Scoundrel Days

by Brentley Frazer

  Silence.

  —Wanna go for a beer?

  —I dig chicks, man! he says, fast.

  —So do I?

  —Just checking … Some of those dudes in there looked at my cock area, I swear.

  ——

  Josef: crazy thin-hipped dude with Hungarian and Serbian ancestry. The child of warring peoples. We drink all night. Compared with Josef, I don’t actually smoke. I have around ten a day, maybe a whole pack if I feel stressed or hung-over. Josef smokes three packs a day. He’s come over from New Zealand because of the terrible unemployment there, only to find Melbourne the same, in an economic slump and with a Gulf War budget sucking the life out of the system. Poor bastard lives out in the Dandenongs, at the end of the line, with his cousin. Takes him two hours to get into the city.

  Regardless, we become regular drinking buddies. Candy tags along occasionally but lately she has withdrawn and says she wants time alone. Candy takes codeine tablets, drinks peppermint tea and reads fashion magazines all day. So I go out with Josef most nights and we pick up chicks. I end up with about a third more chicks because a bunch of them freak out when they hear his Kiwi accent. He also gets a touch moralistic for my liking, judging me because I have a girlfriend at home. Fuck that shit.

  —Better to burn out than to fade away! I yell across the tram.

  —But I like her, bro … Don’t you feel like a cunt?

  I shrug.

  —You bad igg. He shakes his head.

  —What did you say? I ask, laughing.

  —Bad igg, bro. I called you a bad igg.

  —What do you care anyway? You have a thing for her?

  —No!

  —Good luck, man. Have a go if you want.

  —I would … but I wouldn’t do that to a bro.

  —Implying you’d actually succeed if you did try!

  —I can have any chick. I have this game. I give chicks the heat and make them regret their boyfriends.

  —The heat?

  —The Josef charm, man. You jealous?

  —Yeah, man, jealous of you and ya drug-fucked rocker look.

  We both laugh. I reckon he might have a thing for Candy, but it doesn’t bother me because I know she hates him for hanging around at our apartment all the time. What does bother me: I got all boasty/remorseful when seriously drunk a couple of weeks back and told him I’ve already destroyed my relationship with Candy because I accidentally slept with her sisters.

  ——

  Josef has moved in. He gives us cash for groceries and shit, and he always has cigarettes. One thing sucks, though: spending all this time with him means I end up blowing all my cash on getting drunk. We aim to have as much fun as you can and still wake up. We wander around the nightclubs digging everything, go to see bands wasted. Candy doesn’t give a fuck what I do with my money, because we’ve always had split finances. She starts coming out with us every night, and even though we end up equally smashed she has money left to pay her lay-bys. I dunno how chicks do it.

  The best thing about Candy coming out with us: we have this system to party as cheaply as possible. In music stores you can find free passes to some cool clubs. Most of these clubs have dancing competitions for bar vouchers. Candy wins every single time, or comes second at worst. First prize at most places wins you a hundred-dollar bar tab. Candy can dance; you can’t help but stare. She has the grace and magnetism of a film star. The way she dresses alone grabs attention. Then she glides out and dances like a Fraggle on acid navigating a waterslide on roller-skates. She waves her arms about so madly everyone around her clears a space. Especially when she has her hair teased goth-punk style and slam dances with herself. We get drunk, a lot, and it only costs us tram fare.

  ——

  I try ringing my parents to beg for money, and my sister answers.

  —Jaz!

  —Oh, hey. Sounds bored.

  —You all good?

  —Yeah. The olds think you died or something, you know. You haven’t called since you left.

  —Yeah. They around?

  —No. They moved out.

  A tram clangs up Sydney Road and passes me in the phone box.

  —What?

  —They moved out! She shouts this time.

  —I heard you. I just can’t believe they moved out!

  —Sorry, thought you couldn’t hear me from the clanging bell rumble squealing roar behind you in the background!

  —Yeah … trams. Used to em now. So they’ve moved out?

  —Yeah, sucker. You left, and now I have a whole house to myself.

