David Was Alarmed

I was up at 8am. Awake. Couldn’t sleep. Saturday, for the universe sake. Actually, I don’t care. I am resigned to getting up early now and, in fact, I quite like it.

It was a lovely day in Melbourne town. A nice day for an Auction.

We ate breakfast. We hustled out the door to Gordon’s auction. The Crew were waiting outside, Gordon’s crew. There are certain things one’s Crew turns up for. Certain preordained occurrences, funerals, 40ths, the sale of a members long owned house, they are known intuitively when you are truly a member of the crew.

Michael Swift was out the front standing with his hand over his eyes, looking every bit Aunt Michaela. “We’re here, what is there to see.” On one of my most recent skypes to Mark, he said everyone was worried about Michael, that maybe there was something wrong with him, the implication was, after years of drinking. Michael looks a bit older, but then don’t we all. He had is usual, infectious sense of place about him. Oh isn’t this fun. He doesn't look like he is dying of liver cancer to me, or anything else. Queens are bitches. His skin is a bit worby, but then his skin has always been a bit worby. Well, no, his skin didn’t always look worby. It does now. He seems fine.

Michael and (boyfriend) Duncan and Ava (Gordon’s wife. Ha ha, he’d hate me saying that) and some other girl who used to live in the small house, I assume, before Michael, I think her name was Robyn. I have never met her before. She seemed nice enough. Obese and wanting to appear cool. Apparently, she has smart children.

The crowd gathered for the auction.

I ask them all how much Gordon paid for his new house, but they all said they hadn’t asked. “I wouldn’t ask that,” said Eve.

Then there was some cute man standing in front of me, handsome, tanned, conveying some message to Eve, from Gordon.

“Who’s he?” I asked Ava.

“Oh, um that’s our someone or other…” Then she spoke about people I didn’t know. I assumed the cute guy was Gordon’s nieces boyfriend. “We’ve all been very happy with the influence cutey pants has had on nieceypie…”

Lovely, I thought. Will she ever stop talking? I just nodded and smiled.

I like Ava. I always have. I like her no nonsense. I don’t mind her bossiness, I’ve always had bossy people in my life. She’s friendly and she’s open. She has no airs.

Then, of course, we had to take a photo for the yearly calendar. Goodness me, we nearly forgot. Ava had forgotten her camera. Disaster! Sam came to the rescue with to use his iPhone. “Come on, a group of friends, the group of friends. Quick!” Ava organised us all into a group. We all stood in front of the Auction sign. Sam took the photo, so Ava was in it.

The photo of me was amazingly bad. I was horrified.

The auctioneer had a long preamble about everyone being sure about which house everyone was bidding on, because once before when he had the same sales situation, when they got to signing on the house, that purchaser thought he’d just bought the other house they had for sale that day.

The auctioneer had a very wide mouth, as though he was part Staffy. He smiled a lot, lucky for him it came across as sincere. He had very long feet, high lighted by the long, pointy, steel toe capped, western crocodile skin shoes. He had a drop earing in one ear.

Sam bid on 780K and 820K, when the interest seemed light on for the small house and it looked like the house could have, possibly been sold at a bargain price. The thing was, we only have 800K guaranteed for an investment property house loan. Sam was already at 820K when I noticed. “What are you doing,” I whispered. It wasn’t perhaps the most supportive reaction. The others were surprised, we hadn’t really discussed it with any of them. The bidding got going once we were out.

A guy, who looked to me like a property developer to me – I have no evidence for this claim – and a couple of, what looked like, thirty something year old gay boys, who looked like a couple, bid it out and the gay boys were successful in the end.

The poofs got the small house for just over 900K.

Nobody bid on the big house. The Crew reported that would most likely be negotiated at a later date. It was felt about the big house that it was a lot of money, 1.5 million, for a house in which you would have to do major bathroom renovations straight away and essentially it would only be a two bedroom house, when you took the bathroom upstairs.

Gordon was inside for an inordinate amount of time as we waited in the ever increasing heat of the sun. We were all fanning ourselves and beginning to complain.

Finally, Gordon appeared and he warmly embraced everyone who were there as if they were long lost friends, or members of the inner sanctum of the friendship circle.

He totally ignored Sam and I, which I took as a message not to go in and have drinks in the house afterwards. Michael and Duncan had waited long enough by then, they were hungry and wanted breakfast, so when they made their discreet exit, we did too. Gordon suggested Michael and Duncan stay for a drink, but he didn’t suggest it as Sam and I left.

