A call from Lee, beers, how about tonight? E@L agreed without any qualms because he is used ot other people driving his social life. in fact, being such a fatalist (read fucking lazy), he encourages people to run his nights and weekends, for the anxiety makes his heart tighten at the prospect of organizing something, not a war, but drinks, a party, and nobody came - he would be flushed with shame (made manifest in a further retreat into himself, conversing with his pessimistic internal narrator, his self-awareness, solipsism ) so he avoids making decisions and waits for offers to flow in from people who seem to enjoy his company, although he doesn't understand why. Because he is fat, because he is bald, because he pops out ridiculous, what, bon-mots? of sarcasm at crucial times in conversation, some of which make drunk people laugh? Ah that's it, because he is a clown, as he was told back when he was a student radiographer. He doesn't feel particularly clownish most of the time. Make 'em laugh when I am with people. Make me cry when I'm alone.
He meets Lee in Devil's, a bar that is open to Lochard Rd in front, convenient plan - more and more bars like this, primarlily for expats of course, are opening, so that drinkers can stand on the footpath, even spill onto the street if Wanchai is busy, say when the 7s is on, or a yank boat in town, even merely a crucial football game broadcast on TV, and they have to push through the bottleneck of a doorway. They must it want o become more like an Kwai Fong, to attract the suits and banker-wankers. Plus ambience, fresh air in which to smoke, traffic to harass, hookers at the BMDs across the street to wave at. But it's not busy tonight, it's flat, you can tell as the hookers have given up, accepting that fact that whoever is sitting at Devils is there to consume beer, not spend money on an assisted ejaculation, at least not yet.. Maybe later though.
Lee has one of those A4 envelopes that have the string to tie the flap closed with; uh-oh.
They can sit where they want or even at the bar. There is none of that stepping across to the bar, a step back towards a table [an upended wine barrel], half a step back to the bar awkward waltz that I sometimes get into when I am not certain who has the honour of choosing seats. Lee just grabs a chair at the front-most table, at the edge of the footpath. A smiling waitress follows us to the table, Lee smiling too, she hovers almost embarrassed [has Lee fucked her?], Lee asks how things are going, of course he knows her name - Maria - he asks about George, the manager, is he here? Maria nods.
"Yes, Mr Lee, he's in the back."
Lee is still smiling, "Give us two pints now Maria - Kilkenny OK, E@L? - and a kiss later, promise?"
She giggles and swings around head back as if she was in charge and says, "If you are good poy, Mr Lee," she purrs in her strong accent (Cebu? Angeles? Who the fuck cares?)
"Good? Is that all? You know I'm great - give us that kiss now!" But Maria has skipped back into the bar and dropped back into her waitress, non-coquette, role.
"Great arse. I'm going to set-up that bar I told you about," he said. He was confident as usual, his ginger hair combed back, his jaw - I hate to describe it as square, but it was rock-solid square, centre-dimpled - clean with a only a hint of the days growth (ginger also, easy to get away with) his eyes, hooded and steady, but his smile pulled down to an I'm-fucking-serious-about-this-jack expression.
Marie brought the beers. Lee pinched her on that great arse and we clinked glasses and I took a long swallow while he just wet his lips.
Lee could to talk to almost anyone about sport. He knew more of the details of the Sha-Tin and Happy Valley horse-racing than a strapper would, and he'd have more inside knowledge as well, not to mention what was happening in the Grand National or the Melbourne Cup that year. He had an encyclopedia of English and European football (as he called soccer) chipped into his head. You name it; international rugby, Australian Rugby Union and Rugby League, every international cricket team and its in-form batters and bowlers, American basketball, football and baseball. In short he was astounding. He could chat with anyone about their favorite and challenge the knowledge of the biggest, smuggest, die-hardest fan. He could quickly turn their enthusiasm into a over-whelming sense of friendship, using conversations that targeted their strong points without diminishing his own strength. In a few minutes they would be on his side, in another few, the most surly thug was an eternal friend who would lop off one of their limbs at his bidding.
