Here Come the Dogs (8 page)

12

The hound

As I untie the leash,

I put my nose to his head.

The fine fur is almost odourless,

I trace a finger over it.

Cradling the long head in my hands,

I look into the lone alert eye.

It would be easy to crush his skull

with a cricket bat or a rock,

in one perfect stroke.

Fuck, what am I thinking?

I pull the leash away.

Mercury Fire pauses,

Then he dances away with the shadow,

cantering off and building to a sprint within bounds,

his spine as flexible as a bow,

body extended,

charged with blood,

and deer courses in forests long gone.

Like him,

I used to run and run,

from here to the stone gazebo

on the edge of the park

and back again, to keep lean.

He's bounding towards some joggers

on the far side of the oval,

Contracting, extending,

Is he imagining the race?

The arena,

the ceremony of gamblers and luckseekers,

the strange smells coming to him from the stands,

the straining hounds on either side,

eager and competitive souls in their chests?

A pointless struggle,

actors in a strange tragedy

where the winner never wins,

The true winner is removed,

a tall figure in the stands

with a ticket in his hands.

When I quit basketball,

I forfeited adulation

and the weekly engagement of muscle and will.

I used to walk home

lie in the dew,

thinking of the times I pured a three

or threaded a pass perfectly.

Misses,

No basketball, no dad to play for –

Maybe that's why I bought the hound.

Maybe it was a reason to be responsible for something again.

I see a figure in a red polka dot dress approaching

then I look back to Mercury Fire.

He changes direction and veers towards me –

something in his sight streak has appeared.

He's snapping after a butterfly,

My affinity with him,

my fear of him,

We're nothing but spray cans,

used up and thrown away,

creating something that gets painted over within a day.

He comes back to me,

panting and smiling.

The figure in the red polka dot dress is close.

‘Good boy,' I say,

patting Mercury Fire.

‘Hi,' says Scarlett Snow.

‘Hi.'

The gazebo

There's no one around

and the windows are partially obscured

by bare rose bushes.

I hike her onto the stone bench

and offer my throat,

which she clasps with two hands.

I peel the red up

and the white down.

And now the consuming danger,

the fierceness of summer

my thumbs on her ankles,

the minutes trickling down our backs

and her black hair.

I stare at the long, trembling dusk

as I lick a bead of sweat from the side of her face.

‘Wanna meet up tomorrow?'

‘Don't get ahead of yourself, mister.'

She's become cool again,

almost professional,

but the danger is still hot on my body.

She kisses me quickly.

‘Seeya soon, mama's boy.'

An argument with Georgie

She just called the Samoan guy at the petrol station ‘bro'.

No way.

‘Can you not say that, Georgie. It's fucken annoying.'

‘What?'

‘Bro.'

‘Bro,' she mimics back.

‘Seriously.'

‘Why not? You say it all the time.'

‘I'm a dude. It sounds ugly when a chick says it.'

‘Solomon, that's ridiculous.'

‘I'm just saying. Doesn't sound right. That's a guy's word.'

‘I'll stop saying it if you do.' Her lips set.

‘Fuck that.'

‘You're a pig.'

‘Oh, yeh?'

‘And an egomaniac.'

‘That all?'

We walk in silence.

Of course that's not all.

I clear my throat. ‘Hey, Georgie. You realise that no matter how hard you try, you'll never be one of us.'

‘One of the boys? Wouldn't wanna be.'

‘Nah. You know what I mean.' I cough. ‘Ethnic.'

‘Why are you saying this, Solomon?' Her voice is shaking. My mind is perfectly clear.

‘Just letting you know. No matter how many politics courses you take, how much yoga you do, how many fucken Buddhist scrolls you hang in your room – you will never be.' I snort coldly. ‘I know how you girls think. And I'll let you in on another secret: no matter how many times you fuck me, you'll always be white. I'm not gonna fuck some colour into ya and I'm not gonna fuck that white guilt outta ya. You will never be anything but what you are.'

She's crying now.

That felt brilliant.

