Here is the update I promised. Now that I have time. I feel guilty it has taken me this long to get back to you. Better late than never, right? We got a place here in the city. In the Cross. A little place, a room, in an old house which has been divided up into cockroach traps, each with a bare light bulb where I imagine a grand chandelier used to hang. A sink. Toilet. Kitchenette. Shitty little bar fridge. It's a start. (Put it down on paper like this and it doesn't sound like much of anything but believe me, compared to our last situation, it is a palace).
There is this ongoing issue with my leg. That needs seeing too on a regular basis. I'm taking pills for the pain and there is the physio. These things take up my days. Or at least slow me down. I spend a lot of time in the cafe on Darlinghurst Rd. They make good coffee. I like this area plenty. The buildings, the history and the people. This place truly has the most interesting intersection of lives. People down in the gutter and people at the very top of the heap. And everyone in the middle. You know I'm good with people. I like working out how they tick and all that? Another life I could have been a salesman of fine automobiles. If they still made fine automobiles. They tell me this place-this neighborhood-has changed. Gentrification and all that. The money wants in. The local flavour gets forced out. These money people buy up all these shitty apartments. Apparently, not long ago, there were always hypodermic needles in the gutters. Not so much anymore. They used to call it "character". Part of me don't give a shit about "character". What these old timers never realise is that, for good or bad, history is always crashing down on our heads, changing things. Try to stay in the past. See how far that'll get you. Besides, I want my clientele to have cash.
I like being held in place by these creaking old building and the trees on Victoria St. I move through the grid with the certainty of my bearings. I like the way they hold up the sky. You look out between the buildings on Victoria St, past the battleships in the Naval Yard, you see the Pacific. All salty tang and rotting allure. The great blue skin. I like being on the edge of something definitive. Having a reminder that this-is-this and that-is-that. I dream about those islands. About hopping from one to the next. I dream about travelling in style. Maybe like Cary Grant. (can you visualise Cary Grant squashed into an itty-bitty economy seat that has the imprint of a hundred other arses? Not me brother). Maybe start with New Zealand? I don't know? (I guess some of those mountains might be interesting). Then a short stint in Samoa. Fiji. Tahiti. I think about old Paul Gauguin sitting out there, surround by bare-chested island women. A true bohemian that one. Trades in European stuffiness for free love under the palm trees. I think this is for me brother. The island life. At least for the short term. Well, so the fantasy goes right? In reality, it'll be resorts and golf carts and the native population living on the impoverished edges of all this finery.
Anyway, if I get tired of bare-chested ladies of Tahiti then comes Hawaii followed by Los Angeles. I'm gonna make my way over there, just to check it all out. Statistically, you've got 80 odd years on this spinning ball. You gotta see as much of this place as you can.
Dreams are dreams. I know that. The reality is before I travel anywhere beyond this continent, money needs to be got. I need to plan and make my preparations.
Did you ask about the girl? I can't remember. I'll talk about her anyway. She is well. Yes, sir, she is doing alright. We look out for each other. I take care of her needs and she takes care of the money. I have to get her up and ready to work every day. That is no small task. She loves to sleep in. I'll tell you though man, she is a rare thing. She has an innate quality which she herself is not quite aware of. A sexual magnetism. Falling back a bit and tracking her movements as we make our way through the neighbourhood, I will notice the effect she has on the male population. I see eyes shifting sideways to catch her. Like drooling dogs. All of them drawn to her. Young, old it doesn't matter. Men of all ages. All walks. Comical at times when someone, so preoccupied with her hips, forgets that the actual physical act of walking only requires one foot being placed in front of the other. They stop to scratch their heads. All those everyday thoughts suddenly over-ridden by nature's hardwired instincts to go caveman.
I haven't quite put my finger on it. There is certainly something primitive about her appeal. How it taps into deeper needs below the surface of simple aesthetic attraction. Her hips, Jesus christ man, her bump and shuffle. The tattoo on her shoulder blade. All these elements have a seismic effect. You should see these reverberations and disturbances she causes throughout the collective male psychic. Be it on the train. In a pub. The street. Anywhere.
But not just the men. The women as well. Admiration, jealousy, sexual attraction (both accepted and latent). I mark it at about 70 percent of the female population take note of her. I saw an old priest turn his head one day, pretending he was thinking about something else, pretending something in the distance had caught his attention. Sneaky bugger. He is still a man under that collar.
It is not simply her looks. She is 'pretty' in an average way. Neither can it be attributed to her body which rolls the eye in a pleasing enough way along all the curves and contours. No. It is the sexual energy exuding from her movements. That sex vibe which she is blissfully unaware of as we ride up on the escalator and walk down the pavement past the titty bars and the cheap cafes. Past the hostels and on past the fountain by the police station. My honeypot. This woman only recently turned 21, is a rare sort, dispatching her beautiful sexual chemical signals to the wind without even trying. A siren, a prototypical movie star no less. Sometimes I make a little box out of my forefingers and thumbs, hold it up and frame her face. I can clearly imagine the movie she should be in. The story itself is still unfolding but visually all the elements are there. She laughs at me and goes, what are you doing? And I say, I am thinking about the movie you will be in one of these days Honey Child. The movie I will direct.
