by John Larkin
‘Yeah. Why shouldn’t I?’
‘The Old Man and the Sea Monsters?’
‘I was,’ Her Gel pauses for effect, ‘joking. Anyway, I’m not studying English but economics.’
‘Why?’
‘I want to be an accountant.’
‘Why?’ Wait a minute. Why was he talking about toga parties?
‘So what do you reckon?’
‘About what?’
‘About the toga party? You have to bring someone.’
‘What’s a toga party?’
‘You dress up like Romans. Ancient Romans, anyway.’
‘Why?’
‘It’s fun. You know, Socrates and all that. It was a riot.’
‘Socrates was Greek, not Roman.’
‘Same thing.’
‘No, it’s not.’
‘So are you in?’
I’m about to say no, but I’ve just realised that Herr Gel might be able to help me. ‘My toga’s in the wash.’
‘Ha, ha. Just use a sheet.’
I haven’t got a sheet. ‘I’ll think about it.’
‘Sweet.’
‘Are there any hotels around here? Good ones, I mean.’
He gives me a suggestive smile. ‘Why? What did you have in mind?’
‘Sleep.’
‘Wait a minute,’ says Herr Gel, getting serious. He looks at the cast on my arm, then down at my sleeping bag and backpack which are under the table next to my feet. Then he looks back up at my hair which is so greasy you could fry scallops in it. ‘Are you homeless?’
‘Is it that obvious?’ If I can’t wash my hair at least twice a week, I’ll have to go with dreadlocks, which would be okay, I guess.
‘Cool. I’ve never met a homeless person before. Especially a chick.’
How can you especially not meet a homeless person?
‘You could come and stay at my place for a bit . . .’
A bit of what? I give him my withering ‘as if!’ look.
‘. . . though my parents would probably suss there was someone else living in my room. Unless you hid in the wardrobe when Mum makes my bed.’
His mum makes his bed. ‘Hotel?’
‘There’s one up on the corner.’ He makes a gesture towards the road. ‘It’s just past the uni. It’s really nice. My aunt had her wedding reception there. Lot of corporate types stay there on business.’
I don’t know what corporate types are but I nod anyway.
‘How do I get in?’
‘You want to break into a room and crash?’
‘No. Properly.’
‘Do you have any money?’
I nod.
‘It’s expensive.’
‘I’ve got my aunt’s credit card.’ I pull it out of my pocket and show him.
He studies the card. ‘Serena Sanchez. Are you Mexican?’
‘Paraguayan.’ I have to bite my lip when I say this.
‘Anyway, cash might be better if you can’t get her signature right.’
I shove the card away again. It was stupid to show him, to let him see the name. ‘I’m good for cash,’ I say as coolly as I can.
He raises his eyebrows at me, and I think of the money bricks nestled in the bottom of my bag. Next to the gun. God.
I knew I should have thrown it out. But I didn’t just want to chuck it in the bin or the creek. I don’t know how to take the bullets out and kids might have found it.
‘You would have to be the coolest chick I’ve ever met.’ Herr Gel pauses and gives me another suggestive look and suddenly I suspect where he’s coming from. He obviously thinks that without my parents around, with me being homeless and everything, I’ll be easy prey. And I’m happy to feed the delusion if it helps me.
‘Well? The hotel. How do I get in?’
Herr Gel stares at me as if he doesn’t understand what the problem is. ‘Just rock up to reception and ask for a room. Tell them you’re paying in cash. Advance if they want it.’
‘You don’t think they’d ask questions?’
‘About what?’
‘Well, my age.’
‘How old are you?’
‘How old do you think I am?’
‘Sixteen. Seventeen.’
I must look like death warmed up. ‘Try thirteen.’
‘Oh shit, sorry. You look a lot . . .’ He trails off. ‘Listen. About the toga party. It’s probably best if you don’t, you know. I mean you’re cute and everything, but I don’t want to go to jail.’
