Luck in the Greater West

by Damian McDonald

  The bottom of his bank account was starting to show. The Housing Commission, Electroturbine Company and Telecomonopoly dug out without notice — it was the only way they’d accept Whitey as a customer — and usually they were the only withdrawers. But without his cash income, Whitey had had to start using his dole payment. He’d been told that, as soon as the Greedos pay-office had processed him, he would be paid weekly. Three hundred and thirty a week after tax. More than the dole. But way less than the combination of selling and the dole. He’d also been told that he had to wear a white shirt and black pants. He didn’t own any of the type they were talking about, so he’d had to make another withdrawal. Tomorrow he’d be a back dock assistant/shelf-replenisher. He walked past Greedos for the last time as a free man, with his white shirt and black pants in the C Mart bag. He met Sonja after school and showed her the contents of the shopping bag. She laughed.

  —I can’t wait to see you in them, she said.

  The staff trainer bent over the bottom drawer of the dented filing cabinet. She had a pale blue g-string on, Whitey noticed. He looked at his boots as she turned around to face him.

  —Read and sign this, Paul, she said.

  —Okay. It’s Patrick. My name’s Patrick.

  —What? Patrick, is it? Okay. Read and sign this. It’s an outline of the company policies.

  Greedos Pty Ltd

  Greedos = Less Pty Ltd

  Big G Pty Ltd

  Dear Mr Miss Mrs Ms White

  You have been made an offer of employment as a Back Dock Assistant/Shelf Replenisher. You will be employed on a probationary basis for a period of three months. Within this time you must demonstrate that you meet the requirements expected of Greedos employees, and adhere to Greedos company policies. After this period you will be assessed for future employment.

  A summary of the policies are as follows:

  Greedos employees must promote Greedos, Greedos = Less, and Big G at all times.

  Greedos employees must be ready to begin their shift at least five minutes prior to commencement, and be prepared to complete the execution of all tasks regardless of the time of completion of their shift.

  Greedos employees must not keep money on their person while at work.

  Greedos employees must be neat, clean-shaven and conservatively attired at all time.

  Greedos employees must notify management of any theft, by employees or customers.

  Greedos employees must provide a doctor’s certificate if sick leave is taken.

  Greedos employees must adapt to any roster changes initiated by management.

  Greedos employees must respect —

  Whitey looked up at the staff trainer. She was drawing little squares and colouring them in on a tax declaration. He skipped to the bottom of the page and signed it. If he wanted the job there was no use reading the policies: too bad if they sucked.

  —Okay, he said.

  —Finished? Okay, let’s go for a walk around the store.

  The back dock was full of lamb carcasses. He shook the greasy hand of the apprentice butcher, and that of the back dock manager. The abattoir truck exhaled one last insult of diesel over the little skinned bodies as it left the dock. Whitey was then shown the cold storage area. It smelt like a nest of large wet dogs.

  —It’s the milk, the staff trainer explained.

  Then the produce area. And the grocery area. And the vinyl flaps that led into the shop. Each part of the shop had a name that made no sense to Whitey, so he immediately forgot them. He looked at his watch — which he’d put on for the first time in about two years this morning — and wished it was knock-off time. It wasn’t even time for morning tea. It reminded him of his first day inside. Being shown around and told how the joint operated. His chest hurt. He did have a choice though. He could fuck off now. No one would chase him. Nah, it’d get better. The pay ’n’ all that. Once he was used to it. Just like inside. You can adapt to anything. He shook hands with and nodded at several people. The people were neutral at least. They knew why he was here. And didn’t care much. Then he met Mr Hardy, Store Manager.

  —Patrick, is it? Well, we’re going to stick with the policies and keep the stock rotated, faced, and in constant stock aren’t we, Patrick?

  —Yes.

  —Okay, well, welcome to Greedos Rooty Hill.

  Mr Hardy didn’t offer his hand so neither did Whitey. Whitey smiled though, and looked just past the manager. Mr Hardy wandered off to another stupidly named area of the store, rubbing his hands together. His slacks were pulled up way too high. But large, square arses did suit bosses.

