Me, Antman & Fleabag

by Gayle Kennedy

  The fulla looked like he was gunna shit himself and he stammered, ‘Hey, chill out man.’

  Anyway, we decided to leave before things got ugly. It takes a lot to rile Antman. I don’t remember im ever bein that pissed off before. Later he reckoned he was glad he didn’t belt that fulla. He reckoned it wasn’t worth it. I reckoned he was right.

  Cos there was no other blackfullas around, everyone was fascinated with me and Ant and Fleabag. A lot aint ever met any of us before and they made a big show a comin over and talkin to us and sayin stuff like ‘right on’ or ‘I hear ya’ and callin us ‘brutha’ and ‘sista’ and makin sure we noticed the land rights stickers on their old Kombis and station wagons.

  They played Archie Roach, Kev Carmody, Tiddas and No Fixed Address on their CD players.

  Anyway, we started gittin sick of all the attention. We didn’t feel like answerin any more questions bout whut it was like bein black. We was particularly sick of bein told we wasn’t proper blackfullas too. More to the point we was sick of all this gammon whitefulla dreamin. We was just on for chillin and livin in different country for awhile. But all the mountains and the forests and sticky air and the drizzlin rain was different to anything we ever knew. We never felt dry. And we never did meet any other blackfullas at the festival.

  So anyway, we’d had a gutful and was sittin in a pub discussin our next move when this feral fulla, with dreadlocks down to his arse and wearin a Bob Marley t-shirt and carryin a big string bag full a shit, comes skippin over to our table.

  He plonks himself down at our table and says, ‘Hello Aboriginal people.’

  We look at im and say, ‘Hello Anglo man.’

  He looks a bit upset about that. Ant reckoned later that he expected us to be able to see that, despite his white skin, he had a black soul. But he pulls himself together and says, ‘So, I would be deeply honoured if you told me about your culture.’

  I could hear the sigh come from the very bottom of Antman’s guts as he said to the feral, ‘Mate, ya gittin a bit personal, aint ya? Besides, me doctor aint got the results back from the lab yet.’

  The feral gits up and moves away. Me, Antman and Fleabag head for the car and the back country. We drive all night. We aint afraid of the spirits in the damp, dark green country anymore.

  The hundred dollar bill

  Dad and Hollywood worked together on the local council for years. Dad drove the council truck and Hollywood swept the gutters and emptied the bins on account he didn’t have a truck licence.

  Hollywood was a whitefulla who had an opinion on everything and reckoned he was always right whether he was or not. The blackfullas give im his name cos he loved sayin, ‘Don’t try and tell me what to do, old son. I’m the main actor in this fuckin show!’

  He was tight as a fish’s arse too. No one ever saw im shout a beer for anyone, and if he went to a party, he took along bottles of home brew that tasted like cat’s piss. ‘Twenty cents a bottle and ya can’t tell the difference,’ he liked to brag, before drinkin everyone else’s good grog. His glass was always half full if it wuz his shout and half empty when it wuz yours.

  He lived at home with his parents and paid no rent. His mum cooked, cleaned and did his laundry. He turned up shinin like a new pin everyday. He idolised his dad and they did everything together, like makin the home brew and playin golf on Saturdays, rain or shine.

  He sort of had a girlfriend. She was one of the council supervisors. Used to come to town every six weeks and they’d go to the club for Chinese. Always split the bill right down the middle and then they’d go for a little drive.

  Anyway, one mornin Dad comes into the depot and Hollywood’s perched up behind the wheel of the council truck with a big grin on his face and lookin like he’d just won first prize in the lottery. He leans out and says to Dad, ‘Take a little spell from drivin today, old fulla. I got me truck licence yesterday.’

  It sure did surprise Dad cos he didn’t even know he was goin for it. Later Hollywood told im he’d found out they paid more if you could drive the truck. He’d never been known to pass up anything that fattened his wallet. Dad reckoned his supervisor girlfriend put im up to it. Told im there wuz an extra quid in it.

  Dad wasn’t real keen on the idea of anyone else doin the drivin cos he wasn’t too fond of wearin out the soles on his council boots. But he thought he’d beat the bastard into work the next day so he let im go this time.

