Telescopes and Taxidermy

“I’ll tell you what, the strangest thing about this job is the perverts.”

Bruce had come to quote and measure up for a new set of blinds in our bedroom, but it turned out he had much more to offer than we initially thought.

“Yesiree. Bayview. Tipperary Waters. Cullen Bay. Full of perverts.”

Minutes before, Bruce had been harping on about having to fly to China to order 35 kilometres of fabric in various shades of Loft Grey and Beige Sepia, and I’d been less than subtle about the fact that we were running late to meet friends for pizza.

But perverts? The pizza could wait.

“Yep”, said Bruce. “Perverts. I go round to put up blinds and they’ve got telescopes on the balcony, every last one of them. And I’ll tell you for nothing, they’re not looking at the bloody moon.”

Having been in the home furnishings business for more than 30 years, Bruce had done the empirical leg work.

Just recently, he’d done a quote for a mining executive in Cullen Bay.

“The guy had three phones and he was on all of them: he hadn’t said a word to me, so I got on with the job, measuring up. In his bedroom was a telescope and while I was waiting I thought I’d have a quick look. It was zoomed right into a woman’s bedroom on the other side of the Bay, so close you could almost touch it.”

Bruce shook his head.

“I backed away straight off; not my business if he’s not looking at the bloody stars.

But he saw me.

He said, “Bruce, it’s not what you think!”

“I said you’re right. Look, whatever floats your boat, up to you.

He said, “No, wait, you don’t understand. I got this to watch the stars and then one day it slipped and landed on a woman across the way. She had a telescope too and she waved. Turned out she had been watching me in the nuddy; I never wear clothes on the roof.”

So now they have a thing.”

Like a telescope relationship?

“So he reckoned. A long distance thing. Everyone’s just watching each other. If you live in a block of flats, someone’s watching you.”

How many telescopes do you reckon you’ve seen in flats around Darwin?

“Oh well,” said Bruce. “I reckon round the water, nearly everyone. Oh nah, there’s a few old people. They don’t have telescopes. And one guy who really does like astronomy. But everyone else does. Most of them are Defence. A few of them have even got surveillance cameras, or they’re doing, whaddaya call it, time lapse. Perverts.”

That’s me watching you watching me.

He finished writing out our quote and ripped it out of the receipt book.

“I’ll come and do the install in a couple of weeks. You guys don’t have any cats do you?”

Mr Tea shook his head.

“That’s the other thing people have got. Stuffed cats, taxidermied kittens. The fur feels that real.”

Bruce shook his head.

“I did a job last week and I nearly knocked one over with my briefcase. Only then, you see, it turned out that was actually a real cat. He was an old one, 17 years old. Hadn’t moved an inch and then it sprang straight onto my back. Drew blood and all. I was in that much shock, I pulled it off and threw it against the wall. And that was when the owner walked in.”

Somehow this was more shocking than the perverts.

What did you say? I asked.

“I said I thought the bloody thing was stuffed! She said, well it is now!”

He snorted. “I didn’t get that job, I’ll tell you that.”

Bruce started pulling on his sneakers and patted his pocket for smokes.

I wanted to get back onto the perverts, but then his wife rang and Bruce had to go.

What happens on the fishing trip…

The intoxicating muddy waters of the Daly River

It was the weekend of the Daly Barra Classic and the Banyan Farm Tourist Park was chockers when I pulled in at dusk.

It had been a long, lonely drive on a road with signs that said “No Shooting”. I wasn’t quite prepared for wall to wall fishermen. But there they were, and with all the gear: tinnies, tents and caravans for the fancy. The uniform was short shorts and thongs, with a Bundy and Coke. The air was ripe with competition and under arm sweat; mosquito repellent and the kind of words you don’t use around Nana.

I was in the Daly for a few days of work and I stuck out like a hipster at a rodeo.

“Dinner’s a communal thing”, said Kerry at reception when I checked in.

“Are you happy to eat with everyone else? Otherwise I can set up a table for you on your own.”

Of course, sure, no problems, I said.

“I’ll put you with some of the nicer fellas”, she said kindly.

At 7pm, I walked into the dining hall, a solo woman in a room filled with tattooed testosterone.

Gazza and Terry waved me over immediately.

“You better sit with us”, said Gazza. “Those other blokes are a bit rough.”

