Loaded (5 page)

Fried meatballs, bread, fetta and salad on the table. I eat more than I really feel like eating. To satisfy Mum. Alex picks at the salad and can only manage a couple of meatballs. Mum's stopped drinking alcohol and is sipping some water. It doesn't look like Dad is coming home in time for dinner and I can see she's getting tense. She keeps rubbing the vein on her forehead.

–Are you going to go to
thea's
? I ask. She doesn't say
anything. Go Mum, Alex says, what the hell are you going to do on your own on a Saturday night.

–My children could stay with me. Her eyes cloud over. My children could keep me company. Alex makes a face and gets up from the table. I don't want a lecture, she says, and goes off into the lounge. My mum gets up, follows her, and they begin an argument. I grab a magazine, one of my mother's, and flick through it. I hear snatches of the argument. Alex is too young to be going out. I read about a woman who is married to a man who bashes her. Alex says the house feels like a prison to her. Mum says she's worked hard all her life for us kids and we've all let her down. Alex yells at her that she should live her own life, not live through her kids. I put down the magazine and go to the bathroom to clean my face. I comb my hair, put some aftershave on my armpits. I grab my cigarettes, the speed and my wallet, and march into the lounge room. Mum is on the sofa crying. Alex is in her room. I take Mum's hand. Come on, we'll walk you over to
Thea
Tasia. Mum kisses me and gets up. She asks me to clear the table and to leave the meatballs and salad out for my father. I clean up quickly, putting plastic wrap over the leftover food, a towel over the bread and rinse the dirty plates and cutlery in the sink. When I'm finished Mum has changed into a white jumper, put some make-up on and has her little black bag under her arm. How do I look? she asks. Beautiful, says Alex. Sexy, I say to her.

 

The night is warm with a slight breeze that gently rolls over my exposed neck and over my face. The speed accentuates the lights and colours of the street, and the glow from one lamppost reaches over and meets the glow from the next; the air seems to hum from the electricity. I walk ahead of my mother and sister who are talking small talk. Two drunk boys walk past us. The smell of beer is strong on them. We leave Mum at my aunt's gate, and Alex and I walk down a
side street to the tram stop on Swan Street. Two young women, in their early twenties, both in black stockings and floral patterned dresses are sitting waiting for the same tram. Alex and I sit on the brick fence of a dark cottage behind the stop. My sister asks for a cigarette and I scowl but hand one over. Can't you buy your own? I snap at her. She tells me to fuck off loudly and one of the women turns around and gives me a dirty look. A gold hoop hangs from her nose. There are some Anglo women who hate wog men, who cannot stand the sight of us, can't stand the smells we exude, the pitch of our voices, the sound of our laugh when we make a joke. They look at us and all they see is a hairy back, they see a wife beater. This hippie woman hates me and I play up to it. I look her up and down and then just stare at her. She turns to her friend and says something. Her friend turns around and glances at me. To her I give a smile. She doesn't smile back but turns away, ignoring me, snubbing me. I don't care. They've got nothing to do with my life.

Alex asks me the time and I glance at my watch. Nine o'clock. I look towards the city skyline, at the Dimmey's tower and the railway bridge across Richmond station, but no tram is visible, only the bright lights of cars. Across the road the Lebanese woman from the milk bar comes out to have a fag in the night air. She sees us and yells a hello. I salute her and Alex wanders over to share a cigarette with her. I'm alone at the stop with the two uptight women and I bang my feet against the brick wall in time with a beat in my head. The women are talking about a film they are going to see in Camberwell, a bad French film. I've already seen. Two hours with a boring couple in Paris deciding whether to divorce or stay together. It didn't even include any good shots of Paris. It's not very good, I say to them. They ignore me. Fuck off then, I say under my breath. All I want is to make some conversation while waiting for the tram. I look back towards the city and I see a tram in the distance. Alex,
I yell across the street, the tram is coming. She says goodbye to the Lebanese woman and crosses the street. How's Sonia? She's okay, says my sister, she's on her own tonight because her husband is out gambling and Pierre's fucked off with his friends.

–She should just lock up the shop and fuck off as well. Alex nods in agreement. But you know what her old man is like, he'll fucking kill her if he finds out she closed shop early. Fucking Lebo men, my sister spits out. The woman with the hoop nose-ring turns around to us and nods agreement. What does she know about wogs, with her golden hair and milk-white skin. The tram arrives and we all board it, Alex and I moving to the back, the two women sit up front near the driver.

The tram is full of drunk cricket fans returning from the day's game. Alex is talking away at me, telling me gossip about her friends and I'm not very interested, I keep turning away from her, looking out the window at the passing shops. She doesn't care, she's just happy to talk. I glance at the women who were at the tram stop and they are obviously avoiding me and Alex. A wave of anger hits me. It's not like I've done anything wrong. Maybe they think my voice is too loud. I don't know what it is but they are filling me with a load of spite tonight and I'm tempted to do something stupid like harass them, wolf whistle them when they get off at their stop, do something to confirm all their worst impressions about me.

