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  Christos Tsiolkas was born in Melbourne in 1965. He grew up in a bilingual household where he learnt politics and music as well as how to make a pretty good Turkish coffee. Loaded, his first novel, was published in 1995. In 1996 he collaborated with Sasha Soldatow on the dialogue, Jump Cuts, also published by Random House. He has written fiction, essays, criticism and reviews for a range of publications (commercial and lo-fi) as well as working with super-8 film, video and graphics. In 1998 he co-wrote the collaborative theatre piece, Who’s Afraid of the Working Class? for Melbourne Workers Theatre. Christos is a Scorpio astrologically, an anarchist or socialist politically (depending on who’s in power) and a film freak socially. He is currently living in Canberra with his lover, Wayne van der Stelt and is a supporter of the Richmond and Ainslie football clubs. His second novel, The Jesus Man, will be published in 1999. Christos Tsiolkas believes John Howard has been put on earth by hostile aliens.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted by any person or entity, including internet search engines or retailers, in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including printing, photocopying (except under the statutory exceptions provisions of the Australian Copyright Act 1968), recording, scanning or by any information storage and retrieval system without the prior written permission of Random House Australia. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

  Loaded

  ePub ISBN 9781742743882

  Kindle ISBN 9781742743899

  A Vintage book

  Published by Random House Australia Pty Ltd

  Level 3, 100 Pacific Highway, North Sydney NSW 2060

  www.randomhouse.com.au

  First published 1995

  This edition published 1998

  Copyright © Christos Tsiolkas 1995

  The moral right of the author has been asserted.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted by any person or entity, including internet search engines or retailers, in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying (except under the statutory exceptions provisions of the Australian Copyright Act 1968), recording, scanning or by any information storage and retrieval system without the prior written permission of Random House Australia.

  Addresses for companies within the Random House Group can be found at www.randomhouse.com.au/offices

  National Library of Australia

  Cataloguing-in-Publication Entry

  Tsiolkas, Christos.

  Loaded.

  ISBN 0 09 183941 6.

  ISBN 978 0 09183 108 0.

  Cover design by Yolande Gray

  ‘Backstabbers’ reproduced by permission of Warner/Chappell Music Australia Pty Ltd.

  Unauthorised copying is illegal

  ‘Working Class Hero’ © 1971 Northern Songs Ltd. All rights reserved, international copyright secured. Reproduced with permission from Music Sales Pty Ltd.

  CONTENTS

  Cover

  About the Author

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Imprint Page

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  EAST

  The morning is ending

  Riding on a bus

  Dad is the garden

  A Vietnamese woman

  Two rings for two grams

  My perfect tape

  Little sister

  It is night outside

  Fried meatballs

  I saw John Cusack interview

  I detest the East

  Betty is a wog who wants to be black

  NORTH

  A junkie

  I don’t often fuck with Greeks

  A Serbian guy lied to me

  On the dance floor

  Joe’s mother

  I sit at a table

  Janet vs Ariadne

  Hit the North

  The taxi

  The Polytechnic is history

  The crowd at the door

  Every time I look

  I got it

  Johnny is Johnny

  Five transcendental moments

  A twirling ship

  I became a slut

  They are playing dad Abba

  SOUTH

  Another world

  Fucking faggot

  In the car

  I’m still tripping

  Some records

  Everyone gets up

  The smell of the sea

  I’m coming down

  WEST

  Mum and Dad

  I pass a greasy coffee shop

  There is this urban myth

  I watch Serena

  I pass a couple of street kids

  Fast forward

  Alex is drinking a coffee

  For Wayne van der Stelt

  and Alan Sultan,

  And for my family

  The immigrant child has the advantage or the burden of knowing what other children may more easily forget: a child, any child, necessarily lives in his own time, his own room. The child cannot have a life identical with that of his mother or father. For the immigrant child this knowledge is inescapable.

