Adventures with my psychotic friend: Porno Store

Two fat lesbians; lubes.

Being the eldest child is something I can’t relate to, as in, I am not that. My mate, Gerry, was the eldest of a long line of kids, to a mum who died of cancer and a dad who was at some stage the Attorney General of an Oz state, and at another a conveyancing lawyer who worked from home in a beanie.

People think that being born “rich” is entitlement to a life of largesse but rich is relative, and most “poor” kids were full of shit, and deserving. They had motorbikes where we had plastic cowboys and indians.

As earlier stated, my mate Gerry became psychotic at some stage in his life. We hadn’t seen each other for at least five years when I heard his voice barking outside the changerooms in a late night olympic pooled Canberran gymnasium. Last I remember was him with dog food splayed across his chin by my girl for drunkenly abusing her, yet again.

He was shocked, not just shocked but stunned, wide eyed when I walked up and said “Hi”. Not just shocked by an old friend returning from the sauna mist but like a hero from an old Greek legend seeing ghosts returned from the dead: he was shocked.

We went on several drives over several days as he relayed all his stories about being hunted and haunted through radio communications, the TV, ever present thoughts interrupted at night by the wifi for whch he had an oscilloscope to detect the digital bandwidth and detect fluctuations which might relay a foe from his days working for the Salvation Army, an organisation he warned me of, earnestly.

Let alone the crows he saw with numerological meaning, flying up out of the drug addled Adelaide desert landscape which he’d escaped to years before, we drove round and round the mountain of Canberra to look down on all we saw, and, later, I went to bed.

Was he Faust and was I Mephistopheles?

Seeing that he was bent way out of shape, and I weary of the mundane work day of my existence, far from home, commuting three hours each Monday and back again on Friday, living with strangers, I took him on a tour of the Canberran porno stores, thinking, at first, with the jingle in my head: “Adam and Eve, and the Garden of Eden.”

In earlier days we used to sell hotdogs and he’d crack jokes to passing uni chicks, he always had a flare with words, and he’d get laughs, he’d get threats and Gerry surmounted all. But this evening he whimpered.

Really…he whimpered.

We walked in, bright light, plastic, things, obscene. I walked where he cringed. Crawled he seemed in hindsight, I was looking at the patrons and this was to be a tour, a thing to see how the other half lived. I showed him the magazine racks, two fat lezbos prowled about seeking something, they were ugly. A family was there. Mother. Father. Two kids. Young guy keen behind the counter. I wouldn’t say it was surreal because it wasn’t. This was normality on a Canberran Monday night.
Gerry, was silent the whole way. I’d remark upon a person whispering sideways to him as I pretended to be interested in the videos before me but he never replied. There was all sort of heinous acts displayed: men with men, ramming and fisting, women and several men, agonied eyes, young girls smiling and fisted, some young cunt “18” it said, with a cock up the snatch, another up her arse, smiling, as always. Trained smile. Studious smile.

Not quite a Mona Lisa.

I remarked upon the family and the destituteness of it all.

I was aloof. He…whimpered.

I remember that sound. He whimpered.

I mean that. Ever heard a dog whimper? It’s a sad sound that makes you look again to see the thing is not in pain, mere pain, but something more, a frightened response of dread at things that can do more than hurt your flesh but take your soul. Tear it from you. Pain is fleeting but threat of torture, having an iron raked across your skin, your skin heels flayed, enduring hours of cigarette burns, torn lips, laughing at your suffering, this was the sound of his whimper.

 
I took him home.

A couple of days later his old man confronted me. His wife was a few years dead, all the kids had left, and Gerry had returned home. Gerry, as it was, he had kicked out when he turned 18 and left to learn life all for himself.

His Old Man castigated me for taking Gerry on a tour of the porno shops of Fyshwick and I felt shame, and weird.

Why did Gerry tell him?

The house was dead quiet. Lino floor had stains from meals past. The dog was gone. Only lamps splayed light in corners. It was mostly dark. Gerry had whimpering eyes. He used to hate his old man.

I felt quite evil, and I realised I was a visitation in their life. I was from the outside. I, was Mephistopheles and whatever I said was lies. I left.

A few days later I returned to see if Gerry wanted to go swimming. After a few minutes of his old man’s cajoling Gerry came out, hate filled eyes, and with a guttural voice told me what he thought of me.

I never saw him again.

 

 

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5 Responses to Adventures with my psychotic friend: Porno Store

  1. regsipco says:

    Can’t be bothered fighting the editing urge.

  2. regsipco says:

    Turn the people round:

  3. regsipco says:

    Strange Little Girl, walking home in her wrapped up world. Where are you going?

  4. regsipco says:

    This is pretty amazing stuff. Felix Mendelssohn wrote this aged 17 and a half after reading Shakespeare’s Midsummer Night’s Dream:

  5. regsipco says:

    This fits in somewhere:

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