He also knew music. Mostly seventies junk, but a good smattering of the new romantics and other new wave sub-genres of the eighties that didn't make it to the nineties or the noughties, and with this he could entertain older women, the zombie divorcees, in situations were he was playing wingman. But he also said things like, "Local girls like Canto-pop, I like Canto-pop", or "Girls like Kylie Minogue, I like Kylie Minogue" His awareness of these styles put his targets at ease, and again, they quickly relinquished resistance. How he kept this cornucopia of trivia organized in his mind was unknowable to other mere humans.
But he knew almost nothing about Australian Rules football, the only public sport I knew anything about, not that that was much. Lee's charms therefore were useless against me. My fair-weather support for the Cats, and not the enormous gaps in any obsessive grasp of their statistical history that Lee could not test, were like a shield of steel! [Batfink.]
However I still liked him. All the time he was my flatmate, he had been charming, friendly and fucking useful. He could fix a wayward TV, video or CD player, sort out a computer pilot error issue, tame internet router recalcitrance. His Tagalog comments always amused The Mouse and often sent her to her cupboard giggling and embarrassed. I had no idea what he had said. Whatever it was, she tolerated the succession of girls he brought to his room, and if there was a pair of high-heels (or two, on one infamous night, three) by the door, would demurely step away from his room at the time she had designated for tidying up. We never once had a fight, hardly even a disagreement. He made it seem that we were cut from the same stuff.
Lee was serious.
"Good for you," I said.
"We're looking for investors for this. [He and five other banker friends whom I know on a nodding, 'let's get blowjobs at the Dragon-Club' basis] We've got most of the money, but you're a buddy, I want you in on it."
"For a bar in Wanchai?"
He looked at me steadily with a neutral expression that slowly eased into a small grin.
"Yep," he said.
"Triads?"
"Sorted. Two of the boys have connections... [Lawyers, drug-runners, coppers, Chinese businessmen, who knew?] We can get away with this with a minimum. I won't be like here." He leant forward. "George is barely breaking even with the cash he has to fork out, even though it's not a hooker bar. We've spoken to George, to 'Bulldog' [Brian] at Barking Dog, all the guys. Discretely of course. It's a done deal."
"When is this happening?"
"We've already put an offer in for the place on the corner." He nodded at a dismal place diagonally across the intersection. It was an gray stone building, the doors and window frames painted a dark uncertain colour, with windows opaque and interior lights dim. It was meant to be an Olde English Pubbe, but no old Englishmen went there, only a smattering of young Chinese, likely lookouts for the Triad overlords of Hong Kong. Or just young Chinese. It needed something to improve its money making potential, that was plain.
"What do you think of a coyote bar?"
Coyote. Bar. These words together created a phrase that was new to me. What the fuck is a coyote bar, I thought at first. Wild dogs? Westerns and cowboys? The movie Coyote Ugly of a year or two before had slipped through my must-see fingers.
"Girls dancing on the bars, giving lay-backs, all that shit." Lee said. "It's going to be ab-so-lutely fantastic. Give this part of town a lift into legitimacy."
I nodded, twisted a lip at the side. I knew what girls were, I knew what laybacks were, having have a few at way back in time at ChinaJump, before it closed down after The Great Darkness Descended - the handover - and all the Brits went home a year later [work visas were extended for only 12 months, in case you forgot].
The idea of another 'normal' bar was appealing, I must admit. There were still a shortage of places in Wanchai where younger people, non-hooker seekers could congregate. Carnegies still held the top-spot for legitimate expat outrage, for non-zombie females and civilian guys, but it was targeted at older expats and tourists, and therefore it was sprinkled with hookers in mufti. [Have I spoken about Carnegies before? If not, we'll talk later. You haven't really been to HK unless you've danced on the bar at Carnegies. I was a regular.] you could bring your parents to Carnegies and show them what an innocent fun time you were having in Asia. The same could not be said about the bars on either ide.
