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(RE-)EXAMINING BLANK FICTION:

An excerpt from Barely Anything, a novel

&

SEX, NARCISSISM AND DISCONNECTION IN

AUSTRALIA AND THE UNITED STATES

A thesis presented

by

Tobias McCorkell

(298441)

to

The School of Culture and Communication

in partial fulfilment of the requirements for the degree of

PhD of Philosophy

in the field of

Creative Writing (190402)

in the

School of Culture and Communication

The University of Melbourne

Supervisor: Dr Eddie Paterson

Co-Supervisor: Dr Grant Caldwell

August 2016

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ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

Firstly, and most importantly, I would like to thank my principal supervisors, Dr Tony Birch

and Dr Eddie Paterson. Your support, criticism, encouragement, patience and unwavering

insistence on the value of this research has made this process bearable and rewarding. And to

those members of the Creative Writing faculty, and to my co-supervisor (and Honours

supervisor) Dr Grant Caldwell, who have all at various stages of development contributed

their insight, I thank you for your time and effort.

I would like, also, to acknowledge the Wurundjeri people on whose native lands this

thesis was conducted, researched, written. And to the city of Melbourne and my home

suburb, Coburg, for always being the greatest of inspirations.

Finally, I need to thank my family – Mum, Nanma and Pa – for their continual

support of my academic and creative pursuits, and their unconditional love. And to Rihana,

without whom none of this, all of this – research, success, life – would have been made

possible. Words fail to articulate my deepest and most sincere appreciation for what you’ve

all given me over the many, many years that I’ve been studying and attempting to express

myself. Just know that it may finally be over now … sort of.

This thesis is for the lady on the train (I have some letters before my name now, too.

So, up yours!) and for that last reserve of hatred I still hold in my heart and lungs.

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TABLE OF CONTENTS

TITLE PAGE ..................................................................................................................... 1

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS ............................................................................................... 2

TABLE OF CONTENTS ................................................................................................... 3

ABSTRACT ....................................................................................................................... 4

BRIDGING DOCUMENT ................................................................................................ 5

CREATIVE COMPONENT: An excerpt from Barely Anything, a novel ......................... 6

CRITICAL COMPONENT: Sex, Narcissism and Disconnection in Australia and the

United States ...................................................................................................................... 120

INTRODUCTION ................................................................................................. 121

CHAPTER 1: FEMININITY AND IMAGERY IN THE DELIVERY MAN AND

SNAKE BITE .......................................................................................................... 201

1.1 She walked through the world as though she were in a Pussycat Dolls

video clip .............................................................................................. 143

1.2 Following the ‘script’ .......................................................................... 156

1.3 Entrapment, subservience and abuse ................................................... 165

CHAPTER 2: MASCULINITY, NARCISSISM AND VIOLENCE IN LESS THAN

ZERO AND ROHYPNOL ...................................................................................... 174

2.1 The horror! The horror! ....................................................................... 176

2.2 Flight into fantasy ................................................................................ 188

CHAPTER 3: MALAISE, DISCONNECTION AND CIRCULARITY: A CLOSE

READY OF LESS THAN ZERO AND LOADED ................................................. 199

3.1 There is no future ................................................................................. 201

3.2 I ain’t ever going to connect ................................................................ 212

3.3 Circularity: The end? ........................................................................... 218

CONCLUSION ...................................................................................................... 226

BIBLIOGRAPHY .............................................................................................................. 232

APPENDIX A .................................................................................................................... 244

APPENDIX B .................................................................................................................... 250

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ABSTRACT

This thesis begins with an excerpt of a novel entitled Barely Anything. Barely Anything, like

other Blank Fiction novels, details the social practices of a small group of young adults,

addressing themes of sex, boredom and privilege on both sides of Melbourne’s Yarra River.

The critical component of this dissertation re-examines works of ‘Blank Fiction’ from

Australia and the United States, including: Less Than Zero (1985) by Bret Easton Ellis,

Loaded (1995) by Christos Tsiolkas, Rohypnol (2007) by Andrew Hutchinson, The Delivery

Man (2008) by Joe McGinniss Jr., and Snake Bite (2014) by Christie Thompson. It examines

the use of images drawn from celebrity and lifestyle magazines, music videos, pop songs,

advertising, pornography, television, and Hollywood cinema and argues that these novels co-

opt images of mass culture in an effort to critique contemporary social practices, values, and

lifestyles.

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BRIDGING STATEMENT

The creative component of this thesis – a Blank Fiction novel entitled Barely Anything –

follows the lives of three young Melbournians: Everett, James and Ruth. The selection of

work chosen for presentation here comprises the first two chapters of the novel and was

chosen as it can be read in isolation while still conveying the overarching themes of the work

in its entirety. However, this thesis invites the examiner to read the additional chapters that

make up the novel, which can be found in Appendix B.

The novel is split between three first-person perspective narratives, taking on the

world-view and voice of each individual protagonist, and divided evenly between chapters.

Like the vast majority of Blank Fiction, Barely Anything combines both first-person

perspective with present tense, heightening the immediacy of the narrative and character

actions.

This creative work explores the tension between privilege, sex and boredom on both

sides of the Yarra River, the central river dividing the city of Melbourne between two halves,

marked by distinct socio-economic and political differences. Picking up on similar trends

noted and detailed in Christos Tsiolkas’ debut novel Loaded, Barely Anything explores

divisions in class, cultural attitudes and values in Melbourne. Additionally, Barely Anything

explores the relationship between men and women, as well as the construction of their

gendered bodies and their expressions of sexuality within a sexualised, aggressive, and

sometimes violent, culture.

Finally, Barely Anything conveys the general malaise experienced by, and the

disconnection between, Blank characters, where the novel lacks clear resolutions, depicts

inertia amongst its individual protagonists, and demonstrates a circularity in its narrative

structure.

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BARELY

ANYTHING

For the beautiful boys and girls.

For all the nights.

And for Butters.

Miss you.

And you just keep lowering your standards, to deal with the barely anything.

Luke Davies, Candy

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I

Summer

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CHAPTER 1

JAMES:

Thinking little, staring out across the Merri Creek from my favourite spot: a short, steep-

sloping embankment covered in long grass that overlooks a ford of large stones. Michele, in

her low-slung jeans and sandals and white blouse, through which I can see the outline of a

black bra, her nails polished and painted her signature pale mint green, pleads with me to

reconsider the weekend, says, ‘come with me to Gippsland. you need it, J. look at you, you’re

a mess,’ just as her phone begins to ring. She digs into her jeans pocket with her pale mint

green fingernails to extract the phone, swipes right across the illuminated screen to answer

the call, which is from Grace, and pulls a face at me because I’ve been holding us up, says

into the thin, black monolith: ‘we’re on our way now … probably, like, ten/fifteen tops.’

‘Come on,’ she says to me and I pull myself up and begin to walk away from the

creek with her. In my mind Michele is only ever naked and lying on the floor of her bedroom

in Eltham, her long, slender, tomboy body with the mosquito-bite breasts glistening with buds

of sweat that cause strands of hair to stick to her neck – the way she was in the summers

during high school because she was afraid her mum would notice if our come/s got on the

bed sheets. Upstairs, on the floor of Michele’s room, years ago, we practiced a particular

brand of slow fucking during those long sunny days over summer break when my knees

would burn on the carpet, and I consider that it’s something of a loss that we no longer fuck

in this way anymore.

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The short shadows of gum trees are pointing west in the mid-morning sun as we walk

up over the rise through the brush and onto the bike track, and then up and out onto the roads

behind Nicholson Street. Cross Nicholson and walk through the back blocks of East

Brunswick to Lygon Street, past the countless construction sites littering the neighbourhood –

the high rise apartment blocks and the recently converted multi-unit properties being erected

in place of the demolished miner’s cottages and town houses, all waiting to be populated by

the over-educated/under-employed twenty- and thirty-somethings relocating from the eastern

suburbs for their slice of authentic urban living – the thin, effete, tattooed hipsters on their

fixed-gear bicycles who’re now clogging up the north like so many scraps of plastic clogging

the stream of the Merri. And the thought of the waterway forces me to consider the wildlife

inhabiting it now – the fish and the birds and the platypuses that’re living in what amounts to

sewerage; and realise that those lives that exist now, thriving in the waste, are a different

breed: new, adapted, toxic life forms, survivors from a past refusing to die out. Inside me

there is something from the past too, I feel – something ancient and black that maybe crawled

up out the Merri and into me.

Grace – wearing sleeveless black silk blouse, heavy silver necklace running down between

cleavage, accentuating bosom, looking too thin – is waiting for us at a small table outside the

Brunswick Food Store, table covered in an accumulation of assorted mess: rolling papers and

filters and tobacco strewn across the surface, dirty water glasses and coffee cups. Michele and

Grace hug each other and Michele asks, ‘how long have you been waiting?’ and Grace says,

‘like, forever. what took you guys so long?’ and Michele doesn’t give the real answer and just

says, ‘sorry’ before sliding into a chair. Grace doesn’t bother to hug me and sits down

immediately with Michele, but feeling obliged to follow some type of social convention I

lean down to peck her on the cheek and as I do our cheekbones collide awkwardly and I

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experience a dull pain on the side of my face that lasts only a second. Instant annoyance for

allowing myself to feel so vulnerable and insecure around Grace when she’s obviously never

liked me and there’s never been anything I could do to change this. A flash of rage thinking

of how she would only ever look down at the floor when in my home and how she would

never make eye contact with mum or with John when they spoke to her; rage that I was ever

embarrassed by how clearly she judged the barbecued rissoles and plain Safeway snags and

the White Crow and the Wonder White that went with them, because despite everything she

owns she doesn’t have much, except for the illness creeping up inside of her once more, the

reason Michele and I are here, because Michele believes loyalty and support are owed.

Grace and Michele settle into a conversation about the events of their night together

last night, discussing the hypothetical virtues of taking up an offer to go home with a boy

Grace refers to as A MUSCLE-BOUND FOOTBALL ’TARD. ‘He was hot,’ Michele says before

turning to me to ask how my night went with Stephen and I notice the way Grace recoils at

even the mention of his name.

I’m thrust back into Tricyle with Stephen as the track changes and the bass kicks in

hard and one of the girls moves her back into me, her arms glistening under the

lights, sweating, high, allowing me to place my hands on her hips as the beat of the

music, shuddering bass, ripples through us, and I’m lost in the girl.

Say to Michele, ‘it was okay. Gadge was there, so we bought a couple biccies off him

and had a dance. the usual.’ Grace snorts like maybe she doesn’t believe me, but it’s hard to

decipher her meaning, and when I look away to see what the other people sitting outside the

café are doing a waiter appears by my side, asking if he can take our orders.

Grace asks if they serve alcohol here and they do, so she orders a Bloody Mary while

I take in her bony shoulders and clavicles and the way her eyes look like they’re too large

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because of her high cheekbones and the dark bags beneath her eyes that she’s tried to disguise

beneath layers of concealer, and wonder if the waiter can see all this too, or whether it’s just

me because I’m really looking, trying to spot the symptoms of her condition. I ask for a

Bloody Mary as well and a chicken schnitzel sandwich from the all-day lunch menu and

Michele orders a Diet Coke, and then the waiter clears our table of the old coffee cups, and

it’s at this moment that I notice the dirt underneath my fingernails, the flecks of black-brown-

greyish matter that’ve accumulated somehow and which, freakishly, remind me of dried

blood.

Michele wants to know what my plans are for today and I tell her that I’ve got to go

into uni, feel certain I’ve already told her this, although I can’t be sure, and upon hearing my

intention to go to class today Grace perks up suddenly and reminds me that Everett should be

there too, because he and I are enrolled in the same classes this semester. ‘Say hi to him for

me, okay?’ she says and I tell her, ‘alright’. ‘Oh, that reminds me,’ Grace says, before going

on to mention the party she’s having in a couple of weeks while her parents are out of town.

‘You guys have to be there. try mentioning it to Ev when you see him today. he’ll come if he

knows you’re coming, J.’

I’m not sure why Grace would think this, can’t imagine she really believes it’s true,

but then my food is in front of me and I put what Grace thinks aside, scarf down the chicken

schnitzel sandwich because I haven’t eaten since yesterday – and after vomiting last night I’m

too empty inside. Once plate is clear of matter start on the vodka-based cocktail, craving

alcohol to cut through hangover fog, and once I knock off the drink I feel full and ready to

tackle the day and I belch in a way that makes Michele laugh for some reason. Look to Grace

and ask, ‘do you mind if I roll a smoke?’ and she says, ‘sure. help yourself.’

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Take tobacco pouch and tear away clump of tan and golden strands, then compact into

small log before tearing away a rolling paper from the thin cardboard container. Select a filter

and proceed to assemble the pieces with caution, holding the paper as steadily as I’m able

before pinching it all together. Try to get one side of the paper to enfold these ingredients and

roll smoothly across and into the other side beneath the sticky licking strip, but as I do hands

begin to shake wildly and cigarette buckles in the centre as I roll it together, so that I’m left

with two thin ends and a wide middle with pieces of tobacco sticking up. Grace is beaming at

me and the shoddy looking cigarette, stabs at the ice at the bottom of her Bloody Mary with a

straw as I swallow my pride and begin to apply the saliva on my tongue to the sticky licking

strip, squashing the paper together to forge a terrible, unkempt smoke. Run cigarette back and

forth between fingers, straighten it out a little, and then take lighter from the table and light

up and proceed to puff away unimpeded in front of Grace, making it my mission not to let her

get to me. When I look at Michele through the cloud of smoke that I breathe out across the

table she’s pouring more Diet Coke into a glass of lemon wedges and ice, and because the

Coke bottle is this old-fashioned glass bottle Michele appears to me through the haze as a

commercial, with her inviting mouth painted with a translucent lipstick, a carefully chosen

shade that makes one wonder if her lips aren’t just naturally so glossy and perfect.

Finish cigarette and squish butt into ashtray, leaving black, ashy smudge, and stand up

quickly and announce that, ‘I better head. class starts in forty minutes. gotta grab some books

first.’ Grace continues punching the ice at the bottom of her glass with the straw and reminds

me again to say hi to Everett, and Michele smiles and stands to hug me and asks what I’m

doing later tonight and I take a lot of pleasure in telling them both that I’ll be having a drink

with Stephen this afternoon, which makes Grace pull the same little face as before, the only

reason I mention it. With her large, dark eyes Grace kind of looks like the girls from this side

of town, like the ones I used to ride the trams with when I went to school in Northcote, before

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getting shipped off to St Anthony’s on the other side of the river, and for a second, because of

this, I hesitate in deciding whether or not Grace is actually clogging my stream, but then I

remind myself that she DEFINITELY SHOULDN’T BE HERE.

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EVERETT:

I’m sitting in the Victoria Street Mall in Coburg, observing Mark sitting in a plastic chair

outside Half Moon Café while we wait for the felafel wraps we just ordered. Mark, with his

thin, sinewy arms hanging from a loose white v-neck, sweat trickling from the base of his

neck down into the hairs on his chest, is looking back toward the Moreland Library at the end

of the mall, on the lookout for Crab Hand so we can score and get back to the flat. Looking at

Mark I consider how he could be from any time or place. With his unkempt long hair and

vintage clothes, his wild eyes and dangly jade earring that hangs from his right lobe, Mark

looks part-Gypsy and part-nomad: an untameable, timeless urban warrior. And it is while

looking at Mark, considering what he is, that Grace’s question resurfaces once more, a

question that has been circling my mind for weeks possibly: What happens when nothing

changes? But being with Mark is change, I think. Being here, on the other side of the river, is

something very different.

After the felafel wraps are served to us – brought out by a tall Egyptian man who

smiles and thanks us as he hands us the food – Mark is only just beginning to peel back the

paper when he spots Crab Hand, who eyes us both and nods in the direction of the public

toilets next to the library. Mark leaves his food on the table, stands up and thumbs his back

pocket to double check that the wad of rolled up fifties I took out at the ATM across the street

is still there, before following the man with the deformed right hand inside the bathroom.

I wait, chewing my food in silence while I watch the old Greeks and Italians seated in

plastic chairs all throughout the mall smoke their cigarettes and sip coffee and play cards and

argue, and with each bite I feel closer to Mark; the soft texture of the pita bread, the salty heat

of the felafel, the crunch of the pickles, the tartness of the lemon juice and the salty-sweetness

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of the garlic sauce, chilli and hummus. In these flavours I can taste the sweat off Mark’s

back, his come, the savoury and the sweet.

When Mark returns to the table he looks happy and I ask, -All good?

-Yeah, got loads, man. Heaps.

-Great.

-Ev, I’ll get you back for this, I swear.

-It’s fine, honestly.

-No it’s not. You’ve been buying all month. I owe you.

I wave a hand telling Mark not to worry. He does this all the time, makes a big deal

out of money. Part of me minds less about the money and more about this rigmarole. When

he starts eating his food I walk back into the café and buy two orange juices, the good ones

with all the pulp at the bottom. When I return to Mark I hand him a juice and he thanks me

and asks, -You ready to head?

-Sure. If you want. What about your food?

-Gonna save it for later.

He scrunches the paper back up at the top of the wrap. He’s barely had two mouthfuls.

And then we walk over to Coburg Station, past Crab Hand and his mates – three tough-

looking Lebanese guys of a nondescript age, all wearing cheap tracksuits and baseball caps –

sitting on a bench outside the library as we go by. Crab Hand and his friends don’t look in our

direction, nor do we acknowledge them. We wait a while for the train, smoke two cigarettes

each while Mark drinks his juice. He doesn’t bother to shake the bottle up and mix the pulp

off the bottom, he just cracks the lid and begins to gulp it back, a tiny trail of it running down

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his chin that he wipes away with the sleeve of his white t-shirt creating a stain. Mark’s flat is

behind Sydney Road, right near Jewell Station, and he prefers to take the train for runs to

meet with Crab Hand because, while the trams run more frequently, the traffic is often so bad

along Sydney Road that the train is the quicker option, even when you factor in the waiting

times. In Mark’s words: ‘I’d rather wait on a train platform in the peace and quiet than get

frustrated inside a packed tram that’s not going anywhere.’

What I know of Mark is packaged up in neat expressions like this. He has a habit of

saying odd, captivating stuff sometimes, things that make much sense or none at all, but the

type of thing you remember. When I asked him where he was from originally – meaning

Melbourne and which suburb? meaning country or city? meaning Victoria or interstate? – he

told me he was of some ancient peoples. He said he thought that maybe he was part-Viking,

then he said: ‘But really, I’m from the pages of a book you haven’t read yet. When you do

it’ll mean that it’s finally been published.’ And then he laughed and I never asked the

question again. I still don’t know where he’s from.

When we get back to the flat – this tiny, cramped studio apartment on the third floor

of this old red-brick 70s-era complex – Mark pulls out a six-pack of Melbourne Bitter before

firing up the PlayStation. He selects one of the favourites from an assortment of old games

that go with the dated PS2 console: Crash Team Racing. He hands me a controller and I

power it on and we settle in on the sofa, the couch pressed against the wall of the room on

one side so that the arm doesn’t fall off. I open a beer and settle in for another morning on his

couch, watching the television as Crash Bandicoot – Sony’s poor, forgotten answer to Mario

or Sonic the Hedgehog – walks on screen and raises a trophy above his head, the cartoonish

booms and whops coming through the sound as a voice over tells us to START YOUR

ENGINES and FASTEN YOUR SEATBELTS.

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Before the first round of racing Mark pours out some of the speed onto the coffee

table and forms a few short lines. We do one each, the drug making me alert, making the beer

taste even bitterer somehow, making the video game race seem more important. Looking

around the room I note the sink piled high with dirty dishes in the kitchenette, the small

clothes rack on wheels with the mound of tattered t-shirts draped across it, the unmade

mattress on the floor behind us. Looking at the mattress I question what it is that compels me

to stay here some nights, but figure the answer is somewhere in the makeshift bookshelf that

Mark has crafted using milk crates and cable ties that houses his collection of second-hand

Beatnik poetry and pulp romance and erotica novels bought from Savers.

The morning is hot, and with the windows closed and the blinds drawn, the flat,

bathed in the blue glow of the television screen, becomes swampy – the humidity rising with

the heat from our bodies and the heat coming from the whirring electronics, the PlayStation

buzzing and vibrating with the exertion of running the game. I’m able to pace myself, but

Mark does too much of the speed too quickly, and in the blue light I notice the sweat that

begins to collect on his forehead, wetting his long hair, which he frequently has to brush back

with a swipe of his hand between bursts of energetic dexterity, his thumbs jabbing the buttons

on his controller.

After a while I become tired and disoriented. I want to get out of the flat and breathe

fresh air. I notice the dust motes suspended in the space of the room’s air, all around us,

sitting and floating perfectly carefree – not hot and sweaty and uncomfortable. I place my

controller down after losing another race and say to Mark, -Do you feel like doing something

else? It’s kinda gross in here.

-Um, yeah. Like, sure. If you want. What time is it, though?

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I check the time display on my phone, discover that morning has transitioned into

afternoon much more quickly than I could have predicted. Looking at the empty beer bottles

on the coffee table I wonder how many rounds of racing we’ve actually played. I realise that

it has been days since I was last home. I need to go back there and check that the house hasn’t

burned down in my absence. Sometimes time feels like a sink, like quicksand – this

unpredictable and unknowable substance. A bit like Mark, I think. I say, -Shit, dude. It’s

three-thirty.

-Wow. Fuck. I need to, like, be somewhere soon.

-Really? Where?

-It doesn’t matter. Look, I’m gonna have to bail anyway, so, um …

-It’s okay. I should probably go home. Catch you again soon?

-Soon. Yeah. Definitely, man.

I nod and walk to the door. We don’t hug, don’t shake hands. Certainly don’t kiss.

Walking away from Mark is always pulling away from Mark.

Outside, on Sydney Road, the sun is blinding. My body feels jiggered, jagged on the

inside. I don’t feel like heading over to Jewell Station and taking the train, even though I’ll

need to swap onto one at Flinders. Instead, I take the time to walk along Sydney Road,

stretching my legs and taking in the atmosphere. I get lost in the people, the cars jammed up

with horns blasting, the smell of cooking meat and of hookah smoke. A canary, sitting in a

cage hung outside a hair salon, chirps at me as I walk by and I light a cigarette and move

through the crowd past the shopfronts: grocers, restaurants, bars, book stores. The smoke fills

me up, travels deep into my lungs, soothes. The speed has left me receptive to the world,

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everything heightened. It’s magnificent, being able to feel unbreakable, being the odd one out

on a street filled with sober people.

In one of the shop windows there is an array of hand-made brooches on display. The

brooches are the shapes of different animals: giraffes and bison, monkeys and dogs. The dogs

draw my attention. Looking at the dog brooches I’m transported back to Dublin the January

after school ended where Grace and I had spent our New Year’s Eve in Temple Bar in one of

the many glitzy, over-priced pub-cum-nightclubs hocking their ‘authentic’ Irish-ness. We

didn’t care where we were, though. We were being ironic. It was fun. But before that night

we’d fought. Dublin was where we’d had many of the arguments that I can recall verbatim to

this day. In fact, most of that long European holiday was filled with them – big, drawn out

spats that verged on erupting into real violence. In London I’d gone to a bar alone and gotten

drunk with a boy I didn’t know and we had kissed and when I returned to the hotel the next

day in the early hours of the morning, Grace discovered my passed out body in the bathroom,

jeans soaked through with piss and excreta and the boy’s Facebook details written on a slip of

paper in my pocket.

Looking at the brooches in the window I think of the biggest fight we had. The one in

Dublin on Christmas day. The one caused by the breaking of a brooch in the shape of a

greyhound.

I finish the cigarette and jump on a number 19 tram and take it all the way down

Elizabeth Street to Flinders, where I catch the Glen Waverley line out to Toorak. On the ride

out Brent texts to say we’re meeting at the Lucky Coq in a little while before moving onto

Third World later tonight. I text back saying okay, though I don’t particularly want to go. But

then I don’t particularly mind, either. I know I can at least score something else tonight,

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maybe get some ecstasy from Gadge to have with Mark in the following days. And, as I keep

reminding myself, I have to see my friends. Have to keep up appearances.

Walking home from the station I notice just how still the air is here, how dead it

appears to be this side of the river. I don’t pass a single person as I walk home. There are only

wide, plane tree–lined streets, big houses, expensive silent cars parked outside them. A chill

passes through me as I walk up to my front door. Already I can sense the emptiness of the

house, with its cold, clinician’s-office interior, the vacant spaces of wall and floor, the

varnished wooden furniture. Turning the lock, I realise why I spend so much time with Mark,

why I’ve run toward that shithole Northern suburban flat these past months, where I numb

myself with cock and drugs.

As little as I know about Mark, he knows even less about me. He doesn’t know a

thing about this house – all three empty storeys of it, the pool, the boat shed at the bottom of

the hill on the banks of the Yarra River. I don’t know what he’d think if he did – what he’d

say, how he’d react. But I suppose it wouldn’t be all that different from the reactions of the

other people who have seen it: awe, an obvious desire to stay. People like money. Even

people with lots of it. I’m almost certain that Mark, with so little, would want to stay here,

too. And after I tell him why it’s empty – that my family lives in New York now, on the other

side of the world – I imagine he’d want to stay here for good. It’s not that I’m protective of

the house; I hate it. What scares me is losing somewhere I can retreat. What scares me is

being taken advantage of again. Last year Brent and Gadge stayed here for the better part of

two months before I had to ask for them to leave. They showed up on my doorstep uninvited

and announced their plans to use the house to host parties and sell drugs. I never wanted the

house turned into some ridiculous party palace. I felt sick most of the time, watching

strangers waltz through the foyer and vomit onto the hedges and smoke ice in my parents’

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bathroom. I like drugs and I like parties, sometimes, but I don’t like being made a fool of or

having my life exploited.

I disable the alarm system at the front door and kick my shoes off as I pass through

the house, picking up the copy of The Great Gatsby that I’ve been trying to read for uni off

the kitchen table. I sit by the pool and dip my feet in the water. After a few pages of the book

I give up again. I’ve progressed through less than thirty pages in a week and a half. I’m not

sure what it is, but the book – despite what everyone keeps telling me – just seems so boring

and unimportant, another ‘classic’ people rave about because they think they should. Instead,

I browse my phone, scroll through the menus, but that becomes tiresome too. I switch my

phone to silent and close the screen, lie back and close my eyes. I wonder what it was Mark

had to do later today.

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RUTH:

In my dream I’m wearing an old polka-dot bikini, like the one I used to wear over the

summers in those last years of high school, when Tanya and Maddie and I would go down to

Portsea with Callum and his friends – all of them tan, blonde football players from Scotch.

And in the dream I’m wearing this bikini as I fall out of the sky and land softly right in the

centre of the lion enclosure at the zoo, right atop this large mound of dirt and grass. Inside the

enclosure large, muscular lions with rich, golden manes stalk the perimeters as though

waiting for food. They pay me no attention. They don’t come near me, don’t even look in my

direction. So I just stand on the mound a long while, watching the lions, waiting for

something to happen, and hoping that when it does, whatever it is, it isn’t something bad.

In the dream, after a while, the lions fade away and the enclosure disappears along

with them and I am on the mound surrounded by darkness until eventually, Tanya appears

before me smiling broadly. And when I ask her where she’s come from she tells me, -I’ve

been here the whole time. I’ve been watching you.

-Why?

-Because, Ruth, you’re the real attraction.

When I wake up I can hear the television coming from the living room. I get up out of bed

and navigate past the unpacked boxes and piles of clean and unclean clothes on the floor.

After padding down the corridor I discover Tanya draped across the couch like some jungle

queen, and I picture the tiny men that aren’t there, fanning her body with palm fronds and

feeding her grapes. Her legs are up high in the air, her torso sunk deep into the pillows as she

eats a mango, her lips securing themselves to the fruit, as she sucks at the juicy flesh. Tanya

notes my presence in the room and turns slightly to say, -Morning.

23

-Hey.

She smacks her lips together. A trickle of juice slides down her chin and she wipes it

away with her wrist. I say, -How did we get home last night?

-Oh my god, Ruth. You and Maddie were such a mess. Callum helped me get you

guys downstairs and into a couple of taxis, but I could’ve used his help once we got back

here. You weighed a freaking tonne. No offence. How much did you drink, by the way?

-I dunno. A few shots. Something I wasn’t used to, I think.

I don’t bother telling Tanya what I really believe happened to me last night or what

I’d been shit scared was going to happen before Maddie started feeling sick and the inside of

Tricycle – dancing bodies and walls the colour of ash – went blurry and then black. Tanya

already knows my opinion of Callum and of the degenerate rich boys he parties with, but

when it comes to him there’s no getting through to her. Anyway, I’m not in the position to

complain or to tell her how to live her life – she’s taken me in when I needed it most, and she

isn’t charging me rent. She’s a friend.

I walk across the living room, past the couch and the television (playing an old

episode of The Hills) to the back door. Outside, the courtyard is baking in the sun. Hundreds,

possibly even thousands, of ants run in single file beneath the table and chairs. I turn back to

Tanya and ask, -How hot’s it meant to be today?

-Oh, fuck, like, so hot. It’s meant to get up around thirty-five.

Tanya’s singlet top is covered in mango juice stains. She looks like a complete slob.

We both do, I imagine. I’m yet to see my panda eyes and bed hair. I pick up the packet of

Marlboro Golds sitting on the arm of the couch, but when I fold back the lid the pack is

empty. My mouth is dry, but I’m desperate for a cigarette all the same. It doesn’t even matter

24

that my head is splintered into pieces and that it’s a stupidly hot day. I want a smoke. I ask

Tanya if there’s any more cigarettes floating around inside the house. She points to her

handbag on the coffee table and I place the empty packet back where I picked it up from. I

look through her handbag but only find some lip gloss, a pair of chicken fillets and a whole

bunch of ATM receipts that make her handbag look cluttered. I consider telling her to get rid

of the receipts, that it makes her bag unnecessarily messy. Instead I tell her that we’ve got to

go down to the shops for more cigarettes if either of us wants one today and she groans and

says, -Oh god. No. It’s beyond me, Ruth. If you go I’ll pay.

I groan. The milkbar is at the end of the street, but that seems like an impossible

distance. In the end, though, I concede. -Alright. Where’s your money?

-On the dresser in my room. You’re a star.

I walk to the kitchen and take a drink of water before picking out thirty dollars from a

pile of cash sitting in the already-open top drawer of her dresser – another piece of antique

furniture Tanya purchased recently that clashes with the smooth, white, modern surfaces of

the refurbished miner’s cottage.

I become aware of the hair on my legs by the time I reach the milkbar. My legs are

covered in a thin film of sweat from the heat and the exertion of the walk. My chest is heavy

and I know that a cigarette is about the last thing on earth I need. Where did my fitness go?

Whatever happened to those long morning runs I used to go on? I can feel whatever drug I

took last night working its way out of my body, coming out through every pore, and because

of it my sweat reeks. Probably, too, because of all the cigarettes and the booze and the lack of

good food. The smell from my armpits could knock someone out right now.

When I get back to the house with the new packet of Marlboros, I find that Tanya has

fallen asleep on the couch. I sit down beside her and run my hand through her hair, peeling

25

off the plastic from the packet and the little strip of foil beneath the lid with my teeth. I light a

cigarette, not caring that I’m smoking inside the house – a taboo we established and

immediately abandoned last week when we’d been discussing house rules. I don’t know why

Tanya does this to herself, running her body into the ground like this. One minute she will

say she’s not drinking for a month, the next she’s doing shots. But I’m no better. I make and

break a thousand tiny promises to myself almost every day and the compounded weight of all

these failures is crushing me. I don’t know how we will make it to thirty, how anybody I

know will ever be capable of marriage/family/steady job.

I leave Tanya sleeping on the couch to check my email where I notice a reply to my

query about a timetabling problem with one of my classes. The email tells me that I’ve been

relocated to a new tutorial, run by an Aaron, and that I will need to contact this Aaron first, in

person for some reason, to confirm the change. The email lists his office phone number and

address. But when I notice the day and time of the class I’ve been relocated to, I realise that

it’s today, and that class begins in less than an hour. I hear myself groan once more before

picking out a semi-respectable ensemble out of the pile of clothes on the floor. I take these

clothes into the bathroom where I wash my face in the sink with a washcloth, and wipe the

damp, gross sweat out from my armpits, and apply enough deodorant and makeup to make

me presentable for public transport and a two hour–long tute.

When I arrive on campus I realise that my phone is dead and with that I have lost the

directions to Aaron’s office. I curse the faulty old USB cord I used to recharge my phone this

morning and try to recall the office number, which I remember being 613. I decide that

Aaron’s office must be in the John Medley Building because this is where the majority of the

Arts fac are housed and so I head across campus in that direction.

26

When I step into the elevator inside the John Medley Building I notice that the floor

numbers only range from G to 5. A man wearing a white business shirt, index finger poised

to strike one of the numbers on my behalf, asks, -Where to?

-Um, sorry, is there a sixth floor in this building?

The man strikes 5 for me and says, -Yes, but the lift doesn’t go all the way to the top.

What you need to do is get off on the fifth then take the stairs up one flight.

I thank the man and wonder why the lift doesn’t go higher. When I get out of the

elevator I follow the man’s instructions and find the sixth floor via the stairwell. I search the

corridor for number 613, but the corridor wraps around in a loop and although I pass many

doors beginning with 6 there isn’t a 613. It appears as if no one inhabits the sixth floor at all –

I don’t run into a single person as I loop back around the corridor a second time. When I get

to the room marked 612 the door is ajar and I take a peek inside: the room is empty except for

a desk pushed against the back wall beneath a very small window. There is also a box of rat

poison in the corner of the room. Hanging from the door there is a handwritten note that

reads: For 613: got to new department (the refurbished section). I don’t know what this

means. I wonder if the note was written by Aaron, and then, briefly, whether Aaron even

exists.

I take the elevator back downstairs and walk across to the student admin in Old Arts

where I spent so much of last summer applying for extensions and trying to limit my

workload to two courses per semester. The Student Service Centre is a place that makes me

tingle with anger when I think about just how much of my time I lost sitting on those itchy

green sofas while the idiots in their Melbourne uni-blue polos bumbled over my timetables

and warned me about not giving enough notice to reduce my study. I ask one of the girls, this

anaemic Social Alliance type with a tattoo of a butterfly on her wrist who is wearing these

27

fake horn-rimmed glasses, to point me in the right direction of my tutorial. I explain that I’m

a bit lost and that I’m actually now running late, but she only grunts like it’s not her problem

and tells me to go back to the John Medley Building to ask the same thing of the admin

people there.

I roll my eyes before walking back across campus to find the Culture and

Communications office and this (actually! genuinely!) nice lady behind the desk there tells

me which room I’m meant to be in.

By the time I reach the door of my class I am out of breath from the stairs – from

smoking, you idiot! – and I am completely flushed. The door is old and brown, like the empty

office I looked into earlier. Everything in the building looks tattered and old and vaguely

unclean when I think of it. I knock and hear someone tell me to enter and when I do I’m

greeted by fourteen or so pairs of eyes staring up at me from their desks and, who I assume to

be, Aaron, standing before me, a thin, thirty-something-year-old man whose nondescript

British accent I note and try to place when he says, -Ah, let me guess – Rachel?

-No.

-Okay, hang on.

Aaron raises a finger, signalling he wants to play at guessing my name rather than

have me tell him. He looks down at a list of names typed out on an A4 sheet of paper and this

process serves to draw too much attention to me so that I begin to feel somewhat embarrassed

and anxious. Looking at the list he asks, -Candy?

-Nope.

-Then you must be … Hang on, is it Ruth or Ruby? I’ve got two different names here,

but the same surname. Either way, you must be Ms Shin, correct?

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-Correct. It’s Ruth.

-Welcome, Ruth. You’re only forty minutes late, but you haven’t missed a thing, I can

assure you. Nothing we do here is of much importance, anyway.

The class laughs. Aaron seems good-natured enough, but there’s something about his

grey eyes that makes me think I could take the comment any number of ways. I find a seat

next to a dumpy girl wearing a Mandeville rugby jumper, the name ‘K-ROC’ above the

numbers on the back. She smiles politely, shifting her handbag to the other side of her desk to

make room for me as I sit down.

After class, I approach Aaron to apologise for being late and explain about only

discovering the email a little while ago and about how my phone ran out of battery and that I

couldn’t find his office because of this. And I realise that what I’ve said sounds pretty made

up when he says, -What a day you’ve had then, Ms Shin. It’s fine, honestly. I know now that

you’re in this class, so I’ll mark your name down and I’ll expect to see you next week.

-Thanks so much. Sorry again.

-It’s fine, it’s fine.

My ears burn when I leave the room. They burn because I’m certain Aaron believes

I’ve made up most of what I told him and I hate the idea I’ve already been branded as this

lying person in his mind at the beginning of the semester. It’s all I can think about as I leave

the building and walk outside. I desperately want a cigarette to appease the odd sensation of

guilt creeping up my back. When I take out the packet of Marlboros I bought this morning

this random boy approaches me and says how we were in class together just now and asks if

he can bum a smoke. I don’t recall seeing him, but feel flustered and realise I may not have

noticed him in the class with me. I’m not too bothered by him asking for a smoke because I

have a bad habit of scabbing off Tanya all the time anyway. I give the boy a lighter and he

29

thanks me and I take a few puffs off my cigarette before saying bye and begin to head off

campus. I wonder what’s in store for me tonight. I cross my fingers that Tanya might

consider an evening in with a DVD and a box of Lindt balls for a change, but then that’s

pretty unlikely.

30

JAMES:

Arrive in Carlton for first class of semester, my Creative Writing class – held in this

crummy old building far south of the campus near Grattan Street, and I’m forced to consider

that my uni classes are really the only semblance of a life that I’ve got, the only form of

structure and order and routine. The beginning of semester marks the end of summer break

and I register mild relief/non-relief to be out of the large, BLANK SLAB-OF-TIME SINK-HOLE,

but does it even matter? because I haven’t been to bed for a while.

And then class – which, as predicted, Everett does not attend – is pretty uneventful

because there’s a tonne of admin stuff to get through and our tutor – some Scottish guy

named Aaron, who I feel certain is a homosexual upon first impression – covers the bland

info ad nauseam (a recently acquired phrase) and seems like maybe he’s getting off being so

boring and bureaucratic. But the class is broken up momentarily by the interruption of a late

arrival: a blonde girl who comes in halfway through and who is introduced as a someone-

beginning-with-R, possibly a dumb modern name like Rihanna, like the singer, and this girl is

actually pretty terrific to look at and when I do these old Magic Dirt lyrics pass through my

head about how girls next door will runrunrun through something or someone, possibly me

even; and these lyrics aren’t specific, but the location is:

my first proper gig, underage, the Corner Hotel in Richmond, watching Adalita Srsen

sweating on stage, growling, and the erection in my pants is so painful that I can barely

think, and Stephen is there and quite possibly Brent too, but not Everett because he hadn’t

joined the band yet.

After blonde R takes a seat the class returns to normal, to an in-depth discussion of

future assessment that nobody should be concerned about yet, not until they fail actually, and

so I turn in my chair and look out the window and across South Lawn where hordes of people

31

are signing up to clubs and societies and eating sausages and drinking stubbies of Carlton

Draught, and where two wattle birds dive bomb into the water feature that flanks the east end

of the lawn, getting themselves wet before sweeping back up into the branches of the plane

trees: just perfect, controlled, graceful motion.

Class ends and blonde R approaches the tutor for something as I pack up books and

put them into backpack – and then I’m walking out and down the stairs to outside where

something clicks, and I want to stay and wait for blonde R so I do, and when she comes

outside I say hi and introduce myself and discover the R is for Ruth and not Rihanna. It

occurs to me to ask her if she wants to go for a drink with Stephen and I at the pub, but in the

first week it seems a bit desperate or something and so I just ask if she smokes and if so does

she want one and after she says ‘yeah’ I realise that I don’t actually have any of my own and

she just laughs and smiles and says ‘it’s okay, I bought a pack this morning’ and she offers

me a Marlboro or a Stuyvesant, something with gold packaging, a tailor-made, which strikes

me because nobody can afford them anymore, and I wonder which suburb she’s from but

don’t feel like asking, fearing I’m likely to find she’s a plastic scrap that I can’t get on with.

Take a cigarette out the box and say, ‘you got that foot. I reckon that’s the worst one’ and she

says, ‘yeah, I know. the baby’s pretty bad though too’ and we laugh about how the ugly

scare-tactic packaging hasn’t stopped either of us from smoking. Ruth holds out a light,

sparks the Bic, and we dip our heads over the flame to catch the ends of the cigarettes, this

vaguely intimate little gesture that’s like a movie or SOMETHING BETTER THAN REAL LIFE.

Finish smoke and part ways with blonde Ruth and make a mental note to ask her to the pub

next time, then walk off campus past this small redgum sculpture of A CAT-FACED WOMBAT

WITH ZIG-ZAG EYES that I think I hear whisper something like, ‘she would like to be left with

32

it’ but then that could also be the sound of the wind passing across the edge of the wall of Old

Arts, right before the sandstone blocks bleed into red brick, where old meets new. And then

out onto Swanston Street and then east along Elgin and down to Percy’s, where Stephen and I

agreed to meet.

Inside the pub Stephen is up at the bar wearing a baseball cap, one of the ones with

the flat bill and American sports logo – Chicago Bulls in this case – on the front. His legs are

swathed in tight denim and I watch as they swing back and forth between the legs of his bar

stool – like matchsticks, they’re so thin. I find myself transfixed by Stephen’s body but I’m

not clear why; something, perhaps, to do with its unsettled rhythm as he hunches over the

counter to consume the hamburger in front of him.

Walk up and say hello and we shake hands – a heavy silver watch hangs loose at his

wrist – and then I order a pint from the bartender, and, wiping his mouth with a serviette,

Stephen turns to me and asks, ‘so, how’d you pull up after last night?’ and I say, ‘fine. you?’

and Stephen says, ‘yeah, okay. can’t believe you talked me into that, though’ – ‘that’ being

the drinking game we played with the bottles of wine in the back alley off King Street before

heading into Tricycle; ‘that’ being the gram of whip we bought late in the night after even

Gadge had left the club; ‘that’ being the very late trip to the peep shows on Elizabeth Street

this morning before the first trains and trams started moving around Flinders Street Station.

After tonight, I realise, I’ll be pushing into my third day without sleep, but then that’s THE

GAME: TO PUSH THE ENVELOPE. I’m riding Stephen hard these days, wanting for him to crack.

There was a time when we were in this together, but the older I get the more I can’t take my

eyes off the spaces between people, the narrow gaps dividing us all, and the more I notice

these things the more I think about our differences, so that now Stephen has become someone

I’m playing against, someone I’m determined to defeat.

33

I say, ‘I saw Grace this morning’ and note the way Stephen’s eyes light up so that he

can’t help himself and has to ask, in a flurry, ‘really? why? what’d she say?’

I say, ‘nothen. she was with Michele. they were having brunch’ and Stephen is quiet

until I ask, ‘what’s the deal with you two now anyway?’

Stephen sighs and says, ‘fuck, man, I dunno. she won’t speak to me. no one will’ and

I think that maybe Stephen is coming to the realisation that life doesn’t revolve around one

person, that peoples’ lives won’t change much without him in them.

In the months after the band split Stephen would ask after Brent and Everett and

whether or not we were thinking of reforming without him, but now he doesn’t bother, and

instead just nods to himself before taking a sip from his beer, thinking, I assume, of Grace. I

never particularly cared about the band or the music we played – pop-punk/screamo garbage

for spastic young girls to listen to and feel maudlin perhaps and get a little wet too, maybe.

And that isn’t to say that we were bad, because we weren’t bad – we were quite good, in fact;

decent enough to be played on Triple J and to get booked to open regularly for some solid

acts when they were on the rise –The Getaway Plan and Broadway and Churchill. It’s just

that inside me were always the screeching angry sounds of the acts I really loved and the

voices of guys like Brian Molko and Thurston Moore and Maynard Keenan and Kim Salmon

and Thom Yorke, who played with their guts, and my bandmates weren’t interested in that.

For Brent and Ev and Stephen the soon-to-be-forgotten-if-not-forgotten-already act known as

Died Red was a middle-class rock’n’roll fantasy conceived of by the apolitical, sex-obsessed

minds of teenage boys. It never meant a thing, not to me anyway.

The volume being turned up on the television screen above the bar pulls me back into

the room, a report playing on footy star Callum West’s latest disgrace, so that the oldies

nursing their pots look up from their papers to get the goss. A picture of Callum with a beer

34

in one hand and a pretty brunette by his side flashes under the headline WHEN’S ENOUGH

ENOUGH? before the image turns into one of Callum, clearly pissed, walking stark naked

across the foyer of some hotel, his dick blurred out, and the bartender, turning down the

volume now, laughs at the footage and says loudly, ‘what’s he? mates with Fev do ya reckon,

Perce?’ and a couple of the oldies chortle and the proprietor, whose name hangs outside in

large cursive neon, this giant old man sitting in the corner of the room, just shakes his head

and groans before returning to the newspaper spread out before him.

Stephen turns to me and says, ‘dad reckons they’ll have to drop West now after this’

and I ask ‘yeah?’ and Stephen says, ‘yeah. O’Neil’ll never have the playing group’s respect if

he lets this stuff carry on. he’s gotta set an example’ and I don’t at all like how serious

Stephen is when he tells me this as I pour my beer into myself, craving the booze and the

drunk that will follow, watching Stephen’s hands, which are large and rough and make a

rasping sound as he rubs his calloused fingers together as if rolling a booger or a piece of blu-

tak so that the one word that springs to mind is weathered. His hands are weathered, I think.

And then later we try for a cab outside on Lygon Street where I notice that everything is grey,

from the bluestones in the gutters to the cement paving to the fast-approaching night

light/atmosphere, and I come to the conclusion that Melbourne has always been grey and sour

deep down, really; this big, drab, vaguely gothic city that may actually lack a soul when you

get to thinking about things – the spaces between and the narrow gaps and how a lot of what

is real is buried or secret, like the unmarked graveyard beneath the Victoria Market. And

when we manage to hail a taxi and are hurtling along through the streets I wind down my

window and look up to where the tops of the buildings meet the sky and the grey bleeds out

into nothing; into blank, dark emptiness.

35

EVERETT:

I’m getting ready to leave the house when Grace calls. I consider cancelling the call, but

pick up all the same. Grace says, -Hey, where are you?

-At home. Why?

-Oh good, can I come over? I’m, like, five minutes away.

-I don’t think so. I mean, that’s not a good idea.

-Why?

-Because. I don’t know. Just, no. The answer is: no, you cannot come over.

-Well, I’m three minutes away now, so I’ll see you in a tick.

I groan, go to press the END button on my phone but realise Grace has already, in that

same micro-second, terminated the call. Two minutes later she is at the front gate pressing the

buzzer to be allowed in. I walk toward the intercom and press the button to speak.

-What do you want?

-Just let me in, Ev. I was in the area and thought I’d drop by.

-You can’t keep doing this.

-Just let me in.

I press the buzzer and the gate opens automatically and Grace walks up to the front

door, walking by me and entering the house as I open up. I say, sarcastically, -Make yourself

at home, I guess.

-Oh, stop.

-You know, I’m actually meant to be somewhere. I was on my way out.

36

-Okay, this’ll only take a sec. Plus, I can drive you. Where are you going?

-Chapel Street.

-Perfect. I’ve gotta go over to Prahran anyway to-

-What is it?

Grace composes herself, slows her breathing, stops talking a mile-a-minute. She says,

-I’m having a party in a couple of weeks and I want you to be there.

-That’s it? You came over to invite me to a party? You couldn’t Facebook me or call

or text me?

-I came to ask you for a favour. I want you there. This isn’t just an invite, it’s a

request.

-I’ll see. Hopefully I’m not busy.

-Are your fingers crossed behind your back?

Grace tilts her head to see my hands and I display them in front of her, fingers spread.

-If I’m free I’ll come. But I can’t promise you I’ll be free.

-Good enough, then.

She smiles suddenly and asks, -How have you been, anyway?

-I’m fine. You don’t need to concern yourself with that question anymore. I’m not

going to ask how you are.

-That’s nothing new.

Grace pulls this sly little face that I can’t read. She’s not hostile though, just upbeat –

seemingly. She says, -Well, that’s all. Question asked and answered. Ready for a lift now?

37

I look down at my naked torso and say, -I think I’ll need a shirt.

I walk away from Grace and head downstairs, back into my bedroom where I had

been getting ready before she called. I throw on a shirt and run back upstairs patting my

pockets with my hands to check I have everything.

Grace drives slowly over to Prahran. She’s a cautious driver, but the traffic is

congested anyway and the trip takes longer than I’d like. It gives her too much time to try to

dissect my life, but I put the guards up and deny her access pretty efficiently, only losing less

than ten percent of the pertinent data. Yes, I’m a bit miserable living alone. No, that’s not

really something that is directly connected to my living conditions. Yes, I’ve thought about

the question you asked. And yes, I did take into consideration your suggestion about seeing

someone. The big stuff – Mark, the fact that I’ve started drinking and drugging myself before

midday, the three subjects I failed last semester, the fact that nothing in my life seems to be

working – all stay with me.

Grace drops me near the corner of Chapel Street and Malvern Road, where she finds a

convenient space to pull over, and I have to override the auto-pilot response – me leaning

across to peck her on the cheek – as I get out of the car, thanking her for the lift.

I walk the rest of the block up to the Lucky Coq, crossing over High Street and

entering the pub. Upstairs, Brent and Gadge are sitting in the courtyard and I buy myself a

beer before joining them outside. Despite the heat Gadge is wearing a trench coat. He must be

sweltering beneath the coat, but as I approach the edge of their table I cannot identify a single

bud of sweat on his face. Brent looks up to me and squints in the sunlight. He says, -Hey,

dude.

-Hey. Hey.

-Hey. What’s been happening, man?

38

-Nothing. You guys?

-Just chilling.

Brent is wearing a loose v-neck t-shirt, not unlike the one Mark was wearing this

morning, so the Celtic cross tattoo that covers his entire chest is partly visible. I sit down and

watch as condensation collects on the outside of my pint of Little Creatures before he asks, -

You seen James lately?

I shake my head. Gadge says, -I’m pretty sure him and Stephen are gonna be at Third

tonight.

-You’re kidding?

-Nope.

-Fuck, man. I can’t believe James is still hanging out with him. Doesn’t that piss you

off, Ev?

Two girls are sharing a pizza in the courtyard, picking off tiny pieces of the topping

between sips of Diet Coke and puffs on their cigarettes. A group of tradies to my right sits

around a large table, maybe six or seven jugs of beer on the tabletop. The group laughs as one

of them captures a pigeon on the ground with both hands before swinging his arms around

rapidly. When he releases the pigeon it tries to fly straight up in the air, but bombs back down

before going up once more, trying to reorient itself. The men laugh hysterically at the dizzy

bird and I notice that while the girls eating the pizza pull vaguely disgusted faces, they can’t

help themselves from smiling too, amused by the tradie’s antics regardless of their stance on

animal cruelty. I look at Brent and say, -I don’t expect James to stop hanging out with

Stephen. Not on my account. I never did. They’re best friends, after all.

-Yeah, but, I mean, whose side is he –

39

-There are no sides.

This is something Brent does not seem to be able to grasp. I. Do. Not. Care. Gadge

says, -Well, sorry to bring it up all the same. Just thought you guys should know in case you

saw them later. Speaking of laterz, you want anything for tonight, Ev?

I tell Gadge I’ll take two for tonight and that I want another couple for later. Gadge

raises his eyebrows and asks, -Later? Doing a little solo partying at the mansion, are we, bro?

A little Risky Business-style hangen out? What do you do all day, anyway? ’Cause I’m

imagining you are literally just dancing around in your underwear.

I feel like I have been caught out, like Gadge and Brent know about Mark somehow. I

just shrug and nod. Gadge doesn’t really care about an answer, though, and when he goes off

to the bathroom to put the four biccies in a bag for me I feel relieved. When he comes back

he slides the bag into my top pocket and I hand him one hundred and twenty dollars. One of

the tradies eyes us off. He picks up his glass of beer from the table, snorts before taking a

swallow.

Brent looks at me. He’s tapping the rim of his pint glass. Finally, agitated, he says, -I

don’t wanna go on and on, but you really don’t care that James and Steve are still hangin’ out

despite what happened?

-Honestly, not really.

-Okay. But, like, you haven’t, like, forgiven him already? Have you?

Brent’s eyes are pleading for me to say no and confirm his need to hate Stephen for

wrecking the band. He hasn’t forgiven Stephen yet and so, by that logic, neither should I.

Brent’s anger needs justification, I suppose. To placate him, I tell him, -Well, no. I guess not.

-Yeah, well, you shouldn’t. I mean, not ever, man. Fuck that guy.

40

-

-Another round?

Brent waves his empty beer glass at the table and Gadge and I look to our almost-

finished drinks and nod before Brent heads back inside for three more. By the time he returns

with the three frothing pints I’ve come to a conclusion: on this side of town, with my high

school friends, I’m only going through the motions. I’m not sure how much longer I can play

at keeping up appearances like this. It won’t be long before I end up back in the North with

Mark. Whatever it is here, this culture – if you can call it that – it’s not for me. It only works

to propel my self-loathing. It only pushes me closer to oblivion. With Mark it’s different. At

least this is what I’m telling myself today. Tomorrow it’s likely to change. I may end up

stuck in this perpetual loop for the rest of my life, divided between North and South.

My thoughts are broken by Brent, who is looking directly at me when he says, -You

know, you, me and James should get back together soon, man. You know, have a jam or

something, try and get things back where they were. It’s been too long.

Brent has this blank expression on his face that I can’t decipher. Nor can I fathom

why he would think it’s a good idea to get the band together without a lead singer, or why he

thinks either James or I would actually want to. I, especially, don’t want to. Brent seems to

have forgotten how competitive things got and how out of control we were once we started

playing the better gigs. To me, the break up was inevitable; Stephen’s actions were just an

impetus, possibly just an opportunity to give us something we may have all secretly wanted.

But in hindsight, for Brent, that’s not the way it was. For him, we lost something big and

there’s only one person to blame. But hindsight is bullshit because memory is a warped,

mutated thing. Memories aren’t real in any sense, they’re just what we choose to construct.

-Well, whaddaya think?

41

-About?

-Jeez, Ev. About having a jam. Getting together.

-Yeah. Sorry. Um, it’s an idea, I guess. Maybe see what James thinks first.

-Yeah, you’re right. I’ll check with James first. I’m sure he’ll be down, though. You

are, right?

-Yeah. I mean, if James is.

-Cool.

With this, Brent sinks back into his chair, pint of beer in hand, seemingly relaxed

now. North. South. East. West. It makes no difference. I’m alone, I realise, surrounded by a

legion of same people who don’t understand a thing. I know everything before it even plays

out. I know where tonight is going and how it ends. When I look up to the sky over Prahran,

the late summer sun is finally beginning to fade out into night and only shuddering bass, blue

pills and lines of rak can save me now.

42

JAMES:

Walk into the bottle shop on the corner of Little Bourke and Russell Street in Chinatown,

where Stephen and I buy a six-pack of UDLs before retreating into the laneway behind the

Exford to drink them with the desire to establish a cheap drunk before paying entrance fees

and then the club prices for booze once we enter Third, and shotgunning several cans of the

girlie mixers is a way for us to elevate the steady drunk we’ve been working on all afternoon

at Percy’s and then St Jerome’s. Sometimes you work on a steady beer drunk and you get

drowsy and you need your mood to elevate if you’re going to dance and keep up with what’s

going on elsewhere, and so over the years we’ve established this routine of smashing alcohol

really quick because it’s cheaper and easier sometimes too than chasing down lines of rak,

and it can be fun – a bit of a game, a competition.

Behind the Exford Stephen dumps the bag of cans on the ground, pulls out two UDLs

and throws one to me before taking out his key chain and selecting the bulkiest one on the

ring. I dig into my own pocket and do likewise, find a bulky fat key and proceed to pierce the

aluminium at the base of the can, and with both cans pierced Stephen and I look at one

another before chanting ‘three, two, one’ after which, in one fluid motion, we put the cans to

our lips, the hole at the base aimed into our mouths, snap back the opener at the top which

releases a jet of sugary alcohol into our bodies, and suck back the can’s entire contents in one

go. There’s some scientific explanation as to why the can doesn’t empty its contents onto the

ground after you pierce it, something about built up pressure when you perform the

procedure, but I don’t know, all I understand is the feeling in those seconds after you pop the

top, how your lungs feel flooded like you’re drowning in booze. The ritual isn’t complete,

though, until you crush the aluminium in your hand and discard your empty can post-haste,

and so Stephen and I follow suit, on auto-pilot, crush the cans and discard the empties onto

the cobblestones.

43

Talk about footy for a while before lining up the next one, piercing a hole at the bases

of the second set of cans, and after we have them ready to go some random walks down the

lane and watches us face off against each other, and the dude is clapping his hands together

by the time we crush and discard the second set, laughing his arse off hysterically and saying,

‘fuck yeah. shotgun brothers’ and I get a sense of the guy instantly, pass an eye over him real

quick and take in the face streaked with lines, making him look a lot older than he probably

is, a craggy-faced thirty-something-year-old who could pass for fifty with the wear and tear

from years of using. The man’s wearing runners and baggy jeans and a shit skating hoodie

that reminds me of the early naughties,

of riding bikes with a local mate named Moose out to the back blocks of Fawkner to get a

glimpse of the brothels in the industrial district, finding a brothel and getting too scared to

ring the bell then panicking after Moose pushed the button and riding away quickly and

ending up riding around in the big cemetery out that way where I knew I had some family

buried but not where, not knowing the specific location of their plots and not really caring

either.

Man takes out a durrie, lights up before offering us each a smoke and I accept one

because I’m dying for it, but when I do Stephen gives me this look like I shouldn’t engage,

which only makes me want to all the more, because I can tell Stephen’s probably a little bit

scared by the unpredictability, and because Stephen hasn’t had to ride the Upfield every night

for years where after a while you get used to the baggy-jeaned chromers and where I’ve sat

perfectly rigid and still while a cat fight broke out in the aisle next to me and two Muslim

girls punched each other until the carriage floor was spattered in their blood, and nobody

came to stop it.

44

Man asks, ‘what are youse cunts up’ta tonight?’ and I say, ‘not much, man. yourself?’

and man responds, ‘getting straight, bro’ before laughing and drawing heavily on his

cigarette, then adds ‘getten me head right - buges all afternoon, smashen brews all evenen’.

Notice the man’s teeth, how fucked they look, as he asks Stephen and me if we don’t

have a UDL for him and I tell him we only have two left. Man says, ‘tell yas what: hook us

up with a drink and I’ll share the good times’ and I ask what he’s holding and he says,

‘wouldn’t you like to fucken know. you a cop?’ and I ask back, ‘do we look like police?’

Man laughs through fucked teeth and says, ‘just fucken with ya, man. relax. come on

and get me in on the shotties with yas, I got some mad shit to share.’

Look to Stephen and shrug, not seeing the harm because I’m pissed, but wondering if

Fucked Teeth won’t pull a knife on Stephen when I leave them in the lane together to get the

cans, but also not caring enough to make a good decision, so that I say, ‘alright’ and stamp

out my smoke on the blue stone and head back around to the bottle-o for another four cans.

And when I come back into the lane with the drinks it’s all fine, because Stephen and Fucked

Teeth are getting along telling war stories, and so I pass out the cans so that the three of us

each stand with two UDLs lined up at our feet, and we talk for a while longer so that Fucked

Teeth introduces himself as Sean, and then we all pick up another can and slam a round

together – Sean’s first and Stephen’s and my third.

Ask Sean again what he’s holding and he looks at me, begins to grin, and in this

instant it becomes apparent just how high he’s flying, but I don’t care because Sean’s got the

jitters just like me, don’t care because I’m an insomniac drunk anyway and it suits me perfect

that Sean might just be the end of us tonight, embrace the TOTAL LIABILITY stamp that I

imagine branded across his chest. Sean says, ‘you lads look like you get around. you boys

45

ever smoked a bit of crank before?’ and I say, ‘ice, you mean? nah, that’s meant to be fucken

way heavy, we’ve heard’.

Sean is here to ease all our concerns, says, ‘nah, nah, man, not at all. I started on it a

little while back, ’bout a month ago. it’s just like racking up, but way smoother. I don’t even

do rack no more now. you boys feel like getting tweaked, or what?’

Sean talks about crystal like he’s talking about baked goods – a thought: Sean is a

baked good – but then part of me figures he’s right, part of me says speed is speed, meth

meth, don’t matter whether you smoke it, snort it, or ingest, don’t matter the form either,

really. And then I’m looking to Stephen whose eyes are dull but eager, like a girl when she

realises you’ve been going out long enough and it’s her job to suck you off, and the phrase

time’s up springs to mind for some reason, and then Stephen shrugs, and looking at Stephen

makes me kind of mad, makes me want to push the envelope, because, after all, that’s the

game, so I say to Sean, ‘absolutely, man. but, like, it’s cool if you just wanted a drink,

though. no pressure’ and Sean is grinning again when he says, ‘nah, man. I’m all about

returning the hospitality’.

Further up the lane from where we’re standing is another pathway for where trucks

can back in and off load goods and so we walk up and into this area where we can’t be seen

by anybody and Sean takes out a pipe and loads it. Pipe looks scungy, discoloured from use,

and I get worried thinking about where it’s been and Sean’s fucked up teeth, so that when he

lights the pipe for me I make sure not to press my lips to it, inhale the white smoke drifting

up out of the glass tube, pull the smoke into me like I did with the UDLs, pull it in like I’m

holding a loved one tight at the scene of a car accident, embrace the drug, say I need you, and

within seconds I’m outside myself, uplifted by a rush of energy that causes me to pull faces

and pump fists into air like King Shit.

