One Way or Another (4 page)

‘The rest of the band are cute, and she's so cool …'

‘Too complicated,' I laughed. ‘I'm intimidated enough by other fans, let alone real female rockers. Although maybe
we
should start a band,' I added, only half joking.

‘Like the Go-Gos. I heard they started out as a bit of a Vulture Club themselves.'

‘Really? The Go-Gos?'

‘So the story go-goes.'

‘I could play the keyboards.' It was the only instrument I was proficient at. ‘But I'd rather be the lead singer. Like Debbie Harry or Joan Jett.'

‘Wouldn't you rather play the pink saxophone?' Rhonda looked at me over her John Lennon sunglasses.

‘Sicko.'

She stuck her tongue in her cheek and simulated a very lopsided blowjob.

We tucked into our plate of hot chips with vinegar, let the sun burn our arms and pulled out our little black books. We had bought each other matching notebooks with shiny gilt-edged pages. Like snazzy businesswomen we flipped them open and asked the waiter for a pen.

‘What have you got?' she asked.

I shook my head and pulled a face.

‘Not much. Lean pickings.' I drew doodles on my pages.

Rhonda slipped two plastic packets from her little backpack. They were sheets of adhesive stars, the sort teachers gave to primary-school kids for good work. She had gold, silver and green. We'd never found bronze ones, so green had to suffice. Then she pulled out a sheet of red ones.

‘What are the red ones for?'

She laughed that demonic laugh of hers, crumbs of hot chips spraying back onto the plate.

‘Guess?'

‘I dunno … for killing a rock star?'

‘No, stupid. For doing more than one rock star at a time.'

My sunglasses clattered to the table. I stared at her and my mouth went dry.

‘You didn't!'

She pulled a cryptic face, raised her eyebrows and then collapsed into laughter.

‘NO!' Then she looked back up at me seriously. ‘But I heard about someone who did. She did the whole band, in the same hotel room, in combinations that would make your teeth fall out.'

‘I would never do that!' I'd read about orgies in
Cleo
but it sounded scary and potentially confusing. ‘What about you?'

‘Oh, I don't know. I guess it would depend.'

We both drifted into fantasyland, staring out at the ducks on the brown man-made lake. Rhonda threw the last few chips into the water and we watched them frenzy.

‘They'd have to be pretty special,' Rhonda mused. ‘Let's face it. Most bands have only got one or two good-looking guys and the rest are ugly mates along for the ride.'

‘True,' I nodded, and we looked at one another and shouted, ‘
DRAGON!'
, linking pinkies and each making a silent wish for having said something simultaneously.

It was a running joke that Dragon was the ugliest band in Australia. Queen won the international title.

‘But ugly guys can be very sexy.' Rhonda was suddenly serious. ‘Really. I mean, you love Rod Stewart.'

I blew a stream of milkshake at her through my straw, the milk leaving a dribble down her cheek.

‘He is
not
ugly.'

‘He's not pretty.'

The waiter took away out plate of crumbs and salt.

‘What do you think of that Brian guy in the Radiators?' I asked.

‘Kind of sexy. But not exactly pretty.'

‘Steve Kilbey's pretty,' I smiled indulgently.

‘But not exactly sexy.'

‘He is too!' I argued.

‘David Lee Roth is pretty and sexy … not!' Rhonda giggled.

‘Hey … all of Australian Crawl are pretty sexy,' I grinned.

‘I dare you to “red star” them, then!'

‘Never. Individually. At separate times. No problem. But all at once? What am I, an octopus?'

‘An octopussy!' she yelled a bit too loudly.

Some young surfer guys were walking past in long hippy pants and crocheted string singlets. They were frowning at us. Rhonda gave them a wolf-whistle and they gave us the finger.

‘Freaky punks!' they called.

‘Idiots,' I laughed. ‘They wouldn't know a punk if they tripped over one.'

‘So what are we, then?' asked Rhonda.

‘New-age babes? Rock chicks? Vultures?'

‘Explorers.'

We went back to our little books and distributed the stars. We assessed our collection of names quarterly. Between us we had representatives of INXS, the Divinyls, Cold Chisel, Australian Crawl. A few local Gold Coast and Brisbane bands. Some gold. Some silver. A few greens. No reds.

‘I'm counting crew as well,' Rhonda noted without pausing for discussion. ‘They're extensions of the band.'