  So next morning, Dad got into work ten minutes early only to find Hollywood perched up in the driver’s seat, chirpy as can be. The next day he made it in twenty minutes early. Same thing. It didn’t matter what time Dad got in, there was old Hollywood sittin up there, leanin over the steerin wheel, waitin to git started. Dad reckoned that bastard must sneak back at night and fuckin sleep in the truck.

  This went on for a coupla months, till one mornin, they’re drivin along and Dad switches on the wireless to listen to the John Laws show. Only thing is, Hollywood’s got it on another station. Now Dad’s pretty easy goin. He don’t git upset about too much in life, but there’s three things in life where you don’t argue with him and that’s his beer (Melbourne Bitter longnecks), the ABC news at night and Lawsie on the wireless in the mornin. Dad’s been a fan for years. He’s rung im up a few times and been sent bottles of Wild Turkey, CDs, a copy of his book of poems and one of his most treasured possessions, a John Laws clock.

  So Dad goes to switch it over and Hollywood starts bungin on bout how he hated Lawsie and wanted to listen to somethin else. So Dad says he wasn’t arguin with im, it was Lawsie or nothin. Hollywood looked im straight in the eye.

  ‘I didn’t make the rules, Roy. If I remember rightly it was you who said whoever controls the steering wheel, controls the wireless dial. If I’m not mistaken, I’m the one behind the wheel.’

  Well Dad reckons that bony-arsed little mongrel was lucky to be alive cos he reckons he aint ever wanted to wring someone’s neck as much as Hollywood’s that day. But Dad cops it and sits there fumin and thinkin bout good places to bury a body while Hollywood whistles along to the ‘Baby Elephant Walk’ and ‘The Little Spanish Flea’.

  That night me, Antman and Fleabag are round at Uncle Ronnie’s place, chillin out with im and Flash and Myrtle. We hear Dad bungin on next door and then Ma tellin im ta piss off and ta come back when he’s woken up to himself.

  So then Dad comes stormin into Uncle Ronnie’s and starts goin on bout Hollywood. He’s worked himself up into a real state but Unc tells him to settle down and hands him a longneck. After Dad quietens down Unc tells im he’s gotta beat that little arsehole at his own game. He points over to Myrtle who’s havin a nap under a tree and reminds im that he was always tellin im he was weak as piss, but now he was carryin on the same way. Dad reckoned Unc was right. Hollywood had him carryin on like a real clown. He had to bring a bit of blackfulla cunnin to the proceedins.

  Anyway, the next day Dad’s sweepin the footpath and he calls up to Hollywood. ‘Come and have a look at what I found. Ya not gunna bloody believe it!’

  So Hollywood hops outta the truck and saunters over. Dad shows im a crisp $100 note. Hollywood’s eyes bug out and he starts tremblin at the sight of that lovely lookin green bill.

  ‘Where’d ya git that, Roy?’ he asks, his voice all choked up.

  ‘It was right here in the gutter. I wuz sweepin away and I looked down and there the fuckin thing wuz. Some poor bastard’s gunna be cranky when he finds that missin. Couldn’t come at a better time tho, aye? Two days before pay day! I’d give ya half, old mate, but I know how ya feel about the old finders keepers bit.’

  Hollywood goes real pale and tells Dad he’ll see im back in the truck. Dad said he hardly opened his mouth for the rest of the day and when they finished work he just climbed down from the wheel and got in his ute and pissed off without sayin a word of goodbye. Dad reckoned Hollywood wouldn’t ave slept much that night.

  The next mornin Dad goes into work bright and early but the shed’s still loc
ked up. He goes in and makes himself a cuppa and waits for Hollywood. He turns up about half an hour later, big, dark circles under his beady eyes. He apologises for bein late, reckoned he wuz buggered if he could sleep last night.

  ‘Ya git that on the big jobs,’ Dad says, and says they better git to work.

  He starts walkin over to the passenger side but Hollywood chucks im the keys.

  ‘You drive today, Roy. Take a load of your feet. I’ll sweep the gutters.’

  ‘You sure?’ asks Dad.

  ‘Yeh, mate. I’ve been hoggin the driver’s seat for too long.’

  ‘Whatever ya reckons a fair thing, old mate.’ says Dad as he fairly floats into the driver’s seat. First thing he does is switch the wireless back to Lawsie.

