Saturday, April 15, 2006

strange flashback

It was the first time I had left Tasmania in six years when I came to Melbourne at the end of 2004, start of 2005.
The holiday was as much for the sake of getting a breath of fresh air as it was to check out Melbourne and see if I was ready to make the step of moving out of my comfort zone, which was getting a little too comfortable for my liking.
Well, I had a great time in Melbourne, partly thanks to my friend Jock. He really provided me with
good company, a lot of fun, and priceless opportunities.
Long story short, I spent a few days over the New Years period with a pretty special guy. In fact, I spent my last three nights in the company of a guy who is now my boyfriend de factoid. Nice!
This is where the story gets interesting and topical.
I had a good half hour to spend at Flinders Street Station on the way back from Leigh's to the place I was staying at on my last night in Melbourne.
I decided to walk around the CBD a little to fill in the time. Suddenly this little man in a deafeningly loud shirt bounded up to me. He asked if I'd seen some 'girls'. He assured me I'd know they were his because they looked like dancers and they were his dancers.
I said I hadn't seen them.
He hmmmed a bit and said that that was a pity as they were on their way to a party. Then he said I should go to the party with him, that it would be fun and that I'd like it and did I smoke?
I more or less said no, no and no, to which he started more or less pleading and pleading some more with assurances that it would be fun and that I'd like it.
I firmly said no and he went off in search of his girls, wishing me a good night and that was that.
Cut to Wednesday this past week, over a year later.
I'm stocking the shelves with shoes at my place of employment in Brunswick.
I hear a voice, redolent of gay and oddly reminiscent.
The voice is saying, "He's a nice one. I want to work at Slavers. I want to work in shoes."
I ignore the voice, working away as I do but then a moment later, this little man comes up to me and starts asking me if there are any dancing shoes for his dancing girls who are his dancing girls.
One thing leads to another and this guy's asking me what my name is. His is something like Cindy. He's asking me where I live and whether or not I like to drink and smoke. To which I say I don't smoke and he says, "Good." Then Cindy gives me his 'business card'.
It reads like this in handwritten biro:
Massage Therapist
Dance Choreographer
PH: 0400XXX666
But the 'business card' is a perfume card, like the ones you get from Myer perfume counters, and has Dunhill 'desire for a man' scent on it. Which stinks, by the way.
He's a professional poof! Makes me feel so amateur! I should run around with a business card:
Amateur Dick Masseur (aim to please)
Professional Shoe Salesman (in the style of Al Bundy)
Failed Academic and Social Worker
PH: 555 SHOE
I could give it to unsuspecting shelf stackers.
Cindy also gave Ben, a strapping young lad I work with, the third degree and his business card. So I feel a little less privileged.
Anyway, a strange flashback.
Disposable information for a consumerist society.


At 6:05 pm, Blogger `Koa said...

I enjoy your strangely eloquent point of view, and the side of sarcasm. It all somehow molds a strikingly pleasant view.


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