Black Tide

I looked at the huge charlatan with respect. Nicotine, dope, hash, barbiturates, speed, acid, smack, Colombian marching powder, ecstasy, alcohol in every form, all had entered the massive frame by some route and in quantities guaranteed to lay waste to the collected brains of three Melbourne universities or eight in Queensland. In theory, a scan of this man’s skull should reveal a place as grey and still as Kerguelen Island in winter. Yet from time to time there were clear signs of electrical activity.

I said, "Thank you. Go the Saints. Goodbye." Go the Saints; I'd said it. The first time. It felt like...coming out.

In the room was a blond woman of indeterminate age, lowered to around forty by cutting, injecting, and sanding.

I went into the concrete-floored betting barn, a deeply inhospitable place, people chewing hotdogs with the apprehensive look of submariners waiting for the depth charge to buckle the plates, pop the rivets.

There is a certain immaturity in taking pleasure at seeing terror in the eyes of a Mercedes driver. But parts of us are forever immature.

I slumped in the chair. I'd known it was coming. Absolutely no doubt. You know. I'd been feeling sick about it for weeks. So, why did I now feel even sicker? Love. Not a word for casual use. The life-scarred use the word with extreme caution. If you're lucky, you go through life being held up by people loving you. But you don't know you're being held up. You think you're buoyant. You think the buoyancy came first, the love is a bonus you get for being buoyant. And that can go on for a long time. But then one day, the love isn't there anymore and you're sinking, waving arms and sinking, all the old sources of love gone, the newer ones turn out to be fickle. They move on. No one to hold you up, you're just a skinny boy, all ribs, knees, and feet, out in the deep water, can't touch bottom.