Guido Swings By

It was a warm night.

Guido called and said he was in the area. Now that is a first, he must have wanted something, I thought. Sam was still asking, "What?" as I was typing "yes, drop by." I thought bugger it, why not? Sam only protested a little. He gave in with a bit of a whimper, to tell you the truth.

David dropped in after teaching Indian Philosophy.

Guido couldn’t find a car park, so we sat in his car, which is always good for me getting two bags and Sam not having to blow a valve when I do it in front of him. Oh, come one, those bags are getting smaller by the year.  Guido laughed, he just wanted to gossip. 

“That’s good, as [friends name] wanted to see me and she never has any money." [friends name] has just be diagnosed with ADHD, to which Guido said nobody was surprised. 

“That much amyl has to do damage,” said Guido. He then told me how [friends name] was colour blind. 
"Apparently, that is why she is always blind at night clubs," said Guido. "And I always thought it was the drugs."

I said that I didn’t think women could be colour blind. 
"Aren't they carriers, and it is the blokes who are actually colourblind?"

Neither of us knew for sure.

I got out of the car as the next topic of conversation started up. It was me, or Guido, at that point - oh yes, thank you so much from delivery - but I had joints to roll, and none were getting rolled in the car.

David hoovered up the leftover pasta in the fridge. He didn't care if I scraped 2 bowls of leftover pasta into one bowl and then nuke it. Then he ate the rest of my stewed apple. He stayed to watch Riot, the history of the Sydney Mardi Gras. We’d watched the first twenty minutes, before David got there, but I didn’t mind watching it again, as the pot had arrived by that stage and I was happy to roll a few joints in the meantime.

Off to Guido's

Guido messaged to say he’d “been off air”, so he didn’t get messages until he got home. I was welcome to go to him, but he would be doing a good deed for his sister during the night, not that it matted because his boyfriend, Junior, would be at the house. When he told me he was incommunicado tomorrow, and that we could meet at Melbourne Cemetery in the morning, his first stop anywhere in the vicinity of my place, I decided to drive to the fringes of the city to get it myself. Too cloak and dagger for my sensibilities otherwise. Guido, naturally, found it hilarious. He loves playing the part.

Buddy didn’t want to come downstairs at 6.45pm when I was leaving, so I left him inside with Andy. It was very gratifying when he jumped about, happy to see me, when I got home. (I didn’t think I suffered from any dog owner’s insecurities?)

So off north to the “boonies” to visit Guido in his lair. Out passed where the trams end and the giant second hand car yards begin. Out passed the bright lights, the music, the kebab shops and the fusion cafes. Passed the pesky fucken bike paths filled with their angry bike riders. Passed where streets have people on them. Out passed where the evolved narrow streets become the planned wide roads. Out passed the service stations and the Seven Elevens, and the Maccas and the KFC’s, which seem to morph into generic roadside stops where punters can be drained of their hard earned cash in a multitude of ways. Out passed the mega shopping centres, the multiplex, the Cinemaplex, The Northern Central Jumbotron, the 2 ache Woollies. Out passed the road intersections that look more like aircraft landing facilities more so than the humble red, amber and green light configuration. Out passed the car stripping joints, the spray painters, the secret warehouses, the junkyards, the scraps for sale, the gaudy mosques and the northern boy’s gyms, sweaty T’s and discarded jockey. Guard dogs, CCTV, security. Drag strips. Late nights.

Of course, every slow cunt was in front of me for the entire trip out there and the entire trip back. Naturally. Tapping fingers on the steering wheel. That goes without saying. This is when Sam tells me that the only person being damaged by my constant flow of abuse from the drivers seat is him. He says I have a special form of Tourette’s that I save for driving. It is only his ears that bleed. Would I mind cutting it out?

I tell him that they are the words of a non-driver. It is just a little bit rich coming from someone who spends his entire life being chauffeur driven around wherever he may want to go. I tell him that while he is prepared to sit his arse down in the passenger seat never having bothered to put in even a scintilla of effort towards driving a car, he has no right to criticise. It is very easy to be a pussy-arsed passenger seat criticiser, but do the pain and then come back to me.

