Waiting (6 page)

Where Big is her rock her mountain her madwoman.

Occupants of their rooming house are familiar with Legal Aid. They have been much in need of it. As well as legal matters of far more intimate nature. Their bodies and souls. Some have been criminals once, maybe still are – or compromised in ways we don't mention. Innocent, of course, just caught up in the moment. Got involved with a bad crowd.

They get pissed on remarkably few stubbies and one whines about the ways X bashed him, well, not X but X's side-men, some of whom are hardly shaving yet but hard, fucking hard all the same, nasty little fuckers, who kicked his ribs in for what, for nothun, just maybe lettun on some trick to someone whose business it wasn't. Spare ribs and anger and no joy in that, not when you're down on the cobbles, your cheekbones raw from footwear and grit, nothing to see when you're looking into the dirt.

One whiner had teased Little about her own whingeing when Little was silly enough to think he'd listen, silly enough to think anyone down listens to someone else who is down, with good cause, even better cause to be down, but he took the piss.

Then down he went, again, because word got out and in no time Big pushed him harder than expected against the solid wall of the corridor and the guy fell again, ah, down into déjà vu on the floor. There in the grit one sees nothing. Big is not a violent man, he may look like Obelix but he never hits anyone, that would frighten him.

Big never hits and he never says fuck. One word you will never hear me use, he says, is fuck.

He can look like Obelix and he manhandles people on a supply and demand call, but he never punches them. He never says fuck to them. Big lifted this guy, became impassioned and thus impatient and simply lost the will to hold him up. The man fell, like the junkie guy who stole the jam fell.

Little felt pleased then felt weak for complaining and for her lack of understanding. It was her fault that the man got silly and mocked her, and was thumped for it. Then she guiltily enjoyed her first-ever experience of cruelty. Thanks to her Big. A gloating, sort of. And breathing.

Little had been so habitually nervous as a child she thought it would be bold beyond measure to one day work in a shop. Behind the counter! Maybe sell batteries or paper or… at the end of the day sweep the floors and feel grownup. At school she was incapable of staying in the room mentally. A daydreamer. Teachers were always calling her back but why return when there was always a Question waiting there? Questions were like the side-men the whinger was scared of, standing there on her return and ready to get her. Guard dogs, teeth, and not kicked ribs but failure to answer with the answer they insisted on asking her for…

If only, while away, some power informed her of the words needed, of the knowledge required, to show them she knew. But nothing ever came back with her… Reading was better, she could read alone and she passed exams and tests, and best of all she wrote strange stories the teachers always said showed ‘imagination', but even she could tell the teachers were too silent just before, and especially just after uttering this, their single word, of praise.

The shop assistant ambition, though, wearing make-up and being looked at by men, now that was intoxicating, to think anyone would, but men did look at shop girls. Men had different expressions for shop girls.

Little knew she wasn't bad looking, in her mousy kind of way, but with a faded blue dress and her black hair (which she kept near her face) and lipstick, her one device her one trick, they would lick their lips, and these husbands and young men and not the boys, would give her the secret look that men give shop girls.

It made her shake, down in the places she had become curious about, shake and feel this was real enough to stay in the room for.

Looks carry their own pain. In the rooming house it is even expected. Strangely, living among them, is a tall and very striking brunette. She is quite unfairly a ‘good looker' who sometimes goes (commercially, she says) blonde, then black again, something to do with her ferocious moods and following depressions, but it must be said her funny and uplifting cheerfulness is everywhere in between. In the house of nicknames, they initially called her Pretty Woman. They are suprisingly interested in celebrity. They are also showing their age in this dated film-whore reference, and yet celebrity wins again. They settle on the actress: Julia.

No one can quite believe her. Advantage Julia.

Yes, and for all her seeming youth, at only 35 or so, still the smudge of hard-life has appeared at her eyes, and no tricks are going to re-train her forehead to live in Nicole-land, that blond who cannot (to quote Julia) act or do anything except con creepy but influential men into thinking she can. And that was something Julia should know about, more than a bit of that in the inner Julia, and inner being the place, she once hinted, nudge nudge, for sealing such deals.

