by Paul Collis
Becoming Wiradjuri
Blackie looked out on the overcast afternoon sky. He stared at the Blue Mountains that were drippy-wet from dew and rain. Those mountains are hard – hard like Rips, Blackie thought to himself. Hard and cold and wet – crying. They are grey with age and green with moss, and even though they are dirty from cars and exhaust fumes, and dirty from graffiti, from life, the mountains in Wiradjuri country are still the most beautiful. And the mountains are still sacred.
‘Listen, Black … I gotta do a piss, man,’ Carlos said, seeming like he was sick of listening to Blackie’s reminiscing. ‘Let’s get off this main road, man. Isn’t there a back road we can take? If we get caught, man! Faaark! Don’t need that, brother.’
‘No, stay on this road! Cops spot us out there on them back roads … Stand out like dogs’ balls, man. Stay ’ere – blend in, man! Stop up here at Geurie, brother,’ Blackie said, pointing ahead and getting itchy feet now that Dubbo was in range.
Carlos looked at Blackie, nodded, but said nothing.
Suddenly exasperated, Blackie said to thin air, ‘Outa fucken sight, man!’
Thoughts flying round like mad galahs had Blackie’s mind here, there and everywhere. His thoughts flew to the graveside of his friend, the cripple, Crusoe. Poor little Crusoe, disabled from birth with spina bifida, he walked with crutches and was always in pain. It was a deliberate overdose from a highball that finally did him in, at the grand old age of twenty-one.
Crusoe, or Cruzzie as Blackie called him, used to sell pot from his mother’s house on the Mission at La Perouse. Blackie gave him protection when he told Blackie that young fullas were robbing him and breaking into the house.
‘Who are the dogs, cuz?’ Blackie asked.
Crusoe told him that they were local boys who lived nearby who had always liked picking on him. Crusoe had suffered their bullying for years. Blackie grew wild and went looking for the thieving bullies. He found the group of youths, drinking behind the boatshed. Blackie wasted no time at all and dropped the biggest thief with two punches. The rest stood back, afraid. The boy who lay bleeding in the dust had tears in his eyes from pain and shame. The boy’s father came rushing in when he heard from a girl who had witnessed the fiasco that Blackie had hit his boy. Blackie turned and shaped up to the father and dropped him in two hits also. ‘Fucken come near Crusoe’s again, I’ll kill youse. I’ll kill the fucken lota youse. Ya fucken dogs – stealin from cripples! Ya weak cunts!’ Blackie screamed, standing shirtless with blood on his hands, looking scary as a monster. Crusoe stood beside Blackie and in the excitement of the fighting threw his crutches to the ground and tore his shirt from his twisted body too, struggling to stand, to shape up. And, though Cruzzie would have been a push-over, his bravery was a magnificent sight that was long spoken of after that day.
‘Tan, tan, tanks Black,’ he said, tearing up.
‘You sweet, bra. Anytime man,’ was all Blackie said and a forever friendship was forged between the two men, right there on the spot.
To Blackie, Cruzzie was the little brother he’d never had. To Crusoe, Blackie was the big brother he’d always wished he had. The two were inseparable for the remaining two years Crusoe lived and his death crushed Blackie. Cruzzie visited Blackie at Long Bay gaol when he was on remand, bringing him cash for gaol buy-ups, keeping him informed of community activities. When Crusoe died the officers brought Blackie to the graveside in cuffs. He wore a new white shirt, shiny shoes and black trousers, looking so sad and magnificently Aboriginal at the same time. At the graveside Blackie said, ‘He’s at peace now, Aunt. No more shit from this place for him … He was my brother …’
The death of young Aboriginal people from suicides, from overdoses, from deaths in custody really troubled Blackie. Young men in gaol necked themselves and he was witness to the bodies, covered in sheets, being carried out of the cells a few times. The sight of the dead men scared Blackie and saddened him as he thought of the darkness they may have felt that pushed them to suicide. He wondered if he’d go the same way.
‘Too many young fullas. Too many young fullas!’ Blackie yelled, and suddenly punched the dashboard. He hit the dash so hard it buckled a little. He hit it hard, just like he’d hit McWilliams once he saw him. The punch made Carlos lose control of the car.
