Mike Dixon

Humphrey emerged from a toilet cubicle and went over to
the mirrors in the washroom. He had changed into denims,
chequered shirt, wide-brimmed hat and riding boots. He ex-
amined the pallid face that stared at him from beneath the
oversized hat and ran his eyes towards his bulging stomach
and podgy hands. The overall effect was far from convincing.
He tried saying „G‟day! My name‟s Humph Hansen. My
mate, Bill Maxwell, phoned yous about me …‟
A small boy attempting to master a urinal that was far too
high for him eyed Humphrey suspiciously.
„G‟day! My name‟s Humph Hansen.‟
He tried again and the boy zipped up his fly and left hurriedly.
„G‟day …‟
Humphrey gave up. The attempt to impersonate a cowboy
was stupid. He went back to the cubicle and tried to put together
a more convincing costume. The result was an ec-
centric mix of garments that didn‟t belong anywhere.
he Island View Hotel was fifteen minutes drive from
T the airport. Humphrey didn‟t want to look too affluent
and was keen to give the impression that he was on
foot. He got the taxi to put him down a short distance away
but needn‟t have bothered. Another taxi was stopped outside
the hotel and two men with beer bellies were unloading
booze. He followed them inside and looked around.
What had once been a reception hall was now a lounge. It
smelt of stale beer and cigarettes. Half a dozen elderly men
were slumped in armchairs, watching horse racing on an
ancient television set.
„G‟day!‟
Humphrey peered at them through a pall of cigarette
smoke.
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