  Richard Rodriguez An American writer

  The morning is ending and I’ve just opened my eyes. I stare across the cluttered room I’m in. I yawn. I scratch at my groin. I feel my cock and start a slow masturbation. When I’m finished, and it doesn’t take long, I get up with a leap, wrap a towel around my naked body and make a slow journey downstairs.

  I hear noises from throughout the house. A robotic voice is squealing over a bass-beat on the CD. The very narrow stairs stretch down before me. I walk past cobwebs, stains on the carpet, a biro on one step, a cigarette butt on another. In the lounge I grab a packet of cigarettes and light one. On the mantelpiece I notice an old family photo. I’ve forgotten this photo. My brother in a red shirt and black shorts has one arm around the old man and another around my mum. She looks like Elizabeth Taylor, or at least is trying to, and Dad is wearing a grey suit with a narrow black tie. He’s trying to look like Mastroianni, or like Delon. The tie belongs to me now. I’m in the picture too. Sitting cross-legged on the grass, in a blue shirt, aiming a plastic gun at the camera. The colours in the photo are rich, bright. Colour photos don’t do that any more. Technology makes things look too real. I turn away from the photograph and look at last night’s mess strewn across the lounge room. It’s not my place.

  In the kitchen Peter is cooking bacon and eggs. Janet is sitting reading him something from the paper. George, one of the boys they live with, is sitting across from her. He smiles up at me and I return him a cool smile, nothing too eager. He’s in pyjama bottoms and through the slit I catch a glimpse of pubic hair. All I want to do is touch him but I look away. Janet stops reading.

  –Want some food? I nod, take a seat, try not to look at George. My head hurts and I wish I was home. Peter slips me a smile and asks me if I have a hangover. I nod and Janet laughs at me.

  –Poor baby, she smirks. Corrupted by his brother’s friends. Her voice rings loud in my head. This morning she is a study in red. Her hair dyed burgundy, a red floral dress over her fleshy pale body, pink slippers on her feet. She’s reading the sports pages of the newspaper and I grab a glimpse of the front-page headlines. Australia have won the First Test. I’ve just got up and I’m already bored. I wouldn’t mind a joint.

  –Have you got any gear left? I ask my brother.

  –Breakfast and coffee first. Then you have to ring Mum and then you can roll your own joint.

  –You can make your own coffee too, blurts out Janet. Peter gives her half a dirty look. I catch it and feel immedia
tely better. I’m his little brother. He’s got to look after me. I eat the food quickly and gulp down some water. George is laughing at me. He slowly picks at the food on his plate. I try to say something to him but my mouth is too full of egg. He leans over and wipes some food from my bottom lip. He smells of fresh sweat, dry come and tobacco. My cock goes hard and I don’t try to speak, just scoff down the food.

  Someone has changed the music upstairs and disco comes wafting into the kitchen.

  –Turn it up, yells George, and the volume increases. I tap the edge of the table in time with the music. Peter puts on a pot of coffee then comes over to me and grabs me from behind. He sways from side to side, crooning the song into my ear. I giggle and tell him to fuck off.

  –You fuck off, Ari, he laughs. Go have a shower and stop parading your young flesh around us old-timers. I give him a brotherly kiss.

  In the bathroom I put the radio on and a slow sensual wail comes out. A middle-eastern chant above a techno drum pattern. I inspect my face in the mirror and scrub away a faint trace of egg and dry spit around my mouth. I turn the water on full blast and sing along to the radio. Wiping away the smells of sweat, alcohol, dope, I sing along to the radio, louder and louder. My mouth is still dry, even with all this water and I put some toothpaste in my mouth and gargle. When I’m finished I stand in front of the mirror, wiping myself dry, wiping myself clean. The throbbing in my head has gone and I start reading a postcard on the mirror. Women’s liberation stuff. An old woman with a banner that reads: We hold up half the sky. She looks very tired. Lots of lines on her face like someone who must have smoked too much.

