KEEP ON TRUCKING AND GONE TO THE DOGS

KEEP ON TRUCKING TILL THE NAKED LIGHT OF DAY.

So much for the fanciful imaginings of holding on to my golden busking spot indefinately.  Things can often change direction completely opposite to where you had predicted they might go, so it hardly seems worth bothering to project your thoughts into the future. After the visit by the Council Inspector each performance was tainted with the apprehension that he might return and make an issue of the fact my chair was protruding a few inches onto the pavement from out of the Coles car park. It’s as if his arrival signaled the beginning of the end for our Botany Bay experience because things just spiraled downwards after that.  That fuck head Pat from the boarding house next door attempted a petty rip off which involved the theft of my microphone bag and a ridiculous attempt to sell them back to me. He claimed some teenagers he had shooed off days earlier had sold the stuff to a local fence who was his so called “long time pal”. The low life maggot didn’t put me out of business however as my music equipment backup system went into play and netted in double what that piece of shit had stung me for in about a third of the time it would have taken the idiot to think up the scam. The pathetic little rip off attempt by Pat was closely followed by a rip of one hundred and fifty bucks worth of prime heads by a local Maori scumbag who claimed to be a chef and said he would produce a batch of top shelf cookies for me.  Highly intoxicated after a winning show I handed over the pot as those motherfuckers drank my Jack Daniels and smoked my buds while acting like a pair of true bosom buddies, who only had my best interests at heart.  Get fucked.

The reason I wanted the cookies is the fact I am no longer smoking pot or cigarettes on the most severe of doctors orders.  A sharp pain in my right calf forced me into the local medical center and after a series of medical examinations it was deducted that my life’s indulgences have ended in a narrowing of the arteries in my lower legs. This condition I was advised could result in amputation if I continued on the path I was going.  The doctor only had to tell me once and it’s as if his words triggered and an act of sheer will beyond my own comprehension.  I am currently on day thirty five of my quitting mission and after thirty seven years of being a chronic smoker it’s a living miracle beyond belief. I don’t know if it’s the Champix medication or my own body rejecting the tobacco but now the smell of ciggie smoke makes my head spin and I almost heave my guts up whenever I get too close to the fumes. Whatever the case I’m going to see it through regardless of the discomforts.  The worst part is when I am singing and someone lights up within feet of where I am performing.  A surgical mask goes up over the nose in an instant then a handkerchief is placed over that to ensure I don’t cough in the middle of the song.  If the smoker doesn’t take the hint and move away I have to complete the number in an outpouring of gagged and muffled tones. 

In spite of the contempt I feel for those who smoke within my breathing range I know they are all victims of the money grabbing, blood sucking tobacco companies and they are hopelessly hooked on a substance that can only end in death. I chose life and now whenever I observe a person taking a deep, lung wrecking inhale of those toxic fumes it’s perceived by this dedicated non smoker as the most absurd behavior a human being could ever possibly engage in.  It would seem my quest to quit smoking might only be the tip of the iceberg when it comes to the level of personal health and well being I need to attain.  After the good Doctor told this fifty two year old swag man he could be functioning at the same level of health as a forty year old my war on cholesterol gained equal billing to quitting the ciggies, along with a serious reduction in fats, salts and sugars. The new level of exercise my body will need to remain on the winning side of the street is easily taken care of because I have embraced the type of lifestyle that is physically demanding on most days from first light until I conk out exhausted at dusk. I assume there are no half measures when it comes to choosing life and I imagine there might just be a second chance for those with the fortitude not to weaken when the going gets tough.  I won’t pray on this but I really hope I am genetically programmed to be one of those ever so lucky, one in fifty trillion, statistical profiles.

The crunch came in Ramsgate Beach when it became a serious distraction not knowing when ‘Mario’ the Regulations Inspector would next appear to fuck up my day.  It was affecting my performance noticeably so I made a snap decision to load up the bike and trailer and move to the next bay side suburb which is Brighton Le Sands.  Husky and I did a night run in the wee small hours and it was the first time ever we pulled the complete bedroll and tarp shelter combo on the busking trolley. The fully loaded trolley also holds a zip up shoulder bag containing my butane cooker and kitchen stuff and another that holds my laptop and home entertainment gear. With an added assortment of tent poles and tarps, my fold up easy chair and a clothes back pack the strapped down load reaches chest height.  Just before sun up we arrived at a mansion I had previously targeted for occupation and we were comfortably settled in before the neighbors stirred from their slumber.  The mansion was locked and tightly secured but there was an outside laundry left unlocked and the power was on.  Next door to the laundry a hot shower was discovered with glee so it was off with my smelly duds and time to take my first proper wash in some time.

