Better with Bacon

by Matthew Lang

  Reaching down, he shook Patrick’s shoulder. “Hey, Patto,” he said. “Wake up time.”

  “Mmm… my legs are sore. Also my—”

  “Yeah, that’s not surprising,” David said, cutting in quickly. “Come on, up and at ’em.”

  “But it’s Saturday,” Patrick grumped, wrapping his hands around David’s flaccid penis and tugging him back towards the bed. “What are you doing up, anyway?”

  “Talking to your not-fiancée,” David said pointedly, thrusting the phone at Patrick. “Your pregnant not-fiancée.”

  Dropping the phone into Patrick’s hand, he turned and scanned the floor for his underwear and shorts, then picked them up and left the bedroom as he heard a suddenly wide-awake Patrick answer the phone. “Hello? Well, yes, but… oh….”

  David managed to get his legs through the right leg holes on the second attempt and found his shirt on the back of the couch. The air in the apartment was muggy, even with the window at the dining area having been left open overnight, and David wasn’t sure if the slightly mucky feel of the shirt fabric was from sweating the night before or the humidity inside. It probably didn’t matter; he’d sweat during the bike ride home.

  “You sure it’s…. Okay, okay I just can’t think when—”

  David buttoned just enough of his shirt to stop it flapping annoyingly and pulled up his shorts, patting his pockets to check for his phone and keys. Then he found his shoes. Patrick wasn’t his, David told himself sternly. Patrick was his best friend, would make an excellent father if he could be persuaded to make something of his talents, and he was, and always would be, David’s friend. Always would be. Always.

  “Dave, where are you going?” Patrick asked, sticking his head out of the bedroom.

  “Home,” David said. “You need some privacy to, you know, talk.”

  “But Dave—” The front door clicked shut.

  THE SKY was overcast and grey and the air still as David took the steps outside two at a time. After walking almost too quickly up the footpath, he unlocked his bike on autopilot, buckled on his helmet, and kicked off from the kerb in a smooth motion his muscles remembered even if his head gave no thought to it. He was most of the way home, lungs and legs burning with the pace he was setting, before he realised he’d left the backpack behind. Ah well. He was almost certain it was one of Patrick’s anyway.

  The rain hit just as he reached his building, splatting him with heavy, hot summer droplets before he coasted into the covered carpark and locked his bike away into the communal bike rack. He barely registered the lift ride up to his floor or the walk down the corridor to his apartment. His shirt was off almost before the front door closed, and soon he was naked and in the shower, washing the accumulated grime of two days from his flesh. He left the water lukewarm and thrust his head directly into the falling spray. The droplets drummed against his skull, a constant percussive thrum that was cooling, refreshing, numbing, and exactly what he needed.

  Thunder rumbled outside as he turned the water off and stepped out onto the yielding plushness of his bath mat. Reaching out, he laid a hand on his towel and was about to lift it up when he stopped. Instead he leaned forward and used the closest half of the towel to soak some of the excess wetness from his hair. Letting the fabric fall, he stepped out onto the carpet of his bedroom, droplets of water clinging to and running down his body. He left damp footprints as he walked back into the living area and sprawled out on his couch, glad that he had chosen one with fabric upholstery rather than the leather the admittedly cute salesman had been trying to sell him. He didn’t stick to the fabric the way he stuck to leather when wet and dripping.

  David stared blankly out the balcony windows at the rain bucketing down over Albert Park. His stomach rumbled, and he remembered he still hadn’t eaten anything yet. He contemplated the open box of Nutri-Grain he knew was in the pantry. He had milk too, but milk would require a bowl and a spoon and pouring the cereal into the bowl, when even getting up seemed like too much of a hassle. As he slowly scanned the room, his gaze landed on the kitchen island-cum-breakfast bar, where his work phone sat charging on the induction pad. The message light was blinking accusatory blue. He wasn’t supposed to be on call. That wasn’t a thing in finance. That said, being away from phones and e-mails for more than eight hours at a time was almost inconceivable to most of David’s colleagues—and if he were honest with himself, it was the sort of thinking David found himself falling into all too easily.

