exhibitionist and public leader is a delicate gig, especially when you have a lusty affair with the grog. His charm seemed partly funded by his serial flirtations with self-destruction, like when, with his signature vulgarity, he lit a fart while wearing a sumo suit at the opening of a Japanese restaurant, and was lucky to only need two skin grafts and not a lawyer to defend manslaughter charges.
Many in the party knew of the rumour before I did, but so weird and squalid was it that most assumed it would irradiate the reputation of anyone who sought to use it politically. This was the problem with having something truly dirty — there was filth by association. There was no doubt that, if true, it would end his leadership, but senior staff were apprehensive about the costs of using it, or, more precisely, of being seen to be using it.
‘Have you heard about Goodlight?’ Emily asked me. Emily was bright but caustic, and she told me that she enjoyed my company because I reminded her of a very smart child.
‘Nope,’ I said.
‘You’ll want to.’
‘Okay.’
‘During the last recess,’ Emily said, ‘Goodlight, one of his staffers, and an old uni mate head down south for a weekend.’
‘Down south’ was WA’s lush south-west region, renowned for its wine, waves, and wealthy hippies. ‘Go on,’ I said.
‘They’ve known each other for a while.’
‘Sure.’
‘They’ve got these rituals.’
‘Speed this up, Em.’
Emily, defiantly not speeding things up, took a theatrically long slug of Guinness. Then, with the speed of a glacier, planted her pint back upon its coaster.
‘In a humble pub in Yallingup, our trio commence what they call “The Slalom”.’
‘The Slalom?’
‘Uh-huh. It was conceived as a pub crawl,’ Emily said. ‘An endurance trial. But this year, it will fatefully devolve into an Olympics of transgression.’
‘Okay.’
‘In their first pub — let’s call it The Thumb and Spleen — our competitors begin their journey with the region’s finest pinot noir, to the disdain of the publican, who prefers, in spite of his own financial interests, that his male patrons sink beer.’
‘You cannot possibly know this.’
‘No.’
‘You’re embroidering this story to frustrate me.’
‘Partly.’
‘Go on.’
‘So they drink. Wine, beer, fuck knows. But it’s a lot. And in this pub, right, our pissed amigos tweak the rules to The Slalom.’
‘How?’
‘They include dares and jests — feats of intestinal fortitude.’
‘This won’t end well.’
‘It doesn’t. So in The Thumb and Spleen, Goodlight examines the jukebox. And there it is, the great sing-a-long: “American Pie”.’
‘Okay.’
‘So Goodlight brings up the lyrics on his phone, hands it to his mate, then slots two of the Queen’s dollars into the music box. His challenge to his old chum is to sing along at the bar.’
‘Is this relevant?’
‘We’re just beginning the story.’
‘And I’m asking you to come to the point.’
‘I’m sketching something important here. The anatomy of transgression. It begins innocently. Road trip, old mates, bonhomie. But buried in these warm rituals are insecurities. Ghosts. Just needs a little binge drinking to give them relief.’
‘Hurry up.’
‘So they sing “American Pie”, breaching a threshold of decorum and inspiring an hour of obnoxious karaoke. Presumably they’ve alienated the whole pub — except for a couple of dairy farmers who recognise Goodlight and are thrilled to find his company. They approach the three tenors, say g’day, and Goodlight shouts them drinks. Then more drinks. Now, these cow folk are sympathetic to his party. Not rusted on, but they’ve swung that way, you know. And fuck, the next premier is shouting Jägermeister and singing Cat Stevens with you. That’s cool, right? That’s something. And his mates, who must’ve smelt the vapours of his self-destruction before, are like: “This guy’s fucking great, he’s salt, and he’ll run our state” but—’
‘Emily, there’s no way you know this.’
‘What are you disputing?’
‘Jägermeister. Cat Stevens. The granular fucking detail.’
‘As I’ve said, Toby, I’m sketching the body of a fact. And if I draw some fictitious muscle, it’s only to better show you truth’s heart.’*
[* ‘She said this?’ Garry asked.
‘Yes.’
‘Exactly like this?’
‘Pretty much.’
‘It’s a fucken weird
