The Naked Drinking Club

by Rhona Cameron

  I saw a Tampax machine on the wall. I opened the door to the toilets and checked that no one was coming. I had to be quick. I was breaking one of my rules: don’t shit on your own doorstep. If this was going to be my local, then this was going to have to be the one and only time I do this here. The coast was clear, so I got underneath the machine, then pushed it upwards with my shoulder until it came off its hinges. I carried it into the cubicle and locked the door. I put the toilet seat down, resting the machine on top. This had to be done quickly in case Val were to come in and notice it missing from the wall. I turned it over and placed my two middle fingers into the plastic drawer at the bottom where the money rested in and nudged it upwards. I shook the machine until dollar coins spilled out into my hand and onto the floor, coughing to cover up any scattering noise, then, when it was as empty as I could possibly make it, I stood it up on the toilet as I scrabbled about on the floor picking up the change.

  I put the money in my pocket and took the machine out of the cubicle with me, wedging my foot against the outside door as I hooked it back on the wall. It had been a while since I had done a machine and had vowed to give it up in Sydney, but fuck it, tonight was one of those nights.

  I went back out to the bar where Mac was chatting to Val. She left when I approached him.

  ‘Fancy a whisky, Mac? My round.’

  ‘Rum, thanks. I don’t fuckin’ drink whisky.’

  ‘Suit yourself.’ I leant one foot on the bar stool and counted up my money: I’d got nineteen dollars from the machine. That would be about seven pounds at home. The Australians have slightly less in their Tampax machines than the Scots, I thought, as I clicked my fingers to get Val’s attention.

  CHAPTER SIX

  * * *

  MAC HAILED A cab on the corner of William Street.

  ‘Where you taking me?’ I was excited and giddy, hanging onto his arm; the street and traffic a soft blur.

  ‘To a decent fucking bar in the Cross.’

  The cab driver played Indian music.

  ‘Turn it up!’ I shouted.

  King’s Cross was dirty and full of junkies sitting in doorways. Mac stopped at a newsagent to buy some cigarettes. The man behind the till served people while threatening someone on the phone and he had a baseball bat beside him. I didn’t care, I liked everything. The night was full of possibilities. I felt in love with Mac, and sure we would be partners of some kind or another. We walked along King’s Cross Road into Earl Street. There were junkie trannies everywhere, and teams of lads coming and going in and out of strip joints. Mac walked ahead of me, saying hello to people every so often.

  I hadn’t been to the Cross district before. At first, when I was in Annandale with the electrician from the plane, I ventured down to Bondi for an occasional swim. Since my brief stay in Glebe, I’d moved straight to Woolloomooloo to the company flat and I hadn’t been on any tourist jaunts. I would take in all the sights eventually but I wasn’t in a hurry, and I wasn’t here as a tourist.

  We took a left off Earl Street into a small opening. Blondie’s ‘Atomic’ blasted from a bar called the Star. We went in. A woman with very short hair and a painted-on moustache was taking money at the door. She waved Mac and me in and we headed straight for the bar.

  ‘OH MAN, THIS IS GREAT. I FUCKING LOVE THIS MUSIC!’ I shouted after Mac, who was making his way through the crowd. The bar was tiny. On the counter, in the corner, a dog slept on a blanket. Mac nodded at a man with pure white long hair and a dramatic black hat; he waved back then spoke to the barman. We positioned ourselves at the end of the bar. Mac hadn’t spoken to me for ages. Two beers were sent across to us from the white-haired man via the barman, and Mac toasted him, and he toasted back. The bar was full of an assortment of characters, no particular types, but there was a distinct absence of regular Aussie-guy types in shorts and baseball hats. There were fewer women than men, and few people, if any, around my age group.

  ‘WHAT’S THE SCORE HERE, THEN?’ I asked Mac, getting slightly frustrated at his lack of communication.

  ‘There is no fucking score, for fuck’s sake. Why do you have to ask so many questions?’

  ‘Because I’m younger than you.’

  Mac shook his head and downed his beer; he was getting really drunk by now and his eyes were narrowing. I didn’t know how long Mac had been smoking at the rate he was tonight, but I was amazed that he was still alive. I had already noticed the way he shuffled along the street, an indication that the cigarettes were affecting his circulation.

