adamdaniel

Tales from the Punchbowl #8

The Black Prince

After traversing various train lines and bus routes through the Melbourne metro, in a state of perpetual motion, my legs were now aching, throbbing badly, protesting via the landline of my nervous system to my task-master brain, like worn out servants in rebellion, or despairing labourers numb with overexertion and ready to quit. Two legs, two feet and ten toes butted into odorous Colorado shoes; these my faithful horse and carriage, my committed gang of coolies, my diligent and daring sherpas, carrying me across the hills of time with steady steps.

Now, in the angled rays of the Melbourne twilight, they were calling out for rest and repose, having propped up my aimless life for too long. I thought of those battered feet belonging to Muriel Heslop’s mother in Muriel’s Wedding, emerging from her shoes, swollen and sore and red, like boiled meat – my feet must be like those feet by now, I mused. My bags were proving cumbersome and beads of sweat lined my forehead. I needed to rest and settled on a suitably obscure skip bin to camp behind in the alley siding Project 614 on Bourke Street.

I unfurled my mattress, unpacked my sleeping bag, squished my bags into a crevice, determining that they looked safe, and lay there perusing the alleyway with dead mannequin eyes as my travel weathered body gave up any thought of effort. I examined the red and black paintwork down the laneway. Red bricks rising several stories, with arched windows like those of a castle. I looked at the neat lighthouse design on the neon light outside the door, blue rays seeking the horizon like a deft sword into the unknown dark. A pleasing design, sharp and sure. The tenacious light, a perennial symbol of hope to those who would despair.

I passed out and strayed into REM impressions of other worlds and other times, parallel reflections of our earthly existence. There was a rush, an excitement, an urgency, in my dream, to get to Israel. So many families packing bags and making for the airport. A strange inversion of my waking comprehension of that war-torn space, with the middle east the last place I’d want to visit, given the choice. How sad to contemplate that fabulous fertile crescent razed to rubble and plunged into infinite turmoil, an increasingly fraught and dangerous landscape. Though in my dream there were multifarious parties all striving and seeking to travel there. Strange. Strange indeed.

Somewhere in those midnight hours, I rallied into waking awareness and realised I had company with someone shuffling past. I was too deeply sedated by the opiate arms of sleep to alarm myself. Just another ship in the night, I’m sure. I made it to morning and arose to a brand new day, the rose fingered dawn (to borrow from the Greek Iliad) tracing new shapes and shades of magic in the sky. I discovered a woman nearby -that presence in the night- circled by a nest of her own meagre belongings, an eclectic set of blankets, bottles, pillows, books, clothes and trinkets. Orange. Most of her things were orange. I left her be and wandered into the day, leaving my stuff behind.

No money. That doesn’t leave me many options. I don’t even know this city. I walked a block and randomly entered the back door of a hotel. Pressing the misty glass open, I entered without knowing what I’d find. I was struck by the heady smell of coffee and fresh bread wafting through the space, a luxurious impression to savour. I had entered into a spectacular buffet breakfast. Having unwittingly snuck into something entirely wonderful, well past the front counter and unbeknownst to any staff, I consulted the devil on my left and the angel on my right…

Should I dare proceed to indulge like a wanton Mr. Creosote in this mind boggling smorgasbord? The angel intervened immediately, “It’s stealing you idiot. If you get caught they’ll ping your stupid ass.” The sprightly devil was fast to interject with his own philosophy, “My dear impoverished friend, pray ignore the entirely superfluous counsel of my scarcely literate counterpart over here, and treat yourself to a sumptuous belly full of smoky sausages, pancakes, fruit, toast and poached eggs. Can’t you see that coffee is hot and the chef over there is veritably your servant, poised to prepare a nice oily omelette for you, to your express specifications?”

