It landed on his big guts, upsetting the mull bowl resting on it and scatterin the contents over Boris and his beloved blue heeler Trev, causing the dog to sneeze violently. Trev was the apple of Boris’ eye. Besides Antman and Bonnie, and his two boys, there was no one or nothin that Boris loved more than Trev. He bought him down the pub for twenty dollars, with the papers included, and the two of em have been inseparable ever since.
‘Now look what ya done,’ yelled Boris. ‘Ya made Trev sneeze. And another fuckin thing, if I’ve told ya once, I’ve told ya a thousand fuckin times, Trev might be lazy, he might be an arsehole, but he’s no fuckin mongrel. He’s a purebred, pedigree blue heeler with the papers to prove it.’
Bonnie was a bit shocked at Boris yellin back at her. He never got upset bout anythin, but one thing he wouldn’t put up with was anyone calling Trev a mongrel. He had Trev’s pedigree papers framed and in pride of place on the mantelpiece, something that really pissed off Bonnie.
‘Just get yourself and that useless mongrel outta here. Now!’ she snarled, after recovering from her initial shock.
Boris knew there was no use pleading his case. He also knew it was well deserved and a long time coming. Bonnie just looked at us and turned round and went into her room. Boris asked if he and Trev could come and camp with us for a coupla days and we said ok. So he dusted the mull residue off his Guns N’ Roses t-shirt, gathered up his clothes, bong, mull bowl, bean bag, esky, framed pedigree papers, and Trev with his black and white striped kapok hairball of a cushion in his mouth, and headed out the door to his 1980 black Holden ute. He told us he’d see us round home. The only sound louder than the roar of the V8 engine was the slammin of doors and the cursin of Bonnie.
About twenty minutes later he pulled up at our place.
‘So she finally had a gutful, eh?’ said Antman, twisting the lid off a chilled stubby.
‘Fuckin moll,’ muttered Boris.
‘Aye, aye mate. Enough of that. Bonnie is your wife, the mother of your kids. She’s a really good sheila too. I dunno how she’s put up with you all these years.’
‘Ya right as usual, mate.’
‘Anyway,’ said Ant, ‘you know where the room is. Sling us a couple of bob. I’ll duck down the bottlo and grab a slab. Reckon we’re gunna need it.’
Boris reached into his jeans pocket, fished out a hundred dollar note and handed it to Ant.
‘Make it two and packet of tobacco while ya at it, old son.’
‘No worries,’ said Ant.
Boris pulled up a deck chair and helped himself to a stubbie. Trev plopped his pillow down beside him and assumed the nap position. He’d pretty well spent the whole of his five years in the nap position. He was about as animated as a painting on velvet was Trev. Fleabag couldn’t figure Trev out. He didn’t understand how a dog wouldn’t play, and chase stuff and dig things up. All his other mates, Humbug, Yodel, Flash, Harry and mutts from all over the place could be relied on for a bit of fun and games, but not Trev.
Flea tried all sorts of things. Runnin at im and nippin im so he’d chase im. But all Trev would do was lick his boongalungs and go back ta sleep. One time he went and sat on Trev’s cushion, but Trev just ambled over and grabbed it by his teeth and pulled it out from under Flea. He give up after that and just sits doin nothin when Trev’s around. It suits Boris though cos he can’t be arsed takin him for walks or teachin him tricks. Trev’s sole job is to accompany Boris on his fixed daily routine of goin to work at the local park where he works with the maintenance crew, then on to the pub, then home for a couple more beers, some bongs, dinner and bed. On weekends he goes to the pub to watch footy or cricket, then we and a few other mates go to his place for the replay and for joints and beers afterwards. Even though Bonnie was always rowin with im about it, the routine rarely changed.
Anyway, after Antman come back from the bottlo, he sat down, opened a beer for himself and passed one to me and Boris. ‘So what happened, mate?’ he asked. ‘She’s kicked you out before, but this looks serious. You’ve never brought the bean bag and the dog’s papers before.’
