Cheviot Beach

The only thing I’m certain of is that I’m sitting in the Eureka Tavern with two old high school mates. I can’t be sure of what happened last year or last week. I’m not even sure my Uber here was blue, as uncertain as I am that I dreamt I was the Prime Minister last night. Even this evening will become a warped and distorted memory. One which Gemma, Nigel and I will no doubt give different versions of in years to come, none of us knowing whose is right.

The fact we’re here is a minor miracle, given the false starts due to life’s social calendar intrusions, but tonight we’d made it. Twenty-five years had passed since we finished high school, an experience lived by different versions of ourselves. We’d all gone to uni, gotten jobs, and moved out of town. The date was somewhat arbitrary, but we made time to resurface memories which had calcified over the decades.

A young man wearing a jester hat knelt in the corner plugging his laptop into a projector, testing his microphone. Nigel returned to the booth precariously carrying four pints wedged between his spread fingers, foam spilling as he placed them on the table.

“Four?” Gemma asked.

“I can’t be arsed lining up again.” He set two pints in front of himself, then slid the other two to Gemma and me.

“Cheers,” I said, taking a sip. “Hey, don’t you reckon Jester Hat looks like Alister McDermott?”

Nigel thought for a moment. “The kid caught wanking in the school toilets?”

I nodded.

Nigel stared at Jester Hat, watching him fumble with the cables and ports from his laptop. “A bit.”

“That was disgusting. He didn’t even close the cubicle door,” Gemma said. “So I heard,” she quickly added, as we chuckled.