Cal worked for Macquarie Bank. He came with a palpable sense of self-interest, and a cold smirk plastered across his chubby face. I don't think he was buying my story. Actually, I was convinced. I thought my accent was pretty good. It didn't really matter - I was gonna jet as soon as I spotted a better deal. His hanger-on was a guy who's name I didn't catch, but I figured he was all right. He had a genuine aura, offered to buy me a bourbon & Coke, and I nodded my appreciation while continuing to lay my absolute load of crap on Cal. He was a bore, too busy diluting appreciation for himself with an obvious self loathing; he wasn't rich or good-looking enough to smirk down from the upper level.
His friend returned, and I finished my drink, taking Cal's number and promising to call him about one thing or another. It was a conversation rich with ennui, both parties going through the motions and not really caring how it ended. I said goodbye. Gosh, what a pile of crap. I decided to go with a different story for the next group, I don't know if 'New York journalist researching Sydney's night life' was really gonna cut it. Besides, I figured, you needed a bit of cash to pull that one off. I checked my wallet. I wasn't concerned. I was determined to reach the top. From the ground floor I could see the flash of sharks teeth and jewelry, models and playboys; all that glitters. It looked like fun.
The next group was much more pleasant. They had a couple of girls with them, and seemed eager to find out more about a man who's family had just won the lottery. No money? I felt 'uncomfortable' with my new-found wealth, I refused to take money from my parents but had come here on their insistence: Go and learn about the world we'll be living in.
One of the guys in the group was a real buzz, he was on the same wavelength, and kept looking up at the upper levels longingly. I suggested we have a go, so we made our way to the gatekeeper.
Same look as before. Head to toe, eyes, watches. A glance at the list. It's almost like they are waiting for you to crack before they make a decision; they wait for you to break down, sweaty and tearful, begging to be lead out of the establishment, back to where you belong. Fuck that. I smiled, a real lawyers smile. My new friend looked the part, he was a business owner of some kind. The door bitch looked at the bouncer. Moments pass. He looks at us. He doesn't appear too intelligent. Just dangerous. She looks back at me, almost as though it's a hassle to move her lips.
"Go on."
