The Jesus Man

by Christos Tsiolkas

  —Too much dancing to do, too many good-looking gomines to kiss. That harsh and pretty Greek word, around which Tommy could rarely get his tongue, what did it translate to? His ladies? It always made his mother smile, it was a phrase she remembered her brother Thimio using.

  —He looks like you too. One day you’ll see him, in Greece, she would tell him.

  And so no matter what Dominic did, his mother would eventually forgive him. You’re so very handsome, you devil, she would say, and then she would clean up after him.

  But we never did get to bloody Greece and that fucking gutless Dom didn’t ever bring home the girls he picked up from the disco.

  The train was running five minutes late, smokers were lighting up cigarettes, and a particularly well-dressed gentleman was frowning and growling. European suit, thought Tommy. That girl, the one with the long legs, that trendy short skirt, I could fuck her. She was reading a magazine, flicking her eyes constantly to the end of the platform. Tommy could sense she was late for work too. Pull up that skirt, push apart the legs, bush and arse. Fuck her.

  Tommy blinked and concentrated on the railway tracks.

  Work had gone bad since the change, the selling of the mail room to a contractor. Previously Tommy had reported to one manager, an old guy who rarely interfered with anything. Since the takeover, he had to report to two managers. Somers and Pathis. They were both sharper and less aloof than old Mr Crankshaw.

  —This is a new regime, lean, it has to be to make up for the mess of the past. But rewarding.

  Tommy had listened to the words and thought how the new guy, Pathis, seemed pretty young for a manager. A manager. Tommy was running scared and he couldn’t think what he could do about it. The job had changed and his competence alone was no longer enough. Now he was required to show initiative.

  What the fuck for, thought Tommy, I’m still printing fine.

  Tommy had no vanity when it came to work, he knew he wasn’t special. But he assumed a trust: if he was getting his job done, nothing more should be expected of him.

  The train arrived into Flagstaff Station at 9:27. He was late. Even running across the park, he was late. So slow down, might as well enjoy it.

  Somers was brown. Tommy couldn’t work out how. Somers had taken only the days between Christmas and New Year off. Tommy was dark only on his face and hands. He knew that beneath his lab coat, beneath his shirt and pants, his skin was a distinct pale. The beach seemed an effort and his own holidays had not gone on long enough. What had he done? Reclined, not thought, just dreamt.

  —How are you, Tom?

  —Fine, Kev.

  —The printing on the bromides has been a bit dark recently.

  —Only on the brochures for the electronics sale. And they always complain but they’ll only use the lowest grade paper.

  —Do your best, Tom, all right?

  These would most probably be the only words exchanged between them all day.

  The print shop was small, in a red-brick warehouse. From the roof the view was overwhelming. On one side the industrial geometry of the western suburbs, the flat stretch; and on the other side, the towering prisms of the city.

  At eleven o’clock he took a coffee break on the roof, took a smoke off John. Sue was fixing the line of her stockings.

  —Tommy, what’s a systems analyst?

  John was frowning as he smoked, looking down, embarrassed. Nadia too looked up.

  —That’s like Pathis, right, someone who comes in and works out how your job, you know, where you work, how that could be better. Tommy paused, not convinced of his authority.

  —Efficient, that’s it. Make things more efficient.

  Sue lit her cigarette.

  —That Pathis is an arsehole.

  —I thought you girls upstairs think he’s cute.

  Nadia ignored John.

  —He’s checking the three of us out at the moment, working out which one he’s going to keep on. She glared at John. He’s not that cute. His eyes are wrong. With that insult, she turned her face away from the men, looked up to the building floating above her.

  —I’m looking for work, anywhere, but I’ll miss the city.

  —You looking for work? Tommy liked Sue, she had always welcomed him.

  —Gotta. Mayal should stay on, she’s got the kids. Anyway, I don’t want to work for that Pathis prick. He wouldn’t want me, I don’t suck up to him. She pointed sharply at John. Not like him.

  —I don’t suck up to anyone.

