Set Price:
I like the sound my stilettos make on the concrete on my corner. I chose this corner for the acoustics. Sure, the passing trade, my trade, passes by here in hundreds. But they do that anywhere I set up business. Me or one of my like. Which we aren't, of course, alike. Except everyone figures they know what a whore is. Course they do, just like I know exactly what a rocket scientist is - the same as every other rocket scientist. Yeah, right.
So, that's the power we have, to a degree, because no-one controls everything in their life, I admit that. That's basic reality. But another basic reality is that, in this game, customers follow vendors. They search us out. We make ourselves easy to find. Naturally, that's just good business sense. That's everyday economics. You can't sell what nobody can see is for sale. Or find the actual point of sale, where both sides can participate in an economic exchange. Because that's what it's all about, at base, living, isn't it? Economic exchange.
People want to know if I have regulars. Naturally. A good product satisfies, and a satisfied customer always returns. You drink Coke? Or Pepsi? Sure, every now and then, just to check, you try the other one, the one you don't drink, but you always come back to the one you do. Maybe you've confirmed a prejudice, maybe you just like the taste. Humans are complex beings. We have to be, otherwise what would be the point? So, yes, I have regulars. But, they're not as important to me as I am to them. I have to say that. Sorry, but it's obvious. There are always more customers. New customers. When you find a product that is just right for you, it may be just right for a whole lot of other people too, so economic reality sets in, the rules of supply and demand. It's that basic. I can get supply just standing out here, and demand I can jack up by how I set my price. They want me, you want me, you'll have to pay.
But, hey, I want to eat, I'm not going to price myself out of the market. You're welcome to dicker a bit, try and bargain before the actual mechanics of the transaction - try afterwards you won't forget me fast! - but before, that's cool, that's very human. I dig all the human stuff of this job, really dig it. I'd never have learnt half the stuff I have doing anything else.
Out here, right?, on my acoustically perfect corner, I do this little dance. Not a real dance, you know, because I'm not trained or anything. I never trained for anything at all, except me and my 'like' reckon what training we get's on the job. But that just ends up being bad habits. The job's not conducive to in-depth exploration of the product we sell. It's basically about quick turnover, and I'm not trying to be smart, filthy-mind - 'turnover' is an economic term, OK? The heels, they're three inches long, and they taper to this real tight point, maybe a square centimetre maximum, a quarter of a postage stamp, and they both have metal covers on them. When I move in my little dance, they click. I can hear the noises bouncing off the walls of the nearest buildings. That is, I can till the lights change down the road, and all of a sudden, the passing trade is passing by, and I can't hear myself think let alone my shoes for the sound of their cars - they look warm in there, comfortable, especially the ones who try to look at me without turning their heads, like out of the corners of their eyes. Those squinty guys. On their own.
Or the ones with a woman in there, they really have to work hard to get a look at me without her catching them out. Maybe five seconds is all they get, unless there's a traffic jam down the road. Then the same guy, whether she's in there or not, you know, stopped right near me, with all the time in the world to get a good look at me, two minutes, more sometimes, they don't look then.
They could turn their whole head, they don't have to watch the road, they're just sitting there. But, all of a sudden, they get really interested in tuning their radio, or shifting the rear-vision mirror a millimetre or two, all this twitchy stuff to make out that they can't actually see out the glass of their car's windows, like they're deaf dumb and blind in there. Weird, cause, you know, the last thing of all, as the traffic un-jams and they can pull away, get their car moving, the last thing they do is that corner of the eye squinty thing. Figure that out. All that time to get a real eyeful, comfortably, maybe even make a little human contact, you know, without it having to mean anything scary if that's what they're worried about, just something like, you know, "traffic, huh?", an unspoken comment passing between us, eye contact, that's all, no chance they'll get anything, contract anything! - and they grab at a measly squint for a few seconds as they drive away when they really should be watching the road, just in case the traffic stops and they're right up the next guy's exhaust pipe cause they weren't looking, except really sideways-squinty and spooked at me.