  “So this is what your life has turned into, Dave,” he muttered as he dragged himself off the couch. “Work, gym, and now get over your best friend. Damn, you need to get a life. And stop talking to yourself.”

  Picking up his company-issued Nexus, he looked down at the number. Frowning, he dialled his voicemail and hit the speakerphone button.

  “Hi, Dave. Look, I know you don’t work for me anymore, but Steve tossed a decent chunk of work on our latest contract to his graduate, and frankly, we’re up shit creek. We’re meant to do final pitches on Tuesday, and the financials are nowhere near comprehensive enough to present without putting us out of the running. I know it’s Saturday, but we’re working through the weekend, and I could really use you up here. I’ve chatted to your boss, and she’s said I can drag you up here on Monday, but it’s really a two-day job—at least. If you can come up early, I’ve also managed to talk her into giving you time in lieu, and Janice is standing by to get you a flight up to Sydney. Just let me know if you’re able to come up—even if it’s just Monday—and I’ll organise the rest. You don’t have to say yes,” Amrit added. “But I’d owe you for this one if you did.”

  “To save, press five,” the automated voice recording said. “To delete, press three. To call back pr—”

  The phone picked up after the second ring. “Dave?” Amrit managed to cram hopeful and harried into a single syllable. It was a talent.

  “I’m in,” David said. “I’ll call Janice and see you in the afternoon.”

  “You’re a lifesaver,” Amrit said. “Why’d I let you transfer out of my department again?”

  “You didn’t,” David said. “I jumped ship because you kept giving me shit jobs and impossible deadlines.”

  “Oh right. Well. Welcome back?”

  “Two days, Amrit,” David said. “Four tops.”

  “Thanks.”

  “No worries,” David said. “And tell Steve to do his own bloody work for once.”

  “No comment,” Amrit said darkly.

  Janice, at CPM Travel, was two steps ahead of him—as always—and five minutes later, he had a reservation at Sheraton on the Park and a business-class ticket leaving Tullamarine in two hours. There was just enough time to throw some shirts and shoes into a suitcase along with some changes of essentials, gym gear, his travel toiletry bag, and something slutty for a night or two out on Oxford Street. Of course, that assumed the recent lock-out laws preventing nightclubs from letting in new people after one thirty in the morning hadn’t killed the nightlife entirely. David had watched with horrified fascination as his social media feeds had filled with stories of restaurants and bars closing, nightclubs shutting down, and entire swathes of Kings Cross, the hetero heartbeat of the nightclub scene, being turned into a residential hotspot for families. There was also increased speculation that the laws had been less about public safety, as claimed, and more about boosting patronage at the local Casino, the only venue not subject to restrictions. So far the gay clubs in Darlinghurst seemed to be weathering the changes, but even they were reporting downturns in business. Still, he lived in hope, and stared fixedly at a rather revealing jockstrap before deciding to leave it behind. It’s not like it would even be seen unless someone pulled his shorts down. Chargers, laptops, and he was at the front of his apartment block three minutes ahead of the car Janice had called for him.

  “Mr Zhang, good to see you again,” Vladimir said with a smile as he stepped out. David got his small travel case into the boot before the man could pick i
t up, but Vladimir got to the passenger door before he did.

  “One day, Vlad,” David said with a smile he didn’t really feel as he climbed into the front of the car.

  “Not on my watch, Mr Zhang,” Vlad said blandly. “Sudden Sydney trip, hey?”

  “Yeah, sorry to drag you away from your wife on the weekend.”

  “She’s used to it,” Vladimir said. “I’ll buy her a bunch of flowers when I go back and all will be forgiven. Plus I’m on the shift today.”

  David grunted and looked out the window at the nondescript houses and high-rise buildings passing him by.

  “You okay?” Vladimir asked. “Boyfriend troubles?”

  “Still single, Vlad,” David said.

  “You can have relationship trouble while still being single,” Vlad said, not taking his eyes off the road.

