Wild Cat Falling

Wild Cat Falling by Mudrooroo Page B

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Authors: Mudrooroo
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And what’s this you’ve got here? A water bottle, eh? I suppose you brought a picnic lunch as well?”
    â€œNo, sir.”
    â€œWhat did you think you were going to eat?”
    â€œI suppose some fruit from people’s orchards, sir.” “Not only planning to run away, but planning to steal as well! Do you realize, my boy, that many a sorry life of crime has begun in this way?”
    Old Dickie is getting carried away but the boss nods and glances at the door.
    â€œThank you, brother.”
    Dickie hitches up his habit and goes out. The boss opens a drawer and pulls out a strap.
    â€œI hate to do this, my boy, but it is my duty to teach you right from wrong. I would be failing badly if I did not punish you for your behaviour tonight. Remember though that it will hurt me more than it will hurt you. Now bend over that chair.”
    I bite my lips to hold back the tears as six blows land on my undefended rump.
    â€œYou may go now. And remember to say your prayers.”
    In bed at last I bury my head in my pillow to stifle my sobs. A light is clicked on and I feel a brother standing over me. I lie rigid, pretending sleep, and the light clicks off.
    Bastards! I’ll never say another prayer as long as I live. I don’t care. Don’t care. . . .
    Depressed by these memories I wander back to find the Espresso bar where I am supposed to meet the girl. Students pass to and fro, some alone and earnest with books under their arms, others in groups or pairs, laughing, discussing, chattering. I try to hear what they say:
    â€œBut surely Kafka was the greater misanthrope?” Greater than who? And what is a misanthrope? I read a book by this writer in jail. It was queer but I could dig it in a way. I follow the group to the coffee shop and one of them holds open the door expecting me to come in. I shake my head and stand outside, the hair bristling on my body like a scared alley cat in a strange joint. I’ll be out of my element in there. Way, way out of my depth. Better beat it before the girl turns up and it’s too late to save my face.
    I wonder why I have come. Curiosity perhaps, but then I am past being curious, because that is surely to hope that something might be different and I am past hope. Because I think they might be interesting? But then do I want or expect to be interested in anything? Perhaps to prove to the girl and to myself that I have guts, that I am really not afraid of anything. I have no hope and no ambition but I have trained myself to be self-sufficient, self-controlled, and I am in this way superior to the world of struggling, deluded fools of which all these people are a part.
    â€œCome on, man,” I urge myself. “Straighten up and walk in like a regular customer. Play it cool, not inferior to anyone.”
    I push open the swing door.

eight
    Inside I stand acting the big shot phoney and take a long look around. Groups of people, mostly students I guess, sit at small tables. Some look the ordinary nondescript city types, but most of them are what I suppose they call bohemians, the girls in casual slacks and jumpers, some of the men with beards and dark- rimmed spectacles, almost all in corduroys and open shirts. Chinese looking lanterns drop from the ceiling like big white moons. Through the far door is a courtyard where there are more tables under bright beach umbrellas, but the shop itself is not very big or specially grand.
    One wall is papered with yellowed pages of old text books, the others hung with paintings like nothing I’ve ever seen or felt, although a notice says it is an exhibition of recent Australian works. But then I suppose I’m not what they call Australian. I’m just an odd species of native fauna cross-bred with the migrant flotsam of a goldfield.
    There is no juke-box here, only some sneaky classic- type music trickling from an unseen source. Foreign territory for me, though no one seems to notice it but myself.

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