The Forever Man

He was a good Catholic boy from Edinburgh, but I was a bad boy from Sydney. And I was a poet and wanted to make love to him in the warm ocean and under the stars.

It quickly became a regular thing, me going down to the lagoon with him in the evening and joining him in a swim. Unless I was on duty, of course. Then I'd fret and grumble, unable to see him walking into the ocean and diving cleanly in and stroking off on his nightly laps. He even went when it was raining. It wasn't cold, but to see him there in the roughened water seemed wrong. He was supposed to be calm, and everything about him was smooth and thought out; nothing was rough.

The night after we left the Island I dreamed of Malcolm, and later in the hospital, and now; I often dream of Malcolm now.

I was experienced. But with Malcolm it was different; I wanted it to go on forever. I wanted to return to him.

I had arrived in Sydney from the country as a wild young eighteen-year-old from Albury who knew he was a poet. I had thought Sydney would inspire me and had romantic visions of living in a garret like some consumption-ridden French artist. And I would wander into literary salons and recite what I wrote and be admired by other writers and artists and considered to be a young genius. I laugh now to think of that, and I laugh more, because, in a small way, that is what happened.

I also had enough country common sense to know I liked to be well fed and warm in winter and that even a freezing garret wouldn't come for free. I decided on my way to the big city that what I needed was a patron. Like those famous composers and artists had.

The first day I hit Sydney I found my way to O'Malley's, the pub in Oxford Street that had a private back room where men could meet and drink together, even after closing time. Where the police turned a blind eye because they were paid to and where politicians who were that way occasionally went, meaning even less chance of the police arriving unexpectedly. Before the Second World War Sydney was a small town. Everyone knew everyone who was in the same game.

I was young but far from naïve, I surveyed the room with a smile on my face and my shirt half unbuttoned and walked over to the best-dressed man in the room. "Hot day," I said with a smile. "What's the beer like here?"

He called up the barman, "My young friend wants to try your beer, Neddy." Then he turned to me and brushed his hand against my arm, testing my reaction. I moved a trifle closer to him, catching his scent and seeing the look in his eyes. He smelled good and clean, and his shirt was fresh and white. "It's my first time here; I'm from Albury," I said. "I'm a poet, and I've come to Sydney to become famous."

He laughed, a big honest laugh. "Well, you have the confidence, boy. So what do you write? Is it like Keats? Or Banjo Patterson?"

"Neither. I write my own work in my own way," I said proudly. "I have had my work published in the Bulletin already. I see them tomorrow about providing a weekly piece for them."

"The Bulletin, you say." He looked impressed. "Well, you must write as well as you look then, boy."

He took me home that night to a large comfortable apartment in Kirribili, and I called him my patron. In public he called me his nephew.

He was demanding when it came to sex, but there was a housekeeper who came in. So, apart from enjoying what was quite good sex, I had little to do but write. I did work, in a bookshop in the city, and I got enough of my writing published to pay for the few extra things my small wage didn't provide. My patron also liked to buy me clothes, expensive imported transparent briefs and tight pants. He took me to O'Malley's bar occasionally to show me off. He'd sit me on a stool at the bar and then he'd stand partly behind me and have an arm wrapped around my body and a hand obviously stroking my good-sized cock as I sat with my legs spread and looked dreamy eyed.

The first few times we went home alone, though, he'd start tearing my clothes off me as soon as we entered the building of flats and had me naked almost as soon as we were inside the flat. Then he'd push my chest to the wall and part my cheeks and enter me roughly but make the fuck last. In the bedroom he had a dressing table that was more like a woman's—with a large mirror, and also a wardrobe, with a large mirror. They were set up so that he could see himself from several angles. And when I looked, I could see he was watching the mirrors more than me. Watching his long, thin cock slide in and out. It quite obviously was a real turn-on for him—and that, for him, he was the focus.

One day we came home from O'Malley's with another man. Dennis was about my patron's age and also well looked after and eyed me off from the moment he entered the bar, and quickly joined us. I was stunned, I admit, when he reached a hand between my legs and felt what my patron's hand was rubbing. Then his mouth came to my ear, and he said, "Nice. We're going to have fun tonight, you and I." And I was confused and shocked but also titillated.

