ReadFin Literary Journal (Winter 2018)

Monday in Piss Street
Michael Freundt
I live in a shit-hole. Lying here ain’t good. My bed stinks. I fart
loudly and crawl through the thug of it and go to the kitchen.
I can hear me mum snoring from here. It’s a small place. Yeah,
course it is. Cockroaches nyere-nyere me as they scatter away.
They feel safe, I reckon. At home. I open the fridge. There’s lots of
space in our fridge. Green muck too. Fuck! The milk’s off. I drink
from the sink tap. Tastes like Draino. What day is it? Shit! I’ve
got to go to the dole office. There’s this fat fag creep there who
looks at me like I’m a Macca’s burger with fries on the side, like
that chick in that ad on TV. Hope I get the swami girl. She’s got
Milo skin and eyes like mud cake. I shower, feel like a dump, take
one. The Dettol soap is a nail clipping but it still strips every bit if
moisture out of my skin. Me mum believes in squeaky clean. That
and smack. Yeah, I know.
I can hear Scotty scratchin’ at the back door. I let him in and
find a rusty can of four-bean mix in the cupboard, behind the
tea bags she steals from the motel down on Cowper Road. A job
she’s got, three days a week. It used to be two days but she gave
the manager a blowjob and got three. That’s what I reckon. I open
the can with a bread knife and Scotty and I share it. I go into me
mum’s room and scratch around in her side drawer and – bingo!
– find a twenty-dollar bill. Fuckin’ awesome. She’s dead to the
world. I cover her up properly after starin’ a bit.
On the floor I find a belt to use as a lead for Scotty. We go to the
shitty local con store; mum keeps telling me I need to think
about the future. I’ve got to get some dog food. The chink sits
behind mesh wire the thickness of pencils. I slide two cans of
Chow, a Snickers bar, and a half litre of milk at him. He doesn’t
look at me. I was 5 cents short on a packet of bbq chips once and
he wouldn’t let me have them. I broke his nose, the slanty-eyed
prick! Now there’s this fuckin’ pencil mesh everywhere. He gives
me $1.50 change and I feel like punching him again. He knows
it too. Fuckin’ reffos. Robbing us blind! Scotty craps on the
footpath. I don’t have a placky bag with me, never do, so I shove it
into the gutter and get dogshit on my stubs. Bloody hell! I find a
patch of grass inside a car tyre, push it aside, and try to wipe me
toes clean with it; fuckin’ jeez, I must look like a spazo dancing or
somethin’. Scotty barks. Shut up ya dick! I see a couple of white
haired geros up ahead. They stop talking and cross the street.
“What are ya lookin’ at, ya coupla cunts! You’ll be dead before me.
I’m just walkin’ me dog! Sa free country!” They scurry on a bit, as
fast as their skinny little bandy legs can carry them. Ha! Makes
me want to vommi. The pricks!
Charlie finishes serving a chick with her skirt up her crack.
“Morning, Bo. What can I do for you”. He looks at me. I look at
him. He knows what I’m goin’ to say. “Me mum’s still sleepin’ it
off and there’s no food in the joint. I gotta go to the dole office.
Can I have a burger?” “What about your mum?” he says. “Yeah,”
I say. “Can ya make it two?” He looks at me like his shit don’t
stink but he bailed me out once so mum says I can’t give him
no lip. I gotta swallow it. Feels like nails. He goes to make the
burgers. I stand and wait. I look out through the big window onto
the street and see that pansy from the pub on the corner; the
pub where they do prissy shows watched by chicks in merks and
blokes with haircuts. I looked through the window one night at
a couple of guys in frocks telling jokes about god and the prime
minister. The crowd was lapin’ it up. Some sort of code, I reckon,
like commi shit or somethin’. The sissy-boy’s with his dicky little
benji-dog. He bends down and picks the stupid mut up as good ol’
Scotty yaps fit to split and goes for his ankles. Rip him to sheds,
Scotty! Little Scotty won’t leave him alone and his fluffy mut
yaps in his arms. I’d laugh if I had the energy. Charlie gives me
the burgers and I say “Thanks” like me mum said I had to. Scotty
keeps barkin’ and jumpin and the sissy-boy…”Hey!” The cunt’s
tryin to kick my dog. “Hey! Shit face! What the fuck do ya think
ya doin’?” I run right up to him and stand right up to the prick
with my chest in his face. He looks like he’s goin’ to shit himself.
