Loaded (19 page)

Fast forward. Fast forward past birth, early childhood, school. Pause. Pause at being in church and looking up at Christ in
the
Panagia's
arms. A glance free of terror, or fear, free of adoration or love. Like looking at a schoolyard photo. Jesus could be any boy standing and smiling next to you. Off, pause.

Fast forward to an old man, a drunk putting his hands between my legs. I enjoy it. Some cousin's party, some uncle. Play. Not some uncle, it's my father's brother. He has a name.
Theo
Yianni. Rewind. Peeking through a half-open door. Watching my mother and father go for it, slamming hard into each other. Or rather my father slamming hard into my mother. Her arse high in the air. My hands on my dick. I'm shocked at how hairy her arse is.

Fast forward, past Jesus, past the uncle with his hands down my pants. Weddings, engagements, parties, all the cousins sitting around swapping dirty jokes and gossip. The clock on the classroom wall. Watching it, waiting for the day to be over. Pause. An old woman across the street laughs at me. Her neighbours, three old toothless Greek grandmas laughing at me. She points at my crotch. I look down, my zip undone, a piece of my penis hanging out. I scream at them. Fucking cunts, fucking cunts, fucking cunts. They keep laughing and mother comes out and bashes me hard against the side of my head. I'm dragged screaming into the house.

Fast forward. First joint, first party without the folks, first kiss, first jerk-off with a boy, first fail at school, first time getting drunk with Johnny.

Press play. Peter and me share a bong. I promise not to tell Alex in case she tells our parents. She's asleep in her room. I cough into the bong. Johnny is there and he laughs at me. Peter tells me he hates it at home, hates it. I don't have to say anything, he knows I know. We have Joy Division's
Closer
on the stereo. Pause. Johnny looks at Peter with what I thought then was adoration. Now I know it is a look of lust.

Fast forward past movies. Sneaking into
Caligula
. Bragging about it at school. Watching porn, buying records, then
buying CDs, first fuck with a girl. First time getting my arse fucked. First snort of speed, first acid, first hit of speed, first taste of smack. Pause. Motherfucker scary thought. Am I having safe sex? Play. Instructions. Watching a nervous young teacher demonstrate how to use a condom on a carrot. Everyone laughing, me included, sitting on my burning arse, wondering about the sperm gone up me, gone in me, gone through me.

Fast forward through more instructions. This is how you fuck, this is how you drink, this is how you take drugs, this is how you treat a girl, this is how you recycle your garbage, this is how you save the planet, this is how you can make a difference. Pause. Play. We are the world. Play. Play that funky music white boy. Fast forward. Failing school, signing up for the dole, uncles, friends, aunts, neighbours telling you about some shit job going in some shit store in some shit street in some shit suburb. Play. Say no thanks. Dole office sends you for an interview. Bald man, not looking at you, looking out the window, asks what you want to be. I say I don't know. Asks why you want to work in his store, in his factory, in his office. I shrug my shoulders, don't say the truth that I don't want to work in his fucking store, his fucking factory, his fucking office. I say, don't know. Interview lasts ten minutes. Go back to the dole office.

Fast forward. Past Peter leaving home, past Dad getting drunk and chucking me out of home. Mum comes crying, finds me at my aunt watching cheapo Greek video. Cradles me and I'm embarrassed.

Fast forward. Parties, getting pissed, getting high, getting stoned. Pause. Peter introduces me to Janet, to his housemate, George. Fast fucking forward. More parties, getting drunk, getting high, getting stoned. At some strange party, in some strange bedroom, George sucks me, I suck him. We don't connect. I ain't ever going to connect. Stop tape. Press record.

There is no way out of this boring life unless you have
lots of money. Unless you are born with lots of money it takes a lifetime to make lots of money. Hard work bores me. I ain't no worker.

I'm ruled by my cock. I see someone I think is attractive and I want to be with them, taste them, put my cock in their face or up their arse or through their cunt. I can't imagine any of this ever changing. Marriage is out.

I'm not Australian, I'm not Greek, I'm not anything. I'm not a worker, I'm not a student, I'm not an artist, I'm not a junkie, I'm not a conversationalist, I'm not an Australian, not a wog, not anything. I'm not left wing, right wing, centre, left of centre, right of Genghis Khan. I don't vote, I don't demonstrate, I don't do charity.

