Enemy Lines

The coffee machine takes eons to make a cup of coffee, in the dark, morning light, with its start up sequence, and then the coffee making itself, then the shut down sequence, it takes forever. I shiver in anticipation, as much as the cold. I don't like spending too much time out in the open, no cover, distracted, you don't want to be seen, not being seen is the key to the operative. We don’t know why, we are never given the reasons for our missions. The coffee is of secondary concern. (ed note – tell that to the punters who are caffeine depleted) It is a sortie over enemy lines. It is a test, of your stealth-like qualities. It is an operative, a culmination of all you have learned. How invisible are you, after all these years of training? How low to the ground can you crawl? How much shit can you shimmy through and still come up triumphant? Be under no misapprehension, this is a test.

Now if I could just find the answer to this runny nose of mine, we'd be half way to winning the goddam war.

Tissue?

Ah, the 5 for $5 bag of boxes of tissues, beyond enemy lines, out in the wasteland, beyond where the bogi man can get you. The same Bogi Man who prowls the hallways at night waiting for you to stumble sleepy into the bathroom and piss absentmindedly, to be charged for crimes against the sleeping. Urine is to never be heard hitting water. As you are brutalised in your pyjamas in the dark, dragged unhanded, imaginary down the house stairs, to a waiting black bus to be taken away, sped off in the night with duck tape over your mouth.

“Ah! Oh!” Only to be woken fitfully as daylight shines in your window wondering if "that" really happened at all. I must stay asleep to remember. Must remember the key to creation. No, it is gone. Good morning.

The same Bogi Man who accompanies the bears materialising the moment you stand on a footpath crack. He can wear a clown suit just as easily. "You wanna balloon kid?" He is what is actually rushing up to your back in the dark at night. He is the serpent’s hiss. He is the creak in the floor. He is the hand pushing you in the back at a great height, and the voice that says, "Jump."

It is really distracting, you know, to have a nasal drip, drip, drip. You can't practise self defence with phlegm leaking from your hooter.

Corner? Clear. Corner? Clear. Corner? Clear.

Coffee machine. "Come on, hurry up. Come on, hurry up. Come on, hurry up."

Corner? Clear. Corner? Clear. Corner? Clear. Buddy? Sniff. Corner? Clear. Corner? Sniff. Clear.

The night time raids are the worst. Standing there, in the dark, one eye on the silhouette of the doorframe, one eye on the dark, where the toilet would be if there was any form of illumination, pissing on one of two white porcelain strips. Don’t piss in the water. Don’t piss in the water. Don’t piss in the water. I'm lucky I am not pissing on the floor. Don’t piss in the water. Don’t piss in the water. Don’t piss in the water.

We stagger our waking times? Or is that, we are staggering at our waking times? It makes no never mind, as long as each of the inmates is suitably medicated by Saturday night, booze or weed, it is deemed a good job done.

Vampire hours. I am living vampire hours, at present. When you get rid of 9 to 5, you get rid of any notion of day, or night. There is a permanent pot cloud over my window. The world is suddenly all 24 7, no differentiation is made. I found it a major personal achievement when I knew it was 6 o'clock in the day, 6.03 as my digital read out told me, to be precise, but I had no, actual, idea if it was am, or pm. You know, in the winter, with no day light savings, it is the same kind of light outside at 6am as it is at 6pm. It was a proud moment, I had reached nirvana.

Isn't it funny, that after all of the economic theories, a couple of industrial revolutions, all the captains of industry who told us they knew what they were doing, the two industries the tax from which are going to save the Western World are medicinal marijuana and gambling. [Did 9/11 ever really happen? A Chinese property developer bought the twin towers. He came up with the most cost effective way to bring them down. He sold it to his good friend George Bush over a cocaine party on the ranches vast dinning room table, as a model for national strategy, “Y’all finally be able to crush those beedin heart…"

“It’s bleeding.”

“What is?” George looks at his own hands.

“Bleeding hearts, it is bleeding heats.”

“Er, yes… um… lefty, human rights be moaners.” The Bin laden family threw in, they had some ideological reasons, Aeroplane fuel companies sponsored. And, of course, Wall Street. And the usual billionaires who think climate change legislation is not good for business]

I know what I’d be buying shares in.

Of course, guns and military equipment must be way up there too, why else do we keep having these blastard wars? But us mere mortals don't get to see the receipts for that stuff. That’s super rich territory, where billions are dealt. [And they get to listen to every word you say, one way or another]

And of course, the biggest search on the internet is for sex, by far.

The only thing I take for the shadows in the night, my military style coffee procurement in the mornings, or the ghouls that spring from footpath crack compromise, is mother's herb. The Green Goddess, as my trusty side kick, Susan To, names her. My BFF. She makes the world a beautiful place. She can't fix a dripping nose, so it would seem, but she is fabled to make a difference to the rest. The rain washing your cake away, whatever?

Susan To has gone overseas to fight world poverty, on one of her regular sojourns. She has left me unsupervised. I have denied myself nothing, can you tell?

All the sweet, green icing flowing down…er? What is my positive affirmation for today?

"Don't leave your cake out in the rain."

The Eleventh Book of The Monkeys Are Marrying

The monkeys are marrying

The monkeys wedding (correct)

The first three of many more


2016

Stacey Likes It Maggotted

What is that, last call at the Pokies Saturday night? 8 hours jangling away in one large neon sign, no sign of a clock, no sign of daylight, all the time being fed on goon. Maybe not quite goon, but those large plastic cups had been transporting large quantities of chardonnay and spittle. The punters have been sitting sloth-like long enough for the fleas to have settled, occasional foot rubs are out of sight, romance on the $1 machines. And now they have their attention span, such as it is, returned back to them, focus. Not even with “last call” being called, no, they don’t moved. Stunned rabbits in the headlights, “tune into the video screen and “we” will control your thoughts while you are gone” 1984’esque.

It takes Cash (yeah, ironic) to hit the off-switch and the multi sensory neon lights blink out. Black. And now the punters are all starting to scratch and look further than a 30cm radius to have that itch scratched. They wipe the chip debris from their cardigans, and the beer froth of their tashes, and lament they hadn’t taken the time for that latest bodyscaping routine they had been promising themselves for months.

Stacey was hoping she was going to run into Brad. The two of them were maggotted, last Saturday night, and neither could drive. Brad said he could fuck her in his dualcab VW ute, you know, real classy. And while Stacey was bashful to begin with, or pretended to be, even as drunk as she was, Brad proved what a big rig he was really control of, even if he had to take the condom off it to prove it. His cum dribbled down her leg all the way home in the cab, he hadn’t offered to drive her. “You understand, up early for work tomorra.” She just had a used tissue to dab the liquid away, before it got on to Rajesh’s car’s upholstery. Stacey was hoping for a repeat performance with Brad, but this time back at her place, not the back seat of the Amarock. Brad performed the stud service back at Stacey’s around 1.30am. It is half an hour back to her place from the pub which closed at 1am.

“I’m containing the possibility of future contamination, by always drinking from the same source,” said Stacey.

“You want his babies,” said her best friend Belle.