  “No trouble,” David said. “Just some unexpected turns of events.”

  “And so you’re running off to Sydney to avoid thinking about them?”

  “Am I that transparent?”

  “Well, I’ve been driving you around for several years now, Mr Zhang,” Vladimir said. “I’d wager I see more of you than some of your friends do.”

  David laughed at that. “You know, you might be right.”

  HE WAS sitting on a couch in the business lounge, overlooking red-and-white plane tails featuring the flying kangaroo when he realised he’d left his personal phone at home. Ah well, perhaps him being out of the picture would make it easier for Patrick and Li Ling to work things out between them. The last thing Patrick needed was David moping around as a constant reminder of what might have been. Better to go away, sort things out, and come back to the familiarity of a platonic friendship. Of course, a kid meant responsibility, and although Li Ling was earning a decent amount at Unilever…. Would Patrick be a stay-at-home dad? Would Patrick’s pride let him be a stay-at-home dad? David wondered how much longer the silent disapproval from Li Ling’s parents would keep up. Would it be forever as he and Li Ling had often joked, or would there one day be a grudging acceptance of their eventual son-in-law? Was that why they broke up? He wanted to think she hadn’t caved to parental pressure, but maybe….

  Would Patrick insist on getting a job? Would he go crawling back to a kitchen? Would he ever open the little food truck? In his mind’s eye, David could see the sleek black vehicle, side flap open to reveal a counter of stainless steel and three metal flip-lidded pots of chilli oil, chilli sauce, and hoisin. An electric oven sat under an induction cooktop, over which pans of water bubbled and bamboo baskets full of unblemished white bao steamed away. Wearing a tight, black T-shirt, Patrick stood with his elbows folded over the counter and a sparkle in his eyes as he grinned at the line of people that had formed in the park where the truck had pulled up. How much exactly would one need to start up a food truck, anyway? A quick Internet search gave him prices ranging from twenty-one to seventy thousand, and then there was insurance, permits, marketing, social media, food, maintenance, petrol, power, graphic design, and branding. Then there were staffing costs, getting a lawyer, an accountant….

  Really, depending on how snazzy a van Patrick wanted, he should be able to get away with about a hundred thousand. Small change really… if you already had a company with several hundred employees, gross revenue in the millions, and… um… yeah. Think small scale, Zhang. Think small.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, this is a call for passengers travelling on QF434 Sydney. Your flight is now available for boarding through gate lounge number seven.”

  Jolted out of his line of thoughts, David grabbed at his gin and tonic to prevent the glass from tumbling off the small round table and then stared down at the notes he’d absently jotted onto the square white disposable napkin. Reaching for his carry-on trundle, he hesitated before jamming the tissue into the back pocket of his jeans. It was an impossible dream, but, well… he’d offered.

  Chapter 6

  AT 10.00 p.m. David was in short shorts and a singlet cut low enough at the sides to show off his obliques. Sinking back into the land of mergers and acquisitions had been a bit like putting on an old musty jacket—slightly clammy around the arms from stale sweat but familiar nonetheless. There was the same realisation that slipping back into its warm funky embrace meant not having to think about anything new, even if it no longer fitted around the shoulders and would probably start to itch before too long. Still, the sheets of data were familiar, and the patterns easy to spot, and Amrit had shouted him dinner at a trendy vegetarian place somewhere in the rolling streets of the aptly named Surry Hills. One of the older parts of Sydney, Surry Hills was only a short walk from Central train station and had narrow roads never intended for cars and a trendy suburban feel that was distinctly more relaxed than the fast-walking office workers in the wind tunnels of the city skyscrapers not ten minutes away.

