A Good Wife

“Mum, this is very early to be up?”

“Early to bed, early to rise, Norman, and the lord makes you healthy, wealthy and wise.”

The phone wrings

“Now…” She looks at her watch. "I wonder who that could be?"

“Sunday morning, who else would it be,” says Norman.

“Hello… yes… this is Norma... oh yes… yes, yes… happy to… I’m leaving soon… it is for the children after all… I have 10 chil’n myself.”


"Chil’n," said Norman.

"You're my chil’n, the last of my chil’n," said Norma almost mournfully. "My stay at home child."

"With my mother?" said Norman.

"Yes, with me, Norman, with your old mother."

Norma found love late, and children even later. And by the time she had popped out the tenth one, she was getting on in age.

"But mother," said Norman. "What if I go out in the world and find me my wife, my equal, my yin to her yang?"

"A good marriage is not a pairing of equals," says Norma. "It is not a guaranteed road to happiness, my boy."

“A good marriage is not about equals?”

“No, somebody has to be in charge.”

"It is a road, though," begs Norman.

"A good wife, is a child late in life. Better than a wife. A change of life baby, he is born to take his mother to old age, being her constant companion until she dies, so she is never alone."

"Oh mamma." Norman was exhausted by this conversation.

"It is her compensation," said Norma. "For all of the hard work she put in raising ten children."

"Compensation, for all the other children?"

"Yes," said Norma. "My compensation."

“But… what about me?”

“I’ll look after you, you will want for nothing.”

“Except a life…”

“You will have a life, a very lovely life… with me.”

“But, I might want more.”

“Like what?” said Norma. “What do you want?”

“I might want a wife…”

“Oh, sweetheart,” said Norma. “Look at your brother, Caleb, and the trouble he has had…”

“I might want children.”

“Overrated darling, overrated.”

“You had 10.”

“So, I know what I am talking about.”

“What about…”

“No more talk about it…”

“…me?”

“You don’t want to disappoint your mamma?”

“No, mamma.”

“You don’t want to be a disappointment?”

“No mamma.”

“After all the things I have done for you.”

“All the things…”

“My life has been devoted to you kids.”

“I know mamma. You have been devoted to us kids.””

“Now, be a good boy,” said Norma. “I’m stiff, I wonder if I slept funny? I need my back rubbed. Rub your mamma’s back like a good boy.”

“Yes, mamma.”

“And a bath, I’ll need a bath run when I get home.”

“Yes, mamma.”

“Before I cook you your Sunday lunch.”

“Yes, mamma. You always have a bath after Sunday lunch.”

“We have a lovely life, don’t we Norman?”

“Yes.”


There is silence.

Norma picks up her cup of tea and takes a chug. She pulls a face and puts it down again.


“Can you cut up that beef and put it on a slower simmer for a stew for lunch.”

“I get to cook Sunday lunch,” says Norman. “Welcome to my life.”

“Add the veggies once the meat…” Norma stops mid sentence, she puts her hands on her hips and tilts her head at her youngest son. “Oh Norman. Be happy. The good lord helps those who help themselves, you know.”

“No one is helping me.”

“Anyway, I told the vicar’s wife I’d be at the church soon,” said Norma. “So, I have to go get ready.”


Norman calls his brother Dylan.

“Are you going to help look after mum?”

“What time do I have, Norm. I start professional basketball this year.”

“Surely, you have some time?”

“I’m looking at overseas if this year goes well.”


Norma appears back in the kitchen. “Gotta go.” The front door opens and closes.

“Hello.”

“Oh look, Marion is here,” says Norma. “I can’t stop, I’m due at the church.” She looks at her watch. “Well, now.”


“I need to talk to you, about mum?”

“What about her?” asks Marion. “There is nothing wrong, is there?”

“Nothing wrong?” repeats Norman. “Just my life?”

“What’s wrong with you?”

“I’m stuck looking after mum,” says Norman. “Do you think you’ll be able to help some time?”

“Oh Norm, I’m raising children. I’m a mum myself. I don’t have enough time in the day as it is.”

“But it’s not fair that I take on all the responsibility.”

“You are here, Norman,” says Marion. “It’s easier for you.”

“I know you all think that…”

“Oh, I know. Of course, of course,” says Marion.

“What? Tell me. I’m open to any ideas.”

“I have to pick up Luke and be at Sam’s football club for a bbq lunch, and I don’t have time to go home, I’ll just have a shower here.”

“I can’t do anything…”

“Perhaps, brush up on your time management skills.” Marion’s voice trails off as she leaves the room.


Marion pulls her blouse over her head.

Norman reaches into the fridge and selects a white paper package.

Marion slides the white shower curtain closed and turns on the water.

Norman stands at the wood block in the kitchen and slices the beef up in anger with a large knife. The point of the knife pieces the red meat over and over.


The pot simmers on the stove.

Marion appears at the kitchen door. “See you Normo.”

“What we talked about,” says Norman.

“Gotta go,” says Marion’s voice from the front hall.


Norman picks up his phone and punches in a number. He speaks to his sister Lila.

“I’m a mum, Norman,” says Lila. “What time do I have to look after mum?”

The thing that upset Norman more than the refusal, was Lila’s annoyed tone at Norman even asking.

“You get free accommodation,” says Lila. “I wish someone would do that for me.”

“Mum would.”

Lila laughs. “Oh Norman. I’ve got to go.”


The basement was cool, it was Norman's favourite place. Norman wasn’t sure if it was real hair, or horse hair, but he liked the feel of it against his skin. The dress smelt of his mother’s perfume, which he found off putting the first time, but now, strangely, he found it comforting. He liked the way he looked in the mirror.

New Year

"You can call me 'fish lips' and I'll call you 'the goose is cooked', and we can meet for a champagne tonight to toast the new year."

"At that place we discussed by the beach?"

"Yes, by the beach. Wear a white carnation in your lapel, and I'll wear hot pants with knee length boots."

"So, the dress is casual."

"Oh yes, very casual."

"We can drink until we fall down..."

"You read my mind."

“And then we can drink some more.”

They both laugh.


The roof deck is deserted ostensibly. A flat concrete deck with a red brick waist height wall. The air is fresh, the sky clear with stars, the sound of waves can be heard in the distance.

Right near the front of the deck are two folding chairs, and a table. One of the folding chairs is occupied.

He takes tentative steps towards the man in the folding chairs. "Fish lips?"

"Goose? Sit down."

"Oh Carl, you were right about this place."

