Loaded (3 page)

A Vietnamese woman, thin and dressed in a white singlet, dark glasses over her eyes, walks towards me on Church Street. I wave to her and take off the headphones. She stops for a chat. Trin is lovely, with dark shimmering skin, but she's smacked out most of the time and never takes the sunglasses off. Our conversation is stilted. I ask after her kid and she becomes a bit more animated, telling me she's left him with her parents for the weekend. She loves her child. She walks with me to the bottom of the hill and I invite her into my aunt's place but she declines. I don't blame her. The Greeks, the Vietnamese, the skips, the whole fucking neighbourhood is suspicious of her. She avoids people as much as possible, except for the junkies and people like me who don't wish her any harm. The rumour is she whores for a living but I've never asked and I don't care a shit either way. She told me once, with her broken accent, in her soft voice made raw by cigarettes, that Ari, you know, it not true what they say about me. Sure, mate, I told her, anyway, a living is a living. It didn't seem to be the answer she wanted but I wasn't going to pretend that I believed her completely. A junkie needs cash. It's not my business to blame her. Nor is it my business to absolve her.

Trin says
ciao
to me outside my aunt's house and walks back up the hill. Take care, I say softly and hope that my
whisper wraps around her slight shoulders and comforts her a little.

 

My aunt's home smells of basil and lemon and I walk straight through to the back. My aunt and my sister Alex are sitting at the kitchen table and my aunt is reading the coffee cups. I kiss them both and get a big hug from my aunt.

–What are the coffee cups saying,
Thea
Tasia? I ask in Greek.

–Shut up, Alex says, we haven't finished mine. I ignore her. Can you read mine as well,
Thea
? She nods and I start making some Greek coffee. While I stir the sugar and coffee in the
briki
I listen to what she's telling Alex. She sees a snake being trodden on by someone. That's a good sign. Some friend of Alex's is talking behind her back but Alex is going to get even with her. She sees a black spot in the home with a ‘J' close to it. That part is bullshit. Like my mother, my aunt blames Janet for my brother leaving home. Alex has the good sense to ignore that part. I bring the coffee to the boil and pour some for myself. I get a glass of water from the fridge, sit down next to them and drink the coffee as fast as I can. The mixture of dope and caffeine is rushing through my system, sending the blood into spasms and I'm fidgety. My aunt notices. We'll be with you soon, she says. Alex kicks me under the table. Wait your turn. I finish the coffee and turn the cup upside down to let the sediment dry.

A lot of Greek bullshitters read the coffee cups but I reckon my Aunt Tasia is the real thing. She'll make up stuff, of course. She always foretells wedding rings and jobs; you have to ignore that part of the reading. Alex dips her finger into the bottom of the sediment in her cup and my aunt has a look at it. I see a ‘C', yes it's an English ‘C', and your heart is encircled by it. Do you know any boy starting with ‘C' Aleka? My sister lies. No,
Thea
. I keep a straight face and ask what else she sees. My aunt looks a little concerned.
She makes the sign of the cross but doesn't answer me.

She reads my coffee slowly, turning the cup around and around in her hands. I stare at her face, at her hair; look at the strands of grey hair peeping through the dyed blonde curls. There is someone who is wanting to look after you, Ari, someone who cares for you, but you are not facing them. You are ignoring them. She points to a few blobs of dried coffee. I can make out figures in the blobs. A line does divide the figures. Their name begins with a
gamma
. I know immediately it is George. I can even smell a faint trace of his sweat in the room. I say nothing. I feel foolish about the thought.

Alex gets up and puts a Greek record on the stereo. A slow, old
tsamiko
. My aunt begins to sway a little to the music.

Someone is going to offer you a job, Ari. I see a long road but there is money at the end of it. I smile at her and look to where she is pointing in the coffee cup. I see the road but the blob at the end of it is just a blob. Alex comes over to have a look. What's the job, Thea? she asks. A garbage collector? She laughs and dances away from us. My aunt bangs the table and tells her to shut up.

Continue reading, I tell her, and just ignore the little bitch. I'm not really offended. I'd hate any job she would have mentioned. Alex moves away and continues her solitary
tsamiko
and I press my thumb into the sediment. We both look at it. The perpendicular lines of the
gamma
are clear in the middle of the black muck. I tell you, Ari, she says, a girl whose name begins with a
gamma
is going to steal your heart. I avoid her eyes. I can taste George's sweat. I lean over and kiss her. How are you? I ask.

–Like shit, she answers. Alex tells me you stayed at your brother's last night. Is he alright?

–Yes, he's fine. He sends his love. My aunt makes a face. Sure, sure, she mutters, but he can't find the time to visit his
thea
. I ignore her and ask after my cousins. Sam's at the
shop and Katerina is out watching a movie. She asks me if I want something to eat and I refuse. She asks me again, pleading with me, and I refuse again. I get up and say I have to go. Alex is still dancing and I kiss my aunt goodbye, tell Alex I'll see her later at home. On the way out I use the phone to ring Phil's place. I ring once, let it ring through twice. I hang up and ring again, letting it ring twice again. On the third try I let Phil answer the phone. Who is it? he asks. Ari. It's fine, come over. I yell
gia sou
to my sister and aunt and I'm out of the door, Walkman on. The blast of music wipes out the world in front of my eyes.

