Darwin, Another Day With Dylan

It was some time in the afternoon when I had just finished a solid day’s work and was back at the sanctity of the back packers. Actually to be honest, sanctity, much like solid, is nothing more than words employed to put an intricate spin on rather dull facts. Let’s just say I did go to work.

You see I’m currently sitting across the table from a gorgeous, dark, wild haired, blue eyed, tanned skinned beauty. So to be most frank, I’m laying it on thick, using words cunningly disguised like Château, romance and Italia indirectly for other much more cynical terms such as submissive and sex. She, to my surprise seems somewhat receptive and the conversation soon swings to where it was inevitably going to go.

“Oh no, I think it’s nice to take things slow”, she starts. “You Australian’s are just straight at it”.

“I agree”, I say with seeming delight. She doesn’t want me to think she’s easy. Okay of course, neither am I. I’m a Gemini gorgeous. I’ll be what ever you want me to be… for the night that is and I give her a dedicated grin.

“Juice”, some strange gaunt character starts beckoning from behind, I can just make him out in the peripheral but I refrain from turning as I’m stuck in a sensual lock of eye’s, even Casanova would find it concerning to look away at this point.

“Juice” He rudely interrupts again not sensing the importance of this display ofg affection. This time though, he gently lays his limp fingers on my shoulder and nudges me timidly. God who is this character I think to myself as I hastily rummage through my pockets for some loose change.

“Just take it”. I snap aggressively and hold out what would be three dollars twenty in silver pieces. Fucking beggars, how have they managed to learn my name and what’s more, make it into the building! Where are those useless baboons anyway who always seem to interrupt me when I’m having a good time?

“Excuse me guys, no smoking in the car park”, he, the one in a tight black uniform starts. “What are your names and which room are you staying in?” He continues then quickly scribbles Matt Juice room 37 and I give him a hostile ‘eat shit’ red stained, cock eyed stare as I walk past in the hands of a pretty girl. I ask her if she has any food but she shrugs and leads me to room 48.

I digress.

He’s wearing a small button up which drops off his thinly framed figure. His hair is short, neat and receding while his skin is fair and soft.

“Dylan”, I ask as I take a better look.
“Hey no way”, he replies. “I thought it was you, but I didn’t really know, you know, like when you see some one and you’re not quite sure”.

Damn shame, I haven’t seen this guy since back when I was on the hunt for the great Art Director. For the uninformed that’s some 3500km’s down the road in a crazy little right-wing, Jesus loving freak town. So I tell him.

“I haven’t seen you since back in Albany”.
“Yeah I know”, he starts. “Crazy little right-wing, Jesus loving town of freaks”
I nod approvingly.
“Yeah”
“So I was thinking about getting a beer, maybe check out the casino” he continues unsurprisingly. “You want to come get a drink with me?”
I quickly look back at the stunning scenery. She’s busy talking with some other people at the table and I decide it’s still a salvageable conversation.

“It’s only $8.50 a jug here” I say knowingly to Dylan and his eye’s light up brighter then a loony in a girls wash basket, without another word he beelines to the bar. Bloody journalists are all the same I think to myself and I turn to face my growing interest. She smiles a purely wicked smile of delight.

“We are going now, would you like come”, She says in her sweet accent.
“Oh really’ I confirm, rather dismayed. “Umm well, I’m having a drink here. Maybe we’ll catch up later?”
“Yeah, maybe”

She holds out her hand for a high five, but I snatch it up in my own and I feel the smooth subtle skin of her palm with the tips of my fingers.

“Wow you held my hand” I lie and grin jokingly.
“Yes this is much too fast” she say’s and smiles back cheekily.

Damn, just my luck I think to myself as I watch her walk away dressed in nothing other than a tight black bikini that folds suggestively to her beautiful shape. I turn away when she has disappeared around the corner. Dylan by this stage is already in the crowd of unruly characters weaving back with a disgustingly wild smile, two clean glasses and frothy jug of beer. He looks like a lion in a flock of flamingo’s and better yet, he holds the secret to well being.

We get talking. It’s mostly about the latest happenings and I fumble with my beer, it goes down unappreciated as my head toils with a raucous hangover. Dylan though pours himself another glass.

“It’s paradise up here”, I start.