When they are stopped, though, the cars, a whole string of them, even though they're all sort of rumbling, spewing out fumes, it's quiet enough for me to hear my heels again. A lot of girls, they really turn it on then, whether they can dance or not, they pull out all the stops, you know, for a captive audience. Silly, cause no-one's about to wave you over to his car with a streetful of people watching, are they, cars with people with a minute, maybe two or three to watch some basic economic exchange happening, when the two of us can't even drive away to conclude the practical aspect of the exchange, three minutes maybe when a man never knows, a couple of cars back might be his neighbour's wife, or the guy who does the garden in his truck, or his own wife's sister could be walking her dog past my corner, and they're stuck there, so of course they'd be watching what was going on around them, two cars along or whatever. No man's about to want to perform before an audience like that, is he? Guy might sit there in a traffic jam all that time and only look at you when he drives off, because, if he actually came passing by with putting some business my way on his mind, what he'll do is sit there, drive round the block, and if the traffic's jammed up again, still not do anything, drive around the block again, keep doing it till he can pull his car over when every other car on the road's passing by. Then, if it's the neighbour's wife, the gardening guy, even someone walking a dog, they won't really have enough time to be sure it was him they saw.
They're not rifle shots, I couldn't compare them to that, but they echo real sharp. My heels on this corner. Sometimes I reckon maybe I figured this out as some sort of advertising gimmick, right? Sure, I dress for the job. I look fine standing out there on the corner. Not so obvious that anyone could figure me straight off for a whore, but obvious enough that a potential customer can feel safe approaching me, there won't be any misunderstanding, any embarrassment, unnecessary embarrassment.
You know, the way I look I could be waiting for my boss to pick me up and drive me in to work, or for a friend to take me to Uni. I could be on the corner just waiting for a car I'll recognise and wave to, not one I mightn't have ever seen before except I know the signs as it's aimed towards me, I could be. So any cops driving by, you can see they can see that too, so they don't hassle me, because I'm just out here doing what I'm doing, and so are they, and there's no reason to be bothering each other about anything unless one of us has some reason to, like for them, a new commander at the station, or maybe the locals complaining, or on my side of the fence, a girl who's not happy or too happy, you know what I mean, and drawing too much attention to herself, which is good for none of us. Not socially, not economically, not at all. That just frightens the customers.
And we're selling out here. We always have to be thinking about the customers. On the level of economic exchange, anyway.
The heels clicking clicking clicking, it's like a neon sign flashing over and over, you know, 'Coke Pepsi Coke Pepsi Coke Pepsi', there's no difference really. Well, there is, naturally, but not really. It's something you want, it's something for sale, and here it is, flash flash flash goes the neon, 'click click click' go my heels. Damn, they sound good! I'd better be careful, I'll wear straight through the metal caps down to the wood - 'clunk clunk clunk' is definitely not going to do it for me, selling wise - it doesn't have that ring.
Pimp I know reckons, he was s'posed to be watching his girl, but he was watching me instead, cause of the sound of my heels, said it was sending him fucking crazy, and he wanted to strangle me, but he couldn't get close enough without losing sight of his girl. He said I was losing customers I was so tied up with doing my little dance, my heel thing. Bullshit, I reckon, I've never missed a customer in my life, not one who was serious anyway, not one who knew what he was looking for, and wasn't just jerking off inside cause he had the nerve to be talking to a street-girl - yeah, real gutsy, feller, go home and give it to a cantaloupe. No way, I've never missed a customer who didn't want what I was offering, never, and lately I reckon a lot of that's to do with the way I present myself, and a hell of a lot of that's to do with my heels, so I told him to fuck off, he wasn't missing out on nothing, his girl was bringing in good money, and anyway, if he was right, she was probably getting the customers who couldn't get my attention according to him, so I was doing him a favour, and besides, if he tried to put his hands on my neck or anywhere he'd soon know about it, and my heels. Like between the eyes for instance. He said I was fucking cracked, and we both left it at that.
Like I said there's not too much I don't know about people working out here and in my line. Course, being honest, I don't know anything about people either, really, not the lot. Doesn't matter, see, everyone's so different even the ones who are exactly the same can still surprise you. So they can't really surprise you, see? That's just what being human's all about, all the stuff that's the same, all the stuff that's completely different.
