Читать книгу Chasing Water - Anthony Ervin - Страница 6

Sydney, Australia, October 1, 2000

It’s just me and the bartender. Maybe a handful of us are left in the entire hostel. The bartender leans against the bar, looking up at the TV. He glances at my pint glass.

“Another Victoria Bitter?”

I nod. He watches the TV as he pours. The closing ceremony has started. The athletes enter the stadium, the gold medalists leading the procession. Gary is somewhere out there. I think about my medal, buried in dirty laundry in my bag under the bunk bed.

The athletes converge into the center of the track and the stadium darkens. The crowd roars as the show begins. Bands perform, floats roll in and out, strobes swing around. The stadium is now a throbbing sea of revelers leaping and yelling and punching at giant balloons. Midnight Oil comes on. How do we sleep while our beds are burning?

“It’s going off,” the bartender says. “You just know they’re all on the piss. Hell of a party to be at.”

I think about the man who threw me out of the Olympic Village.

“No doubt,” I say. “Hell of a party.”

I finish my beer and step outside. A crescent moon hangs over the breaking water, a sliver of violence. The ocean is loud, belligerent. It seethes.

I head back inside. It reeks of stale beer and smoke. On the television Paul Hogan is buffed out as Crocodile Dundee, perched on a float of a giant black safari hat and giving a thumbs-up to the cheering Olympic stadium.

My mouth tastes of ashes. I push my glass toward the bartender. “One more bitter.”