"Cool," I said. My beer was finished already. Marie was signaled. I held up a single finger as Lee's pint was still three-quarters full. She nodded.
Lee pulled out papers. Some were layout diagrams, some were typed notes. Obviously a prospectus, well obvious to someone who seen a prospectus before, but as this was my first, I tried to not prove my ignorance and so I said nothing. Or I said, "Fascinating," which is my code word for what-the-fuck.
Thursday, September 15, 2011
Wednesday, September 14, 2011
Chesire Cats - Draft
E@L somehow is downstairs, another beer magically in hand, wasn't he with someone? Weren't Lee and some buddies from his bar somewhere, weren't they chasing females? Wasn't E@L humoring them, going along for the ride. Is this the fourth bar tonight? The fifth? At some point, third bar maybe, the bar of the sumo, he lost them.
It must be the end, he has ended up in Strawberry, this last call joint on these nights, you always pick up here, though E@L hasn't and maybe, shit maybe he doesn't want to. The music from a live band is screeching, Filipina singer, cute, singing a Queen medley, awesome guitarist, where do they find these guys. The light is missing, swallowed and apart from spotlights on the band, there is nothing he can make out save ultraviolet ultra-white glow of anything white, shirts and trousers, and the tiny dancing, rotating circles of disco-ball reflections (do they still call them that?). It is disturbing and dark in the centre as E@L lurches towards the dance floor, He makes out only a dozen creatures (quiet night, Wednesday, summer on the way, SARS raging) in the dark, in the light, they gyrate, they sway to the music around him, or is it him, reeling around them?
He staggers back, across to the bar, puts his beer glass down, notices that the shoulder of his black jacket - an almost shiny, velvet material - is spotted with brilliantly glowing flecks, points of oh so obvious white flakes, dried skin or dandruff from his itchy, always picked at scalp of from his goatee. E@L brushes at them, just managing to touch the material with a winnowing swipe, but the specks are still there, embarrassing. People will see, white means unclean here, smiles at a joke in his head, oh whatever. He's back on the dance floor. Right up to the band, smiles at the singer, nods to the guitarist.
He tries to dance, air guitar. What would you call this, foot one foot two, lead break, and cha cha swing like Pete Townshend, that pedophile, catches himself from a slip? He eyes are about half a second out of synch. Other bodies nearby, honing in, target demographic tonight, quiet night. In fact no-one else here much. A few guys still at the bar, there's dim light there, leeches attached.
Here, the ultraviolet lights are doing their invisible blazing on the dance floor in the dark, settling on strange parts in strange ways, on white firey rows of leering teeth, and cataract-grey/blue eyes, spooky like all fuck. Someone, a person, female, approaches, seen his cool air guitar moves maybe. He takes in her silhouette, lateral swell of nice breasts, hair tightly masking her face, a short body (they are all short), jeans don't glow, a belt that does, hard to say the colour, it's all that… dark, his eyes are reluctant to adjust, incapable maybe, or he's that incoherent, so pissed.
Her arms, it seems like a grasp of tentacles - how many, just two? - reaching to his bespeckled shoulders. Still those opaque death-watch eyes and the long row of piano ivory teeth (the white keys), that's all. He has no idea what this person looks like, he cannot make out any details of her face, no idea if there is a crowd of wrinkles circling the mouth, puckering 40 year old lips, or are there acne scars pitting the cheeks of a too recently teenaged. Strange it is, teeth and eyes only, he ponders on it, still swaying in the music, or close to the rhythm with her.
A Chesire Cat, he laughs, until he realizes that a harsh high pitched voice is shouting over the band. "Buy me drink, mister. I thirsty. Vodka,"
Can't tell if he is making a foolish decision or not in buying a drink, but even so, hey, waves at the waitress, tiny thing, tight black polo-shirt, the word Strawberry black-light aflame, she was already standing nearby, knew the drill. Will he be stuck with this one now, and he is not certain, does a drink mean a commitment? Ownership? What if someone better, here, how can he tell? She says she is going to the toilet and she goes away and a minute later (is it a minute or is it five?) another set of Chesire smiling zombie silhouettes approach - another two sets of the misted eyes almost blue and the edge of the pupil with a silver ring - he can't tell if either of these eyes and these teeth belong to the same Chesire Cat as the one who went for a piss.