  –Coffee, I demand, coming back into the kitchen. Janet is about to say something rude to me but I rush to her and kiss her hard on the cheek. Thanks for the coffee, sis, I say to her, and rush out and up the stairs. I’m not your sister, I hear her scream, I’m only sleeping with your brother, I’m not married to him. But I don’t give a shit. My voice gets louder and louder climbing the stairs, grabbing at the cobwebs, singing along to whatever music is playing in the house. I put on my tracksuit pants and my T-shirt and rush down the stairs again.

  –Coffee, I scream again, and Janet flicks a grape into my face. I catch it in my mouth, roll it out on my tongue and spit it back to her. She turns her face away but George grabs the grape in mid-air and puts it in his mouth. That was my spit, I whisper. I whisper down deep inside me so no one can hear.

  –Call Mum. Peter holds the phone out to me. I get up and start dialling. Janet asks Peter why I’ve got an image of Africa on my T-shirt. Mum, I say, how are you, I slept over at Panayioti’s house. He’s anti-racist I hear Peter say, not adding that it’s an old T-shirt of his. Yeah, I’ll come home soon, I tell Mum. No, I don’t think he’s coming up. Are you coming home? I ask Peter. I am home, he says. He’s not coming up, Mum. I don’t know, maybe he’s busy. She asks me if Janet is there. I start talking in Greek, trying to be discreet. She wants to talk to Peter or Janet. I say goodbye and hand the phone to my brother. I’m all for racism, I tell Janet, moving slowly towards her, rolling my eyes and putting on a mean motherfucker sneer, dropping my voice very low. I think every whitey deserves to get it in the throat, I whisper in her ear. How about you? she counters, moving away. You’re white. I just look at her. I’m not white, I’m a wog. You’re white, she insists. I say nothing because the conversation is boring. I’m just talking crap to get at her. I read the papers, I see the news, I talk to people; white, black, yellow, pink, they’re all fucked. The T-shirt feels heavy on me. Wrong T-shirt to bring to this house.

  –You’re European, aren’t you? George asks me. So you’re white as well. Maybe, I answer, and don’t say anything else. I don’t want to start an argument with any of them. It will go on forever. The T-shirt I’m wearing feels heavy on me.

  –Can I have a joint? I ask.

  Only if you answer me, says George. A sudden fury consumes me. I clam up and look at my coffee. It’s dark and strong smelling. I ask again. Can I have a joint? He smiles at me, shakes his head, gets up and goes into the lounge room. When he comes in he sits down close to me and rolls a joint. I look at him. He hasn’t shaved or washed and a coat of thin hair is growing on his chest. He lights the joint and blows the first wave of smoke into my face. I breathe it in and grin at him, then look over to my brother, who’s arguing on the phone. George passes the joint to me.

  I take three strong drags before passing it over to Janet. She takes a small puff and then passes it to Peter. He smokes like me. Long, strong drags. I look down into my coffee. Anything not to look at George. The smoke is making me high and the kitchen seems bigger than before, full of unfamiliar objects. My eyes wander around the posters. I notice the colours of the Aboriginal flag behind Janet. I look at small pictures of movie stars and pop stars. Ronald Reagan in a bikini. A poster advertising Gimme Shelter which Peter had in his room at home. That and a portrait of Debbie Harry were the only posters he took from our house. He left the soccer prints behind. My mind is drifting. I reach for one of George’s cigarettes and light it. The nicotine straightens me out a little. I hear Janet and Peter having an argument. The joint is back to me.

  –What’s Mum want? I ask.

  –Your ass, kiddo. My brother comes up to me and slaps me lightly on the back of the head. She wants you home for lunch. Us as well, adds Janet, looking sour. I look up at the clock. It’s nearly twelve. I’m not going home for lunch, I say, so you two don’t have to either. Is she calling back? Peter nods.

