Friday, February 11, 2005

Hell of You Get Out What You Put In

Soundtrack: Pink Floyd / Money

One day when I was 15 I came home early from school to find our two video players hooked up to each other and the television switched off. I made a sandwich, sat my skinny white ass on the couch, grabbed the remote and pressed the big red button.

The television slowly warmed up, but it was the noises that I remember hearing first. The sounds of people fucking as slowly the black screen evolved into a bouncing flesh coloured monument to my teenage lust.


We were dubbing porn. Well, my Step Father was, and I had arrived at an opportune time.

It was Talk Dirty To Me.

I remember it like it was yesterday.

I hurriedly finished my sandwich and then I hurriedly finished myself, switched off the TV and left the house to make another entrance about an hour or so later. Finding everyone at home, the electronics back in their rightful place, I rushed to my room to avoid being questioned about my glowing red face.

This was the genesis of my Red Mist Lust, which remains with me to this day. When the Red Mist descends, there is no logic, there is no calm...there is only...Fuck. Fuck must take priority, fuck spreads its nubile tentacles throughout the synapses of my brain and infects me so much I am liable to do some increasingly extreme things in order to satisfy it's demonic hold upon me.

But that's not what this story is about.

That house I was living in had a safe. A big old key lock safe, and I was never privy to what was stored within.

The next time I was home alone, I turned that motherfucking house upside down to find our copy of Talk Dirty To me. A teenage cock on legs with a burning feeling in my stomach and so much blood racing through my head I could hardly breathe. But no matter where I fucking looked, I couldn't find it. I must've spent weeks looking through unmarked video cassettes, finding but banal episodes of Law and Order or Twin Peaks or Football matches or...FUCK! Nothing would satisfy me until I found that fucking tape.

Then it clicked, it must have been in the safe. the big, old, impenetrable safe. I stared at it. It stared back at me. I vowed to crack it's secrets, to enter it lasciviously and sate my carnal thirst.

It took me three weeks to find the key. On a hook behind a dresser in the master bedroom.

It was another two weeks before I had the chance to open it.

The door make the creak you would expect of a safe that had been safe for over a hundred years, though well oiled, it's weight as I tugged it open nothing compared to the weight of guilt I had already begun to feel, though it was the guilt of success, the guilt of hidden pleasure.

Once inside, I was greeted by far worse than a video tape.

A bag, a money bag. There must have been over a hundred thousand dollars in bills, all rolled up and ready to rock. There was a gun, but guns and I have always had a I won't talk to you, you don't talk to me relationship so I thought nothing of it. But the money...the much fucking money.

Fifteen going on sixteen is a time when morals are still setting like soft jelly in the back of a fridge, My morals were still crystals in a box on a pantry shelf. I took a hundred dollars from each of the rolls, thinking that way no-one would know, and ended up with some thousands of dollars in my pocket.

I rang my friend, we caught a taxi to the airport and we got straight on a plane to Sydney.

We were running away.

If they had've let us buy an overseas ticket, I'd probably have ended up a junkie selling my young ass in a Mexican street once the cash ran out. But my sister lived in Sydney so she seemed a logical destination.

I spent about two weeks up there, at her house, learning about cocaine and drinking like a motherfucker. I almost got a tattoo. I went to my first strip club in Newcastle where the doorman was relaxed about our obvious minor status once I slipped him a hundred dollar bill. We sat in a dark corner watching Dock Sluts bend over and flash their gash for cash. It was terrifying. I confessed to my sister what I had done and she laughed and demanded I give her a thousand dollars, which I did, and which I'm sure she spent on coke as she was in a very cocaine place at that time.

Eventually, it ran out and we had enough money to buy a ticket home.

While I had been gone, my Step Father had met with a woman to buy her car. Cash. She had come to our house and had a coffee and sat in the lounge room as he brought out his money bag which had been carefully filled with the exact amount required and counted it out in front of her. To her consternation and his increasing embarrassment, the money kept coming up short a hundred dollars every roll. She left in anger believing he was attempting to rip her off.

He was of course, livid.

I came home to Melbourne but it was another month before I had the stomach to return to my house. Suddenly the sight of the gun in the safe loomed a lot larger in my mind. I sat down in a train station and wrote a carefully worded note, explaining my responsibilty and my undertaking to pay back the money. Late one night after the house had turned in, I crept back in, left the note on the kitchen table and slunk into my room, my bed, my guilt.

I woke up. It hurt like Hell.

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