Rosa-Marie's Baby

by Robert G. Barrett

  ‘Well, Sonia. Would you like me to walk you home? Or will I ring you a taxi?’

  Sonia put her hand on Norton’s knee. ‘Why don’t you walk me home. I might even get you to check my suitcase again.’

  ‘Still giving you trouble, is it Sonia?’ asked Les.

  ‘It’s a bugger, Sonny. I should never have bought the cheap darn thing in the first place.’

  They caught the lift to their floor. Sonia put her arms around Les when the door closed and they slipped into an extremely passionate embrace, with lots of tongues going everywhere and plenty of heavy breathing. They were still going for it when the door opened on the twelfth floor and they continued to grope each other all the way to Sonia’s room. As soon as they got inside, Sonia started getting her clothes off and Les got out of his jeans. They finished in the nude and Sonia didn’t have a bad little body. Her bum was tight, her boobs sat neatly and there was even a hint of six pack. Mr Wobbly had one look and he was up and at ’em and rearing to go.

  ‘You know, Sonny,’ said Sonia, putting her arms around Les. ‘We really shouldn’t be doing this. I’m not on the pill …’

  ‘Yeah and I’m not wearing a raincoat,’ said Les. ‘But I’ve got a simply splendid idea.’

  ‘What’s that, Sonny?’

  ‘I’ll get Max. And we’ll have a sixty-niner.’

  ‘Ooh yes,’ squealed Sonia. ‘I’d like that.’

  Sonia got the vibrator from her suitcase, put a little hand lotion on it and handed it to Les, then they got on the bed. Les swung himself around and next thing he was looking into Sonia’s neatly trimmed lamington. He switched Max on and started buzzing it around Sonia’s clit when he heard her laugh.

  ‘What is it, Sonia?’ asked Les.

  ‘I was just thinking, Sonny,’ chuckled Sonia. ‘You definitely are Jewish.’

  ‘Shalom.’ Les started buzzing away then shuddered as he felt the sweet sting of Sonia’s mouth around Mr Wobbly.

  Les quite enjoyed his anomalous sixty-niner. Sonia’s warm tongue and lips felt sensational and it was fun watching the vibrator sliding in and out of her ted. Sonia sounded like she was having a great time too and over the soft buzz of the vibrator Les could hear her snorting and moaning away. Les held off for as long as he could, but eventually he began to approach critical mass. Beneath him Sonia started getting her rocks off too. She gripped Norton’s thighs, kicked her legs and the moaning turned into muffled growling noises. Les kept giving it to her with the vibrator when suddenly the kicking stopped and Sonia raised her pelvis, let go a muffled scream and fired off a rattling great broadside. Les screwed his face up in sweet pain and with a roar like a bull emptied out into Sonia’s mouth a moment or two later. After they’d both orgasmed, Les climbed alongside Sonia and shakily placed Max near the clock radio next to her bed.

  ‘Shit,’ panted Les. ‘That was an Exodus I won’t forget in a hurry. I feel like the Red Sea just parted right up my blurter.’

  Sonia’s eyes were still rolling around in her head like marbles. ‘God! What a way to go,’ she spluttered. ‘Mamma Mia!’

  ‘And my mother wanted me to be a dentist,’ said Les. ‘Oi vey! If she was alive now, she’d roll over in her grave.’

  Les lay on the bed for a while then gave Sonia a kiss on the lips, got up and climbed unsteadily back into his jeans. Sonia reached out to the hotel biro and writing pad next to the bed, wrote something down then got beneath the douvet. With his trainers and shirt in one hand Les sat down on the bed.

  ‘Well I’d better get going, Sonia,’ he said. ‘I got a long walk home. And you have to get up early in the morning.’

  ‘Okay, Sonny,’ said Sonia. ‘There’s my phone number in Geelong.’

  ‘Thanks.’ Les pocketed the piece of paper and kissed Sonia again. ‘I’ll ring you when I’m settled in at Lorne.’

  ‘Okay Sonny.’ She returned Norton’s kiss. ‘I’ll see you through the week. Don’t forget to ring me.’

  ‘No. I’ll remember. See you then Sonia.’ Les blew her a kiss and let himself out.

  Back in his room, Les got out of his jeans, used the bathroom then cleaned his teeth. When he’d finished he gave the mirror a tired smile.

