It's Not You It's Me (12 page)

‘Wouldn’t surprise me. I’ll just have to tell you what’s
going on. There’s a few different bands coming, and then, up the middle, there’s some horses with kind of…er…wagons or something. With waitresses on top?’

I nod. ‘Mark told me about that. It’s the brewery floats. I had a go at him for it.’

‘Why?’ Jas asks.

‘Well, when I was a waitress I never got a day off to swan around on a float in a parade.’

‘How many beers could you carry at once?’

‘About two.’

‘Yeah? I think they’ve got about six in each hand.’

‘OK.’ I scrunch my nose up. ‘Point taken.’ I take my backpack off for a minute and search around for the photocopied information sheets that came with my tour itinerary. When I find them, I have a quick read through. ‘After this, we have to make a run for it to the Schottenhamel tent to see the Mayor tap the first barrel of beer. Everything should get going after that.’

Jas nods. ‘In a big way, I’m guessing. This is huge.’

‘Is it ever.’ I can see the marching bands passing by now, and the mood of the crowd around us has lifted both visibly and audibly. Everyone waves at the people on the floats and in the decorated carriages. What really gets my attention, however, is the crowd. They’re having what looks like the time of their lives. A number of them are even wearing what seems to be national dress, with the guys in leather trousers and braces and tiny, quirky little hats. The women have long skirts and jackets, or cotton dresses with white low-cut tops underneath. Dirndl, I think they’re called.

All the German good cheer going on around me makes me think of the parades I’ve been to back home. Somehow I can’t see Australians doing this—the national dress thing. A flag here or there, yes. A spot of face-painting, of course.
But national dress? The closest we have to national dress is thongs, shorts, a white towelling hat, matching zinc on the nose and the obligatory esky.

We watch the entire parade, and then get pushed along in the crowd with everyone else until we’re in what must be the Schottenhamel tent. Jas keeps a firm hold on me— I think in case I get trampled underfoot. We’re right up at the back when we finally stop moving. And when I say back, I mean
back.

‘How many people do you think are in here?’ I glance up at him.

He takes a look around him. ‘I’d say ten thousand at least.’

‘No way? Really?’ But I believe him. After a few years of moving around from stadium to stadium he probably knows how many people a place can hold the second his eyes sweep over it.

The atmosphere gets rowdier by the minute. Eventually I see what all the fuss is about. There’s a guy up at the front, on the stage. Holding something that’s shaped like a golden tap. He’s surrounded by the media and there’s a bit of stuffing around before he seems to get on with what he’s supposed to be doing. Then, all of a sudden—I’m inspecting the guy next to me’s funny-looking leather braces at the time—there’s this
bang
,
bang
which makes me jump. When I see him again, the guy is shoving the golden tap into the barrel and, this accomplished, he turns around and yells something in German. Everyone cheers heartily.

‘Should I go up and get us a cold one?’ Jas laughs.

‘Be my guest, Superman.’

I’m still clutching my photocopied pages. Jas taps them with one finger. ‘So now what?’

People are starting to push past us, making their way out of the tent. ‘Apparently we’re free. Let’s get out of here before we get crushed to death.’

O
utside, we both stop for a moment and take a few deep breaths, filling our lungs. It’s sunnier now, and much warmer than before. I take off my jacket and tie it around my waist as I check out what’s happening around me. It’s the usual sideshow sort of stuff, with the only truly different thing being the fact that the place is dotted with these huge beer tents. People are spilling in and out of the tents as if there won’t be any beer left in half an hour, even though it’s only just gone midday.

I’m starting to think that when these people drink beer they’re serious about drinking beer.

‘Hey, you two.’ Shane surprises us, approaching from behind and laying an arm on each of our shoulders. ‘Jas and Charlie, right? Weird names.’

‘Um, thanks,’ I say, and both of us turn around.

‘Won’t stay a second. Beer to taste, people to see. I just wanted to find out…’ He looks at Jas for a moment, as if sizing him up. ‘It is you, isn’t it, mate? You
are
that Zamiel
guy. You’re not from New Zealand, anyway. You’ve got an Australian passport. I checked after the sheep farming thing. Sounded a bit dodgy, that.’

