Date: Sun, 18 Aug 2002 19:07:14 +1000
From: David Spencer <davidspencer1@hotmail.com>
Subject: Landlord: Stephen 03

This problem had a couple of surnames.  At different times he had told me
each of them and explained why he used them.  Frank tended to ramble a bit
and I would just nod sympathetically.  I never really knew whether he
forgot what he told me, whether I forgot what he told me or whether he told
me something which he had already forgotten.  But Frank was in trouble this
time and wanted me to give him a reference for court.  I readily agreed of
course, and promised him one as soon as he gave me the details.  I then
promptly forgot.  A little while later he runs into me again and tells me
the same story.  At least he was being consistent this time.  I promised
him a reference again and promptly forgot.

It was only three days later that I saw him at the train station and he
asked me again.  I asked him when the next listing date was and he said he
had forgotten.  I thought maybe this sounded a little bit genuine.  It did
not really sound like one of his fruity lexia befogged ramblings.  So I
asked him what the charges were.  He mumbled, shuffled, edged around and
didn't tell me but asked for a reference again.  I happily agreed and of
course promptly forgot.

The next time I saw him he actually had a legal aid chit with him telling
when the next hearing date was.  Three days away.  He said he was not
guilty.  One of the characters who used to crash at his place was jealous
he got on so well with the young bloke.  Nothing had ever happened.

He just came in when the young bloke had got out of the shower and was in
Frank's bedroom getting changed.  It was only coincidental that Frank was
in there helping him at the time.  Yes Frank.  Who is the young bloke.  Oh
just someone who has been helping me collect cans around the mall.  Ding!
Not the young bloke who was with you down under Coles in the car park that
afternoon I saw you?  Frank started doing his double shuffle again.  I
started to see some light coming through.  At least I suppose you could
call it light.  Is that stuff that comes out of a TV screen light?  I mean,
it flitters and flutters and hurts so much it should not be allowed to be
called with as positive a name as light.  And the junk messages it usually
conveys.  That doesn't really do anything to enlighten anyone, does it?  So
is it light or something else?  Anyway...

What happened was I was coming out of Coles at Maitland via the ground
level carpark.  I very rarely travel to Maitland to go shopping.  But it is
the only place I know of in the region where you can get fresh rump steaks.
Roo rump, that is. Excellent low fat healthy red meat.  The best.  And he
was down there with this 13 or 14 year old.  The kid was bouncing around
like he'd been to Mexico and had gotten both pockets full of jumping beans.
The kid said to me `You ought to see what we found'. I looked at Frank who
seemed to cringe but gave me four videos.  They looked new.  He also gave
me the shopbag they had been packed in plus individually wrapped wet
towels, condoms and lube.  This was going to be an interesting story.

Frank said some woman had walked up to a big 4wd, opened up the back of it
and looked inside while her husband quickly got out of the driver's seat
and raced around the back.  The wife opened up the bag and looked inside
and said `you lousy no-good son of a bitch.  You're a downright dirty lying
bastard.  You HAVE been seeing him again.  This marriage is finished.
Terminated. Caput.  Permanently.  I'll also save you the trouble and let
your daughter know myself.'  She wapped him a good one and stormed off.
Frank gave me the package and said `it's evidence.  You'd better keep it.
It'll be safe with you'.  Honestly, my chest swelled out and I was
delighted he trusted me so much.  He wandered off with the jumping bean and
I hightailed it off to catch the train which was due in about then.

Well here I was with these bloody video tapes.  I was not all that
interested in them.  I mean I'd had an eyeful of that type of stuff for
those few months I'd been working in federal court in Elizabeth Street.
All we seemed to do was get in boxes and boxes of evidence which had not
been properly catalogued by customs or the federal police.  So we had to
catalogue the bloody things or risk getting blamed when the bloody things
got lost.  It was amazing just how often they did get lost.  It ended up
being a farce.  I mean just how many versions of Debby Does Dallas are
there?  And the Office of Censorship, or whatever they were calling
themselves at that time, the one that's responsible for film
classification, they're the ones who are supposed to have looked at the
bloody things and decided whether they needed to be restricted or banned or
whatever.  And to prove that the bloody things we have in our evidence room
are the same as the ones the censorship office has already classified or
whatever, well that was the crux of so many defences, so to speak.  No I
had had a gutful of the bloody things.  I decided to get rid of these
seventy dollars a pop jobs.