46

Sean’s loving the scene of my enjoyment, says, ‘whaddid I say, bro? fucken heaven,

ey?’ and I tell him, ‘fuck yeah. shit, that’s good, man’ and then Stephen is taking his turn

before Sean is finishing off the small rock we’ve burnt through, and then we’re doing our last

shotgun and Sean’s asking, ‘so, where’re we off to next?’

I tell Sean we’re going to Third World and he asks if he can tag along and Stephen

looks at me and tells me with his eyes that that’s not a good idea, that we need to cut Sean out

now before he’s able to cause real damage, but I make up my mind quick and say, ‘yeah,

sure. but man, look, we both really wanna get on that pipe tonight. you got any more?’ and

Sean responds with the affirmative, says, ‘fuck yeah, I do,’ so I ask him if he’s ever been to

Third before, this plan starting to form in my head, and he says, ‘nah’.

I say to Sean, ‘okay, well, sometimes they can be a bit uptight there though, you

know? I’ve seen bouncers pat people down before’ and Sean looks heaps surprised to hear

this and asks, ‘for real?’ and I continue on, tell him, ‘yeah. look, with what you’re wearing,

man – and I don’t mean to sound rude – but I get this feeling like they might single you out

with that hoodie on.’

Sean removes his jumper, proceeds to tie it around his waist, saying, ‘I just won’t

wear it in then, man’ but I tell him, ‘you still have it on you, but. we need a better strategy,

you know? look, Sean, I realise you don’t know us all that well, but what if I was, like, to

hold what you’re holding for you, just until we got inside?’ and as I’m saying this I can see

Stephen looking at me hard, beginning to figure it out for himself, and I feel if we make eye

contact I might fuck it up and laugh or say something wrong, so I just keep looking at Sean

and push ahead and say, ‘the bouncers actually know us ’cause we go to this place all the

time, man, so I could take what you have and they won’t check me, and then you and Stephen

47

can come through together a little after me, yeah? that way we won’t be ditching you, you’ll

still be with Steve, only I’ll be inside with the gear, you know?’

The cogs inside Sean’s head are working overtime while he processes this, and when

he starts to nod I know that all he needs is a little push, a tiny arm twist, so I add, ‘come on,

man, I just bought you a drink. you’re a good guy. we want to party with you. I’d never rip

you off, man. anyway, you look like you could kick my arse. I wouldn’t fuck with ya’ and on

hearing this Sean’s face lights up because he likes this notion, thinks he could kick my arse,

says, ‘alright, boys. sounds like a plan.’

48

RUTH:

-Have you seen my purse?

I can hear Tanya in the kitchen, banging the cupboard doors open and shut. I know

where her purse is. It is in the same spot she always leaves it/loses it. I walk out of my

bedroom and into the hallway and locate the green leather purse bulging with bills on the

shelf of the antique hallstand she bought three weeks ago. I collect it and carry it to her in the

kitchen. -Here you go.

-Oh, good. Thanks. Where was it?

-On that thing you bought so that you could leave your purse somewhere you

wouldn’t lose it.

I poke out my tongue and pull a face. Tanya snaps back, -Well, aren’t you just a little

genius then. It must be all that uni and all them books. Oh, wait, ’cause you are doing Arts,

right? Tell me how that’s useful again?

I laugh. -You know that’s not why I’m studying.

-Yeah, you’re studying because you don’t have to. Sense much?

A car horn blasts outside the door before I can come up with a response, not that I

really have one. I’m not sure why I fall into the trap so easily. Tanya doesn’t want to discuss

my going to uni; she just wants to stir me up. She says, -That’ll be the taxi. Can you go out

there and tell him to wait? I’ve gotta do my lipstick.

I nod and begin to walk down the corridor to the cab out front as Tanya bends forward

to find her reflection in the giant mirror hung up on the living room wall, pursing her lips

together. Since this morning Tanya has metamorphosed from the slob on the couch into a

model clad in cocktail dress and stilettos: her teeth noticeably white, her black hair perfectly

49

straightened and shining, her symmetrical face clean and vibrant, with only a hint of make-

up, her eyeliner drawing you into those large brown eyes, her lips pink and moist.

At Tanya’s behest I’m wearing a pair of Tanya’s highest heels now too and as I make

my way out to the taxi – along the footpath that leads down to the front gate and across the

pavement to the waiting car – I’m overly cautious, like a person walking along hot coals. The

driver gives me this mixed look when I open the back door and slide across the leather of the

backseat to leave room for Tanya – part impatience and part arousal when he takes in my

exposed knees and calves and ankles. Despite no longer running my legs have miraculously

retained their shape. I tell him that my friend is coming out in a second and that we’re just

going down Chapel Street to Windsor, and he nods and comments, -A big night tonight.

Much partying.

-Maybe not too much. I don’t know.

-Always big night. Always drink.

-I guess.

-Australians always drink.

-Too much probably, I think.

-Yes, yes. Very much.

After Tanya gets into the taxi and closes the door the car moves south to Windsor, a

ride that takes much longer than it should because of the heavy, slow-moving traffic. Most of

the cars on Chapel Street don’t seem to be going anywhere – the suped-up Holdens and

BMW four-wheel-drives and Mecredes convertibles are on display, all piloted by

directionless drivers, some filled with passengers who jeer out the windows. Tanya and I, in

our taxi, are part of the parade now too and as we pass a rumbling old muscle car the driver,

50

wearing aviator sunglasses, the lenses like mirrors, wolf whistles at us in the back seat. Tanya

laughs. -What a loser.

Almost twenty minutes later we get out of the cab two suburbs over. Tanya pays the

fare and I concentrate on walking my heels across the street to Distance where Maddie is

waiting for us, sitting in a booth toward the back of the restaurant wearing a sunhat and

looking a little dusty after last night. Her nose has been recently pierced, a harsh red dot

where metal meets flesh, and after we all exchange hugs and hellos I watch as she brings her

index finger and thumb to her nose to swivel the silver ring in place, rotating it through the

new hole in her face. Tanya says, -You’ll get an infection if you keep touching it.

-I know. Sorry. I’ve gotta stop doing that. But it’s just sooo much fun to play with.

Whaddayou think, Ruth? Are you gonna get one soon?

-I dunno. Maybe. I’m still undecided.

Looking at the red dot on Maddie’s nose, I have decided: too many girls have them

now, I don’t want an infection, I’m not going to get one. Tanya says, -So many people can’t

pull them off, but it looks great on you, Mads.

-Thanks.

A waiter comes to our table and asks if we’re ready. Cocktails are ordered, along with

the first round of tequila shots. Cigarettes are lit. Tanya announces that I have

finally/officially moved in and Maddie mock-applauds this news, and when the shots arrive

we do them to commemorate this, raising the glasses above our heads as Tanya toasts, -To

divorced parents, new roommates and fun times ahead.

-Cheers.

-Cheers.

51

The tequila burns on the way down and I picture the face I must pull as I drink the

fiery liquid back, eyes squished shut. Maddie doesn’t pull a face, nor does Tanya, they knock

their shots back with aplomb and I feel this tiny, dumb insecurity inside myself over this

mostly insignificant difference between us. Tanya says, -Okay, so, let’s have some cocktails

and do some shots, but let’s also get some food because I don’t want to show up at Callum’s

tonight completely wrecked before the party even starts.

Tanya waves for the waiter again and orders food for the table to share. As Tanya

starts speaking with the waiter, Maddie stifles a snigger. She rolls her eyes before looking at

me and making this funny gesture with her lips, pushing them out at me. Her face says: I’ll

tell you later. In private. I nod at her, understanding what it is she wants to discuss anyway:

Tanya and Callum. Since high school Tanya’s deluded herself into thinking that every time

she sucked Callum’s prick – in every room of his family’s holiday house in Portsea and on

the beach and on his father’s schooner – that it actually meant something, that there’s

something real between them. It’s tired. But still, I don’t appreciate Maddie being so

blatantly bitchy right under Tanya’s nose, not when we’ll be dining and drinking on her

money tonight like always. I find myself asking whose side I’m on – Tanya versus Maddie.

It’s a bit of a theme lately – Mum versus Dad, girls against boys, friends against family, my

potential versus what I’m becoming.

It’s not long before the waiter returns with Tanya’s order for the table: three

cosmopolitans, corn chips, guacamole and a chorizo quesadilla. Everything in Melbourne is

Mexican right now. Either that or Southern Barbecue – sliders, pulled pork, beef brisket – or

salted caramel–flavoured everything else. I don’t like many of the trends – the cupcake shops,

the macarons, the raw-vegan/gender-neutral/gluten-free/fair-trade gingerbread ‘people’. I was

perfectly happy with lamingtons, scones-jam-and-cream, lattes, cups of tea, and the

52

occasional roast lunch. I miss the comfort foods. But there’s nothing comfortable about

anything in Melbourne anymore, it seems.

Neither Maddie nor Tanya really touch the food, except for a few of the corn chips.

Instead they just gulp down the cosmos and order more. Maddie picks open the quesadilla

with her fingernail, but when she sees all of the cheese come dripping out of it she declares it

to be too fatty and too greasy for any of us and places her serviette over the food, pushing the

plate to the edge of the table to be collected by the waiter. She says, -I hate how everywhere

you go, guacamole is just avocado all smushed up. Like, hello, there’s meant to be other

things in there, too, I’m pretty sure.

I want to be numb. If I can’t be on the couch eating chocolate then I want to be numb.

Changing the subject I ask, -Has anyone seen Gadge this week?

-Ruthie, don’t you remember? We bumped into him at Tricycle last night. You were

talking to him for, like, ages.

-Oh, yeah. I forgot, I guess. Anyway, do we still have anything?

-What do you think?

Maddie is slyly showing off the contents of her handbag to me beneath the table:

receipts, chicken fillets, condoms, mascara, lipstick, tampons and a baggie of pills. But Tanya

objects suddenly, saying, -I don’t think that’s such a good idea guys. I mean, come on, not at

Callum’s place. He’ll go ballistic. He’s already been in enough shit this year, can you

imagine if he got caught for, like, drug possession or something?

-He can find his own way into trouble. It’s not like we’re going to force them down

his throat or be really obvious about it or anything. We won’t even tell him about it.

53

-Yeah, Tan. Why’s he even throwing a party if he’s not meant to be anyway? He’s not

your boyfriend. It’s not your job to protect him.

Tanya covers the hurt look on her face pretty well. I can tell Maddie enjoyed throwing

that particular javelin. Tanya rolls her eyes and flicks her head, like she’s flicking off the

comment. She says, -Fine. Whatevs. Just be fucking discreet about it, okay?

-Of course.

After another round of shots we pile into a cab on Chapel and ride over to Southbank.

Tanya presses the buttons outside Callum’s building and we’re buzzed into a foyer – marble

floor, a fat female security guard behind a desk looking bored, who sighs when she looks at

the three of us – that we cross before passing through more glass doors and entering an

elevator.

Callum is standing in the living room of his apartment when we arrive. He is

surrounded by a bunch of young guys wearing tight t-shirts, muscles bulging in sleeves; one

of them, with bleached white hair, looks wired on something – speed or steroids or both.

Callum’s eyes light up when he spots Tanya, Maddie and I making our way towards him. He

says, -Hey, girls. Glad you made it.

The boys huddled around Callum look us up and down as Tanya and Callum hug,

pecking one another on the cheek. The boy with white hair enjoys the glimpse of Tanya’s

underwear and thigh as she stands on tippy-toe to kiss Callum, her cocktail-dress riding up.

Reflexively I reach down and tug at the hem of my skirt.

-Ruth. How are we?

Callum extends an arm my way and I take his hand, which is big and smoother than it

should be, and shake it. Fortunately he bends forward for me and I kiss him on the cheek.

54

-So, you girls want a drink? Yeah?

-Yes please.

-Alright. Whaddaya havin’?

I look around the apartment, taking it in properly for the first time since I arrived,

while Tanya tells Callum we want cocktails and definitely not beer. She stresses this point,

playing up the cutesy girly-girl she has the habit of becoming around him. Her statement gets

a laugh from the other boys, who deride her with some half-hearted booing. I notice the other

people in the apartment: a couple of girls who emerge from the mouth of a dark corridor to

my right; a couple more standing with another boy in the kitchen, drinking Coronas and

picking at what looks like a cheese platter. Music blasts through the apartment out of a couple

of giant speakers the size of the amps you see on stage at Big Day Out. I look back at the

mouth of the corridor once more before Tanya calls me into the kitchen and asks if I want a

vodka base or a gin base in the martinis she’s making.

-I don’t know. Whatever you prefer.

-Vodka, then.

From Callum’s apartment I can see the city. I watch as darkness envelopes the

skyline, the spire on the Arts Centre flashing its multitude of colours.

After a few drinks, the apartment fills up with people. It feels over-crowded and alive,

like being in the bowels of a nightclub. Someone has dimmed the lights and people are

dancing everywhere. Tanya drags Callum out into the centre of the living-room-cum-dance-

floor, pawing over him as she has done all evening. She wiggles her arse into his crotch,

bending over, drunk. I watch from the kitchen with Maddie who whispers into my ear, -This

is so embarrassing for her. Now you’re living with her, you should try and straighten her out

55

about him, you know? Set the record straight? I drop enough hints, but she just doesn’t seem

to get it.

-What can I do? She’s always been like this.

-It’s getting worse, though. She’s obsessed. Haven’t you noticed the way she’s been

lately?

The ways she’s been? No, I haven’t noticed a thing.

-And all that money. Where do you think that comes from?

-What are you talking about? Tanya’s always had money. Her dad pays for

everything.

-God, you’re so naïve, Ruth.

The boy with the bleached white hair leans in between Maddie and me, placing two

blue shot glasses on the counter in front of us. He smiles and says, -I’m Troy. Troy Van. You

girls need to drink up. Come on now, knock ’em back.

Maddie does her shot without hesitating, but my mind races back to last night. I ask, -

What is it?

-Good times and great classic hits. Your friend is killing you, by the way.

I do the shot. I ask Troy how he knows Callum and he says he has a mate who lives in

the apartment building on the other side and a few floors down. He tells me the friend and

Callum are mates somehow. One of Troy’s friends, who I had seen him with when I first

arrived, races across the apartment with a video camera in hand. He laughs loudly over the

din of the music, disappearing back and forth between the dancing bodies. The boy sticks the

camera in the faces of a bunch of girls dancing in the apartment and continues to laugh.

56

Within minutes I start to feel very heavy. Troy tries to teach Maddie and me a

drinking game called Fuck the Bus, but between our lack of coordination, our level of

intoxication, and the fact that everyone is already drinking at random anyway, the

introduction of this game is lost on us. Troy yells at me, -You wanna dance?

-Not really. I feel kind of funny. I’m really tired.

-Oh, come on. Let’s have a dance.

Troy and some of his other friends force Maddie and me out into the living room with

everybody else, practically lifting us off our feet and carrying us out. I have to lean against

Maddie to stay upright and quickly become scared in the dim light, the sound of the techno

bass exploding through my chest, my entire body. I can feel my heart rate elevate, or so I

think, this giant wave of panic coming over me, filling my organs up with dread. I can see the

blue shot glass in my head. To my left, only a few feet away, Tanya is hanging off Callum,

squealing and giggling like a child. When I look to my right, I can once again see the dark

mouth of the corridor. I can feel my feet dragging across the floor toward it, Troy’s muscular,

calloused hands pinching my skin as he grips me beneath my armpits. I want to shout out, but

in the chaos of Callum’s living room I’ve become like a raft in the middle of the Indian

Ocean, helpless and alone. But, then, amazingly, everything stops. The music shuts out and

the lights are flicked on and all that I can hear is Callum’s booming voice yelling, -Are you

fucken serious, mate? I invite you here and you go and fucken act like this? Huh? Do you

think I’m a cunt?

-

-Answer me. Am I a cunt to you?

Callum’s index finger is extended and poised a millimetre from the nose of the boy

with the video camera. Callum’s neck bulges with veins as he demands the boy hand over the

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camera. The boy does, reluctantly. Everyone has stopped to watch as Callum ejects the

memory stick from the video camera, pockets it, and takes a moment to snap the monitor off

the side of the camera, like tearing off the wing of a bird. Callum dumps the camera on the

floor with a thud and says, -Leave it there. Now, you and your mates need to fuck off.

Maddie and I stagger towards a couch, free of the grasp of Troy and his mates. When

I get to the plush leather and feel my body sink into it, that’s when I tell myself I can relax.

But I don’t stop feeling afraid, not for a long time after the boys leave the apartment and the

music is turned back on, the lights dimmed once more. In my mind I am on a mound of dirt in

a lion enclosure – my vulnerability like this constant dream/nightmare. I look at Maddie on

the couch beside me for a while. She seems happy, blissed out like always. Oblivious. The

way the dim light hits her head it makes her hair extensions obvious. Her bleached teeth,

hairless limbs, curving eyebrows and tan are all fake. You’re made of plastic, I think. I

imagine that in me there might be a billion tiny Barbies turning the knobs and stoking the

fire. Imagine them all melting in that fire. Then watch as Callum takes Tanya by the hand,

yanking her arm and pulling her, roughly, away from the dance floor and down the mouth of

that dark corridor. I don’t want to imagine what’s down there. I don’t want to know. I just

want to be numb.

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JAMES:

March south down Russell Street then left onto Flinders Lane before turning right down

AC/DC Lane and past Cherry Bar to Third World at the bottom of the gradient where I join

the queue outside the club a few minutes ahead of Stephen and Sean, who hang back and

smoke a cigarette by one of the bins in the alleyway, the baggie of meth and the glass pipe in

my pockets filling me with mild trepidation.

Arrive at the head of the queue and tell the bouncer, some guy I’ve never seen before,

that he needs to look out for a dude wearing a navy Elwood hoodie tied around his waist, say,

‘he’s standing near a guy I know back there, the guy wearing the Chicago Bulls hat. he’s

cool, though. but I saw that other guy with the hoodie and he was in the lane behind the

Exford smoking ice when I was coming over here, like, twenty minutes ago. that guy’s

fucken crazy, man’ and the bouncer looks at me with appreciation and says, ‘thanks, dude.

the more crazies we can keep out the better.’

Wait inside the door of the club after paying entrance and listen out for the argument

Sean gets into with the bouncers outside when he arrives at the front of the queue, and hear

Stephen swear black and blue that he doesn’t know Sean before calling him a CRAZY FUCKED-

TEETH METH-HEAD, and Sean screams obscenities into the night – at Stephen and at the

bouncers, going into a blind meth rage until the bouncers tell him to get fucked and make

threats and eventually drag him away from the entrance. And after Stephen gets let inside he

wraps me up in an arm while grinning broadly and exclaims, ‘you’re fucked, mate. that was

insane’ and I say, ‘worked though, didn’t it? come on, follow me.’

Shoulder our way through the throngs of dancing people, all gyrating their bodies to

whatever shit/Aussie/electro crap is popular right now – The Presets or Midnight Juggernauts

or Cut Copy or Pnau or Empire of the Sun – but it doesn’t really matter because it all sounds

59

the fucking same anyway, and then we’re in the men’s and in a stall where we deliberate over

what to do with the ice, because under the fluorescent glow of the bathroom lights the glass

pipe looks even worse and more scary than it did in the lane behind the Exford. In the

bathroom the pipe reveals itself as this scungy, ugly DOOM DEVICE that makes me think that if

I put my lips anywhere near it I risk contracting Hep C, maybe even something worse, and a

rush of nausea floods in when I think back to the lane and Sean’s fucked teeth.

Stephen suggests we crush up the crystals and snort them, maybe even pack the ends

of a few cigarettes with the stuff and smoke it that way, and I agree to try and begin to smash

up the crystals, and as I do I notice the graffiti on the cubicle wall that reads GADGE DRINKS

DREGS and underneath someone has added AND GIVES LOUSY HEAD, and when I draw

Stephen’s attention to the graffiti he laughs and says, ‘you’ve heard the rumours, haven’t

you?’ and I’m forced to think of the rumours I’ve heard about Gadge that are currently doing

the rounds of the club circuit –

- that he once drank vials of amyl nitrate while laughing hysterically before losing

control of his bowels

- that he has been seen with shat pants on more than one occasion after drinking

- that he sometimes crushes codeine tablets into his pints of lager

- that he fucked a Somalian girl in the arse while she was on her period in a

bathroom stall at Revolver

- that there is a photo of his pubes covered in blood and excrement taken outside

Revolver after the incident, of which I am yet to see proof as it hasn’t been texted

to me

- that he’s friends with a boy in Camberwell who identifies as a werebear

– and I think to myself, Gadge the dreg drinker. Yuck.

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The fact of the matter is Gadge doesn’t need to be scouting clubs for deserted tables to

drink leftovers from, doesn’t need to be selling googs either, not with a doctor for an old man

and a solicitor for a mum. But Gadge is here to play GANGSTA – he’s pure rich cunt, pure

Idon’tgiveafuckcauseIdon’thaveta mentality, flying in the face of all that’s sacred or logical

or moral, not that I’m really one for morality. But Gadgey … he just doesn’t quite add up.

Then again, does it really matter who’s who and what’s what? Maybe trying to categorise and

sort and order is the very thing getting me down, and maybe I’m a plastic scrap too, clogging

the stream just like the rest of them.

After Stephen and I try a couple of things with the ice I’m not feeling the high I want,

tell myself I need to lift – higher and more deeper until I’m all the way through to the other

side; and that’s when I return to the pipe and think fuck it and ready myself to face down the

risk, because the risk is always worth it in the end. And it’s sometime in the early hours of the

morning when Stephen catches me standing in the smokers’ trying to hold my mouth as far

from the glass stem as I can while I light the base and eat up the white cloud drifting out,

because I’ve lost control and no longer fucking care.

Stephen comes over to me in the smokers’, snaking his body between the packed

crowd to get to me to tell me I’ve gone overboard like he always says, and because I can’t

stand it when cunts get preachy I tell him to mind his own and Stephen says, ‘fuck, mate,

you’re outta control. let’s go get a cab or something. let’s go home, man’ and I tell him, ‘if

you wanna go, then go. I’m stayen’ and that’s when Stephen tries to grab my arm to take the

pipe away.

I break his grip and shout, ‘let go a’me, ya fuck. I can do what I want’ and Stephen

gives me this hurt little dead-eyed look and says, ‘J, man, you’re being really aggressive. you

need to chill.’

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All I can hear is thudding bass for a while before Stephen starts in with the chatter and

says, ‘you know Brent and Ev are here?’ and I say, ‘nah. so what?’ and Stephen asks, ‘did

you know they were coming out tonight?’ which I think is a really weird question, and I tell

him, so there’s no confusion, ‘no. do you think I give a fuck they’re here?’

And then, from the corner of my eye, I spot them – Brent and Everett and Gadge too,

in his signature trench coat and bowler hat – as they walk through the bodies in the smokers’

to us where we all perform the same little head-flick/nod in acknowledgment of one another,

except for Stephen who is excluded from this by Brent and Everett, but not Gadge, who

shakes his hand, and Stephen becomes irritated by this real quick, annoyed that no one will

look him in the eye, so he turns to me and asks, ‘you coming or what?’

Look at Stephen and tell him, ‘nah, man, I’m gunna stay for a bit. I’ll catch you

tomorrow.’ This pisses Stephen off all the more, but I don’t care, don’t want to have to leave

Third with him so that he can bitch about the band to me in a cab home. He turns sharply and

exits, deliberately nudging Brent’s shoulder with his own as he brushes past out of the

smokers’. Gadge turns to me and asks, ‘what’s happening?’ and I ask him, ‘what does it look

like?’ and Brent asks what I’m on and I tell him that I’m blazed and flying high and I laugh

and Brent says, ‘bullshit, man. you look wired. hook us up,’ but I ignore him and turn to

Gadge instead, saying, ‘how’s business, Gadgey?’

Gadge says, ‘this place is always good for it’, then asks, ‘you need googs?’ I tell him,

‘nah, I’m good’ and he nods before saying he has to duck out to do the rounds and we all nod.

Turn to Everett and ask where he was today, but he seems to have no idea what I’m

talking about, so that I’m forced to clarify and, rephrasing the question, ask, ‘why weren’t

you at uni?’ Everett is blank and expressionless when he asks, ‘that was today? wait, how do

you know?’ I find it difficult to believe he really has zero idea what I’m talking about, but

62

say, ‘because we’re in fucking class together. you’re taking that writing course, yeah? the

second-year one?’

Everett just shrugs and I notice the beginnings of a moustache along his upper lip

where he’s deliberately avoided shaving, which only makes him look like a fag, and looking

at the ridiculous attempt at facial hair I have the urge to get higher. Suddenly the smokers’

seems too cramped – there are too many people – and I say, ‘I should probably head too. you

know, check on Stephen and that.’

Brent lights a cigarette and as the end catches light his neck illuminates momentarily

in the dark club and I notice that his neck is red from sunburn. He sighs, this pained

expression on his face as he looks to me and says, ‘you shouldn’t be hanging around with him

anymore, J. he’s bad fucking news.’ I get the feeling Brent hates Stephen a lot more than any

of us, including Everett, who’s still just wearing the same blank look when Gadge returns out

of nowhere and slaps him across the shoulder. I can’t stand Brent telling me who I should be

spending my time with. Another preacher, I think. Where do they get the balls?

Gadge exclaims, ‘man, that was mental. everyone’s buying up tonight’ and I ask,

‘how much you make?’ to which Gadge responds, ‘trade secrets, bro’ as he winks at me, and

I make up my mind and say, ‘I’ve gotta go. maybe catch you later, yeah? Ev, see you next

week?’

Everett nods and says, ‘okay … yeah, cool’ and I wonder if he gets it; think fuck it.

I’m just gunna get out of my mind.

63

CHAPTER 2

JAMES:

Wake up to the first strands of light touching the surface of the murky brown Yarra water

and feel my body like a lump of ice, enveloped by the bitter cold that’s driven up from the

ground and the wet blades of grass beneath it overnight. Then realising that my legs are

soaked through with moisture and that this moisture isn’t the dew from the lawn, but is in fact

my own piss. I can’t bring myself to stand at first and so instead look around and attempt to

locate myself, try to find something familiar, a landmark I recognise, but I’m in the middle of

a public park that I’ve never been in before; shut my eyes tightly and begin the process of

pulling myself together. Head begins to clear through internal fog and when I open my eyes

again they adjust quickly to the dappled light of dawn and I look out across the Yarra where,

on the other side of the water, I can see the casino now, and I wonder what it was last night

that brought me so far west along the river.

Roll over and get on all fours and then into a crouching position, then drive up

through my heels, just like how I was taught to perform a squat or a deadlift, driving my body

up into the crisp air to stand. When I look behind me there is a giant white bird made of stone

staring down upon me – this big horrific looking thing sitting perched in judgment. It’s like a

seagull or something and I imagine the man or woman who sculpted the bird, how they

intended it to be there for me when I came to. Imagine this bird means something – probably

64

some spirit of the Dreaming, emblematic of good things to lost peoples, but to me it’s just a

big seagull attempting to penetrate me with its contempt, so I ignore it and look away again.

Feel weak and dizzy and sick and double over suddenly, gagging on nothing but the

morning air, and expel a small amount of spittle but not the giant heave of vomit that I

thought was coming. Imagine I probably expelled all that was inside me at some point last

night in a laneway, but I’ve no idea; everything after being at Third with Stephen is a blank.

As I’m doubled over I notice my hand, my left one, is swollen and bruised – red and black-

purple, fingers puffy – and looking at it a searing pain registers, a sudden stab that makes me

cry out. I go to flex my fingers but the pain only worsens and I have to suspect that it’s been

broken somehow. I may have finally drifted out to a point beyond the breakers where no help

can find me. I reach into my pocket and extract the glass pipe from last night and walk to a

nearby bin and dump it before setting my mind to the task of finding a pathway back to

Flinders.

Take the tram up Swanston Street from the station, the only passenger on board, up past the

tall buildings – past David Jones, the Bourke Street mall, Melbourne Central, past the

universities and around the corner onto Elgin and then left onto Lygon and past the flats, the

commission housing, the cemetery, try holding my breath but I can never make it ’cause it’s

so big, filled with old gravestones and dead colonists, and then past the cottages in Carlton

and across Brunswick Road and into East Brunswick where everything is changing – the new

bars and cafes and restaurants, becoming Chapel Street, becoming like everywhere else, until

I ask myself what’s the difference? and who even cares?

Arrive home and mum is in the kitchen making coffee with the espresso/pod machine

from Aldi that John got her for Christmas, which cost John eighty bucks, and I know this

65

because mum was insistent on knowing the price, and because since the discovery of the

eighty-dollar price-tag she hasn’t stopped marvelling at it, saying things like, ‘and you know

there’s people out there that pay thousands for a coffee machine. it’s just branding, that’s all

they’re paying for. I mean, how much better could they possibly get?’ much to my sister’s

and my chagrin.

Sister walks into kitchen the exact same moment I do – long hair bed-dishevelled,

tank top on with a pair of yellow cotton pyjama shorts with penguins all over, bare feet flesh

smacking on tiles – and takes one look at me and bursts out laughing, saying, ‘whoa, look at

you. you look fucked, Jim’ (the only person who calls me Jim) and mum gasps at the sight of

me and takes a deep breath and then asks the room in a composed/completely-not-composed-

beneath-the-surface kind of way, ‘would anyone like a coffee?’ and sister says, ‘oooh, yeah,

make us one, would ya?’ and mum looks to me and I nod, sliding my body up onto a stool at

the kitchen counter where nobody ever seems to sit for some reason.

Bring coffee cup up to lips after mum places the steaming black brew before me and

my hands begin to shake. Inside, stomach is just churning-gurgling/gurgling-churning, and I

notice the concerned look on mum’s face and the way her lips are tightly drawn and think

that perhaps there’s a question there on those lips of hers, but if so she doesn’t ask it, and

instead she looks down to assess the broken skin on the outside of her little toe where it rubs

against the inside of her shoe when she’s working. Sister either doesn’t read the situation

properly or doesn’t care about the silent dialogue mum and I are having and how pissed off

mum is with me again and instead begins to make all the noise in the world that she knows

how after draining her coffee in large, quick gulps, starting up singing some dumb pop song

at the top of her voice, which aggravates mum so that she turns to sister and says sharply,

‘shush, would you?’ and sister goes quiet, and I want to know why she’s not at school today,

but not badly enough to ask.

66

Mum asks sister what she wants to do today and they decide on a trip to the fabric

shop on Nicholson Street to buy new patterns/materials for dresses followed by lunch

somewhere close by, probably the café in CERES, and after they make their plans mum asks

if I’d want to join them and I say, ‘yeah, okay. that sounds nice,’ which surprises even me at

hearing it, and I glimpse momentarily the strong, sad desire deep within myself for

connection and warmth, something akin to the closeness I resent mother and sister for sharing

in together. Sister says, ‘you want to come fabric shopping?’ and I shrug and ask, ‘why not?’

as mum begins shaking her head at sister, a command for her to stop pestering me that mum

probably doesn’t wish for me to notice, but one that’s impossible not to in the tiny kitchen.

67

RUTH:

Tanya pushes her way past a group of young skaters huddled together on the footpath on St

Kilda Road, their boards standing vertical, resting against their legs. I take in the jeans the

boys are wearing, how the fabric is a tighter fit than what skaters used to wear when I was

their age, when all the boys were listening to Eminem and watching Jackass and riding their

jeans low, checked boxer shorts billowing out the rear above the waist line. I used to like that

look. I used to think boys with lip rings were hot.

I trudge along behind Tanya and cross the road to the tram stop in bare feet. It’s ten-

thirty and it’s already too hot. There’s this stillness in the air that only ever seems to

accompany scorching hot days and I take note of it as I drop my heels onto the ground at the

tram stop and slide my aching feet back into the shoes. Today’s going to be a scorcher, I

think.

Tanya is looking up at the little tv/computer screen that gives the departure times for

the trams. She swivels around to face me saying, -There’s a 72 in eight minutes. Enough time

for a smoke. Want one?

-Yes. Please.

Tanya opens her clutch and hands me the packet of Marlboros and I fold back the lid

to take one of the half-dozen remaining cigarettes. Despite the heat, I want to smoke. I

consider that I might need the smoke and feel unsettled by this transition from want to need.

Tanya asks, -Did you have fun last night?

I tell her I had a good time and she apologises for me having to sleep on the couch in

Callum’s living room and I say that I didn’t mind. Tanya says, -Last night got pretty rowdy,

didn’t it?

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Her use of the word rowdy makes me laugh; it reminds me of something my mum

would say. I tell her, -I guess so.

-What time did Maddie go home?

-I’m not sure. Sometime after you and Callum went off together, I think.

I picture the dark corridor. Tanya looks at the ground and then down the tram line.

-Here it comes. She drops her cigarette butt onto the pavement and steps on it with the toe of

her shoe. The 72 rattles into the stop and brakes hard, the carriage jolting as the doors burst

open. I climb the stairs and hear Tanya groan that the air conditioning is out. The air on board

is warm and the smell of damp leather and body odour is pungent. -God, it’s unbearable in

here. Let’s get off soon and get brunch in South Yarra.

-Good idea.

Fourteen stops later we’re getting back off the tram and the dry heat outside is a relief

from the sticky warmth of the tram – a literal breath of fresh air. Tanya suggests this café she

knows, one Callum took her to one time. I imagine it was on a morning just like this, after

another party, after another bout of personal (for Tanya)/casual (for Callum) rutting, the two

of them hungover. Maybe I’m a replacement Callum. Maybe that’s why Tanya so desperately

wanted me to move in with her. I wonder if Tanya hadn’t thought that she and Callum would

be living together by now, but I refuse to accept she could be so naïve. Maddie’s words to me

last night at the party cut through the heat: God, you’re so naïve, Ruth.

We walk through the hordes of people on Commercial Road standing outside Prahran

Market with their shopping. Young married couples push old trolleys; the young, square-

jawed fathers with new born babies strapped to their broad chests walk with this insane joyful

confidence that frightens me as I push past. Looking at their wives – all stereotype blondes in

activewear, giant rocks atop wedding bands that gleam in the sunshine – I wonder what it

69

takes to be one of these women. I can’t conceive that I might ever become this within ten

years. Here, on the conservative side of the river that divides the city, tradition still provides a

path without questions or doubt.

I follow Tanya inside the market and through the stalls, past the dim sims cooking in

giant bamboo steamers and past the gozleme stand where old Turkish women fold spinach

and cheese into dough, and then past the florist, the large bouquets of roses and daffodils and

lilies with their beautiful scents. These smells elevate me. They fill me up with life. But only

for a moment.

Outside, on the other side of the market, we walk up to Chapel Street and find the café

Tanya wanted to take me to. Once a boutique fashion outlet, the storefront has been newly

renovated and is now the trendiest of Melbourne cafes, complete with the requisite fit-out,

what I can only think to call industrial chic: exposed light bulbs, rusted metal shelving, bare

concrete walls – everything the colours of ash and dried blood. As we walk inside my foot

catches on the front of a three-wheeled pram and I trip but manage to right myself without

anyone noticing. All of Prahran seems to be crawling with new life.

Tanya asks a waiter if there’s a table for two available and the waiter tells us that

there’s a queue this morning. Tanya looks to me and I shrug and tell her that I don’t mind

waiting, though I realise this is only to placate her; were I on my own or with somebody else

I would most definitely want out. The waiter guides us to the window where we can sit on bar

stools until a table becomes available, he even takes a coffee order, and we fill the waiting

time drinking down two skinny flat whites each.

When, finally, we are seated, I find it impossible to relax. The booming voices of the

other brunchers bounce off the sheer grey walls, and the headache I have – from the

combination of being hungover, over-caffeinated, dehydrated and too hot – becomes so

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painful and oppressive that I have to hold a hand over my left eye where it feels as if a

lightning storm is taking place right behind the eyeball. Tanya asks if I’m alright and I tell her

I just need some water and she pours me out a large glass from the jug on the table. I gulp it

back and feel the cold liquid trickle through my body, from my throat all the way down to my

gut. Tanya asks, -What are you gonna have?

I pick up my copy of the menu and turn it over. -I don’t know. What’s good here?

-They do really good huevos rancheros. It’s pretty huge, though. Do you want to split

it?

-Okay. Yeah, sure.

Over fried eggs and black beans, avocado, tortillas and salsa, Tanya talks at me – her

usual un-pressing concerns that include topics like Is Christian Bale hot? and Can red-

headed men be hot? The answer to the former being: Yes, technically. But, no, not really. The

answer to the latter: Never.

After brunch I offer to split the bill with Tanya, but she won’t hear of it. She waves

me away, waves off my money. And I find Maddie in my head once more: Haven’t you

noticed the way she’s been lately? Tanya was always lavish. At least, she wanted to be. But

her lifestyle now is suspicious regardless of whether or not her father tops up her bank

balance each month. When she tries to pay for brunch at the register she has mountains of

cash on her, maybe five- or six-hundred in fifties and twenties, and when the girl working the

till explains that the café is running low on change and would Tanya mind paying by card

she’s more than happy to oblige, sifting through the pockets of cards within her clutch – debit

and credit – until she finds the appropriate one. I want to ask what’s going on, but I don’t. A

voice reminds me that I’m on her side and that I shouldn’t poke holes.

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Despite the sweltering heat Tanya doesn’t want to go home yet. She wants to stay out in

South Yarra a while longer to take a look at one of her favourite shops – this little place that

sells second-hand antique furniture and oddball pieces of art. I’m not in the mood. I want to

go home. I want air conditioning. But I follow along anyway and hope the trip is a quick one.

The window display has changed since we last visited. Where there was once a series

of poorly taxidermied rodents, there is now a life-size wooden lion taking up the entire front

window. The beast appears to have been constructed out of pieces of driftwood; the timber is

all the same beige, hundreds of tiny pieces making up the body, like the armour of an

armadillo or a pangolin, pockmarked with the black heads of the nails that hold it all together.

The mane is most impressive, though: sharp, jagged pieces of wood extend back from the

lion’s head and across its shoulders, making the beast look savage, ready to kill. This lion is

nothing like those from my dreams. This one doesn’t ignore me. Instead he stares until I am

forced to move inside, away from him.

Tanya takes a look around the shop. I find her obsession with these antiques

fascinating – this new interest of hers is so completely out of character. It doesn’t take her

long to find a piece that piques her interest – a full-length dressing mirror in an elongated

oval shape, framed by rosewood and mounted on a grand, old-fashioned stand. The price tag

hanging from the frame reads $4,900 and I look at Tanya as though she has two heads when

she says, -I think I’m going to buy this. It could go in one of our rooms.

-Are you serious?

-Why?

-Tan, it’s, like, five grand.

-I’ll pay in instalments, duh. It’s nice. I’ve always wanted a mirror like this.

72

I’m shocked as Tanya lays down a five-hundred dollar deposit on the mirror, handing

over a wad of cash to the man behind the till who takes her name and a contact number. I

walk back to the front of the shop and look at the lion from behind, where he can’t see me,

while Tanya finishes up. I wonder where all that driftwood came from, where it was

collected, who put the pieces together. I get lost momentarily and when I feel cold air on the

back of my neck I jump in fright, the sensation pulling me out of the mystery, the lion’s

narrative. When I turn around, Tanya is standing behind me, smiling broadly. I say, -Jeez,

you scared me.

Tanya laughs. She says, -So, you like this thing?

-In a way. I wonder who made it.

-I dunno. Ready to head home?

I give Tanya an exasperated affirmative, drooping for effect as though I’m wilting and

say, -I’m dying for some air con.

73

JAMES:

Staring at the buttons in the fabric shop on Nicholson Street, an entire wall displaying a

range that’s overwhelming in its magnitude and variety, and looking at them I know that I’d

never be able to make a decision here because there are just too many buttons to choose from.

Standing before the button display I’ve become powerless, like the tiniest pebble confronted

by a tidal wave, which causes me to begin trembling, the searing pain in my hand resurfacing

once again. I remove the hand from my jeans pocket and inspect the swollen, pinky-purple

fingers, and while looking at them I wonder again what happened last night. There’s a numb

tingling through my body – this dull/muted/washed-out feeling, like my insides have been

scraped out so that I’m now hollow, but this dissipates the moment sister plunges her stiff

fingers into my ribs, forcing me to whip round to defend my flank. Laughing, she asks,

‘whatchya lookin at?’ as I tuck my busted hand back into my jeans so she won’t see. I tell her

‘nothing,’ and she giggles again when I jab at her own ribs, tickling her in the same way I

have always done since I first met her as a child, when mum and I moved in with her and

John. Sister’s real mother died of breast cancer, a woman of thirty-seven, a woman who has

filled sister with a light I’ll never have, a torch that was passed onto her via THE DARK VIRTUE

OF GRIEF. ‘Chosen your fabric?’ I ask and sister nods, grinning, and says, ‘yup,’ like an

American cheerleader or something, and pretty soon after mum pays, and then me and sister

and mum are back outside walking north along the pavement to the Merri and on to CERES.

While we stand in line waiting to order food at the café a stack of coffee cups falls to

the floor, breaking apart on the wooden beams, which causes sister to jump, which in turn

makes me laugh, which in turn causes the waiter, who is now collecting the spray of jagged

white porcelain pieces off the floor with a towel so as not to cut open his hands, to scowl at

me, and mum swats my shoulder with the palm of her hand saying, ‘what’d you laugh for?’

and I say, ‘I was laughing at her jumping, not at him.’

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Arrive at the front of the line and mum tells sister and I to place our orders, and I

order a sausage roll and coffee and the waitress gives us a number on a stand, number 32, and

sister takes this number and marches out across the tanbark courtyard to claim a table in the

sun.

Eat the food quickly when it comes out to number 32 – devour the buttery/sweet-and-

salty pastry that breaks off the sausage meat in big flakes – and down the coffee greedily,

needing the caffeine to keep me up, and realising that maybe I should’ve ordered one without

milk when stomach rumbles strangely and I’m forced to hold in a fart, pulling it back up from

bottom and back into gut, like a bubble that sits inside me. And between the hot food and the

coffee, the caffeine coursing through me and the sun beating down upon me, begin to sweat

heavily, streaks of it running from hairline down to brow, and pull off jacket and wipe at the

sweat with wrist, but more sweat comes, and so I use mum’s clean serviette and dab at my

brow, and seeing this sister asks, ‘are you alright?’ and I tell her, ‘fine’.

After lunch we walk around CERES – through the fake African village and around the

veggie gardens and past the chicken coops where sister laughs at the fluffy feet of the silky

hens, saying how she reckons they all look like they’re wearing pyjamas – calls them ‘pyjama

chickens’ – and then into the nursery where mum buys a packet of seeds for the veggie

garden at home. And because sister is feeling energetic afterwards, and because the sun is out

and it really is what one would call A NICE DAY, or even A PERFECT DAY (and this is despite

my constant sweating), we walk down to the Merri again and along the bike path to sister’s

favourite spot where the creek bends to the east behind the bizarre church that I can’t figure

out – maybe a synagogue or a mosque or a temple.

Here, dozens of bell miners congregate in the eucalypts on the bank of the creek, the

small green birds making their .ping call to one another. Sister and me and mum all stand still

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for a while until the birds grow comfortable and land in the branches closest to us and go

.ping

… ping … ping

… ping … ping

...ping

and time collapses as we watch the birds; get lost in their existence and noise and don’t even

bother thinking of a time before; instead think the time is now (this old phrase from

somewhere I can’t locate).

And later we lie down on the dry grass in the wide expanse of parkland between the

creek and CERES and the midday that was once morning has slowly become afternoon, and

mum receives a call from John who’s finished work for the day and is heading up The

Lomond for a drink and would like to know if any of us will join him for one, and mum, with

the same wild smile she still gets whenever she hears his voice, says, ‘ yes’.

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EVERETT:

When I wake up the sun is bright. Strands of sunlight pierce the dining room windows,

illuminating the large walnut table and the metallic vases that sit on top of it. I pull my torso

up off the sofa and look around the house. The living room is a mess. The kitchen counter is

littered with white, ceramic bowls filled with the remnants of so many two-minute noodle

dinners, as well as the paper plates I’ve resorted to using that haven’t made it to the bin,

which is not three feet from where they sit. The mess turns my mind to Mark. I feel like

seeing him today, again.

I call him and we arrange to meet on the steps at Flinders. Mark says he’s in the CBD

visiting with someone and I don’t bother to ask any questions. I know that I’d never get a real

answer if I did.

I make sure I have the ecstasy I bought off Gadge last night before leaving the house,

punching in the security code at the front door. The alarm system gives three little bleeps and

a word is illuminated in red: ARMED.

I wait for a while at Heyington Station before the train arrives. Despite it being the

middle of the day, the station is eerily silent. I can even hear the birds rustling the leaves of

the gum trees that line the embankment next to the footbridge that arcs over the tracks. I can

hear twigs snapping in the warm breeze. I have memories of this station after school, when it

was packed with students from St Anthony’s and how all the boys would remove their

wristwatches if a train was delayed so that they could wave them at the driver when he

arrived. I remember always being uncomfortable in my uniform, the shorts and high socks

and striped tie we were forced to wear each summer. Those last six years seemed like they

would never end.

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When the train arrives the journey is quick, only four or five stops on the express to

Flinders. Mark is where he said he would be, standing on the steps outside, where the goth

kids congregate and where, today, there is a preacher shouting into a microphone, a boom

box secured to a trolley with bungy cords. The preacher shouts, -COME AND ACCEPT

JESUS INTO YOUR HEARTS. YOU WILL NOT BE SORRY. HE DOES NOT

DISAPPOINT. HE DOES NOT FORGET THOSE THAT DEVOTE THEMSELVES TO

LOVE. HE WILL EMBRACE YOU, FORGIVE YOU, NURTURE YOU.

I light a cigarette and offer one to Mark. He accepts, says, -Hey, dude. Good to see

you.

He is wearing a backpack and tells me he has a cheap bottle of vodka in it that he just

bought. He says we should find somewhere to hang out, so we walk up Swanston Street and

buy two Slurpees from the 7-Eleven before heading down to the river behind Federation

Square. It’s fairly quiet, not too many people about, and we sit out on a dock with our feet

hanging off the edge. Mark pours out half the Slurpees into the river before topping them up

with a half bottle of vodka each. I watch as the blue and red crushed ice disappears into the

brown Yarra. I think of it travelling past my house. He hands me a cylinder of Pringles and I

ask where that came from. He tells me he nicked it while we were in the milkbar and I’m

impressed because I didn’t even see him do it. He asks me what’s been happening lately and I

tell him not much as a river cruise passes by, filled with tourists. I can’t fathom why they’d

want to be out on the Yarra, what it is they might actually see. Mark crosses his legs and

stares at his Slurpee. I drink mine and enjoy the burn of the alcohol in the hot sun.

On the other side of the river there are a bunch of rowing pavilions where a couple of

private schools keep their boats in the sheds underneath. The first time I ever got drunk was

in the function room of one of those pavilions, but I can’t remember which one. Maybe it was

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the building on the far right. I remember vomiting on the bushes alongside the walking track

after I smoked a cigarette. It was Brent’s eldest sister’s birthday, her eighteenth, and we were

in year nine. It only took five cans of Carlton Draught to get me legless then. I kind of miss

when things were new.

My phone goes off in my pocket and I take it out to see who’s calling. When I see that

it’s Grace I just dump the phone on the ground between Mark and me and let it ring out.

Mark asks, -Who’s that?

-No one. This girl.

-Girl? Like, as in girlfriend?

When I say nothing Mark laughs. He says, -Man, the city’s full of you guys.

I want to know what that means. Instead I say, -Well, yeah, she used to be. But that

was a long time ago. She just calls sometimes. She’s kind of annoying.

Mark looks at me side-on. He laughs again and I feel embarrassed. It really wasn’t so

long ago, but I can’t be bothered correcting myself for him. -Why? What about you? You

never had a girlfriend?

The Slurpee is melting fast inside the cup and the perspiration wets my hand. I wait

for a response but Mark only spits into the river before pulling a face. -Wanna go back up to

mine?

-Yeah, sure. Actually, I meant to say I have a little surprise for you.

-What is it?

I show him the ecstasy. He beams. We take it with our Slurpees, finishing off the

drinks in the sunshine before catching a train back out of the city to Brunswick.

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When we walk into Mark’s flat the heat hits me in the face, like when you open a hot oven,

that wall of hot, still air. The curtains have been drawn in an effort to keep the place cool, but

it hasn’t worked. Mark turns on a fan and the head begins to rotate back and forth, pushing

the warm air around the room. I help him open the windows and blinds hoping to flush out

the heat, but his flat is a total shitbox, made of cheap materials, and I realise we don’t have

much hope.

He picks up a dirty towel off the floor and fans the room for a couple of minutes

before giving up. He says, -Fuck it, and dumps the towel back down onto the ground as he

makes his way over to the fridge. -Wanna beer?

-Yeah. Thanks.

I take the stubbie of bitter from his outstretched hand and take a gulp. It’s really cold,

at least. The beer is foamy in my mouth. Mark says, -Sorry the place is in such a state. I

woulda cleaned if I’d known you were coming over.

Why he says this, I don’t know. The little lie makes me want to laugh. -It doesn’t

matter. It’s not so bad.

I try to avoid looking at the exposed corner of the mattress poking out from under the

bedsheet. It’s going yellow. Mark finishes off his beer and opens another. He asks if I’d like

another one too, but I tell him I’m still going on the first. He says, -On days like this, when it

gets really hot, I usually jump in a cold bath. It’s the only way to stay cool, I reckon. I usually

just set up in there with a six-pack and put the fan on right next to me.

He points to the bathroom. The white tiles are inviting. They look cool, refreshing. -

Feel like running a bath? We could take turns.

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-Yeah. If you want.

-Sick.

Mark strips down to his jocks and moves the fan into the bathroom. He puts the plug

in the bath and starts running water. From the fridge he collects the rest of the beers and I

follow him into the confined space where he shuts the door. Inside the tiled room I feel better,

cooler. There’s a small window at the top of the room near the ceiling and Mark cracks the

window so we can smoke. He places the empty stubbie of beer he drank down by the toilet

and tells me I can use it for an ashtray. He says, -You wanna go first?

-Nah, it’s okay. You go. I’m happy here.

I sit down on the toilet lid and shell out the cigarettes as he pulls down his underwear

and steps into the cold water. There are red marks on his arse like he’s been spanked recently.

I say, -How’d you get those?

-Wouldn’t you like to know?

-I would.

He laughs. I bend forward and light his cigarette for him, glance at his soft cock

underneath the water as I sit back upright. Why are you here? a voice asks. He says, -Well,

I’ll tell you a story if you tell me one first, alright?

-Mmm?

-I wanna know about your girlfriend.

-There’s nothing to tell, honestly. We were together through high school, but then,

like everyone, after school ended she started changing and so did I. Then we broke up.

-Bullshit. There’s more to it than that, surely.

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-Not really. Sorry. Your turn now.

-I don’t really believe you, but alright for now, I guess. So, basically, how I got these

marks was today, when I told you I was meeting up with someone in the city, I was actually

hooking up with somebody. But, not, like, for fun or whatever, you know?

I note the pang of jealousy, ignore it. -Kind of, maybe.

-Look, sometimes when I’m short on cash I- Fuck, don’t judge, okay?

-Tell me whatever. I don’t mind.

-Sometimes I’ll go on Grindr and find somebody willing to pay for it. I don’t arrange

it or anything, just find some straight- or really ugly-looking dude and when I rock up at his

house I just hit him up for cash.

-It’s that easy?

-Yeah, works most of the time. I just show up and say, “Look, I’m not bent but I’ll do

X for however much. You willing to do that or what?” They usually go for it. The part about

me being straight gets ’em turned on enough most times. I’ve had a couple doors slammed in

my face, though.

-Fuck. That’s insane.

-Easy money, man. Look, I don’t do it often, but, you know, whatever.

I can feel myself getting hard. I think Mark knows his story is turning me on. I don’t

like that. -So, what did you do today? How much did you make?

-Couple hundred. This fucken fat bloke in town just wanted to spank my bum heaps.

He told me he was from Sydney. Then he jacked off and I watched. It was kinda gross.

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I laugh. Mark says, -Hey, next time you should come with me. We’d make a killing.

Maybe.

I finish my beer and place it on the ground next to Mark’s, then I open another one.

The ecstasy is coming on strong, making us both chatty and open. Leaving us vulnerable. I

consider that what we most share in common is a secretiveness. I’m scared to have this bared,

but I can’t help myself from pushing and asking him, -So, you’ve really never had a

girlfriend? Like, not ever?

-I mean, not really. I’ve slept with a few girls, sure. It was okay. But I don’t like the

way they are. I only used to do it in school, because it was easy.

-Right.

-

-

-Hey, so, are you gonna join me or what?

Mark looks suggestively at the water, then to me. I like that he’s easy, but I hate it too.

That he was in the city today being that way makes me ashamed for him. Turned on, but

ashamed. And I still feel uneasy about the things we’ve done together, what they mean. I

know so little about Mark except for the glimpses he has fed me, like today, when he’s drunk

or high, pissed or stoned.

I loosen my belt and slide my jeans off my body. I like being with this stranger,

though. He’s a phantom. My intellectual and emotional equivalent, like another half of

myself. Like me, Mark seems incapable of forming an attachment. This suits me. There’s no

risk. Only, of course, a financial one. At the back of my mind is the knowledge that he is a

bought item, but I’m getting my money’s worth, I remind myself.

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As I step into the bath I already know that I won’t allow myself to go through with

Mark’s predictable expectations. We haven’t had sex and this is an issue and I know to

expect his advances to this end. With men I’ve found that it takes something really special for

me to want more than rough fumbling and general perversity. In school I used to let a boy

wank me at the back of maths classes. It wasn’t him that turned me on; it was getting pulled

off at school and watching my semen splash against the underside of my open desk lid and

dribble into the crevices of the aged wood. I can barely bring myself to kiss Mark when I’m

sober, even the thought of it repels me. But, lost to chemicals, my body craves a man’s touch.

With men, I just feel a little bit more like a slut.

I lie back in the tub pressed against Mark, who folds his arms around me, drawing me

in. In the water I am cool and calm and detached from life. I feel his teeth at the back of my

neck and shoulder and I concentrate on this sensation. For me, sex is never about the act

itself; it’s about the emotions involved. Mark’s wanting me is enough.

He asks me if I like the touch of his hands as he draws his fingers up along my belly,

up to my chest, where they search for my nipples, making my dick swell in the water. I tell

him I like it. I tell him it makes me hard. His hands are always covered in some kind of grime

that won’t wash off – splashes of paint or the rough coating they get after he’s been working

with clay. He has callouses and chipped nails too. Nobody’s hands have felt quite like his and

as he works my nipples into hard little nubs I crave them on my cock, pumping back and

forth without lubrication, drawing back my foreskin over the purple head. Mark’s dry, raspy

hand jobs make me feel like a man. A thousand times more macho than fucking a woman. He

whispers, -I wanna fuck you.

I stay silent, let the comment die in the air. But he won’t drop it. He asks, -Do you

wanna get fucked?

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I laugh, try to shake it off. I want this diffused. I want a hand job. Mark says, -What’s

so funny?

-Nothing. I like the idea, just … not today, okay?

-Why not?

-I just don’t feel like it. I want to hang out, that’s all.

Mark’s hands stop moving. His fingers relax as he sighs out, suddenly disinterested.

You’re a wuss, the voice says, just like in school.

Mark stays quiet for a moment, like he’s thinking. He excuses himself and asks me to

scoot forward so that he can stand. I ask him what he’s doing. He tells me he thinks he has

some pot left over and that he feels like smoking. When he steps out of the bath I notice that

his dick is still soft. I’m not sure how that’s possible. I think my cock is erect more often than

not.

Mark leaves the bathroom, padding back into the flat dripping wet before returning

with a little box filled with his rolling papers and pipe and other marijuana paraphernalia. He

says, -So what do you wanna do now? It’s crap here; we can’t spend the rest of the day in this

place.

-I dunno. Whatever you feel like. Take me somewhere.

He furrows his brow as he finishes rolling a joint. He lights it and inhales deeply,

waiting a few moments before releasing a cloud of smoke from his lungs. -I know a place. It

could be a bit of a laugh. You game?

-Sure. Whatever you want to do. Sounds like fun.

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He grins. He takes another long drag before passing the joint to me. I take my turn.

When he releases the smoke he says, -You’ve gotta give yourself up at some point. That’s

how life works.

I make a mental note. Mark’s words: ‘You’ve gotta give yourself up at some point.

That’s how life works.’ Mark’s words: ‘Give yourself up.’ Mark’s words: ‘Give up.’

86

JAMES:

Tobacco is clarity, setting the world straight like adjusting a frame on a wall, the smoke in

my lungs clearing head and getting me level. John, standing beside me, says, ‘don’t tell your

mum they’re mine’ and pockets the pack of Winfield blues that aren’t blue anymore and

instead are covered by the image of an artery being cleared of white sludge, this pus-y gunk

oozing out, a stream being unclogged too late. I ask after John’s day and he just shrugs as

smoke streams out from his nostrils before saying, ‘fine. early knock off’s always good’ and

picks up his pint from the table and drinks down a healthy mouthful of bitter.

‘How was lunch?’ he asks and I tell him, ‘real good, yeah’ and John thinks for a

second before asking, ‘you coming to the game tonight? thinken I might go along with Frank’

and I tell him, ‘nah, I can’t. gunna go up to Gippsland with Michele tonight,’ which is a

decision that comes to me out of nowhere, not a thought that I’d really formed in my mind

before saying it aloud, but I realise it’s also what I need – to be out of the city. In Gippsland

there’s no Internet and there’s peace and quiet and there’s Michele’s medicine – the five-

milligram tablets of Valium she often feeds me – and with this there’s the very real

possibility of sleep, the big black void that would come as such a relief.

John scoffs at my disinterest in the footy, says, ‘can’t call yourself a Blue Bagger no

more, mate. when’s the last time ya got yourself along to a match?’ and I reply, ‘not worth

fucken watchen these days’ and John says, ‘ahhh, you’re weak. ya gotta stick it out, ’s called

loyalty’ and I laugh.

Get up to go back inside and John says he’s gonna stay and have another smoke, says,

‘here, put ten on number 16 in race 9, Roulette Flush. you make any money, it’s yours’ and

hands me a ten-dollar note that I take through to the TAB and select the race and then the

horse on the little blue machine, like an ATM except you put your money in and not the other

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way round. The machine spits out a small ticket for the horse I want and I pocket it with the

intention of claiming it later tonight up in Foster should it win.

Inside the pub sister and mum are sitting by the window in the corner that looks out

onto the first/last tram stop for route 96 on Nicholson Street, just outside the 3RRR studio,

mum nursing a white wine and sister with an empty glass of Coke in front of her, punching

the ice at the bottom with her straw like I saw Grace do only yesterday. Mum sniffs the air

around me when I sit down, makes a big deal so sister can laugh it up, asks, ‘did John give

you a cigarette?’ and I say, ‘nah. I bought my own.’

Mum tuts and sister laughs and I text Michele saying Gippsland 2nite? I’m keen and

Michele replies almost instantly saying Okay. Pick u up @ urs? and I reply back saying @

the lomond with family. meet me here? & what time shld i expect u? and Michele

responds Okay on my way. Give me an hour :) I can’t figure out why it is Michele writes

‘okay’ the way she does in a text when she’s happy to abbreviate most other words, but it’s

just one of those idiosyncrasies I guess, goes along with her pale mint green nail varnish and

her love of Burger Rings.

An hour later and Michele’s walking through the pub in her low-slung jeans causing

two of the tradies standing at the end of the bar to cast their eyes discreetly at her arse as she

goes by. Hugs and hellos to sister and mum and John, who asks Michele what she’d like to

drink and she asks for a Diet Coke. And then she’s drinking the Diet Coke and I’m thinking

long, rubbery nipples, thinking sleep, thinking plastic scrap, wondering when my hand will

heal, beginning to fade.

John’s booming voice saying a resounding, ‘it’s such bullshit’ brings me back and

after listening for a few seconds I’m able to figure out that John and Michele are playing their

favourite game: Michele winding John up about trivial things and him taking the bait for fun.

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John’s pet peeves are the current trend in Melbourne of serving hot chips with garlic aioli

instead of tomato sauce, and Eddie McGuire, because John – originally from the country,

Echuca, until his family moved to Melbourne when he was seven – grew up in

Broadmeadows and hates McGuire’s Broadie Boy routine; ‘I’m a Broadie Boy, I’m a Broadie

Boy,’ he’ll say before adding, ‘don’t get me started on that cunt again.’

Michele says, ‘and can you believe your son doesn’t even know how to drive a

manual, John? what kind of father are you?’ and John laughs loud, says, ‘nothen for me to be

ashamed of. I tried to teach him’ as he grabs my leg and says, ‘how’s it feel, mate? your

missus can drive a manual, when’re ya gonna learn?’ And Michele and John go back and

forth for a while in this gentle ribbing that John seems to derive so much satisfaction from,

but I don’t – not really – never really got why Australians think this is a decent way to amuse

themselves.

Banter is broken only by the arrival of the publican, Iain, balancing a tray of sausage

rolls and a small porcelain bowl filled with tomato sauce for dipping, a stack of black

serviettes piled high in his free hand. Iain and John exchange the usual pleasantries – they’re

both flat out and overworked but can’t complain, can never whinge. I take a sausage roll and

dunk it in sauce, snatch a serviette from Iain’s hand and Iain says, ‘take two, James’ and I

grab a second and place it on another serviette where the sauce drips off onto the paper.

As I put the food on the table top John says, ‘bloody hell, Iain, he doesn’t need two.

you’re gonna fatten him up’ and I say with mock-pride, ‘I’m a growing boy.’

