The Beat (9 page)

And where did he end up? The toilet block where they had left a corpse less than a week before. The scene of their crime, the site where he and five others had struck back. Defiantly he stepped inside. There was no one there. Silent dark walls, a shaft of light from the doorway and the slightly stale smell of urine. Nothing else there at all. Robbo leant against the wall and gazed into the darkness. Three years on a good behaviour bond the judge had given him. Three fucking years not allowed near this place or any other. Three years for coming here at the age of twenty to find someone to fuck with. Twenty years old and not knowing anywhere else to go. Twenty years old and having to stand up in court on trial for wanting sex with another man. Only twenty years old and your future set out for you because others didn’t like your sexual needs. From that age on, having to lie about not having any criminal convictions. A criminal conviction for wanting sex. Not having it — wanting. And now the fuckers were at it again. Eight years later the round-up of the beats was on again. Eight years later and more twenty-year-olds would stand up in court and become outcasts for being found in the bogs. Some like him would plead not guilty only to have their faith injustice quashed. Others, wiser, would quietly plead guilty, pay the fine, carry the stigma and bottle up the rage. One man in every ten gay. One man in every ten filled with anger, not at their sexuality but at what society forced them to do with it. And only one corpse in retaliation. So far. Robbo didn’t understand. He wasn’t bright, he knew that, but he didn’t understand how society could do that to a twenty-year-old. Make him stand up in court guilty until he could prove himself innocent. And how could anyone prove themselves innocent of the intention, the idea, the thought? He wasn’t bright, but he was bright enough to know society was screwed up; and each time he broke its taboos, each time he fucked in a toilet block, or on an oval, or in a car park outside in the open — every time he took his revenge. He retaliated every time he jerked off or sucked a cock. He raped the society that had violated his belief in it. The belief of a kid who just thought he might meet someone to get off with. While he had stood there a figure had come in. He had looked around, then stood at the urinal. As his eyes had become accustomed to the dark, he could see Robbo well. He glanced over but gained no response. A second figure arrived and took up a stance against the opposite wall. He slouched casually and regarded his colleagues. Then a third arrived and took up a stance at the other end of the urinal. Robbo looked at all three. They were such ordinary men. Just ordinary men like him. Shit, he thought for a moment he was going to cry just looking at the poor bastards. Then something happened. Two figures at the urinal moved together. The man was no longer leaning on the wall opposite. All three were suddenly together in a tight hard circle, exploring and testing each other for sexual satisfaction. One man was being undressed. Someone was crouching over another’s penis. A hand waved to Robbo to join them. Then there were four men together in the toilet. A montage of hands, mouths, penises. Groping, stroking, sucking, penetrating. Sex was on, the old bog was jumping and Robbo was again making his stand.

In the bedroom Leigh sat before the mirror. He didn’t know how long he had been sitting there. It could have been a few hours or even a few days. The absorption held. The obsession was getting worse. The blinds were drawn and the lamp on the dressing- table threw a funereal light on the pale, waxen face. He gazed intensely at the image reflected there. He heard the door bang. He didn’t move. His eyes remained on the glass. It would only be Prissie returning from her activities. It was nothing to take him away from the dark pupils that stared from the mirror arresting his own. The mirror held his whole world within its bevelled edges. He only lived now before its reflected presence. It was his reality now and nothing would tear him from it, for he had succumbed fully to the escape he had found there. He could share it with no one. Almost inaudibly he started to recite to the reflection. He spoke slowly, deliberately. It was the confidence of lovers. He smiled contentedly and the image smiled back. Together they lapsed into silence and pondered each other. Prissie glanced in the mirror in the hallway as she was passing. She was looking pretty tatty these days. Her jaw was still a bit wonky from the week before and the bruised swelling around her left eye remained visible. Perhaps if she hadn’t tried to cover it up with make-up at the time, it would have healed sooner and disappeared by now. At least the net disguised it. No one had said anything but she knew it was there. That was what mattered: she knew.