‘Well,’ he replied, ‘she nags me for fuckin weeks to go see that bloody Irish dancin show at the rissole with her. I say you don’t need me to go. But oh no! She gives me the old “you never take me anywhere” routine so I do the right thing. So we get there and she gits the shits and reckons I’m drinkin too much. Then she accuses me of pervin on her friends and ignorin her. I mean for fuck sake, what’s a bloke to do? And then we git home and she bungs on for a doorie. I said, “Darl, you know he’s useless after a few drinks, just give him till mornin. He’ll rear up again.” But no, she starts crying, sayin I don’t find her desirable anymore. Fuckin desirable! Where do they come up with this shit?
‘Anyway, she still had the shits this mornin and boots me out, but to tell ya the truth I’ve had a gutful. I turned a blind eye while she was muckin round with Steve from the bottlo.’
‘Yeh, mate. But fair go,’ reckoned Ant. ‘You were getting free piss and she was leaving you alone.’
‘True,’ replied Boris. ‘I agree there were certain advantages for me, but that’s not the point. Anyway, what I was goin to say was, I didn’t go down to the pub and bung on with em or nothin. I let em have their way. I work, give her anything she wants and she’s still not happy. Ok, I can put up with that, but when she starts bringin Trev into the equation, starts callin him a fuckin mongrel, then it’s time to pull the pin.’
‘Yeh, there’s no need to bring Trev into it,’ said Antman, packing a cone and waving away a blowfly away at the same time.
The blowie then decided to bother Boris. He turned to Antman.
‘You got any fly spray or one of them swatters, mate? This fuckin thing’s really givin me the shits.’
‘Leave her alone,’ said Ant, firing up the bong. ‘She’s not doing any harm.’
‘Mate, it’s annoyin. And how do know it’s a she?’
Antman finished his cone and after turning several shades of purple and red, coughin and splutterin like an old wino, handed the device to Boris and wheezed, ‘It lays eggs, idiot. She needs a warm, smelly place for those maggots and I suppose she thought your arse was a good a place as any.’
‘I should be flattered then,’ said Boris, packing his own cone.
‘Look, they serve a purpose, BS. They’re like cleaners, they lay their eggs in carcasses, shit, anything left lying round and rotting. They suck up all the nutrients and what’s left is shit you can sweep up, or clean bones rather than sloppy stuff and rotting bodies we weak-gutted humans can’t handle. If we didn’t have things like that, mate, we’d all be fucked. Besides, she’s probably got little tackers waiting for her at home. What happens when she doesn’t front cos you can’t handle her buzzin around.’
‘I reckon you’re just too lazy to get the fly spray, mate. But you’ve got a point,’ replied Boris, giving Trev a tummy tickle and causing the dog to play a pretty mean air guitar version of ‘Highway to Hell’ with his back legs. ‘Anyway, let her live to fly and spread disease and maggots another day.’
‘Glad to see your broken heart has not stripped you of your humanity,’ Ant reckons.
So we were all nicely stoned and, with an esky full of coldies, we settled into a happy silence. Then, to everyone’s amazement, Trev decided to get up from his cushion. Lumberin over to his fully stocked food and water bowls, he nibbled on a couple of doggy biscuits, took a long, noisy drink, gave himself a good shake and, clearly exhausted, headed back to the comfort of his cushion.
The blowie was still hoverin around making random swoops on Boris who by now was well beyond caring. Trev stood as Boris gave him a tickle behind the ears. As he was about to collapse on his cushion the blowie buzzed by, so Trev quickly snapped it into his mouth. After some teeth gnashin and violent head tossin, the blowie was gone and Trev once again assumed the nap position.
Antman just looked at the dog.
‘Fair dinkum, Trev. Sometimes you’r
e not worth feeding, ya fuckin mongrel.’
Suddenly upright, Boris turned to Antman and growled, ‘Watch it, mate. He’s no fuckin’ mongrel.’
‘Yeh, yeh, I know. He’s a purebred, pedigree blue heeler with the fuckin papers too prove it.’
‘And don’t you fuckin forget it,’ said Boris, firing up another cone.
Me, Antman and Fleabag hook up
I’m the first born of Ma and Dad and come into this world a healthy seven and half pound baby. I stayed that way for the first coupla years of me life, living with Ma and Dad out in the desert country.
