Loaded (10 page)

Janet vs Ariadne. Janet with her smooth pale skin. Fleshy. Short dyed-red hair. Steel-capped boots and op-shop dresses. Ariadne clothed in silk and expensive shirts and skirts. Luxurious dark hair falling in curls around her face and shoulders. Janet coming over to our house, ill-applied lipstick, chattering away with Mum in English. My father looking at her suspiciously and laying on a thick Greek accent. Alex showed her the family photographs. I took her out back of the shed and shared a joint with her. She told me that I should do my own laundry. I told her that if my mother wanted to slave over her children that was my mother's decision. Dinner was not a success, my father got drunk and abused Australians. Peter got drunk as well, abused my father and abused Greeks.

He took Janet home and returned hours later, waking Mum and Dad up, screaming at them, saying I'm sick of it, sick of living in your world, living in this house, I can't study,
I can't think. I stayed in my room watching the television, watching the American news with the sound turned low so I could hear the screaming. Peter came in my room, tired, pale, his hair plastered across his forehead. Sweating, he had walked all the way back home.

Ari, he whispered to me, taking one of my cigarettes, I'm going to move in with Janet. Sure, I answered, she seems nice. Mum and Dad will make a big fuss, mate, he told me, this might not be a pleasant house for a long time. I got up and turned off the television, sat down next to him. I put my arm around him. It's okay big brother, I can handle Mum and Dad. Peter started crying, a slow, quiet cry. We're not normal wogs are we, Ari? he said quietly. No, thank God for that, I answered.

 

Families can detonate. Some families are torn apart forever by one small act, one solitary mistake. A marital indiscretion, someone doing drugs, a father fucking a kid up the arse in the bathroom. Living in my family it was a series of small explosions; consistent, passionate, pathetic. Cruel words, crude threats. If we came home late, Mum would wake up and scream that she had given birth to animals, louts, a slut. If we were not doing our homework, Dad would yell at us for being lazy and stupid. Most times you could shrug it off, go to your room, put on music and let them carry on outside.

If they were very angry they might come in, turn off the music, throw your CD or cassette against the wall. The screaming could go on half the night, wake up the neighbours, wake up the dogs. They called us names, abused us, sometimes hit us, short sharp slaps. It was not the words themselves, but the combination of savage emotion and insult, the threat of violence and the taunting tone that shattered our attempts at pretend detachment; it was Peter's sly, superior smile, my sister's half-closed eyes which did not look at them, my bored, blank face, that spurred my
parents on to greater insults, furious laments. The words, the insults; spawn of the devil, fucking animals, pieces of shit, the Antichrist, sons of bitches, daughter of a whore, stupid, lazy, ugly, useless, shameful, not-real-men, weak, you embarrass us, we are the laughing stock of the neighbourhood, I regret the day I gave birth to you.

And our replies; peasants, dumbfuck ignorant hillbillies, hypocrites, wogs, dumb cunt wogs. We spurred each other on till we reached a crescendo of pain and we retired exhausted to our rooms, in tears or in fury. Then Peter met Janet and he walked out the door. She offered him a way out. We are weak, lazy, useless, we can't do it on our own, we need the strong back of another. Janet served her purpose, and now Peter's wandering eyes have connected with Ariadne clothed in silk. Beauty is top currency in this world. Not that Janet is ugly, but next to Ariadne she can't compete. And my brother, he's a Greek boy. Thinks with his dick.

Like me. The street is dark and a few blocks south is my brother's house. I could walk down the small inner-city streets, renovated terraces and newly-constructed speed traps, walk across Brunswick Road, past the Italian nursing home and knock on my brother's door. Maybe George would be home, watching television, drinking a beer, we could share a joint. In the darkness I can smell him, the bitter tang of his sweat. But instead I keep walking along Glenlyon Road and go into the Seven Eleven. Bored young Italian boys are hanging out in the car park. They look at me suspiciously, then look away. A young guy behind the counter, pimples on his face, baseball cap on his head, is listening to music on the radio. I buy an orange juice and ask for a packet of cigarettes. Chaka Kahn is on the radio and the young guy turns the volume up. Good song I say to him. He nods and takes my money. I nod and take my change.

