–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.
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 o
ffer 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.
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