We are behind on our rent again. I just can't earn enough to make it up this time, our habit is up to about eight hundrerd dollars a day betweenm the two of us... Popeye the landlord has given us our last warning, enough chances, we have to go.We pile all our belongings, our books, Damian's paints, and my ever growing collection of clothes into a taxi and head up Flinder's St, down Darlinghurst Rd and into the Cross. We manage to get a room at the seedy Tudor Hotel for seventy dollars a night. It's alot more than at the boarding house, but at least paying nightly, I should be able to stay on top of it.
Two single beds, a small yellowing shower recess, a sink, a mirror, fucking fluroescent lighting, brown carpet, fake wood veneer panelled walls, a TV, cockroaches crawling upthe walls and across the ceiling, a tiny window facing a brick wall, letting in the mingled smells of chinese food and rotting gargabe.
We throw all our stuff on the far single bed, turn on the TV, and mix up a shot.Heroin is all that matters.As long as we have it flowing in our viens, we can handle anything.This room becomes our home for the next six months. We have eachother, we have our love, we have our heroin.We fall asleep in eachother's arms, crushed together in our single bed.
Hours later I awaken to the familiar tune of the ABC's open learning programs. This sound is my alarm clock, I have to get up and go to work. I shower, apply my makeup, throw on a short dress and pull on my black leather knee high boots. I drift down the stairs and out into the chaos of the King's Cross night... All the while I am stomping down to my corner on Darlinghurst Rd, I am floating...