“Prissie my girl, you’re a mess.” She addressed the mirror quite casually. It was always Prissie these days. No one much knew her old name. As long as she chose to remember it had always been Prissie. Someone had said it once years back and it had stuck. It suited. She could never decide if it was short for Priscilla, or just descriptive of her manner. By now Prissie was known, an institution. The name had become a person, be it a somewhat tatty one today. It had been a tiring morning. She had just got back from the dole office. It was her fortnightly visit. Prissie was “unemployable”. She had seen her file, it said so. They gave her few hard times at the office. She had been going there so long the people were quite friendly by now. They called her Prissie too. It wasn’t the people that wore her out, it was the public transport. No one ever spoke to her, only about her. It was like wearing a hearing-aid; people assumed she was both deaf and stupid on principle. At least today she had had Leigh’s Walkman to block out the world. It alone had made the tram ride possible. On contemplation she decided it probably did look like a hearing-aid peeping out from under the hat. People had thought her disabled. In a way she was. On the way home she had done the “opportunity” shops. This too was part of the tradition by now. The trouble was there were too many people with money doing them these days. Prissie hadn’t bought anything new for years, her budget didn’t run to it. Her clothes were culled from those finally rejected by others or handed down by better-off friends. Buying goodwill clothes was often beyond her means now. She always called them “off the peg” clothes. It was just a saying she had affected over the years. Friends all understood what she meant. Leigh called them “pre-worn”. He preferred it to the phrase “pre-loved”, because it took into account the sweat rings already under the armholes. But stains and sweat rings didn’t worry Prissie. As she always said, “Stains can come and go, but once a cheap chain-store dress, always a cheap chain-store dress.” It was style that mattered more than stains. She could spot a designer label at one hundred yards and claw her way the width of a church hall in seconds to snatch it up from amid the jumble. Prissie mused to herself What borax couldn’t remove, rhinestones could cover, so nothing “good” was ever too old to be salvaged. Ask Prissie her favourite designer and she’d say “Schiaparelli”. Ask her favourite shop and she’d say, “St Vincents.” The Salvos were so expensive and the Baptists had no flair. From St Vincents today she had acquired a crepe de chine with shoulder-pads and also a hat with a wing structure of partridge feathers. The woman there had put the feathers aside especially. She hadn’t charged Prissie nearly enough, but Prissie was one of her own special ones in need, on the dole but always so nice. Prissie took off her hat and coat and tried not to see her disfigured face in the mirror. She took the newly acquired dress to the kitchen and prepared to go over it carefully in the stronger light. It was spread out gently on the kitchen table and each inch perused. Once satisfied she knew the garment thoroughly, she rose and went to the bedroom for disprin. Leigh was seated at the dressing-table staring into the glass. His hair was gelled out into a bush of fire and his eyes brooded between thick dark lines. He hadn’t stirred on her arrival. He didn’t speak as she went through the drawers next to him. In the darkened room his body shone as if made of ivory.

“Where the fuck are my disprin?” Prissie asked as she banged through the drawer. Leigh opened his hand and they were there. He said nothing.

“Thank you,” she said pointedly. She took the box and returned to the kitchen. Placing them in an ashtray, she ground the pills to a powder.

“You haven’t any more have you?” she called through. Leigh didn’t answer. She went to the door and stopped.

“Any more, love?” Leigh turned and tinally spoke.

“Has she come?” he asked.

“No love, not yet.” Prissie went into the room and looked at the boy. His skin shimmered, not with the paleness of make-up as she had first thought, but with the excess oil his pores exuded. He had shaken slightly as he spoke, then returned his concentration to the mirror.

“She’ll come soon. Come out and help me.” He rose distractedly and moved towards her. She put her arm around him and led him to the kitchen. He sat on an upright chair and gazed at his distorted reflection on the convex surface of the kettle. Prissie continued with her work. She mixed borax with the ground pills and started to paste it onto the armpits of the new dress, working carefully and methodically. For the duration of the chore neither spoke. The paste was then left while she examined the hem and seams carefully, catching up loose ends with a needle and thread as needed. When it met with satisfac-tion, the dress was finally hand-washed at the sink and placed on a wooden hanger to dry. Having finished, Prissie held the dress up to inspect her work.