There it is again, that glazed look. The same as I’d seen on the bus. Jas’s eyes start to dart around. ‘Er…’

‘Thirsty?’ I ask Jas, giving him a moment. He shakes his head. ‘Shane?’

‘Nope.’

‘Well, I am. I’m just going to buy a bottle of water.’ I point out the nearby drinks stand, where a small queue is forming. ‘Mind this for me?’ I drop my backpack down on the wooden bench beside us.

‘No worries.’ Jas sinks down to take a seat next to it. Shane sits down as well.

I go over and line up, trying to work out how many Australian dollars there are to a euro—and I’m quickly learning that whatever you’re converting to it’s never enough. When I’m next in line, I turn around to check what’s going on. Jas and Shane are deep in conversation. I watch with one eye, the other eye keeping track of how the queue is going. Jas is talking, talking, talking. He reaches for something. His wallet. Shane waves his hands, no. Jas puts it away again. Now Shane’s talking, talking, talking. Jas laughs. Shane laughs. They shake hands. And that’s it. Shane walks off, giving me a wave as he passes.

I nod and wave back.

‘So, what was all that about?’ I ask when I get back to Jas.

He laughs some more. ‘Was actually quite funny. Didn’t think that anyone would recognise me—not travelling like this…as me, I mean. Doesn’t happen often—only with the diehard fans. But Shane’s got my details.’

I nod, taking a sip of water then offering it to Jas.

He waves a hand. ‘No, thanks. It’s just that you forget sometimes. What people can find out about you. Some of them have even tracked my parents down. Turned up at their house.’

‘I bet that went down well.’ I’m sure Jas’s parents aren’t exactly
supportive
of his career. They never thought he should have studied music in the first place.

Jas sighs. ‘Yeah. It was hardly tea and scones on the front verandah. Anyway, Shane knows it’s me, and I didn’t want it to get out, so I thought I’d offer him some…’ He pauses. ‘I hate saying this, but offer him some money. You know—shut him up. If he told anyone the media would be interested. They love trying to catch me out of character. It’d wreck the trip if they found out. For everyone.’

I never thought about it like that—that the media would like nothing more than to catch Zamiel without his make-up on. Kind of in the same way they love doing it to Cameron Diaz—though I have to admit those kind of pics make me feel a whole lot better while I queue at the supermarket. ‘So he didn’t take it? What’s so funny about that? I wouldn’t if I was him. You’re on holiday after all, and he
is
the tour guide. He owes you at least a bit of privacy.’

‘Wasn’t that that was funny. It was the whole ocker Australian thing. He confessed he’s doing the same thing as me—living a double life, that is. He’s really a student. Guess what he’s studying?’

‘Um, Modern Dance?’ I try to pick the most unlikely thing.

‘Close. Fine Arts.’

I laugh. ‘I hope he’s doing better than me. So the whole surfer bit’s a pile of rubbish?’

‘He said the tour company wanted an ocker Australian for this tour—you know, to do the whole Australian “beer
is life” thing. Apparently they’re the only guides who come back from this trip alive when the Beer-drinking Society’s on board. They don’t respect anyone else. We shook on it. I keep his secret, he keeps mine.’

‘Sounds like a fair trade.’

‘Yeah.’

We look at each other.

‘So…’ Jas starts.

‘So, now I’m hydrated we’re going on that.’ I point over and upwards.

‘The Ferris wheel?’ Jas isn’t impressed.

‘What? You’re not a Ferris wheel kind of guy?’

‘Ah…’

‘Think of it as being about planning and strategy. It’s a good vantage point. We’ll be able to see everything from up there and plan our day.’ It’s always far more convincing to the male of the species if you put it in guy-speak.

Jas nods. ‘Course. If it’s all about planning and strategy, the Ferris wheel it has to be. I’m sure Sun-tzu wrote all about Ferris wheels in
The Art of War.
’

We have our three turns around on the Ferris wheel, and by the time we’re done there’s a plan in place. A few rides, then a beer tent and some food.