  Whitey was then given his first task. Emptying the meat, produce and general rubbish compactors. The compacted and plastic-sealed waste was then wheeled outside the loading dock area by pallet jack and left there for pickup.

  —The last cunt left ’cause he had ta do that job every day, the back dock manager said, lighting a ciggie. Hasn’t been done for a few days; ya must have a strong gut.

  —I’m only just holdin’ it down, Whitey replied.

  —Well, after that ya can mop out the cold storage area. Now that’s another top job, Pete.

  —Patrick. Name’s Patrick.

  —Mmm.

  TWENTY-TWO

  Mia was starving. She’d been having these stupid waves of nausea followed by ravenousness. She knew why too. It was because of Abdullah. She had to talk to him, to tell him about how she was feeling. Because for her, it was over between them. She’d thought she’d loved Abdullah. And she thought she could forgive some of the things he’d done, the way he sometimes behaved. But really, how could she love someone who’d hit her? She’d forgiven him, she’d been fair; but whenever the thought crept back into her head, it made her ill. He’d done it. He’d hit her. That was the reality, and he could do it again. But he wouldn’t. She wouldn’t let it happen. And the way he talked to her sometimes. Worse than the way he spoke to his mates. She wanted to be serious with someone, and in love with someone, but she couldn’t picture Abdullah as that someone any more. She had to tell him. Tell him it was over. But she knew that this was little more than a fantasy until she broke the news to him. And until she did she’d feel sick. But still, she couldn’t finish dialling his number once she’d started. After dinner though, it’d have to be done.

  —Mia, mangiare! her mother called.

  At least someone’s happy, Mia thought, now at the dinner table. Mum loves it when I eat; she barely eats herself, but makes sure everyone else makes pigs of themselves. She took another piece of chicken and flopped it on her plate. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d had any more than half a piece of her mum’s parmigiana.

  —I think we’ll have to have chicken seven nights a week, Maria, Salvatore remarked. We’ve finally found something our daughter will actually finish.

  —Dad! Don’t make me sound like a pig.

  —It’s good, Mia. You’re too skinny. The last thing you have to worry about is getting fat, her father replied.

  —You can never be too skinny or too rich, Dad.

  —Don’t be stupid, Mia. Too much of anything is — is unnatural.

  —All right. Do you have to argue about everything I say, Dad?

  —I’m not arguing with you, Mia, but some of your attitudes—

  She’d had his number displayed on the screen of her mobile phone for ten minutes. She was about to press dial, but stopped again. She went into the options and turned her own number-sending off, just in case she lost her nerve after pressing dial. She brought Abdullah’s number back up and called. Fuck it. Just do it.

  —Yo, Abdullah’s voice answered.

  —Hi, Abdullah?

  —Yeah. Who’s this?

  —It’s Mia.

  —Mia. Baby. Ya numba’s comin’ up as silent. What’s up?

  —I just want to talk to you.

  —I can come by later. About ten if ya want.

  —No. No, I just need to talk to you. The thing is — I think we should
n’t see each other for a while.

  —Huh? What do ya mean?

  —Maybe we should just cool it for a bit.

  —You’ve said that before. What the fuck do ya mean?

  —I dunno. Just not see each other for a while. Have a break.

  —What the fuck for? Why are you being a bitch? What’s ya fuckin’ father said?

  —It’s not him, Abdullah, it’s me. I just need a break—

  —You fuckin’ some other cunt?

  —Abdullah, don’t be like that. It’s not about other guys—

  —I’ll be ’round in ten minutes. Be at the bottom of your street.

  —Abdullah, no—

  He’d ended the call. She tried his number again. It went straight to his message bank. Fuck.

  Mia sat in her room deciding whether or not to give in to the nausea. She called out to her brother, and waited until he’d come in then shut the door.

  —I’ve just broken up with Abdullah.

  —Good. I mean, if that’s what you want.

  —It is.

  —I don’t think he’s suited to you. Or you to him.

  —I guess.

  —He’s not faithful to you, Mia.

  —What?

