Tim Walker’s Encounter

“So how’d you end up here tonight?”

“I was originally over the road, started losing, so I thought I’d cut those losses and come here – problem is now I’m spending more money here than I was there, anyway.”

“Ha, nice … So do you come here a lot?”

“In fact, no, first time.”

“Oh, well, you have a good night then, won’t you?”


“Oh wow, how’d you get that massive scar?”

“Ah, car crash, few years back, broke that elbow – dislocated the other.”

“Oh yeah, you said … So like, were you wearing a seat belt?”

“Backseat passenger in a 1984 Honda CRX – don’t know how familiar you are with those particular back seats..?

“Ah, ha, not very..?”

“Yeah, well, suffice to say, I mean not that I can recall, but, probably safe to assume, I wasn’t.”

“Oh wow, so like, how many bones ya break?”

“Just that one – I think – wouldn’t really know … By the time I woke up they’d taken care of everything.”

“Oh nice, so how long were you in hospital?”

“Few months I think.”

“Oh wow, and how old were you?”

“I was seventeen at the time, but already had my life pretty well underway.”

“Oh, how horrible … Then I suppose you got out of hospital and it would’ve been like, everything had changed around you, and you had to find some place to kind of, you know, re-fit in..?”

“Well, yeah, but that’s life, isn’t it?”

“Guess it is, yeah…”

“Well take your situation for example – I mean, is this how you planned your life?”

“Actually, so far, yeah … Ha, actually, it is, pretty much.”

“Oh, really? Well, shit, I guess, I am impressed, I mean, shit, if this is what you’re into, then that’s great.”

“Yeah, I love it eh.”

“My God, that is brilliant, especially after so many people – particularly woman – condemn it as a legitimate career choice, maintaining the women who do it are broken, or hollow, or soulless, or something else decidedly less than wonderful…

“Yeah, I don’t think we’re soulless at all, I think most of us who do it do it because we want to do it, ‘cause we enjoy it, we do it because we know we can – I think those girls who talk shit about us are envious, that’s all.”

“Well said – very well said … So what did you do before this then?”

“Before this..? Ah, nothing … I left school, fucked around for a year or two then came here…”

“And you’ve been here ever since..?”

“Yeah buddy, as I said, I love it.”

“Shit man that is awesome – so this is really all you ever aspired to do..?

“As I said honey, I fuckin’ love it.”

“And you seem to be very good at it…”


“Hey, you’re still here!”

“Sure, nowhere else to be…”

“Hmm … Have a drink with me..?

“Nice one.”

“Oh, sorry, I didn’t realise, that’s difficult for you, isn’t it?”

“Well yeah, although after so many years of practice, it was supposed to be seamless kind of difficulty.”

“Ha, well, if it makes you feel any better, I’m sure it would be seamless to most, it’s just that I know what to look for.”

“Interesting … Although I must ask, why the hell would you be particularly looking for spasmodic limbs?”

“Ha, around here, honey, you’d be surprised how many, let’s just say, differently endowed, people we see … And let me tell you, that’s nothing.”

“That’s probably because what you just saw was nothing – just wait until you see something.”

“I look forward to it.”

“Yeah, if I were you, I probably wouldn’t be.”

“Like I said honey, it’s nothing … Things like that don’t matter to me – it shouldn’t matter to anyone.”


“My God, you’re brilliant … So, can I ask, how old are you?”

“Technically, no, you can’t ask, but between you and me, I’m twenty-three.”

“Oh, no way…”

“Oh, I’m sorry to disappoint – what were you expecting?”

“No, well, it’s just that, shit man, I mean, you speak so well – so far above your years … Twenty-threeseriously..?”

“Ha-ha, oh, you’re funny … You’re not going to start treating me like a kid now, are you?”

“Well, I suppose I should and on that note, Little Miss twenty-three-year-old, it’s almost three a.m. and I feel as though someone of your apparent delinquency ought to be tucked up in bed.”

“My ‘apparent delinquency’ – seriously..? Alright Mr I-don’t-know-how-old-you-are but you look about thirty-four…”

“I’ll just assume those extra couple of years you’ve added there are on account of the ungodly hour and my, oh-so-aged requirement for sleep.”

“I thought oh-so-ancient people didn’t need so much sleep..?”

“I said aged, not ancient, although I can see the confusion – taking into account also my typically lacking enunciation…”

“Hmm, I’m up soon, see ya in a bit.”


“How was I?”

“You were spectacular.”

“Oh, thank you honey … How much longer do you plan on staying around?”

“Hadn’t really thought about it, but I guess as long as you’re around to reciprocate scintillating conversation, there’s really no reason for me to leave.”

“Nice, I’ll be around for a bit – might have to duck away every now and again though…”

“That’s fine, I’m sure I’d end up bored with you if you were here constantly anyway – you want another drink?”