‘I dunno about that.'

‘Really. They are the backbone of the band. The flesh and blood. The band is just the hot air.'

‘Who?' I asked, knowing she must have someone special in mind.

‘Just a guy. He's crew and he's really, really nice.'

‘No love!' I yelled at her. ‘The code, remember? No feelings. Brutal notches on the belt!'

‘He's just nice, that's all. Don't worry,' she said, looking away.

*

And then the inevitable happened. Lust and love don't always go together but, sooner or later, if you dally with one the two are bound to turn up in the same bed. Lust was the driving force behind the Vulture Club. Love was forbidden. It was as bad, if not worse, than a venereal disease. We had pledged that if we ever found ourselves doodling a musician's name after our own or forsaking some out of loyalty to one, we would walk away.

I broke that golden rule.

In the faintly shabby three-star motel, we stood facing one another. He undressed me slowly. I undressed him. Our eyes remained locked. His handsome but world-weary face was hauntingly familiar. Not just
Countdown
or
Rolling Stone
familiar but resonant from some deep, dark, far-away place in another dimension. We stood staring at each other until he leaned forward and kissed me with such gentle abandon that it left me breathless. Electric and earthy at the same time, it was like I had never been kissed before. The sensations travelled from my mouth like an atomic bomb, mushrooming until they reached my toes, which curled into the cheap carpet.

He tasted of tea and bourbon.

Leading me to the bed, he pulled back the pale-blue chenille spread and sheets. We lay beside one another in a wordless suspension and I could feel the invisible charge between us. I was breathing, but barely. He rolled onto his side and let a warm finger trace my eyebrow. A dark fringe fell across his face.

‘Why are you here with me?' he asked in a faintly British lilt, sweet and warm as honey. ‘Is it because I'm famous?' A tiny smile curled at one corner of his mouth.

‘No ... I ... no.' My voice came out as a whisper.

‘Do you often fall into bed with musicians?' He ran that finger down my nose. My lips. My neck. My breast. It circled my nipple, which swelled up to meet him like a ripe strawberry.

‘No.' I shut my eyes so that he couldn't see my lie.

I waited. Silence. Only the sound of his breath. His finger burned a trail over my body and I quivered gently at his touch.

‘Am I your first?'

I froze, unable to answer. I couldn't lie again.

‘No.' I opened my eyes to gauge his reaction.

He gave me an embracing smile.

‘I want you to imagine that I am the first. Okay? Can you do that for me?'

I nodded, breathless, and died in his arms that night.

*

I made love for the first time and realised, at the tender age of almost seventeen, that there was a huge gulf between having sex and making love. Not fucking, but music. I cried with a jumble of joy and surprise. The astounding beauty of it had me spurting tears like a salty geyser and he held me until I thought my heart might be squeezed in half. I was lost and found in the same gasping breath.

As the first purple tentacles of light appeared through the venetian blinds I dressed, watching him sleep, his pale skin melting into the sheets, his mop of dark, coarse hair haloed about the pillow. Eyelashes so childlike. Lips puffing invisible cigarettes. My body itched for more of him and the tenderness I felt in my heart radiated to my inner thighs.

I did what I had never done before and left my phone number on a sheet of paper by the bed, crested with the name of the motel. I added the words, ‘Thank you. That was beautiful,' then walked home through the new morning. I drizzled like a spring shower all the way.

Feigning illness that day I stayed home in bed, waiting for him to call.

He didn't.

And thus I began a post-coital degree in my new lover, researching everything I could about him. I read the lyrics to every one of the songs he had written and irrationally related them all to our evening of passion. I walked around in a daze of distraction. I couldn't eat. I considered taking up smoking. I struggled to wake up from fitful sleep, not interested in leaving my dreams of him. I wrote his name next to mine and drew fussy hearts. I sat at the piano and learned to play his band's ballads. I sang and could hear his voice silently harmonising with mine. His songs were beautiful and his voice as deep as a cold, black gorge. He was more than a musician. He was a poet.

My seventeenth birthday came and went with a quiet family dinner. The little ones enjoyed the cake and candles, but I was tormented by my fantasies. With a gaggle of friends I went to UB40 in town. I enjoyed the reggae beat but didn't wear my Vulture hat that night. I was grooving to the sound of faithful monogamy. I was appalled and proud of myself at the same time.

Three weeks later he rang.