‘Hey! Watch how ya drivin there man, fuck ya!’ Blackie yelled, feeling the car swaying towards the edge.
‘Fuck, Black!’ Carlos said. ‘Nearly pissed meself.’
Blackie smirked, but didn’t say anything. Geurie was just around the bend.
Carlos sweated and nodded, correcting his mistake, quietly smiling.
Carlos checked his rear-vision mirror for traffic, and checked himself out at the same time.
The miles raced past. Blackie liked being chauffeured. As he watched the landscape change from the hard rocky granite land of the mountains, to the soft green rolling hills of the central west, his mind wandered.
He thought of all the speed he had swallowed. He knew that pretty soon he’d want some more. And then more. And more. And, more and more, and … Faces of old friends and images of places he’d not seen in years came flooding back in a scrambled mess. He hardly knew what was real anymore.
They hit Geurie in a hurry, but stopped for Carlos, for his cigarettes and to do a piss.
Geurie is a sleepy hamlet, less than 500 people live there. It’s a tiny place, hanging on between Orange and Wellington. Trains stop to collect wool bales and crops and farmers’ kids, taking them away to other places. The emptiness of Geurie belies great wealth. There’s rich farming land all around, with plenty of sweet water and fertile soil: ideal sheep and cropping country.
They stopped and Blackie got out and stretched his legs, then followed Carlos into the shop. Carlos stopped inside the doorway and pretended to check out the magazine rack, decided that a few lollies and a yo-yo were within reach for an easy pinch. As Blackie made his way to the counter and bought cigarettes, Carlos made his move. But, even though the old woman wore glasses, she spotted what Carlos was up to. She deftly pressed a button beneath the counter. It rang a bell out the back where her son sat doing the company books. Her son appeared just as Carlos revved the car. The son chased, but couldn’t catch up. Carlos laughed and sped away, chewing on one of his chocolate éclair lollies.
‘Ya bloody idiot! Whatcha do that for?’
Blackie ran his closed fist and threatened to punch Carlos’ face in.
Carlos looked confused.
‘What? It’s only shit … Look,’ Carlos said.
Blackie didn’t care what Carlos had stolen.
‘Don’t tell me you haven’t pinched anything, Black? There’s no cops in that dump!’ Carlos assured.
Blackie closed his fist and felt like smashing Carlos. But he held his temper and looked away.
‘Sorry brother,’ Carlos said, now regretting that which he’d done.
‘Sorry be fucked!’ Blackie yelled.
Carlos offered lollies to Blackie, Blackie snatched them and threw them out the window. Blackie grabbed the yo-yo before Carlos could blink and chucked it too.
Blackie hoped that the man who chased them might find the lollies and yo-yo, and things would be square again. But it was pretty unlikely. Carlos was too afraid to say anything, so he kept his eyes on the road and drove a little faster than before, just to get as far away from Geurie as he could.
Blackie knew that there was not any use of carrying on about what Carlos had done now. The deed had been done, and that was that. He shrugged his shoulders and decided that he’d just have to accept whatever the future would bring.
‘Fuckwit!’ he said to himself, thinking of Carlos.
Time slipped by and Blackie calmed down.
Looking through the window Blackie smiled and said proudly, ‘This was my grandmother’s country round ’ere.’
He looked at
the rose-red rocks – his grandmother’s magnificent homeland – the red land was older than time itself. As he spoke, he moved his hand in a gesture across the windscreen, as if to show it was his country too.
Carlos saw it as an opening.
‘What tribe was she from?’ he asked.
Carlos knew enough about Kooris that family was everything to them. And he knew that their grannies were at the top of those black men’s respect.
Blackie heard Rips stirring in the back.
Blackie kept his eyes looking ahead for police cars, he softly answered,
‘Wiradjuri. She was Rad-jree, man. She lived till she was nearly a ’undred years old. It’s not tribe, Carlos, it’s language group.’
He didn’t want to talk anymore. He just wanted to think about his dead grandmother, and of old songs she loved. He hummed the country song ‘Pick Me Up on Your Way Down’.
