After closing the shop, balancing the cash and cards, and re-stocking the shelves on Saturday evening they locked up and left just before 7:00. It was only a 5 minutes walk to the station where they boarded an all-station train to Town Hall before changing platforms to go the extra two stops on the Eastern Suburbs line, alighting at Kings Cross.

As they approached the main street of The Cross by the ascending escalator from the basement station Tom advised Greg, “Everything you have heard about the Cross is probably true but it is also the most cosmopolitan part of Australia, and very special.”

“Just a few words of advice, being an innocent country boy, you will see many things for the first time. Look everywhere but never make direct eye contact. That way no one will feel the need to approach you and you will be left alone. Not that you would be hassled walking with me.” Said Tom, almost making Greg nervous about what was to come. 

As soon as they left the station entrance and crossed Darlinghurst Road. Greg’s first encounter with the infamous Cross area was a middle-aged prostitute painted and dressed up like a teen with caked make-up, a short skirt, and a bulging bosom that was almost falling out of her blouse. She gave Greg a big come-on smile and a ‘Want a lady?’ greeting.

Greg was more amused than embarrassed. Further along the footpath, were a couple of poorly dressed Aborigines, amongst a group of down and out white teenagers, all perhaps on the drug scene, then some Hell’s Angels bikers. In between this array of humanity were small fenced-off areas along the footpath in front of cafes in which were a variety of customers from all walks of life, enjoying their cappuccinos, lattes and a stray macchiato. These outside tables were the smoking ones so very popular.

They passed in front of the always busy Kings Cross police station, crossed the small park, and entered Maggies, an Austrian-Swiss restaurant, owned, not surprisingly, by an Austrian lady called Maggie. 

Tom took an outside table so Greg could watch the passing parade. Waiter David soon greeted them and Tom introduced Greg and answered the expected questions about the first day at Tom the Grocer.

Tom suggested that Greg have the Chicken Schnitzel, knowing full well that the monster serve of tender meat would amaze him. Tom ordered the house special: a Pork Knuckle, intending to offer Greg a taste, furthering his food knowledge.

The bottle of house white arrived and glasses were poured and filled to the top, no trendy fancy restaurant this, more a working man’s place. Greg leaned across the table and said to Tom, “Now it is your turn!”

“What do you mean?” asked a puzzled Tom.

“Now I want to hear your life story?”

David the waiter returned with two hot bread rolls, butter, a pot of Dijon mustard for Tom’s Pork Knuckle, and a small dish of coleslaw which he placed in front of the mystified Greg.

Tom explained that it was a side dish that they always served at Maggie’s with the schnitzels.

Tom smiled and though initially wanting to refuse the request for the story of his life, relented. It was almost as if he wanted Greg to be a part of his life and know what had gone before, good and bad.

“I left school and went to work in the office at Goodlife, then a small 5-person company distributing healthy food, way before that became the in thing. The funny thing was the owner and boss, was called Tom Good, so Goodlife was a great name. I was always referred to as Tom Junior.

I worked in all sections, including sales and product selection over the years before becoming General Manager 5 years ago when the owner cut back his working days. I extended the company to include much-imported product so things were available all year long not just seasonally, traveling all over Asia, as well as Australia, sourcing product.”

“Wow that sounds exciting, so how come you no longer work there?”

“The boss wanted to retire so he accepted a big multi-million dollar bid from General Foods of America, not my scene so I cashed in and left. Now here I am having dinner with you!”

“You never married?” Greg queried.

“Now that is another story completely.”

“Well?” Greg asked, waiting for an answer.

“Long story, married young, which lasted just on 20 years, my wife died from breast cancer 2 years ago, a son and a daughter, son went bad years ago. My daughter hardly talks to me, not a happy story.”

“Your kids never talk to you, they must be stupid.”

 “No, it was my fault really. I was always too busy with the company. I gave the family a great home, and money but never enough of what they needed.”  

“What else did they need?” he asked incredulously.