The vodka tonic arrives on a small tray, a short glass, a lot of ice, is glowing blue and translucent, an electric diamond, but E@L takes it, wonders which Chesire to give it to, as he hands over money, does he have enough, to a tiny waitress, while she holds a torch to the bill on a small metal tray, he sees it as a rectangle, it is a rectangle, he knows that word, and then she turns quickly away with his money, from his jacket, an unnecessarily large note, she spins so quickly that he is even more giddy.
Chesire Cats up close, close, he is nudged off the dance floor into an even darker alcove where he stretches to place the drink on to a polished wooden ledge, almost misses, and there are hands on his body, on unexpected - or rather too expected - parts of his body, inside his shirt, nipples pinched, one his crotch, feeling for any sign of tumescence. Unlikely. All that beer has made him so wobbly, he is smashed, hammered, and the vodka tonic is being argued over, not his problem now, let them sort it because a third Chesire has found them in the corner, this must be the first one returning. Something of a fight develops. A Chesire Cat fight, almost funny that, and there is shouting, harsh chatter of Tagalog, screamed louder than the DJ's beats, it's not a band anymore, and pushing, grabbing. He has heard stories of knives pulled, threatening. They are always fighting. That's twice tonight.
It could be a bit frightening, but not for him, it's just a pain, it's almost funny. Small black creatures, anonymous, faceless. They're fighting over him, him means money, the credit from the drink, doesn't it go to only one? Sure, sure, just awful to see too, his vison clears for a second, the desperation here, the girls need money, money, of course they do, they are poor, they are of the poorest, they have kids, they are trapped. It's almost funny and E@L hollows out, fuck.
Then there is the torch, the change comes, same short girl, tray, and he jacket-pockets with difficulty - he is thrown off balance again by the incessant rotation of the earth, the rocking floor under his feet - a bunch of notes and coins, he stuffs them in, after a tip. Fight? Status? With the waitress so near, a sharp word, trouble is oiled over, one of the three shadow cats is pointing, another relinquishes and retreats, still growling and the waitress shrugs. The third follows the second. He has paid but doesn't want though, doesn't want to take anyone home from here, it is the place? Smoky, loud, anonymous. Despairing, admits he hates it.
This place, what fuck is he doing here? This is sick, wrong, he is sick. He decides to retreat as well. There is another half-hug of arms not quite so tender now, a grasp at his crotch again, with him turning away, the grip is loosed. Waste of time, he is beyond fucking. Chesire Cat demands a kiss and yet another hug and her face comes up close, ready for a kiss, and finally he can make out her features, the face of an old woman, best kept in the dark, a grandmother, should be tucking her daughter's kids into bed. And he turns his head away again, catches her old lady pucker, alcohol fumes, on the cheek, and she is gone and he is so relieved, gets away in horror.
Climbing up the stairs, holds the handrail, almost free, he staggers to high-five the bouncers, but they ignore him, in a conversation they weren't having a second ago he knows. Fuck 'em. Cold air on the street, a light breeze, dry air. A taxi queue, several taxis, he only needs one. Taking a few breaths to clean out the smoke, he stands, is he drunker now, or less?
A voice calls, "Hey handsome man, you want a girlfriend tonight?"
For some reason this is amusing, witty, he finds the call real, this is cleansing, someonenot playing the game the chesire's play downstairs... and the anger and disgust lift, blown away. He bows and shakes his head and then he holds still, somehow, leaning on the taxi boot, looks up, to his right, to the wide footpath where she stands, he smiles at her. She calls him over, skinny, seems pretty at this distance. He lets the taxi go.
