by Steve Bisley
She shows me to the spare room, which has a huge bed with a deep mattress and soft pillows. More lavender scent drifts in through the open windows. I unpack my small suitcase, putting the harmonica on the bedside table along with the book by James Joyce. Home away from home. I’ve never played the harmonica or read anything by James Joyce, but I plan to do both things sometime soon. I really don’t know why I brought them with me. They just looked good together in the suitcase. I hang the slacks and the lightweight sports coat in the wardrobe, change into my shorts and T-shirt and join Gran in the kitchen for a cuppa and thick sandwiches.
Gran’s going to bingo tonight and wants to know if I’d like to come. The thought of a few hours in a dusty hall with a lot of old people is hard to turn down, but I do, reluctantly. I want to go to Kings Cross. I’ve heard all the rumours and I want to find out if they’re true. I don’t want to alarm Gran so I tell her I’m meeting a friend in town to go to the movies. Of course, she doesn’t know that I don’t have any friends in Sydney – except Susan, but I’m meeting her tomorrow.
I’ve never seen anything like it. I catch the train to the city and walk up William Street. There are scantily clad women on every corner. Chicks in see-through tops with their breasts on show for all to see. ‘Wanna go, love?’ offers one; she’s as old as one of my aunties. I don’t know where to look, but I look anyway. I’ve only ever played this sort of thing out in my head. I had no idea that it happened in the real world! You could just walk along here and get a girl right off the street and just … I stood there totally transfixed, feeling like some dumb country bumpkin.
There are cars crawling along William Street, stopping at all the girls, till finally the door opens and a girl gets in to be spirited away into the night. How long had this been going on?
Towards the top of the hill I notice a group of men in one of the side streets and decide to see what’s happening. They’re all just standing around, dozens of them, outside a small single-storey terrace house with a red light by the open front door. There’s a chair in the hall just back from the door. On the chair sits a blonde of ample proportions, bare-breasted beneath her see-through top. She is the girl of my dreams. A guy walks through the front gate, into the yard and up to the door. A short conversation takes place and the front door closes.
I walk further along the street. There are dozens of houses with red lights and girls of all shapes and sizes, the front doors opening and closing, while a stream of men comes and goes. No pun intended, because I’m only fifteen and don’t know what a pun is yet, but I will shortly. I think I’ve bitten off more than I can chew and I’m not sure whether it’s wise to be here by myself. I think I should have gone to bingo with Gran, where the only trouble you can get into is forgetting to turn your hearing aid on before they start calling out the numbers.
I head back to the safety of the bright lights of William Street and continue up the hill to Kings Cross. Now I’m right in the heart of it. There are people everywhere and it seems like every crazy person living in Sydney has decided to come here tonight. It’s weirder than the sideshow alley at the Wyong Show. There are more girls up here. There are girls that look like men and men that look like girls and other people who look like a bit of both.
There’s a man sitting on the footpath with people milling all around him. He has a dog sitting beside him. The man looks sad, the dog looks sadder. No one seems to notice them. The man has a sign drawn on a piece of old cardboard beside a battered tin cup. The sign says CAN YOU SPARE SOME CHANGE FOR FOOD. I’ve never seen a beggar before. Nobody ever begs for food in Lake Munmorah. I get the new wallet out. I extract a dollar note and then another one. It’s the money I’ve earnt from fruit picking. I put the two single dollar notes into the cup. I want to tell him about Lake Munmorah and all the fruit trees. If he lived there he’d never go hungry. There’s always enough to go around for everyone and it would be a better life for the dog. He doesn’t say thank you, so I just move on. The dog watches me go.
I put the wallet in the front pocket of my pants just to keep it safe. I only get a few paces along the street when I decide to go back; I want to make sure that the man understands that one of the dollars is for him and that the other one is for the dog. But when I get there the sad guy’s gone and so has the cup. The dog’s still there though. I try to pat it, but it growls at me and nips my hand. I push on. Further along a man steps out from nowhere and puts his hand in the middle of my chest. He has long straggly hair. The word hate is tattooed across the fingers of the hand on my chest. ‘Wanna look?’ he asks. He smiles and bits of gold flash behind the grin.
