Loaded (4 page)

My perfect tape, the tape I listen to the most, is two years old. A collection culled from my records, Peter's records, friends' records. Side A:
I Want You Back
, Jackson 5;
Lost in Music
, Sister Sledge;
Little Red Corvette
, Prince;
I Got You
, Split Enz;
Everything She Wants
, Wham;
Broken English
, Marianne Faithfull;
Gimme Shelter
, Rolling Stones;
Funkin' for Jamaica
, Tom Brown;
Cloudy Sunday
, Sotiria Bellou. Side B:
Living for the City
, Stevie Wonder;
Temptation
, Heaven 17;
Walk Away Renée
, Four Tops;
Going Back to Cali
, L.L. Cool J;
Legs
, ZZ Top;
Man in Uniform
, Gang of Four;
Walk This Way
, Run DMC;
Like a Prayer
, Madonna;
The Road
, Manos Loizos. Not necessarily my favourite songs, not a tape I planned. A tape I put together over several days. But it has become my soundtrack to happiness. A soundtrack that goes nicely with speed, with summer.

Little sister, don't you do what your big brother done. When I get home Dad has gone to the coffee shop, Mum is talking to her sister on the phone and Alex is dancing to Elvis
Presley in the lounge room. I move around her a little, then lift her up high till she can touch the ceiling and give her a big kiss on the cheek. She looks right into my eyes and grins. Brother flying high, is he? I nod and she continues dancing. I wait till the song playing has finished and then put the needle onto ‘Little Egypt'. I sit on the couch and watch Alex dance to the song through half-closed eyes. This is my favourite Presley song.

Mum comes into the room. I can remember when this song came out, she says, sounding like she is bragging. As if I care. If she had written the song, or performed it, that would be a different matter. She joins my sister in the dance and I start giggling uncontrollably. They both dance well, gyrating their hips and waving their arms, doing a
tsiftiteli
. I'm going to have a shower, I say, and grab a towel and my radio from my room.

The hot water on my body gives the speed high a second rush and I sing along to whatever song comes on the radio. When I'm finished washing I brush my teeth in the shower and piss into the drain. My cock is shrivelled. I try to get a hard-on but I'm too high. Instead I do some push-ups and sit-ups in the bathroom. When I'm finished I look at my naked body in the mirror. I'm in alright shape, my legs are good, but I could do with some tightening up around the stomach. I do a few more sit-ups then brush my hair back with some coconut oil. The speed flushes through my body in another wave and in the mirror my eyes shine, my lips tremble.

I lie on the bed in my room and smoke a cigarette listening to soul on the radio. I put the volume up loud to drown out Alex's music in the lounge. I can't lie down for long and jump up and try on two or three T-shirts for the night out. I end up choosing a plain white T-shirt, put on some jeans. I keep putting on and taking off a black vest, looking at myself in the mirror from every angle to see what I look like. Side on I prefer the T-shirt without the vest.
Front on the vest looks good on me. I end up taking off the vest and putting a badge over my right tit. Felix the Cat. A seventies disco number by Aretha Franklin comes on the radio and I turn it up as loud as I can without distortion. Mum bangs on the door and tells me to turn it down. I peek out my door and ask her if she feels like a whisky. She shakes her head, then smiles and goes off to the kitchen. I comb my hair into shape and go out into the lounge room.

–Why are you wearing that stupid badge? I ignore Alex and go grab my whisky and sit down in the kitchen with Mum. What are you going to do tonight? I ask her.

–Depends if your dad comes home early from the
kafenio
. Maybe we'll visit your aunt. I cradle the glass in my hand. It bothers me that Mum has to wait for Dad before she goes out, as if she's not an adult and can't make a decision on her own. But she won't listen to me so I decide not to push the issue. I think you should go on your own, is all I can say. She touches my hand and takes a hit of whisky from her glass. What are you up to tonight?

Dumb question. She knows I'm only going to sketch in a few details for her. I'll go out with Joe, meet some people. I change the conversation.

–Mum, I want to go to Greece.

–With what money? Hers and Dad's, of course. I don't have any. But I don't say that.

–With whatever I can scrounge up. Don't you want me to go? Dad would want me to go.

–Your father would want to go with you. She pours herself another drink and lights a cigarette. I grab one from her pack. Mum, I've been thinking about it. I'd really like to go, don't you want me to go?

–Of course I'd like you to go. But when, how, where you going to get your money,
manoula mou
? You have to get a job first. I'm not put off by her mentioning work. I'm enjoying our chat. When I'm speeding, when Mum's drinking,
we can converse like normal people, without getting heated and uptight with each other.