‘Yeah, growing sideways more like it,’ says John, and I notice the fat at my hips that

spill out over the top of my jeans that never used to be there, realise that between the booze

and the diet of shit I really am ballooning the way my grandmother always said I would.

When I look at Michele she appears wounded because she can tell how deep John’s words

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have cut; the typical Australian funny talk is only ever funny until someone takes offence,

and somebody always does, gets hurt, but it’s Michele that’s hurt more than me. But that’s

just the Aussie way, isn’t it? I think. Burying your meanness beneath a smile, calling hurt and

offence ‘whingeing’, getting away with being a bully – a selfish mentality befitting a selfish

nation, all cowards alike.

Michele scrunches my knee under the table and says, so everyone can hear, ‘should

we go now?’ and I take one last look out the corner window onto the intersection of

Nicholson Street and Blyth, but all I see is a fly banging against the glass window pane,

trying desperately to get outside, until after a moment looking at the fly becomes too much,

really pathetic and humiliating, and I say, ‘yeah, probably best we make a move now.’

Standing up and saying goodbye to John and mum and sister, and John says, ‘oi,

James, next time you see your mate Steve ask him when his old man’s gonna sort me out

with that corporate box’ and John laughs and I say, ‘yeah, will do’ over the top of mum’s,

‘stop pestering him about that’ – not entirely sure if John is making a joke or whether he

thinks the one time he met Stephen’s father that the promise of free tickets to the footy was

genuine. And then walking out the pub and into the tiny cramped car park behind The

Lomond next to the bottle-o where Michele has parked the Astra next to a skip filled with

sheet metal, and getting into the car I feel safe and secure because behind the wheel Michele

is an excellent, fast driver.

And later, fading in the car, catching a glimpse of a sign that tells me ONLY SLEEP CURES

FATIGUE as we drive by on the South Gippsland Highway, past the hills and gums and black-

faced sheep. Inside the car: Michele’s green nails on the gear stick as she thrusts it savagely

back and forth and tries to keep the car at eighty around every bend, regardless of how sharp;

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all the while Interpol’s Our Love to Admire playing in the background – this soothing

nothing, this soothing thrill of metal and speed and humanity and the chance of death were a

wrong turn made, were the wheels to skid. Michele drives fast and I like it, gets me hard.

Stop off in Foster for supplies and check the TAB at the pub to see if the horse John

had me place money on made any winnings and it did – thirty dollars, which I take across the

road to the bakery and order a coffee and a meat pie because I’m starving after the long drive

and it’s cold in Gipplsand, always is it seems. And because the bakery is closing up for the

day the girl behind the till groans at me, which annoys me until I see she’s just joking around.

Girl says, ‘bloody last minute customer, you are. what’ll it be then?’ and I say, ‘oh, sorry, I

don’t wanna bother you much. just a coffee and a pie, please, to take away’ and the girl says,

‘well, with manners like that it’ll be no trouble. six/eighty, love. won’t be a minute’ and I like

the way this girl talks to me like we could be any age, like maybe she’s an old lady talking to

a young boy or maybe a young-ish girl talking to a doddery old codger, but really we’re

basically the same age – I’m twenty and she can’t possibly be older than twenty-two. And I

think how there’s so much to like about the country and how maybe I could see myself

moving out to the bush, but when you’re in the city you’re in the city for life – it’s a mental

game, you’ve just gotta win, gotta beat every cunt you meet and relocating would spell

DEFEAT.

Girl fixes me up with the food and I thank her and she smiles and I think about her

without her bakery uniform on, her soft fleshy body and how nice it’d be up against my own

– warm and pliable and full of life. Take a paddle-pop stick and a couple of sugars and walk

out the bakery and onto the street and spot Michele from across the road where she’s taking

up a shopping basket and about to enter the supermarket, and she sings out to me, ‘anything

you want?’ and I shout, ‘nah, anything’s good. maybe some o’them chicken sticks we’ve had

before’ and she nods, says, ‘alright’ before going inside the shop.

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Place the coffee down on the footpath and take off the sippy-top so that steam rises up

quickly into my face and load up the hot, milky caffeine boost with the two sugars, stir

through, then put the lid back on. Sip the coffee before taking my first bite out of the pie and

watch again as steam comes off the meat and into my face. Squeeze a rivulet of sour/salty

tomato sauce onto the next bite and think about how this is my fourth baked good for the day

– sausage roll for lunch with coffee, two party-sized sausage rolls with two pints this arvo,

now this pie and coffee for a very late afternoon tea/early dinner. And between the hot coffee

bitterness and buttery warm milkiness and the tomato sauce tartiness and the meat pie rich,

hot saltiness I can sense my heart beating too quickly in my chest because of the lack of sleep

and too much caffeine and alcohol and the meth come down, so that my vision goes all blurry

for a bit. Heart palpitations, perhaps the beginnings of a heart attack? I wonder, but no, not

really, because I steady myself and swallow and take in a lungful of air and say to myself

inside myself you need to exercise and quit the junk and then everything will be perfect –

you’re not going to die, you’re alright.

92

RUTH:

I run a cool bath back at the house, mixing in some bath salts so that the water turns pink. I

peel off the dress I wore last night and kick off the heels Tanya lent me and the sensation of

being naked in the cool, white tiled bathroom gives me pleasure. The soles of my feet create

little sweaty footprints on the cold floor that evaporate quickly, like my footprints are being

erased by some omniscient editor. My little disappearing footprints, like the history of me. I

step into the bath, crouch down and let my body slide into the water along the enamel until

I’m fully submerged. I keep my eyes open as the water closes over my head and I look up

through the pink where I see a swirling, pink blur where the white ceiling should be. I expel

the air from my lungs before popping back up out of the water to breathe.

I don’t mean to, but after a while I close my eyes and when I do I fall into a deep

sleep. I dream of the wooden lion. And of Tanya, too. She is always there with me. When I

wake up I figure maybe forty minutes have passed. The water is cold and my hands are

wrinkled. I still feel tired, though; my body is heavy. I dry myself off and walk across the

corridor into my bedroom. I drop my towel onto one of the piles on the floor and slip into bed

where the sheets are soft against my naked skin and it’s not long before I’m back asleep, only

a dreamless sleep this time.

When I wake up for the second time I can hear Portishead playing out of the stereo in

the living room, those deep bass sounds drifting through the house. I get up and throw on

some clothes and walk into the kitchen where the time display on the microwave clock reads

6:37. Despite the time the sun is still out. I see Tanya in the courtyard smoking and I walk

outside to join her, pulling open the French doors which makes her turn to me and say, -

Hello, sleepy head.

-Hey.

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I pull out a chair from the vintage cast iron garden setting and sit down. Tanya is

actually smoking a joint and not a cigarette, the chopped green buds sitting in a plastic bag

with a packet of large rolling papers. Tanya offers the joint to me and I take it. Pot usually

makes me feel maudlin, but I inhale and steer myself away from the self-pity by turning my

attention to the sun and to the sounds of the mynah birds screeching in the trees over the back

fence. The marijuana makes it all feel like a movie, creating this distance between me and

reality so that I feel like I’m really watching. But then, I’m always watching. Taking the

backseat role: passive observer. I take another toke before passing the joint back to Tanya,

who receives it between her index and middle fingers. She says, -I like having you around,

Ruth. You’ve got perspective, you know.

-Probably not as much as you might think.

-No, don’t say that. You do. I’m so glad you moved in. You really saved me.

I’m not sure what this means. It should be me thanking her. I let the comment hang

and we share the joint in silence until Tanya butts it out and says, -I’m meeting some people

in the city tonight. Feel like coming along?

-Um, I dunno.

-Come on, don’t be boring. It’ll be fun.

Naïve and boring, I think. I say, -Couldn’t we just stay in one night?

-It’s the weekend, Ruth. We can stay in another night. Tomorrow. I promise.

-Okay then.

-Awesome.

-Who are we meeting, though?

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-Just some people. Friends of Callum’s, actually. Cool guys. You’ll like them.

Since moving in I have become consumed by Tanya’s lifestyle. It’s like high school

repeating all over again. High school, where those last two years spent boarding in the city

felt like they would never end; where it was Tanya and I constantly and all of the time and

always. Where I would meet with Dr Smythe three times each week just to get through it all –

feeling trapped and out of control, being afraid for Tanya, coming to terms with the divorce.

It’s been over a year since I’ve seen Dr Smythe with his R.M. Williams slacks, his argyle

socks and thick cardigans. More than a year since catching the train to Camberwell and

walking through the junction to Riversdale Road, his practice hidden in plain sight, an

ordinary suburban house – no markings on the front letting the world know THIS IS A

PSYCHIATRIST’S OFFICE! THERE ARE CRAZY PEOPLE INSIDE!

I get dressed once more, applying make-up and getting ready for another night out.

All I know is that to get through it I will need to drink, because there is a weight in my chest

that I need removed as I scan back over Tanya’s words – friends of Callum’s, cool guys,

you’ll like them.

There is a cool breeze in the city drifting down the streets as we navigate them, turning the

corner off Lonsdale Street and into Hardware Lane. In the CBD grey concrete slabs trap the

cold; all memory of the hot day is now lost to a cool night. I place one foot in front of the

other, taking care to keep my heels from the cracks between the blue stones as Tanya and I

walk up to Vickie’s Bar, where the bouncer on the door looks us up and down and makes an

assessment before granting us entry.

I follow Tanya down the flight of stairs into the crowded, warm room where an ocean

of people surround the bar waiting to order drinks while flamboyant mixologists concoct

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martinis at a crawl, labouring over the precise measurements and elaborate garnishes when all

anybody really wants is to become out of their minds with alcohol.

At the bottom of the stairs a waitress greets Tanya who explains we’re expected under

a reservation for Jeremy for nine pm and the waitress, wearing a navy blue apron, escorts us

through the bar to the booths in the back, each booth separated from the next by a heavy

maroon curtain that can be drawn closed, shutting off each small compartment. Bottles and

clocks and bric-a-brac line the wooden shelves that run along an exposed red-brick wall to

my right, and in the dim light the room, with its assortment of curtains and chaise longues

and tasselled lamp shades, is like some opulent Victorian opium den drowned out by pinky-

red lighting, a lush cathouse for the cocktail crowd.

In the booth furthest toward the back two men stand up from backless, cube-shaped

leather chairs as we approach. The men are young, both dressed in designer jeans and t-shirts,

the same tattoo sleeves covering a portion of their arms. One wears a baseball cap with the

word CELFIE sewn across the front in cursive. I would call them boys, but they’re too old for

that, their chins covered in stubble. On a silver tray in the centre of the table is an open bottle

of Grey Goose and an assortment of glasses and mixers and wedges of lime and lemon. The

waitress asks if she can do anything more for us – we say no – and she wishes us a good

evening before disappearing back into the darkness of the club.

Tanya greets the man-boys, kissing each on the cheek and shaking their hands. She

introduces me and in turn I shake hands with Jeremy, handsome, and Finn, wearing the hat.

In the dimly lit booth the man-boys’ eyes are blank, hollow patches. In this lighting they

could be mannequins. I take a seat on one of the leather cubes which is more comfortable

than I had imagined. Jeremy offers us a drink, asking if we’d like a vodka-soda and Tanya

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says yes for us both. I watch Jeremy mix the Grey Goose into the soda water, adding a wedge

of lime to each tumbler before passing the glasses across to us.

While the boy-men look freakish in the light, the dark patches where their eyes should

be sending goosebumps up my thigh, Tanya looks incredible. She is framed perfectly by the

chandelier dangling above. And, like me, Jeremy and Finn cannot keep their eyes off her as

she drinks the vodka in slow motion: close in on her mouth, another dark corridor. Tanya is

transformed, a sex creature from another planet. Looking at her mouth, I have to fight myself

from falling inside too, slipping down the tunnel with the vodka, where the boy-men want to

be. Her mouth is a passageway that goes nowhere, though, and I pull myself away from

staring and look back into the club. The other girls our age wear leather skirts, caramel-

coloured dresses, G-strings or commando, judging by the lack of VPL. They flirt with men in

suit pants and business shirts. I imagine these girls possess keys to empty homes. Houses

with white walls and kitchens filled with stainless steel appliances. Houses where, in the

backyard, pool water sits cold and still, the icy wind not even causing a ripple. When Tanya

nudges me these images go away and I am thrust into the middle of a conversation I haven’t

been listening to. She is asking, -What do you think it means?

I tilt my head to one side. -Huh?

Tanya giggles. Jeremy and Finn both laugh. I say, -Sorry. I zoned out there for a sec.

What are we talking about?

-Short-term dating.

-Sorry?

-See, I just signed up to one of those dating sites. You know OKCupid? Well, under

one of the things you have to fill out at the start is why you’ve joined up. It’s, like, ‘what are

you looking for?’ or whatever, and there’s a list of stuff. For example: ‘casual sex’,

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‘friendship’, ‘long-term dating’. Which all make sense to me. But then there’s ‘short-term

dating’ and I can’t figure out what that is. What do you think?

-Um, I dunno. It’s kind of an oxymoron. Isn’t it just casual sex?

-Fucking exactly. But there’s already a category for that. There’s already ‘casual sex’

listed. Finn reckons it’s for people already in a relationship, but then you go ‘short-term

dating’ when your girlfriend goes into hospital or something.

-Yeah, while your girlfriend’s getting chemo you can short-term date somebody else.

That’s a fair rule. Cancer patients make lousy dates anyway. Always complaining while

you’re at the movies: ‘Oh, fuck me, I’m dying’, etcetera.

The boys laugh. Tanya giggles again. We drink more vodka and when the bottle is

almost empty Finn asks, -You girls don’t know where we can score some googs tonight, do

ya?

Tanya nods before pulling out her iPhone and shoving a finger in one ear as she

makes a call to Gadge. I hear Tanya say, -Any chance you can get yourself across to Vickie’s

tonight? ... Okay … Yep, we’ll still be here.

Tanya puts away her phone and tells the man-boys the ecstasy is on its way. Jeremy

pours out the last of the Grey Goose into shot glasses and toasts to a good night. Fifteen

minutes later Tanya is handing over three-hundred dollars to Gadge in the corridor next to the

booths, buying a bag of ten pills. I watch as she kisses him on the cheek. He waves at me

before moving back through the crowd and up the stairs out of the bar. When Tanya sits back

down she overcharges Jeremy and Finn for the drugs, asking for fifty per pill and the man-

boys buy two each. Like that she makes eighty dollars profit, another eighty off the mirror

she bought today. I’m impressed. Jeremy asks, -You girls aren’t dropping?

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Tanya says, -We had a big night last night.

I look at Tanya. She does something funny with her eyes and places the pills away in

her handbag. I wonder if they’re duds, but it seems like an odd trick. A thought passes: She

wants to keep her wits tonight. The thought is eerie. I’ve never seen Tanya act restrained. The

man-boys drop their pills. Finn says, -So, ready to move this party back to mine?

I look to Tanya again, but she ignores me and agrees we should move on. Jeremy asks

if we should leave a tip and Finn says, -Just the tip.

I realise I don’t like them – their affected charms and stupid jokes fall flat. I’m not

that drunk either and wish that I was.

As we walk back through the club one of the girls I’d been looking at earlier, one

wearing a caramel dress, is dancing near me, jiggling her arse back and forth. When she turns

to face me she is wearing a mask, the face of a wolf. I hadn’t noticed this before.

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JAMES:

Take the twenty-five minute drive off-road from Foster to Michele’s holiday house – this

large stone and wood cabin atop Mount Best, a small mountain in the Strzeleckis. It’s dark by

the time we arrive on top of the mount where Michele pulls steadily into the driveway and

idles the car while I hop out to unlatch the giant wire gate, pulling it open so that the Astra

can pass through onto the property before closing and relatching it again. Hop back in with

Michele and we roll up onto the property and park in the car port beside the house and unload

the car. And once inside with our belongings there’s business to get to because the cold is

coming in – always gets freezing at night up here no matter the time of year. There’s a fire to

build and a bed to make and the small heating panels in bedroom and bath to switch on if

we’re to have a warm room to sleep in, a warm bathroom in which to take a shower and get

changed. Michele likes her long showers, makes sure the bathroom gets heating attention first

before leaving me in charge of making our bed while she returns to the living room to build a

fire.

Look at the naked bed – the mattress and uncovered pillows and doona – and take out

the new set of flannelette sheets that Michele got from KMart with the red and white pattern

and put everything together easily until I get to the doona. Line up two corners of the doona

with two corners of the cover and insert the doona and pinch the corners together, then,

holding the corners, flick out the doona and cover together, imagining that they will line up

perfectly in the air before landing perfectly on the bed. But instead lose my grip so that as I

tug the cover the doona shoots off in the opposite direction in a dramatic misfire that ends in

a red and white mound of bedding in the centre of the mattress so that I rage,

‘JesusmotherfuckingChrist!’

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Michele appears in the doorframe a moment later, says, ‘what on earth is going on in

here?’ before spotting the fucked doona and I ask, ‘how in the hell do single people make

their own beds? this shit is a two-person job.’

Michele laughs and I ask, ‘you helping, or just here to make fun?’ and she says, ‘have

you never made your own bed before, James? are you special? are you a bit touched, maybe?’

‘Okay, okay,’ I tell her, ‘then this is the bed we’re fucken sleeping in tonight, then,’

which only makes her laugh all the more.

Michele walks to the bed and helps me straighten out the doona and cover, and then

we line the ends up together and make it right, and with her there it’s easy as pie. At the end

of the bed we race each other to see who can button up the bottom of the cover the fastest,

who can button the most buttons out of the eight. Michele wins, of course – her long, slender

fingers are too fast for my stubby digits, so she beats the pants off me: six buttons to two.

Return to the living room and flop down into the plush leather couches in front of the

firebox – the fire inside raging already – and I marvel at how she could get that fire roaring so

quickly. Michele’s better at everything than me, which is hard to admit, but I can barely wrap

my head around the simplest of tasks at times. Michele’s approach with the fire isn’t just to

throw a shit-tonne of firelighters on the thing: it’s to make an effort, I realise. Time and

patience are good things – things that matter and help, which is something I’ve never learnt

and the reason why Michele puts herself in charge of doing chores like building the fire.

Because, for Michele, building a fire isn’t about the lighting, it’s about the evolution of

burning – she understands there’s a hierarchy, an order to this small task. When we used to

come up here I’d always insist on building the fire and I’d always fuck it up – it’d go out too

soon before the thick logs caught, and my approach was anything but subtle because I felt I

had to master the fire – I had to govern it and exert my will. Michele, on the other hand, will

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take her time scrunching and then shaping the newspaper the right way – into these tight little

rings – before placing three or four pieces of kindling across the paper with a single

firelighter beneath them. And she will find the smallest, most slender logs at the beginning,

arranging them in a formation above the kindling, where they will ignite, and at the sides of

the firebox, that’s where she will add the thicker logs that won’t catch fire immediately, but

will warm and, slowly, as the tinder and the small logs turn to hot embers, begin to burn.

Michele sees the order of all this – the delicate balance, the structure that must be set in place

for a good fire to burn efficiently, and in ordering the logs from smallest to greatest, from

most to least flammable, she allows the fire to govern itself within a world she creates and

sets in motion. She understands that for this entity to live you must give it what it needs, not

what you want from it.

A momentary lapse when I bring my busted hand up to run fingers through Michele’s

hair, wince at the pain of stretching out the swollen fingers. Michele turns her head sharply to

inspect the source of my noise, says, ‘oh my god, James, what happened?’ and I say, ‘nothen.

I dunno’.

‘Here, let me take a look,’ she says, and takes my hand to inspect it, turning it over

and instructing me to flex the fingers before retreating to a back room to find the First Aid

kit. I tell her, ‘don’t worry about it, it’ll be fine in, like, a week, or something,’ but Michele is

insistent and returns to clean and bandage and tape the hand up until it’s stiff and painless.

She feeds me a couple Nurofen for the pain and tells me I need to eat something with

the pills and I suggest a drink and she gives me this wry look. ‘Come on, you want a scotch

or a beer?’ I ask her and Michele placates me by saying she’ll have a beer. I’m not entirely

certain what drives her to help me when I only ever seem to let her down, suppose that she

keeps her fingers crossed permanently, knowing to expect the constant fuck-ups but hoping

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against them. And while this might suggest that Michele knows me, a thought passes: she

doesn’t know about me; about what’s really inside – the dark, ancient thing that now lives

within. I know that I’ve used Michele, that I’ve neglected her and evaded her too, and I

imagine that this all must hurt pretty bad – much more than she lets on. But what if it’s worse

than I can even imagine? What if one day I ruin her?

Cold chill down spine as I hand Michele a beer and clink the neck of my bottle

against hers, say, ‘cheers’ and she smiles, says, ‘cheers’. Drink down bitter terror and realise

I’VE GONE TO A PLACE THERE’S NO COMING BACK FROM

and

ONCE YOU CHANGE THE DYNAMIC BETWEEN PEOPLE THESE CHANGES ARE FOR GOOD

and meditate on two words:

PERMANENT

and

DEFEAT

until eventually, like always, Michele recognises what I need most, feeds me the medicine –

those five-milligram tablets of Valium – that makes me sleep; and with the booze in my

blood and the benzo kicking in I’m out like a light the moment head hits pillow.

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EVERETT:

We get off the tram along Sydney Road several blocks from Mark’s place. The air is thick

and humid and warm – a balmy, tropical evening. I can smell fuel from all the cars driving up

and down the street and I can smell smoke coming from a group of people congregated

outside a small bar; salsa music is playing loudly from inside, where bodies are dancing.

There is a rhythm to Sydney Road. A pulse.

Mark walks me down past several other bars and a police station and a supermarket,

all the way to this giant beige building where two bouncers stand outside an entrance wearing

black clothes and flak jackets. He has a grin on his face as he approaches the bouncers, who

welcome us and usher us inside the doorway and into a foyer. The foyer is lit red and a

woman, wearing chintzy gold bracelets and long fake nails, sits behind a counter. The woman

says, -Twenty dollars each, guys.

Mark looks to me and I tell the woman I’ll pay for us both. I hand across a fifty dollar

note and get ten dollars back with a bunch of drink tokens for specials. The bouncers make us

stand with our arms out and sweep us with metal detectors before holding back a curtain and

allowing us to walk into the venue.

Inside the strip club an old Destiny’s Child song is playing, only it’s been remixed by

whatever same DJ inevitably tries to turn any hit single into a club anthem. Video monitors

play music videos that don’t sync up with the song. Mark walks up to the bar and cashes in

his drink token, buying a ten-dollar jug of VB. He only asks for one glass for himself. He

tells me, -You should get one too. The deal ends in twenty minutes.

I look at the piece of cardboard in my hand. It must be twenty-to-ten. I order the same

jug of beer from the same girl that served Mark. She’s a tall brunette with curly hair wearing

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super-high heels, skimpy shorts and a bikini top. She calls me ‘darl’. It’s weird because we

might be the same age. Mark asks, -So what do you think?

-Not exactly what I was expecting. But, okay.

-This place is great, trust me. It’s a total shithole. Just wait and watch.

I pour myself a glass of beer and sit up on the stool beside Mark next to the bar. In the

back of the club a group of four muscle-bound ethnic bros are playing pool. They wear

TapouT t-shirts and thick gold chains around their necks that accentuate the thick slab of

muscle between neck and shoulder. On stage, a girl unenthusiastically grinds her crotch

against a pole. She doesn’t take her clothes off and when the Destiny’s Child song finally

ends she is replaced by another girl who does likewise. -Aren’t they supposed to, you know,

strip?

-Ah, my friend, welcome to the shittest strip club on earth. None of the dancers ever

take their clothes off. You’ve gotta pay for a private dance for that.

-Right. But, isn’t that-

-It’s just one of the things here. This place is really fucked up. Look at those guys.

Those guys have been here every single time I’ve ever come in.

Mark directs my attention to five or six older men standing at the bar. They talk with

one another, but they don’t appear to be friends, as though they’ve all found themselves in

this place independently. -Those guys, I swear. Like, one will come in and he’ll get this big

reception and then another might leave and they’ll hug and say bye. Sometimes they get a

dance, sometimes they just drink, but they’re always here. They’re like a little community of

dirty old buggers.

-How often do you come here?

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-Now and then. Used to come here with mates years ago when they were into it, but

then I started coming on my own once in a while to drink. It’s a good place to people watch. I

like shit stuff.

I laugh. Mark says, -No, really though. You learn way more from shit than you do

anything else. A shitty existence is, like, eye-opening. You think about all the great art that’s

been created through adversity, or, like, when you don’t have much money you create things.

Like, I dunno, you might make your own clothes or cook a better meal because you’ve gotta

think about it more. Limitations are a good thing.

-Yeah, but how does that relate to this place?

-Well, like, those guys teach their own lesson. You think about what they’re like

when they’re not here – probably family men with kids and stuff, probably teach good values,

and definitely would never in the world wanna see a female relative working in a dump like

this.

-So what’s the lesson?

-Nobody ever knows anybody. Not really, anyway. What you know is a version, a

fragment. But everyone’s a hypocrite and there are no true values or morals or ethical ways

of being. You can do whatever you want so long as you find the right people to do it with.

There’s a thousand lessons to be learned here, Ev. A thousand of ’em.

I wonder what Mark has learnt from me. Or, at least, what he believes he’s learnt. I

can’t relate to the bullshit he says. I can’t relate to having experienced any limitations either.

My lesson: It pays not to care too much.

We stay for a while, using up our drink tokens and shooing away the random strippers

that approach us over the course of the evening offering lap dances and asking for a drink.

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The place is weird and untamed; the women quote so many different prices for private dances

seemingly based on their looks – the better looking ones want too much and the older,

chewed-up ones smack of desperation. Eventually, though, one of the women catches Mark’s

eye: a raven-haired pack-a-day smoker in a red and black pin-striped corset who introduces

herself as Cheetah. Mark is instantly captivated. He buys her several shots of vodka and

quizzes her about her life – how long she’s worked here and where she’s from and what other

jobs she’s had. I don’t get it. The woman’s voice sounds like throat cancer and after each shot

she barks like a dog. Her exposed midriff reveals a sagging stomach punctuated by the

purple-red caesarean scar that runs across it. The woman repulses me, but Mark is entertained

and when she asks for the tenth time whether he’s interested in a lap dance Mark asks for a

moment of privacy so that he can ‘consult with my esteemed colleague’. Cheetah says she’ll

be back soon. Turning to me, Mark asks, -So whaddya think?

-What about?

-Wanna get a lap dance with old Cheetah?

-No fucking way. Are you serious?

-Of course. Come on, man. It’ll be amazing. Think about how fucked up it’ll be. Plus,

I bet she tries really hard for us too.

-Dude, no way.

-Come on come on come on come on. Please. I’m begging you. Please. For me.

I shake my head at the pleading and laugh. Cheetah is approaching again and it looks

like I have no choice, so I just go along with Mark’s whim, let him say we’re in before

following her through the room to the little booths at the back where there are more curtains.

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She guides us into a large, dimly-lit space with a big sofa for us to sit on. Mark and I pool a

little money and Mark hands the cash to her. And then she proceeds to get undressed.

Cheetah has no rhythm and her ‘stripping’ is like watching a washed-up, middle-aged

woman who has completely bottomed out simply remove items of clothing, which is exactly

what this is. And, for me, there is some small thrill in the depravity before me. I think to

myself, Cheetah, you relic hag, you’d be better off dead. I can’t help thinking, too, that

somewhere Cheetah’s offspring, the reason for the cut across her belly, is alive and breathing.

She takes off her g-string and reveals a mound of waxed flesh before mounting Mark

and pressing her breasts into his face. He laughs hysterically at this, relishing Cheetah and

everything she encompasses. When she’s finished with him she moves to me, turning her arse

towards me and resting it against my crotch, wriggling it about. I can feel myself getting hard

once more from the movement alone. Like always, what turns me on has little to do with

who’s involved. I get hard because Cheetah is a nothing. I ask, -What’ll you do for another

fifty?

-What would you like, honey?

-I want to see you go to work on yourself. I want you to get wet for me.

Cheetah laughs before taking the note out of my hand. She lies down on the floor in

front of us and performs this pornographic masturbation, bashing her cunt with her fingers

and moaning like she’s seen in a hardcore movie. Mark is grinning from ear to ear as she

goes for the Oscar – this big old fake-as-hell orgasm that she finishes by sucking on her

fingers and starring at us both seductively. -You like that, honey?

-You’re stunning, babe. You’ve got me hard as fuck right now.

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Cheetah laughs again. Gives me this wink as she puts back on her clothes. She pats

my shoulder on the way out and says, -Take your time before you come back out. Don’t want

you out there with come stains on your pants.

Mark looks at me and laughs. -That was fucking rad, man. Where did that come from?

Can’t believe you said that shit.

I don’t really know where it came from either, but I am hard, and riding the moment I

decide to show him. The thought of the two of us getting caught back here makes me crazy

with excitement, Mark too I can tell. I say, -You’re gonna have to make me come real quick.

As I guide Mark’s hand onto my lap I think of the four men standing around the pool

table just beyond the curtains. I imagine they’d give really rough handjobs, too.

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RUTH:

We take a taxi over to Collingwood. In the car Finn fills us in on where we’re going – his

father works in real estate, he’s a property developer, and both Finn and his father worked to

convert an old, disused brewery behind Smith Street into a series of luxurious warehouse

apartments. Finn says, -Man, the northern suburbs are booming. Every cunt wants to move

out that way now. Dunno why though, Smith Street’s full of abos and dykes. We were gonna

take you girls out that way tonight, but in the end Jeremy was like, ‘Nah, they’re classy

chicks, we need to head out in the city.’

Jeremy swivels round from the front seat of the cab to add, -Yeah. I mean, I see how

Collingwood’s kinda cool, but, man, it’s like everyone’s a fucken junkie or a faggot. It’s,

like, ‘Can I get AIDS with that, please?’

Jeremy and Finn laugh at this. Naturally Tanya giggles along with them. Haven’t you

noticed the way she’s been lately? Finn says, -My old man’s gonna make a fortune with this

place, though. The apartments aren’t even on the market yet and already we’ve got people

putting down insane offers, like one-and-a-half-mil and shit.

Finn gets another laugh out of this before lapsing into silence as the cab drives north

out of the city, weaving between the thick, unpredictable Saturday night traffic, and into

Collingwood where we come to a crawl along Smith Street. Finn gives the taxi driver

directions off the main strip and the driver pulls the car right and into the suburban streets.

The back streets are a little like those in Richmond, I think.

The man-boys pay the fare before ushering us into the old brewery, where we pass

through glass security doors and into an elevator where Finn turns a key so that the lift takes

us up into the loft above. When the doors open I walk out into a hangar of exposed wooden

beams, red-brick walls and shimmering stainless steel where the kitchen is positioned over by

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the far wall. In the centre of the loft, like a floating island, is a fully stocked bar with an

elaborate selection of spirits. Finn walks straight to the bar and begins making up another

round of drinks. Jeremy goes to the sound system beneath the television and starts running

music from an iPod through speakers. It takes only a second for the room to become a party.

Like Callum, the boy-men know how to have a good time. They have, no doubt, spent their

lives to date perfecting the art of having fun.

Tanya takes my hand and spins me around. Finn hands me a cocktail and I slurp it

back without hesitating this time. The boy-men press their bodies against ours and the four of

us dance this way for a while before Jeremy says, -So, how do we get this thing started?

This thing? I wonder. Tanya is smiling when she says, -Well, that’s up to you. You

two think you’re ready?

Finn nods in this desperate kind of way. I feel terrified instantly. Jeremy says, -And

what about your friend? Is she gonna get in on this too?

Tanya looks at me. All I can see is her mouth – a corridor, a tunnel, a passageway. I

am falling into her mouth, down into the darkness. She says, -No, no. Ruth’s here for

company. She’s for display only, guys. No touching.

Jeremy and Finn both mock-boo, complaining about what Tanya has just told them.

All I can think: display only. Tanya says to me, -You going to be okay here by yourself?

-What? Why? What are you talking about?

-Just make yourself comfortable. I’ve got to do a little biz-naz.

I’m stunned as Tanya walks away from me, holding hands with the man-boys. Finn

says, over his shoulder, as the three of them enter a room together, -Just make yourself at

home, Ruth. Help yourself to whatever you want.

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When the door shuts and the three of them are out of sight, I feel alone inside the loft.

Maddie’s voice: God, you’re so naïve, Ruth. Shut the fuck up, I tell her. I shut off the music

Jeremy was playing and put on the tv, taking up a seat in the giant leather couch in front of it.

For a while I surf Foxtel, but there’s little on at one o’clock in the morning and so I change

over to the ABC and watch Rage instead, turning up the volume as I get back up off the

couch to explore the house. I go to the kitchen and look through the giant refrigerator, where

I take out a bottle of cider and pop the top. In the freezer I strike gold: a small, unopened tub

of Ben and Jerry’s Triple Caramel Chunk. I find a teaspoon and start in on the ice cream

between sips of sweet cider as I tour the loft. The place is filled with animal skins and

ornaments and art. Bull horns are displayed on a wall beside a picture of a sad girl. It’s a

clustered, arty look – what a thoughtless person might call thought-provoking.

A sliding glass door by the kitchen takes me out onto a courtyard/balcony with a view

of the city. I look back toward the CBD in one direction, where I can see all the tall buildings

– the Eureka Tower above them all. In the other direction I can look across the rooftops of the

Collingwood houses, the lights and traffic along Smith Street, where I can hear bass beats

being pumped out across the suburb. And beyond Collingwood, far, far away to the north, the

summer night is light enough for me to make out the mountains in the country. But then,

perhaps, I imagine those.

The video clips playing on Rage change over and Interpol’s ‘Evil’ comes onto the

television and so I rush back inside to turn the volume up even higher and dance along with

the puppets singing at the scene of a car accident. This used to be my absolute, all-time

favourite song in the world and I jiggle my body along to the track, laughing at the situation

I’ve found myself in.

112

In Dr Smythe’s office we used to talk about nights like this. About how one night

Tanya and I snuck onto farmland along the coast, where Tanya tore her shirt on a loose nail

as we ducked beneath a fence. I would tell him about incidents at parties, about Tanya

waving a middle finger in a boy’s face and about the crockery and glasses that were thrown

onto the floor afterwards. About her punching an ATM in the city after taking too many

drugs and how she had hurt her hand badly, splitting it open. About the blood that got

everywhere, all over everything. About blow job competitions. About how empty hotel

rooms can be soothing because they are spacious and white.

But Dr Smythe would never want to talk about Tanya. He would always want me to

bring things back to myself. I told him that sometimes my hands shook. I told him that

sometimes, after I woke up, I would discover that I’d been crying in my sleep. I even told

him that when I took the tram this one time, on the way to his office, this guy was staring at

me through this mask, that a complete stranger was wearing a pig mask while on public

transport and looking directly at me and that nobody seemed to care or to even notice. When I

told him about the man in the mask Dr Smythe asked if I ‘saw things’ and I told him that no, I

didn’t ‘see things’, that I only ever saw what was really there and that sometimes these things

frightened me. After a while Dr Smythe asked me what was really going on. He asked me

what was wrong, and I told him, -I’m a part of nothing. I didn’t ever think my life was meant

to be like this.

-Like what?

-So unreal.

Dr Smythe prescribed more Valium. He told me to consider who my friends were. It

was the last time we spoke.

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There is something cold on my stomach. When I open my eyes the Triple Caramel Chunk is a

pool in the centre of my best dress and the man-boys are laughing at me. I pull myself up off

the couch and take Tanya’s hand and apologise profusely for getting ice cream everywhere,

but the boy-men tell me not to worry. They wave goodbye as I descend in the elevator with

Tanya, a giant caramel stain across my abdomen.

Downstairs, we walk out of the brewery and I ask what time it is. Tanya checks the

display on her phone and informs me that it’s almost four. I say, -Jesus, it’s four in the

morning? What on earth were you guys doi-

I cut the sentence short and remind myself to stop being stupid and naïve and boring

and remember that I’m for display only. I say, -Look, I mean, I think I know what you’re

doing, but-

-I needed you there tonight. They wanted to hang out with two girls. I won’t get you

involved again if you don’t want. Sorry. I should have asked Maddie.

-You didn’t even ask me. You tricked me.

-Okay. Well, I’m sorry, Ruth. But we made a lot of money tonight.

-‘We’? No, you made money fucking a couple of guys tonight, because you’re

apparently a prostitute now. Am I wrong?

-Escort.

-Escort, sorry. Because you’re an ‘escort’. Why are you even doing this?

Tanya lights a cigarette, offers one to me. I decline. She says, -Mum and Dad cut me

off.

-Really? When?

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-Like, months ago. Anyway, the money’s great and the job’s a cinch. I’ve only gotta

work six hours a week and I make ten times as much as I would slaving away waiting tables

in some stupid restaurant.

-Waitress or escort. You really think these are your only options?

-No, but the escort thing is fun and it affords me everything I need. It’s not like I’ll do

it forever.

Tanya drops her half-smoked cigarette into the gutter as a taxi approaches. The driver,

with the passenger window rolled down, yells, -You Tanya?

-Yep. That’s us. Thanks.

We slide into the back seat of the car. I notice the way the driver looks back at us in

the rear view, trying his best to perv discreetly. I don’t want another sarcastic conversation

with a man in this city. I don’t want to be asked if I’ve ‘had a big night?’ when the subtext is

always ‘so, how many blokes did you root?’ A jolt through my body when I think, But this

time he’s right about us. He’s right to assume the worst. I need to know everything. I don’t

know how I feel anymore. I ask Tanya, -How’d you get into this?

-Callum set me up. He introduced me to some new people he’s met and they were

nice and attractive and they told me all about it and about all the opportunities I would have

to make good money and I thought, ‘Hey, why not?’

-So, he’s what? Like, your pimp?

Tanya laughs. -No. God no. It’s really got nothing to do with him. I mean, he just

always said he’d help me find my feet after Mum and Dad dropped off. I guess I should have

told you sooner. Are you mad? I knew you’d find out one way or another; I know you’re not

stupid. I just thought if you tagged along one time you’d see it and see it’s not such a big

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deal. I didn’t want you, like, discovering somehow and freaking out thinking I was in some

sleazy sex industry.

-You sure you’re not in some sleazy sex industry?

-I’m a classy girl, Ruth. I’m real upmarket.

Despite myself, Tanya cracks me up. I laugh. I say, -Yeah, you’re classy alright.

-So, you’re not angry?

-Oh, god, Tan, I dunno. I don’t really know how to react. I’m worried for you, but if

you’re happy and you’re convinced it’s safe, I guess all power to you? Isn’t that what I’m

meant to say as a woman?

-I don’t know. It’s not like I’m making some feminist statement. I don’t have the

hairy armpits for that. But thanks. Anyway, you showed the most class out of either of us

tonight, falling asleep in a puddle of ice cream. I can’t take you anywhere, can I?

At four in the morning in the back seat of a taxi after discovering my friend is a

private escort, I find myself giving in to Tanya’s charm. Like high school. Repeating.

Suddenly I just want to touch the fabric of her dress and pull her close and tell her over and

over that she’s my best friend in the whole wide world. As if reading my mind she says, -I

love you, you know?

-I know. I love you too.

-And I won’t get hurt.

-I hope not.

I close my eyes once again. All I want now is more sleep. Tanya allows for me to lie

down across the back seat. I place my head in her lap. The feeling of her dress against me is

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so amazingly soothing and comforting that I imagine that I could lie in it forever. I ask, -So,

with this new job of yours, how does it work?

-I have a listing on a website called Scarlet Blue.

-You put your name out there for people to see?

-No. I go by a different name.

-What?

-Lindsay Belle.

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JAMES:

Wake up sometime before dawn feeling alert and relaxed and vaguely optimistic for once

because of the Valium, and decide to get up and walk outside in a blanket and watch the sun

come up over the countryside. Looking out from Michele’s holiday house you can see across

what might be one-hundred kilometres of farmland extending all the way down the mountain

and outoutout to the ocean: dozens and dozens of paddocks of lush green in every shade,

including some of the same pale mint Michele is so fond of; and on these grasslands are

sheep and cattle, bovine and equine and cervine too, kangaroos and wombats and brush-tailed

rock-wallabies that are so freakishly good at navigating the steep rocky terrain in parts where

they can ascend and descend impractical/impossible, vertical ledges; and there are farmers

and farmers’ dogs too, and the homes of farmers with utes parked in garages, chopped wood

piled high in these garages beside the utes; and so many trees on these grasslands: eucalypts

and pines and gums and wattles; and finally, to the west, there are seven or eight slow-

moving, three-bladed white turbines that stand atop a ridge running north-east to south-west

across the plains.

The sea water doesn’t look very blue from the summit of Mount Best; instead,

because of the mist and fog that blankets the Gippsland sky, the ocean appears to me as a

grey mass – it could even be more land, infertile and hostile land, a land of ash. And in the

air, in the mist above the paddocks, there are large birds of prey – giant wedge-tailed eagles –

circling and scouring the fields for food. And below them, not so high in the air, two yellow-

tailed cockatoos – sleek and black and full of themselves – soar through the mist, squawking

loudly, and I give myself over to the sounds, closing my eyes as I stand wrapped in the warm

blanket, sipping a large mug of coffee on the dewy, morning grass next to the large wooden

picnic table: the yack-yack-yack-yack that comes from a flock of crows as they evacuate a

nearby pine tree and swoop down into the neighbouring paddock to land on the fence; the

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whip-crack/whistle of the eastern whipbirds that cuts through the almost silent and eerily still

air accompanied by the .ping of bell miners, all coming from the small creek that runs along

the fence line at the bottom of the property, at the foot of a steep slope.

Beauty abounds and yet I can’t completely immerse myself, can’t shake the idea that

I’m just like my neighbourhood – like a gentrified suburb that isn’t allowed to be itself

because it’s being cultivated and expanded and tamed. No space for the mes anymore, I think.

No space for the me/I/James.

And while I think over this Michele emerges from the house to join me, holding half

an avocado in one hand as she sits down at the picnic table, and I notice the black fluid sitting

in the centre of the avocado half where the seed has been removed and watch as Michele digs

into the soft green flesh with a spoon. I ask her, ‘what’s that black stuff?’ and she says,

‘balsamic vinegar’ and I go, ‘yuck. how can you eat it like that?’ and she says, ‘it’s nice – the

acidity of the vinegar balances out the fat. wanna try some?’

Michele holds out the spoon for me to taste and I bend down and give it a go and it’s

actually not too bad, so I say, ‘that’s pretty good’ and she smiles, likes that I like it. She asks

to see my hand and I give it to her to inspect and she asks, ‘how’s it feeling?’ and I say,

‘yeah, pretty good’ and she tells me she’ll change the bandage and the tape after we go back

inside.

But after the sun has risen I start to experience the familiar restlessness, a pent-up

sensation, like I’m always reining it in, and I’m sick to death of reining it in when there’s so

much of me that needs letting out. Begin to wish there wasn’t so much in need of letting out,

though; a wish that turns itself into a flat feeling inside that steadily grows, until I feel

panicked and anxious, wanting to drink, pleading to a god I feel certain doesn’t exist, saying

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pleasepleaseplease make it go away, why’s it always got to feel like this? why isn’t living

easy?

Almost on the verge of tears when Michele says, ‘are you okay?’ and I answer, ‘fine’.

Michele asks, ‘so, what do you wanna do later today?’ and when I start to think about

later, about the day ahead and the amount of hours I’ll need to get through, I get even more

anxious, really badly afraid, so just screw up my face, causing Michele to sigh exasperatedly,

before asking, ‘don’t tell me it’s home time already?’ and a feeling of resentment at this

question – deep, frustrated embarrassment, because we’ve been here before, so many times –

so I say back, angry now, ‘sorry. I’m just not feeling it, alright?’ although I don’t know what

‘it’ is or could be or ever was, just know that it’s home time already, so much sooner than

anticipated, even though this is like always: a tiny pebble against a tidal wave, drowning in

confusion, drowning in indecision. Hopeless.

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SEX, NARCISSISM

AND

DISCONNECTION

IN AUSTRALIA

AND THE UNITED

STATES

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INTRODUCTION

Literature is never a mere reflection of the society in which it is produced, but it can be expected to

address the preoccupations of that society, to reproduce or oppose its received ideas, to resonate with

echoes of the battles fought on non-literary fronts.1

Xavier Pons, Messengers of Eros

Novels provide us with clues: they are mirrors that reflect visions of our own lives and it sometimes

seems miraculous that they are still being written, and still being read. No one should feel excluded

from a passionate engagement with modern fiction; it does not belong to academia. Literature is for us

all a still, small voice of calm and sanity in a clamorous ocean of hyperbole, frenzied advertising and

ecstatic misinformation. Ironically, fiction is now the closest we’re likely to come to truth and as such

it should be loved and cherished.2

Elizabeth Young and Graham Caveney, Shopping in Space

Moving on from the creative component, Barely Anything, the following critical portion of

this thesis will examine the literary genre of ‘Blank Fiction’ through a close reading of a

selection of novels published in Australia and the United States between the years 1985 and

2013.3 The examples of Blank Fiction include Less Than Zero (1985) by Bret Easton Ellis,

Loaded (1995) by Christos Tsiolkas, Rohypnol (2007) by Andrew Hutchinson, The Delivery

Man (2008) by Joe McGinnis Jr., and Snake Bite (2013) by Christie Thompson.4 These works

of fiction are at once sensitive ‘to the distinctly modern experience rooted in the present’,

1 Xavier Pons, Messengers of Eros: Representations of Sex in Australian Writing (Newcastle-upon-Tyne:

Cambridge Scholars, 2009), 97. 2 Elizabeth Young, introduction to Shopping in Space: Essays on American ‘Blank Generation’ Fiction, ed.

Elizabeth Young and Graham Caveney (London: Serpent’s Tail, 1992), viii. 3 This dissertation’s use of the term ‘genre’ throughout is based upon a series of shared conventions and tropes

concerning both style and thematic content within the literary subcategory known as Blank Fiction. These

conventions are agreed upon within the critical discourse of Elizabeth Young and Graham Caveney, Sonia

Baelo-Allue and Naomi Mandel, all of whom have worked to expand on theories concerning Blank Fiction

texts. These conventions, and thus Blank Fiction’s existence as a genre unto itself, are detailed in the following

section, entitled ‘What is Blank Fiction?’ 4 See Chapter Breakdowns at the end of this introduction for a synopsis of each novel.

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conveyed by the use of first-person perspective and present-tense narration, and depict many

of ‘the typical themes of modern fiction’, including ‘the quest for identity and integration’

and the experience of ‘alienation, isolation [and] solipsism.5 Each novel constructs what

cultural critic and philosopher Walter Benjamin once described as being the actuality of the

everyday; specifically, this everyday actuality is created in direct response to the ‘present’

moment of their writing and publication.6 However, this thesis remains cognizant of the fact

that fiction cannot and is not a facsimile of real life. As such, Blank Fiction novels considered

here reflect ‘visions’ of the world – specifically, the contemporary Western capitalist

societies of Australia and the United States – and ‘address the preoccupations’ of those

societies in which they were written and produced.7 This thesis examines the novels’ use of

imagery found within an array of visual media and entertainment sources in mass culture –

including celebrity and lifestyle magazines, music videos, pop songs, advertising,

pornography, television and Hollywood cinema – and the ways in which these media 1)

influence and inform the behaviours and attitudes of Blank Fiction characters, and 2) are co-

opted and used by the authors of Blank Fiction.8

While it is reductive to summarise the years 1985–2013 in Australia and the United

States, this time period will be regarded as an era in which several shared cultural trends are

nonetheless identifiable.9 In both nations, governmental policies have trended towards

neoliberalism, advocating for privatisation, free trade, deregulation, and reductions in

5 Harry Harooturian, History’s Disquiet: Modernity, Cultural Practice, and the Question of Everyday Life (New

York: Columbia University Press, 2000), 3; Suzanne C. Ferguson, ‘Defining the Short Story (Impressionism and

Form)’ in Essentials of the Theory of Fiction, ed. Michael J. Hoffman and Patrick D. Murphy (London: Duke

University Press, 1988), 299–305. 6 Walter Benjamin, ‘Central Park’, trans. Lloyd Spencer, New German Critique 34 (1985): 32–58. 7 Young, Shopping in Space, viii; Pons, Messengers of Eros, 97. 8 Francoise Proust, L’Histoire a contretemps (Paris: Les editions du Cerf, 1994), 15. This thesis takes as its

definition of the word ‘culture’ a very old definition provided by Edward B. Tylor in Primitive Culture (1871):

‘That complex whole which includes knowledge, belief, art, morals, law, custom, and any other capabilities and

habits acquired by man as a member of society.’ 9 It is not the purpose of this thesis, as a creative writing study, to undertake historical analysis, but to examine

what Brian Castro (1999) refers to as the ‘functional notion of literature as representation’. Furthermore, given

word limitations, the scope of this thesis must remain limited to a single aspect of the cultural trends represented

within Blank Fiction.

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government spending, strengthening the private sector in the economy.10 In the United States,

the advent of this approach is commonly associated with the election of Ronald Reagan as

President in 1981 and his time in office from 1981 to 1989, while in Australia both major

political parties, Labor and Liberal, have embraced neoliberal economic policies since the

1980s.11 In Australia, examples of this include the privatisation of government corporations,

deregulation of factor markets, the floating of the Australian dollar, and a reduction in trade

protection. More specific examples include the Hawke Government’s 1989 introduction of

the Higher Education Contribution Scheme (HECS), which deregulated the financing of

universities and encouraged them to increase income by admitting full-fee paying students;

and federal treasurer Paul Keating’s 1992 introduction of a superannuation guarantee system

designed to increase national savings and reduce future government liability for old-age

pensions.12

Most important to this thesis, however, is the spirit of prosperity that has emerged

over the last three decades, encapsulated within the visual media and entertainment sources of

mass culture, where a celebration of consumer capitalist life has propagated obsessions with

celebrity status, fame and fortune.13 This is despite economic recessions that both countries

have experienced in the same time period: 1982 and 1991 in Australia, and the 2007–08

10 Manfred B. Steger, Neoliberalism: A Very Short Introduction (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2010), 2–10;

Susan Braedley and Meg Luxton, Neoliberalism and Everyday Life, MQUP, 2010, accessed August 26, 2014,

http://site.ebrary.com/lib/unimelb/detail.action?docID=10577757; Alison McClelland and Susan St John,

‘Social Policy Responses to Globalisation in Australia and New Zealand, 1980–2005’, Australian Journal of

Political Science 41.2 (2006): 177–191. 11 Campbell Jones, Martin Parker and Renee ten Bos, For Business Ethics (New York: Routledge, 2005), 100. 12 Mark Beeson and Ann Firth, ‘Neoliberalism as a Political Rationality: Australian Public Policy Since the

1980s’, Journal of Sociology 34.3 (1998): 215–231; Andrew Glyn, Social Democracy in Neoliberal Times: The

Left and Economic Policy Since 1980 (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2001); Philip Mendes, ‘Australian

Neoliberal Think Tanks and the Backlash Against the Welfare State’, The Journal of Australian Political

Economy 51 (2003): 29–56; Mathew Tonts and Fiona Haslam-McKenzie, ‘Neoliberalism and Changing

Regional Policy in Australia’, International Planning Studies 10.3 (2005): 183–200; Raewyn Connell, ‘The

Neoliberal Cascade and Education: An Essay on the Market Agenda and its Consequences’, Critical Studies in

Education 54.2 (2013): 99–112; Sean Stinson, ‘A Country Under Siege: A Brief History of Neoliberalism in

Australia’, The Australian Independent Media Network, June 28, 2014, accessed March 4, 2016,

http://theaimn.com/country-siege-brief-history-neoliberalism-australia/. 13 Vanessa De Groot, ‘Faces you’ll probably forget’, The Courier-Mail, December 14, 2005, 21.

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Global Financial Crisis experienced by both Australia and the United States. Capturing this

spirit of prosperity, authors of Blank Fiction depict an era in which ‘media-generated novelty

has … become routine’ and, as a result, characters find themselves consistently engaged with

celebrity culture and advertising, and watching television, pornography and Hollywood

cinema.14 In the words of Ari, Loaded’s homosexual, Greek-Australian protagonist: ‘There

must be thousands of movies I’ve seen on television.’15

This thesis is primarily interested in the ubiquity of images drawn from mass culture,

wherein the commodity and the spectacle are united and where, in the words of Theodore

Martin, ‘the temporality of fashion, the fetishism of celebrity, [and] the commodification of

art’ are all staples of the various media industries.16 An examination of the manifestations of

this ubiquity within Blank Fiction offers a means for readers and academics to explore,

analyse and come to an understanding of the cultural preoccupations, trends, values and

attitudes that are expressed and experienced by the young adult characters. This analysis will

identify three primary characteristics of the texts under examination:

1) the representation of a patriarchal, dominant/submissive relationship between men

and women that is informed by the consumption of and engagement with imagery

drawn from mass culture;

2) the representation of a contemporary Western culture underscored by narcissistic

tendencies amongst, most especially, its male members;

14 McKenzie Wark, Celebrities, Culture and Cyberspace: The Light on the Hill in a Postmodern World

(Sydney: Pluto Press, 1999), 217. 15 Christos Tsiolkas, Loaded (Milsons Point, NSW: Vintage, 1995), 14. 16 Theodore Martin, ‘The Privilege of Contemporary Life: Periodization in the Bret Easton Ellis Decades’,

Modern Language Quarterly 71.2 (2010): 153–174. It must be noted that mass culture frequently, yet not

always, relates to celebrity culture. Where this thesis is concerned, celebrities are important to Blank Fiction as

they are represented visually. For example, while Paris Hilton (a socialite) and Britney Spears (a musician) are

celebrities who do not work within visual media such as Hollywood cinema, they are nonetheless represented

visually via tabloids, gossip magazines, music videos, advertising and reality television.

125

3) the representation of a culture in which connection and intimacy between

characters is made impossible, and where a search for self-identity and social

integration is never realised.

As such, this thesis works to challenge the idea that Blank Fiction novels are a mere

product of mass cultural zeitgeists. In contrast, this thesis argues that these novels co-opt

various elements of mass culture – namely Hollywood cinema, pornography, as well as

celebrity culture and advertising – as both internal and external forces that inform narratives,

characters, actions, structure, style and language in such a way that their use may be

interpreted by critics as a deliberate incorporation that allows for an examination – perhaps

even a critique – of contemporary social practices, values and lifestyles specific to the young

characters depicted.

Drawing from the works of Elizabeth Young and Graham Caveney (Shopping in

Space: Essays on American ‘Blank Generation’ Fiction), Sonia Baelo-Allue (Bret Easton

Ellis’s Controversial Fiction: Writing Between High and Low Culture), Peter Freese (‘Bret

Easton Ellis, Less Than Zero: Entropy in the “MTV Novel”?’), Jean Twenge (The Narcissism

Epidemic: Living in the Age of Entitlement), and Jane M. Ussher (Fantasies of Femininity:

Reframing the Boundaries of Sex), as well as from supplemental sources including news and

literature journal articles, recent sociological research, and radio interviews and book

reviews, this thesis takes the position that the usage of various elements of mass culture

within Blank Fiction is not an attempt to glamorise or perpetuate the lifestyles depicted

within the narratives. This is because the novels under analysis here do not depict positive

consequences for the characters living these lifestyles and exercising these values – few

resolutions are offered for character conflicts and little, if anything, is gained. (See Chapter 3

for an examination of the resolutions given to Blank Fiction characters and the conclusions

these narratives offer.) This thesis takes the stance, therefore, that while the novels are littered

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with depictions of the trappings of Western glamour – fashion, nightlife, consumer ecstasy,

pop culture – such depictions are not de facto glamorisation.

Finally, this thesis will demonstrate that, through an analysis of the imagery drawn

from mass culture and the various visual media and entertainment sources depicted in Less

Than Zero, Loaded, Rohypnol, The Delivery Man and Snake Bite, the study of Blank Fiction

writing can offer new frameworks to academics when approaching treatments of

contemporary fiction in Australia and the United States. This thesis will suggest that a re-

examination of Blank Fiction provides rich social analysis of contemporary cultural trends

that can be incorporated in broader discussions of literature today.

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What is Blank Fiction?

The term ‘Blank Fiction’ can be attributed to literary critics Elizabeth Young and Graham

Caveney who, writing in 1992, coined the phrase ‘Blank Generation fiction’. For Caveney

and Young, the term ‘blank’ established a ‘necessary link’ with the punk ethos of ‘getting out

there and doing something’ while conveying ‘the flat, stunned quality of much of the

writing.’17 Building on this, literary scholar Sonia Baelo-Allue describes Blank Fiction as

being characterised by ‘a minimalist aesthetic with a downtown transgressive tone’.18

As Baelo-Allue suggests, Blank Fiction can be understood as a combination of two

writing styles: minimalism and a movement called ‘Downtown’ writing, which originated in

New York City in the 1980s. According to Young, the Downtown practitioners ‘wrote a flat

affectless prose which dealt with all aspects of contemporary urban life: crime, drugs, sexual

excess, media overload, consumer madness, inner-city decay and fashion-crazed nightlife’.19

Minimalism, writes Baelo-Allue, is also a style that includes a flat form of writing, but is

marked by several other key tropes, namely ‘the absence of any formal experimentation’ and

‘a pronounced structural reduction, detached and elliptical prose and noncommittal,

nonomniscient narrative voices’. Minimalist plots tend to be ‘slight’ and ‘characters seem

inarticulate as they move through ordinary situations’. Overall, ‘characterization and

contextualization are missing or conveyed through surface details such as brand names or

popular culture references’. Minimalist characters commonly ‘belong to the working-class or

lower middle-class and use vernacular dialogue’.20

In addition to combining minimalism with Downtown writing, Blank Fiction engages

with postmodern culture and style through the issues at the heart of each novel: what

17 Young, Shopping in Space, vi–vii. 18 Sonia Baelo-Allue, Bret Easton Ellis’s Controversial Fiction: Writing Between High and Low Culture

(London: Bloomsbury Publishing, 2011), 33. 19 Young, Shopping in Space, vi. 20 Baelo-Allue, Bret Easton Ellis’s Controversial Fiction, 29.

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Caveney and Young describe as being ‘the whole contemporary technocracy’ – that is, issues

that are specific to contemporary Western society and include ‘consumer capitalism, media

saturation, [and] societal breakdown’.21 Similarly, James Annesley suggests that Blank

Fiction allows us to develop a portrait of contemporary culture ‘by considering the specific

implications raised by [the novels’] preoccupation with violence, indulgence, sexual excess,

decadence, consumerism and commerce’.22 However, as literary scholar Will Slocombe

asserts in Nihilism and the Sublime Postmodern (2006), what most makes Blank Fiction

postmodern is that ‘it demonstrates the Jamesonian conception of postmodernism as the

“cultural logic of late capitalism”’. Blank Fiction, according to Slocombe, is ‘inherently

connected with economics’; the texts of this genre are ‘overtly concerned with the value-

economy of consumption, and the ways in which this absents ethics’.23

This sentiment is echoed by Sonia Baelo-Allue, who observes:

The subject matters these writers cover usually have to do with contemporary urban life and include

violence, indulgence, crime, sexual excess, media overload, decadence, drugs, consumerism and

commerce. Their novels are loaded with images of excess and draw their material from the

particularities of the 1980s and 1990s. There are references to specific products, real people and places

that offer a vivid depiction of postmodernity and late twentieth-century life […] Although the subjects

they deal with are usually very controversial, they tend to use first-person narrators that generally do

not condemn the morally despicable acts described, which is the most criticised aspect of this fiction.24

Baelo-Allue writes here of texts written and published during the 1980s and 1990s,

but more recent works of Blank can also be identified by these tropes while drawing material

from the particularities of the 2000s and 2010s.

21 Young, Shopping in Space, viii. 22 James Annesley, Blank Fictions: Consumerism, Culture, and the Contemporary American Novel (London:

Pluto Press, 1998), 1. 23 Will Slocombe, Nihilism and the Sublime Postmodern: The (Hi)Story of a Difficult Relationship from

Romanticism to Postmodernism (New York and London: Routledge, 2006), 142. 24 Baelo-Allue, Bret Easton Ellis’s Controversial Fiction, 33.

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A common characteristic of Blank is that the novels have been predominantly written

by first-time authors. Each text analysed in this thesis is a debut novel. We might therefore

consider, as Paul Dawson suggests, whether Blank Fiction is a type of ‘transient introductory

genre for a new “generation” of writers’ – that being a first-time author is partly a factor in

the genre’s creation and thus, by the nature of the themes and content inherent to Blank

Fiction, once having written that first work, an author cannot really create a work of Blank

Fiction again.25

Finally, it is necessary to address and dispose of two terms that commonly make their

way into discourse surrounding Blank novels. First is the use of bildungsroman (coming-of-

age or formation novel). Works of Blank Fiction are often marketed as updated versions of

classic coming-of-age narratives – in particular, in the United States, J. D. Salinger’s The

Catcher in the Rye (1951) – but, in actuality, the opposite is true. Describing a narrative as a

bildungsroman implies that a character will come of age by developing in some way and,

eventually, by maturing into adulthood. But this is rarely the case for Blank Fiction novels,

which are typically marked by downbeat endings that emphasise a distinct lack of emotional

growth on the protagonists’ part. Rather than being an apt critical observation, it seems more

likely that comparisons between Blank Fiction and older bildungsroman narratives like

Catcher are mostly an attempt by marketing departments within publishing houses to equate

their books with those of established literary merit in an effort to generate sales.26

25 Paul Dawson, ‘Grunge Lit: Marketing Generation X’, Meanjin 56.1 (1997): 119–125. 26 Ibid. In Generation Ecch! (1994), Jason Cohen and Michael Krugman spotlight several works of Blank

Fiction from the United States that have been compared to The Catcher in the Rye, including Bright Lights, Big

City (1984) by Jay McInerney, Generation X (1991) by Douglas Coupland, as well as Less Than Zero. Sonia

Baelo-Allue also notes the many comparisons between Less Than Zero and Catcher that appeared in reviews of

Ellis’s first novel, citing also a jacket blurb that proclaimed it was ‘this decade’s Catcher in the Rye’. This trend

was followed and captured on the blurb for The Delivery Man, where a quote proclaims it to be ‘this decade’s

Less Than Zero’. (The connection between Less Than Zero and The Delivery Man should be noted here: Ellis

wrote Less Than Zero at Bennington College, under the tutelage of author Joe McGinniss, who was instrumental

in seeing the manuscript through to completion and publication. In turn, Ellis played a hand in the publication of

The Delivery Man, which was written by McGinniss’ son, Joe Jr.; Ellis edited and read the original manuscript.)