Two rings for two grams of speed. Phil is a small-time dealer with a bad case of paranoia. Every time he walks out of his house he scans the street for cops and whenever he hears a helicopter up above he looks out the window to make sure it's not hovering over his house. I couldn't live so tense. No drug is worth it. The phone makes him nervous and that's why I have to ring a few times in a row, so he knows it's not a bugged phone call. He's organising getting a beeper so we can communicate in numbered code. It would be a good thing. Relax him a little.

I walk to the cash machine on Bridge Road and take out one hundred and fifty dollars. I buy a packet of cigarettes, not exchanging a word with the woman at the milk bar, just pointing to the fags I want, and still listening to the music on my machine. I spend fifteen minutes in a newsagent flicking through magazines. I read a couple of music magazines and scan the pictures in
Time
. I beat time with my shoe to the music.

The Walkman is my favourite toy. It creates a soundtrack for me and lets me slip into walking through a movie. The tape I've got on at the moment I put together the other
week at my cousin's house. A few sad songs, a few fast songs, a few songs I never heard of but I liked the look of the CD covers.

This is an up tape, it makes me walk faster, keeps me at a distance from the people brushing past me. I like music. More than that, I love music but I'm definite in my tastes. Soul. Hard rock and punk. I listen to heaps. Heavy metal is mostly shit though some thrash metal is okay (on speed or after a few bongs). Rap I like. Of course. Some disco, not high-energy, but house. Jazz means nothing to me because I can't understand it. I love Greek music but only the old stuff. I'm definite in my tastes.

On this tape I'm listening to I have the Jackson Five doing ‘I want you back'. This is a supreme moment in music history, even if I'm the only one in the world who knows it. On one of my tapes I have one side of the cassette playing only that song. When things aren't going so well I play that cassette over and over and just walk around the city or walk around Richmond. I sit on a rock by the river throwing bread to the ducks, letting a young Michael Jackson cheer me up. In the three minutes it takes the song to play I'm caught in a magic world of harmony and joy, a truly ecstatic joy, where the aching longing to be somewhere else, out of this city, out of this country, out of this body and out of this life, is kept at bay. I relive those three minutes again and again till I'm calm enough to walk back into life again. I can't meditate in silence, I haven't got the patience. I meditate to music; I need something else going on.

 

The old Greek men are playing cards in the coffee shops. A group of rich kids from the eastern suburbs swirl around me, shopping for clothes. I walk down a side street and into the commission estate. An old Vietnamese woman stands on her balcony watching the children play basketball in the car park. I keep walking straight ahead, avoiding looking at anyone. Three Polynesian boys sit around listening to rap
on their sound machine, smoking cigarettes, passing a joint around. I cross the car park and walk up Phil's street.

I knock twice at Phil's door and call out for him. Phil, it's Ari. He won't open the door if he doesn't recognise the voice. I walk into his lounge room, sniffing the incense, the nicotine and the dope. A young woman in a black singlet and tight black pants is sitting on a pillow against the wall. She's out of it. A man has his arm around her and he offers me his hand when I come in. I shake it and sit down on a pillow opposite them. Ari, this is Barbara and Gary. I nod, take out a cigarette and light it. A slow reggae song is coming from the stereo and the walls in the small lounge room are covered in prints from Asia and from the Pacific. Maori prints. Indian prints. Koorie prints. There is also a framed poster of James Dean in
Giant
. The one in which he is smoking a cigarette, cowboy hat on, his feet on the dashboard. I look back at the couple opposite and the woman has nodded off. I try to start a conversation.

–Doing anything tonight, Phil? He isn't. He still hasn't slept from the night before, and his skin is bursting out in rashes and lines cover his face. I'm still coming down, man. He offers me a joint and I take in a deep drag. It rushes through my body and I sink deeper into my pillow. I hate making small talk during a drug deal but with Phil it is unavoidable. We talk a little more about going out, reggae bands which I know shit about and his upcoming trip to Thailand. I pretend to be interested in all of it. Gary doesn't help much. After a few attempts at talking, his mouth and lips trying to form intelligible words, he gives up and settles into a sleep next to his girlfriend. Phil gets up and goes out the back to get my deal. I look through the records and the CDs. Mostly reggae, a little bit of Cat Stevens and Led Zeppelin, a couple of twelve-inches, but I can't find anything I like. I settle for the soundtrack from
Altered States
and turn the volume up. Good music for the smackheads on the couch.

Phil comes back in and I follow him into his bedroom. I pass him the joint and jump onto his bed. He throws the two bags of white powder onto my stomach and I pick them up and look at them. It looks like a gram in each. I grab my wallet and give him a hundred dollars. The deal done, I'm eager to get out, but it would seem rude. I lie back and let him talk. He talks about India, about opium dens in Kashmir and he lightly brushes his hands across my thighs and under my T-shirt. He rubs my groin and balls but he's not turning me on. I don't move away until he tries to pull down my trousers. He doesn't mind. He moves away as well and searches under the bed for something, pulling out a tin box wrapped in an old T-shirt. Do you want to blast some now?

