When you turn eighteen, nothing seems so important as getting your driver’s licence. The simple act of being able to reverse park is the closest thing we have to a welcome ceremony for adulthood. Not that it’s all about driving. Granted, the ability to drive a car represents a level of freedom that perfectly complements the coming of age. That’s so even when the car in question is a puke-green 1982 Daihatsu Charade. But in addition to driving there’s also the matter of being able to attend a pub. Not that everyone gets their license exactly on turning eighteen.
When you turn eighteen, nothing seems so important as getting your driver’s licence. The simple act of being able to reverse park is the closest thing we have to a welcome ceremony for adulthood. Not that it’s all about driving. Granted, the ability to drive a car represents a level of freedom that perfectly complements the coming of age. That’s so even when the car in question is a puke-green 1982 Daihatsu Charade. But in addition to driving there’s also the matter of being able to attend a pub. Not that everyone gets their license exactly on turning eighteen.
I, for one, had been worried about my year 12 exams and had done nothing about learning how to drive aside from opening the doors and switching cassettes in the tape deck – both of which I had almost mastered. I finished year 12 just about the same time as I hit my first real milestone and, of course, all the people I went to school with were eager to go out. Turning up at the door of a licensed venue and expecting them to take your word that you’re over eighteen is something I now do with confidence but, then, seemed to be a recipe for disaster. Being the ‘pre-Internet’ age, recipes for disaster were still quite rare and could not simply be downloaded from the Jamie Oliver website. Accordingly, I had to use my passport.
It had been issued a few years earlier. I would later learn that photos for any official document are intentionally hideous but back then, was horrified at the picture that graced my passport. I looked so doleful and forlorn. As though the thought of having to get on a plane was the most severe punishment my youthful mind could imagine. The picture was so bad, you could easily assume that had the camera pulled back a metre or so, it would have revealed a plaque between my hands with my prisoner number on it.
My friends had decided that we were going out. But rather than attend a local venue, we would be travelling to the city. Clearly, we were out of our minds. We knew nothing of the city, which meant that selecting a venue was done pretty much at random. As fate would have it, we selected the Red Back Brewery in North Melbourne. Being from a small town, I was keen to ensure that I didn’t turn up looking like some kind of unsophisticated country bumpkin. For that reason, I decided to wear ‘the good shirt’.
Over the years, many shirts have held the esteemed title of ‘the good shirt’. There was the yellow one that made me look like B2’s stunt double. The undisputed title-holder for the years 1986 – 1988, however, was a purple paisley number that looked like an acid flashback and induced immediate nausea in all who happened to gaze upon it. However, in the golden year of 1989, the ‘good shirt’ was a silk number with a scratchy brown pattern that I now refer to as ‘The Brown Hornet’. At the time, I thought it was wonderful. With the benefit of a whole lot of hindsight, it was the kind of shirt that even APEC leaders would reject and almost singlehandedly ensured my social isolation. Not that I knew that in 1989.
With my good shirt on and my passport tucked into the top pocket, I was ready. My friends picked me up and we began the epic journey that would take us from the Mornington Peninsula to the bustling city. A world of possibilities awaited us. However, once we arrived, it became apparent that a world of possibilities was, in fact, awaiting us at some other pub; as this one had nothing to offer other than strange tasting beer and an atmosphere that would make outer space seem welcoming.
It was dreadful. There were other people milling around, but they were all huddled in groups. Wearing the ‘Brown Hornet’, it was like having a force field around me. We assumed that by the simple act of turning up, something incredible would happen. Instead, we just ended up standing around feeling awkward before deciding to call time and head back to Tyabb. Frankly, you don’t need to make a hundred kilometre round-trip to feel uncomfortable. Such results can easily be obtained without the inconvenience of travel.
Having returned from my big adventure, I went to bed and thought little more about it. That is, until the washing came out of the dryer and it became apparent that I had left my passport in the top pocket of the ‘Brown Hornet’. It now resembled some kind of forgery and was as good as ruined. The photo, which before had seemed unreasonably miserable, looked as if I’d just been caught in an unexpected rainstorm.
It was ironic. I didn’t need a passport to travel from Tyabb to the city, even if it did seem like a completely separate world. Having decided to take my passport in order to travel to Melbourne, I had ruined it in the process. Whilst many others would probably try and get a replacement, I took it as a sign and swore off overseas travel for the next five years.
As for the ‘Brown Hornet’, I continued to wear it for some time to come until it was replaced by a nifty little number I bought in a fit of insanity at the Queen Victoria Market that was a little bit cowboy and little bit ‘bogan’. Despite the switch in style, it would prove to be equally effective at repelling other people. At the time I referred to it only as ‘the good shirt’ but now I like to think of it as my ‘Country and Western Suburbs’ shirt. It was the kind of shirt that was really only any use if you were called upon to attend a hoedown at short notice. It was a circumstance that never arose. Nevertheless, I wore it everywhere. Everywhere, that is, except the Red Back Brewery.