The shows I did at the entrance to the Coles store at Brighton Le Sands were equally as profitable as the ones we did at Ramsgate Beach but it wasn’t long before the law was called in on a local residents noise complaint.  Brighton was the last beachside suburb with a local shopping center which meant my only option to make money was to pull my load all the way up Bay Street to Rockdale in the hope I might do well at the entrance to the railway station. Hauling the load in the morning sun really took it out of Hus and I but we eventually made it to the top of the hill and started sniffing around for somewhere to set up camp.  The spot I settled on was under the wooden steps of a rear door at the home of the Rockdale Theater company. 

There was a manhole leading under the building in which I could stash my valuables and if the weather got dirty it would be no trouble to stretch a tarp over the wooden platform at the top of the stairs.  As it turned out I didn’t get to stay in the camping spot I had located because I was hit with a friendly offer three songs into my first Rockdale show.  On one of those rare occasions where I am interrupted mid song but I am actually interested in what is being said a local character known as Benny inquired where I was staying after observing my self and my busking rig for a short time.  I told him I had a spot sorted out behind the theater to which he instructed me to follow him.  Leaving Hus to watch over my stuff I followed Benny up a side alley and we came to a stop at the rear door of a restaurant beside the roller door of a large truck.  Benny unlocked the roller door and threw it skyward to reveal a carpeted and waterproof dwelling in which he said I could stay. It was a welcomed relief to have a stable base for a few weeks and our daily shows near the railway station proved more rewarding than I had expected.  The morning and afternoon rush hour crowds were the most varied multicultural mix I had encountered up to that point and I really enjoyed the experience because it hinted that my songs had a universal appeal which goes beyond social or ethnic categories.  I struck up a little battery charging routine with the Indian supermarket directly across the street from where I performed whereby a battery would be charging away as I flattened another to complete the day’s performance.

My Albanian host Benny was rarely ever seen at the rear of the cafe he owned but after about a month of my stay in the truck he poked his head under the roller door and said there had been complaints about dog shit in the lane.  He said he was in the process of getting an interim registration permit for the truck and after that was done he would drive me to the Central Coast the place I had told him I next wanted to be.  A week or so passed and no permit for the truck was evident and Benny announced that a friend of his named Dumpar would be driving me North and he politely refused any suggestion of money for fuel.  After a boring, day long wait Dumpar finally arrived to move the truck out of it’s long time parking spot at the rear of the cafe.  Cooch grass had grown high up into the wheels and axles but the battery had not lost it’s charge. The engine fired up after just a couple of turns of the ignition. With my load stacked in a corner of the rear baggage area and Husky sitting at my feet in the cabin we left the Botany Bay area and headed north through huddles of peak hour traffic. Ever so gradually we left the haze of the big smoke behind us until eventually the panorama of the open road was flying by on all sides.  Dumpar was an older man than myself but a cheeky little rat bag with a healthy sense of humor. I bought us some beers at a drive in bottle department near the start of the freeway and for the duration of the run our conversation was mostly centred around past sexual conquests. The best part of travelling with Dumpar was the fact he was consciously trying to smoke less cigarettes. He fiddled with a roll your own ciggie between his fingers for most of the trip but he only lit up about four times in total.  I was still in the early stages of quitting so it came as a welcomed relief not to be trapped in the cabin with a chain smoker for a long drive. 

After studying my internet acquired map of the Gosford area I told Dumpar the place I wanted to be dropped off was a Coles supermarket in a place called Ivanhoe just outside of the Gosford CBD.  It was dark when we arrived but I managed to sniff out a camping spot in a nature strip that ran alongside the rear of a medical center, directly across the road from the shops.  Dumpar and I bid each other a friendly farewell and he drove off back towards Sydney leaving Husky and I to commence the next leg of our busking adventure. I like to think I am on a ‘Busking Tour of the Cosmos’ that has officially commenced on planet earth and will continue into the infinite future as far and as long as I can imagine new worlds in which to perform my songs.  At our first show near the Ivanhoe shopping center I didn’t get half way through the opening set before a Chinese looking Center manager interrupted my performance in a panic struck fluster.  More than a little pissed off at having my show cut short by some squinty eyed old bag I described the role street performers have played throughout the ages at market squares across the globe.  At seeing how downright bloody angry I was getting the center manager retreated and I knew it was only a matter of time before her security backup or the cops arrived. I packed my rig up in record time and got the fuck out of the area before the cavalry arrived to bust my arse.  The only option left available to me if I wanted to go busking was a mostly uphill ride into the center of Gosford and all going well I might do ok in the shopping mall. Our opening show in Gosford netted me about seventy bucks for a four hour shift which is better than ok in anyone’s language and it went on the increase after that.  I was soon to learn however that the cops and Rangers were a hard nosed bunch and they moved me along at every chance until I was forced to abandon the CBD as a viable source of income.  The coastal township of Woy Woy had long been a place of interest to me because of the many fishing opportunities it presented but another point of interest was the mega shopping complex right in the middle of town.  I forked out one hundred and seventy five bucks to a couple of local, removalist rip off merchants who looked like bikers, bored shitless at their day gig. I was dropped off with my load by that pair of unsalvageable drop kicks at a waterside park just past the war memorial park where boats were moored all around the sandy bend. 