Closer to see her, the jumping in his slow eyes, he can make out tight jeans, a short jacket, shiny, the lights of the road, of traffic, it's a busy road. Nearby now, he is right against her, leaning, she opens her jacket, a funny jumper, wiry, sparkly. When she is happy she has him close enough, she raise the jumper suddenly, lifts her bra, shows tits, on the street, well almost thanks to her jacket, but... what? Metal clips, stitches, under each fresh breast? A black cop van passes by, seriously, this happens, he is amazed, in front of the cops, in the street, he thinks, what is going on here? He runs a gentle finger across the du du du du ribs of the, yes they are staples,. She seems to not give a fuck, has her eyes on his, smiling, she's not that cute, not the China doll, there is a shout behind him and she pulls her clothes down quickly before the bouncers come over.
Fresh faked tits. His minds spins even more. Interesting. Crap mainland job though.
"China job?" pointing at her chest.
"Yes, I come two day ago, next week go back. You take me tonight, I must pay doctor."
"How much?" he asks. "Long time. But I'm pissed."
"Is OK. I have good tablet, medicine, make you strong, good tablet. Safe, safe, I take too. Make you horny"
"How much?"
"Two thousand."
"One thousand."
"OK. You have enough?" No haggling, no issues. Girl on the street, that's the price, she knows it. Money, cash. Hh shrugs, he's been pissing away the money tonight, "We go ATM, OK"
ATM, across the street, she's leaning across him as he punches in the code for $2000 extra, just in case, he pushes her back, steps in front, "No peeking." People are watching, heads shaking, he tells those people to fuck off.
Taxi, cross the road. he door opens by itself, always amazed at the magic of a handle, levers and hinges and he falls into the seat, sigh, belches and says '"Bowen Doh, m'goy." She is in already, door other side, takes his hand with claw-like fingers, nails long, veins. And they are home then, home - how? - up the hill, feeling car-sick. He needs cash, has to pay. There is no money is his jacket pocket, strange, wasn't there some before, maybe not, maybe he's wrong, and so he lifts an arse cheek to pull out his wallet, it is there, no problems, he confirms approximately, dim light form the roof, the everything moving in front of him, yeah, seems enough to pay the hooker, but first the driver, he pays uncle double and they climb out.
~~~~~~~~
He remembers a tablet, a capsule, something powdery brown inside, sure. And she did take one too. Sex, amazing performance in his state, but the usual by numbers fuck, some sausage stuffing, then it works, and it's her on top, in control but don't touch the tits, sore, well of course they are, the carpenter has done his job just recently, the glue has not set.
And out to it, he's asleep, then waking at a register of movement, he was snoring, so a light sleeper, sees her leaning over, at the end of the bed, pulling up jeans, her arse in beautiful silhouette against the city and the night as she jumps slightly while pulling up, so he's running a hand down her curved hips, he's pulling her back. Jeans off, sex again. Great drug, whatever it was. Awake again, this time she is dressed, hair wet. The light in the bathroom is on, she must have showered. And hey that's his wallet.
"Hey!"
"Is OK, I only take my money, you go sleep." She waves two $500 bills, reaches around the wall, turns off the bathroom light
He falls back into the depths.
~~~~~~~~
And he awakens alone, and it is late the next morning, late alright, the weight of the light coming through the window and the shadow's razor slice across the wall tell him it is almost the afternoon. There is a brunch he is expected to attend, free flow champagne. Excellent, mashes the road-tar in his mouth, he is damn thirsty.
The Mouse has her day off. No point in calling for a coffee.
Sitting up, careful not let his brain explode, he slides his legs over the side and sees his wallet on the floor, next to two used condoms part wrapped in tisssue paper. If his head was thumping before, now it's a sledge-hammer bashing, he leans over picks up the wallet. Fuck, fuck, fuck No credit cards. Only a $20 note, nice gesture bitch, all there is left. Fuck , fuck, FUCK. E@L. You dumb, mother-fucking, cunt.