Outside, in the car park, Chaka Kahn is also blaring from
a car speaker. I walk towards St George's Road with the fading echo of
Ain't Nobody
falling around my ears.

At St George's Road I stick out my finger and head towards the City. Cars fly past me. I hear occasional shouts and abuse but none of the cars stop. At the lights a young punk girl is vomiting against a wall. Are you okay?, I ask her and she tells me to fuck off. I lean against the lightpost and watch the yellow bile pulse out of her mouth. When she's finished she staggers off across the street, ignoring the traffic and enters a pub. I stay leaning against the post, listening to the acoustic hippie-shit music coming from the pub.

The vomit seeps down the wall and runs in a little stream into the gutter. The wall is plastered with graffiti. Rap art and political graffiti. Act Up is sprayed in red. An anarchy symbol in black. Someone has scribbled Nelson Mandela Was Duped in blue. Underneath, in white, red and blue, a picture of the Madonna. A blank wall on which people want to leave their mark. Like dogs pissing on a shrub. I wish I had a texta on me, to write my name, and then underneath, to write; I'm not saying anything. Instead I keep walking along. A yellow station wagon stops for me and I run and get into the back seat. A red-haired man is driving; beside him sits a woman with long blonde hair. Where are you going? she asks me.

–Just down the road, to the Punters. The man heads off. They don't speak to me, don't speak to each other. Some shit skip band is on the radio. I lean forward and say thanks for the lift. The man grunts. Around my feet are scattered empty hamburger containers from McDonald's, empty cans of coke, wrappers from chocolate bars and cigarette butts. The car smells of dope and french fries. The car stops at the lights and the woman turns around and looks at me. She turns her head slowly, as if her neck can't support the effort required. They are both pinned, and I don't try for any further conversation. They're on heroin, I'm on speed, different drugs, different moods. We are caught up in our
separate, individual experiences. Conversation is redundant.

They drop me off at the Punters and Brunswick Street is full of drunks, young suburban couples in their Saturday night best. Across the street a van is playing seventies disco and a tall, thin man is dancing on top of the roof. A sign on the side of the van reads: I have AIDS and I've been fired from work. Please give me some money, I'm dancing as fast as I can. The crowds on the street ignore him except for a group of young anarchists who are trying to make conversation with him. He ignores them, ignores the crowds, his face looking upwards to the night sky, exalted, the sweat pouring like a river around his naked torso. He is spinning on the roof of the van, looking to heaven, finding jubilation in the gospel of disco, music from a time where you could put your dick into anything and not worry about what you would find.

A Maori bouncer stands at the door of the pub. In a blue cap, Malcolm X T-shirt and a red vest, he looks like New York City.

The pub is full of drunken white boys and girls, private school blonde kids doing punk and grunge. Johnny is sitting at the bar, dressed as Toula, talking to a beautiful dark-haired boy in a leather jacket. Johnny is wearing a scarlet, tight mini-dress and black silk stockings. His stilettos are resting against the boy's ankles. Two Ethiopian guys are looking at him suspiciously but Toula has her back to them. The Ethiopian guys are trying to look like Americans; baseball caps, chains and rainbow shirts but they can't pull it off, they don't look comfortable in their clothes. They look like what they are; immigrants just off the boat. I go up to Johnny and stroke his back.

Johnny takes my hand and introduces me to the boy in leather. I have a big grin on my face. The boy's name is Declan and he shakes my hand. Glad to meet you, Ari, he says, but I can't hear the words above the heavy din coming from the band room. I see his mouth move.

I order a whisky from the bar and buy a round of beer for Johnny and Declan. My last shout, I yell to Johnny, I'm running out of cash.

–It's fine, sugar, he tells me, Mama won big at the races today. We're celebrating. Johnny holds out his hand in a tight fist and I take hold of it. He drops two tablets into my palm. I put them in my mouth and take a sip of whisky to wash them down. What have I taken? I ask.

