Loaded Page 8

  Joe returned to school, shaved his head, became a neighbourhood lout. They locked his mother away for a while, and his father hit the bottle with a ferocious hunger. Then the doctors took out what they thought shouldn’t be in his wife’s head, pumped her high with drugs and settled her back into the real world. The father gave up the booze and the cards and they moved out into the suburbs, to a neighbourhood where no one knows anybody and whatever happens in the confines of your four walls is your own business, your own pain. Joe and I would see each other every weekend, get stoned, get high together. Over at his house his mother would make me a drink, give me some cakes to eat. She moved in her world in slow motion. The little pills she took kept her safe, her eyes were empty of colour, of light. Every couple of years Joe’s father would take his wife to Greece, make a trek to a valley where the Virgin was said to appear. They would drink the holy water, cross themselves, and still the woman would search through her bag to get to the little pills that kept her sane. Sanity is a chemical reaction.

  I sit at a table with my brother, listening in to conversation, drumming the table in time to the music, reclining back on the seat. Peter is arguing with Ariadne, who keeps laughing at him; a deep, warm laugh. She leans close to him so that he can smell her perfume mingled with her sweat from the dance. An old man, grey haired and obese, is also arguing with my brother. Next to him, and across the table from me, a man with a beard has his arm around a young woman with round, olive eyes. We have been introduced, quickly, by my brother but I cannot hold on to their names. A married couple. The man is involved in the argument. The woman looks bored, watches the dancing. I look at my watch. It is past midnight. Soon I should leave. Meet Johnny.

  The argument bores me. They are discussing the politics of the Greek community in Melbourne. Words fly around me. My brother is arguing that young people, he points at me, need to be included in the committees and councils. Ariadne disagrees violently, her words coarse and direct. Fuck the Greek community, fuck the Australian community, the Vietnamese, the Italian, the Spanish. She is arguing for a new left, of young people, artists, deviants, troublemakers from all the communities to get together. She wants something new, something radical. This country is so boring, she sighs, I wish I was back in Greece. The men around her disagree. She takes a sip of her drink and gets up to buy another. I have no interest, she tells them, in involving myself with progressive, so-called left-wing Greeks if it is the same faces, the same conservative mob of wogs, married, bourgeois, living in the suburbs, who happen to be able to spout Marx and Lenin. The woman across from me flinches. Ariadne continues: I want to be involved with the deviants, the mad, the creative, all those people that the Greek community despises, that the general Australian community despises. For Christ sake, she screams at them, communism is dead. She walks off.

  The conversation continues without her. I tune out and instead watch a fat guy in too tight jeans and a too tight shirt dancing gracefully near our table. His eyes are closed, sweat is dripping down his forehead. He looks ecstatic, as if he’s on drugs, but I’m sure it is just the dance.

  Ariadne returns and puts a glass of whisky in front of me. Peter, she announces to my brother, I want you to request Your Two Hands. I know the song. Peter, arguing politics with the old man, ignores her. I get up, tap her shoulder. I’ll do it, I tell her. Upright, anger on her face, staring at my brother, she ignores me for a moment. Then turns, smiles at me and kisses me on the cheek. She winks at me. I go over to the bandstand, motion to one of the guitarists and request the Vamvakaris song for Ariadne. The guitarist knows her and tells me they will play it soon. I go back to the table, sit next to her and whisper in her ear; you have to dance it with me.

  –Ari, it would be my pleasure, she answers, turning towards me. I lift my glass and salute her.

  –Are you proud of being Greek? she asks. The whole table is looking at me. My brother lights a cigarette and blows the smoke in my direction. The question makes no sense to me. I’m glad I’m Greek, I answer, but I’m not proud of it. I had nothing to do with it. The married woman laughs. That’s the most sensible thing I’ve heard all night, she says to me.

  –Are you proud of being Australian? The old man’s question feels like an interrogation. The answer is easy. No, no way. Proud of being an Australian? I laugh. What a concept, I continue, what is there to be proud of? The whole table laughs at this and Ariadne gives me a hug. They forget me and continue their conversation. The band finishes a song and the bouzouki begins the sad cry of the Vamvakaris song. I jump up, leap on the dance floor and begin to sway to the music. Ariadne joins me, and we twirl and move around the floor, I mouth the tortured lyrics. Your two beautiful hands will destroy me.