“Babies, I do not want,” said Stacey. Which was, actually, good, as she then remembered to take her pill, which she surreptitiously got from her purse as she and Belle chatted, and washed down with beer.

Stacey was happy that she’d met someone with who she didn’t have to worry about condoms.

“I mean, since we’ve done it already, and all.”

Stacey lit her St Moritz.

“I know his ex-wife, Kylie,” said Stacey. “We played netball together. Good people.” 

Jenny Wants To Be A Mum

Jenny, who had worked front of house since the Pokies opened, has been trying for a kid with her husband, Ray, for nearly all that time Jenny had worked coming to work. There have been the meet up time, “Now I’m the right temperature,” phone calls. “Quick, where are you? I’m ovulating,” phone calls. Ray has even been called out of meetings to “get plug into the little misses.” Ray has been on a “fuck schedule” for 12 months now. It has nearly killed him. And still no baby.

Then last Xmas party Jenny put it on Andrew, our young, single, athletic night manager, to have sex with her. She wanted to be a mother more than anything, and she wasn’t going to miss out just because Ray may, or may not, be shooting blanks. She seemed manic to Andrew, when she spoke those words.

Andrew even seemed sympathetic, asking all the right questions about how he might make his deposit. How does one go about it?

“I can’t do IVF again,” said Jenny. “Come on Andrew, be a sport, and give the old fashioned way a chance.”

Jenny had just been for her third return visit with Andrew. We can always tell. They think they are being so subtle, but the headshakes and the winks and their cars leaving the premises both heading in the same direction, the wrong direction for one of them. She got pregnant the first time with Andrew, from what she tells her sister Megan, so she is on a high anyway. But she keeps going back, as she tells her sister, she’d forgotten how much fun a 30 year old man was in the sack. “Andrew’s great. OMG!” Jenny could actually feel herself go weak at the knees at the thought. She exhales audibly. “My god, I’d forgotten just how… hard…” Jenny looks at Megan and laughs. “I recommend you get yourself…”

“I think you are enjoying this just a little too much, young lady.”

“Enjoying!” Jenny laughs out loud. “Oh my god, I just want him plugged into me 24/7.”

“Jenny!”

“Oh Jesus, it is true.” Jenny rubs herself around the neck. “What have I turned into?”

“What have you turned into?”

“What have I been missing out on?”

“You were only going down this path because of Ray’s malfunction.”

“Andrew can fuck on his tip toes with a rock hard nine inch cock, that makes me cum in tsunami-like waves of rapture.”

“What the hell do you think Ray is going to do if he finds out?”

“It is his malfunction.”

“Ray is understanding, but he is not that understanding.”

“No court would convict me,” said Jenny. “We have to get all female jurors. Would it be unethical for Andrew to sleep with all of them?”

“Jenny, wake up before it is too late.” 

My Monaro Is Bigger

Max, Lachlan and Jake head down the main street after the pokies close. They are looking for booze, they are pretty sure the bottleo is open until late.

Max has been talking non-stop about his Monaro, Lachlan has been lamenting the absence of his Monaro, not that Lachlan has a Monaro, he’d just like one. Jake just wants to get his cock sucked.

“I got a sun roof, and all,” says Max. “But those reversing sensors half don’t give me the shits.”

“I’ve got plenty of tools back home that could disconnect those,” says Lachlan. “It’s not that they are being used, or nothing.”

“Do you reckon we’ll see Fee? You reckon Fee will still be out with your sister, Amy? Your sister Amy still out? Do you know? Lachie?”

“But she’s smooth, she’s real smooth. You can bet you she is smooth.”

“I reckon she’d be as smooth as,” says Lachlan.

“Can you text Amy, Lachie? Can you text Amy, just to see where she is at.”

“Jesus! Jake,” says Lachlan. “I’ll fucken suck you off in a minute.”

“I nearly didn’t come out tonight,” says Max. “You know, account of the drinking, and all.”

“I don’t blame you mate,” says Lachlan. “I reckon I could be the same…”

“You know what I fucken mean?”

“I know what you fucken mean.”

“I don’t want to waste any driving time.”

“I don’t blame you, mate.”

“I’ve got my dream machine,” says Max. “I don’t want to waste any driving time.”

“I wouldn’t want to waste any driving time either, mate.”

“You can drive any where, everywhere, every day you get to drive some where,” says Jake. “I just don’t see what the big deal is…”

“We might meet up with Fee.”

“She gives the best blow jobs, like ever,” says Max. “Did I tell you?”

“You guys have not lived,” says Jake. “You guys have not fucken lived. You guys are jealous…”

“Fuck off Jake.”

“That’s it, I’m doing him, to shut him the fuck up.” Max grabs Jake in a headlock.

“If I had a Monaro at home, you can bet your arse I wouldn’t be standing here with you,” says Lachlan.

“Hey, wathca…”

“I’m going to suck your cock.” Max grabs forcibly at the front of Jake’s trousers.

“What the fuck!”

Max has Jake’s belt undone. Max pants with the desperation of determination.

“Max you homo…”

Max pulls at Jakes jeans, the button fly pops open. Pop, pop, pop, pop, pop, pop, pop.

“Get the fuck off me,” wails Jake.

“Ah!” shouts Max.

Martin likes to smoke pot.

Martin likes to smoke pot. Martin likes to watch porn. Martin likes to smoke pot and watch porn. Martin likes to run. Martin is an athlete. Martin likes to run and smoke pot and watch porn. Martin takes his training as an athlete very seriously. Martin trains all the time. Martin likes to run, keep fit, smoke pot and watch porn.

Martin likes to win. Martin likes to look good. Martin is proud of the way he looks.

Both boys and girls like Martin. Both boys and girls make passes at Martin. Martin gets turned on when boys and girls make passes at him. Martin likes to flirt. Martin flirts way much more than he actually hooks up with anyone. Martin likes to flirt, run, look good, smoke pot and watch porn.

Martin likes the way his legs look. Martin likes the way he looks in undies in the full length mirror in his bedroom.

Boys on the athletics team hit on Martin. Those boy’s girlfriend’s hit on Martin. Occasionally, Martin likes to go home with a buddy and his girlfriend. Martin likes the feeling of having sex with a boy and a girl at the same time. That is what Martin likes. Otherwise, Martin likes to keep fit, run, look good, flirt, gaze at his owns legs, smoke pot and watch porn.

Martin likes to look of his own cock in his own hand. He marvels at what a great cock it looks as it slides through his fingers.

That is the paradox, to love yourself as a man, you must make love to your man’s body, and your favourite sex object must be a penis, generally your own. Martin likes to smoke pot and watch porn. Martin likes how smooth lube makes his cock hard. Martin wishes he could just pick up the joint from the ashtray without it getting covered in lube, while he is watching porn.

Step Mother

Sara-Jane had seen better days, I don’t think even she would disagree. Sara-Jane had four, grown kids, so she wasn’t completely incapable. Sara-Jane had a stepson, there is always a black sheep, as they say.

“Is it any wonder with the way that bitch treats him,” says Sara-Jane. “She uses him as a tool to get what she wants, poor little bugger.”

“Ah divorcing parents, surely not.”