Putting the plan into action, we spend the next hour or so going on a number of the vomit-inducing upside-down rides. More than a few, in fact, because I make the mistake of buying a book of tickets. It seems to be cheaper than buying separate ones, and it is. But then we find out they’re all for the same ride. We go on that particular vomit-inducing upside-down ride five times between us.

Tickets used up, we’re standing in the street once more—now, strangely, a wobbly-looking street. ‘Lunch?’ I turn to Jas, my voice croaky from compulsory ride screaming.

‘Lunch?’ he repeats.

‘Yes, lunch.’

‘Don’t you feel sick?’

I shake my head. I might be seeing double, but I don’t feel sick.

‘Lucky you.’ Jas grimaces.

We head for the Wirtsbudenstrasse and walk down the street doing a quick inspection of all the beer tents as we go so we can decide which will be our first. The Augustiner seems fairly laid back, the Hofbräu is raucous already and it’s not even two p.m. The Schottenhammel tent, where we started off this morning, is just plain too big. If we lost one another in there it’s likely we’d never meet up again in this lifetime or the next. At the end of the street we stop and shrug at each other.

‘I don’t know,’ I say. ‘They’re all different, but the same.’

‘What if…?’

‘Don’t look now.’ I grab Jas’s arm and angle him in the opposite direction.

‘What? What is it?’

‘Sharon. The groupie. At eleven o’clock.’

Jas takes a quick glance over his shoulder even though I’ve told him not to. ‘Where?’

‘She’s headed straight for us,’ I continue. ‘Closing, closing…’ I grab his hand and start running then. ‘Go, go, go, go, go,’ I say, as if we’re on some kind of Navy SEAL Oktoberfest-type mission. I run us into the closest tent—the Löwenbraü. We pause for just a second as the huge lion above the entrance roars something at us. Löwenbraü, I think. Jas and I stare at each other incredulously.

‘Never heard any of the lions do that when I went on safari last year,’ he says.

Inside, still holding Jas’s hand, I take a few steps to the left
so that Sharon, if she’s following us, won’t be able to find us. That said, I don’t really know why Sharon would be following us. Or why we’re running away from her. Frankly, I don’t even know if she saw us. There’s just something about that girl I don’t like.

Finally I drop Jas’s hand and we both take a moment to view the scene around us.

‘Holy…’

‘…shit?’ Jas, ever the gentleman, finishes the sentence off for me.

‘Something like that,’ I agree.

This tent—it’s like nothing I’ve ever seen before. Table after long table full of people drinking gigantic mugs of beer, singing and laughing and talking at the tops of their voices. One whole side of the tent seems to be taken up with different kinds of food for sale. The place smells like old beer, frying meat and something sour. Sauerkraut?

I tug on Jas’s sleeve, unable to speak, as a woman pushes past us. Eventually I get it together. ‘What the hell?’ I point to what the woman’s carrying in her hand. It looks like something edible. Something edible on a stick.

Both of us watch, silently, as she keeps walking.

‘Is that…?’ Jas starts.

Unfortunately it is, I think. It’s a fish, or an eel, or something. It looks cooked—oh, I really hope it’s cooked—and it’s impaled. She keeps right on walking, the stick bobbing up and down.

I shake my head at Jas. ‘Now, that’s just disgusting. What’s wrong with a plain old dagwood dog dipped in tomato sauce? Why do they have to make a whole living beast portable?’

‘It’s not like dagwood dogs are vegetarian. They’re made of meat,’ he says.

‘You think so? What kind? Dog?’

‘They’re meat
flavoured…
’

‘I think that’s where it ends.’

‘Yeah, probably. Come on. Place is filling up. Better find us a seat.’

I look around for a couple of spare places and spot Damien and co over on the far right. The left side of the tent is suddenly very appealing.

We spend the next few minutes walking up and down the aisles trying to find somewhere we can fit both our butts in together. Finally, we find a likely spot. ‘Thanks,’ I say to the guy who moves up a bit for us. He replies in German, and I smile and shrug. ‘Sorry!’

A waitress passes by and Jas and I watch in awe as she lugs ten huge mugs of beer, not a drip spilling over the sides.

‘Paul would love her,’ Jas says with a laugh.