I just felt like pot, afterwards, I’m not sure why? I felt a bit defeated. The smallness of the world because of inhospitality, on a micro level and on a greater level. I’ve lived next to Gordon for 25 years. I should have been good at the job I just had, but I found it intimidating and crumbled. I think I must have been under stress, mother in a coma expected to die. Inhospitality abounds. The world feels smaller for it. Maybe I want to feel numb.

Ironically, I don’t even really like feeling of being stoned any more. It is that love hate thing, numbed is both good and bad. Like antibiotics, the pot kills all feelings. It was fine when I was younger, I hadn’t been ground down so much by life at that stage. Not that I did it as a teenager, apparently kids that is bad, I was in my twenties before I smoked my first. Now, to tell you the truth, it is just a dreary habit. Still, nobody ever said habits had to be good. It still makes me focus to write, it shuts all distractions out, I know that much still. That’s what I want it for. The creativity just flows on weed.

Sam, Buddy and I walked to the bank in Smith Street, in the sunshine. I had to get money. I bought apple cider vinegar and cigarettes and fruit juice and bread and milk. All of life’s small necessities. It was nice, the day sparkled, the sky was bright blue. Buddy marched ahead as if he was singing the bulldog song. Tum di dum tum di dah! Tum di dum tum di dah! Bulldog coming through. We floated. I floated. It seemed like an awful lot of walking, an awful lot of feet dragging on the way back, but we did it.

I got pot delivered. Very civilised. Come on Australia, let’s do what New Zealand has done, parts of America, Uruguay, for goodness sake and parts of Europe. Stop being such a pussy-arsed conservative country and just get on with it. Admit that prohibition is a failure. I wonder if the price would go up, it hasn’t gone up in twenty years. Of course, with Mr Misogynist Church on Sundays in charge, I guess it is unlikely.

The sun shone down.

Matt dropped in. He is good. It is the first time I have seen him since his heart attack. At forty, I am sure that is not so good. He told us all about his juice diet. Lots of vegetables.

Nobody could really tell me why he’d had a heart attack, so I asked. He said he was going without sleep, eating all the wrong foods, drinking no water, doing no exercise, smoking. Then he kind of slipped in that his cholesterol was crazy high, with no good cholesterol. When I asked him how high was his cholesterol, he avoided answering that question. He said, unlike most men, he recognised the symptoms and called an ambulance.

David has been texting insults all day. He followed up all the texts with a long and rambling call where he talked and talked, he was in the car, I am sure. It is how he passes his time when he is driving. He’s lucky he is smart, because if he was the air-head that he makes out to be, he’d have crashed that car by now. What am I saying, I tell him all the time not to drive and use his phone.

The sun is shining through the back doors.

Buddy is snoring.

Sam is asleep with a slipped kindle by his side.

INX plays. Baby don’t cry.



We left to eat Pho with David. I’d rolled a j for the occasion. We walked to Victoria Street.

David insisted that I call (my boss) Jack first thing Monday morning, straighten it all out. “Tell him about you mum. Ask for time off.”

“I don’t want to.”

“What do you mean you don’t want to,” replied David. His eyes widened, he looked alarmed. “That’s what you do. Save your job first. Then think about your future later.”

“I just don’t want to think about it.”

“You may not want to, my sweet, but you have to. Do that and then you don’t have to think about it. But at least do that.”

“I don’t care.”

He looked even more alarmed.



We walked back. It was dusk by the time we were walking up the Langridge Street hill, at the dusk of our stoned-arsed-selves, dragging our feet to the front door.

We seemed to be waiting on the couch with filler shows all the evening, until Ru Paul’s Drag race final came on. I wanted Raven to win, despite her having never been my favourite in the previous season she was in. I’m glad Chanel didn’t win as she is too Las Vegas Show Girl. Having said that, in a strange kind of way, for keep something alive in a pure way, makes her an eminent winner of hall of fame, in a sense. She’s too uptight, though. Chad Michaels won. I couldn’t see it. Yeah, sure there is a great transformation, but there’s not much after that.

I think we went to bed at 11.11 to watch City Hall, in Bed. Al Pacino.



Facebook,

You do realise that Anthony turned 50 on Friday. Anthony.

Well, yes I guess. None of us are getting any younger luv, despite your constant denials. Happy birthday lovely Robert Gamble. Christian.



05/03/2014, Robert Gamble, Thanks beautiful Chriso! xx