The Jesus Man

by Christos Tsiolkas

  Bloody Australians. In Greek. The slut, and she spat into the water. The fucking slut. In English. Who would leave her fifteen year old son to fend for himself? She asked this question to Soo-Ling. Australians, that’s who.

  Lou pocketed the money and kissed his mother.

  —Thanks, Mum.

  Eva went into the lounge room and asked the men if they wanted more coffee. Dominic, his eyes on the screen, shook his head. He lifted a beer glass towards her. She took it.

  Tommy looked up.

  —Do you want some help?

  —No, thanks, Tom. She hesitated. You look good, you know. You’ve lost weight.

  —I’ve been working out. He was pleased, exhilarated. Dominic turned.

  —Well, he’s got all the time in the world, hasn’t he?

  Tommy wished he could kick at the table, at the vase, at the symmetry of the room, at the symmetry of family.

  Dominic, realising his spite, cringed and avoided his wife’s eyes.

  Eva, walking back to the kitchen, found herself fearful of eternity.

  Artie closed his eyes, pretended to fall asleep.

  Before he left, Lou kissed all his family goodbye. Dominic hugged him, then lifted him high. The boy struggled and laughed. Soo-Ling was struck by the softness of the teenager’s lips.

  On the couch, Artie was snoring. Tommy leant over to his older brother.

  —You got any dope, Dom?

  Dominic nodded.

  —Can I have some?

  —It’s two fifty an ounce.

  I haven’t got the money. You cunt, I haven’t got the money.

  —I’ll get you a quarter; pick it up over the week. You can have it for free.

  Nothing more was said.

  Driving home, Tommy was annoyed by Soo-Ling’s presence. He wanted nothing more than to shed the stain of family, to remove himself from the forced attentions of the world. Soo-Ling asked him to stop at a milk bar and he snarled at her, What do you want?

  Soo-Ling answered quietly. Tampons.

  He thought of her blood and was sickened. He wanted to drive straight to the porn shop, become immersed in the comfort of sterile vaginas, to be among women who didn’t talk, who didn’t bleed, who didn’t answer back. He wanted Soo-Ling far away from him.

  She came back to the car.

  —You all right? She took Tommy’s hand. He pushed her away.

  —I’ve got to drive.

  A week before Christmas Soo-Ling was invited to a dinner in the city, a Christmas break-up for work. She urged Tommy to come. They dressed up, he wore a tie and she looked stunning in a dark blue mini and a long vinyl black jacket. The night was full of drink and jokes, the expectation of holidays, the abdication of work and responsibility. High on smoke, drinking the free wine, Tommy felt happy, content. All night his eyes were on a tall woman with golden hoop earings and a full oval mouth. From time to time the woman smiled at him, then returned to her conversation. Late in the evening, when the seating had been upset and the table was full of empty glasses and overflowing ashtrays, Tommy, inspired by drink, moved over to the woman. He introduced himself.

  —You’re Soo-Ling’s boyfriend.

  He nodded.

  The woman shook his hand.

  —I’m Alanah. I work with Soo-Ling. Upstairs.

  She smelt of cigarettes and the hint, simple, of tea-tree.

  —What do you do?

  Tommy stared at her. Her breasts were not large but they were perfectly formed, sweet round curves. The low neckline of her tight red dress.

  He could not put words together. He looked around the room. A man, fifties, grey beard, had his arm across the back of Soo-Ling’s chair. Suddenly the noise was everywhere. The noise was a dizzy buzzing, a discord and a ferocious thrashing. He had to cough. His mouth was dry. Alanah was looking at him strangely.

  What do you do?

  Tommy, without apology, got up and walked slowly to the toilets. In there a young man was pissing loudly in the urinal. Tommy closed the cubicle door and sat heavily on the seat. The woman’s question was not new. It was unavoidable. Previously he had answered it with the past or concocted a future. The answer always implied a continuum. I am. I will be. But tonight the present was the past and was the future and in this present there was no answer he could give.

  A flush. The young man leaving the toilet.

  There was one answer, the only possible answer.