  —I think he — sees other girls.

  —Arsehole.

  Mia’s phone rang.

  —Mia. Where the fuck are ya? Abdullah barked.

  —I’m not going to meet you.

  —Bullshit. Get down here.

  —No.

  —Fuckin’ bitch —

  Mia ended the call.

  The WRX pulled into the driveway and the high beams flooded the front windows. The driver sounded the horn.

  Mia and Charlie looked out her bedroom window and watched their father approach the car. He leant into the car window and then shook his head. He then brought his mobile up to his ear as the WRX backed out.

  It would be a long night of explaining and then re-explaining. Her father never accepted anything the first time when he was pissed off.

  Something shattered one of the double-glazed windows of the formal lounge as Salvatore Testafiglia climbed the stairs to his daughter’s room.

  He couldn’t go home. His dad would piss him off. Just lookin’ at him. He didn’t want to see any of his mates. They wouldn’t know how to act. He’d chucked that piece of garden tap through the bitch’s window. Her dad’s a fuckin’ cop, too. She better explain to him that it’s her fault for trying to dump him. He dropped the clutch through the intersection and saw the cop car, its strobing red and blue lights triggering his heart to beat in hot, involuntary unison. He pulled on the handbrake and punched the sun visor.

  The ink wouldn’t wash off. The cop wore rubber gloves when he took the fingerprints. At first Abdullah assumed the cop put the gloves on because the stupid skip didn’t want to touch him. But the cop knew the black shit wouldn’t come off. Then he had to have his photo taken. And a photo of his tatt. He flexed when the cop took that one. And the charge — Malicious Damage. That bitch’s father is lucky I didn’t damage her and him. Did damage her though. And she loved it. She’ll be feelin’ that fuckin’ sorry now that her father’ll be down here droppin’ the charges very soon.

  —Senior Sergeant wants to talk to you himself. He’ll be here shortly, the cop said. You’re either one very unlucky bastard, or one very stupid bastard.

  —That guy says he’s your boyfriend, Mia. Your boyfriend.

  —He — he was.

  —What the hell do you mean, was? You were sneaking around with that?

  —I don’t know — yes, I s’pose.

  —Jesus, Mia. What did we decide about you having a boyfriend? Do you remember?

  —You decided.

  —That’s right. I decided that my daughter can go out with a boyfriend when she’s finished school. And your mother and I should meet him.

  —You wouldn’t like any boy I brought home.

  —Can you see why? Jesus, girl, that guy, your boyfriend is — what is he? An Arab? An Arab and a bloody criminal. Have you seen the window? An Arab, Mia. An Italian boy, at least. I would have thought you had some taste.

  —Daddy. I’m sorry. She began to cry.

  —Mia. I don’t know. I don’t know what to think. You lied to us. And not just a little lie. And look what’s happened.

  Salvatore moved closer to his daughter.

  —I’m sorry, she said, checking her eyes in the mirror. I swear, Daddy, I’m sorry.

  —Mia. You won’t see this guy again, will you? I’m serious, Mia. This ends here and now.

  —I promise, Daddy, I was trying to break up with him. That’s why he did this.

  —I thought as much. Mia, I know boys are asking you out. But you have to say no. Look what’s happened. You’re beautiful, and boys will fall in love. But you don’t want this, do you?

  —No, Daddy.

  —There’ll be no more going out on your own, Mia. Not for a long time.

  Mia hugged her father. Just a few weeks ago she couldn’t even look at him. Now she didn’t want him to leave. Because she knew if he left, when he came back he’d have that look again. It was pure hurt. She’d hurt him so much. Just a few weeks ago she wouldn’t have cared if her father had gotten upset. He would have deserved it — for limiting her freedom. But now he was the answer. The situation with Abdullah was difficult but she knew Daddy would fix it now. She’d never have to see Abdullah again. She could feel completely sure that it was over. And she could live with whatever punishment her father had for her. And she could begin to win back his devotion.

  Her father released his hug as his mobile rang. He grunted and ended the call.

  —This boy won’t bother us anymore. He’s down at the station. I’ll have a talk with him.