Across from me and Alex a man has fallen asleep, his legs outstretched, his T-shirt is a little too short and his belly is peeking out from above his jeans. A white, smooth belly. No stomach hairs at all. I get a hard-on staring at him. I join in the conversation with Alex to forget the women, and the man in front of me. The tram rumbles along its tracks. The man wakes up, rubs his face and looks at me. A casual glance and I stare straight into his eyes. He stares back, just for second, then looks out the window, reaches up, pulls
the cord, gets up and stands by the doorway. I don't let myself look at him, but continue gazing out the window at the world going by. A few stops after he gets off, the two women get up. The tram stops outside the cinema and I notice a billboard advertising
The Grifters
. John Cusack and Angelica Huston's faces reflected on the tram window. The women begin to dismount and I call after them, forget the frog movie, go see
The Grifters
. The bitch with the nosering gives me the finger, but her girlfriend smiles at me this time. I settle back into my seat, pleased with myself, and Alex punches my shoulder. She likes you, she whispers to me. I say nothing; I don't give a damn. I just wanted some acknowledgment.

I saw John Cusack interviewed on late-night television and he looked like me. Everyone else was in bed and I was waiting for the late movie to start. On ‘Entertainment This Week', or ‘Entertainment Now', or whatever they call it. He was talking about wanting to work on serious movies, not on pap, not on some computer-generated flimsy, and as he was talking I thought he reminded me of someone. He smoked a cigarette. I remember that, and his thinning hair was swept back. On Mum and Dad's bedroom drawer they have a black and white photo of me taken a few years ago, and I'm wearing a black jumper, smoking a cigarette and looking angrily at the camera. Peter had snapped the photo when I was in the middle of a fight with Alex. At the time I yelled and yelled at him for taking the picture, but it is one of the few photos of myself I can bear to look at. Maybe because, if you just looked at it, you couldn't tell when it was taken; this year, last year, twenty years ago. This photo could have been taken anywhere; it could be anyone. And it clicked, watching John Cusack getting interviewed, that he looked like me in this photo. Since then I've kept an eye out for his movies, even if they look like they may be shit. I've seen
The Grifters
many times. It is a Hollywood movie that doesn't feel like Hollywood, it feels like the people who made it cared for something else apart from drugs and money. And he was in
Say Anything
. In
Say Anything
he falls in love with this rich girl, who is avoiding him, and at dawn he stands outside her house, in a raincoat, holding a ghetto blaster high above his head. He's playing
In Your Eyes
, the Peter Gabriel song, to get her attention. One day I'd like to meet someone I felt so strongly about that I would get up at dawn to play them a love song. Not to worry about what the neighbours say, what his parents will say. I can't sing so it will be my own form of serenade. Then not only will I look like John Cusack, I'll be like John Cusack.

Jesus, I'd love to serenade John Cusack.

Alex pulls at my T-shirt. The tram is running down a large road and apart from the street lights, on either side of the highway houses stretch for miles and miles in darkness. I pull the cord and we get off at an intersection. There is a petrol station at each corner. The four of them are huge, all brightly lit, each with its own car park. The Shell, BP, Ampol and Caltex signs form a neon oasis at the centre of the dark flatlands reaching out from all sides of the intersection. I put a cigarette to my mouth, light it and offer one to Alex. She takes it and we cross the road, into the suburbs.

No one, of course, is on the streets. And every street around here looks like every other street, every stranger you meet walking along looks like the same stranger you passed blocks ago. The blocks are huge. Big brick buildings, one after another. This could be Balwyn, could be Burwood, could be Vermont. Could be Mitcham. Maybe if you grew up around here all the space might mean something to you. East, west, south, north, the city of Melbourne blurs into itself. Concrete on concrete, brick veneer on brick veneer, weatherboard on weatherboard. Walking through the
suburbs, I feel like I'm in the ugliest place on the planet.

–I'd like a house around here. Alex stops in front of a concrete monstrosity, small lion statues on the gate and marble pillars on the front verandah.

–What the fuck for? I say to her. For somewhere to live where I don't feel crammed, she says. She starts reeling off a list of things she'd like in life. A big house, a big backyard, a dog, a good job. I don't listen, I just keep walking a little ahead of her, letting the drugs wrap themselves around my head and enjoying the night breeze. We pass an old couple walking their dog.

–You want to be like them? The old woman turns and looks at us. Shut up, my sister says in Greek. You want to be like them? I insist in English. You don't ever want to get out of this city, do something different with your life? She stops in front of another house and inspects the garden. I keep walking and she runs to catch up to me. We get to Joe's place.

