Chapter One – B-One and his bestie, B-Two
The small, old wooden ferry groaned under the weight of Buddha One, who was currently trying to wedge a third meat pie into his mouth, while draped in a navy-and-white scarf that had seen better decades.
‘Look at that grass over there, B2!’ B1 sprayed crumbs across the deck as he spoke. ‘It’s practically neon. Once we land, I’m buying a mansion and a lifetime membership to the Blues. This is our year!’
Buddha Two, a tiny man who looked like a walnut with a grin, adjusted his saffron robes and peered across the water. ‘The grass is green because it’s painted, and the river is deep. Don’t rock the boat.’
‘You idiot!’ B1 roared, his belly wobbling. ‘It’s a ferry, not a cradle! And besides, Carlton doesn’t rock the boat; they just forget how to sail it halfway through the season!’
They both collapsed into fits of wheezing laughter. B2 waited for the air to clear before whispering, ‘I think the club has issues, B1. Deep, structural, karmic issues. Too much ego, not enough tackle.’
B1 stopped chewing, eyes wide. ‘Issues? We don’t have issues! We have heritage! You’re just a small-minded monk with no appreciation for a high fly mark!’ He laughed so hard he nearly fell off his seat. ‘You absolute melon!’ B2 simply smiled and thought to himself, ‘Ah, B1, you’ll keep…’
As they drifted, a luxury houseboat meandered past. On the roof, a man in a captain’s hat was frantically trying to get a satellite dish to work while his partner lectured him about the organic kale wilting in the galley. The Captain cursed and shook his head.
‘Look at ’em,’ B1 jeered, pointing a greasy finger. ‘Floating through paradise and they’re worried about the cricket scores and bitter greens! Hey, Captain! The grass is greener over there, but you’re still an idiot! Who are you?’ The Captain spun around and in a blustery voice said, ‘Captain Pat, Master of the river and you who dare to call me an idiot?. B1 blurted back, ‘To you I be Macca, Macca the all knowing one, along with my faithful sidekick B2. Who is your partner?’ ‘Good first mate Monika, be she.’ Replied Captain Pat.
‘He is seeking a signal in a storm of his own making,’ B2 said softly, tossing a pebble into the wake. ‘Don’t rock the boat, B1. He might fall in, and then you’d have to share your pies.’
‘You idiot! I’d never share these!’ B1 cackled, clutching the pastry bag to his chest. ‘But you’re right. Let them meander. We’ve got a river to cross and a flag to win, eventually!’
The two sat in the sun, one radiating quiet peace and the other radiating the smell of gravy and misguided optimism, laughing until the ‘greener’ shore was finally within reach.
The houseboat, a gleaming white monstrosity named Ultimate Indulgence, drifted dangerously close to their ferry. The Captain, now wearing a captain’s hat that was three sizes too large, was red-faced, screaming into a satellite phone while his Mate threw wilted kale at a seagull.
‘Oy! Captain Chaos!’ B 1 roared, standing up and nearly capsizing the small ferry. He waved a half-eaten meat pie like a fleshy baton. ‘You’re heading for the reeds, you idiot! Put the phone down and look at the water, not the signal bars!’
The Captain looked up, startled. ‘I’m trying to stream the Blues game! The reception is garbage out here!’
B1’s face turned a shade of blue that matched his Carlton scarf. ‘You idiot! Are you watching them now? It’s half-time, and they’re down by forty! Save yourself the misery and look at the scenery!’
B2 chuckled softly, trailing his fingers in the current. ‘The man seeks the score because he fears the silence. Don’t rock the boat, B1. If he hits the bank, he’ll just blame the wind.’
‘He’s got issues, B2! Real structural issues!’ B1 yelled, doubling over with a wheezing laugh as the Ultimate Indulgence indeed surged into a muddy bank with a wet thwack. The Captain’s hat fell over his eyes, and his phone tumbled into the river.
‘You idiot!’ B1 screamed, tears of laughter streaming down his round face. ‘Now you’re the king of the Mud!’
B2 watched the houseboat settle into the muck. ‘He has reached his destination without ever leaving his mind. Very efficient.’
Chapter Two – Searching for Nirvana
The ferry finally bumped against the wooden pier of the far shore. The grass here was, as promised, a shimmering, emerald green, almost too bright to be real. B1 scrambled off, nearly tripping over his scarf, his belly leaden with pastry.
‘Look at it, B2! Pure gold! Or green! Whatever! I’m going to find a pub with a big screen and a cold one.’
B2, tied up the ferry, then stepped onto the lush grass. He looked back at the river, then down at the vibrant blades beneath his feet. He leaned in and whispered, ‘It’s plastic, B1. High-grade, weather-resistant turf.’
B1 froze, poked a toe at the ground, and realized it crinkled. He looked at the ‘perfect’ landscape, then back at the muddy, chaotic river they’d just left.
‘You idiot!’ B1 bellowed, the sound echoing across the valley. He grabbed B2 in a massive bear hug, nearly crushing the little monk. ‘It’s fake! This whole side of the river is fake! I love it! Let’s go find where they hide the drinks!’
They wandered into the neon-green hills, their laughter ringing louder than Captain Pat’s distant, muffled curses.
Across the neon-green hills, they stumbled upon a structure that looked like a giant, hollowed-out footy. It was The Bluebagger’s Arms, a real-deal pub that smelled of stale hops and glorious nostalgia. Inside, the walls were plastered with 1970s Carlton premiership posters, and the TV was looping a replay of the 1995 Grand Final.
‘Heaven!’ B1 cried, dropping his meat pie bag like a holy relic. ‘B2, look! Real beer! Real wood! Real highlights!’
