Here Come the Dogs (9 page)

14

A new court

This one is near the train tracks,

Little chance of bumping into someone,

The backboard has been turned into an Aboriginal flag

An ants nest covers the whole back half of the court,

then there's a swale filled with empty cans and bottles,

The sun is at its peak,

the apex of a blown-glass sky.

I squint at the hoop

and carefully stretch my quads,

grunting from the pain.

A low wind at my feet,

a ghostly shawl of dust.

At first I let Mercury run free,

but he keeps trying to chase the ball,

so I tie him up again.

He looks wounded.

Bloody thing.

Mum says the neighbours

keep complaining about his barking.

Yet another thing she can get on my case about.

Dishpig

Centrelink are yappy cunts

so it made more sense to get a job.

Mum's disappointed

that I'm ‘just' a dishpig,

No responsibility,

mindless,

headphones on,

beats all day.

Aim the dishwashing gun –

spray the congealed gunk off the plates –

make em brand-new,

all facing one direction like satellites.

Mum says I'm wasting my talent,

that I owe it to her, to Dad,

to do something more.

Don't wanna think about that now

I pound the ball hard for a minute with each hand

till my shoulders ache

Then it's And One, streetball shit –

A step slow, though,

I'm drenched after minutes.

Nothing like a chain net,

and how the ball chanks out the bottom of it.

Something forgotten starting to rekindle now.

My shirt's soaked so I take it off.

The sun across my shoulders,

Sweat runs over my tatts

and I feel kinda ashamed

I don't really know what they mean.

Sometimes they feel like a burden.

I hear Dad's voice:

‘If I save up enough money,

I'll send the boys back to Samoa.

They need to learn that in your
‘aiga
it must be about we, not me.

The boys have to learn, Grace.'

Sometimes I wish he had sent me back.

As I'm working on a hook shot

It's a skinny young boy

seated against a tree.

I avoid his eager eyes

and turn back to the hoop.

I wish I didn't give Mum

so much hell when she stopped sending cash

to Dad's village after he died.

Several minutes later

the boy moves back into my sightline,

again smiling,

standing on one of those dumb Razor scooters.

I wipe sweat off my brow,

collect my shit,

to get ready for a massive night out.

15

An underground bar with sweating walls.

Jean Grae, rapping in a bloodstained wedding dress, has whipped the crowd into delirium. Moving bodies, silhouettes, paper cut-outs tinged with malevolent red. A general madness in the air.

‘Can't believe Aleks isn't drinking,' says Jimmy to Solomon when Aleks goes to get a water.

‘Fark, relax, bro. He's buying you drinks, isn't he? He's only out cos you bought him the ticket. He's got a missus at home.'

‘Yeh, so do you.'

Solomon turns to the stage, ignoring him. To the right Jimmy can see Tall Simon, the biggest hip hop fanatic in town, who is at every single local or international rap show. A photographer darts in and out of the crowd, snapping away, wearing an Ishu tee. She too is at every gig. Against the wall are two old school heads, one in a Def Wish Cast shirt and a Kangol, the other in a Zulu Nation shirt, talking to the support act Dialectrix. The two old school heads look like relics of another era, before the streets gave way to the middle class in Aussie hip hop. At the front is a mix of hippies and young fans, reaching up to touch the performers, and a staunch bouncer. Several minutes later, a young
hip hop fan, white-eyed and white at the corner of his mouth, starts freestyling in Solomon's ear, spraying him with saliva. He's pilling off his head. Always at least one of these cunts at a show. Jimmy grins as he watches Solomon trying to accommodate the pillhead for a minute, before he pushes him away.

The moment of epiphany about hip hop had come at age twelve. A cassette tape passed from paw to paw, backpack to backpack, had ended up in Jimmy's pencil case. On each side of the tape a name written in Wite-Out. Public Enemy. Wu Tang Clan. Jimmy, Aleks and Solomon had gathered around an old cassette player. A crackle, and then suddenly a maelstrom of noise from the tinny speakers – street, eloquent and masculine – tough as Smokin' Joe Frazier. It was love at first listen.

Hip hop was a readymade culture for the fatherless, those born of fracture – family, culture. They all loved listening to raps, of course, but Aleks leaned more towards graffiti, Solomon b-boying, and Jimmy production and DJing. Jimmy, especially, adhered to the idea of hip hop culture religiously. If he could have prayed at an altar of hip hop, he would have.