"Champagne?"

"Oh yes."

"My secret place. I'm glad you like it, Eric."

"I love it."

"Nobody knows you are here. Hidden in plain sight."

"On top of the world."

"Did you have trouble finding it?"

"Not at all." Eric takes the chilled flute of bubbles. He holds it out in mid air. Carl chinks his glass against it.

"To us."

"Yes, to us."

"My goodness, you wore a white carnation."

"I thought it was de rigueur."

"Indeed. Lovely."

"No hotpants, though."

Carl laughs. "Shorts and boots though," he says. He holds his legs out straight. "I'm just lucky it is a warm night."

"Camel coloured work boots." Eric raises his eye brows.

"It is the best I could do."

They both exhale at the same time, as they relax into their chairs and gaze at the expansive sky.


"It has been a hell of a year," says Carl.

"A hell of a year."

"End of the decade."

"And good riddance to it too. So pleased."

"So pleased."

"If it had gone on for much longer, I was going to throw a rope over a beam..."

"You and me both, mate. We could kick each other's stools, simultaneously." Laugh. “If you’ll excuse the expression.”

"Do you think that is even possible?"

Shrug. "You never know until you try."

They both laugh.

“Oh, could you imagine.” Carl points his toe of his right foot and makes the perfect punt kick. He holds his hand above his head immediately afterwards, letting his tongue hang out, jerking his hand upwards, letting his knees give way. “At precisely the same time…”

“With precision.”

“It would leave people wondering…”

“Gasping.”

“Oh, what fun,” says Carl. “It almost makes me want to do it.”

“Oh, you and me both. Such mystery.”

“As we both fall to the floor like two bags of shit. Kerthunk.”

“Kerthunk. Kerthunk.”

They both laugh hysterically.

"Two bodies, two stools, do you think they would ever work it out?"

"Not a chance. Not a hope in hell."

"They say that's where you go, you know, when..." Carl makes a slashing motion across his throat.

"Oh, they say a lot of things, now don't they."

“So many fucken things.”

They laugh again.


Carl holds out the bottle. "Champagne?"

Eric holds out his glass. "Does a bear shit in the woods?"

Carl laughs as he pours the champagne. The champagne froths up over the rim of the glass. "It’s a boy!"

Eric sips at the rim of the glass to stop it flowing over. "So this place?"

"This place?" repeats Carl.

"How come we get to sit up here and enjoy this wonderful view?"

"Oh," says Carl. "It's mine."

"The roof deck?"

"The building."

"The building?" repeats Eric incredulously.

"I had an old lesbian aunt who had no kids and she left it to me in her will," says Carl. "I was her favourite, for obvious reasons."

"Wow!" says Eric.

"And I had the good sense not to sell it," says Carl. "It is my superannuation."

"Lucky you."


"More champagne?" asks Carl.

"Jesus, I'm getting giddy already."

"I'll take that as a yes."

They both laugh as Carl fills their glasses.

"So, new year's resolutions?" asks Carl.

"Not to throw a rope over a beam," says Eric. How about you?"

"Oh, you know, the usual, be happy."

"How could you not be with this?"

"I know. You'd think. But it is just things. And things don't make you happy."

"They must give you a certain kind of happiness?"

Shrug. "Maybe. I don't know. You get used to them, and then they don't mean so much," says Carl. "I could be sitting up here alone, what kind of happiness do you think that would give me?"

Eric glances sideways at Carl, their eyes meet momentarily. "Still, it doesn't give you misery, I am sure."

"No, not misery, no, no."


"It's been one hell of a year, a shitty government re-elected, criminals running the world, climate change bush fires, floods, volcanos, who knows what is coming next?"

"Oh… probably a pandemic."

They both laugh.

"I think it has been hard for everyone."

"Hard for everyone."

"It is, of course, the 24 hour new cycle, because without that we'd have ignorant bliss, and we'd all be happier."

"Imagine switching the world off just for a time."

"We invite it in, we are hypocrites really deep, deep down…"

"Yeah, maybe not so deep down."


There is the sound of car horns.

"Hey, what's the time?" Carl looks at his apple watch, as Eric looks at his.

"A minute to go," says Eric.

"30 seconds," says Carl. "The end of the year."

"The end of the decade," says Eric.

"Drink up says Carl."

"To us." They chug their champagne down and slam their champagne glasses down on the table.

Car horns toot in the distance.

They step to the edge of the deck. "Happy new year," says Carl.

"Happy new year.

"Shall we dance?"

"Yes, let's dance.

Carl wraps his arms around Eric and they hold each other tight, as fireworks lights up the sky above them.

Give Way To Pedestrians

I was up at 5.45am. I left the house at 6.15am. It was overcast and muggy and it was one of those mornings where it felt like it might rain at any moment.

As it was early, the streets were relatively empty. I was making good progress to work down Gisborne Street. I walked down passed St Patrick’s Cathedral and was starting to cross Cathedral Place, you know, where Gisborne Street does a slight dogleg off to the right.

A woman, in her cheap purple Hyundai Excel and a prematurely ageing face, an emaciated Cruella Deville behind the wheel, came flying into Cathedral Place as I was crossing. When I put my arms in the air and gave her a wide-eyed, questioning look, she shook her head, as if in disgust, and accelerated steering around me, as I yelled after her. 

"Give way to pedestrians, it is the law,” I called after her. 

I spun around on my heel.

"You fucking idiot," I said, but she was gone.

Of course, I plotted her death all the way down MacArthur Street.

I wished I'd said, ugly cunt, you know, if there was some way, she’d have heard that. (I know. What can I say? Trotting out the C word, I was furious) Rake thin, with lank blond hair and a face as if she’d smoked a billion cigarettes in her life time, staring at me from behind the steering wheel.

I thought about her all day. I screwed my hands into fists when I did.

I was up at 5.30am. I left the house at 6am. People live their lives in ordered patterns, for the most part, I thought. I wondered if my purple Hyundai Excel drive was the same. I was going to wait and find out.

I ran the scenario through my head as I walked. I’d wait at the gates to St Pats, the gates to god, I grimaced myself. The entrance to hell, that made me smile, sly pursed lips.

It was about 6.30am yesterday, would it be about 6.30am this morning?

I made good progress down Gisborne Street and I was at the gates to hell in plenty of time. I stood with my back to the thick iron bars and waited.

And then, almost exactly at the same time as yesterday, I could see the purple sedan coming down Gisborne Street. She put on her left indicator and steered into Cathedral Place.