  —Fuck you. Where did they go?

  —They moved to Airlie Beach.

  —Why?

  —Dad started a security company there, or something, when they returned from America. Took Fliss with them. She has to do Year Ten.

  —Wow!

  —Yeah. Whole house – pretty solid. And you know what? They put in a spa, out the back of the master bedroom, which I now have.

  —Fuck, cool and rad! Jaz … do you have any cash?

  —No.

  —Hey, how about the TV I rented before I left?

  —I have your TV.

  —Do you pay for it?

  —No. I thought you owned it.

  —Yeah. Can you send it to me?

  —To Melbourne?

  —Yeah. Chuck it in a box and put it on a bus. I’ll owe ya one!

  —Address then?

  —Give me Mum and Dad’s new number.

  —Melbourne cool?

  —Fucken freezing!

  —Oh, ha ha.

  —Yes, I seriously love this place, but I dunno how long we can afford to stay here. They booted me off the dole and I can’t find a job.

  —You still with Candy?

  —Yeah. We have a flatmate too.

  —You and Candy have become junkies, haven’t you?

  —No!

  —You sound like a junkie: Got cash? … Send me a stolen TV.

  ——

  Luck finally deals me an ace! I land a job at the Universal Theatre in Fitzroy. I work Thursday through Sundays. I turn up at about 3 pm and stock up the bar and the refreshments, open the box office down on the street around 4 pm and sit there selling tickets until the doors open for the show. I then get to sit around or even watch the show until the bar opens at interval. I love the building. Seedy and run-down rooms full of smashed props and broken cabaret letters from the old-school theatre billboard above the street.

  A few weeks in, Candy and Josef arrive after the show like always and I slip them a few drinks while I clean up the bar. We decide to hit some clubs.

  Then, out from the shadows of my past, at a club we have never patronised, in a part of town we’ve never visited, right there, burning up the floor with a crowd cheering his moves, Gigolo!

  —The chances! I say as he sees us and clown-walks off the dance floor.

  We can’t hear each other in there, so Gigolo and I go outside and cross the street and stand around catching up. He says he has to front court in a few weeks so he’s come down here to see his grandma in case she dies before he gets out of prison.

  —Yeah, bro, some serious shit fell on me after the posse went down. They had a photo album of every tag I ever put up … about this thick, man! And he puts his hands about a metre apart: Charged me with vandalism to public and private property with damages over one million dollars.

  —Holy fuck.

  Gigolo looks really sad there, so I say:

  —I’d go to jail for my art! which cheers him up a bit. Then I say: Have you seen Reuben?

  —Last time I saw him, he introduced me to some chick he knocked up … I reckon already born by now. Anyway, he met this chick and then he moved to Brisbane with her.

  —So he recovered t
hen?

  —He still limps.

  We both laugh.

  We all end up back at the Sarah Sands Hotel by our apartment for a late one.

  ——

  Josef tells me while we collect cigarette butts in a car park at the end of another big night this same week that he wants to start a band called Quadrophenia, after the mod film by The Who. He reckons the world needs a new sound, to sum up our generation. I say:

  —Don’t you think The Jesus and Mary Chain or Jane’s Addiction fill that role?

  —Mary Chain need more speed – I dunno about shoegazing goth stuff. And Jane’s Addiction … I dunno, man. That psychedelic, tie-dye, mystical shit just rips off Jim Morrison, you know. Josef stops to light a cigarette butt – for some reason he can’t walk and light up. I wait for him to catch up and I say:

  —Yeah, I agree. This generation has nihilism down as a lifestyle. No one has ever catered for us. Everyone just does their own thing.

  —I wanna cross syncopated classical bass riffs with heavy metal lead and distorted rhythm guitar and punk vocals. I just gotta get an amp … You should sing.

  —Nah, man, trust me, I can’t fucken sing.

  —Anyone can sing punk! You write really fucken good poems, some real dark shit, too. Use them as lyrics and put some effects on ya voice.