  Tommy only half finished the cigarette, regretted the sourness. Pathis had spoken to him on the first day.

  —You Greek?

  —Half. Half Italian.

  Pathis, in Greek, asked if Tommy spoke the language.

  —Sorry, no, I don’t speak any Greek.

  From then on they mostly only nodded to each other.

  John did suck up to Pathis. Their fathers came from neighbouring villages.

  —Time’s up, said Tommy, looking at his watch. It said 11:14.

  The day was to be taken up with a catalogue for the store’s fashion show. The print shop and the adjacent mail room in which the girls worked were satellites. They served the needs of a department store in the middle of the city, a grand store born of the gold boom. Tommy looked at the artwork sent in for the current job. It was pathetic: sloppy typesetting and bad illustration.

  —The computer, mate, argued John, that’s the future. They don’t need to waste time with all this running back and forth from the typesetter to us. And fuck, they don’t even need high quality printing for the shit they give us. He threw the pages on the desk. This place is fucking obsolete.

  Tommy had never used a computer.

  He had to think about study. Soo-Ling said that all the time. Go back to school, do a computer course.

  Inside, all the time, Tommy groaned. I just want to not think, I just want to stop.

  At lunchtime he bought a roll—salad and beef—got the paper and read in the park. The day was fine. A guy had murdered five children, blasted about thirty more, a place called Stockton in California. They seemed to be getting crazier over there. Another article on the Madonna and Sean Penn divorce. And a good picture of Gabriela Sabatini. Tommy loved the tennis. The legs, the photo had caught her legs.

  Tommy lay in the sun, closed his eyes. He had a hard-on, thinking of her legs. He turned on his stomach. On the hill two office girls were chatting. He watched them. No-one could tell, he was discreet. He rubbed his crotch on the ground.

  All too soon it was one-thirty and he was back to work.

  That afternoon two things happened. The globe went on the bromide machine and John had forgotten to replenish the stock. This resulted in a humiliating request to the annoyed Somers who signed over some petty cash.

  —Sorry, sir, apologised John.

  Stop sucking on that cunt’s cock, you fucking piece of weak shit.

  Tommy said nothing.

  The second incident threw the entire warehouse into panic. The young kid who delivered the internal mail for the whole department store and its offices had a faint of some sort. He came to, but he was shaky, and it was clear that he could not continue.

  Somers and Pathis walked over, saw that the kid was all right, and then began to walk away.

  —Who’ll deliver the mail? Sue stepped in front of them.

  Pathis frowned and turned around. His eyes fell on old Stan Rodgers. Rodgers had been in the mail room since forever, or so it seemed to everyone else.

  —Can he go? Pathis asked Somers.

  —Yes. The sorting has all been done.

  Pathis continued back to his office. Without turning his head, he said, simply, loudly, Rodgers, deliver the mail today. Thanks.

  Sue stopped him again.

  —What is it? He was annoyed now.

  She whispered something to him. He ignored her.

  —He’s too frail. Not a whisper.

  The old man blushed. He blushed deeply, a scarlet that floo
ded his face.

  Tommy cleared his throat.

  —I’ll do it, he said loudly.

  Pathis turned around and for a moment looked as if he was going to yell. Then he fell back, smiled and, turning, dismissed everyone again.

  —Sure. Somers, that all right?

  The two men went back to their offices. The kid was on his way home, Old Rodgers sat in his corner. Tommy grabbed the trolley and headed out the door. The sun was glowing, the light was brilliant and the pavement hot. Tommy took off his tie, wrapped it around the trolley’s handle. He forgot about Pathis, about that smile.

  Pathis thought he was weak.

  Tommy wanted to hurt Pathis very very much.

  The afternoon was spent circumnavigating the guts of the organisation. He walked through distracted shoppers, busy office staff, through rooms and corridors he had not known existed. He followed a map. The buyers, boys in designer suits, girls in fashion, no-one looked at him. He handed over the mail to young secretaries. He memorised faces. Faces to blow on, faces to kiss, faces to hit. He was a mail boy.