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The second phrase common to discourse surrounding Blank Fiction is an Australian

one: ‘Grunge Lit’. The creation of the term Grunge Lit coincided with the publication of

Andrew McGahan’s Vogel-winning novel Praise (1992), and in much the same way that

comparisons between Blank novels and classic bildungsroman novels were designed to help

sell books, Grunge Lit was primarily a ‘market category’ devised by publishing houses to

capitalise on the trends of 1990s mass culture – in particular ‘grunge rock’, a style of music

made popular by bands like Nirvana. (In fact, the two coalesce in the title of Ian Syson’s

article on Australian Grunge Lit, ‘Smells Like Market Spirit’ (1996), a play on the hit

Nirvana song ‘Smells Like Teen Spirit’.)27

While ‘Grunge Lit’ is a phrase that has largely been forgotten, this does not render

those critical discussion of Grunge redundant. Indeed, this thesis asserts that those texts

labelled as Grunge Lit may just as well have been described as Blank Fiction, so myriad are

the shared characteristics; the discourse that did surround Grunge during the 1990s will be re-

interpreted for the purposes of expanding the literary dialogue on Blank Fiction writing.

In Australia, where Kathy Lette and Gabrielle Carey’s Puberty Blues (1979) is considered a classic

rite-of-passage bildungsroman in the same vein as Catcher, readers can observe a similar use of the older text.

On the blurb of Christie Thompson’s Snake Bite, the reader is informed that the novel ‘is a contemporary

Puberty Blues’.

However, there is a problem in considering The Catcher in the Rye as a good example of a coming-of-

age novel and this is because Catcher’s protagonist, Holden Caulfield, does not come of age. In an essay written

by author Bruce Brooks, entitled ‘Holden at Sixteen’ (2004), Brooks states that ‘Holden’s voice is the same at

the end of his retelling as it is at the start. He seems to have learned very little; his feelings at the time of the

events he relates appear to be his feelings now.’ In contemporary works of Blank Fiction (Less Than Zero,

Loaded and Rohypnol), Brooks’ statement finds new relevance. The conclusions to these novels – marketed, like

Catcher, as coming-of-age narratives – also depict protagonists whose experiences have left them unchanged

and whose detached attitudes are revealed to have remained the same. (See chap. 3 for more.) 27 Dawson, ‘Grunge Lit,’ 119; Joan Kirkby, ‘The Australian Grunge Phenomenon’ in Americanization and

Australia, ed. Philip Bell and Roger Bell (Sydney: UNSW, 1998), 228–244. ‘During appearances at book

festivals around the country in 1995 and 1996, writers sitting on grunge panels disputed such categories for a

variety of reasons. Andrew McGahan, Fiona McGregor and Christos Tsiolkas reacted to the homogenising

effect of conflating such a disparate group of writing. The author of Eat Me, Linda Jaivin, preferred her novel to

be described as “comic erotica”, and she disavowed any similarity to the “nasty” incidents portrayed in

[Edward] Berridge’s stories. Jaivin is most eloquent in her condemnation of critics when she says, “[grunge]

does appear to be an excuse for a wank – by the critics who embrace such terms”. Tsiolkas also comments on

his perception of “[t]he dirty realist thing [as] a media creation”. Addressing an audience at the 1996 Brisbane

Writers’ Festival, Richard King expanded on this point, arguing that grunge was used by commentators as a

pejorative term, thereby dismissing the value of writing by young people’ (Leishman, 1999).

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By analysing Australian Blank Fiction (Loaded, Rohypnol, Snake Bite) alongside

works from the United States (Less Than Zero, The Delivery Man), where a depth of

academic research already exists, this dissertation offers a contribution to contemporary

Australian literary study, positioning Australian works of fiction in such a way that they

engage with these pre-existing dialogues.

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The problem with Blank

As stated, ‘Grunge Lit’ derives from that emblem of 1990s mass culture, grunge music.

Similarly, ‘Blank Fiction’ derives its name from ‘Blank Generation fiction’, Blank

Generation at the time being a moniker for Generation X.28 The emphasis, in both cases, is on

the perceived youthfulness of the writing and the intended audience for that writing. In the

discourse surrounding Blank Fiction, youthfulness is often at the forefront of analyses,

whether the focus is the themes and issues presented within the narratives, the young

characters, or the commonly young authors. The generational discourse that features

prominently in discussions of these works exposes a conflict between ‘generational cultures’

that can detrimentally impact literary criticism.29

For Blank Fiction, youth itself is often the problem. Criticisms of the genre are often

similar to the criticisms levelled against younger members of society, where a nostalgic

juxtaposition between past and present plays out. In the words of cultural critic, Henry

Giroux:

Youth cultures are often viewed in the popular press as aberrant, unpredictable, and dangerous in terms

of the investments they produce, social relations they affirm, and the anti-politics they sometimes

legitimate. Contemporary youth, especially from the inner city, increasingly signify for the mainstream

public an unwarranted rejection of an idealized past.30

This juxtaposition between present and ‘idealized past’ can be summarised by one

Time magazine article that, in reference to Generation X, contended that ‘what frustrates

today’s young people – and those who observe them – is their failure to create an original

youth culture.’ But this perceived failure is a comparative one. Where ‘the 1920s had jazz

and the Lost Generation, the 1950s created the beats, the 1960s brought everything embodied

28 Young, Shopping in Space, vii. 29 Dawson, ‘Grunge Lit’, 119–125. 30 Henry A. Giroux, Fugitive Cultures: Race, Violence, and Youth (New York: Routledge, 1996), 11.

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in the Summer of Love’, ‘the twentysomething generation has yet to make a substantial

cultural statement.’31 This dismissal of youth by cultural commentators has, arguably,

contributed to the dismissal of Blank Fiction.

In general, criticisms of Blank Fiction emphasise an us-versus-them dichotomy

between generations, which serves to highlight a cultural power imbalance between younger

generations and older generations who wield the necessary ‘cultural capital’ to critique them.

Cultural critic Mark Davis, in his book Gangland: Cultural Elites and the New

Generationalism (1999), observes that, for Blank Fiction, this dichotomy typically constitutes

Baby Boomers on the one hand and Generation X and Y, whose writing and the values it

conveys sits outside the paradigm of the Boomer’s ‘approved culture’, on the other. Davis

describes those members of the Baby Boom Generation who hold cultural capital and

influence in their positions as academics, cultural critics and book reviewers as being the

‘cultural elite’.32 One case in point is Margaret Henderson and Shane Rowlands’ essay

‘Where does the misery come from?’ (1996), which highlights the importance of the

antecedents of Australian Blank Fiction, namely Helen Garner’s Monkey Grip (1977) and

Gabrielle Carey and Kathy Lette’s Puberty Blues (1979). While the writers find value in

those texts that make up part of the cultural zeitgeist for the Baby Boomers they fail to find

similar value (a deep sense of political engagement in this case) in the novels published in the

years after 1980. Henderson and Rowlands write that Blank Fiction novels tend to preference

‘the performance of semi-exotic subcultural styles’ over a more in-depth presentation of ‘the

31 David M. Gross and Sophronia Scott, ‘Proceeding with caution’, Time, July 16, 1990, accessed March 14,

2014, www.time.com/time/magazine/article/0,9171,970634,00.html. One thing to note, however, is that while

youth are often dismissed socially, culturally and/or politically, they are rarely dismissed as a market (Brabazon,

2005). As a demographic, youth are a necessary and important source of economic revenue, as titles like

‘Grunge Lit’ (dedicated to capturing that youth market) make clear. Writing on the ‘commodification of young

people’, Henry Giroux in Youth in a Suspect Society (2009), writes: ‘One measure of the corporate assault on

kids can be seen in the reach, acceleration, and effectiveness of a marketing and advertising juggernaut that

attempts to turn kids into consumers and childhood into a saleable commodity.’ Or, as Tara Brabazon puts it in

From Revolution to Revelation (2005): ‘Youth is the potter’s clay of capitalism and endlessly malleable’. 32 Mark Davis, Gangland: Cultural Elites and the New Generationalism (St Leonard’s, NSW: Allen & Unwin,

1999).

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material conditions of youth misery’. Of the earlier novels, though, they write: ‘These texts

and writers represented moments of radical history, when alternative lifestyles were

ideological positions rather than consumerist (or fashion) statements.’33

When compared to the writing of the past, Blank novels are deemed failures by critics

who insist on considering them only within a framework of ‘a 1970s paradigm, as existential,

individual rites of passage’.34 As such, the genre is often considered to be a juvenile,

culturally insignificant and shallow form of writing, whose themes, characters and stories

lack critical engagement with the world more broadly. In ‘Grunge: Will it pass time’s test?’

(1995), journalist Katrina Iffland remarks that Blank characters are ‘all middle-class dropouts

whose main social concerns include having the money to buy their six-packs, double scotches

and cocaine stashes; not to mention their copious supply of contraceptives’.35 Likewise, Ian

Syson, Kirsty Leishman, and Jean-Francois Vernay all affirm the general consensus that

Blank is lacking, writing variously that the stories are centred around ‘depressed and

frightened young [people]’ who attempt to alleviate an ‘ever-present boredom […] through

nihilistic pursuit of sex, violence, drugs and alcohol’36; and that the narratives only detail the

‘deviant practices’37 ‘of drifters that realise that [their] search for ephemeral pleasure will

condemn them to a never-ending quest’ ‘to feel themselves come alive again in an attempt to

fight off the stresses of modern life.’38 Similarly, critic David Henderson concludes that

Blank Fiction novels like Less Than Zero are merely a ‘juvenile attempt to capture the sense

33 Margaret Henderson and Shane Rowlands, ‘Where does the misery come from?: “Clubs, Drugs, and Other

Four Letter Words”: A Survey of “Grunge Fiction”’, Australian Women’s Book Review 8.1 (1996): 4. 34 Davis, Gangland, 131. 35 Katrina Iffland, ‘Grunge: Will it pass time’s test?’, The Canberra Times, October 14, 1995, 16. Iffland goes

on to quote an unnamed ‘leading Australian fiction writer’ who says of the authors: ‘If they were really

concerned about the social problems facing the youth of Australia, why aren’t they questioning things like high

unemployment, youth homelessness: the real issues? They strike me as being very bourgeois. They’re all

middle-class kids, writing about getting their rocks off.’ 36 Ian Syson, ‘Smells Like Market Spirit’, Overland 142 (1996): 23. 37 Kirsty Leishman, ‘Australian grunge literature and the conflict between literary generations’, Journal of

Australian Studies 23.63 (1999): 95. 38 Jean-Francois Vernay, ‘Sex in the City: Sexual Predation in Contemporary Australian Grunge Fiction’,

AUMLA: Journal of the Australasian Universities Language and Literature Association 107 (2007): 154–156.

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of purposelessness that seems to afflict so many young people these days’.39 Henderson,

though, does not find reason to contemplate this sense of purposelessness, nor why Blank

authors like Bret Easton Ellis might want to capture it.40

Most scathing perhaps were the assessments of Blank Fiction made by critics

Rosemary Sorensen and John Aldridge. Sorensen’s response to the spate of Blank Fiction

published under the ‘Grunge Lit’ banner in Australia was thus:

There is grunge and there is good writing and the fad for teenybopper stuff that exploits the hype about

the sex-and-violence in down-and-out settings will pass, leaving a few publishers with piles of unread

junk.41

Aldridge’s sentiments in Talents and Technicians: Literary Chic and the New

Assembly-Line Fiction (1991) perfectly encapsulated the simultaneous disregard of not only

the concerns of a literary generation, but of that generation in its entirety, by writing:

The novels of Jay McInerney and Bret Easton Ellis, for example, are by any serious critical measure

artistically empty works that are best sellers largely because they depict a spiritually empty world that

is attractive to readers who are themselves spiritually empty and so in reading them experience a faint

twinge of self-recognition.42

The challenge for these novels and their authors lies in overcoming the need to justify

themselves to an older generation and to an approved culture. An interview with author

Christie Thompson, conducted by Suzanne Donisthorpe for ABC Radio National’s Books and

39 Nicki Sahlin, ‘“But This Road Doesn’t Go Anywhere”: The Existential Dilemma in Less Than Zero’,

Critique: Studies in Contemporary Fiction 33.1 (1991): 34. 40 Ellis himself provides some insight in his article ‘The Twenty-somethings: Adrift in a Pop Landscape’, which

appeared in The New York Times in 1990. Within the article, Ellis outlines the mood and sense of aimlessness,

directionless-ness and detachment of a generation bombarded by mediated imagery, writing variously that ‘we

are clueless yet wizened, too unopinionated to voice concern, purposefully enigmatic and indecisive’; ‘we’re

basically unshockable’; ‘this generation has been wooed with visions of violence, both fictive and real, since

childhood’; and, lastly, ‘the sharpness of horror-film tricks seems blunted by repetition on the nightly news. But

this audience isn’t horrified by the endless slaughter, which is presented within the context of fantasy

(“Robocop”, “Total Recall”, “Die Hard 2”) and the realm of the everyday.’ 41 Rosemary Sorensen, ‘Power to the pen’, The Sunday Age Agenda, July 22, 1995, 9. 42 John W. Aldridge, Talents and Technicians: Literary Chic and the New Assembly-Line Fiction (New York:

Scribners, 1991), 8.

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Art program, demonstrates this need for Blank Fiction authors to justify themselves to an

older generation. The interview, centred around Thompson’s novel Snake Bite, is undercut by

Donisthorpe’s assertions of Australia’s approved ‘literary’ reading culture – a culture

described by Mark Davis and Blank author Edward Berridge respectively as being ‘by the

middlebrow, for the middlebrow’43 and as ‘Katoomba-cum-Bloomsbury’.44 (A summary of

the interview between Donisthorpe and Thompson can be found in Appendix A.)

For Veitch, Henderson and Rowlands, Iffland, Aldridge, and Donisthorpe – and many

more critics in between – Blank Fiction is an easily dismissible form of writing, at once

juvenile, culturally insignificant and lacking in depth. Perhaps blinkered by a genuine distaste

for contemporary youth and their customs and cultures, these detractors touch neither the

books’ real cultural and political statements, nor their place as ‘cultural documents’ offering

an interrogation of the trends in modern culture for which these same critics express extreme

dislike.45 For instance, while Loaded was dismissed by critic Peter Wilmoth as yet another

work of Australian ‘Grunge’ whose author appeared to be engaged in ‘a drab little

competition with Justine Ettler (The River Ophelia) to see who can say f… the most times on

one page’:46

…no mainstream reviewer noticed the continuities between […] Loaded, a second-generation

immigrant book, and Rosa Cappiello’s first-generation immigrant book, Oh Lucky Country. They

missed the fact that almost every plot development in Loaded is obliquely or directly driven by the

question of what it means to be Greek, or a wog, or queer in Australia, when authenticity always seems

to be elsewhere.47

Wilmoth’s summary of Loaded was ‘precisely the sort of comment Oh Lucky Country

received when it was first published in English translation in 1984. Maybe, as Loaded

43 Davis, Gangland, 131. 44 In Murray Waldren, Dining out with Mr Lunch (St Lucia, Qld.: University of Queensland Press, 1999), 76. 45 David Lehman, ‘Less Than Zero’ in Newsweek (8 July 1985), 70. 46 Peter Wilmoth, ‘(Topshelf)’, The Sunday Age Agenda, October 21, 1995, 8. 47 Davis, Gangland, 130.

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implies, little has changed in attitudes to ethnicity since.’ Indeed, beyond the limited scope of

analysis offered to Blank Fiction writing, what is most obviously lacking in the discourse

surrounding the genre is a variety of generational voices. This is not to say that younger

critics would necessarily be better suited to reviewing or analysing Blank Fiction, but that

perhaps those closer in age to the authors and characters might be more adept at identifying

their themes. The literary establishment’s need for younger critics and reviewers is not, as

Davis makes clear, ‘to create a new hagiography, but to mount an informed’ – and, this thesis

would add, a varied – ‘critique’.48

In (re-)examining both older and newer works of Blank Fiction from Australia and the

United States, this thesis aims to contribute one such informed and varied critique to a genre

that has suffered from a particularly negative analytical homogeneity. A more heterogeneous

critical discourse will draw attention to the role Blank novels play in depicting and assessing

the cultural trends and preoccupations of Generation X and Generation Y, whose members

have come of age in an era in which the images drawn from celebrity and lifestyle magazines,

music videos, pop songs, advertising, pornography, television and Hollywood cinema all

contribute to the formulation of self-identity, gendered body and expression of sexuality.

48 Ibid., 130–131.

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Chapter Breakdowns

CHAPTER 1: Femininity and imagery in Snake Bite and The Delivery Man will explore

the ‘pornification’ of the female body in Blank Fiction novels. This chapter will examine the

ways in which female characters in The Delivery Man and Snake Bite are affected by their

engagement with messages derived from the imagery of celebrity and lifestyle magazines,

music videos, pop songs, advertising, pornography, television and Hollywood cinema.

This chapter finds that Blank Fiction depicts a society in which a patriarchal,

dominant/submissive relationship between men and women is asserted through the ‘male

gaze’, through sexual encounters between men and women, and through the consequences

characters suffer in Blank narratives.

Key texts:

• The Delivery Man by Joe McGinnis Jr. This text follows the lives of three

young people – Chase, Michele and Bailey – living in Las Vegas. Chase, the

novel’s protagonist, drives Michele, a young prostitute, to her various

appointments with clients. Chase plans to make enough money to leave Las

Vegas and start a new life for himself in New York, but as the narrative

progresses, Chase finds himself consumed by his lifestyle and the allure of

saving Michele from herself.

• Snake Bite by Christie Thompson. This text follows the life of Jez, a

seventeen-year-old living with her alcoholic single mother, Helen, in the outer

suburbs of Canberra, Australia. Over the course of one summer spent hanging

out with friends, getting drunk and taking drugs, Jez navigates the complex

world of male/female attraction. In order to lose her virginity and make

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herself more appealing to men, she begins spending time with her neighbour,

Casey, a stripper at a local bar.

CHAPTER 2: Masculinity, violence and narcissism in Less Than Zero and Rohypnol will

explore the ways in which mass culture is used by male characters in Less Than Zero and

Rohypnol and by authors Bret Easton Ellis and Andrew Hutchinson. This chapter will focus

on the ‘blending of media fiction and reality’ in Blank Fiction novels through an analysis of

the ways in which Hollywood cinema genres such as horror and the Western are used to

inform masculine identities, narcissistic attitudes and the physical landscapes depicted in

Blank narratives.

This chapter will find that both Blank Fiction characters and authors of Blank Fiction

use the chaotic and frequently violent imagery depicted in mass culture to inform

masculinity, characterisation and action, and will reveal, through depictions of a masculinity

that regards aggression and dominance as essential to maleness, a contemporary Western

culture underscored by narcissistic tendencies amongst, most especially, its male members.

Key texts:

• Less Than Zero by Bret Easton Ellis. This 1985 novel follows the life of Clay,

a wealthy university student who has returned home to Los Angeles for

Christmas. Clay spends his time going to parties, taking drugs with friends and

having one night stands with both men and women. Against a backdrop of

beautiful people, opulent mansions and depraved sexuality, two dominant

narrative strands run throughout the novel: Clay’s deliberation over whether or

not he will renew a relationship with his former girlfriend, Blair, and the

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decision to reignite his friendship with best friend Julian, who is now a

prostitute and drug addict.

• Rohypnol by Andrew Hutchinson. This text tells the story of a group of

wealthy private school boys who, for thrills, drug and rape young women they

meet at parties, bars and clubs in the city of Melbourne. Throughout the

narrative, the unnamed protagonist – henceforth known as The Boy – talks

with a psychologist, having narrowly escaped incarceration for his

involvement with the ‘Rape Squad’. His retellings of the events that led him to

his current treatment offer an insight into the overstimulated, violent and

sexualised world of young people.

CHAPTER 3: Malaise, disconnection and circularity: a close reading of Loaded and

Less Than Zero details the ennui experienced by Ari in Loaded and Clay in Less Than Zero.

This chapter will focus on Ari’s and Clay’s relationships with family, friends and lovers. This

chapter will show how, for Blank Fiction characters – members, too, of Clay’s and Ari’s

generation – these relationships are marked by disconnection and an inability to achieve

intimacy or fulfilment. This chapter will also demonstrate how experiences of malaise and

disconnection manifest as inertia in the characters and how Blank Fiction novels reflect this

inertia with a circular narrative structure, which lacks solid conclusions or resolutions.

This chapter will find that Blank Fiction reveals a culture in which connection and

intimacy between characters is impossible, and where a search for self-identity and social

integration is never realised.

Key texts:

• Less Than Zero by Bret Easton Ellis.

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• Loaded by Christos Tsiolkas. This 1995 novel follows Ari, a homosexual

nineteen-year-old Greek-Australian man leading an aimless existence in

suburban Melbourne. Ari is caught ‘between the traditional Greek world of his

parents and friends, and the alluring, destructive world of clubs, chemicals,

and anonymous sex’.49 Ari fights against all labels – gay/poof, Greek/wog,

Australian/skip – hoping to find an identity he can call his own.

49 Tsiolkas, Loaded. Excerpt taken from blurb.

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CHAPTER 1

FEMININITY AND IMAGERY IN SNAKE BITE AND THE DELIVERY MAN

The entertainment industries do not just influence us; they are our culture, constituting our identities,

our conceptions of the world, and our norms of acceptable behaviour.1

Gail Dines, Pornland

She’s commonplace, in her too-tight red dress, her teased hair, the heavy black mascara, the little gold

cross around her neck. Her problem is that there are thousands of women like her sprinkled around this

city. There’s probably three or four girls like her in this street.2

Christos Tsiolkas, Loaded

This chapter will detail the ‘pornification’ of the female body in Blank Fiction novels, where

pornification, in its original use, refers most directly to the ‘sexualisation’ of mass culture.

(Used here, pornification works to reinforce the connection between mass culture and its

effects on Blank Fiction characters.)3 This chapter will demonstrate how the female body

becomes a site of entrapment, subservience and abuse when female characters engage with

the messages derived from those images drawn from celebrity and lifestyle magazines, music

videos, pop songs, advertising, pornography, television and Hollywood cinema, revealing a

patriarchal, dominant/submissive relationship between men and women. This chapter will

1 Gail Dines, Pornland: How Porn Has Hijacked Our Sexuality (Boston: Beacon Press, 2010), 47. 2 Tsiolkas, Loaded, 39. 3 Monique Mulholland, Young People and Pornography: Negotiating Pornification (New York: Palgrave

MacMillan, 2013). Mulholland refers to the integration of overtly sexualised material into mainstream media as

the ‘pornification’ of mass culture. (Alternatively, Denise Ryan [2012] refers to this as ‘the mainstreaming of

hard-core pornography’.) Mulholland’s phrase is useful when assessing the impact of visual media and/or

entertainment sources on Blank Fiction youths, linking those images on display with sexuality and gender.

See also: Brian McNair (1996), Jane M. Ussher (1997), Simon Hardy (1998), Gail Dines (2010), Cris Clapp

Logan (2010), Bettina Arndt (2011).

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give particular focus to the novels Snake Bite (2013), written by Christie Thompson, and The

Delivery Man (2008), written by Joe McGinniss Jr.

Section 1.1, She walked through the world as though she were in a Pussycat Dolls

video clip, will address how the characters engage with the imagery found in visual media

and entertainment sources in mass culture. It will examine how these images impact self-

identity in the mostly young female characters, with specific regard to the impact of the ‘male

gaze’.4 Section 1.2, Following the ‘script’, will address attitudes towards pornography and

sex amongst female characters, as well as how their engagement with pornography affects

sexual encounters between women and men. Section 1.3, Entrapment, subservience and

abuse, will address the ramifications for those characters who use mass culture to inform the

construction of their gendered bodies and their expressions of sexuality.

Pornography, in these texts, is a staple of each character’s media diet and, along with

film, television and advertising, serves to educate Blank characters not only on ‘how to do

“sex”’, but ‘how to do femininity and masculinity’ as well.5 As a result, for the female

characters, these mediums prescribe a sexualised femininity to emulate. It should be noted

that the sexuality represented within the various media described in Blank Fiction is

overwhelmingly heterosexual, and that the gendered bodies within are typically cis and non-

queer: men are masculine and women are feminine, and all are straight.6

4 Laura Mulvey, ‘Visual Pleasure and Narrative Cinema’ in Visual and Other Pleasures (Houndmills,

Basingstoke, Hampshire: Macmillan, 1989), 14–26. 5 Jane M. Ussher, Fantasies of Femininity: Reframing the Boundaries of Sex (London: Penguin, 1997), 180. 6 In Loaded, despite Ari being gay, the media represented exemplifies this, too. Ari does not observe, for

example, homosexual pornography or non-heterosexual characters in the films he watches. Additionally, while

some acts of lesbianism are portrayed (namely between the escorts in The Delivery Man), this makes up part of

a masculine, heterosexual fantasy and is largely performative, as will be discussed in this chapter.

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1.1: She walked through the world as though she were in a Pussycat Dolls video clip

The women of Blank Fiction are entrenched in a culture of unfettered media stimulation.7 In

the Blank novels analysed in this thesis, the female characters Jez, Casey and Helen (Snake

Bite); Blair, Kim and Clay’s two younger sisters (Less Than Zero); Aleesa Desca and

Susannah Lockshardt (Rohypnol); and Michele, Rachel, Brandi and the other escorts (The

Delivery Man) all frequently engage with television, Hollywood films, pornography and

advertising, as well as consuming the connected celebrity culture through lifestyle magazines

and music videos.

Each text is peppered with references to television shows and movies from South

Park, The Ring, The Addams Family, Oprah and Children of the Corn, to Friends, 7th

Heaven, Pimp My Ride, TRL, MTV and more. In The Delivery Man, on one page alone,

Michele variously has ‘her eyes trained on the television’; is ‘still staring at the television’;

and ‘just stares blankly at the TV’.8 In Less Than Zero, secondary characters are described

similarly: ‘She’s watching some exercise show on TV and all these issues of Glamour and

Vogue and Interview lie by her bed’; ‘The maid’s sitting in the living room, with this dazed

look on her face, watching MTV’.9 Time and time again, female characters are absorbed by

their consumption of television – even Ari’s mother in Loaded, for whom ‘the real world

begins every day at seven in the morning with Good Morning Australia.’ According to Ari,

‘she knows shit about anything except what the television and magazines tell her’.10

So highly valued is television that in Less Than Zero Blair and Kim are consumed by

jealousy when they run into a friend, Lene, who has appeared on TV. Turning to Blair, Kim

desperately implores: ‘Don’t tell her we saw her on MV3 today.’ When Lene asks if the girls

7 Beth Spencer, ‘X-ed Again or: Whatever Happened to the Seventies?’, Australian Book Review 177 (1995):

33. 8 Joe McGinniss, Jr., The Delivery Man (London: Atlantic Books, 2008), 251. 9 Bret Easton Ellis, Less Than Zero (New York: Simon & Schuster, 1985), 36–37; ibid., 44. 10 Tsiolkas, Loaded, 14–15.

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happened to watch the show, Blair says no and Kim shakes her head, rejecting Lene by

denying her the moment to bask in quasi-celebrity glory.11 This scene is echoed in The

Delivery Man:

Rachel says she saw her friend on a reality show about the Palms on E! The friend was wasted and

some dude had his hands clutched around her breasts and the friend was completely oblivious. When

Rachel confronted the friend with how gross she had been on the reality show, the friend insisted

Rachel was jealous.12

Through satire, these scenes are representative of the centrality of television in the

lives of the female characters in Blank Fiction.13

Similarly, in Snake Bite, after coming home to discover her mother, Helen, passed out

from drinking too heavily, protagonist Jez begins to cry. Sitting down on the floor with her

knees pulled to her chest, she reflects: ‘I realised I must have looked like I was a bad teen

actor in a scene from Home and Away or Neighbours or some other lame soap.’14 For Jez, her

steady consumption of television has led to a habit of judging her ‘real, everyday experiences

… against their staged, cinematic, video-counterpart[s]’, a behaviour common to Blank

characters.15 For those who both value and engage consistently with the various sources of

imagery depicted within Blank narratives, their ability to distinguish ‘that which is real from

that which is contrived’ is compromised, shaping, in the process, their values, behaviours and

identities.16 The Boy (Roypnol) describes this cultural environment as being in a ‘plastic

state’ due to ‘the blending of media fiction and reality’.17

11 Ellis, Less Than Zero, 88–89. 12 McGinniss, Jr., The Delivery Man, 83. 13 It is important to note here Blank Fiction’s use of comedic and, especially, satirical elements such as sarcasm,

exaggeration and irony, which often contribute to the genre’s position concerning the relationship between

characters and the media. 14 Christie Thompson, Snake Bite (Sydney: Allen & Unwin, 2013), 89–90. 15 Norman K. Denzin, The Cinematic Society: The Voyeur’s Gaze (London: SAGE Publications Ltd., 1995), 32. 16 Clay Calvert, Voyeur Nation: Media, Privacy, and Peering in Modern Culture (Boulder: Westview Press,

2000), 58. 17 Andrew Hutchinson, Rohypnol (Milsons Point, NSW: Vintage Books Australia, 2007), 73.

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In Less Than Zero, author Bret Easton Ellis presents a heightened, satirical depiction

of this integration between ‘media fiction and reality’, creating a world in which characters

mingle with screen actors (‘Blair introduces me to one of her friends, Christie, who’s on this

new TV show on ABC’), where many of the adults work in the film industry. Characters use

celebrity and lifestyle magazines to navigate their environment and to reveal information

about themselves and their families:

A couple hours later, Blair calls. She tells me there’s a picture of her and her father at a premiere in the

new People.

--

‘What’s your mom doing?’ Blair asks. ‘Is she going out with Tom anymore?’

‘Where did you hear that? The Inquirer?’ Kim laughs.

‘No. I saw a picture of them in the Hollywood Reporter.’

‘She’s in England with Milo, I told you,’ Kim says as we get closer to the lighted water. ‘At least that’s

what I read in Variety.’18

For the characters, the success of these various visual media and entertainment

sources is that they are simultaneously relatable (watching a film or reading a gossip

magazine, they feel connected to the imagery they consume, and are drawn in by a false sense

of intimacy with the idols of mass culture) and aspirational (the lifestyles portrayed are often

‘better’ than the ‘real’ lives the characters lead, hence why movies and television are so often

used as forms of escapism), meaning that for those characters who consume them, the

imagery within such mediums has the power to impart knowledge to the viewer. This may

prompt a desire for Blank consumers to enact what they see. In the novels, this desire is not

limited to age, profession or economic status. Instead, we see a wide range of characters

interacting with visual media and entertainment sources from which they take behavioural

18 Ellis, Less Than Zero, 97; ibid., 62; ibid., 73.

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cues. Blank Fiction novels, thusly, present readers with a ‘visual, cinematic age’ that ‘knows

itself … through the reflections that flow from the camera’s eye’.19

Thusly, Blank characters live in a ‘social reality’ largely constructed by the influences

of the media, which cultivates – through images – ‘beliefs about the real world and reality’.20

For the female characters, the negative effects of such an environment are heightened by the

presence of what feminist film critic Laura Mulvey identifies as the ‘male gaze’. Mulvey’s

‘male gaze’, which was first described in her seminal essay ‘Visual Pleasure and Narrative

Cinema’ (1975), is a term and theory identifying the tendency for visual media to be

structured around a masculine point of view, incorporating three levels of viewership: the

person behind the camera, the characters represented within the visual medium, and the

spectator.21 In Blank Fiction this masculine viewpoint is expressed in each of these ways. In

particular, in Rohypnol, the Rape Squad (who target women to date rape, spiking their drinks

and commonly filming the sexual encounters) often embody each viewpoint simultaneously.

On more than one occasion the men in Rohypnol act as performers, camera operators and

viewers of the home-made pornography they produce:

Troy pulls the phone away, presses buttons again, beeping in his hands, holds the screen up in front of

me. It’s a video, grainy, unsteady, the girl fucking someone, sitting up on some guy’s cock. She runs

her hand through her hair then slides it down her face, her fingers catching on her lips. The video has

been taken by the person she is riding, the guy she is fucking. The video is of Troy.22

For female characters who engage with movies and television, the male gaze is a

disruptive force. But this force is heightened for those characters who rely on their physical

beauty for economic gain. Together, Casey (who takes on multiple roles in Snake Bite as

19 Denzin, The Cinematic Society, 7. 20 Calvert, Voyeur Nation, 6. 21 Mulvey, ‘Visual Pleasure’, 14–26. In Mulvey’s words, the three levels of viewership are ‘that of the camera

as it records the pro-filmic event, that of the audience as it watches the final product, and that of the characters at

each other within the screen illusion.’ 22 Hutchinson, Rohypnol, 128–129.

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Jez’s neighbour, friend, mentor and guide to all things feminine, and as an antagonist of sorts)

and Michele, Brandi and Rachel (the main escorts in The Delivery Man) epitomise the issues

that may arise when enacting the lessons gleaned from the imagery of mass culture.

When we first meet Casey, she is lying on the couch in her living room ‘watching Dr

Phil on the huge wall-mounted plasma’ recovering from a big night out and ‘wearing a

canary-yellow spaghetti-strapped dress, her white stiletto heels up on the coffee table, legs

spread so [Jez] cop[s] an eyeful of a scant pair of panties barely covering her, no doubt,

immaculately waxed crotch.’ On the coffee table beside her is a copy of gossip mag Who

Weekly, and her body is described as gleaming with ‘shimmering bronzer which look[s] extra

orange against her white-bleached hair extensions.’ Everything about Casey is glitzy and

fake. Her entire identity seems derived from mass culture, including the false name she uses

when working as a stripper: Britney – ‘As in Britney Spears!’23 Likewise, the escorts in The

Delivery Man adopt a similar aesthetic: they cover themselves in ‘body glitter’ and make-up

and dress according to the wishes of their clients. As Chase waits to drive Rachel to an

appointment, he watches as she and Michele get ready. Michele receives a call from the client

asking if Rachel can be made up to look younger and Michele takes her into the bathroom to

adjust her outfit. ‘When Rachel comes out of the bathroom she has her hair in pigtails and

wears a checkered skirt and a thin yellow t-shirt with a cheerleader’s megaphone over the

chest.’ Rachel protests about the look, but Michele reassures her: she tells Rachel that she’s

‘beautiful’ and ‘wonderful’ and ‘so hot’. Chase observes, too, the way the girls laugh falsely,

caught up in their performance. He describes this as ‘giggling disconnected from humor’.24

23 Thompson, Snake Bite, 38–39; ibid., 116. 24 McGinniss, Jr., The Delivery Man, 42; ibid., 88–89. The women who populate the backdrop of Rohypnol are

described in similar fashion: The Boy observes Susannah Lockshardt’s teeth, which are ‘too-white’ and glow

‘like neon against her tanned almost orange skin’, while at another party ‘some random red-haired girl’ can’t

stop ‘smiling and fake-laughing’. C.f. Judith Butler, Gender Trouble: Feminism and the Subversion of Identity

(New York: Routledge, 1990).

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In Mulvey’s words, these young women inhabit a role in which they ‘are

simultaneously looked at and displayed, with their appearance coded for strong visual and

erotic impact so that they can be said to connote to-be-looked-at-ness’, at once playing to and

signifying male desire.25 Within Blank Fiction, the pervasive femininity entails practised

and/or rehearsed behaviours emulated from movies and an aesthetic marked by an

affectatious use of styling products: make-up and dyed blonde hair and hair extensions, and

‘spray-tans and whitened teeth’.26 In Loaded, Ari notes this particular feminine aesthetic as

being ‘commonplace’, while in Rohypnol, The Boy describes a girl looking like a ‘Barbie

Doll’, suggesting a manufactured, assembly-line feminine appearance.27 Casey herself even

confesses: ‘I look like every blonde’.28 In Less Than Zero, being blonde – and tan – is part of

the shared aesthetic of all characters, a symbol of the affluent and vacuous social scene of

Ellis’s Los Angeles:

In Clay’s circles, one of the most important prerequisites for being ‘in’ is the correct tan: Blair’s U.S.C.

friends, ‘all tan and blond’, Blair’s father’s boyfriend, who is ‘really young and blond and tan’, Clay’s

father, who is ‘completely tan and has had a hair transplant’, Dimitri, who ‘is really tan and has short

blond hair’, and Clay himself, who comes back from the East looking ‘pale’ and quickly decides that

he ‘need[s] to work on [his] tan’.29

For Casey, who is concerned with ‘making a fat lot of cash’ and ‘being a hot bitch’,

her idol is socialite Paris Hilton – an icon of mass culture. For Casey, Hilton embodies a

blueprint to success: she has appeared in Hollywood movies (‘on the other side of the

camera’) and her sex tape, which became a focal point of media attention in 2003, made her –

25 Mulvey, ‘Visual Pleasure’, 19. 26 Thompson, Snake Bite, 175. 27 Tsiolkas, Loaded, 39; Hutchinson, Rohypnol, 65. 28 Thompson, Snake Bite, 107. 29 Peter Freese, ‘Bret Easton Ellis, Less Than Zero: Entropy in the “MTV Novel”?’ in Modes of Narrative:

Approaches to American, Canadian, and British Fiction: Presented to Helmut Bunheim, ed. Reingard M.

Nischik and Barbara Korte (Wurzburg: Konigshausen & Newmann, 1990), 82.

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in Casey’s words – ‘world famous’.30 According to Casey, Hilton’s provocative sexuality and

the stylised glamour and affluent lifestyle she has come to represent make her ‘a pretty smart

bitch’.31 Thompson’s use of Paris Hilton as Casey’s idol is a clever and deliberate one, for

Hilton embodies the contemporary cultural zeitgeist for a society obsessed with mass culture,

in which famous faces ‘permeate every realm of the media’.32 Hilton simultaneously

encapsulates the blurred line between ‘media fiction and reality’, being at once a real person

while also being a personality largely constructed by media hype. Similarly, the young

women of Rohypnol (who idolise model Susannah Lockshardt) and the escorts in The

Delivery Man (who consistently engage with reality television and lifestyle programs) place

value in the same ‘glamorous’, overtly sexualised persona that Hilton represents, taking from

media sources a lesson on ‘how to do femininity.’33

When Casey is first introduced to the reader in Snake Bite, and when Chase observes

Rachel and Michele preparing for a client in The Delivery Man, authors Christie Thompson

and Joe McGinniss Jr. respectively demonstrate the effects of the male gaze on shaping the

attitudes of young women. Their female characters follow what researcher Maree Crabbe

describes as the ‘script’ conveyed by visual mediums such as film, television and

pornography.34 This script is one that upholds a patriarchal, dominant/submissive relationship

between men and women. In both scenes, the girls’ shallow understanding of homosexuality

is made apparent. As Casey proceeds to catch Jez up with the episode of Dr Phil she’s

watching, she says of the gay woman on the show:

30 Anne Manne, The Life of I: The New Culture of Narcissism (Carlton, Vic.: Melbourne University Press,

2015), 27–28. 31 Thompson, Snake Bite, 42; ibid., 115–118. 32 De Groot, ‘Faces you’ll probably forget’ (see introduction, n. 13). See also Manne (2015). 33 Ussher, Fantasies of Femininity, 180. 34 Denise Ryan, ‘Teachers urged to address porn factor’, Sydney Morning Herald, February 13, 2012, accessed

May 27, 2014, http://www.smh.com.au/national/education/teachers-urged-to-address-porn-factor-20120210-1sjtl.html.

151

If you’re gunna be a lesbian, be a lipstick lesbian. I mean, I’ve hooked up with chicks before but they

were hot. I’m not gunna fuck a butch dyke with tattoos and a shaved head. Might as well sleep with a

man if you’re into that.35

Casey views ‘acceptable’ homosexuality in much the same way she views her own

body: existing within a narrow standard of beauty for the pleasure and entertainment of

heterosexual men. In The Delivery Man, Michele and Rachel are those ‘lipstick lesbians’

Casey mentions: the two girls kiss for the entertainment of Chase and his friend Hunter. Like

Casey’s understanding of lesbianism, theirs is a performative expression of homosexuality

tailored to the desires of men – as Chase puts it, ‘just part of the show’.36 This is in keeping

with feminist theorist Jane M. Ussher’s argument that the lessons within pornography (and,

this thesis would argue, this goes for all visual mediums in Blank Fiction) are ‘crudely

heterosexist, phallocentric and sympathetic to the fantasies of “man”’ containing ‘narrow

configurations of “woman” and “sex”.’37

The imagery within film and television especially, as well as the ‘ideas and

narratives’38 that they transmit, comes to replace real life for the female characters of Blank

Fiction.39 Testament to this is Casey’s and Michele’s practice of imitating what they watch,

an encapsulation of the ‘performative’ quality that the construction of their gendered,

feminine bodies – and the expressions of sexuality which they relay – comes to be

underscored by:

35 Thompson, Snake Bite, 39–40. 36 McGinniss, Jr., The Delivery Man, 88–89. What we might call ‘real’ or ‘authentic’ lesbianism sits outside of

heterosexual male desire (women who are interested in other women are of no benefit to men) and is therefore

rejected by women whose femininity is informed by the male gaze. Within Snake Bite, homosexuality sits on the

fringe of the youth culture depicted. However, Laura’s lesbian parents escape the constraints established for

heterosexual women and, comparatively, live fuller, happier lives as a result. (See section 1.3: Entrapment,

subservience and abuse.) 37 Ussher, Fantasies of Femininity, 180. 38 Deborah Cameron and Elizabeth Frazer, The Lust to Kill: A Feminist Investigation of Sexual Murder

(London: Polity Press, 1987), 381. 39 Calvert, Voyeur Nation, 6.

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Casey had positioned herself so that she could

poke out her tits to their best advantage, her

arms wrapped around the back of the chair,

legs folded luxuriously in front of her. Stu

could barely keep his eyes off her and Casey

knew it. Every now and then she would rake

her nails through her hair and then let her hand

fall ‘casually’ to her chest and run her fingers

down the centre of her torso. I wondered how

many times she’d practised that move in the

mirror.40

Michele calmly reaches into her purse and

removes the cigarette and lights it with a

steady hand. She takes a long drag and exhales

out the side of her mouth and sits back down

and crosses her legs. It’s a studied look, like

she’s seen this pose recently in a movie: legs

crossed, arms folded, cigarette burning.41

While Casey and Michele imitate the media they consume, party-girl Susannah

Lockshardt (Rohypnol) occupies an interesting position in a liminal space between imitation

and reality. As a model she is at once the literal ‘face’ of ‘media fiction’ and a real person, a

living embodiment of ‘the image’:

She has been doing TV commercials for what seems like years, advertising jeans, bent over and

looking back, shaking her diet-motivating ass. Advertising make-up with her polyester skin. The latest

cola on her lips. The latest faded, barely there, sugar-free whatever. She smiles across freeways from

billboards, like an angel framed against the sky. She winks from the back of taxi cabs and the sides of

buses, her image imbedded into memory.42

In The Delivery Man, femininity is used to sell products, too: ‘The pretty Coors Light

Girls wearing tight silver minis and clear plastic six-inch heels who move through the crowd

handing out complimentary beer.’ This aesthetic is then imitated by the escorts, who post

pictures of themselves on MySpace, once more blurring ‘media fiction and reality’, once

more closing the gap between advertising and the female body: ‘The pics are all of Brandi

40 Thompson, Snake Bite, 113. 41 McGinniss, Jr., The Delivery Man, 203. 42 Hutchinson, Rohypnol, 73.

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and her friends, mostly at a party of some kind, holding bottles of beer and smoking

cigarettes, Brandi in a string bikini, Brandi in her underwear.’ For all Blank women –

Susannah, Casey, Michele, Brandi and Rachel – ‘the determining male gaze projects its

fantasy onto the female figure, which is styled accordingly’: females become physical

manifestations of heterosexual male desire, becoming enslaved by the values they represent.43

Whenever the escorts are ‘glamorously’ portrayed, it is always in the same overtly

sexualised and stylised manner, reflecting the pornification of mainstream media44:

When Chase opens his eyes again it’s to turn his head to the side and stare at Brandi’s tan skin slick

with oil. Both girls have their navels pierced and their bikinis are pink and yellow. Brandi’s friend is

the one in yellow and though Hunter told Chase she’s younger than Brandi it’s hard to tell because of

the silver eye shadow and the fake breasts and the cigarette.45

Unlike mainstream media, however, Blank Fiction depicts the contrast between such

stylised glamour and the grim reality of the sacrifices required to attain it. While Chase

observes Brandi’s friend who has had breast augmentation surgery, he sees, too, the suffering

the girls inflict upon themselves in the pursuit of beauty. Later in the narrative, Brandi

undergoes the same cosmetic surgery as her friend. The cosmetic surgery is her sixteenth

birthday present. The scene mirrors that above:

In the backyard Brandi sits in the sun just outside the shade from a gigantic umbrella situated between

the pool and the house. She wears sunglasses and pink cotton shorts. A cigarette burns in an ashtray

next to a can of Diet Coke and copies of People and Star. She doesn’t turn her head to look at Chase

when he walks past because of the iPod and he can hear her groaning and what he thought was a towel

is actually bandages – sheets of thick gauze wrapped around her chest.46

43 Mulvey, ‘Visual Pleasure’, 19. 44 Brian McNair, Mediated Sex: Pornography and Postmodern Culture (New York: St. Martin’s Press, 1996),

vii. 45 McGinniss, Jr., The Delivery Man, 102; ibid., 174–186. 46 Ibid., 210.

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The image of Brandi reclining in the sun beside her Diet Coke is not unlike an

advertisement. But McGinniss draws a line in this scene that connects Brandi’s false,

constructed femininity (her fake breasts in this case) to her engagement with the two gossip

magazines by her side. The scene reinforces a contention made by sociologists Peter Conrad

and Heather T. Jacobson in their essay ‘Enhancing biology?’ (2003): ‘enhancements that

modify biology and the body are reflective of what is socially valued in a society.’47

Brandi is transforming her body to emulate the female celebrities she idolises, but on

close inspection her feminine aesthetic is undercut by the violent reality of invasive surgery.

She is described as ‘moaning’ and ‘groaning’ and her head shifts ‘from side to side’ while she

sits in the sun. She is in real pain, for which she takes Vicodin (an opioid used for the

treatment of moderate to severe pain). Similarly, Michele’s constructed femininity is

undermined by the reality of her female body, which weakens her when she menstruates

(something which, it should be noted, is completely taboo in mainstream media): ‘Michele

was in bed because she was too weak to get up. She would get terrible migraines. Nosebleeds

spurted out of her. Menstrual cycles wouldn’t end.’ While she can mirror the strong, sexy

aesthetic she has learned from watching movies, basing her appearance and behaviours on the

femme fatale archetype, Michele is let down by her real body, leaving her vulnerable and

helpless.48 In Rohypnol, when The Boy first meets Susannah Lockshardt, he describes her

appearance as being ‘painfully human’ and ‘without the gloss wrap over it’. Without what he

calls ‘change-channel protection’, ‘any skin problems, any close-up difference to the image is

amplified’.49

47 Peter Conrad and Heather T. Jacobson, ‘Enhancing biology? Cosmetic surgery and breast augmentation’ in

Debating Biology: Sociological Reflections on Health, Medicine and Society, ed. Simon J. Williams et al.

(London: Routeledge, 2003), 223. 48 McGinniss, Jr., The Delivery Man, 210–211; ibid., 136–137. 49 Hutchinson, Rohypnol, 73.

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For Blank women, their actual female embodiment proves to be a disruptive force to

their constructed, performative femininity. In this way, Blank novels provide a close-up of

their young female characters, removing the gloss wrap to unveil the painfully human side of

an obtrusive femininity hinged on its adherence to heterosexual male ideals. In each case of

breast augmentation – whether undergoing the cosmetic surgery or simply considering it –

the decision is always driven by men and/or men’s desires: Casey wants to get ‘fakies’

because ‘guys don’t go for flat-chested chicks’; Brandi’s breast implants have been paid for

by her pimp of sorts, Bailey; and Rachel is encouraged to undergo cosmetic surgery by on-

again-off-again boyfriend Rush.50 Furthermore – and what affirms that the ascribed

femininity is beneficial mostly to men – the ‘commonplace’ aesthetic assumed by the women

in the texts provides males with ‘ejaculation material’, enhancing both the value of and desire

for women who look and act alike by satisfying sexual whims and needs:51

The nice bald man with the twin daughters in Colorado laid out three thousand dollars and begged poor

little coked-up Michele […] because he loved her shaved little pussy because that really does it for

him.52

(This will be expanded in the following section, 2.1: Following the ‘script’.)

In assuming a sexualised (or ‘pornified’) femininity, through the imitation of

aesthetics and behaviours seen in films, television shows and gossip magazines, Blank

females relinquish autonomy over their self-identities, allowing their gendered bodies and

expressions of femininity and sexuality to be dictated by media that are, at their core,

‘crudely heterosexist, phallocentric and sympathetic to the fantasies’ of heterosexual men.53

In this way, Blank Fiction allows for critical audiences to interpret such negative

50 Thompson, Snake Bite, 118; McGinniss, Jr., The Delivery Man. 51 Diana E. H. Russell, Dangerous Relationships: Pornography, Misogyny, and Rape (Thousand Oaks,

California: Sage Publications, 1998), 123. 52 McGinniss, Jr., The Delivery Man, 138. 53 Ussher, Fantasies of Femininity, 180.

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consequences as a critique, rather than an endorsement of the stylised glamour prevalent in

such media.

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1.2: Following the ‘script’

As seen in section 1.1, Blank Fiction women are entrenched in a culture of unfettered media

stimulation. This extends to the consumption of pornographic material as well. In Less Than

Zero, Clay walks into his mother’s bedroom to find his sisters ‘lying on the large bed,

wearing bathing suits, leafing through old issues of GQ, watching some porno film on the

Betamax’. As in other scenes, the presence of gossip magazines and television illustrates the

multitude of visual media with which characters are engaged. In The Delivery Man, the

escorts watch pornography in a hotel room, much like Clay’s sisters: ‘Rachel squeals when

she figures out how to order porn from the pay-per-view menu.’ In both instances, the

pornography the young women watch depicts the moment in which the male performer or

performers ejaculates: ‘One of [Clay’s] sisters says that she hates it when they show the guy

coming’; ‘On the TV screen two men are ejaculating all over a woman’s face’. 54 The act of

ejaculating onto the female form in these scenes is not only a staple of heterosexual hard-core

pornography (the ‘money shot’), but can be understood as ‘an expression of power’ ‘through

which men sexually subordinate their partners’.55 These men within pornography and, by

extension, those men who watch and emulate pornography, are able to lay claim to a position

atop what feminist theorist Catherine A. MacKinnon describes as the ‘naturalized gender

hierarchy’. This hierarchy is propagated by ‘mainstream misogyny’, which, MacKinnon

argues, pornography conveys.56

54 Ellis, Less Than Zero, 66; McGinniss, Jr., The Delivery Man, 88. 55 Gary Day, ‘Looking at Women: Notes Toward a Theory of Porn’ in Perspectives on Pornography: Sexuality

in Film and Literature, ed. Gary Day and Clive Bloom (Houndmills, England: Macmillan Press, 1998), 95;

McNair, Mediated Sex, 72. 56 Catherine A. MacKinnon, Only Words (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1993), 24. While a

diverse range of attitudes amongst feminists exist concerning pornography – including pro-pornography/pro-sex

feminists like Ellen Willis (2014) who argue that pornography has the potential to subvert traditional gender

norms, as well as the positions held by postfeminists – this dissertation relies on a synthesis of common anti-

pornography and anti-censorship feminist theories as part of its broader theoretical framework. This is for two

reasons: 1) while these theories may be more conservative overall, they are better understood in mainstream

cultural discourse, and are both more accessible to readers and featured more often in the existing critical body

surrounding Blank Fiction – important characteristics, given this dissertation’s intention to see Australian fiction

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In the same way that the female characters imitate what they see in film and

television, they imitate the imagery of pornography, too. In The Delivery Man, the escorts’

pictures that they post to the Internet on various social media serve as pornography for Chase,

who masturbates while viewing them:

Chase masturbates to images of Michele in her low-rise jeans but they don’t work and only Brandi

naked, on all fours, by a pool, her ass pushed up in the air, her body dark (except for that one place)

and glistening with oil is what finally makes Chase come.57

In a later attempt to broaden their client base, Chase finds himself becoming the

escorts’ photographer, taking these same images to put online to attract interest in the

prostitutes. He comes to embody the male gaze, taking up position behind the camera lens

and manipulating their bodies for strong visual and erotic impact: ‘He leans them over and

with an open hand presses gently on the small of their back where they should arch more.’58

For Ussher, it is in pornographic images and films that ‘sex defines “woman’s” meaning, her

research bridged with that which already exists in the United States; and 2) in order to adhere to the limited

scope of the research outlined in footnote 9 of the introduction, certain (admittedly somewhat arbitrary)

parameters must be defined, otherwise another thirty thousand words could easily be occupied by an in-depth

examination of the various perspectives of feminism in relation to pornography.

Finally, given the nature of the pornography depicted within Blank Fiction and the dynamic between

men and women it engenders within the narratives, the following theories make the most logical standpoint for

analysis within this dissertation, which speaks specifically about the mainstream, hardcore, heterosexual

pornography that Blank Fiction novels depict: 1) pornography is effective in conveying ideas about sex and

gender to men because the urge to identify with what is going on visually is enhanced by the male gaze and the

presence of the male body (Day, 1998); 2) pornography is misogynistic in its depiction of a patriarchal,

dominant/submissive relationship between men and women and thus upholds these ideas; 3) at its worst,

pornography not only conveys patriarchal ideologies, but communicates, also, ‘rapist values and ways of

abusing women’ (Dworkin, 1981); and 4) pornography ‘predisposes some males to want to rape women and

intensifies this predisposition in other males already predisposed’ by undermining either the internal or social

inhibitions against acting out a desire to rape (Russell, 1998).

These concepts were touched upon by the following researchers: Victor Cline (1974), Andra Medea

and Kathleen Thompson (1974), Susan Brownmiller (1975), Andrea Dworkin (1981), Neil Malamuth (1981),

Edward Donnerstein (1984), Jacqueline Goodchilds and Gail Zellman (1984), Mimi Silbert and Ayala Pines

(1984), Evelyn Sommers and James Check (1987), Ray Wyre (1990), Catherine A. MacKinnon (1993), Susan

Cole (1995), Brian McNair (1996), Jane M. Ussher (1997), Gary Day (1998), Rae Langton (1998), Diana

Russell (1998), and Lauren Langman (2004).

Additionally, it would be desirable to see – in future research on Blank Fiction – a more wide-reaching

consideration of the multifarious strands of feminist theory, including pro-pornography feminism, and their

impact upon the construction of sexuality within these types of narratives, most especially with regard to female

Blank Fiction authors such as Christie Thompson and Leonie Stevens (1994). 57 McGinniss, Jr., The Delivery Man, 175. 58 Ibid., 249–250.

159

usefulness and her relationship to “man”. She is body and she is flesh.’59 This is played out in

the escorts’ relationship with Chase; via pornography they are reduced to their bodies, their

flesh, and their meaning is defined by their sex and sex appeal. Their usefulness is as Chase’s

‘ejaculation material’.60

In two chapters from Snake Bite, Christie Thompson presents the reader with her

thesis regarding the effects of pornography on young people, particularly gender and

sexuality.61 These two chapters make up the conclusion to the novel’s second act and detail a

night out between Casey and Jez in which they – after assuming the feminine aesthetic

outlined in section 1.1 – attend a party together and then a nightclub, before finding

themselves back at the apartment of two men they meet. It will be helpful to quote events

from these chapters at length here. A scene from the party involves Jez rebuffing the

unwanted advances of a man ‘with black slicked back hair wearing a light-pink polo shirt

turned up at the collar’:

‘Hey, baby,’ he said, putting his arms on either side of the doorframe, blocking my path, tossing a

sideways look at his mates to see if he was getting their approval. They sniggered loudly.

‘Excuse me,’ I muttered, head down, and pushed past him.

‘Hey, hey …’ The guy grabbed my forearm. ‘Where’re you going?’

‘To the toilet,’ I said, and shook him off my arm.

‘Can I come?’ The guy grabbed me from behind, his hands on my hips, and rubbed himself on the

small of my back.

I turned quickly and looked desperately to where Casey was standing in the kitchen, distracted, lining

up more shots.

‘Just fuck off, okay?’ I didn’t sound confident. The guy stepped in and closed his arms around me.

59 Ussher, Fantasies of Femininity, 179. 60 Russell, Dangerous Relationships, 123. 61 Cameron and Frazer, The Lust to Kill, 381.

160

‘How ’bout a dance, then?’ he whispered so close to my ear I could feel drops of spittle land on my

neck.

I pushed him backwards with my elbows. ‘I need to go to the toilet, okay?’

‘Can I come?’ the guy said again and laughed. ‘Give me a little head job, okay? Just a little bit of

something, okay?’

‘You’ve got to be kidding.’ I narrowed my eyes, trying to get my bitch on. ‘Gross.’

As I turned towards the ensuite bedroom, I felt the sharp pinch of fingers pulling at the flesh of my butt

cheek and an involuntary shiver of disgust shot up my spine. I snapped around and swung, driving my

open right palm up into his nose as hard as I could and then followed it with a kick to his crotch that

found air because the guy was already stumbling backwards from the surprise force of the blow.

‘FUCK! You fucking cunt!’ the guy screamed, clutching his face. When he opened his hands in front

of him there were smears of blood from the trickle that ran over his lips.62

As a result of Jez’s reaction – she is called a ‘violent little bitch’ for her retaliation to

the man’s advances – both she and Casey are ejected from the party. Standing on the street

outside, the duo discuss the preceding events. Casey’s attitudes towards sex and her role

within encounters involving men are summed up in the dialogue that follows:

‘The guy totally deserved it,’ I declared. ‘The wanker asked me to give him a head job in the toilet and

then pinched my arse when I told him to fuck off!’

‘So you punched him?!’ Casey crowed. ‘Oh, my God, Jezza, why didn’t you just suck him off, it

would’ve been a lot easier.’

…

‘But, Jez, you can’t go around king-hitting every guy who cracks onto you!’ Casey squeezed between

me and Laura, and slipped her arm through mine. ‘You’ll end up in jail or something! Sometimes it’s

just easier to give ’em what they want.’

…

62 Thompson, Snake Bite, 179–181.

161

‘As I was saying,’ Casey interrupted me. ‘You shouldn’t be so frigid! Sex is not gunna kill you, and it

might actually get you places. Proper women know how to use their sexiness to their advantage.’

…

‘Look, Jez. It’s not gunna kill you,’ she spoke slowly and mildly as though she were already bored of

the topic. ‘It’s a penis. And you can’t even get STIs from oral anyways.’63

Casey’s passive attitudes concerning sex are repeated by the escorts in The Delivery

Man and by Aleesa Desca in Rohypnol. In The Delivery Man, Rachel rationalises her decision

to become a prostitute, saying: ‘He said if I did this I don’t respect my body and all that shit

but first of all that’s not true and anyway that’s what they want, so it’s like, what are your

choices?’64 In Rohypnol, Aleesa says of her female friends’ attitudes towards The Boy and

his Rape Squad, ‘everyone knows what you guys do’ and ‘some just don’t care’. These

attitudes stand in stark contrast to those espoused by the male characters, which include

assertions of dominance and aggression, such as: ‘The New Punk is about taking control.

Seeing what you want and taking it, no matter the cost.’65 (These attitudes will be expanded

on in detail in the following chapter.)

It seems that the females within Blank narratives have come to expect what sex

therapist Bettina Arndt describes as men’s ‘relentless lusty drive’66, accepting ‘as the norm an

essentially adversarial cross-gender relationship by the man against the woman’.67 In Snake

Bite, such acceptance is directly tethered to consuming pornography. Following on in the

conversation between Jez and Casey, Casey, irritated by Jez’s unwillingness to conform to

her perspective on sexuality, asks, ‘Don’t you have the internet?’

63 Ibid., 182–187 64 McGinniss, Jr., The Delivery Man, 84. 65 Hutchinson, Rohypnol, 79; ibid., 28. 66 Bettina Arndt, ‘Porn is not a dirty word’, The Age, October 16, 2011, accessed May 27, 2014,

http://www.theage.com.au/technology/technology-news/porn-is-not-a-dirty-word-20111015-1lqqe.html. 67 Jacqueline Goodchilds and Gail Zellman, ‘Sexual signalling and sexual aggression in adolescent

relationships’ in Pornography and Sexual Aggression, ed. Neil Malamuth and Edward Donnerstein (New York:

Academic Press, 1984), 242.

162

‘What’s the internet got to do with it?’ I asked dumbly.

Casey let out a loud lungful of air. ‘Porn, you twat. If you’d been looking at internet porn you’d know

that these days, as far as sex is concerned, anything goes.’ She raised her eyebrows with authority.

‘And I do mean anything. Think bondage, domination, S&M, DP, midget porn … beastiality might be

going a bit far … squid porn, for fuck’s sake.’

