—The company has offered you quite a generous package. Two weeks for every year of work, that’s eight weeks’ pay, plus all your entitlements. Susan sang a list: annual leave loading and one week extra as a show of gratitude for his years of service.
The company is a cunt.
She closed the folder. His face was still cold. She hated it when they cried, the men. If she could see the tears approaching, their shocked faces, the shivering of their cheeks, she would make an excuse and leave them alone for five minutes. Their recomposure was never completely convincing but she realised that for her to be witness to their vulnerability would be the greater humiliation.
There was no cruelty in Susan. Though efficiency was her profession, her commitment, she did not enjoy seeing the pain of the superfluous.
Expendable. That was what Tommy Stefano was. Sometimes, when she was drunk or very stoned, she thought her world was a whorehouse.
She would prefer the vulnerability to this though. His frozen anger mocked her.
—I’ll also make you an appointment, Tom, with an agency that specialises in placing retrenched people back into the workforce. Would you like that?
Nothing.
—How about next Monday?
Nothing. Then, a slow shift of his chin. An affirmative.
Relieved, she made a notation in her diary.
—Any other questions, Tom?
—Yes. How about sick leave?
—What about it?
—Do I get that paid out?
McIntyre shook her head.
—Tom, sick leave is rarely paid out at the end of employment. This company definitely doesn’t.
—My mum worked for years at Repco, the car parts factory, they paid her out her sick leave when she got retrenched.
—That’s very rare, Tom.
—She had a good union.
He bit hard on the word. Union. She understood it as the slap it was intended to be. Her voice, which throughout the interview had been soft, feminine, became brittle and harsh.
—Anything else, Tom?
Yes, can you get on the desk, can you spread your thighs? Do you want a big fat fuck, you frigid bitch?
—No.
Tommy closed the door and entered the discordant moans of machines and the wicked clacking of computer keys.
Nadia hugged him hard. She, like many others in the mail room, had been notified of her retrenchment the week before. The mail room, full of paper and repetitive motion, the filing of mail in slots, was to be rapidly shut down. Pathis had circulated a sheet praising the future, the technology that would make the organisation efficient. Nadia, angry and defiant, had torn up the memo in front of the smiling cold manager.
—I’m sorry, Tom. Will you be okay?
Tommy wanted to disappear into her skin, to breathe from her. He pulled apart.
—Sure.
Failure has the smell of sweat, but not the euphoric stench of physical exertion. Nothing of the erotic. Failure smells of decay, of stagnation. Tommy leant into the mirror, staring hard at his face. He pulled back. The fleshy cheeks, the beginning spread of a double chin. He swept a hand through his hair; the thickness waning. He pulled back and surveyed his body.
—You’re ugly, he said to the mirror. He could smell the ugliness with the failure.
He packed his briefcase, put on his jacket and left. Swift goodbyes. Outside, the traffic screaming, he paused for breath. He was fighting an urge to giggle, to laugh, to skip. Beyond the moment lay a vast uncertainty. But within the moment he experienced a freedom. Tommy had never longed for liberation—freedom was terrifying not exciting. This moment, however, was an exception. He suddenly craved for music.
Tommy did not want anyone around, not even Soo-Ling. He walked across the park, down William Street into the city. Lawyers and clients smoking outside the courts, the passage of traffic. He entered a small coffee shop that smelt of pastry and grease.
The woman behind the counter, heavily made-up to hide deep, long wrinkles, was packing away food trays.
—Are you still serving coffee?
She nodded slowly.
—A coffee, please.
He watched the street. A woman in a long black dress was swinging her handbag. A man in overalls was scratching at his crotch, smoking a cigarette. Labourers always reminded him of his older brother, their straightforward masculinity. He blinked and wrapped his palms around the coffee mug. It tasted pallid and it was far too hot. He set down the mug and went inside his head.
Pathis. Somers. That bitch McIntyre. The urge for fucking was immense, overwhelming. He could feel the tightness of the fabric constraining his hard-on. He stared at the woman and she, uncomfortable, turned her back to him and began scrubbing the sink.
