Your head will collapse, but there's nothing in it

It is raining. Yesterday’s sunny weather was nothing more than an illusion. Melbourne is now wet and cold. It is nighttime. I read about a free gig in a pub somewhere along Victoria Street. I don’t know the bands, but with nothing better to do, drinking some beers and listening to loud music seems like a master plan to me. I walk north. I wonder if I should stop and wait until the rain lets up.

I don’t want to arrive at the pub completely drenched. Not in these clothes. I’m wearing the new clothes I bought today: a pair of black skinny jeans, a white T-shirt, and a gray cardigan. I was feeling hollow — hence, consumption. I find the holes in my old black sneakers somewhat charming and didn’t even bother to look for another pair. This is the first time I’m going out in six months, and I have a good feeling about it. I have to. Otherwise, I’d just stick to the bloody backpackers’ premises and watch youth getting pissed within minutes — I guess we all must go through it, don’t we?

A tram going north is approaching. I run to the stop and get on. Just like Lisbon, the heart of Melbourne is served by several lovely old trams. They squeal when turning, squeal when braking, but still manage to stay on the tracks. Besides me, there are two other passengers: an old man, completely drunk, and a young Asian girl with massive white headphones. I take a seat and look out the window. Despite the rain, nightlife is everywhere. There are many people on the streets. Everyone is going somewhere. Those who aren’t are either beggars or already too drunk. Rain doesn’t seem to bother these women. They look very confident in their high heels and short dresses, swinging their hips through the alameda. Others, more posh, wave down yellow taxis. Some protect their hair with their wallets, while those without wallets drink alcohol from green plastic bottles.

“Victoria Street,” the tram driver announces. My stop. I step outside and look for number 125. I walk up and down the street. Not only can’t I see a number 125, but I also can’t find any numbered buildings at all. Meanwhile, I’m getting soaked. I take shelter in an Asian grocery shop. As I enter, three women stare at me. I smile and say, “El Niño has arrived.” No reaction. I turn my back and look across the road. 143, 137, … 125! There, just in front of me. I turn again to say goodbye to the women, change my mind, and run across the street.

The pub is empty. I’m greeted by two women at the bar. They’re in their early twenties, if not late teens. “Is this the Public Pub?” I ask. “Yes, it is. What can I get you?” “Will there be a concert here tonight?” “Yes. We have three bands tonight, but the first gig only starts at 9 p.m.”

I check the time. “And it’s what, 8 p.m.?” “Five minutes past, mate.” “Alright. Can I get a Jameson, please? No ice.”

I pay for the whiskey and take a seat. The pub is quite dark. The bar sits in the middle, dividing the place into two rooms. One, where I’m sitting, has a couple of wooden tables and some dark red couches. The other, the concert room, is carpeted in red, has a small stage, and a narrow corridor leading to the toilets. It’s a nice place, and I feel flattered to be — together with Jim Morrison and Bob Dylan posters — the only man in the room. I sip my Jameson and sink into the couch. I attend to the music. “Cannonball” from The Breeders has just given way to John Lennon’s “Come Together.” I only hope they show the same good taste when picking tonight’s bands.

Fifteen minutes past nine, and the house is half full. Not too bad. I’ve moved into the concert room. I’m surrounded by Australian hipsters. I seem to be the only foreigner in the room, but I reckon I blend in with my cardigan and tight jeans. I switched to beer to keep the drinking going. I didn’t want to run out of money before the first gig — and let’s face it, when you don’t know anyone in a room, there’s nothing else to do but drink.

A group of eight girls stands in front of me. They’re smartly dressed and, needless to say, all very pretty. I observe them, doing my best not to be inconvenient. The first guitar chords reverberate through the room. The first band is about to start: a guitarist, a bassist, and a drummer. They greet the room and send some private jokes to friends in the audience. I can’t take my eyes off the girls in front of me.

“HEY! Been trying to meet you… hmmmmmmm.” Not a bad cover to start with. Everyone goes berserk — headbanging, pulling, pushing. I wasn’t ready for it and didn’t see it coming. A body slams into my shoulder, making me spill half my beer on the red carpet. “I’m sorry, mate,” the guy says. “No worries, man. I’ll get another one.”

I sit at the bar and order another pint. As soon as I pay, I feel a gentle touch on my back. I don’t give it much thought until a soft male voice whispers in my ear: “I’m sorry.”

I turn and see the same guy who pushed me minutes ago. “It’s okay, mate. It’s all good. I’ve got a full glass, see?” I say, turning back to the bar.

But his hand stays on my back. Instead of letting go, he starts drawing circles with a little more pressure. What the fuck? The same gentle voice leans in again: “No, I’m reaaalllyyyy sorry, you know?”

Why? Why couldn’t it have been one of the pretty girls? But no — it had to be a guy. I never know what to say in these circumstances. I give him one of my low-brow, high-brow looks. Seeing how alienated I am, he awkwardly pulls his hand back and rejoins his friends. These are the moments I wish I were gay.

I still have 10 dollars left in my pocket — enough for one last pint for the closing concert. The second band was crap. The first was okay, though I’d have enjoyed it more if they’d just stuck to Pixies covers. The group of girls is now too drunk to form a sentence. I’m stupidly sober and, apart from that hand on my back two hours ago, I haven’t had any human contact. The third band has just started, but by the sound of it, I realize I’m better off finishing my pint and heading back to the backpackers. I leave the pub.

It has stopped raining. It’s shortly past midnight. Traffic is reduced to one or two random cars in the distance. I decide to walk back to the guesthouse. It might be a 45-minute walk, but though cold, it isn’t freezing. I lower my eyes to the pavement and walk at a slow pace. With each step, my wet shoes squeak.

I’ve been here before. So many times. It doesn’t matter which city. The feeling is universal, common to every single human being: walking at night through semi-deserted streets after a day of rain. The hidden moon behind cloudy skies. The speeding expensive cars. The glittering neon lights reflected in puddles. The squeaking of wet shoes. The shivering of cold bodies. The begging voice of the homeless. The persuasive voice of prostitutes. The lonely passing strangers. The longing for instant romance.

And more… much more than this. But above all, the excruciating void of another meaningless night. My mind travels and is nowhere to be found… which brings me to another Pixies song. I walk home singing.