“Stunning, don’t you think?” It dripped onto the spotted floor. Leigh gazed at the kettle.

“I’m scared to hang it outside,” Prissie confessed. She couldn’t put anything on the line these days. She had a running battle with the neighbours. It had all started because she moved their washing along one day to make room for her own. Pat had been furious and had just unpegged all Prissie’s to let them fall into the dirt. Finding her precious garments in the filth, Prissie had become enraged and banged on Pat’s door to confront the bitch. Pat smirked, sympathized, but denied any knowledge. Prissie had left smouldering but unable to prove anything. It had taken one week for her to retaliate. She waited until the line was full of Pat’s lousy wash, then sprayed the lot with dirty water from her upstairs window. She would have used indian ink if she’d had any. It had been rather fun, she and Leigh playing sniper with water-pistols. She had proved to be a pretty good shot. It was like military training. Next it had been Pat at the door and Prissie saying, “Oh dear, it must have been the same cretin that dropped mine in the dirt. You can’t trust anyone.” Round one to Prissie, but the clothes line was now tempting providence.

“You alright?” she asked. He gazed ahead.

“Hey. She will come. It’s alright.” His eyes locked hers, then his face crumpled.

“I haven’t any money,” he mouthed helplessly. Prissie remained quiet. She couldn’t help Leigh with money and they both knew it. Anything else but not money. Prissie had only her dole cheque and Leigh’s occasional rent money. Leigh’s parents gave him the odd handout but that was it for both of them. They were always broke, always on the poverty line. Prissie knew every handout available in the entire inner city area and used them. When things got desperate for him, Leigh would disappear at night and return hours later with a handful of crumpled notes and a dead expression on his face. Sometimes he returned still broke but smashed out of his mind. It might take days to get him back to normal. Prissie didn’t ask how he got that way but she had a good idea. It was none of her business where the money or drugs came from. Likewise Leigh had not asked about her bruised face and jaw. Some old ladies got knocked around all the time and some got paid for it. It was Prissie’s concern, not his. Silently he hoped it had paid, to make it worthwhile.

“You arranged for her to come?” Prissie asked. He nodded.

“And you’ve got no money?” she continued. Again he nodded affirmation.

“Shit kid, I’m not going to be here.” And Prissie meant it. If Leigh couldn’t pay up, Prissie wasn’t going to stay around to be part of it.

“Sorry, but I’m going out.” He gazed blankly ahead accepting whatever was to come. Prissie went through to the bedroom and looked at her bruised face. The swelling still showed, giving her eye a Mongolian look. If only it would go down by the weekend. She didn’t want all those other gossiping queens knowing. They were all only friends until she turned her back. Leigh came through to the bedroom and quietly resumed his seat at the dressing-table mirror. He looked intensively into the glass, playing his fingers through his thick oily hair distractedly. His absorption was instant. Prissie was perturbed. She was going to have to go out again. That meant people, transport, stares. She couldn’t cope. Once that day was enough. She gave a sigh. This time it was going to be straight; she didn’t have the strength to face the cat calls, the innuendoes, the open abuse. Cursing vocally, she stripped off her clothes and pushed her way to the mirror. She peered at the impasto of make-up on her face.

