John Lennon sang that Woman is the Nigger of the World. And as any NOW will tell you. ‘If you want to survive, you have to run faster, work harder and look cleaner and more buffed than the Master you’re serving.
So when Ringo turned up at the station unshaven and grubby I was horrified.
I wanted to stop by a Laundromat and throw him in the wash. But it was too late. We had a train to catch and strangers to meet at the other end. But every time I looked at his grey curly whiskers on his soft white skin I thought of pubes on a pimply arse. And my heart started beating with anxiety.
I’d invited him to accompany me on my Pet Companion Gig. Why did I do that? I couldn’t remember. I don’t’ recall him ever looking this dirty? But perhaps I wasn’t looking closely. I have to start becoming more judgemental! Because those whiskers did not say Bob Marley or Brad Pitt on a lazy week. Those Whiskers matched his sloppy joe. Which was Boarding house Green. The shade of green that says ‘Hit Me. I’m worthless! Steal my sneakers while you’re at it.’ His sneakers were boarding House Beige. That particular shade that will never look clean, no matter how hard you scrub it. And I suspected they hadn’t been scrubbed for a while.
Like his face.
So when Ringo turned up at the station unshaven and grubby I was horrified.
I wanted to stop by a Laundromat and throw him in the wash. But it was too late. We had a train to catch and strangers to meet at the other end. But every time I looked at his grey curly whiskers on his soft white skin I thought of pubes on a pimply arse. And my heart started beating with anxiety.
I’d invited him to accompany me on my Pet Companion Gig. Why did I do that? I couldn’t remember. I don’t’ recall him ever looking this dirty? But perhaps I wasn’t looking closely. I have to start becoming more judgemental! Because those whiskers did not say Bob Marley or Brad Pitt on a lazy week. Those Whiskers matched his sloppy joe. Which was Boarding house Green. The shade of green that says ‘Hit Me. I’m worthless! Steal my sneakers while you’re at it.’ His sneakers were boarding House Beige. That particular shade that will never look clean, no matter how hard you scrub it. And I suspected they hadn’t been scrubbed for a while.
Like his face.
For the very first time I looked closely at his face. I put aside my rose coloured glasses. (They never fail to fuck me up. I need to smash them.) Through those glasses I saw him as part of my Nomad tribe. But not all nomads are alike. Just like not all thieves have honour. I should have remembered this? But in the back of both our heads was the idea that maybe we could team up? That maybe he could be the tech for my one woman show? I needed a Tech and he needed a Talent. It seemed the perfect solution in theory. I could get back on the road. We could make a small living? I could carry him on my back around the country. Spend the rest of my life cleaning up skid marks and dribble…
Oh dear.
What the hell was I thinking? I’m into Homeless Chic myself. It’s what keeps me on the tightrope and out of the soup kitchen. I look as deadly as I can for a girl with no budget. Down on your luck doesn’t mean that you stop styling up. On the contrary. The worse things become the harder I work to fight gravity. Depression is a luxury reserved for people with houses. Reaching out to the world with no anchor or roots takes an awful lot of focus. And when I turn up to a House Sitting gig my hair is brushed, my clothes are washed and it costs me ten bucks to wax off my moustache. So what’s his excuse? All he has to do is pick up a razor and run it across his face.
His left cheek looked as though it had taken a nap in the gravel. It’s not like he was trying to be Bukowski. He wasn’t trying to be anything. That was the problem. Part of him had given up. A very deep part by the look of it. A part that didn’t want any touching. Trying to clean him up would be like throwing a cat in the bath. You’d never get him clean and he’d never forgive you. He’d just pay you back by pissing in your sheets. What was I thinking?
I was thinking of my Grandparents who were both Orphans and who met at a bus stop. My Grandma had just run away from Molong because she didn’t want to marry a Farmer. She wanted a city life and she dreamt of a Pen Pusher. So she came to the big smoke alone. And then Papa turned up. At the Bus stop. On his way to his job as a Clerk on the Wharves. The Bus was late (some things never change) and so that’s how they discovered they were both Orphans. So they got on that bus and they never got off. They lived happily ever after. In Forest Lodge.
That’s very poetic right?
And since I’ve arrived back in Sydney I’ve spent a lot of time at the Bus Stop with my Grandma. We’ve been communing. I imagine what she felt like when she first arrived in the big smoke and didn’t know a soul. I’ve been listening to her stories and getting under her skin. So when Ringo turned up I thought it was a sign. That we should get on the road together. Well who wouldn’t? He had just arrived in Sydney and staying on a friend’s couch. He was starting again with nothing. Just like I was. We were like Archetypal Orphans. I could feel Grandma egging me on.