I stepped away from the gates and strode into the middle of the street.

I had my umbrella in my hand, and as the car sped past me, I shoved the metal tip into the passenger’s side door, the connection was sweet, nails down a blackboard, leaving a metre long gouge in her paint work. That made her stop, surprise, surprise.

She leapt out of her car. "What the fuck have you done to my car?" She pointed to her door.

I shrugged, it was very satisfying. "Every time you look at that you'll remember to give way to pedestrians." 

"I want your name and number to fix my car." 

“I want you to obey the law, but I didn’t get that either.” 

I turned away and walked off. She was screaming after me. "I'll call the police." 

“Call them.” I kept walking. I don't think the police would come. She was still yelling as her voice became unintelligible somewhere in the distance behind me. I didn't look back.

I was up at 5.30am again, the next morning. I left the house at 6am. I got a good pace up Victoria Parade and turned into Gisborne Street when it was still dark. I liked that cloak under which to operate.

I wanted to see how effective my action was yesterday. It meant nothing if it didn’t change anything. You have to be willing to go the ‘extra yard,’ as my grandma used to say, if you want to change people.

I wanted to change her. I wanted to change her for the good of society. I thought of her as my nemesis. Fixated? No, I would exactly say that. A warrior for good, that’s what I’d call myself. 

I liked that, I thought to myself, as I stood up against the wrought iron gates once more.

I tapped my foot, as I waited. The morning air was crisp and clean.

At 6.30am, I could see the small purple sedan coming down Gisborne Street. I quickly stepped out onto the road.

She sped into Cathedral Place still with no regard for me. I had to step out of the way as her car blasted through the intersection, otherwise she would have run me down. Again. 

Nothing had changed.

She laughed at me having to dodge her. “Get out of my way,” she called out the window. 

"Give way to pedestrians, you ugly cunt." There, I’d said it.

Her car screeched to halt and she got out of her car. "What the fuck did you call me?" 

I turned to face her. "Oh, I'm sorry, did you not hear me?" I stepped towards her. "I called you an ugly cunt, your actions confirm it."

"Fuck you," she screeched. She pushed me in the middle of the chest with both her hands, I staggered back a couple of steps, nearly falling backwards. 

That made me angry, I'd been mildly amused up until this point. It was a bit of a game. I felt the surge of anger come up from the pit of my stomach, through my chest and down my arms. I pushed her back as hard as I could. “Don’t push me,” she yelped.

She stumbled backwards and fell, hitting her head on the bottom of her car door as she went down, which I thought was suitably ironic. She was out cold.

"Give way to pedestrians," I said. “That is the law."

She was lying in the middle of the intersection, legs akimbo, like a bag of shit having been dropped from a great height. I wondered if she was dead? What had I done? My head spun. The Catholics could look after her, of course that would only happen if she was a Catholic. That thought made me chuckle, despite the situation. Catholics don’t save lives, they save souls.

I turned and walked away. I didn’t look back. I’ve always been able to walk away and not look back. Friends, lovers, drivers who push my buttons, it makes no difference. It is a skill, a very good skill to have. 

I caught myself making boxing fists. I stopped myself. Relaxed my hands. I looked around to see if there is anyone around who saw me, there was not. People don’t notice unless it is about them, anyway, I reassured myself.

I crossed the lights at Spring Street and slipped into the shadows of the CBD.

Omelettes, eggs. Omelettes, eggs. Omelettes, eggs, is all I could think, as I, if I said hurried that would be way over estimating it, stepped up the pace along Collins Street.

Then I thought about CCTV cameras, and I started looking around for them. At 101 Collins Street, I got on an old number 12 tram, no CCTV cameras on an old tram and it sailed down the Collins Street hill to work delivering me on time.

That night I couldn’t wait for the news. Nothing, nothing, nothing and then there it was. Woman assaulted outside St Patrick’s Cathedral, Urzila Grimwald, 35, HR coordinator, from Epping. 

Ur, zila, all I could think was daughter of… and every other zilla said, “Ur,” the moment they set eyes on her. That made me chuckle.

She thanked God, just before she was taken away in an ambulance for observation.

Observation? What did that mean? That meant that she sustained no permanent injuries, I assumed. I was thankful and disappointed all at the same time. She wasn’t the victim here, is all I could think.

“What an awful thing to happen to such a nice lady,” said the news reader.

“What nice lady?” I thought.

“If anyone has further information regarding this crime,” said the news reader. “Please call Crime Stoppers on 1800 333 000.”

My first thought was that the world can’t be allowed to think of Ur Zila as a nice woman, which she was not. She is just not.

Could I call Crime Stoppers and do a kind of reverse report, saying she wasn’t the nice one?

Ha ha, I decided the best thing to do was just to let it go. Unless the police arrive, it was time to forget all about Urzila Grimwald from Epping.

Some weeks later, I was making good time down Gisborne Street in the dark of the morning. I’d be at work early, which was what I want. As I approached Cathedral Place, I glanced over my shoulder as I stepped on to the road way and I was shocked to see the purple Hyundai Excel approaching me at a rapid rate.

I stepped onto the road, Urzila swerved around me at breakneck speed, screeching to a halt just passed me a little. She got out of the car slamming the door.

“You pushed me and I fell over hitting my head, then you left me for dead,” she screamed at me.

“Urzila?” I said. I immediately thought of Seinfeld and, “Newman!”

“What have you got to say for yourself,” she demanded.

“I see you have made a full recovery,” I said.

“Yes, I have,” she yelled “Give me your name, I’m going to give it to the police.”

“I want you to obey the law and give way to pedestrians,” I said. “But I don’t get that either.”

“I don’t need to give way to you,” she screamed. “I have right of way.”

“No, you don’t,” I said. “Cars give way to pedestrians.”

“There is no crossing here,” she yelled. “There are no white lines on the road.”

“It is an intersection,” I said. “You have to give way to pedestrians at an intersection, I don’t know why drivers don’t know this fact.”

“That’s not true,” she wailed again. “I have right of way.”

So, I brought the rules up on my phone, in the dark, in the middle of Gisborne Street and Cathedral Place intersection at 6.35am. And she looked at it. She took the phone from my hand and read it again. Then she brought the information up on her phone.

“Well,” she said. Wide eyes. “I didn’t know that.”

“Now you do,” I said. “And the world is a little safer.” I felt my mouth grimace. “Hopefully.”

“Well?” she said.

“Well?” I said.

“You mean, all this time, we could have been friends?”

