Thursday, March 3, 2011

Revolver with Tim - Part One

“There are Turkish prostitutes everywhere.”
“You’re right, Tim, vicious, evil prostitutes”, I replied, peeling myself from the velour couch. “Must be hot in here, I’m sticking.”
“Can’t feel a thing. Cigarette?”
I nod softly, all too aware that any sudden movements would startle the bouncers into consciousness, alerting them to my incomprehensibly inebriated state.

“Excuse me, can I swap you this packet of cigarettes for two of your real ones?” Tim spoke in the colour blue, like he always did when we were like this. He said I spoke in green, but I doubt if he knew at all.
The girl looked perplexed and I was almost positive that she was wise to us, perhaps even in on the whole act.
“What’s wrong with yours?”
“Cheap Indonesian shit”, Tim gurgled.
Reluctantly, the girl offered her deck in the direction of Tim’s hand and he made the exchange.
“Thankyou”, I said with absolute sincerity, locking eyes. “When all this comes crashing down, I’ll make sure you’re spared.”
Tim looked at me as if I’d made a promise I couldn’t keep, and I realised I had. We only had room for four, and with Elise and Ashley already on board, there’d be no room except on the wing. With Marlboro Light girl on one wing, we’d have to commission another weight for the second to ensure we were balanced in flight. There was no time to find anyone else, so, with an understanding look, I ushered Tim along.

“You know we can’t take her, right?”
“I know, Tim, you’re absolutely right, but she’s so cute.”
“I suppose we could use her, but for all we know, she may have a penis.”
“I never thought of that. This place is a dungeon, it’s more than likely.”
“Turkish prostitutes everywhere. Let’s get out of here.”

On the outside there seemed only one reasonable thing to do.
“It’s been a wild ride, man”, I said, pursing my lips against his contorted cheek.
“Fair thee well."

A girl lingered in my periphery wearing a short skirt and long jacket, just like the Cake song.
“No strings attached”, I whisper.
I repeated. “No strings attached”.
“Fuck off! You’re fucked in the head.” I’d heard this before, from better looking girls, too.
“I meant you’ve got no strings attached to you, you’re clean.” 
She was clean; a cold, calculated clean. The type of clean I imagine Hitler commanded from his chambermaid.

A man approaches, looking infuriated and confused. I quickly calculate that it’s her boyfriend. He doesn’t hold my attention.

I wonder if she gets cold legs when she walks, because of that skirt and this weather. Surely she does, but warms them up when she gets home with a blanket and a hot water bottle and warm cocoa, and the breath of her boyfriend against the nape of her neck as he actions his pre-meditated plan to have foul sex in their living room while his parents sleep in the comfort of knowing that he’ll attend university the following year to study law, achieve the highest standard of excellence, perhaps a scholarship, marry a willing participant and move back to Malaysia to become King of his country, country and family. Fuck me, what is he thinking? Run, fucking run.

I push him in front of a car, the bulbar striking his kneecap.
“I’m doing you a favour, man”, I cry insanely, holding his head against the tram track, waiting for the number 16 to fly by and cut his head off. “I’m doing you a favour, man”.
I let him go when I see the fear in his eyes and I realise it’s time for bed. Surely the cops would be on their way too, and after the awful things I’ve done tonight, perhaps it’s not wise to stick around.

“Another day, man. Just don’t let your parents talk you into doing Law, for fuck’s sake. And you!”, I exclaim toward the girl, “when he offers you cocoa it’s only because he wants to have foul sex with you. I’m sorry, I have to go now. Lovely meeting you both. Wave to the dot in the sky. If we had any spare seats I’d offer one to you both. Make sure you wave.”