The Boys from Binjiwunyawunya

by Robert G. Barrett

  He walked down to the Duke of Kent, went in one bar, through another and into a third. A jukebox was playing in one bar and a video screen going in another. It was smoky and fairly crowded with nearly everyone dressed to kill, and if the majority of the patrons weren’t gay, they were that happy it didn’t make any difference. In his blue tracksuit and suntan, Norton stood out like a black with a banjo at a Ku Klux Klan rally, and was already getting pretty much the same looks. Ohh bugger this he thought. I think I’ll leave the St Kilda dag rattlers to drink on their own. I’m going to head back to the motel, drink what piss is in the fridge and hit the sack. I’ve got to be up around five anyway. He had one last look around the bar and headed back to the St Moritz.

  He returned the smile of the girl on the switchboard and went straight to his room, tuned the stereo to some local FM station, kicked off his joggers and socks and opened another beer. He lay back on the bed to give it a test; it was firm yet wonderfully comfortable. Jesus, how did I manage to fluke this he chuckled as he took in the opulence of the suite. There was a TV guide sitting on the smoked-glass coffee table in front of the ottoman. That’s what I’ll do. I’ll watch the late news and check out Mousey’s map again before I go to sleep. He finished his beer and was about to get another when there was a soft knock on the door. He opened it and there was Mrs Perry.

  Norton was taken slightly aback. ‘Oh hello Mrs Perry. What... seems to be the trouble?’

  ‘There’s been a complaint that some of the phones aren’t working properly. Do you mind if I come in and have a quick look?’

  ‘No. Go for your life.’ Norton stepped back from the door and closed it behind her.

  He stood near the bed as Mrs Perry made a great fuss about picking up the receiver, pressing the buttons and clicking the switch hooks up and down with her finger.

  ‘Yes — well. That seems to be working properly now.’ Mrs Perry was acting sophisticated and businesslike but all the time her eyes kept darting nervously around the room, always coming back to rest on Les.

  ‘Well that’s real good, Mrs Perry,’ smiled Les. ‘Is there anything else you think you ought to check while you’re here?’

  Mrs Perry moved over and stood right in front of Les again. ‘I don’t know Mr Norton,’ she breathed. ‘What do you think?’

  ‘What do I think?’

  Norton looked at her. This is getting absolutely ridic he thought. This sheila’s doing everything but send up smoke signals; and she’s a bloody good sort too. If I don’t make some sort of a move she’ll either think I’m a bigger mug than what I look, or a poof. Bugger this. I’ll have to have a lash.

  He reached out and took Mrs Perry by the knot in her cardigan sash and drew her gently towards him. She gave about as much resistance as the Italian Army in 1943. Eyes swimming, she looked up at Norton who smiled, stooped his head slightly, and kissed her softly on the lips.

  That was all Mrs Perry was waiting for. She wound her arms around Norton’s neck, moaned quietly and kissed him back, avidly, hungrily, her tongue darting into Norton’s mouth and around his ears and neck. It wasn’t long before Les had a horn hard enough to break an icepick. He drew her in a little closer, ran his hand up over her ribcage and across her firm well-rounded breasts. Mrs Perry began kissing him more passionately than ever. Steadily, Les eased her back against the edge of the bed. She gave another little moan as he sat her down on it, spread her legs apart and stepped in between. Mrs Perry was only too willing to oblige and opened her legs up more, sitting her knees up on her chest. Norton pushed her long, woollen dress up over her stomach and ran his hand tenderly across her backside and her thighs.

  It was then that Norton, much to his disgust, found that Mrs Perry, ladylike owner of the classy St Moritz Motel, was a bit like the girl in the Holeproof ad on TV. For Mrs Perry was wearing no knickers. She was wearing no knickers at all. No underwear. Nothing.

  Well I’ll be buggered, he thought. Sophisticated, conservative bloody Melbourne eh. At least the sheilas in Sydney wear pants. He had a quick look to make sure. Yeah. Smooth white skin, neatly trimmed pubic hair. But definitely no knickers. You filthy little devil. It was revolting.

  It was also very convenient. The next thing, Norton’s tracksuit and Speedos were off quicker than you could yell ‘Up Collingwood’.

  Norton eased her right to the edge of the bed, lifted her legs up a little more and entered her, slowly and gently. Mrs Perry let out a long moan of agonised ecstasy.