I reckon it's all about change, the way things are isn't the way they were, but it is. Just different. That's what gets me out of bed, anyway, what's going to be different today. The rest of it, out here on my corner, the demand and the supply, the stuff I don't want to tell you about because it's got nothing to do with you, and where I am is where I put myself, and I'll move on when I want to, that'll be my decision, all that stuff, well, if you really want to listen hard, it's not Morse code, it's something you'll have to work out for yourself, but I promise you, no rip-off, no con job, honestly, listen long enough you'll pick it up... it's in my heels.
Tapping it out, rebounding from the walls of the buildings all around this corner of mine, sure it gets muffled in the racket of their cars, but it's there - just listen, listen long enough, 'click click click'. I never could dance, I couldn't stick to the discipline, you know, learn the basics, sweat it out before you lift and fly like a ballerina or some other such unlikely princess, but it's in there, everything I'm saying, in the heels, the noise of my feet crashing away down here.
My story. OK? You can't buy that, demand fucking supply or vice versa, basic economic exchange or not. You want to know me, "the fuck why?" is all I have to say.
But if you listen, get past all the crap you figure you know already, the common knowledge, the received bullshit, the myths and the in-depth news stories in the Saturday supplements in the serious newspapers, it's tapping out to you for free, who I am, what I do, how I got here, and how I'm moving on. Soon. Stuff that's all me. Is me.
If you really want to know, that is, and this isn't all some bullshit you're doing on a dare from your mates. Cause if that's what this is all about, there's nothing free, pal, there's a set price on everything, and that's just basic economic reality.
Things Turn:
Next time you have a check-up, you should ask how long you're going to live, and watch the doc's face. Nothing makes them look sicker than someone asking them that. Like, they think you might be setting them up for a law suit maybe - you've been to some other quack who's found cancer, so if you can get this one to miss that and send you out untreated, you can sue him for screwing up. Mal-practice, bigtime. That's what it looks like they're thinking, doctors, when you ask them a simple question like that.
Course, doctor'll say that's an impossible question to answer, and they're right. You could fall under a bus, you could eat something bad, no matter what the doctor says, of course you could, but the point is - you listening? - the point is, they should know. They should know how much use your heart still has in it, your liver, kidneys, lungs, all the little bits that have to keep ticking over to make the big bit, you, work.
A mechanic can give you a bloody good opinion about spark plugs and carburettors and fan belts and that, which is the same as all the pumping filtering squeezing bits and pieces inside us. Pretty much, anyway.
Doctors, people-mechanics, hate it, but. They "um" and they "ah", they do all that sidestepping stuff. Except... except when it seems like a chance to moralise, with someone like me, a bum, a street person, a derro, a loser, anything people call you without the slightest idea who you are or what you've done, 'cept they've made their minds up you're someone they can make their minds up about without knowing anything except whatever's in their heads already about people who look like you, me, I mean, someone sliding out of society's preferred order, someone who's sidestepped all the responsibility and 'making the grade' shit, someone who's just opted, opted for themselves, whether it's out, down, or deep inside, they've opted differently. Like me.
Opters, people like me, doctors love to tell you the bad news, talking slow like they learned from some teacher they hated who was just itching to belt them, they lecture us. It's as close as they can get to playing God, telling people like me how wrong we've gone, and how much wronger we can go if we don't stop this or that. And you have to listen, you have to play your part, otherwise you make them look like fools, and they spent six years or more at Uni to learn this doctor stuff. You don't want to make them feel bad, inadequate, so you listen. Like you know they wouldn't.
They wouldn't listen if you tell them how you got here, sitting opposite them at their desks, or up on an examination table with your stomach white and trembling, they just want to hear themselves say the stuff they figure they have a right to say because of the way you are and the way they are, and they won't take a warning if you give it to them anyway.
