Fist and chips.

When walking into a local fish and chips shop — or indeed, any shop — I don’t expect my entrance to be greeted with much of a reaction from any staff or customers inside. At most, perhaps something ranging from perfunctory politeness to mild indifference.

So it was a strange surprise to walk into the fish and chips shop near my local gym and sense a palpable wave of relief from just about everyone there.

Was business so bad that the appearance of a customer was a cause for gratitude?

Was its location in a street of shops dominated by a gym attracting foot-traffic of health-conscious bodybuilder types who were impervious to the temptation of trans-fatty fast food treats?

Obviously, despite some healthy lifestyle choices on my part, I am still able to be tempted, in moments of weakness and craving for convenience, for some post-workout deep-fried fish and chips goodness.

Still, it was with a mild sense of guilt (and irony) that I left the gym after finishing a grueling workout and went straight to the fish and chips shop across the road. For a brief moment of paranoia, I even wondered if those inside were reading my mind, tapping into my guilt, pleased they had managed to tempt one of the gym-going, protein-supplementing fitness-fanatics to taste their nutritionally dubious wares. (Although if I was really paranoid, I might wonder if putting a fish and chips shop next to a gym was an exercise in corporate synergy — a business designed to slim people down right next to a business designed to fatten people up!)

As is often the case, turns out their reactions didn’t really have much to do with me, as such. It was due more to the fact I had happened to walk into a domestic dispute playing out in this nondescript fish and chips shop. Turns out I had walked into the middle of an argument between two of the customers already there.

The middle-aged Asian couple behind the counter who ran the place looked visibly relived when I walked in, as did the girl ordering at the counter. No doubt they were glad for the presence of an additional witness, if nothing else. Somewhat less impressed with my entrance, however, was the guy there there who embodied the look of feral western suburbs drug addict chic. He seemed annoyed that my entrance had derailed the argument he was in the middle of having with the aforementioned girl. I assume they were a couple. As is often the case when couples argue, from the outside, it appeared to be about nothing. I gather, having walked into the middle of it, that the guy was in a hurry, but the girl was taking too long to decide what she wanted to eat.

I suspect the girl was taking time away from his busy schedule of scoring drugs. And a degenerate drug addict has to be careful to manage the expectations of his girls. Women can be very demanding — you take them out for a meal one time, then they expect to eat every day! The nerve! Then they demand more and more, like shelter, clothing — companionship, even! How is an enterprising young drug addict supposed to get by when he’s spending all his hard-stolen cash on his girlfriend?

My presence seemed to have distracted him, threw him off his game. Despite my body building allusions I’m not particularly threatening — tall and athletic sure, but not necessarily big. Still, I was much bigger than this short-ass druggy, for what it was worth. Perhaps he was thinking along the same lines, for he angrily muttered something to the girl about hurrying up and that he’d be waiting in the car, then stormed out.

With him gone there was a palpable sense of relief from everyone in the store. The girl, still undecided (on drugs as well maybe?) let me order first while she continued to study the menu.

She ordered after me, then we waited for our orders in the strangely still silence that followed. She sat down and fidgeted impatiently while reading a magazine, or at least trying to. She frequently went up to the counter to ask how much longer her order would be. Maybe a fish and chips shop where the food is made to order wasn’t the best choice if time was such a factor.

I don’t know what happened before I arrived, but I don’t necessarily feel much sympathy for the girl. She was short, slim, blonde, fairly pretty. Would have thought she could do a lot better than a short-ass druggy with a temper. No question he was a douche-bag, and she was certainly better than he deserved. But who knows, relationships can be weird and complicated, so maybe despite this public display of acrimony, they were happy in their own way.

The whole thing reminds me of that old joke about mothers taking their kids to the supermarket just to spank them. Seems in the western suburbs of Melbourne, drug addicts take their girlfriends to the fish and chips shop to beat them.