Luck in the Greater West

by Damian McDonald

  It was looking, and feeling, powerful. It was something to be proud of. Something people would remember of him.

  —You gonna get one, mate? Abdullah asked Fadi.

  The biker gave him that look again.

  —Soon, mate. When I get the cash together, Fadi replied, and looked at the biker.

  —Yeah fuckin’ right, mate, Abdullah said, and the biker grabbed his arm hard to steady it.

  Abdullah looked down at the biker’s work. The green ink was staining inside the lines of the cedar tree. A thought as penetrating as the gun struck him. He’d never been to Lebanon. In fact, he’d never even really thought of going there. He was no fuckin’ Aussie though. This country was full of dickheads, but he wasn’t one of them, and this tatt would make that difference clear.

  The biker bandaged the wound on Abdullah’s shoulder.

  —Don’t pick at it. You’ll tear the colour out if ya scratch the scabs off. Stay outa fuckin’ trouble, hey boys.

  —No worries, mate, Abdullah said, and extended his hand to the biker.

  The biker scratched his stomach and went back into the tattooing room at the back of the shop.

  Out on the main drag, Abdullah felt the energy of the pain in his shoulder. The Cross was alive with this sort of energy on any Friday night. Abdullah had fucked his first slut up here not too long ago. Ninety bucks, but fuck, it was mad. Better to get a free fuck though, he thought. The energy, like the wound it came from, was starting to become uncomfortable for Abdullah.

  —See that Aussie biker cunt? Thinks he’s too good ta shake my fuckin’ hand. Lucky I didn’t smack ’im one and take me two hundred bucks back.

  —Yeah. Dickhead, Fadi said, and looked at the bandage on Abdullah’s shoulder. Are ya gonna tell ya dad?

  —Huh? Dunno. Fuck ’im.

  Fadi could feel Abdullah’s discomfort.

  —So, what are we doin’ tonight? Fadi asked.

  —I’m gonna give Mia a call. You can hang if ya want. ’Cept when I’m givin’ her one in the back of the car.

  There were five or six Aussies having a piss-up at one of the barbecue tables in the park. They looked older than him — maybe thirty — but it was hard to tell with the Aussies: their flat faces and hard drinking showed age too early, Fadi thought. He was already in sight of them, and Abdullah would freak if he went back to the car now, so he kept walking towards them.

  —Howsitgoin’, mate? one of them said.

  —Good, Fadi replied, and nodded at them.

  —What’s happenin’? the Aussie continued.

  —Just havin’ a session, mate, Fadi said. But my mate’s busy with his missus.

  —Fuckin’ good on ’im. Wanna beer?

  —Nah.

  —Don’t ya drink, mate?

  —Nuh.

  —Smoke but don’t drink, hey. So what kinda wog are ya? the Aussie said and opened another beer.

  —Leb, mate.

  —Yeah, you Muslims don’t touch the piss, do ya?

  —Nuh.

  —Ya should give it a try, mate. Mellow ya out.

  —Thanks, mate, I’m mellow enough. So, does it give ya a good hit, mate, the beers?

  —Fuckin’ hit? The Aussie laughed. Fuckin’ best hit.

  Fadi doubted he’d like the hit of beer. He didn’t even enjoy the hit of pot. But he’d started now, and to tell Abdullah and the others that he didn’t want to smoke anymore would be more uncomfortable than that first twenty minutes of stoned paranoia after each session.

  —Well, you guys have your hit, and we have ours, hey? he said.

  —Mate, we have both, the Aussie laughed again. That’s the good thing about this country. Ya can have piss, smoke, and whatever else ya fuckin’ want as well. We’re free here. Not like you poor bastards. Chained to ya religion and ya old ways ’n’ that.

  —I was born here, mate, like you, Fadi answered.

  —You might have been born here, but not like me you weren’t.

  The whole group erupted in laughter. Fadi moved to look back at the car. He couldn’t see either Abdullah’s or Mia’s head. He walked away from the Aussies regardless.

  Abdullah had pulled it out this time at least. He said he hated condoms. She was nearly there too. If he had had a condom on, and just left it in for another minute, or even thirty seconds, she would have fully gotten there. He wiped himself with a small towel and put it on the puddle of come on her stomach. He did up his jeans and got out of the back of the car and back into the driver’s seat.