B2 hopped onto a stool at the bar, his feet dangling. ‘And real ghosts of a golden age, B1. Don’t rock the boat; the atmosphere is delicate.’
‘You idiot! The atmosphere is electric!’ B1 roared.
In the corner, a conga line was snaking through the tables. Leading the charge was Sally, who was wearing a bright tinsel boa and shaking a maraca. Behind her, Sharon was cackling, holding onto Sally’s waist with one hand and a neon-pink Cosmopolitan in the other. Linda, a striking, leggy blonde, was at the tail end, shimmying with a Margarita that defied the laws of physics.
‘One-two-three-KICK!’ Sally yelled, leading them right past the two monks. Gavin and Belinda joined the throng as they snaked along in their matching Hawaiian shirts.
At the bar sat Max, a man whose face looked like a roadmap of every Carlton loss since the turn of the century. He was staring intensely at his Schooner of Beer. Next to him was Marg, who hadn’t said a word in forty minutes, sipping a sherry with the stillness of a mountain lake.
‘Look at ’em, B2!’ B1 nudged his friend, nearly sending the small monk off his stool. ‘Max there looks like he’s waiting for a miracle, and Marg’s already found it! Hey, Linda! You’re losing the beat, you idiot!’
Linda blew him a kiss without breaking her stride. ‘It’s not the beat, darling, it’s the gin!’
‘She’s got issues, B1,’ B2 whispered, watching the conga line disappear into the kitchen. ‘The rhythm is in the heart, but the gin is in the mind.’
‘You idiot!’ B1 laughed, slamming his hand on the bar. ‘The rhythm is in the Blues! Max! Give us a smile, you old crow! Carlton’s winning on the telly!’
Max slowly turned his head, looked at B1’s navy scarf, then at B2’s serene face, and finally at the conga line reappearing from the pantry. He sighed, a sound like wind through a graveyard. ‘They’re always winning on that telly,’ he croaked. ‘It’s the only place they do.’
Marg nodded once, the most explosive movement she’d made all day. She called to the barkeeper, ‘Oi buddy, a bag of Cheese and Onion Chips please.’
‘See?’ B1 turned to B2, beaming. ‘This is it! The promised land! Real people, real heartache, and a conga line led by a blonde with a Margarita! What more could a Buddha want?’
‘A smaller tab,’ B2 said, pointing at the mounting pile of empty glasses B1 was already accumulating. ‘Don’t rock the boat, B1. Your credit is as fake as the grass outside.’
B1 leaned over, smelling of gravy and fermented hops, and grabbed Max by the shoulder. ‘Listen to me, you old tragic,’ B1 bellowed, his navy scarf dipping into Max’s beer. ‘Wisdom is simple: Life is like a Carlton season. You start with hope, you end in tears, but the meat pies at halftime are eternal! The secret to enlightenment is a short memory and a long tab!’
Max stared into the middle distance, unmoved.
B2 hopped onto the bar, sitting cross-legged next to Marg. ‘My friend is a loud instrument,’ B2 whispered to her with a wink. ‘Real wisdom is knowing that the scoreboard is an illusion, but the coldness of the glass in your hand is the only truth you can trust.’
Marg actually blinked. It was a breakthrough.
Chapter 3 – The Becoming
Suddenly, the kitchen doors burst open. The conga line exploded back into the room, but it had grown. Sally, Sharon, Linda, Gavin and Belinda were now joined by a bedraggled Captain Pat, still wearing his oversized hat, and his partner, Monika, who was brandishing a stalk of wilted kale like a glow-stick.
‘WE ARE GEELONG! THE GREATEST TEAM OF ALL!’ They roared in unison, Captain Pat leading the chant with a desperate, manic energy.
B1’s face went from joyous purple to a dangerous, bruised indigo. ‘You idiots!’ he shrieked, standing on his chair. ‘This is a Bluebagger’s sanctuary! You can’t sing that rubbish here! Captain, you’ve got structural issues in your soul! Monika, eat your greens and shut up!’
The Cats fans just shimmy-kicked harder, Linda blowing a raspberry at B1 as she rattled her Margarita glass.
B1 looked like he was about to blow a gasket, his fists clenched around his scarf. B2 reached out a tiny, calm hand and patted B1’s shoulder. He cleared his throat, and when he spoke, his voice took on a deep, resonant, broad Indian accent that seemed to vibrate the very foundations of the pub.
‘Ah, my brother,’ B2 intoned, his eyes twinkling with ancient mischief. ‘Do not let the stray cats scratch your inner peace. Remember the ancient sutra of the river: ‘Until he gets you to the other side… do not pay the Ferryman!”
B1 paused, his mouth hanging open. ‘You idiot! That’s a 1982 pop song by Chris de Burgh!’
‘No, no,’ B2 chuckled, the accent thick and musical. ‘In the Great great beyond, Chris de Burgh is a Bodhisattva of the highest order. It means: the ride is the prize, the grass is plastic, and the Blues will always break your heart, so why worry about the score?’
B1 stared at B2, then at the ‘We are Geelong’ conga line, and finally at Max, who cracked a broad smile.
‘You’re right,’ B1 wheezed, breaking into a massive, belly-shaking laugh. ‘You’re a genius, you little walnut! Hey, Linda! Bring those cocktails over here! If you can’t beat ’em, buy ’em a round!’
Marg jumped up, grabbed Max by the hand and dragged him over to the conga line. ‘Woo hoo’, she cried, ‘let’s party!’
B2 smiled a deep abiding wide smile… Thinking, ‘A better place I could not find, the grass is green, the wisdom and beer is flowing and the conga line simply beacons… Ah, Enlightenment at last!’ Let’s Conga dudes!
