Fred’s Little Red Books (Mar25)

 

 

 

The three weeks Fred had been away certainly told on the shelves in Carlisle Street, stacked thick spines in soft pastels lately. It was a sight for sore eyes striking the lad at the other thrift shop in Chapel Street. Come Saturday he would be back sorting, the man promised, dancing and dodging in the tight space among the furniture & bric-a-brac. Understandable if he had felt bushwhacked. We had spoken only once before when Fred was found in back of Carlisle, where he could be thanked for Barry Dickins’ marvellous Unparalleled Sorrow. (Never a whisper in all the years in any of the review pages.) Fred may not have read the book, the chat misfiring a wee bit. Cat on a hot tin roof in his tight, colourful leggings & top, tattoos likely under and cap low on the brow. The usual dental trouble was apparent, despite the dodging and slip sliding’ away. True featherweight, still using possibly at that age. The find of the little red book 5”x 3.5" a week ago right there opposite the town hall could be shared with Fred, as it did indeed prove. Man’s initial guess had been The Little Red Schoolbook; he had both on his shelves at home, adjacent in his bookcase it sounded like. That other Red Book had been banned for sale, taken down even from newsagents’ shelves here, Fred recalled. Real tuition for school-kids, sex & everything else, in language they could understand—fucking, cocks & cunts. Must have been late-60s, a faint memory of whispers among the older boys when the demos were firing up and Mao on the banners. Fred might have been couple years older; it was impossible to tell. Afternoons in St. Kilda around the library guys like Fred flitted by like wraiths forced from their hiding places. Forty and fifty years ago the resistance had been strong and pretty wild. Later in the year it emerged Fred was a graphic artist of some note, with pieces in the national papers; also a front man of I Spit On Your Gravy & The Fuck Fucks, from the 70s & 80s pubs. A photograph! The thought came like a twanging arrow in the brain walking back up the street after the meet. Unlikely the man would have allowed; he could never stop still long enough in any case, like the wildlife photographers tried to take. It was only ever worth attempting the impossible in portraits.