It was obvious my patron knew him, and I quickly realized they must have arranged to meet that night. It was no accident that I went home with two men groping me, wanting me and happy to share me. And despite my misgivings, I was aroused and went with it eagerly.

I climbed into the front of the car before Dennis, which put me between the two of them, as close to my patron as he often liked me to sit when it was dark and no one would notice. Unless he was changing gears, his free hand would be roaming over me, feeling me, my belly, wherever he could reach without it being obvious to any other driver.

My pants stayed on just long enough to get us into the building of flats and into the door of our flat. Then they were pulled down by my patron as Dennis watched.

Afterwards I realized that my patron had no interest in my poetry. He may have arranged for me to meet Herbert Wainright and encouraged him to publish a book of my work, but when he discovered I had done some promoting of myself with Herbert, well, my patron gave me the back of his hand and showed me the door. Apparently only he was allowed to share me around. I was glad to go.

I was happy to leave the demands and possessiveness behind, and Herbert's promises to publish another book of my verses with talk of commissioning a series had my head full of self-confidence and my feet taking me to his office.

Unfortunately, Herbert had another boy at home, Arnold, and when I arrived, Arnold made it clear I was more than unwelcome in his well-feathered nest. The war was on the near horizon, and I decided I'd like to see the world, so I enlisted. I certainly saw some of the world. But there are much better ways.

But, I did find Malcolm.

* * * *

August 1973

Yesterday I received an invitation. To provide some work for a memorial. It's nearly thirty years since what they now call the Second World War, as opposed to the Great War, the war to end all wars, now neatly labeled the First World War, ended, and there is talk of creating a time capsule to be opened on the sixtieth anniversary. Few of us will still be here then. I know I won't be, so they are asking now. Well-known Australian writers and poets, and other ex-servicemen and women, are being canvassed to provide works for the project. I don't know that I want to write anything suitable for the public to read, because I don't want to celebrate something so tragic and wasteful, and better forgotten, but he thinks it's an honor and is proud I have been asked. So, I will, for him. I have never done much for him. I've certainly never done enough.

Chapter Six: Rebuffs

I had felt a little sad for the Forever Man and his assistant as I had watched the young companion place the roses and bottle of cognac at the base of Shawn Martell's grave and then move aside and stand at a bit of a distance, while the old man went down on his knees at the grave. I couldn't hear him, but I could see his shoulders shake, so I assumed he was crying. After all these years.

What I found sad was that there were just the three of us here—and I was standing well back, pretending I was attending another grave. I had read the yellowed news clippings from years gone by that Sandra had given me. Some had photographs. By putting them in order, I was able to follow the arc in the public interest in this little mystery. At some point, there had been a few policemen in attendance and an area cordoned off, with a small crowd of people gathered to watch the ritual. But the attendance had quickly ebbed over the years. And, now, here we were, just the three of us—with the two of them not, I hoped, even realizing I was there.

In some fairness, it did threaten rain and had looked like the heavens might open up at any moment all day. You would have to have a great sense of dedication to come out on a day like this. But still . . .

I took the sadness personally. It reminded me of what I'd really had—rather than what I'd thought I had—with Daren. Abandonment from lack of commitment. The one constant in all of the newspaper clippings was this old man—the man I only knew as the Forever Man, because of his sidewalk drawings. Only he had been here each year. His assistant hadn't appeared in any of the clippings that I could tell—and, indeed, he was far too young to have done so. It had been several years since there was a clipping at all, and the young man appeared to be barely twenty, if even that.

In my relationship with Daren, I'd been like this old man, writing "Forever" everywhere I could—trying to write it on him, even (as he had complained to me)—while Daren was like the shortsighted crowd—there for the temporary thrill and fleeting interest, not prepared to stay around to unravel the mystery of it or to see it through to the end, even if that was just a long, slow, falling-off-into-a whimper end.

