pervert park

CHP 7--1 "pervert park"

 

On reaching the city I dumped my duffle bag and blanket. They'd have attracted the attention of police. For lack of a place to store it I carried my jacket around but it came in handy if the night turned cold. Sydney was exciting. People hurried everywhere and didn't keep to the left of the footpath or go to bed at 10 pm like in Adelaide. There were New York type subways and San Francisco style ferries. Back in '62 you couldn't get the dole unless you had a postal address. By the 2nd day, not yet aware of Sydney’s 3 soup kitchens, I’d sold my transistor radio for the price of two meals. There were grassy parks where I could laze in the sun and the museum and public library cost nothing to enter so I spent many hours in them.

 

When I was 12 (on holiday) my grandparents had taken me to visit relatives at. Rose Bay. I wasn't sure of the address but I thought if I found the house and "dropped in" they'd insist I stay for dinner.

I got the wrong bus. Instead of Rose Bay it headed down Bondi Rd. At Bondi beach I got out, weak from hunger and faint from too much sun. I saw a shop with fruit and veg on display. No one seemed to be watching so I grabbed a rock melon and ran. Imagining irate Italian fruiterers chasing me I sprinted up Bondi Rd to Waverley Park and sank exhausted behind a bush.

Now to open my precious melon..In 1962, hippies hadn't yet taught people tolerance so I worried,

"If normal citizens see me smashing it open they'll think I'm a crazy wild man and call the cops." Too hungry to care, I smashed it open on a bench.

 

The city was full of strangers. How I envied the occupants of those elegant Kings Cross apartments. People were up there laughing, loving and living exciting lives. Outside store windows, I'd choose which things I'd buy if I ever found a bag full of dough some bank robbers may drop.

"You never know your luck in a big city," my dad used to say: so I lived in hope..

 

"I’ll go back to Adelaide with that there nice watch and that groovy suit all packed in that classy suitcase. My old pals at Henley will sure think I'm cool."

 

There was no way anyone would give me a job the scruffy way I looked. I didn't even know where an employment office was.

"Come on," I thought, "don't be square. Maybe today I'll find a subterranean beatnik dive where the cats are cool. Some poor lonely girl might be up there right now in one of those brightly lit apartments. She’s looking out the window hoping to meet a loving guy like me."

. I didn't want to handicap myself with B.O. so every few days I‘d wash in the bathroom of some hotel that didn't have a doorman

 

Sitting in Hyde Park (wondering if I should do just one more housebreak) I saw an attractive young woman unselfconsciously glancing into each bin. She reached in, extracted something and ate it. I thought,

"Wow- she’s so uninhibited. So unconcerned with what people think of her. What great characters lurk in this city! I wish I had the guts to explore bins so blatantly."

I imagined myself and Binraider Girl living in a cave near Hawkesbury river and catching fish. We'd be crazy in love and if we had a child the kid would grow wild and free. We’d pick up pieces of cloth along the highway, wash them and use them as nappies.

 

I found a (3-walled) Rushcutter Bay tennis pavilion. The tennis folk turned off the lights and left by 10 pm. It had a roof and was inside a 12 foot wire link fence with a locked gate but at midnight I'd climb over and camp inside. There were 3 benches and a table. I felt secure in there. The papers featured news of some nut going around parks stabbing old vagrants so I kept my back to the wall and at night carried a big stick. I was young and if I caught the bugger I'd be a hero. The table top hid me (slightly) when cop wagons prowled the park at night. I always got out by 6 am so people living nearby wouldn't notice me and ring the cops.

Outside a delicatessen I found 6 blocks of imported chocolate. They must've been thrown out for being pale around the edges. Sucking chocolate like a rich person and meditating on life's simple pleasures I headed for the comfortable public library reading room to study modern literature and Buddhism.

 

At Domain Park I rested on a bench near a wide old Morton Bay fig tree. It blocked the wind and hid me from any prowling cops. I read a paperback ("Zen flesh Zen bones") hoping to extract some useful knowledge only given to holy seers.

 

An aged wino (with one leg and two wooden crutches) flopped down nearer than usual for bench sitting.

His double-breasted suit smelt faintly of stale urine. Most bums wore old suits. The Salvo's handed out hundreds in the 60s when single-breasted became the new fashion. In the '80s stiffs scored discarded Beatle jackets and in 2020 they'll be wearing fly rappers' clobber with brand names. By then there'll be a million destitute living on the Corporation streets. Robot rubbish sweepers will round them up for landfill like in "Soylent Green".

"Do y' like me grouse new suit?" he asked proudly, smothering me in spew breath. His empty pants leg was folded neatly where his knee had once been. The cuff was safety pinned near his hip. He had a beard so maybe there was a chance he knew where those elusive beatniks hung out. I lied,

"Yeah man: nice set of threads."

Preening with pride, he wiped snot on his sleeve and hoicked up phlegm. His mouth worked like a cow cud, sculpturing with his tongue into spitable format. He let fly,

"Th'wop!"He almost made it but the last bit to leave his gob struck beard and took a dive onto his only shoe. So he wouldn't feel self-conscious I spat as well. Mine was young and vibrant: it flew straight and true. He looked at me with respect. I knew the art would pay off one day.

"Got a smoke?" he asked.

Opening my little tin of f*g butts like a big shot, I picked a couple out. He rolled in silent reverence, thinking how fortunate he was to have found a well heeled materialist. I selected a half length Viscount, luxuriated in its filter tipped sensuality, stuck it in my mouth and lit us both from one match.

We sat smoking for a minute. He took out his dick, waggled it thrice then let it go. It flopped over and just lay there. He looked at me hopefully and pleaded,

"go on, give it a touch." It was limp and didn't look ready to attack, but I didn't want to encourage the old bugger so I advised,

"Put it away. Coppers might come along and see it".

"Touch it for me. Go on: give it a bit of a jiggle"

Standing up, I said,

"No thanks mate, I got one of my own." I walked away thinking,

"Wow, this city is so sophisticated. Even one legged guys are perverts."

-------------end of chpt-------------

Author's Note

will edit later

Reviews

[Lola Nation]

hah! great write, easy read and fun