  At 3.55 he took the trolley into a toilet. He pissed. He spat.

  At 4.20 he was ordered by a fat man in an ill-chosen shirt to deliver a parcel to the east wing of the store.

  —I’ve already been there.

  —You fucking do what you’re told.

  The Stockton guy, coming in, gun, shooting up and down the corridor. Shooting this prick, this sweaty ugly cunt. Shooting that snotty bitch in the buyers section, that up-herself blonde, fucking her, gun in her mouth, shooting.

  At 5.15 the shop assistants were getting ready for the end of the day. Tommy could see it in the restless faces, the glancing at watches, looking at the clocks. The customers were now frantic, hunting, rushing. Tommy wheeled the trolley back to the mail room. He had been invisible for the last few hours. He liked it.

  —All done?

  Tommy nodded at Pathis.

  —You enjoyed that?

  —It was all right.

  Tommy was waiting for a thanks.

  —Bloody waste of time.

  Shit-kicking. Pathis smiled again.

  —And you enjoyed it?

  Tommy glanced at the clock, white face, black numerals. He couldn’t wait till six, he’d leave at five-thirty, fuck who noticed, fuck whoever said anything. Tommy looked at the clock so he wouldn’t look at Pathis. If he looked at Pathis, he felt the poison flood his guts, soar into his blood.

  Tommy did not look at Pathis.

  The train was express. Flagstaff. Richmond. Camberwell. Box Hill. Then stopping all stations.

  At Richmond a young woman in a blue dress got on. Tommy spent the journey looking down at her large brown breasts.

  When Tommy hopped off at Laburnum, he was exhausted. Needing to pee.

  —How was your day?

  —Fine. Tommy cradled the phone under his chin, switched on the television. The news. And yours?

  Soo-Ling was singing gossip.

  —Should we get together tonight?

  —I’m a bit tired.

  —So am I.

  —Tomorrow?

  —Yeah, tomorrow.

  They said their goodbyes. He left the phone off the hook.

  At seven-forty Tommy was hungry. He switched off all the lights, left the television on. He jumped into the car, headed for McDonald’s.

  —Two quarter-pounders, large fries, a Coke.

  Tommy sat in the car, feeling his girth. Tomorrow, I’ll change tomorrow.

  The girl at the service window was barely fifteen. He smiled at her. She did not smile back.

  Bitch.

  He ate the food in the car, parked across the road at a servo. Four teenage boys were mucking about on bikes. They looked over at him for just one moment and then quickly looked away. He tasted the salt and the oil on his lips. The car smelt of grease.

  One of the boys said something. In Italian. Fuck.

  Tommy drove the suburb, listening to the radio, catching the breeze. A love song. A sad song. He drove down Middleborough Road, turned towards Box Hill. The Asian restaurants were the only lights. Except for the video shop. He parked the car in a side street. Two girls were coming out of a local college, hugging their books, laughing. He waited till they had passed, turned the corner. He put the lock on the wheel, got out. A young Vietnamese boy was smoking, taking a break from the kitchen. They did not look at each other. Tommy turned up the alley, through the car park, went through the back of the video store.

  Club X. Was the boy looking at him? He was embarrassed but not shamed. He did not know any Vietnamese. The boy couldn’t tell on him.

  The store was empty. A thin man was reading a magazine at the counter. The two men nodded.

  Tommy scanned the videos. He moved slowly across the shelves. A black girl was being fucked by a black cock, sucking on a white cock. The white guy was old, grey and with a gut. The black guy was young and thick. The black girl had a shaved cunt. Thirty-nine dollars and ninety-five cents.

  Piss, on the back of one slick, a white girl was getting pissed on. Another frame. She was squatting. Pissing.

  A young bloke, dark-haired, entered the shop. He moved over to the back wall, the faggot wall. Tommy looked over. The faggot wall had a large poster of a man with a tremendous cock, a cock that fell to his knees. Tommy wondered what that cock would feel like to hold. To wank with, to use two hands to come.

