Tom Houghton

by Todd Alexander

  • • •

  I awoke the next morning unable to breathe through my nose and with a headache that went beyond mere hangover. I tried to pick my nose but it shot a jolt of incredible pain through my head, so I shuffled to the bathroom and looked at my reflection. Black eye, caked blood, eyes pools of darkness, jittering hands. I took four prescription painkillers I’d stolen from Lana, placed a Berocca on my tongue and gingerly made my way back to bed, reaching for my phone on the way. Bending delivered such agony.

  Thirteen placed calls to Damon. Five sent text messages. A thirty-minute conversation with a blocked number.

  Champagne had been consumed in the theatre. I’d drunk quickly to get over my dislike of being the forced centre of attention and my trepidation at speaking with Damon. Accessories to the fact had begun to fall off after an hour or two, then someone suggested a move to the pub on the corner, but by then I was already tipsy. Damon did not come to the pub, so I made my decision to drown my proverbial sorrows. Is there a term more absolute than drown? Tequila shots, the old lick, sip, suck trick.

  Conversations were had about Victor’s Europe trip – very promising, he said. In walked the theatre group who’d seen the play and adoration and superlatives flowed even more freely than the booze. A silly nineteen-year-old said all he could think about was what it would be like to fuck ‘Martha’, and a trip to the toilet full of the promise of fondles followed but alas it delivered only a few snorts of his cheap and bitter speed.

  Move into second gear. I put my credit card behind the bar, started my constant avowals of them all being the best friends in the whole world, then made the switch to beer then rosé then back to champagne (French) then a creamy cocktail . . .

  Damon rejoined the group. He was now living with Alyce, our hair and make-up girl. My paranoia that they were closer than friends set in and led to an outside chat with Victor, plus requisite tears. All of these appeared in my mind like vignettes in a really bad play. I stupidly smoked a few cigarettes and this led to even further dizziness. Petulant face-pulling. Rejection. Dry-humping the nineteen-year-old – some laughs, some horror. Crowd now dwindling.

  Third gear – flavoured-vodka shots and a line of someone’s cocaine. Scraping residue together from the cistern lid to form another crude line. More blurriness. Fourth gear. Rejection (again). Storming out. New bar, alone, make friends. Next bar. Refused entry, smart-arse abuse. Single direct punch to the nose. Blood, too much of it. Deep voices calling out, ‘Faggot.’ Another punch to the face. Crying, shouts of legal action. Sit with street people and drink from their beer bottle. Awake.

  I sent a text to Victor. Did I murder anyone?

  Three agonising minutes before he responded. Your own dignity.

  Oh dear god. Does everyone hate me?

  No sweetie, you were in fine form, we all love you, nice work on the 19YO, cradle-snatching bitch whore.

  And Damon?

  And his lack of response told me what I already knew.

  I could not contemplate going on stage for the matinee and thought of all possible ways I could get out of it. How hard was it to break a bone? Would the black eye be sufficient? It was likely Victor would not want it covered with make-up, so that was not going to work. Could I step in front of a slow-moving car? I could pretend Lana had had another of her turns, surely they’d excuse me then. No one would care about one matinee missed, give the understudies (Damon!) a chance. I was due at the theatre at eleven, my phone told me it was seven. Twice between the sheets, that’s what Lana always said. If I could just will myself to fall back asleep again I would feel better upon a second waking. But I was too alert for that to work. I pulled on my swimming trunks, grabbed a towel and went downstairs (wincing at every step) and hailed a taxi to take me to Redleaf. The water was cold and rejuvenating, the bevy of hot bodies surrounding me sent me to the toilets for relief. Head aching less, definitely so, I forced down a banana Paddle Pop and walked my way back to the bedsit. I stripped, climbed into bed and set my alarm for ten fifteen. I couldn’t let Victor down.

