Out All Night

"Why don't you get a key, instead of waking the whole fucking neighbourhood," I barked across the street, from my balcony, as my first words to the world, this morning.

I think of the guy who was slit from neck to chest, recently, for asking a thug to stop hitting his car with a stick.

"Oh sorry, sorry, sorry," she said, quietly. Now she's quiet?

I'd had it. I so wanted to sleep in.

The two kids, who live over the road, must go out all night and not take a key. Last Saturday morning it was Matt's turn; knocking, banging, yelling, screaming out, kicking, for half an hour, or more. Drunk and persistent. This morning it was the girls turn. Bang bang, thump thump, kick kick. "Mmmaaaaaaaattt!!!!!"

I lay in bed trying to accommodate the racket, but two Saturday mornings in a row, it was too much.

I grabbed the mull bowl and stomped off downstairs. There was silence, the banging in my head had stopped. I wondered if she is still sitting on the step?

The morning is cool, a little wet.

Boy, didn't it rain, last night. I walked down to Guido's, it was glorious. Cool and damp, I caught rain drops on my tongue. Every thing was on soft focus, including me.

Jazz played. Singers wailed. Smith Street hummed with people. It's nice to live some where where the streets are alive. I can't imagine living in the suburbs, where the streets are deserted after dark.

The wind blew. I feel alive in the wind.

A car got tooted, when it failed to take off on the green, at Gipps Street. As it started to move, a "one way" street sign fell from the front of it. The bonnet and left hand mudguard were damaged from an obvious collision with the sign. It drove at a snail's pace, into the dark up Hoddle Street. Other cars went clack clack on the debris in the second lane.

I got wolf-whistled, or was it propositioned, as I walked past the Laird Hotel. But, by the way he was slurring his words, I wasn't at all sure if it was me, or the Labrador tied to the pole just outside, to whom he was referring.

A big, red tongue panting in the night.

The Yarra looked so black, as Guido and I blew a joint on his deck. Dark and mysterious, as the soft, sprinkle of rain covered it like a fine net. Guido was pissed and had dropped a pill, fifteen minutes before I got there. I got the feeling he wanted me to take one, too, as he mentioned the fact several times.

"Put hairs on your chest," said Guido, as he handed me the joint.

"Thanks."

"The meaning of life," said Guido.

"What?"

"The only meaning there is."

I thought he meant the joint, but then I realised he was looking down at the river, again. He chugged on a long neck.

I was a bit wobbly, as I headed back home; two long necks and a massive joint. Guido rolls base ball bat joints, a dying art, you don't see that much any more. They blow your head, well, the way Guido rolls, anyway.

I bought a lamb kebab, I had the munchies, something bad, by the time I made it back to Smith Street. Drunk guys, in twos, were battling for taxis. There was a lot of fast talk and taxis' fleeing. My mouth was like the Sahara, I could hardly swallow.

The world was on tilt, beer goggles, everything was beautiful.

I was damp through by the time I pushed my back against the front door to close it behind me. I so needed to be wet, damp through, after the days of heat we've had and the days of heat we've been promised. I was beginning to feel that I'll never feel cool again.

I slid down the door and sat on the floor and ate my kebab. My wet shirt was cool on my back.