Dirk and Klaus

I'm at Ezra Pound bar with my friend, Ben, attending Simmer Down, a Friday night deejay event that runs through the summer. We're sitting at a table in the laneway having a beer before Ben plays his set.

‘Do you mind if we share your table?’

Two men in crisp paisley shirts, holding fresh cocktails, stand at attention by our table.

‘Sure. Go ahead.’ Ben says.

They sit down beside us.

‘I’m Dirk,’ the younger one says.

Dirk is baby faced, with round spectacles and a crew cut, maybe mid 30s with some weight on him. I detect an American accent and guess they’re sailors.

‘And this is Klaus.’ Dirk says.

Klaus nods hello. He is slim and tall, late 50s perhaps, a weathered face, grey hair, black square-framed glasses.

We shake hands and introduce ourselves.

‘We’ve just arrived in Perth today!’ Dirk announces.

‘Welcome to Perth!’ I say.

‘On holiday?’ Ben asks.

‘No,’ Dirk says. ‘We’re travelling around on business.'

Dirk leaves that loaded statement on the table and pauses to sip from the straw in his cocktail.

'So, what do you do Ben?’ Dirk asks.

‘I’m an event organiser. I also do some deejay work.’

Dirk nods and turns to me.

‘And what do you do?’

‘I teach film production, at a college.’

Dirk nods, removes the straw from his glass, and knocks back his drink.

‘So, you’re both American?’ I ask.

‘German.’ Klaus says, speaking for the first time, and sounding significantly more German than Dirk. ‘From Ostfildern.’

We’re German,’ Dirk says.

'Oh, I guessed American.' I say.

‘Well, I was brought up in the States,' Dirk replies, 'but I have one German parent.’

‘How do you like Perth?’ I ask.

Dirk turns and glances down the laneway and looks back.

‘You have a population of two million people, right?’ Dirk says. ‘Where is everybody?’

‘Perth is very spread out,’ Ben says. ‘It’s a bit like L.A. or something.’

‘I fucking hate LA!’ Dirk barks over the music. ‘Everyone is so fucking fake!’

He smirks at me, apparently enjoying the possibility of giving offence.

‘Have you been to the States?’ Dirk asks me.

‘I've been to New York.’

‘Did you like it?’

‘I did.’

‘Klaus likes New York!’ Dirk says.

‘I like New York.’ Klaus confirms.

‘What did you like about it?’ Dirk asks me.

‘The different cultures, the food, the architecture …’

‘I fucking hate New York!’ Dirk says, stretching his grin, pinching his cocktail straw with his thumb and index finger.

Ben smiles wearily.

‘Dirk, what places do you like?’ I ask.

He studies the ice melting in his glass for a few seconds.

‘Well, I’m a southern boy. Raised in Florida.’

'Is Florida considered the south?' I ask.

‘Do you fuckin’ know where Florida is?' Dirk snaps back. 'It’s as south as you can get! It’s almost fucking Cuba.’

‘Tim’s thinking of southern places like Mississippi.’ Ben says.

I bring up a map of Florida on my phone. It looks like a pistol, and he’s right, it’s the southernmost part of mainland US.

‘I was thinking Florida was further north for some reason.’ I say, abashed. ‘Of course, at the start of Scarface, the Cubans go straight to Miami don’t they.’

‘Fuck Miami!’ Dirk says.

Ben leaves the table.

‘I’ll tell you where you have to go,' Dirk says. 'New Orleans!'

‘The music must be good.’ I say.

‘Fuck the music. You can drink on the street.’

‘Is street drinking permitted anywhere in New Orleans?’

‘Anywhere!’ Dirk stands. ‘I’m buying drinks!’

‘I’m good, thanks.’ I say.

‘No, I’ll buy you a drink!’ Dirk says.

Dirk leaves the table and walks inside the main bar. The bar has got busier, with more people moving around our table. Klaus looks on ahead through his glasses, silent, the language barrier conspicuous. I observe the arms of his black-framed glasses are red, which lends him some verve. I wonder what his relationship to Dirk is.