“My time, I never spent enough quality time with them, treating their wants as important, always too busy. I was an absent father and husband. The all-time recipe for disaster.”

“But you would make a fantastic father. Hell, way better than my grumpy old one. And why won’t your daughter talk to you?”

“That is the real sad story. We also had another son, a perfect son, Jeremy. It looked as if he was going to be the next soccer superstar. He was scouted by every club in Sydney, and even a few foreign ones.”

Greg said nothing, waited as he instinctively knew more was coming.

“I normally picked him up from soccer training and after matches. I really enjoyed our small times together, just Jeremy and me, alone in the car. I was trying to make up for all my mistakes with the previous two. I always got the full story of the match, he had an instant recall of every ball movement, he was so enthusiastic about his soccer, in fact, his life. These were our special times together. But once again work and my selfish ambition got in the way and one night, I called my wife saying I was too busy, asking her to pick him up from training. She hated driving and was not a very good driver. I could have left my meeting and gone there but I was too obsessed with a new possible deal.”

“To cut a long story short, it was a hell of a night with electric storms and wild wind and rain, she crossed to the wrong side of the road, maybe blinded by oncoming headlights, hit a truck head-on. She broke both legs, but Jeremy was killed instantly. Our lives together were never the same since.”

Greg was shocked and so embarrassed. “That’s me I always fuck things up! Sorry for asking those stupid questions, it was none of my business! Now I have made you sad, I have fucked up again, just when you are being so kind to me, bringing me here, and all.”

Tom, slightly misty-eyed from recalling the awful memories, had rested his hands on the center of the table after putting down his wine glass, half emptying it at one go. Greg surprised him by placing his hands on top and squeezing slightly, comforting and quite touching.

“No, it is quite OK. Just that I have not talked aloud about all of that for a long time. I guess that I kept it all bottled up, now I am glad that I told you. It was all a long time ago and life is about the now and the future, not the past. So, we are here now, and I am very happy to be here with you showing you around, maybe offering you some new experiences.”

Tom withdrew one of his hands and placed it on top of Greg’s hands and returned the squeeze, just a bit stronger.

Then the cheeky David returned with two enormous plates of food and commented as he placed them down on the table, ‘What, holding hands already?” 

That cracked them both up, both smiling almost shyly now, as they quickly removed their hands from the table to make way for the dishes of steaming food. It also put a natural finish to the melancholy mood that had descended, refreshing the atmosphere.

Eating and drinking now took pride of place, Tom watching with pleasure as Greg worked his way through the pair of over-sized schnitzels, served Jaeger style covered with a thick mushroom sauce, and sampled slabs of Tom’s Pork Knuckle, covered with lashings of Dijon mustard.

He was curious about the Roesti.

“Potato?” he asked. “But different, I have never seen it like this before.”

“Very traditional in southern Germany, and the German-speaking part of Switzerland,” Tom explained. “Actually, it is not very good here, although everything else is.”

“I think it is fantastic,” replied an enthusiastic Greg.

When they had finished, Tom suggested a quiet drink in the bar back near the railway station, called the Goldfish Bowl. Greg was eager to accept.

They walked together inside the restaurant proper, to the cashier desk, and Tom introduced Greg to Maggie the owner. She saw that Greg was fascinated by the large witch on a broomstick that was hanging above her head at the cashier station.

“I know they all call me a witch behind my back but I do not care. So, I hang my namesake up for all to see.” Maggie explained rather dryly.

Tom and Greg said their goodbyes, Greg enthusing about his meal and promising to return.

On the way back, they were repeatedly propositioned by an array of stoned street girls of all ages, the only common denominator was the slutty look that they imagined to be sexy? Perhaps it was to the trash who accepted their offers of quick sex.

As they passed one doorway, leading to an unknown upstairs, Greg read the sign that hung across and above the footpath, ‘Pleasure Chest’.

“What is Pleasure Chest,” he asked, innocently.