  Ariadne moves sensuously, coming in close to me, and I drop to my knees before her, clapping my hands together in time with the rhythm, encouraging her in the dance. She motions for me to rise and I leap onto my feet, turn twice on my left foot, twice in the other direction on my right foot. I block the rest of the pub out; do not see the other dancers around me and Ariadne, do not see the band, the crowd. I shut my eyes, Ariadne disappears except for the lingering scent of her sweet perfume, the light trace of tea-tree oil in her hair. I fall and stumble in the hashish rhythms of the song, chasing the agonised cries of the clarinet.

  As the words pierce my skull, I see the unshaven face of George appear behind my closed eyelids, morning sun across his face, and I open my eyes. Ariadne is on one knee before me, clapping along to the music, tears of sweat on her brow, her eyes half-closed, singing along to the song. The chorus is repeated for the last time, I fall to my knee in front of her and as the last note is played, held, ends, I lean over her and kiss her tenderly, lightly on the lips. Flirt, she calls me, grabs my hand and leads me back to the table. The band place their instruments down and announce a twenty-minute break. I look at my watch again. Definitely time to go but I keep my grip on Ariadne’s hand.

  –You’re a good dancer, Ari, the married woman tells me.

  –What’s your favourite song? Ariadne asks me. Hard question. Favourite songs, like favourite films, like favourite people, change day by day, moment by moment. Hard question, I answer.

  –What would you like to hear after the break? she insists, not taking a seat. I look over at Peter. Do you think they’d play What Becomes of the Brokenhearted? He shakes his head, grins at me, and announces to the table: My brother wishes he was black.

  I scowl. I wish no such thing. That the best modern music is black is a simple fact, the logic of the ears, the objective fact of history. My brother, seeing my anger, rises from his seat and begins to hum the Jimmy Ruffin tune. Fired by the dance, fired by the drugs, by the night, I get onto the table and begin to sing the opening verse. Peter gets up, climbs on the table, clicks his fingers in time to my singing and joins in with me at the chorus. What becomes of the brokenhearted. Around us, the room has stopped and the crowd is watching us and that spurs me on, my voice louder, competing with the furious buzz of drunken conversations. I lose the tune and collapse into giggles, knock over a glass and jump off the table. Ariadne starts clapping and the people on the tables around us raise their glasses to us.

  –Got to go. Ariadne kisses me goodbye. Pleasure to meet you, she tells me. Ditto, I say and head through the crowd, out into the warm summer air. On the way I pass the man in the fishing cap and nod to him. He ignores me. That causes no pain; he was a momentary figure in my life. That’s what I like about casual sex with men; there’s no responsibility towards the person you fuck with. Outside, sitting on the steps to the pub, Maria is smoking a cigarette and talking to Kosta. Where you going? she asks me.

  –To the Punters, I’m meeting up with Johnny.

  –Are you clubbing afterwards? Probably going to the Peel, I answer. I kiss her goodbye and head down Glenlyon Road. The lights, the music, the traffic of Sydney Road disappear and I walk down a dark suburban street, whistling the Jimmy Ruffin song. Dogs start barking.

  Janet
vs Ariadne. Janet with her smooth pale skin. Fleshy. Short dyed-red hair. Steel-capped boots and op-shop dresses. Ariadne clothed in silk and expensive shirts and skirts. Luxurious dark hair falling in curls around her face and shoulders. Janet coming over to our house, ill-applied lipstick, chattering away with Mum in English. My father looking at her suspiciously and laying on a thick Greek accent. Alex showed her the family photographs. I took her out back of the shed and shared a joint with her. She told me that I should do my own laundry. I told her that if my mother wanted to slave over her children that was my mother’s decision. Dinner was not a success, my father got drunk and abused Australians. Peter got drunk as well, abused my father and abused Greeks.

