Читать книгу War/Peace - Matthew Vandenberg - Страница 12

Like dark matter, we take up space but remain invisible to anyone but the elite of Bondi.** When energy or momentum is presumed missing this is where it's dwelling, a spell has been cast and you're in a realm sublime, separate from the world outside. Fight Club is for suckers, this is Club Love, where we pop pills and take to the sky like doves. Where we live forever. Fashion is the clothing we wear inside, on our organs, on our brain#, the bright silk garments so popular now in the year 2020AD, that change color depending on your mood and blood oxygen levels#. This is how I know who wants to fuck me.

I step onto the stage, each stride as long as my smile: 'Bitches and gentleman, boys and toys . . . Ha ha. Thanks for turning up today. Seriously. Specially if you're a chick. You could have been anywhere else in the world tonight but you chose to be here, in the Junction. And you lot ain't the shy bunch, I'm guessin'. You're the ones with the freedom to go anywhere you like. Fuck! We're just a couple minutes from the Cross by rail, setting of the next Underbelly, and it's past ten. And look – I want you the fuck out of this joint if your parents are gonna show up any minute. Coz I'm gonna assume they're old, and probably were even old in the 60's so free love to them is nothing but hedonism, and these cunts have a hatred for hedonists, yeah?'

I crouch on the stage. Her arm's a second from mine, a quarter second, and then time chokes as her fingers brush against my skin. She has shades on but this is all. Under the bright yellow light her body looks gold, and her arm is the smoothest, longest gold nugget I have ever touched. A heavy fringe hangs over one eye shade, a mat of fur which glistens, shimmers, shines. She smiles as she runs her finger from my arm to my waist, and as a liquid inside me runs, and I smile and place a finger to her lips to silence her, and keep her still: the subject of a painting now, the both of us, two models on display. -

'Stay still. This'll kill the mood, but I'm here to do a comedy routine and that's what I'mma do. Besides, it's only ten. So we're a new generation, yeah? We can be original sometimes but, at other times, we can learn from past generations, act as they did. But it's our choice, not theirs, not our parents', not our fuckin' idols, but ours. We do what the fuck we want, and we learn from our mistakes. Unless your parents were – like – ten when you were born then they're a part of another generation, went to school with a bunch of kids who thought differently, watched different television shows, listened to different music. Sure . . . there was that ten-year-old Chinese chick who gave birth recently, but generally if a chick has a large waist at ten it's coz she's fat.' - I pause. A few people gasp. - 'Oh, c'mon. It's best they find out when they're ten, right? Then they can decrease food intake just a little over a longer period of time in order to shed the kilos. Do the math people. If speed by time is equal to distance and you wanna go the distance without running then you'll need plenty of time, yeah? That's solely for health reasons, of course. I think the idea that weight is inversely proportional to beauty is a complete myth, as anyone with any sense or sexual experience knows. I've been with plenty of fat chicks who are beautiful, and if you haven't then I suggest you give it a shot. It's the face that matters. Got a fucked up face then it don't matter how skinny you are. Of course, I'm a hooker so I sleep with whoever pays me anyway. But I know what turns me on . . . Like everyone here tonight. Damn, you chicks are fine.'

The crowd cheers, and a few people clap.

'So, we got all night. All night. And time is everything, really. Underappreciated when you think about it. Practically anything is possible with time. Anything. That's why old people get so fuckin' pissed. They start to realize that time is money, wealth, fame, whatever, just when it's starting to run out for them. And they'll say this to you, and it's pretty good advice – just not when they're in front of you with fuckin' walkin' frames at Central station when you're rushing to catch a train. Anyway: it makes perfect sense when someone tells you that starting young with something is a good idea. Fine, cool. Until the person tells you exactly what to do, says that if you do this or that then you'll be a lot better off than he is by the time you reach his age. Um . . . no, you fuckin' twat! I'd be exactly like you by the time I'm your age because what you told me to do is get a 9 to 5, do my taxes, save up heaps of money, buy a fuckin' house, buy a fuckin' car, be a fuckin' consumer, and all so that when I'm 55 I can ride any CityRail train for as long as I want for just $2.50 a day. Fuck that! Go to Manhattan and you can ride the subway up and down the stretch as long as you like, all through the night. You know who do that? The homeless. So that's it? We work all our lives so that we can become respectable homeless people? That's basically it, right? When we're old we wanna take these fuckin' cruises and shit, these trips around the world. We want complete freedom, no ties, relaxation. Um . . . we want no home duh! And I ain't sayin' this is a bad thing, perhaps it's what we all want. I'm just saying that most old people in Capitalist countries are fuckin' stupid. They can be happy, we can all be happy, if we want to be, any time, anywhere. Instead they mope around, complaining just like I am now. But I'm a fuckin' comedian and I enjoy complaining so that's cool.