What movie? she laughs again, that little pink bit of her tongue flickering out between her teeth, teasing, trying out her female power, testing it, as we look down on the rooftops of Woolloomooloo.
Anyway, she is all mine. No one else's. And you know it has always been this way with me. Natural. All those fools back at home strategising and talking themselves up and playing their games in parked cars, while I was always getting all the females I wanted. Again, this comes down to an innate quality. And the simple ability to talk and relate to women. One day maybe I'll write a book all about it. And wouldn't that be something?
We have strict rules when she works. It can't be any other way. No drugs and alcohol. Well, at least no excessive alcohol. And no freaks. No weirdness. At lease nothing that she's not okay with, after all, it is her body. I rather she walked away from the money than get caught up in a situation that could be potentially dangerous. If things do get hectic, she calls me. I come running, pick her up. I'll bust some body's head if need be. I don't give a shit.
Asian businessmen? They're okay. Tourists in general? Fine. Not in groups. Men in groups are a pack. I can not abide or trust that mentality. When you walk into that room, put your money down, as long as you understand who is running the show, then we'll have no problems. This woman is flesh and bone. She is not some pornographic apparatus for you to get your freak on without limitations. There are rules.
In the beginning, while we were still getting established, it was hit and miss. We were in and out of the Holiday Inn and the other hotels down in Rushcutter's Bay. Everybody wanted a cut. For awhile I tried getting her steady work in one of these clubs on Darlinghurst Rd. You know the ones with the big Maori boy bouncers out front for security? The girls twisting on poles inside. Private rooms. That was a bad idea. Inevitably, the house proved greedy. At that time it was winter and money was tight. The tourist dollar hasn't been flowing so generously as in previous years. The house, they wanted a bigger and bigger cut. There were a few characters hanging around which tried to get her into various situations involving drugs. Painfully transparent moves. Then I had some evil little gargoyle trying to take her away from me. Said he was gonna cut my face off. Said he was gonna take a piece of her on a permanent basis whether I liked it or not.
We had to leave the Cross, regroup for a couple of weeks. We went to Newtown and lay low there. I remember it was always raining. A miserable time. Came back when the weather was better, hotter and there were more tourists around. By then the gargoyle moved on. By then he was chasing somebody else. I've seen him in the street a few times, and maybe he's got that grudge stored away in his memory banks? He's the kind that accounts for every penny and does not forget nothing. But at that time, I could tell, his stables were full and therefore he had plenty to keep himself occupied. No point bothering with a little independent operator like me when the Cross is heaving four, sometimes five nights a week with all that sex money coming in.
That's when we got this little room. Now we have a semi-regular clientele. Older guys are better. They want the attention, affection, as much as the sex. They want their old egos stroked and they want to be made to feel like young men again. They know the secret. That the younger man is careless with his vitality, dismissive of his non-stop, 24-hour libido. He takes it all for granted. Look down the track maybe 30? 40? years and it's a different story. Comes a day you might need yourself a honey child like mine to feel like a man again. It's all bedroom playacting anyway but an hour with her will keep you going from one week to the next. And it's all about keeping that spring in your step for long as possible.
Anyway she's got a couple of clients who text her on a regular basis and make the arrangements. She either goes over to their place or they come to ours. This means I need to clean up and get out for an hour or two. One is a journalist. The other is the finance guy. The finance guy lives down the hill in Elizabeth Bay. He has got himself a nice modern apartment looking out over the water. I've been out on the balcony. I have no problems imagining myself whiling away what must be endless afternoons on easy money, sitting back and watching the boats coming in and out of the harbour. He's got a wife, two kids. Both in private schools. I respect this finance guy because he knows that to succeed you need to work around life's limitations. Not tried to knock them down. In other words, he knows how to compartmentalise. His wife isn't going anywhere. He just needs another sexual outlet from time to time. His jobs is high-pressure. If busting a nut from time-to-time with my girl relieves some of that pressure then his wife should really be thanking us. We are insuring the longevity of not only his full-time relationship but also his working life through our regular appointments. As I say, he's smart. He always shows up in jogging gear. You can't very well suspect a man who wants to jump straight in the shower after coming back from a long jog around the city, can you?
The reporter is retired. He's living off the memories of his glory years. Writing his memoirs in his apartment on Macleay Street near the Woolworths. A book about all those years in war-torn countries wearing a flak jacket. He's on chapter 8 or 9, I forget. I think he is going through some kind of Hemingway trip, practically wants her to call him "big papa" and after they have completed the transaction with or without the help of a little blue pill, he likes to read aloud to her from his manuscript. It doesn't mean shit to her. I have actually read some of the things that he's written. I find it all little bit affected. He's the big war hero, yeah I get that but I don't buy it.
