‘Turn that shit off,’ came a raspy voice amongst the crew at the eight-ball table.
Jay elbowed Craig, who whistled to the bartender and pointed to the ceiling. She got the message and turned up the volume.
Matt continued to stare at his hands, dabbing at the blisters with a green serviette. On the TV, the shot changed. Now the reporter was standing on the edge of the street as the protesters surged past. Someone threw a water bottle, narrowly missing him.
‘The most controversial aspect of the new law,’ the reporter continued, staying composed, ‘and the part receiving complaints from both sides is the compulsory sponsorship of Aboriginal welfare recipients. The blame is being attributed to the rise of the ultra-right-wing Australia for Australians Party, who received an unprecedented number of seats in the federal election and joined the Liberals to form government. Under the new law, Aboriginal welfare recipients – those Aboriginal people receiving any form of Centrelink payment – must be personally sponsored by an Australian taxpayer. This is a radical move by the Australia for Australians Party, who say that Aboriginal welfare is a huge burden on the economy and that most taxpayers are oblivious to the money wastage. They say tax dollars go into one large bucket that provides no accountability.’
‘Your round, wog-boy,’ said Matt. He pushed his empty glass towards Craig.
Craig looked at his own beer, which was still over half full. ‘We’re doing rounds?’
‘Shut up, you two,’ said Jay. He felt for his wallet and put it on the bar. ‘Next round’s mine.’ He turned back to the TV.
‘A party spokesperson says that, under the new system, taxpayers will know exactly who their money goes to, and how it is being spent,’ the reporter continued. ‘The government is coming under fire for targeting Aboriginal people. Their response is that welfare dependency is significantly higher amongst the Aboriginal population. The suspension of the Racial Discrimination Act was a necessary action, they say, not unlike what happened during the Northern Territory intervention several years ago. There are rumours that the government will extend the law to all Australian welfare recipients in the future, but nothing has been confirmed. Aboriginal communities across Australia have condemned the move, saying that it is racist and demeaning. A raft of lawsuits and High Court actions are currently pending, and the expected outcome is unclear. For now, the current policy stands. Back to you, Noy …’
‘Switch the fucking thing off,’ yelled a guy standing at the jukebox.
Craig stood up to protest but was cut short by Angus Young ripping into the opening lick from ‘Thunderstruck’.
The bartender shrugged and Craig sat back down.
Jay turned to Matt. ‘So, have you got yours yet?’
‘I have,’ Craig interrupted, before Matt could answer. He opened his wallet and pulled out a card like a driver’s licence. Smiling, he slid it along the bar towards Matt.
Jay intercepted it and held it in front of him, studying the picture. It showed an attractive young woman. She had tanned, even skin and a large smile, showing straight, white teeth. A pleasant face. The card didn’t show her address, but it did state that she was from Bowraville, New South Wales.
‘Oh, nice. Did you get a letter with it?’ asked Jay.
‘Sure did,’ said Craig, beaming. He took a folded piece of paper from his wallet and opened it. Jay could see that it was typed on a computer and signed by hand at the bottom in pink, glittery pen.
‘Her name is Davina. She is seventeen and a half. It says here that she grew up in Bowraville and she has just received a scholarship to go to university in Sydney. She says my money will assist her to study to be a registered nurse, and that she plans to come back home when she finishes the course, to work in her community.’
‘Ha. You got a good one too,’ said Jay.
‘Certainly did, bro.’
The bartender arrived with three beers. ‘You boys comparing dicks?’ she asked with a raised eyebrow.
‘You’d think so,’ chimed in Matt, sulkily. ‘The way they’re carrying on.’
The bartender rolled her eyes at Matt and gave Craig a wink, before sliding off down the bar to pull beers for the other patrons.
‘Check mine out,’ Jay said, flashing his card towards Matt, who looked away in disgust.
Craig leaned over for a closer look. ‘Christ, she’s … kinda old.’ He was unimpressed.
‘Maybe, but look at this,’ said Jay. He unfolded a letter from his wallet, similar to Craig’s except that Jay’s was entirely handwritten. ‘Her name is Barbara and she lives here in Launceston.’