“Not that he’s a little bugger any more.” Sara-Jane smiled. “Six foot two, what is that in metric?”

“How’s the bitch been?”

“Oh.” Sara-Jane squinted her eyes. “Don’t get me started.”

“I’m hoping that has finished you off on the subject, actually.”

“She couldn’t drop him off home last Saturday afternoon,” says Sara-Jane. “Because she had a date and her ladyship needs 3 hours to get ready for a date.”

“So, she is no spring chicken.”

“Oooooooooo no! Spring chicken? No,” says Sara-Jane. “A spring chicken she is not. Oh no!”

“I was thinking thirties.”

“Fancy doing that to your son, leave him to walk miles home because,” Sara-Jane drops her volume. “Because you are home washing the gash.” She laughed. “And no, not thirties. A good forty something…”

“So, what is the point of trading in then?”

“What, indeed?” says Sara-Jane. “She’s a fucken nightmare and I’m guessing she wouldn’t have been the one to be doing the trading.”

“How long has this been going on,” I say. “I remember I took them to the Monbulk police station once…”

“Did you?” says Sara-Jane. “How did we get you hooked in…”

“I don’t remember why…”

“I remember you doing it though.”

“The bitch didn’t have a car.”

“And all the other times we have had to run Mike around when Her Ladyship wasn’t up to it. Exhausted. Run off her feet. She forgot.”

“I remember all the times.” What I really remember is Sara-Jane bitching about it.

“But it just seems to make no difference when they go to court, nothing,” says Sara-Jane. “Our court system is broken.”

Frank’s Arse

Frank had that smile and, of course, those ears. I always thought those ears made him look adorable, pity Frank’s feelings weren’t reciprocated. I was on the edge of Frank’s friend’s circle, as he was on the edge of mine. If you had the two circles, the blue circle and the yellow circle, they would only intersect and turn green occasionally.

And he had the way his jeans fitted across his arse.

If ever you were in any doubt of the power of the lustrous bottom, look no further than Frank running up stairs. The arse that boy had on him. Sweet! Made men drool. That arse could send you insane. Frank, as you can tell, had the perfect arse. And on some levels, on many levels, Frank knew it and he used it to get what he wanted. He was not backward in turning backward if he thought it would help his chances at life.

So many guys wanted Frank’s arse in the worst possible way.

Even straight men took one look at Frank’s rear and found themselves sometime later plunging Frank’s hole unmercifully.

It wasn’t that Frank didn’t have a nice cock, he did, from all accounts. (I did get that one dick pic on gaydar) Frank had a very handsome cock, thick and weighty. It was just that Frank sat on a gold mine. His arse bought kingdoms to their knees, his arse tamed wild beasts so that they lapped gently at his, hairy wog… um? Circle. Brown circle.

Consequently, Frank spent most of his twenties staring at his ankles, from one angle, or another. In mirrors, or directly at.

He had good balls too. Hairy and dark crimson. He’s hairy, all wog boys are. He has a nice cock and balls. Heavy. Weighty.

Of course, I had to live vicariously on stories of Frank. Blue circle, yellow circle. I couldn’t call Frank a friend.

I once did an aerobics class, in Fitzroy, that Frank did. I hear it was during his “kept boy” phase. He used to do step right in front of me, in tight red footy shorts. He was a clown, the star of the class, he has a certain rare light. But he used to pull his tracksuit on right after class and leave. He never entered the change rooms. Pity.

Lucy Likes Charlie

Lucy liked boys. More specifically, Lucy liked Charlie. Lucy has liked Charlie for a number of years. Lucy likes Charlie a lot. Lucy likes Charlie when he is relaxed and all goofy-sleepy in front of the teli. Lucy likes Charlie when he is speaking to her parents, seemingly, without a care. Lucy likes Charlie when they go down the beach at the weekends and Charlie does a strip running into the sea. Lucy likes Charlie when he is dressed in a black suit and he is holding her hand at her best friend’s funeral. Lucy likes Charlie because he is chilled and free. Lucy likes Charlie when he is face first in her snatch.

“Bigger stronger taller,” Lucy would say. “That is why I like Charlie.”

But Lucy likes all boys. Lucy is, what you’d call, a boy’s girl. You know the type who are spoken of disparagingly by the sisterhood, when the sisterhood doesn’t think they can hear. Lucy likes nothing better than to be drinking beer in the front bar with all the lads. Who are usually the boyfriends of the before mentioned group of girls, the girl’s girls, who hate her with every fibre of their beings. Lucy likes male attention. Lucy flirts to get male attention. This usually sends the girl’s girls into hypoplexiture, completely oblivious to the boy’s girl, Lucy.

Lucy has been faithful to Charlie since the day they met, she has never strayed. Some may say, that it wouldn’t always appear that way, but it is true. Lucy gets on well with the boys. And the boy’s like Lucy. Charlie’s mates know that Lucy is Charlie’s girl. However, the mates of the mates don’t always know that.

“If there is ever any trouble,” says Olivia. “You can bet Lucy will be some where amongst it.”

“Oblivious,” chorused Chloe and Olivia.

“She doesn’t mean to and all,” says Chloe.

“But somehow she does,” says Olivia. “On some level.”

“Guy friends of guy friends aren’t to know,” says Chloe.

“She’s a flirt.”

“She’s a flirt.”

“She doesn’t see it…”

“I don’t think she truly does.”

“And look at her.”

“Gorgeous.”

“Is it any wonder.”

“Is it any wonder?”

“Just sometimes.”

“Normally as peaceful as…” Not a metaphor cometh.

“As peaceful as…” Not a metaphor cometh, neither.

“As peaceful as church.” There you go. They laugh.

“What you don’t know what goes on behind closed doors?”

“The parish is a hot bed…”

“A hot bed…”

“According to mum…

“My mum…”

Olivia and Chloe cackled. 

Jeremy Went Into The Priesthood.

Jeremy went into the priesthood. Jeremy finished year twelve with an excellent score. He then entered the priesthood and studied at night. Jeremy was 18 when he went into the priesthood. Jeremy had an inkling that he might be gay, so the priesthood seemed as good a place as any to go and sort a few things out.

It was like being on camp, the whole time. I’m camping with other boys all the time. I’m living in a house full of men.

There were 4 new priests. There were 4 guys Jeremy’s age. They were his year group, if you like. They all seemed a little light-in-the-loafers to Jeremy. Which oddly, gave him a pulse, in his cock. Jeremy’s homophobia turned him on. Whenever Jeremy discussed gays or queers, he got oddly animated, squirmed around in his chair, got handsy with the other panellists, seemed to have big eyes at the very mention, in a too interested kind of way. After too much communion wine on a Sunday morning not having eaten any breakfast, Jeremy could be bordering on indiscrete at Sunday lunch.

Jeremy found that Thomas, one of the other interns, was, of course, interested in helping-out-a-mate down the commemorative garden, at, or around, midnight. Later, Jeremy and Thomas got brave and had sex in each other’s rooms, and nobody has cared or noticed.

