The Deadbeat and the Whore

It’s about love. It was always about love. He did it for love. She did it for love. Just love.

So now, how do I make this a mystery for you? How do I make you want to read on? How am I supposed to do that when I’ve already told you everything! You have no reason to walk to the end of the line now because it’s all here already. Heck, I wish for your sake that I could say something wise now. I guess you’d like me to be world-wise instead of the world-weary I feel. Alright – let me put this beast to sleep for you.

It started with a joke. You know the joke already. It’s the one about the deadbeat who falls in love with the high-class hooker. He didn’t mean to. She just walked past him one day and her scent just reached on down and grabbed him by his balls. Yeah, you heard me – balls. He watches her walk. He watches the sway of her hair and the swish of her long coat about her ankles. And then, when she’s out of sight, he looks down at his rags, and bitter water begins to flow from his eyes and his nose. Melodramatic, huh! And then he turns to himself, grabs himself by the lapels and gives himself a good old shaking.

Promises, promises – they ain’t no good without money. That’s what he tells himself and so he sits on that street corner for some time more, and he pulls in what he can. Thing is, though – there ain’t no point in filling a bag with a hole in the bottom. So he stops the drinking – that wasn’t so hard, and he stops the drugs. That wasn’t so bad neither. He’s done that before, a couple of times now, and he knows how it goes down. ‘Sides – the punters give more if you look like a sick dog.

No, it was the her that was difficult to give up. He watched for her – but she wasn’t regular. She came and went as if clocks didn’t play nice with her. And she was hard to see. Different gear each day. So he tracked her by that scent. Coconut and vanilla, with some musky sexy thing sitting under it like a big cat waiting to pounce. And he tracked her good.

Eventually, he got clean, and he got himself a stake saved up. Clothes. Start off with clean stuff from charity shops, then better stuff once he got respectable looking. Then work. Hard to find, hard to keep, hard to do. He hadn’t had the habit since his paper-round. But he got there. Got good at it. Got himself a reason to do it and stuck with it. She was the reason. But she was way down the line, yet. For now, he just watched her. He just made easy with his clean nose and her soft skin. In his dreams.

Every night. Seven thirty. The Bell End. Ghost Tour. He walked all day, drumming up the customers. If he got twenty, at ten pounds a head, that was good. Thirty was even better, and seven nights a week turned into a tidy little sum. Got himself a flat. Fitted it out with the latest this and that. Nice electrics. Smart electronics. Then, he was set.

So, you get the idea, right? Love on his side. He meets her, he woos her, he’s cleaned up good and he’s got the money and, at heart, she’s a lonely girl just looking for … yep, you guessed it – love. So she loves him, settles down, gets a job, turns her life around – blah, blah, blah – end of story – right? Nah. Wrong. As soon as he got her to love him, the whole mystery fell through for him. He saw the got instead of the to get, the bellyful instead of the hunger and, to cut a long story short, the whore instead of the angel.

So – what? They go back to the streets – each with his or her own appetite and predilection? Or maybe they keep to their new paths. Although truth be told, pimping groceries for the supermarket ain’t that much different to pimping flesh along the fair streets of the city, and talking to tourists about ghosts ain’t dissimilar to talking to them about spare change. Either way – the answer’s no. They didn’t do any of that.

But what, then, I hear you ask, all eager for the punch-line to this too long joke. The answer is that they didn’t do anything next. They expired gracefully a dozen of so lines back. They were just made up, you know. I wrote about them in an idle hour at the end of a long day, and now they are gone. Heck, they didn’t even have names, so no reason to mourn. Got you going, though, didn’t I?

Right, time for a nice cup of tea and then it’s up that little wooden hill to Bedfordshire. Nighty-night y’all.

 

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9 thoughts on “The Deadbeat and the Whore

  1. Pingback: The Deadbeat and the Whore — levishedated | heywhy's blog

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