  ‘Ohhh yessss,’ she gasped. ‘Yessss.’

  Well, that definitely doesn’t sound like no to me thought Norton — and away he went.

  In a word, it was sensational. Mrs Perry got into it with him like there was going to be no tomorrow. She bucked and squealed. Norton lifted her legs up further till her ankles were up behind her ears. The sudden unexpectedness of it could have had something to do with it but there was no two ways about it, Mrs Perry was one hell of a woman in bed. She went off like a Chinese new year. Norton would have liked to have gone on for ages, for both of them. But it was just too good and Mrs Perry’s ted was too warm, tight and delicious. With his knees going like the pistons on the Spirit of Progress, Norton slipped into top gear with Mrs Perry screaming encouragement. Finally Les had to clench his jaws to stop from screaming out himself, and with his eyes virtually spinning around in his head he arched his back and with a huge shudder poured himself into her. Mrs Perry let out one long wail that ended with a choked-off scream.

  Eventually Norton slowed down and withdrew, just as his knees buckled on him. He went to sit on the edge of the bed, missed and fell on the floor. Blinking groggily, he sat there for a few moments before climbing back up on the bed. Mrs Perry was lying there, legs spread apart, one arm over her face the other out at her side. An explosion of woollen dress and cardigan up over her stomach.

  Panting quietly, Norton sat on the edge of the bed staring at her in disbelief. This was one of the weirdest things that had ever happened to him. Mrs Perry oozed sophistication, grace and good manners, but underneath she was a mad raving case. He had to say something, though without offending her. But what? Norton was almost lost for words.

  He got his breath back and stared at Mrs Perry lying next to him, her chest still heaving slightly underneath her woollen top. Finally he took in a deep breath and ran his hand through his matted, sweaty hair.

  ‘I tell you what,’ he said sincerely. ‘It is hot for this time of the year — isn’t it?’ He rose a little unsteadily to his feet and lurched towards the bar. ‘You want a drink?’ Norton reached into the fridge, grabbed the first can of beer he could find, ripped the ring-pull off and swallowed almost half of it in one go. His eyes watered and after a second or two he belched. The belch seemed to sting Mrs Perry back into life.

  She jumped to her feet and began straightening her dress. ‘Yes. Well... Mr Norton,’ she said, tidying her hair and looking everywhere around the room but at Les.

  ‘Well what Mrs Perry?’ shrugged Norton, leaning against the bar completely naked, his old fellah still wet and shiny and flopping around in front of him like a broken arm.

  ‘Well. Everything seems to be in order here Mr Norton,’ she flustered, but she still couldn’t seem to look at Les when she spoke.

  ‘Everything’s the grouse Mrs Perry,’ smiled Norton, raising his can of beer. ‘Couldn’t be creamier.’

  ‘Yes, well. That’s very good isn’t it, Mr Norton.’ She continued to straighten her dress and tidy her hair.

  ‘Good?’ replied Les. ‘Mrs Perry. If this is your idea of room service. You leave anything else I know for dead. You sure you won’t have a drink?’

  ‘No thank you,’ she sniffed. ‘I, ah... think it might be best if I got going. Seeing everything’s all right in here now.’ ‘Okay Mrs Perry,’ shrugged Norton, a little mystified. ‘Suit yourself.’

  Mrs Perry moved across to the door. Norton opened it for her and extended his hand. ‘Well Mrs Perry,’ he grinned, ‘thanks for fixing the
phone anyway.’

  Commanding as much dignity as she could, and acting completely oblivious to Les’s nakedness, she gave his hand a discreet shake. ‘That’s quite all right Mr Norton. Anytime. Now I really think I should be going.’

  Norton raised his can. ‘Thanks again, anyway.’

  ‘No worries Mr Norton,’ she replied with a quick toss of her head. Norton closed the door and she was gone.

  He drained his can of beer, got another one and leant against the bar, head spinning slightly and still not quite convinced of the last twenty minutes’ events. Christ, did that really happen or am I just imagining things? I’ll just check your phone for you Mr Norton. Check my phone. Jesus, Telecom could sure learn a lesson from her.

  He still wasn’t quite convinced it had happened when he got out of the shower about ten minutes later. But a spreading wet patch on the edge of the quilt told him it had. Christ, what a funny old night. This definitely calls for something a little stronger than beer. He went to the bar, searched around for a moment and made himself a good, stiff Old Grandad and Coke... Ah yes. I certainly could do with that.

