AllFreeNovel
Share Us
I get off the train and walk out into the affluent suburb of South Yarra. Tendrils of jasmine fall from the balcony of an apartment, swaying in the warm summer breeze. As I walk past a suspiciously chunky puddle, I get a whiff of something nasty and hold my breath until I get to Chapel Street.
There are two faces to Chapel Street. Designer clothes outlets, expensive hair salons and handmade jewellery boutiques dominate the north end. Further south, Chapel Street’s clean, preppy exterior morphs into something darker. The money is dirtier. The nightclub floors are sticky. I walk past a twenty-four-hour establishment, silent and dark on a weekday. Once, I grazed my knee stumbling out the door of that club and was hauled back onto my feet by a drag queen. She’d pressed me to her latex bosom while flagging down a cab before chivalrously loading my drunk arse into the back seat.
The bar I work at is located in the basement of a beautiful old building nestled down a narrow side street. As I unlock the door, the smell of stale beer wafts out.Just like home.
Turning on the handful of TVs that surround the bar, I flick through the channels until I find a sport I can stand. Cricket. All I can glean from the game is that Australia’s playing India and we’re batting. The score is a weird fraction. I’ve no idea who’s winning.
A poker table stands in the middle of the room, chips and peanuts scattered across it. I wipe the surface down, stack the chips and drag the table back to the storeroom.
When I started working here, the bar was called the Peacock Lounge and was owned by a bloke named Graham. The décor was incredible, and the bar smelt like sandalwood and expensive cologne. Booths with emerald-coloured velvet seats faced an elevated stage where there was always an array of musical instruments. Graham could play all of them. On Thursdays, he would take the stage and people would come in droves to watch his one-man performance.
Then Graham got sick, and Mark bought it, and changed its name to Mark’s Place.
As soon as they handed him the keys, he installed six garishly large TVs, wedged the piano into a narrow storage area at the top of the stairs, razed the stage and installed a pool table. The bar went from being one of the most unique venues in Melbourne, a place where you would end your night, to being just another bar where you could drink a beer and watch the footy.
Mark’s supposed to be here for opens, but he’s often late. When it’s just me, I don’t mind the job, but it’s not like I haven’t looked for something else. The job market is tough. I dabbled in phone sex for a few months because, why not—I’m an adult. I was told I had a nice voice, and it was fun; but when Graham offered me a job at the Peacock Lounge, it became too difficult to manage both.
I’m an hour into my shift—and still no Mark—when Peaches comes in. I know it’s her the moment she steps through the door. No one makes an entrance like Peaches O’Plenty.
The late-afternoon light glows around her hourglass figure as she descends the stairs. Today, Peaches wears a skin-tight black catsuit and the latex hugs her in all the right places, emphasising her over-padded arse and long, shapely legs. Her poker-straight blonde wig brushes her lower back and as she comes closer, she twirls, just because she can, and I glimpse a flash of a red undersole on her black high heels.
I nod towards the shoes appreciatively. ‘They’re new.’
‘And they’re real, baby.’ Peaches slides up to the bar. Her eyelashes must be an inch long. She flutters them as she leans forward, giving me a good view of her cleavage.
‘Found yourself a good gig?’ I ask, keeping my eyes on hers. They’re a beautiful light blue.
‘Aregulargig,’ Peaches emphasises. ‘Working over at the Rosewood.’
I raise my eyebrows in surprise. ‘A high-class establishment for a high-class woman.’
‘Aren’t you sweet?’ She reaches forward to take my hand in hers. This week, she’s sporting hot-pink stiletto nails with diamantes on the cuticle. ‘I’ll have the usual, baby.’ She adjusts her catsuit. ‘Fuck, it’s hot out there. My puss feels like she’s in a sauna.’
‘Thanks for sharing,’ I remark. For most of the year, Melbourne is beautifully grey and mild. It’s nice. But for two months, Melbourne is as hot as fuck and it’s awful. Most people leave and holiday along the golden shores of Sorrento and the Bellarine. Those who need to stay suffer through summer.
Peaches places a twenty-dollar note on the counter. ‘You apply for university yet?’
I ring up her purchase and hand her back the change. ‘No.’
She frowns, a brow wrinkle forming under a thick layer of foundation. ‘Why not?’
‘Not sure what to study.’ It’s a lie. The truth is I didn’t finish school. If I had, then I’d be applying for a music program, but you can’t apply for university without a graduating certificate.
‘Choosesomething,’ she implores. ‘If you don’t like it, move on. We both know you can’t stay here forever.’
‘I’ll figure it out.’ I hand her the drink: gin and tonic. ‘What’s this new gig at the Rosewood, then?’
She rolls her eyes as she takes a sip, noting the change of subject. ‘A bit of stand-up. Some singing. I’m on Thursday, Friday and Saturday nights, which suits me fine. Thursdays I do Drag Queen Storytime at Windsor Library, so I have time between gigs to spend with my favourite bartender.’
‘I’m so lucky,’ I drawl.
‘. . . But he doesn’t open until four, so I just drink at any old watering hole until then.’
I flick Peaches with the edge of my tea towel. ‘Get out of my bar, you wench.’
Peaches laughs and takes another sip of her drink. ‘I could talk to the manager at the Rosewood. You’d fit right in.’
The Rosewood is a gorgeous bar and nightclub on the edge of the city with all the charms of a Victorian pub: beautiful architecture, historical significance and tiny bathrooms that smell like piss and mould. During the day, it’s a well-known brunch spot. In the evening, it hosts a range of live acts and performances. All the big drag names perform there. Seems Peaches O’Plenty is one of them now.