The difference appeared to be that the old man didn't seem at all concerned that the crowds had passed him by and that he was alone with his receding "Forever." Whereas I didn't want to be alone, nor did I have the faith that he did anymore that "Forever" was a meaningful goal, let alone a sense of satisfaction or contentment. There wasn't enough "enough" in what seemed to be all this old man wanted.

I didn't see the justice—or the reason, or the "enough" in this. I suddenly saw that Sandra was right. The world shouldn't be permitted to forget about this ritual of commitment and selfish dedication—in my zeal, I had twisted Sandra's milder "people would be interested" without compulsion. And now I knew it went much farther than even Sandra knew about. I knew that the Shawn Martell ritual was connected somehow—I didn't fully know how, although it seemed self-evident, but I intuitively knew that it did fit—with the old man's sidewalk chalkings. And, quite selfishly, I wanted to rub Daren's nose in the contrast between him and this old man—and not just my Daren, but all of the other Darens out there. Different readers would leave off reading my newspaper article with different messages, depending on their individual worthiness or sin. I knew I was good at writing in that style.

Every fiber of my body wanted this story now—saw it as the most compelling story that could be run in the paper. Not just news, but a lesson for all. Something that should make everyone stop in his or her tracks in their tumbling-over-the-edge lives and reassess what was important in life. Commitment and dedication to someone other than yourself. That was what was important.

In my excitement to do something—Now!—I boldly stepped up to the old man and his assistant as they were leaving the grave. With the inevitable result.

"Excuse me. If I could just have a moment of your time."

The younger man—much younger than me, and much fitter too—moved deftly between me and the old man, who was just shuffling along, not looking up, not indicating he'd heard me at all. The young man put out a restraining hand. His face showed more of concern and alarm than belligerence, but there was no doubt that he was interposing himself between me and the old man, that they had no intention of stopping to talk with me.

I was immediately deflated and embarrassed, knowing that my enthusiasm had taken me beyond a constructive approach. And by the time I had regained myself, become grounded in the moment, they were already well past me en route to the rail station. It also was beginning to rain now.

I stood helplessly in place, looking from grave to departing men. It was a good story. No, a great story, especially with the time capsule connection—and, of course, the sidewalk chalking. I couldn't just let my uncontrolled exuberance defeat me. They wouldn't come this way again until the next anniversary of Martell's death. Who knew where I would be then?

So, I followed them—at a distance, hoping that they wouldn't notice me. And the old man was having such a hard go of walking and the assistant was so attentive to the Forever Man's needs that I didn't think they did notice me. Not on the rail platform and not on the train as it moved back to the center of Sydney. And not, I was sure, even when I noticed at the last second that they were getting off at Central rather than going back to the Circular Quay overhead station and only barely was able to get off behind them. I stayed well back when they were walking again—this time in a steady rain—beyond Hyde Park and into the Kings Cross district.

I was surprised where they went. The street of small terrace homes was a quiet, well-kept enclave at an otherwise boisterous edge of Darlinghurst. We passed many a dive and dark district—primarily gay and rough enough even to put me on alert—on our way. I had thought that at any moment the two would stop at a corner and meld with the shadows of some alleyway lined with the cardboard and wooden boxes and metal grates that the hopeless used to build their invisible cities within cities.

But they didn't. They arrived at a perfectly respectable, neat little mews of terraced homes and entered one half way down the path just as I was turning the corner.

I stood, half sheltered from the rain, at someone's covered entrance gate for a few minutes, trying to decide what to do next. I doubted that any other reporter—or much of anyone, really—had tracked the Forever Man to his home in years past. In fact, I doubted that anyone else to this point other than me knew that the "Forever" chalk writer and the mysterious annual visitor to Shawn Martell's grave were one and the same person.

The story was a winning one. I could smell accolades for it both here in Sydney and back in the States at the Times. And I was here. There was no time like the present.

I approached the house and entered its postage stamp--size front garden, neatly landscaped and clean, and stood at the door, in the rain. I picked up the brass knocker and dropped it with a bit more force than I had intended. My hand was trembling with excitement—with excitement or from the cutting cold of having been soaked. At the moment I was too intent on wondering what I would say when, or if, someone answered the door to think about which it was.