To the house. Where the bright lights stop, where the street lighting mysteriously dims to something that looks like it is gas powered. Once you are away from the main drag, every street looks the same, every intersection like the one before, kind of run down display home, circa middle of last century. The prom queen still in her prom dress fifty years later, post kids, post divorce, unemployment and drug addiction. It gets confusing, sometimes I laugh to myself that it is like an episode of Doctor Who, no matter how far I drive I keep coming back to the same intersection. So I have a safety word now that, funnily enough, covers the street names I have to look out for. (I’m not going to tell you what that is, well, there has to be some semblance of cloak and dagger about it all now doesn’t there?)

The house, it is more like a compound now. Guido has bought up the neighbouring houses in the street. Great, big horrible houses, dark and shut up, what the Greeks of the fifties did with their illegal casino money, but the wogs moved out years ago. There are matching Lyons, one decapitated. Balustrading that looks like mouths with teeth knocked out, dry fountains, more likely to be filled with a possum carcass than water. Wrought Iron Gates with fifteen rusty chains attached, some semblance of order obvious in the now faded-to-the-same-colour once colour-coded chain covers Windows with bars displaying broken blinds behind. Curtains drawn. Shut up. Closed down. Dead orchards, the trees bare sticks against the grey sky. Concreted gardens, entire concrete yards. Car bodies in the driveways. Giant work utes. Hatchbacks on the nature strips, parked up against super cars of the 80s, long since broken down.

“It ain’t no big deal, the land out here is cheap.”

He now has a cluster, the Guido Cluster. In Guido’s driveway sits a brand new WRX and a brand new 86. Both black, of course.

Junior was there, as mentioned. Guido was being a man with a van some where in the neighbouring suburbs, doing a good deed. Junior gushed about their new lounge suit that was arriving tomorrow. Guido was playing Good Samaritan? Bullshit! Guido was dumping used furniture.

It is always a fretful moment when the Dobermans rush in. They always seem to rush too, glide silently, blink, and they are there, 3 Doberman’s suddenly sniffing you silently. It is so sudden sometimes, I am sure I know what divers feel when they are suddenly surrounded by sharks.

Pepper, Bruno and Hussein. Hussein is the really big one, but Bruno isn’t far behind. It is Hussa for short, which seems all together more disturbing than Hussein when it is given as a directive. Hussa can sound like the death command to an efficient killer, when it is spoken all breathy in your right ear. “Hussa!” Kill.

Guido breeds champion Doberman Pincers, who’d have thought. Well, not me, but I already knew. I’ve been patted down by the three of them many times. He shows them and all. He plays it to the hilt, camp, rich, dog expert, apparently, according to Guido, as I have never been to one of Guido’s dog shows. “Oh, it is soooo much fun.” Apparently, he is good at it, well, again, according to Guido.

“Good dog. Good dog.” I pat their grey, leathery skin as they swim silently around my legs. Their pointy noses brush across each of my hands, almost simultaneously, like it is part of the training. Bruno and Hussa. Pepper sticks her nose into my arse, just in case I’d, some how, missed her presence.

Junior acts all sweet and blonde, like butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth, like he always does. He’s lovely. Mr Business Analyst just mucking in and lending a helping hand in one of Guido’s business enterprises. I’m in and out in minutes.

There is a fourth one too, Beau, apparently she is with pups. When it is four Dobermans against the humans, ground space is very hard to find.

Junior is your All Australian, blond boy (ed note – he is thirty, so no letters please) every mother’s dream son, as sweet as the day is long. He kind of has this slightly ditzy routine he goes into, but I have never heard him make a mistake, or be wrong.

And four guard dogs.

That is Guido’s life, if it isn’t some kind of mind fuck, he is just not into it. I’m sure in his mind he is just playing one great big game of cops and robbers. Good guys. Bad guys.

Guido

Oh Yes, Guido's Back

We're already using the Xmas cards as roaches, thanks Eliza, Jack & Gracie. Speaking of which, Guido's back. He turned up the other day, with a big Ta Da at the front door. He's been in South America and the States, hanging out in the poorest part of L.A. He's been having a fine old time, getting poor black straight boys to jack off for him... for one hundred dollars a wank.

