The Ambassadors (contd.)
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I look at him blankly while pulling out my wallet. "What ones do you take?" I ask fingering a Visa and wondering just how much the cover charge must be.

"It's membership-only guys," he clarifies.

"Oh, okay." I had encountered this in London a few years before. "No problem, I guess we'll just take three memberships then." I reveal a thin stack of 20AUD bills behind the wallet.

"No, we're full up."

Icebergs just isn't giving off the vibe of being cold crackin' on a Sunday night.

"Seriously?" I ask.

"Yeah mates. Seriously."

"Look man, I read about this place back in the States. I'd just like to check it out. I'll probably never be back."

"Sorry mates. We're full."

Rob has already flagged the cabbie that had dropped us off a few minutes prior. He had u-turned at the end of the lane and was headed back toward us. Rutt directs him to The Bourbon in Kings Cross. At least we'll be within a shamble of the hotel.

The Bourbon doesn't appear it's going to be much more accommodating. The line to get in is 30-40 feet long. The doorman sees us milling about and asks if we have memberships or are on the list. We obviously are not.

I mutter something about giving up and Rob reminds me about playing through. It's already well after midnight, and we may as well finish out the evening before hitting the 24-hour sports bar for the game. To sleep now would mean missing it. Plus our flight to Cairns and Port Douglas leaves at 1 p.m. tomorrow. We won't be back in Sydney for two weeks.

Almost on cue, the doorman behind us starts waving in the people waiting.

"It's alright mates; they're letting people in now."

We assume our familiar post at a table just off the bar.

Australian girls - and a handful of Australian guys - are dancing on the tile floor in front of us. They dance with total abandon, sexed enough to shame a hip-hop act. Their arms are up, palms open. Their bodies ripple from their wrists to ankles. They move fluidly, but they seem to have no control. I watch forever, drink after drink. I try to lure the girls closer with my eyes, but they may as well be outside. Rutt and Rob are snaring girls as they pass by our counter, only to lose them after brief exchanges.

"I've crossed the line," Rutt says. "I'm officially immune. The rejection doesn't even hurt anymore. Bring 'em on. I'll get shot down 100 times tonight alone. I just don't care. I just want to have an effect on someone, anyone." He marches toward the bar.

I think to myself, maybe it's us. Maybe we just come off as the arrogant Americans. Maybe we just need to be more open, more continental. As Rutt is signaling toward a bartender, I turn to face a plain-looking woman of heavier build.

"Hi. What's your name?" I greet her, hand extended.

She smiles, limply shakes my hand, then turns around without saying a word. I stand there, frozen in the position of my greeting, and after a minute of this awkwardness she slides away from the bar and disappears. I turn back around, and Rutt has 15 murky shots lined up on the counter.

"What are-"

"They're called Quick Fucks," Rutt says before I finish the question. "The bartender says they're the most popular shot in Australia right now. Bailey's, Kahlua, and a dash of Midori. Take three and then figure out what to do with the rest."

He tosses three down in less than a minute, then grabs two more and reaches into a mixed group standing just off the bar.

"Free shots!" he cheers. "Free shots from your friend America. Free shots."

I swallow down my three. It seems like a good time to get numb. I hand out a pair of shots to some guys on their way to the bathroom. They eye me suspiciously, so I do another from what's left of the row on the bar, and they knock theirs back and carry on.

Rutt clues Rob into the game as he orders another 15. The bartender asks for a credit card to secure the tab. I throw a 'rock' to their 'papers' and fork over my Visa. Rutt doubles the order to 30 drinks.

"I'm holding the tab, not necessarily paying it," I declare before things get so far out of hand that my companions mistake me as generous. They nod in recognition and continue to hand out drinks. But even giving away liquor isn't a crowd pleaser. A surprising majority of the club-goers don't want a Quick Fuck, be it from an American or otherwise, and we end up drinking far too many of the props ourselves. We meet a woman and her business acquaintance, a big Russian guy with a severely receding hairline and a broad, pink face.

"We're in import/export," he says with good English but a thick accent, and I can't tell if he's slurring his speech or I'm at the point where I'm slurring my hearing. "I spend four months each year in Australia."

"With your lady friend?" I ask, nodding toward his acquaintance.

"She's just partner."

"Do you meet many girls when you're here?"

He looks at me for a moment. "Whores."

"Whores. Right. Yes, we've seen those. I think the Australians like us less than you guys did 20 years ago."

He laughs. "Even when we hated you, we didn't really hate you. Jealous maybe. And the whores, they not so bad."

I excuse myself for the bathroom and realize I am more than a little drunk. I am flat-out 'faced. It's 4 a.m., and making the start of the Patriots game is looking really tough. I shuffle back to my spot at the bar. Rutt and Rob are missing. The Russian is drinking a Coke. There is one shot left on the bar, and I grab it.

"I'm going to have to go," I tell him. "At the very least I need to get something to eat."

"I should go too," he says.

I drink the last drink and turn to get the bill. There's no sense even looking for the guys at this point. The tab is 860AUD before tip. I pay it and laugh. One thousand dollars and 11,000 miles away and I'm leaving an Australian night club with a big Russian guy at 4:30 on a Monday morning.

We amble down Darlinghurst Road, and the Russian is talking about something I can't understand, but I am nodding. Under a sign that reads "Porky's Live Show," a rail-thin woman with stringy hair asks us if we want to party and blocks our way. The Russian looks at me and shrugs, and I just smile and walk around her. I look back 20 feet farther and the woman is there, but he is gone. I head to the McDonalds.

I am about to start on my second Quarter Pounder when Rutt comes staggering in. An employee tries to discourage him from entering - even the McDonalds closes eventually - but Rutt sees me and pushes his way through. He talks the counter clerk into giving him a burger.

"Where's Rob?" I ask.

"The last I saw him he was dancing in the middle of the dance floor, possibly by himself."

This is bad. Thirty-year-old men should not dance, and definitely not alone.