Utopia Shores (in progress)

Gene Bond swayed slightly as he approached the lectern on the small stage of the leagues club auditorium. Holding a bourbon in his left hand, he raised his right like he were taking an oath, thinking he’d get the audience of 150’s attention.

He was 45, skinny, balding, and wore cowboy boots and an akubra. Most of the community knew he’d never done physical work or ridden a horse in his life.
The gold members of Utopia shores leagues club looked at him with blank faces and frowns.
Now that alot of the audience was also half-drunk, Gene thought it’d be easier to rant and drum up some parochialism due to recent events. He leant in and accidentally bumped the microphone with his lips then moved his head back 2 inches and began.

“You can’t change a society. It is what it is and most of us prefer our own, but so do those who label this part of the nation racist and backward. Some really bad stuff has gone down lately. An underage thief was shot and killed, and 2 backpacker girls had spiked drinks from a sleazy French rapist, and not long after a lockdown.
But, if ya think about it and forget those 2 Sydney boys were Arab lookin, you realise that like all criminals, ownership went awol. So, I don’t think the cops did wrong by shooting one of them. The cops thought they saw a weapon and took a shot. How did the cops know they were only 17.
No perspective in media because media don’t care about taxpayers or jobs in regional oz. Personally, I’m way more concerned that business might go down this summer and banks won’t fund the project for the estate behind the lagoon because paradise constructions employed a French rapist during covid. They wouldn’t have known. But again, he wasn’t local.
It’s unfair on the community to suffer from bad seeds. Backpackers love the resort and easy access to the reefs and rainforest, but how do we stop youth, domestic or foreign, from binge drinking, drugs, and being too sexual?”

After receiving no more than a cynical murmur amidst the cringing crowd, Gene had a sudden surge of acid reflux in his throat as the bourbon and hot Madras curry he’d had for lunch, repeated heavily on his breath.

“Excuse me, folks” he said, and poured some bottled water into a glass.

A few people whispered to each other and tried not to laugh.
As he paused and sipped the water, 4 very attractive waitresses, 2 Czech and 2 Brazilians, carried in some trays with pakoras, samosas, and entree sized portions of lamb madras and chicken tikka with coconut, basmati rice. The new Indian chef had changed and added a few things to the menu. In just 3 months the clubs dining section had a 25% increase in profit. As the acid subsided, Gene continued.

“There’s quite a few locals who can’t even find work or afford to live here, so we also need to employ them. When paradise constructions only has 30% locals on it’s books, we know we’ve been sold out.”

Being mostly wealthy boomers or gen x business owners, the gold members all knew that the local community mindset was dated rhetoric. They continued ploughing into their entrees, savoring the rich spiciness. Gene waffled clumsily for another minute about a community being relegated by city folks and globalism, but everyone had completely tuned out.

Gene struggled not to look at the backpacker girls as they served the tables closest to the stage. With perfect postures and strong, toned thighs, they moved so confidently and gracefully around the tables that they broke Gene’s train of thought. He suddenly felt self-conscious.

“Everything all right, mate.” jibbed a man at the nearest table.

“Thanks for your time, folks. I’m Gene Bond and I’m for Australia first.”

“Any relation to James Bond.” hollered an elderly man at another table. There was a short outbreak of guffaws from several tables.

Several minutes later, Gene stood at the main bar alone. He downed a double shot of bourbon on ice and began reminiscing about the club and seaside village as it was in the mid 90s.
A tanned gent about 60yo with silver hair wearing a polo shirt and loafers, sat next to him and smiled.

“Mate, you don’t really believe all that shit you waffled, do you?”

“Mate, I’m Aussie and proud. I’d employ an Aussie first if I could.”

“So if you were the boss here, you’d hire a local alcoholic or druggie as the chef and those skanks at the local pub rather than a reliable Indian chef and hot backpackers?”

Gene struggled to answer.

“What do you want?”

“You and your brother are accountants, right?

“Yeah, we are.”

“I here you’re struggling because you only do business with locals.”

“We do alright” said Gene, defensively.