"Headed home because of the financial crisis," said Guido. "You know, cut costs," full body twitch, "take up a few local, um, er, opportunities that have been," full salesman smile, white pointer, "shall we say," neck twitch, "have been on the back burner."

He says he's going legit. He's going to run an Internet business. "It's the new fucken frontier." Poor Straight Black Guys Wank for money.com, or some such thing.

"Gay for pay," said Guido with his customary smile. "Good money. Crack it for a few of the really poor ones and they'll do anything for a buck." He laughed. "Any thing, buddy. Just need to trawl the poverty class... rich pickings."

That's Guido, a humanitarian at heart.

"You should see some of the fucken wangs on some of these mothers," said Guido. "Jesus fuck! Can stick their cocks up their own arses, half of them."

Guido looks great. I wondered if he'd had some work done. I mean, he's always been a good looking boy, in his own, fucked up excessive kind of way. But, some how, all the excesses in his face weren't showing any longer, now there was just smooth, tight skin.

"Why were you gone so long?"

"Oh you know." he touched his nose and ran his hand through his hair. "Sometimes it pays to keep, er, um, a low profile." Big smile. "See the world. Spend time with my guy. New meat in a new town, they fall at ya fucken feet, little fucken Ho's."

He looked kind of different. Maybe he was just relaxed. I wanted to ask him if he'd had work done, but some how it came out as an enquiry about Junior, don't know why.

"Got my name tattooed on his arse," said Guido.

"Junior?" I laughed. "That's a good image..."

"No," said Guido testily. "Troy. No more of this Junior shit."

Well! There was a change. I looked at Guido and he just held my gaze. I clicked my tongue on my bottom lip. Guido had fallen for Troy. I could see it instantly. Guido smiled a look of recognition.

"Well... you can hardly be called Junior when you've turned twenty, now can..."

"Got him gang banged for his birthday," said Guido. "On a beach in Rio. Come one, come all."

"Oh," I said. "How sweet."

"Till the snot ran out his fucken nose." Guido laughed his cruel laugh. "I've got some vids I must flip to you."

"Really," I replied. I couldn't stop my eyes from widening. They felt like dinner plates. Come one, come all?

"Yeah," said Guido. He had a look of triumph. "He learned he really likes his new, black brothers." Guido laughed again.

I shook my head, smiling, I could feel the creases in my cheeks.

"Completely under my control." Guido held up his little finger up in my face. "Like nobody else I've ever known. The kid blows me away with what he'll do."

Guido had some stories, like nobody else. Make your hair curl. "Fuck me! Is that legal in any country?"

"Legal smegal," said Guido. "It's all just perception, you know that, you're in the business."

"Is Junior, Troy okay?" I asked incredulously.

"Yeah, back on his feet in no time."

The sun was shining and the sky was blue, as we headed out the front.

"What do you know about the Internet?" I asked.

"I've got a degree in it, fucker," said Guido. "And anything I don't know, Scott and Van can pick up."

"You've got an IT degree?" I asked. I tried not to sound too surprised, otherwise Guido would be onto it in milliseconds, saying something about putting him down. Cars, houses, travel the world, he still had that chip on his shoulder from growing up in the western suburbs.

"I've got 2 degrees," said Guido. "Don't sound so god damned fucking surprised, you're not the only one."

"Really?"

"Yeah. I could have done what you do, been Mr Upright and fucken respectable," said Guido. He rocked his head from side to side and pouted his lips. "But, I find my line of work is more..." Smile. Raised eye brows. "Profitable," he said, as he stroked the bonnet of his new black 135 convertible. Killer smile. "Give your French boy-racer," he pointed at me with his chin, " a run for its money."

He hopped into the car. The door closed with a very satisfying BMW clunk. A second later he was out again. "Party. My place Saturday night." He moved as though he was getting back in the car and then stopped. "Don't bring anything." He shook his head as he spoke, then disappeared under the crisp black material, again.

The car started with a very nice burbling exhaust note. Guido was out of the car again. "Wear a decent pair of jocks."

"What?"

Smile. Wink. He was gone. The car glistened in the sun light. It's a beauty, all right, not like the ugly hatchback version. Two quick revs and the car screeched out into the street.

What? 