There were other benefits to us partnering up. For a start sex would never complicate things. We never saw each other as lovers. I was a ‘Post Romantic Celibate’ and he was ‘Too Fucking Lazy to Get it Up’ So in this way we were compatible. Traveling solo had become very hard. And teaming up seemed like the perfect solution.
Until he turned up looking like a refugee from Matthew Talbert.
Oh Mea Mea Culpa! His whiskers made me very nervous. I had accidently invited a bum with me to my house sitting gig. What was I thinking? My heart pumped faster and faster as the train sped to our destination and my right arm went numb from the shoulder down. I was having a full blown panic attack, triggered by a five oclock shadow. It was Crazy! It’s not like I cared that he looked like a grub. I can tolerate anyone with a good sense of humour. But the people I was dog sitting for didn’t have any humour. I could tell that on the telephone. People who treat their pets like first born children rarely do. They’re generally very serious and neurotic . They don’t care for comedy. They just care that their house will be safe and you won’t rip them off and their Pet is still alive when they return. That’s their ONLY focus. My heart was pumpity pumptity…
What if they took one look at him and turned us back around?
Where would I go? What would I do?
I’d end up sleeping out in the rough with Ringo. That would be no protection! Not with him in his boarding house Green shirt that said ‘Hit Me. I’m worthless!’ The worst scenarios flashed through my head. We’d doss down under a tree. I’d be ready to sleep and his homeless mates would pop by with some beer. I know where his loyalty would be! He’d slip on his dirty sneakers and he’d leave me for dead. Oh what was I thinking!?
I had put my own shelter at risk for a man who didn’t give a shit. Not about me. Not about the people giving us hospitality. And certainly not about himself. My felt my tightrope fraying as we walked to meet our Hostess.
Pumpity pumpity pump…
It all turned out ok. She let us stay. She didn’t leave the car though. She drove the spare car to the neighbors. I went to the Doctor the next day about my panic attacks and he told me that it was the weather. Apparently everyone Panics in winter. I relaxed when I realised I wasn’t going to die .
Ringo relaxed too. He spread out in the lounge room. He coveted the ipad and snuggled in with footy tab. He wasn’t much of a Technician. He couldn’t even turn on the TV without yelling for help. He seemed to have a short fuse for problem solving. And once he’d settled in on the couch he didn’t like moving. He only moved for about ten minutes a day. But I already knew this. The whiskers said it all. They were like tea leaves all over his face predicting our future.
The next evening when the subject came up of further travel I gently suggested that he might like to shave when we turned up at the venues? He didn’t like that suggestion one bit. He bristled with fury. People could just accept him how he was! He wasn’t changing for anyone. Why should he?’ He saw me as some bitch wanting to chop off his dick and I saw him as a spoilt self-entitled white boy who thought he didn’t have to make an effort. He thought a dick in dirty pants was enough introduction. But I’d never lived with that sort of luxury. So I had no empathy.
Still my heart settled properly after the five o’clock shadow was out on the table. I knew then that I couldn’t ask him to scrub up without emasculating him. Which was a big problem for both of us. An emasculated man is a dangerous thing. They can really do some damage. They’re worse than jealous women. This is why I end up teaming up with Narcissists. I mistake them for Alpha men. Because a true Alpha man can take a little critique without cracking. But there aren’t very many of them. Which explains why I’m celibate. But I don’t think I’ll be truly safe until I’m a fully fledged hermit.
He stayed six days and then I asked him to leave. The Orphan went with him.
I feel like a Goddess now.
Oh dear.
What the hell was I thinking? I’m into Homeless Chic myself. It’s what keeps me on the tightrope and out of the soup kitchen. I look as deadly as I can for a girl with no budget. Down on your luck doesn’t mean that you stop styling up. On the contrary. The worse things become the harder I work to fight gravity. Depression is a luxury reserved for people with houses. Reaching out to the world with no anchor or roots takes an awful lot of focus. And when I turn up to a House Sitting gig my hair is brushed, my clothes are washed and it costs me ten bucks to wax off my moustache. So what’s his excuse? All he has to do is pick up a razor and run it across his face.
His left cheek looked as though it had taken a nap in the gravel. It’s not like he was trying to be Bukowski. He wasn’t trying to be anything. That was the problem. Part of him had given up. A very deep part by the look of it. A part that didn’t want any touching. Trying to clean him up would be like throwing a cat in the bath. You’d never get him clean and he’d never forgive you. He’d just pay you back by pissing in your sheets. What was I thinking?