The first person I encountered on my arrival in Woy Woy was a likable enough fellow of around sixty called Colin who lived on a small yacht with his female pup called Jesse.  The pup took an instant shine to Husky and they bounced around the waterline tirelessly as Col and I sucked on some chilled beer I had produced and we exchanged the assorted tales of our travels.  Col said he was anchored near the park because he was waiting for a friend to tow him around to a slipway at Brooker Bay where he intended to fit a new outboard motor and complete all the work necessary to get the boat registered.  He said he would continue living on the yacht after he was secured in a legal mooring and the only reason he was doing it was to get the waterways authorities off his case.  They had been showing increased interest in his floating camp in the previous week and his whole forward progress with the vessels registration was dependent on his mate who was three days late already.  After delivering a detailed account of my time on the yacht in Port Stephens and the trouble I had with the water police I wished Colin luck with his endeavors to beat the system. He said the amiable, young maritime official he was consulting with had given him an extra weeks grace because the mate had not yet arrived to tow him to the slipway.  On hearing this all I could add to the conversation was my belief that the majority of uniformed officials are two faced, lying dogs who are not worthy of the public trust. Col by this stage had drunk his fill of the free beer I provided and he returned to sipping port wine out of a time worn soft drink bottle.  The bottle was topped up from a half empty cask bag at regular intervals and beside the dog it was his constant companion from morning to night.  This might help to explain why only two days after I first met Col he returned from walking the pup to find his yacht along with the dinghy had been removed from their anchorage near the park.  After a brief phone call at a nearby box Col’s first assumption was proved correct.  The boat had been impounded by the Maritime authorities because he was past the final deadline they had allowed him.  The poor, pickle brained old salt had lost track of four days while on a bender and it cost him his home along with all his most treasured personal items.  Those robot, live by the book, arse wipes should have showed some professionalism and made note of the fact they were dealing with a hopeless alcoholic. Then they should have assigned an expert in the field to convene the matter of Col’s boat registration and legal moorings until they were resolved.

The days and weeks passed quickly as I got established into a camping and gigging routine around Woy Woy. At my second ever piss up and chat fest with Col he swapped an old fibre glass, kid damaged dinghy for a bottle of twenty three dollar whisky.  The upturned dinghy was placed just above the line of the king tide where it covered my outstretched bedroll and the butane cooker in a micro kitchen setup. A canvas tarp was thrown over the boats cracked hull and a note was left sitting under a rock on the tarp advising all that it was not abandoned.  I was in a state of relative confidence that I had created the best possible form of concealed campsite as I commenced my busking shows in the town center under some shady gums.  The cluster of tall gums I performed under were located between  Coles and Woolworths supermarkets less than ten minutes ride from my camp down by the water.  The pedestrian traffic I had first imagined would pass by did everything exactly as I had wished for and in no time I was averaging one hundred and fifty to one eighty a day. I beat my Ramsgate Beach record of three hundred dollars by thirty five bucks just before Christmas 2009 and the townsfolk were every bit as welcoming as they had been in our best towns.

At each end of the day money count feelings almost feeding frenzy’esque in intensity were visiting me like the capitalistic sensations I first experienced in Katoomba and Botany Bay.  I can only imagine it’s something like the boom time atmosphere they say you can smell in a gold rush town.  In this particular location I knew that myself and my old pal Hus had crossed over the line of public trust which can either shower a street corner songbird with generosity or deny him a sustainable income.  In most new busking locations I can reasonably predict how we will fare by the response the passing public give to the man and dog show on offer.  If I have been sitting on a park bench flicking Mr. Dick Brain the cap off a coke bottle for ten minutes and there is no public input I can generally assume it’s a dud town. If however the passing public respond like they did in Woy Woy I know I have arrived on easy street. I am only half the act and I am critically aware of it. I disproved the theory about not working with children back in the eighties when young Emu scored a recording contract singing ‘Once upon a Planet’ and I disprove the working with animals theory with Hus every day of our shared professional career.  Two weeks into performing in any place where my mutt and I are tickling the public fancy I can reasonably judge how sustainable the location is.  The factors before me are. How many women between the ages of eighteen and sixty threw coins as they made an extroverted fuss of Mr. Shmoosh head?  The second factor is.  Did as many tattooed punters throw coins as the women folk and did roughly half of this number also comment on how good looking the dog is? As the saying goes.  “All Good Things Must Come To An End”  The moment in which the local Rangers interrupted my performance under the gum trees was the most  graphic and definitive real life situation I could have possibly ordered from life’s infinite menu of delicacies.  After the wind it up buddy body language of the obvious Head Ranger I was hit with “Is that all your shit under the dinghy at Brickwall Road? “Just a sec, before we get to that, You can’t do your Rock and Roll show here it’s a public walkway. I went into my standard rave about this being my only income and the persecution of the authorities was forcing me to sell drugs on the street. The Rangers fucked off amid threats of hefty fines and I had to kiss another golden spot goodbye. I pulled out my maps of the freedom trail and looked deep into the vast expanse that separates the homeless nomads of the world from the comfortable and opinionated townsfolk we have to deal with.