‘No shit,’ said Craig. ‘You got a local!’
‘There’s more. Barbara billets kids who come off the islands to go to school in Launceston. She says here that my money goes towards looking after those kids. She currently has four of them living at her house – one of them plays footy for North, in the under-sixteens. I’m going to watch the girl play next weekend at Aurora Stadium. Apparently she’s AFL good.’
‘You guys are sick,’ said Matt. ‘Look at yourselves, will ya? Gloating over “your Aborigines”. It’s bullshit. Why should we work our arses off so that they can have an easy life? It’s not fair.’
‘It’s no different from how it was before,’ said Craig. ‘It’s not like any more money comes out of our pay. We still get taxed the same amount, but at least we know where it’s going – well, some of it anyway. What the government do with the rest of it is the bloody travesty.’
‘Ooh, it’s a travesty is it, Craig?’ said Matt. ‘Fuck me, it doesn’t make any difference. The problem hasn’t changed. If they’re gonna give our money to the blacks, it should go to improving education and training, so they can bloody well work like the rest of us. What did they use to call it … “Closing the Gap”?’
‘They tried, but it didn’t work,’ said Jay. ‘We all know why this Australia for Australians Party did this – to make us resent blackfellas – but I don’t think it’s working. Most people that I know are happy with the Aborigines they sponsor.’ He took a sip of his beer and shrugged. ‘I mean, you hear the odd story of someone getting a dud, but mostly people are happy, I think. I know I am. Like Craig said, it doesn’t cost us a penny more than it did before, but now we can see where our money goes, and I’m proud of how mine’s being spent.’
‘Yeah, me too,’ said Craig, holding up his beer for a ‘cheers’. Jay accepted and they clinked glasses.
‘So, who did you get then, Matt?’ asked Jay. ‘Did you get a fizzer, did you?’
Craig burst out laughing at Jay’s choice of words.
‘No, I didn’t,’ said Matt sharply. ‘I haven’t bloody got one yet, have I? And I don’t want one neither.’
‘It’s compulsory, mate,’ said Jay. ‘The government will send you one anyway. You’re in the right tax bracket.’
‘Well, I’ll send the bastard back then,’ yelled Matt. He stared down the other two, challenging them. ‘And I don’t want to hear any more about it.’
‘Righto,’ said Jay. ‘Calm down, ol’ boy.’
Matt swiped his cigarettes off the bar without a word and walked out to have a smoke.
When he was out of sight, Craig jumped off his stool, went to Matt’s spot at the bar and opened the wallet lying there.
‘Hey, what are you doing, mate?’ asked Jay.
‘I bet he has got one.’
‘Yeah, but you shouldn’t be going through his—’
‘Look, see!’ Craig pulled a card out from Matt’s wallet and held it up, triumphantly. ‘He does have one!’
Jay glanced towards the door. It would take Matt at least a couple of minutes to have his smoke. He might even have two, considering his mood. Jay snatched the card off Craig, and swivelled the other way on his stool so Craig couldn’t see it.
‘Hey, let me see!’ Craig looked over Jay’s s
houlder.
The picture on the card was of a man who appeared to be in his mid-thirties. He had a big, cheeky smile and one of his front teeth was missing. The man was wearing a battered Akubra and was holding something up to the camera. The object had been blurred out but, from the colour and the shape, it was obviously a beer can. A VB can, to be exact. The name on the card was William Pony and he was from Darwin.
‘Holy shit,’ gasped Craig, slapping his leg. ‘Matt did get a fizzer.’
‘Looks like it,’ said Jay. He turned back towards the door. ‘Check if there’s a letter.’