Carlos must have read Blackie’s body language, and didn’t follow up with further questions. Blackie remembered his grandmother’s smile and the old glasses she wore. He thought of the old woman back in the shop that Carlos had stolen from.
‘Fuck ya, Carlos … Why’d ya steal from that old woman?’ he asked.
But Carlos just blinked and said nothing. Blackie felt like smashing Carlos again, but held himself back. He hated himself for taking Carlos through Geurie. He hated himself for being an addict. He hated himself for being Blackie.
If he had been normal, maybe, he wouldn’t be with thieves and rip-off men. ‘What the fuck’s normal anyway?’ he asked himself.
Lost in thought, he paid no attention to the cigarette burning away, or to the hot ash falling on the seat; he imagined cool, air-conditioned libraries. The quiet pages of a book, poetry, music, songs. He hummed more of the song, a favourite of his grandmother’s.
Carlos slid the car in an aquaplane movement, snapping Blackie out of his daydream.
‘Where’s that speed, fuck ya, Carlos? Let’s have a line.’
Carlos fought hard to steady the car, and put it back on the straight and narrow, stammering, ‘I … in, in, in the esky brother. Want me to pull over?’
‘Naa … keep going. Gittin sicka driving.’
Carlos smiled. He knew what Blackie was saying. Blackie reached for his knife and sliced off a bit of the filthy, white fury. As much as Blackie liked speed, he wouldn’t use heroin. He never used the needle and the spoon for his business. He couldn’t stand the thought of sticking himself. And he promised himself that he’d kill anyone who tried to coax him that way. He knew what he was doing. Carlos and Rips had track-marks cut into the inside of their arms, but Blackie kept his arms clean from needles’ prick marks.
Blackie quickly rinsed his mouth out with a hot, flat soft drink that was hours old.
‘Fuck!’ he said as he shook his head in disgust. ‘Aww! That’s fucked, man!’ he yelled.
His tongue stung with the small ulcers that had developed from the battery acid or whatever it was that they cut the drug with. His teeth felt as sharp as razors and his bottom lip, full of scar tissue and red raw, was burning from the acidic shit.
Carlos looked to see if Blackie was going to offer him some more of that powerful stuff for all the hard driving he’d done. But he knew he’d better not ask after his fuck-up back at the shop. Blackie saw the subtle glances from the Spaniard as he swallowed hard. After a quick look over into the back seat – Rips was still sound asleep – he looked directly at the hungry Carlos.
‘’Ere! Fuck ya!’ he said to the big-eyed driver.
The Spaniard nodded with a smile. Carlos would have been happy to be given just a point or maybe two if he was lucky. Blackie gave him heaps. There must have been at least half a gram, maybe more, stuck to the blade. Enough to blow Carlos away.
Carlos whispered, ‘Thanks Blackie.’
He watched as Blackie took another swallow, then saw where Blackie put the speed. Watched him place it back down there beneath the cans, down deep in the esky. A few specks fell on Carlos’ trouser leg and the Spaniard did his best with a wet finger to get the last little bit into his hungry mouth. Blackie gave Carlos a smile and a nod, then looked away.
Blackie waited for the drug to make him forget. With the window down, he drew a deep breath. The rushing air smelt clean and fresh. He looked towards the sky and noticed the clouds, dark, ready to drop their load.
‘Sweeeeet summer rain!’ he yelled at the rushing wind.
And then, as an after-thought, he screamed to the sky, ‘Hey! All you farmer bastards! Fucken thieves! Git off my grandmother’s country! And … Pay the rent!’
No one heard. Only his travelling mates and some magpies on a fence bore witness as the car rolled along.
The sudden rush of cool air woke Rips from his slumber.
Rips stretched and swore, ‘Fuck me! Wos ’appenin cuz?’ he asked.
But, before Blackie could answer, Rips said, ‘Pull over, man, wanna take a piss.’
Carlos eased the car onto the wet red gravel and brought it to a stop.
‘Turn it off man! I’m sicka fucken drivin. Let’s have a rest for a while. If coppers come … Then let ’em come,’ Blackie said. ‘Wot yer reckon, Rips?’ He turned. ‘Stretch our legs, hey?’
He wanted to walk on his grandmother’s country again, and that was that.