Even if I said it, "Things turn", because I have tried, they don't hear, they can't comprehend maybe, it's only two words, but somehow, what I know, my single simple truth just escapes them, the doctors and everyone else with a better idea of how the world is because they are successful in it and it glows for them brightly, all of them, why should they listen to me? Because, no way can I prove that I was once one of them, rode high, knew the right people, slept in the best suburb, could call on powerful friends for anything, favours, deals, little slivers of the 'who you know' world delivered fast as a courier can peddle, and then double that - huh! But I believed that, and the belief made everything possible, filled me with confidence, gave me power, gave me guts, gave me the go-ahead, and I took it, took it all, had it all, used it and grew sleek and smug, until, things turned.
You Don't Meet...:
I'm standing here at the touch-screen computer in the Haymarket CentreLink. Fingers tapping. They're tapping on the screen. Little cartoon fingers. It means that the computer's looking for the information I asked it for. Tapping like somebody's impatient, right? Not the message I reckon you want to send out to someone looking for a job, you know, maybe even becoming desperate they'll never find one. Tapping fingers like that. Impatient. Or upset about something. Mine are too. My fingers, tapping like the little cartoon hand. But, I'm not impatient. Not really upset, either.
It's...
He's looking at me again. I haven't looked at him. But I know he is. Out of the corner of an eye. I mean, he's looking straight at me - I can see him out of the corner of my eye. It's the fourth time. I'm supposed to be concentrating on looking for a job. He's supposed to be concentrating on looking for a job. That's what these screens are for. They're full of jobs. But they're full of the same jobs they were last week.
And the week before that. Even so... We're supposed to be here looking for jobs.
Except...
I've seen all these jobs before, and none of them are any good for me. Or I'm not good for them. Wrong age. Wrong background. Wrong language. Some of these jobs sound so straightforward till you touch the screen and the computer shows you the detail of what the employers really want. And it's not me. I don't think it's anyone, because I've seen most of these jobs here for weeks, still on the screens after weeks.
I haven't seen him before, not in any of the weeks I've stood here every couple of days. He's looking at me. Again. For the fifth time! He's standing in the queue. You know, he's done the touch screen thing, he's waiting his turn at the reception desk. All the time the hand's still tapping its fingers on my screen. The fingers move up and down, but the hand doesn't move, doesn't go anywhere. Just taps, taps, taps, the way some really heavy teacher used to do at school when they'd dragged you into the office and were trying to freak something out of you, some confession or something about graffiti or an upturned rubbish bin or anything kids do, even older kids when the pressure gets to you. Except those hands were always attached to a whole body, a teacher who might've been okay out of school, but who'd want to know? This computer cartoon is just a hand, like Thing in the Addams Family, except maybe the floor's too slippery on a touch screen - the fingertips are going like crazy, but the hand can't get anywhere - it's just desperately hanging on to the one spot, hanging in there. Like me trying to find a job I've never seen before, bring up something that doesn't sound familiar, and then remember soon as I see it they need someone who speaks Mandarin or Japanese, or has five years experience, or did some more school than I did.
Really simple jobs they sound, but you have to be the needle in the Haymarket haystack to get them. Which is why they're still here, I guess, after all these weeks. The jobs. And me.
There, the line moved. He's a bit further off from me now. I can still see him out the corner of my eye, a step or two further away. But there's a big guy moved onto the end of the queue, blocking things. He can't just see me anymore by pretending to look around the room, you know, read the posters, look out the window, get all interested in something happening two machines along from me... but really looking at me all the time.
It has to be obvious now - he has to take a little sideways step and look right over here past the big guy. My fingers are tapping hard as the little hand on the screen. When's the damn thing going to move? Bring up all the details that filter me out, ordinary everyday me, you'd think just perfect for ordinary everyday jobs, till you look a little closer into them. The jobs that are here week in and week out - are they for real? All I asked for was office jobs. What is there in here, a thousand of them or something? It only said fifty-eight on the start screen, fifty-eight office jobs for people with University degrees in Modern Mandarin and five years experience living and working in Tokyo after completing twelve years in Australian schools with straight A's the whole way through and swimming for the country in international competition, gold gold gold, Aussie Aussie Aussie! Here I am, that's me - wow, you must've read my mind, smart computer, to pick me out like that - so, sign me up.