‘You’re making this up.’

‘I’m not!’ You’re so naïve, Jez. People are doing all sorts of shit, all the time, for fun. Haven’t you ever

heard of the sexual revolution? It happened, like, fifty years ago before our parents were even born.

And you,’ she waved her hand airily at me, ‘break a dude’s nose for asking for a gobby. Bit extreme,

don’t you think?’68

Casey’s hyperbolic rant about ‘squid porn’ is comedic and ironic, for she

demonstrates the same naivety of which she accuses Jez. By likening the sexual revolution of

the 1960s to degrading, exploitative and, in some cases, illegal sexual practices, Casey

misinterprets the meaning of her ‘contemporary sexual culture’, a culture that takes ‘place

within the parameters set by patriarchy, and thus can be of little benefit in the struggle against

sexism’.69 Furthermore, despite being sexually experienced, Casey seems to know very little

about sex, helping contribute to her role as comic relief in these moments. Thompson’s use of

Casey seems pointedly satirical: Casey is cavalier in her regard for the health implications of

sexual practices, with her assurances that ‘you can’t even get STIs from oral [sex]’ and that

‘sex is not gunna kill you’. But, as Brian McNair makes clear, ‘in the post-AIDS environment

promiscuous casual sex is dangerous’ and oral sex can lead to sexual partners transmitting

infections.70 Casey is, of course, misinformed primarily because her information comes from

pornography, where the common practice is seemingly to engage in unprotected sex and

68 Thompson, Snake Bite, 186. 69 McNair, Mediated Sex, 97. 70 Ibid.

163

where the long-term effects of unsafe sexual engagements – disease and pregnancy – are

never shown.

Believing that both the sexual revolution of the 1960s and the pornography she

currently consumes are symbolic of empowerment and liberation, Casey demonstrates a

homogenised femininity that internalises the male gaze, making it not only a yardstick by

which to measure feminine identity, but also a perspective from which female characters

judge themselves and others. Jez observes the way Casey ‘distractedly tugged at her hair

extensions, simultaneously giving every female that paraded past us a critical assessment that

I could read on her face: Fat thighs … ugly dress … oooh nice hair’.71 In The Reader, the

Author, his Woman, and her Lover (1998), an examination of the effects of pornography on

heterosexual males, author Simon Hardy observes that ‘women see themselves and other

women as they are defined by the masculine gaze’.72 This internalisation of the male gaze

breeds a competitive form of femininity that unveils itself during the course of Jez and

Casey’s evening together, manifesting in the form of a game, the objective of which is to

attract male attention, and which is won by whoever has the most drinks purchased for them

by the men at a bar. Despite Jez’s awareness of the intrinsic problems with Casey’s position

regarding men and sex, and even despite her resistance to the prescribed feminine aesthetic

that Casey imposes on her – which makes Jez feel ‘like a total fraud, like a freaking android

trying to pass for a human being’ as she blinks ‘through the thick eye make-up’ that Casey

has applied to her face – she is unable to stop herself from becoming swept up by this

competitiveness. This results, momentarily, in her conforming to a homogenised feminine

role beneficial to heterosexual men:

71 Thompson, Snake Bite, 187. 72 Simon Hardy, The Reader, the Author, his Woman, and her Lover: Soft-Core Pornography and Heterosexual

Men (Washington D.C.: Cassell, 1998), 124.

164

I got sick of Casey getting all of the attention (and getting more drinks than me) so I hitched up my

hemline a few inches and squeezed my cleavage together and tossed my hair around a little and the

drinks started rolling in.73

In the culmination of Jez and Casey’s evening out together, Thompson depicts the

‘pornification’ of life events for those influenced by pornography. After having played their

game at the bar, the young women go back to the apartment of two men. The men, who are

both rugby players, are only ever referred to as Football Player #1 and Football Player #2

during this scene, which strips each man of a coherent, meaningful identity beyond his

physical form. Their titles remind the reader at once of the effect that pornography has on the

female figure (‘she is body and she is flesh’) and of a film script in which bit parts are rarely

given proper names, but are instead assigned generic titles such as Thug #1 or Salesperson

#3.

Through Jez’s eyes, we see the proceeding sexual encounter between herself and

Football Player #1 as an overtly ‘pornified’ sexual encounter that takes its cues from

pornography. The language employed (‘panties’, ‘clit’, ‘hard-on’) generates a pornographic

sexual experience, as opposed to a romantic one, for example. Thompson’s use of graphic

language in this depiction helps direct the reader once more to an association between

expressions of sexuality and the ‘script’ within those visual media that inform such

expressions:

‘You’re hairy,’ he grunted, pulling his hands out of my undies. ‘You some sort of hippy?’

‘I’m not hairy!’ I snapped, defensive. ‘It’s called a “landing strip”.’

‘Most girls shave it all off.’

‘I’m not most girls. And I don’t want to look like a little girl.’

73 Thompson, Snake Bite, 178; ibid., 190.

165

‘Whatever. I don’t go down anyway.’ He grabbed me again and started kissing my neck and sliding his

hands roughly down my body.74

It follows that, like all Blank Fiction characters, Football Player #1 has also learnt

how to ‘do’ his masculinity from the images drawn from the various visual sources in mass

culture depicted within Blank novels. In this scene, his ascribed masculinity stops him from

performing oral sex (and by extension, providing pleasure) to Jez, as this would subvert the

dominant/submissive relationship between men and women that the ‘script’ within

pornography, television and Hollywood cinema dictate, thus denying Football Player #1 a

place atop MacKinnon’s ‘naturalized gender hierarchy’.75 (It would be going too far ‘off

script’, it could be said). While pornography masquerades as a genre of visual entertainment

about sex ‘it always proves to be about gender’ instead,76 highlighting – dramatically – the

differences between men and women and underscoring a ‘world ordered by sexual

imbalance’.77

74 Ibid.,, 190–191 75 MacKinnon, Only Words, 24. 76 Linda Williams, Hard Core: Power, Pleasure, and the “Frenzy of the Visible” (Berkley: University of

California Press, 1989), 267. 77 Mulvey, ‘Visual Pleasure’, 19.

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1.3: Entrapment, subservience and abuse

For the female characters in Blank Fiction, the consequences of inhabiting the homogenised

femininity learned through celebrity and lifestyle magazines, music videos, advertising,

Hollywood cinema, television and pornography are largely negative – far from the claims of

glamorisation levelled at Blank Fiction by its detractors. In Snake Bite, Casey runs into a

group of men that she has danced for at the strip club where she works. The men taunt her,

shaming her publicly for the same overtly sexualised femininity they once paid money to

engage with. From a distance the men yell, ‘Oi! Give us a free fuck, ya fucking whore!’ and

‘BRITNEY! I LOVE YOU!’, mocking her by using her stage name.78 Similarly, in Rohypnol,

Susannah Lockshardt is ridiculed behind her back by members of the Rape Squad. She

becomes, to the boys, Susannah ‘Licks Hard’ – a ‘slut’ ‘whose primary role is subordinated

sexual service’ – based upon the stories she tells:79

She tells us about celebrities who’ve bent her over balconies at the finest hotels. Football stars who’ve

come too soon. TV actors who call when their wives are out of town. Susannah touches her tits when

she talks about having girls go down on her. Her eyes blink slowly, and she talks about fucking three

guys at one time, how they cheered each other on.80

Because of these stories and because of rumours that ‘she hates condoms’ and

‘refuses to let a guy use one’ and used to leave a certain nightclub ‘with a different guy each

week’, Susannah is deemed ‘a dirty little bitch’.81 As it is for Casey, this is despite the fact

that Susannah inhabits a model of femininity that heterosexual men desire. Feminist Lauren

Langman, in her essay ‘Grotesque Degradation’ (2004), suggests that the degradation of

women like Casey and Susannah may come as a result of their sexualisation, whereby their

outwardly liberated and/or uninhibited sexual expressiveness becomes a cause of anxiety in

78 Thompson, Snake Bite, 108. 79 Lauren Langman, ‘Grotesque Degradation: Globalization, Carnivalization, and Cyberporn’ in net.seXXX:

Readings on Sex, Pornography, and the Internet, ed. Dennis D. Waskul (New York:, Lang, 2004), 198. 80 Hutchinson, Rohypnol, 74. 81 Ibid.

167

the men who desire them. In order to maintain patriarchal control, males must enact an

‘active assertive’ masculinity in order to supply themselves with power.82 Jez experiences

this assertive masculinity in her encounter with Football Player #1, where, after dressing up

and playing to the desired femininity of the male gaze, she finds herself being dominated:

Suddenly I was really panicked because I realised, whether I really wanted to or not, there was no

backing out of the situation I’d got myself into. The flirting, the hair tossing, all fun and games at the

nightclub, had all led to this moment and this guy was seriously, seriously expecting to get his end in.

Not just expecting but demanding, with his hands on my breasts and fingers poking into my panties.83

For women, the male gaze presents a ‘lose-lose’ scenario in which those who don’t

adhere to the desired feminine aesthetic are forced to, while those who do are degraded for

posing a threat to patriarchal order. This is most apparent in Rohypnol and its depiction of the

Rape Squad. The Rape Squad comprises schoolmates Troy, Harris, Thorley (the leader) and

The Boy, as well as one older member who goes by the nickname Uncle. Together the young

men target women for degradation based on their appearance:

I realise I have just picked my target, without even meaning it. I have decided who I would take home.

This is what Thorley does. Imagine the pretty girl naked and unconscious on Thorley’s carpet. My

fingers grabbing at her skin. Clench my teeth, turn my head away. […] Ignore the sudden violence in

my head.84

After a victim is selected, the boys spike her drink with the date-rape drug rohypnol.

From there, they take her to various locations to have non-consensual sex with her,

sometimes as a group, and usually filming the commission of these exploits. Like Football

Player #1 and other Blank characters, the members of the Rape Squad are engaged with

various visual media and entertainment sources, including pornography, which they seem to

be trying to recreate with their victims. In describing the effects of rohypnol, The Boy speaks

82 Langman, ‘Grotesque Degradation’, 198. 83 Thompson, Snake Bite, 190–191. 84 Hutchinson, Rohypnol, 45.

168

of what he presumes to be the victims’ experience, stating: ‘It’s as if the real world shuts off,

suddenly becomes a film. A film you star in but will never see.’ (The question of how The

Boy could possibly know this remains.)85

Even Susannah Lockshardt, who adheres to the desired feminine aesthetic and is a

willing sexual partner, must still be degraded in the Rape Squad’s sexual scenarios. Before

having sex with Susannah, the boys spike her drink, drugging her in the same way they do all

their victims, despite her stated desire to sleep with them. For the sex to be pleasurable, the

boys must assume the assertive male archetype they view in the pornography they watch.86 It

is only through taming Sussanah and making her powerless that the boys can alleviate their

anxiety about her sexual potency. Likewise, in The Delivery Man, Rachel is degraded by a

client who controls her by dictating what she is to wear, and whose power is made greater by

the fact that he never engages physically with Rachel, preferring instead to watch and

manipulate her from a distance. Again, in this scene, we are presented with another physical

manifestation of the male gaze, as the client tailors Rachel’s body and behaviours to his

desires:

He starts to masturbate. The man tells Rachel to watch him. The man wants Michele to say, “Do it.”

Rachel opens her eyes. Rachel leans forward on the edge of the bed. The man laughs at something

Bailey, now shirtless, whispers to him. The man wants Chase, also shirtless, to stand over Rachel. The

man wants Chase to pull the hair back from her face. The man wants Chase to ask her if she brushed

85 Hutchinson, Rohypnol, 18. Susan G. Cole (1995) writes that: ‘The profits from the industry suggest that

pornography and its imitators in mass media have helped to institute the fusion of sex with violence, gendering

sexual practice so that it follows the strict scripts for male dominance and female submission.’ In Rohypnol, the

Rape Squad are imitators of pornography who adhere to the strict script they have learned through mass media

and pornography. When Thorley and The Boy blackmail a school teacher by drugging and raping his wife, The

Boy describes the photos they send to the teacher as such: ‘In front of his eyes he sees her, porn-star pose. A

penis intruding on a shot of her face, her eyes half-closed, dribbles of semen shining on her lips, mixing with her

make-up.’ 86 Langman, ‘Grotesque Degradation’, 198; Hutchinson, Rohypnol, 75–77.

169

her teeth. The man asks Rachel if she ever walked in on her daddy doing this. The man says he always

wanted a daughter so he could fuck her whenever he wanted.87

For male characters in Blank Fiction, sex has less to do with pleasure and gratification

than it does power.88 In the scene above, McGinniss’ repetition of the phrase ‘the man’

doesn’t allow the reader to forget this patriarchal power, either. For the escorts, as it is for all

the women, their self-identities are centred around the man, the man, the man. However, the

ultimate humiliation reserved for women in Blank narratives doesn’t come in the form of

degradation; rather, it is their abandonment by men in middle age.

After a lifetime spent trading on their looks, the women of Blank Fiction seem

destined to lead precarious lives. Older women, such as Chase’s mother in The Delivery Man

and Jez’s mother Helen in Snake Bite, foreshadow what many of their younger counterparts –

like Michele and Casey – will become. They are haggard and overweight; they work

exhausting, low-paying jobs (a late shift at a casino and a late shift at a bistro and TAB,

respectively); they have poor diets that consist of junk food, cigarettes and alcohol; and they

watch an abundance of trashy, daytime television. Additionally, their husbands have left them

as their youth and beauty have faded and their bodies have become valueless, undesirable and

unable to attract them a partner who is trustworthy, loyal and supportive. These women come

to represent the end point of the trajectory for those obsessed with the imagery and values of

mass culture.

In The Delivery Man, Michele’s narrative arc reflects Chase’s mother’s life. At a

young age, as part of a cruel practical joke, Chase warns Michele of the hazards of her

lifestyle, writing anonymously: ‘You’re lucky you’re beautiful, Michele, because without that

you’d be nothing. You wouldn’t exist. And beauty always fades. So you’re fucked either

87 McGinniss, Jr., The Delivery Man, 207. 88 Susan G. Cole, Power Surge: Sex, Violence and Pornography (Toronto: Second Story Press, 1995), 217.

170

way.’89 Chase’s mother – previously married to a property developer, but now divorced –

lives in a small home on the outskirts of Las Vegas. The best she can do now for male

attention is to attract an old alcoholic man who lives nearby. Similarly, Michele is initially

romantically involved with Bailey, a young man who, like Chase’s mother’s ex-husband, is

involved in real estate. At the beginning of the narrative, Bailey offers Michele the chance to

secure herself a large property through their joint venture of running the escort service. By

the end of the narrative, however, Michele is rejected by Bailey, forced to settle for a

considerably smaller home than she envisioned, and is left to care for the now-disfigured

Chase.

In Snake Bite, the downfall of Jez’s mother, Helen, is linked to her sexualisation as a

younger woman. Helen’s nickname, ‘Breville’, which she gained in high school, is due to the

fact that, as one friend loudly announces, ‘opening up her legs was like pulling apart a toasted

cheese sanger’. The grotesque imagery of her youthful sexual exploits is paired with a

sequence moments later, when a potential love interest arrives at Helen’s house: ‘Mum leapt

to her feet, but her fat arse was wedged in the lawn chair and it travelled halfway across the

yard with her before it fell off and thunked onto the lawn’. Helen is betrayed by her body,

which is no longer slim and thus no longer desirable, and in ageing she has lost the attention

she once received from heterosexual males who wanted her physically and sexually. For

Casey, whose reputation for being ‘easy’ mirrors the reputation of a youthful Helen, her

middle-age, too, seems destined to mirror that of Jez’s mother. Snake Bite ends with a

conversation between Casey and Jez, held over the fence they share as neighbours. Casey is

bored and begs for Jez to come around so they can get drunk and hang out: ‘C’mon! Bring

your rum. I’ll ring up some hot guys.’ But Jez won’t come around; their friendship has

reached an end. This final sequence sees Jez walking away from Casey, who, one can

89 McGinniss, Jr., The Delivery Man, 124.

171

imagine, will stay in her backyard, where she will grow fat in old age and continue to desire

male attention that, eventually, will no longer be forthcoming.90

Both Helen’s and Casey’s degradation and abandonment is the result of their belief in

the values expressed by the visual mediums they engage with. As mentioned earlier, the

various visual media and entertainment sources depicted in Blank Fiction thrive on their

ability to sell a way of life to consumers. Jez observes her mother and her mother’s friends as

they soak in this way of life, recalling that:

On Monday nights Mum, Shaz, Linda and Kaye would watch Sex and the City on our sixty-

centimetre analogue cube telly. If they drank enough vodka and cranberry mixers they could forget

they were four women in a lounge room in Kambah, wearing ripped jeans and Converse sneakers

and threadbare cardigans and suddenly, by common bond of being single and fast approaching thirty,

they were Carrie, Charlotte, Samantha and Miranda (minus the careers, money, clothes and bodies)

when really all they had in common with the characters was that they talked a lot about men and

men’s cocks and relationships and drank like desert camels.91

For Jez, this juxtaposition of real life and cinematic life provides her a yardstick to judge

her real, everyday experiences against their staged, cinematic counterparts in television and

movies. Jez states that from a young age she had ‘watched enough movies to know’ that her

life with her single mother ‘wasn’t the model of a perfect family’, because, by contrast:

90 Thompson, Snake Bite, 218–219; ibid., 318. A subplot within Snake Bite involves a character named Laura

and her lesbian parents, Dana and Joan, who move into the suburban neighbourhood Jez lives in. Laura’s

parents are often depicted in contrast to the heterosexual women who populate Kambah. By comparison they are

better travelled, have worked more interesting jobs, and their home is filled with books and art. On the whole

they are more worldly, more culturally sophisticated and, as parents, they are more engaged in the life of their

daughter. They lead fuller lives and are generally happier as they sit beyond the constraining need to conform to

an idealised heterosexual femininity, and whose homosexuality is non-performative and thusly not serving

heterosexual male desire. As a result they escape the negative consequences experienced by Casey and Jez’s

mother. 91 Ibid., 137.

172

There was supposed to be some Jerry Maguire moment when, even though [her] mum was thirty-

something, overweight, single, with a kid, ‘Jerry’ came through the door and looked her straight in the

eye and said, You complete me.92

However, throughout the novel Jez begins to challenge the value of cinema and

television, just as she does Casey’s notions of femininity and sex. Jez’s ability to walk away

from Casey at the end of the novel, and from a lifestyle dedicated to the service of masculine

desire (she doesn’t want to get drunk again nor ‘ring up some hot guys’), accompanies her

rejection of visual media and the false narrative she perceives it promoting. Unlike her

mother, Jez does not fall for the false promises that movies like Jerry Maguire make to their

viewers. Jez is all too aware of ‘Jerry’s’ absence in their life together, saying of the moment

in which ‘Jerry’ came through the door and said ‘you complete me’: ‘But that never

happened.’ In the same way, after discovering Helen drunk and passed out on the floor,

having likened her existence to a ‘lame soap’ at the beginning of the novel, Jez collects

herself, realising that ‘this wasn’t a lame soap, it was real life’, a moment of clarity that

allows her to come to terms with her mother’s predicament.93 Snake Bite ends rather

optimistically for Jez, and while it takes the length of the novel for her to achieve this

realisation, it is Jez’s ability to distinguish ‘that which is real from that which is contrived’

that ultimately unburdens her from the constraints enforced on Blank Fiction women by the

imagery within mass culture.

For all the women in the texts studied, television, films, gossip magazines, advertising

and pornography prescribe a method of performativity, instructing those who place value in

these various medias how to ‘do’ their own gender. The Blank female consumer, coveting as

she does the cult status of idols like Paris Hilton and Britney Spears, is undercut by a

patriarchal ideology that encodes in her gender subservience to men. In illustrating an

92 Ibid., 137–139 93 Ibid., 90

173

attachment between women of all ages to these visual media, Blank Fiction authors

demonstrate that so long as imagery drawn from mass culture supplies people with ‘beliefs

about the real world and reality’, then the heart of the social order will continue to be one of

male domination and female subordination.94 That the conclusion of each female character’s

narrative is absent a ‘Jerry Maguire moment’ confirms only that the models of femininity,

self-identity and sexual expressiveness provided by mass culture are beneficial primarily to

heterosexual men.

Blank Fiction invites – through depictions of characters engaging with celebrity and

lifestyle magazines, advertising, Hollywood cinema, music videos, television, pop songs and

pornography – an analysis of the effects that such engagement has on self-identity, and

sexuality, and the consequences for those living in a culture of unfettered media stimulation.

The texts discussed in this chapter illustrate that:

1) for female characters who engage with the images drawn from magazines, film and

television, the ‘male gaze’ is a disruptive force that impacts the construction of one’s

self-identity, leading to characters imitating a homogenised feminine aesthetic;

2) an engagement with pornography informs both attitudes towards sex and sexual

encounters between men and women, providing Blank Fiction characters with a

‘script’ to follow that is at once ‘heterosexist, phallocentric and sympathetic to the

fantasies of “man”’ and which contains ‘narrow configurations of “woman” and

“sex”’;

3) for female characters who use the various visual media and entertainment sources

depicted in Blank Fiction to inform the construction of their gendered bodies, their

94 Calvert, Voyeur Nation, 58; ibid., 6; Richard B. Miller, ‘Violent Pornography: Mimetic Nihilism and the

Eclipse of Differences’ in For Adult Users Only: The Dilemma of Violent Pornography, ed. Susan Gubar and

Joan Hoff (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1989), 154.

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self-identities and their attitudes regarding sex, the consequences are largely negative,

showing that the ‘pornification’ of the female body ultimately leads to female bodies

becoming sites of entrapment, subservience and abuse.

This chapter argues that in Blank Fiction, the cultural environment that characters

inhabit is one in which ‘media fiction and reality’ have blended together and where a

patriarchal, dominant/submissive relationship exists between men and women. This chapter

provides important context for Chapter 2, where the images drawn from mass culture, as well

as the theme of the blending together of ‘media fiction and reality’, will undergo further

examination, with a primary focus on male characters in Less Than Zero and Rohypnol.

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CHAPTER 2

MASCULINITY, VIOLENCE AND NARCISSISM IN LESS THAN ZERO AND

ROHYPNOL

Culture is something that people not only learn but use to understand and act upon the world.1

Dennis D. Waskul , net.seXXX

‘Didn’t it bother you the way they just kept dropping characters out of the film for no reason

at all?’

The film student pauses and says, ‘Kind of, but that happens in real life…’2

Bret Easton Ellis, Less Than Zero

This chapter will detail the ways in which images drawn from mass culture are used by male

characters in Blank Fiction and by authors of Blank Fiction to blend ‘media fiction and

reality’. This chapter will demonstrate the ways in which Hollywood film genres such as the

Western and horror are used by Blank Fiction authors as narrative constructs, and how they

influence the formation of masculine identities and attitudes of narcissism in Blank Fiction

males. This chapter will give particular focus to the novels Less Than Zero (1985), written by

Bret Easton Ellis, and Rohypnol (2007), written by Andrew Hutchinson.

Section 2.1, The horror! The horror!, will address how the horror genre, including the

sub-genre of horror known as the slasher film, is employed by Blank Fiction authors. This

section will detail how the chaotic and frequently violent imagery Blank Fiction characters

1 Dennis D. Waskul, introduction to Part Two, net.seXXX: Readings on Sex, Pornography, and the Internet, ed.

Dennis D. Waskul (New York:, Lang, 2004), 65. 2 Ellis, Less Than Zero, 121.

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are exposed to is reflected in the novels’ landscapes, as well as in the narcissistic attitudes

that characters adopt. Section 2.2, Flight into fantasy, will address the ways in which male

characters conflate ‘media fiction’ with ‘reality’, allowing them to act out within a landscape

informed by their relationship with mass culture. This section will address how Blank Fiction

authors use the Western genre of Hollywood cinema to inform characterisation and action,

and will show how the stoic cowboy portrayed by actors such as Clint Eastwood and John

Wayne becomes a model for the male characters’ masculine paradigm, which regards

aggression and dominance as essential to maleness.3

3 Bill Williams and Gisela Gardener, Men: Sex, Power and Survival (Melbourne: Greenhouse Publications,

1989), 123.

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2.1: The horror! The horror!

Like their female counterparts, Blank Fiction males are immersed in an environment littered

with references to visual media and entertainment sources in mass culture, including celebrity

and lifestyle magazines, music videos, pop songs, advertising, pornography, television and

Hollywood cinema. Narratives that follow male protagonists (the vast majority of Blank

Fiction novels) are saturated with the titles of movies, television shows and pop songs. The

following are just some of the titles featured in Less Than Zero alone: ‘Artificial

Insemination’, ‘Do You Really Want to Hurt Me?’, ‘Hungry Like the Wolf’, ‘Tainted Love’,

‘Somebody Got Murdered’, ‘Sex and Dying in High Society’ (which could very well be an

alternative title for Less Than Zero), Alien, The Invasion of the Body Snatchers, Beastman!,

War of the Worlds, ‘the new Friday the 13th movie’, and Indiana Jones and the Temple of

Doom. Less Than Zero is commonly referred to as the ‘MTV novel’ by many reviewers and

critics due to its constant references to, and the prominence of, MTV in the characters’ lives

(they seem to be endlessly watching it).4 However, the tag ‘MTV novel’ refers mainly to the

collection of all ‘current’ mass culture references that the novel made at the time of

publication, whether film titles or celebrities or pop songs or TV shows, not to mention the

novel’s format. According to theorist Horst Steur, the MTV novel’s series of small chapters

and vignettes reflect the length and quick-cut editing of music video clips.5

What is most notable about the titles of the songs and films listed above, however, is

their tone. The prevalence of horror film titles and the references to death and sex speak to an

4 John Powers, ‘The MTV novel arrives’, Film Comment 21 (1985): 44-46. These are the references to MTV

that were found in Less Than Zero when researching this thesis: ‘then I go into my room and turn on MTV

really loud’; ‘the maid’s sitting in the living room, with this dazed look on her face, watching MTV’; ‘he takes a

swallow of the orange juice he’s still holding and stares at MTV’; ‘Blair’s smoking a cigarette and watching

MTV, the sound turned down low’; ‘I’m lying on my bed, watching MTV’; ‘light a cigarette and turn on MTV

and turn off the sound’; ‘Muriel’s lying on the couch, smoking a cigarette, sunglasses on, watching MTV’; ‘he’s

lying on his bed in a wet bathing suit watching MTV’; ‘I turn MTV off and the radio on’; ‘she gets up, flushed,

and turns the stereo off and turns on MTV’; ‘at least that’s what I heard on MTV’; ‘another boy lying in an

overstuffed couch smoking a joint and watching MTV’. 5 Horst Steur, Der Schein und das Nichts: Bret Easton Ellis’ Roman Less Than Zero (Essen: Die Blaue Eule,

1995), 93.

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‘all-pervasive ecstasy of doom and destruction’ that works to evoke an atmosphere of

‘abandonment, revolt and brutality’ within the narrative.6 Horror films, in particular, are

important in Blank narratives, specifically the ‘slasher’ genre in which excessive violence is

meted out to young adult victims. For instance, in Less Than Zero, Kim, Blair and Clay

attend a film about a ‘group of young pretty sorority girls who get their throats slit’. Clay,

however, isn’t particularly interested in the film and watches only ‘the gory parts’.7 In Snake

Bite, male characters describe another ‘fucked-up’ slasher film that involves ‘serial killers

hanging people on hooks and then raping their corpses’, and in The Delivery Man, Chase, in a

flashback, recalls watching a film about ‘teenagers trapped in a house with a man who liked

to cut them open and position their corpses doing mundane things like showering or

watching television’.8

Movies are significant to the male characters of Blank Fiction. Films are often used as

reference points that help characters contextualise life experiences in the same way that Jez,

in Snake Bite, refers to her life as being ‘like a lame soap’. Ari, in Loaded, describes his

friend Joe as talking ‘like a cheap Italian movie’, while in Rohypnol, Thorley refers to fellow

Rape Squad member Harris as being ‘like one of the fucking kids on Charlie and the

Chocolate Factory’.9 Bret Easton Ellis satirises the male characters’ obsession with cinema in

Less Than Zero, where they are willing to pay exorbitant amounts of money to acquire

bootleg copies of movies (Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom in this case). Rip purchases

a bootleg copy for four hundred dollars and, later, Clay is offered a bootleg of the film too.10

Four hundred US dollars in 1985 is equal to almost one thousand Australian dollars today and

illustrates the value (monetarily and culturally) placed on visual media.

6 Freese, ‘Entropy in the “MTV Novel”?’, 78 (see chap. 1, n. 29). 7 Ellis, Less Than Zero, 88. 8 Thompson, Snake Bite, 113; McGinniss, Jr., The Delivery Man , 256. It should be noted that all segments

quoted from flashback sequences in The Delivery Man appear in italics within the novel. 9 Tsiolkas, Loaded, 9; Hutchinson, Rohypnol, 40. 10 Ellis, Less Than Zero, 26; ibid., 81.

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The presence of these various visual media and entertainment sources permeates

Blank Fiction novels, which couple the implicitly and explicitly violent media landscape with

the equally horrific ‘reality’ of the environments that the characters inhabit. The ‘real world’

settings within the novels, such as Las Vegas (The Delivery Man), Los Angeles (Less Than

Zero), Melbourne (Loaded and Royhpnol) and Canberra (Snake Bite) are underscored by

unease. The sunshine, glitz and glamour of the beach, as well as the opulent people who

populate these environments, are consistently contrasted against depictions of oppressive heat

– ‘the heat wave won’t break’, ‘the heat wave wasn’t going to end’, ‘days dragged oooon and

oooon and it became too hot to even consider going outside’ – or of derangement – ‘a local

man tried to bury himself alive in his backyard because it was “so hot, too hot”’; ‘the woman

flipped out, went crazy, took her Bible in one hand, an egg beater in the other, and roamed

the streets of Burnley screaming that the Antichrist was coming’ – or of the blood that seems

to be shed all around – ‘they didn’t expect so much blood to come out, splatter across the

floor and the bar and their clothes’; ‘her white-gold hair stained with specks of red’.11 These

images conjure a sense of apocalyptic chaos, making Blank environments ones in which ‘a

strong potential for tragedy’ lies ‘just beneath the shining surfaces of the glamour and

careless extravagance’ of the young adults who inhabit these places.12

The deserts that surround Las Vegas and Los Angeles, for example, crawl with

coyotes, snakes and scorpions: creatures that maim humans and which, in turn, are killed by

humans. In The Delivery Man, a heat wave drives ‘coyotes down from the hills looking for

food and water’. As a result, ‘dogs and cats vanish in epidemic numbers’ and a three-year-old

Mexican boy is

11 McGinniss, Jr., The Delivery Man, 30; Thompson, Snake Bite, 128; Ellis, Less Than Zero, 185; Tsiolkas,

Loaded, 67; Hutchinson, Rohypnol, 36. 12 Aldridge, Talents and Technicians, 128.

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attacked in the backyard of his mother’s Summerlin home. He [is] found by his sister near a wall

surrounding their backyard, devoured: a mound of bones, shredded clothing, a tiny pair of blood-

soaked Nikes.13

Perhaps seeking retribution, but mostly indulging their sadistic desires, the boys in

The Delivery Man crowd around to witness a coyote being tortured by a home-made flame-

thrower improvised from ‘an aerosol can and a lighter’. Chase observes the coyote, taking in

its ‘matted, blackened fur and the singed flesh’ near its hindquarters, its tail that has been

‘burned completely off’, and the way ‘it tries to hide its head under its paws but is shaking

too violently to accomplish even that’. ‘Look – it’s pissing and shitting, dude, it’s so scared,’

one of the boys excitedly announces, while ‘another boy holds his cell phone up and points it

at the animal’ in an attempt to record the horror.14

Similarly, in Less Than Zero, Clay notices ‘shapes moving through the streets’ that

look like ‘misshaped dogs’; he discovers ‘pieces of matted fur and dried blood’ on the back

door of his house, which turn out to be the remnants of his sister’s pet cat, killed and eaten by

coyotes. Driving Clay home one night, Blair runs over a coyote with her car. Clay gets out to

inspect the animal wedged under one of the car’s wheels; he listens to its ‘squealing’ before

witnessing it ‘die beneath the sun, blood running out of its mouth’. Ellis uses the viewing

habits of his characters (that is, their engagement with horror films) to inform how they

interpret the violent events to which they are exposed. When a friend within Clay’s social

network goes missing, Clay’s friends claim to have seen ‘some kind of a monster’ that they

believe might be ‘a werewolf’. In turn, after hearing on the news that ‘four people were

beaten to death’, Clay stays up ‘most of the night, looking out the window, staring into the

backyard, looking for werewolves’, though we suspect he will only find more of the coyotes

that killed his sister’s cat. This projection of psychological fantasy onto physical form erodes

13 McGinniss, Jr., The Delivery Man, 125. 14 Ibid., 212–213.

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the boundary between ‘media fiction and reality’, creating a ‘hyperreal’ environment for

Blank characters to inhabit.15

These narratives appear to create a discourse with the songs, movies and TV shows

consumed by the characters, where the ‘all-pervasive ecstasy of doom and destruction’ found

in the titles and their content is recreated in the novels. Indeed, Blank Fiction seems at once

informed by and responding to mass culture. As scholar Nicki Sahlin notes of the deaths

portrayed in Less Than Zero, few ‘involve natural causes and a disproportionate number of

the dead are young people’.16 Sahlin could just as easily be talking about any of the horror

films watched by the characters in Less Than Zero; she could be talking about any slasher

film at all. In this way, Less Than Zero becomes its own internal version of the horror movie,

where death and degradation permeate the narrative and where the young ‘victims’ are

celebrated as visual spectacle, just as the slasher movie revels in the gory deaths of young

people.

In the case of Clay, who is only interested in ‘the gory parts’ of the film he attends

with his friends, his desire in life is ‘to see the worst’, a realisation that comes to him while

playing the part of the voyeur in the degradation of his best friend, Julian.17 Throughout the

novel, Ellis plays with this notion, exposing Clay to ‘the worst’ and seeing just how much of

it he can truly stomach. At a party, Clay’s friends – Kim, Blair, a boy named Spit, and a

photographer – watch a girl, Muriel, shoot heroin. As Muriel goes to use the syringe ‘Kim

whispers, “Don’t do it,”’ but, Clay observes, ‘her lips are trembling and she looks excited’

15 Ellis, Less Than Zero, 180; ibid., 131; ibid., 68–69; Jean Baudrillard, Simulacra and Simulation, trans. Sheila

Faria Glaser (Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Press, 1985), 1. Additionally, in Blank Fiction, the highways,

which connect the lawless expanses of desert and bush that surround major cities with the urban environments in

which characters reside, are another constant source of violence and chaos, too: for instance, the country

highways in Rohypnol or the roads in Less Than Zero. It is on the roads in Less Than Zero that friends within

Clay’s social network have misjudged the curves and ‘sailed off into nothingness’, plummeting off of

embankments and crashing in the canyons outside LA. Off the highway to Palm Springs, Clay’s friend, Rip,

points out ‘twenty or thirty’ wrecked cars lying at the bottom of a hill – ‘some […] rusted and burnt, some new

and crushed, their bright colours almost obscene in the glittering sunshine.’ (Ellis, 1985) 16 Sahlin, ‘“But This Road Doesn’t Go Anywhere”’, 34 (see introduction, n. 39). 17 Ellis, Less Than Zero, 160. See chap. 3 for more on the relationship between Julian and Clay.

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and Clay can ‘make out the beginnings of a smile’ on Kim’s face, giving him ‘the feeling that

she doesn’t mean it’. It seems everyone in the room, like Clay, wants to see ‘the worst’, and

after Muriel injects herself (and ‘the syringe slowly fills with blood’) Spit says, ‘Oh, man,

this is wild’ and ‘the photographer takes a picture’.18

As is the case for the boys in The Delivery Man, who use their cell phones to record

the torturing of the caged coyote, and Rohypnol’s Rape Squad, who film their sexual exploits,

the presence of the camera lens in this moment is important. The camera lens works in a

number of ways: firstly, to remind the reader of the young characters’ obsession with visual

media. The lens also creates a degree of separation between the viewer and the action,

contributing to the hyperreal state of events – part reality, part fiction – and transforming real

life into a cinema-like spectacle. But for males, especially, the implicit voyeurism in the act

of recording bolsters their dominant position atop the ‘naturalised gender hierarchy’

discussed in Chapter 1. For male characters, the ubiquity of their various visual stimuli leads

to a kind of real-world scopophilia, where the characters derive pleasure from watching,

specifically from watching scenes of degradation. In her essay ‘Grotesque Degradation’,

Lauren Langman writes that ‘degrading the observed empowers the observer’. While

Langman’s statement relates to the power imbalance between male consumers of

pornography and those females portrayed within pornography, it is still applicable to Less

Than Zero, The Delivery Man, Rohypnol and Snake Bite, where it is mostly women and girls

who are observed and degraded, and who suffer the most dramatic consequences of male

voyeurism.19 Additionally, the act of looking is central to Blank Fiction thematically, not only

because of the novels’ predominant first-person perspectives, which force readers to ‘see’ the

world through the eyes of the narrator, but because the novels focus on themes of discovery

18 Ibid., 77 19 Langman, ‘Grotesque Degradation’, 210.

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and exploration in which the young adults search their environments for purpose, meaning

and experience.

The various elements of voyeurism, horror and spectacle – including torture, sex and

death – converge in the form of a ‘snuff’ film, to which Clay is exposed at a party in Malibu.

Boys crowd into a master bedroom to watch the film, where the sense of spectacle is

heightened by the movie’s status as ‘urban legend’ – one instance of many where ‘the

contemporary extreme of popular media representations of violence serves as the very fibre

of social interconnection in the modern urban environment’.20 The very idea of a snuff film –

a ‘real’ pornographic movie in which the performers are actually murdered after the sex act

has been completed – fits perfectly into Ellis’ LA landscape, which imagines the existence of

werewolves and where men bury themselves alive to escape the oppressive heat. Here, the

snuff film represents the ultimate in visual entertainment. Not only is it yet another video that

thrives ‘on sadistic violence and all-encompassing destruction’, as well as ‘on outrageous

sexual abuse and the thrills of a final cataclysm’, but it also straddles the fine boundary that

separates the real world from media-generated fantasy.21

For Clay, the snuff film – which involves a fifteen-year-old girl ‘tied to a bed post’

and a sixteen-year-old boy, both naked, and ‘this fat black guy, who’s also naked and who’s

got this huge hard-on’ – challenges his desire to see the worst, portraying graphically the rape

and torture of the two teens:

The boy stares at the camera for an uncomfortably long time, this panicked expression on his face. The

black man ties the boy up on the floor, and I wonder why there’s a chainsaw in the corner of the room,

in the background, and then has sex with him and then he has sex with the girl and then walks off

screen. When he comes back he’s carrying a box. It looks like a toolbox and I’m confused for a minute

20 Jason Summers, ‘Media-Portrayed Violence in Alberto Fuguet’s Tinta roja’ in Novels of the Contemporary

Extreme, ed. Alain-Philippe Durand and Naomi Mandel (New York: Continuum, 2006), 64. 21 Freese, ‘Entropy in the “MTV Novel”?’, 79.

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and Blair walks out of the room. And he takes out an ice pick and what looks like a wire hanger and a

package of nails and then a thin, large knife and he comes toward the girl and Daniel smiles and nudges

me in the ribs. I leave quickly as the black man tries to push a nail into the girl’s neck.22

Because it is possible that the film is a real document of the teenagers’ demise, Clay

and Blair extract themselves from the screening, unable to stomach the confronting content.

But after the film ends and everybody returns outside to join them, Clay observes that the

other boys have enjoyed the film a lot; his friend Trent ‘has a hard-on’. Trent mentions that

the guy who purchased the snuff film ‘paid fifteen thousand for it’ before getting into a

passionate debate with a couple of the boys present about the movie’s authenticity. When one

boy suggests that the film was fake, Trent becomes defensive, but when another of the boys

sides with Trent, saying, ‘I think it’s real too’, Trent asks – ‘a little hopefully’, Clay notes –

‘Yeah?’ In all likelihood, the snuff film is merely a pornographic version of the slasher films

they already watch, which Trent, in his hopeful desire to believe otherwise, seems to know

deep down.23 Like the bootleg copies of Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom that are

making the rounds of Clay’s social network, the snuff film is yet another knock-off, another

fake fantasy that somebody has paid too much money for, though the pornographic element

of the film makes it, at least in one respect, ‘authentic’. The sex acts depicted in pornography

are undeniably real: unlike in regular movies, where actors pretend to be scientists or athletes

or superheroes, the actors in pornography do not pretend to have sex. What happens to

women in pornography, therefore, happens to them in the real world.24 This ‘reality’ – albeit

a constructed one – is then captured on film. As a genre, pornography positions itself at the

height of consumer culture, turning sexual fantasies and the act of sex into a commodity.25

And, while images of women have been used to sell products throughout the history of

22 Ellis, Less Than Zero, 141–143. 23 Ibid. 24 MacKinnon, Only Words, 15 (see chap. 1, n. 56). 25 Linda Williams, ‘Fetishism and Hard Core: Marx, Freud, and the “Money Shot”’ in For Adult Users Only:

The Dilemma of Violent Pornography, ed. Susan Gubar and Joan Hoff (Bloomington: Indiana University Press,

1989), 200.

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modern advertising, in pornography the product is woman, as constructed by heterosexual

male desire.26

As the narrative progresses, Clay continues his pursuit for the worst, finding ever-

increasing ‘worsts’ around every corner in Ellis’ dystopian LA, the horror increasing in time

with Clay’s exploration of the city. In the final stages of the novel, Clay, Rip and Trent hear

word that their friend, Ross, has discovered a dead body in the alley behind a nightclub. The

boys accompany Ross to view the body. Ross says, ‘I hope nobody told the police’, for their

involvement would ruin the fun and spoil the spectacle. As the boys move ‘deeper into the

alley’, they find the body propped up against the back wall: ‘The face is bloated and pale and

the eyes are shut, mouth open and the face belongs to some young, eighteen-, nineteen-year-

old boy, dried blood, crusted, above the upper lip.’ The sight of the body causes Rip to say,

‘Jesus’, while Clay notices that ‘Spin’s eyes are wide. Trent just stands there and says

something like “Wild”.’ (This is the second time ‘wild’ has been uttered; the photographer

says the same of Muriel’s heroin use.) The boys are unmoved by the body and Rip jabs the

corpse ‘in the stomach with his foot’ before ‘stick[ing] a cigarette in the boy’s mouth’, an odd

comedic gesture, absent compassion or empathy. Clay, however, is perturbed, and begins

shaking so badly that he drops his cigarette, though this does not move him to act. He does

not call the police, nor does he call an ambulance.27

As the boys leave the alley, Rip grabs hold of Clay and Trent and encourages them to

come over to his apartment, saying: ‘I’ve got something at my place that will blow your

mind.’ Seemingly resigned to his descent into LA’s underbelly, Clay continues to tag along.

26 Hardy, The Reader, the Author, his Woman, and her Lover, 47. 27 Ellis, Less Than Zero, 172–175. Similarly, in Rohypnol, Uncle takes The Boy to see a man ‘hanging beneath

the bottom of [a] bridge’ that crosses Melbourne’s Yarra River. Uncle boasts that he watched the man hang

himself: ‘“I saw him do it,” Uncle says. “I sat in the darkness and watched him tie it up, then he let himself go

and he shook. And I saw him regret it.”’ Uncle has a smile on his face when he says, ‘I watched the life go from

him.’ Uncle refers to the man as only ‘some fuckhead’ and, like the males in Less Than Zero, will not call the

police or an ambulance to inform the authorities about the dead body. (Hutchinson, 2007)

186

When he and Trent enter Rip’s apartment, they are lead to the bedroom and Ellis’ horror is

fully realised, for Clay discovers:

A naked girl, really young and pretty, lying on the mattress. Her legs are spread and tied to the

bedposts and her arms are tied above her head.

The description of the girl is virtually identical to that of the snuff film:

There’s a girl, nude, maybe fifteen, on a bed, her arms tied together above her head and her legs spread

apart, each foot tied to a bedpost.

The young girl (the reader is told that she is as young as twelve) is a fantasy item, a

novelty that the boys keep drugged and sedated like the victims of the Rape Squad, so that

they can have sex with her at any time. Someone has even ‘put a lot of makeup on her,

clumsily’, suggesting that the boys are using the young girl to fulfil the various aesthetic

fantasies they might have; their sadistic violation of her is their ‘individual acting out of the

media events to which [they are] constantly exposed’.28 As one boy, Spin, takes off his

clothes and begins to coerce the girl into fellating him, he says to Clay, ‘You can watch if you

want.’ But Clay doesn’t want to watch; he’s had enough. Here, in Rip’s bedroom, Clay has

finally discovered the worst.

As Clay walks away from Rip’s bedroom, he encourages Trent to come with him, but

Trent is lost to the desires first initiated by the snuff film, which had given him ‘a hard-on’:

‘He looks over at [Clay] and then at Spin and the girl and says, “I think I’m gonna stay.”’

Clay is forced to leave the apartment, dejected and alone, but not before being confronted by

Rip, who interprets Clay’s refusal to be involved as a betrayal:

‘Hey, don’t look at me like I’m some sort of scumbag or something. I’m not.’

‘It’s …’ my voice trails off.

28 Freese, ‘Entropy in the “MTV Novel”?’, 78.

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‘It’s what?’ Rip wants to know.

‘It’s … I don’t think it’s right.’

‘What’s right? If you want something, you have the right to take it. If you want to do something, you

have the right to do it.’

I lean up against the wall. I can hear Spin moaning in the bedroom and then the sound of a hand

slapping maybe a face.29

Clay’s ‘moral disorientation’ (he doesn’t think it’s right to rape a twelve-year-old girl,

but shouldn’t he know?) might be interpreted as an inability to extract media fiction from

reality, but this is not a sufficient reading, for Clay’s passivity here is an act of ‘social

irresponsibility’.30 As we discover, Clay is only too aware of what could happen to the girl.

As he drives away from Rip’s apartment and out into the desert that surrounds LA, he

remembers a story about a party ‘one night, near the end of summer’ that ‘somehow got out

of hand’. Clay recalls that in the wake of this party a young girl from San Diego was found

dead with ‘her wrists and ankles tied together. She had been strangled and her throat had been

slit and her breasts had been cut off and someone had stuck candles where they used to be.’31

By association, the reader is lead to assume a similar fate awaits the 12-year-old girl whom

Rip, Trent and Spin are holding hostage. By not going to the police, Clay’s inaction serves to

expose that ‘the worst’ isn’t what can be observed, but rather what Clay carries inside of

himself. Clay is a cowardly narcissist who perpetuates the patriarchal order via a strict code

of silence. His adherence to the unwritten law of masculine culture – the ‘bro code’; the

culture of not ‘dobbing in’ your mates; what author Michael Kimmel refers to as ‘a culture of

“entitlement, silence and protection” based on a shockingly strong sense of male superiority

29 Ellis, Less Than Zero, 175–178. 30 Charles Taylor, Sources of the Self: The Making of the Modern Identity (Cambridge: Harvard University

Press, 1989), 27–28. 31 Ellis, Less Than Zero, 178.

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and a diminished capacity for empathy’32 – only affirms the reality of Rip’s credo: in Blank

Fiction, for characters whose ‘own experiences have almost entirely been replaced by media-

conveyed’ ones,33 men do have the right to take what they want; they do have the right to do

as they please. And this is where the real horror lies.

32 Michael Kimmel, Guyland: The Perilous World Where Boys Become Men (New York: Harper Collins, 2008),

59. 33 Christopher Gohn, American Adolescence: J. D. Salinger’s “The Catcher in the Rye” and Bret Easton Ellis’

“Less Than Zero” (Munchen: GRIN Verlag GmbH, 2008), 30.

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2.2: Flight into fantasy

The Australian novel Rohypnol (2007) shares many of the themes conveyed in Less Than

Zero. In particular, the novel depicts an ‘active assertive’ masculinity that is informed by its

relationship to various visual media and entertainment sources found in mass culture.34

Author Andrew Hutchinson, like Bret Easton Ellis, uses Hollywood cinema, television,

pornography and advertising not only as a backdrop, but as a framework that influences the

course of his Blank Fiction narrative.

Both novels centre on a male protagonist who is initiated (or re-initiated in Clay’s

case) into the beliefs and customs of a social group – Clay’s former social network in LA and

the Rape Squad – and both social groups are composed of male narcissists for whom ‘the

survival of the individual’ is of upmost importance.35 Throughout Rohypnol, high school

friends The Boy and Thorley recklessly pursue their own happiness and gratification without

regard for the safety and sanctity of those around them. During the novel, Thorley, who is

routinely ‘bored’ and looking for new and thrilling ways to distract himself, suddenly

declares: ‘Let’s be truck drivers’. The Boy, of course, plays along; as he tells it: Thorley’s

‘plan for us to be truck drivers is based around taking massive amounts of Duromine and

driving a rental van to Queensland to deliver nothing to nobody.’ Together, they rent a van

under a false name. Their only cargo is a ‘single grey plastic crate’ filled with ‘bottles of

tequila and pills of every colour and shape’. Thorley concocts the story for their role-playing

game:

‘Here’s the fucking story,’ he says, without taking his focus off the cars and buses passing by. ‘We’re

working for Hamilton’s, a huge logistics company. Someone has called in and said he needs a package

on his desk in Queensland by nine o’clock tomorrow morning, and our manager at Hamilton’s, he’s

getting his nuts busted by the company chief, who is getting his nuts busted by the shareholders. So the

34 Langman, ‘Grotesque Degradation’, 198. 35 Willy Pasini, La Force du Desir (Paris: Odile Jacob, 1999), 62.

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company chief, not wanting to lose his valuable client, says he can do it. But he can’t, not when you

factor in breaks and shift allowance.’

Thorley shakes his head. ‘And that’s where we are. We’ve just taken out a massive loan for our truck,

we have to make the delivery on time or we won’t get the next job and we’ll have to take our kids out

of school and live in the back seat of the family car, get me? So we have to drive all night. We can’t

fucking stop till we get there.’ He shakes his head again, straight faced.36

Thorley yells ‘we’re fucking truck drivers’ as the boys pull out into traffic and begin

their journey, which involves Thorley ‘occasionally driving at oncoming traffic “just to scare

them away”’. After a while, they find themselves at a truck-stop, where Thorley pokes his

chest out whenever they pass a real truck driver and where Thorley again repeats ‘we’re

fucking truck drivers’, his mantra perhaps intended to erase that line between their play-

acting (fantasy) and the truck drivers they seem so fascinated by (reality). Leaving the truck-

stop, Thorley and The Boy decide to abandon their van and steal one of the larger trucks. The

Boy experiences a brief moment of hesitation: ‘I suddenly feel crippled with paranoia,

worried one of the real truck drivers is going to catch us near their prime-movers, their

Macks. Movies have taught me truck drivers love their trucks.’ In this moment of indecision,

The Boy’s only point of reference is to media fiction. Nevertheless, so caught up is he in

enacting this fantasy that he goes ahead with the plan, getting into the cabin of the truck with

his friend anyway.

The boys’ fun lasts several more hours until they crash:

When I untangle myself from the wreck I see Thorley, facing away from the truck, standing absolutely

still, his pupils big as ten-cent coins. He stares at a flipped, busted-up hatchback car on its roof in front

of us, its headlights still on, wheels still spinning. All around us is chaos, smashed across the roadway.

A smear of shattered paint and tyre-marks.

36 Hutchinson, Rohypnol, 131–132.

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My brain buzzes like a microwave, I can feel blood hissing and bubbling in my cerebellum. And

Thorley runs across into an empty paddock, his body shifting to greyscale colours as he gets more

distant in the darkness.

I only get close enough to the hatchback to see her body, all bent-up and broken. She is an older lady

with tight curly hair. She’s wearing blue tracksuit pants and a white T-shirt that says ‘Dreamworld’ on

it. I only get close enough to see her face crying what looks like tears of pure blood from beneath her

broken glasses. I get close enough to whisper, say: ‘Are you okay?’ Then I run after Thorley.37

In Rohypnol a series of italicised chapters dubbed ‘The New Punk’ break up the

narrative, and it is in these chapters that the justification for The Boy and Thorley’s reckless

behaviour can be extracted. Each chapter outlines the credos and attitudes of The New Punk,

a movement that the Rape Squad have created. In actuality, The New Punk is Hutchinson’s

interpretation of the values and attitudes of Generation Y males, perhaps even all of Gen Y,

presented as a doctrine of sorts. While the narrative might have been better served without

these chapters, they provide a detailed insight into the feelings of the young men. The reader

is told that ‘The New Punk is not about friendship’ and that ‘The New Punk is not about

guilt’. Hutchinson writes that ‘The New Punk is not about remorse’; ‘The New Punk is about

not caring about anybody’; ‘The New Punk is not about love’; ‘The New Punk is about no

mercy’; ‘The New Punk is about taking control. Seeing what you want and taking it, no

matter the cost’. Thorley’s attitude when inducting The Boy into the Rape Squad reflects this

ethos: ‘“Fuck people,” he says. “Fuck them before they fuck you.”’ These attitudes echo the

sentiments delivered to Clay by Rip in Less Than Zero: ‘If you want something, you have the

right to take it. If you want to do something, you have the right to do it.’ They are even

shared by Ari in Loaded, who operates under a strict code of macho credos: ‘Thou shalt not

give a shit what people think’; ‘Thou shalt despise all humanity, regardless of race, creed or

37 Ibid., 131–138.

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religion’; and ‘Transcendence is realising that people do not deserve pity or love or

compassion. People deserve contempt.’38

In both Less Than Zero and Rohypnol, the credos espoused by male characters are

used as a way to disconnect from society, allowing onlookers and bystanders such as the

woman in the hatchback car and the twelve-year-old girl held hostage by Rip to become

collateral in the ensuing chaos of the males’ reckless play. Through their actions, these Blank

men support philosopher Christopher Lasch’s claim that a culture of individualism has come

to an ‘extreme of a war of all against all’, in which the pursuit of happiness has been carried

‘to the dead end of a narcissistic preoccupation with the self’.39

This thesis has previously established that in Blank Fiction, women are typically the

victims of male behaviour and attitudes; in Rohypnol this is no different. It is a narrative that

details the everyday lives of the members of a gang who target women to exploit and

degrade, who refer to the drugged bodies of their rape victims variously as being like

‘Christmas presents’, ‘an abandoned Barbie doll’, and ‘a marionette’ – objects to be fought

over, played with and consumed. Perhaps more crucial, however, is the connection Blank

Fiction makes between male narcissism and mass culture – not just how that narcissism

manifests (as an assault on women), but what informs, influences, and encourages it.

38 Hutchinson, Rohypnol, 21; Ellis, Less Than Zero, 177; Tsiolkas, Loaded, 100–102. What is most interesting to

note about Ari is that, despite being a homosexual man, even his sexual identity is tethered to ‘hetero-normative’

notions of masculinity and what it is to be macho. Ari is insistent on promoting himself as being not ‘gay’, being

not ‘a faggot’, and instead exudes the type of masculinity typically associated with straight men. He finds this in

other homosexual men, too, for instance the drug dealer named Rat, who Ari describes is ‘beautiful’ and

‘handsome’, ‘a glorious boy whom I always ache to touch’. While they share a mutual attraction, Ari states: ‘We

hesitate in our physical communications. Testing each other, not wanting to be the first to admit desire. The first

to be the faggot.’ Ari’s sexual identity is summarised best here: ‘Every time I look at a gay man, even if I think

he’s attractive, I can’t forget he’s a faggot. I get off on real men, masculinity’; ‘I sleep with faggots but they

always disappoint me. The desperate effort to hide his effeminacy always betrays him. I can see it in myself. But

I do a good job of talking-like, walking-like, being a man’; ‘Faggots love sleeping with me, they think they’ve

scored a real man. Being a wog is a plus as well’; ‘I get a buzz out of faggots thinking I’m straight.’ (Tsiolkas,

1995). 39 Christopher Lasch, The Culture of Narcissism: American Life in an Age of Diminishing Expectations (New

York: Norton, 1978), xv.

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In The Narcissism Epidemic: Living in the Age of Entitlement (2009), authors Jean

Twenge and Keith Campbell concern themselves with investigating a rise in ‘behaviour and

attitudes that reflect narcissistic cultural values’, including indulgent parenting and an

emphasis on looking out for ‘number one’ over the ideologies prevalent in civil rights

movements before 1980.40 Where mass culture is concerned, these narcissistic cultural values

can be observed in ‘celebrity worship and reality TV, and the ever-growing blogosphere and

social media’s attempts to record our every move’, ensuring, as Anne Manne puts it, a ‘look-

at-me mentality’ amongst modern people.41 For Twenge and Campbell, they find that ‘a

flight from reality into the land of grandiose fantasy’ is an indicator of such narcissism as

well.42 For Blank males, their narcissism – like that conveyed in the credos and attitudes of

the Rape Squad and that of Clay’s friends – can be linked to their engagement with mass

culture and their subsequent flight into ‘the land of grandiose fantasy’, which is demonstrated

in the novels by the characters’ play-acting as truck drivers, believing in the existence of

werewolves, and kidnapping a twelve-year-old girl in order to fulfil pornographic-like sexual

fantasies.

In Less Than Zero and Rohypnol secondary characters like Clay’s father and Mr. John

Arthur take flight from reality into the grandiose fantasy found in the mythos of Western

films. Through an association with archetypal tough guys like Clint Eastwood and John

Wayne, who both embody a masculinity which regards aggression and dominance as

essential to maleness, Clay’s father and Mr. Arthur are able to locate a blueprint of a stoic

archetype of manhood that supplies them with a sense of power.43 For both characters, their

40 Jean M. Twenge and W. Keith Campbell, The Narcissism Epidemic: Living in the Age of Entitlement (New

York: Free Press, 2009), 6. 41 Manne, The Life of I, 25 (see chap. 1 n. 30). 42 Twenge and Campbell, The Narcissism Epidemic, 6. 43 Williams and Gardener, Men, 123. Indiana Jones (beloved by the boys in Less Than Zero) falls into the same

category here, too, for he is the ultimate man’s man in many ways. In one of the final sequences of the film,

after having escaped the Temple of Doom, Indiana claims his prize – the lead female character and love interest,

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entanglement with this masculine paradigm follows a period of emasculation: Clay’s father

starts wearing a cowboy hat shortly after his ex-wife purchases a car that bests his own, while

Mr. John Arthur begins consuming cowboy movies after his wife leaves him. As he tells it:

‘After she left I quit the school. I quit everything. Stayed at home watching Western films,

Clint Eastwood.’ Inspired by these films, Mr. Arthur tracks down The Boy, visiting him in a

holding cell at a police station towards the end of the novel. Mr. John Arthur’s wife was The

Boy’s first victim, and after drugging her and raping her and taking photographs during this

act, The Boy and Thorley sent the pictures to the Arthurs’ house, ending their marriage.

When Mr. Arthur visits The Boy, he adopts an Eastwood-like persona, asking: ‘What if I told

you I came here today to kill you?’ Though he leaves The Boy alive, he threatens: ‘One day

we’ll meet again.’44

Like the horror and slasher film genres utilised by Bret Easton Ellis, the Western film

genre shapes these narratives. Even Ari, in Loaded, watches Western movies: ‘A young

James Stewart in a cowboy suit. I sit down to watch the movie.’ In Less Than Zero, people

perceive ‘apparitions of the Wild West’ along the same roads where so many of Clay’s peers

have died; people have seen ‘Indians dressed in nothing but loincloths and on horseback’, ‘a

tomahawk’, another Indian ‘moaning incantations’, and ‘a covered wagon’.45 It is in

Rohypnol, however, that the Western film genre manifests most significantly in the backyard

of Rape Squad member Harris’s home, where a facsimile of a Wild West frontier town has

been erected. It is a space intended for Harris (as a boy) to play in, but where his parents now

host Western-themed parties and watch old John Wayne films on a projection screen:

Harris’s entire backyard is dominated by this make-believe cowboy play set, real buildings you can

walk into and use. A saloon dominates the scene, looming over a large in-ground pool. The ground is

Willie Scott – by lassoing her with his stockwhip, bringing her in for kiss in an exaggerated act of macho

showmanship. 44 Ellis, Less Than Zero, 132; Hutchinson, Rohypnol, 226–230. 45 Tsiolkas, Loaded, 13; Ellis, Less Than Zero, 194.

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dry, dusty, a road leading past the general store, the jailhouse, two hotels (the ‘Whorehouse’ sign has

been painted over and renamed).

Thorley leads me through, Harris, with his hands in his pockets, kicking the ground as he walks behind

us. Thorley shows me the stable, saddles but no horses. The woodworking stall, carriage wheels half-

built. Thorley takes a bottle from behind the bar in the saloon, empties it onto the wooden floorboards.

‘Tell him about the bottles,’ Thorley says to Harris, who keeps his head down as he speaks.

‘They used to be full of alcohol, they changed it to water,’ Harris says, deadpan.

‘What the fuck is this?’ I ask him.

‘I used to love playing cowboys so my dad bought me a western town. He loves western films.’ Harris

rubs the back of his neck as he speaks. ‘My parents invite friends over for western theme nights and

they watch shit like fucking Pale Rider and The Wild Bunch on a cinema screen overlooking the pool.

They’ve got a projector and shit.’

Through the saloon window I can see a tyre-swing hanging off the noose beam at the end of the street.

‘Harris hates it,’ Thorley says, picking up a used bullet shell from the floor.

‘Why?’ I ask.