To her, Tommy’s sadness was appalling; it repulsed compassion.
For Tommy her retreat, her rejection of him, made his cock stiffen, his anger palpable. He drank the coffee noisily and picked up a newspaper to close his mind and refuse his erection.
It was the week leading to the football Grand Final and the paper was celebrating. Colour pages, a lift-out and a poster. Hawthorn and Geelong. The writers were all in praise of Geelong’s Gary Ablett, the pug ugly man with the sure kick and the tough squat body. Tommy, who had no strong affection for either team, was hoping for a Geelong victory. They, at least, were a working-class team.
Inside, he groaned. He and Soo-Ling were supposed to go to a Grand Final barbecue at Dominic’s. The cold pumped through his stomach.
I’m fired. How could he begin to express those words? Again, he could smell the failure leaking through his skin.
An article, venomous in its anger, was directed towards the bleeding hearts asking for clemency for the Aboriginal man on America’s death row. A tiny black and white photo, badly reproduced, smudged. A man alone. Tommy thought his crime pitiful but he did not want to see the man dead for it. He closed the newspaper.
Fists smashing into the angular blonde Susan McIntyre. A black cock raping her arse. Tommy brought the scalding coffee to his lip, sipped from it, but could not ingest the hot bitter liquid. He spat it back in the cup, put a two dollar coin on the table and left. The day demanded alcohol.
No, the man didn’t deserve to be hanged. Get the white bitch instead!
He drank. First pots of beer, then whisky. Straight, no ice, nothing to soften the harsh warm taste. He drank in a quiet, almost empty pub, downstairs, under the city, the city which was hard at work. He sank the alcohol and listened to the barman discussing football with the other lone customer, an old man, a damaged red nose. They were comparing the teams, Geelong had Ablett but Hawthorn had the tall goodlooking Dunstall. That poofter Brereton, chuckled the old man.
—Michael Tuck, offered Tommy.
They paused, glanced at him, and quietly resumed their conversation.
Michael Tuck, he’s good, whispered Tommy to himself.
Tommy tried out for his high school football team once. He had dreams of playing in the ruck. The first time the football soared towards him, his stomach jumped, his skin flushed cold and he closed his eyes, just for a second, even less, but that was enough time for him to lose the ball. Another boy jumped on his shoulders and the mark was fumbled.
—Fucking idiot, Stefano! screamed the boys.
He had failed.
The whisky was a dream and the print shop, Pathis and Somers, the consultancy bitch, that cocksucking John, all of them, they receded. Soo-Ling too. She was far away and he did not want to reach towards her. He drank the whisky, finished it and headed up the stairs into the city. The barman asked, You all right, mate? You want a coffee?
—No, slurred Tommy, ashamed because suddenly he wanted to hug this stranger, I’ll be fine, mate.
The city screamed his exile. Couriers on bikes rushed past him, men in suits were catching cabs, and everywhere there were tall prim women rushing for lights. The day was cold but Tommy felt exhausted from the city’s electricity. His belly was a h
ole. He struggled, walking clumsily, to a McDonald’s.
The city was not in McDonald’s. There, slouched on the red and yellow plastic furniture, young kids wagged school and old ladies chewed on their hamburgers and dribbled over their chips. A woman in a black jumper was drowsing on a table. Tommy headed straight to the counter and impatiently shot out his order to a sullen young woman.
—Three quarter-pounders, a large fries, an apple pie, a shake. And a large Coke.
He tapped the counter, his hunger ferocious.
He ate the meal in lightning minutes, forcing the sugar and the grease straight down his throat. He clumped handfuls of chips, munched and wished he had ordered more. He ate two of the burgers, finished the chips and then attacked the third. The apple pie crumbled around his teeth, a liquid pastry, and he dunked the end of the pie in his shake. He slurped hard from the shake and drowned the whole meal with Coca-Cola. When he had finished, he looked up. Two young mothers were feeding chips to toddlers. Tommy burped quietly, pushed the tray away, and lay back on the seat. He patted his stomach, felt the bulge of his inflated stomach, and he groaned.