“Friends?” I questioned. “I guess.”

Homeless Jayden

Aaron, is a very pretty, athletic Aboriginal boy with a penchant for straight white guys. He is cheeky, some may say naughty, and is full of confidence. He’d get to know the “straight” guy, usually, do a workout at the gym with him, go to his favourite coffee shop, sit out the afternoon. Go out to a straight bar and get drunk together. Get to know them, befriend them. 

“Sure, that’s what I want, a nice bit of white boy,” says Aaron. “The heart wants what the heart wants.”

Aaron is walking up Smith Street with his two best mates, Rudi B, a handsome, muscular Asian boy and Trash, a handsome Italian boy, heading out for brunch.

“So, what happened to you last night?” asks Trash. “You disappeared.”

“Oh, you know,” says Aaron.

“That guy you met…”

“Nice he was too,” says Aaron. 

“You go back to his place?”

“All night,” says Aaron. “He was good.” Aaron laughed. “Good at it…”

“You mean getting topped,” says Rudi B.

“Bareback,” says Trash.

“No, I don’t use condoms,” says Aaron. “Isn’t everybody undetectable now a days?”

Aaron is gorgeous with his huge sparkling eyes, his perfect white teeth and his cheeky smile, people just naturally fall under his spell.

Aaron met Rudi B, and Trash when he first came out on the Melbourne gay scene a few years previously. They have been best friends ever since.

It is early, sitting in Smith Street, outside Coles with a begging cap sitting in front of him, is Jayden, a homeless youth, a housemate who got behind on his rent, a straight boy in pretty desperate circumstances. He has on black, three white striped Adidas tack suit pants, which are tight on his muscular legs and a blue hoodie, the hood of which is pulled up over his head. It is cold in Smith Street, and Jayden is rubbing his muscular thighs. 

Jayden looks mournfully at the passes by with his big, blue eyes, but he doesn't speak.

Aaron notices Jayden's big, blue eyes.

Aaron, Rudi B. and Trash have been up all night smoking pot and chatting about the great things they are going to do. That was before Aaron disappeared late.

Aaron is a writer, Rudi B is a talented singer, and Trash is a male hooker. Aaron wrote Rudi B some lyrics to a song. They are full of confidence and bravado.

They walk past Jayden, who looks mournful as normal. Aaron stops. 

"What's your name?" He pulls a packet of cigarettes from his pocket and slides it into his mouth.

"You talking to me?" says Jayden.

“Yes.”

“What?”

"What's your name?"

"Why?"

Aaron shrugs. "Just trying to be friendly."

"Come on," says Rudi B.

"Jayden."

"You have beautiful eyes," says Aaron.

"Let's go," says Trash.

"I'm homeless," says Jayden. He points to the cap in front of him.

"Show me your cock and I'll give you some money," says Aaron.

"What?" says Jayden.

"Aaron," both Rudi B. and Trash say in unison.

"It was a simple question," says Aaron.

Aaron pulls a five dollar not from his pocket. He thought he had a larger note and immediately regrets not having one.

"You're kidding, mate," says Jayden.

"You got something bigger," Aaron says to his friends. Rudi B pulls out a twenty, Trash pulls a fifty from his pocket. Trash always has money (immigrant parents did good). Aaron takes the $50 from Trash’s hand. "A twenty," he says to Jayden.

"A fifty?" Jayden repeats. He hasn't eaten since yesterday.

Aaron lowers it towards Jayden's cap.

Jayden looks up and down Smith Street, there is nobody else on the footpath. He sighs deeply, wearily, as if he accepts what his life has come to. He grabs the front of his track pants and pulls then away from his stomach, exposing his white underwear and his thick slug, curled to the left.

"Very nice," says Aaron.

"Woo hoo," says Trash.

Rudi B. whistles.

Aaron drops the note into Jayden's cap. Jayden lets go of the front of his track pants.

"You sure are pretty," says Aaron.

Jayden blushes noticeably. "Thanks," he says. He gazes up at Aaron with his big blue eyes. “You are too.”

Aaron smiles at the compliment.

"You shouldn't keep that hidden away," says Trash.

"How do you know he does?" says Rudi B.

"You should sit here in your undies," says Aaron. "You'd get more money."

Jayden shivers visibly at the suggestion. "It's a bit fucking cold for that, isn’t it. Mate?"

Aaron shrugs. He thinks Jayden is adorable. "Just trying to help," says Aaron. He smiles, at the thought of Jayden in his undies, more than at his own kindness.

Aaron thinks, Jayden is not recoiling, he is not becoming aggressive, or abusive, Aaron is impressed. But, what could he do. It is just a moment, and this too shall pass, in a few moments, to be sure.

"What's your story?" asks Aaron.

"What?" says Jayden.

"Your story," Aaron repeats. "How did you get..." he hesitates, he wonders if he is being condescending, "here? Showing strange boys your cock?”"

"Oh Aaron," says Rudi B.

Jayden's eyes dart from Rudi B to Aaron. "I'm homeless and hungry," says Jayden. "What else is there to know." He smiles for the first time. Aaron thinks Jayden has a beautiful smile, to match those gorgeous eyes.

"Come on," says Trash.

"Is that true?" asks Aaron.

"Why else would I be sitting here?" says Jayden.

"Money," says Aaron.

Jayden snorts through his nose and looks away. "If only that were true."

Rudi B. pulls at Aaron's arm. He lets Ruby pull him away from Jayden.

"Good luck," says Aaron. The three friends walk away. Aaron looks back several times. Jayden smiles at him again. He raises his hand in the air and waves by opening his fingers wide.

“He was adorable,” Aaron says.

“A bit of rough trade,” says Trash.

“You got to stop hitting on straight boys,” says Rudi B. “It is not going to get you anywhere.”

“I dunno,” says Aaron. “Who says he’s straight?”

“I do,” says Trash and Rudi B. together.

“I think he is a week’s worth of dinners past caring what he has to do for a meal.”

“Anything?”

“Anything?”

“How many straight boys are going to show you their cock?”

 “Hungry ones,” says Rudi B.

“And what a cock,” says Trash. “He reminded me of Billy C the footballer.”

“You did it with Billy?” asks Rudi B.

“I can still feel it how thick it was,” says Trash. He visibly shivers.

“I think I’m in love,” says Aaron.

Rudi B. and Trash groan.

“Don’t be like that,” says Aaron. "He was a good look," 

"He'd make tons more money sucking the old guys off down the train station bog."

"That takes a certain skill," says Aaron.

