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The Sea

I left my soul there,

Down by the sea

I lost control here

Living free

A cool breeze flows but mind the wasp

Some get stung it's worth the cost

I'd love to stay

The city calls me home

More hassles fuss and lies on the phone

- Morcheeba

Next Day’s End

It was still light out surprisingly as the days fall away too quickly, by 5pm it is like midnight out. I happened upon Lorraine. I think I could be her some days, sitting next to her begging on a street corner so we could buy a packet of cigarettes together and split the ends or hitch up my skirt as she does to buy myself something nice. I think of what my father would say and my mother’s gaze. Lorraine was anxious today she kept telling me she had to go change her coins into something more manageable. I imagine it is less embarrassing at the tobacconist or grocer to arrive splaying dirty coins on to the countertop.

That afternoon was different a gentleman was passing and recognised old Lorraine. He came and sat in between us on the bench. Purposefully he didn't say his name and he wasn't letting me in on it either. He was well dressed - a navy blue blazer-white shirt and leather boating shoes and a ginger moustache. I was confused by his thick heavy pants. I was staring at them and he replied that he “slept outside these days.”  It was autumn so he came corrected adding that he had made in the passing days, possibly weeks, months or even years “the decision to live in his clothes.” I liked him, most would call him a drongo but I prefer his sort to the big noting men that litter this town.

He told us that he had to go into the pub and would be back. Lorraine was off like a bride’s nightie to go buy something with other people’s small offerings or better put the brass razoos strangers toss her way. The gentleman returned he hesitated in front of me. I told him Lorraine would be back shortly. He then sat down beside me. I asked him what he had bought; he told me it was a bottle of, “Southern Comfort.” Noting it was the real thing from those Yanks in Mississippi, showing me the label as proof. It read, “None Genuine but Mine” and the other label stating cautiously, “Two per customer. No Gentleman would ask for more.” I wondered if he had already downed the first earlier that day.

It then occurred to me it how apt and all so fitting living in the city of the south under these southern crossed skies and it was that other word as well that hovered and resonated in the air, 'comfort'. It seemed to spell it all out for me – my mood. I guess it is what we all look for is comfort. To fill that void inside us that we no longer fill with the love of god as my father would have said. This man had found his, in his glass bottle filled up with amber liqueur like spirits. The effect always temporary perhaps like returning to his mother’s breast nuzzling into the warm and golden licks or nestling into Lorraine’s hefty warm chest. I wish I could do that give into some vice completely with disregard for all other things. It was obvious the gentleman had a gambling problem and was on the drink as well, an old story in this town. I imagine black jack not that low class two-up or slide-of-hand-card-tricks from the hustlers around the railways.

He took the hip flask sized glass bottle out of the paper bag wrapping and slowly unscrewed the lid. He then mentioned if he drank it all in one he would be on the ground-floored. He snarled a laugh. He had enough social graces to say, “Cheers,” to me and made a gesture with the bottle up towards the sky. I said, “Santé,” he then usurped me one better and said, “Salute.” I was intrigued. Where he had found or won the money to not drink the plonk served up by the publicans or to run around with Lorraine. He placed the bottle to his mouth, his southern comfort, his comfort, like searching for his dearly departed mother’s glass nipple or his first lover’s warm embrace or Lorraine’s arms around him. The comforting rise and fall of her motherly breasts the warmth between her legs, underneath her brown stockings and her sturdy frame.

He titled his head back slightly he didn’t gulp or swallow; the amber bourboneque-syrup just flowed down directly, trickling down his throat, splashing into his empty stomach. He had mastered this motion, this ritual, his throat didn't hesitate either it was waiting for this moment. Lorraine returned in that moment and they both shot through like the Bronte tram leaving me on the bench alone.

I knew what they thought of me, another pom with my toffy nosed accent from the mother land that held no sway with either of them. I have heard others like them call me a Chardonnay socialist in their waking world of drinking, standing on corners chasing brass razoos trying to battle the hunger and relentless flames of thirst that screamed, quietened only with liquor, cigarettes and somebody to lie down beside, no closer, to feel another’s heart beating against their bare chest. To feel life race through them to make it to the next day’s end.