SECURITY by THE SAINTS. Story by Robert Lastdrager.

Darlinghurst, Sydney 1985.

“How does three sound?”

“I’ll see you then,” I said and hung up.

“Surely this one’s gotta be a goer,” I thought and looked up at the clock.

I’d been in Sydney for 10 months, or 10 rounds as I used to say, and had lived in shared houses all over the city. Amid the collapse of my current residence due to alcoholism, racism, sexism, orange people and the odd British backpacker, I was finding it harder and harder to secure another room anywhere.

I was running out of energy, goodwill and money, and slowly sliding into desperation. The last place I’d applied for was a small cheap room in a rundown house in Redfern. When I arrived at the address, I found an upturned car wreck smouldering out the front.

“Room’s gone mate! We’ve had shitloads who wanted it! Could’ve filled the fuckin’ street!” he grinned.” Tell me about it,” I muttered turning back into Sydney’s lead laden inner-city arteries.

The advertisement read: “Two Large Rooms To Let, Student House, Darlinghurst”. Reaching the street at 2.55pm I felt loose, cocky, confident. Excitement was coursing through my body.

“C’mon let’s sort this shit out and get on with living. Give ’em some razzle-dazzle, be prepared to drop a few names, be prepared to lie like a hyena, to spit like a camel or roll over like a fat old corgi if that’s what it takes, just get the room!” I told myself as my boots avoided the cracks in the footpath.

Through the gates and hedges of number 442 I strode into the gardens of a large two storey house alive with the sound of glasses tinkling, a popping, wheezing BBQ and the laughter and chat of about 60 student types.

I cruised around for a while. The whole place was full, inside and out. I slipped into the kitchen to check out the beer stocks and remarked to someone that I was there to see Jerry about one of the rooms.

“Jerry’s in the lounge through there,” he pointed.

“What’s the party in aid of mate?” I yelled over the music.

“Party? No party mate! Everyone here’s applying for the rooms!”

“No way,” I thought, “This guy’s got to be joking”, and went through to the lounge where a large trestle table stood in the corner behind which sat Larry, Moe and Jerry.

“Hello, Jerry?” I interrupted. “Name’s Ray; three o’clock?”

“Oh yes” said Jerry looking at his list, “take a seat.”

“Ray, we’re asking everyone the same questions because as you can see we’ve been inundated with people wanting the rooms.”

He spoke in an annoying accent, like an English aristocrat with a mouth full of tripe.

“So the rooms are $100 a week each. We’ll need a month in advance and a bond of $400. Cope with that can you?” he said, hastily raising his eyebrows.

I was down to $60 but shot back,” Sure, cash OK?”

Next came the “are you a student or employed?” line.

“Employed, I work full time in the city,” I answered casually.

“Hmm, ok, now Ray, this is a non-sexist, vegetarian household, with a number of us being vegans. If you’re a carnivore we require you cook all your meals in your own pots and pans, and we insist that no meat be kept in our refrigerator. “How does that sit with you?” he asked, looking side to side at Larry and Moe who nodded in unison.

“Fine with me, I work long hours, I eat out 99 per cent of the time”. I answered. I was rapidly starting to tire.

I realised the lounge room had become quiet, like a courtroom waiting for a verdict. As the questions continued the crowd in the room began to swell as more and more people packed in tight behind me, slowly moving me toward the table. It was a horrible place to be, sat in front of these three cardigan wearing pretty boys whose contempt for anything un yachty was obvious. Jerry, who sat in the middle, asked his next question.

“Ray, do you smoke?”

“Yes I do,” I answered firmly.

“Oh, ah em well that’s not what we wanted to hear”.

“Look, I’d be happy to smoke outside” I added quickly.

“No, no, thank you Ray, however I’m afraid not, we’re really after a nonsmoker,” he lamented, nodding his head sideways with a patronising little smile.

At that point the fellow sitting on the panel to Jerry’s right said aloud, “But YOU smoke, Jerry!”

Before anyone could utter a word there was a surge from the crowd as a large Scottish bloke landed a ferocious right cross to Jerry’s chin, knocking him off his chair and into the potted palms and cold fireplace.

“Waste my time will you, ya miserable bastard!” bellowed the Scots monster as he scattered all those around him.

I wove through the melee and made for the front door. Back out onto the streets, back in to the city that didn’t want me.

Stereo Story #807