–A cocktail, sugar. The brown one was acid, the white one ecstasy. I told you, Mama won a mint this afternoon. I groan and look at Declan, who laughs at me. I shrug my shoulders and decide to enjoy the night. The little pills are in my stomach now, soon to disintegrate, sliding their magic into my bloodstream and into my brain. A young woman in heavy make-up comes up to Declan and puts her arm around him. She ignores me and Johnny. She whispers something in Declan's ear and he gets up, kisses Johnny on the cheek, shakes my hand goodbye and leaves with the young woman holding onto his arm. I take his seat. That isn't the Croat? I ask. Johnny gives a long laugh. Declan is hardly a Slav name, sugar, is it? He finishes the beer and asks the barman for another.

–No, the Croat left. The night was a disaster. Johnny adjusts his dress. He was angry I was on drugs, he thought I was a nice Greek girl.

–Someone to take home to mother? I ask. Johnny laughs and touches my cheek affectionately.

–Let's go, I'm tired of hanging out in this place. Let's go to the faggots. I finish my drink and take his arm. One of the Ethiopians leans over and whispers something into Johnny's ear. Johnny giggles then whispers something back to the man. The man laughs and waves us goodbye. What was all that about? I ask.

Johnny ignores me and stops to chat with the bouncer. I wait outside, where the man is still dancing on top of the van, the crowds still ignoring him. The anarchists have
moved on and are busking further down the street. Disco music from the van mingles with the feedback from the pub, drowning out the acoustic guitars and tambourines of the anarchists. Johnny joins me and looks around for a taxi. What was all that about? I repeat. He wanted to know if you were my boyfriend. Johnny smiles flirtatiously at me, puts on a wog accent. He big cock, he was asking me, boyfriend have big cock?

–What did you tell him? Johnny puts his head back and laughs. He laughs and laughs, drowning out the disco, the grunge band in the pub, the hippies playing guitars.

–I told him that it was big enough but that mine was bigger. He throws me a sly grin. Much bigger. I laugh. It's true. Johnny's hung. A group of drunk skip boys are giving him dirty looks and I put my arm around him, protectively, indicating that I am ready to defend him. The street is too crowded, too well lit for a clash to take place and the drunk boys don't stop us. We cross over to the old post office and wait for a taxi to arrive. Johnny lights a cigarette and immediately a white cab slides across Johnston Street and stops in front of us. I hail it and open the door to the back seat for Johnny. No smoking, the driver warns him. Johnny stands with the door open and slowly smokes his cigarette. I get into the front seat and wait for Johnny to finish his cigarette. What's wrong with your friend? the driver asks me. I look over. He has dark skin, long black hair across his shoulders, wears a blue denim jacket. A young guy, some kind of wog. He has the radio on and the Beach Boys are singing wouldn't it be nice if we were lovers.

–Nothing's wrong with my friend. He's enjoying his cigarette. The driver looks back at Johnny. Get in, he yells, have your fucking smoke but if the cops catch you smoking you pay the fine. Johnny glides in the back. Thanks, sugar, he calls out, settles in the back and the driver asks where we are going. I tell him Collingwood and he hits the steering wheel with his fist. Couldn't you fucking walk? he asks me.
I don't answer, the drugs Johnny has given me must be starting their effects because I'm sinking into a trance, the night air is turning to liquid and the sounds in the taxi, the sounds off the street, are becoming very sharp, very clear. I can hear a woman's stiletto heels on the pavement, Brian Wilson's voice isn't coming from the taxi's shit-box radio but seems to be emerging from inside my head. Johnny leans forward, flashes the driver a large smile and tells him to just drive.

–Just drive, he says, we're large tippers. The driver relaxes and starts the engine. To Collingwood, he says. To Collingwood, I echo.

Hit the North. The North is where they put most of the wogs. Not in the beginning. In the beginning we clogged the inner city and the industrial suburbs of the west. But as wogs earned some money and decided to move further afield, into the bush-land-torn-down-to-become-housing-estates, more and more concrete and brick-veneer palaces began to be sprinkled across the Northern suburbs. Wogs were not welcome to move South of the river, the brown murky Yarra which divides the city, so instead the Greeks and Italians, the Chinese and the Arabs, began to build their homes on the flatlands on the wrong side of the river.

