Loaded (15 page)

Fucking faggot rings in my ear. Faggot I don't mind. I like the word. I like queer, I like the Greek word
pousti
. I hate
the word gay. Hate the word homosexual. I like the word wog, can't stand dago, ethnic or Greek-Australian. You're either Greek or Australian, you have to make a choice. Me, I'm neither. It's not that I can't decide; I don't like definitions.

If I was black I'd call myself nigger. It's strong, scary, loud. I like it for the same reasons I like the words cocksucker and wog. If I was Asian I'd call myself a gook, but I'd use it loudly and ferociously so it scares whitey. Use it to show whitey that it's not all yes-sir-no-sir-we-Asians-work-hard-good-capitalists-do-anything-the-white-man-says-sir. Wog, nigger, gook. Cocksucker. Use them right, the words have guts.

Her words, fucking faggot, they ring in my ear.

In the car Greek music with a middle-eastern tinge is playing. Maria shakes her hips as she drives. I'm in the front, hanging my head out the window to feel the breeze. An old drunk on the steps of the Masonic Hospital waves to me. I wave back. In the back Johnny's complaining about the music. What's this wog shit, Maria? he calls out. Put something else on. Maria ignores him, she turns up the volume. Johnny screeches from the back. Take off that fucking song, he yells. I keep staring out the window, ignoring the racket inside the car.

We stop at the Seven Eleven on Punt Road and Maria and I get out to get cigarettes. As soon as we are out of the car Johnny switches off the tape. Inside the store the humming of electricity, the throbbing of the refrigerators interacts with the neurons in my head and I'm overwhelmed by the bright fluorescent lights. A bored young Indian guy serves us, not looking at us. He hands over three packets of cigarettes and we hand over the money. I look at the dry pies and sausage rolls on display, tempted to have something
to eat, but my hunger tonight is all in the head. My stomach feels full and I decide against food. My lips are dry and I want another drink. No alcohol is being sold.

Out on the street Johnny has some crap plastic commercial radio music blaring from the stereo. When we are back in the car I turn off the radio and put the tape back in. I hear Johnny snarling at me from the back but I don't catch his words. Not that it matters. He is tired, drunk, off his face and looks like he needs some sleep. Serena tries to make conversation with him but he doesn't reply to her questions.

I'm glad when we reach his house. I get out, open the door for him and he takes my arm. I walk him to his front door. Lights are still on and there is a faint sound of music coming from inside the house. He groans and puts his arms around me. Ari, he croons into my ear, I hope that the old man hasn't got some old whore in there with him.

–You want me to come in? I ask. He shakes his head and plants a wet kiss on my mouth. You go and party, he tells me, and pinches my butt. I'll deal with Papa. He releases me and fumbles at the lock with his key. I forgive you for tonight he tells me as he opens the door. Sure, I answer. I can't remember if I've done anything to be forgiven for, can't remember if he should be apologising to me. It doesn't matter much. It doesn't matter at all.

In the dim light of the hall Johnny's father is staring at us, drunk, in boxer shorts and a singlet. I say hello
theo
, and he grunts and comes and shakes my hand. He ignores his son. Where you off to? he asks me. A party. He wipes his mouth with his arm and tells me to have a good time, fuck a few sheilas for him. Sure, I reply wanting to leave, not wanting to get into a conversation with a drunk. Johnny waves goodbye to me and I walk away. Fuck a few
palikaria
for me, Johnny calls out. He and his father start a loud argument and I get into the car. Drive, drive away, I tell Maria and she foots the accelerator. She turns down the volume on the stereo and tells me Johnny is giving her the shits. He's too
demanding, he's a selfish prick. We are approaching the river and the large billboard on top of the silos announces it is three thirty in the morning, it is nineteen degrees in the city. A warm night. I light a cigarette for myself, one for Maria and hand one to Serena.

–Where's the party? I ask. Prahran, Maria answers and takes the cigarette. Maria can tell I don't want to talk about Johnny and changes the subject. There's some stash in the glovebox she tells me, roll us a joint. I obey and Serena leans forward and asks how Johnny's father copes with having a drag for a son. Maria gives a loud laugh. He's a wog, she calls out, what would you reckon your old man would say if your brother came home in a dress?