Big Rips, scratching his hairy belly, lazily, said, ‘Yeah … Don’t give a fuck, brother. I’m sicka dis back seat, man. Got smokes, Carlos?’
Rips jumped out of the back and made his way to a tree to piss. He pissed for such a long time that it made Blackie laugh out loud.
‘What. You a fucken camel or something, boy? How much piss can a man have in ’im?’
Rips gave him a silly smile from over his shoulder and as he finished, he whinnied like a horse – long and loud! Then he said with that huge smile that covered his black face, ‘Where’s that smoke, big fulla?’
Carlos chucked him the packet of cigarettes and lighter. Rips lit a smoke and offered the packet to Blackie, as if they were his own.
He watched Blackie light his fag, walk away and then stop, looking out across the huge, almost-ready-to-harvest lucerne.
Blackie had things on his mind. He thought of the nursing home where he had left his dying grandmother. ‘Fuck!’ he said, wishing that he’d done things differently. He kicked the dirt hard.
He watched the lucerne heads bend and sway together in a natural dance as the wind blew through the crop. For a moment, he recalled the times when young girls in high school danced the Pride of Erin and the rumba with him. He remembered Yuko, the Japanese exchange student at the girls’ school, who looked at him with a smile. She could dance better than all of them. She moved like a bird in silent flight, gliding perfectly across a dirty floor, making him feel like a beautiful dancer.
‘Wonder what they’d all think of me now?’ he asked himself, thinking about his decision to kill.
He looked away into the distance, away far off to the horizon. He wondered what was there, beyond … He thought about his grandmother out there. Dancing to clap-sticks. Dancing and chanting. She’d make the dust fly with her feet on home soil.
He kicked his boots off and took his shirt off and stood bare-footed on the wet ground. He carefully reached down, gathered mud, and painted his forehead and then, he painted his arms. He turned around and faced Rips and Carlos. Carlos’ mouth fell open. And the cigarette fell onto his lap. Rips didn’t know what to make of it. He just stood there, looking shamed.
Blackie began to chant a traditional chant. And then he began to dance. Muddy water flew up and wet his cheek. He bowed his head and held his arms wide, doing a dance like the eagle gliding in silent flight … He was dancing a warning.
‘Huh!
Huh!
Huh!
Brrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr!
SSSSSSSSSSSSssss!
Ahhhhhhhhhhh!
Brrrrrrrrrrrrrr!
SSSSSSSSSS.’
Carlos and Rips watched Blackie dancing his country back. Even the silly lucerne stood still and paid attention.
Blackie knew that whitefullas didn’t know the dance he was doing. ‘After tomorrow,’ he told himself, ‘they’ll all know me name.’
He turned his mind to women again. He imagined those skinny white schoolgirls hiding their smiles behind their hands, not looking at him directly. He thought of his grandmother. His murdered mother – the woman whose face he couldn’t remember. The woman murdered when she brought the wrong man home one night. The woman who gave him life, whose life was taken in white rage by a someone who was never pursued nor found. Blackie was two years old and was found the next day when his nan came to visit. He was screaming for mother’s milk, standing in a pissy nappy next to his mother’s bloody and broken body on the kitchen floor. And, he imagined the father he never met, a man with no face, shrouded in black. The man who fucked his young mother and told her to keep the evening light on for him and he’d be home after sunset. He never returned, she didn’t see him again. Blackie grew up fatherless.
He imagined other black men. He imagined them black brothers, all right there with him! RIGHT THERE! Dancing the warrior dance with him. Bringing his grandmother’s country back. He clapped his hands and chanted louder:
‘Huh! Huh! Huh!
Brrrrrrrrr!
SSSSSS!
Ahhhhhh!
Brrrrrrrrr!’
He threw his head back in joy, trying to kiss the sky. His voice echoed back from the rocks. The country knew that a warrior had arrived to claim his place. He cut his foot. But he didn’t feel it at all. The Wiradjuri warrior felt beautifully alive. Dancing. Dancing for the country. Dancing for his people. Dancing for his life.
The world fell silent around him. The bush and everything else watched on and admired his power. When he finished, he felt strong. He put his shoes and his shirt back on and turned and leant on the wire. Even the wire buzzed from his rhythm.