  Nothing.

  What do you do?

  Nothing.

  The full force of the word hurt Tommy so much that he began to shake, a sweat, uncontrollable, gathered on his brow. From somewhere there was music. Possibly Kylie Minogue. Tommy waited for the shaking to stop and when it didn’t, when he realised the palpitations were going to continue, he stood up, pissed, flushed, washed his hands, walked back to the table, held tight to Soo-Ling and, like a baby, whispered, was crying, Take me home, take me home.

  9

  Freedom ’90

  On 11 February 1990 Nelson Mandela walked free from prison and Tommy Stefano filled out his fifteenth dole form. Mandela’s walk out of the prison, televised on a billion screens, only served to deepen Tommy’s despair. The world was celebrating. The Wall had fallen, apartheid was ending, and the future was free of nuclear menace. But Tommy was still unemployed. He left social security, crossed the railway tracks and entered the back entrance of the porn shop. There was a new man working the counter, he was watching the television, the replay of Mandela’s release the night before. A long shot, a dusty wide road, crowds waiting. Mandela was coming. A newsreader, excited, loud pink lipstick. The man at the counter flicked the remote control. A white woman, feline face, was staring hard at a bulbous cock head. A furious masturbation. The come fell, buckets, on her face. On the radio, Mike and the Mechanics.

  —Free Nelson Mandela, the man behind the counter mocked.

  Tommy laughed. He remembered the song.

  —Do you think anything will change in South Africa? The man was looking at him. Tommy was scouting video slicks.

  —Don’t know.

  —I don’t reckon. The niggers at the bottom will still be the niggers at the bottom.

  Tommy felt slapped by the harsh racist word.

  The man was large, tall and burly. He had a thick moustache, and though his smoky hair was closely cropped, he was obviously balding. Tommy wandered the store and finally settled on a video. On the back a black woman was holding two black cocks in her hand. They were huge. He took the video over to the counter.

  —Is the booth empty? He did not look at the man. Embarrassed.

  —Sure, mate. It’s quiet. He took the video cover. Need any change?

  Tommy handed over a ten dollar bill and the man handed him back five coins.

  —Enjoy, it’s a good one. I’ll fast forward it for you. There’s a bit of talking at the beginning.

  —Thanks.

  He entered the booth. He locked the door.

  There had been a long line at the DSS, even though he arrived just before ten o’clock. Lots of scared young girls with prams, holding the hands of snotty children. The regulars were there as well. A pock-marked young man, losing his hair, an AC-DC T-shirt. The Punk Princess who never smiled. The fat slag and her stained shirt. The line progressed slowly. At the counter a man in a tie was having an argument.

  —I can’t hang around all day. Can’t I see someone now?

  The girl behind the counter shook her head.

  —Take a number and take your seat. I’ve told you, you have to wait your turn.

  The fat slag, who was before him, turned around.

  —She’s a cunt, ain’t she that one?

  Tommy nodded.

  The booth was clean. It was still early. He turned on the fan, a slow whirring began. A box of tissues on a shelf, a small pink bin lined with white plastic. The black walls had been scrubbed but the faint marks of ancient semen were still visible. They reminded Tommy of the slimy trails of slugs.


  He put his coins in the slot, the screen flickered, a fuzzy line, and the video began. A woman sitting on the phone, talking sex, pulling down her panties. Her breasts were full and sagging, round pink nipples. Her eyes were dull. She was rubbing at her furry cunt. Tommy sat down on the plastic chair, undid his belt, pulled down his zip. His cock was soft.

  The man in the tie had taken his seat, muttering, threatening to call his MP, to take decisive action. Everyone else ignored him. The Punk Princess shook her head, rolled her eyes. Tommy got to the counter. He handed over his form. The woman glanced at it, stamped it.

  —I’ve got an appointment; Tommy had handed her the slip.