I give him my sweetest look and then lay the sarcasm on with a machine gun. ‘That’s so romantic.’
And now that he can’t get anything out of me, not without going to jail, he’ll just walk away. Toss me aside like a dirty handkerchief.
‘Look. I’m sorry if I creeped you out and everything. You look much older and, I mean, how many thirteen-year-olds read Hemingway and know that Socrates was Roman not Greek?’
‘Other way round.’
‘How many thirteen-year-olds walk around with credit cards and wads of cash?’
Herr Gel tells me to wait where I am, that he’s on a break in ten minutes and we’ll work out a way of getting me into the hotel. Then he winks at me, smiles and is off serving other customers. I give myself a mental kick up the bum. Not all men are like Creepo.
Ten minutes later, as promised, Herr Gel is back. He plonks down another mango smoothie, which he tells me is on the house. His way of saying he’s sorry, I guess. He’s got his mobile with him and he’s written the hotel phone number on a Post-It note. He also tells me that his name is Alistair McAlister, which seems so unlikely that I can’t stop myself from laughing.
Alistair McAlister phones the hotel and makes a booking for me and my mother. I start to protest and gesture madly but I don’t know the sign language for ‘my mother has spent the last few years decomposing out in the forest’, so he waves me away.
‘All done,’ he says, hanging up.
‘Done?’ I snap. ‘My mother’s dead.’
‘It doesn’t matter.’
‘It probably does to her.’
‘No, that’s not what . . .’
‘I suppose I could try and dig up a thighbone or something . . .’
‘No,’ interrupts Alistair McAlister because I’m starting to ramble. ‘You don’t need her. Just the idea of her.’
‘So why did you book it in my aunt’s name?’
‘You might have to leave a credit card imprint, for the minibar and stuff.’
‘I’m not going to have anything from the minibar.’
‘They don’t know that.’
‘I still don’t know how I’m supposed to get in without my dead mother or my . . .’
Alistair McAlister taps his head. ‘Listen and learn.’
He tells me his plan, and although it’s got a couple of holes in it, I have to admit that it’s pretty good, so good in fact that I take a few notes. And then I realise that I’m learning my first lesson of life on the streets. Learning my first lessons in street smarts from a trainee accountant called Alistair McAlister whose mummy still makes his bed.
I’ve got a long way to go.
SO ALISTAIR MCALISTER WAS ALL RIGHT?
Yeah, he was cool. He even gave me his mobile number and made me promise to ring him and let him know how it went. So I had three people looking out for me. Who I could get help from if I had to.
Three?
Dr Chen, Marco Rossini and Alistair McAlister. I suppose what I learned from that is that people are basically good. Yes there are some psychos out there but not as many as we think. Paedos make the news because what they do is disgusting. The millions, billions, or whatever it is, of men who aren
’t paedos don’t make the news. People are good but we don’t really get to hear about them because the media is only interested in the freak show; it makes the world look much worse than it actually is.
So you went to the hotel?
Yeah. I had planned to slink up to reception and ask for a room and if they gave me a funny look I was just going to run off. But Alistair said that I had to be super confident and act as if nothing was wrong. He told me about this uncle of his who was like this total thief. What’s that word for someone who can’t stop themselves from stealing stuff? Klept-something.
Kleptomaniac?
Yeah, well this uncle of his would go into a supermarket or the hardware store and wheel out a trolley full of groceries or a new workbench or something and just casually walk through the checkout.
How did he avoid getting caught?
Because he was so obvious about it. He didn’t try to sneak out. He’d just march through the exit with his trolley or chainsaw or whatever and say something like, ‘That’s all sorted, see you later’, and off he’d go. Or he’d march up to the guy on the exit door and go, ‘Bob in tools reckons that this’ll cut down a gum tree no probs, what do you reckon?’ And then they’d have a chat about it and after that he’d thank the guy and just walk out.
How did he have the nerve?
Practice, I guess. He used to carry around this old receipt, which he’d look at as he was walking through the checkout, and nobody thought to question him.