I was thinking of my Grandparents who were both Orphans and who met at a bus stop. My Grandma had just run away from Molong because she didn’t want to marry a Farmer. She wanted a city life and she dreamt of a Pen Pusher. So she came to the big smoke alone. And then Papa turned up. At the Bus stop. On his way to his job as a Clerk on the Wharves. The Bus was late (some things never change) and so that’s how they discovered they were both Orphans. So they got on that bus and they never got off. They lived happily ever after. In Forest Lodge.
That’s very poetic right?
And since I’ve arrived back in Sydney I’ve spent a lot of time at the Bus Stop with my Grandma. We’ve been communing. I imagine what she felt like when she first arrived in the big smoke and didn’t know a soul. I’ve been listening to her stories and getting under her skin. So when Ringo turned up I thought it was a sign. That we should get on the road together. Well who wouldn’t? He had just arrived in Sydney and staying on a friend’s couch. He was starting again with nothing. Just like I was. We were like Archetypal Orphans. I could feel Grandma egging me on.
There were other benefits to us partnering up. For a start sex would never complicate things. We never saw each other as lovers. I was a ‘Post Romantic Celibate’ and he was ‘Too Fucking Lazy to Get it Up’ So in this way we were compatible. Traveling solo had become very hard. And teaming up seemed like the perfect solution.
Until he turned up looking like a refugee from Matthew Talbert.
Oh Mea Mea Culpa! His whiskers made me very nervous. I had accidently invited a bum with me to my house sitting gig. What was I thinking? My heart pumped faster and faster as the train sped to our destination and my right arm went numb from the shoulder down. I was having a full blown panic attack, triggered by a five oclock shadow. It was Crazy! It’s not like I cared that he looked like a grub. I can tolerate anyone with a good sense of humour. But the people I was dog sitting for didn’t have any humour. I could tell that on the telephone. People who treat their pets like first born children rarely do. They’re generally very serious and neurotic . They don’t care for comedy. They just care that their house will be safe and you won’t rip them off and their Pet is still alive when they return. That’s their ONLY focus. My heart was pumpity pumptity…
What if they took one look at him and turned us back around?
Where would I go? What would I do?
I’d end up sleeping out in the rough with Ringo. That would be no protection! Not with him in his boarding house Green shirt that said ‘Hit Me. I’m worthless!’ The worst scenarios flashed through my head. We’d doss down under a tree. I’d be ready to sleep and his homeless mates would pop by with some beer. I know where his loyalty would be! He’d slip on his dirty sneakers and he’d leave me for dead. Oh what was I thinking!?
I had put my own shelter at risk for a man who didn’t give a shit. Not about me. Not about the people giving us hospitality. And certainly not about himself. My felt my tightrope fraying as we walked to meet our Hostess.
Pumpity pumpity pump…
It all turned out ok. She let us stay. She didn’t leave the car though. She drove the spare car to the neighbors. I went to the Doctor the next day about my panic attacks and he told me that it was the weather. Apparently everyone Panics in winter. I relaxed when I realised I wasn’t going to die .
Ringo relaxed too. He spread out in the lounge room. He coveted the ipad and snuggled in with footy tab. He wasn’t much of a Technician. He couldn’t even turn on the TV without yelling for help. He seemed to have a short fuse for problem solving. And once he’d settled in on the couch he didn’t like moving. He only moved for about ten minutes a day. But I already knew this. The whiskers said it all. They were like tea leaves all over his face predicting our future.
The next evening when the subject came up of further travel I gently suggested that he might like to shave when we turned up at the venues? He didn’t like that suggestion one bit. He bristled with fury. People could just accept him how he was! He wasn’t changing for anyone. Why should he?’ He saw me as some bitch wanting to chop off his dick and I saw him as a spoilt self-entitled white boy who thought he didn’t have to make an effort. He thought a dick in dirty pants was enough introduction. But I’d never lived with that sort of luxury. So I had no empathy.
Still my heart settled properly after the five o’clock shadow was out on the table. I knew then that I couldn’t ask him to scrub up without emasculating him. Which was a big problem for both of us. An emasculated man is a dangerous thing. They can really do some damage. They’re worse than jealous women. This is why I end up teaming up with Narcissists. I mistake them for Alpha men. Because a true Alpha man can take a little critique without cracking. But there aren’t very many of them. Which explains why I’m celibate. But I don’t think I’ll be truly safe until I’m a fully fledged hermit.
He stayed six days and then I asked him to leave. The Orphan went with him.
I feel like a Goddess now.
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