"Yeah, like divorcing your emotions," says Rudi B.

"Nah," says Trash. "It is only the first one that is difficult, after that it's just open wide, and give me the cash."

“Why would you?” asks Aaron.

“You know I have daddy issues,” says Trash.

“He’d make even more money if the old guys do him over the bathroom wash basin.” 

“Trash!” says Rudi B. “That’s…” 

“Don’t say sad,” says Trash. “It’s the old guys with all the money, and when I am looking in the other direction, I can imagine them as whoever I like.” 

“Sad,” says Rudi B. 

“And cocks don’t get old…” 

“Especially with the little blue pills.” Aaron holds a foil pack in the air. 

“You take them too?” says Rudi B. 

“Not so much me,” says Aaron. “As those guys who want a piece of this.” Aaron slaps his arse. 

“You boys,” says Rudi B. 

“What are you talking about?” asks Trash. “You tellin' me you don’t like a hard man inside you.” 

“As much as the next girl,” says Rudi B. 

“Well, what’s with the attitude,” says Aaron. 

“Old men in public toilets…” 

“Don’t knock it until you try it,” says Trash. 

“Try it,” says Rudi B incredulously. 

“There’s nothing like your feet off the ground, and the cold hard feel of porcelain in your abdomen, as your filled up as full as you think you can get with a big hard piece that you are never really sure how far it is going to get in ya,” says Aaron. 

“Every second meaning another dollar,” says Trash. 

“Split me wide,” says Aaron. 

“Another $100 and you can do me raw…” 

Aaron and Rudi B both look at Trash nervously. 

“I’ve got prep, what’s the big deal?” 

“You letting guys cum up your arse?” asks Rudi B. 

“You don’t let guys cum in you?” asks Trash. 

“Guys I really like, sure,” says Rudi B. “But not guys I have just met and who I’m screwing for money, no.” 

Trash shrugs. “What’s the difference, a dinner and a kiss good night?” 

“You let boys cum inside you?” Rudi B asks Aaron.

“Not on a first date, no,” says Aaron.

“Don’t be so fucken precious,” says Trash. “It is just an arse, everybody got one.”

Aaron lies in bed that night staring at his ceiling. He was nice and warm, he wondered if Jayden was warm? Those eyes, those eyes he couldn’t get out of his head. What was he doing? Aaron laughs self consciously to himself. Why couldn’t he help him? Why is it ridiculous to think he could help him?

Aaron gets out of bed. He pulls on yesterday’s undies and jeans. He pulls on yesterday’s t-shirt. He pulls on his jacket.

Aaron goes out late and finds Jayden sleeping rough in Collingwood, just behind where Aaron first saw him.

“Hey you,” says Aaron.

“What do you want?” asks Jayden.

“I’m here to take you home, you know, a warm shower, clean cotton sheets.”

“I see,” says Jayden. “And why?”

“A cuter boy I never did see,” says Aaron. “I think I fell instantly in love… as did you.”

“Who says I fell in love with you?”

“I do?”

“To your bed?”

“To my bed.”

“So,” says Jayden. “That is very confidant, I have to say.”

“I go after the things I like.”

“Does your bed mean I am required to… um, thank you? In a certain way?”

“Yeah. Sure. Maybe,” says Aaron. “If you want to.”

“Essentially for board and loggings?”

“You will be getting the deluxe deal.”

“Why are you doing this?”

“My mum helps people,” says Aaron. “I want to do the same.”

“She doesn’t help, in the way your proposing…”

“Okay. I’m helping in my own way.”

Jayden sits and holds eye contact with Aaron. Aaron holds eye contact with Jayden.

“But, to be clear, I’d have to do things?”

“Yeah…”

“With you?”

“Oh, Jesus mate, only if you want to,” says Aaron. “You don’t have to.”

“But then you wouldn’t help?”

“I help you, you keep me warm at night, yeah, that’s the deal.”

“How do you know I…”

“I just know, hey?” says Aaron. “Good judge of character, you might say.”

They head to Aaron’s place together, up Smith Street to the end and through the park. 

“What happened to you?” asks Aaron.

“What do you mean?”

“To be out here?”

“There’s a lot to explain? says Jayden.

“So, explain?” says Aaron.

“My mum, she’s a great lady, but has problem with booze… and drugs… and men,” says Jayden. “Every other day I have had a new dad, the last one liked coming into my room, at night…”

“Oh, that’s shit, says Aaron.”

“Mum didn’t believe me, and it was just easier to leave.”

“You finish school?” asks Aaron.

“Yeah, year 12,” says Jayden. “Now I’m just considering my options.”

“You’re funny,” says Aaron. “We’re here.” 

Aaron’s house is a big old run down white weatherboard with peeling paint with a big barren front garden. 

The two guys go inside.

Aaron leads Jayden to his bedroom.

“I need a shower,” says Jayden.

“Sure,” says Aaron.  “I’ll take your dirty laundry.”

“Huh?” says Jayden.

“Take your clothes off,” says Aaron. “I’ll washed them.”

Jayden takes his shirt off. Aaron stands and watches him. “And your pants, come on.” Jayden takes his jeans off. “And your jocks, come on.” Jayden drops his jocks. He stands naked in front of Aaron, with both hands covering his genitals.

“Come on.” Aaron takes Jayden by the hand and leads him out of the room.

“I’ve got nothing on.”

“Don’t worry, they’ve all seen it before.”

“What?” Jayden resists. 

Aaron laughs. “No one else is home.”

Aaron leads Jayden to a huge white tiled bathroom. Aaron takes a towel from the cupboard. “This is yours.”

“Thanks,” says Jayden.

Aaron points to the shower. “I’ll put your cloths on to wash.”

Jayden comes back into Aarons room with the towel wrapped around his waist.

Aaron is sitting on the bed. He wolf whistles Jayden.

“You right there, are ya?” says Jayden.

“Look at you,” says Aaron.

Jayden smiles. His blue eyes light up.

Aaron gets up and takes some jocks from one draw and a t-shirt from another draw. “He tosses them at Jayden. “Here, put these on.”

Jayden puts on the t-shirt and jocks and gets into bed with Aaron. Aaron spoons Jayden from behind.

“What do you do?” whispers Jayden.

“I write stories,” Aaron whispers back.

“Are you going to write one about me?”

“Maybe,” says Aaron. “Go to sleep.”

Spiritual

Brad feels like he's under spiritual attack, and has felt it for a while, he told people at the time of the breakdown.

