At about five on Friday the Arkaba Hotel bar was chock-a-block.
They were gabbing with the animation of people freshly released from a conference, probably within the pub itself. I could see it all too plainly. A function room with white tablecloths, jugs of water, and the sinister light from an untreatably bland PowerPoint presentation.
Most had been there for at least two drinks. They were shrieking cheerfully at each other in their attempts to be heard by those nearby. These included, I suspect, Simon, suntanned and reptilian, from the Gold Coast office and Jane, the wide-eyed draftee to Policy and Strategy. The escalating volume to which Claire and I were now subjected is called the Lombard Effect.
Safely at our table beyond all this I said, ‘So, it’s Claire, isn’t it? My name’s Michael.’ Sometimes we undertake dramatic roleplay for self-amusement and on this occasion, to mock conferences and their reliable ridiculousness.
I do often wonder how it’d be to meet my wife afresh. We’ve never really had the joy of being strangers. Not that I’m complaining.
Almost wishing I had a name tag, I continued. ‘I really enjoyed the plenary. What did you think?’ Claire immediately went into character. ‘Well, in my organisation I’m in charge of BlueSky thinking.’
I imagined I was a convention delegate, no, a keynote speaker! Maybe I’d just delivered a capability-building session called
Challenges and Solutions: Growing Your Organisation in a Time of AI, Global Doubt and Insufferable Shit Like This.
Smiling at Claire I replied, ‘I guessed that. Is this why you’re wearing a blue top?’
Claire nodded, ‘Yes. That’s right.’ She was in full corporate mode, her vocabulary aspiring to the latest and most jarring jargon. ‘I’ve been really energised by the conference and all of its content. On Monday morning I’m going to ask my unit to pivot.’
*
For my second and final drink I went to the Sports Bar to buy a Coopers Pale Ale. Within the vastness of the Arkaba, it was the only place I could get a discounted beer despite it being Happy Hour.
Meanwhile, Claire waded through the deepening din of the lounge bar and its near-impenetrable throng of delegates. She wanted to order an Espresso Martini because, of course, this was the sole spot within the Arkaba where it could be purchased. Yes, I agree, the logistics were really quite dreadful. Among the privileged hotel clientele, on the periphery of Adelaide’s CBD, during Friday afternoons, there exists an alcoholic apartheid.
On our monthly Mystery Pub excursions, Claire’s Espresso Martini sometimes comes with a paper straw. Sometimes, it doesn’t.
*
Later, we went (separately) to the toilet. Aren’t you pleased to know this? We then discussed the central environmental issue: paper towel or electric hand-dryer? I said, ‘This features in the novel, The Mezzanine. You know, I’ve told you about it.’
Claire replied, ‘Remind me.’ I took a sip of my ale. ‘It’s a novel of about 150 pages and takes place entirely over the main character’s lunch break. At the end he goes to the loo and wonders about whether paper towel or the hand-dryer (no less than the World Dryer Corporation) is better for the planet. He agonises over this for pages.’
Claire looked dismayed. I concluded, ‘It’s a great book.’
*
On our way out, we paused by a large picture in the deserted lobby: a jagged, reddish mountain range. The Flinders. Claire said, ‘I really want to go back there.’ The photo was probably of Arkaba Station, north of Hawker. I hope we’ll return too.
Driving home, there was no Lombard Effect in the car.
