Permission

The day has come. It almost took me by surprise. I had forgotten about the wondrous possibilities of life. A new world has opened to me. It is a day for smelling the roses, shaking hands with babies, and self-congratulatory flagellation. I am now the proud owner of a Maningrida Alcohol Permit.

Each fortnight I am now entitled to have shipped in to the community a dozen bottles of wine or 2 slabs of mid-strength beer. It doesn't sound like much, but I've done the math. It's about five cans a night. Apparently having more than six on any given night of the week is considered unhealthy consumption, but those kind of statistics are put out by the government and they've been wrong before. Like the war. If a tree falls in the forest, let it fucking lie, boys. Let it lie. Mixing metaphors there. That'll throw a spanner at the bird in the bush... I wonder if Kath and Kim are looking for writers. I'm unimaginative and trite.

Permits are only allocated to people who have been here three months or more. Even then you have to spend another three months relegated to reduced-alcohol beer to prove you're not going to be a menace to society - more importantly, to society's road signs and witches hats; irresistible to the intoxicated collector. If had been given 10 bucks in place of every piece of traffic paraphernalia I'd picked up drunk, the roads would be a much safer place.

The odd thing is I'm not really sure if I want an alcohol permit. I'm not taking any moral highground, saying that I'll deny my access to booze on account of the many Aboriginal people who aren't allowed the same privilege. Phil took that route. Gave up after a month. Then his application got lost in the processes. He's been dry for six months. Bless his well-intentioned heart. Luckily I have no such valor.

I'm just not sure if I want all that beer in my house - have no doubt, I'll drink it whether I want it or not. I've always said that I'm not an alcoholic, just extremely susceptible to suggestion. While I've always thought strippers a little sleazy and a bit of a turn-off, if a mate walked me in to a strip club and said 'this one's on me' I can not be held responsible for what ever solicited acts that may occur in my lap. I mean, what good is a beer in the fridge?

I'll take it though. It's mid-strength - what damage could I possibly do with it? There'll only be three deliveries before I head back to Melbourne anyway. Six slabs - a drop in the ocean. The ocean of slabs. *salivates heavily*

The real issue is this place - this lifestyle - lends itself heavily to addictive behavior. Plenty of fuck-all to do and beer in the fridge - doesn't take a genius to work that out. A simple abacus would suffice. Substance abuse is a big issue in the community (and kinda the entire reason I'm getting paid to be here). It's like any community - this size, this remote - it's all about drugs, grog, teen pregnancy, poor education, boredom and suicide. The six stalwarts of rural living. Chuck in some country music and you've got yourself a fucking B and S ball!

There's only one option. I'll buy a cowboy hat, grow a moustache, pull on a wifebeater and get the fuck on with it. Luckily, after a dozen mid-strengths I'll probably still be sober enough to stay on the mechanical bull at the barn dance. The chicks'll be all over me... now where do I stick the $20?