“That’d be nice, thanks.”

“Medium white..?”

“Yeah, but make sure they fill the glass this time.”


“I did used to – used to love the shit out of it – stopped a few years back.”

“Oh, well I still do – I still love the shit out of it – so I’m gonna have one now.”

“Nice one – I’ll join you if you don’t mind…”

“You just said you gave up..?”

“I did say that, but I don’t think I’ll ever stop loving the smell.”

“So you’ve gone from being addicted to first-hand smoke, to being addicted to second-hand smoke..?”

“I wouldn’t say addicted as such, let’s just say I do enjoy a spot of passive-aggressive smoking.”


“Yeah, guess you could say, I’m subtly forceful about my second-hand smoking.”

“Forceful, how?”

“Forceful in that I force a smoker not to bogart their second-hand smoke.”

“Ha, nice, come on then.”


“So who picks your stage names?”

“We do.”

“Really? But yours doesn’t even suit you.”

“I know, it sucks eh.”

“Well no, I mean it’s a lovely name ‘nall, but you’d be better suited to, I dunno, Storm, or something like that….”

“Hey yeah … Storm’s good eh … Yeah I might change it.”

“…Or what about your real name, that’d be a great stage name..?”

“Nah, I wouldn’t really want random sleaze-bags knowing my real name, you know?”

“Yes, random sleaze-bags like me – oh wait, but you just told me you real name..?”

“Yeah, but you’re not a sleaze-bag.”

“You don’t know that…”

“Trust me, I know people, you’re not.”


“Ha-ha, don’t be too disappointed! Wow I just told you you were a nice guy and you looked all sad!”

“Ah, being a ‘nice guy’s overrated – nice guys invariably finish last.”

“Not always – I like nice guys.”

“You’d consider your boyfriend a ‘nice guy’ then..?”

“If I had one he’d be nice – why would I go out with a guy who wasn’t nice?”

“Because in my experience, like I said, your beloved ‘nice guys’ indubitably finish last – or at least well behind the shitheads.”

“Hmm, that’s because girls love guys who are confident.”

“’Arrogant’ might be the better term.”

“Sure, that too – if a guy acts like he can get any girl, pretty much, he will.”

“Right … But you’re still single … No shitheads in your midst..?”

“Nah, I don’t see the point in having a boyfriend until I’m ready to get married eh.”


“Tell me some more about your accident..?”

“The car I was in accidentally crashed into the side of a parked bus, at speed.”

“Oh wow, so what happened – to you, I mean?”

“Nothing really – in that I don’t seem to have been launched from any windscreens or died and collapsed over anyone else -”

“So there were others in the car..?”

“There were, the driver and front passenger.”

“And you were in the back..?”

“Yes, and from my backseat perch, as I mentioned, I don’t believe my head actually came into contact with anything … I just suffered extensive whiplash to the extent that my head almost came off my shoulders and my brain smashed into the side of my skull, seemingly killing a bunch of hair follicles, resulting in this bald-er patch here, see?”

“Oh wow…”

“Yeah, I’m just pissed we don’t live in Summer Bay, or on Shortland Street, or have good Neighbours – after all, soap opera brain trauma only lasts a month or two before being totally forgotten.”

“Hey, well, like you said, I am still young, and you do look kind of restless…”

“Oh, come on, seriously..? There is no way that you are twenty-three years old – twenty-three-year-old girls, firstly, are much too young to know about horrible soaps like ‘The Young and the Restless’ and secondly, plain and simple, they are not that Goddamned witty … My God, you are brilliant!”

“No I grew up on ‘The Young and the Restless’ – I really am twenty-three though – my Mum used to have stacks of tapes of it that she’d watch during the day, from when she was working shifts…

“Woah, tapes, nice one, now you are really showing your age.”

“Hey, shut up, just ‘cause I’s born last century…”

“Yes, in the nineties – if you can call that last century.”

“Hey, it’s not my fault I’m still young and beautiful, it’s just how – just how my Mum and Dad made me.”

“Ha, you’re young and beautiful, I’m old and restless, and nice one on avoiding a corny religious reference there.”

“Did I? Oh … Aren’t I wonderful?”

“Yes … Yes, you are.”

“Thanks, but guess what? This wonderful young lady has to get going now – sorry…”

“Don’t be sorry – do what you have to do.”

“OK, thank you for the company tonight, and for the – what was it? – scintillating conversation … So will I see ya back here?”

“I doubt it.”

“Oh, well, have a good life then, and enjoy your tomorrow!”

“Yes, tomorrow, he mumbles, glancing at his watch to see the sunrise can’t be far off…”

“Yeah, huh, you do get used to having your days all messed up, eh.”

“Can’t imagine I would but hey, it was a pleasure.”

“See ya!”



Article by Tim Walker

Edited by Nat Seoul-List

Photography by Karl Lander-Grill

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