  That night Dad gives Uncle Ronnie back his $100 bill. We all sat round, polished off a slab a beer and laughed our guts out for hours. Ma was happy too. She’d had a gutful of Dad comin home moanin all the time.

  Hollywood aint driven that truck since and people reckon the old town’s got the cleanest gutters in the whole country.

  Mothballs

  Aunty Sugar is an old devil. She likes makin people shame, specially young fullas. I remember when I first took Antman out ta meet her. Aunt’s got a big old tea chest she calls her glory box. It’s full a sheets and towels, pillowcases, tablecloths, pots and pans, cups and saucers. Her ma and dad started it for her when she was a little kid. They wanted her to have all the things they didn’t when she finally grew up and married. The thing is Aunty Sugar never did git married. She was thirty-six before they stopped buyin her stuff.

  Aunty Sugar just wasn’t one for the lads. She liked muckin round with em, havin a drink and laugh, but she reckoned she never met one that pushed any of her buttons. She worked all her life as a shearers’ cook and earned a lot of money and owned a little house just outside town. She decked out the place with a lotta stuff from the glory box, but there was so much more in there she wouldn’t ever use. So on birthdays, all her nieces, if they was around, got ta go and pick somethin out of all the things that was left as a present.

  Aunty never had any romance as far as anyone can tell. Ma reckons a nurse come to work at the hospital one time and her and Aunt spent a lot a time together. Reckoned they was real sweet on each other. But Ma reckoned Sugar just wasn’t able to come ta terms with what she was feelin, so the nurse left town. Ma reckoned that nurse cried like her heart was breakin when she got on the train and went back to the city. No one saw Aunty Sugar for a long while after that. Ma reckoned she told her she was a fuckin fool for lettin that chance for a bit of love and happiness git away. Aunt looked at her like she didn’t know what she was talkin bout. But ya can’t fool Ma. Not ever.

  Anyway, Aunty Sugar got over it all and seemed content livin in her little house, with her bantam roosters and three dogs and cookin for the shearin teams.

  But like I said, she was a devil. Anyway, this time I was out home for my birthday and she sent Dad up to fetch me. So me, Antman and Fleabag went out to her place. She was out the back in the yard collectin some eggs from her chooks when we turned up. She’s got everything out there. A vegie patch, grape vines, fruit trees. She’s always sendin eggs and fruit to relations. She turns to us with a box of eggs and tells us to take em home to Ma and Dad.

  She gives me a big kiss and hug for me birthday and says, ‘you know where the glory box is, baby girl. Go and pick somethin out for your present.’ So I goes in and all the stuff’s wrapped in tissue paper and packed up nice and neat and there’s mothballs scattered all around. The smell of camphor is overpowerin.

  Ant aint ever smelt it before so when Aunty comes in he asks her what the smell is and Aunty Sugar tells him, ‘It’s mothballs, boy. Aint you ever seen mothballs?’

  ‘Course I have,’ reckons Ant. ‘I just forgot what they smelt like.’

  ‘So you’ve not only seen mothballs, you’ve smelt em too! Well tell me, boy, how’d ya git their little legs open?’

  I aint ever seen a blackfulla go red till that day. Aunty Sugar roared with laughter.

  She looks over at me and starts wipin her eyes with her hanky and says, ‘It’s an old one but a good one eh, daught?’

  ‘Sure is, Aunt,’ I reckoned. I had ta borrow a hanky meself.

  Aunty Sugar don’t mind shamin whitefullas either. I remember one time we was all at a weddin. It was one of her nephews and he was marryin a white girl. Her brother told her she could go but reckoned she wasn’t allowed to muck up and drink too much and give cheek. She promised she’d behave. ‘On my dyin oath, brother,’ she reckoned.

  So she turns up and she’s all dolled up and bein nice as pie. She’s sittin with me and Ma, Dad and Antman and tryin her level best not ta fuck up. She was goin real good too. We nearly got to the end of the night and Aunt hadn’t insulted anyone, and as much as it was killin her cos it was free, she was goin real easy on the grog.

