He would’ve reached out and stroked her beaver, I’m fucking sure of it, except that only Barry would have noticed.
And the worst part is, Becky would have let him.
Gladly.
She’s panting when at last he lets her go.
Lefty, smirking: ‘You be good now, won’t ya?’
Her eyes hold a manic sparkle. ‘I love you.’
Mick’s seen enough and pulls away, but not before Lefty can look her dead centre.
‘I love you too, baby.’
The lying cunt.
Appalled silence holds for a block or three.
Mick, over his shoulder, caustic: ‘You haven’t done her in a while, Lefty. How come you didn’t bring her along?’
Lefty, peeved: ‘Oh, I was planning on doing exactly that … then I discovered the useless bitch’s up on blocks.’
Mick: ‘Whadaya mean?’
Lefty: ‘You know. Got the painters in?’
Me: ‘You’re a total arsehole, man.’
Lefty, snapping: ‘Oh, fuck you, Gator.’
Barry: ‘I second the allegation.’
There’s just enough wrongedness in Lefty’s tone to leave him safe, in a place resembling the moral high ground. ‘Fuck you too, then.’
You see, it isn’t just Lefty’s looks that ensure he pulls more pussy than Hef ever did. The dude seems to have an inner meter with which he can measure a person’s mood. Lefty being Lefty, if normally he dared address Barry — or even me — in such a fashion, we’d be only too pleased to threaten him with a busted gob, make him back-down in humiliation, savouring every inch of it. Ordinarily, the guy’s obsequious to the point of nausea. The sexual envy he inspires in males — tacitly cultivates and thrives upon — ensures that he need constantly patronise in order to remain within a social circle. He worms his way into the affections of guys with as much shamelessness as he does the ladies, and when he decides the time is right to win a degree of respect by sticking up for himself, his gift for human intuition tells him exactly how far he can push his luck.
Mick, incredulous: ‘Are you actually denying that your conduct toward that chick is big-time shabby?’
Lefty, whining aggrievement: ‘Yeah, I am gonna deny that! So the bitch digs me and I don’t have feelings as strong for her? I can’t help that.’
Barry: ‘You sure can help the way you keep her hanging on, though, cuz.’
Lefty: ‘Why should I? She’s a big girl: she can decide when she’s had enough. I’m only bloody human, man. Why should I turn down a nice root when it comes my way?’
Because you could be up some other piece, even one just as tidy, at the drop of a fucking hat.
But I don’t say this. None of us does. Our jealousy maintains an embargo on the words.
And so this recurring dispute resolves itself in the fashion with which it does always: with Lefty steering it around to us having to either vocalise this emasculating truth, or back away.
That solitary sentence would demonstrate his guilt conclusively: push him into a corner from which there could be no extraction. And, as usual, we don’t have the spine to utter it. To nakedly acknowledge his colossal superiority over us in the arena that to males means so fucking much.
We all know it, all four of us, but Lefty never goes beyond alluding to it.
Insidiously.
He knows that were he to take it further, the small amount of goodwill he holds with us would vanish faster than a hooker’s hymen.
This time he makes a mistake, though. Into the sick hush he foolishly looses a shot that begs for a punishing counter-volley.
‘Why the fuck would I ever wanna get a full-time thing going with a schizo like her, anyway?’
Me, springing from cover with a war-cry, beating the others by inches: ‘Perhaps because you’re the only cunt who could help her through it; try and mend some of the damage you’ve done! She was fine before you sleazed into her life.’
His riposte is too quick, too loud. ‘That’s a fucking crock of shit!’
‘Oh, no it isn’t.’
She and Lefty used to be an item. Until Becky caught him cheating one time too many. By dumping him she hoped to teach him a lesson, have him come running with declarations of fidelity. He didn’t bother. Even when she weepingly crawled back to him, Lefty wasn’t interested. And why would he have been? He was sick of having her around, and he knew he could bang her any time he liked regardless.
Something he chose to do from time to time over the next nine months, sometimes even managing to keep the fact from his current girlfriend, chicks he had no qualms about flaunting in front of Becky whenever they were present at the same gatherings. Which — considering Becky tracked him with the diligence of Inspector Morse — was often.