‘Sorry?’
‘Downstairs, mate, ten beautiful girls, they’ll get their gear off just for you, only five bucks.’ The place is called the Pink Pussycat and it has a notice by the front door that reads Only people over the age of eighteen will be admitted to these premises. I do want to go for a look – maybe Lolita from the tent at the Wyong Show has given up life on the road and is down there taking her clothes off for other men – but I’m a changed man now, focused and determined.
‘No thanks,’ I say.
‘All right, two bucks then – but don’t tell anyone, will ya?’
I walk on, wondering how focused and determined I really am.
More girls line the walls between the shops, all with the same hollow look as the ones on William Street. There’s a bloke at the back of a small van singing songs about Jesus. He has a guitar and a tambourine. I once saw a Salvation Army band in Newcastle singing songs about Jesus. One of the girls in the band had a tambourine as well. Maybe it’s a Jesus thing. Maybe Jesus played a tambourine. I don’t think I’ve ever read anything about what sort of musical instrument Jesus played. The long hair and the beard suggest to me that it might have been the bongos or maybe a guitar.
Further along there’s a bloke sitting on a stool in front of a shop that’s closed and dark. He’s playing a violin with a white cockatoo perched on the end of his bow. As he draws the bow across the strings the bird dances back and forth in time to the music. He’s doing much better business than the guy with the sad dog. It seems all you need to make money around here is an animal of some sort, a tin cup and a sign and you’re in business. Maybe I could bring Dukey the dog down. Maybe I could work up an act with Dukey the dog, my brother and a stock whip. It could be a hit.
I’ve come to the end of the strip and I don’t know what else to do. I decide to head back to Gran’s. I push through the crowds to find a bus stop. I pass the spot with the bloke and the dog. The bloke’s back. He’s drinking out of a bottle that’s sticking out of a brown paper bag. I hope the dog got some food, but I doubt it.
It takes an hour to get back to Gran’s. I let myself in to the quiet house and find my bedroom in the dark as the grandfather clock chimes twelve. I lie in the big bed and wonder what Mum’s doing at home. I wonder if she misses me. I wonder if Dad’s sitting on the end of the bed, counting his condoms. I wonder.
Bliss
I’m standing in front of the Sydney Town Hall waiting for Susan to arrive. It’s nine o’clock on Sunday morning. Tomorrow morning, at another nine o’clock, I’m having my interview on the fourth floor of the Woolworths building directly opposite where I’m standing.
I hear a car horn blaring. It’s Susan, waving frantically at me from a car pulled up at the kerb. I run to the car and get in.
‘What’s this? I thought you were coming by train – I didn’t even know you could drive!’
She makes a right-hand turn into Park Street.
‘It’s my dad’s car. It’ll be easier to get around this way. I want to take you to Bondi, to the beach. I’ve borrowed a pair of my brother’s swimmers for you; you’re about the same size – and if they don’t fit you’ll just have to go in nude, won’t you?’
We are heading up William Street now.
‘I was here last night, at the Cross – the place is a hole,’ I say.
‘Did you find a girl you lik
ed?’ she asks.
‘Already got one,’ I reply.
I reach over and take her free hand in mine and she squeezes mine back.
‘Do you remember when you got on my bus on the last day of primary school?’ she asks.
‘Sure do,’ I say.
‘Do you remember what you said to me?’
‘Yep.’
She is smiling that smile again, with her blue eyes darting between me and the road.
‘What was it then?’ she challenges.
‘I said you were the ugliest chick I had ever seen!’
She lets go of my hand and punches me in the upper arm. ‘No, seriously,’ she says. ‘I want to know if you remember.’
I know it’s important to her, it’s a bit of a test I think; she wants to know if I really care. ‘I said: I like you.’