'But you know what old people complain about most? Change. Ironic considering they all want to win the fuckin' lotto, or win at the stupid pokies. Suddenly their lives will be changed, totally. Then they'll probably be cryin', and they'll chuck all the money into the pokies anyway coz they don't know what the fuck they want. Do this – right – go to the Gosford Leagues, or the Leagues in your area, and sit next to an old person at the machines. Just put in a single dollar and play one cent games, but every now and then look at the old person, a cheeky grin on your face. But don't be obvious. Chances are he or she will be putting in dollar after dollar as though placing stupid old people pills into his or her mouth, and the person will always be angry. “Why isn't it paying out?” The person will start grunting, huffing, like a fuckin' rat who's pressin' the leaver in a Skinner Box and not getting any food pellets. Funny thing is, this dickhead thinks he or she is smart. This is the person who will tell you he or she has life experiences which you don't have yet, that he or she is older and thus wiser. Duh! - That fuckin' statement in itself is testament to your fuckin' idiocy. Age is directly proportional to mental capacity, is it? Ok, who's smarter? I walk into Gosford Leagues: we got people on the dance floor, or sitting at tables laughing, drinking, joking, thinking up intelligent new pick-up lines, maybe even snorting a few to alter mental states, and having a good time like scientists busy in the lab on the verge of a breakthrough and . . . oh . . . walk into the pokies room and we got people pressing the fuckin same button, again and again, like Homer's little bird, chucking their cash into brightly colored drains which make funny noises, grunting like cavemen, bashing fists against these inanimate objects, until their fingers bleed, crying, wheezing, their club cards attached to their wrists with string so they don't lose them, free coffee by the bar so they can get their own stupid caffeine fix and stay awake to stare at fuckin' images of apples, cherries, and oranges which they can't even touch or eat, all through the fuckin' night. At least 'til closing time. So, rats in a cage, or teenagers? Rats in a cage or teenagers? 9 to 5 bullshit all your life so that you can become a rat too, or rebellion and freedom? You tell me.

'But I guess some of them actually like spending time in the club. It's peaceful – aside from the whine of the machines -, and they're with their mates. Take 'em out of this environment and they get madder, angrier. So I'm at Central Station the other day, Greg's there on a seat by the newsagency, reading The Sydney Morning Herald, an eyebrow raised as he listens to Alan Jones or his contemporary on the radio, chattin' to Bob and he's like: “They're doing it again, these juvenile brats. Dogs, bloody animals, that's what they are. Bloody, stinkin' delinquents! Terrible, atrocious, this generation . . .” So I hear this and I'm thinking: “Maybe he's exaggerating a little . Maybe. But I'll give him the benefit of the doubt. Maybe a group of youth were slamming someone's head into the gutter like sissy skinheads, or distributing heroin to little kids. It's wrong for him to generalize of course, and assume the entire generation is like this, but I do the same when it comes to old folk so, whatever.” But then he continues: “These boys, teenagers, no bloody respect for their elders, they walk into the men's room and one of them . . . a ripe brat . . . he has a balloon in his hand. A large balloon. Know what he does? He pops it.' And at this point I'm thinking: “Ohhh, balloon full of heroin, ay? Yeah. Pretty bad.” But the guy stops talking. Then it dawns on me: that was the offense, the balloon popping. Then I look down at the shriveled up balloon in my hand and up at the two men glaring at me, and wonder why the hell I had to walk into this specific newsagent after leaving the rest room. Shit!'

A few people chuckle.

'So I'm fleeing the scene, and I hear Greg telling the newsagent he wants a scratchie, and tellin' his mate that he feels lucky, wants to make an easy 50 grand, which you are – of course – allowed to do when you're old but not if you haven't worked a million fuckin' hours in an office first. So he wants a scratchie or – more specifically – 50 grand. It's been his life long dream to make 50, which makes me wonder why the fuck he didn't just work one odd year and then call it quits, so that he could go home, sit on his arse, and get up only to chase innocent flies around the house or argue with his wife over whether the windows are a little more than ajar because intruders may find a way in if they are. But anyway, he wants the 50, but for what? He hates change. What the fuck will he do with the 50? Give it to the homeless perhaps? Or sponsor a child? Great ideas but no: the prick will probably just upgrade his mode of transport. Now, instead of the train he's on a plane everyday, trippin' it back and forth between Sydney and LA. On that note, little word of warning, don't hide in the small plane toilet cubicle with a balloon and then pop it when an old guy enters. So many things can go wrong, not to mention a sound like a gun being fired on a plane don't go down too well.'