The discovery by the Rangers of my bedroll and cooker under the dinghy was greatly assisted by a phone call which came courtesy of some waterfront resident who has never in their life encountered a beach bum adventurer such as I.  To most home dwelling,God fearing individuals who are terrified at the sound of their own farts me and Husky must appear like something out of the worst movie they ever saw in their miserable lives.  The faded map I held in my hand of the endless road to adventure was tattered beyond redemption but I could still make out the national capitals from their sheer population density.  It was time to start viewing my central coast excursion as a nice busking holiday out of Sydney but the real bread and butter is in the big smoke where the numbers are. Based on the theory that coastal suburbs in densely populated areas are more profitable than remote, resort style settlements I decided a move to the Northern Rivers of New South Wales from out of Sydney was a wiser strategy than an attempted move out from the central coast. Even if I wanted to try my luck at a ‘Byron or Bust’ hitchhiking strategy with the dog I hadn’t even worked out where the truck stops were out on the Pacific highway. A return to Sydney became the new projected reality and the man with a truck, local removalist became the principal recipient of my next pension payment.

GONE TO THE DOGS.

In the time since last I made an entry the only attention this journal has had is hastily scratched out notes on scraps of paper so as to maintain some kind of record of the unfolding highs and lows of my travels.  We will have to get to the high points a little later on and in the meantime I have to commence with what could only be described as the ultimate all time low.  The sad fact of the matter is that good old Husky boy my faithful companion is no longer with us.  I like to imagine he is bounding along in some flowery meadow up in dog heaven but the truth of the matter is he is rotting in a shallow grave on the banks of the Richmond River in Lismore New South Wales.  He got squirted by a cane toad while we were staying with friends on the Northern Rivers and he died in my arms after every attempt was made to flush the poison out of his mouth and throat with a garden hose.  The friends I mentioned who we were staying with were Emu now known as Jack and his mother Francesca. You may remember the pair from previous chapters.  After Husky’s passing I was consoled late in the night with good old fashioned hippy hugs and cuddles, herbal tea and soothing conversation.  Of all the places in the world for such a terrible thing to have happened this was the best of them because I was not suddenly left alone and grieving in a remote campsite somewhere.

In the darkness of the night Jack and I placed Hus in a wheelbarrow in the garden and covered him with a tarp in readiness for his burial with the morning light.  The others were still sleeping as I pushed the wheelbarrow to the high banks of the river just across the way from Frans house.  The only spot I found that looked like it might be out of view of the council park attendants was a vine covered cavity a little way down the slope that was littered with ancient wine casks and beer bottles discarded many moons ago by the local blacks. The litter had remained undetected by those who’s job it is to remove garbage from the park so I decided it would be the best spot to lay my old mate to rest.  There was a corroded ledge of reasonably loose soil in the vine shaded cavity that appeared relatively free of tangled roots and when I started digging at it with the spade it came away quite easily. Once I had excavated a hole pretty much equal to Husky’s size I wrapped his stiffened, lifeless body as tightly as I could into the tarp and hauled him down into the hole. The soil mound was then covered with leaf litter and fallen branches so as to blend in with the immediate surrounds. 

With a brief and teary “Farewell old pal” I pushed the wheelbarrow and spade out of the cavity and I was leaving the park at the precise moment that a council vehicle was pulling up. I watched from Frans front yard as the attendant emptied the bin then he jumped back in his car and drove off.  The thing I most wanted was the knowledge that Hus would be left undisturbed in his final resting place and the fact the park attendant had not seen me leaving the cavity satisfied me that this would be the case. Talk about impeccable timing. After my grizzly labors had concluded for the morning I hung out in the tree top level kitchen with Fran and Jack receiving more comfort and delicious vegetarian delicacies. Jack lives on an alternative community at Wytalibar and he was visiting his mother so they could attend the ‘Mardi Grass’ Festival together in Nimbin.  When I said to Jack that I felt a move to the Gold Coast would be the best thing for me he was quick to offer me a lift with my bike and trailer packed into his Land Rover.  He and Fran both agreed that I should be in a totally new environment in which I had never spent time with Husky.  I told them that I only intended to stay in the Gold Coast until my next pension payment then I would catch a plane to Cairns in Far North Queensland. 