‘It’s fucking embarrassing. I’ve grown up playing in a frontier town. Every time someone comes over I

have to explain this shit.’46

In Harris’s backyard, ‘the blending of media fiction and reality’ is complete: the

frontier town is at once movie-like (resembling a film set, in fact), yet it is a real part of

Harris’s everyday life. However, on a symbolic level, the Wild West play-set reminds us that

the Rape Squad are still playing in a frontier town, where they engage in savage conflict and

look to take on cowboy-like personas, whose ‘active assertive’ brand of masculinity they can

use to help navigate their pop culture-infused landscapes.47

46 Hutchinson, Rohypnol, 96–97. 47 Langman, ‘Grotesque Degradation’, 198. In an Australian context, the ‘cowboy’ and ‘the Wild West’ is

derived from Hollywood cinema, but the mythos of the frontier is still applicable. In Australia, the mythos of the

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While Bret Easton Ellis uses the slasher genre to inform his narrative, Andrew

Hutchinson adopts a Western-movie framework to portray the actions of the Rape Squad as a

band of brutal outlaws who prey on young women. However, while these males ‘act against

females in the vast majority of sexually aggressive depictions’, Hutchinson’s novel reflects

the standards of mass culture more broadly: ‘The victim is usually male in nonsexual

portrayals of violence.’48 Indeed, Rohypnol is filled with bloody conflicts between the Rape

Squad and other men: Uncle beats a man on a train with a steering lock for looking at The

Boy the wrong way, smashing ‘the metal into his mouth’ before announcing to The Boy that

‘you can’t take shit from people like that’. Similarly, Troy beats a taxi driver half to death

because he believes he has been overcharged for his fare. And, in yet another incident, The

Boy breaks a glass across a man’s face during the ensuing chaos of a fight that erupts

between the Rape Squad and another gang of young men. These incidents evoke the lawless

atmosphere of the frontier as envisioned by Hollywood. Even the origin tale of Uncle’s name

is steeped in similar cinematic-like mythos; after winning a fight against the uncle of a

schoolmate, ‘Uncle, apparently, turned to this kid and said: “Who’s your uncle now?” Like

movie dialogue gone horribly wrong.’49

The final chapters of the novel depict the demise of the Rape Squad, whose undoing is

a direct consequence of the dominant and aggressive masculinity they enact. It is Troy who

brings about their downfall. Troy’s hyper-masculine, hypertrophic physique, which is etched

cowboy is replaced by that of the bush ranger. For the purposes of this thesis, however, this chapter will refer to

the ‘Wild West’ and to ‘cowboys’. This is because, although Rohypnol is an Australian novel, it is still a Blank

Fiction novel that is responding to and being informed by Hollywood cinema.

Additionally, worth noting here is Australian Blank Fiction’s acknowledgement of a perceived

‘Americanisation’ of contemporary Australian culture. Both Loaded and Rohypnol refer to this: ‘the Ethiopian

guys are trying to look like Americans’; ‘her children look like Americans’; ‘I woke up in this strange man’s

bed, got up and made myself coffee, went into the front yard, looked down the street and thought oh-my-

fucking-god-this-is-America’ (Tsiolkas, 1995); ‘everything shined, looked like an American movie’

(Hutchinson, 2007). In her review of Rohypnol, Louise Swinn said of the characters in the novel: ‘They most

closely resemble kids from American films’ (Swinn, 2007). Once more, this adds to the fact that these novels

are engaging specifically with Hollywood (American) cinema. 48 Neil Malamuth, ‘Sexually violent media, thought patterns, and anti-social behaviour’, Public Communication

and Behaviour 2 (1989): 167. 49 Hutchinson, Rohypnol, 118–119; ibid., 36; ibid., 87; ibid., 30.

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in muscle, is the result of his constant steroid use. As a result, Troy is prone to fits of rage.

When April Bollen (a girl Troy takes home for sex) laughs at Troy’s shrunken testicles (a

side-effect of his steroid abuse), he murders her in response, beating her to a pulp – and once

more, it is women who suffer the most dramatic consequences of maleness. The Rape Squad

are then hunted down by the police and a group of vigilantes lead by April Bollen’s father,

who form as a posse in the urbanised Wild West of Hutchinson’s imagination, driven to hunt

down the band of ruthless outlaws. Again, the conflicts between the Rape Squad and other

males (in this case, April’s father’s posse) are bloody and brutal: the Rape Squad are chased

down, sometimes in broad daylight, and their fingers are broken and their knees are bashed in

with wrenches: acts of violent revenge that would not look out of place in a Clint Eastwood

movie.50

Ultimately, the male characters in Less Than Zero and Rohypnol share in a culture

where the ‘equation of masculinity with brutality’ comes to justify their ‘standover tactics

and predatory behaviour’,51 and which reveals them to be hollowed-out narcissists ‘devoured

by a culture of empty images and endless consumption’.52 Less Than Zero’s final vignette

demonstrates this best:

There was a song I heard when I was in Los Angeles by a local group. The song was called ‘Los

Angeles’ and the words and images were so harsh and bitter that the song would reverberate in my

mind for days. The images, I later found out, were personal and no one I knew shared them. The

images I had were of people being driven mad by living in the city. Images of parents who were so

hungry and unfulfilled that they ate their own children. Images of people, teenagers my own age,

looking up from the asphalt and being blinded by the sun. These images stayed with me even after I left

50 Ibid., 177–182; ibid., 191–196. 51 Pons, Messengers of Eros, 106. 52 Alex E. Blazer, ‘Glamorama, Fight Club, and the terror of narcissistic abjection’ in American Fiction of the

1990s: Reflections of History and Culture, ed. Jay Prosser (New York: Routledge, 2008), 178.

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the city. Images so violent and malicious that they seemed my only point of reference for a long time

afterwards. After I left.53

Between the various representations of truck drivers, werewolves, Wild West play-

sets and snuff films, as well as the various references to Hollywood movies, television,

pornography, pop songs, advertising and gossip magazines, Blank Fiction authors create a

discourse with and criticism of mass culture, while also being informed by it. By

incorporating those Hollywood genres ‘most associated with exploitation by the mass

media’,54 including Western movies and horror films, Blank Fiction authors render narratives

wherein both ‘filmic landscapes and landscapes that have been filmed coalesce’, each

touching and permeating ‘the other, creating an altered sense of place that invades our real-

world and cinematic impressions of place.’55

The texts discussed in this chapter invite an analysis of the ways in which both the

characters in Blank Fiction and the authors of Blank Fiction use the images drawn from mass

culture to blend ‘media fiction and reality’, influencing the formation of masculine identities

and attitudes of narcissism.

The texts discussed in this chapter illustrate:

1) that the horror genre of Hollywood cinema, including the sub-genre known as the

slasher film, is employed by Blank Fiction authors to inform the chaotic and

frequently violent imagery that Blank Fiction characters are exposed to, the

construction of the physical landscapes represented in the narratives, as well as the

narcissistic attitudes that male characters adopt;

53 Ellis, Less Than Zero, 195. 54 Leslie A. Fiedler, ‘Cross the Border – Close That Gap: Post-Modernism’ in American Literature Since 1900,

ed. Marcus Cunliffe (London: Barrie & Jenkins, 1975), 351. 55 Laura Henderson, ‘Framing The Bling Ring: (Im)material Psychogeography and Screen Technology’,

COLLIQUY Text Theory Critique 28 (2014): 30.

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2) that Blank Fiction authors use the Western genre of Hollywood cinema to inform

characterisation and action, and that, for male characters, the masculine paradigm

given primacy by mass culture – encapsulated by the archetypal stoic cowboy

portrayed by actors such as Clint Eastwood and John Wayne – is one that regards

aggression and dominance as essential to maleness.

This chapter provides important context for Chapter 3, where male characters’

experiences of malaise, disconnection and inertia will be examined, with a primary focus on

Clay in Less Than Zero and Ari in Christos Tsiolkas’ Loaded.

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CHAPTER 3

MALAISE, DISCONNECTION AND CIRCULARITY IN BLANK FICTION: A

CLOSE READING OF LOADED AND LESS THAN ZERO

These days being young is not such a romantic experience. Youthfulness is no longer clearly equated

with hope.1

Mark Davis, Gangland

But this road doesn’t go anywhere.2

Bret Easton Ellis, Less Than Zero

This chapter will examine depictions of malaise, disconnection and circularity in Blank

Fiction writing. This chapter will show how these themes manifest both in and between

Blank Fiction characters, most especially concerning the relationships between protagonists

and their families, friends and lovers. This chapter will give particular focus to the novels

Loaded (1995), written by Christos Tsiolkas, and Less Than Zero (1985), written by Bret

Easton Ellis, and will provide a close reading of several key scenes from both. By analysing

Loaded alongside Less Than Zero, a novel on which a depth of academic research already

exists, this chapter continues in the objective of this thesis: to make a contribution to

Australian literary study by positioning Australian works of Blank Fiction in such a way that

they engage with and are incorporated into both the existing critical discourse concerning

contemporary fiction, as well as future academic research.

1 Davis, Gangland, 100. 2 Ellis, Less Than Zero, 183.

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Section 3.1, There is no future, will address the malaise experienced by Blank Fiction

characters, in particular Ari and Clay, and will examine the possible cultural sources and/or

causes of this experience. Section 3.2, I ain’t ever going to connect, will provide a close

reading of two scenes from Less Than Zero and Loaded. This section will address the

experience of disconnection between Blank Fiction characters in romantic and/or sexual

encounters. Finally, section 3.3, Circularity: The end?, will address the depictions of inertia

and circularity in Blank Fiction novels. Specifically, this section will show how each

narrative’s circular structure – marked by the absence of clear resolutions and conclusions –

is a reflection of the inertia experienced by characters like Ari and Clay, who are unable to

articulate their feelings and emotions, and who are unable to fulfil their romantic

relationships.

Additionally, by contrasting each text’s protagonist – Ari and Clay – against one

another, Chapter 3 works, also, to demonstrate that regardless of the driving forces behind the

behaviours of Blank Fiction characters, whether American or Australian, the outcomes

remain the same. The contrast here is most pertinent, as for Clay, who embodies a rich, white

and highly privileged background, his experience of malaise, disconnection and circularity is

more existential in nature – the general disconnection of those who already have it all. While

for Ari, who contends with the arguably more complex issues of his homosexuality, his

second-generation immigrant status and his position within contemporary Australian society,

his experience of malaise, disconnection and circularity is grounded in something more

tangible – his social and cultural position. Despite this, both male protagonists find

themselves in very similar circumstances at the conclusion of their respective narratives.

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3.1: There is no future

Loaded’s protagonist, an unemployed nineteen-year-old Greek-Australian homosexual man

named Ari, is crucial in helping to examine ‘the quest for identity and integration’ that Blank

Fiction characters undergo.3 Ari is caught between two distinct cultural worlds: the Greek

culture his family is a part of, marked by their migrant status, keen desire to work hard, and a

strong ‘sense of how long-term possibilities are created by short-term personal sacrifice’; and

the Australian society he inhabits that promotes multicultural ideals yet is distinctly white,

and which is marked by a certain laissez-faire attitude, all of which is embodied by the

Anglo-Australian George, the object of Ari’s desire.4 Ari rallies against both: ‘You’re either

Greek or Australian, you have to make a choice. Me, I’m neither. It’s not that I can’t decide; I

don’t like definitions.’5

Ari doesn’t want to identify as Greek, for he views his parents’ desire for hard work

and personal sacrifice as almost meaningless in a world that lacks future prospects for people

his age. In Ari’s words: ‘There is a last, and very cherished, urban myth. That every new

generation has it better than the one that came before it. Bullshit.’6 But Ari doesn’t identify as

Australian either, because, to him, Australian society’s promotion of itself as egalitarian (the

land of the ‘fair go for all’) does not ring true and is rather ‘a cover-up for the massively

unequal distribution of the country’s wealth’ and the deeply rooted racism that paves the way

for such inequality.7 Nor, as a working-class homosexual man, does Ari find solidarity in the

gay community either: ‘Maria tells me I’ll never make a good faggot. You hate ABBA and

3 Suzanne C. Ferguson, ‘Defining the Short Story’, 299–305. 4 Johanna Wyn and Rob White, Rethinking Youth (St Leonards, NSW: Allen & Unwin, 1997), 75–76. See also

J. Walker’s Louts and Legends: Male Youth Culture in an Inner City School (1987). 5 Tsiolkas, Loaded, 114–115. 6 Ibid., 144. 7 Syson, ‘Smells Like Market Spirit’, 22. For further reading on Australian identity within literature, please see

Kay Schaffer’s Women and the Bush: Forces of Desire in the Australian Cultural Tradition (1988); Bob

Hodge’s and Vijay Mishra’s Dark Side of the Dream: Australian Literature and the Post-Colonial Mind (1991);

and Andreas Gaile’s Rewriting History: Peter Carey’s Fictional Biography of Australia (2010).

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love early Rolling Stones. She shakes her head at me.’8 But, regardless of the cultural

groupings Ari finds himself between, the reality of living in a modern, Western capitalist

society means that there is no chance for solidarity amongst its members in the first place,

due to its fundamental guiding principles:

Community. Don’t comprehend that word. The mania of our culture is the desire to accumulate and

accumulate, to become richer, to become classier, to become more secure, wealthier. It is impossible to

feel camaraderie if the dominant wish is to get enough money, enough possessions to rise above the

community you are in.

Instead, Ari perceives the world not as being united by love, compassion or

understanding, but by hatred:

The Serb hates the Croat who hates the Bosnian who hates the Albanian who hates the Greek who

hates the Turk who hates the Armenian who hates the Kurd who hates the Palestinian who hates the

Jew who hates everybody. Everyone hates everyone else, a web of hatred connects the planet.

Ari’s own family is immersed in this hatred. Their shared language is one of hostility

and resentment, even contempt for one another:

Living in my family it was a series of small explosions; consistent, passionate, pathetic. Cruel words,

crude threats. If we came home late, Mum would wake up and scream that she had given birth to

animals, louts, a slut. If we were not doing our homework, Dad would yell at us for being lazy and

stupid. Most times you could shrug it off, go to your room, put on music and let them carry on outside.

If they were angry they might come in, turn off the music, throw your CD or cassette against the wall.

The screaming could go on half the night, wake up the neighbours, wake up the dogs. They called us

names, abused us, sometimes hit us, short sharp slaps. It was not the words themselves, but the

combination of savage emotion and insult, the threat of violence and the taunting tone that shattered

our attempts at pretend detachment; it was Peter’s sly, superior smile, my sister’s half-closed eyes

which did not look at them, my bored, blank face that spurred my parents on to greater insults, furious

laments. The words, the insults; spawn of the devil, fucking animals, pieces of shit, the Antichrist, sons

8 Tsiolkas, Loaded, 109.

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of bitches, daughter of a whore, stupid, lazy, ugly, useless, shameful, not-real-men, weak, you

embarrass us, we are the laughing stock of the neighbourhood, I regret the day I gave birth to you.

And our replies; peasants, dumbfuck ignorant hillbillies, hypocrites, wogs, dumb cunt wogs. We

spurred each other on till we reached a crescendo of pain and we retired exhausted to our rooms, in

tears or in fury.9

Ari’s constantly feuding family, though different, stands in for those silently

disengaged families, whose stony detachment is exhibited in comical exchanges between

parents and children in other Blank Fiction novels. In Rohypnol, the relationship between The

Boy and his father breaks down over the course of the narrative, devolving into impenetrable

silence, where it is ultimately left to The Boy’s mother to act as a mediator between the two:

‘He sees me on the couch but says nothing, moves to the next room’; ‘Dad opens the front

door for me, nods as I pass him’; ‘I gesture to Dad, who’s within earshot, say: “Is he

coming?”’10 In The Delivery Man, Chase’s father demonstrates his own brand of apathetic

detachment, absolving himself of the responsibility (perhaps the burden?) of his offspring. In

a flashback sequence, Chase calls his estranged father in a panic, searching for advice:

‘Carly’s a mess,’ Chase said. ‘Her stitches come down to her forehead. She looks like a monster.’

‘She’ll be okay. She’s tough.’

Chase heard a woman’s laughter in the background and then his father was laughing, too, and salsa

music was turned up suddenly.

‘She’s fucked, Dad.’

‘Shit, Chase, then why didn’t you stay with her?’ his father was yelling over the music. ‘She’s your

sister.’

In lieu of a deeper, more meaningful connection with his children, Chase’s father is

able to communicate with them only via financial exchanges:

9 Ibid., 143, 64, 75–76 10 Hutchinson, Rohypnol, 46; ibid., 102–103.

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Before he left the next day for the new house and the girlfriend in Malibu, their father gave them each

three crisp hundred-dollar bills in his suite at the MGM Grand after the bellhop took his bags to the

lobby.11

The same goes for Clay’s father, who is seen writing out cheques for his children on

Christmas morning and who communicates most intimately with his son by offering him

more money. Beyond his superficial appearance (Clay’s father is ‘completely tan’ and has

had a hair transplant and a face lift; in Clay’s words: ‘My father looks pretty healthy if you

don’t look at him for too long’), Clay knows nothing about his father except that he covets his

convertible: ‘He puts the top of the 450 down and plays a Bob Seger tape, as if this was some

sort of weird gesture of communication.’12 The same goes for The Boy’s father in Rohypnol:

‘Dad, I don’t think he knows what to say. Driving patiently and slowly. The smooth ride of

his BMW. He fucking loves that car.’13

Clay’s father, who is a characteristically annoyed and ‘really bitter’ figure, is even

irritated at Christmas time, a time for family, togetherness, community, solidarity and

cohesion, all of which are lacking. Instead, Clay’s father is only ‘nervous and irritated by the

fact that the holidays have to bring them together’. And, while one might ‘expect Christmas

in Hollywood to lack religious connotations … Ellis portrays it as devoid of all tradition and

emotion, the holiday season itself a symbol of an existential world completely lacking in

values.’14 Clay’s first encounter with his family after an entire semester away at college

comes in the form of a note written by his mother telling him that she and his two sisters are

out Christmas shopping and that: ‘Nobody’s home.’ For Clay, ‘Christmas is a time not of

traditional family gatherings but of abandonment and depersonalization.’ His Christmas

11 McGinniss, Jr., The Delivery Man, 62–64. 12 Ellis, Less Than Zero, 33–34. Hunter’s father is described similarly to Clay’s by Chase in The Delivery Man:

‘Hunter’s dad is too tan and wears a gold Tank watch and his teeth are bright white from his Zoom sessions and

he has been too recently Botoxed: faint red blotches dot his forehead’ (McGinniss, 2008). 13 Hutchinson, Rohypnol, 103. 14 Sahlin, ‘“But This Road Doesn’t Go Anywhere”’, 27–28 (see introduction, n. 39).

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morning starts: ‘It’s Christmas morning and I’m high on coke.’15 The relationships between

parents and their children in Less Than Zero work to evoke a portrait of a world in which ‘all

values are gone, even the memory or dream of values’.16

While the cultural differences between Ari and his friends’ generation and that of

their migrant parents may be vast and complex, they, like their other Blank contemporaries,

nonetheless inhabit a comparably confrontational world in which the divide between parent

and child seems unbridgeable.17 Rebecca Huntley, in her book The World According to Y

(2006), writes that for young adults this world is one in which ‘unhappy marriages are the

norm rather than the exception’ and where ‘notions of eternal romance and sexual love have

been fatally compromised’. Huntley’s observations of the world are reflected in Blank Fiction

novels like Loaded and Less Than Zero. And, while Huntley’s book is speaking specifically

to the issues concerning Generation Y, her assertions can be widened to include Generation X

(of which Ari and Clay are members) as well, due to these generations’ shared cultural

experiences.18

15 Ellis, Less Than Zero, 2; ibid., 27; Sahlin, ‘“But This Road Doesn’t Go Anywhere”’, 27–28. See Sahlin

(1991) for more on Christmas and ‘parental neglect’ in Less Than Zero. 16 Neil Campbell and Alasdair Kean, American Cultural Studies: An Introduction to American Culture (New

York: Routledge, 1997), 233. 17 Katherine Bode, ‘“Unexpected Effects”: Marked Men in Contemporary Australian Women’s Fiction’,

Australian Literary Studies 22.4 (2006): 444. 18 Rebecca Huntley, The World According to Y: Inside the New Adult Generation (Crows Nest, NSW: Allen &

Unwin, 2006), 30. As it relates to this thesis, both Generation X and Generation Y share two important factors in

common:

1) Both Generation X and Y in Australia and the United States have grown up in environments in

which visual media such as Hollywood cinema and television have endured a place of cultural

prominence. Beth Spencer (1995) writes that Generation X were ‘the first generation to grow up on

television’; thusly, this makes Generation Y the proceeding generation to share this cultural experience.

2) Within mainstream media, negative portrayals of Generation X and Generation Y have centred

around two perceived traits: immaturity and narcissism. Variously Generation X and Y have been

branded such monikers as ‘Generation Me’, the ‘Peter Pan Generation’ and the ‘Boomerang

Generation’. (Shaputis, 2004; Reed, 2009)

While this thesis is not suggesting that literature be read as a facsimile of the real world (see the

introduction to this critical dissertation), both themes of media stimulation and narcissism inform Blank Fiction

writing, and Blank Fiction writing is a form of fiction that has been written by and about Generation X and

Generation Y.

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As is the case for Clay, The Boy, Jez, and Chase and Michele (who are all variously

members of Generation X or Generation Y), Ari’s environment is an unstable one. He

inhabits an ‘age of uncertainty’19 in which clear-cut paths of employment have been eroded

(‘[a] university degree is the career equivalent of what a high school degree used to be’)20 and

where ‘life events that were in the past viewed as devastating [are] no longer unexpected or

unusual’, for instance ‘a brother or sister committing suicide, a friend coming out as gay’.21

In fact, it is known to Ari and accepted by him that his best friend Johnny, a cross-dresser

who goes by the name Toula when dressed as a woman (a spiritual and physical incarnation

of Johnny’s deceased mother), has engaged in sexual relations with Johnny’s own father. Ari

acts as though he is not perturbed by this, narrating that he has even used the mental imagery

of Johnny and Johnny’s father having sex to stimulate his own arousal: ‘I went home to bed

and masturbated thinking of my best friend’s father fucking my best friend.’22 In much the

same way, Clay is aroused by the vulnerability of his close friend, Julian, who is losing

himself to drug addiction and prostitution. Clay accompanies Julian to meet a client in a hotel

room where ‘the need to see the worst washes over me, quickly, eagerly’. Clay experiences

voyeuristic gratification in the encounter, watching his friend have sex for money: ‘I don’t

close my eyes.’23 But do Ari’s and Clay’s rejections of empathy for their friends here serve as

a demonstration of apathetic cruelty or are their impulses born from a greater nihilism? Might

their thoughts and actions be a means of softening the blow of such emotionally devastating

and confusing revelations? This is not so simple to decipher. What is clear, however, is that

Ari and Clay, as well as the vast majority of Blank characters, share ‘an immediate sense of

19 Hugh Mackay, Generations: Baby Boomers, Their Parents and Their Children (Sydney: MacMillan, 1997),

137–138. 20 Brooke Donatone, ‘Helicopter parenting leaving adults stuck in adolescence’, accessed December 9, 2013,

http://www.essentialkids.com.au/health/latest-health-news/helicopter-parenting-leaving-adults-stuck-in-

adolescence. 21 Huntley, The World According to Y, 15. See also McKenzie Wark (1999), Kate Crawford (2006) and Alan

France (2007), who all identify uncertainty as an aspect of cultural life impacting Generation X and Generation

Y. 22 Tsiolkas, Loaded, 99. 23 Ellis, Less Than Zero, 163–165.

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the meaninglessness of life’, a feeling which promotes emotional disconnection between

people.24

These social experiences are marked by the confronting reality that between members

of their own generation and of all society there exists an unbridgeable divide. Less Than Zero

even begins with the line ‘People are afraid to merge on freeways in Los Angeles’, a

statement made by Clay’s former girlfriend Blair, who makes the observation while driving:

‘Blair picks me up from LAX and mutters this under her breath as her car drives up the

onramp.’25 Throughout the novel, however, author Bret Easton Ellis repeats the first half of

this sentence in varying contexts, the words ‘people are afraid to merge’ gaining metaphorical

significance. As Peter Freese outlines in his essay ‘Bret Easton Ellis, Less Than Zero:

Entropy in the ‘MTV Novel’?’ (1990), Ellis’ repeated use of the phrase (what Freese refers to

as Ellis’ ‘associative technique’) transforms ‘people are afraid to merge’ from a ‘remark

about people’s behaviour while driving […] into a general comment on the human

situation’.26 Clay experiences people’s inability to ‘merge’ – to connect – first-hand,

frequently manifesting in Clay feeling ‘invisible’. In one of the many nightclubs he visits,

none of his friends notice that he has been crying in the bathroom stalls, making his face ‘all

swollen’ and his eyes red, for, in the darkened, dimly-lit club: ‘Nobody can see [his] face.’ It

is in this same nightclub that Clay sees a table upon which someone has ‘written ‘Help Me’

over and over in red crayon’, suggesting he’s not the only one going unnoticed. But this

attempt to reach out has been misinterpreted by the club’s patrons, who have instead written

their phone numbers ‘around the twenty “Help Me”s’ making ‘the two red words stick out

even more’. It seems fitting that Clay, who is emotionally distraught and whose crying goes

unnoticed, is picked up by a girl thereafter. Like the ‘Help Me’ message writer and the

24 Fernando Pessoa, The Book of Disquiet, ed. Maria Jose du Lancastre, trans. Margaret Jull Costa (London:

Serpent’s Tail, 1991), 5. 25 Ellis, Less Than Zero, 1. 26 Freese, ‘Entropy in the “MTV Novel”?’, 73.

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message itself, Clay’s vulnerability is seized on by one of the many young, opportunistic

sexual partners stalking the club (not unlike the many sexual predators who stalk LA and feed

on vulnerability: Julian’s clients; Julian’s pimp, Finn; the boys who kidnap and rape a twelve-

year-old girl; and even Clay himself who, as stated previously, gets off on Julian’s

helplessness). As the pair leave the nightclub, however, they walk past another girl (one who

had previously said hi to Clay when he first arrived) who is now ‘crying in the doorway’, but

neither Clay nor his new partner, who he refers to only as ‘the girl’ (her anonymity further

underscoring the disconnect between them), stop to check if this other person is alright. In

this moment the cycle of ignorance of which Clay had so recently been a victim is carried out

and perpetuated by him.27

Ellis employs the same ‘associative technique’ with two other distinct phrases:

‘Wonder if he’s for sale’ and ‘Disappear Here’. The former phrase is first presented as a

salacious remark made by one of Clay’s sisters in reference to a young man whose house is

for sale; she wonders if he might be for sale as well, referencing the young man’s sexual

availability, perhaps for money: ‘I wonder if he’s for sale.’ The latter is a slogan that

accompanies a billboard advertisement for a resort that Clay sees dotted around the landscape

of Los Angeles and which he interprets as some kind of ominous statement: ‘All it says is

‘Disappear Here’ and even though it’s probably an ad for some resort, it still freaks me out a

little.’28

Together these phrases coalesce in Clay’s mind, plaguing him throughout the novel.

In a restaurant, Clay is being stared at by a stranger, and he narrates: ‘The man keeps staring

at me and all I can think is either he doesn’t see me or I’m not there. I don’t know why I think

that. People are afraid to merge. Wonder if he’s for sale.’ Here, like in the nightclub, Clay

27 Ellis, Less Than Zero, 109–110. 28 Freese, ‘Entropy in the “MTV Novel”?’, 73–75; Ellis, Less Than Zero, 16; ibid., 30.

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goes unnoticed – he is practically invisible. This is reiterated yet again further on in the

novel:

There’s a young guy who I sort of recognize sitting in a chair staring at me from across the room and I

stare back, confused, wondering if he knows me, but I realize it’s pointless. That the guy is stoned and

doesn’t see me, doesn’t see anything.29

Clay is figuratively ‘disappearing here’ in Ellis’ Los Angeles, growing increasingly

isolated and invisible. So, too, is Julian ‘disappearing’ as he sinks further into drug addiction

and prostitution. As a prostitute, Julian’s autonomy is being lost (disappearing) to his pimp,

Finn, who controls him; plus, as a prostitute, Julian is literally ‘for sale’. But the ‘erosion’ of

these two young men – their disappearing selves – has further connotations in the novels

original 1980s context and the shadow cast by the advent of AIDS, where the real effects of

the disease on the body causes people to waste away. The threat of AIDS exists for the two

men, who engage in unsafe sexual practices and who are both bisexual. In this way, Ellis’

theme of ‘disappearing’ takes on multiple meanings: it can be applied in a cultural context,

whereby a more expansive cultural experience is being lost to a generation absorbed by the

blue glow of the television screen; it can be applied in the physical context to those, like

Julian, who are rotting away internally from drug addiction and alcohol abuse and,

potentially, disease; and it can be applied in both political and philosophical contexts, too: in

the United States, Generation X (as depicted by Bret Easton Ellis) lacks a national unifying

experience such as the Vietnam War, which had existed for their parents’ generation.

Furthermore, the absence of religion in Less Than Zero, especially around Christmas time,

speaks to the lack of a core unifying philosophy for the young characters. Rather than uniting

in protest or revolt against ‘the state’, Clay and his friends instead experience ‘inward attacks

29 Ellis, Less Than Zero, 18; ibid., 169.

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on the self’.30 In Less Than Zero, Ellis conveys all of this in the simple imagery of a

paperweight, which Clay notices sitting atop Finn’s desk. Clay looks at the ‘small fish

trapped in it, its eyes staring out helplessly, almost as if it were begging to be freed’. The

goldfish is Clay, who is metaphorically ‘trapped’ inside the cold, inarticulate vessel that is

himself. But the goldfish also represents all of Ellis’ Generation X characters, who are at

once trapped by their own culture and are begging to be freed, and who are trying to find

escape within the hedonism Los Angeles has to offer.31

Ari’s experiences are the same. His nights out, as he travels from bar to bar, are

marred by his observations of the non-community he is disappearing into: ‘At the lights a

young punk girl is vomiting against a wall. Are you okay?, I ask her and she tells me to fuck

off.’ Moments later, Ari is hitching a ride across town to another pub. The strangers who pick

him up in their car don’t speak to Ari, they ‘don’t speak to each other’: ‘I lean forward and

say thanks for the lift. The man grunts.’ Together, in the car, Ari observes that: ‘We are

caught up in our separate, individual experiences. Conversation is redundant.’ Ari’s

observation is not too dissimilar to media theorist and sociologist Dick Hebdige’s own

portrait of Generation X, imagining them as a ‘silent crowd, anonymous, unknowable, a

stream of atomized individuals intent on minding their own business’.32

But, as Naomi Mandel points out in Disappear Here: Violence After Generation X

(2015), while Xers were often ‘dismissed as slackers, hackers, and losers, and derided as

volatile and apathetic … [with] no Great War or Depression to define them’, their lives ‘were

30 Tara Brabazon, From Revolution to Revelation: Generation X, Popular Memory and Cultural Studies

(Burlington, VT: Ashgate, 2005), 13. 31 Ellis, Less Than Zero, 156–158. 32 Dick Hebdige, Hiding in the Light (London: Routledge, 1988), 20.

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tinged with violence. They were haunted by AIDS and hunted by the demons of crack and

meth.’33

When Ari exits the car at his destination, he notices a man across the street from the

pub who is dancing on the roof of his van. A sign on the side of the vehicle reads: ‘I have

AIDS and I’ve been fired from work. Please give me money, I’m dancing as fast as I can.’

But ‘the crowds on the street ignore him’ except for a small group of ‘young anarchists’ who

attempt to make conversation with the dancing man. In turn, though, the dancing man

‘ignores them, ignores the crowds, his face looking upwards to the night sky’. The dancing

man provides a metaphor not just for Ari (who, like Clay and Julian, lives with the threat of

AIDS as a gay man who engages in frequent, anonymous and often unprotected sex in

marginalised spaces that include laneways and public restrooms: ‘I fear the disease that might

be floating in his body’), but for the individuals who Ari observes – a generation that is

‘dancing’ (living) as fast as they can in an attempt to escape their shared malaise, but who

are, ultimately, ignoring and being ignored by the society they are a part of.34

33 Naomi Mandel, Disappear Here: Violence After Generation X (Columbus: Ohio State University, 2015),

Kindle edition, 2, location 133–135. 34 Tsiolkas, Loaded, 58; ibid., 77–78.

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3.2: I ain’t ever going to connect

The theme of disconnection is magnified in the sexual and/or romantic encounters between

Blank characters that arise organically and consensually throughout the novels, as opposed to

those portrayed as a result of aggression or violence.

Returning to Clay and ‘the girl’, their profound inability to relate to one another

intimately borders on the comedic when they return to her home together for casual sex,

where, in her bedroom, she recoils at Clay’s every touch: ‘I put my hands on her shoulders,

and she says stop it’; ‘I reach over to her and she stops me and says no.’ Instead, ‘the girl’

wants for Clay to wear a pair of Wayfarer sunglasses and for the two of them to lie on her bed

naked and masturbate together mutually, yet exclusively, while using suntan lotion (‘a tube

of Bain De Soleil’) as lubrication. Her bizarre sexual proclivities testify not only to her

engagement (obsession?) with images drawn from mass culture – expressed by her desire to

have Clay appear aesthetically like an advert promoting the LA beachside lifestyle, one in

which the model (Clay) uses suntan lotion and wears sunglasses (‘I take the sunglasses off

and she tells me to put them back on’) – but also to the self-obsession of individuals whose

unromantic physical encounters are ‘motivated by instant and self-centred gratification’.35

For ‘the girl’, Clay is redundant, barely there, merely a device for her to use in order to fulfil

a fantasy: he’s not a person, adding only to his sense of invisibility. As Ari says, ‘We are

caught up in our separate, individual experiences.’

Ellis’ specific choice of Wayfarer sunglasses (a style manufactured by the popular

company Rayban) become a ‘pivotal metaphor’ in this scene. Tara Brabazon writes of these

sunglasses: ‘Shielding the eyes, hiding emotion and conveying voyeuristic intentions, the

Raybans were never removed from the collective face of Generation X.’36 As Brabazon

35 Vernay, ‘Sex in the City, 154-155 (see introduction, n. 38). 36 Brabazon, From Revolution to Revelation, 14.

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notes, these sunglasses are a cue for Clay’s and Clay’s generation’s voyeuristic

preoccupations, which manifest immediately following the sexual encounter with ‘the girl’;

the duo is engulfed by silence as they retreat to their respective visual stimuli. After Clay

ejaculates, ‘the girl’ ‘gets up, flushed, and turns the stereo off and turns on MTV’ as Clay lies

there, ‘naked, sunglasses still on’ before beginning to flick through ‘a Vogue that’s lying by

the side of the bed’. As Clay lies on the bed, flipping through the magazine, ‘the girl’ ‘puts on

a robe and stares at [him]’ before lighting a cigarette. Clay then dresses and leaves, removing

his sunglasses as he departs, and the only thing ‘the girl’ says is to remind him to be quiet

when walking down the stairs so as not to wake her parents. Once more, in Ari’s words:

‘Conversation is redundant.’37

For Ari, his relationship with George (a flatmate of Ari’s brother, Peter) is indicative

of the greater disconnection that envelopes Melbourne’s population in Loaded. Ari’s first

encounter with George comes within the first few pages of the novel, where Ari’s lust and

desire are outlined instantly:

He smiles up at me and I return him a cool smile, nothing too eager. He’s in pyjama bottoms and

through the slit I catch a glimpse of pubic hair. All I want to do is touch him but I look away.

For Ari, George is more than an object to be lusted over, however: George represents

an opportunity to escape. As an Anglo-Australian, George sits outside of the cultural

community of Ari’s Greek friends and family – a cultural community that presents myriad

difficulties for Ari in his pursuit of homosexual sex: ‘I don’t often fuck with Greeks. It is a

protection for myself. Someone may know a friend of my parents, or know an uncle. Greeks

have big mouths and word may get around.’ Not only is there a risk of being outed, but in the

closeted gay Greek community, an element of the same homophobia that pervades the

heterosexual Greek culture turns sexual encounters into games of macho performativity:

37 Ellis, Less Than Zero, 110–111; Tsiolkas, Loaded, 77.

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‘Fucking with Greek men is half sex, half a fight to see who is going to end up on top.’ These

sexual encounters become demonstrations of masculinity and strength in which dominance is

rewarded. They are not unlike wrestling matches:

I masturbate him and try to guide his big hairy hand onto my cock. He resists. Instead he pulls down on

my shoulders and I squat and take the head of his cock in my mouth. I taste drops of urine. He thrusts

against my throat and I keep pulling on my cock, trying to avoid getting on my knees because of the

piss on the ground. I’m off-balance and I try to get up. He pulls down harder on my shoulders. Don’t

spill any of it, he whispers savagely in Greek.38

George presents not only a less complicated opportunity for sex, but, sitting outside

the Greek community, may even be someone with whom Ari could have a future, with whom

Ari could pursue a real relationship and possibly even fall in love. Ari’s aunt, Tasia, is an

amateur fortune-teller who reads people’s futures in the sediment at the bottom of coffee

cups. When she reads Ari’s cup she says, ‘There is someone who is wanting to look after you,

Ari, someone who cares for you, but you are not facing them. You are ignoring them.’ Tasia

makes out a line in the sediment dividing two ‘blobs of dried coffee’ and translates the

meaning: this person’s name begins with ‘a gamma’ (a G). Ari knows ‘immediately it is

George’. Their relationship seems fated:

The perpendicular lines of the gamma are clear in the middle of the black muck. I tell you, Ari, she

says, a girl whose name begins with a gamma is going to steal your heart. I avoid her eyes. I can taste

George’s sweat.39

From here, as the novel progresses, Ari cannot get George out of his mind: ‘I close

my eyes and I’m entangled in George’s body’; ‘I want to ask where George is, but I don’t’; ‘I

see the unshaven face of George appear behind my closed eyelids, morning sun across his

38 Tsiolkas, Loaded, 2; ibid., 57–58. 39 Ibid., 17.

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face’.40 However, when – after days, maybe even weeks, of pining for George – the two are

finally alone together, Ari simultaneously implodes and explodes, sabotaging the

consummation of their mutual attraction. At a party in someone’s house, Ari finds himself

retreating from the dancing and socialising, retiring to a bedroom for a reprieve where he

switches on a television and commences watching a movie (‘Peter O’Toole and Audrey

Hepburn in How to Steal a Million’). Ari observes: ‘The world on the screen is much more

attractive than the world I move around in.’ Soon George enters the room and together they

share a joint, sitting on the bed talking awkwardly. In the background: ‘Audrey and Peter

[are] flirting with each other, making light conversation. Falling in love.’ When Ari finishes

the joint, George takes it from him to butt it out and brushes Ari’s hand. Ari ‘sees sparks, a

tiny shower of electricity rains down on the bed from the point where our hands touched’.

According to Ari, though, George ‘sees nothing’.

However, Ari is contradicted almost immediately when George suddenly professes

his attraction: ‘I find you very attractive, Ari.’ George apologises, though, saying, ‘I

shouldn’t have said that’, and gets up from the bed to leave the room; he is under the

impression that Ari is heterosexual and in a relationship with a Greek girl named Maria, one

of Ari’s friends. Ari tells him to stay and George returns to the bed. Soon they are touching

and, still believing Ari may not be gay, George clumsily asks, ‘Have you done it with a guy

before, Ari?’ Ari narrates: ‘Then he laughs. A sarcastic laugh. He takes his hand away. I

guess you have, he says.’ While it seems only likely that George is nervous around the sullen

and secretive Ari (we have been given no evidence of a malicious nature in George), his

words ‘are knives’ to Ari, who believs that George is mocking him in some way, and this

causes Ari to retreat into a familiar pattern of inertia: ‘He sits down next to me and I still

can’t look at him’; ‘I want to tell him I adore him but the words don’t come.’ And so, not

40 Ibid., 46; ibid., 55; ibid., 72–73.

217

knowing what to do, Ari initiates George in the kind of rough sexual encounter he avoids

having with members of the Greek community and the language becomes violent and graphic

once more: ‘I push hard into his mouth’; ‘he tries to pull away’; ‘I hold tight onto his head,

forcing my cock deeper into his throat’; ‘he pulls away’; ‘he is furious’; ‘he pushes into my

mouth’; ‘I choke as his cock is forced down my throat’. The sexual encounter is ‘unarguable,

random, fast, casual and ultimately “unsatisfactory”.’41

When, finally, ‘the sex is over’, Ari returns his attention to the television where ‘Peter

is kissing Audrey on the screen’ and, by comparison, yes, ‘the world on the screen is much

more attractive than the world [Ari moves] around in’. Tsiolkas’ deliberate choice of film,

like Ellis’ deliberate choice of sunglasses, exists to inform the reader of the characters’

disconnection and dislocation as well as their values, and works to ironise the situations they

find themselves in. (Both Clay and Ari, in part, are having a joke played on them by their

authors.) And as Ari and George lie on the bed together, Ari confesses: ‘I don’t know who he

wants me to be. I don’t know who I want him to be.’ In Blank Fiction, the characters’

inability to realise their identities and to integrate themselves socially stems not simply from

a lack of a coherent, rounded selfhood, which, contemporarily, seems an outdated notion

anyway.42 For Ari and Clay, their struggle to connect to others intimately comes not from a

single source, but from both internal and external sources. Their experiences of malaise as

well as the presence of visual media in their lives – MTV and Vogue magazine and the film

How to Steal a Million, which is held up by Tsiolkas as a mirror reflecting the difference in

Ari’s life when compared with the fantasy he pines for – work to demonstrate that for

members of their generation a multitude of factors can disrupt intimate encounters, whether

41 Vernay, ‘Sex in the City’, 150. 42 The fragmented multiplicity of the characters’ lives – they are portrayed variously as students and film

makers, teachers and drug dealers, as models and drug addicts and unemployed no-hopers – provides Blank

Fiction novels with not only a variety of perspectives that work to enrich the narratives, but adds layers of

complexity to the characters themselves.

218

these disruptions stem from cultural preoccupations with the imagery drawn from mass

culture, unresolved anger, or a desire to ‘see the worst’. Unable to achieve fulfilment in their

romantic lives, Blank characters remain in a fixed cycle of emotional disconnection – a

pattern of inertia that will be addressed in the following section.

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3.3: Circularity: The end?

In Loaded, both the character of Ari and the story itself exist as a kind of echo-chamber for a

rage that is never wholly alleviated. Ari embraces an all-encompassing anger that holds him

back, detailing his life’s mission statement as such: ‘To resist the path of marriage and

convention, of tradition and obedience, I must make myself an object of derision and

contempt. Only then am I able to move outside the suffocating obligations of family and

loyalty.’ Ari’s use of language speaks to this objective:

Pol Pot was right to destroy, he was wrong not to work it out that you go all the way. You don’t kill

one class, one religion, one party. You kill everyone because we are all diseased, there is no way out of

this shithole planet. War, disease, murder, AIDS, genocide, holocaust, famine. I can give ten dollars to

an appeal if I want to, I can write a letter to the government. But the world is now too fucked up for

small solutions. That’s why I like the idea of it all ending in a nuclear holocaust. If I had access to the

button, I’d push it.43

He embraces the same hateful language that is used against him throughout the

narrative in the conflicts with his family and with strangers, musing over words deliberately

and decisively, choosing to employ those with the greatest shock value: ‘Faggot I don’t mind.

I like the word. I like queer, I like the Greek word pousti. I hate the word gay. Hate the word

homosexual. I like the word wog, can’t stand dago, ethnic or Greek-Australian.’ Ari even

says, ‘If I was black I’d call myself nigger’; ‘If I was Asian I’d call myself a gook.’ Ari’s use

of language is all a part of his rebellion. But the rebellion, like everything in his life, achieves

little, for despite his misanthropy and desire to destroy all, when given real opportunity to

engage in political discourse, Ari turns away. When asked about Marxism at a bar, he leaves

the conversation and begins singing the words ‘fuck politics, let’s dance’. Yet so many of his

observations are politically charged. His language, as well as his rantings about Melbourne’s

suburban sprawl and the pervasive racism he perceives, is political, whether he can admit it

43 Tsiolkas, Loaded, 64.

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or not. But Ari doesn’t want to talk politics, and nor does he study despite university being

the one place where such political energy could be easily funnelled and harnessed into

productive action. In fact, when simply asked if he studies, Ari becomes confrontational: ‘No,

mate […] I don’t want to study and no, I don’t want to work.’44

While Ari doesn’t want to lead a conventional or traditional life, the one he does lead

isn’t really much of anything at all:

Are you at college, Ari? the man asks me. I shake my head.

- Do you study? I shake my head.

- Are you working? I shake my head. One of the women in black asks me if I’m an artist of some sort. I

shake my head.

Ari is incapable of achieving fulfilment in any aspect of his life. He cannot commit. In

his relationship with George, his inability to find connection is a magnification of his own

internal disconnection, for Ari is constantly contradicting himself, constantly engaging in

self-sabotage. He wants to ask where George is, but won’t. He wants to tell George he adores

him, but the words won’t come. He wants to touch George, but instead he looks away. And

while Ari wants to have sex with men – one of his guiding principles is the commandment

‘Thou can have a man and be a man’ – he undermines himself via a strict code constituting

what a ‘man’ should be, and this excludes ‘faggots’ (and yet at the same time Ari embraces

the term).45

These contradictions boil over between Ari and George when, in the bedroom

together after sex, George offers Ari a lift home. Ari says that he doesn’t want to go home,

because he will get into trouble for being out so late and he knows that what follows will be

another savage conflict between him and his parents. George rejects Ari’s fears and his

44 Ibid., 114–115; ibid., 61–63. 45 Ibid., 119–120; ibid., 101.

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secretiveness: ‘You just have to tell the truth once … Just once, Ari, once you tell them the

truth, one argument, no matter how brutal and you never have to lie again.’ For Ari to

survive, though, he believes he has to lie, and this includes lying to himself. The ‘state of Ari’

shares many similarities with the image of Australia that Ari himself rallies against, and in

many ways Ari’s lies – the false promises he delivers to himself that are consistently broken

or contradicted – are a reflection of Australia’s fictional narrative of egalitarianism and the

‘basic cultural promises [that] are in the process of being broken’, too.46

Just as quickly as Ari had been captivated by George, his short-lived relationship with

him is over and George departs. Ari’s inertia is once more repeated:

I sit still and watch him, finally, walk away. Yo, George, I want to call out, I’m wrong, you’re wrong,

the whole fucking world is wrong. I love you. I want to say the words, but they are an obscenity I can’t

bring myself to mouth. I’ve never said those words. I’m never going to say those words. I watch him

walk out the door. He doesn’t look back.47

With George’s departure, Ari’s ‘aching longing to be somewhere else, out of this city,

out of this country, out of this body and out of this life’ will go unalleviated. His realisation

that he has missed the opportunity for escape is placated by returning his attention back to the

television in the room, where he ‘pick[s] up the remote from the floor and turn[s] onto a

music video’. The circularity of Ari’s rage, which goes nowhere, just like his relationship

with George, which goes unfulfilled, reflects the circularity of every facet of his existence,

including the constant consumption of television shows and Hollywood movies and pop

songs, and even the suburbs of Melbourne that serve to entrap Ari both culturally and

physically: ‘The North, if you’re a wog, will entrap you’; ‘The Northern suburbs are

unrelentingly flat with ugly little brick boxes where the labouring and unemployed classes

46 Syson, ‘Smells Like Market Spirit’, 22. 47 Tsiolkas, Loaded, 130–131.

222

roam circular streets; the roads go nowhere.’48 (This sentiment is repeated in Less Than Zero:

‘But this road doesn’t go anywhere.’49) The structure of Loaded enhances ‘the circularity of

Tsiolkas’ repetitive narrative’, too, with both the beginning and ending bookended by scenes

of Ari alone in his bed. The novel opens with Ari waking up and beginning a ‘slow

masturbation’ and concludes with Ari in ‘a depressing stasis, staring at the ceiling and

unwittingly waiting for the great leap forward’:50

I get into bed and lie there for five minutes, ten minutes, half-an-hour looking at the ceiling. It’s not

like I’m thinking. No thought goes through my head. I look at the walls and the ceiling. My hands are

playing with my balls. I’m not even thinking about sex, not thinking about anyone or anything. I’m just

looking at the ceiling.51

Likewise, for Clay, the final pages of Less Than Zero reveal that his relationship with

former girlfriend Blair, which Blair has been trying to rekindle throughout the length of the

narrative, will not culminate in further love or commitment. Instead, the motifs that haunt

Clay resurface to their final and most dramatic effect, spotlighting Clay’s own internal

disconnection and comparable stasis. Peter Freese observes:

When Clay meets Blair for a last time before his return to the East, their meeting takes place in a

restaurant on Sunset. And while Blair takes her former boyfriend to account for his negligent

behaviour, ‘I look at her, waiting for her to go on, looking up at the billboard. Disappear Here.’ On the

surface, Clay will soon follow the injunction of the advertising slogan ‘disappear’ – ‘After I left’ are

the final words of the novel – but on a metaphorical level he has ‘left’ long ago by withdrawing into the

narcissistic no-man’s-land of drug-induced apathy and self-pity. Ellis obliquely conveys this fact by

making Blair reproach her former boyfriend that ‘it was like you weren’t there. […] You were never

there.’

48 Ibid., 19; ibid., 81. 49 Ellis, Less Than Zero, 183. 50 Syson, ‘Smells Like Market Spirit’, 22–23. 51 Tsiolkas, Loaded, 151.

223

From Clay’s casual comment on a stranger’s stare at the beginning of the novel – ‘either he doesn’t see

me or I’m not there’ – to the book’s final scene in which ‘for one blinding moment [Clay] see[s]

[him]self clearly’ and the person closest to him charges him with never being there, he has been afraid

to ‘merge’, has run away from the risks and problems of human companionship and ‘disappeared’ into

the dream world of cocaine and the false security of tranquillizers.52

Neither Bret Easton Ellis nor Christos Tsiolkas offer death as a narrative solution for

Clay or Ari.53 In Blank Fiction, death remains on the periphery and instead protagonists are

left trapped in their cycle, best summarised in Less Than Zero and Loaded by the metaphors

the novels conjure of the goldfish inside the paperweight and of the dancing man, both of

which are symbols for the internal and external crisis of disconnection and circularity

experienced by Clay and Ari.

These depictions of entrapment and of inertia are tropes shared by all Blank Fiction

novels, where a desire to escape, and the accompanying sense of futurelessness, are expressed

in ominous background references, such as in song lyrics (‘I wanna be worlds away/I know

things will be okay when I get worlds away’) and in advertising slogans (‘Disappear Here’

and ‘Find Yourself Here’), as well as in foreground narration: ‘I want to get the fuck out of

here, too. I just don’t know where to go’; ‘I didn’t want to think about the future. The future

seemed to me like just this black hole.’54 The inertia of each character, like Ari’s crippling

emotional inertia in his final interaction with George, is best depicted in their inability to

articulate their feelings in romantic contexts: ‘I want to tell her I love her or something, but I

don’t’; ‘I wanted to beg him, Please don’t go … please don’t leave me here alone … please

stay with me … please say you love me as much as I love you. But I didn’t say any of that.’55

In not one of the Blank Fiction novels analysed here are (potential) romantic relationships

52 Freese, ‘Entropy in the “MTV Novel”?’, 75–76. 53 Leishman, ‘Australian Grunge Literature’, 100 (see introduction, n. 37). 54 Ellis, Less Than Zero, 186; McGinniss, Jr., The Delivery Man, 1; ibid., 216–217; Thompson, Snake Bite, 245. 55 Hutchinson, Rohypnol, 168; Thompson, Snake Bite, 296.

224

realised – not between Jez and Lukey (Snake Bite), nor between Chase and Julia (The

Delivery Man), nor between Aleesa Desca and The Boy (Rohypnol). (And, obviously, not

between Ari and George or Clay and Blair, either.)

Neither do any of the characters find escape. Each narrative ends without resolution.

While Less Than Zero sees Clay flying away from Los Angeles, we know that he is only

physically removed, and that his internal conflict remains intact (see Chapter 2); and while

Snake Bite ends most optimistically of the novels (a reconciliation between Jez and her

mother is implied), Jez is unable to fulfil her dream of leaving home and moving out of

Kambah, the suburb that offers her only a repetitive cycle of drug and alcohol consumption

and failed interactions with males. In the case of The Delivery Man and Rohypnol, each

narrative ends with protagonists Chase and The Boy stalking those individuals who have

done them harm (Rush and Aleesa Desca, respectively) and the novels conclude with the

suggestion of impending violence.

The structure of these novels – lacking resolution, alluding to the repeated cycle in

behaviours and attitudes that will only continue – mirrors that circularity entrenched in every

aspect of the characters’ lives. From the cycle of their televisual habits, to their repetitive

drinking and drug taking, to their consumption and re-enactments of the sexual behaviours

within pornography (itself a repetitive medium in which the performers and locations change

but where the actions – the sex act – remain consistent), to, finally, the interactions they have

with their families, Blank characters inhabit a space in which their ‘quest for identity and

integration’ is made impossible by the roadblocks of their culture.

Through a close reading of Less Than Zero and Rohypnol this chapter has outlined the

ennui experienced by both Clay and Ari. These texts and their protagonists invite an analysis

of the ways in which experiences of malaise, inertia, disconnection and circularity manifest in

225

Blank Fiction novels and find that Blank narratives reveal a culture in which connection and

intimacy between characters is impossible, and where a search for self-identity and social

integration is never realised.

The texts discussed in this chapter illustrate:

1) that for Ari and Clay, their experiences of malaise are drawn from fraying

relationships with friends and family, the uncertainty that permeates their lives in

various forms, and a sense of disconnection that plagues members of their generation

within each novel;

2) that for Ari and Clay, their experiences of disconnection – most overtly depicted in

the novels with regard to their romantic and sexual encounters – is the result of a

multitude of factors that work to disrupt intimacy between characters, including

cultural preoccupations with the imagery drawn from mass culture and, in Ari’s case

most especially, the unresolved anger that stems from broader cultural differences;

3) that for Ari and Clay, as well as other Blank Fiction characters, their experiences of

both malaise and disconnection manifest as inertia in the characters emotionally and

behaviourally, resulting in an inability for them to achieve intimacy or fulfilment in

their relationships and romantic lives. Blank Fiction novels reflect this inertia via a

circular narrative structure that lacks solid resolutions and conclusions, which is an

external manifestation of the internal struggles with which characters wrestle, most

particularly their inability to articulate their emotions and fulfil their romantic

engagements.

Finally, by analysing Loaded alongside Less Than Zero, a novel on which a depth of

academic research already exists, this chapter, like the other chapters that make up this

dissertation, continues in the objective of this thesis: to make a contribution to Australian

226

literary study by positioning Australian works of fiction in such a way that they engage with

pre-existing discourses surrounding Blank Fiction – both the dismissive criticism of the genre

and the attempts to categorise and characterise it. In this way, this thesis hopes to facilitate

the incorporation of Australian Blank Fiction into future academic research regarding

contemporary fiction.

227

CONCLUSION

Blank Fiction is not a facsimile of real life, yet it can reflect ‘visions’ of our real world. The

novels Less Than Zero, Loaded, Rohypnol, The Delivery Man and Snake Bite all address at

least some of the preoccupations of the societies in which they were written and produced.1

Through an examination of the use of imagery found within the various visual media and

entertainment sources in mass culture – including celebrity and lifestyle magazines, music

videos, pop songs, advertising, pornography, television and Hollywood cinema – this thesis

reveals the ways in which these media 1) influence and inform the behaviours and attitudes of

Blank Fiction characters, and 2) are co-opted and used by the authors of Blank Fiction.

In (re-)examining five novels from Australia and the United States via a close reading,

this thesis finds that the genre of Blank Fiction writing may be used to provide an exploration

of the cultural preoccupations, trends, values and lifestyles of contemporary Western

capitalist society due to the unique position that Blank Fiction novels occupy both adjacent to

and as part of mass culture. In effect, these novels present readers with what we might call a

‘double vision’, where, on the one hand, we have the novel itself – a work of fiction

containing fictional plots and characters – while on the other hand, we are presented with the

real social life in which each novel is embedded.

This analysis finds that, through the various cultural preoccupations, values and

attitudes that are expressed and experienced by the young adult characters within Blank

Fiction novels, and through an examination of the manifestations of the ubiquity of imagery

drawn from mass culture depicted in each novel, three primary characteristics of Blank

Fiction writing can be identified:

1 Young, Shopping in Space, viii; Pons, Messengers of Eros, 97.

228

1) the representation of a patriarchal, dominant/submissive relationship between men

and women that is informed by the consumption of and engagement with imagery

drawn from mass culture;

2) the representation of a contemporary Western culture underscored by narcissistic

tendencies amongst, most especially, its male members;

3) the representation of a culture in which connection and intimacy between

characters is made impossible, and where a search for self-identity and social

integration is never realised.

For a fiction genre that has suffered from an especially negative critical homogeneity

– in which the problematic endings these novels provide, as well as the ‘flat, undeveloped

characters’ and ‘plain language’2 are treated as internal flaws ‘rather than as narrative

articulations of ideological problems’3 – this thesis and its findings are important to literary

study as they work to challenge the notion that Blank Fiction’s use of mass culture is merely

a form of ‘social incorporation’ designed to ‘cash in’ on cultural zeitgeists and trends.4

Instead, this thesis demonstrates that these novels co-opt various elements of mass culture –

namely Hollywood cinema, pornography, as well as celebrity culture and advertising – as

both internal and external forces that inform narratives, characters, actions, structure, style

and language in such a way that their use may be interpreted by critics as a deliberate

incorporation that allows for an examination – perhaps even a critique – of contemporary

social practices, values and lifestyles specific to the young characters depicted. As Mark

Davis outlined almost twenty years ago, one of the novels’ strongest themes is ‘the impact of

2 Aldridge, Talents and Technicians, 8. 3 Amy Kaplan, The Social Construction of American Realism (Chicago: The University of Chicago Press,

1988), 5–7. 4 Roger Rosenblatt, ‘Snuff this book! Will Bret Easton Ellis get away with murder?’, New York Times Book

Review, December 16, 1990, accessed April 3, 2016, www.nytimes.com/1990/12/16/books/snuff-this-book-will-bret-easton-ellis-get-away-with-murder.html?pagewanted=all.

229

the media, including pornography, on the way people speak and behave’.5 According to Jean-

Francois Vernay:

[Blank] [F]iction is by no means a mild form of pornography and therefore does not propagate its

phallocratic ideology. Though such narratives inevitably turn the reader on, they do not aim at

encoding in our Western culture the idea of female subservience, as most women in these stories do not

find their salvation through the servicing of men. In the eyes of moral crusaders who find it hard to

accept representations of sexuality out of the private sphere, this sub-genre will be dismissed as mere

smut. But taken from a scholarly perspective, [Blank] [F]iction points to the dysfunctions at the core of

our sex-conscious civilisation.6

Vernay’s quote perfectly encapsulates both what Blank Fiction can offer to scholarly

research, as well as the obvious challenges it faces.

Indeed, this examination has shown that analyses of Blank Fiction must move away

from a tendency to moralise or demonise the representations of mass culture and/or what the

characters and authors choose to do with mass culture. Reactions to the two most recent

works of Australian Blank Fiction analysed here, Rohypnol and Snake Bite, speak to this

desire on the part of reviewers and critics. Both Thuy On and Daniel Stacey demonised

Rohypnol as an attempt to primarily ‘shock’ readers. Stacey noted the passive attitude Aleesa

Desca expresses to The Boy early in the novel, when she tells him that, of the Rape Squad

and their actions, some girls ‘just don’t care’. Stacey was outraged by a novel that depicted,

amongst other things, ‘girls happy to be sexually assaulted’, but did not theorise that perhaps

such a depiction could have been an attempt on Hutchinson’s part to critique patriarchy with

satire in the same manner that Ellis and Thompson use satire, too. (See Chapter 1.) Nor did

Stacey outline that while the victims depicted in the novel are predominantly female, the

male characters by no means escape the narrative lightly: they are beaten bloody, Harris

5 Davis, Gangland, 130. 6 Vernay, ‘Sex in the City’, 153.

230

commits suicide, and both Uncle and Troy are incarcerated.7 So too, was Christie Thompson

chastised by interviewer Suzanne Donisthorpe for her depiction of the overtly sexualised

characters in her novel, namely Casey. Donisthorpe found Casey ‘hard to like’ and

‘appalling’ and ‘vulgar’, and agreed with Jez’s assessment of Casey within the novel that she

was, yes, a ‘slut’. Again, Donsithorpe failed to make connections between Thompson’s

representations of femininity and the commentary she was making on the effects of mass

culture, particularly, in Casey’s case, on how pornography was being used to construct a

feminine identity, her gendered body, and her attitudes regarding men and sex.8 Both

Rohypnol and Snake Bite – which depict a patriarchal, dominant/submissive relationship

between men and women in both social and sexual encounters between characters, and which

depict characters immersed in a culture of unfettered media stimulation filtered by the male

gaze – are arguably works of feminist fiction.

The point being that, without an eye for what Blank Fiction authors attempt to do –

and achieve – via their incorporation of mass culture and the imagery therein, Blank Fiction

will continue to be dismissed. The findings of this thesis work to elevate the genre, to

enhance its cultural value, and, academically, to position the novels Less Than Zero, Loaded,

Rohypnol, The Delivery Man and Snake Bite in such a way that they can share in a more

heterogeneous intellectual, literary dialogue.

7 Thuy On, ‘Andrew Hutchinson’s debut novel is a date with little subtlety or beauty’, The Age, August 14,

2007, accessed November 29, 2013, http://www.theage.com.au/news/book-

reviews/rohypnol/2007/08/14/1186857497953.html; Daniel Stacey, ‘Tenuous tale of teenage rapists’, The

Australian, August 18, 2007, accessed November 29, 2013,

http://www.theaustralian.com.au/arts/books/tenuous-tale-of-teenage-rapists. 8 See Appendix A for the Donisthorpe and Thompson interview.