"It's not just the big things, it's smaller, quieter things, internal things. You might think that it's about the robbery, and while that didn't help, that's not what's going on here," said Brad.

“What’s going on? asked Nell.

Brad and Nell had been friends since kindergarten.

“He's dealing with a lot of subtler issues,” said Nell.

"It's a trying time, but that can be a good thing,” said Brad’s mum. “When you overcome something, a sense of achievement can be a powerful tonic."

"I'm not going to run away from how I feel," said Brad. He leans in and whispers, "I might come away a stronger, better man."

“That’s the hope,” said Nell.

"But it hurts him, his spirit is vexed," said Nell.

"But that's where growth comes from," said Brad’s mum.

"Sometimes, darkness creeps in, and he wrestles against it,” said Nell. 

He talks about that a lot. It's exhausting, and it takes everything he's got.

“He's just so tired now, he's very low energy and feels he's grieving, or something,” said Nell

"Grieving for what? His ex-wife and kids?" said Brad’s mum.

“He married so young,” said Nell. “But, no, it’s not that.”

“Too young to know,” said Brad’s mum. “I tried to tell him.”

"It's very hard to explain, but something has happened recently, where he's not the guy that everyone knows," said Nell.

It is a hot night, Brad has already kicked the blanket off. He is just lying there in his jocks. Baggy whities to be exact. He slides his hand down his pants. He closes his eyes as his fingertips brush down over the stubble of his last trim.

If someone had installed cameras, what would they see? Contentment? Anxiety?

He plays with what’s in his pants. His breathing changes, it takes quite a few minutes, but it eventually changes. He pulls himself under the white cotton. He concentrates suddenly like nothing else exists. Then, he pulls a red, angry erection from his undies, pulling elastic down at the front. He spits in his hand and wrestles the monster all by himself on his bed. He spits on his hand again, and again. Just when it looks as though he is winning, it grows bigger and bigger. Finally, it inflates to be as big as he is when he screams out loud, his entire body spasms ridged, and he ejaculates in huge white sprays into the air like an enormous fountain and then his giant cock starts to beat him to death.

He wakes up climbing up the bed head trying to get away from the pounding phallus. Momentarily, he is terrified. He has cum in his undies. He is conflicted. He breaths hard, recoiling. The realisation it was a dream comes moments later.

He fell back to sleep.

The dreams continued. “They are nightmares, not dreams,” he said.

At least the sleep walking had stopped.

“The sleeping pills help, I think,” said Brad.

“How many are you taking?” asked Nell.

“Does it matter, as long as they work?”

5am in the park. Brad couldn’t quite remember how he got there. He knew well enough that he meant to go there, it was just the getting there he couldn’t remember.

A guy pulls up on the boulevard in a Porsche, gets out and walks into the shadows. Brad remembers where the new guy punctured the dark. Brad finds him just inside the canopy of shadows. Brad had got a good look at him in the light his car door shone, which was good because he couldn’t see a thing now. Just an outline, in front of him. This had to be the guy, there was nobody else around. They start kissing, square jaw, nice mouth, clearly, he likes it as much as Brad. They feel each other’s erections, and the next thing is,

“Do you want to go some other place?” he asks.

Porsche Boy whisks Brad to his place. Then it is up against walls, up against furniture, on all fours on the floor, Porsche Guy takes it like a champion, and he must have liked what he got because he wanted more, real soon, he made that abundantly clear.

Brad knew his modus de operandi was flip them over, hold them down and fuck them hard like a girl. Hold them tight, don’t let them squirm out of your grip. He knew there was more, he loved to lie with Porsche Guy and be soft and tender.

Brad came out to his family with Paolo, Porsche guy. 

“Mum, dad, I’m gay.”

“Is that why you left Nicky and the kids?”

“Yes.”

“Oh,” said his father. “Why did you marry her then?”

“I guess, to make you happy.”

“We only want what makes you happy,” said his mum.

His family were pleased that he was happy. His mother hoped it would give Brad some stability, some peace.

It turned out Paolo was a water polo player, and Brad went to all his matches.

They had an end of season water polo breakup on Albert Park.

Paolo wasn’t immediately forgiving when he caught water polo buddy Lachlan hard and erect in Brad’s mouth, in the scrubby bits of the lake garden at 3am. “You should have seen the size of that thing?” says Brad.

But Paolo does forgive Brad, as he describes the girth of Lachlan’s cock as he is rock hard up Paolo’s arse. Brad promises Paolo Lachlan’s cock, and after a particularly messy, drunken New Year’s Eve Water Polo parties, Paolo got Lachlan’s monster unprotected cock up his arse, as Brad and Lachlan took turns fucking Paolo’s hot arse all New Year’s Day.

The water polo team went away together for New Year’s Eve in Lorne, down the coast.

The water polo team thought it would be great hijinks if they burst into Brad and Paolo’s bedroom in the morning.

“Let’s catch the poofs at it.” (That clearly wasn’t thought through)

They were confronted by Lachlan in bed with our two guys. Erect with his hand around it. Brad was wrapped in a doona. Paolo was the statue of David lying down. Lachlan was mass-outed to his entire water polo team, naked. Lachlan’s wife was surprised.

The team backed out as quick as they came in, after seeing brother Lachlan had clearly been up to the gay sex. The three of them had clearly been up to what the boys clearly understood. The guys had no problem with it, they had all been involved in two guys on a girl in the past, (or a couple of drunken water polo players found solace in each other), it was a boy’s water polo team for goodness sakes. They knew exactly what had happened.  The girls give it up to the water polo boys very easily, very easily all those muscular biceps, what’s a girl to do.

They were just shocked. “Beam me up, Scotty,” they all said, as they tumbled backwards on each other. Shocked that they’d stumbled into it.

 

Lachlan threw a rope over a roof beam and kicked the chair out from under him, not long after the team caught him “at it”.

Paolo took it very hard and blamed himself, and eventually went home to the country to reassess his life.

And Brad felt like everyone blamed him. Emotionally attacked by all involved, is what he felt, even if it wasn’t, necessarily, true, it was true for Brad.

Brad withdrew into his own shell, so to speak. He spent a lot of time alone, contemplating life. If the truth be known he was brooding on his lot.

Then he was out one night getting some fresh air, trying to walk off his angst, and he was mugged by a white guy in a hoodie, who had a really big knife.

“Give me your wallet and your phone,” said the guy brandishing the large knife about.

“What?” said Brad not quite believing that this was happening.