Before we can go to the tropical North I have to flesh out my notes a little so you will be up to date on where our journey took us after the Central Coast.  The ‘Man with a truck’ removalist I had spotted driving around in Woy Woy was easily reached through the local phone directory and after a fee of one hundred and thirty dollars was paid my gear was loaded into the back of a modern Ford van with Hus and I in the front with the driver.  He was a nice enough bloke called Eric and it was easy to exchange small talk with him as we clocked up the miles towards Sydney.  When the money was falling out of the sky over the Christmas period I invested in a high definition video camera and I gathered heaps of road travel footage along the way which I plan to incorporate into an edited account of our travels when my web site eventually comes to fruition. The Steve Cam. Once in Sydney I got Eric to drop me and my stuff off at Rushcutters Bay Park between Edgecliff and Kings Cross and when he had driven off I made a lean to with my canvas tarp up against a wire fence sheltered by large maple trees.  I stayed in that spot for three days as I started getting my act established in the cross and sniffing around for a better place to camp.  This came in the form of a mostly hedge row obscured front verandah to what looked like a disused building.  Just across the road from my camping spot I could see the comings and goings at the Piccolo bar and beyond right up into the heart of Kings Cross to where my early days busking spot is.  Vittorio the owner of the Piccolo must be well into his eighties by now but he was still putting in long hours serving coffees and food sometimes long into the night. The money was coming in with reasonable consistency at my daytime shows in the Cross but I knew it was time to start looking further afield when Husky boy managed to survive an animal cruelty attack involving a pack of the local teenagers.  He was rescued by the kind folk at a homeless persons shelter who found him strapped up in his harness in the middle of a busy road.  His back legs had been tethered with the harness so he couldn’t move and the people from the shelter said if they hadn’t of found him it would only have been a matter of time before he was skittled.  As I reunited with my buddy I thanked them all for their help then Hus and I left to go and do a celebration gig.  Before stretching out on my bedroll I had neglected to fasten the old boys rope clip securely enough to the wheel of the busking trolley where it normally goes.  He may have wandered off into the night on the scent of a bitch on heat and that’s where his ordeal began.

'See I told you if you are not careful a women can get a man killed'.

At all of our busking shows that followed the recipients of the homeless shelter and the staff never failed to flick us coins when they passed by.  I was eating and showering at the Wayside chapel regularly so everybody there knew Hus and they threw coins as well.  All in all I made more from these two groups than I did from all of the other passers by combined.  I started living pretty rough around the Cross when my presence was detected by a neighbor adjoining the verandah near the piccolo.  To remain on flat land I started erecting a lean to in a park that has been landscaped onto the roof of a parking station.  There were other street people camping around the park and some of them said they had been there for years. I had conked out pissed and stupidly I had left my valuables bag right out in open view of anybody walking by.  I woke up late in the night to the sound of Hus barking and I was quick to establish that someone had lifted my bag.  Bastard. Everything gone.  Well money, cards, pot, you name it.  The only good thing about the event if you can call it that was the fact I had crashed out with my false choppers still in my head and the camera was in it’s own shoulder bag close to where Husky was tied up.  The most amazing thing to come out of this bag rip off story is the fact it turned up a couple of days later courtesy of the lads I had been hanging out with in Woy Woy on the Central Coast.  They would quite often traverse back and forth on the train to score speed and hammer in the cross and some low life urchin had made the error of bragging about his latest rip to the wrong people.  The little scumbags lights were dutifully punched out by the lads to the tune of “don’t rip off our mate” and my bag was returned in tact other than a fifty buck note lifted out of the wallet. …  Vengence is mine.

Our next move was out of Kings Cross to Circular Quay on a mostly downhill run through the city with the bike trailer packed to the hilt.  The front and rear brake pads on my mountain bike had recently been replaced so they we good for the run with Hus breaking into a speedy trot at every opportunity.  At the top of the final slope leading down to the quay I couldn’t resist the urge to pull out the video camera and film our arrival from an over the handlebars perspective with Hus bouncing along in front.  To get a proper feel for the place and celebrate the fact I was again close to the water I unpacked my fishing gear and wet a line sitting on the sandstone steps where the water taxis pull up.  I had only been at it a short while when a bigger than the plate sized bream came flicking and bouncing out of the water.  Tourists gathered around to Oooh! And Ahhh! at my catch and they all wanted to take snapshots of me holding up the fish. I let the remainder of the day slip by at it’s own pace just fishing and sucking on a cold brew as I watched the world roll by and felt relieved that we were out of dirty old Kings Cross. 