She swerves to the side of the road and stops the car, and before I know it she’s got my head in her hands and she is kissing me long and hard. When she finally releases me she looks at me for a long moment, then says, ‘I want to show you something.’ She reaches over to the back seat for her beach bag and puts it into the space between us. She gently unfolds a beach towel from the top of the bag and nestled inside it is a small brown paper bag. Inside the bag is the makeup I gave her almost four years ago.
I am with one hell of an amazing girl – and you know what? She’s a brunette!
Bondi is tops. I’m in her brother’s swimmers that actually fit and we’re in the surf with about a million other people. How cool is this, a surf beach in the middle of the city? Susan is in a bikini and I can’t take my eyes off her. She holds me close to her, the cool water running between us, which is a godsend. We are going to head back to our towels but I have to swim away from her first, away from the closeness of her, to settle myself down before I can leave the water; it’s a boy thing. On the towels we kiss for hours and explore each other. I want more of her but she says we can’t, so we don’t. I wish I could play hard to get, but it seems out of the realm of possibility.
We stay at the beach all day, and have fish and chips out of a box. We walk on the sand hand in hand and talk our lives out till the shadows grow long on the beach and we have to go. She drives me home and meets Gran and I can hardly bear it when she leaves.
A wanted man
It’s nine am. I’m sitting in the reception area on the fourth floor of Woolworths’ head office and I want to be sick. The room is full of guys my age. I am the worst-dressed person in the room by far. I look like I’ve been dressed by St Vincent de Paul. There are guys in body shirts and velvet jackets with high-waisted bellbottom pants. Some with paisley shirts and scarves knotted at their throats. Elegant three-piece suits with brightly coloured silk ties. There’s a guy with a full-length leather coat and a floppy black hat. They all look like they’ve just come from a fashion shoot in Swinging London. I look like one of the men who follows the cows around with a shovel at the Wyong Show. What was I thinking? I looked all right at home in the long mirror in Mum’s bedroom in Lake Munmorah, the style capital of the universe. Maybe I should leave now, catch the next train home and put my name down at the power station. This is not for me. This is for cool people, people with style.
I leaf through the samples of work I have in a folder on my lap, just to look busy. The power station won’t be so bad; at least I’ll know people there. Maybe I could take over the farm and grow tomatoes. Maybe I’ll ask Susan to marry me tonight and we can build a small house, well away from my parents’ place, maybe on the edge of the creek, and she can have the kids while I work at the power station and grow tomatoes, and when they’re old enough I can bundle them into an old truck and take them to the markets in Newcastle, the kids and the tomatoes.
‘Stephen Bisley?’ It’s the receptionist.
‘That’s me,’ I say, rising to my feet.
She steps out from behind her desk. All eyes in the room are on me, just for the fashion tips obviously.
‘Follow me, please.’
She leads me down a corridor. She looks great from behind, if only I didn’t already have a girlfriend! I just realised it, right here this second: I am going steady! It’s such a great thing to say!
We’ve arrived at a large open area. There are people working at drafting tables, others at light boxes, some at conventional desks. Everyone is busy and I love the energy of the place. I don’t really want to work at the power station.
‘Stephen?’ There’s a guy standing in front of me with his hand outstretched. His handshake feels firm and warm and equal. ‘I’m Karl. Wanna walk this way?’ He shows me into one of the offices to the side of the open-plan area, and closes the door behind us.
‘Take a seat,’ he says as he moves to sit behind the desk. ‘So you’re down from beautiful Lake Munmorah?’
I like him already; he has a great sense of humour. I can’t help but smile.
‘No, I’m serious, I love it up there! My wife’s parents have a place on the lake. So, you went to Wyong High?’
I nod. Having Wyong High and Lake Munmorah on the top of your CV is maybe not the best way to get your foot in the door.
‘Stephen, I really like the samples you sent me with the application. What I’d like to do now is to put you in one of the studios and have you draw something for us. The main area we work in is advertisements, particularly for newspapers. So I’ll get Lisa, one of our artists, to look after you. Sorry to make our meeting so brief, but as you probably saw in the reception area I have a few people to see today. Nice to have met you.’ He shakes my hand again and leaves. Even if I don’t get the job it was so great to be treated like that. What a guy! Maybe it’s an advertising thing, make the first impression a lasting one; well, it’s worked on me.