The North, if you're a wog, will entrap you. Push, push, push against it. Little Arabic communities, little Greek communities, little Turkish and Italian communities. The Northern suburbs are full of the smells of goats cheese and olive oil, hashish and bitter coffee. The Northern suburbs are unrelentingly flat with ugly little brick boxes where the labouring and unemployed classes roam circular streets; the roads to nowhere.

The North isn't Melbourne, it isn't Australia. It is a little
village in the mountains of the Mediterranean transported to the bottom of the southern hemisphere; markets of little old ladies in black screeching in a Babel of languages. Harridans, fishwives, scum. The North is a growing, pulsating sore on the map of my city, the part of the city in which I, my family, my friends are meant to buy a house, grow a garden, shop, watch TV and be buried in. The North is where the wog is supposed to end up. And therefore I hate the North, I view it with as much contempt as possible.

I resist the North, the spaces in which Greeks, Italians, Vietnamese, and the rest of the one hundred and ninety other races of scum, refos and thieves hold on to old ways, old cultures, old rituals which no longer can or should mean anything. I hit the North, get off the bus and walk along the steaming asphalt streets and I want to scream to the fucking peasants on the sidewalk, Hey you, you aren't in Europe, aren't in Asia, aren't in Africa any more. Face it, motherfuckers (and motherfucker is appropriate, the greatest obscenity: the matriarch reigns supreme in these wog houses. She may be kicked and beaten, exploited and hated, but it is she who maintains a rigid grip on the traditions that blighted her life and will blight the lives of her children). Face it motherfuckers, I want to scream, there isn't a home any more. This is the big city, the bright lights of the west, this is a wannabe-America and all the prayers to God or Allah or the Buddha can't save your children now. I put on a scowl and roam the North in my dirtiest clothes, looking and feeling unwashed. I am the wog boy as nightmare.

The reception centres are all in the North, scattered along the suburban shopping strips on High Street and Sydney Road, the centres where weddings, engagements, twenty-firsts are celebrated. We dress up in glittering suits and sparkling dresses to celebrate the timeless rituals of our cultures, dining on second-rate food, listening to second-rate musicians mangle the folk music our parents learned
to dance to. Cousins I have not seen in years, aunts who I do not remember, we all sit together and drink toasts to the blushing bride and the handsome groom on the dais and I always feel like choking on my drink, smashing my fist into the wedding cake, sucking off the best man in the toilets, getting drunk, getting ripped, getting out of it, abusing my uncles, doing anything to stop the charade.

In the red glow of the plastic reception centre, the wog is revealed as a conman, a trickster or a self-deluded fool. Thousands of dollars spent recreating the motions of old rituals that have no place or meaning in this city at the bottom of the world. My brother, my sister, myself, my cousins all leave the dinner table, and on the garbage-littered back steps of the reception centre we get stoned, smoke joint after joint, so that we can go back inside, sit at the table, raise a toast without the bile exploding from our mouths. And we sit, red-eyed, almost comatose, looking at the display of wealth before us: a long table piled with boxes of gifts, the table overflowing; money pinned to the bride's dress; balding, fat men throwing notes onto the bandstand; large women, sweating and laughing, jingling their gold bands and bracelets as they move around the circle of the dance. I never dance at weddings.

I hate it, but the North is temptation. I take the bus from the city and roam the ovals and parks and river banks, searching out fat Arab men and chain-smoking Greek men who stand with their dicks out at urinals, cigarette in their mouths, waiting for you. A defiant dance, for I am a wog myself, and I have to force myself to my knees before another wog. I have to force my desire to take precedence over my honour. It is in the North where I search for the body, the smile, the skin that will ease the strain on my groin, that will take away the burning compulsion and terror of my desire. In the North I find myself, find shadows that recall my shadow. I roam the North so I can come face to face with the future that is being prepared for me. On my
knees, with hate written on my face, I spit out bile, semen, saliva, phlegm, I spit it all out. I spit on the future that has been prepared for me.