Becky went downhill steadily, visibily, but we were all surprised when she opted to have Mr Gillette adorn her wrists with some inkless tattooing.
It’s hard to say whether she was counting on being found or not, but that’s what happened. In any case, if it were simply a cry she were making, Lefty didn’t seem to hear it. If he did, it certainly didn’t annul her attractiveness to him. Sadly, nor did it enlarge it. Things progressed as they had for another three months.
Becky then drove her dad’s Subaru through the front window of Farmers and found herself sentenced to a spell in the Laughing Academy.
She’s been in and out twice since, and based on tonight’s evidence I’d have to guess that Lefty views the hat-trick as a unique challenge to his age-old talents.
We’re stopped at a deserted red light as I debate whether or not to tear into the cunt. Again.
But I’m a happy drunk — if a little rowdy — and when pissed I take pains not to dwell on the negative. When I do I find the euphoria difficult to recapture.
It seems as if Barry and Mick are going to let it rest, and I’m still of two minds when a car jammed with more snatch pulls up alongside our passenger door.
Lefty and Barry have their windows down in microseconds.
Lefty, peering into the Honda’s depths, wheedling: ‘Is that you in there, Stephanie?’
Barry knows the driver from somewhere. ‘Howyadoen, Amanda? Long time no see.’
Though several divisions from Lefty’s league, he’s a bit of a babe-killer in his own right is our Bazza. When he can be arsed, that is. Because among other things, Barry tends to prioritise mates ahead of getting laid. I’ve seen the dude turn his back on dead-cert roots just to be in the car with the boys when they forsook a party, off to trawl for trouble, or to rip up some field, whatever.
This attitude is something I find enormously refreshing — all the more because I certainly don’t share it, and neither does any other cunt I’ve ever known — and I guess it contributes substantially to the reasons I maintain my hazardous association with the mad bastard.
Amanda sounds pleased to see him. Girls usually are. ‘Barry! What are you up to?’
Barry lives with a bird up in the Smoke, been steady with her for a couple of months. But he’s not one to let this hinder him should something else win his attention. Like every other male ever to draw breath, Barry holds faith with the truism ‘what she doesn’t know …’.
I find it a tragic indictment on the female gender, though, that a guy with Barry’s rep — he’s someone many blokes cross the street to avoid — seems to tickle temptation in the lasses; to stimulate some incorrigible impulse toward peril, in a fashion not at all dissimilar to the way they get pumped over motorbikes.
Of course, as a hardman, to engender this reaction it helps to have some looks to go with it.
Lefty seems to be getting a nibble as well. From the centre of the back seat Stephanie’s practically squashing her companion in a bid to present him her attention. ‘Where have you guys been tonight?’
Lefty: ‘Oh, we started out round at Barry’s place, had a few beers and watched a movie, Predator 7. You’ve just gotta see it, eh! Fan-fucking-tastic! Anyway, from there we shot round to t
his chick Sandy’s crib to pick up a tinny — good pot, too: she gets most of her gear through the Black Power and you know what sort of dope those dudes grow! Ahahahaaa. Yeah, so we skinned up and shot out the lake for a blow; ended up bumping into Zane Jackson an’ em out there …’
Lefty’s on a roll. In fact, when it comes to talking he’s always on a roll. The dude’s got a mouth like a busted sandshoe.
Of course, that he manages to spout a near constant flow of chat eighteen odd hours a day is due largely to his armour-plated sense of rejection. Because, like most big talkers, ninety per cent of what Lefty says can best be described as a load of old bollocks. Something he seems to trouble over in no way, shape or form. Even when the fact is bluntly pointed out to him … which, in our company, is frequently.
It seems clear to me, then, that this is the single most vital factor behind exercising a ‘gift of the gab’. Namely, the will to toss out an idea, question, anecdote, and not feel stung when the reaction it elicits is unfavourable. The audacity to leap straight back to the floor directly after being told, ‘I’ve got absolutely no idea what the fuck you’re going on about, pal,’ seems to me a gift of priceless dimensions. Because, by the simple law of averages, the greater the flow of dialogue springing from one’s mouth, the higher the odds of saying something opportune. And one fitting remark seems to invalidate five preposterous ones.