I vacillated for some moments in a paralysis of indecision, considering the rival arguments of my upright Jiminy Cricket and my entirely dubious yet vocal emissary from the underworld. With pangs of hunger governing my decision, I placed the angel into momentary cryogenic suspension, consigning him to my jacket pocket, and proclaimed, like Jim Carey with his fingers in his ears, or like Kurt Cobain singing Breed, “I don’t care, I don’t care, I don’t care!”, on vociferous and emphatic repeat. I’m freaking hungry! My ambivalence was silenced and my questionable decision was complete. I sidled over to the buffet nonchalantly, selecting a pre-warmed plate from the marble bench of this distinctly upper class establishment. I ate like a king, in the gluttonous spirit of rotund Mr. Creosote, sampling every possible offering, from gourmet cheeses and pastries, to eggs in different preparations, to cereal and boiled cinnamon apples smothered in fruit yoghurt.

I walked out slowly and happily, like a drunk from a whiskey bar, in a newly minted food coma, well and truly dizzied by the sheer enormity of the meal I’d just ingested. I returned to the alley. Various homeless characters were milling around. I approached them excitedly. “One block down, there’s a hotel. Incredible food. Incredible. My friends, it’s a heaven of food. There’s a back door you can go in!”, I proclaimed unabashedly, my excitement patent. “Take us there now!” they pleaded. I described how to get there, then looked over behind the skip for my things. They were gone. My mattress, sleeping bag and duffle bags. I scanned the area concernedly, my stomach turning in dismay. There, halfway up the alley they lay, in the keeping of a petite woman in a black baseball cap and a bloke with a silvery beard. I walked over. “We kept these safe for you. Someone else was gonna take them.” I sat down to chat.

Amanda introduced herself pleasantly. She was well spoken, with deep brown eyes, short hair and a friendly demeanour. She was reclining on my mat. We like it, she laughed. All good, I quipped. Sharing is one thing I have little hesitation about, whatever my situation. Sharing should be a reflex, instantaneous, immediate. When my mother was paid share dividends, she’d always share with her boys. It’s a fundamental virtue in my book. I met three or four people, most of them with evident dental issues, either missing teeth and presenting exposed gums or with black gums that looked putrid. They were entirely amiable, sharing their stories and experiences freely, unveiling the various misfortunes and hurdles of fate that had caused them to trip and land face down. Despite the seemingly destitute circumstances, in this manifestly grimy and bad smelling laneway, Amanda explained that she wanted to be a lawyer and had determined to pursue an education in that regard. Later she was troubled and teary though, sniffling and weeping and annoyed, saying someone had taken her multitool.

There were needles on the ground. One blond woman, Paula, who kept her hair in the style of a Hare Krishna, shaven and with a small pony tail at the fontanelle, was using heroin. After scraping a white powder from a bag, she cooked up and shot the noxious yet liberating substance into her leg. She lay in that place for most of the day, gliding on chemical wings into the never never. The others, including dark featured “Cookie”, were smashing bongs, drinking alcohol and chatting away. I lolled around for some time myself, still in a snake like feeding stupor as a result of my monumental breakfast, this serving as my own stupefying drug, my own brand of opiate. Somehow I fitted in just perfectly. While I was dozing, someone very considerately left a bag of lollies for me to partake of. Even in my gorged state, I managed to find space for these treats when I noticed they were there. In the words of William Blake, “enough, or too much”. Lack simply will not do.

Later in the afternoon, I got up and removed myself to a bar up the road, wanting to charge my phone. I entered the almost entirely vacant Black Prince Bar. Can I charge my phone, I enquired to the bright faced Indian behind the bar. Sure, please, of course, my friend, he affirmed, gesturing to the power point at the wall. I scanned the space. The decor was quintessentially Indian, finely presented and ornate and arranged with care. The stage was being prepared for a performance, with props and ribbons and speakers laying about.