He doesn't care that everyone can see what he's doing! A queue's a straight line, right?, and he steps right out of it to look back at me. Not even pretending now. Well, half-pretending, like anyone. He's not sure yet whether I'm going to look straight back at him the way I should, telling him I know exactly what he's up to, and if he doesn't stop... - whether I'm going to freeze him right there, freeze him out right there. I know what he's doing. I know about timing. But there is a time and a place. CentreLink?? Thing is, out of the corner of my eye, he looks sort of... OK, not cute. He's not what I'd write down somewhere if someone asked my 'type', but... he's got something.
A real cheek, for a start, always looking at me like this. He must know by now I know what's going on. Why I'm not looking back or anything. Getting a really good look isn't he? Checking me right out! The nerve. Still, he's making the effort, and maybe writing lists of what your type is is something you only do as a joke, you and your girlfriends when there isn't actually anyone around serious at the time, you know, anyone you really like, so you make up some sort of wish-list, which isn't much more than a Frankenstein's monster of bits and pieces of movie stars and rock singers and maybe the sons of millionaires - billionaires! - some supermodel hasn't already got her teeth sunk into.
There's nothing here! I can tap at this screen all day! The line's moving. He's at the counter, talking with the man there like he's a regular. Great, some guy who's on a first name basis with the staff at CentreLink, really good catch, huh? Rolling in it, steady job, bright future, a whole life of luxury laid out in front of him. He does have nice eyes though. Bit starey.
He's looking straight at me. I'm looking straight at him! How did that happen? I swear, I never took my eyes off the screen. But we're looking straight at each other.
He's smiling. In the corners of his mouth like that, both sides. Sort of off-balance, but he's smiling, right at me. What does he expect me to do? Smile back? Yeah, right, here, in the middle of an employment office with half the world watching. He's doing it bigger. What does he think he's looking at? This is not my smile, OK? This is a, a... 'just what do you think you're doing?' look. That's what it is. A 'who do you think you are?' look. It's both of those. It's a 'you have such a cheek, you're so into yourself, how dare you smile at me, a complete stranger, like this?' look.
He won't stop. He's put his eyes right onto mine. What? Does he think I'm smiling back? Is that it? Huh! As if? Well, hang on. My mouth feels like it is. It is. It's smiling back. At his. I'm smiling back at him. Oh no, this is crazy, I can't be.
I'm here to find a job. I'm here looking to get on with my life, make money, save money, meet someone doing that stuff too. Not someone who's not finding, maybe not even looking - but someone who's 'found', found a job, not looking for one; someone who's earning, who's looking good, looking settled, looking like they have a future, not looking across the reception area of the Haymarket CentreLink like he doesn't have a care in the world except he doesn't have a job or he wouldn't be here, not standing in that queue, not standing at the reception desk handing over his card, waiting while the man there types something onto his computer, and while he does, looking at me, straight at me and smiling, and making me smile back, how did he do that? No, that's not what I'm looking for.
He won't look away. What is it with this guy!? He's smiling straight at me, and he's got me doing it back. I've got a mind to walk right up to him, leave this machine, walk right up to him and ask him exactly where he thinks he gets off smiling at me like he's doing and making me smile back like we've both got nothing better to do in the world than meet someone we both like the look of and maybe take it from there and find there's a whole stack of other stuff we both like about each other too. What does he think this is? What does he think we're doing here? He's finished. The man's given him back his card, had to tap him on the shoulder, he wasn't listening to him, concentrating so hard on smiling at me - that'll teach him. Broke the contact, too. Too bad. Too bad for him. He can't pull me in that easily, not just with his smile and his eyes - they really are nice eyes - but he's not looking at me anymore, I can get on with what I'm here for, preparing for my future.
The fingers have stopped tapping, that's the main thing. I can search a list of jobs right here before my eyes for anything I've never seen before now. Umm, what's this one, this is new, this is...