Yes, in the Global Citizen’s perennial struggle to Win Friends and Influence People, a thick skin is without doubt the most baleful weapon with which one can be armed.
So while most of us hacks are left contesting the Love Grand Prix in beat-up Holdens, Jap imports, the odd sports car, god not only saw fit to equip Lefty with a Formula One Ferrari, he was also kind enough to mount a heavy machinegun on the fucking bonnet.
And even as I watch, spellbound, Lefty’s titanium plating insulates him through yet another stupefying act. ‘What are you guys up to now?’
Stephanie: ‘Oh, we’re gonna drop Cindy home and then head to Deuces.’
Lefty, grimacing: ‘Bad move, eh. That place is totally blacked out tonight. We’ve just come from there. You’d be better off somewhere else. I tell ya what, there’s a cool party up at Bison Hall.’
The said carousal is no doubt fictitious. This is a favoured ploy of Lefty’s. Upon arriving at the ‘location’ he’ll utter the classic: ‘Shit, the oinkers must’ve broken it up already.’ Or the timeless: ‘Oh, no, Rachael’s gone and given me the wrong address again.’ By this stage a bond exists between the two crews and Lefty can often milk this to arrange an alternative rendezvous. ‘If you guys’ve got nothing better to do either, we’re heading up the mountain for a session.’ Or, failing that, talk his way into their car — ‘Which way are ya’s heading? … Hey wow, I need to get near there! Ya couldn’t drop me off at all, could ya?’ — and sniff for a fresh kill in the back seat.
Stephanie: ‘Really? We’ve sorta gotta meet some friends at Deuces, though.’
Strike one.
Lefty, ‘solicitous’: ‘I promise ya, you’ll really regret it if you go there. It sucks to the max tonight. Why don’t ya’s follow us? We were at this party earlier and its going off.’
Stephanie, rueful: ‘Can’t. Sorry. We promised to catch up with these guys. They’ll kill us if we pull a no-show.’
Strike two.
Boldly, Lefty steps up to the plate again. ‘They can come too. Let’s cruise to Deuces, round them up, and then head out.’
‘Na, I think they were pretty keen to rage at Deuces till the earlies.’
Strike three.
Undeterred, Lefty swings again. ‘What about you? We’ve got room in here if ya wanna jump in?’
Stephanie: ‘Oh … na. Maybe some other time. I’d better stick with the girls tonight.’
Unbe-fucking-lievable! The guy just let himself be shot down four times in front of eight peers!
Given that I’m pissed, I’d’ve been willing to let that happen once. Perhaps even twice might I’ve contrived a jestful means for the second swipe. But four? And every attempt unsubtle?
I know men who would do murder for a hide that tough.
I happen to head the queue.
When it comes to Lefty and womanising, though, good looks aside — because, at the end of the day, unless one bears a striking resemblance to Quasimodo or Pitt, personality is the more telling element — there’s one certainty that breaks my heart: though Lefty has assuredly parted more mutton-curtains than the rest of us combined, that he has also received many more rejections is a statistic of equal incontestability.
The Law of Averages, man.
That and thick skin.
History’s most lecherous alliance.
By my book, Lefty at this point should be experiencing humiliation, shame, self-doubt. But, as he sits back in his seat, sparks up a coffin-nail, he doesn’t appear in the least put out. Indeed, he seems almost pleased with himself!
It hits me like a tackle: Has this cunt actually calculated his rejection/scoring ratio? Is he saying to himself right now, ‘That’s three. Should be saddled up next time round, the time after at the worst.’?
And, of course, the more knockbacks he accumulates, the more refined his technique grows.
The more lethal the strike rate.
Up front Barry seems to be happening upon a more mortal angle.
Amanda: ‘What was that acid like you’d just dropped when I last saw you?’
Barry: ‘When was that?’
‘You know. We were in The Freezer?’