Some more laughs as I scratch my head.

'Anyway, so I'm fleeing the old guys, not too hard since they can't really walk no more. Bet they wish they were runnin' about when they still could, rather than sitting in stupid offices. But I can't move too fast coz – you guessed it – 100's of them every which way I look. Heck – we're talkin' Central Station, peak hour. And I'm thinkin': “Why the hell no old people travelators like those they got at airports? They'll enjoy them coz it's like they're on miniature, open-air trains that move through the station, and they'll be moving a thousand times faster than if they were walkin'. Meanwhile, those of us who still have properly functioning legs can run across the normal floor. Heck, maybe paint some white lines on the ground and make it into a massive track, so we can all jog or sprint. Maybe then you'll be able to wait 'till a girl's 12 before telling her she's fat, ha ha. Everyone will be exercising a little more each and every day. So any fat girls here tonight?'

'Yeah! Whoooo!'

'Hey!' – I point to the girl – 'You know I love you, right? And look at the girls here tonight: it's so easy for you to change whatever part of your body it is you don't like, you know. Simply grab the girl with the right bit, place her bit in front of yours, and you're fine. Easy.' - I pause for laughter – 'This is why they call this place Sodom. Remarks like that. That's a biblical reference, meant to piss of the Christians, or the Moslems, what have you? It's a city which it is said was destroyed by God . . . yet it sounds just like the place the stupid terrorist pricks think they'll go after killing themselves. Ok – look. So say this is Sodom, right here right now. We're a happy bunch, living life in the fast lane but stickin' to the speed limit so that nobody gets hurt, and this God figure, he decides that genocide's a pretty cool idea. Um . . . so who exactly is the evil villain then? I reckon God was pissed coz he wasn't getting laid, so he decided he'd destroy a whole city, filled with people who were living a good, wholesome life, after calling them immoral and imperfect. People! Sex is the answer to everything, ok? We need to eat, we need to drink, to breathe, and to fuck. It's totally natural. I'm sick of hearing that it's a sin to fuck someone you ain't married to, or even that adultery is a sin. Now why the fuck aren't we all naked? Condoms are in the Holy Grail by the stage, people.

'You know, I was at DJ's this morning. In the city. The large David Jones.' - I tap a finger against my chin – 'Yeah. Didn't know at first, though. I'm on the escalator, goin' up, and I see this chick in her underwear behind some glass. So naturally I yell “Slut!” and jump the escalator rail, and stumble towards her, twisting an ankle in the process. I slam straight into the glass and it's then that I realize – mouth agape, pressed firm against the pane – that she's a maniquin.' - I pause and shake my head – 'Yeah. So some people are looking at me. You can't really do this in a store and not expect people to look. So I'm on the ground, striking a pose not too dissimilar to hers and now people are staring at me as though I'm the mannequin. I've made myself into a spectacle, but in my defense she did honestly look just like a high class slut, hence the reason I ran straight to her. They say these people don't exist, like fairies, but I believe there are some out there. And this is totally where they buy their clothes: David fuckin' Jones. The place is – dead set – a store for sluts. Not that I'm against that, it's why I'm shopping there. You got little miniature stores on the ground floor: Prada, Dior, where the women go for stylish handbags, the little perfume stands where the women go to get their quick fix of scents, just before they head up to another floor to strip down and copy the plastic maniquins: role models and idols no doubt. Such is the life of a hooker.

'Glad I'm here, to be honest. It's a break from the Cross. The job has its perks, don't get me wrong, but I gotta say that the requirement that you gotta be under the age of 25 to enter this joint is a damn good one. Thank goodness there are no frickin' benches here, like the ones at Gosford station. I ain't sittin' on a fuckin' bench, wearing the appropriate t-shirt, waiting for a client, shifting my gaze left then right, sighting someone – in tight, white fleece, body the size of a football field, ugly as a Tasmanian Devil: so I'm thinking, “How the fuck can I play on this court without falling into any holes?” Damn! She winks once, then twice, and then I know she's the one, even before she places her bag on the seat, taps the straps so that one strap falls to each side – spreading its legs so to speak -, and asks me to watch the small handbag for a second. I nod and then I wish I hadn't. I'm pretty sure I got the right to refuse sometimes, if the bitch is over 80. So I'm damn glad there are no benches here, just a damn fine stage.

'Ok, ya'll! I got a mate here today. His name is Shaun Turner. You might have read his stuff on the FB. And now I wanna ask the DJ to spin a tune: Michael Paynter and The Veronicas, Love The Fall. Kill the verses coz my mates gonna try some rap, the guy has some lines he wants to spit. Let's give it up for Shaun Turner!'

