Crisis of Identity

‘Hey Kado… Get in here, mate… Quick… Check this out…’

The excitement in Mitch’s booming voice shattered my ‘serenity’. I dropped my legs and moved in through the oversized glass sliding doors.

Mitch was reclining on the flora-themed bamboo two-seater with his feet on the coffee table when I entered. He was taking a photo of the wall mounted flat screen with his phone.

‘What’s up?’

He flicked a finger at the TV. ‘Check this guy out…’

I did as he asked. A head shot photo of an old bloke filled the TV screen. The caption, “Graham Evans dead at 59” filled a banner at the bottom of the screen.

‘What about him…?’ I shrugged.

‘Don’t you see it….?’ Mitch’s assessing glare was like I missed the punchline to an obvious joke.

‘See what…?’ I glanced back at the TV as the image left the screen and returned to a field journalist filing a report. ‘I don’t get it,’ I said then took a swig from my beer.

‘Mate… That’s you in 30 years… Have a look at him.’ Mitch brought up the photo he took. He showed me his phone screen. ‘That guy looks like you in 30 years…’

It was just a photo of an old guy to me. I shrugged my indifference as I tried to listen to the news report to learn why this guy’s passing was so newsworthy. Mitch drowned out the reporter.

‘If I didn’t know your family...’ Mitch began. ‘If I’d never met your dad before he…’ Mitch paused. ‘Well. I’d swear that this bloke could be your dad. It’s uncanny.’

‘It said he was 59… I hope I don’t look that old at 59, mate… He must’ve had a hard life, or something.’

Mitch smiled as he glanced at his photo. ‘I’m Snap Chattin’ this, bro. This is gold.’

All I could do was shake my head. ‘Sorry mate… I just don’t see it. Maybe you should go easy on the brews, or something…’

Mitch gestured at the TV. ‘You know what that photo looked like…? That photo of the old bloke there was like they used one of those ageing apps on a current photo of you.’

‘Seriously, mate… You gotta get over this.’

Mitch’s Snapchat tone sounded. He checked his phone. ‘Here ya go… I sent a Snapchat of this old guy out with the caption, “Does he look like anyone we know”… Dougie Barnes just replied saying, “looks like Kado in 40 years…”’. Mitch held out ‘I told you so’ hands.

‘Do you know what his claim to fame is…?’ I asked, lifting my chin at the TV.

‘No I don’t, actually. I was too busy taking a photo.’

Mitch’s Snapchat tone sounded again. He checked his phone. His grin was enough for me. ‘Gibbo just said the same thing as Barnsey, bro… How can you not see it, when we all can?’

‘His name was Evans…’ I recalled. ‘He can’t even be a distant relative of dad’s, can he? We’re the Millers.’

‘I’ve heard of doppelgangers, but not future doppelgangers, bro…’ Mitch said. He found all this strangely humorous.

Mitch’s Snap chat tone went off again. He checked his phone and grinned.

I raised a hand. ‘I don’t want to know… OK. I get it. You all think he looks like an old version of me. Point made, OK.’

Mitch continued to study his phone.

‘I’m off for a shower, bro… Have a think about what you feel like for dinner.’ I didn’t wait for a response.

With the showers out of the way and a meat lover’s pizza courtesy of Uber Eats, we were ready to check out the well-documented Surfer’s Paradise nightlife.

Neither Mitch nor I had been to the Gold Coast before. In fact, the furthest east I have ventured was on a family holiday to Adelaide when I was 12 and then to Torquay in Victoria a few years later. So being ‘Gold Coast virgins’ we relied on the various marketing brochures and tourist books provided in our suite, to guide us.

If we are to believe the Queensland tourism propaganda, Surfer’s Paradise, colloquially known as ‘Surfers’, “is one of Australia’s most pristine beaches that attracts surfers, swimmers, and joggers around the world. Here, you can find both locals and tourists participating in different activities including beach volleyball, surfing, sand castle building and swimming.”

While these printed marketing pitches got our tourist juices flowing, what really piqued our attention was when we read, “Surfers’ is now known as Australia’s nightlife capital with stylish pubs, lounge bars, and clubs. Surfer Paradise after-dark entertainment districts features a mix of DJs, solo acts, live bands, and even guest appearance of international artists.”