In the early stages of quitting cigarettes I gave up smoking pot in any form and I was content to just cook up a little bud each morning.  After twelve months or so when I was totally confident I had beaten the habit I started rolling little racehorse joints of straight weed with a little palm fibre thrown in to help it burn.  Now I can go through all of the motions of rolling, licking and lighting up without the slightest inclination to take one of the many ciggies that are offered to me each day. I lit up shortly after I arrived in the Quay and as I watched Husky running at full speed to catch a stick in the shadow of a gigantic cruise liner with the opera house and the bridge in close view it felt like the busking trail was guiding me along on the most exciting adventure of my life.

'Mmm … A tour of the cosmos starting on planet earth'.

The most memorable show we ever did was at Woy Woy when I beat my two hundred dollar record by one hundred and thirty five bucks at Christmas time.  The second most memorable gig happened in the Quay at peak hour, near some traffic lights that were located under a noisy railway overpass.  I was only into my second song in the warm up set when a young business suited dude stopped amid a group of similarly attired individuals and gave me the thing I most look for when I am working. A second glance.  When this happens it’s much the same feeling as the one you get when you feel the first small pecks of fish on a baited hook.  I acted surprised when he turned from the waiting group of pedestrians at the light and dropped a fiver in the case then he went back to his position at the kerbside.  I was watching him intently because he was tapping his foot in time with the music and seemed to be really digging it.  The light was taking an abnormally long time to change in the rush hour madness and I was still watching him close when he turned on his heel and walked back towards me with a clenched fist before him.  As the fist was opened I spied a big, beautiful green Hundred dollar note coming towards my outstretched hand then it was squashed tightly into my fist as smiles were exchanged and a volcanic eruption of gratitude blurted forth.  Not a word came from my dashing young contributor before he rejoined the peak hour scrum and was gone never to be seen again.  The thing that most intrigues me about the event is that the big notes generally come in when someone has fallen instantly and hopelessly in love with my dog and it is made quite clear that the money is for him. From this guy Husky barely received any attention so I can only conclude that it was something in my song that inspired him to hand over the ‘Big One’.

The camp I established in the quay was in a palm garden between some sandstone steps leading up to the Rocks and a side entrance to the Museum of Contemporary Arts.  There was an openable power box that controlled a sprinkler system attached to the stone wall and I was able to keep my batteries topped up for each new show.  The Council Rangers in Circular Quay are among the best I have encountered in my travels.  They were fully aware of the fact I was camping there with Husky and they knew that I was using the power box as well.  Such was the case that I was being afforded the same privileges and blind eyes to my actions that the koorie didge crew received. In part I was told by the intervention of my old made Norm who I once lived with in Brunswick Heads.  Norm put in a good word to the rangers for me shortly after we had reconnected at one of his shows and for the duration of my stay I was pretty much off their Radar.  Not so in regards to a busking permit however and the gig where I received the hundred dollar note was to be one of the last I did.  Central station is a place where a street performer can set up in a tunnel or a railway entrance and be somewhat guaranteed of scooping enough for lunch and a drink at least without a permit so that’s where I started doing my thang. 

Each morning with the sunrise Hus and I would walk the rig up the slope of George Street leading out of the Quay and then ride through the morning peak hour crowds on the pavement to China town.  Once there it was another straining and panting haul up to Central station followed by four to six hours of power vocals for the passing multitudes. More often than not I scooped enough for a take away meal and my full quota of refreshments.  Norm and I got together at every available opportunity between and after our gigs to suck on coldies, choof on joints and laugh at our good fortune.

'Here’s to you everyone … Thanks for the party'.

Through Norm I was introduced to a guy called Jamie who was a reformed alcoholic and street person. He stopped drinking methylated spirits when he finally received some public housing and bought a van which he has converted into a livable reality he can travel in. This I was told is the thing he likes to do the most.  Norm told me that a while back Jamie drove a bloke down to Melbourne just because he loves being on the open road so much. Jamie and I settled on a fee of four hundred bucks for the run to Byron Bay with my load which I considered a bargain in light of recent quotes I had received.  At the last count it would have set me back about seven hundred dollars and Hus would have to travel by pet transport separate to my journey.

'Forget it'.