  Anyway, right towards the end of the reception one of the old white women from the bride’s family comes over to our table for a yarn. She’d been loosenin up a bottle of gin and had a bit of the old wobbly boot on. She plonked herself down next to Aunt and started makin small talk. Aunt was nice as pie answerin all the lady’s questions and keepin a ‘civil tongue in her head’ just like Uncle wanted her too. The lady told Aunt how the family had been worried about Gretchen marryin an Aboriginal at first, but he’s turned out to be such a lovely boy. ‘My gosh,’ she said, ‘if you closed your eyes you would think you were talking to a white man when you’re talking to Dane.’

  Aunty grit her teeth and says, ‘Yeh, I don’t know how, but sometime we fluke a good one.’

  ‘You certainly do,’ said the lady takin another swig from her gin.

  Then the lady started complimentin Aunt on her good looks and her nice skin and Aunt’s lappin it up. Then she asks Aunt how old she is and Aunt tells hers she’s sixty-five.

  The old lady looks surprised. ‘Sixty-five?’ she says. ‘How unusual. I didn’t think you Aboriginal people lived that long. I mean with all the violence and the alcohol and the drugs and whatnot.’

  ‘Well,’ says Aunt, takin a big slug of beer and fixin her large black eyes on the lady. ‘Well, my dear,’ she says in a really flash voice. ‘I only sniff unleaded petrol.’

  Even though Uncle told us to keep an eye on Aunt and chip her if she mucked up, we couldn’t help ourselves. The whole table just busted out laughin.

  The old white lady looked at Aunt in a confused sort of way. Then when she at last realised she was gittin the piss taken she got up and staggered off. Unc saw the commotion and come stormin over. When we told im what happened he started laughin too. He went and got Aunt a fresh beer. A whole jug all to herself.

  The purebred pedigree

  Boris is Antman’s best mate. They been mates since they was kids. Boris arrived at the same school as Ant one day. He was a lanky, skinny kid who could hardly speak English. All the kids called him a greasy wog and used to flog im up all the time. Till one day Antman come across a coupla kids pickin on im and towelled em up. Ant told Boris he had to toughen up a bit, learn ta stick up for himself.

  He took im round to his place and Ant’s dad give Boris boxin lessons and everyone else taught him how to speak like an Aussie. Trouble is, it was Aussie blackfulla style. Bonnie loves tellin the story bout the first time she took Boris home. Him and his family had spent their first year in Australia in a migrant camp and then they moved into a little three-bedroom fibro Commission house. So he was real impressed when he sees Bonnie’s place. A great big, four-bedroom, blonde-brick veneer with a patio and above-ground swimmin pool out the back. Bonnie reckons his eyes bugged out. ‘By the fuckin bejesus,’ he said, ‘this sure is a flash lookin camp. You fullas must have a heap a wulung ta live in a camp like this.’

  He confuses people by askin where the jillawa is when he wants to go to the toilet and callin dogs mirrigarns.

  Anyway, him and Ant become the best of friends, alwa
ys together. When Ant got sick and lost all his hair, Boris got his shaved off and got his ma to make em both flash bandannas. He didn’t grow his hair back till Ant’s did.

  Ant calls Boris the Battered Slav, or BS for short, and he loves it. He’s grown into a big bear of a man, with long black hair, wild hazel eyes and the biggest laugh you ever heard. When Ant took Boris out to meet his people, he scared the life outta all those blackfullas, but now they love im. They specially love teachin him the lingo. Ant loves it when they git back ta town and there’s Boris confusin everyone with these strange black words. One of his favourites is boongalungs, which is our lingo for balls. He loves goin up ta whitefullas and askin em how their boongalungs are. Him and Ant git the biggest laugh when they say, ‘Good thanks, mate. Real good.’

  Boris got married real young cos his girl Bonnie got pregnant. Ant was his best man. When Boris had his two kids, Ant was godfather. Whenever Bonnie kicked Boris out (which was a lot) he come and stayed with Ant.

  Every week durin footy season me, Antman and Fleabag went over to his place to watch the game on his big screen. Anyway this day we was standin at his front door when next thing we hear was Bonnie. ‘Get your fat fuckin Croat arse outta my house. And take that lazy mongrel with ya,’ she was screamin, hurlin a garbage bag of clothes at Boris.