What’s that got to do with you? You weren’t planning on embracing a life of crime, were you?
God no. ‘Thou shalt not steal’. It’s ingrained. Number eight on the hot ten list of commandments. Besides anything else, I figured if I got caught I’d be shipped back to Creepo and Serena, especially since by that time I was probably registered as a runaway. And then Creepo would totally ignore commandment number six and get right down to a bit of murdering, while Marco Rossini was busy engaging in a serious bout of number ten – coveting his neighbour’s wife (or her ass).
Did you get into the hotel?
It was hard enough just getting there. Alistair said that it was just up the road but it was about a kilometre away and because I hadn’t slept for so long I had to stop for a couple of breaks along the way. I was sitting there in the gutter just about ready to pass out I was so tired and there were all these young, healthy-looking uni students walking past me. A couple of them said something to me and so I told them where to go and what to do when they go there. It was my first stereotypical homeless moment. Sitting in the gutter telling passersby to go and screw themselves. I realised that I was only a supermarket trolley and a serious case of BO away from being a bag lady.
But you made it?
Eventually.
AT MY OLD SCHOOL WE USED TO HAVE THIS CHINESE TEACHER. I DON’T mean that she was Chinese (even though she was), but that she used to teach Chinese. It was a pretty heavy ESL area. We had an Arabic teacher for a while too, but he used to yell at all the Lebanese boys until they cried. Anyway, when I was in year three, just before everything kicked off at home, I asked if I could go and learn Chinese, mostly so I could hang out with my bestie at the time, Susan Wong. I told the teachers that when I left school I was going to live in Hong Kong (which is where Susan was from and where she went back to at the end of year six) and it was unfair that I wasn’t allowed to learn Chinese just because I wasn’t Chinese. So they gave in and let me join in the Mandarin classes. I was lucky that the principal bought my bullshit story about moving to Hong Kong, especially when Susan told me that most people speak Cantonese there, not Mandarin.
Anyway, Mrs Chiu started each lesson by telling a traditional Chinese story. Sometimes the stories were interesting. Other times they were mind-meltingly boring. Some of the morals were also a bit dodgy. I remember one story I did like called ‘The Axe’. This old woodchopper wakes up one morning but he can’t find his axe anywhere. He searches all over for it but can’t find the thing. The woodchopper immediately suspects his neighbour’s son but he has no proof. But every time the woodchopper looks at his neighbour’s son, he looks like a thief, he walks like a thief, and he acts like a thief. Then a few days later the woodchopper finds his axe behind the chook pen, in exactly the same spot he’d left it. And the next time the woodchopper sees his neighbour’s son, he looks like a boy, he walks like a boy, and he acts like a boy.
I feel a bit like the neighbour’s son when I walk into the foyer of the Shangrila Pines Resort. I haven’t stolen anyone’s axe. I haven’t stolen anything (apart from a couple of Creepo’s money bricks and his gun, but that doesn’t count) but I bet I look like I have. And that’s what the story taught me. I need to look like I belong in a five-star hotel, not like a homeless chick who’d steal your last scallop, because, let’s face it, I’m both.
The foyer doesn’t have a sign that reads ‘If You Don’t Have a Serious Amount of Money Then Go Away!’. It doesn’t need to. It’s all shiny granite floors, plush inviting lounges, fresh flowers and artificial fountains. It even has a smell. A smell of success.
Above the reception there are a bunch of clocks announcing the time in Sydney, New York, Tokyo, London, and Dubai, so that’ll come in handy. I don’t know how ordinary people make it through the day without knowing the time in Tokyo. Beyond the reception area there’s a café, a couple of restaurants and a bar. But before I can get to any of those I have to make it past reception. As I’m walking over to the check-in desk, I catch sight of my reflection in one of the mirrored columns dotted around the lobby. I look like I’ve stolen someone’s axe and gone on a homicidal rampage.