‘… Oh, yeah. You were with Alan and ’em, right?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Ammm, yeah, it wasn’t too bad. Pretty rough comedown, but that’s par for the course with that stuff. It pays to get pissed before it wears off.’
Amanda, tentative: ‘Is there any chance of you getting us any?’
Barry, musing: ‘Not too sure.’
At times I think Barry sees himself as some breed of New Age narco-Shaman. Charged with the holy duty of escorting heathens and the faithful alike through the Doors of Perception.
Who makes it back he doesn’t give so much of a shit about.
Offending the guy by asking him to score for you is a near unrealisable task. Were he in the process of assaulting you, and for some reason you blurted your position on the market for a banned substance, Barry would likely stop, help you up, and determine your exact requirements. Unless we’re running dry, he hardly ever taxes either.
Barry, pondering: ‘Those that we had that night in The Freezer were Snowflakes, but I know for a fact there’s none of them in town at the moment. There might be a few Cobras around, though. Mick? Trudy got any Cobs right now?’
‘Na.’
‘How ’bout Pete, Gator?’
‘Na, man, he’s got fuck all of anything.’
Barry, to Amanda: ‘Are ya’s after anything in particular?’
‘Not really. We’re just sick of booze and blow.’
Smiling: ‘Amen to that.’
Lefty, suddenly: ‘Ah, shit! Guess what? I can get on to Fat Freddies at the moment!’
Along with Bart Simpsons and Spinning Tops, the said items constitute the current Holy Trinity of the ever-shifting LSD scene: my faith in Lefty’s claim is therefore minimal.
Amanda, animated: ‘I’ve heard those are really good!’
Barry, ruminating expertly: ‘Welllll, yeah. They’re not too bad. Not too bad at all.’ He turns to face Lefty, voice dropping to a confidential — and menacing — mutter. ‘Are you for real?’
Lefty, emphatic: ‘Yeah. They’re forty each, I know they’re holding, and I guarantee someone’ll be home.’
‘“Guarantee”?’
‘Guarantee, man.’
‘This’d better not be a come-on strategy.’
There aren’t a lot of areas in which Barry’ll tolerate being made to look ‘all talk’. You show him up over drugs …
Lefty, leaning forward, whispering: ‘It is a come-on
, because once we’ve sorted them for acid, once their brains are in fucking Disneyland, they’re ours for the taking. But no, it’s not a bullshit line to string them along.’
‘How can you know someone’ll be home?’
‘Cause the dude who knocks them out reckons there’s always someone home, and he’s dependable.’
Barry, staring hard: ‘Last chance to level with me.’
Lefty, affronted: ‘I’m straight up, man.’
Barry, turning back to the girls: ‘Yeah, that’s sweet as. They’re forty each.’
An excited buzz breaks out in the wench-wagon.
Amanda: ‘How many each will we need?’
Barry, straight-faced: ‘That depends. Are ya’s all virgins?’
Giggle, giggle.
Amanda, coy: ‘In this domain we are.’
Lefty, turning to me, whispering in a hiss: ‘Hear that? Acid-virgins! We’ll all chip in for a bottle of hot stuff, slip ’em a few drinks on top of the headfood, and they’ll be putty! Fucking putty, man!’
Sick prick.
But, beer having gnawed holes in my civic mask, I can’t repulse a rush of blood at the notion.
Barry, lecturing to the girls: ‘Well, these Fred’s are the dog’s bollocks, so you’ll only wanna start with a quarter-trip each. Give it an hour, see how you’re feeling, then take another quarter if you’re up for it. It’s my shout for the lads, so I’ll be getting four — one trip each — but you guys’ll only need about three between ya’s.’
This is the first I’ve heard of any ‘shout for the lads’. Barry’s good like that. However, the sickly stirrings of excitement/nervousness that generally preface an acid trip don’t yet kick in for me: pulling while tripping is an even harder task than nailing it stoned, so I’ll be standing aloof from this pilgrimage until I’ve loosed a salvo or two on the carnal front.
Amanda: ‘One twenty, then.’
The birds conduct a prolonged whip-round.
Amanda, at last: ‘Yeah, we’ve got enough on us now. How do ya cut them up, though?’
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