And just for all you questioning types out there, Jeremy and Thomas pride themselves on being versatile, for the plebs amongst you, I’ll break it down (my bulldog is having a full wash right in the middle of my bed, as I write this, which is just a little distracting, let me tell you) they are equally at home playing the “girl’s part” when they are having sex, as playing the “boy’s part.” (Shiver all over, I hate it when I have to do that. I should just say, “I don’t know what you mean,” when I am asked that question, and then just stare back blankly.)

Jeremy and Thomas will both have theology degrees when they finish. They don’t think getting a parish is going to be a problem.

Surfie

Scott had grown up. Right before our eyes, it would seem. It was like yesterday, I swear, that he was a little blonde kid. Now, 22 and with all the bravado that comes with being beautiful and 22 years old. If you liked those slick-backed, dark matinee idol looks then nah, Scott wouldn’t be the guy for you. But if you like that Aussie beach bum, goes to Rome back packing and lands a modelling contract kind-of-look, then you might find him a bit of all right. Strapping, is often a word used to describe Scott.

“He’s a well built lad,” would so often come out of the mouths of letting-it-all-slide middle aged men.

Scott is the kind of guy that everyone notices. “Nothing, and I tell you nothing at all, on the romantic front in my teens,” Scott would often lament. Nobody noticed Scott, so the bigger clown he became. I think that is how he developed his cheekiness. But sometime after his  21st  birthday, when his looks grew to match his bravado, everyone started noticing Scott.

Scott noticed the people noticing. It was a bit overwhelming to start with, he said it was when he learned to appreciate his ugly duckling teen years. But then Scott got his rhythm. Insert bikes and peddling analogy here. He thought people were taking the piss, initially. It took him a while to trust that it was true. It took him a while to take it all seriously. But then the girls began to notice.

A good brain. A good pass into uni. And then more than halfway through an eight year architecture degree, then other punters began to notice how fine Scott had become.

He’d joined the gym at uni. Then he’d joined the water ski team. This had been his routine for his first few invisible years, to fill in his social life. So when he was coming back for 5th year all of the good living and exercise had begun to pay off, and the dates soon started coming, it spun his head for a time. His “hot nerd” crew had been keeping up the sporty life style, they had been exercising along side Scott, and they relaxed now being more than half way through their schooling. And they were popular too, mostly for their summer weight routine. “Healthy living, don’t knock it,” said Scott. They kept it up, they all went to the gym in a pack.

They discovered drugs together, in their mid twenties, final years of study. They kicked it up a notch. And they all experimented with sex together, doof doof music, cafes, strips joints, Sunday night dinners. They cried and they laughed and they still passed every year of study despite all the partying. They were post fear. They were successful now, they just had to wait for time to catch up.

Scott still surfs down at Wye River, where his parent’s still have a house.

Impish Smile

Angus has grown up. He was always an angelic child, black hair, blue eyes, destined to grow up into an angelic adult, which he has. From his impish grin, to his sexy new short haircut, to his beguiling eyes. Stoner eyes full of joy, when caught off guard, his musical chuckle when he realised he had lost the thread, give away, look back to me. Truly handsome. Melt a little, you can’t help it. It’s his time. His easy way, his muscled guns, his handsome face, his pert arse, his full of grace. Angus has grown up.

I caught a glimpse of his jockey elastic, when he bent to pick something up, and felt like a dirty old man. I’m old enough to be his father, literally. But he’s old enough to be a man. I don’t give him any more than a smile, don’t worry, and my attention when he is in front of me. Why would you not want to? 

I bet you he has a perfect cock. Hard and beautiful. Hang towels off of it, that kind of stuff. But, I don't think about him like that.

He’s really nice, too. Smart. Pretty. Interested. Deep voice. Easy going. Nothing is too much trouble. Like he means it, like I believe that he means it. His style. His handsome face. And the grace, he has, as he walks away. And a motor bike too, can’t help but polish his allure. And that's how I think about him.

But my best friend’s son? Is that a bit pervy? Oh, I don’t know why I say that, I’m just saying he is a nice kid. And when I say kid, he is twenty two, so don’t start wrting letters just yet. I’m just his friend, I don’t go into some dirty pervy old uncle routine when he is around.

I cringe at the thought of a maggotted Shane leaning across and saying to Rachel lasciviously, somehow reminiscent of Les Paterson, “Josh tells me how hot your son is.” Slobber, slobber.

I turned to Rachel and said, “I believe I said handsome.” As I believe that is what I said. When I think of Angus I think of his charm and his smile, I don’t think about his, um, er, you know...

I still cringe at the memory of Shane slobbering.

And it doesn’t hurt that he is handsome.

Caramel Cookies

I rewarded myself with caramel cookies. A reward for what? you may well ask.

“A reward for what?”

Didn’t I just say that? I just said that. By his look I could tell he was serious.

“Ah, er, for a job well done.”

“What job?” He asked in such a matter of a fact kind of voice, that he gave the impression that he had no understanding of how the world works at all.

“What job? Um?” Does he not understand any thing? “For the day, for a day well done.” Of course.

“What did you do?”

He’s got another question. I’m guessing he’s got loads of them. “What do you mean? What did I do?”

“Yes, for the day well done, for which you earned a reward, that you treated yourself to caramel cookies. What did you do?”

Pedantic little mister, now isn’t he. What did I do? “I got through it, that is what I did, I got through it. Isn’t that worth reward enough?”

“But what did you do…”

“I got through it!” Perhaps, that was a bit snappy, but I had to put an end to his infernal questions.

“I see,” he said.

He was a little taken a back, I could tell. I did a little head nod, just for affect. I didn’t quite mean to, but there it was. Involuntary, kind of. He pursed his lips as though he had something more to add, but his lips shut tight on him.

He mouthed the word okay.

We held each other’s gaze by staring off into the distance, maybe it was the future we were trying to see.

Of course, caramel seems to be the flavour of the moment, sweet caramel, burnt caramel, salted caramel, glorious caramel. Who would have bet the odds of caramel making such a big come back? Who would have guessed?

It is just sugar, cooked cleverly. There is no such flavour as caramel. It is a wholly man made taste. Really just sugar, as I think I have already mentioned.

Bunny Goes To The Shops

Carl was trying to get out the door.

“Just the things you want,” said Bunny. She was changing her house shoes for her street shoes in the laundry. “Text them to me and I’ll look at them in the supermarket. I’m dropping into to see Father, oh, what’s his name? At St Benedict’s, so I’ll be a little longer.”

“You want me to do what?” said Carl.

“You said you looked in the pantry, just what you saw that we needed.”

There was silence.

“We need a whole car load full of stuff, from my reckoning, Bun,” said Carl. “You’d better go.”

Bunny enters the kitchen. “I’ll have you know that this isn’t my idea of pulling equal weight, Carlo.”

“I can’t talk to you when you get all Politically Correct on me,” said Carl, complete with parenthesis and a stupid face. “I’m going out to work.”

“What is it that you do out there in your shed, now we are both superannuated?”

Good thing Felix bought her an iPhone for Xmas, now Bunny always had an up to date shopping list.