We shook hands. Nice to meet you both, I said. How’s the fishing?

Gaz and Terry laughed.

“Let’s just say this”, said Gaz. “It’s fucking lucky I brought plenty of Devon sandwiches.”

I crinkled my nose.

“Devon sandwiches”, said Gaz. “Life does not get better than a Devon sandwich.”

Terry nodded his agreement.

“I even have my own recipe”, Gaz confided.

What’s that?

“Two slices of your freshest white bread. Make sure it hasn’t been frozen. Margarine. Devon – I like a couple of bits, but each man to his own. And a layer of tomato sauce. Bloody beautiful, that is.”

Terry winked and wrapped his mouth around the steak that had been plonked in front of us.

“I could go on and on about Devon”, said Gaz. “So much you can do with it.”

Every fisherman’s friend

That started a debate down the table. Was it actually even called Devon? What about Fritz? Polony? Baloney? Was it the same thing?

“Well”, said Gaz. “It’s not fucking Pro-siu-to, I’ll tell you that much.”

Gaz was a Michelin star chef when it came to Devon, and he waxed lyrical about his art for our entire main course. Turns out, there are just so many ways to eat Devon. In potato salad. Pasta. You could even put it in a stir fry.

“What about wrapped around those stuffed olives on a toothpick”, said Chris from Knuckey’s Lagoon who was sitting at the other end of the table. “What do you call those? Cocktail olives. I quite like that.”

Gaz pushed back on his chair and swung his legs. His eyes rolled back in his head with ecstasy.

“Devon and olives on a toothpick? I’ll have to try that one.”

Gazza was about the most delightful man I have ever met. He could have found common ground with Kerry Packer, held court with Somali war lords, made peace on the West Bank. In that dining hall near the banks of the Daly River he kept up a gentle pitter patter of conversation that included everyone: me, Kerry from reception, the young guns from Broome who were ready for a barramundi blitz and the older blokes from Larrimah who were short a few teeth.

Gaz told me he had moved to the Sunshine Coast after a long stint on a block at Humpty Doo.

“Yep, I miss the Territory. But you know something? I left for the education. My daughter was at high school in the Rural Area. And they said she was doing great! Middle of the class. Nice girl, doing well, bullshit, bullshit, bullshit.”

“She was colouring in! In Year 9! I’ll tell you what, I wasn’t much good at school in my day, but I’ll be damned if my daughter was going to come middle in her class for colouring in. Now we’ve moved to Queensland and there’s no more colouring in. She’s the bottom of her class, and I could not be happier.”

Gaz beamed with pride and Terry patted him on the back.

The conversation got rougher from there. It started with shoes: how none of the guys would be caught in anything other than a pair of double pluggers. Gaz conceded that he DID, however, have a pair of going out thongs. For special occasions. Adam from Broome said he’d laid down the law to his missus. If she wanted to get married, he was only going to do it in thongs.

Then it got onto footy trips to Bali and what really happened to Adam’s tooth brush when Craig had one too many Sex on the Beach in Kuta.

That’s when I took my leave, but I felt touched to be included for so long.

I didn’t go anywhere near the water, but that Daly Barra Classic was one of the best lessons I’ve ever had on men and fishing and boys weekends away.

I finally got it.

Fishing wasn’t about catching anything. Unless you were a Broome young gun with a competitive chip on your shoulder.

It was about talking shit.

It was about who had the biggest rod and a Shimano reel, and who forgot to bring the gold bombers.

It was about sharing recipes for Devon sandwiches and Bundy and Coke and wearing double pluggers and sweating like a pig.

It was about the time Craig stuck Adam’s toothbrush up his ass in Bali and took a photo, which he didn’t show Adam until the end of the trip.

It was about Gaz telling long stories to Terry and Terry not having to say anything much at all.

It was about male friendship, Territory style.

Broome small talk

Beth: So are you living at K’s place?

Me: Yeah, I am. I just moved in.

Ryan: We used to live there.

Me: Yeah?

Ryan: Yeah. Great place. You won’t have any problems. And you’re far enough away from The Bronx (Anne St).

Beth: But you might get a guy called Harold yelling for Cynthia outside your window late at night. All you need to do is call out that Cynthia doesn’t live here anymore. Cynthia is dead.

Me: Cynthia is dead. OK.