–My father would kill him

–No he wouldn't, I tell her. He'd have to learn to live with it. I start putting the joint together. My father would kill him, Serena insists, he's Croatian.

–In which case, Maria tells her, since he's Croatian he'd probably fuck him first. Then he'd kill him. And then fuck him again. I laugh and drop some grass on the car floor. Serena says, oh yuck, and sits back.

–Which is exactly what Johnny's father did, Maria continues. My gut hardens. I don't like Johnny's life exposed to some stranger. Serena leans forward again. Seriously? she asks.

–Seriously, Maria replies, ain't that so, Ari? I don't answer, concentrate on the joint. Wogs can't keep their mouths shut, can't keep their noses out of people's business. Young, old, male, female, dumb, smart. Gossip is essential to conversation. It makes for lack of trust. I hear what Maria says about Johnny, what she exposes about his life when he's not here, and then I wonder what she says about me when I'm not there. I keep my mouth shut.

–That's sick. Serena states her condemnation emphatically. I lick the gum on the tobacco paper and roll the mix into a small joint. I light it and take a deep draw.

–It's abuse, Maria agrees. A cop car is turning into High Street and I hide the joint under the dashboard, pass it to Maria. When the cops turn, she brings it to her lips. The dope has an immediate effect. I relax back into the seat. The song playing on the stereo is sad, melancholy. Exquisitely painful. A few times Johnny enjoyed the sex with his old man, I want to say. Instead I ask Maria about the song.

–It's Greek-Macedonian, she tells me, beautiful isn't it?

–Can you understand it? Serena asks. What's it about? I strain to listen to the lyrics. My Greek isn't good enough. Maria translates the lyrics.

–A young girl is getting married and she's really sad about having to leave her village. Oh mother, she is saying, when will I see you again? Serena laughs. It sounds more beautiful when you don't understand the lyrics. I'm dying to leave my mother. Maria agrees. She parks in front of an old block of flats and switches off the stereo. The lament drops dead in mid-aria. In a small courtyard a group of people are sitting in a half-circle passing a bottle of alcohol around. Party still going, Maria says happily. Serena butts the joint and we get out of the car.

I'm still tripping. The crowd of people on the lawn, their faces hidden in darkness, cast weird long shadows that move in the breeze, forming independent shapes that do not match the bodies that have spawned them. I put my arm around Maria and we walk up some concrete steps. The door to an apartment is half open and dance music is being played at a soft volume. I feel like another dance.

The party is dying. Not dead yet, but instead of a large crowd, there are clusters of people sitting around on couches, in corners of a large white lounge room. Two guys, mid-twenties, in tight shorts and leather vests are dancing
aggressively to the dance beat. I head towards the kitchen in search of drink. In the kitchen two women in black with heavy make-up are smoking a joint. A burly man is sitting on a bench sipping a can of beer. I make for the refrigerator and search for something to take my thirst away. I find nothing.

–What are you looking for? one of the women asks me. Something to drink, I reply. It's bring your own, she tells me, and gives me a dirty look. I ignore her and search along the bench. I find a half-full bottle of brandy, and pour a large serve into a plastic cup. The woman shakes her head at me and I put on an aggressive face. She ignores me and the man starts making some conversation with me. The acid, however, seems to be on a second peak and I have difficulty catching his words. I sit next to him on the bench and wait for the intense throbbing in my head to pass. Across from me on the wall hangs a print of a Japanese temple. I stare at it and swear I can see birds flying across the sky. The man is still talking to me and the music in the next room seems to be getting louder. A heavy monotonous rap. I hear one of the women saying, he's really out of it. I feel the man put an arm around me and I haven't got the energy to push him away. His arm feels heavy on my shoulder. What are you on? I hear. I can't tell who is asking me, the man or one of the women. I take a large sip of brandy and it burns. I believe I can feel it washing through into my stomach. I look up and Maria and Serena have come into the room.

The man takes his arm away from me and kisses Maria. He introduces her to the women. I don't catch any names. I hear him ask if I'm alright. Maria comes over and gently caresses my face. You okay, Ari? she asks. I blink and I feel near normal. Or rather I feel more speedy than trippy. I'm fine, I tell the group in the kitchen. Let's dance.

