Killing the Cross Read online

  Here it is, a few months later, and things are still cool. I hear by email from friends in the States that it was a media circus on New Years in America, like a hurricane was coming. Only in America, that’s what the headlines say here. Then my mind turns to the preacher: You can have your old life back at any time. I think that I will go for a walk tonight, further down the Cross than I have ventured before.

  Peace, man.

  Foley

  Dear Dad,

  My walks down the Cross are getting longer. I have found a lot of things that I like. Number one is a little whorehouse called, “Talk of the Town.” What a nice little out-of-the-way place to get laid. Well, it’s not like I went there right away to satisfy my urges. First, I just checked the place out and walked in and looked around. They are down around the corner and off the street, and they have a nice waiting room when you first walk in. Then the madam greets you and brings out the girls that are available. You get to look them over and take your pick. I told them that I would come back later. Because just a couple of blocks further is one of Sydney’s hottest all-night dance clubs, the Rhino Bar. You walk in, and the techno music in the back grabs you. Up front is the bar, though, and everyone is clamoring for a drink. The bartenders are really friendly, even to an old guy like me, and all the ladies are really good-looking and the whole place is thumping to the beat.

  Then, once you’ve got your drink, you go back into the back where the dance floor is. There is a staging area where it is all dark and carpeted and it is wall-to-wall people and mostly nice-smelling women who are all hot and charged to dance. The dance floor is bathed in colored rotating spotlights and the music is really loud. The DJ keeps the music going continuously, and people dance non-stop. You can walk out on the dance floor among the people and the fog and blend right in and dance by yourself and no one even notices that you are there. Before long, you are rubbing up against some girl who is wearing a tight polyester jumpsuit and moving in military precision timing to the music and she acts like she likes you being there.

  The track slides into “Do you think you’re better off alone?” and then picks up speed again with something from Gatecrashers. After awhile, you go back to the bar and get another drink, and then go back on the dance floor and get in with the mob and keep moving to the music. Usually, I would drink a lot, like six or seven beers, but here, I only drink about two or three, and then I go and see what is going on outside the bar and damn! It is light outside and it is about 9 o’clock in the morning. Like a time warp. Talk about high energy. A lot of the people do not even buy drinks. I think that they are on ecstasy or something because they just carry bottles of water and they are all bright and smiley and move and dance really fast the whole time. It is like day in the middle of the night. I love it. I really pace myself, because even though I like to drink alcohol, I do not want to get all mushy and drunk and stand out in the crowd and slow down. So, three or four beers gets me through the night and then I can wander through the early morning light back over to the Talk of the Town where some nice young Asian girl named Lilly or Grace is waiting for me to pick her out of the line up and take a shower and then throw her around the room and fuck the shit out of her. I love this town!

  Love,

  Foley

  Dear Dad,

  I am scared. I scare myself when I sit alone in the dark and think of the crazy things that I do. When Ingrid works late stripping, I can hear the people’s feet scraping and the chairs dragging and the clamor of the party on the roof right above my hostel room. They are playing in the midnight sun that turns night into day here. It is nights like this that sometimes I wish that I lived in a dorm room with some other guys just to have someone to talk to, but then I am reminded of the smell of parmesan cheese and feet, and the odor of hash mixed with ripe snot gurgling from the throat of some snoring backpacker with an old cold.

  I lay back and wait for Ingrid, and I think of all the whores that I have slept with. I can hear the Lebanese pizza boys loitering noisily between orders in the alley below. They are louder than the brothel barkers who try to hustle you in as you stroll by The Pink Pussycat, Porky’s, and Club 21. I talked to one of those Lebanese guys once and they have an interesting story. Because of their ongoing war with neighboring countries like Israel, they get refugee status in Australia. All they have to do is apply for refugee status and they get 200,000 Australian dollars and a big house in the Sydney suburbs. Isn’t that a trip? Man, what I could do with $200,000 and a house here. I couldn’t even think about buying one at home.

  I think about running down to the Kings Cross Hotel or going out to the World Party dance club, but my mind is too tired. I catch an occasional verse of the song playing on the hostel public address system. The dreamy lilt of “If you dream of sand dunes and salty air” has given way to a more aggressive, “I see you baby, shakin’ that ass” in the thick of the night. In my mind, I can see people drinking their bottles of Victoria Bitter and smoking their doobs in the picnic table booths on the roof. My mind turns to all of the sexual experiences that I have had here in the Cross. The one that creeps me out the most is when I picked up this independent chick walking down a back street. I could tell that she was a hooker, and she looked to have a pretty nice body. I asked her if she was up for it, and we went down an alley and negotiated a price for oral service. Everything was fine until about half way through, she stopped and whipped out a baggie and started gasping into it and I caught a strong whiff of glue. There I was, getting a blowjob from a glue-sniffing whore, a “huffer” as they affectionately call them down under. Then I saw her face with the missing teeth and the gray pallor and just about lost it. It was then that I decided that the overall quality of service needs to be improved in the Cross.