  She looked at it, nodded and asked him to take a seat. He walked over to the man in the tie, sat next to him. The man shifted, did not look at Tommy. They sat in silence and waited. On the screen a woman was selling crockery. Only forty-nine dollars and ninety-five cents. A set of plates, an oven dish, cups and saucers. And if you rang within the next hour, a set of carving knives. Tommy got up and headed to the toilet. He took a packet of pills from his top pocket, threw two down the back of his throat and cupped water to his mouth. Outside, he could hear a baby crying.

  Tommy waited to get hard. The sound on the monitor was loud and it closed off the world outside. Her moans were squeals. They punctuated the heavy breathing on the soundtrack. The loudness filled his ears and his cock twitched. He closed his eyes and simply listened to the ecstasy. He opened his eyes. The camera was right up the woman’s cunt, her skin made yellow by the careless shooting on video. Tommy spat in his hand and greased his cock. The woman’s face flooded the screen, her eyes closed, her breathing loud. The screen flickered, a break in the soundtrack. Outside, he could hear a woman’s voice. He stopped, lifted the seat of his trousers. He flicked at the switch that controlled the volume, turned it down. He was enraged that the booth was no longer empty.

  The interview had been monotonous. A red haired man, young, with a crucifix in his left earlobe, had methodically gone through a list of questions.

  —How long have you been unemployed?

  —Six months.

  You fucking know that.

  —What work are you looking for?

  —Graphic design, sales. Anything really.

  Nothing.

  —You live on your own?

  —Yes.

  —Seeing anyone?

  None of your fucking business.

  —No.

  —When was your last interview?

  Tommy faltered. November?

  —January.

  —Where?

  He tracked his mind, tried to remember some of the names he had put on the dole form.

  —Club X, the porn shop.

  The young man looked up.

  —That’s a far call from graphic design.

  Tommy blushed. And hated himself for blushing.

  —It’s a job, ain’t it?

  —Yes. That’s it?

  Tommy nodded.

  The young man sat back in his seat.

  —In two months you are eligible for some training assistance. Are there any courses you feel would assist you in expanding your professional skills?

  Tommy wanted to laugh in his face. The Serapax had kicked in.

  —I did graphics before computers. It would be good to get some computer experience.

  —Do you own a computer?

  —No.

  —It would probably be a good idea to get one, Mr Stefano. As you know, it’s a tough job market out there. You’ll need to get proficient on the computer.

  A poster behind the man read: Domestic Violence. Sharing the Responsibility.

  —Mr Stefano?

  —Yes.

  —A computer. I suggest you get a computer.

  Two hundred and twenty-three dollars left in the bank.

  —Sure.

  The young man made notations on Tommy’s sheet.

  —We’ll see if we can find you a TAFE course. If you’re still unemployed in a few months.

  —Thanks. Tommy got up.

  —Good luck.

  Suck my fat cock, you piece of poofter shit.

  Outside, the man in the tie was still waiting, the anger long dissipated, his body slumped into the plastic orange chair, a dejected curve. At his feet a baby played with plastic blocks. Tommy, walking past, was seized with a strong desire to smash his foot into the child’s wet face. He walked out, the air was warm. He had one thought. Pornography. His body was bursting to expel the red haired man’s face from his memory.

  The woman came, lifted her panties. The camera settled on her contented face. A pimple evaded the foundation. Tommy could no longer hear the woman outside. The radio in the shop was playing commercials. He turned up the volume and lowered his pants. He freed his limp cock from his underwear. The woman in the video rose to answer a knock on the door. A startlingly thin black man with a sliver of a moustache was at the door. He was in overalls. The woman let him in and he began to work on the kitchen sink. The woman sat on the bench, her legs apart, smiling and flirting with the man. Her black underwear was visible. The man stood up and moved towards her. She fumbled with the buttons to his overalls. He kneaded her breasts and began to suck, in close up, on one of her nipples. Tommy began a slow tug. The man stepped back and pulled his overalls off his shoulders. The woman ran her tongue down his chest, his belly. She pulled his cock out of his thin blue underwear. It was thick and arced a long curve. She began to suck on it.

