Short Story: A New Beginning
It was spring in Byron. The most pointless season of the year. Blustering northerlies, tiny surf. Bluebottles. No work. No money. Woolies was eerily quiet. Business owners whinged about lack of trade; workers whinged about lack of shifts. Old-timers shook their heads and grew misty-eyed about years past. Not like it used to be, they said.
The double room at my house had been empty for a month when Sebastian answered our advertisement. Neither Pete nor I liked him, but we were desperate. He told us his girlfriend was due to arrive the following week and he’d move in that day if he could pay a single room rate until she arrived. We agreed.
A week passed. Then another. He stayed up all night and slept all day. He left skiddies on the toilet bowl. He never showered or washed his clothes. He walked around the house naked except for a cheap sarong that fell open whenever he sat on the couch. He stank of rotten eggs and mouldy cabbage. Food fell out of his mouth when he talked. He was consistently late with the rent. He kept us awake at night listening to classical music and having phone-sex with his imaginary girlfriend.
Pete was over it. Summer was coming, he reasoned, and Sebastian was chick repellant; he was dragging us down with his filth and his stink. We had to get rid of him. We decided to give him one more week and if his girlfriend didn’t show, he was out.
I asked him to tone down the phone-sex thing. It was killing me. But Sebastian just thought it was funny. He said that was nothing; wait till his girlfriend arrived. I reminded him that we were waiting. But he didn’t get it.
She was insatiable, he told me, a nymphomaniac. She wanted it all the time and she screamed the house down when she came. Pete and I would probably have to buy earplugs.
‘Whatever,’ I said. ‘When does she get here?’
He frowned.
‘Soon.’
The rest of the week dragged by. She didn’t come. And everything Sebastian did fingered me. Everything he said was nails down a blackboard.
On the second to last day, he changed his name by deed poll. From Sebastian to Sebastian. Then he gave me a lesson on how to pronounce it correctly.
And that’s what finally snapped me.
I told him that Pete and I couldn’t afford to go thirds anymore. We needed a couple to move in and pay the double room rate. I told him it was nothing personal; we wished he could stay – it was just a money thing.
Sebastian moved out the next day.
As soon as he was gone, Pete and I got drunk, punched bongs, cranked up the metal and jumped around the house. We made plans to poach hot euro chicks from the hostels. And overcharge them. It was going to be madness. Debauchery. A new beginning.
The next morning, we cleaned the house and took some photos with Pete’s digi-cam. It was decided that I would do the first hunt. Pete stayed on the couch.
‘Remember,’ he said. ‘Stay firm on the price.’
I nodded, put on my sunnies and closed the door. Determined, I set out for the hostels. It was time to rebuild our lives. Convert water to wine. Replace the slime Sebastian had brought upon us with hot euro chicks and lesbian sex.
I got kicked out of the first hostel. Tried another. Fired blanks the first couple of conversations.
Then I saw her. She was unbelievable. I was love-struck; get-married-and-make-babies-love-struck. Her eyes flashed like jewels, her skin was smooth and tanned, her nipples showed hard through her singlet. I cleared my throat, dropped my voice an octave and combed my fingers through my hair. I introduced myself. Her name was Sofia . She was German. She’d just arrived in town and yes, she and her friend were looking for somewhere more permanent. I told her about the room, showed her the pictures on Pete’s digi-cam. I did the hell sales-pitch: told her how cruisey Pete and I were; how we were sponsored surfers; how we loved teaching travellers to surf.
Two hundred a week. Twin share. Cheaper than the hostel.
She seemed keen. She thought I was funny too. She laughed at everything I said – this weird high-pitched hyena laugh. It was ridiculous. I was bubbling like a can of lemonade. I was Schweppervescent.
She stopped laughing.
‘But I am a flutist and I must practise every day for two hours. This is okay?’
I pictured her nude, serenading me, rubbing a flute against herself.
‘No worries; flute’s cool. I love the flute.’
Pete would adapt.
‘Also,’ she said. ‘If I get inspired, I must sometimes play at night. I am – how do you say – impul-sive…’
She laughed her hyena-laugh.
‘Don’t worry! Sometimes Pete and I are loud too! We’re impulsive too!’
She looked confused.
‘You and Pete are gay?’
‘No… well… Pete’s gay. But I’m straight.’
She nodded.
‘And from when is the room available?’
‘Right now; today.’
‘Really! This sounds too wonderful.’
‘Yes, it’s wonderful!’
‘But…’ she wavered. ‘The price is perhaps too much.’
I was mesmerized by her breasts and struggling not to stare at them.
‘I’m flexible on price.’
I was legs-behind-my-head-yoga-master-flexible-on-price. She tilted her head to the side.
‘So… one-sixty? This is okay?’
Pete’s warning flashed through my mind but I blocked it. When Pete saw her, he was gonna drop to his knees and worship me.
‘Deal.’
We shook. I was the king. Champion of champions.
Sofia motioned to someone behind me.
‘Hey! I found a room!’
I turned. The smell of rotten eggs and mouldy cabbage hit me like a truck. He was still wearing that same fucking sarong. I heard nails down a blackboard.
‘Well,’ he said. ‘Hasn’t this just worked out perfectly?’
