Luck In The Greater West Part 11

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. s.e.x is s'posed ta make ya fit. Need ta be bangin' more b.i.t.c.hes. He flexed and scowled into the mirror, stretching the damaged and inked tissue of his shoulder. f.u.c.kin' 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 f.u.c.kin' wog trees. d.i.c.khead.

-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-s.h.i.+rt. 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 f.u.c.kin' 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, p.o.r.no, 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 s.h.i.+t they ask for: communication skills, customer service skills, experience in this thing and that f.u.c.kin' thing. c.u.n.ts 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. s.h.i.+t that mainly Aussies would be interested in. Cricket scores, golf stuff; s.h.i.+t about banks, and political c.u.n.ts; Aussie troops in the Middle East (f.u.c.kin' c.u.n.ts); 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 c.u.n.t? A man. What f.u.c.kin' man? Rapes. One of those last chicks they f.u.c.ked - the one who Fadi pulled the starter pistol on - she'd called them rapists. Rape? Abdullah shook his head, bewildered. Maybe, but a f.u.c.k's a f.u.c.k. But Fadi said later on that he didn't want to pick up chicks that way anymore. That it was a bit f.u.c.ked-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. f.u.c.k. 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 f.u.c.ked. 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 s.e.x. 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 f.u.c.ked ways. Me and the boys are just stirring it up a bit. And having a bit of fun with the s.l.u.ts. 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 c.u.n.ts. We have to take what's not offered to us. Right?

Callous and cowardly?

Who knew about this? What c.u.n.t is talkin' to the cops?

What the f.u.c.k 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 f.u.c.kin' 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, att.i.tude 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 relations.h.i.+p 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-s.h.i.+rts can outlast any fas.h.i.+on 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 s.h.i.+rt 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 rea.s.surance, 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 s.e.xual attraction between them, but also so much love. Or at least something beyond just s.e.x.

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 e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.e 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 f.u.c.k-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 a.s.sessments. 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?

The bottom of his bank account was starting to show. The Housing Commission, Electroturbine Company and Telecomonopoly dug out without notice - it was the only way they'd accept Whitey as a customer - and usually they were the only withdrawers. But without his cash income, Whitey had had to start using his dole payment. He'd been told that, as soon as the Greedos pay-office had processed him, he would be paid weekly. Three hundred and thirty a week after tax. More than the dole. But way less than the combination of selling and the dole. He'd also been told that he had to wear a white s.h.i.+rt and black pants. He didn't own any of the type they were talking about, so he'd had to make another withdrawal. Tomorrow he'd be a back dock a.s.sistant/shelf-replenisher. He walked past Greedos for the last time as a free man, with his white s.h.i.+rt and black pants in the C Mart bag. He met Sonja after school and showed her the contents of the shopping bag. She laughed.

-I can't wait to see you in them, she said.

The staff trainer bent over the bottom drawer of the dented filing cabinet. She had a pale blue g-string on, Whitey noticed. He looked at his boots as she turned around to face him.

-Read and sign this, Paul, she said.

-Okay. It's Patrick. My name's Patrick.

-What? Patrick, is it? Okay. Read and sign this. It's an outline of the company policies.

Greedos Pty Ltd Greedos = Less Pty Ltd Big G Pty Ltd Dear Mr Miss Mrs Ms White You have been made an offer of employment as a Back Dock a.s.sistant/Shelf Replenisher. You will be employed on a probationary basis for a period of three months. Within this time you must demonstrate that you meet the requirements expected of Greedos employees, and adhere to Greedos company policies. After this period you will be a.s.sessed for future employment.

A summary of the policies are as follows: Greedos employees must promote Greedos, Greedos = Less, and Big G at all times.

Greedos employees must be ready to begin their s.h.i.+ft at least five minutes prior to commencement, and be prepared to complete the execution of all tasks regardless of the time of completion of their s.h.i.+ft.

Greedos employees must not keep money on their person while at work.

Greedos employees must be neat, clean-shaven and conservatively attired at all time.

Greedos employees must notify management of any theft, by employees or customers.

Greedos employees must provide a doctor's certificate if sick leave is taken.

Greedos employees must adapt to any roster changes initiated by management.