  —Fuck her, nigger. Said softly, to himself. The final word excited him. Tommy’s semen splashed across his shirt, fell all over his fist. Immediately the ugliness of the jerking figures on the screen disgusted him. He pulled three tissues from the box, wiped himself. The actors on the screen had begun fucking. She was leaning across the kitchen table. He was fucking her. She was squealing. The fucking bored him and Tommy left the booth.

  When Tommy reached home he phoned Soo-Ling. She was short with him.

  —What’s wrong?

  —It’s busy. She sighed. I hate this job, she whispered to him. On the television Phil Donahue was working the audience.

  —I haven’t even had time for lunch.

  He suddenly realised he was happy.

  —Are you coming over tonight?

  He hesitated. No.

  —Fine. See you later then.

  She was angry.

  —I’ll call you tomorrow.

  She didn’t reply. She hung up the phone.

  He scouted the cupboards for food. Five slices of stale bread, two mouldy apples. In the back of one drawer he found a tin of beans and spaghetti. He thought of his stomach. He kicked at a cupboard door. He poured the contents of the tin into a saucepan. On ‘Donahue’ they were discussing date rape.

  He had become lazy with the gym and lazy with his diet. Now, after a shower, the room steaming, he refused to look in the mirror. If he glanced at the folds of his belly, his day was shattered. His self-hatred would be so staggering that he’d be incapable of action.

  When he judged the food hot enough, he poured it over two pieces of stale bread and sat in front of the television. He munched on the bread.

  A woman, crying, was talking of having met a man at a dance, his invitation home, her shyness and her fear as she realised he wanted sex. She let him kiss her, she let him undo her bra, and then she wanted him to stop.

  Tommy put down his plate. The woman’s speech was halted by her increasing sobbing. He wouldn’t stop, he wouldn’t stop, she pleaded with the audience. Close-up of Donahue’s sympathetic frown. Close-up to a cold-eyed white woman in the front row.

  When Tommy first had sex with a girlfriend, she had resisted him. He kept pleading, please, please, please. She finally relented. Her obvious anger was disconcerting but he was grateful that she let him come inside her. He rolled off her without speaking. He was relieved at her assent for he had been tempted to cover her mouth, shut off her refusal.

  The woman was being comforted by a
nother woman. Donahue then spoke with the man, who told a different story. He had not heard no, she was kissing him, she helped him take off her bra. Then he was fucking her and not aware of anything until he had finished and awoke to her screaming. The audience booed. Tommy fantasised the rape. He fell asleep on the couch, the television on. He didn’t bother to clean himself up. When he woke up, startled, the night had begun. He smelt of urine.

  Soo-Ling had typed up close to ten thousand words on the computer. It had been nonstop all morning. Up to the election her work itself had slowed down, a trickle. Immediately after the results, the phones had not stopped ringing, clients were demanding extra attention, and her manager, harassed, tired, depended on her for extra work and extra hours. Soo-Ling was methodical, organised, she knew herself to be an asset in the unit. But she hated the work.

  Nadia had rung up out of the blue, unexpected, cheerful, and Soo-Ling had eyed the clock nervously throughout their conversation. Two other women were typing furiously at their keyboards.

  —Nadia, good to hear from you. When did you come back?

  —Last week. I can’t believe it. I’m still not sure if I made the right decision. She talked of overseas and Soo-Ling realised that the conversation was painful for her. She had not travelled yet.

  —How’s Tommy?

  —Good. She winced, anticipating the question.

  —Is he working?

  —No. Softly. She looked around her as she gave the answer.

  —Yeah, must be hard. I haven’t even started looking yet.

  —Where are you living?

  —At my sister’s, in Brunswick. I’m houseminding. She’s away up north for a few weeks. Then fuck knows.

  Soo-Ling looked at the clock again.

  —Sorry, Nadia, but I’ve got to go. It’s hell here at the moment.

  —Understand. Look, do you and Tommy want to come around for dinner next week?

  —We’d love to.

  Nadia gave her a number and an address. Soo-Ling put down the phone and turned back to the computer terminal. She clicked the mouse and the screen exploded into line and curve. She began typing.