There was a taut string that yanked back and forth between individual and community, with each person's style and flourish encouraged, the way someone rode a beat or moved their hands when they rapped, but adherence to the tribe was paramount. And no school could teach it. You learned for yourself, you learned from your brothers and sisters.

One rhyme turned into a sixteen-bar verse that turned into a whole song then maybe even an album that could be pressed and performed live in front of your peers. A simple top rock turned into a whole routine, to be paraded in front of other b-boys in the arena of battle. Tags led to throw ups, which led to full-colour burners, which archaeologists would one day pore over like the chrysography of illuminated religious texts on vellum.

Pharoahe Monch is on stage now, already drenched in sweat, his tee bunched up around the biceps, tatts visible; lead and mic and human creating an amplified creature all new, a philosopher's stone for an alchemy where every molecule in the room came to a pristine
understanding, something sublime in spirit and body, the rupture, the flow, the rapture, something conjured for a brave, hopeless few.

When the world-ending horns of ‘Simon Says' come on, there is pandemonium.

Afterwards, Jimmy pushes through and gets a CD signed at the merch desk and a photo with Pharoahe. Outside, he and Solomon rap, word for word, Pharoahe's verse from the Kweli song ‘Guerilla Monsoon Rap'. Jimmy smiles triumphantly. He wants to stay in that moment forever, then he realises he's agreed to meet Hailee at a club called Luxe.

Deep in the guts of Luxe.

‘Ergh. Tomorrow's gonna be trouble.' Jimmy takes a sip of vodka and checks his phone. No messages. She did say twelve, didn't she? He holds up his drink and the ice cubes glow blue from the mirror balls and bar lights. He imagines goldfish swimming around in his glass.

‘Buy this lovely lady another drink, Jimmy. A Cowboy!' yells Solomon.

‘Nah, nah, no more for me, thanks.' The bar chick rolls her eyes.

He's scanning for Hailee again. There's a mess of people dancing and making out on the balcony. He moves to it and looks over. Below is the dancefloor, a moving puzzle of bodies. The strobes come on and send a shudder through him. His mouth tastes sour so he takes another sip of vodka and lets his eyes wander to the corner of the dancefloor, closest to the DJ. There she is. Hailee is dancing in a group of people, arms above her head, blonde hair swinging from side to side in a wave, like a model in a shampoo commercial. Too good for this fucken place. Jimmy's about to wave when a hand yanks him around. It's Aleks.

‘Where you been, ya poof?' He laughs and hands Jimmy two more drinks, while he sips a water.

‘Oi. Heaps of nice ones here, brother. Take your pick. Aw, to be single again, ay?'

‘Yeah, man. Already got my eye on one. Chick from the travel agency, ay. Check her out.'

They lean over the balcony. The spot where she was dancing is now empty and soon fills with other bodies.

‘Aw shit. She was just there, man.'

‘Yeh, right. Does she even exist?'

They clink glasses so hard that Jimmy's glass breaks. Aleks takes him by the shoulders and looks him in the eye. ‘Brother, don't ever let them tell you that you're nothing. You're worth something, all right? I'm here for ya.'

They hug, then Aleks' shoulders slacken and he yells, ‘Another drink for Jimmy!'

‘Hold on. Needa piss.'

Jimmy heads to the bathroom, bloated. The line is long but moves quickly. He takes a long slash and sees vomit in the urinal already. On top of the trough are half-finished beers and mixed drinks – some of the glasses are filled with piss. There's a bloke stripped to the waist resting on his elbows over the basin, hair hanging in sour, black bourbon-and-coke vomit.

‘You all right, mate?'

He waves Jimmy away with a limp hand.