Listen mate, she once said to Little, being blokey-girlie, I've tried everything and believe me there's not much about blokes I don't know.

When she says mate it doesn't sound like the more usual ma-a-ate, the ingratiating kind of mate, the special pleading. Like the mate men use in this house. Her mate, even when she is down, is crazier.

Of course when she is down she tells them things she really shouldn't. Here it hardly matters and she seems to find relief in this, her unlikely talking cure. The men are half in love with her, she is their light and dark together, she is their free upper. If her beauty is beyond their experience, her sorrows are all too familiar. She is a torch-song in a club of lined faces.

She never confesses to Tom. Never, not likely. They are opposites and only she truly understands how. He is a sinner who pretends to Jesus. She sins and enjoys it. She said to him once: come-on Tommy, I'll give you a blowjob. His body shook like malaria as it retreated.

Tom the born-again. Tall, long-lank Tom. Stooping, sancti­monious, in his long grey hair and bearded like Jesus, Tom, wearing glasses and being too unexpectedly a bloody know-all for a down-and-out world. No sex. He is cheery though. Not just about Jesus, which would be bad enough. No, he is a cheery expert on every­thing, staring right past your face or over the top of your head as Big does, so alike in this, all grinning joviality, talking and some­times shouting as the expert on everything, roses even. It wears you out, this kind of cheery. There must be something serious behind it.

He is thin to Big's thick, lacking Big's charm in skirts, and handbags, and erudition of a more scientific kind. Tom is more a hat and T-shirt all-year-round man; he is the ears on the street, he can tell you the history, who lived where and the buried bodies stuff, but even he likes to do the small goss too. Amost feminine in this, if not in couture. He leans into a story. His skin too is feminine, he is glabrous on arms and legs and he is roly-poly on the face. Oddly enough, his face shines like silk with shaven and shaven-again cleanliness-close-to-Godliness in discrete areas above his unshaven Jesus-ness.

Especially when he tells them yet-again how he is a born-again. Yes, and that he used to… he is quite precise about this and will happily repeat it, too happily perhaps… he used to bugger boys. Drink himself into the gutter and pull the pants down of any lad he could get his hands on – and with his long arms he had quite a reach.

It made him a real threat in the Scouts and boys clubs, years ago when they had such things, and then, THEN, he was dragged along to an evangelical football-ground shindig with the great Billy Graham, shiny-skinned son of Jesus, and he heard the Old and New Testament.

He heard the Trumpet.

No joking no joshing, no he heard the big fanfare of his sins and the even bigger volleys of Jesus. No one in his past life could believe it when he stood up and walked in his lucid daze down to the yankee dramatist for God and gave up his booze and the soft bottoms of boys for the Almighty. Ah yes the Everlasting.

Never touched either of his indulgences again. Now he is pure-of-heart but a bloody know-all and a smiling but unfunny nuisance and a smug as all get-out Jesus-freak. He is without double-thought, he is not one to laugh at a joke unless he knows it is a joke, and what he knows is more usually the goss and the gladness.

There is a little blue For Sale sign on the house next door. It can't be helped, when Sammy or Tourie start yelling, or when some of the dreary drunks shout and fight or when crack-heads kick doors, or someone comes into the building without a name or visa and moves out backwards as the Sheriff advances down the corridor towards and then through them. Neighbours don't stay long.

This particular neighbour is two parts retired. Having cursed the halfwayhousers as ruffians and drunks and the like, on another day he's as friendly as fat, talking about their pomegranate tree, and the grey-water possibilities with Tom. Tom knows a lot from Jesus but the neighbours are more forthcoming.

How's it going Tom? the man from next door asks, staring retirement in the eye and Tom in the stoop. Tom is on about bloody police tardiness and the drug dealer sleeping at the back of the house, junkies arriving all night shouting and shaking. Not a good morning for Tom.

With little choice once Tom has begun, the neighbour knows to interrupt, telling Tom they have, himself and Mrs etc, for several months now been imagining a small comfortable house nearer the water and further from neighbours. Country town with river or lake or ocean close to the skin, in the morning a seawind bracing and noisy in the ears, in the cold seasons a buffeting wind against your chest. And so they found one. City real estate is burgeoning.