‘So, what line of work are you guys in?’ I ask.

Klaus is quiet, but then he leans in closer.

‘We work with police …’ He says.

I look back, waiting for a punch line.

‘Counter-terrorism.’ He says.

‘No. Really?’ I ask.

‘Yeah,’ Klaus says, nodding. ‘Our clients here are WA police.’

Klaus takes out his phone and locates a picture of him in an officer's uniform speaking to an audience of soldiers. Beside Klaus is a faceless robot, about the size of a small man, with a long metal arm. He swipes past a couple of pics and stops at a photo of the same robot with its arm poking at a small metal box.

‘That’s a bomb.’ Klaus says.

‘How did you get into this?’ I ask.

‘First, I study explosives, then electrical engineering, and then I design robots.’

‘How long have you been making robots for the company?’

‘35 years.’

Klaus types on his phone and brings up his company website. The text is German but the site displays an array of radio-controlled robots, armoured combat vehicles, and tactical operation systems to combat crime and terrorism.

‘Are there any ethical concerns with any of the products you sell?’

Klaus shakes his head and raises his hands.

‘It must be interesting work.’ I say. ‘Has anything bad ever happened to you while you were working?’

He looks ahead for a few seconds and then turns back.

‘I was hostage.’

‘You were taken hostage!?’

‘Yes, hostage, by Taliban in Afghanistan.’

‘That must have been scary.’

‘Yes!’ His eyes widen and he gives a dry chuckle. ‘Very scary!’

‘How did you get free?’ I ask.

‘Taliban made a mistake.’

I wonder what the mistake was and decide not to ask. I open their company website on my Samsung device. I check out a robot, which resembles the Pixar WALL-E robot, except, in place of a head are two small cameras and a long, shiny metal arm purpose-built for bomb defusing.

Dirk returns to the table, grinning from ear to ear, with three cocktails in his hands.

‘That barman in there is INSANE!’ Dirk says. ‘These are Moscow Mules but much stronger than normal!’

Dirk passes my drink and notices the site displayed on my Samsung screen.

‘Klaus told you what we do?’

I raise my phone showing one of the robot models on the screen.

‘Well, watch what Klaus tells you.’ Dirk says, taking a finger and pulling his left lower eyelid, exposing the red under the eyeball.

‘And, how did you get into this profession Dirk?’ I ask.

‘Well, we’re both ex-military. I studied business in the military. I’ve been with this company for four months.’

Dirk takes out his business card and hands it to me. It states the company name, then underneath: Dirk Buttinger, Sales Manager

‘So what do you think?’ Dirk asks.

‘Well, if it saves lives, it’s a good thing.’

‘That’s what I want to hear.’ Dirk says, raising his glass.

We both drink.

‘How many of these robots do we have?’

‘In Australia? Forty-five.’

‘Are most of them in Sydney?'

'Police have some. Most are in military bases.'

‘I imagine that German robotics have a good reputation. All my Bosch goods at home work very well.’

‘We collaborate with Bosch actually. Our robots are now equipped to handle a vast range of tools with precision.’

A group of young women walk down the laneway, past our table and enter the bar.

‘The people here are quite young.’ Klaus observes.

‘It can be like that. It’s usually mixed ages, but there are probably more young people tonight.’ I say.

‘The women in Perth are fucking beautiful!’ Dirk asserts. ‘I went to the shops today and three gorgeous women checked me out and smiled. That shit does NOT happen back at home!’

‘Perth does have beautiful women,’ I acknowledge.

‘Man, at university you must be surrounded by beautiful women.’

‘I started teaching almost twenty years ago. Back then I thought so. Now I just see kids.’

‘What! Are you kidding? I love me some 18 year old pussy!’ Dirk says.

I decide to finish my drink and move tables. I was expecting my friends, Luke and Maria, to come down to Ezra Pound an hour ago.