For three weeks I had rehearsed witty dialogue in anticipation of this moment but instead we slipped easily into a comfortable silliness. He raved about the injustices of record producers, Kentucky Fried Chicken and the white slave trade, and I deduced that he was a little stoned. When he finally began to make sense he told me he'd be back at the same motel the following Friday and invited me to a party.

I lay on my bed, replaying his every word in my head. Five days. I tried to calculate the hours. Five times twenty-four. I gave up and rolled over to press the play button on my ghetto blaster. His voice had my hands roaming into practice positions.

It was a long and tedious wait. I prayed to Jimi Hendrix and Elvis and all the dead saints of rock and roll:
Nothing go wrong. Nothing go wrong.
My younger sister, Annie, three years my junior, was an enterprising smart-arse, always on the lookout for opportunities to meddle. She wore deceptively innocent dark braids on either side of her face, like Pocahontas, and insisted she would one day join a nunnery. I had bet her one hundred dollars she wouldn't, but it seemed an unwinnable bet: she had a lifetime to prove me wrong. I should have set a time limit.

Friday night at last. Clear skies. Parents' lights out. Slinky black pants and black T-shirt with nice boob curvature. Flat black shoes. Simple dark eyes and pale lips. Skin surprisingly pimple-free. Check. Check. Check. I was just about to launch out the window when my bedroom door opened and Sister Annie of the Immaculate Pain in the Bum stood in the doorway, hands on hips.

‘Where are you off to?' she sneered with the calm elation of someone who knows she's got the goods on you.

‘I'm ... ah ... just dressing up ... trying out some looks ...' I stuttered.

‘The window?' she asked steadily.

‘It … ahh ... I was going to clean it ... I ...'

‘This is the ninth time you've disappeared that I know of. You don't get home until about five in the morning.'

‘Oh come on, Annie … what do I have to do? What do you want? Please – can we talk about it tomorrow?'

‘Ten dollars a night.' She smiled with her perfect teeth.

I baulked.

‘That's my entire allowance!'

‘Five, then.'

She had me.

‘Fine, but starting next time.'

She nodded and gave a little wave.

‘They won't pay you this well in the bloody convent,' I hissed after her.

She gave me the finger and closed my door without a sound.

*

I walked fast that night and arrived at the hotel, the Hibiscus or Poinsettia Views or some such. Skirting the pool, I followed the noise to the second floor and walked along the balcony toward Room 36, where people, smoke and music were spilling out into the night. Deep breath. Quick breast rearrangement. Last finger-tease of my hair.

Pushing through the crowd, I found my lover sitting cross-legged in the middle of the floor, a circle of ebony-clad followers around him. He wore an orange crocheted tea cosy on his head and a fine rim of eyeliner around his piercing eyes, giving him a wolfish look. When he saw me he hooted.

‘Persephone, my love.' He waved frantically at me as if trying to scare off a bug. The room swirled with acrid smoke. Somewhere a woman was squealing like a Chihuahua being neutered and someone smashed a glass at the exact moment I sat down beside him and accepted a passionate kiss. It was an appropriate percussional accompaniment.

‘This is my new muse,' he called to the room of revellers. A few nods and waves. Someone passed me a joint and I declined. Another touched his nose and nodded toward the bathroom. This was a different sort of crowd from the one I was used to. More sinister somehow. I felt out of place and my beautiful poet noticed immediately.

‘You have not been introduced to the mysteries of the weed, have you my love?'

I had smoked the odd Alpine cigarette but had never touched anything harder than a little booze.

‘Why did you call me Persephone?' Had he forgotten my name?

‘The tears of the innocent, my love.' He touched my brow with his finger and leaned in close, putting his high forehead to mine.

‘You are coming with me. Don't worry. It's only early and I can get you to Neverland and back before first light. Okay?' he whispered.

He smelled like a burnt eucalyptus forest. I agreed without missing a beat.

*

He pulled me to my feet and we pushed through the crush, out into the fresh air. I was light-headed from just a few minutes in the motel room. Celebrity-hungry leeches flung themselves at my Poet, but he put his head down and dragged me behind him like a sail.

We tripped and tumbled through Cavill Avenue toward the beach. Drunken youths staggered and shouted insults at one another. Women sheathed in white cheesecloth and gold costume jewellery flounced out of restaurants, their arthritic husbands shuffling behind them.

‘Where are we going?' I laughed.