  —Yeah, maybe …

  I stop at a phone box and dump some coins into the slot with my numb fingers. I have Reuben’s number from Gigolo written down on the lapel of my denim jacket. The phone rings out. Lonely phone ringing in a big empty Queenslander in Brisbane, on a warm early morning as crows caw in the backyard.

  —What ya doin? says Josef, breath freezing on the glass phone box. Look at him: crazy, broad-shouldered, thin-hipped, skinny bastard with his lank black hair burrowed into his fur collar. Smoking cigarette after cigarette trying to get warm, dancing on the spot in his Chuck Taylors and torn jeans. He won’t wear a beanie because he reckons it fucks up his hair.

  —Making a phone call, you dumb cunt, I say, shivering.

  —Obviously, dickhead. Who you callin? He huffs on the glass and writes poof inside backward in his breath mist.

  —This old mate named Reuben. Got his number from that breakdancer dude we ran into a few days ago.

  —What for? At fucken dawn on a Sunday? You inconsiderate cunt. You have a major problem, you know, with your inconsiderate cunt-ness … sitting up all night writing while two other people try to sleep in the same room … fucken banging about like the loudest cunt on earth. So long as you get to do what you want, you don’t give a fuck about the wasteland you leave behind. What a cunt. And he shakes his head and walks away towards home.

  I watch him until he disappears into the morning fog. What a bass-playing Kiwi bastard. Thinks he has shit to whinge about. Poor him, hasn’t had any cash since his parents went broke a year ago. Private-schoolboy ponce. He never wanted for anything all his life until now, and for the first time he gets out on his own and reckons he has it tough. I’ve a good mind to kick the bastard out. Probably sleeping with Candy too.

  2

  I finally get through to Reuben, just in time, he says, because he’s moved all his stuff out to a new rental. He has a girlfriend now and they have a six-week-old baby boy. Reuben and a friend of his named Sean have opened The Bohemian Cafe on Elizabeth Street in the city. He reckons everything runs uber smooth.

  —Get a load of this! he says on an exhale down the line: We’ve just rented this old brothel in Woolloongabba, up on the hill overlooking the city, right behind Boggo Road prison. The place has seven bedrooms, three living areas, an industrial-sized kitchen, two bathrooms, three toilets and a sunroom out the front. They’ve built in underneath … it has a bunch of seedy rooms with faux-pine panelling and a sink and a mirror in every one. I’ll set up a home brewery and a grow-room down there, man. Weed and beer on motherfucken tap!

  —An old brothel? I say, trying to picture it.

  —Ya know … a house that had an illegal brothel, huge old Queenslander. We moved in last weekend … had a lawn picnic. We haven’t had a proper house-warming yet. Plannin that shit now.

  —Sounds fucken amazing, brother.

  He senses the tension in my voice.

  —You not having a good time, man?

  —Yeah, just … so fucken cold down here. We only have a shitty heater, kicked me off the dole … can’t find any full-time jobs.

  —Who you with?

  —Candy. She came too.

  —Oh … groovy.

  —And this dude Josef, who I met at a modelling agency.

  —What?

  —Long story … What else you doing these days?

  —Fucking heaps of chicks who come into my cafe. The other day I actually closed up and Sean and I fucked these three French tourist chicks all afternoon. Brother … countless babe opportunities.

  —Liberal girlfriend you have there, man!

  —Jo? Oh, she initiates a lot of it. We have threesomes, foursomes and shit all the time … well, up until we fell pregnant.

  —Man … you sure sound like you have shit worked out up there!

  —You should come up, work at The Bohemian … rent some of our spare rooms … bring ya new mate, Josef.

  When I get back to the apartment, I tell Candy and Josef I have a lead. Reuben can set us up with a job and digs in Brisbane.

  Somehow, despite Reuben’s new baby in the picture, we’ve decided to move north.

  3

  No writing in three months.

  ——

  Busy livin all the poems I haven’t written.

  ——

  Blank.

  ——

  Exist. Rush. Run. Faster. Obey. Consume. Contribute. Breed. Fear. Burden. Die.