  • • •

  It was undoubtedly the worst performance of my career. The company treatment of its star was split fifty-fifty – half avoiding all but the most necessary contact, the others chuckling and nodding in that knowing little way. I kept missing my marks, forcing the lighting guy to work double time to anticipate where next I would be. At interval I made myself vomit, sent out for a sausage roll and by the second act was able to put in more than the barest effort. No sign of Damon or Victor, but by some dumb luck on this particular Sunday there was no evening performance due to a television event that had Australians locked inside safely by six. No one asked how I was feeling; there were no bravos at the end of the day.

  Turner said: ‘I lowered the wattage for you, but fuck you, I wanted to make you fry after last night. You owe me one.’ I had no idea what he was talking about but thought it highly likely that at some point I’d made a move on him, despite his straightness.

  On my walk home I pulled out my mobile phone like it was a hand grenade and dared hit Damon’s name. It went through to voicemail, one of those infuriating conversions to text that force you to speak like you’re teaching English to a fresh refugee.

  I am so sorry. I am a dickhead. I hope we are still friends. Call me.

  I was still seeing the world through someone else’s eyes. Hair of the dog, that’s what else Lana always says, so I grabbed a six-pack from the bottle shop and a burger from Hungry Jack’s.

  ‘Are you feeling better?’ the girl behind the counter asked and I assumed she had me confused with someone else, or perhaps was referring to my black eye but it wasn’t until I got home and threw the burger packaging into my bin that I put two and two together – I had stopped in for a burger on the way home last night too. Fuck knows what state I was in or what I said to her.

  Lexi had left a message on my phone also asking if I was feeling better, telling me that she was still out and I should call her mobile the second I got in, don’t worry about the time.

  ‘Have you recovered?’ she asked by way of answering.

  ‘I’m on the way. I take it that thirty-minute call was with you last night?’

  ‘Oh Dad, you don’t remember anything? Nothing at all?’

  ‘I’m afraid my fortieth was a rather large affair, not at all what I had planned.’

  ‘Well, I could obviously tell you were McStonkered but I didn’t think you’d entered the vortex.’

  ‘Where are you?’ I tried to veer away from me as the major topic.

  ‘At a mate’s place. We’re doing a movie marathon, and have promised each other we will not go to sleep all night. Isn’t that right, Rudder?’ she said to somebody else. Male voice in the background. ‘Not long to go now.’

  ‘You didn’t tell me you were going to Egypt . . .’

  ‘Oh ye gods, not this again. We discussed this last night, Thomas.’

  ‘Indulge me then,’ I said. ‘What did you say?’

  ‘I said, “Well, we’re not exactly best friends, Father,” and then you started crying like a Greek widow.’

  ‘I did not.’

  ‘Ah, hello? Vortex? Why the fuck would I make something like that up?’

  ‘In what other ways did I offend you?’

  ‘Don’t be precious, Thomas. You were hilarious for ninety-nine per cent of our little chat, when you weren’t whimpering about D-man, that is . . .’

  ‘I don’t whimper!’ Or as Martha would have proclaimed: I don’t bray!

  ‘Pathetic you were, old man. I’ve heard nothing like it ever before, nor hope I ever hear it again. So anyways, I just wanted to make sure you’re still alive.’

  ‘Just . . .’

  ‘Coz I would have hated to be the last person you spoke to before you topped yourself. You know, all the police calls, forcing me to fly home, identify the body, et cetera.’

  ‘Oh, you are all heart, you are, thank you, Lexi.’

  ‘Dad . . .
you went on one of your Lou rants last night . . .’

  ‘Oh . . .’

  ‘They’re getting pretty tiresome, I have to say.’

  ‘Hmm . . .’

  ‘Don’t you think it’s ironic that you’re angry at her for overdosing in front of me and leaving me when you also left me?’

  She had a point, and of course I had thought about this before. ‘I thought leaving you was the best possible thing for you, Lexi. I wasn’t much of a dad, wasn’t cut out for that kind of thing.’

  ‘You may not have chosen to have a child, I’ll grant that, but you did choose to fuck my mother even though you were gay, and you did it without wearing a condom, presumably, so don’t you think you’d better harden the fuck up and at least take ownership? You know, deal with the consequences of your actions?’

  ‘Consequences?’ I reached for another beer.