He stopped and turned with a flourish.

‘We're going to paradise. The sign says so.' He pointed theatrically up at the shoddy unlit sign: ‘Surfers Paradise Beach'. Two McDonald's pickles clung to it and someone had spray-painted a penis onto the smiling cartoon sun.

Taking off our shoes, we left them on the top step and climbed down to the beach. Like kids we ran to the water's edge before walking north, away from the main drag.

‘Here,' he announced after a while and we plonked ourselves down on the damp sand.

An almost full moon shimmered yellow over the silvery sea. The rhythmic swoosh of water meeting sand and then withdrawing was soothing. Each breath filled my nose with the kelpy smell of the surf.

From his top pocket the Poet pulled a joint and like a magician produced a small burst of flame from his other hand. He lit the twisted paper and it crackled and flared. After a few moments he put it to my lips.

‘Just a little. Don't burn your throat,' he cautioned.

I drew a little smoke into my mouth but found it much denser and hotter than a normal cigarette. I coughed and tried again. After only a few seconds I felt softly dizzy. My muscles seemed to melt. There was a tingling in my fingers and toes and a strange numbness massaged my face.

‘Hmmm.'

The Poet finished the smoke and then he began to sing. He sang about the moon and crooned to me by name, which quelled my worries about being called Persephone.

‘I love your voice. It's magic.' I rested my head on his shoulder affectionately.

‘I love your teeth. Can I lick them?' I drew back and squinted at him to see if he was mocking me, but his sparkling eyes reassured me.

‘Sure,' I giggled and lay back on the sand, and we kissed. His tongue lapped at each tooth and danced across my tongue and our lips nuzzled and nudged, exploring. Finally we fell apart and stared up at the Milky Way.

‘The dentist did an x-ray and said I don't have any wisdom teeth,' I announced.

‘That's because you are so wise already, far wiser than your … how many years?'

He turned his face toward me. I had never told any of my conquests how old I really was. The Poet was older than my other lovers but tonight I felt inspired and told him the truth.

‘I'm seventeen.'

He rolled back onto the sand and let out a huge breath, like a deflating balloon. I waited. The blood in my brain banged like a runaway timpani.

And then he began to sing again, softly and slowly.

‘Well she was just seventeen. You know what I mean … ' He leapt to his feet and began a wild Beatles corroboree on the sand, singing at the top of his voice. I jumped up and we sang and danced like a couple of swinging sixties kids. ‘Well she looked at me, and I, I could see—'

Suddenly a voice boomed from behind a sand dune in the darkness.

‘Shut the hell up! I'm trying to get laid here.'

We screamed with laughter and ran north along the water's edge, zigzagging as if we were avoiding bullets. I was elated. My feet seemed to miss every second step. Almost flying. I was in Neverland.

*

After however long we stopped and doubled over, breathless with laughter. We sat on the sand and soon we were entwined, our warm breaths merging. There were suddenly no stars, no water and no sand. Just the Poet and me and the blood-beat hammering through our veins.

I let him undress me and I lay on the cool sand completely naked, spread out like a starfish, without embarrassment. In the moonlight I had no freckles. I was a Greek statue made of marble. The Poet undressed himself and ran toward the water, calling out to me to follow. The
Jaws
theme filled my head but I raced after his lean body, my breasts bouncing against my chest, and plunged into the black and silver waves.

We splashed and frolicked like young seals, buffeted by choppy breakers. The tender skin of my hip took a scrape from the gravelly seabed and I thought I'd swallowed a jelly fish after being dumped open-mouthed.

At last we crawled out of the primordial sea and landed together in the shallows. The water tickled my skin and I lay back and let the frothy suds wash my hair with briny slop. We made love again, perfectly in tune, the sea splashing gently against us like applause.

At one stage a couple walked by hand in hand and someone called out to us, ‘Nice night for it.' We laughed into each other's matted hair, our concentration only momentarily broken. If anyone else came upon us, we didn't notice.

‘From here to eternity,' he whispered.

As we lay satisfied in the water, I couldn't believe a night could be so magical.

*

I left the Poet at a taxi rank on the corner of Cavill Avenue and the highway. Sand grated between my thighs, I smelled like a fish and eyeliner blurred the underbellies of my eyes. He leaned in the cab window, looking like a wild sea anemone, and thrust a twenty-dollar note and two joints into my hand.