231

Blank Fiction in Australia

In Australia, ‘the dominant discourses used in representing Australian identity are still those

which derive from the old nationalism’ and rely on the established imagery ‘of the land, of

the bushman, of rural communities and so on’.9 Blank Fiction breaks from this. The urban

settings conflict with a desire to see the country ‘as the authentic location for the distinctive

Australian experience’ in literature;10 and the dialogue that Blank Fiction engages mass

culture in adds to the relevance of the form in an era where mass culture is expanding

digitally. More than ever, the imagery drawn from mass culture is prevalent due to advances

in technologies where visual media and entertainment sources are readily accessible via

tablets and smart-phones, and where the Internet makes advertising, Hollywood cinema,

television and pornography increasingly available through websites, social media accounts,

video hosting platforms like YouTube, and streaming services such as Netflix. As a

competing construction of literary accounts of the Australian experience, Blank Fiction offers

new and interesting ways for Australian authors and academics to write about narratives,

characters, actions, structure, style and language, and can provide a fresh expression, both

creatively and critically, of contemporary social practices, values and lifestyle.

The incorporation of a creative work of Blank Fiction within this dissertation – the

novel Barely Anything – contributes to the Blank Fiction oeuvre, at once responding to and

being informed by the existing body of Blank narratives as well as the trends in contemporary

culture within Australia. As a new work of Blank Fiction, Barely Anything, which details the

social practices of a small group of young adults, addressing themes of sex, boredom and

privilege on both sides of Melbourne’s Yarra River, demonstrates the appeal of writing

within this genre from an author’s perspective. As an Australian creative writing thesis

9 Graeme Turner, Making it National: Nationalism and Australian Popular Culture (St Leonard’s, Sydney:

Allen & Unwin, 1994), 10. 10 Graeme Turner, National Fictions: Literature, Film and the Construction of the Australian Narrative (St

Leonard’s, Sydney: Allen & Unwin, 1993), 26.

232

analysing Loaded, Rohypnol and Snake Bite alongside Blank Fiction from the United States

(Less Than Zero and The Delivery Man), where a depth of academic research already exists,

(Re-)Examining Blank Fiction: Sex, Narcissism and Disconnection in Australia and the

United States offers a contribution to contemporary Australian literary study, positioning

Australian works of fiction in such a way that they are included within the broader critical

discourse on contemporary fiction both nationally and abroad.

233

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APPENDIX A

The following is a transcript of an interview between Christie Thompson, author of Snake

Bite (2013), and Suzanne Donisthorpe for ABC Radio National’s Books and Arts program.

This interview was aired on 22 August 2013.

Suzanne Donisthorpe: The world that you portray is very ignorant, hedonistic, selfish. It’s not

a very pretty picture, is it?

Christie Thompson: Um, I’m much more sympathetic towards my characters than that. I find

them quite likeable, maybe it is because these are the type of people that are my friends, and

to a lesser extent my family. My parents are quite educated, feeding us books and, you know,

knowledge. Both my parents are school teachers–

SD: But there’s no books, there’s no real books or any of that in your story. I mean, they’re

very hedonistic. They watch TV, at best, play X-Box, they spend a lot of time taking drugs,

drinking, and talking about not much. It’s a very small, quite parochial world that they live in.

CT: I mean I agree, but I think I’m very sympathetic towards my characters and perhaps that

didn’t come across in Jez’s narrative because she’s so entrenched in that world that she

doesn’t, kind of, have a huge level of introspection as perhaps the reader would have looking

at it from an outsider’s point of view.

SD: Well, let’s begin by talking about Jez. Jez is the main character, she’s the first person

narrative, it’s her story. She’s just finished year 11, it’s the summer holidays, it’s very hot.

She’s got a very good friend called Lukie. I suppose you’d describe them as emos, they’ve

got a kind of goth sensibility. And they spend a lot of time taking drugs and drinking a lot of

alcohol. Tell me about Jez.

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CT: She’s just living with her single mum. Her mum’s battling with alcoholism. Jez,

arguably, is falling into the same sorts of patterns. You know, she’s kind of writing it off as a

party, you know, ‘I’m young, I just wanna have fun.’ But you can kind of see the direction

that she’s headed in. And the people around her, some of them are not necessarily being the

best kinds of influences for a real hopeful future.

SD: Well this is where Casey comes in. Now, Casey’s her next door neighbour: she’s

eighteen years old and she’s kind of her sexual tour guide, because Jez is still a virgin at this

point in time, at the beginning of the book. And she sees Casey as a glamourous kind of role

model, in a way. But I have to say I found her a very hard character to like, Casey. I found

her appalling, actually.

CT: [Laughs.] Okay.

SD: Tell us about Casey.

CT: I like Casey. I like her because she’s fun and she’s funny and she’s vulgar and she’s–

SD: She’s definitely vulgar. I wouldn’t say she’s much fun.

CT: Ah, she makes no apologies for that and she’s very overtly sexual in kind of a misguided

sense. She thinks that, you know, getting her tits out and walking into a bar and being able to

have any man she wants is empowerment. And I wanted to look at – I guess to be a bit

tangential – and look at the feminist subtext surrounding Casey. I was very interested, at the

time when I was writing it, reading a lot of popular feminist theory around pro-sex feminism

versus feminists who are kind of arguing that we’ve taken this idea of sexual empowerment

in the wrong direction and it’s still operating under the male gaze. And she very much buys

into this idea of purchasable beauty; she wants the shoes, the dress, the makeup, the fake tan,

the nails. If you’ve ever seen the show Geordie Shore – Casey’s a Geordie.

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SD: What I can’t get about Casey is for all her sexual chutzpah, she seems a bit of a klutz

when it comes to men. I mean, she doesn’t really know how, to me, she doesn’t seem to have

any real sense of men as human beings. Or even herself as a human being. She has become

her own Barbie doll. And I thought the most interesting part was when, at some point, she

and Jez fall out at a party later in the book and Jez has had enough and she says, ‘You are a

slut.’ And Casey is appalled that Jez should call her a slut and yet she so … is.

CT: I was appalled writing that scene. I don’t like the word slut. I’m in agreements with the

writer Emily Maguire – I think, in her book Princesses and Pornstars – when she said that

the term slut applied is just somebody that has sex more than the applier of the term would

like them to. Which I agree with. And I don’t want to – I didn’t want to – place too much

judgement or be too harsh to Casey because she’s confused. She’s a confused girl. And she’s

really putting all her eggs in the ‘physical-appearance-basket’ at this point in her life. She

doesn’t have much else going for her so I’m quite sympathetic towards her.

[Break in program. Thompson reads excerpt from Snake Bite.]

SD: One of the themes that Christie Thompson is also interested in is the perennial prickly

problem of female competition and this plays out in the book when Laura – a girl from

Melbourne – arrives on scene. She’s rather worldly in a way the others are not and gains real

kudos by the fact she’s been raised by her mother who’s in a lesbian relationship. This is

pretty cool according to the girls, but when Laura hooks up with Jez’s best friend, the emo

boy Lukie, well … things go awry.

CT: Yeah, Laura’s cute, she’s outgoing. She’s described as a bit chubby, which is also an

affront to Jez’s sense of self, I guess, because Jez is a bit anti-fat because her mum’s fat and

she’s, like, ‘I don’t wanna end up fat’. And then this, you know, incredibly cute, chubby,

outgoing girl causes a divide in Jez’s and Lukie’s friendship.

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SD: Well, she gets the boy …

CT: Yeah, she does initially and, um, he’s quite taken with her because she’s fun and she’s

different and she’s a little bit more grown up than Jez in a lot of ways. She’s a little more

worldly; her mothers have travelled and they’re a little more cultural; and they were kind of

brought in as characters as a contrast to the very enclosed, alienated world of outer suburbia,

where people that are a little more cultural can be very intimidating.

SD:Well they become the civilising force in the story. I mean, the lesbian women don’t live

in a house, they live in a home that they have decorated with all their bits and pieces. One of

them is doing up vintage bikes. They seem to have a much richer life than – they eat proper

food – they have a much richer life than their neighbours. But the danger is that when Jez and

her mother, Helen, become more friendly with them, the danger is that they will see

themselves as being, getting, above their station, abandoning their old friends like Shaz. Shaz

is a friend of Jez’s mother who is very convinced that, you know, no one can step above their

station, no one can go away from their loyalties to their old crew. This is a very complicated

thing, isn’t it?

CT: Absolutely and this is actually a part that was quite personal for me. I think my major

problem as a teenager growing up in an environment like Kambah, where boganism is almost

allowed and appreciated–

SD: Well it’s kind of compulsory, isn’t it?

CT: It is compulsory to fit in, and to not have anybody go, ‘that person thinks she’s so great’,

or, you know, things like that. And as a teenager growing up in Kambah I felt just totally on

the ‘outers’ because I liked reading and I liked, you know, music and cultural, more cultural

things than perhaps some of my other mates. And so I was on the outer and I couldn’t wait to

get out of there. And I could really put that part of myself into the book in Jez’s frustrations

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because she doesn’t know how to break out of the cycle that she’s in. She knows she’s

unhappy and she knows that Laura’s family unit has more warmth and perhaps, um, they’re

doing more interesting things than Jez and her mum are.

SD: One of the notable things about this book is the language you use. I mean, there’s a huge

amount of teen lingo in it that I notice. Some of the blogs I’ve read about this book say it isn’t

necessarily universal. Are you worried perhaps that the lingo might date the book or make it

particularly geographically specific? Like something that people in Canberra alone speak?

CT: Um, I like that about the book; and I am capturing a specific moment in time; and I think

that it could possibly prove to be a historical kind of document.

SD: A linguistic history.

CT: Yeah. I was very interested in the evolution of – or bastardisation of – language with the

Internet and globalisation and, you know, I think it’s part of the book’s charm. It’s interesting

to me that people have noted that as a criticism, because I always saw it as I was writing it as

one of the, kind of, strengths of the book.

SD: What about the swearing? I mean, there’s a lot of swearing in this book. Did you have

any flak from the publishers about that? Considering that it’s probably going to be, you

know, pitched at a teenage market?

CT: No, not at all. And I don’t think it’s necessarily a Young Adult read. I think it’s actually

going to be marketed as adult literature. It’s on that borderline. Even though she’s underage,

seventeen, I think it’ll be pitched at an adult market. Ah, the swearing? No, I didn’t get asked

to tone that down by the publishers at all. I’m writing a character at the end of the day; I’m

not trying to impress people with my wide ranging vocabulary or my excellent use of semi-

colons. And I don’t have a problem with swearing, I swear all the time. But I don’t feel the

need to impress people with, like, flowery prose or anything like that. That’s not what I set

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out to do, and I think it’s appropriate to the work. So if you’re expecting Faulkner don’t buy

it.

Announcer: No, it doesn’t sound like Faulkner.

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APPENDIX B

CHAPTER 3

EVERETT:

It’s 5:30am and the sun is beginning to come up beyond the freeway and I haven’t gone to

bed yet and I feel pretty certain there is something I’m meant to do today, some place I need

to go. I turn back around and walk indoors and up the flight of stairs to my parents’ room to

use their bathroom, not caring about the lit joint between my fingers, because after my family

left for the States one of the first things I did was take the batteries out of all the smoke

detectors. I did it so that I could live uninterrupted.

I run a hot shower, letting the steam build in the bathroom until I’m barely able to

locate my reflection in the mirror, disappearing into the mist like a ghost. I finish the joint

and flush it down the toilet before stepping into the shower, where I rest my head against a

soft white towel that hangs over the glass partition, racking my brains for what it is I’m

supposed to be doing. But all that comes back to me, flooding my mind like the worst kind of

infection, are the memories of Grace that have kept me up all night – her actions and mine,

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her words, her voice. And the fear that I have about what exactly I’m becoming. Grace and

her broken brooch in a hotel room in Dublin.

And Mark’s mouth.

And Mark’s spanked arse. In a hotel room in Melbourne.

Grace’s words: ‘What happens when nothing changes?’ Mark’s: ‘Give up.’

Once more Mark is competing with Grace, jostling for position over the space in my

mind. And, once more, he wins out in the end. I decide I’ll need a dose of him today to

complement the pot, and the booze I intend on drinking. I’m South, which means I must head

North, I realise. And then it hits me: university! That’s where I’m supposed to be today.

Convenient, too, seeing it’s only a small tram ride away from Mark’s flat in Brunswick.

On the train into the city to go to university my phone rings twice. Both times the call is from

a blocked number, which really freaks me out. I tell myself it’s just pot paranoia, but it gets to

me all the same. I don’t answer either calls and instead turn the phone to silent.

I get to campus early and smoke a few cigarettes and say hello to James who happens

by. It turns out we’re actually in the same class this semester, which blows me away because

I was certain he dropped out last year. James asks a bunch of irritating questions. He even

asks after Grace, but I give nothing away. James says, -Can I scab a smoke, man?

I hand him the pack and the light and it kind of pisses me off that he doesn’t say

thanks, but instead avoids my eyes. There is a stain on his t-shirt. He looks like he slept in a

dumpster or something. I say, -What time’s the tute start?

James checks his phone. -Like, in ten.

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-Cool.

Class goes forever (two-and-a-half fucking hours) and almost reduces me to tears it’s

so long and boring. It occurs to me that I forgot to pick up the subject reader at the beginning

of semester, that I haven’t bought any of the books for my classes this year. There are

lectures too, apparently, that I’m supposed to be attending, but when and where these take

place is a complete mystery to me. I acknowledge how quickly time seems to be passing and

that already I’m behind. This semester will likely involve my failing another bunch of

subjects. I resign myself to this fact. I resign myself to the looming truth that two more

incompletes beside my name will result in the termination of my enrolment and the end of

this degree. But I’m only here because of the campus’s proximity to Mark’s flat, after all. I

text him under the table in the last few minutes of class. I can’t hold on. I tell him I’m in

Carlton and ask if he wants to meet up. Mark texts back saying he’s in Fitzroy but that he can

meet me on campus at the pub behind the old teacher’s college in an hour. I write back, cool

:) After the message sends I instantly regret the emoji.

After class I smoke another cigarette with James and some friend of his from the

tutorial, this blonde chick that looks too young to be at uni, before bailing to find the bar

Mark wants me to meet him at. I look up the place on Google Maps and walk off, following

the little screen on my phone, hunting down the red location pin.

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JAMES:

Wake up early enough to catch the morning Postmodernism tute I keep missing because of

hangovers and board the tram on Lygon – packed out with office workers going into the city

all hooked up to mobile phones, either texting or talking or listening to music or playing

dumb games to kill time like Angry Birds/Candy Crush/whatever’s-popular-that-I-know-

about-and-wish-I-didn’t; a whole culture based on TIME WASTED and WHO GIVES A FUCK? like

watching reality tv, only this is reality and not television. Hate the sounds of phones and of

newspapers being crinkled and folded until I feel itchy, like my skin’s crawling with bugs,

irritated and angry – then getting to uni like this so that I practically run to my class to block

the messages of distress firing in my brain.

Learn a valuable lesson in Postmodernism: never attend Postmodernism. Watch on

horrified as a Japanese exchange student drones on in a thick L-less accent giving a

presentation on Woolf’s Orlando while nobody takes notes. Japanese girl seated in the centre

of the room, the rest of us in a semi-circle around her, like a giant panel of judges, most

students disconnected and confused, sitting in silence behind faun-coloured wood-veneer

desks, staring at the girl’s mouth when it says, ‘one day he wake up and become woman,’

which is possibly a passage from the book itself but I’m not sure, virtually impossible to tell.

Japanese girl looks down at scraps of paper in her lap, seems to have trouble with whatever

text she’s reading, pauses after each word trying to figure out the next, says, ‘he become

woman’ again and everybody is reduced to a deeper, more frightening silence before it

becomes apparent that maybe the presentation might be over, so that the tutor is forced to ask,

‘oh, have you finished?’ and the Japanese girl smiles and dips her head and says, ‘yes. he

become woman. yes’ and then the tutor begins to clap, raising her hands to signal to the class

that we should all do likewise, and there is a spattering of applause and then the tutorial is

over.

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Outside, breathe deeply and wonder why I don’t ever have any cigarettes even though

I smoke, then march across campus, which is chilly for some reason, to the crepe stand at the

base of the John Medley Building and buy a coffee. Sit in the courtyard and drink the flat

white as a way to kill the fifteen minutes before class, but from the corner of eye spot Everett

hanging around smoking a cigarette beneath the overhead walkway between the building’s

east and west towers and I’m shocked to see him but also relieved there’s someone I can bum

a smoke from.

‘Hey, mate,’ I say as I approach Everett, who turns to me and tries to register my

appearance as though I were a distant friend from a time past, like someone unfamiliar,

maybe a face he’s not seen in many years. Everett says, ‘hey’ as he drops a butt to the ground

and crushes it into the concrete beneath a well-polished black boot, and somewhere in the

background, drifting off from South Lawn, an old Evermore song is playing – one I

remember Everett and I listening to at his house before people came over for a party, I think,

but he doesn’t seem to notice and I acknowledge the fact that his memories are probably

nothing like mine. Take in the increased stubble above his upper lip – a moustache now, fully

formed.

Everett checks the time display on his phone and says, ‘like, ten minutes ’til class,’

which is this weird update I didn’t ask for and I say, ‘yeah, cool, time for another smoke then.

can I bum one?’ and Everett doesn’t say anything, just flips up the lid on his pack of

Stuyvesants and lets me draw one out. He takes another for himself, lights his cigarette before

passing the Bic to me and I say, ‘so how’s things?’

Everett takes in a lungful of smoke, blows it out real slow as if he’s almost hesitant to

answer the question, then says, ‘yeah. all good’ and I nod along in silence, realising he’s not

going to do me the courtesy of returning the question, not that I really need or want for him

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to. He takes out his phone again and scrolls through it absently, says, ‘you haven’t tried to

call me lately have you, J?’ and I say, ‘nah, man. why?’ and he says, ‘nah, don’t worry. it’s

nothing’ and I say, ‘no worries.’

Finish the cigarette and head inside the building for writing class and when I sit down

I realise that Everett’s without anything needed for uni – no books, no notepad and pens, no

subject reader, not even a bag. Look across the classroom at the blonde girl, Ruth, sitting

opposite me again and this weird wave of relief passes through me when she smiles, and so I

give her this little head-flick back in acknowledgment. Classroom goes silent when our tutor

rocks up and the two-and-a-half-hours passes by kinda quickly: writing exercises on character

development in which we have to summarise characters in a single sentence, a discussion on

contemporary Australian fiction, a list of books written on the whiteboard as recommended

reading, a desperate plea for everybody to attend the lectures this semester. And during all of

this I keep an eye on Ruth, taking in the way she places the backs of her hands against her

forehead whenever she’s forced to speak/give feedback/participate in class discussion and

because of this odd little adorable gesture I consider not a plastic scrap and perhaps

something different.

Standing outside after class smoking another cigarette with Everett who has little to say as

Ruth comes out of the building and we make eye contact and I say, ‘join us for a smoke?’ and

she says, ‘yeah, why not?’ and stands beside me and lights a Marlboro and says, ‘that was a

long class’ and I say, ‘yeah, tell me about it,’ even though I didn’t think it felt so long. And

then introduce Everett and Ruth, but Everett seems disinterested in her and only nods as I say,

‘this is Ruth,’ a plume of smoke leaving his nostrils.

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Watch as Everett crushes another butt underfoot and notice the bin not five feet from

where we’re standing but say nothing, litterbugging being the least of his problems. Everett

asks me if I need another cigarette and I tell him, ‘nah, it’ll be alright’ before he says he has

to go off to meet somebody, and we don’t shake hands as he moves away from me, hesitantly

staring at his phone.

And when he’s out of earshot Ruth says, ‘your friend is kind of weird’ and I say,

‘yeah, tell me about it’ and realise I’ve said this twice – mild embarrassment followed by a

lot of embarrassment, feeling like a stupid kind of inbred that can’t say better words, thinking

what she’s thinking: DUMB CUNT. Ruth offers me one of her cigarettes, offers it with this half-

smile like somehow she knows I’ll accept even though I just turned down Everett’s offer of

another and this is exactly what I do, because a big part of me detests scabbing off Everett,

weird power dynamic there I think.

I say, ‘cheers’ as Ruth passes me a light and we smoke another before I work up the

balls to say, ‘so, what’ve you got on today?’ and Ruth says, ‘not much, why? gotta meet a

friend in the city later.’

I say, ‘o’right’ then add, ‘thought maybe you might wanna go for a drink’ and she

says, ‘nah, sorry, I can’t,’ then adds, ‘I mean, not today anyway’ and this little bit at the end

makes me happy inside, because I was misinterpreting I CAN’T for FUCK OFF.

‘No worries,’ I tell her, ‘another time then’ and she smiles and says, ‘yeah, for sure.’

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RUTH:

There is a sparrow bathing itself in the braking sand that has built up next to the rails at my

tram stop. The little bird stretches its wings above its head and it seems happy playing on the

road in the sun. The bird scurries away when the tram approaches before taking flight and

diving headlong into a thicket surrounding a children’s playground off the main road.

When I board the tram I note the three separate girls wearing summer dresses, all of

whom have wet hair. I take in the white headphones that lead from their handbags perched on

their laps up into their ears. I find an empty seat and plug my headphones in too, making it

four of us with wet hair and summer dresses. I unlock my phone and put on some music

before opening the web browser where Tanya’s Scarlet Blue profile has remained open for

days. Only it’s not Tanya I’m looking at. The pictures of Tanya’s replica dressed in sexy

lingerie with the prices for incalls and outcalls listed below them are of a girl named Lindsay

Belle. I have read through this profile dozens, maybe even hundreds, of times since the

weekend. Somewhere inside of me is a person envious of Tanya’s double life, of having a

separate, other persona. Looking at the other girls on board the tram this morning, I wonder if

they aren’t all secret escorts, too.

I get off the tram along Elizabeth Street and walk into university through Tin Alley,

passing the large glass wall on the south side of the gym. Inside I can see young men working

out, pushing and pulling and pressing and curling weights, working up a sweat, transforming

their bodies. It’s a sunny day and I want to yell at them and tell them all to stop and to go

outside. As I walk further along I notice the girls running on the treadmills in the cardio room

at the back of the gym, all of them with downturned mouths, all wearing Skins and brightly

coloured Nikes. I used to run like these girls. Looking at them I can feel the weight on my

lungs, my heavy chest congested from all the Marlboros smoked this summer. Part of me

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wants to walk into the gym and sign up. Part of me wants to hop onto one of the treadmills

and run forever, until I’m fixed/cured/fit again. Instead, I walk across to Union House and

buy myself a large flat white and find a spot in the sun to drink the coffee and smoke another

cigarette, and where I tell myself that this semester is going to be different. This semester is

going to be a good one, I try to convince myself. You’re going to focus. You’re going to get

good marks. You’re going to finish your degree someday and move on with your life.

I finish off my coffee and stash my two cigarette butts inside the empty cup before

standing up to find a bin and heading over to the John Medley Building for class.

When I arrive at my writing tute, the only other person inside the room is the girl that

I sat next to last week. She’s wearing the same Mandeville rugby jumper with the name K-

ROC spelled out on the back, and I feel that it would be in some way rude or hostile for me

not to sit next to her, so I do. She says, -Hey.

-Hi.

K-ROC smiles as I sit down beside her and begin to unpack my books for class. I

notice she’s wearing a ribbon in her hair. It’s a bad sign. I don’t want to get stuck talking

about cupcakes or riding lessons. I pray for somebody else to walk through the door soon.

She introduces herself as Katherine and I tell her my name is Ruth and we exchange

pleasantries. It takes only a few minutes before Katherine asks, -What school did you go to?

Really? I think. You’re twenty years old and you’re still asking this? I ask, -Does it

matter?

-Oh, no. Just wondering. Everybody asks.

-I know. I’m kind of over it, though, you know? Why don’t we buck the trend?

-Haha. Okay.

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Katherine doesn’t laugh, she says ‘haha’ like a word. I want to pull the ribbon out of

her hair. A group of students begins filing into the room, momentarily breaking up our

conversation. I recognise the boy who scabbed a cigarette off me last week after class, who

enters the room with another, very thin boy who has a moustache. The scab waves to me

shyly, raising a hand in front of his chest quickly before taking up a seat opposite me. Aaron

enters soon after the boys. He begins the class by testing his memory, firing off the names he

can remember from our last lesson. He goes around the room, pointing to students and

clicking happily at each name he gets right. When he gets to me he points and says, -This is

easy – Ms Shin. But the first name? Not Ruby, no. And certainly not Rihanna. Is that going to

be a popular name now, with that musician being famous, or do you think people will not

want to name their children Rihanna? It’s not like calling a baby Adolf though, is it?

I laugh. I’m the only one. Aaron says, -And she likes my jokes. Well, I’ve gotta get it

right then, don’t I … Ruth!

-Yep.

-Awesome. I’m on fire today.

Aaron keeps going around the class. The scab’s name is James. His wiry friend with

the gross moustache is Everett. I don’t know why, but I project something onto James, who,

when I look across the room, is staring right at me. I smile. The corners of his mouth turn up

into a grin and he rolls his eyes at me, pulling a face like it’s too early for this. What I project

is a notion of happiness, which is odd, because unlike the boy-men Tanya and I spent last

Saturday night with, James does not look as though he has spent his lifetime perfecting the art

of fun. In fact, he looks as though he hasn’t had any in a while. In his worn out jeans and

dirty t-shirt, James looks kind of pitiful.

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My mind drifts during class. I think about Tanya and about Jeremy and Finn. All I

know of boys is that they like beer and drugs and music and for girls to take their tops off. It

occurs to me that I have never been on a date. That I have never even been asked out. And I

wonder if anybody even does that anymore. Do men take women to restaurants and buy them

flowers? I don’t necessarily want romance for me, but a little in the world might be nice.

When I return my attention to the classroom Aaron is trying to get people involved in

a conversation on Australian fiction, but all anybody seems to know are the books they

studied for high school English – My Brother Jack and Cloudstreet and Lockie Leonard.

Aaron catches my eye and says, -What about you, Ms Shin? Read any good Australian

fiction?

-To be honest I hate Tim Winton. I wish somebody would just shoot the man.

Aaron laughs hard. He says, -And why’s that?

-I just can’t stand all these uber-‘Aussie’ books. It’s just nostalgia heaped on

nostalgia. I mean, come on, the bush and the beach and the under-dog. It’s crap. I mean, I live

in the city and I’m living in the present day, where are my stories?

-You make a fair point, I suppose. Anyone else?

Nobody responds. I’m almost certain that no one in this creative writing class actually

reads books. Naturally, Aaron has to come back to me to follow up and to keep the discussion

going. It’s not the first time I’ve been the teacher’s crutch. He says, -Name me a book you do

like then.

-I dunno. I like things that are Melbourne-based. Monkey Grip or Glory This are both

good. I really like Tsiolkas too. I like the way he writes about the city. Loaded’s a good

example. Dead Europe is great too, but it’s not set here.

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Aaron thanks me for my contribution. He writes the titles of the books I’ve mentioned

on the board and encourages the other students to seek the books out in the library if they

haven’t read them already. But I don’t notice anybody write the titles of the books down and

when class ends the students rush out in silence.

Aaron approaches me after class. He thanks me again for talking and says, -It can be

tough trying to generate discussion here.

-I know. All my classes are the same. No one talks.

-Well, just know I appreciate it. What do you have on now?

-Ah, I’m not sure. Probably just going to go home, I guess.

Aaron looks at me. He holds my gaze for a long time before bowing his head to look

at his shoes. -Well, alright, Ms Shin. Have a good day now.

-Thanks. You too.

As I walk out of the classroom I take out my phone. I have two missed calls from

Tanya as well as a text telling me to meet her in the city after class. The text says she’s

having lunch near Degraves Street. I send a reply saying, Ok. See u in 30mins :)

Outside the building downstairs, James and the moustachioed boy, Everett, are

smoking cigarettes too close to the building’s entrance, right by a sign that instructs smokers

to keep a distance of ten metres from the automatic glass doors. James waves at me again and

I wave back, approaching the two. I take out a smoke and light it and say, -I’m just going to

move to under that tree there.

I point to a tree nearby and the boys follow me and I don’t mention the sign they were

standing next to. I re-introduce myself properly to James, who shakes my hand before

introducing his friend, who acknowledges me by waving the two fingers holding his

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cigarette. The boys don’t talk much. They seem happy to smoke their cigarettes in silence

before Everett says, -I’ve gotta be going now. It was nice meeting you, Ruth.

-You too.

Everett turns to walk away saying, -See you around, J.

I watch the way he walks, tall and strangely confident in tight black jeans. I say to

James, -How do you know that guy?

-We went to high school together.

-Right. Cool.

I don’t know why I say ‘cool’, but I do and I feel stupid for doing so. Katherine’s

question from before springs to mind, but I refuse to ask James what school he went to. It’s

too Melbourne. And it’s not important. After we finish our cigarettes James asks if he can

scab another and I laugh and tell him he can help himself. He says, -So, what are you doing

now? I mean, after this?

-I have to meet a friend in the city for lunch. Why, what are you up to?

-Nah, nothen. Thought you might wanna go for a drink or somethen.

James looks to the ground when he says this like he’s embarrassed for asking. I tell

him maybe next week. I consider that I probably do want to go for a drink with James and

decide that I will go if he asks me next week. I tell him that I have to get going and ask if he

wants to take a couple more cigarettes for later. He asks if it’s really okay and I reassure him

and say, -It’s fine. Take as many as you like.

-Thanks heaps.

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James takes two smokes for later and I tell him to have a good day before walking up

to Swanston Street to take the tram into the city.

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JAMES:

Walk into Percy’s and spot Stephen at the bar wearing another shit hat (Charlotte Hornets

this time so that I think retro) and stuffing his face with a ten-dollar burger. Walk up to the

bar and point at the hat and say, ‘thought you hated basketball? “pussy’s sport” you always

called it’ and Stephen says, ‘yeah, I dunno. I like the colour scheme. it’s old school’ and I nod

and sigh, say sarcastically in a dumb voice, ‘yeah, old skool. for sure, man’ and Stephen tells

me to ‘get fucked, mate’ as I pull out a stool and mount it.

Order two pints from the bartender after seeing Stephen’s almost empty and when he

hears me order the beer for him he says, ‘nah, I should probably take it easy this arvo’ and I

say, ‘what’re ya talking about? we’re having a drink, I thought. come on’ and this is all it

takes for Stephen to shrug and say, ‘yeah, alright’.

Drinks placed in front of us and I slide a twenty-dollar note across the counter, turn to

Stephen and say, ‘cheers’ and we clink pints and I take a big swallow off the top, the

bitterness filling my nostrils like I’m breathing fire, the alcohol causing head to lighten

instantaneously – smooth and relaxed and pleasant feeling. The day is behind me now and

there’s nothing ahead except for the night and the search for release, and when I turn my head

to look out the window the day outside is bright and there are people out there going about

their lives and it feels good not being one of them, happy to be starting the descent into a

good and steady drunk.

Stephen belches, says, ‘I’m stuffed’ and I gesture at the remaining chips on his plate

and he pushes the plate in my direction, says, ‘all yours’ and I say, ‘cheers’ and put one of the

chips in my mouth. Teeth bursting apart crisp outer layer releasing hot, fluffy potato within –

hot and salty, the only food I’ve eaten today I realise; knock back a bit more of the beer to

swallow as stomach tightens suddenly, sustenance on the way.

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Looking round the bar when Stephen asks, ‘hey, so, did you know Grace is having a

party next week?’ and I say, ‘yeah, I heard about that.’ The only other two people in here are

a couple of resident drunks who start their days off drinking across the street in Pugg’s,

which opens in the mornings to serve a full English breakfast. I’ve never seen anyone get the

breakfast, but if you go past the pub in the mornings after it opens you’ll see every drunk in

Parkville sitting in the front window that faces onto Elgin Street, talking and nursing pots of

lager and tomato juice, getting fuelled up/straight/level/ready. Percy’s opens a little later and

that’s when a lot of ’em will cross the road and come in here, but today a few of the

mainstays are missing, this one guy in particular I always like seeing – Joe, this old Italian

bloke with the marked distinction of being a wino (only ever drinks a glass of white) and

who’ll serenade you in the bar after he gets to the right level, usually starts in with the songs

after four. Whenever I don’t see Joe I worry that he’s gone and died and I’ll never see his

drunk arse again, and it makes me kinda sad.

Stephen says, ‘so, are you gonna go?’ and I ask, ‘what? to Grace’s, you mean?’ and

he says, ‘yeah. what else are we talken about?’ and I say, ‘yeah, of course. Michele and her

are, like, fucken inseparable these days. I’ll hav’ta go.’

Stephen nods and sips his beer, says, ‘how is she?’ I tell him ‘fine. I mean, I guess so.

we had a pretty good time together in Gippsland last weekend’ (omit the detached sex, my

quasi-anxiety attack, the fact we came back early).

Stephen looks at me confused, says, ‘what? I’m talking about Grace. how’s Grace?’

and I say, ‘oh, right. sorry. I dunno. why?’

Momentary silence before Stephen says, ‘I just wish I could see her, you know? just

talk to her’ and this confuses me so that I ask, ‘you can’t call?’ and Stephen gets angry

suddenly, this flash of annoyance, says, ‘you reckon I haven’t tried that already? that’s all I

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do – callcallcall. all I do these days is call people to apologise, but nobody wants to listen to

me. sometimes I think, fuck it. I mean, what’ve I really got to apologise for anyway?’

Don’t say anything, just sip my beer and wonder if Stephen really believes he’s not to

blame. Maybe he is, maybe he isn’t. Who cares? But I’ve never once heard him say sorry for

anything and I’ve known him a long time now – can’t recall ever hearing anyone apologise

now that I come to think of it, realise I’ve never said sorry either, never said I love you. All I

want right now is to drink though and Stephen’s bullshit’s getting in the way so I say, ‘fuck

it, man, Grace is a little sluz anyway. who cares?’

Stand up and drain the rest of my pint, say, ‘gotta take a piss. let’s go somewhere

good, there’s nothen hap’nen here’ and Stephen looks at the beer in his hand and shrugs and

says, ‘yeah, alright.’

Strong yellow stream hitting chrome urinal and splashing back so that tiny piss

droplets land on shoe, then back into the bar to collect Stephen, and then outside and into the

sun to wait for a tram. Tram goes right onto Elgin then left onto Swanston and moves slowly

south into the CBD with barely anyone onboard. Hop off near RMIT, onto LaTrobe Street,

then walk south down Swanston through the throngs outside Melbourne Central – a lot of

Asians eating pancakes filled with Nutella and strawberries or drinking drinks with little

jellies at the bottom – and turn right into Little Lonsdale then left into Drewery Lane then

right into Drewery Place and traverse the cobblestones and pass the large skips that make it

look like you’re heading somewhere you shouldn’t be until you arrive out front of Sister

Bella at the end of the lane.

268

RUTH:

When I arrive on Flinders Lane outside gLUTEN I spot Tanya sitting in the window

laughing at something Callum has just whispered into her ear. I watch Callum as he reclines

in his chair, a huge smile across his face, his white teeth gleaming. If I’d known he was going

to be here then I wouldn’t have come. Callum scares me. He looks as though he has the

potential to do great harm to a girl, which is not so much a physical thing as much as it is a

psychological and emotional one. He looks like he has a proclivity toward blackmail and

slander. He scares me too for the hold he has on Tanya. It was only last year, in September,

that I had to come and collect her from the city after an afternoon drinking with him. Still

now, I don’t know what happened between them. All I know was that I had to come and

collect a half-hysterical Tanya from a bar in Centre Place. When I got there the bar staff were

giving her glasses of cold water and asking what it was they could do to help. It was a staff

member, and not Callum, who had called me to come and get her. When I arrived Callum

simply raised his hands at me like an innocent and said, flatly, ‘I’m over this shit,’ before

walking out on us both. Looking through the window at him now I see the mouth of that dark

corridor they entered together at his house and I feel the rising fear within me that

accompanies this image.

I take a deep breath before climbing the stairs up from the footpath and into the café.

Callum spots me first. When he does he stands up to greet me, ever the gentleman. He says, -

Hey, Ruth. Great to see you again. He hugs me and shakes my hand.

Although I saw Tanya only this morning she stands to greet me too, hugging me and

pecking me on the cheek. But this isn’t Tanya I’m meeting here. No, with her gleaming teeth

and immaculate presentation, this is Lindsay Belle.

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Lindsay is available for both incalls and outcalls Monday–Saturday from

10am until midnight.

Lindsay’s rates are $300 for half an hour, $550 for an hour, $1,000 for two

hours, and $5,000 for overnight stays.

Callum asks if I would like a coffee and I say sure and he turns in his chair to get

someone’s attention so he can order. I can tell that when the waitress comes over to our table

she recognises him, but she doesn’t do anything out of the ordinary, just the usual flitter that

passes across her eyes that I’ve seen before whenever a person figures out they know him

from the papers or tv. She doesn’t play to him the way some people do, and because she’s not

some dumb guy she doesn’t do the macho/bro crap either: ‘Yo, Cal, man, saw you bag six on

the weekend. Ya really stuck it up the Swans. Good on ya, mate.’ She just takes my coffee

order and moves on and I’m safe from that kind of embarrassment. Tanya turns to me and

says, -Check out what Cal bought me today.

Lindsay can combine both an intimate GFE with an erotic PSE, making for a

night you will never forget.

Tanya displays the contents of a big, yellow JB HiFi bag. There’s a box inside

containing a new MacBook Air. She says, -I’m going to build my own website. You know,

for the business.

I nod. I take in Callum’s body language in my periphery – he doesn’t budge or flinch

or move in any way. Tanya’s words don’t mean a thing. The business, I think. What does

Tanya even mean to him?

When the waitress returns with my coffee we order lunch. I haven’t looked at the

menu but glance at the Specials board and order a salad with capers and olives. Callum

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laughs this little laugh at me and I look at him quizzically, trying to derive its meaning. He

says, -Classic Ruth.

-Sorry?

-I remember you went crazy for those big green olives we ate down at my parent’s

house that one time. You remember that, Tan. You like your olives, don’t you, Ruth?

-I guess. They’re nice sometimes. Yeah. Why?

-Nah, nothing. It’s just funny. Habits. Habits are funny.

-I suppose.

Looking into Callum’s vacant eyes I’m filled with the same fear I felt at his party as

the boys dragged Maddie and I across the living room dance floor. I have seen every inch of

Callum’s body. Tan. Muscular. The freakishly, perfectly symmetrical abs. The hair that never

moves. The nails that are always clipped short. The barely noticeable freckles along his

fingers and the tops of his hands. I have seen this body running nude along Toorak Road on

muck-up day. Seen the way it jolts in orgasm sandwiched between my body and Tanya’s – a

night from a long time ago down at the beach. But Callum remembers the fucking olives. He

says, -Speaking of, you two need to get your arses back down to Portsea sometime soon. Dad

just bought a new boat. A thirty-footer. It’s magnificent.

Tanya squeezes his knee and says, -That sounds amazing, babe. We’ll have to come

down.

Lindsay makes for the perfect companion for both social dates and business

functions.

Above all else, Lindsay offers a discreet encounter. This goes both ways.

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Lunch passes by slowly. I feel this hot rage burning inside me as I eat my salad. Every

olive is like this salty, bitter reminder of all the bad in the world so that in the end I find

myself picking them out. Callum grins when he sees the mound of green olives untouched on

the side of my plate. I don’t really know what’s happening. I find myself at once judging and

envying Tanya, thinking that she’s a stupid little nobody, thinking that she’s a goddess.

After lunch Callum takes out his phone and browses his accumulated texts and missed

calls. Looking at the time display he says, -I’ve gotta rush, girls. Sorry. Here, let me take care

of this.

He forks out a hundred dollars onto the table before giving Tanya a big hug and kiss

on the lips. An affectionate kiss, but not sexual. He says, -Goodbye, gorgeous. Maybe take

Ruth to the party tonight if she’s free?

I look at Callum. He says, to me, -You free tonight?

-As far as I know.

-Perfect. There’s a party in East Melbourne Tanya needs to go to. You’ll have fun.

Gadge should be there tonight, actually. Anyway, there’s some work in it down the road for

you too, Ruth, if you want. But Tanya’ll tell you about it. Okay? Ciao.

I watch as Callum strolls out of the café, flicking down his sunglasses as he walks out

into the sunlight. Two middle-aged women stare at him as he exits before turning to one

another to confer. Yes, that was Callum West – this year’s most elite party boy and the

second-highest paid athlete in the AFL under-twenty-five. The same Callum West hanging up

on your wall half-naked, this year’s Mr February in the annual Naked for a Cause calendar.

I look across the table at Tanya. I want to ask a million questions. But when I go to

speak no words come out and Tanya asks instead, -Are you going to eat those olives?

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EVERETT:

Mark is late. I’m sitting up at the bar growing impatient and wondering whether or not to

buy another beer before he arrives when someone behind me says, -Fancy seeing you here,

Mr Savage.

When I turn around I see that it’s the guy who took me for class just before. The use

of my surname reminds me of school. He says, -I was meaning to have a word with you after

class, but you left rather quickly and I couldn’t capture your attention.

-Oh, um, yeah. Cool.

-You looked pretty distracted today in class. No books. Not even a scrap of paper to

write on, I noticed.

-Um, yeah. Ah, sorry about that.

-No, it’s okay. Just wanted to know that everything is alright?

-Oh, ah, yeah. All fine. Everything’s, ah, really good. Just haven’t bought the reader

yet. None left in the bookshop. Sorry. They said they’d order in more.

-Well, good. Because you will need to get one. Apart from this, though, everything is

okay with you?

He places his hand on the leather strap of his satchel, slung over his shoulder. His

hand becomes a fist around the leather strap and I’m fixated by the way his grip tightens,

clutching at the leather, which creases. I notice two small, blue veins rise up in the space of

flesh between his thumb and index finger when he does this. I can’t recall his name and say, -

Yeah, of course. Um, absolutely, ah, man.

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-You don’t sound very convinced. And my name is Aaron, by the way, in case you’ve

forgotten.

Aaron extends a hand and I shake it as he sits on the stool beside me at the bar,

dropping his bag to the floor under our feet. I say, -Everett. Everyone calls me Ev, though.

-Well, Ev, fancy a drink?

-Um, is that, like, allowed?

Aaron laughs heartily. -Of course it is. He swats at my shoulder playfully making me

feel like a goof, like a kid brother. He orders a jug of beer for the two of us. This surprises

me. He asks, -So, what are you doing here?

-Waiting for a friend. We were supposed to meet up. He’s late.

-No kidding? Me too.

Aaron pours two glasses of Coopers. He raises his glass to mine and says cheers. I

clink my glass against his and take a sip. He asks, -Should we sit outside? I could do with a

smoke.

I step off the stool and reach down to carry Aaron’s satchel out into the beer garden

while he takes the jug. He says cheers again for the help and I get this deep sense of

satisfaction from this minor praise, and I want to hear it again. Outside, the sun is bright and

my vision goes all white in the moment I step from the dark pub out into the cement

courtyard.

We take a seat at one of the wooden tables and I watch Aaron as he unloads his

possessions onto the tabletop: a battered Blackberry that he dumps carelessly (the way it has

clearly been dumped hundreds of times before) and a black crocodile-skin wallet that is

fraying at the seams. From his satchel he removes some tobacco and rolling papers. He rolls a

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cigarette, licking the paper so that it sticks before patting his pockets, looking for a light. He

can’t find one so I lend him mine. I watch as the cigarette burns unevenly, burning faster

along the side that is drier, absent his saliva. For some stupid reason I feel hesitant about

spending time with him, like our drinking together is breaking some rule or policy that I don’t

know about. Kind of like drinking with you father that first time when it’s unfamiliar and you

don’t know where you stand because the dynamic between you is evolving. Aaron wears a

black Bonds undershirt like a t-shirt beneath a grey waistcoat and I picture a pack of smokes

tucked under the sleeve like James Dean. And he wears matching grey trousers and has salt-

and-pepper coloured hair and wears a heavy silver ring around the middle finger of his left

hand that clinks against his beer glass every time he lifts it to drink. I ask, -So, what do you

do when you’re not teaching writing?

-I study. Finishing off a PhD in cultural studies.

-Cool. What’s it about?

-Ah, it’s partly an investigation into the performativity involved in rites-of-passage, or

what you might call ‘transgressive’, behaviours engaged in by young males in urban

Australia. Lots of stuff on car culture and drinking and that type of thing. Looking at

masculinity and what spaces are provided for young people to do the things they want to do

as well as why they might want to do them. Which sounds a bit broad I suppose, but there’s a

tonne of theory that I don’t really want to get into.

-Right. Ah, cool.

-It’s not really. I used to love it, now I just want it finished so I can get the fuck out of

here.

-What will you do when you leave?

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-Don’t know. I want to finish my novel. Beyond that I’ve not got a fucken clue.

I laugh. It’s funny to hear him swear outside of class. His British accent makes the F-

word a lot harsher than when I say it. I wonder where exactly he’s from, think maybe Irish

maybe Welsh maybe Scottish maybe one of those little rural English counties. It’s more fun

to wonder than to know, so I don’t bother asking. He says, -And you? What’re you going to

do with your life?

-No idea. Just trying to finish up my BA right now, but I doubt that’ll ever happen.

-Why’s that?

-Dunno. Keep failing. Just keep fucking up.

-Why not quit then? You know, go overseas, work a job, anything?

-I dunno.

I take a gulp of beer and allow the bitterness to envelope my mouth, distracting me

from the question. I’ve heard it asked before: Why not do something else? It’s another

version of the one I already have on constant loop: What happens when nothing changes? I

change the subject, ask, -What’s your novel about?

-Ha. Never ask an author that question. They’re always the last people who can

answer it. If I were to take a guess I’d say something to do with, ah, people needing to go

through bad things. You know, in order for their lives to find a better, ah …

As Aaron tries to find the words to define his book a familiar voice suddenly joins our

conversation saying, -Yeah, that’s it. That sounds about right, mate.

It’s Mark. He proceeds to wrap Aaron up in a half-tackle/half-hug as Aaron says, -

Aw, piss off, Mark-o, you don’t even know what we’re talking about.

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I’m shocked to see them so familiar. Mark says, -Looks like you two have already

met. Aaron, this is Everett; Ev, Aaron.

Aaron says to me, -This is who you were waiting for? This useless bastard? Ha. Well,

it’s a small world after all, as they say. You kept us waiting long enough, Mark. Ev and I

have been here all day, which means the next one’s on you.

Mark and Aaron laugh as Mark heads back indoors for more beer. He comes back

with two jugs for the table and asks us how we know one another. Aaron explains that I’m in

his class and Mark laughs before saying, -That’s hilarious. Aaron took me for writing years

ago, too. Out at La Trobe when I used to study.

-The good old days. The glory years.

The two laugh once more before raising their glasses. Instantly I feel a familiar pull.

Maybe I should retreat South? Maybe I’m out of my element?

Mark says, -So finish what you were saying before I rudely interrupted. Was he

telling you about the book, Ev? It’s a fucken killer, it is. A bloody masterpiece.

Aaron tells him to shut up. He says, -Look, the basic principle behind it all, I guess

the philosophy the novel presents, is the idea that sometimes bad things need to happen. You

know? It’s just the way of the world. Everybody wants to avoid suffering nowadays, but

sometimes a good dose of suffering does everybody the world of good.

Mark raises his glass. -Hear hear. To misery.

-To misery.

We laugh. I take in the beginnings of crow’s feet at the corners of Aaron’s eyes when

he smiles, take in the cold grey irises and the stubble on his chin and neck where the skin is

too dry from sun exposure. He rifles through his satchel looking for a fresh pouch of tobacco,

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but the tobacco isn’t there and Aaron sighs, maybe realising that the cigarette he rolled only

minutes ago was his last one. I offer mine, but Mark, flush with cash I notice, says he’ll buy a

deck for us to share from the cigarette machine inside and runs back indoors again for the

smokes. When we’re alone Aaron turns to me and says, -It’s uncanny isn’t it, how we were

both waiting for Mark today and didn’t know it. Funny, little things like that, hey? So tell me,

how do you two know each other? Where’d you meet?

It’s vaguely embarrassing to say out loud, but I tell the truth: -I’m not really sure to be

honest.

-Hey?

-Yeah, um, I don’t actually remember. But, maybe don’t tell him that. I think Mark

probably knows, but I’ve forgotten.

-What? Really? You don’t even remember where you met your mate?

-Not really. No.

-Guess it’s not so important though, is it?

I consider this. It probably isn’t, but then again it seems like such a big deal to me, the

not knowing. All I remember is being out on a bender not long after the split with Grace and

then waking up in his flat one night after a big one and we just started hanging out. But there

isn’t a definitive starting point, just a moment when our lives merged, and the particulars are

lost to time.

The afternoon passes quickly as the three of us fall into a steady rhythm of chat and

consumption. Mark and Aaron talk, at times, like old friends, and I can’t help wondering if

Aaron hasn’t spent drunken afternoons in Mark’s bathtub, too. What becomes apparent about

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Aaron after many drinks is that there is an edginess beneath the surface that he leaves out of

his classroom persona and I experience a pang of jealousy when I acknowledge that Mark

was already privy to this fact, that he’s had his slice of Aaron a long while before me. A

weird sense of competition with Mark, too, creeps up on me. It was with Grace that I

discovered I could be brutal. With Mark I have learned that I am a deeply jealous person.

When Mark gets up to use the bathroom, Aaron says to me, -If you’re interested in my

book I’m doing a reading next week at Trades Hall. Thursday night, I believe. Are you free?

I think about it. I recall Grace inviting me out somewhere. Whatever it is, though, I

don’t want to be involved. -Yeah. I’m free.

-Great. I’ll email you the details. You can let Mark know too, if you want. Or not.

I wonder if Aaron is flirting with me as he reclines in his chair, taking in another

mouthful of beer. He adds, -Mark’s read most of my work before, anyway.

Maybe he’s not flirting. Then, an image: Mark on his back, legs bent, arse spread,

pain on his face as Aaron plunges deep into him. The image disappears the moment Mark sits

back down at the table asking Aaron where he’s living now. -You’re not still in Fitzroy are

you, because I thought you were gonna move out of Chantel’s place?

-Yeah, that’s right. Didn’t move far in the end though. I’m in Collingwood now;

really nice place too, if you can believe it. I never thought I’d be saying that a sharehouse in

Collingwood was the best place I ever lived, but there you have it.

I find it odd that Aaron, who must be nearing forty, is still living like a student. I’m a

student and I don’t even live like one. I wonder how many common life experiences I’ll miss

out on. I never worked at McDonald’s in high school; never worked in a call centre or

waiting tables; never worked. But I did play music in a band. Kissed a girl before I was

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sixteen. Slept with a virgin. Graduated from school. I’m not sure what I’m meant to be doing,

but I doubt this life is it. Aaron says, -It’s really a magnificent old place – this huge

weatherboard that’s been refurbished: five bedrooms, huge bathroom with a spa bath,

massive kitchen filled with brand new appliances. The guy who owns it’s this cashed up old

bloke who used to own a bunch of pubs, now he’s into real estate. He lives on the same street

too, only ten or so doors down. And the backyard too, it’s enormous, it’s filled with all these

lemon trees and it gets the sun all day. It’s honestly a perfect place to live.

-Sounds awesome. So, what’s the catch?

-Catch?

-Come on. Knowing you there has to be something off about it.

Aaron laughs mightily at this. -You know me too well. Alright, so, right now apart

from me there’s only one other resident, which is perfect for me but not so much for the

landlord, right? But they can’t get anyone else to sign onto the lease because whenever

someone comes to inspect the house this other resident scares them away. Basically, because

I was the first one to sign on, I helped Bob (that’s the landlord), I helped him out with a

bunch of maintenance work because the house wasn’t quite ready, but I needed a place

straight away. I said I’d paint the place and do a bunch of fittings for reduced rent. He

entrusted me and we became friends and he waived my rent for the first two months while I

fixed the place up. I did a good job, because I actually did know what I was doing, and that

just made Bob my best pal. I figured maybe I’d need a favour at some point, so I made time

to catch up with him for some beers every couple of weeks. After the house was ready Bob

wanted to start moving people in. He said he didn’t know much about how to select residents

and all that because he’d never leased out a big property like this before, and I told him that

because I’d lived in a few of these places I was happy to help interview prospective residents

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and give him the yea or nay. Bob said yes and we shook hands and I took over essentially as

the property manager because he didn’t want to go through an agency to save money.

Mark’s grin continues to widen. He looks at Aaron with total animal lust. Befitting a

Grindr rent boy, I think. He says, -So what have you done?

-Well, naturally, I picked the worst resident I could find. I figured it’d be entertaining.

But the jig’s up, to be fair. I’ve worn this one out too. Pretty soon he’ll have to go because

Bob’s starting to get agitated and keeps sniffing about the property trying to figure out why

no one wants to live there.

-Who’s the weirdo then?

-This obese Singaporean minister. He came over here on a sabbatical or something

and I could just tell straight away there was something really off about the guy. Bingo! He

never leaves his fucken room. No kidding. Honestly, he only leaves about once every week –

once, I swear – to walk from his room to the bathroom to empty out his buckets.

Aaron is smiling manically. I ask, -Buckets?

-Yes, the buckets into which he shits, pisses and vomits.

-Fuck off.

-No, I swear, I’m telling you the truth. He makes orders for takeaway. Big orders, too,

of all kinds of shite – curries and Chinese and pizzas and burgers – and he has them delivered

to the door. Whenever a delivery boy comes to the house I have to answer the door and then I

just send them down to his room. But the guy gorges, I think. You can hear him shitting and

puking sometimes after he’s been eating all night. Apart from the delivery boys coming to the

house and the smell outside his room in the corridor, though, it’s a small price to pay for

having the place all to myself.

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Mark and I are laughing hysterically. Mark asks, -Have you ever seen inside the

room?

-Once, yeah. I heard him leave his room to make the weekly trip to the lavatory and

so I snuck down the hall to take a peek. Had to cover my mouth with a shirt the smell was so

bad. The room was trashed – garbage and takeout containers everywhere, the bedsheets all

screwed up in a pile in the centre of the bed covered in shit stains. Fucken filthy bastard.

Little Buddha-looking bloke he is too.

-I have to see this.

-Yeah, me too.

-Well, what are you two doing now? You could come round if you like. Might be a bit

more cost-effective than staying in the pub all night.

Mark agrees. Me too. We finish our beers off before buying several bottles of cheap

wine from the bar to takeaway. And then we’re off. To Collingwood.

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JAMES:

Afternoon spent drinking until time collapses once more and throbbing pain in hand

dissipates, and once I’m drunk and out of money I suggest to Stephen that we inspect the

storage room at the bottom of the stairs beside the entrance/exit of Sister Bella, where nobody

sits and where nobody has a direct line of vision. And when we go downstairs Stephen’s

laughing as I slide back the latch and open the door and grab a slab of Melbourne Bitter cans

as if they were there for my taking all along. And then we leg it across the blue stone and out

onto Swanston and then up behind the State Library where we stop running.

Stephen says, ‘where are we gonna go with that?’ pointing at the slab and I rack my

brains for a place to drink in peace and where it might be legal. Tell Stephen I know

somewhere we can go and we walk up another block from Russell Street up to Exhibition and

then north to the Exhibition Gardens where we find a place to sit down beneath a giant plane

tree not far from the fountain/pond/water feature. Realise it’s not legal to drink in the park, so

we cover the beers with Stephen’s jacket and drink quickly while on the lookout, but nobody

comes to disturb us, nobody

even

looks

our

way

just like drinking in the summers back in school

and feeling the pressure to perform

this bizarre silent energy

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a test to see who could take it the furthest

to see who could reach those outer limits the fastest

and getting into bars in the city with fake IDs – drinking cheap cocktails in E55 and smoking

cheap cigars in Ding Dongs

when everything we did felt like it was worth celebrating

when life was glorious

when I was filled constantly by a feeling …

… that I’d conquered the world

Lose afternoon to evening in memory pool – a fuzzy haze, strange, like smoke in my

brain – and when it gets dark Stephen runs across the road to a 7-Eleven to buy a pouch and

some papers and I scab several rollies off him, smoking away as the night takes over,

watching the sky as fruit bats fly overhead, going from some place to another place, and think

of the cute blonde from writing this morning and wish she were here right now instead of

Stephen.

And when we’re running low on beer and every kind of pissed that a person can be

the black sky above begins to whirl, and when Stephen asks me what I feel like doing next, a

question which causes me to smile, I wonder if that black sky couldn’t just slide right off the

top of us and what would be behind it? so I say, ‘give Gadgey a call. see what he’s up to.’

Walk into Hell’s Kitchen and find Gadge sitting at a booth in the back, and when he spots us

he stands up and says, ‘Jesus fucking Christ. you two look wrecked’ as he holds out a closed

fist in greeting and so I press my closed fist against his and take up a seat in the booth,

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wonder again what it was my closed fist pressed itself against the other week that caused it to

hurt so bad.

Gadge slaps me across the shoulder and says, ‘what’s been happening, big fella?’ and

I cringe at the title BIG FELLA because it’s dumb and too Australian and very possibly a

deliberate insult, and so I shrug and say, ‘not much. just drinking’ and Gadge laughs at this,

and I really just want to get the deal over with and skip the friend bullshit – realise that both

Gadge and Stephen are wearing equally ridiculous-looking hats indoors.

Stomach starts to gurgle and growl and I know what’s coming next and I stand up and

say, ‘gotta take a dump’ and wink at Stephen in this sexy way, this old joke we used to have

about really enjoying our shits. Stephen laughs, says, ‘have fun’ and Gadge just looks

confused and asks, ‘do you need a wake up?’ and I say, ‘yeah, actually’ and Gadge passes me

a baggie from one of the many pockets lining his trench coat.

Bathroom stalls in Hell’s are giant and have no graffiti on the walls and I enter one

and lock the door and figure out a way to do some of the speed – locate a pen in my pocket

and slide off the lid and dip the end of the lid into the bag of whip and spoon a couple small

hits into my nostrils. Cold metallic trickle sludges down the back of throat and head pulls

through the sleepy/slow beer drunk. Pocket the baggie and the pen and drop trousers for

quick, black-liquid shit, a horrible, runny alcohol poo that takes a lot of toilet paper to wipe

up properly, and imagine my shitty/hairy hole and think – the words in neon – NEW, ADAPTED,

TOXIC LIFEFORM.

Back in the bar the deal has been done and Stephen displays his purchase (ten pills) to

me under the table and asks if I want to smash one now and I say, ‘does the Pope fuck little

boys?’ and Stephen smiles, breaks one out for me, and we drop. Stephen’s

resistance/reluctance has completely fallen away and this fills me with a sense of VICTORY,

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but simultaneously I detest Stephen for being too easily broken – I’m winning the game, but

not liking the medal you get for first place, or some-such.

Gadge lifts up his bowler hat to wipe away a line of sweat on his brow, returns the hat

to the top of his head before leaning across the table; waves his hands toward himself like

he’s calling in a huddle so that Stephen and I lean in too. ‘See those chicks over there?’ says

Gadge, raising his eyebrows in the direction of two girls sitting by the window overlooking

the alleyway below. They’re splitting their second bottle of red wine and are laughing

drunkenly at whatever they’re browsing on an iPhone. Gadge says, ‘the one on the right

reminds me of this chick I used to follow online’ and I look closely at the girl on the right –

brunette, tattoos everywhere, one of a feather on her neck, wearing glasses, but only the

frames, with no lenses.

Gadge says, ‘I never told anybody about this, yeah? but, for, like, a year, I used to

watch one of those webcam thingies – you know, where the girl sits around in her underwear

wanking for you? it’s porn, but it’s, like, I dunno, real. anyway, I just liked it better at the

time – maybe it was a phase or some shit. so one day I found this girl and she was hot as

fucken hell, man, just my type, just like that bitch over there. and once I found this chick I

was fucken addicted – I mean, I’d get home and the first thing I’d do was fire up the laptop. I

just had to see this cunt’s box, man. like, everyfuckingday I’m talking about – her pussy was

just so fucken perfect … anyway, anyway, sometime last year – like, a bit before you guys

split up – I’m on my laptop, and I’m logging into this girl’s site as per usual, and after I put in

my password I’m waiting for it to load up when all of a sudden these fucken popups, like,

tonnes of ’em, start popping up everywhere on my screen telling me I’m in violation of all

these laws, that the site’s been shut down, that my details have been sent to, like, some

government agency or some shit and that I’ll be notified by them soon, right?’

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Stephen balks, says, ‘what?’ and Gadge says, ‘yeah, I know, tell me about it. it didn’t

make any fucken sense, but it scared the shit out of me all the same. I was paranoid, man. I

thought it was a virus or, like, my computer had been hacked, but it all looked pretty official

too and so I’m fucking panicking, dude. I shut the laptop, slam the lid down, and I’m pacing

around the room goin’ ohgodohgodohgodI’msofuckenbustedohgodohgodohgod; thinking

fucken ASIO are coming for me, thinking any minute some SWAT team motherfuckers are

gunna smash through my windows and execute me. I mean, I’m goin nuts freakin out about

it. but, of course, nothen fucken happened. I had my laptop off for about a week before I

realised what a dumb cunt I was being. one) there was no way for me to be traced for using

the site ’cause whenever I sign up to shit like that I always use a bullshit email account, and

two) I wasn’t doing anything illegal in the first place. I was over eighteen. it was a porn site.

so I’m like, Fuck this. so, after about a week I finally grew a sack and fired up the computer

again. I cleared my history (like that does shit anyway) and I gave it a scan for any viruses

and everything was all good. so I got thinking about what the fuck’d happened to me and I

started digging – typing in the girl’s name, researching the site I’d been using. after a while I

got onto some forums and started finding guys talking about the same thing – they’d had the

same experience and people were asking about the site being closed down, why it was,

blahblahblah … .you wanna know what I found?’