  He picked up another video, Thai Sex Excursions. He massaged his crotch. The young man had also picked up a video.

  Tommy and the homo reached the counter at the same time. The man wanted to book a booth.

  —It’s busy, can you wait twenty minutes?

  The young man nodded, embarrassed. He put the video case on the counter. I’ll come back. He almost squeaked.

  —Thirty bucks, mate.

  Tommy handed over the money. You fucking idiot, you fucking idiot. Save. His father said. Save. Soo-Ling said. Save. Save. He kept promising himself, one day, he would save.

  Three hundred and fifty-seven dollars in the bank. Rent due next week. Thank God for fucking work.

  As he left the shop, Tommy became aware that the taste of the food had lingered on his breath, on his clothes. The young man was smoking in the street, pacing, waiting for the booth. They looked at each other for one moment. Tommy didn’t smile. They looked away.

  When he got home Tommy turned on the lights. The room was buzzing. The television. Below its call, a loud silence. Tommy wandered the flat, checking every room, the video in its brown bag under his arm. It was a superstition, he never could shake the feeling: someone was watching him.

  Then he put on the video.

  He was clothed.

  A Thai girl, naked, in a motel room. She opens her cunt wide to the camera.

  Tommy pulls out his cock, not quite hard, pulls.

  The Thai girl gets on her knees, sticks a finger up her arsehole, turns around, licks her breasts.

  Tommy is pulling at his cock.

  The Thai girl masturbates. She is loud. Tommy lowers the volume, conscious of the neighbours.

  Tommy slows, drops his hand from his cock. Don’t blow. The head of his cock is wet. Tommy sits on his hands.

  The Thai girl comes.

  There is a knock on the door. Two white American men enter the motel room. One is blond, in his thirties, one is younger, darker.

  Tommy fast-forwards.

  Tommy fingers his balls, plays the video.

  The Thai girl is sucking one, sucking both.

  Tommy gets up, pauses the video.

  He hunts for the cigarettes, hidden at the back of the kitchen cupboards in an old saucepan. There’s just one. Just one fucking fag.

  On the screen, eternity, the Thai girl’s mouth is extended, wide, her eyes screwed up, she’s dribbling. Two fat white cocks in her mouth. Tommy lights the cigarette. His cock is limp again.

  The video plays.

  She’s fucked and she sucks, and the blond g
uy is up her cunt and the dark guy is in her mouth. Tommy smokes and he wanks. The Thai girl is turned around. The blond guy is in her arse.

  Tommy wanks, comes close, slows down, watches, fast-forwards, she’s getting fucked, the dark guy holds her head, forces her on his cock. He groans. Tommy turns up the volume.

  —I’m coming, I’m coming.

  Obviously dubbed. No connection between mouths and sounds.

  The dark guys comes on her face, she has her eyes shut tight, he smears his cock on her cheeks, white spoof runs down her throat.

  Tommy comes, the white streak falls on his shirt, on his arm.

  He looks at the screen.

  He is disgusted.

  He is aware of sound. Can the neighbours downstairs hear? He turns off the video. ‘LA Law’. The volume is deafening. He switches it off.

  He takes off his shirt, cleans himself up. He hates the look, the smell of semen, it makes him sick.

  He takes out the video. He forces it into its case, he grabs a key, goes to the bedroom, opens the lid to the trunk, throws the video in there. He doesn’t look into the trunk. He closes it up.

  He goes to the bathroom. He washes his hands, wipes his chest and stomach with a towel. His fat gut, his rolling gut, the obscene flesh.

  The hair on his chest is wet.

  He washes his hands, scrubs, rinses, scrubs, rinses.

  He goes back into the lounge room. The news is on the television. A story about the missing schoolgirl. Three weeks and still no sign of her. Fears that she may have been murdered.

  Tommy gets into bed, fully clothed, looks up at the Madonna and Child on the wall. His hands move to prayer. His prayer is an apology.

  Tommy tries to sleep.

  Tommy takes a Valium.

  Tommy thinks about the missing schoolgirl. She’s eleven.