Craig searched through the wallet and found the letter. It was handwritten and smeared with red dust. He opened it and read it out aloud:
‘Hey, bloke, I wish I could say I’m sorry that you got me to sponsor, but I can’t. Sucked in, I reckon. It’s people like you that vote for these crooked politicians. This dickhead from the government came out to my town to see me. Took my photo and all and made me write you a letter, which I’m doing now. My sister girl is helping because my spelling’s no good. Reckon that’s because they closed the school here in my community when I was young. They closed all our schools back then. Said there was no money but they kept them open in the city, where all the white kids were. Anyway, I don’t have much to say. I’m going to use your money to buy beer and smokes when my royalty cheques run out. We get those monthly, you know, from the mines near our community where they diggin’ up all our country. We can’t go there anymore cos there’s a big fence. You took our land. Reckon it’s fair enough you buy me a beer. William Pony.’
Without a word, Craig put the card and letter back in Matt’s wallet.
When Matt walked back in, there was a fresh pint waiting for him.
‘Yeah, that Jonesy, eh?’ said Jay, looking over at Matt’s hands and shaking his head. ‘You’re right, mate. He is a prick.’
They didn’t talk about ‘their Aborigines’ again. Not that night, and not ever.
BLEAK CONDITIONS
The park was like a scene from a Jack the Ripper movie. The trees were backlit by an amber haze, and the shadows sloped at a curious angle. Jarrod skidded across the frosted mud and grass as I dragged him by his coat. His arms hung limp against his sides, and I sensed that, if he tripped, he wouldn’t have held them out to break the fall. The indifference he displayed towards his own wellbeing made me wince. I had expected some of his usual bullshit, but I hadn’t expected him to act so broken. From his coat, his clothes and his hair there emanated a nauseating blend of sweat, campfire smoke and cheap cooking sherry.
There were other people in the park too, crowding in. I refused to look at them, banishing them to my peripheral vision. I pictured their soiled hands, outstretched towards me – fingers cupped, reaching, wanting. I blocked out their voices with a loud hum. I refused them everything: no recognition; no storage in my brain for their image, their detail. A figure blocked my path. I had time to stop, but I raised my arm instead. Something softened under my elbow. The thud that followed and the accompanying whimper betrayed no gender. I laughed at how politically correct it was.
‘You didn’t have to do that,’ said Jarrod, once I’d bundled him into the car. He spoke in a monotone, his features expressionless.
I was reminded of myself as a child, sulking after being told off by my parents; punishing them, for as long as I could hold out, with my utter lack of interest in everything. Closing myself off.
‘What the hell, Jarrod? Three in the goddamned morning. You asked me to come and get you, for Chrissake.’ I shook my head. I had let him rile me up. I had promised myself that I wouldn’t allow him to do that. It always ended up like this.
‘I meant, you didn’t have to hit my friend.’
I let the car speed into the next corner. The tyres squealed, and fear-lines patterned Jarrod’s face. I started to calm down. But I couldn’t let his comment go.
‘I didn’t hit anyone. What are you talking about?’ I said through a yawn. The car had a taxi-like ambience, and it was making me tired.
‘Didn’t you?’ He looked at me for the first time. His head moved slowly, like he was stiff and in pain. ‘So, T-rex broke his own nose, did he? Knocked himself to the ground, did he?’
I felt myself getting pissed off, but this time I embraced it. When you’re trying to keep yourself awake, anger is the equivalent of winding down the window.
‘Hey! I didn’t hit anyone. That … that dero got in my way! He, she – whatever it was – should’ve stayed out of my fucking way. I mean … T-rex? Really?’
‘You’re an arsehole, man. You haven’t changed at all. I shouldn’t have called you.’
~
The garage door lowered behind us, and the internal light flickered on. I expected to have to pull him from the car, but he was out before I was. He half stumbled through the garage, peering at my stuff and nodding his head, as though he was reaffirming something in his mind. He ran his hand along the bumper of my jet ski, and then pulled it away fast. It was an exaggerated motion, as if he’d been caught with his hand in the biscuit tin.
I heaped some sheets and blankets on the couch. Susan and I called it ‘the rack’, because lying on it destroyed your back. I figured it would be fine for Jarrod though. He should be used to couch surfing by now. I heard he’d been sleeping in the park, of late – ‘The Square’, as they call it – opposite the Aboriginal housing co-op in town.
‘Have a shower,’ I said. ‘There’s a spare towel in the bathroom.’