‘Paul who?’

‘Paul the drummer from Spawn. Blonde and busty. And, most importantly, she can carry ten litres of beer at once.’

I snort. ‘Paul sounds like a really nice guy. Really into girls’
personalities.
’

‘Yeah. That’s Paul.’ Jas waves a hand and orders us two beers. ‘Right. Must be time for some of that tasty pork knuckle that Shane was telling us about last night.’

‘Pass.’

‘Chips and mayonnaise?’

‘You’re reading my stomach. Want me to get them?’ I go to stand up, but Jas puts a hand on my shoulder.

‘It’s a war zone out there. I’ll go.’

‘OK. Thanks. Oh, and I’d love a lemonade if they’ve got one.’

‘See what I can do,’ he says, and gets up to head off in the direction of the food.

‘Hey, someone’s—’ I whip my head around as I hear the thump of someone sitting down in Jas’s seat. It’s Shane.

‘Are you spying on us?’ I smile.

‘Small world, kiddo. Small world.’ Then, ‘Oh, sorry. For a moment there I forgot you knew.’

I laugh.

‘I am spying, actually. But not on you.’ He nods off to the right. ‘On them.’

I glance over at the bewigged group that I’d spotted before. Damien’s in there with them and he’s having the time of his life.

‘Got to keep an eye on what’s going on. I have to account for lost bodies at the end of the trip, and those ones can get rowdy if you don’t watch them closely. They’ve had a broken leg in their group before. Some cracked ribs too. Just means trips to the hospital and paperwork for me, so prevention’s the key.’

I nod. The injuries really don’t surprise me. ‘So, what’s with the wigs?’

‘Beats me. Started before my time, anyway. First day’s wig day, second day’s flag day, third day’s pyjama day. That’s all I need to know. Can’t complain, really. Makes them easier to spot.’

I nod again. Well, did I really expect it to make sense? ‘Did you want something to eat? Jas’s just gone off for some food.’

‘No way. I got food poisoning here once. I live on muesli bars now. Here’s a tip: avoid the sausages.’

‘Thanks, but I’d already figured that one out myself. They don’t look exactly, um, appetising.’

‘They’re not. Especially the third time they come up.’

‘Ugh.’ I make a face.

‘Sorry. Forgot again. What I really wanted was to ask you something.’

‘About Jas?’ My eyes move in his direction.

‘Sort of. I wanted to ask if you two are, you know…’ he crosses two fingers, ‘…together?’

I pause, not knowing what to say. ‘We, er, came together, if that’s what you mean.’

‘Way-hey!’ Shane says, then jerks his head back as if he’s surprised. ‘Christ. Sorry. Can’t help myself, can I? I get a bit like that on these tours. It’s like working at Disneyland, you know? You tend to stay in character after you get in the suit.’

‘I’m sure Jas would understand. Um, why do you want to know? About Jas and me, I mean?’

Shane waves his hands. ‘I just need to know what’s going on. What I’m in for. Anyway, better be off,’ he says, getting up.

‘Um, sure,’ I reply. ‘See you around.’

Well, that was weird, I think as I watch Shane leave. I thought for a moment there that… No. It’s too silly. He was probably just trying to work us out. After years of Beer-drinking Society fun he’s no doubt mastered the act of predicting disaster before it happens. Like he said, he needs to know what’s going on. I shrug slightly and then turn to check on Jas one more time as my stomach grumbles.

People are hungry, it seems, because over at the food side of town Jas hasn’t moved that far up the line. These lot are obviously a famished as well as a beer-thirsty nation. After a few minutes I must seem lonely, because the guy beside me taps me on the shoulder and starts entertaining me with his very colourful life story.

In German.

He’s flinging his arms around, spilling beer here and there. Every so often I nod at him to keep him happy.

When Jas arrives back our beers have turned up and the German guy is still going off at me.

‘What’s he talking about?’ Jas whispers as he puts our tray on the table.

‘Beats me, but I can assure you he hasn’t said a word about Lumpi the dog or Onkel Ernst yet.’

The guy taps me on the shoulder again, and I turn back to him to see what he wants.