Tom’s rather flippant reply was, “I suppose it is where boys go to get sucked off!”

“What?” said a shocked Greg. “You mean like buying a packet of cigarettes?”

“Easier and cheaper, I will tell you about it later.”

Entering the ‘Goldfish Bowl’ they took seats at the glass window overlooking the street, facing out. Were they the fish in the bowl looking out or were the fish outside on the street? Greg wanted his usual Jameson’s and soda and Greg asked for a beer, a Fosters, but Tom suggested what he thought was a better one, Cascade.

“It is made with the snow water of the upper Derwent River in the mountains of Tasmania. The water is very pure, water is one of the most important ingredients in beer.” Tom explained. “And whisky,” he added, holding up his glass.

They contentedly sipped their drinks, relaxing in each other’s company not feeling the need for constant talk, even though Greg had so many questions. One question was paramount in his mind and he had to ask,

“What about that Pleasure Chest?”

“Ahah, the boy is horny and wants to get sucked off?” Tom smiled as he sensed Greg’s discomfort overruling his embarrassment to talk about such things with someone so much older.

“Not really. Well, of course. But I am curious as you made it sound so casual and normal.”

Tom took a deep breath, conscious that they were on new ground, talking about sex. So, he tried to make it all very off-hand.

“All the working-class boys from the suburbs who come into the Cross supposedly to pick up a girl, often spend all their money and get nothing in return, often finish up at places like the Pleasure Chest.”

“But, what happens there?”

“I assume it is like all of the other sex shops here with many small private booths. You can go in, lock the door behind you and put $2 pieces into the machine in front of you and watch a selection of porno videos.” Tom explained.

“So what, they can do that at home, or does the machine suck them off?”

“You are almost right, but not quite. Both of the side walls have large circular holes in them, if someone from next door beckons them, they can stick their cock through the hole and get sucked off.”

“Wow, just like that?”

“Want to try?”

“No way, someone might cut it off!”

“Painful!”

“Very!” said Greg and cracked up, causing Tom to join in the stupid laughter. Both of them were now perfectly relaxed after all the booze, the togetherness adding to the mood.

“But how do you know about all that?” asked Greg.

“We old guys get horny sometimes too you know. That is not just the sole domain of young studs like you.” Tom replied, hoping that would be the end of any questioning on this subject as it was getting into dangerous territory. So, he changed the subject quickly.

“Normally when I come into the Cross at weekends, I stay overnight upstairs here at the Crest Hotel.” Tom said.

Greg was suddenly embarrassed and said, “You can if you want, I can get the train home by myself. You have already done much for me.”

Tom then shocked himself as his mind ran ahead of his brain, and asked. “What happens if you do not go home tonight to your place, do they get out the search parties to find the little lost country boy?”

“No way, they would not know anyway, I am free.” He said emphatically. Then he added, “For the first time in my life!”

Tom knew he was moving on to the dangerous ground, but he was almost on remote-control as he asked, “If you want to stay in, and have an early French breakfast in The Cross, before we go back tomorrow morning to open the shop, I can go and check to see if they have any rooms?”

Without the slightest trace of embarrassment, Greg answered, “Sure!”

“Then hang on here for a bit and I will go and check. Better if I go in alone, they know me anyway.”

Greg suddenly looked scared, ‘You will come back?”

“Of course I will, you silly boy? Leave you here to get raped by all those horrible prostitutes? No fucking way!”

Greg just smiled but he was still not happy about being left alone. Tom went in next door to the reception. The guy remembered him from previous Saturday nights, smiled, and asked if he wanted his usual room?”

Tom said yes, and although realizing that his usual room was always with just one king-size bed, he said nothing to change that.

Returning to the bar, and an anxious Greg, he suggested they finish their bar drinks and go upstairs.

“You can always get another drink from the mini bar in the room.” He explained.

As they strolled in through the front doors of the hotel, and sauntered over to the bank of lifts, Tom felt quite guilty, as if he was cheating?  

To be continued...