Fyodor
It must be the end, he has ended up in Strawberry, this last call joint on these nights, you always pick up here, though E@L hasn't and maybe, shit maybe he doesn't want to. The music from a live band is screeching, Filipina singer, cute, singing a Queen medley, awesome guitarist, where do they find these guys. The light is missing, swallowed and apart from spotlights on the band, there is nothing he can make out save ultraviolet ultra-white glow of anything white, shirts and trousers, and the tiny dancing, rotating circles of disco-ball reflections (do they still call them that?). It is disturbing and dark in the centre as E@L lurches towards the dance floor, He makes out only a dozen creatures (quiet night, Wednesday, summer on the way, SARS raging) in the dark, in the light, they gyrate, they sway to the music around him, or is it him, reeling around them?
He staggers back, across to the bar, puts his beer glass down, notices that the shoulder of his black jacket - an almost shiny, velvet material - is spotted with brilliantly glowing flecks, points of oh so obvious white flakes, dried skin or dandruff from his itchy, always picked at scalp of from his goatee. E@L brushes at them, just managing to touch the material with a winnowing swipe, but the specks are still there, embarrassing. People will see, white means unclean here, smiles at a joke in his head, oh whatever. He's back on the dance floor. Right up to the band, smiles at the singer, nods to the guitarist.
He tries to dance, air guitar. What would you call this, foot one foot two, lead break, and cha cha swing like Pete Townshend, that pedophile, catches himself from a slip? He eyes are about half a second out of synch. Other bodies nearby, honing in, target demographic tonight, quiet night. In fact no-one else here much. A few guys still at the bar, there's dim light there, leeches attached.
Here, the ultraviolet lights are doing their invisible blazing on the dance floor in the dark, settling on strange parts in strange ways, on white firey rows of leering teeth, and cataract-grey/blue eyes, spooky like all fuck. Someone, a person, female, approaches, seen his cool air guitar moves maybe. He takes in her silhouette, lateral swell of nice breasts, hair tightly masking her face, a short body (they are all short), jeans don't glow, a belt that does, hard to say the colour, it's all that… dark, his eyes are reluctant to adjust, incapable maybe, or he's that incoherent, so pissed.
Her arms, it seems like a grasp of tentacles - how many, just two? - reaching to his bespeckled shoulders. Still those opaque death-watch eyes and the long row of piano ivory teeth (the white keys), that's all. He has no idea what this person looks like, he cannot make out any details of her face, no idea if there is a crowd of wrinkles circling the mouth, puckering 40 year old lips, or are there acne scars pitting the cheeks of a too recently teenaged. Strange it is, teeth and eyes only, he ponders on it, still swaying in the music, or close to the rhythm with her.
A Chesire Cat, he laughs, until he realizes that a harsh high pitched voice is shouting over the band. "Buy me drink, mister. I thirsty. Vodka,"
Can't tell if he is making a foolish decision or not in buying a drink, but even so, hey, waves at the waitress, tiny thing, tight black polo-shirt, the word Strawberry black-light aflame, she was already standing nearby, knew the drill. Will he be stuck with this one now, and he is not certain, does a drink mean a commitment? Ownership? What if someone better, here, how can he tell? She says she is going to the toilet and she goes away and a minute later (is it a minute or is it five?) another set of Chesire smiling zombie silhouettes approach - another two sets of the misted eyes almost blue and the edge of the pupil with a silver ring - he can't tell if either of these eyes and these teeth belong to the same Chesire Cat as the one who went for a piss.
The vodka tonic arrives on a small tray, a short glass, a lot of ice, is glowing blue and translucent, an electric diamond, but E@L takes it, wonders which Chesire to give it to, as he hands over money, does he have enough, to a tiny waitress, while she holds a torch to the bill on a small metal tray, he sees it as a rectangle, it is a rectangle, he knows that word, and then she turns quickly away with his money, from his jacket, an unnecessarily large note, she spins so quickly that he is even more giddy.