Applause rings through the crowd, along with cheers, and squeals.

I hop down from the stage. My hands are shaking. So are my arms. I'm nervous. I'm so glad I still get nervous every time I give a speech, every time I perform. Nervous as though walking through a crowd of completely naked women, brushing my thighs against theirs, pressing my nose to one neck after another, breathing in their scents, watching as several girls drop to their knees, place their hands on the floor, spread their fingers as though they are flower petals unfolding, and then move towards me on all fours, four or more, their flexible bodies moving so freely, leaving full-body prints of perspiration in the form of fancy fractals on the naked floor, breathing heavily, each of them, and smiling also, some Greek, some Asian, each lot from a specific area of Sydney. This is the place where they all gather, just to have a good time. Commonly referred to as Club Y, located on level 5 and three quarters of the Westfield at Bondi Junction, is a place where some elite meet regularly. But entry into Sodom is only free if your body is, and you're under the age of 25. No alcohol is served on the premises because this is not an ordinary club where the owners wish to make a profit, not another branch of some major corporation. And furthermore, there is no need for alcohol when you are asked to hang your inhibition on a hook by the door, by the hooker or the whore: he who stands there to greet you before you step onto the dance floor. Greetings, my name is Jackson Curtis, suck on this beat bitch!

'Yo, speed the tempo a little. That's good, great. K, try to keep up . . .

'Two taps on the pavement/

Got a beat:

if you clap,

it'll break your neck/

Got a bitch:

she's a tap/

Now my flow is wet/

Got a tick?/

Take a ride

coz we goin' there/

Keep the beat

on the heat

'til she has to swear/

Keep it weak:

you're the bass/

Hit! And she's the snare/

Keep crawlin':

muthafuckin' all in/

This shit's a disease:

it's our weed

'til the mornin'/

Take my lead, your feed,

if indeed

you're that naughty/

If you wanna cream

shake your knees

on the dance floor/

Metaphors asleep,

on the porch

by the back door/

Gotta wake 'em up,

get 'em wet,

make 'em dance more/

Gotta take a chance,

take a stance,

break the dance floor/

This'll be the beat

that they ban

in the dance hall/

DJ's gonna freak

coz this track

wasn't planned for:

spins the fuckin' disc

'til it skips

'til it can't walk/

If I have a wish

it's a clit

on the dance floor/

And if chicks insist:

here's the hit

you all asked for/

Slit your fuckin' wrist

or sniff coke

'till your arse falls/

Hedonic and broke,

take a stroke,

coz it's last call/

Take her in your arms/

If you're gay:

take the bloke whore.'

The Veronicas sing the chorus:

"So what if I dive off the edge of my life

And there’s nothing beneath?/

What if I live like there’s nothing to lose

just to die on my knees?/

At least I’ll know

I walked the dark/

I took the scars/

I risked it all

and learned to love the fall###."

Then Shaun:

'She's just iron ore:

way her gaze just irons y'all/

Keeps you in an iron core:

naked babe so ripe and raw/

She the skin as tight as law/

Stage all lit with lights and all . . .'

'You look so red,' she says, brushing my cheek with two fingers, her nails as soft as petals.

'Feel it too. Do you feel the light?' - Above us, the disco ball is spinning. It strikes a pose for several seconds and then spins again, twirls like a dancer, prancing: legs the beams of light which saturate our bodies, all colors of the fruit bowl, with succulent visual appeal, apparel definitive and sublime. - 'Some cells can respond to light photons, you know*. If special opsin genes are placed into our neurons, then the disco ball can become our God, and we can move to the music for one surreal, ethereal, eternal dance, totally addicted to bass, light, and the piercing gaze of strobe: these skinny, thin, fine, beaut legs. Don't blink – your eyes are perfect. Kiss me.' And not even the most elaborate equation*** could have predicted the motion of her lips as they, like thousands of animated legs, like wings of angels, brush against mine. This is the reason we can't live forever, our genes favor reproduction over longevity##. But why should we argue? Castration lengthens the life of a male, but who the fuck would want to be castrated, who the fuck wouldn't wanna fuck the concubines here in the sublime suburb of Bondi J, the sexy babes who inhabit these sharp-as-crystal crevices somewhere in the heart of Westfield BJ. It's a sharp image, clean, pristine and beautiful, her legs like pegs pinning you to the ground, she speaks, her voice raspy, demeanor keen, eager, and state cheerful.