The run to Byron was behind us in a new day, on the road that leads into to the local industrial estate.  My stuff was unloaded and stashed between two shipping containers in an otherwise vacant lot and Jamie and I bid each other farewells before Hus and I rode into town.  Within the first couple of hours of being in Byron I knew it was going to be a better stay than the last time I was there.  On that trip I hardly saw anyone I knew from the old days and I just hung around killing time until I returned to my home in Shoal Bay.  This time everything was different I was spotting old friends and acquaintances at every turn and each connection was in some way related to a party or other such festive event.  After I had checked out all of the daytime buskers and there were plenty I decided the best place to do my first show was at the entrance to the Woolies supermarket on the main street.  The Woolworths carpark area is where many of the homeward bound backpackers try to sell their vehicles before they fly out and the place has an almost festival vibe about it. Our first show there netted about sixty bucks and it went on the improve after that.  I did a bit of a time share at the spot with a bloke who played the blues on a dobro and it worked out reasonably well until he started trying to change the rules.  In the end we were competing for the location and I won the day because I was camping nereby so I could get to it before him each morning.

One sunny afternoon as I was going through my sets and throwing a twig for Hus I spotted a young guy riding a long skate board at high speed up the main drag. He was wearing a three cornered pirates hat and other assorted swash buckling attire. To all he passed he was shouting out “Ahoy There”. He looked somehow familiar but he was moving at high speed and I didn’t get a proper look at his face. Halfway through the next song the same dude pulled up to a skidding stop directly in front of me and instantly I stopped singing.  It was young Emu from my early busking days all grown up standing before me and we recognized each other in the same precise nano second.  ‘Jack’ as he now likes to be known said it would be great if we could all go to the Mardi Grass together to which I agreed and we smoked some of his home grown buds to celebrate the re-connection.  As part of his character cultivation for the pirate thing he must have decided that gold teeth were in order and each “Ahoy There” bought with it a dazzling display of bright golden choppers.  After we had choofed some more weed on his little pipe I got back to work with jack singing along to all the songs of mine he knew from the old days.  It blew my mind when out of the blue he said he always considered me his songwriting and performance mentor. After a couple of days of goofing around in Byron Jack and I loaded my bike and trailer into his Land Rover and we drove over to Lismore to check in with Francesca his mother.  Fran was living in a riverside cottage that was perched on high stilts because of the extreme floods that can occur in the area.  I was shown to a fenced off pool area which was home to a wood and iron structure there to protect lawnmowers and the like from the elements.

It was also home to swarms of nasty biting mosquitoes that were breeding in the stagnant pool and this I was told would be the best place for me to set up camp so Hus would be out of the way of the bossy, free roaming neighborhood dogs.  I set about turning the pool area into a mozzie netted habitat which was achieved in great haste while I was being eaten alive and when it was done I could work on my grid powered laptop in relative comfort with Husky happily snapping at any mosquito’s that penetrated our shelter. The first day of the Mardi Grass celebrations kicked off in Nimbin and we all left at first light to secure a good spot to park.  The town was buzzing with last minute preparations when we got there and the best place to chill out away from the mayhem of the street was the outside tables in the back yard of the ‘Hemp Embassy’.  All gathered were engaging in some kind of marijuana consumption and I felt the slight hint of a time warping experience as I sampled a varied mix of local strains.  My initial attempts at setting up to do a show were shot down in flames before they even got started which has earned Nimbin the title of the least ‘Busker Friendly’ town in Australia.  As I was firing up my amp and going into my routine a hail damaged, old drunken soup bone of a woman came staggering over to me giving the same kind of switch off the music hand gesture you can expect from a cop or a ranger.  She was mumbling “We are gonna have three days of this shit buddy”.  I recognized the pickled up old piss tank from the times I stayed in the township way back when and I was surprised that she still had a liver left let alone the gusts of wine fueled, hot air she was sending my way.  I said “Fuck off will you I’m trying to work”  to which she fired up and started raving at such volume that I had to turn the amp up a couple of notches.  I recommenced the song I had been performing when in comes a gang of about six street kids and their muscular young leader says that I should “not disrespect the elder”. Now it was my turn to fire up. 

I turned off the music again and my vocal skills were directed at the kids and anyone else who was listening in.  I had to explain that I was a respected singer/songwriter who was attempting to perform songs that were composed in that town decades ago and that she was a brain dead old fuck who was so far from being a tribal elder you could measure it in star systems. It was almost as if I had delivered a satisfactory account for my actions to the street kids and they turned and walked away.  The second attempt I made to get started was met with equal opposition when some old Anzac looking cunt leaned out from the balcony of the pub and shouted out for the whole town to hear.  “Oy … You can’t do it there it’s too close to the war memorial”.  I was at least twenty meters away from it. 

                                   Nimbin … go and get fucked, … you are blacklisted,  … you yuppie shithole.