  There was a digital clock radio next to the bed. He sipped his drink while he fiddled around setting it for quarter past five; it was almost eleven. And Billy and George want to bag Melbourne. They’re kidding. I’ve only been here two hours and I reckon it’s the best place I’ve ever seen. He finished his drink, switched off the bed lamp and went straight to sleep.

  A languid studio mix of Peter Frampton’s ‘Do You Feel Like I Do?’ gently woke Norton. He blinked around the still darkened room not quite sure where he was, then switched on the bed lamp and it all came back to him. Christ, what a funny old night. He yawned and chuckled at the same time, spun out of the bed, stretched for a few moments, then got under the shower. I won’t bother having a shave he thought. Seeing as I’m the heavy in this bullshit they’ll probably want me looking like Clint Eastwood in A Fist Full of Dollars. He was towelling off next to the bed and feeling pretty good when right on five-thirty the phone rang.

  ‘Hello,’ he said, picking up the receiver. ‘St Moritz House of Bondage.’

  There was a stunned pause at the end of the line. ‘Les. Is that you?’

  ‘It sure is. How are you Pamela?’

  ‘I’m... very well. You sound all bright and breezy this morning. I was expecting you to be still asleep.’

  ‘No. I had a nice early night and I’ve been up since quarter past. I’m showered and just about ready to go.’

  ‘Oh. Good on you. Well I’ll meet you in the foyer at ten to six.’

  ‘Okay Pamela. See you then.’

  ‘No worries.’

  Norton made a cup of coffee and had a couple of pieces of fruit while he threw on his jeans, black R. M. Williams riding boots, a sweatshirt and the black leather jacket he had on the night before. There was no-one in the foyer when he went down, but just as he got there Pamela pulled up in the Jaguar and gave the horn a quick bip.

  ‘G’day Pamela. How’s things?’ he said, climbing in next to her.

  ‘Good.’ Pamela was wearing a brown corduroy skirt, boots and a loose-necked brown pullover that, even though it looked to be three sizes too big for her, still couldn’t hide something about her figure that had Norton intrigued. ‘Looking forward to the big day?’ she asked.

  ‘Reckon. We got far to go?’

  ‘No. It’s just up the road.’

  Norton no sooner had his backside in the car when they pulled up outside a big white hotel barely 500 metres away. The area in front of the hotel was roped off for the film crew. There were several trucks packed with equipment and generators and a number of chords and cables ran up the staircase into the hotel. A battered old truck at the end had Black Rock Catering written on the side. It was a beautiful morning when Norton stepped out of the Jaguar — crisp and clear, and through the palm trees by the water’s edge the sun coming up over Port Phillip Bay seemed to turn the water a shimmering, golden pink.

  ‘The Boulevard Hotel,’ said Norton, looking up at the name above the door.

  ‘Yes,’ replied Pamela, as a tram rattled past in the background. ‘It’s ideal for the ad. Wait till you see it inside. Come on.’

  Les followed her up a fake marble staircase to where two blue-uniformed security guards were standing just inside the foyer. Pamela explained who she and Les were and they smiled politely and stepped aside.

  The red and black carpeted foyer was large and high ceilinged with a bit of old-world charm about it. There were black vinyl cubicles against the walls and black vinyl chairs and tables at the bay windows overlooking the water. A set of stairs ran either side of a reception desk at the end of the room and a blackboard next to a cigarette machine almost in front of them had the names of the bands playing there that week.

  Norton followed Pamela through another door with Neptune Room written above it. Like the foyer, it was spacious and high ceilinged with the same red and black carpet. A red carpet-fronted bar faced them and there were more cubicles and a number of chairs and tables full of people in front of the bay windows. A few potted palms were propped in the corners and large, framed posters of old St Kilda adorned the walls. To the left of the bar was a small stage with the amps and speakers from the previous night’s band still sitting there. Behind that was a bistro or dining area.