  The music had switched to early Beatles; it was so loud there was no point in trying to talk any more.

  A man with no top on leant over me at the bar and gestured to the barman to kill the music. His armpit stank and was directly over my head. The music faded slightly.

  ‘Mr Wilson,’ said Mac, cigarette in hand, thumb resting behind his front teeth.

  ‘Mr Mac,’ said the topless man.

  ‘Excuse me,’ I said, sick of armpit.

  ‘I’m afraid you can’t be excused, you’ll have to stay until you’ve made a complete arse of yourself,’ said the Wilson character in an extremely upper-class English voice.

  ‘Shouldn’t be a problem,’ I said back.

  ‘Excellent stuff, highly amusing.’ He winked and turned his attention back towards the bar.

  ‘Who’s he?’ I said to Mac.

  ‘He’s all right,’ Mac said back. He’d enjoyed my exchange with his friend.

  The Wilson man moved away from the bar back through the crowd, carrying two schooners of lager that were spilling all over the place. I turned round to watch him, which was difficult because in the short time since we’d arrived there, the place was packing out even more. I realised I could see his bare arse jostle through the crowd. He was completely naked except for a pair of Blundstone boots which I’d noticed on almost every Australian man I’d seen.

  ‘Who the fuck is he and what is he doing?’ I asked Mac. He laughed and laughed, which went into a cackle then some kind of serious bronchial episode. I banged him on the back.

  ‘He runs the club,’ Mac said, spluttering. ‘Oh fuck, that’s funny.’

  ‘It’s not that funny. Jesus, you’re going to have a fucking heart attack.’ Mac was just laughing at anything now, he’d lost it. ‘What club?’

  ‘This one.’

  ‘What one? This is a club?’

  Just then I heard a PA cranking up and a microphone being tested. Mac nudged his head towards the back of the room. I turned round to see Wilson standing on a chair in a tiny carved-out DJ pulpit area. The Beatles stopped.

  ‘Good evening, ladies and gentlemen. Firstly, I’d like to point out that you’re all a bunch of cunts who deserve none of this.’ The crowd cheered and various people shouted for him to fuck off. ‘Secondly, I’d like to welcome you to The Naked Drinking Club, and I’d like to add that if you’re not naked now, then you fucking will be.’ The crowd went mental again. ‘If this is your first time here, then you’ve only got yourself to blame. Now then, I’d like to point out that we have provided a paddling pool to my left here on the dance floor, should you require it for vomiting purposes. Right then, let’s kick off with some of your very own shite. You should be so fucking lucky.’

  Kylie Minogue’s ‘I Should Be So Lucky’ piped out and was appreciated with irony by most of the crowd who started dancing. Wilson, a big public-school type, towered over everyone, and jokingly pushed others out of his way in order to maximise the dance floor for his own ludicrous dancing, which nobody seemed to mind.

  I loved this place. I loved the atmosphere. Nobody cared about how anyone behaved, it was friendly and perfect, and had none of the pretensions that had put me off going to clubs before. I felt into my pocket and examined my change.

  ‘Let’s get some tequila slammers,’ I said to Mac, getting close to him. I could have kissed him but I didn’t. I wasn’t sure yet how I felt about him, and I wanted to jump up and down with the music. Mac just watched me i
n that way I was growing used to. Either he was very interesting or just a boring old fucked-up drunk, but he’d brought me here and I loved it.

  ‘Mmm. Shall we?’

  ‘Your call.’

  ‘Yee-es.’

  I ordered a couple of tequilas from the white-haired man who was helping out behind the bar; he poured and Mac and I slammed. I went to the dance floor and started dancing near Wilson, who seemed to have an assistant of sorts. The woman, with the short hair and painted-on moustache from the door, had joined him in nudity and similar carefree dancing. Wilson grabbed me.

  ‘I’m sorry but you’re going to have to strip,’ he said, getting into the next song, which was an old Suzy Quatro/Chris Norman duet I hadn’t heard in ages. Wilson knew all the lyrics, which he sang along to as he attempted to remove my top.

  I looked over at Mac, who was engrossed in conversation with the white-haired man.

