'Hope springs eternal' and 'Seize the day' could be the mottos for a less than jilted generation of romantics; the never ending hope of a better life hung above me like a guardian angel that would try its best to defeat my dark passenger. The two remained entangled in the immortal battle to win over my soul. For a short time, my cynicism was beginning to thaw and allow a glorious hope to spread through my veins in a steady surge of energy.
"It will pass surely. You know this is how it starts. Every time. That is until the inevitable."
My conscience: my guardian for both good and evil, the dark passenger; the built in Iago that would forever be the winter of my discontent was practically screaming in my head at this point.
But in these rare circumstances, I was beginning to ignore it and allow my thoughts to cloud over with memories of the previous night.
The next day I was introduced to one of the busiest shifts of my life. It was a Sunday service at our most beloved hotel. These were notorious for an all-day service of roast meats that people would gorge on until we ran out of stock. The various roasted livestock of chicken, beef and pork would be shovelled into many mouths assisted by roasted vegetables and gravy. The scents of the meat flaking off the bone permeated the vast dining space, making the patrons even more eager to engage in gastronomic gluttony.
Unlike Australia, where Sundays were often quiet days for the pub life, in England they were a glorious past time of many. If it was sunny, the pub was a great excuse for a day on the lawn and an outdoor lunch. If it was raining, it was a great chance to warm by the fire and continue to get inebriated. I had to work till the bitter end on a Sunday, and this day proved to be no exception.
I anxiously waited for Amy to arrive, trying to concentrate on getting through the steady traffic of patrons and not allow my imagination to spiral off into romantic and hopeful tangents.
Her arrival was clandestine amid the chaos of the Sunday service. Before I could make eye contact or share any knowing winks, she had slipped into the kitchen. As the doors swung shut, I should have been able to see the menacing gaze of Manager poring over an unsuspecting waitress, yet you could forgive me for not noticing and only hindsight would sear this image into my memory later.
Eventually we would take an opportunity to make contact again. Amy would seek out my smile and gave me a surreptitious wink when she was eventually rewarded with my gaping smile. This was completely undermined by the constant influx of customers, scurrying of employees and the barrage of flirtations and sexual innuendo used by Manager every time he saw Amy.
It was during my daily routine of swapping kegs in the cool room, that the great betrayal came to pass. While I was busy checking lagers and air hoses, Manager decided to give Amy an early mark and informed my bar colleague that I had to work till close.
I was not exactly flattered by the news when I found out. It wasn't until I re-emerged from the arctic wilderness of the keg-room that I understood what was happening.
Marius couldn't help but comment "Sorry about the late shift, Aussie."
"What happened to Amy?" I asked.
"Oh her. Well she doesn't have a car so the manager gave her a lift home. I think they were going to have a drink first."
I knew what was happening and I was completely powerless to do anything. My only hope was that Amy liked me enough to show the constitution to resist. Though given my previous track record, I should have just stopped caring and moved on with the work.
Between polishing beer glasses, serving customers and making idle chit-chat, I was considering all manner of scenarios; each one involved Amy and Manager in a number of sexual positions or having several drinks and laughing at me, as though I was a fly on the wall; both in terms of perspective and also in my overall worth or pecking order in this clear territorial dispute.
I tried all manner of ways to shake these images free, yet they remained seared into my consciousness, stuck in an endless loop of vicious imagery. This was a hellish PowerPoint file that would raise all of my anxiety levels and leave a searing blade twisting in my arteries. My shadow archetype wasn't written on others but showed up as a virtual mirror that I now saw in myself, and I hated it. I wanted to shake some sense into this troubled man and shout. "Don't think about it and just move forward."
Fat fucking chance. You know exactly what is going to happen?
It's happened before. It will happen again. Rinse and repeat.
Once again my dark passenger had turned on me, allowing every terrible thought to continue. I was starting to breathe heavily and felt dizzy.
Luckily, Marius interjected and stopped me before I fainted.
Marius was another South African who had generously donated his life to the pub in order to keep travelling. He was friends with Manager, though sympathetic to my cause. We both had worked hard and continued to inspire the other to keep busy and get through each shift as quick as possible. He worked alongside his waitress girlfriend Janaya- one who he would stop momentarily and plants a kiss on her forehead and call her his little chipmunk. I don't know whether it was her overbite or her small nose but I could definitely see a resemblance.
"He's quite the ladies' man, Aussie. And no doubt with a girl I saw you locking lips with the other night, hey? It's not right I know."
Obviously, he could see through my best attempt at a blank expression.
"If she's half decent, she'll tell that droi-drecker to fuck off or kick him in the balls."
The best I could do was offer him a smirk.
"See you're already smiling."
I still hadn't received any texts and the shift laboured on till the bitter end. Suresh had finished helping David clean out the kitchen and they were waiting for me to pour them staffies before I cleaned down the bar. They decided we should go out and drown our sorrows in the town nearby. I wasn't exactly in a state to object so I went along with the plan. A quick phone call to Bee's taxis and some friendly banter with our favourite driver and then we were off on another mediocre adventure. It was a delicate ruse to help me ignore the images that kept trying to bore their way into the front of my conscious self. Each time I heard my dark passenger call out in its best Brando impression the Joseph Conrad enthusiasts could admire:
'The horror. The horror.'