  —So what took ya so long tonight? We were waitin’ at the bottom of ya street for forty fuckin’ minutes, he said.

  —My dad, she replied. He doesn’t want me to go out. Some girls have been raped in the suburbs recently. I had to really convince him. It’s getting harder to convince him too. We might have to cool it for a while.

  —Fuck ’im. Raped? Ya can tell ’im I’m the only one rapin’ ya, Abdullah laughed.

  —Don’t, Abdullah. It’s serious. If he found out I was having sex with you, and if he found out you were Lebanese, he’d kill us both.

  —What’s wrong with Lebs? We’re the best lovers. He should be happy you’re gettin’ the best.

  —I’m serious. We’re going to have to cool it for a bit.

  —What about ya brother? Is he allowed out?

  —What is it with you and my brother? Mia asked, raising an eyebrow in mock suspicion.

  —Why, what’s he told you?

  —Nothing. But if Dad’s getting stricter with me, he’ll probably be stricter with him too, you know, so I won’t be able to complain that he lets Charlie go out and not me.

  —What about if I only ring you once a week for a while then? Ya gotta give us at least one root a week, Abdullah said.

  —Please don’t talk like that. It’s meant to be a nice thing we’re doing. You don’t have to make it seem so — I don’t know, crude. Maybe wait for a bit. I’ll call you.

  —What, so I can’t even root my girlfriend when I feel like it now?

  —Abdullah…

  Abdullah finished his third set of thirty reps on the bench-press. Forty kilos. He got up and looked in the mould-stained mirror he’d propped up against the doorless wardrobe where his dad kept his tools. Gettin’ cut up. More sit-ups are needed but, Abdullah thought. Sex is s’posed ta make ya fit. Need ta be bangin’ more bitches. He flexed and scowled into the mirror, stretching the damaged and inked tissue of his shoulder. Fuckin’ unbeatable, mate.

  —Make sure you pack up these exercise things and put the car back in, Abdullah, his father said, walking past the side door of the garage and adjusting the nozzle of the garden hose.

  —Yeah, Abdullah said, and then to himself: Just water ya fuckin’ wog trees. Dickhead.

  —And then come inside. I want to show you something, his dad added, reappearing in the doorway.

  His dad sat at the kitchen table, still in his State Rail uniform. Abdullah came in wearing a long-sleeved T-shirt. Bet ya it’s about the bandage on me arm, he thought.

  —There’s something in the paper I think you should look at.

  —What are you talkin’ about?

  Abdullah’s father slid the paper over to his son.

  —I think you should think seriously about this.

  Abdullah looked at the open page in front of him. It was the furthest thing from his mind. The employment section.

  —There’s a couple of jobs you could do, Abdullah.

  —What are ya talkin’ about? I’ve got a job. You got it for me, ’member?

  —Abdullah, you may not be able to go back to the railways.

  —What? Do you agree with those fuckin’ Aussies?

  —Don’t swear at me. You should get another job anyway. It could be a while. Sam Spiropolous was on suspension for two years before they got rid of him for going to the internet things on the station computer. Perno, porno, or whatever you call it.

  —Dumb Greek, Abdullah laughed.

  —Then you should
be smart and look for something else.

  —All right. I’ll look. Later.

  Abdullah’s father left the table. His usual gesture when he was frustrated with his son. When Abdullah heard the back door slam on to the plywood frame he looked down at the paper.

  But Abdullah quickly bored of the employment pages. Why was it necessary to have all the shit they ask for: communication skills, customer service skills, experience in this thing and that fuckin’ thing. Cunts should be happy if people just turned up to a place they didn’t want to be. He flicked through the pages, looking at the women in the various images that had made it to print that day. Not much talent. He began to look at the words. Shit that mainly Aussies would be interested in. Cricket scores, golf stuff; shit about banks, and political cunts; Aussie troops in the Middle East (fuckin’ cunts); rapes. Rapes.

