Part 2 – Going (by Rune Woodman)
May 26th 2007 14:39
I guess one of my greatest failings is that I tend to be an optimist in situations that would best suit a pessimist.
Fifteen minutes after having my completely brilliant, but not worthy of repeating, idea to salvage the situation with our client my shoes were off again and we were on the run once more – across Hyde Park. Our client fired his gun into the air and yelled profanities that would give the impression that Clyde and I were bumbling, stupid idiots who had ruined his life and his business. Of course that was complete rubbish. He was the one who chose to go into the rag trade with little talent and no inspiration; he only had himself to blame. Hiding behind a tree to catch my breath I loudly conveyed the idea to him. He didn’t see the sense of it and fired the remainder of his bullets into my tree. A moment later, discovering his gun was useless, he wandered off muttering that he should have saved at least one bullet for himself.
“Psst,” said Clyde from behind a nearby rock formation. “Has he gone?”
“Yes,” I came out from my tree and gave him a hand up, “he’s gone.”
“So what do we do now?”
“Let’s go home.”
The way the night had progressed the probability of running again was high so I walked bare foot leading Clyde out of the park and up William Street back to The Cross. Our home, for the moment, was a reasonable sized room with a spectacular view of the city at The Holiday Inn.
Now you understand what I mean when I said we’re not really getting anywhere. We lived in the hotel, very glamorous, but we didn’t have a suite, the hotel was not 5 star and if we didn’t return with a small wad of cash to pay the bill for the last month and a considerable deposit for the next we would be kicked out first thing in the morning, without breakfast.
I am a 39 year old, statuesque and beautiful woman. I have two sons from my first marriage and I should be a person of means. I should be photographed for the social pages, I need to host lavish parties for charity and be invited on talk shows for my opinions of the latest society trends. I should not, at 4am on any Sunday morning, be walking up William Street asking the working girls for a light of what I swear will be the last cigarette I ever smoke. I should not be facing eviction; I should not be barefoot and blistered. I should not be sweaty and smelling.
Clyde, God love him, was not much help.
When he came here from America he had $100 000 dollars and was full of hope for the future and his new life in Australia. When bored he would go to the bank and withdraw $50 000 in cash, take it to a private room and count it then return to the teller and deposit it again.
That’s how I met him, as he carried the money back to the teller. I was waiting in the queue, ready to sweet talk some cute young boy behind the counter to give me a $500 overdraft on my savings account. It was probably going to be a difficult task as the balance of the account was currently less than $5. Looking to the front of the queue I felt my luck drain away and my charms diminish. There were only two tellers on duty – a couple of sour faced lesbians by the looks of them. I could charm anyone, but lesbians saw right through me.
Something fell from my purse and I bent to pick it up. Clyde didn’t notice me and took my place at the end of the queue.
Irritated, I waited behind him, bottling my frustrations. The queue progressed and Clyde stepped up to his lesbian and gave her his great wad of cash, the lesbian smiled at him and took a deep breath before beginning to count. I went to my lesbian, who sneered at me with instant contempt.
I didn’t get my overdraft but 15 minutes later Clyde was buying me coffee, lunch, dinner and so-on.
Within days we were in-love. Within weeks we were living together. We never really married, but Clyde insisted he call me his wife and I call him my husband. He said it was undignified to be boyfriend and girlfriend, pointless to be each other’s partners and meaningless to be de-facto.
His money only lasted months and thus began the illustrious careers the brought us to the morning, walking down William Street with hardly a cent to our names.
Fifteen minutes after having my completely brilliant, but not worthy of repeating, idea to salvage the situation with our client my shoes were off again and we were on the run once more – across Hyde Park. Our client fired his gun into the air and yelled profanities that would give the impression that Clyde and I were bumbling, stupid idiots who had ruined his life and his business. Of course that was complete rubbish. He was the one who chose to go into the rag trade with little talent and no inspiration; he only had himself to blame. Hiding behind a tree to catch my breath I loudly conveyed the idea to him. He didn’t see the sense of it and fired the remainder of his bullets into my tree. A moment later, discovering his gun was useless, he wandered off muttering that he should have saved at least one bullet for himself.
“Psst,” said Clyde from behind a nearby rock formation. “Has he gone?”
“Yes,” I came out from my tree and gave him a hand up, “he’s gone.”
“So what do we do now?”
“Let’s go home.”
The way the night had progressed the probability of running again was high so I walked bare foot leading Clyde out of the park and up William Street back to The Cross. Our home, for the moment, was a reasonable sized room with a spectacular view of the city at The Holiday Inn.
Now you understand what I mean when I said we’re not really getting anywhere. We lived in the hotel, very glamorous, but we didn’t have a suite, the hotel was not 5 star and if we didn’t return with a small wad of cash to pay the bill for the last month and a considerable deposit for the next we would be kicked out first thing in the morning, without breakfast.
I am a 39 year old, statuesque and beautiful woman. I have two sons from my first marriage and I should be a person of means. I should be photographed for the social pages, I need to host lavish parties for charity and be invited on talk shows for my opinions of the latest society trends. I should not, at 4am on any Sunday morning, be walking up William Street asking the working girls for a light of what I swear will be the last cigarette I ever smoke. I should not be facing eviction; I should not be barefoot and blistered. I should not be sweaty and smelling.
Clyde, God love him, was not much help.
When he came here from America he had $100 000 dollars and was full of hope for the future and his new life in Australia. When bored he would go to the bank and withdraw $50 000 in cash, take it to a private room and count it then return to the teller and deposit it again.
That’s how I met him, as he carried the money back to the teller. I was waiting in the queue, ready to sweet talk some cute young boy behind the counter to give me a $500 overdraft on my savings account. It was probably going to be a difficult task as the balance of the account was currently less than $5. Looking to the front of the queue I felt my luck drain away and my charms diminish. There were only two tellers on duty – a couple of sour faced lesbians by the looks of them. I could charm anyone, but lesbians saw right through me.
Something fell from my purse and I bent to pick it up. Clyde didn’t notice me and took my place at the end of the queue.
Irritated, I waited behind him, bottling my frustrations. The queue progressed and Clyde stepped up to his lesbian and gave her his great wad of cash, the lesbian smiled at him and took a deep breath before beginning to count. I went to my lesbian, who sneered at me with instant contempt.
I didn’t get my overdraft but 15 minutes later Clyde was buying me coffee, lunch, dinner and so-on.
Within days we were in-love. Within weeks we were living together. We never really married, but Clyde insisted he call me his wife and I call him my husband. He said it was undignified to be boyfriend and girlfriend, pointless to be each other’s partners and meaningless to be de-facto.
His money only lasted months and thus began the illustrious careers the brought us to the morning, walking down William Street with hardly a cent to our names.
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