I meet Lisa and she takes me into one of the vacant studios. There is a drafting table with a large piece of white paper pinned to it. Next to the blank sheet are some newspaper clippings with pictures of different items of merchandise drawn on them. Beside the table is a pair of men’s running shoes, one balanced artistically on the other.
‘Okay, Stephen, it’s pretty straightforward. Have a look at some of the ads, which will give you an idea of the style we use around here, then have a go at drawing the shoes. If you need anything, I’ll be in the studio next door. Good luck.’ And she smiles and leaves.
I’m an artist. It doesn’t matter what my clothes look like or where I’m from. I’m sitting in an artist’s studio in the middle of Sydney. If I was struck by lightning right now I would die a happy man. I look out through the open door of the studio and see other artists working in the room. If I don’t get this job I want to remember this moment forever.
I get to work. I draw the shoes three times, each one a little different from the other. I don’t know how long I’m meant to take, but I’m finished in half an hour, so I go looking for Lisa. She’s next door with lots of samples of bras piled on her desk.
‘Sorry about the mess; we’re having a sale next week and I’ve being drawing these for days. How’d you go?’
‘Okay, I hope,’ I say.
‘Karl wanted me to tell you that they’ll be making a decision by lunchtime today, so if you want to leave your home phone number with the receptionist, they’ll give you a call later.’
‘Would it be all right if I came back this afternoon to find out?’ I’m trying not to sound desperate.
‘I’m sure that would be fine. Why don’t you come at two?’
Lisa walks me back to the reception area. I deflate a bit when I see the fashion crew again and they all give me the once-over as I leave – but you can’t judge a book by its cover, as Mum would say. I head north up George Street towards the harbour.
At quarter to two I am back. I stand on the footpath outside Woolworths, reluctant to go inside. I am afraid of rejection, of having to go home a failure. It feels like my whole future is riding on the results of this one day.
On the dot of two I enter the building. When I reach the fourth
floor I take a deep breath and open the door to the reception area. There is no one waiting this time. The receptionist is on the phone. I sit on the edge of a chair and wait. She takes two more calls. I wait. She finally hangs up the phone and I approach her desk. She looks up.
‘Can I help you?’ she asks, without a smile.
‘I was told to come back at two to find out whether I was successful in my job application. I had an interview this morning with Karl.’
‘Just hold on a moment.’ She dials an extension on the phone. ‘I’ve got a guy here who says he was asked to call back this afternoon, something about a job …’ She covers the mouthpiece with her free hand. ‘What was your name, sorry?’
‘Steve,’ I reply. ‘Steve Bisley.’
‘Steve Bisley,’ she says into the phone. ‘Okay, I’ll tell him.’
Here it comes, the blow.
‘Karl will come and talk to you. Just take a seat, he won’t be long.’ And she answers another call.
I go back to my seat. I wait.
A few minutes later Karl comes down the corridor. I stand ready for the blow. He stops in front of me.
‘Steve, thanks for coming back, but I have some bad news, I’m afraid.’
Tears spring to the back of my eyes, and it takes everything I have to hold them there and not let them spill. ‘The bad news is this: none of the other guys got the job – but you did, so congratulations!’
His hand is outstretched again and I grab it too hard and now the tears are welling up and there is nothing I can do about it.
‘You okay? I’m sorry – that was a rotten thing to do to you.’
‘I’m fine,’ I blurt. ‘And thank you, thank you so much.’ I pump his hand again.
‘All right. Now we’d like you to start on January the third; that will let you have Christmas at home. We’ll send all the info to your home address in the next day or so. If you need to ask me anything, here’s my card. So once again, congratulations, Steve, and we’ll see you in the New Year.’ With that he leaves. I slide his card into my new wallet.