  Hello Sol. How are they hanging, baby? Long and loose and out of juice?

  Les turned off the lights, yawned and climbed under the sheets. What about Sonia, he mused as he closed his eyes. Even she’s into this deja vu. Come to think of it, I lied my head off to those two women poets in the Blue Mountains and got a blow job. Les scrunched his head into the pillows. Include me out of deja vu. It’s too spooky. Who wants to recollect on what might be waiting for you round the corner. The big Queenslander yawned again then he was snoring.

  Les woke up the next morning, had a look at his watch and pushed his head back into the pillows. He generally slept in on Sundays, so he stayed in bed and dozed back off into dreamland before finally getting up and drinking a bottle of mineral water. He decided to have breakfast in his room then pack his gear and check out. He rang room service and ordered Bircher muesli, fruit, eggs Benedict and coffee, then climbed into his old shorts and went down to the pool. He splashed around and got the cobwebs out then by the time he caught the lift back to his room, changed into his blue shorts and a white Bob Dylan T-shirt Clover had given him, breakfast arrived. Les tipped the girl then started eating while the same radio station ran ‘Love is in the Air’ by John Paul Young into ‘You Can Call Me Al’ by Paul Simon.

  The breakfast was very good. Les drank the last of the coffee then got his clothes from the bathroom and finished packing. He tossed a hotel biro and some stationery into his overnight bag, had a last look around then picked up his suitcase and got the lift to reception.

  Yes, he told the smiling girl behind the counter, he enjoyed his stay at Southville, the food was great, the bed was comfortable and he’d recommend the hotel to his friends. After charging everything to Price, Les took his suitcase down to the lobby and told the porter he had to pick up a car; he’d be back later. No worries, Mr Norton. The name’s Klinghoffer. Solomon Klinghoffer, squinted Les, as he flicked his sunglasses open and walked out into another hot sunny day.

  If Melbourne’s CBD was crowded the day before, Sunday was even busier. Every little cafe or restaurant was crowded, bookshops were doing a roaring trade and all the trendy clothing stores were full of customers with the techno music pumping at warp nine. At minute intervals a tram would clang to a stop and more people would get off armed to the teeth with credit cards, cash and cheque books. Maybe it’s the heat’s bringing them out, thought Les, flicking some sweat from his eyes. He cruised around killing time before walking up to the paper shop he had found yesterday and buying the Sunday Telegraph. A support lead on the front page of the Melbourne Sunday Age and two identikit drawings caught his eye. BRUTAL ASSAULT IN FITZROY. MUSLIM TERRORISTS ATTACK MAN AT RARE BOOK SALE. Les lowered his eyes and bought the Age then walked up to the fruit juice shop, got a Brazilian Special and sat down.

  ‘Two terrorists, apparently Muslims, were involved in a violent confrontation at The Obelisk Bookshop in Brunswick Street, Fitzroy last night in which a man’s fingers were hacked off.’

  The story must have broken late because there were only a few paragraphs and the paper hadn’t had a chance to beat it up yet. It just said how shocked onlookers saw the men run in shouting slogans denouncing Zionists and infidels before chopping the man’s fingers off. There were a couple of eyewitness accounts fairly similar to what happened and at the end it said, ‘The injured man, a resident of Brighton, is in a stable condition at Royal Melbourne Hospital where he is currently helping detectives with their inquiries.’ I’ll bet he is, thought Les. There were a few more paragraphs and two identikit photos like Groucho Marx minus the cigar. Les kept the front page and tossed the rest of the paper into a bin. As he placed it in his overnight bag something ominous struck him. Oh no, he said to himself. I’m not saying nothing about anything. But the last time I was down here I ma
de headlines when I blew up that church in Whittlesea, and I was described as ‘solidly built of Middle Eastern appearance’. And what else did it say? ‘The evil octopus of international terrorism has spread its tentacles from the Middle East to sleepy Whittlesea in Victoria.’ Les looked up at the sky. Sorry boss. But I ain’t saying nothing to nobody. Les got another Brazilian and started on the Telegraph.

  By the time Les finished the paper and two cappuccinos, it was time to pick up the car. Thrifty was a short walk along Elizabeth Street.