Greedos employees must respect - Whitey looked up at the staff trainer. She was drawing little squares and colouring them in on a tax declaration. He skipped to the bottom of the page and signed it. If he wanted the job there was no use reading the policies: too bad if they sucked.

-Okay, he said.

-Finished? Okay, let's go for a walk around the store.

The back dock was full of lamb carca.s.ses. He shook the greasy hand of the apprentice butcher, and that of the back dock manager. The abattoir truck exhaled one last insult of diesel over the little skinned bodies as it left the dock. Whitey was then shown the cold storage area. It smelt like a nest of large wet dogs.

-It's the milk, the staff trainer explained.

Then the produce area. And the grocery area. And the vinyl flaps that led into the shop. Each part of the shop had a name that made no sense to Whitey, so he immediately forgot them. He looked at his watch - which he'd put on for the first time in about two years this morning - and wished it was knock-off time. It wasn't even time for morning tea. It reminded him of his first day inside. Being shown around and told how the joint operated. His chest hurt. He did have a choice though. He could f.u.c.k off now. No one would chase him. Nah, it'd get better. The pay 'n' all that. Once he was used to it. Just like inside. You can adapt to anything. He shook hands with and nodded at several people. The people were neutral at least. They knew why he was here. And didn't care much. Then he met Mr Hardy, Store Manager.

-Patrick, is it? Well, we're going to stick with the policies and keep the stock rotated, faced, and in constant stock aren't we, Patrick?

-Yes.

-Okay, well, welcome to Greedos Rooty Hill.

Mr Hardy didn't offer his hand so neither did Whitey. Whitey smiled though, and looked just past the manager. Mr Hardy wandered off to another stupidly named area of the store, rubbing his hands together. His slacks were pulled up way too high. But large, square a.r.s.es did suit bosses.

Whitey was then given his first task. Emptying the meat, produce and general rubbish compactors. The compacted and plastic-sealed waste was then wheeled outside the loading dock area by pallet jack and left there for pickup.

-The last c.u.n.t left 'cause he had ta do that job every day, the back dock manager said, lighting a ciggie. Hasn't been done for a few days; ya must have a strong gut.

-I'm only just holdin' it down, Whitey replied.

-Well, after that ya can mop out the cold storage area. Now that's another top job, Pete.

-Patrick. Name's Patrick.

-Mmm.

TWENTY-TWO.

Mia was starving. She'd been having these stupid waves of nausea followed by ravenousness. She knew why too. It was because of Abdullah. She had to talk to him, to tell him about how she was feeling. Because for her, it was over between them. She'd thought she'd loved Abdullah. And she thought she could forgive some of the things he'd done, the way he sometimes behaved. But really, how could she love someone who'd hit her? She'd forgiven him, she'd been fair; but whenever the thought crept back into her head, it made her ill. He'd done it. He'd hit her. That was the reality, and he could do it again. But he wouldn't. She wouldn't let it happen. And the way he talked to her sometimes. Worse than the way he spoke to his mates. She wanted to be serious with someone, and in love with someone, but she couldn't picture Abdullah as that someone any more. She had to tell him. Tell him it was over. But she knew that this was little more than a fantasy until she broke the news to him. And until she did she'd feel sick. But still, she couldn't finish dialling his number once she'd started. After dinner though, it'd have to be done.

-Mia, mangiare! her mother called.

At least someone's happy, Mia thought, now at the dinner table. Mum loves it when I eat; she barely eats herself, but makes sure everyone else makes pigs of themselves. She took another piece of chicken and flopped it on her plate. She couldn't remember the last time she'd had any more than half a piece of her mum's parmigiana.

-I think we'll have to have chicken seven nights a week, Maria, Salvatore remarked. We've finally found something our daughter will actually finish.

-Dad! Don't make me sound like a pig.

-It's good, Mia. You're too skinny. The last thing you have to worry about is getting fat, her father replied.

-You can never be too skinny or too rich, Dad.

-Don't be stupid, Mia. Too much of anything is - is unnatural.

-All right. Do you have to argue about everything I say, Dad?

-I'm not arguing with you, Mia, but some of your att.i.tudes- She'd had his number displayed on the screen of her mobile phone for ten minutes. She was about to press dial, but stopped again. She went into the options and turned her own number-sending off, just in case she lost her nerve after pressing dial. She brought Abdullah's number back up and called. f.u.c.k it. Just do it.