I noticed an incredible black book perched at the end of the bar. I walked over to it and sat down, pondering its construction. So nicely made, I thought, such an attractive artefact. Black leather with gold leaf pages. What is this book? I demanded loudly, to the surprise of the bartender. At first he was taken aback, then suddenly very pleased at his opportunity to educate me. He pointed to a portrait on the wall, depicting a prince in regal attire -full ceremonial regalia- wearing a red cape and a turban with a feather in it, black gems dangling on long earrings, an oval brooch showing Queen Victoria, along with numerous other necklaces and jewels and rings. That is our mascot, our namesake, our forefather and inspiration, Duleep Singh, The Black Prince, Maharaja of the Sikh Empire, King of Punjab, Maharaja of Lahore, all those titles, a personage of great honour and esteem. This book is an account of his audacious and dignified life. Let me convey some of the history…

He was placed in power in September 1843, at the age of five, with his mother ruling on his behalf, and after their defeat in the Anglo-Sikh War, he was taken under the wing of a British Resident. He was subsequently deposed by the British Crown, and thereafter exiled to Britain at age 15 where he was befriended by Queen Victoria, who is reported to have written of the Punjabi Maharaja: “Those eyes and those teeth are too beautiful”. The Queen was godmother to several of his children. He died at 55, living most of his final years in the United Kingdom.

His mother had effectively ruled when he was very young and he managed to meet her again on 16 January 1861, in Calcutta and return with her to the United Kingdom. During the last two years of her life, his mother told the Maharaja about his Sikh heritage and the Empire which once had been his to rule. A marvellous story and fantasy to entertain but with the immensely curious fact of it being true. In June 1861, he was one of the first 25 Knights in the Order of the Star of India.

Maharaja Duleep Singh (as he became in June 1861) bought a 17,000 acres country estate at Elveden on the border between Norfolk and Suffolk, close to Thetford, in 1863. He enjoyed living in Elveden Hall and the surrounding area and restored the church, cottages, and school. He transformed the run-down estate into an efficient game preserve and it was here that he gained his reputation as the fourth best shot in England.

The house was remodelled into a quasi-oriental palace where he lived the life of a British aristocrat. Maharaja Duleep Singh was accused of running up large expenses and the estate was sold after his death to pay his debts. Today, Elveden is owned by The 4th Earl of Iveagh, the head of the Anglo-Irish Guinness family of brewing fame; it remains an operating farm and private hunting estate.

I was astonished and impressed at the level of reverence and pride for this bygone era, and its central protagonist, The Black Prince, as evidenced by the barman. Such a keen appreciation of this incredible and now distant omnibus of history. Do you want a drink, sir? I have not a single rupee, I confessed, smiling. But sir I am your humble host this afternoon and will see to it that you have anything of your choosing from this bar. It was a warm afternoon, so I selected a pint of beer. I commented on various items of trivia relating to the Black Prince, gleaned from the internet, having retrieved my phone which was now charged. We chatted for some time. Immediate comrades, fused by welcome curiosity and an act of kindness.

I walked back to the alley, expecting to find Amanda and Paula. Instead, as I turned the corner, I saw my bags strewn on the ground, open and empty, only Cookie and the silver bearded fellow in attendance. I gulped in dismay as I witnessed Cookie packing my things into his suitcase, my clothes, my new headphones, my charger. What is up with this? Open the suitcase and return my gear please, I said frankly, attempting a mid point between assertion and diplomacy. It didn’t work. He refused, then started mouthing off at me and accusing me of tampering with other people’s gear, which had never happened. I said I’d empty my pockets to show I had nothing. He didn’t care. I asked again, open the suitcase. He pulled out the multitool knife which Amanda had lost. I’ll fuckin gut ya and see you lying in the gutter in a nice bath of your own blood if you ask again. Fuckin try me, he challenged, removing his shirt and brandishing the weapon. I was suddenly standing atop a fifty story building with my stomach long gone, whisked away instantaneously by fear, somewhere on a train to outer Craigieburn. I looked at him, staring. He didn’t like it. Try waking up every day starting with nothing and ending with nothing, he lamented angrily, his conscience grappling for justification. I kept staring, so he resorted to threats again. I’ll fuckin smash ya and stick this knife down your throat till you look like a circus clown in a red ruffle collar! Then he started screaming, liking the attention from his bearded counterpart, who was watching from the doorway recess. With this terrible surge in malicious gusto, Cookie starting to believe his own words, my heart started thumping and my adrenaline raced. I was scared. I was done. I strode up the alley to escape, with Cookie screaming bloodshed and violence from his spot, protecting his newly replenished suitcase.