Still, money before madness. The agent reckons their house will sell for way more than they imagined six months ago. It's intoxicating to think of it.

He looks at Tom for as long as he risks a silence.

Sea change…! Tom has barely begun.

Sort of, sort of. There is a… problem.

Ah!

The agent is worrying how to clear the um let's be frank, Tom, off-putting sight of some of the men. Not your good self, Tom, but some of the… others.

Ah! Pack off the riff raff during the auction! I'm with you.

Days of inspection, you know, and the big day itself – of serious bidding.

I'll sort em out, Tom grins. No worries, mate. He is booming, and assuring: I'll sort em. You're talking about money.

The retired look in the neighbour's eye is as trusting as it's possible to be under the circumstances. He laughs and goes back inside. What else can he hope for?

And for all this, Tom still wears his hair long and lank. It hangs like the soft tree in the neighbour's front yard.

Being a man of his word as well as God's word, he tells the house-lot something along the lines of next-door's auction. He is naive enough to think they'll do as suggested and not stand on rude display. No one can think that far ahead.

Just keep a low profile can you, fellas? We owe it to the vendors.

The what?

The bloody vendors, our neighbours who are selling and who want the best price. Think how much money they'll lose if you berks stand outside looking like the neighbours from hell.

The entire idea of money is not something they think about long-term. They are the house of short-term. Money calls out like a sad person. They know this. Like a left-hand thread in a right-hand world, like a desolate Tourettie in the street when the good­will has flown and fuck and shit words go round and round in their pain.

Money. In the rooming house money is a stranger. Pay them off and consider it well spent, it could save tens of bloody thousands. Tom heard the sound of money first. Never one to be left out of the loop, out of the loop (he liked the sound of it).

When Tom had moved in, arrived, as he thought of it, vaguely Biblical, vaguely special, he walked slowly up their side of the street tapping each gateway and front fence of each house and each block of flats, slowly tap tap stop tap tap stop (for the sound of it). Until he knew everything was in order. That the neighbours houses were properly numerical.

And the neighbours knew here was another nutter.

So Tom sounds sane and prays sane but he is not sane at all.

He insists the boarders know all the details of the street-goss and house-sales he can wring from the neighbourhood. If they miss or forgot it themselves it hardly matters because he will tell them again the next day and the next. You get the picture. Until he has new news Tom keeps telling the old.

Money in hand, he says. It's what any re-tired people need, and I mean tired, have you looked at them, they make me look like a young lad all daydreams and getupandgo. Nah, I've talked to them. They're going off to die on the coast or the countryside.

They're not elephants, mate, says The Sheriff.

No, I mean it. Not the best way of putting it perhaps but there you can't have any worries if you've got a bit a land in a quiet spot on the edge of town down south somewhere. Like a bit myself. Prices haven't gone up in rural places like they have here.

Their neighbours are good and tolerant people who have run dry.

During this next door talk Big and Little have been quiet. They have been quiet because they hold in their odd hearts a strange waiting, or is it a fear, held down and sat on? Sharing the sale of Little's mother's old house in an expensive Adelaide suburb. Sharing with her mother's sisters, or being left the house outright. Her mother has hinted at outright but also that her sisters, the Ugly Sisters as she calls them, are bitter about that. They want the house and its up-market postcode. Admittedly, Mother Little drank champagne with the best of them when she could and smoked her reedy voice down to a baritone; she voted for the Coalition whenever called upon, even if she had forgotten why. Something about her sort should be in charge, that lawyers and smiling smarmy born-to-rule faces, were the barrier between herself and the sheer stupidity of the mob. Which too many Australians fall back on.

So talk of money is exotic. Erotic. Even sad. Like talking of holidays. Holidays! This lot don't have them. Money that is not debt money, as if the word meant your own free money, moneyinthebank and lucky and easy and a sufficiency of. Even if Little is also scared a little (Big says that is only appropriate). The Sheriff cannot fathom this fear, he'd like a fear of this sort himself. Nothin' to it, he says, if you invest it briefly and inspect the market which is, and he even agrees with Tom on this, not very bloody illuminating at present.