Bunny reverse parked the Super Snipe in one fluid motion, on the causeway. It was a good spot. She’d had a bet with herself for years, about “getting her in” in one go, ever since that first year that she got the car and Carl called her out on her parking skills. How many years ago was that? She slid the gear stick into P and pulled on the hand brake. She collected her handbag and her cardigan in one hand. She patted the dashboard, my Swiss watch, she always thought. She let her finger brush across the bur walnut facia. She sniffed in the bouquet of leather, she had never tired of that smell for the entire time she’d had the car. Carl had called her, “stupid, or what?” when he heard her refer to the Super Snipe as Swiss more than once. 

“Swiss my arse,” he’d say. “Good Coventry stock, this!”

“It’s precision, Carl,” said Bunny. “That’s what I am referring to.”

“Well, why don’t you say that,” said Carl. “Instead of saying all this namby-pamby stuff that no one understands.”

“She’s like my Swiss watch, Carl,” said Bunny. “She never lets me down.”

Car rolls his eyes.

She walked the short distance to the shops, her high heals making a clack, clack, clack sound. She wouldn’t normally wear high heals shopping, but she’d just been to the church, the Catholic Church, about playing piano for a wedding. She didn’t know what she thought about these Catholics, (her mother always told Bunny that she was frightened of the Catholics because the nuns weren't allowed to speak) Bunny had heard plenty of catholic nuns speak, she shook her head. But she figured it was all still just piano playing. It was only the Catholics that went in for hell now a days, she was sure. She went over slightly on one heal. They wanted her to play something called, The Rose, apparently it is very big now a days. Bunny guessed the bride meant on the charts, but Bunny didn’t ask.

Bunny tripped on something she didn’t see. “Oops!” she said out loud. It took her breath away, the suddenness of it. She reached out to steady herself, pushing the palm of her hand against the shop window making a squeak.

She looked back at the raised, cracked concrete footpath, and thought about all those stories she’d ever heard about people suing for millions after falling down in the street. She looked down at her shoes. She looked at the cracked concrete again. She rubbed it with the toe of her shoe.

She shook her head. She just remembered she left her phone on the dashboard of the car. Carl had tried to call her, she didn’t really know why she bothered. She thinks he had the phone upside down. Felix’s buddy Tank has offered to wire the Super Snipe up hands free, but he hasn’t done that yet.

She turned back in the direction she’d just come, thinking about the phone, and her foot tripped on a cracked piece of footpath she’d just looked at. “Oh stupid…” She went straight over, she was already somewhat off balance. “Ah!” All she probably felt was a hard thud to the side of the head, as it hit the pavement. A coward’s punch from the universe, or perhaps from God, her Anglican God, displeased she’d agreed to play for the nuptials for the “mickeys,” as her mother would have said. Perhaps, she was wearing two different types of thread? Had she agreed to work on the Sabbath? It is doubtful she would have realised what happened, the world went black. Was this some kind of eternal joke about the afterlife?

Iris, Bunny’s life long friend, further up the shopping strip, heard a sound like somebody being punched in the stomach followed by a winded cry. She instinctively headed in the direct from which that sound came.

Bunny woke to a feeling of cold against her face, her skin was touching the concrete. Where was she? People were gathered around her, her friend, Iris, was looking down at her, like a “wet” spaniel. Everything was quiet, then the street noise kicked in again. Suddenly. It was a start. She sat up. Her knees and hands stung from the smallest minute particles of gravel stuck in her skin. She looked at her palms.

“You tripped over you own feet, Bun.” Bunny’s friend Iris’s voice boomed. “I saw you go down, luv.” Iris laughed. “Here.” Iris handed Bunny the missing shoe. 

Her bag was on the grass above her head. One foot was cold, as one shoe had come off one of her feet, she just kind of fell out of that it, she could still feel it.

 “I saw the first one, I,” said Bunny. “I turned back to the car to change my shoes, and the second one…” she shrugged

“Now give us one of your hands, I'll help you up,” said Iris.

Bunny refused Iris' hand and tried to get up herself. Bunny’s arm hurt, as she pushed herself up off the ground, she must have used it to break her fall. The arm gave way. She suddenly realised, as she was on all fours, that her glasses were sitting diagonally across her face.

“Giddy up, luv!” said Iris. She whooped with laughter. “You’re not at home with Ray now, darl.”

"Hush, Iris," said Bunny. "You and your dirty mouth"

Bunny took Iris' hand, begrudgingly. She felt giddy as she stood, again. Her hands and knees stung from gravel rash. She pushed the hair out of her eyes. She hated herself for correcting Iris on this point, but it had to be done. “Carl,” said Bunny.

“I’m Iris. Did you hit your head?” Iris chuckled.

Bunny straightened herself. “You said Ray.” Bunny spoke through gritted teeth. “If I was on the floor with anybody… playing horse and jockey,” she rolled her eyes at the absurdity of what she was saying. The absurdity that she had to come out and say it. “It would be Carl.” Even Bunny could hear herself hissing. “I would be on the floor with Carl.” She looked around to see if anybody was in earshot.

Iris ushered Bunny to a nearby outdoor street seat.

“I’m alright.”

“Just sit for a minute.”

Bunny sat on the seat begrudgingly. Iris flopped next to her. The morning shoppers drove backwards and forewords, up and down the street hunting for carparks. The sun shone, the birds cheeped.

“How long has he been dead now?” said Iris

“Who, I… Ray?”

“Yes, I forget now sometimes, just some days, it seems like forever. How long it has been, Bun?” said Iris.

“Oh…” said Bunny.

“I don’t forget, exactly, but sometimes it is easier for somebody else to say it.”

“Five years,” said Bunny.

“Five… long… years,” said Iris. She sounded like she had no more energy for the question. “Five long years. I miss him as much now as at any time…”

“Oh, I?” Bunny put her arms around her friend. She felt so sorry for Iris, at the same time fearing she may well be in that situation sooner than later.

“I thought time was supposed to heal,” said Iris. “I thought time healed grief…”

The two women hugged.

“It is just something we say,” said Bunny. “Nothing really helps, but who is going to want to hear that?”

The two women laughed, nervously, consoling one another, in the gentle morning light.

“I feel like I have been cheated my final years, Bun.” Iris fumbled in her bag for a handkerchief.

“He was taken too soon for sure, your Ray.” Bunny kissed the side of Iris’ head. “Ah, hon, what can I say?”

Iris dabbed at her eyes with a cream handkerchief. “It’s just…” said Iris. Her voice trailed off. She shrugged. “How life goes, nothing to be done.”

“No,” said Bunny. “Nothing to be done.”

Bunny got to her feet, she couldn’t suggest it and fail to act one more time. “Ay oop,” said Bunny.

Iris stood up. “Oh Bun, it’s good to be alive.”

“Wouldn’t be dead for quid’s.”

The two old friends hooked arms. “This way luv,” said Iris. “We should get those knees looked at.”

“Don’t fuss,” said Bunny. She had to get to the butcher. Her right knee hurt, everything else felt fine. But her right knee, was giving her Larry Do, as her father would have said. Bunny limped noticeably. As she put weight on her right foot, testing it, her right knee buzzed with a painful ache.

“Does it hurt, luv?” Iris pointed to the recalcitrant knee.

