short piece
WRITTEN:
1986, 19 years
AUTHOR'S NOTES:
In late high school my friend Caz introduced me to a tennis peer of hers whom I shall call Namyreve, who was in love with her. She figured that a) I might distract Namyreve sufficiently for her to be able to escape his attentions, and b) Namyreve and I both being writers might make him more interested in me than he would otherwise be (which would have been "not at all").
I can't say I ever got really interested in Namyreve, but I did become mildly obsessed with "fixing" him, ie persuading him that came across as a great big poser and since everyone found it so annoying, would he please stop. Needless to say, I failed dismally. Probably just as well. Anyway, in Sydney in 1986, on Oxford Street, there used to be a marvellous pub/nightclub called The Exchange. It is probably still there, however I remember going there around 1992 and being very disappointed to find it had turned into a trendy, overpriced off-the-rack joint and wasn't anywhere near as good as it used to be.
So Namyreve took me to The Exchange, and Debut is my written-as-fiction account of the event. The only reworking I have done is to change a couple of words to achieve better cadence and, in a very few cases, for the sake of clarity. (And as usual, style is influenced by Pepworth's Early Marks.)
Friday night. We go to The Exchange. My first time there. I am amazed. I've never seen people like this before. I never believed they existed. My escort is amused by my incredulity. I am bewildered by his amusement.
The gays dance, kiss and hold hands, and this they do quite openly. I am not the sort to be shocked, rather, I feel a thrill, like finally seeing the sea after many years of being unable to comprehend so much water all at once. The gays are quite bold. My escort seems a little sickened by their behaviour, but I am fascinated. I've never actually seen people behave like this before.
The punks and skinheads pogo, not caring whose eye they poke out with the lit end of the cigarettes they clutch as they wave their arms around.
The older crowd, those over 24, stand with their backs to the bar and perve at the chicks on the dancefloor. Most of this crowd have moustaches and very conservative haircuts. Most of them also have a briefcase between their feet; suits who don't want to go home. They can't afford to keep drinking here, but they have reasons for avoiding going home - at all costs.
Friday night. We go to The Exchange. My first time there. I am amazed. I've never seen people like this before. I never knew they existed beyond the boundaries of the film studios. My escort is amused by my incredulity. I am bewildered by his amusement.
There are so many bars and dance floors and corridors that I get confused. I figure I had better not need to go to the toilet as I'm not going to be able to find it when I need it. My escort is again amused. He leads me through the maze of bars, down some dimly-lit steps, into a room he calls the Spanner Bar. I decide this is my favourite room. There is a bar, unattended; tables populated by aliens; a dance floor over which is suspended a model of the Eiffel Tower; best of all, the floor, walls and ceiling are all painted black and splashed with blue, orange and green fluorescent paint, with fluorescent lighting to complete the effect. I am happy in this room with its surrealistic surrounds and music. My escort, however, has a way of finding trouble. He holds a staring competition with a thuggish-looking guy much taller than he. I stay out of the way.
We leave the Spanner Bar shortly after and go to the Mirror Bar, and from there to my escort's favourite room, which is very dark and very crowded, with a raised dance floor the size of a queen-size bed. About a dozen people conduct private wars in the competition for personal space. A few eyes are scorched, a few noses bruised.
Upstairs is the Pink Caddy Bar. Most of the occupants are underage. I can smell the marijuana well before we are through the door.
We go downstairs. We return to the bar favoured by my escort. Time passes. I see a familiar face. Recognition breaks the pattern of anonymity, the pattern of strangers. I tap her on the back. She spins around, spinning out. She stares at my face. We have not seen each other for eight months. I have discarded my permed shoulder-length red hair for a black-and-blonde punk style. I scream her name so she can hear me over the music. She screams in return, and wrenches me from my escort. We retreat to the Mirror Bar to talk, catch up.
She fills me in. We have an ex in common. He now lives around the corner, with others known to us.
She grabs a companion from the crowd, introduces us. The crowd sucks him back in. She confides to me her worry that he is gay.
She departs in search of her handbag. It's in the Spanner Bar. She hopes. My escort seeks me out; my friend is gone.
Friday night. We go to The Exchange. My first time there. I am amazed. I've never seen people like this before. Never in such close proximity.
In the room favoured by my escort: I observe the people. I am filled with wonderment. The gays fascinate me. I know a few, a few not here, but those few do not behave like these here.
A drink is spilled on someone's jacket. The spillee vacates the immediate area. He must've known whose jacket it was. The jacket's owner descends from the dance floor, reaches for the jacket, finds it wet, dripping. Expostulates loudly, threateningly. The spillee does not come forward.
It is late, and we leave The Exchange. We have plans of going to Troupers. It is a little too far to walk, so we return to the car. Problems. Someone has put a brick through the windshield, and glass shards litter the bonnet and seats. We abandon plans of going to Troupers and instead construct plans of returning home.
I am saddened. My debut has been marred.