  He took Janet home and returned hours later, waking Mum and Dad up, screaming at them, saying I’m sick of it, sick of living in your world, living in this house, I can’t study, I can’t think. I stayed in my room watching the television, watching the American news with the sound turned low so I could hear the screaming. Peter came in my room, tired, pale, his hair plastered across his forehead. Sweating, he had walked all the way back home.

  Ari, he whispered to me, taking one of my cigarettes, I’m going to move in with Janet. Sure, I answered, she seems nice. Mum and Dad will make a big fuss, mate, he told me, this might not be a pleasant house for a long time. I got up and turned off the television, sat down next to him. I put my arm around him. It’s okay big brother, I can handle Mum and Dad. Peter started crying, a slow, quiet cry. We’re not normal wogs are we, Ari? he said quietly. No, thank God for that, I answered.

  Families can detonate. Some families are torn apart forever by one small act, one solitary mistake. A marital indiscretion, someone doing drugs, a father fucking a kid up the arse in the bathroom. Living in my family it was a series of small explosions; consistent, passionate, pathetic. Cruel words, crude threats. If we came home late, Mum would wake up and scream that she had given birth to animals, louts, a slut. If we were not doing our homework, Dad would yell at us for being lazy and stupid. Most times you could shrug it off, go to your room, put on music and let them carry on outside.

  If they were very angry they might come in, turn off the music, throw your CD or cassette against the wall. The screaming could go on half the night, wake up the neighbours, wake up the dogs. They called us names, abused us, sometimes hit us, short sharp slaps. It was not the words themselves, but the combination of savage emotion and insult, the threat of violence and the taunting tone that shattered our attempts at pretend detachment; it was Peter’s sly, superior smile, my sister’s half-closed eyes which did not look at them, my bored, blank face, that spurred my parents on to greater insults, furious laments. The words, the insults; spawn of the devil, fucking animals, pieces of shit, the Antichrist, sons of bitches, daughter of a whore, stupid, lazy, ugly, useless, shameful, not-real-men, weak, you embarrass us, we are the laughing stock of the neighbourhood, I regret the day I gave birth to you.

  And our replies; peasants, dumbfuck ignorant hillbillies, hypocrites, wogs, dumb cunt wogs. We spurred each other on till we reached a crescendo of pain and we retired exhausted to our rooms, in tears or in fury. Then Peter met Janet and he walked out the door. She offered him a way out. We are weak, lazy, useless, we can’t do it on our own, we need the strong back of another. Janet served her purpose, and now Peter’s wandering eyes have connected with Ariadne clothed in silk. Beauty is top currency in this world. Not that Janet is ugly, but next to Ariadne she can’t compete. And my brother, he’s a Greek boy. Thinks with his dick.

  Like me. The street is dark and a few blocks south is my brother’s house. I could walk down the small inner-city streets, renovated terraces and newly-constructed speed traps, walk across Brunswick Road, past the Italian nursing home and knock on my brother’s door. Maybe George would be home, watching television, drinking a beer, we could share a joint. In the darkness I can smell him, the bitter tang of his sweat. But instead I keep walking along Glenlyon Road and go into the Seven Eleven. Bored young Italian boys are hanging out in the car park. They look at me suspiciously, then look away. A young guy behind the counter, pimples on his face, baseball cap on his head, is listening to music on the radio. I buy an orange juice and ask for a packet of cigarettes. Chaka Kahn is on the radio and the young guy turns the volume up. Good song I say to him. He nods and takes my money. I nod and take my change.

  Outside, in the car park, Chaka Kahn is also blaring from a car speaker. I walk towards St George’s Road with the fading echo of Ain’t Nobody falling around my ears.

  At St George’s Road I stick out my finger and head towards the City. Cars fly past me. I hear occasional shouts and abuse but none of the cars stop. At the lights a young punk girl is vomiting against a wall. Are you okay?, I ask her and she tells me to fuck off. I lean against the lightpost and watch the yellow bile pulse out of her mouth. When she’s finished she staggers off across the street, ignoring the traffic and enters a pub. I stay leaning against the post, listening to the acoustic hippie-shit music coming from the pub.