  The funny thing about it, looking back on the whole experience is, how does someone know when they are half-way through a blowjob? Just a little joke there old man, get it? It is kind of funny like you thought my going through four years of college just to become an enlisted man was funny. That kind of funny, that’s what I am talking about. I remember you asked why I did not go officer, and the look on your face when I told you that my college grades were not high enough. I don’t know if you were more disappointed by the fact that I had not worked hard enough in school, or if you were more confused by the fact that you had not been aware of my low grades all along. Kind of like getting half way through a blowjob. Funny.

  Love,

  Foley

  Dear Dad,

  God, it was kind of a queer day today, what with my declaring myself King and all. I stayed in the room all day drinking beer and rereading “The Catcher in the Rye.” I stayed up here with the window open and the smell of the Lebanese pizza drifting in, sweating. I waited up all night, or morning I should say, for Ingrid to come in so I could tell her my plan. I told her that I wanted to make better hookers for the Cross, and she was all for it. She said that she had been talking to several of the backpacker ladies at work and that they would be up for it. Plus I mentioned that I wanted a piece of the hash and heroin trade, and she said that she could arrange it. She knows a guy at work who deals a lot of the junk for the Cross and he is always looking for more contacts. So, things are looking up. I figure that all I have to do is tell JJ my boss that I have a connection with cheap stuff, and he will be all ears.

  I will go from being his mule to vice versa. Plus, the hostel has an endless supply of young hotties that are willing to work at whatever odd job to pay for their travels. All they need is some guidance. We will see how it goes. Ingrid is snoring right now. That is so weird, I have never seen her do that. Poor girl, she is so exhausted from stripping. I really owe her a better life. I am just finishing my last bottle of beer, so one more ciggie, and off to bed. I will mail this in the morning. Probably after 10 am, when the day actually begins here in Sydney.

  Love,

  Foley

  Dear Dad,

  God, we’ve rented out most of the hostel now. I mean, all of the
girls have their own room now. We’ve even taken over most of the dorm rooms, with the girls coordinating their schedules and “pick ups.” The majority of the johns are businessmen on their lunch hour. That is one area where the street vendors were seriously lacking. I mean, what self-respecting business suit guy wants to greet the burned out hooker on the street and duck into a place called “The Pink Pussycat” in the middle of the day? He just wants a nice clean girl that he can discreetly meet and boff in a hotel room. We have a few girls now that are using hotel rooms, but for the most part, the hostel is dirt cheap. So the guys come around the cafes down in the alley, and at first, we had the girls strike up conversations with them. What guy is not an easy pick up, unless he is gay? And the introductory price is irresistible. These gals will lick their lips, flit their hair, and do whatever to get these guys to flirt, and then it is a no-brainer. They are up to the room, and any mention of price centers around “can you help a girl buy a plane ticket home,” and the guys are generous. Most guys chip in 20 or 50 dollars, so of course they learn after awhile with the same girl that the service is better with the more that they donate.

  After a few days of finding the same nice-smelling, clean, blond, fresh 20-something girl at the same café at the same time, they think that they have a girlfriend. Those that keep paying are usually none the wiser. Those that ask too many questions or start acting too possessive are given “the treatment” and usually start shaping up like any man would that doesn’t want to scare a good girlfriend away. We have had a few that get weird, and do things like butt in on conversations with our girls, who they now think are their girls, and Ingrid swoops in and acts like a friend coming to the rescue and the guy comes to his senses. For those who don’t, I am always a phone call away, if I am not already leaning out of the second floor window yelling at them in the alley anyway. We have only had one guy start shouting, “Whore, whore!” but I came running down and took care of him. That leads me to my boxing training, but I will get into that next time. I have to make the rounds and make sure that all of my girls have a little hash on hand to smoke with the regulars. Boy, that shit really loosens up the wallet, even if it does stink.

  Love,

  Foley

  Dear Dad,

  Things are going better than I could have expected. Ingrid makes a great pimp. All I have to do is stay at the hostel all day while she runs the girls. Occasionally I get horny, and she lets me get a little action on the side with some of them. She joins in too for the girls that are more adventurous. Most of them are just simple, fun-loving ladies. Sometimes, my phone rings and it is JJ, looking to make another run. I drop by his place and hook him up. He moves a lot of stuff, and I am proud of him. He keeps his shit straight. He has quit his furniture moving business, and he makes a lot more money with me. Ingrid says that the guy at the club is happy because we are moving stuff pretty well, and it has not cut in on his original business at all. So, that is cool. Actually, the girls who are not busy stop by my room all day long and hook me up with favors. I tell them not to tell Ingrid, and they are cool with that. Smoking hash and doing nice blond backpacker chicks all day long is very nice. I don’t think that I will ever get bored of it. One thing that I enjoy the most is roughing up the johns that get too clingy or obnoxious. This is bringing out a part of me that I didn’t know existed, the boxer. Did I mention that before? Maybe I’ll come back and finally kick your ass, cocksucker.