  MAN QUESTIONED IN CONNECTION WITH TEENAGE RAPES

  Police from the Western Plateau Local Patrol questioned a 26-year-old man with prior drug convictions yesterday. It’s alleged that as many as five, and possibly more, teenaged girls have been molested and raped in Sydney’s west in the past six months. The man was not charged, but police say that he has helped them with their inquiries and that the perpetrators of these rapes will not get away with this kind of ‘callous and cowardly behaviour’ for any longer. Police warn parents of teenagers all over the city to …

  Abdullah scanned the article for names. There were none. Who was this cunt? A man. What fuckin’ man? Rapes. One of those last chicks they fucked — the one who Fadi pulled the starter pistol on — she’d called them rapists. Rape? Abdullah shook his head, bewildered. Maybe, but a fuck’s a fuck. But Fadi said later on that he didn’t want to pick up chicks that way anymore. That it was a bit fucked-up to be going through all that to get a root. That he’d prefer to just get a girlfriend. And that he’d really scared that chick with the pistol — he’d felt a bit sorry for her.

  Rape. Fuck. Isn’t rape when you bash them and kill them? If this has come out of that last chick talking to the pigs, telling them she was raped, that’s just fucked. She’d let them do it to her. The starter pistol was just a joke. And she’d agreed to a suck already anyway. All the chicks they’d picked up had let them. And they hadn’t killed any of them. Hadn’t bashed them either. Couple of slaps, but not beat them up. Shouldn’t they like having so many blokes? I’d dig having five chicks root me, he concluded. They said they didn’t want to do it, but all chicks say that, don’t they? And they had agreed to come with us. They knew the deal. And anyway, like my uncle says, all these Aussies, all these non-Muslims, need sorting out. The country needs sorting out. Chicks walking the streets half-naked. Teenagers allowed to carry on with the opposite sex. Families go to the pub instead of church. All the laws favour the Christian Aussies. And we’re meant to fit in with them, their fucked ways. Me and the boys are just stirring it up a bit. And having a bit of fun with the sluts. We’re a gang, like the Crips and the Bloods in LA, but also like the Hezbollah. Offensive jihad, like my uncle talks about. We have to be hard cunts. We have to take what’s not offered to us. Right?

  Callous and cowardly?

  Who knew about this? What cunt is talkin’ to the cops?

  What the fuck does callous mean?

  The receptionist at the Telegraph Post couldn’t, or wouldn’t, help Abdullah with any names. She told him to ring the police, which he did — first making sure his own number-sending was switch off on his mobile. The only name they were interested in was his though. But he didn’t give it. Not that fuckin’ stupid.

  TWENTY

  Artemesia Testafiglia left school early. She couldn’t focus on what anyone was on about: teachers or students. She’d been in some kind of agitated state since she last spent time with Abdullah. He’d always had some kind of effect on her, and when it was a new experience she’d loved it. But now it was getting to be a bit out of her control. This last intoxication was just unpleasant. And she couldn’t shake it.

  There were some boots at a mall out west that Mia had fallen in love with when she went shopping with Deba the week before. They were high, but had a slender foot — exactly what she’d been looking for to go with some lately purchased but unworn skirts. At two hundred and fifty dollars they’d shocked her mother, but she really had no idea. If she were to buy the same boots in her area — the north-west — she’d be paying at least three fifty. It’s amazing what a difference a few suburbs can make. Mia had gotten hold of her mother’s Visa card to buy a new jumper for school, but the jumper, of course, could wait.

  Mia got on the westbound bus and flashed her student card. It was full of geriatrics, so she sat up the back, behind a westie couple. The agitation resurfaced. She used to enjoy thinking about Abdullah between times when they were together, to be topped up by his smell, attitude and touch. But now she needed a dry stretch. Maybe. She didn’t know what to do. He was hot. She’d invested a lot in him — deliberate betrayal of her parents, or her father at least; her body, her virginity; and so much mental energy. But lately, she’d been starting to miss her pre-Abdullah life — the sense of security her father had created for her. She’d wanted a relationship so badly before she met Abdullah, and he, a hot, confident guy, had made it possible. But maybe Daddy was right: she was too young to judge guys. Mia burped bile, because she hadn’t eaten all day. She covered her mouth to stifle the impulse. It seemed to work.

