bloodshot eyes, I’m in Bluebush. This is what you get: head like a weathered gumboot, great wobbly arms covered in great wobbly tatts, face bedecked with something that wouldn’t look out of place on a rotten grapefruit. Skinny in places, fat in others. Twenty-five going on fifty. Been taking deportment lessons from the Rottweiler.
‘You got a problem?’ he rasped. He sounded like he gargled on Handy Andy.
‘Yeah! You! You just hit me car! Twice!’
The bloke glanced at the dented fender.
‘Your fault,’ he declared.
‘My fault? Jesus, mate, you got more front than a bloody bulldozer. How is it supposed to be my fault?’
‘Yer blockin the exit.’
I waved an arm in the general direction of the driveway. ‘There’s plenty of room for a car—didn’t know you’d be coming along in a fuckin aircraft carrier.’
I was being a little disingenuous here: the block of flats in which I’d made my home was nicknamed Toyota Towers because of its popularity as a base for miners and other workers from out bush. The four wheel drives just about outnumbered the cockroaches.
My neighbour knew it as well. ‘’T’s what ya need out here, lady,’ he retorted, ‘somethin with a bit of grunt.’ He glanced disdainfully at my little ute, then began to drive off.
‘Hold it you!’ I yelled.
He ignored me, came very close to running over my toes. I thumped his dropsides. The rottie snarled, but it was held back by a chain. I judged I’d be out of range, and I was. Just. I grabbed hold of what looked like the most valuable items within reach—a Kanga jack-hammer and a theodolite—and dragged them onto the ground.
The bloke hit the anchors, jumped out and looked at the gear, his sneer rapidly transmogrifying into a full-blown glare. From the wobble in his beard and the spittle on his lips it appeared that he was getting a little agitato. Looking, in fact, like he was about ready to clobber me. His knuckles had gone white, his nostrils were standing at attention.
I braced myself, prepared to duck, weave or kick him in the nuts. But then he took a closer look at me and changed his mind. When I get fired up I’m like a thorny devil: small but fierce-looking. Not as horny, thank Christ.
Doors in the surrounding flats were creeping open, curtains were being dragged back, bedraggled faces were appearing. The rest of the neighbourhood was crawling out to enjoy the show.
You could read the bubble floating over his head: enough of a shame job belting a woman in public without making a mess of it.
‘Look, lady,’ he whined, ostentatiously studying his watch. ‘I haven’t got time for this crap. Got a job to go to.’ When he’d picked up his gear he scribbled a number onto a cigarette packet: ‘This is Brad, me panel-beater…’
‘Got your own panel-beater, have you? You do this sort of thing often?’
He handed me the packet, picked up his gear, climbed into the cab. ‘Tell em Camel sent ya. They’ll give yer a discount.’
That gave me a moment’s pause. This fuckwit was called Camel? That had to be the worst name I’d heard since Galloping Big Dick died.
He used the pause to make an escape, picking up his gear and jumping back into the driver’s seat.
‘They’ll give you a bloody discount, Camel!’ I yelled at his tailgate, giving it a farewell thump as it rattled down the drive. ‘Don’t think I’m paying for this!’
I surveyed the scene around me. The sun had risen, as had the contents of the coloured jocks worn by the blue-singletted gorillas who stood in every other doorway of the courtyard surveying me back. All this early morning excitement was proving a bit much for their delicate sensibilities.
‘What are you lot gawking at?’ I roared.
They scuttled.
The debris of last night’s party—maybe last month’s party— bottles and bongs, pizza boxes and porno—lay scattered among the dogshit on Camel’s little patch of weedery. The front door of his unit was agape, as was the gob
‘You got a problem?’ he rasped. He sounded like he gargled on Handy Andy.
‘Yeah! You! You just hit me car! Twice!’
The bloke glanced at the dented fender.
‘Your fault,’ he declared.
‘My fault? Jesus, mate, you got more front than a bloody bulldozer. How is it supposed to be my fault?’
‘Yer blockin the exit.’
I waved an arm in the general direction of the driveway. ‘There’s plenty of room for a car—didn’t know you’d be coming along in a fuckin aircraft carrier.’
I was being a little disingenuous here: the block of flats in which I’d made my home was nicknamed Toyota Towers because of its popularity as a base for miners and other workers from out bush. The four wheel drives just about outnumbered the cockroaches.
My neighbour knew it as well. ‘’T’s what ya need out here, lady,’ he retorted, ‘somethin with a bit of grunt.’ He glanced disdainfully at my little ute, then began to drive off.
‘Hold it you!’ I yelled.
He ignored me, came very close to running over my toes. I thumped his dropsides. The rottie snarled, but it was held back by a chain. I judged I’d be out of range, and I was. Just. I grabbed hold of what looked like the most valuable items within reach—a Kanga jack-hammer and a theodolite—and dragged them onto the ground.
The bloke hit the anchors, jumped out and looked at the gear, his sneer rapidly transmogrifying into a full-blown glare. From the wobble in his beard and the spittle on his lips it appeared that he was getting a little agitato. Looking, in fact, like he was about ready to clobber me. His knuckles had gone white, his nostrils were standing at attention.
I braced myself, prepared to duck, weave or kick him in the nuts. But then he took a closer look at me and changed his mind. When I get fired up I’m like a thorny devil: small but fierce-looking. Not as horny, thank Christ.
Doors in the surrounding flats were creeping open, curtains were being dragged back, bedraggled faces were appearing. The rest of the neighbourhood was crawling out to enjoy the show.
You could read the bubble floating over his head: enough of a shame job belting a woman in public without making a mess of it.
‘Look, lady,’ he whined, ostentatiously studying his watch. ‘I haven’t got time for this crap. Got a job to go to.’ When he’d picked up his gear he scribbled a number onto a cigarette packet: ‘This is Brad, me panel-beater…’
‘Got your own panel-beater, have you? You do this sort of thing often?’
He handed me the packet, picked up his gear, climbed into the cab. ‘Tell em Camel sent ya. They’ll give yer a discount.’
That gave me a moment’s pause. This fuckwit was called Camel? That had to be the worst name I’d heard since Galloping Big Dick died.
He used the pause to make an escape, picking up his gear and jumping back into the driver’s seat.
‘They’ll give you a bloody discount, Camel!’ I yelled at his tailgate, giving it a farewell thump as it rattled down the drive. ‘Don’t think I’m paying for this!’
I surveyed the scene around me. The sun had risen, as had the contents of the coloured jocks worn by the blue-singletted gorillas who stood in every other doorway of the courtyard surveying me back. All this early morning excitement was proving a bit much for their delicate sensibilities.
‘What are you lot gawking at?’ I roared.
They scuttled.
The debris of last night’s party—maybe last month’s party— bottles and bongs, pizza boxes and porno—lay scattered among the dogshit on Camel’s little patch of weedery. The front door of his unit was agape, as was the gob
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