  Love,

  Foley

  Dear Dad,

  I started exploring the Cross again the other day. I went down William Street at the end of the Cross past the subway entrance. At the bottom of the hill was the City Gym. They have a boxing club, and I said that I wanted to start training. I think the guy smelled beer on my breath, because he started to laugh. I whipped out my wad of bills, and he stopped smirking after he counted it and I told him that I wanted a personal trainer. He took me aside and said all right mate, but I would have to show up early the next morning. I think he wanted to see if I was a piss head or not. Sure enough, I showed up, and that is when my new hobby began.

  A few people have already come up and said that they saw me ride that tornado. They don’t have tornados in Australia, but they sure do love boxing. I don’t think that any Aussie boxer has ever qualified for a shot at the world heavy weight title, or any title for that matter. This time, I got smart. When the son-of-a-bitch asked me, I told him that I am an Australian citizen transplanted from Canada. That stopped him cold in his tracks, I could tell. No more, “where you from” or “how long are your immigration papers good for” like a lot of these nosy bastards always ask you. Only 18 million dumb fucks on a continent the size of the United States, and they seem all worried about a fucking invasion or something. Always asking to see your passport. So I cold-cocked this dumb fuck’s curiosity before he even had a chance. So now I am the next great white hope in Australia.

  Love,

  Foley

  Dear Dad,

  Funny as shit, you would not believe it. I never boxed before in my life, right? Well, there were those times that you and I shadow boxed and you would get mad as hell if I really connected a punch and you would start hitting me back as hard as you could and say goddam, what the hell is wrong with you, even though you were in your forties and I was only a teenager. But now that I am getting trained by a real boxer, I am actually winning a few of my sparring matches, and my trainer is ready to take me to my first city fight. My secret? He says that I can fight both southpaw and right-handed. Like I am a schizophrenic pugilist or something, he says. When we first started, he was frustrated as hell. Me too, because we would train all day and into the night, and he would yell shit like, goddam, man, make up your mind, are you going to jab with your right hand, or your left, you can’t do both.

  So I would try real hard and hit first with one hand for a day or two and then bring in the roundhouse knockout punch with the other, and he would say, ok, now you are ready to spar. Sure enough, as soon as I got into the ring with Butch, the sparring guy, I would jab with my right instead of my left, and then when he started acting confused, I would land a hard left on his chin and he would go down.

  Nate, my trainer, would jump in the ring and go ape shit! He would jump up and down and say what the fuck are you doing, just like when I was 8 or 9 and you would try to teach me how to drum because you were a jazz drummer in high school, and then I said, well, I knocked him down, didn’t I? His eyes kind of flickered like his mind was saying, oh yeah. So after that, he didn’t say anything. He just trained me and watched. Then next time, I got into the ring with Butch, I jabbed him with a bunch of lefts and then floored him with a right. He doesn’t want to spar with me anymore. Nate says that we have a bout on Friday, but he doesn’t have much hope for me. I told him that I would reimburse him for any money that he loses. He says, ok sure kid, just make up your mind.

  I don’t know, I just go by instinct. It’s not like practicing the piano like you used to make me do all day when you and mom were at work. This feels natural, like the teeth that you used to have before that North Carolina dentist yanked them all out in a day. Imagine how he felt, a fast-talking New Yorker sitting in HIS chair, begging to have all of his rotten teeth pulled, after all those jokes he had endured about Southerners and their bad teeth? I wonder if he had fun that day! What do you think, cocksucker?

  Love,

  Foley

  Dear Dad,

  I won my first big fight tonight! Not like Nate wanted me too, but he was happy, even if he didn’t let on. He had some beer and peanuts to celebrate afterwards, and his little wife was there grinning and hugging him, so I know he was happy. But not with the way I won the fight. They had announced me as a Southpaw, just like those fucking announcers like to do. Like a freak show, anything that is different is the top story. Then of course, it is telegraphed to the opposing fighter during training, like an advantage or disadvantage going in. That way, he has time to prepare for the big, bad southpaw. Maybe he g
ets scared, or maybe he has prepared his anti-southpaw strategy. Perhaps he is a southpaw himself. But usually, the announcer will be sure to blast that out. Two lefties! Gather round and watch the freak show. But when is the last time that that happened? Very low odds on that occurring.

  The truth is it didn’t bother me one bit. I went in there knowing that this poor dumb schmuck thought that I was a southpaw. I knew that he was right-handed. I fielded a few of his scientific left jabs. I countered with a few of my right jabs. But you know what, Dad? They didn’t feel right. So, second round, I came out jabbing with my left. They felt strong. He got confused and thought that I was trying too hard and going for the win early. A couple more rounds of that and he got careless. He came in with a right, and I sidestepped it and countered. Either he discounted it as a jab or was slow to react, but I connected and brought him down with a hard right cross. Bam! Down and out for the count. I have moved up a couple ranks in the Sydney city standings!