–Mum, there's no work here. Maybe I can get work in Greece. My mother looks sad. Please, Ari
mou
, don't say that. I don't want the family to split up. I couldn't stop worrying if you were in Greece forever. It wouldn't be forever, I answer. I cannot envisage forever, I'm thinking more a couple of years living in a different country, meeting new people, getting excited about unfamiliar sights, sounds and smells. Also a couple of years away from the family and all their hang-ups and expectations. I can't say that of course. It wouldn't be forever, I answer. Just a year or so.

–Ari, why don't you go back to school. You are going to be twenty next year. An adult and you still don't have a plan for your life.

I butt out my cigarette and sit back in the kitchen chair looking at my mother. I don't know what to answer her. I could go back to school, I could try and get some shit job cleaning toilets in a hospital somewhere, or disappear in some office labyrinth in the city somewhere, doing a job that a computer could do faster and better than me anyway. A computer wouldn't have an attitude problem. I try to put some words together, and though I know what I want to say, I can't make my lips move. I don't want a life like she has. And I don't want the life she wants for me. I hear Alex in the next room trying to find a song on an old record. She lands the needle on the vinyl with a small scratch. If you're going to play my records, take care of them, I yell at her. She ignores me and turns up the volume. Mum finishes her glass and gets up, humming to the song. Tom Waits. I sing along with her. I sit on the kitchen bench and take up the telephone, dialling and listening to my mother sing in her deep tone, and Alex's voice, shrill in the background.

–
Australeza
, I tease my mum. She hits me lightly across my legs. Wog, she calls me.

It is night outside the kitchen window and with the warm whisky in my stomach, the speed in my veins, I'm keen to move from the house and into the big world outside. Joe sounds half-asleep on the phone so I keep the conversation short and simple. What time should I come over? I ask. Ten, he says. There is a pause. Dina is coming as well. Fine, I say. I don't feel fine about it. It means that she'll bring along some dumb cousin and we'll have to end up going somewhere woggy. Where do you want to go? he asks me.

–Hold on. Alex, I yell. My sister comes into the kitchen. Where are you going tonight? She mentions some club in Brunswick. We'll drive you, I tell her, and get back to the phone. How about the Retreat? I say. Joe's voice picks up. Yeah, good idea, he says. He's scared I'm going to introduce Dina to faggot joints in the inner city and open her mind. I'm not interested in expanding Dina's mind at all, but I'm concerned that Joe is closing off his. A distant laugh comes from the receiver. Who's there? No one, Joe replies, Mum and Dad are watching a Greek movie. Some shit comedy. Okay, I say, see you at ten. I start dialling immediately. Mum, I say, watching her prepare a salad, there's a Greek movie on TV. I've seen it, she says, looking a little unsteady on her feet. Watch the knife, I say to her. She's cutting thin slices of tomato and she's on her third whisky.

–Who is it? A gruff voice is on the phone. Hello,
theo
, this is Ari. Mr Petroukis is pissed and he asks me three or four questions without waiting for my answer. Got a job yet, Ari? is his final question. No, and you? I ask. Mr Petroukis is unemployed as well. His laugh is loud and rings clearly
down the line. I can almost feel the spittle spraying against my cheek, can almost smell the cigars and wine on his breath. No job, no job, Ari, he says in English. His laughter stops and now his voice is sad. Fucked up country, fucked up country. He continues repeating words in English. He is moaning. Is Yianni there? I ask, not wanting to listen to his maudlin thoughts. Sure, Ari
mou
, sure. He calls his son and I whisper to Mum that Mr Petroukis is drunk. Good idea, she says and goes to pour herself another shot.

–Darling, how are you? Johnno sounds in a good mood. Good, I answer. All our parents are getting pissed tonight.

–At least your mother can hold her liquor. My old man's off his tits.

–Put him to bed, I tell him. Johnno laughs. That stinking body, no way. I'm going to point him towards the shower in a moment and then he'll head off into the night looking for a good fuck. Some divorced mama with dyed blonde hair or some dumb fag looking for a rough Greek fuck. I hear Mr Petroukis yelling abuse at his son. Johnno tells him to fuck off in Greek.

–Want to meet up tonight, I ask.

–Yes, later. Toula's being taken out to dinner. Toula is Johnno's drag name.

–My boss's brother-in-law is showing me the town tonight. Johnno works part-time in a sex shop and his boss is a weedy-looking Croat with no hair and no teeth. Is this guy Croat as well? I ask.

–Yes, sighs Johnno. A dreamboat. Hairy all over, a big gut and big muscles. He giggles. I'm hoping he's big all over.