  The car rental was busy, but before long it was Norton’s turn. No worries, Mr Norton, smiled a polite lady in blue. Your car is waiting. May we see your licence and how much insurance do you want. Les showed his licence and wanted maximum insurance. More smiles and paperwork later and Les found himself behind the wheel of a silver Mitsubishi Advance with a map from Thrifty marked in highlighter showing how to get onto the M1 and out of town. Les followed the traffic up Elizabeth then turned into Collins and pulled up in front of the hotel. The porter had his suitcase waiting and Les was on his way.

  The Advance handled smoothly and was very comfortable with plenty of zip. That was the good news. The bad news was, there was no cassette player, only a radio and CD player. Which meant Les couldn’t listen to his tapes. Les left the radio off till he figured out where was what. But there were no dramas and before long he was down Collins, found Flinders, yada-yada-yada and he was on the M1 with the other Sunday drivers, going through Altona Meadows towards Geelong.

  At a sign saying POINT COOK RD, Les put the radio on and got some station playing classical dirges: moaning cellos and creepy violins. It sounded like backing music to the shows on SBS about the Holocaust. Les brushed it and flicked round the dial. He saw a sign saying LITTLE RIVER and thought of the old LP Diamantina Cocktail when he hit on PBS Station 106.7 FM and got some good blues music. The DJ announced some tune Les had never heard before, Geoff Costanza and Jerry Lou, ‘Jive Samba’. More good music and very few ads later and Les was driving past brown and grey countryside with few trees. 106.7 changed disc jockeys and went on a jazz trip. Near Geelong Les brushed Miles Davis and found 96.3 Reema FM. It was all soul music and seemed to be a happy-clapping, praise-the-Lord station. Les blew Sonia a kiss as he crossed a bridge bypassing Geelong and further on the road veered left at sign saying THE GREAT OCEAN ROAD, LORNE 62 KMS. Les drove past Geelong airport and the scenery changed to wide, flat plains running off to hills in the distance and lines of trees on either side of the road.

  The traffic increased going through Torquay and besides the houses and shops, Les noticed all the huge surf outlets. Norton was right in the heart of waxhead territory. Some radio station was playing ‘Baby Love’ by Diana Ross and Les started singing along as he went past the turn-off to famous Bells Beach. He got a glimpse of the ocean then it all opened up into red and brown cliffs and scrubby green hills on one side of the road. And on the other, shallow reefs and long golden beaches dotted with surfers taking advantage of the offshore wind. Driving past on a beautiful sunny day, Les was impressed. The Great Ocean Road truly lived up to everything he’d heard about it. Les was crooning along behind the wheel to some other pop song when suddenly the radio station sprung Celine Dion on him wailing ‘I Drove All Night’.

  ‘Ohh shit!’ howled Les. ‘Where’s the cyanide pill? Give me a razor.’

  Les turned the radio off and drove on in silence. He went through Anglesea before arriving at a sign saying WELCOME TO LORNE, SURF COAST. In the distance Les glimpsed a town and a long pier running out to sea from a rolling green headland.

  ‘Hello. Looks like I’m here,’ smiled Les.

  Les eased the Mitsubishi around several hairpin bends then drove on past houses nestled into the green hills on his right, with wide bay windows facing the ocean before a long curve of golden sand opened up on the left. Further along a small white suspension bridge crossed over a wide brown creek running into the sea, then the traffic slowed down as Les passed a supermarket set back amongst trees on the right. Next to a tiny alcove of shops and a caravan park to the right, the road crossed the Erskine River and turned left. On a corner next to some colourful studio apartments with weather vanes on the roof sat two Rubenesque statues of a bug-eyed blue woman and a bug-eyed green one. Les drove past them and a row of buildings being demolished then, opposite a resort on the beach, the road swung right into Mountjoy Parade: Lorne’s main street.

  The traffic was heavy and crowds of people were either lying on the beach, taking a swim or walking around in the sun. Through the trees Les could see the ocean on his left and roughly a kilometre of shops and buildings on the right. An old two-storey picture theatre faced an open-air swimming pool and steep side streets ran up to the forested hills overlooking the town. A car park and a modern surf club sat inside the headland where the beach ended and on the other side of a roundabout in Mountjoy Parade, the Otway Resort faced the Erskine Hotel on the opposite corner. The mustard-coloured resort was three rambling storeys of sundecks facing the ocean and looked very swish. The olive-coloured hotel had a beer garden on top full of sheltered tables surrounded by glass railings and a lounge underneath encased in smoked-glass windows, all built to take advantage of the view. White marble steps ran up to the entrance and there was a drive-in bottle shop underneath.