“You heard me! Give me your wallet and your phone. And is that a Rolex on your wrist?”

“What?” Brad repeated.

“Give me the watch too.”

“No.”

“Don’t think I won’t use this!”

“Oh, I don’t think anything,” said Brad. “Nothing at all! Not anymore.”

“What?” says the guy in the hoodie with the knife.

“I’m not giving you my wallet, I’m not giving you my phone, I’m not giving you my watch, I’m not giving you a god damn thing.”

The guy in the hoodie thrust the knife at Brad. “I’ll give you one more chance.”

“One more chance! One more chance!” screamed Brad. “That would be the fucken day. There is no such thing as one more chance. Everything gets taken from you, everything ends, and then there is nothing left! Nothing! It is all gone! Gone forever! Never to fucken come back. There are no more chances! None. Not second, not third! Not any fucken thing!” Brad fell to his knees crying. “Even if you are a good person, and you only want good things for those in your life,” Brad sobbed.

“Jesus!” The guy with the knife in the hoodie ran off.

An ambulance came, not that Brad remembered that so much. 

He remembered the weeks he spent in hospital.

He remembered his mother coming to visit him. “Darling, that was a terrible ordeal for anyone to go through,” said his mother.

“I’m the common denominator in it all.”

“Oh darling," said his mother. "If you want someone to blame, blame the priest who used to touch you.” 

“What? No! That's not it.”

“I think it was,” said his mother. 

“No!”

“Something upset you.”

“No. It wasn’t the touching. I liked Father Buck,” said Brad. “No, it was the desertion when he went back to his wife that upset me the most.”

“Oh darling.”

His friends didn’t come because he didn’t tell them. He spoke to a few of them on the phone, but surprisingly few, and he gave vague answers on the questions about what he was up to, and he got away with it.

Nell visited, of course.

“It is over now, and it will never happen again, so don’t worry,” said Nell.

“How can you be sure?” said Brad.

“Statistically,” said Nell. “It won’t. One mugging a life time. I promise..”

“I wanted too much…”

“Hush, now,” said Nell. “Don’t talk nonsense.”

Brad sought out counselling. Well, not so much sought it out, as was advised to seek some by his doctor.

“I thought it was the Africans you had to look out for,” said Brad to his councillor. “This guy could have been me?”

“I don’t know that racial stereotyping is really true of real life,” replied his councillor.

“So, what is true?”

“Sometimes bad things happen to nice people.” His councillor shrugged.

“What about karma?”

“Karma?” questioned his councillor.

“Aren’t you supposed to be repaid with good things, if you live a good life?”

“I think that is how karma is allegedly supposed to work, yes?” said his councillor.

“So, my karmic debt is still not paid for, you know?”

“Paolo leaving?”

“Yes.”

“Lachlan’s death?”

“Yes,” said Brad. “And my wife and kids?”

“Your guilt?”

“What do I have to do to clear it?” asked Brad.

“You think its karma?”

“Yes,” said Brad.

“I think we are going to have to do some more work around all of this?”

“The universe is never going to forgive me, now is it?” said Brad.

“I think we need to start couching all of this in reality, Brad.”

“The spirits are gunning for me, aren’t they?”

“No, they are not.”

There are two canvass chairs on a low terrace facing the sea. There is a table between the chairs, two cocktails with umbrellas are sitting on the table.

The sea gently rolls in onto the white sandy beach.

Brad reaches for his drink.

“You do know that none of this was your fault?” said Nell.

“I think I must take some…” said Brad

“None of it was your fault because you are a bad person,” said Nell.

“I’m glad we came down here,” said Brad. “It is relaxing.”

“It is not some cosmic punishment…”

“It’s hard not to think that.”

“You may have made some bad choices, that led to certain outcomes,” said Nell. “But that’s as much as it was your fault.”

“If I could only go back…”

“You are not a bad person,” said Nell.

“It’s hard not to…”

“You are not under some spiritual attack.”

“I hope that is true.”

“It is true.”

“Thanks Nell.”

“The universe isn’t coming for you,” said Nell.

“But Paolo and Lachlan and the guy with the knife…”

“That’s just life, babe.”

“The dreams and the nightmares?”

“Life,” said Nell. “That’s just life.”

Brad sipped his drink. “It’s not a life I like.”

Love Letter

What I'd buy him, when he was born? My kid.

A warehouse, a website and a Wolseley 6/110. (Could be a P5B Rover V8 Coupe. A 1967 Humber Super Snipe. A Triumph 2.5PI, The grand old dames of British motoring)

First, a warehouse so he gets to keep all the things from his childhood. Don't you remember all the things to which it was said, “No,” because… “You are too young? Don't be ridiculous.” I'm sure we all have them. They never go away.

Mine would have a black 1935 Plymouth, promised to me in Mildura, on family holidays on the mighty Murray River. A bronze 1938 Pontiac, from the bitch Aunties’ neighbour, all I had to do was go and pick it up. A Black 1955 Zephyr, my brother’s first car, I was still four years away from getting my licence. My top deck coloured 1965 VW Beetle, I just needed somewhere to keep it until I had the motor replaced, and repaired the body work. 1954 two tone green Hillman Californian, which I sold because its storage park was no longer available, and I had nowhere else. Oh, and the friend of my parents 1951 Hillman, it was in the back yard when David bought the house. He was always telling me it was mine. It was tan in colour.

I’ve always been into cars, from a toddler, so my mum tells me. But I have never had a garage, never lived in a house where storing sundry motor vehicles was an option, quite frustrating. Dedicated storage for life, that’s we need as babies.

A website. Isn't that the way of the world now, self promotion? Go to university. Start an online business, 1 billion views by the time he's finished uni. Instagram. Youtube. Become an influencer. Live on the income your website makes. Become famous for being famous. Earn millions for just being yourself. Sell it for an astronomical amount. Isn’t that the 21st century dream?

And a Wolseley, because you should always appreciate the past, how things once were. And a 6/110 is something nicer than the laptop we are otherwise glued too. Wooden trim. Leather seats. The smell of luxury.

Invest his private school tuition in shares, and send him to the best public school. A Trinity Grammar school education never did me any good. All the wrong advice. I got my year 12, second time around, at a public school, my one year of a free school that my mother promised she always wanted for me.

His grandmother dies and leaves him a block of flats in St Kilda. The lawyers got most of it by the time the family stopped fighting over it.

But then his great Aunt dies and leaves him a family home in Malvern, which he sells and buys a terrace house in Carlton.