I text Luke: Where the fuck are you?

‘You must be dripping with pussy.’ Dirk says.

He stands, leaves the table and enters the bar.

A woman with blonde curls in a leather jacket, who looks to be in her late twenties, approaches our table.

‘Excuse me,’ She asks with a thick Irish accent. ‘Would you mind if I sit here while I wait for my friend?’

‘Please do.’ I say.

‘Your friend does not return?’ Klaus asks me.

I point behind Klaus. ‘He’s playing now.’

Klaus turns and sees Ben, a few tables back from us, deejaying.

‘Oh! Das ist cool’. Klaus shouts, with a rare smile.

I look around the laneway for a free table. They’re all occupied.

I receive a text response from Luke: I’m at Steve’s. Maria didn’t want me to come out.

I put the phone down and turn to the woman at our table.

‘Hi, I’m Tim, and this is Klaus.’

‘I’m Kaitlyn.’ She says, lighting up a cigarette. ‘Are you guys from Perth?’

‘I am,’ I say. ‘Klaus is here on business.’

‘What kind of business?’ Kaitlyin asks.

Klaus looks a bit embarrassed.

‘Counter-terrorism.’ I say.

‘Go on!’ Kaitlyn says, smiling, turning to Klaus. ‘Really?’

I lift my phone and show Kaitlyn the site with the image of the robot.

‘I instruct police on how to use.’ Klaus says.

‘Are the instructions difficult?’ Kaitlyn asks Klaus.

‘Like pressing a microwave oven.’ Klaus says, smiling.

Dirk returns to the table with another three Moscow Mules.

‘He’s the brain. I’m the salesman!’ Dirk says.

Dirk passes Klaus and me our drinks and sits next to Kaitlyn.

‘Hi, I’m Dirk.’

‘I’m Kaitlyn.’

‘You can share mine.’ Dirk says and gives his mule a push across the table.

No thanks.' Kaitlyn says, pushing the mule back.

Dirk is trying to talk to Kaitlyn, but she isn’t interested. I go to use the toilet and when I return, Kaitlyn is leaving the table with a young man, presumably the person she was waiting for.

I sit back down. Dirk and Klaus look a bit deflated.

‘Alles klar!’ I say.

It’s one of the few German phrases I know, meaning, depending on context, that everything is good.

They both gasp, turn to me and raise their glasses.

‘You know German!’ Dirk asks?

‘No, just that one phrase.’

We all drink.

'So, when do you leave Perth?' I ask.

'Our flight is tomorrow at two.' Dirk says.

‘You should go to the beach while you’re here.’ I say.

‘Dude are you fucking kidding me!? Have you seen the weather!?’ Dirk bellows back.

I open the B.O.M. weather app. He’s right; it’ll be cloudy with a chance of rain.

‘It’ll still be nice.’ I say.

‘I don’t want to go the beach when it’s grey. I want the fucking sun!’

‘Okay, don’t go.’

‘Are you going to be there?’ Dirk asks.

‘No.’

‘I’m saying, are you going to be there tomorrow!?’

I shake my head.

‘We’ll swim 20 kilometres!’

‘I can’t swim more than a few hundred metres.’ I say.

Dirk’s eyes are fixed on me.

‘I’ll fuckin’ swim you till you hurt. I love pain! I'm a marine!’

He looks ready to lunge at me, crush my windpipe, tear out my spleen.

I smile back. I’m not sure what I’m looking at. A product of the military, marketing, sexual repression, capitalism?

Klaus calls a time-out with his hands. They both stand. I stand too, and we say goodbye. Klaus shakes my hand. I thank Dirk for the drinks. He gives me a long, tight hug, mumbles something about ‘good hangin’ bud’ and they both walk inside the bar.

I turn and walk over to Ben, who is still deejaying. He takes his headphones off to hear what I have to say.

‘Those guys were counter-terrorism.’

‘No shit?’

‘Yeah, they’ve gone.’ I say.

‘Thank fuck.’