After writing last week’s newsletter I was reminded of another job I had in my early 20s.
On Tuesday evenings from 5-8pm I would tend bar at the Killara Bowling Club for the Lindfield Rotary Club’s weekly dinner. It paid $57.80 cash in an envelope. My late grandmother was a long-serving member and bullishly made sure the shift remained in the family (I’m pretty sure all three of my siblings and at least one of our cousins held the position at one point or another).
Anyway, this story is about one Rotary’s finest.
Monty
Around 6:30 the Rotarians plod in, one by one, for their weekly meeting. They approach the bar to order their middy of light ($2.60) or glass of chardonnay from a silver bladder ($2.20).
They're of the new guard of elderly white Australians: too young for WWII and The Depression, but old enough to be casually racist and believe that corrugated gherkins and cubes of tasty cheese are an ideal canapé.
Every one wears a name tag, signalling that they are either a local professional or a wife. Club President and local attorney, Frank Windeyer is usually first to arrive. Next is a tie between local above-ground pool salesman, Ray Tait and local wife, Mrs Frank Windeyer.
I'm just squeezing the last of the De Bortoli into a glass for Mrs Windeyer when I feel a presence.
I turn and see Monty, standing at the bar, staring at me like I parked on his lawn.
"Pulled one off the light keg yet?"
5"6', moustachioed, combed over, tie and short sleeved — Monty is an aged, Australian David Brent.
"Not yet," I say. "Just got here."
"Useless. It'll be flat!"
Monty's in Real Estate Sales and has the name tag to prove it. According to him, he's got the whole East Lindfield area sewn up.
"It bought me this, mate." He waves his arm in my face. "Biggest Rolex there is. Solid gold."
I present his beer and he eyes it suspiciously. "More head than I'd usually expect." Monty sends more sexual innuendo into the world than he realises.
"$2.60." I say.
Monty drops a fistful of 10 cent pieces on the bar and walks off to "test the PA." I'm left salvaging coins in his wake.
He spends the next five minutes floating around the bar area. He tells a man in his 80s that his son's in town, visiting from Canada. Monty leans in with conspiracy.
"Mate. Since he got here, all he's done is drink and root."
Moments later I overhear him — in a separate conversation — describe a potential client as a "slim young jewess."
Around 6:45, Monty returns to his drink at the bar, stares at me for attention, lips slightly parted.
"Disgusting isn't it?"
"What's disgusting?" I say.
He jerks his head in the direction of a man, less than two metres behind him. "No excuse for being that fat... Despicable."
I stumble. "Ah — everyone's different?"
"Nope. No excuses. He's a pig!" Says Monty. "A doctor once told me that you can look as good as you like."
I try for silence, but can't resist. "Right?"
Monty stares into my eyes, nods and waves his hands up and down his own torso.
"'Reckon I look pretty good for 65, mate."
A gong sounds, cutting our conversation. Not a metaphor or anything, an actual brass bell that, when rung, told everyone that it was time to sit down and sing the Rotary song.
They then toast Rotary International, the great nation of Australia and Her Majesty, The Queen of England.
Then President Frank announces that Richard the cook was back from his trip to Bali and had done a beef stroganoff.
Once the Rotarians are eating, my bar duties are mostly complete. I cash off the manual till, pour Richard the cook his final Carlton, turn off the beer lines and collect my $57.80 in an envelope.
Plates are cleared and ice cream is served with fruit salad. My shift's finished, but I'm there long enough to see President Frank welcome Monty to the meeting in an official capacity.
Monty stands, strolls toward the front, waving his arms and verbally demanding a round of applause. He reaches the lectern, leans into the microphone and announces that tonight's quiz topic will be "tennis."
