Midnight in the backyard of have and have-not

I’m between home and show and booked in for the night, but adrenalin has bled out, and the minutes feel skinned alive. Moments hang together, nerves exposed. I’ve chickened out and beat the last joke to the car.

Drunk executives and their punch bags heave under the weight of free buffet. Young do-goods shake jowls and move to music beneath them as I rifle through pockets for proof. The casino’s private police force will not have theft. I hear the irony jangle as it falls through slots.

Shooter glasses of green urine-flavoured wine fuel the loop: same talk, same joke, same flirt, same fear, same wank in your room, business unit leader … really?

I said I’d stay, but limp, toasted cheese sweating under cling wrap, like a tenderpreneur between hearings knocks on my door, held up by a rightfully unsmiling woman. The delicate chlorine veil fails, exposing my nose and showing the frayed edges of hygiene’s smile. Stiff towels and fatigued sheets don’t want me here. I may not respect myself in the morning.

I’m gone, just like that.

Talk radio fills the yawning road. Music disrespects the interior stillness of the car. I turn the knob and strangle Tom Waits slowly, gentling the blackness a shade.

No signal. I know how my phone feels. My battery enters a blue period. Silence’s disinterest in my anxiety amplifies it. My heart skips and gets in the ring. The horrors come on.

What’s eating me? I am — and I’ve left an odd taste in my mouth. Do moths have any idea why their balls smell of old people?

White lines in my headlights and they’re headed straight for me. An eon ago, I did coke on this very stretch. CD cover perched on steering knees, banknote delivering the arse dust of a mule to my brain. That night, I aimed at oncoming traffic.

I’m standing outside the neon-lit roadside stop, praying to David Lynch over a greasy, black puddle. I smell midnight. Glass slides. Brands fall over themselves to welcome an old friend, hang from the shelves with bold claims: energy, taste, crispness, softness — bite-sized, vacuum-packed hookers. A mechanical eye follows me down the aisle. The human behind the glass is trying to sleep, a strange exhibit amongst the other stuff on show.

We mumble. I like goodbyes. There’s relief in ending connections.

He chooses his moment: i’m just coming out of the 24-hour and headed for the car; overpriced road snacks in a bag.

There is the start of a conversation about something, but he doesn’t care … he’s watching my reaction to the bait.

Large glassy eyes match the bright orb at the child’s nose. He can’t help but look up at me with hope he no longer has for his father.

“I want to buy him something … ”

I’m already handing over the money, my eyes not leaving the boy.

“You better, get him something — now.”

I refused a hotel tonight. Of course I’m lost.