“OMG,” my friend Shona said. “He’s ancient. It’s gross. He must be at least thirty-five.” She needn’t have worried because no matter how much I lingered after Mr. Simms’s class, leaning over his desk with my top button undone (and I should mention I had the biggest rack in year nine) while asking insightful questions about the impact of European settlement on indigenous people, he wouldn’t take the bait. As a young girl everyone warned me about stranger danger, and older men taking advantage, but pedophiles are like cops: there’s never one around when you need one.
I finally lost it at fifteen, when a band from nearby Port Macquarie came and played an all-ages gig in the park. Drunk on a four-liter cask of goon. Shona and the other girls were giggling and swooning over the front man, but I liked the bass player who hung back, quietly confident. After their set I went up to him, no giggling, told him I liked their songs, and asked if he wanted a line of speed. He did. It wasn’t really speed, just a few crushed-up pills my brother takes for his ADHD, but if you have enough it works. An hour later we were fucking in the back of the band’s Tarago. It didn’t hurt much and there was no blood, thank god. We were together for a while, after I left school in year ten. Long story short, I ended up with another muso, Matt, who was touring with his System of a Down cover band, and at age eighteen I moved to Sydney to live with him.
All this might make me sound like a bit of a groupie, or hanger-on, but I’m not. I like to have my own money, and my own drugs, and I don’t rely on anyone but myself. I’m ambitious, you see, and I think that’s for two reasons. One, I’ve never wanted to end up like my single mother, living dole payment to dole payment and waiting her whole life for a commission flat that never materialized; and two is a book. Now you may look at me and think, She doesn’t seem like much of a reader, and you would be absolutely right, except for this one book I’ve read literally thousands of times, ever since I stole it from the Taree Salvation Army thrift store back in 2007. We used to nick clothes, not books, and my friends thought I was mad, but something about the title grabbed me: Think and Grow Rich.
In case you haven’t read it (and you really should) it was written by this guy called Napoleon Hill, way back in 1937. He basically interviewed all the mega-rich dudes of the time, and came up with “The Thirteen Proven Steps to Riches” which include stuff like desire, faith, auto-suggestion, specialized knowledge, imagination, planning, decision, persistence, the power of the mastermind, and the mystery of sex transmutation. Now, this last one tends to confuse people and it freaks out Americans, probably because of the “s” word, and I didn’t get it for a long time, but now I do. Wanna know what it is? Well, you’ll have to wait.
So, where was I? Oh yeah, the greatest love story of all time started at a Meriton-serviced apartment in Parramatta that had been rented for a buck’s party. I’d been working at the Sefton Playhouse — the strip club near the station — for a couple of years by then and some of the other girls and I were providing the entertainment. You know the drill — warm-up show, vibe show, fruit and veg, and finally the big shebang: lesbian double with vibes. I did the warm-up, which doesn’t pay quite as well as the others, but was confident I’d make it up in private dances afterward. When my show was over I went to do another line of coke in the bathroom with my best friend Kailee who was up next, then I found one of those pink Bacardi Breezers that the guys had thoughtfully organized for the dancers, and decided to go out on the balcony for a cigarette.
I was standing there in my bikini, enjoying the warmth of the November afternoon, smoking and looking out over the brown water of the Parramatta River, Sydney Olympic Park, and the city skyline far off in the distance, thinking I’d love an apartment here. Matt and I shared a crappy old house in Lidcombe with his drummer Dave, who was a total sleaze but handy to have around because of his drug contacts. They loved it, thought all the cracked plaster and moldy brown tiles were authentic or something, but I preferred new buildings, like this place. Faux-granite benchtops, gleaming bathroom fittings, and immaculate beige carpet. As I smoked I did a quick calculation about how much money I was going to make from lap dances and had just figured that five hundred bucks was quite achievable when I realized I wasn’t alone. Sitting on a chair made of gray plastic wicker, half hidden behind a potted palm, was a guy. Thirties maybe, ordinary looking, dark hair, checked flannel shirt, and glasses. He was listening to an iPod while engrossed in a book.
I nearly laughed out loud. Who in the actual fuck comes to a buck’s party to read? I stuck out my leg and tapped him on the knee with the toe of my Perspex platform. He jumped, dropped the book, then took out his earbuds and looked at me.
I get pretty chatty when I’m high, so I said, “Are you actually part of this buck’s turn, or just some random who scaled the balcony to find a quiet place to read?”
“Part of it,” he sighed. “Wish I wasn’t, but my cousin’s the buck and my brother’s the best man. We’ve been drinking since ten in the morning and were forced to play paintball. What a nightmare. I’m going to slip away before we end up at a brothel.”
“What’s the book?” I asked, and he turned it over to show me the cover.
“The Fall,” I read. “Albert Camus. Any good?”
“Camoo,” he said.
“Pardon?”
“It’s pronounced Camoo. And yeah, it is good. I’m rereading it for a tutorial I’ve got on Monday.”
“You studying?”
“I was. Finished my PhD and picked up some teaching work.”
“Whereabouts?”
“Western Sydney Uni, Parramatta.”
“Get out!” I squealed. “That’s where I’m going next year.”
“Really? What course?”
“Bachelor of Business.” This really impressed most guys I met at the Playhouse, but the dude’s top lip curled. “What’s wrong with a business degree?” I asked.
“Nothing. It’s just not really my bag.”
The muffled thump of the music inside stopped, replaced by woops and applause. That’d be Kailee’s show done and she’d be ready for another line.
“Lesbian double’s on next,” I teased. “You don’t want to miss that.”
He groaned and covered his eyes.
I was looking in my purse, checking I still had the baggie of coke wedged behind my Medicare card, when the glass door slid open and the best man poked his bald head out. He wore pressed jeans, a shiny gray shirt, and a cloud of Lynx deodorant so thick it was nearly visible. He briefly ogled my tits, then looking around the rest of the balcony, spotted his brother.