The man smirked. “I hear you’re close to bankruptcy because your brother has a gambling problem.”

“Wow, you don’t fuck around.”

“That’s why I’m successful. Do you have many interstate or overseas clients?”

“None”

“Geez, you really do live in the past.”

“Are you going to make some sort of deal or just take the piss.”

“I know a property developer who’d like to use a local accountant.”

“Where are they from?”

“Hawaii is their HQ.”

“Ok, so they’re yanks, yeah?”

“Well, US and Japanese. They have a presence in Hawaii, California, Mexico, and now QLD.”

“Where in QLD?”

“Here at Utopia Shores. They’ve bought paradise constructions.”

“Fuck, so that’s why they don’t hire locals anymore.”

“Aww cmon, you see a few Pacific islanders and Irishmen on site.”

Gene felt a sudden urge to go to the toilet.

“I’m Rob, Rob Swan.” said the man, handing Gene his business card.

“I’m Gene. We’ll talk later.” he said, taking the card and hurrying to the toilet.

Rob walked slowly out of the Leagues club, amused and confident because Gene seemed as gullible and naïve as other coastal folks he’d met.

At 7pm, families and middle-aged or elderly couples slowly filled the club. Alot of them were from the most recent wave of residents and holiday houses in the newer estates at Magenta cove or Serenity bay. Except for the staff on working visas, Utopia leagues club was too sterile to attract more travellers. The iconic, fluoro-lit, pink barracuda mounted above its main entrance looked like a misshapen dildo from more than 200 metres away.

After downing 2 more bourbons, Gene walked 300m down the gentle gradient of constitution ave from the leagues club to the reef bar. In just 5 years, 2/3 of the old shops and eateries had closed and been replaced with franchises like nandos, coffee club, Wendy’s, or fancy fashion labels that Gene had never heard of, and that most local women were angry they couldn’t afford.
Even the pub couldn’t just be a pub. They’d separated the front bar and deck from the sports bar and gaming rooms, and renamed it “the reef bar” using a Tiki theme. You couldn’t walk between bars anymore and the price of a schooner had gone up 40% since corona shut things down.

He approached the old beach bar but walking into a bar full of young, happy backpackers felt surreal, even though it was his local before some of them were born.

Approaching the bar, he locked eyes with Tasha from high school days.

“What the fuck are you doin in here?”

“Yeah, Hi Tasha, well thanks and you?”

“Git next door with the other ole grubs and fishermen.”

“Felt like a beer on the old deck.”

Tasha laughed in mockery then automatically poured a schooner of XXXX.”

“Don’t be a purve, Gene. You were always a bit sleazy.”

“Manners go nowhere round here.”

“All the guys with manners left town or are still married.”

Gene laughed, unable to provide a rebuttal and handed Tasha a five dollar note and 2 dollar coin.

“It’s 10, Gene.”

Gene pulled 3 dollars out of his pocket, put it on the beer mat, picked up his beer and zig-zagged through several groups of backpackers and out onto the deck. He went to the farthest corner and moved a stool from an empty table, closer to the balustrade.

Despite the faint glow of street lights from Magenta cove, 4km north, and the slightly more pungent smell of Utopia creeks mangroves at low tide, the view remained the same. Looking at the channel lights from the marina heading out to the reef, he reflected on fishing with his grandad and relaxed. A tall very buxom blonde appeared beside him.

“Sir, sorry you have to have your beer on ze table.”

Her thick German accent sounded very formal.

“Ok, ok” he said, moving the stool back to the empty table behind him.
“Just in case a beer falls to ze footpath.”

Gene found it almost comical that she had to explain that the top rail of the balustrade was only 2 inches wide.

“To ze nanny state.” he smirked, raising his glass .

“Its just OH&S.” she replied, with no expression.

Although she seemed a bit dour, Gene liked her no nonsense directness almost as much as her powerful natural curves. He thought about how Tasha was once similar and a good swimmer in her youth, but that 2 bad marriages, 4 kids, and 25 years in hospitality would make anyone bitchier.

“Ah, fuck it. I can’t judge.” he whispered before sculling half his beer.