  George shakes his head. She always rings, he says. Janet nods her head in agreement and Peter looks embarrassed. I just shrug my shoulders. You’re lucky she rings, I think to myself, it means you don’t have to waste money ringing her. Janet passes me a cigarette. For a moment I’m in her good books because I got her out of going to lunch. She lights my cigarette for me. Ta, I say. The phone rings and I jump up to get it.

  –A barrage of Greek hits me and I suddenly realise I’m stoned. Hi, Mum. I take a deep puff of the cigarette and listen. When she’s finished I say slowly, making sure I’m not slurring my words, Mum, I’ll see you in the afternoon. Another burst of yelling in Greek. They’re not coming, I tell her, they’re both studying this afternoon. Bullshit, she says loudly in English. She tells me to come straight home, I tell her I’ll come when I want to and we hang up on each other.

  –You’re all studying if she asks, I say, and I go over to the sink to get some more water. My mouth is dry from the smoke and I’m hungry. A stoned hunger that’s like a deep cavern inside me, nothing to do with my head or my heart, a cavern in the stomach that I need to fill. I put some toast on. George gets up and heads off towards the shower. I start rolling another joint. The morning is slipping into afternoon and the sun has seeped into the kitchen. All the colours in the room are dancing in the sunlight.

  –Can I take this with me? I ask, holding up the joint. Peter nods and Janet takes up the paper again. I eat my toast, not bothering to butter it, and then get up.

  Upstairs in the spare room I pack up my stuff in my sports bag, take out my Walkman and hook the earphones around my neck. Music is still coming from a room down the hall. And the smell of dope. I don’t recognise the song. I’m careful walking down the narrow staircase, and go kiss my brother goodbye. He smells of milk and soap. I kiss Janet’s cheek and she tugs at my hair. She smells of soap too. She smells like Peter. Thanks for letting me crash, I say. I bang on the bathroom door. George pokes his head out of the door, a towel over his shoulder. His upper arms are hairless, tanned, flabby. I nod at him and leave the house.

  The day is warm and the sun stabs hard at my eyes. I put the headphones on my ears, blink and turn the Walkman on.

  Riding on a bus always makes me horny, something to do with the sensation of moving while looking down into the world below. I sink behind a seat in the back and shift my tight cock. The music enters my head and I rock back and forth a little to a pulsating, electric beat.

  I get off the bus in t
he city and walk across Russell Street to one of the video arcades. The Chinese boys and girls are checking each other out, dressed up for the Saturday afternoon. Inside the arcade solitary boys are gazing fixedly into video screens and groups are clustered around the bigger machines. I see my Greek friend Joe and stop the Walkman. Rhythm is replaced by a cacophony of electronic whistles. He nods at me and looks back at the screen. I stand beside the terminal and gaze around the room. Video arcades give me a headache. A balding guy with a beer gut is standing at the counter exchanging notes for coins. His belly button is peering out of his shirt, his remaining hair is greasy and thin. Ugly. He notices my stare and focuses on me. I keep my eye on him for a second then turn back to the screen.

  Joe gets done by the video opponent and smashes his hand hard onto the side of the terminal. Let’s grab a coffee, he says. I follow him round the corner to Lonsdale Street, swinging my bag behind me. He’s got himself a new crew cut and is wearing a dirty black T-shirt. The nice Chinese and Greek couples step out of his way. The men in clean ironed shirts, buttoned up to the collar if they are Asian, unbuttoned to the chest if they are wog. The girls, Asian or wog, are in red and black, all wearing short skirts. I nod to some of the women, seeking some acknowledgment, testing my looks. I don’t bother checking out the boys; no use cruising when girls are around. Joe sits at a table outside a Greek coffee shop, lies back in the chair, closes his eyes and takes in the sun. I sit in the shade. It’s getting hot. At another table is a middle-aged man talking non-stop to a young woman. She’s got on too much lipstick too much perfume. She’s got a bad woggy haircut; too much hairspray makes her hair look like a wig.