[ WP ] You and your brother go to the local pub

The main pub in my hometown looked exactly as it always had; like a brick and shingle funeral home with a coat of paint, some sputtering fairy lights and the gaudy flash of idling gaming machines in one corner. 
 It probably *had* been a funeral home in the past for all I knew - or perhaps that was all the architect knew how to design. This was n't exactly the kind of town that nurtured creative talent - our chief exports were abusive alcoholics, infanteers, solo mothers, B-grade rugby players and retired farmers. It was the sort of place that once you left, you rarely admitted to being born there. 
 It was n't just the pub that had n't changed, most of the same storefronts were there. The greasy spoon burger place, the ancient department store steeped in nepotism and the faux cultured cafe run by farmer's wives who did n't know a latte from a mochaccino. Another supermarket had opened up - the facade plastered with grinning white people in'towny' clothes, holding biodegradable grocery bags full of luxuries that most of the benefit-bludging populace could n't ever afford. 
 That this place was still gasping along on life support since I escaped it fifteen years ago was nothing short of a miracle. 
 My pace quickened and the pub approached faster. 
 The memories of this place were not pleasant. 
 
 Shaun was waiting for me inside the pub wearing the uniform of the locals - woolen jersey over a popped-collar rugby shirt, steel-capped workman's boots and faded blue Levis. While his face had grown leathery and premature grey streaked his temples, his haircut was still exactly the same as the day I'd left - short back and sides, just like dad. 
 The air was hazy with cigarette smoke - the proprietor did n't care much for'city laws' against smoking indoors - and loud sporting channels chattered over the big screen TVs hung around the bar. I yelled out to Shaun, but he did n't hear me over the din of story-telling farmers, racing commentary, clinking pint glasses and the roar of trucks on the main road outside. 
 Male gazes in various states of insobriety tracked me as I threaded my way through the tables. In this place I was an anomaly; an attractive young'towny' woman in'fancy' clothes and'whore' makeup. Scathing glares from rawboned and sun-damaged wives raked every high-heeled step toward my brother. 
 `` Shaun,'' I called again. 
 He saw me this time. At first he looked at me like any of the other locals - an object of both lust and derision - but as recognition dawned, a grin broke out and he slapped the bar in surprise, 
 `` Matthew!'' 
 I winced. That was a name I had n't heard in person for over a decade. 
 `` Hey,'' I husked, nervously, `` how are you holding up?'' 
 `` Glad you came,'' he replied, serious now, `` I did n't think you'd bother.'' 
 I shrugged, perching on a sticky bar stool and putting my handbag on the equally sticky bar top. 
 `` I thought it was important to see him off. What time is the funeral tomorrow?'' 
 Shaun gestured to the waitress and held up two fingers. She quickly filled two pints for us. 
 `` Midday. The family from up north should be here around ten.'' 
 The waitress paused, smiling at me, 
 `` Oh wow, I love your nails, where did you get them done?'' 
 `` I do them at home, I'm a pretty big nailpolish addict.'' 
 She gave Shaun a sly smile, 
 `` So introduce me to your lady friend, Shaun.'' 
 He blushed, 
 `` Shit Charlene, this ai n't my girlfriend, this is *Matty*, do n't you remember him at highschool?'' 
 My stomach lurched as her smile faltered, then fractured. 
 `` *Oh*,'' she managed, `` you're the *tranny* brother.'' 
 As she scurried away, I fixed my brother with a disappointed glare, 
 `` Jesus *Christ* Shaun! It's been fifteen years and you still ca n't use my legal name.'' 
 He said nothing, just sat looking shamefaced. 
 `` It was mum, was n't it? With her'You were baptised Matthew and you'll always *be* Matthew' bullshit. And you and dad just towed the fucking line like you always have.'' 
 `` You did n't have to live with her,'' he griped. 
 `` Well neither did you.'' 
 We sat in silence for a few minutes; I drained my beer, then headed for the bathroom. 
 `` Need to use the ladies, be back soon.'' 
 The cowgirl and cowboy toilet signs guided me to the facilities, but the waitress and one of the burly locals blocked my path to the doorway with the pigtailed stick figure. 
 `` Faggots are n't allowed in the ladies room,'' growled the thuggish farmhand. The waitress looked suitably smug. 
 Then Shaun was there, right in the guy's face. 
 `` Look man, he might have been born a guy but he's got all lady parts now - he went to Thailand and *everything*.'' 
 I sighed, 
 `` Forget it Shaun, I'll use the mens room. Failing that, I'll piss on the back tire of someone's truck outside.'' 
 Pushing past the locals, I shoved open the cowboy door and headed for the single stall. 
 Some things never changed. 
 