I hear Mr Petroukis abusing his son. Johnno lets out a stream of Greek. Go-fuck-yourself-you-drunk-as-fuck-animal. I look up and my mother has finished the salad and is looking at me, shaking her head. I start laughing, enjoying the argument I'm listening to on the other end of the phone, enjoying the music Alex is playing, enjoying the drugs in my system.

–Johnno, I shout, Johnno, we'll meet at 1.30 or thereabouts.

–Sure, darling. What are you doing beforehand?

–Going out with Joe and his girlfriend to the Retreat.

–God, maybe I should come. Toula hasn't made an appearance there for a while.

–Better not. Joe doesn't want Dina exposed to his degenerate friends. Johnno lets out a loud, high-pitched laugh. Don't tempt me, Ari, I might end up there and ask Joe for a dance. Do you think Dina will get jealous? Johnno in drag is pretty stunning but I want to keep him away from the wog crowd. I'm not looking for trouble with Joe.

–Meet you at 1.30 at the Peel, I say.

–No, meet me at the Punters, that's where the Croat wants to go after dinner.

–See you there. Johnno blows me a kiss over the phone and I put down the receiver.

Mum is looking for me and it's obvious I've done something wrong. Can I have a cigarette? I ask her. She gives me one and then keeps on staring at me. What is it? You know what it is, she says, why do you hang around that
pousti
?

–Because he's my friend.

–He's not a good friend to have. I leave the room and refuse to take up the conversation. All I say is, none of your business. She starts setting plates on the table, banging them loudly on the table top, and I go to talk to Alex. She's in her room getting dressed.

–You want to come out with us tonight? I ask her. She has put on a too-tight black polo-neck sweater and is sitting by her mirror applying make-up. She refuses. Can I be dropped off at Charlie's? I nod. Joe won't mind, I answer, and start flicking through the magazines on her bed. She catches my eye in the mirror. You got speed? she asks. Come into my room when you're finished, I say, and leave her to paint her face in shades of scarlet and turquoise.

In my room I lock the door behind me and take one
packet of speed from the Bogart and Bacall cigarette case. It's a tin case, with a colour reproduction of the poster for
To Have and Have Not
on the lid. Mum found it for me at the markets and I keep my drugs in it. I pour a third of the white powder onto the shiny jackets of an atlas and cut the speed with my bank card, listening out for Mum. I divide the powder into four small lines.

Alex knocks on my door and asks to come in. I open up for her, then quickly lock it behind us. She's dressed completely in black; tight black jeans and a black scarf around her shoulders. She's gone sparse with the make-up, her lips blood red, a faint trace of blue along her eyelids. She doesn't look seventeen, she looks older than me and she looks beautiful. I enjoy it when my sister looks attractive, when my brother looks handsome. I am proud of their beauty. It is as if it reflects glory back on me.

–You're looking sexy, I say, and hand her a small straw from the cigarette case. Two lines for you, I say. She crouches at the end of the bed and snorts the speed, one line for each nostril. She's not a big drug taker, my little sister, and she inhales the speed in short snorts, twisting her face, not enjoying the powder burning through her nasal passage, not enjoying the bitter taste at the back of her throat. She only finishes half of the second line.

–Have a rest. She hands me the straw and I inhale the three lines of powder in three quick snorts. Fetch me an orange juice, I ask her, and I wipe the white residue off the atlas and lick it off my hand. Alex brings a glass of juice for me and she bites into a peach. The bitter taste in my mouth goes away and the powder rushes along the back of my head, teasing the hair on my neck. My cheeks are flushed.

Alex is breathing hard. Her brown eyes are dancing. She takes two cigarettes from the pack on my desk, lighting one for me as well. Do you like Charlie? she asks me.

–I don't trust him, I say.

–You don't trust Arabs. She's right. I don't trust Arab boys
with my sister. Alex can do what she likes with boys, it's not my place to judge her, but she'd be stupid to fall for an Arab. Like Greeks, like any wogs, they don't have the guts to fight Mummy and Daddy.

–Just don't get serious, I say to her, that's what I worry about.

–And you, she asks, are you getting serious about anyone? I smell sweat, dry come. Think about George rolling a joint for me, sitting in the kitchen, touched all over by the rays of the sun.

–We're too young to get serious, I reply.

–You should come back to school and repeat final year. We could be in class together. I groan and take a big drag on the cigarette.

–Ari, you've got no initiative, she says. We look at each other for a moment and then burst out laughing.

–Get fucked woman, I giggle, you sound like a social worker. Mum knocks on the door. Dinner's ready, she says.

–I'm not hungry, Alex replies. I take her hand and lift her off the bed. Eat something, I say, you're too thin. Bullshit, she replies, and I can't eat now that I've had the speed.

–Just nibble something. Have a bit of salad. We walk out of my room. Arab boys like a bit of fat, you know.