Culture Shock. (On the road: first stop Sing - Aug25)

Hose in the bathroom. No time to be shocked or finnicky, standing on ceremony. Not a problem, did the soap in the dispenser out in the hallway do its work. Plenty of rich yellow color, like some of the curry they serve in these Indian places—the button gave ample. Three good latherings & rinsings to no effect. Stink of mortality. Possibly one of the Indian lads at the adjoining tables comprehended; insufficient care with the sniffing. Second attempt, another three latherings & rinsings. Gotta be satisfied with that, vestige of doubt or no.

Mask Aug25

Thought returned after repeated, prolonged nagging. There was indeed every chance for it. Yes, sir. That nearer Jap girl yesterday on the bench-seat, constructed in the mould of the Russian Matryoshka doll: squat, neckless, helmet-hair. Warm and animated; bright, attractive spirit… Still now it was quite unclear whether it might have been Tomoko No.2. Unlikely, but by no means impossible. So a great deal was in accord. The look, proportion, manner, thin voice, colouration. Native kind of farm-girl flush. (Tomoko hailed from a remote Prefecture.) Neatness and matronliness. Fitting perfectly the picture of an orderly, efficient & responsible nurse. The thought was more than a little preposterous, yet not to be discounted. Even after an exchange of a number of pleasantries. Her side too the European of a certain size, proportion, colour could easily remain undifferentiated; it would not be the first occasion where such a thing occurred. The racial mask.

Dirty Street

Fine young Somali girl this afternoon waiting for her lift opposite the café entrance. (Faisal’s cautionary comment was her youth; he has no real eye for the ladies.) Lovely in her warm colours, covered almost entirely, apart from the small oval of her exposed, only slightly fretful face. Checking her phone which she kept down at arm’s length. Pinks predominating in the low colour pulse—the headscarf and the detail of the body wrap. An old fashioned parchment cardigan, fully buttoned, hid her womanly form. More than anything else her posture expressed her loveliness, the deep and thorough settled being. In her free hand her dress clutched, hem lifted from the dirty street, the footpath edge where she waited which was especially dirty. Flat-footed, shifting her weight, impatience all minor key, restlessness subdued. From the position she had taken up she did not stray. Did not wander one way or the other. Chiefly movement was of the head and only toward the oncoming traffic, flat expression, never pursing her lips. Twenty minutes she might have stood in the same position and disappeared as suddenly as she had appeared.

In Passing (Lygon) June25

The poet said well: the eye slides from the passersby going along. Does no good for either side, observed or observer, looking too hard. Usually does no good; can't always be avoided. The smartly dressed Italo on Lygon this afternoon gained nothing from the switch-blade glimpse, nor certainly the piercing stab that followed. Reason being the altogether inferior hair-piece. What was he thinking? Perhaps the duck-tail behind wasn’t tucked properly this morning; come loose during the course of the day, the footfalls, twists & turns. On the other hand the Tiamo owner buying fruit down the far end didn’t mind the attention given his sharp black buckles that Berlusconi himself must have reserved for the bunga-bunga parties. A treat; leather of a kind rarely seen on the street. Pretended not to notice, the man. Nice guy. Emptied his coins into the hands of the beggar sitting on the path outside Readings. Mostly it doesn’t do to have the eyes on stalks. Certainly not examining every passing face, every mark of the journey. Nor of beauty either. Those compulsive days of hard looking were over. Pass on by, stranger.

Cunnamulla

Daryl didn't mind you getting his name wrong. It must have happened commonly. Daryl, Terry, Greg—he was of that vintage and strata.