Where's he gone? He's gone. I look away for five seconds, he's been looking at me for the last ten minutes, and he's gone, he's just disappeared. Without so much as... Well, what did I expect? I don't know him, never met him. He was teasing me, kidding around. Maybe he's cross-eyed, wasn't even looking at me? Short-sighted even, saw me and all he got was a blur - I could have smiled back twice as hard, shown off every tooth in my head and all he would have seen was a blurry white line in pink, Flamingo No-Smudge Pink actually, but he'll never know now, will he, just walking out like that.
What's wrong with this stupid machine? There's nothing on it for me. Excuse me! You can't just push me off, you know, you... Oh, it's you! How did he get so close without me noticing? He's talking to me, he's right here. He smells good. There are these funny little lines at the edge of his eyes. What's he saying? I can't hear his words, they're coming right out of the middle of his smile, but it's all like a blur, a hearing blur.
"Coffee"? Did he say "coffee"? He's smiling like he said "coffee"? He's smiling like I said "Yes". I must have, he's stepped aside, ushering me towards the door like I said "yes" to "coffee" and we're leaving CentreLink together right now to get it, to sit down somewhere and talk and drink and look at each other and maybe see and hear and take what comes as it comes.
It's really a lovely smile. It is. He told me. Mine. My hearing's getting better every second. He just said I have a great smile, and he's holding the door open, and, fingers are tapping everywhere, the whole world's waiting on something, upset or impatient about something, but I'm not, I feel really calm, excited, butterflies in my tummy maybe, but when they fly, butterflies, I've never seen anything look so relaxed, have you? A butterfly flying? Who said it? It was one of them, last time we made up our wish lists, our perfect 'Frankenstein's monster' lists, before we tore them up, knowing it was all committed to memory anyway, was it Cheryl, or Rosie? Who cares? She was wrong. Or maybe she was right. Maybe. Maybe not. "You don't meet your dream date at CentreLink".
How Different Can People Be?:
How dumb a question is that? You only have to look around you, right? Or don't, even if you don't. Shit, "how different can people be?".
I mean, what's so fuckin' special about you you think you're better than me? Huh? What's so fuckin' special? Your shit stinks, I'll bet that - wouldn't want to put my nose anywhere near it, but I bet that. Bad as mine, anyone's, but you reckon, I can see it, you right here in front of me, you reckon you've got something on me, an edge.
It's written all over you, you're better than me. If I asked you why you'd get defensive and say, "No, no", pretending you don't think you are. But I know that'd be bullshit, that's just bullshit embarrassment, you don't mean a word of it. You think I'm a real fuck-up, I've put myself in this hole, got myself into this mess, there must be something weak about me, maybe not even right in the head, or I drink too much, smoke too much dope or some other shit, whatever, you reckon I put myself here, I'm responsible for all the shit's gone wrong in my life.
And maybe part of it I am, cause I have drunk a hell of lot more than I should've, maybe smoked more dope than was good for me, 'cept it felt real good for me at the time, both of them, the booze and the dope, and the other shit I've been offered and used and maybe got a taste for in my time. My times. Yeah, good times some of them when I was on top of the world, and you see me here now sitting on the pavement with a bottle in a paper bag beside me and you think you wouldn't ever let yourself go like that, there's something weak about me, a fault, a failure.
But I see you shiver, because inside you're shitting yourself thinking you don't ever want to end up like me cause of something you couldn't do anything about, something going wrong that's got nothing to do with you being able to make sure it doesn't, something out of your control, an accident, a horrible twist of fate.
Or is it you know about a failure in you, a fault, a guilty piece of self-knowledge you know about but pretend you don't, pretend isn't there inside you, somewhere maybe tight in the centre of you, something you shit yourself might be the real you? A weakness where the whole world demands strength, even if it's faked. Like everyone's doing.
Right now, walking past me, you're thinking you wouldn't let yourself go like that - that's what you think you're thinking. But what you're really thinking deeper than that, where thinking just gives way to instinct and fear, it's not brain thinking, it's gut thinking, is... "that's me".
Cause all sorts end up sitting on the pavement, you know? What, you reckon everyone out here has always been a loser, a derelict, useless for anything? How it may look is not how it always is. Or was. Everyone out here came from 'in' somewhere. Shit, I'm not going to bullshit you, 'that bloke used to be a concert pianist', 'that woman a supermodel'...
