SYDNEY

I turned the corner and there he was, seated upon a throne of brick and mortar—Dude! He grinned, lifted his laptop and stood, leaping onto the sidewalk. The big toe of his right foot preceded the rest, hit the pavement and split open.

We looked at it—the sheaf of skin dangling beneath his toenail.

He pointed at it, disgusted.

The wound welled up, dark red with blood—my cup runith over—and gushed onto the pavement. He stood there, in awe, bleeding while I fetched bandages. I walked through the sliding doors and asked the girls if they had any—they didn’t, as it was I returned with a cotton swab and some tape.

So began the Australia trip.

Catching up took about three days. Reunions are like that and I hadn’t seen Tom in four months. He looks mature, that many months wiser than before, rugged, tan and relaxed, wearing flip-flops, shorts and a tee shirt. I daren’t say more—he reads these posts…

We shared the wonder, shared the shit, got depressed and ate pizza. We sat in Darling Harbor after dark, watching lights ripple, reflections in the glassy surface. We discussed life, change, hot pants, and women. We played hacky-sack.

Sydney looks like you’d imagine it to—no surprises here, it’s a beautiful city, well populated and well built. The sky is pale blue above the rooftops, washed out by the thinness of the ozone. The streets are livid with color and lights and life.

As Sydney unfolds its night wings, mobs of slack-faced youth crowd the patios and intersections. Girls in hot pants walk with their purses slung over their shoulders, tapping touch screens. Gone are the earth girls with their hiking boots and backpacks. Gone are the trails and Fiords. The guys tromp around in loose-fitting shorts, flip-flops, tank-tops, flip-offs written on their faces, trying to look rad, jaws flexed—stubble bearded attempts at hotness.

Night flies.

The scene is a mess—a damn shame in short shorts and white Chuck Taylor’s. The bodies on the floor squirm like a bowl of pale maggots, glistening with sweat as the beats drops like bombs, repetitious and boring, from the mouth of the DJ. There are spilled drinks and exposed nipples, low-cut blouses, mini-skirts, and mindlessness.

Exploitation is all the rage.

They laugh and they grind, slinging hips and arching backs—excess and ecstasy, the throng never stops—showering themselves in debasement, defilement, suck and swallow, glory in the debauchery.

Precious wasted youth.

There is a small, sudden hallway, lighted by heaters and ovens, just off the sidewalk. A Korean woman smiles from behind a narrow buffet, glowing, packed with dozens of fresh pizzas in the hot, golden hues of fast food after dark. The Bacon and Cheese pizza is mind-blowing.

By the fourth day we’re locked and loaded, thoroughly caught up, and although I can’t possibly explain the events of that day, being ethereal, I will say this: we walked at the pace of snails, floating almost, seeing the walkers—and those sitting and those frowning and those who are scared and alone—though new eyes, smiling, content, thriving and striving, honey-baked, nearly crying, and above all—connected, caring.

We discovered an obscure, somewhat hidden pub and purchased two Guinness. Life was truly good, sipping our beers, and the world was at peace within us.

We laughed so much—so damn hard, without a care or concern—that surly the world shook and everybody in it must have grinned.

It was heroic—no, it was fucking Biblical.