  I took off my T-shirt and bra and swung them around a bit, thinking nothing of it.

  ‘Good tits,’ said Wilson.

  ‘Thanks. Good cock,’ I said, pointing at it.

  Lots more people were naked by now and nobody seemed to bat an eyelid, we were all much more concerned with dancing away to the music. ‘Come Up And See Me, Make Me Smile’ caused a surge of enthusiasm from the crowd. I took off my skirt, and danced around in my underwear for a while, before removing everything and throwing my pants at Mac. Mac just picked them up and carried on talking to the man. It felt very easy to remove my clothes, and I loved the feeling of no boundaries, of limitless debauchery.

  I danced between Wilson and the moustached woman who rubbed her tits in my face every now and then. We danced however we wanted, with no emphasis on trying to look good whatsoever. It was just about moving around in whatever way we felt like. The moustached woman brought out a bottle of poppers and offered it to me, just as the music changed to Black Sabbath’s ‘Ace Of Spades’. Wilson ran over to the DJ box, grabbed a crash helmet and put it on. I hadn’t had poppers for a while and they made my head rush to what felt like the point of bursting, as Wilson ran head first, repeatedly, at the back wall. I looked into the sea of naked, drunken and vastly different bodies that surrounded me and felt fantastic.

  I danced for about an hour with beer breaks every so often. I went to the toilet at one point and took some coke in a cubicle with two naked men, with whom I had bad kissing, and a goth girl. When I came out of the toilet, Mac was gone. I found the white-haired man, who was topless, and asked him if he knew where Mac was.

  ‘He’s gone to play in a poker game, he won’t be back now.’

  ‘Where’s my clothes?’ I slurred. I felt sudden, intense concern for my clothes.

  ‘Steve’s got them.’ He pointed to the barman who gave me the thumbs-up.

  Mac must have given my clothes to Steve to look after and told Whitey to look out for me, I thought with drunken logic. That means he must care for me. I’ve only just spoken to him today yet I feel I’ve known him for a long time. What does that mean? And was the poker game just an excuse? Did he leave because I was so off my head and naked? What does my nudity mean to him? Is it wrong because he is protective of me? Does he get naked? Why does he come to this club? Why did he bring me? Maybe he can help me with what I’m looking for through his contacts in the Sydney Morning Herald. Maybe that’s why our paths have crossed. Everything happens in my life for a reason. Oh, fuck it.

  I stopped questioning myself for the time being, because I was in no fit state to answer. The barman poured us both tequilas. That’s when I snogged him across the bar. And that’s how I ended up in his bed.

  The thirst woke me up first. I was dreaming I was eating watermelon. I woke up scratching my hand; I thought there were eggs planted in it. I thought an insect had laid four small jelly eggs under my skin that were about to hatch. I felt sick, and my legs felt trapped. I tried to move them but they were weighed down. Then I came to and found the weight was a pitbull terrier lying across me at the foot of the bed. I twisted my body round; a large, muscular man slept on his side away from me. It wasn’t Mac. I strained to see his face, which caused the dog to growl and the man to stir. I didn’t know him at first.

  On the floor was a crumpled-up Durex. I tried to make out whether it was full or not but couldn’t see. I lay back down again, defeated by the dog and nausea. I needed a drink of water so badly; the Australian heat added a tricky new element to the morning after.

  I had to give in; it was too hot and dry. I thought hard about where I could be. I remembered dancing naked in a bar and later being in the room I had slept in, and a barman asking me what Branston pickle was. I thought I had fucked the man next to me in a toilet, that I had sat on top of him and someone had come in, a woman with a moustache, but I couldn’t be sure. I remembered being in a cab with Mac before that, then I could hear Blondie’s ‘Atomic’ but the gaps were really big this time, bigger than usual.

  I went back to sleep for a while, and when I awoke I was less drunk, and the barman had gone. I sat up in bed, my numbed head, resting on both hands which were killing me from showing Mac my pool-table balancing. I put on my clothes and left.

  The street was all lively and bright and full of more couples than usual. Then I remembered it was Saturday, and we were going out selling early just after lunch. I stood at a bus stop, trying to focus on the route information on the sign. I put my hands in the back pockets of my denim skirt to find some soft folded paper. I took it out and examined it. It was three pages from the Sydney phone book, all of the name Duffy. I had two of them on the first page scored out, which made me worry that perhaps I’d called them the night before.