Her eyes are as wide as the lens of a telescope, each pair – one set from each beautiful pet – boundless in width when I relax my gaze and let the pairs unite. Arms like the legs of a cloud, the girls crawl closer to me, their fingers long, firm, and smooth, nails like fangs: their sexy snakes, fingers and tongues, more beautiful than any cock could ever be. And they inch closer to me as my cock pulsates to the beat of the sharp song. Ripe, juicy, sweet, a fruit basket rests at my feet. Inside are over ten different forbidden fruits, succulent, juicy and wet with perspiration.

* * *

We're inside a snow dome, all shook up. So it's hard to keep track of time and space or piece together the scene just right, but I'm down on my knees preparing to write. I look up at the ceiling – a shiny, clear, glass dome – and attempt to gather my thoughts. The stand-up act, the foreplay, the friction, and the reflection. And as I reflect on the night, as the light beams – the color of fireworks – fall onto my body as though droplets of water falling from clouds, her back is pressed firmly against mine. We don't move, frozen like maniquins, struck into a sublime pose, her lips a rose which has now bloomed. I see her reflection in the dome, her face the color of the passing clouds. This is when I realize – by reading the sky – that it is 7am and time for me to leave, when the sunlight begins to pour through every nautical square inch of the glass, through every crevice in the wall, begins to lick at her skin and mine as though a single tongue.

The figures in the room slowly climb to their feet, like porcelain dolls caught in a slow dance. They move like puppets but freely, orderly, in a controlled manner, but expressively, as though dancers who have mastered the movements required for adequate self-expression. And they walk slow, like pens in the embrace of hands, caught up – cue Usher -, held tight, and moving like a cursive breeze. And I feel the collective heat from their bodies washing over me like the rain of a passing storm as they wander towards the door. Each smiles as she passes, lips moving slowly like how silk ribbons appear to under the control of ribbon dancers. I smile now, place a hand on my left shoulder, shrug, blush, and rise to my feet. My movements are still stiff, my steps not yet mastered. But I still manage to move so well, almost like a writer's wrist.

I crouch and take in mine the hand of a girl whose back was pressed so firmly against mine all through the night: our lips in each other's embrace, tight, taught, stiff, but still soft, much like a subtle theme undefined.

******

References

1 Love the Fall – Michael Paynter and The Veronicas [Lyrics in quotations “” taken directly from the song].

2 Sing – My Chemical Romance

3 White America – Eminem

4 Brinckerhoff, B., [Director] & Spies, A. [Writer] (1991). Stand (Up) and Deliver. Beverly Hills 90210. [Treat the films and shows like songs: these are still backing tracks to the respective pieces].

5 Ramis, H., [Director and Writer] Stupnitsky, G., [Writer] & Eisenberg, L. [Writer] (2009). Year One.

6 Who's That Girl? - Guy Sebastian

7 Flaunt It - TV Rock

8 Turn Off The Light - Nelly Furtado

9 When The Lights Go Out - Five

10 Enter The Ninja - Die Antwoord

11 Hey Baby - Pitbull and T-Pain

12 Miami To Ibiza - Swedish House Mafia and Tinie Tempah

13 We Dance To A Different Disco Honey - Short Stack

14 (Selling the Fountain of Youth: How the Anti-Aging Industry Made a, Disease Out of Getting Old--and Made Billions, by Arlene Weintraub. Basic Books, 2010 ($29.95))

15 Club Can't Handle Me – Flo Rida

16 What's Your Story? – Red Hot Chilli Peppers

17 *Deisseroth, K. (2010). Controlling the Brain with Light. Scientific, American, 303(5), 48-55. doi:10.1038/scientificamerican1110-48

18 God Is A DJ – Pink

19 Promise This – Cheryl Cole

20 **Feng, J., & Trodden, M. (2010). Dark Worlds. (Cover story). Scientific American, 303(5), 38-45. doi:10.1038/scientificamerican1110-38

21 (She Blinded Me With Science – Thomas Dolby)

22 ***Piore, A. (2010). Fit for a Princess. Scientific American, 303(5), 24. doi:10.1038/scientificamerican1110-24

23 #Omenetto, F., & Kaplan, D. (2010). From Silk Cocoon to Medical Miracle. Scientific American, 303(5), 76-77. doi:10.1038/scientificamerican1110-76

24 ##Kirkwood, T. (2010). Why Women Live Longer. Scientific American, 303(5), 34-35. doi:10.1038/scientificamerican1110-34

25 mOBSCENE – Marilyn Manson

26 Crack A Bottle – Eminem, Dr Dre, and 50 Cent

27 Gervais, R. (2010). Ricky Gervais Live IV: Science.