Then Ma went to hospital to have my brother. She left me laughing, happy and healthy. Five days later she returned to me lying in a cot, barely able to breathe. She tried to make me stand. I collapsed. She took me in her arms and ran the five miles into town. That was the beginning of me nightmare. I was real sick. The doctors flew me to a hospital for children in the city and...
I stayed there for a few years. When I was well enough, I was sent to a convalescent home to learn to walk again, to be rehabilitated. For the next three years, from the onset of the illness to me eventual reunion with me family, I did not once see another blackfulla, let alone even see another Aboriginal face.
When you’re a little fulla you see your reflection in those around you. And all the faces that surrounded me were white. They wore stiff, starched uniforms, everything was clean, antiseptic, and everything was ordered. I lived in a safe, clean, little white world.
Then came the day that me and Ma and Dad will never forgit. It started out like any other day – up early, bathed, fed. The only thing different I was dressed in a brand new pinafore, new top, shoes, socks and me hair was tied in ribbons. I was thinkin I was goin for a day out with Linda the cook. Anyway, I was excited about the new clothes. I felt like a princess. Then I was told I was going to meet some special people and they were taking me on a long journey.
‘But they’ll bring me home, won’t they?’ I said.
They were evasive. ‘Maybe one day. For a visit.’
‘Are they taking me away forever and ever? They can’t do that, can they?’
I saw tears in the nursing sister’s eyes. I was confused and started to feel frightened.
Then I was taken into the visitors’ room where before me stood two aliens from another world. It was Ma and Dad.
‘This is your mummy and daddy,’ said the sister as she passed me to the strange dark lady.
I remember screamin. ‘She’s not Mummy, he’s not Daddy. They’re black.’
Tears streamed down their faces. I reckon it woulda hurt em real bad. I was handed over to these two dark-skinned and cryin strangers, screamin in terror. No one give me a chance to git ta know these people. After all these years they just handed me to em. Just like that.
Ma and Dad carried me, still screaming, into a bustling, noisy, crowded railway station, desperately tryin to ignore the suspicious stares of the strangers around em. All their soothin and strokin did no good. I just kept right on cryin, even when we got into the carriage at Central. Suddenly, the train began to move and soon we were passin through suburbs and then countryside. I started gittin curious.
‘Where are we goin? Is that a real cow? Are you really my mummy and daddy?’
‘We’re goin home now, me baby,’ said the dark-skinned lady.
Now that I wasn’t strugglin, she seemed so soft. Her eyes were big and brown but full of tears.
‘You mean back to the ward?’
‘No, baby girl, back to your real home. You got a baby brother and sister. They’re called Buddy and Lulla. Home to your grandma and grandpa.’
I started to relax. Daddy was makin funny faces at me and pointing out the animals. The trip seemed to take forever, but this kind and gentle woman held me all the way. When I become sleepy, I nestled my head in her breasts, and her blouse was damp from both our tears. I went to sleep.
The next morning, the train pulled up at a small railway station, smack dab in the middle of a vast red desert. There were no big trees, just little saltbush ones. A radio was blarin from the station office, breakin the eerie silence as we stepped off the train.
I was used to the big houses and leafy surrounds of the North Shore. These people I had started to trust really were aliens. They had taken me to Mars.
Daddy took me from Mum and hoisted me on his shoulders. We started walking cross the vast expanse of red earth and strange little trees. We saw some emus and a kangaroo. A big yellow lizard ran in front of us. It was so hot. We seemed to walk for miles and then I could hear the sound of laughter. Someone was strummin a guitar and singin. We walked into a clearin, where in a circle were huts made from scrap, tents and a coupla caravans. There was dogs and kids everywhere and people all the same colour as the people who had brought me here.
It sure did come as a surprise when I finally looked into a mirror and realised I was the same colour as them.
These people surrounded me. An old man with silver hair, a dark face and twinkling eyes took me from Ma’s arms and held me. ‘Me little bubby’s home at last,’ he whispered.
I was passed from grandparents, to aunts and uncles, investigated by cousins and introduced to two scrawny little black kids who they said was my brother and sister.