* * * *

"Listen, when I told you 'sod off' back there at the grave, that's what I meant. He isn't speaking to anyone about it. It's a very private matter."

"I'm sorry, I'm American. What does 'sod off' mean?"

At first Allen thought that would only make matters worse, when what he wanted was to evoke a smile from the young man. And it wasn't just to help him get his interview of the mystery man laying the flowers and bottle of cognac at Shawn Martell's grave. It also was because the young man looked quite good, very inviting. He must have stripped off his soaked clothes as soon as he and the old man entered the house, because when he answered the door, he was shirtless and clad only in a pair of sagging cargo shorts—which very nearly sagged far enough that the shorts were redundant. To Allen, he looked more than good. Young and fit, his facial (not to mention his torso) features chiseled and handsome.

In the event, the struggle went Allen's way, if only a step in his direction. The young man laughed rather than cursed. Then he lost the hard edge of irritation in his body and facial expression. Allen decided that it probably was because the young man was standing inside the dry, warm house, and he, the intrepid reporter, was standing outside, in the downpour that had pelted the three of them—the young man helping the older man along and Allen trailing behind, trying not to be noticed—from the Central rail station to this small terraced house in Kings Cross.

"I'm sorry," Allen said, taking advantage of the young man's failure just to shut the door on him. "I don't mean to insult his—or your—privacy. Look, I'm a reporter for the Morning Herald. I'll freely admit that. And, yes, I'm looking for a human interest angle on this mystery of the annual visitor to Shawn Martell's grave—and beyond that now, I really want to know about the chalk markings your friend is doing all over Sydney and how those two activities might intersect. And I'm sure others in Sydney would want to know that too—but not in a tawdry sense. It's just very intriguing. I'm sure it would be a favorable piece and wouldn't intrude and—"

"Ah, but you already are intruding, aren't you? You have followed us all the way across Sydney—yes I knew you were doing that—and you are disturbing a sick old man's peace."

"Sick? what is his . . .?" But then Allen stopped, realizing that he was letting the reporter in him run rampant and that it wasn't helping the situation. And he could also see that it was stiffening the young man up—which didn't take anything at all away from the sensuality of him. Something in Allen had already stiffened at the sight of him standing there, barely dressed, and at the height of desirability. "I'm sorry. Listen, could I just come in for a few—?"

"I'm afraid that would be impossible—and it would be useless anyway. He's already gone off to bed. And you must be getting your death of cold standing there in the rain. You'd best be off too . . . for your own good."

"He? Does he have a name?"

"Yes, I suppose he does. But since you don't want to intrude, I'm sure you're not asking."

"I could easily look up who owns this terrace house, you know."

"Yes, yes, you could. And that would be intrusive, wouldn't it?—me having tried to make clear and all that what he wants is complete privacy."

This wasn't going at all well now for Allen. He didn't want to totally alienate the young man. At some point in the conversation Allen's interest in the Forever Man had taken a backseat to this interest in his young assistant here.

So, Allen just grinned and said, "No worries about my health. I live nearby. Thank you for your time, but could I just leave my card? Your friend has, I'm sure, interesting stories to tell that the people of Sydney would appreciate—and honor. And if he is seriously unwell—"

The young man reached out and took the card, but he also interrupted Allen. There was a slight smile on his face, though. "I see. You understand what 'no worries' means but not 'sod off.'"

Allen shrugged and laughed. "I'm American, but I'm also a news reporter. We're trained to understand mostly what we want to hear." And then he pressed his luck, because the young man was now giving him a familiar, assessing, maybe-interested look that Allen was quite familiar with and that sent his senses fluttering. "Look, I'm sorry if we got off on a wrong foot. My name is Allen Singleton. And you are . . .?"

"Just another bloke who values his privacy." He was still wearing a smile, though, so Allen didn't give up all hope. "And you'd best get on to that nearby home of yours and get into a warm bath."