You fat stupid fuck. Fuck fuck fuck.
He pinched the flesh hard.
The two women across from him were very young, still teenagers. One, the prettiest, was skeletal. Her thinness almost shocking. The other one, plump, dark, she looked Turkish, was talking football. Geelong’s going to cream them.
—Richmond, Richmond, sang one of the toddlers.
The thin woman laughed and touched the toddler’s hair.
—Honey, Richmond ain’t playing.
—Richmond, Richmond, insisted the child.
Tommy laughed and the thin woman smiled at him.
—You barrack for Richmond, do ya? she asked him.
Tommy shook his head.
—Fitzroy.
The woman grinned.
You are so beautiful, do you want to fuck me?
—Poor you, they’re worse than us at the moment.
Tommy stood up, rushed past, ran down the stairs and hit the street. The cool air brushed away the nausea but his head pumped poison. He held out his hand, a cab stopped, and he crashed into the back seat.
Money. The word frightened him. But immediately a defiance shattered the fear.
He wanted to spend lots of money. He wanted to empty his wallet, his account, his pockets, his credit. He wanted to splurge, to drink. He was dying for smoke, for speed which he had not touched for years.
—Where do you want to go?
Tommy clutched his wallet and pointed straight ahead.
—Footscray.
He sank back into the seat, smelling the McDonald’s, smelling the whisky. The sweat had not gone away. He was wet, perspiration lining his face, his shirt glued to his back, his armpits seeping. Money and stink, money and stink.
The brothel was on Barkly Street, no shopfront, an ordinary house except for the small white sign with the neat black lettering. Rosie’s. All Cards Welcome.
Tommy did not move in the back seat. The driver turned around.
—Is this where you want, mate?
Tommy eyes closed, mouth moving. Praying.
—Mate, insisted the driver, are we here?
Tommy looked out of the window. He slowly nodded, opened his wallet and paid the fare. The driver went to return his change and Tommy stopped him.
—Keep it.
He jumped out of the cab and, drunk, wavering up the path, he knocked at the door.
Prostitution had soon lost its dread. The anxiety of Tommy’s first time, having to decipher the economic and moral codes which bound the brothel, was never to be repeated. But even once the costs and procedures were explained and made sense of, there still remained the shame. Entering the brothel was a humiliation: the terror that his mother, Soo-Ling, that someone was watching; even if it was only God, that was still someone bearing witness. But the hesitation, the fear was shortlived and the relief on crossing the threshold was magnificent—it heightened the intensity of the sexual anticipation. Tommy was not a frequent visitor. He had to be led by alcohol, he had to be smashed to go.
What alcohol did was to carve away the voices. Alcohol dismissed them all. What remained was only the appetite for lust. He hungrily handed over his money to the receptionist. Soo-Ling crossed his mind and he quickly set her aside, set her far back into consciousness. He was now aware of only one thing: he wanted sex with a stranger. The thought of disappearing in sex was so delicious he shivered as he handed over the money.
I want to fuck.
To not fuck today, this hour, this moment, to not fuck was inconceivable.
The woman he chose was nineteen, but she was really twenty-two. Everyone at Rosie’s was nineteen. There were only four available and Tommy blushed as he looked at them. They were all pretty, all dressed in tight short skirts. One was Asian. He immediately discounted her. He searched their faces, their legs, their bodies, their smiles. His decision needed to be quick and he felt foolish in front of them. A blonde woman, on a couch, smoking a cigarette, had large thick thighs and her sharp mouth was thin. He chose her, paid his money, and she took his hand.
He washed. The room they had entered was red, lit with soft lights. The woman, aware that he was drunk, simply stripped him and pushed him gently into the shower. There, under the water, Tommy stood in delight, enjoying the motion of the water sliding on his skin. The woman leant across, turned off the tap, and offered him a towel.
—Feel better, sunshine?
She was expert. Nude, his cock erect, she fell on her knees and began sucking him. He looked down at her blonde hair bobbing at his waist. Her hand slid up his body and played with his nipple. He pushed it roughly away and laid a hand on her head, forcing her onto him. She stopped her work.