We walked towards a large tent. Dad was carryin me. I looked at the tent, and in me childish innocence asked, ‘Daddy, who owns this cubby house?’
He didn’t answer; just handed me to Mum.
Two hours later he came back with a large blue caravan. He just looked at Ma and said, ‘Can’t expect her to live in a tent, not after what she’s been livin’ in.’
He still talks about that day. His pride was hurt. I was just as alien to them as they were to me. He built me a tiny little toilet of my own, with pink cabbage roses cut from a women’s magazine pasted on the side.
I soon adapted, and started to forget about the hospital, forget about the convalescent home. I came to love my family.
We moved to another town with a river. Me dad bought a block of land and started work on building roads.
But my spells in hospital were far from over. For the next ten years, twice yearly I was taken kicking and screaming from Ma’s arms to Sydney for further treatment. And each time having to undergo a mind transformation in order to cope with a changin two-toned world.
Finally, when I was thirteen, I had a coupla operations to put things right. I was put through eighteen painful months more of separation from me family who were too poor and had too many other kids to look after to be able to visit me. Once again I went home a stranger. It was supposed ta be home for good this time but I couldn’t settle and a few years later I left again.
For a long time I lived in two worlds. One white, one black, and never really fitting into either. I went home often for Christmas, Easter, but family reminiscences left me out. I hadn’t been there. Me brothers and sisters didn’t seem to understand that I never wanted to be away when I was a kid.
I hardly knew the family, let alone my culture. All those years I drifted from one world to another, part of me missing.
I drank too much, probably, and could never bear to be in a job longer than six months. Anyone who tried to get too close was pushed away. It was just too hard. It was funny too. Cos even when I was in the arms of other fullas, some that I even really liked, my soul felt lonely. My skin felt lonely.
Then Antman come along.
I met him one night when I was feelin real down. Flat broke and busted on an off pay week – or as we blackfullas call it ‘bumpers and buses week’. Pay week’s always called ‘taxi and tailor-mades week’.
Anyway, I was sittin out the front of home drinkin tea and smokin rollies when me cuz Neilly Boy come cruisin up. He reckoned, ‘C’mon sista girl, got a pocket full a wulung. Git yaself styled up and we’ll go to the club for Koorioke.’
Next thing ya know, we sail into the club and sit ourselves down at a table with a bunch a sistas and a coupla br
others who want to be sistas, puffin up and drinkin top shelf.
Next thing the Koorioke starts and we git a mob of blackfullas gittin up to have a sing. We hear ‘Paper Roses’, ‘Stand by Your Man’, ‘Please Release Me’ and ‘Send Me the Pillow that you Dream On’. Everyone yells and cheers for all the singers cos they don’t want any of em, even if they’re woefuls, to feel shame.
Then next thing, this fulla gits up and starts singin ‘Heard It through the Grapevine’ and everyone shuts up and starts lookin and listenin. I remember seein him and the rest of the room just disappearin. I could only see him; I could only hear him.
It aint that he was the best lookin fulla I ever saw, it was just that it felt like I was seein the lights of home for the first time. Next thing ya know, he’s lookin right back at me while he’s singin and when he finishes he comes straight over and introduces himself. That was it. I went home with him that night. We talked all night bout all kinds of things.
Turns out Antman had been crook when he was little fulla too. Spent a long time away from his family, just like me. We loved the same things – readin books, listenin to music, dogs, Slim Dusty, bein outside.
And before too long, we loved each other. Two days later he drove round to the house I’d been livin in and I packed a suitcase, grabbed my guitar and we aint been apart since.
It wasn’t easy the first year. We was both used to bein on our own, doin what we pleased. We kept pullin each other in different directions.
One night, after I had too much drink, we had a terrible fight. The next day I was feelin sorry, feelin shame, askin him to forgive me.
He looked at me and said, ‘I bet you’ve done this a thousand times. Always asking for forgiveness, always thinking it’s your fault. You don’t think you’re worthy of love. You don’t know yourself. I gotta take you home, girl. Back to your people, your country. It won’t be easy but you’ll never find peace until you stop runnin.’
Me, Antman & Fleabag Page 6