Where I Slept

About the BookWhen he asks what kind of work I do, I tell him I am a poet.‘Poetry will break your heart,’ he says.‘Or, perhaps it is the only thing that won’t,’ I say.Where I Slept is the story of a young woman’s devastating and inspirational search for a life of artistic integrity.Leaving a seedy boarding house in a provincial town in the 1990s, she travels to Melbourne—to all the possibilities of the city. She lives in bohemian share houses with painters, activists, addicts and petty criminals, on the couches of friends and not-so-accommodating acquaintances and, for a time, in the streets, parks and railway stations of a city both richly gratifying and callously indifferent.Libby Angel’s work of autofiction is an unforgettable portrait of a life on the fringes, peppered with dark humour and moments of elation—a poem of longing and desire. CONTENTSCover PageAbout the BookTitle PageTHE OLD MAN WHO BUMPEDGO FORTH AND FUCK UPMEAT RAFFLESPIRIT LEVELTHE BLACKOUTCLEANOUT000THE CELLARBANGPOISON IVYTATI'S PLACETHE THEOLOGICAL COLLEGEKATYA'S PLACEGOODBYE MYLESTHE TRAINM STREETI AM NOT A WAIFFORTY-SEVENBOB IS BACKTHE BOOK OF LIESBLACK FLAGHEAD OF HAIRTHE LOUNGESOCIAL INSECURITYPOTMACEPAISLEYCGET WHAT YOU CAN FOR FREEDANCE EVOLUTIONTREES TALKTHE MOUNTAINTHE HIGHWAYWINTER MANBENDERTHE BRIDGETHE BEARDHAIRY FISTSTHAT'S NOT ARTSPOOFUNDER THE MATTRESSCROSSING THE LINEKIRTANGARYPAWN SHOPTHE SPIREWOMEN WITH HORNSBETHANY'S SHOWPEARL OF MERCYSPECIAL KBARNACLE BOYBERLIN FOR DEPRESSIVESNOISERAVETHE ADMIRERR HOTELBYRONIC MANTHE ADMIRERSTEALINGTOM OF FINLANDTHE ADMIRERTOM OF FINLANDTHE ADMIRERTHE FURNACETHE PARTYTHE LOST OBJECTFINTHE RATMR SLEAZEWHITE TRASH BLUESROGERPURPLE PEOPLEVOODOO DOLLSREAL LESBIANHALF PAST THREECAVE CLANTHE ADMIRERTHE KEYBOARD PLAYERSTOLID COMFORTBLOCK OF ICETHE NIGHT BIRDSKANKY HOTHE LESSONBIG ONETHE ADMIRERNOTES FROM THE DEADHOUSEARRESTEDI LOVE THE SOUND OF BREAKING GLASSDOUBLE BRIETHE SMITH FAMILYCITY BATHSTHE PROJECT OF RESISTANCEBREAK AND ENTERSOCK MONKEYNIGHT TRAMSACCESSIBLEFLOWER SHOWBEETHOVEN'S FIFTHROTUNDAAPPLE PIESQUATSPEED QUEENTHE LAUNDRYHARE RAMAMIRACLE JOHNORPHANSBENT STREETBUCKETSUNTIL MORNINGROSE STREETMOTHERTHE ADMIRERVALERIANEGGBEATERTHE AIKENHEAD WARDINTERNATIONAL WOMEN'S DAYREAL BABYGOD SUITACTION SCHOOLTHIS WAY OUTHAPPY ENDINGTAKE THE MONEYJUST LIKE HEAVENNIGHT MESSAGESTEMPLE OF THE FOUR WINDSBIG TOWN BLUESAcknowledgmentsAbout the AuthorCopyright Page THE OLD MAN WHO BUMPEDThe old man’s office is full of mannequins in various stages of undress. Velvet gowns slip from fibreglass shoulders and hats sit askew on hollow heads. A redhead in a lace teddy reclines in an armchair, stiff legs spread. The old man stands among his harem, barely more animate, except for his eyes, which swim.‘Welcome to the Last Stand,’ he says, extending an arthritic paw. There are chunky rings crammed over the swollen finger joints and silver bangles jingle at his wrists.I shake the limp hand, politely refraining afterwards from wiping my palm on my pants.‘What do you think of my ladies?’ he asks.‘You’re a lucky man,’ I say.‘You’re a friend of Lolly’s, are you?’‘I am.’The old man plunges into his chair, almost disappearing behind the stack of ledgers on his desk.‘Are you gainfully employed?’ he asks.‘As of yesterday,’ I say. ‘At the K Pub, down the road.’This is sort of true, though gainfully is probably an exaggeration.The old man scratches his arm. Flakes of skin snow onto the desk.‘Teetotaller myself,’ he says, shuffling his bottom denture about in his mouth with his tongue, ‘but I know the establishment.’The room is crowded with furniture. Against one wall is a mahogany sideboard with a tower of lampshades on it, and next to it a cabinet crammed with pillboxes, brass cigarette lighters, sets of miniature scales, coloured glass bottles and stethoscopes. The floor, too, is cluttered: standing ashtrays, candelabra, broken chairs and, in one corner, a pile of dented radiators with frayed cords. Next to the desk, where the old man presides, sits a Guide Dogs for the Blind collection box—a bakelite labrador with coin slot in the back of its head. And by the stairs down to the cellar, standing sentinel at a childproof gate, is a brunette mannequin with matted coif and Glomesh bag on one wrist.The old man follows my gaze.‘That’s my hidey-hole down there,’ he says, jiggling a bunch of keys.‘Right,’ I say.I look back towards the office door. Lolly is waiting for me in the hall.‘Have a look around,’ the old man says. ‘There might be a room available in a couple of weeks.’I call this town where I was born Tidy Town, on account of it winning that title three years running and counting—I know what really goes on here. What Lolly has described as a grand hotel is really just a glorified boarding house, a shabby sandstone building on the northeast edge of town, on the corner of Church and Carriage streets, with the name of the establishment engraved in the crumbling lintel over the front door: The Last Stand 1882. On the footpath outside there’s a row of iron rings, once used for tethering horses.Lolly’s is the largest of the rooms upstairs. It’s on the corner, with two huge sash windows, a fireplace and a ceiling rose.‘The street number is reducible to eight,’ she says, flopping onto the bed, ‘which represents prosperity and infinity—a very auspicious number.’I stand on a chair to screw in a new light bulb, then lock the door behind us as we go downstairs. The banister is smooth and wide—perfect for sliding down. There is a blue payphone under the stairs, and beside it a list of numbers tacked to the wall.‘The old man’s kitchen and bathroom are through there,’ says Lolly, pointing to the door adjacent to his office. A sour odour emanates.I follow Lolly through the dining room, past a bookcase filled with old computer manuals and encyclopaedias. Moody landscapes hang crookedly on the walls. French doors reveal a weed-choked courtyard.‘It’s funny,’ says Lolly. ‘The old man can have any room in the house and he chooses to sleep in the cellar.’‘Maybe it’s the only room he can’t rent out,’ I say.In the communal kitchen, I open one of the two fridges and catch a whiff of rancid air. The shelves are crammed with Tupperware containers and opened plastic packets of food. I count five cartons of cow’s milk, two of soy. Almost everything is labelled: Do not touch; Katya only; This belongs to Andrew Healy. We go through the flyscreen door into the backyard, glasses of water in hand. Bees hum