She's also got an Indian businessman who she sees about once a fortnight and a cop. Plainclothes. This guy is a drinker and brawler. A sinner of the first order, wound up tight. A throwback to the 1970s. There are a few others that come and go. Semi-regulars. So as you can imagine, all this running around takes up most of the week. I am talking about a lot of organisation. And a lot of drab domestics for me to take care of. Washing, ironing. I'm like one of those pit crews you see on the side of the track in a Formula One race. I need to take care of my investment. From one appointment to the next. No one else is gonna do it. The good thing is that we don't have to trawl through the late night supermarkets or those fancy hotels anymore. The work comes to us. Through the Internet. We have an online ad. This gives me the opportunity to screen clients. We are beholden to no one.
How can I let this happen? To my girlfriend? Oh....the mind boggles. The dull conservative mind which will never have more than one or two truly original thoughts maybe. Thoughts that will probably confuse and drive it to fear. I hate this question. Hate it. With a passion. What we do doesn't bother me. These acts, in these empty rooms, they have nothing to do with the way I feel for my girl. The body is in flux constantly. Changing, growing, shrinking, assaulted on all sides. It is no precious item. We are told that it is but this isn't so. I asked regularly, I say to her, do you want out of this? Is that what you want? She just shrugged and says "no". Doesn't bother her in the least. Besides what else are we gonna do? We have these plan to head east, to see all these islands. To get to the West Coast of United States. And I can't work, not with my leg being the way it is. But what about the moral aspect? How terrible. Tell me some job whereby you're not bent over and morally compromised, and she will do it. An hour on a mattress as opposed to 8 hours behind a retail counter? Which one has the most dignity?
I'm not telling you it is easy and plain sailing all the time. It's not. We had a bad situation the other day. The finance guy made an appointment. This meant I had to clear out. We tidy up the room for the appointment. Then I go over and sit by the fountain with the newspaper. I was considering getting a coffee but my stomach was not feeling right. Maybe 10 minutes later I get a text. It's the finance guy using her phone. He's taken her to the hospital. Turns out he had come straight from lunch where he'd been eating peanut satay sticks. You know those chicken skewers covered in peanut sauce? I didn't even know she had a serious peanut allergy. I mean, she may have mentioned it once or twice but that was it. Besides, it's not the kind of thing that you dwell on every day. Thinking back I may have seen the little injection contraption she has in her purse, but I can't be sure. She is one of these girls that has a purse in which she carries around her entire life.
Anyway right in the middle of their appointment, just after they have commenced intimacies, she starts to swell up, not unlike a pufferfish. Then she can't breathe. The Finance guy freaks out. She's got that adrenaline shot I mentioned but the Finance guy manages to stick himself in the thumb by holding the needle the wrong way up. In other words, it's a complete mess. Anyway, he throws her into a taxi and together they go to the hospital. Saint Vincents down the road. Of course, I have to get over there. She is in Emergency. Family member? I am the only family she has in this entire world I tell the nurse. Still, they won't let me see her. Not at first. I run into the Finance guy. He is hanging outside by the marble Jesus statue with all the smokers, not quite sure whether he should leave or not. He doesn't know me but I know him. Far as he's concerned, I could just be anybody here to visit a sick relative. I walked up to him and say, what happened? And once we establish who-is-who and what-is-what, he tells me about the peanut sauce and the adrenaline shot. Then he tells me he can't really get "mixed up in any of this". I say, look man, I don't want anything from you. My primary concern is for my girl, okay? So just relax. Chill. He kinda laughs, relieved, like thank god someone else is gonna take care of this problem for me. I smile back and say, of course, I'll clean up this whole thing like it never happened. Maintaining compartmentalisation is important in this situation. Alright then, he says getting ready to leave when I say, of course, there will be some recuperation time to be factored in. I mean, you seem like the kind of man who might appreciate that, right?
His face drops and he slowly opens up his wallet. He holds out a few fifties. I smile and say, that a good start mate.
Then, I need to go to an ATM, he mutters, is that what you're saying? I'm not saying anything, I respond. But, be it inadvertently or intentionally, your little misadventure has taken her out of action. And now you just walk away? Back down the hill to the comfort of Elizabeth Bay? Like nothing happened?
Maybe it wasn't a good call on my part but it pissed me off. After that we lost him as a regular client. And I can understand why. In one instance, standing under the eyes of that Jesus statue in the garden of nicotine tranquillity, everything got suddenly more complicated. Compartments had breached.
Anyway she recovered, got better and we keep on working. We look after each other, every day getting one step closer to my dream. We walked right past the Finance guy one day when he was strolling along with his family in tow. Saw the nervous little twitch in his eyes.
I better go now because the phone is ringing. (I hate when people say that at the end of a letter because usually, it's just a clumsy, disingenuous way to wrap things up. I also feel bad because I should go back and clean this letter up a bit. You know, conjugated a few verbs and whatnot. But you know how it is. I'm good with face-to-face but I don't have the patience for fiddling with my sentences to get everything just so. And the truth is...the phone is ringing.
Later,
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