reservoir, stressing myself about what I’m going to say — or do — tonight … but can I stop myself from doing it? Hell no.
My guts start rumbling like a sewer drain, but the whisky’s numbed my legs and it takes me several tries to scramble upright. I stash the bottle behind some scrubby bushes and bowl on down to Courtenay Place, buzzing now with the evening rush. I’ve only got a few bucks on me, so I make my way to Burger King, but my legs seem to have developed some kind of independent thought and refuse to do as they are told. They keep shooting off in the weirdest of directions, so I nearly fall over the Blanket Man who’s camping outside Burger King’s main doors.
‘Sorry man.’ It’s the closest I’ve ever come to him, and I’m half expecting him to leap up from his cross-legged vigil on the footpath and deck me. But he just looks up at me with his spaced-out eyes and grins a toothless, drooly grin.
‘S’okay, brother.’ I reckon he’s more pissed than me. He must be absolutely freezing, naked underneath his cruddy old blanket except for this weird nappy-loincloth thing that covers up his private bits. The council’s tried to move him on for years now, but he’s become a local tourist attraction and, judging by the row of bottles tucked up next to him, he’s doing absolutely fine. Absolutely Positively Blanket Man. Way to go! Let the council advertise that on their fancy tourist website and watch the hits!
This suddenly seems so bloody funny I can hardly make my order, and some businessman is giving me the hairy eyeball as he picks his mega-lard-arse-burger off the counter next to me. I know what he’s thinking, looking at me like I’m some kind of Asian lower life-form who’s invaded planet Fat-and-White. I’ve been looked at like this all my life, and in the last few years I reckon it’s grown worse.
‘Fat man,’ I throw after him, reminded of that creepy Maurice Gee book we read at school.
Someone behind me sniggers and old Fatty turns a splotchy pink. So this is what it feels like, eh? Like Whoever-Up-In-Heaven is stomping on a lowly, useless bug. I got the power!
The thick, greasy steam inside the place sticks insidemy nostrils, cutting the air. I’m so light-headed now I have to hold on to the countertop to stop the sway. And by the time the pimply guy across the counter shoves my burger and chips at me, the thought of eating any of it turns my stomach. Jesus, I know this feeling way too well. I have to grab the food and run for it, barely making it to the gutter before I spew my guts out on the street.
The crowd peels off around me to side-step the puke. It’s like I’m totally invisible, till I hear old Blanket Man behind me call, ‘Hey kid. You alright?’
I spit the last of the phlegm out into the gutter and turn to face him. He grins at me again, like I’ve done something really good, and offers me a swig from a bottle in a paper bag. I shuffle over and plonk myself down beside him — swapping him his bottle for my bag of chips. There’s no way I can eat them now.
I can smell the wine — sugary and fruity — before it even hits my lips, but I’m not expecting the bubbles and I have to swallow quickly to flush down more bile. ‘Thanks, man. Sweet.’ And before I know it, I’m telling him about Don and Rita, and the wine’s disappearing from the bottle faster than a speeding bullet … though why people say this is ridiculous — it’s not like a bullet’s ever going to come out slow, kind of dripping out of the barrel like a leaking tap. And what’s with speeding anyway? Whodecides the speed limit? Is there a different limit for a bullet fired inside a town, compared to on the open range?
I’m feeling kind of guilty for drinking all Blanket Man’s booze, so I offer him my burger too. He wolfs it down, the grease dripping from his chin and pooling in his ratty beard. He’s not really listening to me; he’s plugged into an iPod and jiggles to some
My guts start rumbling like a sewer drain, but the whisky’s numbed my legs and it takes me several tries to scramble upright. I stash the bottle behind some scrubby bushes and bowl on down to Courtenay Place, buzzing now with the evening rush. I’ve only got a few bucks on me, so I make my way to Burger King, but my legs seem to have developed some kind of independent thought and refuse to do as they are told. They keep shooting off in the weirdest of directions, so I nearly fall over the Blanket Man who’s camping outside Burger King’s main doors.
‘Sorry man.’ It’s the closest I’ve ever come to him, and I’m half expecting him to leap up from his cross-legged vigil on the footpath and deck me. But he just looks up at me with his spaced-out eyes and grins a toothless, drooly grin.
‘S’okay, brother.’ I reckon he’s more pissed than me. He must be absolutely freezing, naked underneath his cruddy old blanket except for this weird nappy-loincloth thing that covers up his private bits. The council’s tried to move him on for years now, but he’s become a local tourist attraction and, judging by the row of bottles tucked up next to him, he’s doing absolutely fine. Absolutely Positively Blanket Man. Way to go! Let the council advertise that on their fancy tourist website and watch the hits!
This suddenly seems so bloody funny I can hardly make my order, and some businessman is giving me the hairy eyeball as he picks his mega-lard-arse-burger off the counter next to me. I know what he’s thinking, looking at me like I’m some kind of Asian lower life-form who’s invaded planet Fat-and-White. I’ve been looked at like this all my life, and in the last few years I reckon it’s grown worse.
‘Fat man,’ I throw after him, reminded of that creepy Maurice Gee book we read at school.
Someone behind me sniggers and old Fatty turns a splotchy pink. So this is what it feels like, eh? Like Whoever-Up-In-Heaven is stomping on a lowly, useless bug. I got the power!
The thick, greasy steam inside the place sticks insidemy nostrils, cutting the air. I’m so light-headed now I have to hold on to the countertop to stop the sway. And by the time the pimply guy across the counter shoves my burger and chips at me, the thought of eating any of it turns my stomach. Jesus, I know this feeling way too well. I have to grab the food and run for it, barely making it to the gutter before I spew my guts out on the street.
The crowd peels off around me to side-step the puke. It’s like I’m totally invisible, till I hear old Blanket Man behind me call, ‘Hey kid. You alright?’
I spit the last of the phlegm out into the gutter and turn to face him. He grins at me again, like I’ve done something really good, and offers me a swig from a bottle in a paper bag. I shuffle over and plonk myself down beside him — swapping him his bottle for my bag of chips. There’s no way I can eat them now.
I can smell the wine — sugary and fruity — before it even hits my lips, but I’m not expecting the bubbles and I have to swallow quickly to flush down more bile. ‘Thanks, man. Sweet.’ And before I know it, I’m telling him about Don and Rita, and the wine’s disappearing from the bottle faster than a speeding bullet … though why people say this is ridiculous — it’s not like a bullet’s ever going to come out slow, kind of dripping out of the barrel like a leaking tap. And what’s with speeding anyway? Whodecides the speed limit? Is there a different limit for a bullet fired inside a town, compared to on the open range?
I’m feeling kind of guilty for drinking all Blanket Man’s booze, so I offer him my burger too. He wolfs it down, the grease dripping from his chin and pooling in his ratty beard. He’s not really listening to me; he’s plugged into an iPod and jiggles to some
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