The grass in the front yard is immaculately mowed and Dina, Joe and his sister, Betty, are smoking cigarettes on the porch. A faint trace of tobacco, marijuana and olive oil lingers among the plants in the garden. Alex sits down on a step and I kiss the girls hello, slap Joe on the back and go into the house. A bong sits on the lounge-room table, the television is on and the sound is down. A shit CD is playing on the stereo, some ugly white noise like Phil Collins or Michael Bolton. I stop the music, whisk through the CDs on the shelf and find an old Rolling Stones record.
Let it Bleed
. I program
Gimme Shelter
first, then
You Can't Always Get What You Want
, then
Love in Vain
and finish with
Midnight Rambler
. They are the only four songs I want to hear. I turn the volume up, have a bong and then join the others on the steps.

–Why'd you take the other one off? Dina is glaring at me. Joe has his arm around her and she's running a middle finger up and down his naked arm.

–Because it's shit. Betty laughs and claps her hands.

–Well, I think this is shit. I say nothing, just croon along to the chorus of
Gimme Shelter
. Give a fuck, I'm thinking, it's all just a shot away. Dina gets up, unsteadily, maybe she's had too much dope and goes in the house. Joe looks concerned.

–Be friendly, Ari. For my friend's sake I get up and follow Dina into the house. She's standing in the kitchen, by the sink, rinsing greasy remainders of food off the plates. What do you want? she says when she sees me come in.

–To say I'm sorry. I'm only playing four songs, when it's over we'll put your CD on.

–No, it's alright, I know my music is daggy. Like, right, you think I'm a dag, don't you? She turns off the water and turns to face me. You do, don't you? I don't know, is what I'm thinking. Dag? Is that the word? She's commonplace, in her too-tight red dress, her teased hair, the heavy black mascara, the little gold cross around her neck. Her problem is that there are thousands of women like her sprinkled around this city. There's probably three or four girls like her in this street. I can't say that to her, and I don't want to say that to her. So I just give her a weak smile.

–I don't think you're a dag. She smiles back but I don't let her off the hook completely. I do think you're a wog.

–So what, I'm proud of it. And what are you? I don't answer. I'm not a wog, I'm not sure what I am but I'm not a wog. Not the way she means. Mick Jagger's voice comes on rough and soulful, the opening verse to
You Can't Always Get What You Want
. Dina starts to sway to the song: she's enjoying being stoned to it.

–I like this song. Dina comes and stands next to me. It's the speed, pushing me out of myself, it's the drug high, the smoke from the bong helping me connect with this young girl beside me. I keep talking, enjoying the sensation of her shoulder pressed against my side.

–My brother gave me this record for my fourteenth,
maybe it was my thirteenth birthday. I didn't really like the Stones before. All I knew was
Satisfaction, Tattoo You
, the more recent stuff. But when I first heard
Gimme Shelter
it blew me away, I used to play that song over and over and over till even Peter got sick of it and told me he'd break it over my fucking head if I played it again. The cunt, and he gave it to me. I laugh to myself, remembering.

Dina moves away. I prefer Greek music, she says, and moves into the lounge room for a bong. I keep talking, following her, going on a speed rave.

–A few months ago I was in this pub, it was early afternoon, more a bar than a pub, and this guy behind the counter is looking through a stack of CDs. I asked him if I could choose one and they had this greatest hits collection by the Stones. And I asked him to put that on, and when
You Can't Always Get What You Want
came on I started singing and this guy behind the bar starts singing. I can't sing, ask Joe, I never sing. This guy couldn't sing either but we must have both loved the song. When it finished, I look around, and there's only a few other people in the bar, a couple of young people, some middle-aged men. Empty really, afternoon on a weekday, but every single one of us has been singing along. I figured we must all have memories of that song. That's a great song. Dina, one that makes you connect with strangers.

She's not listening, crouched over the bong and taking in the smoke in one gulp. I stop talking and wait my turn. I look around at the walls, full of tapestries. The biggest one is of a small village by a river and three women are dancing on the river bank while two goat herders are watching them. Another tapestry is of the Madonna and child. Another of two reindeer in a forest. The glass the tapestries are framed behind is dull from dust. Where have your folks gone? I yell out to Joe on the porch. Dina, coughing a little from the smoke, hands me the bong. This place stinks, she says, it smells like a bordello.

–Sure does. Alex is standing in the doorway looking at me smoke. You must be right off your face, Ari. I let the smoke stay down in my lungs for as long as I can stand it, then release it slowly. Want one? I ask her and hand her the bong. Joe comes into the lounge room and sniffs the air. He tells me that his parents are visiting family. Does it really stink, Ari? I nod again. Just bomb the place with air freshener before we go, my sister tells him, and she comes over to me. She leans over and whispers Betty wants some speed. I go to see Betty on the porch. Joe follows me.

–You both want some speed? I ask. Betty jumps up but Joe shakes his head. We'll go into my room, Betty says, and Joe calls out softly to not say anything to Dina. I don't reply.