  ——

  Found a worm on the carpet and a remote control in the grass.

  ——

  Josef and I sit here on Airlie Beach. The shadows of the past months have nowhere to hide in the midday sun. Josef drones on about his imaginary band. Cries of seabirds like feedback. Candy has a job interview in a newsagent on the foreshore. We bum around here under the palms, waiting for her. The gulls circle the tourists. A girl on the beach has all the male attention but Josef doesn’t notice, talking about the bass line he dreamed of last night. I don’t listen, though, because one of my rare episodes of worrying about the future has me firmly in its jaws. If Candy doesn’t get this job, we will have to move back to Townsville. Jaz still has our old childhood house to herself. We can go live there, but Townsville seems a big backward step to me. Too many bad memories.

  ——

  Candy comes out from her job interview and crosses to the beach. Josef has fallen asleep on the sand. She doesn’t look hopeful. She shrugs:

  —Owner treated me like a kid. Dunno if I’d wanna work there anyway. She notices Josef asleep on the sand. He has a lit cigarette between his fingers that has burned down to the point where he will leap awake screaming in pain very soon. Candy flicks the butt out of his hand.

  —Aw, you ruined it! I say, disappointed: It would’ve hurt like hell!

  She shakes her head, looking at the hot chick that ninety-nine per cent of the beach has their attention fixed on. Judging by the depth of the hot chick’s tan, I’d say she does this a lot. She has the body of a goddess and she has her top off. She has an air of pride, about her breasts probably.

  —Anyway, Candy sighs, flopping down onto the sand: Looks like we’ll have to go back to Townsville.

  —Yeah, my dad seems progressively more annoyed since we showed up … and the contract just ended.

  —What has he said?

  —Nothing … but I know his demeanour. The other night when I went around there for dinner, he sat there in silence and I got into a bit of an argument with Fliss and then, suddenly, he stands up and smash
es his plate on the table.

  —What? Candy shoots me an alarmed look.

  —I’ve never seen him do anything like it.

  Since we arrived unannounced at the house my parents rent while Dad works here, he has acted like a champion. After he quit the police force and received his payout, he purchased a Wormald security franchise in the tourist town of Airlie Beach. Despite the initial shock of his prodigal son returning home with two punk wastrels in tow, he gave me a job and an advance to rent an apartment. He has a contract with a new resort getting built down on the foreshore and he enlisted me to go and sit in the security hut and guard the construction equipment. I’ve had to sit there from 6 pm to 6 am six nights a week, for two months now. Many nights Josef accompanies me – because he has guilt, I reckon. He doesn’t want me to notice his eagerness to get Candy alone, so he volunteers to sit up all night and keep me company. We sit out there playing poker, smoking cigarettes, messing about.

  We grew tired of cards tonight and decided to go through some equipment lockers. I find a BB gun and a box of pellets.

  —Let’s go kill some shit! I say, excited.

  —What? Josef looks alarmed.

  —Don’t tell me you’ve never killed animals?

  —Maybe a fly or a mosquito, and a grub once.

  —Fucken … what a panty-liner!

  —Fuck you, cunt. Like you’ve killed anything more than your chances with Candy.

  —What?

  —Nothing. Did you just call me a panty-liner? He giggles at my insult, to distract me, I bet.

  —I’ve killed countless native Australian fauna: birds, possums, kangaroos, pigs, snakes, turtles.

  —Turtles? Why the fuck did you kill turtles?

  —I dunno. Us kids used to throw rocks off this cliff and smash their shells, for kicks, I guess?

  Josef looks horrified, busy messing around with the BB gun, trying to figure out how to load it.

  —Give me that! I say, snatching the rifle.

  —You’ll get bad karma, man, shooting birds especially!

  —What do you mean, you fucken hippy?

  —You know, birds symbolise freedom, and all that. He shrugs.

  —Depends which kind of birds you kill, man. This world works that way. I didn’t know the difference until I got in big trouble for shooting a black cockatoo. Some birds people call pests and vermin, and others they protect. Think about that for a minute.