Bunny had tried very hard to step normally, she tried very hard to conceal the damage from her friend. And that was the best she could do, it was hopeless. If she just got back to the car, she could sit for a moment and gather herself, give it a rub away from prying eyes. She could take her stockings off and use the first aid kit she kept in the glove box. She didn’t want to have to call Carl, she wasn’t going to admit to falling down.

“Just a knock, it will be right as rain,” said Bunny. “I just have to go back to the car.”

“I’ll come with you.”

No, you won’t. “Oh no… Iris, that won’t be necessary.”

“Just so you are all right.”

“I’m all right. Look.” Bunny did four star-jumps, they nearly killed her, far too ambitious. She didn’t let that show either. But at this point, childbirth could be endured, she didn’t have time to listen to Iris talk about Ray… Neil was coming home for tea and Bunny was already behind schedule. “Iris…” she wanted to say, get a hobby. Cooking. Sewing. Knitting. Patchwork. Leadlight. What do you think everybody else does? Get therapy. Go on a cruise. Have an affair with a younger man. That grounds man at the bowels club would fit the bill. Bunny laughed to herself. The laugh gave way to wondering what she would do… then she shuddered again when she realised it could be approaching. Not that Carl was sick, or anything like it. He was in good shape, actually, for a man of his age. But neither of them were getting any younger, that was an immutable fact.

“See.” Bunny made jazz-hands. Everything hurt. She lent in and kissed Iris. “See you soon, hon.” She told herself to turn on her left leg, which she remembered to do, and she made a clean get away. Bunny was quite chuffed with her own accomplishment. She told herself that that was smooth. She put all of her weight on her right knee and she didn’t limp, it hurt like hell.

New Year's Day

It's funny thinking about Jason. He was fiery and passionate and beautiful. A wog boy to be sure. We kind of had a special bond, kids from different sides of the tracks make good friendship. Day time movie premises. I bet they wouldn't show the hot fucking, skin on skin; we couldn't get enough of each other's genitals. We were always pulling each other's pants off, all over our expensive private boy’s school, often in the bushwalking club storeroom, we were both keen bushwalking club members, for all of senior school, just so we could shag each other at night in our tent.

Ironic, so many years later and the bush walking master is up on sex charges, but he never once invited me or Jason, to share his tent in the evenings. That wasn’t his style. Jason and I were partners, partners were encouraged, because we used two man tents, but individual boys were encouraged too. A single boy in a two man tent, his movements weren’t so closely watched by anyone. While Jason and I were balls deep up each other, the bush walking master was inviting those single boys into his tent to sleep. “You don’t have to sleep alone,” Chris would, apparently, whisper into their shell pink ears.

Jason seemed so alive and his extended family seemed like a circus going on around him. The funny thing is that I have his parent's phone number, still. It wouldn't be so unrealistic that they haven't moved, (my parents haven't moved) they'd lived in that house for years back when I knew them.

They loved me. They thought I was funny. They were all so earthy, in their away. They called me Jason's boyfriend, even though I don't think they suspected, really. We were both kids in their eyes. I was different to them, so I was just Jason's buddy. School friend, that's how he passed us off. A skip friend. I used to stay over and sleep on the roll out bed under Jason’s bed. They'd give me Jason's phone number, most likely. They'd certainly pass mine on to him, I think.

What would happen, do you think?

What if he'd never found love? What if he was married, but had lost his love?

What if he was married... boys cheat, they all do. He'd come over to my place and fuck and feel no guilt. Guys don't feel guilt about that stuff. If it involves their cocks, they don't care about anything else, it doesn’t count. It would be different, that's all.

I live on my own. I can entertain married men easily.

I wouldn’t feel any guilt.

25/12/2015

I found Jason.

I found Jason online. I typed in Jason Farrugia and there he was, just like that. It seemed so easy. Social networking, you've got to love it.

He said he'd been meaning to look me up for ages. He wanted to catch up. That’s what he said, by return message, not 24 hours later.

We'll see.

Amy, Jason’s wife, was overseas visiting relatives. They couldn’t afford for them all to go, so just Amy and the 2 boys went, besides Jason had to work. They wouldn’t be back until February sometime.

I couldn't help but feel a little excited. A quick message back is always encouraging. I know, if somebody who I don’t want to talk to calls, I agonise over answering, and I agonise over answering, until it drifts off into the either and I don’t ever end up answering at all.

He's married with two kids. “That’s quick work,” I said. It’s only been five years, going on six.

He said he often thinks about me, wonders what I'm up to. Has wondered.

01/01/2016

He looked better than ever. He’d lost all of his puppy fat and he was now just lean and handsome.

“Yeah but you never got your arse into looking, now did you?”

“Oh Josh, it’s not going to be all of this all over again, is it?”

“All of this?”

“Me and You?”

“No.” Good thing he pulled me up on it when he did. Yeah, I’d smoked the joint walking from the car park, I got nervous having it in my pocket. I just get kind of obsessive around him. It was going to be “all of this.”

“So why did you want to have a drink?” said Jason.

“Old times,” I said. He just looked at me. I guessed at that point I hadn’t thought this through as well as I’d given myself credit for. “Why not,” I said. I held out my stubbie, Jason chinked his stubbie with mine.

“I’ve finished uni and got a job,” I said. “What about you?”

“I’ve finished uni and got a job,” he said.

“SNAP.” I said, rather louder than I intended. “They’re the same,” I followed with limply. I was nervous.

He looked alarmed. “Architecture,” he offered. That made sense, Jason was always drawing. He produced great caricatures of our classmates, teachers, celebrities. He was considered some kind of drawing genius by the faculty.

“I’m a writer,” I said.

“You were always writing at school… all those poems.”

We were like the artistic, in the true meaning of the word, smart kids, house captain, sports captain, orchestra leader, magazine editor, long time Smithton family students. My uncles on my mum’s side went to Smithton. Jason’s father and grandfather attended too. And I got to lick the school captain (Jason’s) arse and he liked it.

In fact, believe it, or not, Jason was the main instigator back then, he chased me, he put the hard word on me, quietly, in the shadows, when nobody else was around. It all started around the end of year 10. We’d been for a tour of the gold country and we were put up in twin rooms in hotels and Jason and I shared rooms. Names were being called in the lobby, when a name was read out, if anybody elected to share with that person, they just had to yell their name out. My name was read out. There was a definite deathly silence… and at the final moment, Jason Farugia was spoken. That was the very first inkling I got of the tempestuous affair that was about to follow. Nothing happened between us other than longing looks and feelings we didn’t have the first clue about, all through the gold country, but it must have ignited some spark, it must have ignited some feelings.

I said yes the beginning of year eleven, in form assembly, just like that. It went from there solidly until midway through first year of uni, for both of us. It was casual. It was sporadic. Jason started to see girls. I bet you he never told any of them that he was still having penetrative, unprotected sex with his best school buddy. I bet you he didn’t share that fact about himself. I had had hot, mindless, uninhibited, stoned sex with Jason the night before he met Amy.

I never saw Jason again after he met Amy. I didn’t see him for five years, until the two of them broke up temporarily, because of me.