Jimmy lurches down a hallway and into the stairwell. A door closes behind him. The music is momentarily muted and he is by himself. It's dank and humid and he feels very alone. There's a door at the bottom of the stairs, and flaring behind it are lights and strafing strobes. He spits against the wall and a bit gets on his shirt so he wipes at it and pushes the door open. The music hits him hard and he immediately puts a hand in the air. It's auto-tuned bullshit but he doesn't care and torpedoes into the crowd, dancing and bobbing his head. He bumps into a big black dude who spills Coke on his shoes. Sorry, mate. He says nothing but
pushes Jimmy forward and he stumbles further into the furrow of bodies. A Tongan bloke his brother knows appears in front of him, leering, and pushes another drink into his hand and starts talking in his ear. He can't hear a word and the voice over the speakers is saying ‘MOVE, MOTHERFUCKER, MOVE,' but instead he rests an elbow on the bar, looking again for Hailee. He turns back and sees the Tongan's waiting for an answer and he doesn't really know what to say so he yells, ‘For sure', which seems to satisfy him. He grabs a half-finished drink from a table and drains it. There's dry ice now and people's faces appear out of the smoke, like triangular masks, inebriated phantoms. He dances by himself near the DJ booth and ends up in a circle of lads who put their arms around his shoulders, jump up and down to the music like they've won a championship game. He tries to catch a pretty blonde's eye. She turns away. He can't quite hit the beat with his hips and knees so he stands still and bobs his head. With one hand he types a text to Hailee:
where u?
Smoke is dissipating and he thinks he sees Solomon dancing with a brunette. He cannonballs through the crowd and hears a domino of expletives as he bounces off people. He snatches a glance of Hailee through waving arms and pushes through, but nah it's not even her so he steadies himself against the bar and grabs some ice from a glass and presses it to his forehead. Aleks appears by his side, hands him another drink and says, ‘One for the road buddy, we gotta go soon.' Jimmy shoots down the liquor, gags, calms himself, and then texts again.
Where u? im at bar.
He feels queasy in the bathroom and glass crunches underfoot. He throws up in the sink and it's full now. There's a used condom in there. He feels a bit better, but. Aleks is waiting for him and he must be stumbling because Aleks catches Jimmy under the arm and begins to guide him through the crowd. He's about to go up the stairs when he sees Hailee, sitting with a group on a couch. It's a bit dark but when his eyes adjust he sees that she's with that smarmy cunt from the cafe. ‘Nah, Aleks, that's her, bra. I gotta go talk to her.' ‘You're too . . . Ah, okay. I'll be having a ciggie outside. Come up ASAP. We gotta go.' Jimmy buys another shot and a bourbon and everything is tilting. He sits on the couch opposite Hailee and smiles. Her friends go silent, looking at
him expectantly, ammo and gossip in their bleached teeth. ‘Hey.' ‘Hey.' She looks confused and scratches the back of her head. ‘This is Greg.' ‘Hey, man.' Jimmy feels confused. ‘Big night?' ‘Not really. I'm driving.' ‘Aw, sweet.' ‘You?' ‘Nah not driving . . . Oh, big night? Yer. Yer, I'm, um, I'm here with mates.' ‘Oh, cool. Where are they?' Greg sniggers. ‘What? So . . . big night then?' ‘No . . . I'm driving.' Fuck. ‘Yeh, of course. Sorry.' Music too loud in here. The others turn back to their conversations. Big screen playing the latest Lil' Wayne and Drake song. Diamond teeth, palm trees and cars. When did Drake get so big? ‘Hey, I've got big plans you know!' Greg and Hailee look at each other and then back at Jimmy, grinning. ‘Yeh, I wanna —' His mouth not forming the vowels. Hailee's hand on Greg's knee. ‘Cool . . . Have a good one then, guys. Good to meet you, bro.' Jimmy stands up and looks back at her and she's smiling in a way he can't quite pin down and he's furious but glad to be walking up the stairs away away away. He's outside in the alley sharing a cigarette and someone tells a joke and then he's inhaling sweet weed smoke, the tip of the joint glowing like a cat's eye in the dark and he stares back at it and blows the smoke. He's back in the club. Bar chick looking at him dubiously but pouring another one and a chaser. Hailee. He'll find her again and do better this time. Pissing and then sick again. He falls against the wall and somebody has him by the collar and is helping him up, left foot, right foot, dragging him and he's saying thanks mate sorry but his feet aren't working and he throws up again next to the bouncers and stumbles forward, slipping in the sick, gets balance and then falls again and wishes for nothing else but to sleep. The club line upside down. Then baubles of lights above and a certain type of darkness and he can hear himself breathing but it's from afar, maybe down a long hallway. ‘This guy is fucked! He your mate?' And someone is pulling him up again and pushing him forward on his unwilling feet and he gains lucidity for a second to see blonde hair go by and he says Hailee but he's not sure cos it could be anyone. Where's Aleks? ‘I'm not taking him in this state. No way. He'll throw up in the cab. Ah, for fuck's sake.'

Sitting.

Still fucked up but everything's silent now.

He's at his mum's place somehow,

in Solomon's room.

Solomon's not there.

Jimmy listens to himself breathing

as he looks out the window.

The carpark is lit by lamplight.

It is never dark.

He sits watching, feeling as if he is on the rim of the world.

The carpark was once a paddock,

There were apple trees

and a broken wall the boys scrawled

their first tags on.

The night reels back and forth

in his mind,

on repeat.

Gonna try to stay up till dawn.