—Careful, she whispered softly. But firmly.
Tommy saw that her mouth had wrapped his cock in a condom. Her neat trick, her professional accomplishment, it nearly sickened him. He sat on the ridiculously lavish bed.
—What do you want, honey?
He didn’t know. Taking his silence for approval, she began working his cock again. The sensation was delightful, he was aroused, but the technique and its effect were mechanical. He lay back on the bed, playing with her hair, his other hand rolled across his stomach. The day came in. Work, Pathis. The Aboriginal man rapes and kills a blonde woman.
He closed his eyes and drifted far into the fantasy, imagining himself black and violent, the woman on her knees before him someone he could kill. It would be so easy, she was so young, so soft. Slowly his torso jerked forward, forward to his fantasy, rapid thrusts into the prostitute’s mouth. He imagined the Aboriginal man above the bleeding body of the blonde, her face bruised, her lips fat, her cunt raw, shitting herself. Fucking her from behind. Fucking her so hard she was bleeding.
—Quickly, I want to fuck you.
Tommy got up from the bed. The woman lay down and looked up at him. She was smiling.
—Turn around!
The woman stopped smiling at the order.
—Be careful, right?
She turned around and Tommy looked down at her arse. It was surprisingly large, the cheeks fat. He pushed her legs apart and groaned when he saw the meat of her cunt. He pushed inside her, closed his eyes and felt her hand checking that his condom was still on. He fell into her, pushing hard, trying to fit all of himself into her cunt. He was murdering her, cutting her, fucking her, hurting her. He farted and the room smelt of his acrid shit. He jumped into her, a machine, and he came in a spasm: groans, the kicking back of his body, a tremor throughout. The woman quickly moved away from him, turned and carefully took the condom from his now embarrassed dick. The smoking liquid inside the plastic. He stood there, sweating. He blushed and dressed fast, refusing to look at her. The smells of his body were everywhere, nauseating the room. McDonald’s and come. Whisky and farts. The room smelling of shit.
He noticed, on leaving Rosie’s, that above the re
ception desk both the Hawthorn and Geelong colours were proudly displayed.
He roamed the streets, his tie loose, his shirt not tucked in. The briefcase in his hand ridiculous. Footscray was unfamiliar but in the daylight, everything grey in the drizzle, it was also pragmatically suburban. Women with prams, men in overalls taking a smoko. He walked into a street mall, kids laughing, and passed a porn shop. The neon yellow X stopped him. Only minutes had passed but already the disgust had again been replaced by a hunger. He walked on.
He was not looking for a church but on coming across one he was violently happy. Protestant; simple, that did not matter. That it had the cross was enough. He tried the door. It would not budge and he stepped back, first shocked and then accepting. He hadn’t the courage to knock. He prayed on the steps, a simple chanting. The repetition of apology.
The rain had stopped. He touched his skin, the wetness. The whore’s wet meat, that enormous arse on her. He should have fucked her up the arse. He remembered the cross and he moved off the stairs.
I should have fucked her up the arse.
Money? Scared, he checked for his wallet and feeling it in his jacket pocket was relieved. He could go back, pay her the extra if she’d let him. He hadn’t used that fat arse, its pulpy invitation. He’d get out some money, get another one. The dark one this time. No. He wanted that arse, to sink his body into her sweet hole.
He groaned. God, can you help me?
—Hello? Can I help you?
He jerked around. A man, nearly bald, was walking around the church. He wore garden boots and a baggy old jumper that sagged around a thin frame. He looks like a cartoon, thought Tommy.
—I just wanted to, I guess, come inside. Tommy pointed to the door. It’s locked.
The man approached the steps and took out some keys.
—It’s fine. I’m the pastor here. He turned around and pointed to a sad brick veneer house on the adjacent grounds. That’s where I live.
Tommy shook his head.
—It’s fine, thanks, but I’m not … He stopped.
The pastor understood.
—You’re Catholic, he asked?
Neither Catholic nor Orthodox but both. He knew God in Greek, Italian and English.
The Jesus Man Page 11