I left before Sam, he is in a don't-give-a-shit phase, so he is just wandering into work whenever. Oh, that means closer to 9am than 8am, let’s not think the worst. It is not like it is midday.
I walked to the stop before the free zone, when a Bombardier came down MacArthur Street, and I legged it to the stop to catch it. I knew I wouldn't make it, but I was being positive and I ran anyway. I’m sure there is a small part of me that thinks any exercise, no matter how small, is good. I got to the door as it closed, I could have slipped half of my body through I was that close, but I didn't, and of course, the doors closed and the tram left. So, I hot footed it off down MacArthur Street to the Spring Street stop, as the tram was practically empty and it would prove to be an easy ride into the city. I flew across the Spring Street intersection like a free spirited jay walker. Wind beneath my wings and all that. So, I caught the tram at the first stop inside the free zone, I was standing on the stop puffing before it even got there. I had my choice of a few seats.
A stocky wog boy came and leant against one of the many yellow posts in the tram just in front of me. It was very hard not to notice the big bulge in his trousers, as he had on those soft kind of clingy pants and they kind of grabbed him, so I noticed. He was staring at his phone anyway, smiling away at whoever, or whatever had his attention, so I was free to gaze at his prominent knob. Nice it was too. Then he went and sat on a seat somewhere behind me.
I was hot and sweaty from all that running, so I pulled my mis-delivered American postcard of Barack and Michelle from the back pocket of my satchel and fanned myself. Many years ago, it had been sent to 3 different numbers in my street, so I never sent it on, to who? Shrug. And how it got into the back pocket of my satchel, I do not know. But, I have discovered, on these more muggy than they ever used to be, global warming effected days, it comes in handy. I didn't care what I looked like, nobody gives a shit in the mornings, not really, and my small fan delivered just enough of a breeze to my neck to cool me down and to stop me feel like I was going to over-heat at any minute. Or something like that. It was cool, anything else I did care.
Then I noticed a 70's porn star in aviators and a leather bomber jacket staring at me. You know the type, who wears gold chains and has a hairy chest and wears bikini briefs with a big bush. I could almost read his thoughts,
"Look at that filthy faggot fanning himself, do you believe it."
His face was fixed in my direction, no expression, just a hint of a scowl. He looked like Burt Reynolds, or James Garner, or Lee Majors. His sunglasses obscured face which just stared blankly at me. Unrelenting, not even looking away self-consciously. Just fixed and staring.
Okay, I thought. You want to stare at me. I licked my lips, you know, kind of seductively. Slow. Sensuously. I let my eyes slide up and down his body.
He didn't move, not a wit. So, I looked him up and down again, leather jacket, Levis, Cuban heal boots, I kid you not. He was like some old Hollywood cliché. Still nothing. He was like one of those buskers in the mall who specialise in stillness. I looked away. I looked back. Still. Nothing. Just that fixed stare. I could have found it unnerving, but instead I took it as a challenge. I slid my eyes down his body again. He was completely frozen, he did not move a hair, not a millimetre, not even, seemingly, to breath. Except… for his hand in his jeans pocket, his fingers started moving, I gazed at his crotch, his fingers mover again, like a giant spider was moving in his pocket.
There you go, I thought.
I looked away, gazing out the window. I looked back, he was the perfect frozen moment, except for his ipsy wipsy fingers.
My stop came pretty soon after that. He moved to get off at my stop, as I stood to make my exit. He looked away as I looked at him. I slid my Barak and Michelle Obama postcard back into the back pocket of my satchel. I got off the tram and walked away without looking back. It is a powerful act, walking away without looking back.
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