Diary – Short Story
By: Paul Nicholson
I just woke up in my van and my penis is all bloated and girthy. It no longer fits in the piss hole of my fuel container, and holding three litres of piss in one hand while undoing my fly, keeping my knob flopped out and making sure that it aims so as not to stink out my van is a chore indeed. My head is floating in a bubble of dehydration. I’m smashed from a bottle of Johnny Red then four beers from the Bondi Hotel, plus this van is like an oven during the day. People don’t realise precisely how much you cook in these things. If I’m not careful, I’ll wake up too weak to open the door and I’ll die. Unfortunately sunroof installations are too expensive, and most parking locations demand that homeless people are neither seen nor heard (even though sleeping in your vehicle is legal in New South Wales). Plus I prefer to hide these days. Once upon a time I wanted a colourful van. No way now.
Instead of busking last night, I found a group of 20 French and English backpackers on the sand at Bondi Beach and took my amplification systems down. Beefy, beefy sound. Ended up with 40 people. So glad I bought the new QSC K-10. Pity my head is shaved with a hair piece glued on that looks stupid on top. I can’t find my fucking hat. The beach travellers used their iPhone with my sound system and then I backed my van to the edge of the car park and projected moving images onto the sand all around them. I doubt anything like this has ever been done before. I suppose if the police or residents came along I could have pretended this was part of the Festival of the Winds and I had a permit or some bullshit. The bottles and goon bags looked a bit less professional. I should have been more paranoid about confiscation of my equipment. Didn’t end up with any girls who liked me. I feel old. Some girls smiled but I don’t know what to do when that happens, so used am I to being hated.
I later found Matty the homeless skater and he slept on the concrete. I don’t know what to do about that kid. Some kind of mental illness. He’s 21 now. Concrete sleeping is the lowest. I gave him my blanket but he didn’t come to my van to share my bed. Good for me. Neither of us are gay, but its hot and most guys wouldn’t do that – they’d prefer to sleep face to concrete. I drink drove to Woollhara. I must have been ten times over the limit but still competent. I’m currently parked in the shade at the golf course. I just pissed into my fuel container, but I can’t find my hat. I want to walk barefoot over to the breakfast place for an omelette. This is one of the most beautiful suburbs in Australia. I’m glad this oven woke me up – I’ve seen aught but night for nearly ten days. I should have gone busking last night. I’ve nearly spent my entire fortnightly pension in two days. For the first time ever, I haven’t let the bank send the money to my mum for the mortgage.
Haven’t spoken to my family for a few weeks, and if I know what’s good for me, I never will again. Unfortunately I feel guilty about my mum. Even though she caused me great pain, she exhausted herself trying to help me (without being near me lest I yell at her). I ended up lonely just like all my ex girlfriends foretold. Now the weather is perfect and I feel like an omelette and a coffee. Its a Saturday. I think. In summary, I don’t mind being alive today, unless I can’t find my hat.