“I’ve got them all stored electronically now, which one would you like to read?”

He laughed nervously.

“There’s poems in their about you,” I said. “They use your real name… and all.”

“Things change,” he said. Shrug.

“Intimate things.”

He got nervous. He started to fidget in his chair.

“You got married,” I said. “I’m still waiting for my invitation in the mail.”

“Oh Josh… sorry mate, it would have been too difficult.”

“I could have been civilised for 24 hours, so we could all share in the day.” Your best mate since prep.

“Seriously? Do you think that was ever really going to happen?”

Well, no, not seriously. It just sounded good to say it out loud. Oh Jason, seriously, do you really think I would have come to your wedding… to confront your rat-faced bride.

“After what happened,” he said.

What happened was, through absolutely no fault of my own, Jason got really drunk one night, just before he and Amy were going to get married, 01/02/2012, to be technically correct. It was a whirlwind romance, they met and married in the same year, practically. New Years day, New Years Day. They had just screwed on St Kilda beach, very early New Years day, in the after glow of it, Jason got all drunk confident and admitted to our 2 year plus affair starting at school. He said he didn’t want to have any skeletons in his past when he got married, the next day. This didn’t go as Jason had planned. He said, as soon as he had made the admission, the soft music played, the after glow cigarette delicious, just by the first expression he saw on her face, he realised he had just fucked up seriously. Stylus scratched across a LP. The cigarette stopped burning. Cold. Hard. Ash.

02/01/2012

She told her family and declared that she never wanted to see him again. That drove him into my arms for a few weeks. Ah bliss, Xmas Day. Don’t you just ache for this level of irony? They made up and the wedding was back on, a short time later. Can you guess who got the blame for being a sexually aggressive monster?

(Of course he never admitted to us sleeping with the sexually aggressive monster during the most recent time of separation, just the first time, stupid, experimenting kids. What skeletons were you talking about, Jason? This latest time, I contacted Jason as two confident, adult men for the first time, who knew exactly what they were doing, and we had wild unprotected sex, we took turns going bitch.)

01/01/2016

“You had children,” I said.

“Really, Josh,” said Jason. “Leave my kids out of this.”

“Out of what?” I asked.

“Whatever this is?”

“You’re over-thinking it, Jase,” I said. “You’re thinking too much in the past.”

“I hope so,” said Jason.

I really hadn’t thought this through at all. I didn’t want aggressively defensive Jason, I wanted no-care-in-the-world-Jason, the Jason I used to know. Fuck it! I got a buzz, would it be old fashioned to say, in my loins. Defensive Jason had angst, I could hook into that, that was sexy.

“How about it?” I asked, just like that.

“How about what?” said Jason. The emphasis was most definitely on the ‘what’.

“For old times sake, Jase,” I said. “Just to see if you’ve learned a thing or two in five years. I am guessing you have.”

He hesitated, stopped, he pulled back. I thought I’d read the situation really, really, really all wrong, for a milli second. “I’ve learned a couple of things,” said Jason. He smiled his not-a-care-in-the-world smile, the smile I remembered. That’s my boy, I thought.

The dappled light and the cool breeze in the beer garden, and the beer, led us back to my place, where Jason looked completely out of place, until I undid his trousers and sucked his cock, the same fat sausage, as ever, then I stopped noticing if he looked out of place, or not. We’d drunk far too much beer, my still small voice was saying, nee screaming, this was a really bad idea. I ignored it. That boy has a trowel on him that other boys can only dream about.

He said afterwards it meant nothing, which I have to admit, I was a little hurt by. I’d been his longest relationship so far, I deserved a little more respect than a cold face washer and a “Good to see you, mate.”

I said, I didn’t care if he had a wife, stay, relax, but he got out my door as fast as he bloody well could. He knocked things over on the way, literally. The empty washing basket. The umbrella stand by the front door.

I text him that I had a good time.

He asked me not to text him again.

I Have a Bad Feeling About This

A comet from deep in space flying towards you, contrasted against the pale blue sky, it is burning fiercely through the earth's atmosphere, blue, yellow and red,… I have a bad feeling about this, you think to yourself.

A man with a machine gun walking towards you in the blaring midday sun…You were out shopping, support the local establishment. He is walking up the, rapidly abandoned, main street, cars are in the middle of the road with their doors open. This is what you get for your trouble. I have a bad feeling about this, you think.

A snarling, rabid dog standing in front of you, just as you turn the corner…in the historic city of Meng Pla, you are not in Kansis City now Dorothy, you think. Down town Indonesia, with down town Indonesian hospitals. The beast bears its teeth, its fangs are incredible. I have a bad feeling about this, you think.

Tripping on a country train track and falling onto the stones between the sleepers, looking up to see a train speeding towards you… oh shit, you are too stoned to pull it together now, and your feet slip on the gravel between the tracks. You fall against the rail, and you can feel and see your fate speeding towards you. OMG! I have a bad feeling about this.

Standing on a beach on a crystal clear sunny day watching the water rush out to sea, rush out, rush out, rush out, rush so far out you can no longer see it, not something you see every day, you think. You look up to see a tsunami rolling in towards you, a sky scraper of water lost in the blue sky because of its distance away. If I can see it and it is that far away, how big must it be, as your eyes focus and the massive energy, seemingly, emanating from it. I have a bad feeling about this.

Opening the cockpit door to see both pilots comatose at the controls and a mountain directly in front of the plane… We must be in Switzerland, you think. I was only looking for the toilet, I must have taken a wrong... the mountain is approaching rapidly. I have a bad feeling about this.

A man with a black bandanna with white Arabic writing on it comes through your back door with a long, what looks like sharp, knife in his hand... I have a bad feeling about this... you are thinking, when he laughs and pulls off his head dress. It is your neighbour, Habib, grinning like a Cheshire. "You should have seen the look on your face, buddy." Habib puts the knife down on the counter.

"I borrowed this from you, and I am now returning it," Habib was smiling. "I've just been to jujitsu training." He laughed again. "I wondered if the outfit would freak you out?"

"Fuck OFF!" Incredulous.

"That was priceless." When Habib really laughs, he has what sounds like a high pitched hiccup in the middle. It is adorable.

"You thought the brothers had finally arrived with the jihad. Maate!" Habib can now do a tone perfect Aussie accent.

"Fuuuuuck off." Don't give me the shits.

"You thought you were getting taken over." When Habib smiles, he is hot. "You gotta stop watching so much news, bro, it will rot your mind."

"I didn't know what the fuck to think." You didn't. "All I saw was some fucken guy with a knife. It could have been any mother fucker. An Arab with a knife, how safe were you feeling, mate?” you said. “If I'd called the cops, they would have shot you dead maate."

"Fuck off," said Habib. He smiled again. He'd amused himself.

"Malakas."

Straightjacket

It was tight around my chest and, somehow, I had my arm caught up in it too. But because it was to my side and behind my back, I couldn't see it exactly. I just seemed to be stuck. I couldn't for the life of me work it out, but I was still pretty out of it, at that stage.