Chesire Cats up close, close, he is nudged off the dance floor into an even darker alcove where he stretches to place the drink on to a polished wooden ledge, almost misses, and there are hands on his body, on unexpected - or rather too expected - parts of his body, inside his shirt, nipples pinched, one his crotch, feeling for any sign of tumescence. Unlikely. All that beer has made him so wobbly, he is smashed, hammered, and the vodka tonic is being argued over, not his problem now, let them sort it because a third Chesire has found them in the corner, this must be the first one returning. Something of a fight develops. A Chesire Cat fight, almost funny that, and there is shouting, harsh chatter of Tagalog, screamed louder than the DJ's beats, it's not a band anymore, and pushing, grabbing. He has heard stories of knives pulled, threatening. They are always fighting. That's twice tonight.
It could be a bit frightening, but not for him, it's just a pain, it's almost funny. Small black creatures, anonymous, faceless. They're fighting over him, him means money, the credit from the drink, doesn't it go to only one? Sure, sure, just awful to see too, his vison clears for a second, the desperation here, the girls need money, money, of course they do, they are poor, they are of the poorest, they have kids, they are trapped. It's almost funny and E@L hollows out, fuck.
Then there is the torch, the change comes, same short girl, tray, and he jacket-pockets with difficulty - he is thrown off balance again by the incessant rotation of the earth, the rocking floor under his feet - a bunch of notes and coins, he stuffs them in, after a tip. Fight? Status? With the waitress so near, a sharp word, trouble is oiled over, one of the three shadow cats is pointing, another relinquishes and retreats, still growling and the waitress shrugs. The third follows the second. He has paid but doesn't want though, doesn't want to take anyone home from here, it is the place? Smoky, loud, anonymous. Despairing, admits he hates it.
This place, what fuck is he doing here? This is sick, wrong, he is sick. He decides to retreat as well. There is another half-hug of arms not quite so tender now, a grasp at his crotch again, with him turning away, the grip is loosed. Waste of time, he is beyond fucking. Chesire Cat demands a kiss and yet another hug and her face comes up close, ready for a kiss, and finally he can make out her features, the face of an old woman, best kept in the dark, a grandmother, should be tucking her daughter's kids into bed. And he turns his head away again, catches her old lady pucker, alcohol fumes, on the cheek, and she is gone and he is so relieved, gets away in horror.
Climbing up the stairs, holds the handrail, almost free, he staggers to high-five the bouncers, but they ignore him, in a conversation they weren't having a second ago he knows. Fuck 'em. Cold air on the street, a light breeze, dry air. A taxi queue, several taxis, he only needs one. Taking a few breaths to clean out the smoke, he stands, is he drunker now, or less?
A voice calls, "Hey handsome man, you want a girlfriend tonight?"
For some reason this is amusing, witty, he finds the call real, this is cleansing, someonenot playing the game the chesire's play downstairs... and the anger and disgust lift, blown away. He bows and shakes his head and then he holds still, somehow, leaning on the taxi boot, looks up, to his right, to the wide footpath where she stands, he smiles at her. She calls him over, skinny, seems pretty at this distance. He lets the taxi go.
Closer to see her, the jumping in his slow eyes, he can make out tight jeans, a short jacket, shiny, the lights of the road, of traffic, it's a busy road. Nearby now, he is right against her, leaning, she opens her jacket, a funny jumper, wiry, sparkly. When she is happy she has him close enough, she raise the jumper suddenly, lifts her bra, shows tits, on the street, well almost thanks to her jacket, but... what? Metal clips, stitches, under each fresh breast? A black cop van passes by, seriously, this happens, he is amazed, in front of the cops, in the street, he thinks, what is going on here? He runs a gentle finger across the du du du du ribs of the, yes they are staples,. She seems to not give a fuck, has her eyes on his, smiling, she's not that cute, not the China doll, there is a shout behind him and she pulls her clothes down quickly before the bouncers come over.
Fresh faked tits. His minds spins even more. Interesting. Crap mainland job though.