13

In Woolworths, Jimmy grabs a tin of coffee before heading to the wall of fridges lined with frozen dinners. Maybe lasagne tomorrow night. There is something about all the packets stacked up in supermarkets that he likes. In petrol stations, too. All the brightly coloured boxes, piled high and deep – the gaudiness, the abundance of it. You're in charge, browsing where you like, and it's all on display for your pleasure. Take what you want.

When he closes the fridge door, he turns and catches a glimpse of the girl from the travel agency, Hailee, walking up the aisle with a basket. He keeps his head down and watches out of the corner of his eye as she stands in front of the rows of pasta. When she moves on, Jimmy glides to the head of the next aisle and watches her as she chooses some rice. She's in running pants and her hair is pulled back, and Jimmy can see what look like simple diamond studs in her ears. He can just make out a tattoo on the back of her neck – a coathanger? He shadows her again as she moves on to the deli. As he hovers by the cold shelves of fresh meat, she seems to look right at him, but offers no flicker of recognition. He pretends to be looking at Christmas crackers.

Jimmy keeps pace with her through the checkouts and follows her out, passing between parked cars at a remove, hoping she didn't drive.
When she walks out of the carpark and across the road, he keeps close to a hedge. They pass Centrelink, then the Jade Palace Chinese restaurant with its oily smoke. The day is darkening all around and shadows drape on everything. Headlights swing through the streets and Jimmy inhales the smell of dry grass.

She lives in a quiet street in a house dressed with bougainvillea. A birdbath stands in the front yard. Jimmy is glad to see the place is dark inside – she lives alone. From where he skulks on the footpath across the street, he sees her disappear inside, and he waits as lights turn on, hoping to catch a glimpse of her through a window. He wonders what her body looks like.

Jimmy leans on a skip filled with the debris from a construction site opposite her house. He can see her moving about in the kitchen, moving between the stove and the sink. He wishes he could join her. He wouldn't touch her. Not if she didn't want him to.

He takes note of the house number and walks away.

The next morning, the heat is savage in the City.

Coffee shops and clothes stores, office workers gossiping about colleagues and love. Next to a diamond-shaped fountain, young bloods are carrying skateboards or holding hands. Some Sudanese cats are laughing loudly, bumping fists and practising handshakes. Some awful crunk plays from one guy's phone. They bum a cigarette from Jimmy and saunter off, rapping to each other in American accents. Jimmy wants to chase after them and tell them that what hip hop needs is more good DJs, not rappers. Hip hop is nothing without DJs. Then he pictures the look they would give him if he did.

Jimmy ducks into the air-conditioned arcade, taking a well-worn route through David Jones, where he stops at the perfume counter to spray on some Armani. He ignores the filthy look from a middle-aged shop assistant. Striding a little taller, he heads for the food court, imagining for a moment he might bump into Aleks and Solomon and
they'd head off to the pool or on a mission to rack paint and bomb shit. But they're not fifteen anymore.

He takes the escalator downstairs and goes to a sushi window. The travel agent is on her lunch break, eating a salad, several tables away. She has not seen him. Her hair is drawn into a severe ponytail above her pale face. She is talking to a slick-looking guy who Jimmy knows owns a cafe around the corner. His sleeves are rolled up, exposing tanned arms. He is immaculately dressed, like a wog version of Solomon, but leaner, maybe crueller. She seems intent on their conversation but Jimmy can't tell if it's professional or if she's truly interested. The guy checks his phone then leaves.

Jimmy pays quickly and makes his move, sitting at the table across from her. Remember to ask her heaps of questions. Someone once told him that women like it if you ask a lot of questions. She is gazing into her empty salad bowl, face drawn. She looks up and notices him. Jimmy feigns surprise. ‘Oh, hey! How are you?'

‘I'm good,' she says. ‘Busy.' She smiles uncertainly, but her eyes are glistening.

‘Are you all right?'

She rests on her elbows and sighs. ‘Ah. Just a lot going on. Someone in my family is really sick.'

‘Who?'

‘My grandma. She's got dementia.' She casts her eyes down again. He seems to have caught her off-guard.

‘Aw, man. Sorry to hear that. My mum works at a nursing home. Always tough seeing someone close to you go through that. Are you all right?'