“You tryin to kick my dog? Hey!? Hey!? Ya fuckin’ cunt! Kick my
dog and I’ll smash ya fuckin’ face in!” The fag tries to speak,
“Well I’m not going to push a dog away with my hands, am I?”
“What’s that supposed to mean,” I scream at him. “You tryin to
be some kind of smart arse? Hey!? Hey!? Are ya!? Hey!?” and the
cunt turns and walks away. “I’m askin’ ya a question, dum-fuck.
What’s a poofta like you tryin’ to kick me dog? Hey!? Fuckin’
nancy-boy, take-it-up-the-arse, shit-pusher! Go on, answer me
fuck-face. Poofta!” I yell and it feels real good. He’s shakin’ and
can hardly walk straight. And then he stops and turns his lillywhite
pansy-boy-face, white as froth, and says to me somethin’
like if I wanna insult im or somethin’ I’ll have to find somethin’
diff’rent than what’s true. What?! “What did you say!?” I scream.
I don’t know what he’s tryin’ to say. “What the fuck!” I yell spit
on his nose. “Ha!” I scream but the feel-good stuff’s oozin’ away
and I hate it, but he’s still shakin’ huggin’ his stupid dog. I can
taste his fear and it tastes good, salty-sweet. I’m runnin’ out of
words. He walks away. “Ya fuckin’ cunt!!” I scream. My face is
burnin’ and the heat in my body and lumps in my throat choke
me, and I so fuckin’ hate it – “I fuckin’ hate it!” I scream at the
sky; when smartarse pricks throw words at ya that don’t make
sense. “Aaah!!” And I hear a few doors open and close. “What the
fuck are you lookin’ at” I bellow at whoever can hear. But, I scared
him shitless didn’t I? Yeah, the prick. Scotty is pullin’ on my belt,
with his tail down and pullin’ away from me. “Come here! Ya my
fuckin’ dog! Mine! Come here, ya prick.” And I can’t yell anymore
and I walk away draggin’ Scotty like a pyjama bag I saw a kid with
once on TV.
I sit under the concrete steps that go up to the freeway and try
to stop the drummin’ in my ears. I eat my burger. It helps. Scotty
looks at me like he doesn’t know nothin’. I give him a piece of
bun. He eats it. I still feel hot but it’s goin’ away. I walk up the
stairs to the freeway, and along the footpath to the park and let
Scotty off the lead. He doesn’t know what to do. “Run, ya prick,”
I say. I walk over to a tree and lean against it listenin’ to that
drummin’ again. It’s getting fainter I think. A poxy bloke in a
suit comes up to me and says, “Hey, pretty boy! Want to make a
bit of money?” “Fuck off,” I say but it sounds weak. It comes out
like I’ve got a cold, or somethin’. “What do you say to twenty
bucks for a blowjob?” he says with just a slit on his shiny face, like
we’ve done this before. “Fuck off,” I say again. More like a whisper
this time. But I think about the money and how I can get the bus
to the dole office, and maybe, some food for tonight. I gotta think
of the future, like me mum says. “Fifty,” I say. “No blow, just a
hand job.” “OK, twenty though,” he says. “Fifty or nothin’” I say
and make it like I don’t care.
His little dick is hot is my hand but it doesn’t take long, thank
kryst, and no way did I let the faggot touch me. No way. He
messed his expensive shirt which made me smile which gave him
the wrong idea. I wiped my hands on the grass and took off with
my bus money. Needle-dick loser. I took Scotty home. Me mum
was still dead to the world. I put her burger in the fridge. I took
the bus to the dole office.
I sat on the bus next to a chick with really big knockers, a green
t shirt and cut-off jeans. I said, “G’day.” She looked up from her
phone. Nothin’. What is it with chicks who won’t even say g’day.
Stuck-up bitch. I gotta get myself a phone. Yeah. The fat creep
isn’t on duty today. Yeah, but the swami girl is. I wait and let
some nuf-nufs go before me so I can get swami-girl. I sit at her
desk. She’s really pretty and has a purple scarf-thing over her
ReadFin Literary Journal 31