We didn’t have to read any further. We were sold. I slammed the marketing book shut and ‘dropped the microphone’. Surfers’ it was and it was only a casual 10 minute walk, or a 20 minute stagger back home to our suite.

Mitch moved out to the balcony and leaned on his elbows, glancing north along the beach. ‘Do ya reckon that’s surfers’ up there with all the lights…?’ Mitch said. He gestured towards the floodlit sands, in the distance.

‘It’d have to be, wouldn’t it, judging by all of them…?’ I said lifting my chin to the sands below our apartment.

On the beach below was a procession of people strolling in that direction like the proverbial moths to a light. So we adopted the ‘when in Rome…’ philosophy and did the same; a beach walk to Surfers’ in the balmy evening, serenaded by rolling waves and a gentle breeze. How perfect is this?

Tourists like us strolled the beach like a line of worker ants spread out along the sand. High-rise apartment buildings jutted up to line the wide sands of the surf beach. Think Miami coast line, or Waikiki in Hawaii.

The beach area at Surfers’ was brightly floodlit. About 50 or so people, not many over 30, gathered in groups on the sand. Each person held a drink of choice. It was pleasing to see the alcohol consumption laws were relaxed over here in Queensland.

We scuffed our way up the dry sand, weaving through the beach revellers. I said to Mitch, ‘this is gunna be awesome, mate.’

Mitch didn’t reply. He didn’t have to. I knew from the frozen grin across his face, he agreed.

The dress code among the girls was ‘less is best’, which suited the balmy evening conditions and of course, us. Butt-cheek revealing cut-off denim short-shorts, short summer dresses and skimpy bikinis only just satisfying public decency requirements, plunging, cleavage-bulging necklines and body hugging little dresses were everywhere. It was a bloke’s smorgasbord.

The only thing that interested us more than this favourable scenery at this point was the strong lure for another cold beer. Surfers’ is apparently filled with an abundance of bars to choose from, so it was time to check it out.

We made our way up the beach towards the road, passing under the iconic arched Surfers’ Paradise sign—the gateway to Surfer’s beach.

After navigating the slow moving stream of vehicles cruising the coastal road, we entered the Cavill Avenue pedestrian mall in search of a bar.

Towering palm trees illuminated by up-lights, ran down the centre of the mall. Shops and eateries lined its sides. Wafting food smells filled the air from the heavily patronized alfresco restaurants and eateries.

It was the epitome of ‘touristy’. There were people everywhere. The place had a life of its own and the stream of people flowing through it was its blood supply.

Our focus was on something of a more liquid dietary requirement at this time. We found a first-floor bar called The Sand Bar. The attraction was the large balcony overlooking the flood lit sands of Surfer’s beach, across the road.

The main bar area inside was standing room only. In the corner of the room, a piano man tinkled out modern tunes, only just audible over the hen-house chatter and laughter.

‘This’ll do us, bro… Whatcha reckon?’ Mitch said.

‘I’ll get the first round.’ I said. I flicked a finger towards the alfresco the balcony. ‘See if you can get us somewhere out there to lean.’

It took longer to get served than my limited patience would normally tolerate, but I was on holiday; plus the female scenery made the wait worthwhile.

When I eventually reached the front of the six-person deep queue, the well-endowed blonde barmaid with a tight black singlet top I had been watching work, gave me the, ‘what can I get you’ point. She was all business.

While my beers were poured I leaned my elbows on the bar checking out the like-minded people crammed around me.

To my left, an out-of-place old guy with thinning white-grey hair and a white moustache sat on his own at the end of the bar, where it returned back to the wall. He wore a dark suit with a loosened tie. He stared at me over the top of his glass, as he took a sip.

When he lowered his drink he continued to check me out. Presumably he was the bar owner, or something. Why else would an old bloke in his 60s be sitting alone in a crowded bar of twenty-five to thirty-five years olds watching people drink. Regardless of why he was there though, his constant leering was a little uncomfortable.

With our first round finally in hand, I carefully navigated the packed room towards the beach-side balcony, using my elbows to fend off the occasional incoming body along the way. I am pleased to say that not a drop of the precious liquid was spilt.

Before stepping out onto the balcony, I checked over my shoulder. The old bloke was still watching me. Hopefully he noticed my disapproving head shake as I stepped outside.