–In a minute, Maria says and takes a seat. I pour some more brandy in the glass. Are you at college, Ari? the man asks me. I shake my head.

–Do you study? I shake my head.

–Are you working? I shake my head. One of the women in black asks me if I'm an artist of some sort. I shake my head. Too many questions. They give up on their interrogation and go back to a conversation about books, about university. I'm bored and get up and go into the lounge room. On the couch a large, good-looking older man in a tuxedo has his arms around a young Japanese boy. The boy is playing with the man's trouser buttons. I can't help looking at them and the older man winks at me. He pats the space beside him on the couch and I turn away and head towards the stereo. I'm not interested in taking part in some multicultural orgy. I'm conscious that I look good, attractive, and that most of the men in the room are looking at me. So are some of the women. I like the attention. I'm strutting as I walk towards the stereo.

No one is dancing. A pile of CDs are on the floor. I look through them. Seventies disco and eighties techno. I crouch by the stereo and look through the CDs lined up against the shelves. There are dozens and dozens of them. I'm in some rich cunt's apartment. The matt-black stereo is new, no dust anywhere. A large television against the lounge-room wall is playing music videos with the sound turned off. I flick through the CDs, past classical music, past opera, past ballet music. Serena comes and joins me. The music has stopped and someone calls out for me to put something on. I trace the line of CDs with my finger and search for something I like. I'm having difficulty finding anything. Serena finds
Abba's Greatest Hits
and wants to play it. I refuse. I refuse again. Just
Knowing Me, Knowing You
she asks. I relent. That's one Abba song I can stand. We put it on and I keep searching through the CDs. Serena lies against the wall and sings along to the lyrics. She looks despondent and I leave the CDs and ask her if she's feeling well. She doesn't answer, continues singing the chorus and doesn't look at me. I turn away and look around the room. Ari. I hear her
call my name. I'm in love with your friend Maria.

I don't answer. Maria has never told me anything about sleeping with women, but I know she's a flirt. She's Greek. We all flirt. Serena goes back to singing the song. Her pale hair, her pale skin, the dark luminous eyes. She looks beautiful and she looks sad. The song ends and I light a cigarette. What do you want to hear? I ask her. I take off the CD and Serena searches through the stack. Play some metal. I groan. Don't you like it? she asks. She looks hurt. Metal's alright, I answer, and I sift through the CDs. There is nothing hardcore in the collection but I manage to find a Guns N' Roses CD single,
Sweet Child O' Mine
, which I quite like. I put it on. Maria comes into the room and laughs at hearing the song. Reminds me of high school, she hisses at us and joins Serena in the dance. I watch them dancing, watch them scream the chorus to each other. I hum along softly. A few people in the room are looking at the dancing women with frustration, they don't like the music.

The song ends and a thrashier, more furious metal number begins. Serena puts her arms around Maria's neck and starts kissing her softly across her face. Maria is pulling away. I go back to the kitchen, refill my glass with the last of the brandy and go back into the lounge, rest my back against a wall and watch Serena dancing. Maria has sat down, is flicking through the CDs. One of the boys in leather and shorts is asking her to take off this metal shit and put some dance music on. I watch Serena shake her head to the music, her body responds hungrily to the screeching guitars. She is the music; losing herself in it.

I straighten up, go over to Maria and order her to leave the song on till it's finished. The boy puts his hands on his hips and tells me that this is his party and he'll play whatever the fuck he wants. I push him aside. Push him hard. I'm angry. I'm not sure why, but I'm ready to smash my fist into the face of the arsehole in front of me. Serena comes over
and takes my hand, starts dancing with me. She screams the chorus to me and I scream back at her. I'm making up words. The song ends and we pull apart.

I look over to the couch and the Japanese boy, still playing with his boyfriend's cock, is looking at us. He doesn't look legal, does he? I ask Serena and she looks over at the duo on the couch. She pulls away from me. The world stinks don't it Ari? she tells me, the world is fucked up, isn't it? Sure, I say softly and I light a cigarette. But he looks like he's on good drugs, I continue, he looks happy.