Here Come the Dogs

by Omar Musa

  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.

  14

  A new court

  This one is near the train tracks,

  abandoned,

 
; lines long faded.

  Little chance of bumping into someone,

  thank fuck.

  The backboard has been turned into an Aboriginal flag

  by some clever person with a marker.

  Chain net.

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

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

  a tall rusted fence

  and the train tracks behind,

  going all the way to Sydney.

  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,

  but I like it.

  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

  and the blood’s coursing.

  Then it’s And One, streetball shit –

  feints, spin moves, crossovers.

  A step slow, though,

  always a step slow.

  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.

  Ahhhh.

  The sun across my shoulders,

  skin darkening,

  back slick.

  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

  I feel someone watching me.

  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.

  She was trying her best, ay.

  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,

  and head home

  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.

  Tequila.

  Whiskey.

  Sambuca.

  ‘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.’