Well what to do with them?  I went down to the local post office and got
some padded post bags.  Next, I mocked up some labels on the local library
computer complete with a bodgie return post box address.  I put the videos
one in each padded post bag.  I sealed one, put an address label on it, and
popped it in Stephen's letterbox.  It was addressed to the partner.  The
others went into the bottom of my dressing table drawer.  Then I sat back
to listen to events that night next door.  I heard nothing.  Absolutely
nothing. Come to think of it, I heard nothing for the next four nights.
Ok.  I can play the waiting game too.

The following Monday, the next video went into next door's letter box.
Same deal.  Nothing all week. The next week the third video went into the
post office bag, label on, and into next door's letter box.  Stephen had
been hanging around most of the morning but the postie was later than
usual. He went out just before the postie arrived.  By then I was dancing
around on my toes in anticipation.  I was down with the parcel before the
postie was even out of the street.  Stephen came home about five minutes
later, checked the mail, and took it inside.

Now Stephen, when he's not pissed, really is quite some cool customer.
About twenty minutes later he was scratching at the side door.  You can't
ring any door bell ... there isn't any.  You can't really knock on the door
... all the loose termite nest falls out from above and onto you.  If I'm
upstairs asleep, I don't really want to be disturbed.  And if anyone knocks
on the front door I never answer it.  Friends, relatives and neighbours all
know to rattle the side door, or make some sort of a noise around there, or
just walk in if the door is open.  Anyone who comes to the front door
doesn't know me.  If they don't know me, then I don't want to know them.
Anyway...

So Stephen wanders in.  Postie was late.  Oh, was he?  Anything
interesting?  No, not really.  Expecting something from overseas or a
present or something?  No not really.  So we get onto some other topic.
But Stephen is shuffling again.  Something has him uncomfortable, or
irritated, or curious.  I can wait.  I know what it is.  He thinks I might
know what it is.  I know he thinks I might know what it is.  We both smile
at each other at the same time.  Bloody hell.  I burst out laughing.  He
giggles.  It's one of those things.

I say `so who worked it out first?' He says `what do you mean?'  I just go
harr-rumpfh.  Pause.  Then he says `well it was the labels.  They look
good.  Really good.  Except there aren't any stamps on them or cancellation
marks.  They must have been put in the letter box about the same time the
postman comes, but not by the postman.'  `And you decided to wait around
today to see if the postman brought them or whatever?'  `Yes' `But you
weren't here when the postman came.'  `No, but I was only gone for about
fifteen minutes.  And the postman didn't deliver them since there are no
stamps on them.  It means that someone had to be real near and watching out
for the postman to arrive.  And when I got back after only being away for a
short while, there was the mail and the parcel.'  `Are you going to tell
buggerlugs?'  `Oh, he worked it out long ago.' That surprised me. `So he
doesn't want them then?'  `Oh yes.  He wants them all right.  Actually he
quite enjoys them.  He stays up til early morning each Monday night
watching the new one, and then again a couple of times more.'  'And you
watch them with him?'  `No, he uses the earphones.  I go to bed when he
starts them the first time.  He wakes me up when he gets to bed.  Not that
he really needs to wake me up ... you know?'

Actually, I didn't really know.  Not that I was going to admit it.  I
thought there probably was a certain logic in what he was saying but the
exact meaning eluded me at the time.  Years later I came to realise he was
saying that the partner was so charged up by the videos, he just did the
great dane trick.  He just wanted to root anything, whether it was moving
or not.  It was a bit like the comments the cleaner up at the Oasis food
court made to me one night.  She said the Greeks would fuck anything that
walked on two legs.  Naturally I agreed with her 'cause I wanted to hear
the rest of the story.  Then she said the Lebanese would try to fuck
anything whether it walked on two legs or four.  Ok, yes.  Of course.  But
those bloody Macedonians she said.  The Macedonian men would fuck anything
that moved.  And, she said, if it didn't move then they would push it.  O
... k.  Well the great dane trick was to get so worked up that you would
fuck anything available, even the arms of the sofa.  Apparently Stephen's
partner was like this after he had watched one of those types of videos.

So Stephen reckoned it didn't make any difference whether he was awake or
not.  The partner would fuck him anyhow, and without any regard to
Stephen's needs, feelings or desires at the time.  Also, I rather gathered,
since it was so late, once the partner was finished that was it.  Bad luck
for Stephen if he wanted anything.  Partner had to go to work early that
morning and was too tired to do anything other than go to sleep.  After he
had got it off for himself, of course.

I honestly can't remember Stephen's partner's name now.  I have so
successfully de-humanised him in my own mind that he no longer has a name.
Pretty nifty hey?  And no.  I don't want to be reminded what it is.  Thanks
all the same.


[If you would like this story to be continued, please email me, David
Spencer davidspencer1@hotmail.com Positive comments are always
welcome. This story and others are also archived at gaywritersguild.org]