“Maybe I’ll talk to Wazza tomorrow and see what he thinks about meeting this Swan bloke.”

A slim Slavic looking lad with a crew cut asked Gene for a light.

“I don’t smoke, mate.”

“Ha, I knew you were an Aussie.” said the lad.

Another slavic guy and 2 girls at the next table motioned for Gene to join them.
Gene moved his stool 2m across to their table and introduced himself. They all shook his hand and
Without subtlety the hotter girl pouted and advised that their wallets were locked in the youth hostels safe and they couldn’t get money out til tomorrow.
Being half-drunk and feeling loose, Gene didn’t care that they were taking the piss. He pulled out a 50 and a 20, smiled, and told the girl to get him a schooner of XXXX and whatever they were drinking.
She scurried off and came back with 3 beers and 2 white wines. While talking to the lads about fishing locations and less touristy diving spots, he overheard the prettier girl complaining that they couldn’t have cocktails. When he finished his beer he excused himself to go to the bathroom.

When he came back out they’d gone and a Eurasian woman of about 30 was sitting alone at the table. She was short but very toned. When she caught him checking her out she invited him to join her. Gene was slightly shocked.

“I’m, Julia.”

“Gene. How’s it going. You from Sydney?”

“Yes, originally, but I’m in Melbourne now.”

“Ah, a corporate girl up for the summer hols.”

“Not quite. I’m still studying marketing and PR.”

“Ah, I see.”
Gene was struggling to remain composed and unaffected by her toned body.

“What do you do in Melbourne now? I reckon you could be a personal trainer.”

“Close. I’m a pole dancer, stripper, and yoga teacher..”

Gene steadied himself and took a sip of his beer.

“Wow, that’s awesome.”

“Shall I be honest?”

“Yeah, fire away.”

“Shall we leave now?”

Gene felt suspicious but her directness and sexual confidence overwhelmed him.
“Can you at least walk me over the hill to my motel?”

“Yeah, love, of course.”

“You country boys are refreshing sometimes. You don’t hide your appreciation of women by being fake like city boys.”

Gene blushed.

” Yeah, ah, we try to appreciate a good woman in our own way. Yeah, up here, we do.”

Gene couldn’t remember any of the conversation during the 700m walk to the motel. The rush of possibly having sex with Julia posessed him. despite suspecting she was a prostitute he was willing to oblige. They arrived at the door to her room and she turned around, smiled, and grabbed his hand.

“Just sit on the bed while I get us a drink. Scotch and dry ok?”
“Yeah, fine.”
She poured and mixed the drinks, handed him the tumbler then went to the bathroom.
Gene took several sips and stared at a tacky and faded print of a cowboy riding a bull, mounted on the wall.
Julia came back into the bedroom in a blue floral bikini. The compactness of her frame and the muscle tone of her upper thighs, waist, and back, made Gene gulp and try to straighten his posture. She sat beside him and put her hand on his thigh.
“So, are you a cowboy? she whispered into his ear.
She pushed him back and straddled him. The powerful sedative started to take more affect.
“Ah, you fucken sly bitch.” he mumbled, seconds before passing out.
“You rural dumb ass.” she hissed, springing back off the bed.
She undid his trousers and put her hands in his jocks to check if there was any semen and plucked a few pubic hairs. Her mobile phone rang and she answered.
“How’d it go?” asked a mature Aussie male voice.
“Easy. Too easy. This guy is so stupid I almost feel sorry for him.”
“Don’t feel guilty, it limits success.”
“Yeah, but I’m a stripper and a student, not a criminal.”
“Just go through the motions and you’ll get almost enough for a deposit on a house. This guy won’t take legal action. He and his brother will pay and be shit scared because he’s considered a local loser anyway.”
“Ok, Rob, I’ll be cool.”
“Good girl, I will be round in 10 mins to take a few photos and we’ll make it seem like it was you who was drugged.”
She looked at Gene lying there like a vulnerable dork and the gravitas of things started to sink in.

