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Sport 32: Summer 2004
Kenny's
Kenny's
The carpet is grey, the tables formica, the walls yellow, the place iconic. White-bread sandwiches curl under glass.
When one comes in here, traditionally, is three, four, five o'clock in the morning. What one orders, traditionally, is a pot of tea, a burger and chips; maybe egg and chips with white bread and butter on the side. ‘Is it okay to smoke here?’ one of the hangers-on asks. ‘Hey man, this is Kenny's. Everything's okay here,’ is the correct answer.
You can't fall asleep, though—that's the only thing that's not okay. The tranny at the next table, sitting alone, beautiful, fragile, with a black eye and bruises down the length of bare back exposed by her dress, is woken by the soft-spoken waitress. ‘You can't sleep here, dear,’ she says, not unkindly.
‘I'm offending people,’ the tranny whispers, dreadfully, to herself.
Riki's trying to tell a joke. He and Jonathan are so tired they can't stop laughing. ‘Man, you fucked that up so bad,’ Jonathan says, wiping tears from his eyes.
Outside the taxis and the drunks slide along Courtenay Place, looking for destinations.