(Well, that’s how it happened in my family. Isn't that how it happens in all families? They say it was the lesbian in her, she and I were very close. I was her favourite. You'd think I'd vote conservative, but I don't. Minimum live wage, free medical and free education. Welfare for anyone who wants it. Make the huge corporations pay the tax they are evading, pay for it all. They want the world to buy their stuff, they can support the world, it is a simple concept. They are my politics.)


Sam lives in Carlton, rent free, mortgage free. Finishes Uni. Sells the website for a billion dollars. Well, okay, if not a billion… exactly, how much is that anyway? Can anyone calculate a billion in their heads? Is it even a real number? Or just a concept that politicians and the rich talk about?

He'd gut the Wolseley, updating it to 2018 specs. Sleeper, just because he could. He'd marvel at the exhaust note. The low growl of the modern turbo charged V8. It's a modern world, you have to keep up.

He'd have a beautiful wife, Shannon, and a son, Ethan. (They say it goes boy girl, our family is due another queer boy. The last generation was a lesbian.) A terrace house. And a beach house, really a shack, up the coast, with sea views. He'd have made enough for a couple of houses, a classic Porsches, as their 'other cars', and million dollarss shares. (The money that wasn’t spent on a fancy education) Set for life

Bettye Lavette sings, Ain't No Sunshine.

My heart is full, Sam would say. (That is a rather obscure movie reference to a 1958 De Soto Firesweep. American cars were at their pinnacle in 1958)


They’d have a second child, that would go without saying, quickly after the first, another boy, Noah. Shannon would be keen to have children quickly, so she could get back to her career. She still wants to make partner in as close to normal time span as is possible. Babies don’t get to have their mothers any more.

They’d hire a French au pair, to teach the boys French.

Sam continues to be an on-line influencer. He makes a lot of money. Do you know the money those guys make? Not a job that can be taken over by robots, any time soon.

Ethan would grow up to be straight. Noah, would forever be Ethan’s gay little brother.

Sam and Shannon adopt a Cambodian girl, Chivy, when they are back packing around Asia the first big holiday they have, after becoming parents. They visited an orphanage. Shannon was insistent when she saw the conditions in which the children live. Chivy, which means life, Shannon was in tears.

The boys were still quite young, and they loved having a sister, right from the beginning. The have 2 au pairs, they move into a big, detached house in Carlton, that has staff quarters, just by chance. The year after Shannon made partner. Shannon is super woman. She joins boards and gives talks to woman about how they really can have it all.


Sam has a warehouse full of stuff. He has set aside space for Ethan, Noah and Chivy. Sam is the stay home father.

The Wolseley has had a full electric conversion. It’s now one of the fastest cars on the road.


The truth is that Sam would probably fuck one of the au pairs. He and Shannon would have an acrimonious divorce. He gets the house in Torquay, she gets the house in Carlton. He would have the kids every other weekend. And we have a completely different “Set for Life.”

But, let’s say that didn’t happen. Sam turns out to be one of the good guys after all. Yay. Yeah, sure, there had been those two occasions, conferences interstate, she had legs up to her… Sam had too many wines, she saw something she liked. It was a once off thing, it meant nothing. And then there was that second conference, he swears to this day he didn’t know she was going to be there. Sam stopped going to conferences. But that was all, other than that, Sam only ever had eyes for Shannon, and she for him.

The kids grow up. Go to uni.

Shannon becomes Special Council at a tier one law firm, working 3 days per week. She job shares with another former partner winding down. She still earns three time the average wage.

Sam sells his online business. He invests in property after the great property slump of 2019. He buys a warehouse complex cheap, enough room to store the entire family’s dreams. He thinks he might write novels. He has been a veracious reader all of his life. He has a warehouse with all the books stored in it.

Ethan becomes an architect. Noah becomes a poet with A PHD in creative writing. Chivy follows her mother into law. She becomes a partner of her law firm at the extraordinary age of 26.


Ethan builds luxury homes all reminiscent of the house in which he grew up. Noah becomes semi famous when some of his funny love poems go viral on the internet. His books of poetry sell out. He becomes a best selling author at a young age. Chivy always has the drive to get to the top.

67 Ford

He had a bronze 1967 Ford Falcon. It was his pride and joy. He bought it from the original owner, a fact he was clearly chuffed about. That meant something, that did, only the second owner. He said it proudly. It meant the car had clearly been loved. It was no accidental purchase this car. 

"Only people who really love XR Falcons, drive XR Falcons," he said.

She knew she was meant to be impressed, that much she knew.

"So, you love XR Falcons?" she said.

"They are my favourite car ever," he said.

He looked at her expectantly. She was used to boys looking at her expectantly because they wanted something, but this wasn't quite the same look as those boys who wanted her to show them her knickers.

"She runs like brand new," he said.

She got the distinct feeling that he wanted her to ask him to let her hear it run, so that is what she asked.

"Go on, let me hear what she sounds like."

She wondered what made this car a she, but she decided not to ask.

The engine roared into life with a single turn of the key. “Bwup, bwup, bwup, bwup,” was the sound the engine made.

The only thing she could think to say after he started it up was, "Is this a V8?"

"Yes," he said. 

"Oh jeez," she replied.

"Nervous?" he asked.

"I am now I know it is a V8."

"Don't stress," he said. "I'll be gentle."

"Please," she said. "This is my first time."

"We don't have to," he said. "Not if you don't want to."

"Oh no, I wanna," she said. "I just didn't expect to feel it quite like this. Through…"

"Through the seat?" he asked.

"Yeah, I didn't expect to feel it, um, er, that way." She looked down at her lap.

"Oh," he said. He laughed. "It's nice though, isn't it?"

"Yeah, I guess."

"It is the cylinders."

"Oh," she said.

He gunned the accelerator.

She squealed.

He laughed. He gunned the accelerator.

She giggled.

"Should I spit me gum?"

"Dunno…"

"You'd know better than I would," she said. "I don't wanna choke on it."

"You're not gonna choke on it."

"You sure?"

"Only if you inhale on it."

"Am I gonna inhale on it?"

"Dunno."

"Are you gunna make me inhale on it."

"No, I don't reckon."

"Well, I don't know what its gunna feel like."

He suddenly pulled his left foot from the clutch, and pushed his right foot to the floor. The car raised up at the front and took off.

She shrieked.

The old Falcon sped across the field at a cracking pace. He whooped and hollered.

She screamed out, "Yes! Yes! Yes! Yes! YES!"