Gene awoke to an intense throbbing sensation and giddiness in his head. As he lay on his stomach and peered at the narrow slit of light shining through the gap between the curtains, he quickly recalled what had happened and where he was. He looked at his watch and it was just after 10 a.m. He rolled over onto his back and instantly felt like vomiting. Although he knew he mightn’t make it, he foolishly tried to get up and rush to the toilet. Just before he was upright, a violent spray of liquid in a long arc, covered the wall, carpet, and the front of his collared shirt. There was a knock on the door and an Asian woman’s voice. He walked into the toilet and knelt before the bowl and vomited twice more. The entire core tightened to help purge his burning and toxic gut. The heavily acidic scent of lamb madras, alcohol, and the powerful sedative, repeated on his breath.

The knocking resumed so he quickly washed his mouth and face then walked to the door and opened it. A tiny Asian woman in her fifties stared at him.
“You make a mess, sir?”
“Yes, sorry, I’ve made a fucken mess.”
She stared blankly “ok, but you pay extra clean.”
Nodding and squinting in irritation due to the sunlight, he asked
“yes, yes, how much?”
She walked into the room and looked at the stain on the wall and the moist patch with small chunks on the carpet.
“Need also dry cleaner $200.”
“Ok, I will go to the ATM and give $200 to reception.”
What happen to your woman?”
Genes mind couldn’t process an honest answer.
“I don’t know, I guess she’s pissed with me.”
The cleaners left eyebrow raised slightly as she walked off to inspect the next unit.

Almost on auto-pilot, Gene walked 200m up the street to the nearest ATM, withdrew $300 and returned to the Hotels reception. A woman in her sixties glared at him over the rim of her glasses.

“Ah, it’s the gentleman from room 11.” she said, deliberately avoiding eye contact as she entered a few numbers into the till.

Looking up, smirking, she asked

“You’re a local aren’t you?”

“Yeah, I’m Gene. My brother Wazza runs Bond accounting.”

“Right, so you know Ms Choi well?”

Gene straightened his posture and leant his right hand on the reception desk.

“Look, it was consenting and we’d both been drinking.”

“Consentual. Ah good, so it was consentual. That’s reassuring. Odd that she left before checking out.”

Gene felt like telling her to fuck off. She was more than his parched throat and aching head could handle.

“Fair enough. Are we good?”

“Yes, you’ve paid.” she said, then walked off into a room behind the reception, showing no emotion.

“Fucken, old mole.” he whispered to himself.

He walked down the motels shaded driveway and back into the streets harsh, morning sunlight.
He walked back into town and bought a 1 litre bottle of water at the IGA. Although he mightn’t hold it down, his parched throat and gut craved fluids. Just before the leagues club, he turned left into view st and stopped near the corner.
Without sunglasses or a hat, the 35 degree heat was excruciating for a post sedative and alcoholic cocktail. He sculled half the bottle and his head felt a bit clearer.

The mostly uphill, 2km walk to work, enhanced the giddiness, but surprisingly only mild nausea. The walk took more effort than expected, and all the houses on their biggish blocks blended into a very slow moving tunnel vision.
At the top of the hill, Gene drank the rest of the water and walked the last 100m to the office.
A red Mercedes coupe reversed out of the office driveway then slowly drove past. The tinted windows revealed only that the driver was male.

As he walked through the office door, his brother glared at him while rubbing his left palm against the crown of his head. Laying back in his plush leather business chair, he looked up at the ceiling fan and was silent for a few seconds.

He closed his eyes then asked

“Gene, how the fuck are we going to deal with Rob Swan?

Gene stood almost motionless, expecting a rant, but his brother was surprisingly composed.

“I’m beyond anger. this is so fucked up it has pushed me through stress into numb. Some arrogant, silver haired, fake tan fucken boomer who’s as dodgy as fuck, walks in and tries to blackmail us.

I know you’re gullible sometimes, but mate, for fucks sake, hot young women from Sydney or Melbourne don’t wanna root average middle-aged guys from up the coast.”

“Yeah, I fucked up. I thought she was maybe a hooker.”

“Ooohhh you think…you look like a zombie. Go have a shower and I’ll call Trevor for some legal advice.”