Rotton Beautiful; The Story of Lucas

I remember he was a weather beaten type with dark wild hair covering his blood shot eyes. Slung across his tanned back was an old worn quicksilver pack, the type we had in the 90’s with the thin padded bridle. His boardies hung loose around his thin frame, and on his feet he sported a well thrashed set of wafer thin plugs.

We were heading to a punk rock show when I met him with some friends. He was one of the other guy’s uncles, aged 30 odd, an intoxicated degenerate. He wrestled with his shirt, covering up as we approached the venue. We shot down a dark alley where the club entrance leered out from beneath the darkness. His rough trodden appearance didn’t really fit these freshly inked, crisp black punk rock bodies which crowded around the door. He was more a wasted surf grunge sort, and he didn’t care for much else.

The gig was heavy in a little venue, the crowd surged forward with furious momentum pushing the front row up amongst the band. I remember feeling the boot of the guitarist rest heavily against my shoulder as he did his best to hold this barrage of atavistic savages from taking up the stage. He pushed his way to the front wild and crazy, throwing his body throughout the set. We drunk Corona’s like deranged sailors and stumbled around endlessly until the concert wore to an end.

He left us at the taxi, trumping off down the busy lit street calling back something about the morning. We carried on to the Casino, where the bouncer’s laughed viciously at our attire and sent us school like children home.. Home was down west end of town, a hotel with an eighties décor which smelt of rotten carpet and creaked loudly as we splayed across the floor. I focused on his bag, sat abandoned in the corner of the room as I dozed off into a deep beer induced lumber.

I woke, to a painful headache and a swollen body. It was around the time I had first been infected with Ross River, a mild version of malaria. The body took to the alcohol like aids, leaving me weak and weary. His bag still stood solemnly in the corner of the room. It looking jagged and rough, I assumed it had seen some hard miles. Within the bag contained only two item's, A carton of cheap Indo cigarettes and 3/4 full bottle of whisky.. He was the real deal. The room spun into festivity, but it was apparent that he was still missing.

It wasn’t until some strange hour just before check out that he re-emerged from the depths of the City’s bowels looking shattered from the night before. He grunted. It wasn’t that he didn’t feel up to sharing where he had been, he just couldn’t recollect.

One of the guy’s drove us out to the coast, figuring fresh air and good scenery might help cure our dreaded hangovers. We ordered some burger’s and took position on the moist grassy banks which overlooked the activity on the beach. I remember him talking softly and politely. He enjoyed treating the girls courteously when they would listen. Conjuring up a light conversation, as they busily strolled past, tightening their clutch on any Gucci belongings. There was something humbling about it, maybe he thought they would look past the deranged mop of hair or his booze soaked breath. They never did and nor did he ever stop trying.

I liked him tremendously, his whole façade and careless nature appealing to a depth that I could not quite understand.. I just knew I wanted to know more. We chatted about the road a little. And when the time came to drive back home, he said he would head back to the City to try find a bus back north. I opted to join him to the City, abandoning my only ride south. I wanted to know more, more about his style and where he had been. My curiosity had been overwhelmed.

We headed off up the road to the train station. I remember it being a sweltering day, the Perth dry summer sun scorched our skin and boiled the beer in our bellies. We sat for some time waiting for the train until we realised it wasn’t coming. It was going to be a hefty trek in this penetrating sun I thought as we made off. Time passed, and we chatted some more. “The beach, sun and beer” he would reminisce of another recent trip. We came across an old corner store still operating amongst the quite streets. We grabbed some water and took refuge under the shady branches of a verge tree. I always loved verge trees, the old ones which spread their wings across the lane and break up the monotony of suburbia.

A grubby black “night party” bus come bustling past full of passenger’s, and we realised our only hope was to get a ride. We rushed off up the street in pursuit waving it down. The bus was tightly packed with sweating bods from the beach which made the air think and humid. It was a disgusting scene, and the alcohol toiled within our brains.. The humidity keep building, and he suddenly became quite.. He looked ill, desperately pushing through the crowd to find a window… I could see what was coming, and tried to ease the mood with some jokes. It made no difference as he rejected the foul poison through one of those small sliding contraptions. The car’s driving on the tight street swerved to dodge it projection. Vomit drizzled down the side of the bus. It was horrific. The bus came to a stop and we rushed to exit before he could let go again.

Instantaneously he tore his shirt from his back and gasped heavily, taking every breath of fresh air with gratitude. It was a drastic scene to say the least, and I was now feeling uneasy from the mixture of dense body odour with the strong hint of spew. We made for some shade to hide from all the chaos. This was the way I met Lucas, no layers of paint.

He told me about his trips afar, across the ocean to tropical paradises where the beer was cheap and the surf warm. The ladies he would continue, full of passion and fire, yet sweet and humble to touch. He worked hard on some boats up north, he told me, quietly saving his pennies for that next opportunity. To lie carelessly once again in the warmth of a soft afternoon breeze, filled with the sweat tender smell of freshly crack coconut. White pearlescent shores, gorgeous girls, turquoise beaches, he would repeat as if in a pleasurable trance while staring blankly into the distance. I was lost with his story as he re-stepped the days of his past, and future.

I went home that evening knowing there was more to life than I had ever believed in, had ever experienced. A five year cocoon had just fallen in two, broken free from its tight mould and I felt animated and alive.. It was the day I felt reborn and swollen with adventure.