There have been some, somewhere round the world, of course, cause people anywhere come from anywhere. Truth is, I don't ask a lot of people I meet where they came from, what they did. What's happening now is what's gotta be made happen. The rest of it, history, is the shit that got you to here, now. It can't be changed, so what use is it?
Now, if you could go back, if you figured there was one point back there where if you did something just a little different, then the whole lot would have been different... now that's different.
But there's no going back is there? And from my own life, and from what I've heard a lot of other people say, what we reckon might have been the most important thing to go back and change in our lives mightn't have been that one at all. I mean, you could figure, "if only I hadn't done that" - but all the time it was something else that maybe you've even forgotten now that really fucked you up, tripped you over, span you out, cut you off, left you rooted six ways to Sunday.
Right or wrong about what it was, you can't change it now, can you? You are where you are, and what you have to do is get through.
Sure, try not to fuck up again, except that's impossible, that's bloody impossible, whether you're sitting on a pavement or being driven past in some bloody limousine... lim-oo-zeen, nice word that, lim-oo-zeen... but inside or out of one, we all screw up, make mistakes. The big ones you can get away with, the small ones flatten you right out, or the other way round - none of it's predictable.
You reckon I saw myself sitting here years ago when I walked past just like you're doing right now? Bullshit, I didn't, I thought I knew exactly where I'd be, and if it wasn't riding by in a lim-oo-zeen, it wasn't sitting on a pavement with cheap booze in a paper bag and clothes on me I hadn't taken off in a week, either.
I was different then, but it couldn't have been much, could it? Or maybe I was. How different can I have been?
I'm alive still, aren't I? You know I am alive, don't you, walking past? I am, I'm still in here. Fucked and fucked in my head and right through me, but I'm alive and still in here. I see you, I recognise you, even if I've never seen you before, won't ever again.
Still, we both know that's crap, don't we? We'll see each other again. We're both out on the street, aren't we, both doing what we do, but the street's not going anywhere, it's still here, even if I'm not some day, and you're not some day, but every day and then we're both out here, and we see each other, and you get that little lurch in your chest, and a breath comes short in your lungs, you try to figure out what to look at when you walk past me, but all the time you're looking at me, that day, those days, we'll see each other, and we'll recognise each other even if we've never seen each other before, we'll see 'before' and 'after', 'after' and 'before', 'before' sliding into 'after', 'before' terrified of becoming 'after', 'after' not even sure but recalling 'before', messing 'before' up with 'after', 'after' up with 'before', both wondering what was the start of the end, when did the start end, when did it happen, whatever it was that it was that brought me to here on the pavement you walking past looking but pretending you're not and seeing every detail of me but seeing nothing you want to see but seeing everything you don't want to see and recognising me but not me, seeing you, and that's frightening and in some odd way it's also reassuring like, even at the end you might still be breathing, but would you want to be, ending up like me? - but "no no no it's never going to happen" is it, it isn't is it? - it's never going to happen to me, I'll never let myself go, I'll never fall apart, I'll never make myself pathetic, I'll never fall so far, it won't be me, I'm better than that, I'm brighter than that, I've got more to do with myself than that, I'm special, I'm me, I'm never going to fall this far, Oh God, don't let me, don't let me, I couldn't bear it, don't let me fall, if I fall, Oh God, if I fall, don't let anyone see me, not anyone I know, never let them see me, not anyone who might recognise me, not them, any of them, I know who they are, who'd want to see me and recognise me, don't ever let it happen, I won't, I can't, what if it does because if they see me, the one's who'll know who I am they'll say, "I told you so", "Yes, it's him, just like I said it always would be, he's there", on the pavement, "sitting in his own piss and shit it smells like", and "I told you so, it was always going to be this way, how else?, how else?"... and just, just go away, for fuck's sake, leave me alone, what are you looking at? Fuck off, fuck off, fuck off!
There, didn't think I could read your mind, did ya?
© Michael McGennan, 2009