The Mirage Marina Resort, just past Narrowneck, just next door to the Palazzo Versace – just across the road from the Sheraton Mirage, just a little south of that phony reef up by the Broadwater entrance. Just down from Runaway Bay.
Just across the water from Southport, just up the road from Caville Avenue. Just over the border.
The Goldie. Surfers Paradise. The place where everyone with spare millions buys a unit, rents a hair implant, says yes to everything their wife wants, and dies too slow to satisfy their children – who wait impatiently and calculate their inheritance impairments.
They wander about on weekends, these golden people, and they knot and unknot like the semi-preserved un-talking corpses on an Egyptian fresco as they wait for the girl selling unimaginably overpriced jewellery to the biker’s trollop to pay them some attention – $35,000 diamond rings – she tries this, and that, the trollop, and the biker sits and farts and looks through the armour plated window at me as I look at him. This big violent inked up gym ripped pig-eyed frightening man slouched all over the seat as he watches half-lidded his woman of the day simper over diamonds that a year ago were beyond her imagining. She licks her lips, diamonds!
This other fellow, about 70, his hair hangs off his little skull like thin gold braid, he wears a $200 Nike T and his cargo shorts covert his ankles, he wears so much jewellery if he were to dance he would tinkle, like a cheap Christmas tree on a Penrith roof in a December westerly.
His wife’s face is ruined, it’s tanned and tight, old and preserved by some type of saturated brown oil that has dried all crusty and left her eyes wide open and has given her a smile that forever smiles over teeth so perfect that they have given her dentist a unit three floors above the one she bought two years ago.