We fit 12 people into my station wagon and drove to the pub. The drummer was in the back beating a happy tattoo on my speakers. When we got there Arthur and I went to the nearest door we saw and staggered inside, more happy than high. Every aboriginal in the place turned and looked at us, two lost skinny white boys. We backed out while a few of them nodded slowly. Later, when the band took the stage, Freddie did the one thing he’d been asked by management not to do: on the first bass chord he shoved the mic head in his mouth and began screaming. Sometime during the evening we sang happy birthday to Sara; she was too busy puking to notice, but we didn’t care.