It’s a lion,
Kings Cross. At a distance impressive, even beautiful, a mystery you’ve heard about
all your life; it’s more than a little frightening. Up close and in daylight
it’s mangy, scarred by a thousand fights; and it stinks.
It’s not proud this king of beasts, but happy just to lay
there. Why would it hunt? You bring it all it needs. A few years’ familiarity fosters
complacency. You may hear the occasional snarl, but always it lets you come and
go. It lets you show-off to your friends, scratching its belly and sticking
your head in its mouth. You start to believe that you rule the cage.
A big-cat routine; a love affair; a drug deal; the first time
you know it’s any different from all the others is after it’s already gone
wrong. It needs no provocation, only the Moment. You have time to remember,
while its teeth tighten on your throat and the steaming breath chokes your own,
the thing the lion never forgets: this is what it does, and is.
In junkies and fuck-ups what psychologists call the locus of control tends toward the
external: it’s somebody else’s fault you’re here, scanning the winter street in
spent, shambolic Kings Cross pre-dawn. If only that idiot hadn’t got in your
way while you barrelled like a mad thing to the station, or insisted on defending
himself when you abused him; and why can’t Cityrail run a train system
competently so you can get to your methadone clinic on time? And anyway, why do
dealers tell you they’re twenty-four-seven then refuse to answer their phones?
So, here you are in
the cold. An addict inhabits the tension between the urgency of withdrawal and
the patient wait for the dealer. There’s been nobody around all night, and now
the clubs are closing. Everyone’s got Ice, but not even you’re that crazy. The
working girls always know, but it’s been a quiet shift so, best not to ask.
Dammit, dealers have no industry these days. Your mind tries to calm you, but
your muscles are attempting to peel themselves from bones that feel as though you’re
being racked. If nothing happens soon it’ll be another long wait for your
methadone. But hold on: that hooker’s calling you over.
“Wanna come upstairs sweetie, have some fun?”
“It’s not sex or rock n’ roll I’m looking for, love.” The
upshot: she can’t get small amounts, but was looking for someone to throw in
with if you want to split a half-weight. Us junkies needs to stick together.
So. Waiting. Cold. You’re certain you remember a dealer lived
down this alley, but that’s not the back door to an apartment-block she and your
money just walked through; it’s a sex-shop that fronts the main street.
Dilemma: you can charge in after her and try retrieving the cash, or let the long
shot ride. It’s not unheard of for smack to be available under the counter in a
dirty bookstore; the guys who own the sex shops own the strip-clubs own the
hookers employ the dealers and run the drugs. But barring physical violence or
the threat, she’s likely to hold on to that dough; and even if that was your
inclination, the guys who own the hookers tend to frown on them being beaten by
any but themselves. Besides, if there really is someone selling inside you’ll
screw the whole deal by busting in; not only that, you risk getting the hooker
black-balled. Burning somebody’s connection is something you just don’t do,
like overdosing in someone else’s bathroom. Or ripping-off another sick junkie.
You haven’t really thought through your intentions as you
cross the main street, but a familiar face – at last – steps in and stops you reaching
your persecutor. “She’s ripped you honey, she does it to everyone. Whattayou
need, I’ll get it for you.”
There’s no such thing, it goes without saying, as the whore with
a heart of gold. A couple of years in the job will kill or harden the sweetest
girl. A few would be deceitful, callous monsters in any trade. You can’t
begrudge this second girl the fifty she’s charging to score for you. Nothing
for nothing; everything has its price. Hard. Brutal. Honest.
Mixing up the shot, standing against a concrete fence in an
unlit back-street park overlooking the Illawarra Line, it’s time to play the
odds again. “...Hell for that little slut?” the honest girl, Sam, had broken
in, trying to finish your sentence; “no, only what I said: I wonder how I’m
going to make this week. I couldn’t afford what she took, let alone what I’m
giving you.” The gamble this time is the solution to that problem. Since
President Bush in his wisdom tilted at Afghanistan and unseated the Taliban,
Sydney’s had an inexhaustible supply of strong beige heroin. Sam couldn’t score
small deals either, so you’re about to whack-up nearly half a gram of the good
stuff, alone in a park at five in the morning.
Like a bad first marriage, no matter the damage done you
never really fall out of love with the needle. That cold spike sliding into
your tied-off arm ignites adrenaline-fuelled fire in the loins; you’re high
before the drug hits. Also like a bad first marriage, again it lets you down.
You’ve mainlined enough to euthanize a bear, but somehow you’re still standing.
Played and lost. Have to find the rent after all.
The ‘Cross has shifted into that half-life between the clubs
closing and the start of a regular morning. A few of the die-hard homeless argue
drunkenly up and down the strip. You’ll find yourself a coffee and wait for the
day to start running. Your thoughts stumble a moment over the girl who ripped
you off, but that problem will figure itself out; best to quietly, anonymously
forgive. You’ve lived here long enough, should’ve known, and know something
else as well: your revenge is to know where she’s headed. It needs no effort
from you. You’ve seen it.
It’s little wonder so many artists, poets and writers have
made homes here over the decades. For all its ugliness, Kings Cross is a world
entire; empathy is a handicap, violence, deceit and cunning are rewarded;
honesty is a virtue, but only in its coldest expression; it’s a microcosm, a
concentrated essence of the world beyond. Kings Cross is Poetry.
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