I bail out and duck into the toilets for a better look. I don’t know what Alistair McAlister saw in me that would make him want to ask me to a toga party. I look like I’m as close to death as you can get yet still technically be alive. Apart from my emaciated face and greasy hair, my t-shirt’s all crushed and I’m wearing tracksuit pants because my piss-soaked jeans from last night are stuffed down the bottom of my backpack.
I wash my face and run my hands through my hair, figuring that the wet look is better than the grease ball one. After that I look and feel marginally better. I think about hiding my sleeping bag in one of the cubicles or in the bin and collecting it later. But it’s not a homeless girl who’s going to keep me out of the hotel; it’s my imaginary mother who’s going to get me in.
I march over to reception with my head held high and shoulders pulled back. I feel completely unco. I notice outside that a coach has just pulled up and is disgorging a Japanese tour group onto the foyer. From the amount of luggage the harried driver’s unloading, it looks like they’ve just come from the airport. This could work in my favour. If the check-in crew are about to be swamped, they’ll want to get rid of me as quickly as they can.
‘Can I help you?’
I take a deep breath and try to recall Alistair McAlister’s script. Say her name. It creates a connection. A familiarity.
I glance down at her left boob. ‘Yeah, hi Mia. We have a booking.’
‘And the name?’ Mia is quick and efficient. I like that in a check-in clerk. She’s a career woman. My mother should impress her.
‘Sanchez.’
Mia taps her keyboard. ‘That’s a twin single for one night.’
I don’t know what a twin single is, it makes no sense at all, but I say yes.
Mia glances up from her screen. She looks doubtful. Unlike Alistair McAlister, she obviously doesn’t think I’m sixteen or seventeen. It’s time to wheel out the big guns.
‘I must look like crap,’ I say, and giggle. I look up at the clocks on the wall behind her. ‘We’ve just flown in from New York. My mother had to go into the city but she had the cab drop me off first. Didn’t want me hanging around her high-powered meeting.’ Then I put away the guns and go nuclear. ‘She’s a barrister.’ A check-in clerk is not go
ing to mess with a barrister. ‘She’s meeting with the Lord Chief Justice.’ I don’t even know if there’s such a thing as a Lord Chief Justice, but I’m betting Mia won’t either.
Mia smiles. ‘You do look tired.’
‘Tell me about it.’
‘What happened to your arm?’
My psycho, paedo uncle broke it. ‘I hurt it . . .’ I was in New York, think. ‘. . . ice-skating.’ Brilliant.
‘There’s a slight problem,’ says Mia. ‘We can’t release the room to you yet. You see, we need . . .’
I interrupt her. ‘I understand. My mum’s a famous barrister, but she’s also a single mum and we go all over the world together.’
Mia stares at me, as if she’s not really sure where I’m going with this. Maybe I’ve overdone it. I put her out of her misery. ‘You need her credit card, right? Or a deposit.’
‘That’s right,’ says Mia, brightening now that we’re on the same page.
‘Happens all the time.’ I hand over the credit card and two fifty dollar notes.
‘Oh,’ says Mia. ‘We only need one. Credit card or down payment.’
‘I know,’ I reply, ‘but some hotels prefer one over the other. Take your pick. Mum said that it didn’t matter as long as you let me have the room.’ There’s just a hint of a threat in there. ‘She said that she’d call after her meeting to see if everything’s okay.’ Of course she isn’t going to call, what with her not existing and everything, but that’s not the point. Mia just needs to believe that she will. However, Mia’s got what she needs and the queue is building up behind me; she’s going to be run off her feet for the next half an hour checking this lot in and she can’t be looking forward to it. Mia slides the cash back to me and swipes Serena’s credit card. Then she hands me the key, which is not a key at all but another card, two in fact (one for me and one for Mum) and that’s it. I’m in.
‘Take the elevator or the stairs to the second floor and your room is just along the corridor. We hope you and your mum have a very pleasant stay.’
‘Thank you, Mia,’ I say. ‘We will.’