What I am is a runner. Running away from a thousand and one things that people say you have to be or should want to be. They'll tell you God is dead but, man, they still want you to have a purpose. They'll point to a child and say there it is, that's purpose, that's meaning. That's bullshit. A child is a mass of cells and tissues and muscle that will grow up and will become Jack the Ripper or the president of the world. Maybe. More likely it will grow up and become a dole statistic. Worse, it will grow up and become an accountant. A child isn't a purpose, a child isn't meaning. A child is an accident that occurs when a piece of sperm bumps into an egg.

They'll point to someone working hard, point to my Mum or my Dad and say, look that's purpose. Work hard, dignity of labour. They'll point to two weak human beings who haven't got the guts to walk away into a lonely happiness, who year after year stick out jobs they hate and a marriage they can't breathe in for the sake of making some rich boss richer. They may have a house but the prick who owns the factories they work in has two houses, three houses, sixty fucking houses. There is no dignity without choice and there is no choice. I didn't choose to be a runner.

I like music, I like film. I'm going to have sex, listen to
music and watch film for the rest of my life. I am here, living my life. I'm not going to fall in love, I'm not going to change a thing, no one will remember me when I'm dead. My epitaph; he slept, he ate, he fucked, he pissed, he shat. He ran to escape history. That's his story.

Press stop. Tape is terminated.

Alex is drinking a coffee and flicking through a magazine when I get home. I sit down on the couch next to her and take a sip from her cup. She makes room for me and I take one of her cigarettes. Inner City's
Paradise
is on the stereo. Where's Mum and Dad? I ask. Gone to church. Yes, I shout with glee. By the time they are back I'll be asleep in bed. I've saved myself a lecture. I go into the kitchen and grab an orange juice. You still speeding? Alex questions me.

–Don't know. I sit down next to her and ask her questions about how her night was.

–Like shit. She throws me a dirty look. Charlie and I fought all night long. He thinks you hate him. I take a sip from my coffee. He's a jerk, I tell her.

–He thinks you were rude to him last night. I don't answer. My sister can hitch herself up to some uptight Muslim bastard who will make her life misery, but that isn't my concern. I'm not changing for Charlie. She pauses for a moment. His mum liked you, she thought you were a nice boy. I smile. I am, I say. Alex continues speaking, softly. I watch her as the words come out, her little girl face is marked with spots, her hair hangs limp. She hasn't slept yet. We fucked last night, she tells me.

–Bad move, I tell her. She nods. He thinks I'm not a virgin. You're not, I reply. She starts laughing. I know, but he doesn't. I told him I've used a vibrator. I look at her in amazement. You didn't? I ask her, and she continues laughing. Stops,
and with a smirk on her face says, I did tell him, I said it was one of yours. For a moment I look at my sister and she looks very young, and very frail, a small hurt animal floating on the couch, and then I look at her grinning at me and I start laughing with her. What did he say?

–He said it was disgusting but I think it excited him. He'll be after your arse next. I finish the cigarette and go up to the stereo. I work the CD select so I can hear
Big Fun
. The song comes on and I sway to it, not looking at my sister. I turn around. Stay away from wog boys, kiddo, I tell her, they'll fuck you up.

Hey Ari, what am I going to do? I love the bastard. She moves off the couch and grabs my hand.

–Alex, I say to her, I'm tired. Can we talk about this later? She lets go of my hand, gives me a weird look and wipes a tear from her eyes. Like you care, she whispers to me. Then she begins shouting. I hate fucking. Arabs she screams. I move towards my bedroom. She's still screaming. I hate fucking wogs. Fucking Greeks and Italians. I hate fucking Australians and the fucking English. The fucking Chinese and the fucking Vietnamese. Fucking Africans, fucking Indians, fucking Aborigines. I hate them all she screams down the corridor. She slams the door to her bedroom.

My head is spinning. I'm still drug-fucked. Out of it. Stoned. High. Ripped. Pissed. Tripping. Loaded. I want to go to Alex and tell her that I may be in love. That I think I'm going to be a faggot for the rest of my life. That I'm exhausted and want her to hold me. My head begins to spin more and I wonder if Alex has any drugs to smoke.

I get into bed and lie there for five minutes, ten minutes, half-an-hour looking at the ceiling. It's not like I'm thinking. No thought goes through my head. I look at the walls and the ceiling. My hands are playing with my balls. I'm not even thinking about sex, not thinking about anyone or anything. I'm just looking at the ceiling.