  She glanced over at the westie couple. They weren’t paying attention to her, so she felt a little easier about her nausea. The guy had potential, but needed to cut his hair short and get some new clothes. Westies love that faded look, like they want to prove that Levis and T-shirts can outlast any fashion trend. The girl was young, or maybe just small. She too needed a hair consultant and, although she had on new and not inexpensive jeans, her shoes didn’t go, and the shirt looked like it could be her boyfriend’s. The guy touched the girl’s hair and looked at her. He gazed into her eyes. He said one or two words, but his eyes were communicating most of what he wanted to say. They both laughed softly and then kissed. It was short, but Mia could tell it was enjoyable — she felt some of it and wanted to touch the guy’s arm. It was a kiss of reassurance, of bonding, of something between only them. The guy put his arm around the girl and held her closer. The girl looked into his face and they kissed again. He seemed to respect her. Their physical closeness was so mutual. There was sexual attraction between them, but also so much love. Or at least something beyond just sex.

  The couple also got off at the mall. Mia noticed the guy smelling the girl’s hair as they stood waiting for the back doors of the bus to open. She wondered if the girl knew he did this. She wondered if Abdullah had sniffed her hair. She doubted it. She doubted that Abdullah had for her any of the feelings this guy held for his girlfriend. Abdullah liked to ejaculate freely and selfishly and drive away in his little car. There, she had admitted it to herself. Because Mia knew she had to start hating Abdullah in order to dispel him.

  TWENTY-ONE

  Patrick had been distant since his return from the police station. He’d held Sonja — as soon as he’d come in the door. But his expression had been too neutral. And he hadn’t wanted to talk about the incident; just told her that it was all a fuck-up — a big mistake. He’d seemed pleased that she hadn’t opened the door to the cops when they’d come back, three times all up, but his happiness appeared to evaporate as soon as he looked away from her. She’d cried, and Patrick had held her again. She didn’t tell him she’d gone back to see her family. But she would tell him. When he seemed happier. When she was happier.

  —I have ta get a job, he said after a couple of days of not really communicating much.

  —Okay. Um, why? she asked, sensing from his tone that working was akin to putting a beloved pet to sleep.

  —The dole’s not enough for both of us. I can’t sell, at least for a while, and I can’t claim dole for you, I don’t think, so, ya know, I guess I should get a job.

 
; —Oh, Sonja replied. I’m sorry.

  —Come here, you. He pulled Sonja close and hugged her. It’ll be good. I think I want ta work.

  —What will you do?

  —Dunno. This West Work joint keeps sendin’ me letters, tellin’ me to come in and see them for an appraisal. Part of my dole conditions. I have to lie about looking for work on my form every fortnight anyway. I guess I’ll go an’ see ’em.

  —Okay. As long as we stay together. And stay happy, Sonja said, and kissed Patrick’s neck because he was finally including her in his thoughts again.

  They caught the bus to the West Work office near Mt Druitt Mall. Sonja took the day off school. She wanted to be there with him to gauge this situation. It seemed like such a significant step forward. One she hadn’t really even thought of, but one that now filled her with hope. And Patrick seemed to want her there. She waited in the foyer while Patrick watched OH&S videos and completed assessments. She read the dry literature on offer that boasted of people’s happiness with West Work’s services. But listened to the complaints people made to the receptionist about how they’d been sent to the wrong job; hadn’t been paid; hadn’t been paid; hadn’t been paid; hadn’t been sent to any jobs at all. She felt empty. She felt sorry for herself and for Patrick. The hope they seemed to share walking in here now felt futile.

  Patrick emerged from the carpeted offices off the foyer. He flashed some paperwork at her and folded it into his back pocket.

  —We’re goin’ by the Rooty Hill Plaza ta drop in an application. Greedos is lookin’ for people. The chick already rang ’em. I might have a job within a week.

  —Good. Are you happy? she asked.

  —I guess.

  They caught the bus from Mt Druitt to Rooty Hill. They were back in love. They were close and communicating. No one could ruin what they had. Though one thought did land heavily in Sonja’s mind as they got off the bus at the plaza: she needed his happiness to be happy herself. Or the surprising happiness she felt when she’d visited her family. It was an isolating feeling. Why were her emotions so entwined with others’? And why did she feel she’d have to choose who she’d be entwined with?