Furious and completely annoyed at my own lack of Kung Fu prowess, I walked to the East Melbourne police station and told them my fate. We can’t do anything. Call triple zero buddy. I did this and explained what had happened, then waited hours for the promised police patrol which never came. Fucking cops, I vented. I had only been able to salvage my mattress on my departure down the alley. Five items only in my possession; my track pants, my jacket, my mattress, my ponging shoes and my precious phone, thank God. I approached two revellers on the street. I blurted out a summary retelling of my painfully discombobulating, adrenaline rich, death defying episode. Lemme buy you a drink, cobber, said the sympathetic rock enthusiast. He took me into a bar playing Motorhead and bought me a whiskey which I slammed down immediately. Cheers, I said. Appreciate it. I took some moments to absorb the utterly crusty bar ambience. I felt like I’d been immersed in a compost bin or room sized ash tray.

I was on the street again. Two tradesmen from Tasmania started a casual conversation as I sidled along woefully. They had been to a drum and bass performance. We want to get some food and look at girls, they stated with a grin, their palpable ebullience lifting me from my maudlin, minor key mood. They were intoxicated and in a silly frame of mind. I was pleased of company in any guise after the uncouth mugging I’d suffered. A rubbish removal truck drove past. One of them suddenly hopped into the back compartment where the rubbish gets tipped, like a monkey on a jungle gym. I was seriously surprised and alarmed. What if it compressed? He was quick though and hopped up onto the lip of the bin. He started banging on the side of the vehicle, yelling at the driver cheekily, “Go! Go! Go!”. My inner high school teacher baulked; surely that would earn a detention? I snapped myself out of it and managed to giggle at the ridiculousness as he sprang down and we continued on.

I don’t have any money, I said again, my customary quote to the universe at large. We do, mother fucker, we do. We’re taking you out. After a long walk down Lonsdale Street, we arrived at The Men’s Gallery, a hive of cars, ubers, ethnic guys in nice suits and girls dressed to please, strip clubs forming the backbone of the Victorian economy. Indeed, a staple experience for any lonely bloke hoping to nurture a fleeting boner, placate the spectres of loneliness and ease the pain via therapeutic visions of perfectly formed breasts, all the while servicing the bank accounts of organised crime.

They paid my entry and we hit the bar. Four vodka red bulls later we were entirely amenable to the parade of naked forms dancing and flexing on the stage, the nubile girls affecting the men like nymphs or maenads or sirens, putting them in a silly, soporific beguilement. The stunned mullet male attendees proffering cash as the required oblation to honour these female deities.
I had a long conversation about Dubai with one of the guys there. He took pains to elucidate his experience of that burgeoning middle eastern nexus, while the perfectly naked headline act poured buckets of suds all over herself, much to the entertainment of the leering crowd. He commented on the enormity of the mafia underground that underscores the economy there, which thrives anon amidst the splendour of the corporate high rises and multi-storeyed skyscrapers. He commented on the prevalence of prostitution and the closely affiliated drug trade. Strangely, despite the prior subject matter, he emphasised the importance of kindness as the human virtue most deserving of praise.

I broke off to collect a water from the bar. Four semi naked women attempted to lure me (Adonis that I am) into a cubicle to show off their goods, and reveal a little more. I was shocked when I realised they were just doing it for money, not because of my explosive intellect or witty banter. Their loss. I wandered out, having lost my Tasmanian comrades, past endless booths of working girls baring their well manicured vaginas to their male prey, or customers, or maybe just guys interested in anatomy and biology. I caught a taxi back to my mattress which I’d hidden. I found a new secret hideaway, removed from everyone else, in the tall shadows of Flinder’s Street Station. I made a makeshift pillow from what I could find, and gave my soul up to the reverie of sleep…