  The boy was not even good-looking. Those dark, lying eyes. Skinny little Lebanese. He must be a good liar to have convinced Mia to go out with him. It hurt. Lurking in the back of his mind was the possibility that Mia might have slept with this thing. He couldn’t ask her. He’d rather not know, now that he was faced with it.

  —You’ve got a court date next week. I’ll see you there. But between then and now, and every day after that I don’t want to see you. And my daughter will never see you.

  —She wanted to see —

  —You’re lucky I’m a cop, mate. You’ve got a chance to put this behind you and never think of my daughter again. But if you choose not to put it behind you, I know some people who aren’t cops who would love to have a word with you.

  —What the fuck does that mean? Abdullah retorted, rubbing his shaved head.

  —I have to leave now or I’ll rip your fucking face off, Senior Sergeant Testafiglia said as he waved a threatening hand just centimetres from Abdullah Najib’s nose.

  He left the interview room. The blood vessels in his neck, pounding like a mudslide, were bringing him to the verge of vomiting.

  TWENTY-THREE

  Fadi tilted the load and felt the back end of the forklift jump from the weight. You should never lift two pallets stacked on top of each other, but fuck it. He cleared the pallets from the side of the trailer and transferred them into the receiving dock. It was his fifth semi-trailer this morning, and he’d had enough. The other two forkies — fuckin’ Aussies — were the biggest fuckin’ bludgers. Even Dicko, the foreman, admitted it. Aussies’ll do anything to get out of work. That’s why they’ll always be losers. But are they losers? Is simply being Lebanese the key to being better, smarter, tougher than everyone else? He’d never thought about it. Why would he? Everyone he hung out with thought the same. Lebs are unbeatable.

  But something deep inside him had been damaged — was slowly bleeding, he felt — since that last girl they’d been with. With the other girls they’d done it to, there’d been a kind of shared energy that had erased any misgivings about what they were doing. They were doing it, the Punchbowl Leb boys, so it was right, it was tough, it was showing these Aussies that the Leb boys could do what t
hey wanted to, it was getting laid — fuck, it was even funny. But that last one, she’d shown him something. Or maybe exposed something in him that had become vulnerable for that moment when he was on top of her. He couldn’t work out exactly what it was, but since then his whole life — the way he’d been living it — seemed askew.

  In fact, he’d not been able to get her out of his mind. She’d freaked when he’d pulled the starter pistol on her. He’d thought that her fear would turn him on, but instead, it seemed to transfer to him. He’d tried to mechanically go through with it — ’cause the boys were there — but he’d felt sick, was about to spew, and had had to get away from her before the fear she was giving to him overwhelmed him. Then Ali had jumped straight on her. When he thought about it now it filled his veins and his neck muscles with icy hot acid.

  But there was another feeling. One that was more intimate. One that was a comfort and quite opposite to the other one. She was so pretty. He kept thinking of her. Not in the situation they’d put her in, but natural, with her prettiness unchanged by that expression of terror. He’d actually almost seen her like that, in the flesh, when he’d first gotten in the car with her. Sure, she’d looked pissed off, and maybe a little scared, but still bright and alive. That fuckin’ pistol had wiped that vitality from her. And he wished so much that he could have that moment back, and not have brought out that stupid gun, and become her rescuer. He’d nearly cried a couple of times when he’d thought about it. Fuckin’ rapists, she’d said. Yelled it, crying.

  He’d driven her and her friend back to the mall afterwards and he’d looked at her every chance he got, at red lights and that. She was beautiful — like a child with sticky tears on her slightly chubby cheeks. Abdullah had taken her mobile, and Fadi had asked for it. He had it at home. He kept it on and checked it constantly just in case she called it. No one had called it. He really wanted to see her again. He couldn’t bear the fact that she must hate him. He wanted to at least apologise. He tried not to think about her, but he noticed something of her in nearly every chick he saw. And there must be a chance that she didn’t hate him, mustn’t there? Just like her fear had rubbed off on him, mustn’t what he’d been feeling have made an impression on her?