A familiar scene. Bottles of beer scattered around us, a fresh one in hand. A Sydney night; downtown. The streets are buzzing, girls in short skirts sway their behinds while boys in tight shirts whistle and growl and fight. It's a few minutes to midnight. We just caught the cut-off for buying more alcohol to drink, desperation turned to relief. Amid frequent trips to an alcove cut into a skyscraper, jeans open and pissing on a wall, we talk shit and watch the passers-by. Mark's girlfriend is with us, doing a very good impression of a girl that doesn't mind being all dressed up while drinking in the gutter. She looks bored. A group catch our attention, eye-contact is made.
Uncertain what they're interested in, we play it cool as they approach. After the boy in the group opens his sales pitch, and I flirt with one of his girls, it becomes clear what the deal is. We end up selling a bottle of beer for eight bucks. Shit, I think; we paid thirteen fifty for the whole six-pack. I talk myself out of writing up a business plan and get back to the conversation.
Five minutes into it we are interrupted again, this time by a homeless man who had been dozing on the steps of the next building. He has a Russian accent and is well-spoken. Asking us politely to move on, we exchange glances and agree the time is right. He thanks us, and I wonder what the hell is wrong with this world, where a man like that, a perfectly good man, can't get a place to live. Not just shelter, a real goddamn place to live. What would I know? Maybe he deserves it.
We make our way up the street, towards the Ivy. It's the new hotspot, the brain-child of one of Sydney's stinking rich playboys, getting richer on the silver-spoon permanently attached to his jaw. Hey, I'd do the same thing. The complex is enormous, built the way churches used to be, ceilings so high they force your eyes to the heavens, reverence and awe just an architect playing tricks. Trendy and beautiful people mill about out the front of the joint, talking on mobiles or pretending not to be focused on who's looking at them. The line is stupidly long. We stand and wait, edging along. When we finally arrive at the doorbitch's podium, we are looked over and rejected. Some bullshit about blah, blah. Not good enough. Heading back the way we came, I notice two girls and two guys exiting the building. One of the girls looks like she jumped off the cover of Vanity Fair. I approach, my turn to make a sales pitch. She says she'll take me in. I follow her halfway before I realise that Mark and Helena are still back on the street. I don't stop.