He didn’t respond. Instead, he flopped onto the couch and flicked the stained collar of his German army surplus coat over his face. He didn’t even take off his boots. The pile of bedding slid onto the tiles, where it stayed until morning.
~
‘Daddy, Mucka Jarrod is here,’ announced Seth, my sunny four-year-old. He bounded onto the bed, exuding the kind of glee only children can.
As I rubbed at my eyes, he landed on his knees between my legs, missing my groin by inches. I instinctively rolled into a protective position. Two years ago, we had all laughed when Seth’s first stab at ‘Uncle’ came out as ‘Mucka’. The name stuck. Jarrod liked it because he reckoned his nephew was naturally nonconformist. He refused to accept otherwise. His world view was that when Aboriginal people digressed from societal norms it was a form of protest against colonisation. He called it ‘cultural deviance’. I called it a bunch of bullshit.
‘Mucka Jarrod stayed the night.’
‘Did he, boy? That’s cool. Hey, what time is it?’
~
When I came downstairs, Jarrod was at the kitchen table. His dark curls were slick and damp from the shower. He had on a pair of gaudy board shorts, and a white surf-brand hoodie. Seth ran to him, and Jarrod scooped him up affectionately.
‘Wassup, black boy?’ he asked the writhing mass in his arms.
The furrows of my brow deepened. ‘Black boy?’
‘Yep. He’s like us, bro.’ Jarrod pulled up Seth’s singlet, showing his brown belly. Seth, thinking he was in for a tickle, covered up, wailing. Playfully, Jarrod scruffed a handful of Seth’s dark curls. ‘Look at his hair. He’s a spit, out of your mouth.’
‘Where’d you steal the threads?’ I asked, with more than a hint of derision. I wanted to steer away from the subject of our heritage. It always led to an argument.
‘Um, honey?’ Susan called, from the back of the kitchen, ‘I was going to tell you, but I let you sleep in. I gave Jarrod the clothes I got you for your birthday. I didn’t think you’d mind. I’ll get you something else.’
Amongst the breakfast items on the table was a bunch of tags. Susan had a habit of leaving price tags on presents, so that people could admire her generosity. The tag from the hoodie said $179.95.
‘Fucken hell,’ I blurted out.
Jarrod’s fork squealed as he stabbed at the last of his bacon.
> ‘Honey, can you not swear around Seth,’ came my wife’s voice, this time from the laundry.
‘Sorry, bub,’ I called back. ‘Sorry, boy.’ I tousled Seth’s ringlets. ‘Don’t listen to Daddy.’
‘That’s good advice,’ said Jarrod, not looking up from his plate.
It had been a year and a half since Jarrod had been in our home. My family loved him – everybody did. Except, it seemed, for me. We had a sour bond, past our use-by date. We always had. Mum blamed me, said I’d been jealous when he came along. Said I’d been too long an only child. Maybe she was right. Maybe that’s the reason I’d been putting off the second-child discussion with Susan.
‘We need to talk. Tonight,’ I said, under my breath, so my wife couldn’t hear.
‘Yeah, whatever,’ he replied. ‘And don’t worry about the clothes. I won’t take them with me.’
I looked at the congealed yellow streak down the front of the hoodie, where he had slopped egg yolk.
‘Nah,’ I said. ‘They’re yours now, cock.’
~
Jarrod agreed to look after Seth in the house, so Susan and I could spend the day working in the front yard. After Seth’s third escape, I came inside. Seth had dragged a dining chair over to the door and let himself out.
‘I thought you were looking after him.’
‘This Netflix has some alright shows,’ said Jarrod. ‘Even if they are corporate wankers who ruined TV.’
Jarrod had retrieved (or made Seth retrieve, more likely) all the pillows from the bedrooms. He had combined them with the couch cushions to make a soft throne for himself, where he sat watching television in one of my old singlets. He flicked a piece of Lego across the room at Seth with his big toe.
‘Don’t get too comfortable,’ I muttered into a tumbler of water.
‘Ay?’
‘I said, put a shirt on, will you? You’ve made a sweat stain on the couch, and I can smell the grog coming out of your skin from here.’
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