  Back at William Street, things were fairly quiet. Only the Danish were up and about. I still felt slightly drunk when I walked in. I didn’t care whether Anaya saw me like this or not. In fact, I was rather hoping I would bump into her. Maybe I would ask her to come for a drink with me or something. I wouldn’t care what I said to her. I looked at the Danish eating breakfast cereal and laughed.

  ‘Hey, Kerry.’ Karin laughed back, not really understanding that I was laughing at them.

  ‘Heeeeyyy,’ I said, looking in the fridge. I bent down, putting my hands on my knees, staring in at our divided food sections. The Danish had a joint section full of fromage frais, yogurts, ham and cheese. Jim’s was mostly ham, cheese, eggs, and jam and some salad. Mine was completely empty. ‘I dunno …’ I mumbled.

  ‘Is that you just back, Kerry?’ asked Andrea who was tying her hair back with a band, sitting beside Karin on the sofa.

  ‘Yep. ‘Fraid so.’ I shut the fridge, took a glass from the draining board and filled it with water, turning round and leaning against the sink, gulping it down.

  ‘So, party, party, yeah?’ said Karin.

  ‘Party, party,’ I said in a sing-songy voice.

  ‘Did you go off with that guy in the bar?’ Karin asked, between enthusiastic mouthfuls of cereal eating.

  I poured another glass of water. ‘Mac?’

  ‘Do you know him?’ asked Karin.

  ‘Kind of.’ I thought about telling them everything but what would be the point? They’d only say ‘cool’ or something annoying like that.

  ‘Yep, we went to a club in King’s Cross, and I just crashed with someone there.’ I pushed the patio doors open with my foot, and lit up a cigarette from a packet lying on the kitchen worktop.

  ‘Cool,’ she said.

  ‘Whose are these? Do you know?’ I asked, already lighting one up.

  ‘I think they’re Anaya’s,’ said Andrea.

  ‘Cool,’ I said, sniggering. They began speaking to each other in Danish. I sat on the step, with my back against the doorframe, half looking outside, and half looking at the Danish, sucking on the cigarette, which I regretted within seconds.

  Andrea began licking stamps and putting them on postcards. That’s when it was time for me to leave. I stamped out the cigarette and retreated to my room, feeling nauseous. I was too
fucked to shower, and decided to have one later. I lay down on my bed, looking at my clothes on the floor, and made plans to tidy and settle in more. I lay on my side, trying to find a position that felt better for what I had to admit was a hangover, and replayed the night before, trying to figure out what kind of sex I’d had with the barman, or what his name was. I couldn’t remember much. Instead I felt envious of the Danish, and longed to be simple like them, up bright and early, making the most of the day. We were both here in Australia for very different reasons though, mine much more complex than theirs. I felt sad and panicky for a moment, but told myself that it must be the come-down and that it would pass. I took all my clothes off and got under the covers. My body smelt of the stale sweat of the barman and me. I wondered if Anaya was still asleep in the room beneath me, and felt certain that she, of all people in this mixed troupe of players, would understand my darkness. I listened for sounds of her, and drifted off.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  * * *

  WITHIN A WEEK, I quickly learned all there was to know about selling the paintings. It was so easy to read people, the ones that were likely to let you in and the ones that weren’t. I learned little tricks of the trade through Greg, reporting back to him every night in The North Angel about the things I’d encountered during that evening’s work.

  ‘A good one is,’ he told me, ‘to make out you’re thirsty, say if you could just have a glass of water, that way you stand a chance of at least getting into their hall.’

  One time I had asked for a beer from an approachable-looking man who answered the door with a joint in his hand. I ended up there the entire evening, just smoking and drinking a couple of beers, and shooting the breeze about this and that. By the time Jim turned up with the others, I hadn’t even opened up my folder once, and was so wasted I couldn’t explain why without laughing. In the car on the way home, things were quiet and Jim was angry with me, I could tell, but he didn’t know me well enough to chastise me. Instead he just said, ‘Well, it’s your own bloody time that you’re wasting.’