It was the following evening after we returned from the Mardi Grass that Huskys troubles began in the garden at Fran’s house. I was woken in the night by the sound of him whimpering somewhere among the bushes under a grove of palm trees and I went over to see what was wrong with my mobile phone flashlight in my mouth. I located him quickly expecting his lead to be tangled in the bushes but it wasn’t.  As I led him back to his dog blanket and switched on the overhead light I noticed that he was frothing badly at the mouth and the whimpering continued.  Knowing that something was dreadfully wrong I made him as comfortable as I could and raced up the outdoor wooden staircase to call on Fran and Jack for assistance.  In no time the whole household was up and local vets were being woken to consult with about the crisis.  Once it was established that a cane toad was the most likely culprit advise was given to flush out his mouth and throat with the garden hose as thoroughly as possible to remove the poison. The only comfort I got from the vet was the information that dogs have been known to survive cane toad poison by this means.  Hus was so freaked out by the hose in his throat that he actually bit me on two separate occasions as I tried desperately to save his life.  It’s a miracle that I didn’t absorb any of the toxic liquid where he had punctured my skin as I hosed him out as best I could.  After about ten minutes of flushing him with water Jack said “That should be enough” to which we all agreed and Hus was led soaking wet like myself to his ‘doggy bed’.  As I dried him down he seemed to be crying far less than he had been and I actually started feeling that we might have come through ok.  After half an hour or so of just sitting comforting him I decided it might be best for both of us to just sleep it off so I turned out the light and stretched out listening intently for any signs of discomfort or pain from him.  He only gave off a couple of short whines as I lay there then it went silent for what I felt might be too long.  My worst fears were confirmed when I saw him in the phone light, lifeless and obviously gone.

Fran opened the door for me as I tapped quietly and sadly at the top of the stairs.  When I informed her that Hus had passed on it was all I could get out before the full tsunami of my emotions burst forth waking Jack from his slumber on the lounge room floor.  A pot of herbal tea was put on the gas stove as statements and gestures of consolation were laid by both upon my aching heart. It was agreed by all early in the conversation that a poisonous creature killing any other creature is nature at work in it’s purest form. Whatever the details of the tragedy the fact remains unchangeable death is inevitable for every living thing and all we can do is thank our lucky stars for the time we have together. The detail that most played on my mind after Husky’s passing was the fact I had removed a number of floating toads from the pool that were promptly kicked like fully inflated footballs into the Richmond river. It’s conceivable that a creature such as this would attract the attention of large predatory birds who might swoop down and peck at the floating toad and cause it to release the poison from it’s glands. I had spotted Hus sipping water out of the pool on a couple of occasions before telling him off and presenting him with his full water bowl.  If there was a film of toxic fluid floating on the pool that may very well be the thing that killed him and all I can do to not feel guilty is hold on to the agreed consensus that …”A poisonous creature killing any other creature is just nature at work. I didn’t want to hang around at the place where Hus had died one moment longer than I had to and preparations for the trip to the Gold Coast provided a welcomed distraction from the awful ache in the pit of my guts. Jack and I loaded the bike and trailer into the back of his four wheel drive and after big friendly hugs with Fran we headed off out of Lismore a town I never want to return to for as long as I live.  I remained relatively emotionless for most of the drive towards Surfers Paradise just feeling drained and zombie like as if I was on some kind of super strong psyche ward medication. Just in passing I mentioned to Jack that I had to remember who I was prior to having Hus so I could move on and the tears started to flood forth again.  That was the last time I cried out loud over my loss and all going to plan I should be back in a space of emotional neutrality before the next floods in the banks of the Richmond river.

The spot where Jack dropped me and my load off at and where we finally parted company was a riverside park that I camped at for the next week or so till pension day.  Just sitting around fishing, drinking and thinking was a past time that soon proved counter-productive because images of old faithful kept popping into my thoughts and threatening to reignite a debilitating depression I thought I had started to overcome.  I decided the most productive thing I could do was try to do a busking show and see if I could pull it off without collapsing in a crumpled mess on the pavement.  I had once performed in the very same hour that I found out about the death of my friend Arn in the Blue mountains and this would be an even greater challenge to my emotional fortitude. Once I had settled into the routine of performing again I got away with about six ok paying shows without the possession of a permit for the area.  There was a noticeable drop in cash returns for my efforts which signaled that I could expect to earn a little less than half of what I could with Husky boy around. At show number six under the big guitar at The Hard Rock Café a strapping young cop who looked like a star football player strolled my way while walking the beat and commented on the fact I had no permit. I said that I had just arrived in Surfers and the Council offices were shut because it was the weekend.  He was sympathetic to my plight but he said that I had to move on because I was performing illegally. He made a point of mentioning that I was lucky it was he who had spotted me for if it had of been a Council Ranger the penalty is an on the spot fine of five hundred dollars with no exceptions.  I thanked the young cop and his partner for the information and packed up my gear. In spite of whatever coins and notes had landed in the case for those six shows I was content in the knowledge they had served as valuable therapy for my moving on in the world workshop.