  ‘Jesus! Me, Dad,’ she delivered deadpan. ‘I’m referring to me.’

  ‘Look, it’s more complicated than you think. I didn’t exactly choose to be with your mother. With Lou, our river ran very deep indeed and I never meant for you to be swayed by my feelings towards her . . .’

  Lexi let out a strange little snort. ‘You’re giving yourself way too much credit. It’s not my opinion of my mother that changes when you’re on one of your raves, it’s only my opinion of you.’

  ‘Ouch.’

  ‘So yeah, anyways, my mates are waiting for me. You’ve interrupted Nurse Ratched’s standoff with McMurphy and now you’re as unpopular with my friends as you are with the D-man.’

  ‘I went into detail about that too?’

  ‘All the gory ones, you know – uncut cock and the like. I think you thought you were talking to one of your fag-hag girlfriends.’

  ‘I’m sorry, baby, truly I am.’ There was a pause in the conversation. She wanted to go, she wanted me to go. ‘How’s work?’

  ‘Thomas! I have to run, call me later, dude.’

  ‘Yeah, sorry. Of course. Goodnight.’

  ‘Ciao, bella.’

  ‘Goodbye, Mister Fulbright!’ I heard someone I could only assume was this Rudder character say before she hung up. The boy wrongly assumed that Lexi and I shared the same surname, so Lexi clearly hadn’t explained that I was never married to Lou-the-fucking-drug-pig, worst mother in the world. How I wished Lexi would change her name to mine and have nothing to do with the woman ever again. All Lexi was ever going to get from her was let-down after let-down. I ought to call the bitch and have it out with her once and for all but whose side would Lexi be on, and where would that leave me?

  My phone rang again and I assumed it would be Lexi, but Damon’s name and picture flashed on my screen.

  We agreed to meet for coffee, which I hoped was code for beer then sex. I took my time choosing a long-sleeved shirt that flattered me better than anything else in my wardrobe and spent some time styling my hair with product. Two beers were all it took to have me feeling close to human again and I brushed my teeth three times so he’d be unable to detect it on my breath.

  But coffee did mean coffee. I couldn’t apologise specifically for my behaviour the previous evening because I knew none of the specifics. I did say I was sorry for raising the issue of rent, and for doing so in such a crude manner, and I admitted that I missed having him around, though stopped short of asking him to come back.

  Damon was frigid and vague, letting me continue with my soliloquy and barely bothering to interject anything of his own. He said he’d agreed to meet because he didn’t want me feeling bad or, generously, leave any bad blood between us, we had to work together after all. Twenty-four hours earlier he’d wanted to make love and now he acted as though I was vermin.

  ‘You know, you’ve really got no right to take the moral high ground,’ I offered, ‘I’ve been very good to you, Damon, when no one else was prepared to take you in.’

  ‘Take me in? What, did you find me in a fucking orphanage or something?’

  ‘Well, you were pretty desperate,’ I countered, trying hard, albeit unsuccessfully, not to sound dismissive.

  ‘How the tables have turned.’ He looked about the café as though he was cruising for rough trade. He was cruising for rough trade.

  ‘Is that how you see me now, then?’

  ‘Now?’ He stared straight through me so the remark could cut more deeply.

  I accused him of childishness, using me, not really being gay, selfishness and just about every other abusive sobriquet I could throw at him.

  ‘You’re beginning to sound like a fucking woman. A bitter old spinster. I think you’re delusional about what we . . . had.’ He downed the remainder of his coffee, then withdrew a five-dollar note from his wallet and chucked it down on the table. ‘Actually . . .’ he said, and took the money back. ‘Treat me like a fucking hooker, you might as well pay for that too.’

  He stormed out of the café with a multitude of eyes following him. I wasn’t sure whether the performance was for their benefit or mine and considered not following him but chose not to have another moment I would regret inactivity. I slapped a twenty-dollar bill on the table, grabbed my wallet and keys and chased after him. He was already at the fountain by the time I caught sight of his familiar gait.

  I reached him out of breath. ‘Damon?’