        — Call me Nipper, he allowed immediately at the error, too rapidly for comprehension.
        Nipper. It had been a long while since Daryl had nipped about.
        The day before he had discharged himself from hospital. Trouble with the ticker. A stent had been put in. Drugs for opening up the little veins around the heart. Drugs to thin the blood. More drugs to control blood pressure. Then pancreatitis, Hep C and liver damage. On top of that Nipper left hospital with a chest infection. Tests for nasties on the pancreas and liver couldn't be conducted because the infection meant Nipper couldn't be put down.
        Greg could meet Nipper half-way—or some part of the way—in blackfella talk. They bounced off each other a bit playfully. The pair evidently knew each other well, though Greg had never mentioned Nipper, or Daryl. The blackfella talk was full of smiles and bright eyes, a completely unexpected vaudeville in Greg’s dark, dingy room.
        Cunnnamulla Nipper hailed from. He left on December 17 19----.... The year was a problem for a while. For a while Nipper was stuck in the 90's, which he knew was wrong. Eventually 1976 definitively returned. A few weeks short of his seventeenth birthday. The apprenticeship papers for a diesel mechanic had just come through. On December 17 1976 Nipper came home early, pulled out his drawers and emptied his belongings into his kit, while his mother looked on.
        — Where do you think you're going?
        — Brisbane.
        — Brisbane! You'll get killed in Brisbane.... You never seen a traffic light, you're going to Brisbane.
        Cunnamulla was seventy miles north and a thousand kilometres west—Nipper thumbed for inland in a single jerk. Cunnamulla wasn't on the coast, No. Nowhere near the Gold Coast or Surfers.
        More than likely Nipper thumbed rides in those days. Since 1976 he had been back to see the old lady three times. The last time he had been in thirteen fights in twelve weeks. These numbers came immediately and unimpeded.
        Greg's black jokes went down without a problem. Nipper's large hands, raised knuckles, the tattoos visible even rugged up against the sudden winter blast, stayed
put. No cause for alarm.
        Greg's other black jokes on the state of Nipper's health and his mental balance likewise went down smoothly.
        — He may as well put a gun to his head.
        Nipper gave back to Greg's cracks, but without the nimbleness. To this last there was no protest.
        Working in the mines, drink and substances were tricky even on days off. Each morning you had to blow. Not only .05 but .01 got you a window seat. On the aircraft to the mainland.
        Talk of work on the islands brought out Greg's familiar story about Hamilton. The head honcho who will remain nameless here, who was called God by his minions, wore a pith helmet and monocle. In his office a large plaque on the wall declared: You Can Tell the Size of the Boys by the Size of their Toys. That didn't stop Greg dropping his strides and brown-eyeing the monocle when he got fired. You could forgive Greg for returning to the story over the years; finally it was the repetition of detail that confirmed its veracity.
        The Achilles was the name of God's runabout, a former mine-sweeper. When some Arab sheiks were being entertained by God and given a tour of the islands, $98,000 of diesel went into the jaunt. Later God bull-dozed a mountain to extend the runway for direct flights to his resort. A waterbed in the cabin of the runabout, mirrors on the ceiling, Greg poking one of the lasses where God alone had the prerogative—Nipper might have heard the story before too. It was hard to tell. Had it been a first listening Greg’s fragmentary delivery would have made it almost impossible to follow. Nipper may have worked on the island himself. Either way, in Nipper's hearing no added bullshit would have gone down in such a story. Through the hour or so Nipper remained on his feet, arms crossed on his chest like the quiet guy in the bar who needed to be monitored for the good order of proceedings.
        More than strange to catch Nipper—Daryl—up close like this. On Fitzroy Street you could often see him lurking with a couple of pals nursing a stubby. Around in Gertie Street the same, on the Koorie gym corner. Nipper roomed in Fitzroy nearby. In Nipper’s time there were no gyms in Cunnamulla, you could be sure. Not many Marquis de Queensberry lads could have gone a round with Nipper in his day. On the street Nipper was always a little dauntingly squint-eyed like now in Greg’s bed-sit. Squint-eyed, hollow-cheeked, gap-toothed, heavily creased. In his winter clobber, cap pulled over his eyes, none of the signs of illness were visible. You couldn’t see Nipper submitting to a medical regime, tests and pills, palliative care. They’d pass round the hat for Nipper’s fare. The ride to Culla took as long again as Brisbane almost, one of them reckoned with some kind of wry truth that produced nods.

NB. Published in a shockingly hashed version without consultation originally by a Melbourne Writing Institute (2013), and in proper form by Idiom, at CQU - Central Queensland Uni - in their annual anthology 2018.

Life-raft

Young Jap gal at the Balaclava shop, the rounded one with the face-paint and long false lashes, not in attendance this afternoon. Lovely smiling substitutes in her place very much of the same order, same warm, courtly manner. Tayk-avey? they all intone in the give-away accent, smiling even for that enquiry. Presenting the change the notes are formed into a raft with upturned ends, cradled in raised hands passing over the counter, coin secure within. The glory of the farewell there richer than anything the length and breadth of the street today and most other days.

The Spirit of Osama - published by NWW

published as part of a longer piece titled Recusant, by New World Writing, July 2020

The men from the Horn especially quiet this morning. They know not to reveal their true feelings, even to a trusted friend. Not publicly in front of others. 

         A couple of references to the event passed without comment. The local Liberal candidate at the recent state election seemed to assume the lads were more or less dependable on the matter. 

         Talk veered in other directions. With his limited English, Fausi managed a couple of irrelevant jokes.

         One note came from Y, the musician-carpenter. To a seated fellow Sudanese he delivered a little speech in Arabic from his feet on his way out the door. Voice large enough for all the ears. A poet as well as singer, Y. has called himself. 

         The general reception through the cafe was clear without any head-turning. A minute or so of closely channelled voice in a persuasive, ardent, albeit level tone, unintelligible for all but the name. 

         Bob Marley.

         Questioned before he got out the door, Y. confirmed the matter.

         — Yes, gone. But the—forefingers drilling either side of his temples—is alive.

https://newworldwriting.net/pavle-radonic-recusant/