"China job?" pointing at her chest.
"Yes, I come two day ago, next week go back. You take me tonight, I must pay doctor."
"How much?" he asks. "Long time. But I'm pissed."
"Is OK. I have good tablet, medicine, make you strong, good tablet. Safe, safe, I take too. Make you horny"
"How much?"
"Two thousand."
"One thousand."
"OK. You have enough?" No haggling, no issues. Girl on the street, that's the price, she knows it. Money, cash. Hh shrugs, he's been pissing away the money tonight, "We go ATM, OK"
ATM, across the street, she's leaning across him as he punches in the code for $2000 extra, just in case, he pushes her back, steps in front, "No peeking." People are watching, heads shaking, he tells those people to fuck off.
Taxi, cross the road. he door opens by itself, always amazed at the magic of a handle, levers and hinges and he falls into the seat, sigh, belches and says '"Bowen Doh, m'goy." She is in already, door other side, takes his hand with claw-like fingers, nails long, veins. And they are home then, home - how? - up the hill, feeling car-sick. He needs cash, has to pay. There is no money is his jacket pocket, strange, wasn't there some before, maybe not, maybe he's wrong, and so he lifts an arse cheek to pull out his wallet, it is there, no problems, he confirms approximately, dim light form the roof, the everything moving in front of him, yeah, seems enough to pay the hooker, but first the driver, he pays uncle double and they climb out.
~~~~~~~~
He remembers a tablet, a capsule, something powdery brown inside, sure. And she did take one too. Sex, amazing performance in his state, but the usual by numbers fuck, some sausage stuffing, then it works, and it's her on top, in control but don't touch the tits, sore, well of course they are, the carpenter has done his job just recently, the glue has not set.
And out to it, he's asleep, then waking at a register of movement, he was snoring, so a light sleeper, sees her leaning over, at the end of the bed, pulling up jeans, her arse in beautiful silhouette against the city and the night as she jumps slightly while pulling up, so he's running a hand down her curved hips, he's pulling her back. Jeans off, sex again. Great drug, whatever it was. Awake again, this time she is dressed, hair wet. The light in the bathroom is on, she must have showered. And hey that's his wallet.
"Hey!"
"Is OK, I only take my money, you go sleep." She waves two $500 bills, reaches around the wall, turns off the bathroom light
He falls back into the depths.
~~~~~~~~
And he awakens alone, and it is late the next morning, late alright, the weight of the light coming through the window and the shadow's razor slice across the wall tell him it is almost the afternoon. There is a brunch he is expected to attend, free flow champagne. Excellent, mashes the road-tar in his mouth, he is damn thirsty.
The Mouse has her day off. No point in calling for a coffee.
Sitting up, careful not let his brain explode, he slides his legs over the side and sees his wallet on the floor, next to two used condoms part wrapped in tisssue paper. If his head was thumping before, now it's a sledge-hammer bashing, he leans over picks up the wallet. Fuck, fuck, fuck No credit cards. Only a $20 note, nice gesture bitch, all there is left. Fuck , fuck, FUCK. E@L. You dumb, mother-fucking, cunt.
Fyodor
Love And Other Cruises
Have you ever been in love? Horrible isn't it? It makes you so vulnerable. It opens your chest and it opens up your heart and it means that someone can get inside you and mess you up. You build up all these defenses, you build up a whole suit of armor, so that nothing can hurt you, then one stupid person, no different from any other stupid person, wanders into your stupid life... You give them a piece of you. They didn't ask for it. They did something dumb one day, like kiss you or smile at you, and then your life isn't your own anymore. Love takes hostages. It gets inside you. It eats you out and leaves you crying in the darkness, so simple a phrase like 'maybe we should be just friends' turns into a glass splinter working its way into your heart. It hurts. Not just in the imagination. Not just in the mind. It's a soul-hurt, a real gets-inside-you-and-rips-you-apart pain. I hate love.
- Neil Gaiman
- Neil Gaiman
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