–I thought you were going to sleep.

–There's a band on this afternoon at the pub down the street. He mentions some Koori band who play awful country and western. Want to come? I refuse and tell him I have to go home soon. The good Greek boy, eh, he laughs and leaves the room. I don't really want to hit up but the dope is strong and making me lethargic. Something to pull me up would be good. I've already refused sex with him, so I figure I might as well share a hit. He brings back a spoon and pulls out two syringes, two swabs and a vial of sterile water. I get a little apprehensive looking at the gear. I don't blast shit often. It scares my friends.

He hands me his belt and I tie it around my forearm. From his bedside table I pick up a large Buddha and use it to flex the muscles in my arm until I can see the veins appearing. Phil grabs a packet of powder from the tin box and asks me how much I want. It looks around two grams worth to me and I say a quarter. He nods and prepares the mixture. It's speed, not smack, and I know it won't kill me but I can't help feeling anxious. I see an image of my father coming in to find his son slumped dead over a needle. I wonder what would happen if the nerves linking my brain,
my heart and my lungs malfunction and the drug bursts my body apart.

Phil takes my arm and I watch him feel for a strong vein. He punctures the skin, I don't feel any pain, and I watch a few drops of blood enter the syringe. He pushes the liquid through the needle and into my vein and I loosen the belt. He hands me a swab and while I'm brushing the antiseptic onto the puncture the drug jumps into my brain. My skin, my hair are charged with electricity and I can feel every cell in my body form myriad patterns. My inner body becomes a kaleidoscope. The rush dissipates, I remove the swab and get to my feet.

–Feeling good? asks Phil. Feeling good, I answer and stand still for a moment, trying to regain some balance. I grow conscious of the music on the stereo and concentrate on the discordant electronic notes. I walk into the bathroom and look at my eyes, my face in the mirror. The skin seems to be stretched back, following the contours of my skull. I look thin, and I brush my fingers along my stubble. I can feel every hair. In the bedroom Phil is shooting up and I wait for him to finish, then help him clean up the mess. I stick my two grams worth of drugs in my cigarette packet and wave Phil goodbye. He lies on the bed, playing with his cock. He says
ciao
and asks me to get him a cigarette. I throw him one of mine and get out of the place quick. Outside the sun is white hot, reflecting off the car bonnets and making the street shimmer. I jump into the sunshine and light a cigarette. I look down at my vein. A clean hit. You can hardly tell.

 

Speed is exhilaration. Speed is colours reflecting light with greater intensity. Speed, if it's good, can take me higher than I can ever go, higher than my natural bodily chemicals can take me. Speed, they say, is cheap shit; putting amphetamines mixed with Ajax up your nose, in your veins. Speed, my friends and the drug handbooks they give you in school
say, and the people on heroin say, is cheap, nasty. Good high, terrible low.

I say speed is exhilaration. I walk up Lennox Street to Bridge Road and the Pelaco factory where Mum used to work shines harsh white against a luminous blue sky. Speed is extra pumps for my heart, the drug grabs me by the throat and reaches down for my balls. On speed I like to stand under the shower for half-an-hour, just after the effect has come on, feel the water belting me.

On speed I like to fuck. Fucking with lots of touching. Feel every hair on their body, on my body. On speed I want to enclose myself in folds of warm, vibrating skin. On speed I want to penetrate. On speed, when my dick is soft, it is wrinkled and petite. Erect, on speed, all the blood in my body seems to rush and meet at one point, pulsate at one point. I can push it through my clenched fist, a tight sphincter. No pain, just exhilaration. Speed is exhilaration.

On speed I feel macho but not aggressive. I'm friendly to everyone. Speed evaporates fear. On speed I dance with my body and my soul. In this white powder they've distilled the essence of the Greek word
kefi. Kefi
is the urge to dance, to be with good friends, to open your arms to life. Straight, I can approximate
kefi
, but I am always conscious of fighting off boredom. Speed doesn't let you get bored.

Coming down off speed requires preparation. You feel the headache beginning, the jaw hurts. And time stands still. Sitting in the lounge room slowly looking through photo albums, it seems it takes an hour for the cigarette to reach the ashtray, an hour for it to come back to your mouth. I drink lots of water, try to piss, try to enjoy what's happening to my body. Experiencing the body as if it is working in slow-mo. Coming down I masturbate, lying in bed, the sheets and blankets at my feet, watching myself wank. In slow motion. Using lots of spit or Vaseline or baby lotion or Mum's face cream. Take it slowly, my dick feeling raw, sore, and when I blast, the headache, the sore jaw, the clenched
teeth, all the pain of coming down explodes out of my body through my dick. Out in the drops of come falling on my chest, on the sheets. I don't move for five minutes, ten minutes, half-an-hour, let it dry in white crystal patterns across my naked body. Enjoy the release; then get up, take a piss, snatch one or two or three of Dad's Valiums and fall slowly asleep.

I'm walking down Lennox Street, the Pelaco sign burning into my eyes. I feel so high that I feel I can touch that sign. No boredom, just exhilaration.