Sweating out the booze - Story 06 - "AUSSIE FLASH STORIES" Book by Daniel Gutierrez Hijar

 

When he woke up, lying on the sand, he remembered he had to show up at the Macca’s in that part of the Gold Coast for the job interview his dad had lined up for him. If you don’t come back hired, I’ll kick you out of the house, he’d warned. You want me to pay for uni? Then go get a job for at least six months. I want you to know what it’s like to bust your guts every day for a few coins. I haven’t mortgaged my life so you can just stroll into your studies that easily.

He dragged himself up off the sand, took a few clumsy steps, and went down again, his whole face covered in tiny grains. How was he going to turn up to the interview this drunk?

The mates he’d come to the Gold Coast with, to celebrate being freed from school – that twelve–year yoke – looked like corpses, their bodies licked by the clear ocean water. The night before, the last night of Schoolies week, those days when Aussie teenagers celebrated the end of an era with booze and debauchery, had finished in an epic bender.

Schoolies was over now, and he had to focus on getting the alcohol out of his system in the few hours left before the interview.

He remembered that back in Year 11 he’d gone to a party at Kim’s place, with her parents away. Even though he’d drunk pretty much everything on offer, the dancing had kept him off the floor, unlike several of his mates who ended up face–down.

I’ve gotta dance, he thought. He tried, but the moment he went for a little spin, he sank back into the sand.

There was no way he was getting anywhere like that.

I’ll start by walking, and once I’m steady enough, I’ll dance, even if people think I’m nuts.

Staggering, he made it off the beach and walked a block along the footpath, where he came across a sign for the first ever Schoolies running club: Finish your last day of Schoolies doing something healthy. We start at 6 am. What are you waiting for? Sign up.

Zac headed to the address listed as the starting point, hoping it was close to six already. When he arrived, there was no one there. Swaying on the spot and reeking of booze, he wondered if everyone had already taken off.

You here for the running club?, a guy in lycra asked him.

Yeah, I saw the sign. Have they all left already?

No, actually it’s almost seven and you’re the first one keen.

Seven?, Zac blurted out.

Yeah. Something wrong?

Let’s start running, said Zac quickly, already picturing the beating he’d cop from his old man.

Sure, let’s get going. But first, let me introduce myself. I’m Brock. I started this club.

After an hour and a half on the move, Zac and Brock were back where they’d begun.

Thanks heaps for joining this first attempt to bring a bit of health and sport to this week full of chaos and excess. You’ve been the only one who’s believed in this crusade, said Brock, giving a friendly pat on the sweaty back of a Zac now free of alcohol. His movements were clear and steady. He only needed a good shower and he would be ready for the interview. He had a little over an hour left.

But who comes up with organising a healthy run in the middle of Schoolies when what people want is to get drunk to forget twelve years of school torture?, said Zac, eager to leave.

And why did you show up if you don’t believe in the mission of this crusade?

I have to go, Zac concluded. Another day I’ll gladly answer your question. And he trotted off towards the beach showers, not without first taking, taking advantage of a moment of carelessness from Brock, his backpack with the change of clothes he had inside.