The pillow was all wrong, the mattress was too soft. The room was dark. There was a curtain around my bed, hanging from a chrome loop that circled over my head, like a chrome monorail. Café style curtains, some may think, but they were just short, as far as I could make out, as if designed to only block out the overhead lighting. If it was a skirt on a stripper and she wore no nickers, she is meaning to show you her snatch, or a kilt on a Scotsman, you wouldn’t have had to ask.

I rolled over and, instead of stopping like you'd think, like you normally would, I didn't, I went straight over. It mimicked moments of sea sickness quite strongly, as I continued to tumble. It took my breath away, landing on my face. Dead weight. My body seemingly cascading down, like felled timber in a forest land slide, in slow motion. “Oo…oh!” Thud.

Stuck, face down. I couldn’t move. The eternal downward dog? What the hell was wrong with me? Was I paralysed in a terrible accident? Is this the part where they are about to walk in and say they are terribly sorry?

“We don’t think you are ever going to walk again.”

The medical team are outside right now drawing for the shortest straw, desperately wishing for the longest. May the universe bless the person who gets the shortest straw. I’d say that, if I believed it was remotely true.

Then the matter of my arms being caught up became more apparent, I seemed to be caught up, around me, behind me. What the fuck? As I lay on my face, on the cold floor, I could, at least, see under the short curtains. Feet and legs mostly. It looked like a hospital. It hurts to lie on your own face, I can now tell you. It hurt mostly in my neck, and I imagined myself as one of those little old ladies whose heads have, seemingly, slipped down their torso, forever looking under the curtain. There were people, seemingly, coming and going. Where the hell am I?

I rolled over on to my back, with great difficulty. There was metal all around me, bed legs, posts for machines, wires, and tubes. I didn’t want to, I wanted to keep watching, being on guard, ready for anything, so to speak, however, the pain in my neck was too intense. I could feel it locking up under my full weight.

“I’m in hospital?” No. Nothing.

I was tired, that was for sure. I was really comfortable where I was, once on my back, cold withstanding, that couldn’t be denied. It was calm. My mum always said I could sleep anywhere. I closed my eyes.

People scurried passed the half-length curtains like worker ants, I could feel their breeze in their wake. Inside my curtain, partitioned, room, it was still and silent. I think the shadows made the most ambience, light and dark. I could feel myself falling in and out, night and day. I felt myself rocking off into sleep. I am going, I am going, I am slipping, slipping, slip away

The curtain is suddenly pulled open. (Oh Universe, you sure can pick your moments) Heals approach on what can only be a hard floor. A face appears over the high-sided bed. She spoke, but not to me, as though she was calling ‘me’ in. “Can I have some help in room 2.”



He opened his eyes.

There is a middle aged woman, dressed in white, at the end of his bed.

He remembered being lifted. He remembered voices.

“Oh, good, you are awake.” She looks down at her clipboard, looks up with the look that she really didn’t need to check that, big eyes, force of habit, “Mr Hillier.” She has a very robotic tone to her voice.

“Yes?”

“We have got that right, haven’t we?”

“What?” She could be a robot. An automaton, is that what they call them?

She leaned in. “Your name?”

“Yes, Liam Hillier. Where am I?”

“I’m Meg,” she said. “I am here to help you.”

“Hi Meg.”

“Don’t you know where you are Mr Hillier?”

“No.”

“What day is it, Mr Hillier?”

“Um, Saturday.” More likely Sunday.

“What city are you in, Mr Hillier?”

“What city?”

“Yes, what city?”

“This is stupid?”

“City, Mr Hillier?”

“Melbourne.”

“Country?”

“Australia.”

“What year is it, Mr Hillier?”

“2016.”

“And you say you don’t know where you are?”

“No.”

“Did you take drugs in the previous 24 hours Mr Hillier?”

Meg was suddenly resembling Liam’s mother to a worrying extent. “Did I what?”

“The question was very straight forward,” said Meg. “Have you consumed drugs in the previous 24 hours, Mr Hillier?”

Liam wanted to laugh, but he stopped himself. What drugs have I not consumed in the last 24 hours, Meg, is the better question.

“Where am I?”

“St Vincent’s Hospital.”

“Why am I here?”

“You appeared to have an over dose…”

“A WHAT!”

“Over dose, luv, over dose.” Meg’s voice was smooth as honey. “An ep…i…sode.”

“I had a what?”

“And I can tell you something else?” said Meg. “You go to the gym, don’t you, Mr Hillier?”

“Um… yes.”

“You are a very strong boy, Mr Hillier.”

“I wouldn’t say that,” said Liam. He flexed his... His body ached. “I’ve got a way to go...” His arms felt like jelly.

“It took six grown men to restrain you, Mr Hillier.”

“It what?”

“It took the strength of six men to hold you, Mr Hillier.”

“My arms?”

“As I said Mr Hillier, you are a very strong boy.”

That’s not the answer.


Another nurse’s face appeared over the high-sided bed. “We had to strap you in, Mr Hillier, you caused quite a commotion down here last night.”

Liam was taken off guard by her appearance. He jumped.

Get it together buddy, your nerves are shot.

“Oh, look at you, such a sweet face,” said the second nurse. “I’m Ann. I’m here to help you.”

“HELLO.” I made myself jump. That was really loud, he wondered why?

“Oh, I see still a bit jittery.” Ann laughed a mum laugh. “That is to be expect… considering…” She looked down, at the same time her eyebrows raised to their highest setting, Liam jumped again, in readiness for the eyebrow pop he was sure he was about to witness.

Considering? Considering what?

“You put on quite a show,” said Meg.

A SHOW? Liam looked from Meg to Ann. Ann to Meg. He had no information on this latest offering of, alleged, fact.

“Shh,” said Ann.

Liam cleared his throat, which was stinging sore, now that he cleared it. “A show?” It came out as a croaked whisper, Liam was deliberately trying not to sound alarmed, and he’d over shot.

“Does it hurt a bit, luv, that’d be from the tube with which we pumped your stomach… darl.” Meg scrunched up her nose. She bounced her shoulders.

He cleared his throat again. “A show?” Pumped my what?

“Now don’t you worry about that,” said Ann.

Worry about what, I thought. I could remember nothing.

“I’m the director of nursing and I am here to inform you that the security guard we have felt the need to place on this floor for your welfare,” continued Ann. She cleared her throat, “The welfare of the other patients,” she cleared her throat again, “and the staff, is just outside your curtain.” She looked at Meg. “Should you need him.”

“A security guard?” The modulation was spot on, but I was concentrating so fiercely, I sounded like a psychopath, I am sure.

“I love this bit the most,” said Meg. “You boys always turn out to be so lovely,” she cleared her throat, “Nine times out of ten.”

Ann raised her eyebrows at Meg, who in turn nodded at the shared experience they had both just remembered.

Ann looked down at Liam, she brushed some hair off his forehead. “The masturbators always turn out to be the sweetest, though.” She looked away and said wistfully, “Funny.”

“So much energy,” said Meg. She looked down at Liam.

Ann looked down at Liam, again. “We’re not going to have any more trouble out of you, now are we, Mr Hillier?”

“No,” I said.

Mind. Blown.

Kaboom!