  Les drove past a white church set amongst trees on the right then followed the road alongside the ocean for another kilometre to the wooden pier he’d seen in the distance. It started at a seafood restaurant and a fish co-op then ran out towards a low headland where a handful of surfers were catching waves off a point break. At the end of the pier a number of people were fishing near a crane and boats chocked up on the wooden pylons. Across the road from the pier was another hotel that had been beautifully restored back to its old-world charm. Huge windows surrounded the entrance, beneath sweeping verandahs with yellow wrought-iron railings that faced the ocean. On top was a steep, tiled roof with a large windowed loft and two smaller ones. Lorne ended at a block of holiday units, a small restaurant and more homes built into the hills. Les pulled over opposite the hotel and did a U-turn then crawled along with the Sunday traffic back to the roundabout between the first hotel and the resort. He took a left at the start of a steep hill then swung right into the resort’s driveway.

  There was a circled flowerbed in the middle and plenty of room. Les got out of the car, stretched his legs and walked into reception, where a dark-haired man in a blue suit was standing behind a brightly lit desk talking to a beefy woman in white shorts. Les waited his turn and had a look around. Outside were more gardens and landscaped walkways running by an enclosed pool and a gymnasium. Everything was mustard-coloured stucco, quite modern and very well maintained. The beefy woman departed and it was Les’s turn.

  Not a problem, Mr Norton, smiled the man in the blue suit. Your room is on the second floor on the Anchorage level. Parking is underneath. One key opens the roller door, the other your room. The lift is down the end of the hallway. Thank you, Mr Norton. Enjoy your stay at Otway Resort. Sitting on a wooden table next to the reception desk was a bowl of Roma apples. Les took one and started chomping on it on the way back to his car. It was that crisp and full of juice he went back for another before driving down to the parking area and finding a spot near the lift. He got his bag from the boot then caught the lift to the second floor, found his room easily and let himself in.

  Les was surprised to find his room was a modern one-bedroom unit. The bedroom was off the corridor on the right, then the bathroom and after that you stepped down past a modern kitchen into a large air-conditioned lounge room with two comfortable lounges and a TV. A sliding glass door opened up onto a sundeck with a great view of the beach. The unit was done out in beige and pastel colours with thick blue carpet, white curtains and prints on the walls. Les got his suitcase from where he left it near the front door and tossed it on the bed along with his overnight bag. There was another TV in his room and a desk with a lamp. He checked ou
t the cream-tiled bathroom. There were plenty of soaps, shampoos and bath gels and at one end you stepped down to a spa bath and shower. Les felt one of the fluffy towels then walked out to the kitchen. There was plenty of room and everything else, plus a nice big fridge, and every appliance imaginable for preparing meals. And if you didn’t feel like cooking, there was an extensive room service menu. Les got a drink of cold water from the fridge and looked around. Shit! How good’s this, he thought. Gary’s done it again. Les went back to the bedroom, opened his suitcase and took out his ghetto blaster. He set it up in the lounge room, chose a tape and with the Jive Bombers thumping ‘JB Boogie’ through the unit, started to unpack.

  When he’d finished, Les was looking forward to a swim. He put his Speedos on under his shorts, tossed a towel and his camera into his overnight bag then took the lift to the lobby. From the resort it was just a short, sloping walk to the corner then across the road to the beach.

  The beach was crowded and it was high tide with a nice wave running between the flags. Les asked a family stuffing themselves with sandwiches under a beach umbrella if they’d watch his bag then jogged down to the water’s edge and dived in. The water was chilly compared to the last swim Les had had at Bondi. But it was all right once you got in. Les caught a few body waves, flopped around, got out and picked up his things. He thanked the family under the beach umbrella and managed to sneak a photo of them hogging into the sandwiches. He had a shower next to the car park then strolled off to take a look around and have a cup of coffee.

  Lorne was a pleasant holiday resort full of boutique clothes shops and nice restaurants. It reminded him of Port Douglas, only the shops were all on one side of the road and there was a surf beach. He went into a real estate agency and helped himself to a small map of Lorne, then found a milk bar-cafe with outside seating and ordered a flat white from a pretty brown-haired girl in a black T-shirt. The coffee was that good, Les immediately ordered another and went over his map.