While she talks he meticulously puts an equal amount of wasabi on each piece of sushi, then two drops of soy sauce. Keep asking her questions, it seems to be working. Soon she is talking freely about her dream of owning a beauty parlour, maybe in Brisbane; how life in the City has become boring. Jimmy listens and eats. Once he has eaten, he starts absent-mindedly twirling a marker in his fingers.

‘What's that for? Graffiti?' she asks.

He nods. She seems intrigued.

‘I always wondered about that stuff. How do you come up with a name?'

‘You mean tag. Depends, ay. Sometimes it's a nickname that sticks or it can be a cool image you wanna put out there. Sometimes it's just a combo of the letters you do best. Sydney guys used to have a “four to five letters is best” rule. Melbourne guys had weird, long tags.' He laughs and looks at a faint scar on the edge of her eyebrow, then at her full lips. Usually secretive about anything graff-related, Jimmy continues talking rapidly. ‘People usually go through a few different tags as they get better. Sometimes they have a legal one and an illegal one. You practise in a blackbook first. Blackbooks are like a holy grail. Get outlines from your mates, practise your own, have your photo album in there. Gotta protect it with your life.'

She begins smiling wider the more passionate he gets. On impulse, he asks, ‘You going clubbing tonight, Hailee?'

‘Yeah . . . I think so.'

‘Well, I'm going to a gig then I'll definitely head out. Maybe I could, um, give you a call?' he stutters.

She bites her lip and looks away, decides on something, then says, ‘Give me your phone.' She types her number into his phone and passes it back. Must mean she's broken up with her man. Perfect. ‘See you, Jimmy. I'll be out around eleven.'

‘Nice.' He smiles. ‘Seeya soon.'

Jimmy lights a durry and walks beneath the enamelled sky, thinking of near-misses and what-ifs and never-wases and blowing them out with the smoke. He heads into Sideways Records, with its thick crust of band posters in the dusty front window, like rings of a tree that sliced open would reveal the growth of the local scene. He's unsurprised to see Gonzo there, a local producer, keenly digging through old Japanese pop records in the discount box. Gonzo looks up wild-eyed,
like a fossicker who's struck a golden seam, then holds a record to his chest. Jimmy nods in recognition.

Sideways Records has always had the biggest selection of Aussie hip hop in town. When the boys were teenagers, people mocked Aussie rap, but now it's packing out stadiums. He reckons the stuff that's popular is fucken awful, but the change in the scene is still unbelievable, and the two brothers that run Sideways – one friendly, one grumpy, like the good cop/bad cop of beats – have played their part.

Still, Jimmy likes the old school, and he spins some Tribe Called Quest on the turntables for a spell, but a line builds up at the booth and the bad cop gives him the flick. He buys the Funkoars album
The Quickening,
cos he wore the last one out, and a Marvin Gaye CD for his mum for a bargain at eight bucks. He wonders what Hailee might be into. Dance shit, most likely.

With the records under his arm, Jimmy sits in the park. He puts his CDs down and sniffs his musty armpits, checking that no one sees him. The heat is unavoidable. As he studies an album sleeve, he thinks about Hailee.

He imagines a sunblessed day, and the fire-red Dodge he's going to buy. Maybe he'll pick her up and drive down to Shellfish Bay, where the beaches are long and white and wild. They'll listen to music, good old soul tunes, him driving with one hand, her holding his other hand in her lap. They'll walk along the beach by a choppy surf, he'll help her avoid bluebottles and she'll go ahead and look back at him, hair billowing, her long legs defined under her windblown dress. In an old shop with the catch of the day written on a chalkboard outside, they'll share lunch on a bench overlooking the sea. Smoke and salt, blue and white.

At night there'll be cigarettes and murmuring, even though they have the house to themselves. The bed will tilt and moan and they'll hold each other and lean apart and fall asleep, then wake, and kiss and fall asleep again. And through the clouds outside he'll see the five stars of the Southern Cross, each as bright as the other, and the moonlight will cover her as she sleeps.

Jimmy's got it all mapped out. If he can just play this cool, not rush her.