The Last Words From Guido

Oh yes, my last conversation, from a week a go, with Guido. He's a trip, that's for sure. He also offered me his new 4WD Mercedes, "you know, just to keep the battery charged," which I politely declined. (I know, you don't want to owe Guido)

“Ya gonna have to stock up, my man,” said Guido. “Any last requests before I head off into the blue yonder, for parts unknown. Return date pending until fuck knows when.”

“You going away?” I wasn't sure if that was quite the right expression to use with Guido.

“Yeah yeah, Chriso, going away, even a dog gets some time off, you know? And this fucken dog is fucking off.”

“Going any where special?“

“Yeah, yeah. Bahamas... with Junior. Just got to lay on the beach, for a couple of months and stop. Stop! Stop! Stop! FUCKING STOP!” he screamed. “All business and no play and all that... Shame Anna-Nicole won’t be around.“

“Junior?”

“Junior? Haven't you met him?”

I wasn't really sure how I would have met him, however. “No.”

“Oh, just the cutest grammar school b*y you've ever laid your eyes on.”

“Grammar School?”

“Parents are flakes, lost every thing in the dot.com crash, or something? Get a real fucken job, that’s what I say. They can't look after their kids now, so I pay the school fees and take a little, um, shall I say, cream off the top for my trouble, if ya get what I mean?” He did an uncanny mimic of Hannibal Lecter’s and a nice Chianti.

“Is that legal?”

“Yes, yes, perfectly. I said high school not prep, you fucker,” he laughed his throaty laugh. “Well, legal in most countries. I guess, I'd have to be careful in Perth and some states in the US.” He laughed again.

“Jesus, Guido!”

“You should see the snatch on him,” he said, in that breathy, fast talking way he has of talking. “All day fucken sucker! I can taste his liver from back there.”

“How old?” I had to ask.

“Old a nuff to fucken bleed that’s how fucken old!”

“So he’s up for it…” I wanted to say with you, but I thought the incredulousness in my voice may have been too evident. I wondered if the kid had been indentured into Guido’s entourage.

“He likes the bling... and I like his thing.” He laughed again. “All of him, actually. Every bit. Genetically gifted, football captain, big feet, legs up to here, big chest, tiny hips, you get the picture.”

“I’m beginning to.”

“I might put him in a few movies, yet.”

I guessed I knew what sort of movies Guido was talking about.

“So what do you want? Speak now…”

“No thanks Guides, I’m cool.”

“Yeah, yeah, that’s what they all fucken say. Suit yourself…just don’t turn into Mr fucken Whiny Pants when your out, because there will be no Mr Guido to run to your candy arse beck and fucken call. See ya when I fucken see ya.”

Dial tone.

Back at Guido's

The air was thick, dense with smoke, a large cloud hung over those in attendance. Chill out music played. The punters were mindless. It had been a long night, it had been a long weekend. There had been casualties, but there were always casualties - some injuries were obvious, some not so. Nobody had to seek medical advice, which was always a good thing.

Guido was holding court, naturally.

I was fucked - my head spun, my feet hurt. Guido wanted to fix me up with Max. I was keen, if it was my kind of fix up - up to his room, door closed. No annoying cameras of Guido’s hidden anywhere. But, I'm sure it was Guido’s kind of fix up, another deal to get me through the night. I didn't need any more of that, I was sure about that. I could do with a little of what Max had in his pants, but I figured that wasn't what Guido was talking about.

I lay on the bean bag and let the night, the morning, the day wash over me.

I’d kill for a joint, I thought. Then there was a tap on my right arm and Scott was handing me a joint, as he grimaced and exhaled. Then there was a tap on my left arm and Van was handing me a joint and grimacing as he exhaled. Then I crossed arms and handed Van’s joint to Scott and Scott’s to Van. They both laughed.

Then I just laid back and watched the circus, wondering, exactly, how I got caught up in all of this. It had been Guido, of course. He’d knock on my door and said come out. When I said no, he called me a boring fucking shit and somehow that spurred me on and got me out the doors.

I had a good time, sure. I was glad Guido pushed me.

Now, I'm just fucked up. I'm home, took the day off. I pashed Max, which was nice, but that was as far as we went.