  ‘Fuck off!’

  ‘Damon!’ I tugged hard on his shoulder, forcing him to stop walking. He turned to look me in the eye.

  ‘I know I’ve behaved poorly, I accept that. I know there are things that I say and do that don’t seem to make any sense. I’ve been let down so many times in my life I just . . . I’m scared. But I don’t want you to leave. All right? Just stay in my flat, under whatever pretext, but on your own terms.’

  ‘Holy fuck, you just don’t know when to let go. You’re a pathetic nobody, you do realise that? You think people gravitate towards you at drinks because you’re full of fabulousness or something. Well, let me tell you something, mister, the only thing you’re full of is pity. Everyone pities you, Tom. Take your credit card from behind the bar, take away the stupid, unpredictable behaviour that people watch like a fucking train wreck and what you’re left with is a lonely, fat, pathetic, old fool. And I don’t want to be in the presence of that.’

  He walked away, leaving me with my mouth agape. Being Kings Cross, naturally a small audience of voyeurs had witnessed the encounter. And here I was again in the playground with the other kids stifling their laughter as Tom took another verbal beating, a smashing of confidence, only this time the barrage came from someone I’d been intimate with, someone who knew me better than anyone ever could have in primary school, than any of the bastards who beat me down in New Zealand. Damon’s words had landed heavier than any punch. He was right, motherfucker. And I was left standing there like a buffoon, stripped naked in public and pretending I wore the most glamorous gown of golden thread. I smiled vaguely in the direction of the people I knew were staring, lifted my chin a couple of centimetres and walked home to the four beers that awaited me in the fridge.

  Damon spoke at me for the remainder of the run, and conspired in darkened corners with his new roommate Alyce the fucking make-up girl with that incensing cackle of hers orchestrated to impart maximum paranoia. She was an extraneous apostrophe on a roadside stall sign for bananas. They held hands, constantly whispering, dropping their gazes and volume whenever I walked by. I asked Victor to get rid of Damon, but the run was coming to a close and he joked that I was never able to pull off star-like behaviour. Made your bed was all he texted me.

  Revenge came in the form of me taking home Max/Honey so obtrusively that it swept through the company. We didn’t quite get around to sex, my dick too drunk to stand up (much like my good self) and his breath so fetid with day-old garlic that I could barely stand to speak with him let alone kiss. The following morning was swept under an awkward agreement to forget such a folly and he went back home to his boyfriend on the assumption that all gay relationships withstand infidelity,
particularly when it’s sparked by excess. That turn of events certainly made the last five performances intriguing, as I began reading too deeply into Max’s deliveries and imagined a scenario where we’d been more successful in the bedroom and how long it would be until he too came to his senses.

  But the schoolyard was infuriatingly thrust upon me again. Max avoided me like I had some communicable disease. He stopped calling me Tommy as he’d affectionately begun to do throughout the run and now insisted on calling me Martha. Oh Martha darling . . . Good performance tonight, Martha . . . Alyce stopped chatting to me as she applied my make-up and was consistently so heavy-handed that I looked like a curious mix between Bette Davis in Baby Jane and pre-surgery Cher and I’d have to spend ten frantic minutes removing her creation to hastily apply my own before the final call. I never once complained, just sat there reading a magazine as she sabotaged me, yawning as she did her job. Damon turned in the opposite direction whenever he saw me coming his way, even if this meant his only escape was via a fire exit, frequently setting off the alarm, which made Jim the security guard lose his shit. One performance I even caught sight of Damon and Alyce acting out my part while I was on stage, grossly over-expressing every movement to take the piss out of me, ensuring they caught my attention from the wings.

  Usually the second screw-top was all the encouragement I required to text Damon but I also got in the habit of deleting what I’d sent and reading then deleting his replies so each day I was never quite certain what had been said or responded to. All that sniggering and whispering got to me in the end and the evening of our penultimate performance, I spat in Alyce’s face as I walked past to take my final bow, just to give her something to really sink her fangs into. Finally I’d fought back in a way that I would never have done as a kid. Retaliation felt sweet.