“It will come off in the shower.” She spoke more to herself than to Leigh. He wasn’t listening anyway. Sometimes she wondered why she let the boy stay with her. Under the shower she watched her long, painted nails play up and down her male loins. She was going to go out straight. She felt like a traitor tricked into betrayal by fatigue. Still, she might even find herself a man. That was the central problem in her life. Where could she find a man who liked his men to look like women? Gay men had such straight tastes. Their men must be men. Where did that leave her? Hovering as always in the sexual no-man’s-land she had occupied since birth. It had made her so old before her time. A fag-hag to other people’s affairs while she was in reality still young herself. She wasn’t a woman. She wasn’t even a woman inside a man’s body. She was just a very effeminate man. Prissie had come to terms with this — why couldn’t the rest of the world? She didn’t want her body mutilated surgically to become some kind of gross product of science. She wanted to be herself, a man who liked the beautiful things only woman could have. She wanted sequins and feathers and fantasy and style. And also a male lover. It was people who made it so complicated for her. The government labelled her as “unemployable” and filed her away forever to live below the poverty line. Virtually pensioned off by the time she was twenty-one. Others on the dole were hassled to find work: not once did they come up with a single suggestion of work for her. Yet Prissie was bright, intelligent, in good health and ready to work. She hadn’t wanted life in poverty. It had been dished out to her as a cruel by-product of being “too effeminate” to be accepted into the work force. They had even asked her at the Commonwealth Employment Service if she had wanted a sex-change. Perhaps they were offering to pay for it. Prissie had accepted her sexuality, her desire for style outside that conceived by others, but she couldn’t see why she must accept poverty or surgical mutilation. It seemed too high a price to demand. And the gay men, they oppressed her too. More macho than macho many were these days. Her own kind, who should have tried to understand her, harried and mocked her into assuming another identity not her own amongst them. They assaulted her both verbally and physically until she withdrew and conformed to their image of masculinity in an effort to find a lover. Now she must dress to their tastes and drop her effeminism for the gay world just as she must for the straights. Why couldn’t people accept a whole spectrum of sexuality? What soured her most was that someone somewhere had labelled her as “unfuckable” too. Prissie could enjoy sex just as she could enjoy working, but both were barred from her. It was so fucking unfair. She had a prick just like the others. The only definition of masculinity they could understand was to flaunt that. Prick power. But what of the person inside crying out to be known? What about the renowned Prissie? Did she have to be denied sex? She sat on the toilet and removed the last of the nail polish with squares of toilet paper dabbed in remover. Nothing effeminate for today. She just wanted to be left alone for a few anonymous hours in the street. The preparation was the same as she had done a week ago, and look where that had led — a swollen face and back where she started. But Prissie was a fighter and she tried once more. Now all over again she sat in the toilet removing the tell-tale signs from her nails. She thought of years back, locked in the bathroom with her aunt beating on the door to get in.

“If you’re in there Christopher, you open the door this minute.” Prissie frantically washing the lipstick and talcum powder from her face. Her uncle sitting by quietly, quite sure his nephew was locked in the bathroom to mastur-bate. An ugly collage of scenes culled from the years that had led her here. And for what? To be “unemployable” Prissie? She rolled the deodorant under her arms, then became aware of the perfume. To make amends she sluiced herself with Leigh’s male-oriented aftershave. How she hated it. Brut was an apt description. She felt violated by its smell of brilliantine. She dragged the comb through her wet hair, parting it in a straight line on the left-hand side, then stood back to admire her work. She looked like Hitler without the moustache. She dragged her hand through it to soften the effect. The make-up around her eyes was too ingrained to be moved by soap and water alone, but the residue was so slight it would pass. Besides, Prissie wouldn’t recognise herself absolutely free of make-up. She would feel naked. In the bedroom she rummaged through the cupboard and emerged with strangely patched jeans and an old blue check shirt in winceyette. From Leigh’s drawer she borrowed a pair of jockettes. She put them on. They felt awkward. Shrugging, she continued to dress. The jeans were a little too snug. The shirt she wore with the collar turned up. It looked wrong but she didn’t know why. It looked a little as if she was auditioning for principal boy in Peter Pan. After much effort she found matching socks — bright blue — a pair of high-heeled cowboy boots and a duffle coat. She dithered over the coat, then decided it wasn’t cold enough to warrant it. Standing back and looking in the mirror, it didn’t look too bad.