The tales and journeys of Maxwell Woodger Esq
All I can remember was a Moroccan pimp in a polyester beige suit screaming, “Fuck! Yeah! You wanna dance baby? Fuck!!!” at the top of his lungs over the disco beat of ‘Young hearts run free’- the swan song of one-hit-wonder Candi Staton…
I had received an invitation to drink expensive wine and eat foreign cheese at an Indian Embassy. Surrounded by beautiful women and eager men, the hostess worked in politics and knew how to throw a party. Needless to say the crowd was mainly made up of senior aides for various diplomats and politicians, except a wild group of female physicians who thought an extra layer of foundation could help cover-up the last nip and tuck op. Alone, I was ambassador to the 4-wheeled youth and general street culture.
Over a lovely glass of Greek white wine, I made idle chit chat with a couple of men cowering behind the leather couch. The topic of the evening was politics. I could tell a few people loathed this as it was like being at the office, but with a sex-crazed Moroccan screaming at the Xerox machine and alcohol in the water cooler… Apparently French politics was in a bit of a shambles after President Jacques Chirac’s heart flutter, and raw eggs being thrown at a certain Mr. Fabius. This hatred was directed at Mr. Fabius because he had schemed and backstabbed his own party in favour of the opposition and a front row seat at an exclusive strip joint on the Champs Elysées. Goddammit!
I broke the ice with my own version of current events: An American man was being charged with hate crimes and having his name added to the sex-offenders data base for urinating on a woman. Ha! Like an old 8 track slowed to a stop, my audience groaned and silence prevailed…
Even the music had stopped, but the polyester pimp kept dancing. I attempted a laugh, but I could tell these politicos were deeply touched and in shock of such news. Whammo!
Don’t these people see what goes on out there in the city streets??? The tinted windows of their high-rise offices protecting them from the evil realities of life that lurk below…
Then one of the two men behind the leather sofa spoke: “Oh la la! I remember when I used to live in Amsterdam, there was a club I once visited that specialised in ‘water-sports’, so to speak”. Suddenly the cloud of nervous tension rose and the party took its due course again. One man had bravely admitted to the sordid knowledge that many powerful people grazed and dabbled in on rainy Sunday afternoons. It was as if everyone at the party had testified to their home truths and hidden agendas.
When the cheese was finished, a golden platter of truffles and Belgian chocolate was laid upon the dinner table as dessert. No Ferrero Rocher here- No Sirree! I took a couple of tender chocolate truffles and made my way to the enormous penthouse terrace out back. As I daydreamed over the city skyline, I could smell a distinct smell of sweat and heavy cologne. It was the pimp who had decided to take a break from the funk. “Fuck! Suck beautiful woman, no?!” he smiled. I think he meant “su-ch”, but his accent was thick and the wine was taking effect. “Oh yes!” I replied whole heartedly. “You smoke?” He said as he offered me a thick joint rolled in pink Rizzla paper, with the tobacco filter- Moroccan style obliged.
I turned down the offer, but I knew this man had the right stuff to go with expensive chocolates. Over each of our desserts we introduced ourselves. He was here to accompany a very lady whose husband could not make it. His loss… Apparently the Moroccan was a good friend of the husband and only standing in a service, sort of like a chaperon. I mentioned I worked with the youth, mostly skateboarders. His eyes lit up, slightly glazed from his stick, and he confessed:
“I once knew a skateboarder. A very bad man… He thought he was king and his wife was trophy, you know?” I tried… “On his skateboard he would sing silly and dress like spaceman, but never sing for his woman. He was very envious of his lady. Fuck! He would beat her at night…” Suddenly the Pimp’s voice had turned deadly grave. If he was a pimp, I guessed he knew how to treat women, right..?
“So what happened to this horrible charlatan?” I asked.
The polyester pimp was quiet for a moment- perhaps the hashish smoke had blurred his train of thought… “He run away like a wild dok! His beautiful woman with the big boobies,” he made voluptuous round gestures with his hands, “She is with me now!”
He touched his heart and looked towards the heavens in gratitude.
Holy Monoly! What a story… It had to be true. I couldn’t connect the dots to think of any skaters I knew that would behave so awfully, and the thought gently slipped from my mind. My new friend stubbed out his joint and flicked it over the edge of the terrace. A distinct drumline from a 70’s disco anthem started up indoors, so the pimp bid me farewell and trotted off to the dance floor again.
“Fuck! Sexy woman, you want to dance? Yeah…”
I speed dialled for a cab: “Yes, one cab for Hotel California please?”
Maxwell Woodger