  The vomit seeps down the wall and runs in a little stream into the gutter. The wall is plastered with graffiti. Rap art and political graffiti. Act Up is sprayed in red. An anarchy symbol in black. Someone has scribbled Nelson Mandela Was Duped in blue. Underneath, in white, red and blue, a picture of the Madonna. A blank wall on which people want to leave their mark. Like dogs pissing on a shrub. I wish I had a texta on me, to write my name, and then underneath, to write; I’m not saying anything. Instead I keep walking along. A yellow station wagon stops for me and I run and get into the back seat. A red-haired man is driving; beside him sits a woman with long blonde hair. Where are you going? she asks me.

  –Just down the road, to the Punters. The man heads off. They don’t speak to me, don’t speak to each other. Some shit skip band is on the radio. I lean forward and say thanks for the lift. The man grunts. Around my feet are scattered empty hamburger containers from McDonald’s, empty cans of coke, wrappers from chocolate bars and cigarette butts. The car smells of dope and french fries. The car stops at the lights and the woman turns around and looks at me. She turns her head slowly, as if her neck can’t support the effort required. They are both pinned, and I don’t try for any further conversation. They’re on heroin, I’m on speed, different drugs, different moods. We are caught up in our separate, individual experiences. Conversation is redundant.

  They drop me off at the Punters and Brunswick Street is full of drunks, young suburban couples in their Saturday night best. Across the street a van is playing seventies disco and a tall, thin man is dancing on top of the roof. A sign on the side of the van reads: I have AIDS and I’ve been fired from work. Please give me some money, I’m dancing as fast as I can. The crowds on the street ignore him except for a group of young anarchists who are trying to make conversation with him. He ignores them, ignores the crowds, his face looking upwards to the night sky, exalted, the sweat pouring like a river around his naked torso. He is spinning on the roof of the van, looking to heaven, finding jubilation in the gospel of disco, music from a time where you could put your dick into anything and not worry about what you would find.

  A Maori bouncer stands at the door of the pub. In a blue cap, Malcolm X T-shirt and a red vest, he looks like New York City.

  The pub is full of drunken white boys and girls, private school blonde kids doing punk and grunge. Johnny is sitting at the bar, dressed as Toula, talking to a beautiful dark-haired boy in a leather jacket. Johnny is wearing a scarlet, tight mini-dress and black silk stockings. His stilettos are resting against the boy’s ankles. Two Ethiopian guys are looking at him suspiciously but Toula has her back to them. The Ethiopian guys are trying to look like Americans; baseball caps, chains and rainbow shirts but they can’t pull it off, they don’t look comfortable in their clothes. They look like what they are; immigrants just off the boat. I go up to Johnny and stroke his back.

  Johnny takes my hand and introduces me to the boy in leather. I have a big
grin on my face. The boy’s name is Declan and he shakes my hand. Glad to meet you, Ari, he says, but I can’t hear the words above the heavy din coming from the band room. I see his mouth move.

  I order a whisky from the bar and buy a round of beer for Johnny and Declan. My last shout, I yell to Johnny, I’m running out of cash.

  –It’s fine, sugar, he tells me, Mama won big at the races today. We’re celebrating. Johnny holds out his hand in a tight fist and I take hold of it. He drops two tablets into my palm. I put them in my mouth and take a sip of whisky to wash them down. What have I taken? I ask.

  –A cocktail, sugar. The brown one was acid, the white one ecstasy. I told you, Mama won a mint this afternoon. I groan and look at Declan, who laughs at me. I shrug my shoulders and decide to enjoy the night. The little pills are in my stomach now, soon to disintegrate, sliding their magic into my bloodstream and into my brain. A young woman in heavy make-up comes up to Declan and puts her arm around him. She ignores me and Johnny. She whispers something in Declan’s ear and he gets up, kisses Johnny on the cheek, shakes my hand goodbye and leaves with the young woman holding onto his arm. I take his seat. That isn’t the Croat? I ask. Johnny gives a long laugh. Declan is hardly a Slav name, sugar, is it? He finishes the beer and asks the barman for another.