  Already slightly sloshed from several glasses of wine, David had found his head too full of everything to sleep, and he’d wandered north in the direction of Darlinghurst, following the crowds of gym bunnies and twinks that seemed to make up the visible population of Oxford Street, Sydney’s long stretch of gay nightlife. Unlike Melbourne, where individual clubs and bars were scattered around the city, both north and south of the river, Sydney traditionally clustered all the venues on one street, running just over half a kilometre from Hyde Park, with its war memorial, to Taylor Square, where he’d spent many drunken nights wandering from venue to venue—or at least heading into Arq late in the night before Sydney’s lock-out laws came into effect in the too early morning. Part of him still wondered what that was doing to Sydney’s nightlife. The rest of him was preoccupied with more immediate concerns, and he turned right into a building with a pink triangle on its sign out front.

  Stonewall, named after both the New York Inn and the riots, had a name that now evoked a film that no one went to see. It was also one of David’s main haunts in Sydney—a good place to get a drink, get groped, dance a bit, and possibly even pick up. It was an older, mixed crowd than the nightclubs, and although there was a time for dancing away the hours, now didn’t seem to be one of them. David found himself ordering a gin and tonic and kicking back on a couch, and wishing he’d brought his personal phone. Although he was aware there had been a time when people at bars talked to each other, he’d grown up with most people checking their phones first. To be fair, he could easily have gone up and inserted himself into a conversation with a “Hi, I’m new here” or a “Hi, I’m visiting and decided I should meet new people,” which normally worked, but tonight, he let the buzz of conversation swell around him and wrap him in its vibrancy and life. Something dancey in the Top 40 played overhead, and he smiled as he sank into the cushions of the couch and let the beat thrum through his bones.

  “Wow, you look relaxed.”

  David’s eyes snapped open, and he looked up into calm brown eyes framed by long brown hair that tumbled halfway down the man’s back.

  “Yeah, well… stressful week.”

  “Pool?” the man asked. “I’m hunting for games.”

  “Huh?” Only then did David notice the pool cue gripped loosely in the man’s hand.

  “Sure,” he said. “I don’t bet, though.”

  “No, no, just a friendly game.” The man flashed him a grin. It was hard to pin down his age, as beard stubble added years to any face. He was of medium height and had a stocky, muscular build, with forearms that David was a little jealous of. “I like talking to people over a game. There’s something to do besides fumble for the next topic of conversation.”

  David laughed. “I suppose lining up your shot gives you an excuse to be silent.”

  “It does. Pool also makes it more likely that guys come up and watch—and talk to you. And it also lets you approach interesting people and chat to them without being creepy.”

  “Interesting?”

  “Are you telling me you’re not?”

  “I work in banking,” David said. “By definition….”<
br />
  The bestubbled man deliberately looked David up and down, his eyes lingering on David’s chest and crotch. “I don’t know. One banker I met moonlighted as a stripper. You’ve got the body for that.”

  David laughed and walked over to the rack to pull out a pool cue for himself. “I’d need to take dancing lessons.”

  “Also good ways to meet guys.”

  “What’s your name, anyway?” David asked, taking a sip of his drink. “I can’t keep thinking of you as ‘Hunky Stubble.’”

  “I don’t know, I quite like Hunky Stubble,” the man said thoughtfully. “But I’m also known as George.”

  “George?”

  “Yes, I know, it’s hard to believe that something as hot and different-looking as this goes by the bland and boring name of George.”

  “You could just add ‘of the Jungle’ to your name, you know.”

  George laughed. “That has been suggested.”

  “I think you’d look good in a fur loincloth.”

  “How do you know I don’t already have one?”

  “Do you?”

  George looked up from where he was pulling red and yellow balls out of table pockets. “No,” he said, his eyes sparkling.

  “Damn.”

  “How about you?”

  “No, I don’t have a fur loincloth.”

  George removed the triangular guide from the table with a flourish. “I meant your name.”

  “David.”

  “Is that your actual name or one you picked for people who can’t deal with Asian names?”

  “Ha! Wei Xiang if you really want to know.”

  “But you prefer David?”

  “I think only my parents call me Wei Xiang now—and only when I’m in trouble.”

  “Okay, fair enough, David,” George said, spinning the cue ball down towards the D on the table. “For the record, though, I like Wei Xiang better.”

  “Flatterer.”