  There were around thirty or forty people present and the place was a hive of activity. Technicians, gaffers and other film crew were running around everywhere, dodging between lighting set-ups, sound systems, camera tracks and other equipment. For a booze ad, the whole scene had an aura of bustling fashion about it and Norton tipped they must be spending plenty of money to give St Kilda a sophisticated, up-market image. Everybody, including the crew, was dressed pretty swish, especially about half a dozen young couples seated in front of the windows. Everybody, that is, except one shortish, dark-haired guy walking around peering at things through what looked like a little black monocle which he’d then check on a digital light meter hung around his neck. He was one of the greatest grubs Les had ever seen. He wore filthy white jeans, an equally filthy Breaker Morant sweat-shirt and the undone laces of his gym boots trailed behind him like squashed strands of spaghetti. He’d managed to top this off by not having a shave for at least a week and it looked like he’d combed his hair with a gardening fork. It turned out later he was the cameraman and he came from Sydney.

  ‘Come on,’ said Pamela. ‘I’ll introduce you around.’

  The first person Les met was the director, Richard. An overweight, fair-haired guy in baggy jeans and some sort of an expensive battle jacket. Despite his air of bored amusement he gave Les a good, firm handshake and seemed happy to see him. Then came the writer, the soundman, someone else and someone else and finally B.O. Plenty the cameraman. Except for the director, Les couldn’t remember their names. Pamela then led Norton over to the young couples who were to be the drinkers at the bar and told them who he was. They were all about a third Les’s size and dressed to kill. However, they weren’t at all stand-offish and appeared to view Les with an air of amicable curiosity. Les had been expecting a bunch of half-baked queens and gushing wouldbe starlets, but they all seemed to be capable young performers, keen to get the job done, get paid and go home.

  Pamela then led Norton over to the make-up woman, who immediately went into a screaming tailspin when she saw Les’s suntan and howled for the director. Richard soothed her by explaining to her that for the purpose of the ad Les was supposed to be a bit of a rough type, like a building worker or a wharfle, and these kind of people did go brown from working out in the sun, so the tan was okay. Just a little bit of make-up to take the shine off his broken nose, that’s all. The wardrobe lady let him keep his riding boots and jeans, but he had to wear a St Kilda Aussie Rules guernsey: red, white and black. It fitted well and didn’t look half bad on. Norton immediately made a mental note to souvenir it after the shoot.

  Pamela brought him over a cup of coffee, w
hich he sipped while the make-up lady gave him a last detail. The wardrobe lady took a polaroid, and before he knew it Norton was set to go on.

  ‘Well Les,’ said the director, giving him a nod of approval. ‘If you’re ready we’d like to have a crack at it. What do you reckon?’

  ‘Sure. Why not?’ Norton shrugged.

  Richard explained they were going to shoot his part with the bit of dialogue first. It was the most difficult and Les was only there for the day. They should have it all sorted out by late that afternoon and if there were any problems they could bring the others back tomorrow. Norton promised he’d do his best.

  They led him over to the bar, picked out which trendy would offer Les the drink and positioned the other trendies around him. The camera was ready, the lighting was set, the soundman nodded approval and a bit of silence fell across the set.

  ‘Okay Les,’ said Richard. ‘Let’s try a rehearsal. Quiet everyone. Annnnd... action.’

  Les moved to the bar. The trendy nervously offered him a bottle of St Kilda Kooler. Norton looked at it and frowned and said. ‘Turn it up mate. That’s a girl’s drink.’

  Richard, B.O. Plenty and the soundman all exchanged pleasantly surprised looks.

  ‘Tell you what,’ said Richard.

  ‘Looked good to me,’ said the cameraman.

  ‘Sounded okay to me. No worries.’

  ‘Why don’t we go for a take?’ Richard turned to Norton. ‘Les. We’ll make this a take. Can you do exactly the same thing again?’

  ‘As a bean, Richard.’

  ‘No worries. Righto. Roll film. Roll sound. Annnnd... action.’

  Norton repeated the performance. The trendies had just the right amount of horror on their faces and it went over like a baked dinner on Sunday. They shot it another four times and that was it. Richard was astounded.

  They moved the camera slightly and shot the looks on the trendies’ faces when Norton picked up the bottle, then moved it around for his expression when he took a mouthful: from a sneer to grudging approval. Les hit it like an old pro. Sir Laurence Olivier couldn’t have done a better job. The St Kilda Kooler was chilled and although it was a little sweet it wasn’t all that hard to drink. After the equivalent of about four bottles before breakfast, Norton wasn’t drunk but he was in a happy, easy-going mood which seemed to rub off on the others and they all got along famously.