He looks away mindfully, observing the sounds and smells. The balcony is perched above the main street, car’s bustle by as the Indi-pop music rings from loud speakers. Tradesmen in soggy singlets whistle and young girls with big heels trip clumsily on the jagged roadway to reveal hints of fancy lace. It‘s a smorgasbord of debauchery that spills out from under dark and mouldy crevices and palm tree’s sway lazily in the mid afternoon breeze.

“Yeah, looks like it” he nods.

……………..

Before long we are sitting around a small table in a dingy lit pub. The Victoria Hotel is long known to the frugal traveller, and it’s no surprise to find that a failing journalist would share this common interest, boasting $7 jugs and free food.

The music resonates loudly from speakers which tower above the stage, men hustle and tourist sitting on miniature scooters spin around the island tables, laughing, they are busy chasing the free beer that pours endlessly around these parts. The MC shout’s some god-awful slur over the PA and we watch on with bemusement.

“Bob Dylan”, begins Dylan as a classic starts to play over the crowded room.
“I just want to make money”. His long thin fingers dance through the air leaving whirling tails of thick smoke. His substituted words are purposeful and to the point.
“He was all about making money” Dylan reaffirms as if clarifying what he has just said and our Israeli friend, Hanani, chuckles and when the next chorus begins they break out in a long fried drawl…
“I just want to make money”.

Dylan’s words are severed and disconnected, his body thin, gaunt and awkward. His hands move with his words, but the words being so disengaged find him lost like he were reading ancient braile. If I were drunk I’d imagine him as a great wizard with all this mystical body talk and gibberish murmurs, but alas, he doesn’t have that magnificent telltale beard of many wise men.*

“Kerouac, now he was something”, I start and Dylan nods approvingly. Is this because he’s just agreeing out of pure admiration for Kerouac’s short self destructive life of alcoholism or because he appreciates his works, I wonder. Dylan, across the table slugs at another beverage.

“There was something about Kerouac”, Dylan decides. “In his time he was a lot freer then we are, he never had to worry about the impending doom”. Dylan’s hands hover, palm down midway above his head, his fingers are limp and point to the ground.
“No, even Kerouac had this feeling in Dharma Bums when he reaches a town and is told he will be locked up if he plans to sleep out”. I say. “I guess it was the start of what was to come”.

Hanani listens in carefully. He’s not familiar with Kerouac like Dylan and I, and rather make bogus claim’s like clammy Australian’s he just listens in to our rambling’s.

Should I explain, Hanani is a mellow man with few words. Not that he’s shy, far from it, but rather he is purposeful within his speech. Under a husky dull voice floats peaceful, patient words matching his rough and weather beaten appearrance. His clothes are torn and frayed like the unspoken memories of his past.

“100 Years of Solitude by Gabrial Garcia Marcas” Hanani begins. “Oh, it is a great book”.
“Yeah I’ve heard of that”, Dylan confirms while tilting his head slightly and pushing it further in.
“I haven’t”.
“You haven’t”, Hanani mutters disbelieving. “Oh man you have to read it.

The conversation drifts along like this for some time, listing the, who’s, who and the, who’s read what and who’s the best. It’s a list of modern literature, the Kerouac’s, Boroughs, Thompson, Marquez, Twain…
Were a fag is a fag, and mescaline trip is a lolly for the lost degenerates who seeks more than the delicious findings of a bible reading. A new vision where we can sit at the front of the bus, as Kesey put it, to be and do as we please without recourse. This is writing which reaches to the bowels of society and tries, but ultimately fails to ignore the injustice of the modern world.

“Impending doom”, Dylan’s hands are now more frantic. “Impending dooooooom”.

………………

The next afternoon the air is warm and the sun is lofting just off the horizon. I take a deep breathe and absorb the sweet smell of the salty ocean. Beside the pool I’m sitting when the beautiful girl from the day before swims up to the edge.

“You coming for a swim”, she starts.
“Yeah I think I will”, I reply nonchalantly.

I look around for Dylan to see if he wants to come for a dip, but like he came, he has gone. Bummer, I’ll miss that guy, I think as I slip off the stairs into the clement deeps of the pool.

*****************

Dylans blog - Lament the Dementted


* Which poses a question in itself, do baby wizards have glorious beards when they are born or are there no ‘baby” phase within wizardry lore? I wonder, anyway I hear it’s a prerequisite for this kind of occupation.