Gadge glances across to the window, looks at the girl with brown hair and fake

glasses, lets the anticipation build – lips curl at the ends, mouth contorting into a grin – says,

‘the chick whose site it was, the bitch got murdered.’

Gadge’s words hang in the air and I’m filled with a momentary sadness as I look

across to the girls sitting by the window – scraps of plastic, I think. But it’s been maybe thirty

minutes since Stephen and I dropped and that sadness is beaten out by the heat wave surging

through my body, the intensity of a feeling I’ve never fully understood being realised in the

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physical and not the spiritual, so that my jaw begins to grind and I’m desperate for a smoke,

desperate to talk and not listen, to witness concrete and rubber and steel and light and dark –

all the things that a world is made of. When I look at Stephen he appears

mortified/glum/speechless – DEFEATED. But Gadge either doesn’t notice or doesn’t care, he’s

too lost in his story. He says, ‘man, to be honest, the only thing I’m pissed off about really is

I’m never gonna see her delightful little cooch again.’

Stephen looks at Gadge and asks, ‘but how do you know all this for sure? I mean,

how’d you find out she died?’ and Gadge says, ‘forums, man. there’d been this girl murdered

in South Melbourne and her death coincided with the closure of the site. well, maybe it was a

month or so apart, but roughly the same time, and some guy knew someone in the business

and word spread and then people started posting links to articles on this chick’s murder, plus

what remaining pictures there were left of her on the net from her old site and kaboom, man –

case closed. they were fucking identical.’

Stephen says, ‘what forums, though? what is all this shit?’ and Gadge says, ‘just

these, like, sex forums. you know, dudes review brothels and shit – people post links for

escorts coming into town, good sites to check out; there’s a whole fucken underground scene

out there, man – swingers and orgies and BDSM dungeons. it’s fucked, but it’s kinda funny

too if you think about it. I mean, you look at everyone in this bar, man, everybody’s a

depraved motherfucker when it comes down to it – those two chickadees over there – man,

they could be hookers or something, you know? maybe they got their own webcams set up at

home. maybe after they leave here they’re gonna eat each other out for the world to see or

fuck half a football team for nothing – it don’t really matter though, does it? everyone’s a slut

in the end. look at, like, Tinder or something, man, it’s like every cunt in this city wants to be

a fucken porn star or some shit. man, my only dilemma is this – you’ll like this, J, ’cause it’s

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a question of morality, one of the greatest I’ve ever faced: is it wrong to jerk it over dead

chicks?’

Gadge looks me right in the eye, wonder how it is he connects my enlightened being

with morality. Think, am I the go to? Or is he just joking around? I say, ‘ … … … … .’ but

no words come out and Gadge’s face seems really distant now – far off, maybe even

kilometres away. Gadge is a speck, an ant, a plastic scrap beneath my boot.

Gadge begins to clap, starts laughing so hard it makes my ears hurt. He pounds the

table laughing and clapping and says, ‘whoa, man. fuck, dude. you’re fucken googed, man.

you’re way the fuck out of it.’ Lick my lips, feel my tongue large/thick, my saliva drying up,

my jaw grinding, and say, ‘um, maybe you shouldn’t masturbate over this girl anymore. um,

maybe you should delete her pictures from your computer and, um, like, just leave her alone.

you know, like, ah, let her rest in peace, as they say.’

All I can hear is Gadge laughing again, but I’m not entirely sure he’s still here with

me because the bar is suddenly really noisy, this old PJ Harvey song being blasted through

the sound system. Stephen yells over the din of the music, says, ‘how was she killed?’ and

Gadge yells, ‘what?’ and Stephen practically screams, ‘how was she killed?’ again, and

Gadge laughs and says, ‘that’s the best part. she was shot in the head, yeah? with a fucken

nail gun. I mean, can you imagine it? some cunt’s sitting in his living room whacking away

watching her rub her box when out of the corner of his eye he sees some dude walk up behind

her, piece of hardware in hand, then suddenly powpowfuckenpow, the dude wastes her –

three nails to the head. I tell ya, I’ve met a few chicks I’d like to do that to. you wanna know

what a better world is? some hipster chick copping one in the temple. that’s a better world,

my friend.’

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Stephen stands up suddenly, says, ‘that’s really fucked up, man’ and as he moves

away from the table to – I presume – take a piss, Gadge yells, ‘don’t shoot the messenger,

man.’

When Stephen is out of earshot, Gadge gets in close to my face, says, ‘what’s he so

fucken testy about?’ and I say, ‘I think maybe you shouldn’t’ve told that story’ to which

Gadge replies, ‘oh, come on, don’t tell me he’s too sensitive all of a sudden. you know what I

think? I think maybe you guys shouldn’t drink and drug so hard if you’re not up to it

anymore.’

I don’t know where this comes from, but I don’t like it, not sure why Gadge is so

cocky tonight. I want to smash his face open, but I’m having too much fun just sitting down

to be bothered. Gadge says, ‘you need to wake up, J. Steve’s not your friend anymore – he’s

no-one’s friend. and you better keep an eye on Michele unless you wanna find that out the

hard way. don’t forget why you guys broke up.’ I say, ‘fuck off, man. you’re full of it’ and

Gadge says, ‘fine, I gotta get going anyway – got a party over in East Melbourne I gotta get

too. gotta feed the masses, man.’

Gadge bumps his fist against mine, buttons up his coat. Before he turns to leave he

leans down and whispers into my ear, ‘co est que ce dia me’ which I believe is Spanish and is

either a warning or a joke.

290

RUTH:

It’s been maybe a little over a week since I last saw Maddie and already she has gotten

herself another piercing: a metal bar that connects two perforations along the upper cartilage

of her left ear. She now has seven piercings on her head alone: her nose ring, her new earring,

and the five earrings that climb up her right ear, each stud gradually getting smaller from

bottom to top. Somehow she manages not to look too weighed down by all that jewellery. In

fact, the more piercings she gets, the smaller and lighter she starts to look – more elfin or

something. I stare at the metal bar, which doesn’t move as she talks to Tanya in the back seat

of the cab going over to East Melbourne, and I wonder what she will get next.

When we arrive at the right address Tanya pays the fare and I step out of the cab onto

a nature strip lined with plane trees and grass that looks unnaturally green. The party Callum

mentioned is being held in this enormous, ugly Neo-Georgian house. A Japanese water

feature and oval-shaped hedges line a stone path leading up to the door. On either side of the

path are manicured gardens filled with white pebbles and bonsai trees.

Inside the house, there is no furniture. People dance in wide empty rooms on glossy

varnished wooden floors. We walk through the house, which opens into a large, high-

ceilinged room, where a group of hipster-looking boys in tight black jeans sip Peronis and

chat with their female counterparts, some of whom wear the same brown nail varnish on their

fingernails. I notice one girl in particular, who is wearing a one-piece bathing costume with a

plunging v-neck beneath a pair of black denim cut-offs and exceedingly high-heeled red

shoes. I ask Tanya, -Who are these people?

-I’m not sure. I have to find some guy called Rob. This is his place, I think. Here, hold

this, I need to use the loo. Then we can mingle.

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Tanya passes her handbag to me and walks away to find a bathroom. I turn to Maddie

and say, -I thought Gadge was supposed to be here.

-I dunno. He might be coming.

-He better be. I’m going to need something if I’m ever going to survive this.

Maddie laughs. She gives me a little nudge with her hip and says, -Oooh, Ruth. Look

at you.

-What? I’m serious.

-Alright. I’ve got his number, you want me to call?

-Please.

Maddie takes out her phone and calls Gadge while Tanya is in the bathroom. The

track playing on the sound system turns into an old Ice Cube song, which eventually becomes

something by Kanye. Across from me on the other side of the room two boys wearing

baseball caps, American sports logos on the front, are mucking around at a large mixing

board pretending to be DJs. Eventually one of the girls I noticed earlier yells at them to stop

and they laugh and leave the mixing board alone. Maddie hangs up her phone and says to me,

-Gadge says he’s at Hell’s. He’s coming later.

I pull a face before spotting Tanya walking across the living room towards us. She

asks, -Ready to mingle?

-Ready as I’ll ever be.

I notice Maddie stifle a snigger at this. My turn to be the bitchy one now, I guess. We

follow Tanya through to the rear of the house, where the entire back wall is made up of glass.

We walk through the doors and out onto a patio that overlooks a large swimming pool. From

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the patio Tanya signals toward a shirtless boy standing by the pool, a large tattoo of a phoenix

rising from the ashes covering his upper left arm. She says, -I’m pretty sure that’s Rob.

Standing with Rob are a bunch of other boys with tattoo sleeves and plug earrings,

drinking Coronas and encouraging two younger-than-us blonde girls to pash. The boys jeer as

the girls’ tongues entwine. Maddie turns to me and raises her eyebrows, but I’m not entirely

certain if the look is one of curiosity or disgust. Tanya walks down the stairs toward the boys.

Maddie and I follow. Tanya asks the boy with the phoenix tattoo if he’s Rob and he responds

by saying, -Fuck oath.

I cringe. Somewhere my grandfather is rolling over in his grave. Phrases like ‘struth’

and ‘bloody oath’ are part of a dead language, but, standing by a pool in East Melbourne, Rob

has resurrected the past to misinterpret it, destroy it. I notice the Southern Cross tattoo on his

shoulder blade. He says, -Hey, so you must be Lindsay, right?

-Sure am.

-Wow. You’re fucken hot. Who’re your friends?

-This is Ruth. And this is Maddie.

-Wow, hey girls. You girls are fucken stunnin’.

The other boys nod in agreement. They’ve lost interest in the pashing blondes and are

now eyeing the three of us. I look down into the pool. Beneath the water are lights making the

pool glow yellow-orange. Rob offers us drinks from the large Esky I didn’t notice at the edge

of the pool. He doesn’t wait for a response, just pulls out two Smirnoff Blacks from the ice

and goes to great lengths to demonstrate his strength, tearing off one cap using the crook of

his elbow and pulling off the other with his teeth. -How’s that, ey? Plenty of practice over the

years.

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He laughs as he passes out the drinks. I down half the Smirnoff in one go. I want to be

out of here and if I can’t do that by leaving, then at the very least I can escape inside myself.

The quick rush the alcohol brings on sends tiny ripples through my head. Rob says, -Here,

Ruth, take another.

He takes another Smirnoff out of the ice and opens it before passing it to me. The two

blondes have stopped kissing and they both give me side-eye, but I get the feeling like they

might be impressed by us for whatever stupid reason. Suddenly Rob claps his hands together;

turning to Tanya he asks, -So, shall we do this?

Tanya looks to Maddie and I. She turns back to Rob and whispers something in his

ear. Rob nods. Turning back to us, Tanya says, -I won’t be long, I don’t think. You two okay

to just hang out here for a bit?

Maddie says, -Fine, whatevs.

As Tanya moves away from us with Rob I grab her elbow and ask, -What are you

doing?

-Don’t worry. Just some stuff for my website – a new opportunity. I’ve gotta go

upstairs.

-Is everything okay?

-Of course, Ruth. Don’t worry. Just hang out with Maddie.

I want to ask Tanya why we’re here. I want to know why she keeps bringing me

along. As she walks back into the house with Rob the two blondes follow behind them with

another one of the boys. I look at Maddie, who simply shrugs, before plunging her hand back

into the cold water of the Esky to fetch another bottle of pre-mix. She says, -So what’s that all

about?

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-I’m not entirely sure.

-I told you she’s been weird.

The two boys left with us by the edge of the pool are both staring at Maddie’s

exposed legs and I suggest we go back inside and find a room to hang out in until Gadge

arrives with the ecstasy. Maddie says, -Good idea. These guys are gross.

Back inside the house, Maddie and I find an unoccupied guest room. I lie back on the

king-size bed and finish off my drinks. Maddie opens the closets and rifles through the

belongings. One of the closets is used for storage – there are huge boxes of coconut water and

two-minute noodles and toilet paper, all from Costco. I ask, -Why do you think they’ve got

all that stuff?

-I dunno. Maybe they’re doomsday preppers. Have you seen that show?

-What show?

-It’s this reality show on Foxtel about Americans getting ready for the apocalypse. It’s

so stupid.

-Americans are so dumb.

-Holy shit, Ruth. Check it out.

I get up off the bed to inspect the closet. Maddie has struck gold: a case of tequila.

She pulls out one of the bottles and holds it up to the light like Indiana Jones inspecting an

artefact. She makes a sound effect, like a choir of a thousand angels. I laugh.

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EVERETT:

The sharehouse in Collingwood is exactly as Aaron described it: a giant old weatherboard

house that dwarves the neighbouring miner’s cottages. Aaron tells us to keep quiet as we

make our way into the house and down the corridor, tip-toeing until we’re right outside the

Singaporean minister’s bedroom. It’s impossible not to miss – the smell hits Mark and me

and we cover our mouths instantly, breaking out into a fit of laughter that we try to stifle. The

smell is like a combination of wet dog and pissy hobo. Mark, laughing, wafts the smell into

his nose, pretending to savour it, but only makes himself gag in the process, causing Aaron

and I to laugh all the more. I whisper, -That’s fucked.

We walk down the rest of the corridor and into the living room, where Aaron shuts

the door to the hallway, allowing us all to laugh as loudly as we like. As I look around at the

pristine interior of the house, I can’t help but think of my own. Aaron will put up with

disgusting smells to have this large place to himself, and yet I feel trapped inside my house. I

feel trapped by the same trimmings he has cunningly worked for. I don’t really understand.

He says, -Come on, let me show you the bathroom. It’s massive.

When Mark sees the spa bath he begins loosening his belt, kicking off his shoes and

removing his pants and says, -Hot tub time. Who’s game?

Aaron laughs, says, -Good idea. Let me grab the drinks.

I ask Mark what he’s doing, feeling uncomfortable and anxious suddenly. Drunk and

annoyed by my serious tone, he says, -Don’t worry. Look what I bought today. Enough for

each of us. It’ll be fun, come on.

He reaches down into his pants crumpled in a pile on the floor and pulls out a baggie

filled with tablets. He holds one out and I poke out my tongue for him to place it on, then I

swallow. Mark runs water into the tub and I watch as it splashes off the porcelain interior,

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like the water that flicked up against my ankles in my parents’ shower this morning. I’ve

been up a long time. My life is one confused mess and yet I am willing – eager, even – to

comply with its demands, the surge taking me forward, out of my control. I just want to prove

my worth, prove to Mark and Aaron that I belong among the male nomads – the lost souls,

gypsies and faggots.

Aaron re-enters the room with the cheap bottles of Shiraz we bought at the pub and

three coffee mugs dangling from his fingers. He looks like he’s about to drop the lot, but

somehow manages to place everything down somewhat gracefully. Mark asks him to poke

out his tongue and feeds him some of the ecstasy too. Aaron says, -We haven’t done this for a

while. Can’t remember the last time I got my hands on some x. Where’d you get it?

Yeah, Mark, where did you get it?

-Guy I know.

Aaron pours three mugfuls of wine, his silver ring clinking against each cup. Just go

with it, I think. He passes a mug to Mark, who thanks him before stepping into the spa in his

underwear. Eventually I strip down too, taking a mug from Aaron before joining Mark in the

warm water. Life is so repetitive, so weird and so new. I feel relaxed and turned on, scared

for my life and dizzy, almost faint. Aaron takes off his clothes and I take in his slim body,

the small amount of hair on his arse and his limp, thick, dark, circumcised cock hidden

among an overgrown bush of brown pubic hair. He steps into the water and, as he sits down

between Mark and me, it rises to our clavicles.

By the time we finish the first bottle of Shiraz and beginning the second, the ecstasy

starts to take its hold. I feel Aaron’s leg pressing against mine beneath the water, feel Mark’s

feet drift across the surface of the spa bath to make contact with us both. When this happens,

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that’s when we stop speaking. Submerged bodies writhing in silence: it makes my heart race,

causes a big lump to rise within me and block my throat.

Aaron’s hand traces its way up my thigh. He closes his eyes as he begins to massage

my testicles softly, and I notice that Mark is working Aaron’s prick beneath the water. Mark

looks good in a hot-mess kind of way, his faded black jeans and leather boots and v-neck t-

shirt in a pile on the floor. I lock eyes with him and lean forward to Aaron’s chest where I

take a nipple in my mouth. I want Mark to see me like this – the kind of slut he’s so desperate

to fuck. I enjoy teasing him, feel like I’m getting even for all the times he’s begged for me to

give myself up, and for all the disappointed faces he’s pulled when I’ve said no. It works.

Mark leans across Aaron’s body to kiss his chest too. His face edges closer to mine. Mark

needs me, wants me bad, kisses my mouth, then says, -Take your cock out.

I take off my underwear and dump the water-logged material over the edge of the spa.

Mark guides me up onto the rim of the bath where he takes me in his mouth. I grab his hair,

tangle it between my fingers as I force myself into him, deeper. I look to Aaron – eyes open

now – masturbating with one hand and massaging Mark beneath the water with the other.

It doesn’t take long for that familiar jolt to rip through me and out of the tip of my

dick and into Mark’s mouth. After I come, Aaron sits up quickly onto the edge of the spa,

bringing Mark’s face into his lap now for the same. I get off watching Mark like this. Turned

on and ashamed like thinking of him in the hotel with the fat man from Sydney. But ashamed

in a way that makes my gut gurgle with a perverse joy. As Mark works on Aaron I massage

Mark’s arse with my hand, slide a finger inside him and listen to him moan with a mouth full

of cock. Aaron grabs my hair, kisses me hard as he comes, as our semen meets together

inside of Mark, down in his belly. When Mark stands up, cock flushed with blood, I notice

the definition in his arms, his small biceps, the vein sticking up in the crook of his elbow that

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looks nasty but cool. And then Aaron and I return the favour, sharing Mark’s cock right up

until he is about to come. But when he shoots he chooses me, taking my chin in his hand and

guiding my mouth over the head of his penis, ensuring I take the load. It’s only the fourth

time I’ve done it since I’ve known him. It isn’t just Mark coming, though. In my mind it is

everything and everyone: Aaron and Crab Hand and the boy from my maths class years ago,

and even Grace too, the thick, mucus-like come our friction would create that once tasted so

perfect, when we first started fucking.

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JAMES:

Leave a moody Stephen in the city and catch the last tram home outside Flinders and find

myself getting home at a reasonable hour for a change – not bloody nor bruised nor vomiting

either. See the light coming from the bottom of sister’s door and knock quietly, but there’s no

answer and so I turn the doorknob and take a peek inside and sister is sitting up in bed

reading a book, iPod connected to ears, foot tapping to a beat, and when she looks up from

whatever teen-angst sex-and-vampires paperback she’s holding she gets a fright seeing me

peer in. Sister pulls headphones out of ears, one sharp tug on the white cord and they pop out

in this hilarious way, and she says, ‘what the hell, Jim?’ and I say, ‘sorry. just wanted to see if

you were still awake’ and she sighs and shakes her head and waves me into the room.

Sit down at the foot of sister’s bed then lie back so that head rests against her shins

and she strokes my hair and asks where I’ve been and I tell her, ‘the city’ and she asks, ‘are

you stoned?’ and I say, ‘no, I’m high, though.’

‘Ecstasy?’ she wants to know and I say, ‘yeah’ and she asks what it’s like and I say,

‘really nice. if you don’t do it at least once you’ve wasted your life’ and she smiles like she’s

going to do it one day and I know she will and that there’s no point lying. My old friend,

Moose, used to lie to his sister all the time, never wanted her to do anything – never wanted

her to smoke or get drunk or touch drugs or fuck boys, and it used to drive him crazy trying

to control her and monitor her all the time and I used to tell him to relax and leave her alone,

one of the reasons we could never keep up being friends. He was a wog anyway and I’m not

– they’re all control freaks, all hypocrites; they love sluts, but they can’t bear the thought of a

relative enjoying sex; like most people really, only a thousand times worse because they

always bring god and religion into it. Good Greek and Italian boys – they love their mothers

and their god and their sluts. Used to go to the outdoor pool on Murray Road in Coburg near

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the drive-in movie theatre, and we’d spend the day bombing into the water and sunbathing

and checking out the girls, and sometimes we’d even go to the drive-in too with Moose’s

older brother or this older girl from the neighbourhood, Ellie, this half-Tongan chick that was

sexy as hell; ended up fingering Ellie one time at a house party with her boyfriend there in

another room, but she only let me do it because he used to beat her up and she liked fucking

around with guys to get back at him. I miss the neighbourhood – used to feel a part of

something, a community, but it’s all gone now, all traded away for three years of private

education and a TER in the 90s. Fat lot of good it’s done in the end too – I’m studying

fucking Arts for Christ’s sake.

Sister stops patting my head and says, ‘your hair’s really greasy, you know. you need

to wash it’ and I say, ‘sorry’ and she tells me, ‘it’s alright. I’ve gotta go to bed now, anyway.’

I say goodnight and turn sister’s light off and then I take her advice and run a shower

and wash my hair thoroughly and the water on my flesh feels kinda prickly at first, but then

soothing and complements the drowsy/relaxed sensation I have all throughout my body now

that I’m on the other side of the pill, jogging downhill.

Take a beer from the fridge and return to my room and stay up listening to music and

browsing the Internet. Go on a bunch of dating sites and create a fake profile on OKCupid

and look through all the profiles of girls my age living in the city, but the profiles make me

feel awkward and sick and depressed because I can’t work out why they exist, why people

can’t just talk to one another or go to bars and get pissed if they want a root, and I get to

thinking that maybe Gadge is right about the world and the city – right that everyone’s a

whore or a wannabe porn star underneath it all, that right beneath the surface is a layer of

scum (something I already knew) and that this scum is just MY GENERATION, and looking at

the selfies – all pouting lips and wonderbras and fake tan – I think this is it, this is what

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you’re really a part of, think the new, adapted, toxic lifeforms, think plastic scraps, so that

eventually I have to turn away and shut the computer down.

At four o’clock old pain begins resurfacing, this ancient black thing inside me sitting

in my throat wants out badly. And though I should be sleeping like a good person – like a

regular Tom or Dick or whomever – I pick up the electric instead, plug in the headphones and

turn on amp, and the riffs comeandtheycomeandtheycome – just noises and static and reverb

at times, and I really don’t even know what I’ve got (I’ll have to listen back over the

recording later when I’m sober) but in the moment it feels right – a wave of hateful sound

that takes me out into that zone I’ve been in before, making another CD I don’t wish for

anybody to listen to, because if they did then they’d see it too, the creature from out the

Merri.

Three beers and a couple hours later it’s dawn and I shut off the guitar and the amp

and walk down to the creek to watch the sun come up from my favourite spot, and sitting on

the embankment in the long grass I can hear the bell miners and the magpies and it’s not so

different from being in Gippsland really because there’s no bikes on the path yet, no morning

walkers. I’m the first man on the Merri today quite possibly, part of a tradition, part of an

ancient people.

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RUTH:

By the time Gadge calls to say he’s at the party Maddie and I have made a pretty sizeable

dent in the bottle of tequila. Add the Smirnoffs and empty stomachs on top of that and we’re

both completely toasted. Maddie takes a call from Gadge and lets him know we’re in a guest

room off of the main corridor. Moments later he enters the room. Taking a look at us

sprawled out together on the bed he says, -What the hell are you doing in here?

-Tanya’s upstairs doing god knows what. We have to wait for her.

-What isn’t that girl into? She with Rob?

-Yeah. How do you know him?

-Just another friendly face. I’ve gotta speak to him, anyway. I’ll wait with you.

Gadge takes a seat on the bed with us. He lies back. As he does his trench coat opens

across the blankets like a superhero cape. He digs into one of his pockets. -You two want the

stuff? He shakes a bag filled with blue pills.

I nod. Gadge takes one of the pills from the baggie and places it on my outstretched

tongue. He does likewise for Maddie. Looking at the half-drunk bottle of tequila he asks, -

Can I have some of that?

Maddie scoots herself back off the bed and goes to the closet. She produces another

fresh bottle and tosses it at Gadge. -Help yourself.

Gadge smiles as he twists off the cap and takes a slug. -You girls are a little wasted,

me thinks.

-You can say that again.

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Maddie starts going through her purse, looking for the money to pay Gadge with. As

she goes to pass three twenties to him he puts a hand in the air telling her to stop. He says, -

How ’bout you hold off on that payment tonight. Try something else.

-What did you have in mind?

-Maybe a little kiss and a cuddle. What say you, Ruth? You game?

I roll my eyes. -You’ve gotta be kidding.

-Oh, come on. What’s the harm?

I look at Maddie. She smiles. She says to Gadge, -For two pills? What else you got?

Gadge laughs. -Alright. I’ll throw this in too. He dumps a small baggie of yellowie

powder onto the bed. Maddie licks her teeth seductively like a porn star faking innocent girl-

next-door. Gadge asks, -So?

I allow Maddie to crawl across the bed to me. She puts her face in front of mine and

for whatever reason she makes me laugh. I’m laughing even as she presses her lips to mine,

which makes her laugh in turn. Gadge forms the speed into a series of small lines on the

bedside table while watching us. Maddie breaks away from me and we take turns doing the

lines. I can feel the pill coming on and the speed makes my mind sharp. I take Maddie’s hand

and we dance together to the bass beating through the house while Gadge reclines on the bed.

I reach out to him and ask him to join us, but he says, -I never dance. I only deal.

I laugh, but I can’t tell if he’s joking. As we dance I find myself getting closer to

Maddie, my hands grabbing at her clothes, moving her into me, the ecstasy making me crave

contact, the warmth of another body. Maddie could be anybody. I allow her to kiss me again

as Gadge watches. We are the blondes from outside, from before. I close my eyes and feel her

tongue slide into my mouth. Just like nights in Portsea, like nights in spring after the races, I

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am losing myself in another vast, vacant room. Years ago Tanya and Maddie and I would

allow ourselves to lose our identities in places and situations like this. And in the mornings

we would have to wake up and walk away while I tried to block out the dull panic that swept

through my body. It was nights like these that made me realise who I was, that scared me into

the realisation that I was committed to absolutely nothing. It was nights like these that I

confessed to Dr Smythe. But I only ever spoke of Tanya, like she was the only one of us

going through it all. Tanya was the face of so many things I hated about myself.

As my body adjusts to the newness of Maddie’s mouth – the texture of her lips and

tongue, her saliva – I am filled by this deep heat in my belly and in my heart and in my sex.

Broken down into its biology the act of kissing is repulsive, all wet muscle and the trading of

germs, but here and now with the warm wave of chemical love rising from my toes to the top

of my head, it is pleasure, the thrill of it a suffocating ache in my throat, shooting off the

chart, unquantifiable.

On the bed, with Gadge, I rub his thigh and make a promise with my eyes. I am

Lindsay Belle now, teasing him, getting him off for payment. It feels good. It feels like the

control I’ve never had. Inside, I am split between the past, present and future versions of

myself. I watch as Maddie masturbates Gadge. She smiles and laughs and stares into my eyes

and it’s not long before he comes across her wrist as I whisper into his ear, telling him how

hot it makes me.

Gadge says thanks and has a chuckle and I ride myself down – from Lindsay back to

Ruth – where suddenly it feels much more humiliating to be in this room. But then there isn’t

much time to feel so deflated because a different wave of heat quickly rises up through me

and expels itself across the bedsheets in a stream of frothing wet orange.

-Jesus Christ, Ruth. Are you okay?

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-God. Just get me out of here, Mads. I need to go home.

I apologise again and again to Maddie in the taxi back to Richmond. I ask her to tell me

where and what I vomited on and I tell her that I will pay for everything. If her clothes need

dry cleaning, I will pay. If the sheets in Rob’s guest room need cleaning, I will pay. If

Gadge’s shoes are ruined, I will buy new ones. But Maddie just tells me not to worry and

reminds me that I did nothing wrong. She asks for the millionth time if I’m okay. It is a much

harder question to answer than it should be, however. I tell her, honestly, while trying to

block out the waves of nausea as I breathe the cool air coming in through the open cab

window, -I don’t know.

I breathe deeply through my nose and close my eyes, meditating on two thoughts:

nearly home, don’t vomit, nearly home. Maddie asks, -What’s going on with you? What’s

going on with Tanya? Something’s been up with you two ever since you moved in together. I

told you it would be a bad idea.

She’s right. It was a bad idea. I had assumed I wouldn’t coil myself so tightly around

Tanya as I did in school and now I resent myself for not having the strength to be my own

person. All I was thinking when I moved in – and what I still know to be true now – is that I

couldn’t face up to the idea of moving to Sydney with my mother. I tell myself I’m going to

be stronger, but I’ve made drunken resolutions before.

In Richmond, Maddie helps me inside the house. She makes sure I drink some water

before I go to sleep and she even sets me up with a towel and a bucket beside the bed. My

bedroom is spinning and I realise that Maddie has managed to do all of this for me while

being completely mashed. Her jaw is grinding and I’m certain she’s actually having a great

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time as she sits up in the bed and pats my head. I say, -Can you text Lindsay for me? Just let

her know we left the party. I’m not sure where my phone is.

My words must be a jumbled, slurred mess because Maddie arches her eyebrows at

me. Shutting one eye, she pulls a face at me and giggles when she asks, -Who’s Lindsay?

I laugh. Maddie’s face looks ridiculous. -You know. Thing-o. She’s probably

wondering where I am.

-You’re nuts, Ruth. Just try to relax. Get some rest.

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EVERETT:

Later, after Aaron has passed out on the sofa in the lounge room, and the effects of the

ecstasy have started to diminish, I sit in the spa with Mark, the two of us alone in the small

hours of the morning. Mark wants to know if I liked what happened tonight and I tell him

yes, I did. He says, -How come you’re not like that when you’re with me?

-I dunno. I get nervous. Maybe I’m getting over it?

I know that I need an identity, something to hang onto. Perhaps this is it, I think. Can

fucking be an identity? Mark tops the water off with some more from the hot tap. When he

turns it off again he says, -I bet you went to a private school, didn’t you?

-What makes you say that?

-Nothing. I can just tell.

-Well, does it matter?

-No. But I can tell.

I reach over the ledge of the bath and pick up my mug of wine. The last bottle is

almost finished. I stare at the red liquid, annoyed and unsure of where this conversation is

heading. Mark says, -I’m not trying to piss you off, Ev. I just want you to know I’ve got you

pretty much figured out by now.

-Really? What have you figured out?

-I’m just trying to say you don’t need to hide from me. I get you.

I take a drink from the wine. I wonder what my tally would be tonight if we were

going by standard measurements. Thirty drinks? More? -Enlighten me, Mark. What exactly

do you ‘get’ about me? Because I’m not really sure I get myself, so …

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-You’re easy. You’re just a dude who’s out here looking for the worst.

I turn it over in my head: the worst. -Isn’t everybody?

-In some shape or form, yeah, maybe. I’m just saying, if you are looking, though –

and I know you are – you’re sure gonna find it with Aaron.

-Is that why you introduced us?

-Sorta.

-Sorta?

-Everybody likes watchin’ fireworks, man. Even me.

I feel emboldened. I say, -But I thought you liked Aaron. I thought you liked me too.

Is this just all for your entertainment, then?

-Nah, yeah. I mean, I do – like you both, that is. We’re all friends. But, it’s not like

Aaron hasn’t burned me once before. Not exactly like you won’t one day either.

Mark is calm and sedate when he says this. He floats his arms on the water’s surface

and looks me directly in the eyes. It’s hard to tell if this is any more than drug talk, whether

it’ll all be forgotten tomorrow or not. I say, -Why are you telling me all this?

-Because, just, like … Honestly? I’m not trying to be harsh, man, but I’m not sure

you’re a strong enough person to handle somebody like Aaron. I’m not sure of you at all.

-You just said you had me figured.

-Yeah, but that’s only, like, half. You’re a half-man, Ev. You’re a fucken half-man,

dude.

Mark’s words: ‘You’re a half-man.’

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Mark’s words: ‘You’re just a dude out here looking for the worst.’

When I wake up it takes me a moment to get my bearings. I am cold and my arse is numb and

this is because I am sitting naked in a spa bath drained of water in a house in Collingwood

and there isn’t anybody in sight. No signs of life. No sounds.

I reach over the edge of the tub and locate my jeans and my still-damp underwear and

it takes me an eternity to dress after full-consciousness is restored and the pounding

hangover/comedown headache commences. I check my phone. Apart from a few missed calls

from Grace there isn’t anything to note except the time: after midday.

I peek outside into the living room and discover that the house is empty. I’m glad. I

don’t really want to see Mark or Aaron. Last night comes flooding back– a memory montage

that blasts me through the chest. My ears begin to burn as the panic and guilt and paranoia

creeps in. I can see bright letters in the landscape of my mind, fireworks going off around

them. They read: STDHIVSTIAIDS. And in every part of my body – from my knee-cap to

my nose to my groin – I begin to tingle, which only fuels the fear. By the time I walk out into

the lounge room and down the hall to the front door, past the wet-dog/pissy hobo smell, I am

utterly convinced that I contracted something last night, and that by the end of the week I am

going to die as surely as the sun will set before it rises.

Outside, in the bright-but-soon-to-be-gloomy atmosphere of another Melbourne day, I

begin to navigate the suburban streets, looking for a main road out of the North. Something

isn’t working, a voice says.

Time to head South.

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CHAPTER 4

JAMES:

Michele hunched over in my bedroom to use the mirror, applying translucent lipstick, but

too close to the mirror – only a millimetre between nose and glass – and I ask, ‘is there a

name for that stuff?’ and Michele says, ‘My Lips But Better’ screwing the cap back on and

placing the lipstick back into her handbag on the floor. Watch as she smacks her lips together,

glossy now and moist and making me want a blow job (an overrated sex act if you really

want to get into it) and I laugh at the name: MY LIPS BUT BETTER.

Michele asks, ‘you ready to go now?’ and I say, ‘ah, yeah, but we need to pick

Stephen up on the way over’ – something I’ve been waiting until the last minute to tell

Michele because I know this will start a fight, which it does: Michele says, ‘what? no way.

Grace specifically said he couldn’t come’ and I say, ‘yeah, I know, but he’s gunna rock up

anyway. we might as well just give him a lift’ and Michele says, ‘no. I’m not doing it’ and I

say, ‘well, I already told him you would’ and Michele says, ‘that’s your problem, not mine’

and I just say, ‘come on’ and Michele huffs a lot, but I can tell she’s gunna do it.

And then into the Astra and to the EastLink and across to the Eastern suburbs to pick

up Stephen from Hawthorn, not far from the junction, where all the houses are bigger and the

streets are greener, wider, lined with plane trees. And Stephen comes outside with a couple of

stubbies of Becks and a bottle opener and hops into the backseat saying, ‘hello’ to Michele

who greets him with a mixture of disdain and something smooth but deadly. Stephen says,

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‘thanks for this. appreciate the lift, Michele’ as he passes an opened beer to me and Michele

says, ‘you know I’m only on my Ps, you can’t drink in the car’ and I say, ‘it’ll be okay, we’ll

keep ’em out of sight. don’t worry’ and Michele sighs again and shakes her head and says,

‘whatever. if I lose my license just remember whose fault it is’ before adding under her

breath, ‘just a lift’s not good enough.’

Turn back in my seat to face Stephen as Michele pulls the Astra back out into traffic

and drives us south through Glen Iris and Malvern and Caulfield and out to Bayside, taking

the long way she can drive along the ocean. Wind down the window and feel the cool air

coming in off the sea, smell the sea and taste the salt and feel alive, like anything might

happen – cross fingers and hope Stephen brought the pills he scored off Gadge last week with

him tonight.

Some song by The Presets blasting from the backyard when we arrive out front at Grace’s

house in Brighton so that after we walk up to the front door and knock and ring the bell

Michele ends up having to call Grace inside to let her know we’re here – music so loud

nobody can hear us. And when Grace answers the front door she’s wearing an outfit a lot like

when I saw her last time, only her hair is more tousled and she’s drunk, and when she sees

Michele she squeals and the girls hug and do this excited little dance together on the

threshold of the door, like maybe it’s a surprise to see one another, only it’s not a surprise at

all. Grace is drunk enough to be bothered greeting me and when she hugs me I avoid her

cheek and stand stiff and she hugs me in this sloppy way that causes wine to spill from the

plastic cup she’s holding, which lands on the sleeve of my leather jacket, and Grace says, ‘oh

shit. sorry’ wiping a hand over the wine spill and flicking the liquid that collects on her hand

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to the floor. Tiny droplets of red hit the marble tiling in the lobby and I stare at the wine on

the ground.

Grace notices Stephen for what seems like the first time since we arrived and she

looks at him and through him and I have no idea what’s in their shared history – imagine

details that haven’t been verified as Grace turns to me and says in this baby-voice, ‘couldn’t

leave home without your best bud, James?’ and the sarcasm in her voice floors me. John

Cleese, Bill Hicks, Ricky Gervais and … Grace? Michele’s just looking at me with no

intention of bailing me out and so I laugh, say, ‘yeah, hope it’s alright I brought a plus one.

you know, I’d hate to get bored.’

Grace doesn’t respond, just takes another moment to size Stephen up before pouting

and taking Michele’s hand and the two girls disappear into the house, leaving me in the lobby

and Stephen in the doorframe, one foot inside and one still out. I say, ‘come on in then, I

guess. and shut the fucken door while you’re at it’ and I laugh to myself.

Stephen steps into the lobby, pulls the door closed and says, ‘well, that was

interesting’ and I say, ‘yeah, tell me about it. I might have some questions for you if I

actually gave a fuck. you bring the googs we got off Gadge?’

Stephen says, ‘yeah. got a bit of whip too, but I don’t know if we should do it all here’

and I ask, ‘why not?’

Stephen says, ‘I dunno. it doesn’t feel right. Grace seems kinda off, I don’t wanna

upset her.’

‘Upset her?’ I ask, ‘you shouldn’t even fucken be here. if you didn’t wanna piss her

off, why’d you come? you’re a colossal fucken dickhead, mate – I don’t think she cares

you’re here. can’t you tell? I mean, really, that’s worse for you isn’t it? kinda hopin for some

drama weren’t you?’

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‘No, that’s not what I wanted at all’ says Stephen and I say, ‘oh, come on. yeah, it is.

how long’s it gunna take for you to figure out that thing doesn’t give a shit about anybody?’

Stephen has this anguished look on his face, like he’s realising something and I know

I have him right where I want him. I want so badly for this moment to hurt I can’t help

myself, sink the boot in once more, say, ‘what’d you think was gonna happen? think she was

gunna take you back upstairs to beddy-byes for a gobbie? those days are long gone, mate –

that ship’s sailed.’

Stephen says nothing, just nudges past me and into the house, and there it is – THE

NEW, TOXIC ME poisoning Stephen’s life, a reminder of things he’d rather forget. Can’t

mistake that reassurance in the gut, though; can’t mistake my pleasure at seeing him down.

VICTORY

and

DEFEAT

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RUTH:

-I’m quitting everything!

-What? Tanya’s mouth hangs open in faux-surprise.

-That’s right. You heard me. No booze, no fags, absolutely no drugs, and zero boys.

-Boo.

-And I went for a run today.

-Really? Where?

-At uni. And and and … I’ve even been thinking about getting in touch with mum.

Maybe I’ll go visit her over the winter break.

-Jeez, Ruth. I knew you had a little freak out the other night, but this … is huge. I

don’t know what to say.

-Don’t say anything. I’m just, I dunno, feeling good.

-Great. But, now, when you say no drugs, you can still smoke pot, right?

Tanya’s grin is devilish. I don’t fall for the bait this time, though, and smile with her

instead. Freak out, I think. Maddie’s and Gadge’s phrase for my vomiting in Rob’s guest

room has stuck to me like a wet cow pat. In my circle feeling ill or having genuine regret is

cause for alarm. If you don’t combat the hangover with a Bloody Mary or cleave the

comedown in two with another halfer or a line of speed or the biggest spliff you can roll, then

something must be up. All I know is that despite the excruciating pain in my throat and lungs

that I felt at the time and the dull ache I can now feel in my hips and thighs, the twenty

minutes I spent on the treadmill today were the most productive twenty minutes of my life in

the last six months, maybe longer.

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Tanya asks if it’s okay that she has a drink in front of me and I tell her that I don’t

mind. She pours herself a large glass of wine before bringing the bottle with her out into the

courtyard where we sit for a long time watching the sky as the sun goes down. I ask Tanya

how her day was and notice the way her fingers tighten around the stem of her wine glass at

being asked this. She says, -Fine. Callum’s friends are helping me build up my own site.

-Really? What does that involve?

-I didn’t think you’d like me talking about this stuff.

I shrug. The sky overhead is shifting rapidly: clouds rolling in, a cool breeze settling

into the courtyard. Birds leave the tree across from us without making any noise, flying

silently towards Bridge Road. I really don’t know how I feel about Tanya and her alter ego.

Part of me wants to shun them both, yet I’m compelled to know more. After all, it wasn’t me

that freaked out in front of Maddie and Gadge the other week – it was the little bit of Lindsay

in me, too. I remember how turned on I was, how I wanted to be her.

We sit in the courtyard until it becomes too cold and we retreat inside. Tanya asks me

if I feel like eating something. I realise that she’s almost finished the bottle of wine. I tell her

I’m happy with whatever and she uses her new laptop to log onto a delivery service where

she orders a bunch of Mexican food for us both. I can’t remember the last time I spent an

evening in with her, when it was just us. I like Tanya as she is in this moment.

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EVERETT:

Aaron’s email reads:

Hey Ev,

Didn’t see you in class today. Hope everything is well with you. In case you were still

interested, my reading is tonight at Trades Hall. The event kicks off at 8pm. Maybe

see you there … ?

Cheers,

A

I have spent the best part of the last hour reading and rereading this email on my

phone, scrolling the little screen down each time to refresh the inbox. It’s the only email I’ve

received in days. The university may not know I exist, but Aaron certainly does.

I put my phone in my pocket and pat down the other ones: wallet, check; cigarettes,

check. I walk out the door and down to the station and ride the train into the city. I never

bothered to tell Mark about tonight and this exhilarates me. His words from the other week

are still rattling about in my brain, annoying me, aggravating me. His words: ‘I’m not sure

you’re a strong enough person to handle somebody like Aaron.’ These ones really piss me

off. As does that comment about my being a ‘half-man’. I’m determined now to see Aaron on

my own, determined to have him to myself.

When I get to Trades Hall in Carlton I climb the stairs to the second storey, walking

up past this giant cardboard photograph of some old man with white hair. The photo is by the

door to the women’s bathroom and is covered in red lipstick kisses where countless drunk

girls have added their touch over the years. It looks germy and gross and I have to wonder

what exactly is the point.

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I pay ten dollars to get into the event on the second floor and find Aaron standing at

the bar. In a corner of the room, which is mostly empty and too big, a woman is setting up a

microphone behind a podium. Somehow she manages to stuff it up, causing that irritating,

ear-splitting feedback. The few people in attendance jump at the shock of the sound.

When I approach Aaron he seems somewhat surprised to see me. I realise I never

replied to his email, but that was also kind of the point. I like it when he smiles and says, -

Hey, mate, didn’t expect to see you here. Glad you made it.

-Yeah, no worries.

-You missed class this morning.

-I know. Sorry.

-Hey, not to bother. What are you drinking?

-Whatever you’re having.

He asks the bartender to pour another glass of wine. He slides the glass across to me

after it’s poured, says cheers, and I take a sip. He says, -I take it you didn’t bother to invite

Mr Mark along with you tonight?

-No. Did you?

-No. Well, to us then.

Aaron holds up his glass and I clink mine against it. I like where this is going. The

possibilities seem limitless. I look around the room at the other people and ask, -So, who’s

everybody else?

-Uni cunts. Faculty. It’s the same old shite, mate. I’m glad you’re here. Better get

drunk quick before we die of boredom.

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I laugh. We toss back the drinks and order more. The wine is cheap, though; it leaves

a sharp pain at the base of my skull when I drink it too quickly. The uni faculty, I think.

Looking around the room I start to get the full picture: the worn clothing, bad haircuts, the

stench of mid-life desperation. At some point the underachievers in this room probably all

thought they’d go on to write a best-selling novel, become a talking head, be known. But

here, before me, is the evidence to the contrary.

After another drink the night is officially underway. The room fills up a little more

and the woman who set up the microphone moments ago gets behind it to introduce the first

‘reading’ of the night. Aaron whispers into my ear, -Brace yourself, mate.

The woman behind the microphone trades places with a Middle Eastern man in his

sixties, wearing an old, grey suit and glasses. He’s a poet. He introduces himself as Hashtag

Iraqi. A projector screen displays an image behind him: #.I. Hashtag’s poems don’t have any

words in them. Instead, they comprise long groupings of letters that, when he reads them

aloud, become guttural noises reminiscent of the sounds a didgeridoo makes. But he adds

other noises too: buzzes and chirps and the sound of hawking up phlegm. While it’s the

stupidest thing I’ve ever seen in my life, what blows me away is that everyone else actually

pays attention. The audience is still and quiet, soaking in the gibberish. I whisper to Aaron, -

What the fuck is this crap?

-If you ever came to class, you’d actually know. We studied this guy in the first week.

The old wanker’s been kicking about for years.

When the reading finally ends everyone applauds, including Aaron, who begrudgingly

brings his hands together for the benefit of the other academics. Between readings, music is

pumped out through the sound system and people mingle and chat. Aaron and I stay at the bar

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getting loaded. He tells me he’s on in an hour and that he wants to get drunk enough to give a

‘solid read’ beforehand.

An hour later he takes over the microphone to read a chapter from his manuscript. I

order a beer from the bar and the refreshing coldness of the lager cuts through the salty, warm

sting that the cheap red wine has left in my mouth. For the first time tonight, drinking my

beer as Aaron reads, I really listen. His writing is filled with short, punchy sentences filled

with the weight of knowledge, the knowledge that life has a mean habit of letting a person

down. There is something real about what Aaron has to say. It’s something worth hearing.

And after he finishes up and the evening has concluded and for the last time music has been

put back on the stereo, I say to him, -That was awesome. You were really, really good.

Honestly.

Aaron smiles and thanks me. We are both drunk. I say, -You know, with the faculty

around and that, maybe we should go somewhere else. I mean, I don’t want you to get in any

trouble if you get seen drinking with a student or whatever.

-Ha. They wouldn’t have a fucken clue. But you’re right, let’s go somewhere else, it’s

no fun here anyway. How’s mine sound? I’ve got plenty of piss.

-Great.

We leave the bar, descending the stairs and passing the kiss-covered white-haired man

on the way out. Outside, the city is loud and vibrant. From the pub across the street rock

music blares – something by The Scientists that turns into Tim Rogers. The people drinking

on the benches outside heckle passing cyclists and laugh like crazy. Most of the men are still

wearing shorts and singlets, the summer heat lingering even though we’re five weeks into

autumn.

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Aaron hails a cab and when we climb into the back together – the smell of leather and

cheap cleaning agents and sweat, of bodies male and female, of unwashed hair – I am seized

by a rumble in my guts that is part dread and part arousal and part sick fear. And I think, I’m

going to even the scale.

I don’t feel like a half-man at all.

I feel like a man man.

321

JAMES:

Stephen’s in a bad mood and it doesn’t take long – just one quick glance around the living

room and backyard – for him to realise he’s made the wrong decision by coming here tonight.

There are no answers to be found in Grace’s Bayside palace – something I could’ve told him

had he asked, but sometimes people have to figure these things out for themselves. Then

again, the people I know are all too disconnected for anything close to self-reflection. The

party’s nothing special, just a zone that someone’s provided in which people can wreck

themselves – another hedonistic misfire at Western bliss.

Stephen makes eye contact with me and directs my gaze toward the stairs and I nod,

and then we ascend and find an empty study with a couple of plush chesterfield sofas and a

bookcase inside, the décor out of place with the rest of the house. Stephen’s practically

shaking with anger as he starts constructing four small lines of speed on a desk, and I’m

desperate for the drugs – desperate for something to kick in and knock me out so that I can

avoid whatever bullshit’s coming my way.

Stephen does a line, says, ‘I’m so over this shit. I don’t even know why I bother

sometimes’ as he passes a rolled up note to me, and taking the note I say, ‘let’s just bail, then.

I don’t think Michele wants me here anyway, she’s pissed about me getting her to give you a

lift.’

Do a line and feel head lift, mind expanded, as Stephen says, ‘yeah, alright. let’s

finish this off and get out of here.’ Stephen puts his head back over the table and hoovers up a

little more of the yellow-white powder and then it’s back to me to rak up and finish off. The

speed makes me feel like my nose is bleeding, the way it sits right at the back of throat –

thick and metallic and sour.

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Stephen says, ‘you and me, James, we’re different, you know? we’re not like

everyone else down there’ and I ask, ‘in what way?’ genuinely wanting to know. And

Stephen answers, ‘well, you know, John and your mum, they’re, like, real people, and my

family’s like that too. I think that’s why the band could never last – everyone from St A’s

was just a rich cunt, really, you know? nobody ever had to work for anything. people like that

can’t empathise, can’t create, can’t be real. my dad, man, he’s working class. like John, man.

my whole family’s working class. like, from before, you know?’ You’re a real working class

hero, I think, with your private school and your Mercedes and your house in the East. I want

to tell Stephen that I don’t have a fucking clue what he’s talking about, that I believe the

working class are extinct, but then the door opens and Brent steps into the room and the

moment passes.

Brent’s drunk, the large Celtic cross tattoo that covers his chest visible beneath a deep

crew-neck singlet, muscles on display, and he staggers/struts toward Stephen with a finger

raised, says, ‘what the fuck are you doing here? I couldn’t believe it when I heard you were

here – couldn’t fucken believe it, but here you are. not fucken welcome, Stevie. not fucken

welcome, Steve-o, mate. didn’t Grace make that clear enough for you?’

Feel a knot in my stomach tighten suddenly, like being at the crest of a roller-coaster.

Knot followed by sense of calm and order, until knot dissipates the moment Stephen’s raised

fist slams into the bridge of Brent’s nose. And then they’re on the ground together wrestling

like I’ve seen them do before, like they did last November in a sound booth in South Yarra

while we were trying to lay down the second EP, the day the band split. Remember how

Everett slipped out quietly as they tussled and never returned, and, later, paying off the guy

who ran the studio for the time – time wasted and money lost.

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Brent’s face is being pressed up against the leg of the desk when I tell them to cut it

out – don’t bother getting involved physically, just hang back and tell them to quit it. Brent,

from the floor, losing the same fight in the same way, says, ‘fuck you, Hanlon, you’re the one

that brought him here’ and I say, ‘just stop before one of you gets hurt’ and Brent says, ‘he’s

already broken my fucking nose, you cunt’ and I say to Stephen, ‘get off him, you fucken

idiot’ and Stephen gives Brent a final hard shove down before standing upright.

Brent says, ‘wankers’ and I say, ‘oh, fuck off, Brent. what’re ya gunna do? sue us

because you fight like a poof?’

Brent shakes his head, spits blood onto Grace’s parents’ carpet, says, ‘yeah, real fair

fight – fucken hit me when I don’t expect it’ and Stephen says, ‘don’t fucken arc up so much,

then’ and Brent says, ‘are you fucken retarded? nobody likes you, Steve. everybody hates

your guts’ and then, ‘you two need to leave,’ which only makes me laugh so that I look at

Stephen and say, ‘looks like we better get going, hey?’ and Stephen says, ‘yeah, looks like’.

Leave Brent on the floor with his big tattoo and singlet and hard-man routine and

walk downstairs where I tell Stephen to wait for me outside while I say goodbye to Michele.

Walk through to the backyard and locate her talking to Grace and drinking a Cruiser, and as I

approach them a colony of bats suddenly disperses from the branches of surrounding fig trees

and go flying overhead in this big, screeching black cloud. Whisper into Michele’s ear, ‘hey,

I’ve gotta go. Steve got into a fight with Brent upstairs and I think it’s best we leave. you

staying here tonight?’ and Michele turns on me suddenly and says, ‘do you even fucking

care?’ and I say, ‘what?’

Grace looks at me and then to Michele and says, ‘what’s wrong?’ and then to me,

‘what’ve you done now?’ and I turn up my nose and say, ‘oh, fuck this’ and turn to leave,

wanting to be outside with Stephen and finding a bar.

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Grace practically screeches at my back, ‘what have you done now? all you do is upset

her’ and I turn back to face the skinny, mouthy, drunk cunt and ask, ‘who are you to judge

anyone?’

Michele says, ‘just fuck off, James. just leave. again. like you always do. just go, just

go’ and I hate being ganged up on like this, makes my blood boil, makes me say, ‘you know

what, Michele, the only reason Grace never fucked me has nothing to do with being loyal to

you.’

Grace cracks it, says, ‘what the hell is that supposed to mean?’ and I say, ‘I’m sorry,

is there someone else in the band you didn’t fuck besides me? nah, I don’t think there is, is

there?’ and Michele punches my arm – this hostile, violent gesture that shocks me only

because I didn’t think she was capable of it.

‘You know what?’ I say, backing away from them both, raising my two middle

fingers in the air, ‘fuck all of you mindless fucking people.’

And then I’m outside, reunited with Stephen and there’s only one objective, like

always.

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RUTH:

When the delivery guy arrives I realise just how hungry I am after exercising today. I pay

the man at the door with money out of Tanya’s purse, which is bulging with fifties from

whatever she did today. I carry the plastic bags into the kitchen and unpack them, placing the

cardboard boxes on the counter. Tanya is pouring herself another wine from a new bottle as

she comes over to inspect the food. Taking in the smells she says, -Oh, yum.

I take out two plates and some cutlery and serve the tacos and salad and rice to Tanya

before making a plate for myself. The taste of crispy fish and crunchy shredded cabbage all

drowned in a tangy chili sauce is such a relief when I bite into the taco. The food nourishes

and replenishes and I notice how hungrily Tanya eats with nobody else around.

After dinner Tanya smokes a cigarette before coming back indoors to close all the

blinds. We spend the rest of the evening on the sofa, curled up together with a blanket,

watching old movies playing late on bad television stations. I ask her if she ever thinks about

going to university and getting a degree and she says that she does sometimes. I tell her I feel

a bit bad about our arrangement – my living with her for nothing – and that lately I’ve been

wondering if I shouldn’t get a job to help her out with rent and groceries. Tanya laughs and

says nonsense and tells me not to worry, that she has loads of money, and when she says this

I think of the pictures of Lindsay Belle on Scarlet Blue that I cannot stop accessing and

staring at mindlessly.

I might have to tear myself away from Tanya one day if I ever want to lead a truly

independent life. I should call mum, I tell myself. I wonder if life in Sydney is any different.

But then I go about expelling these thoughts and glue my eyes to the tv instead and allow

myself to be taken in by its blue-tinged glow. I can make it on my own, I think.

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EVERETT:

I trip on the footpath outside Aaron’s house where the asphalt has been split by the rising

tree roots. Aaron laughs from inside the taxi as he pays the driver. He asks, -You alright out

there?

-Yeah, fine. Just fell over.

-Yeah. I noticed that.

Aaron steps out of the cab and the car pulls a U-ey. Standing over me, he extends his

arm down and pulls me up off the pavement. He opens the front gate and says, -Come on,

then. In we go.

We walk inside and down the corridor, past the Singaporean minister’s room and the

wet-dog/pissy hobo smell, and into the kitchen where Aaron selects two mugs and a bottle of

wine from a shelf. We walk out into the backyard and take up a seat beneath one of the many

lemon trees, and Aaron pours more alcohol and we pick up where we left off at Trades Hall –

getting loaded, travelling toward oblivion. Under the lemon trees, under the vast expanse of

grey-black sky that blankets Melbourne this evening, I am free-falling continuously.

Aaron clears his throat as a group of fruit bats fly overhead. He takes a drink and says,

-Are you close with anybody at university?

The question surprises me. Looking into his eyes, I can see how drunk he is. The eyes

swim inside his skull, as if they were just floating there, disconnected, loose. -Do you mean

from class?

-Well, from wherever.

-Why?

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-Just curious. You strike me as a bit of a loner, Ev. Do you have many friends?

-Not anymore.

-Oh? What does that mean?

-Actually, you know somebody I used to be friends with.

-Do I?

-Yeah. James Hanlon. He’s in that same class I’m meant to be taking. We went to

school together.

-Oh really? Ha. James does not impress me much, I’m afraid.

-Why’s that?

-He’s just a bit of an idiot, I believe.

-I’ll tell him that.

-You will not. You, though. You impress me.

-Why?

Aaron looks at me. Looks really deep. -You remind me of myself. You remind me of

another time.

Inside, it feels like I’m blushing. You’re pathetic, the voice says. Aaron asks, -And

where was it you and James went to school together?

-St Anthony’s.

-Oh, I’ve heard of that one. Catholic, right? Pretty posh too, isn’t it?

-Sort of, yeah. It’s in Toorak. Nobody really knows it, though. Most people know the

school opposite us – Scotch – but our school wasn’t as rich as them.

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-I’ve definitely heard of Scotch. It seems like all the students I teach went to one of

those private schools. It’s such a big deal in this city. Funny, given how every Australian I’ve

ever met wants to tell you about how they live in a ‘classless society’. Can I tell you

something without you taking offense?

-Go ahead.

-I think you Australians are full of shite. Ninety percent of you, at least. You’re so …

delusional.

-

-Does that offend you?

-Not really. No.

-Good. People that believe in being patriotic are morons. There isn’t a country on

earth that has a national culture or identity. Those things, they’re just made up.

Aaron takes another drink. I stay silent for a moment. I don’t want to talk about

Australia or high school. I want to continue my free-fall. I look up to the grey-black nothing.

And while I’m looking up, that’s when I feel Aaron’s knee press against my own. Hear him

ask, softly, -Did you enjoy yourself here last week?

I don’t know what to say. My ears go hot. Familiar tingles. Free falling. I ask, -Did

you?

Aaron places his hand on my leg and traces my thigh to my crotch with his palm

where he finds my erection, my cock already hard from fear and anticipation. I feel his lips

on my neck. -I think you had a really good time last week, didn’t you, Ev? Why else would

you come back so soon?

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-Maybe you’re right.

Aaron squeezes me through my jeans. Mark’s words: ‘You’re a half-man.’ Aaron

says, -You’re going to suck my cock until I’m hard and once I’m satisfied I’m going to take

you back inside and I’m going to fuck you, okay?

I bring the wine to my mouth and gulp it back. I am breathless and it is fantastic. I can

barely speak I’m so nervous, but I manage to say, -When do I get to come?

-When I fucking tell you to. Alright?

-Whatever you want.

Aaron wraps his hand around my throat and squeezes. I keep falling down and down

and down. I’m free when he whispers, -Then get to work, you dirty cunt.

With Grace I learned I was brutal; with Mark, jealous. With Aaron, in less than a day

together, I’ve learned just how badly I have always wanted to be treated this way. I’m ready

to give myself over fully, I realise. Letting go is the most freeing sensation in the world.

I unbuckle Aaron’s trousers, pull them down partway before taking his underwear in

my mouth, his cock on the other side of the material. I suck on the fabric, tasting sweat and

urine, taking in the heady scent of his pubes and his cock. I tease him this way before

removing him from his underwear and pushing back the foreskin. I slip my tongue beneath

his hood and roll it over the head, slide it back and forth across his slit, taste the first of the

pre-come, the salt, and then I take it all in, working it up and down, getting him hard,

stopping occasionally to concentrate my attention on the underside of the head where the

foreskin is tethered to the shaft. Right in the same spot where Grace used to lick so perfectly,

where she would plant kisses after making me come.

330

Aaron places a hand on the back of my head and encourages me to take him deeper,

as deep as I can stand before I’m choked by him. He likes this. I like it too. I like having no

control. He holds my wrists together behind my back and forces me to bob up and down,

going too deep each time until I’m out of breath and my eyes begin to water. That’s when

he’s ready, when he takes my hand and guides me back up the hall into his room and

commands me to take my clothes off. I do. I take off every piece of clothing and lie back on

his bed.

Aaron crouches beside me and locates a small wooden box carved into the shape of a

book beneath his bedside table. He takes out a tube of lubricant and passes it to me as he

strips and I smear the jelly across my arse and onto my fingers and insert some of the jelly

inside. Aaron kneels on the bed. He binds his penis and testicles with a thick, black piece of

rubber so that his cock is flushed with blood and vascular, bulging. He takes the lube from

me and applies a squirt to the head of his cock before rubbing it along his shaft. He applies

some more to his fingers and begins to massage my arsehole, inserting one digit and then

another. He asks, -Have you ever been fucked before?

I lie and say that I have. I don’t want him to derive any satisfaction from the

knowledge that he is my first time. He asks, -Have you fucked Mark?

-

-Have you?

-Yes.

-What about your friend, James? Have you fucked him?

-No.

-No? Not even at Catholic school together? You didn’t fuck him?

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-No.

-How many cocks have you had then?

-I dunno. A few.

-Are you a little whore?

-Maybe.

-Are you my little whore?

Aaron slips a third finger into me. It hurts.

-Yes. I’m your whore.

-You’re pretty tight for a whore.

Aaron removes his fingers. He crouches down and rummages through the box once

more. He digs out a small vial and removes the cap, tells me to put my nose over the hole and

inhale. I do. Chemical vapours slip up my nostril and into my brain and I momentarily space

out – the perimeters of the bedroom shooting off in every direction. He takes a big snort

before handing the bottle back to me. -Hold onto that. Take a sniff when you need.

I roll onto my front and raise my arse to him and I say, -Fuck me, please.

He spanks my arse and gives my cheek a peck before mounting the bed and moving in

behind me. I hoover more chemical vapours as he works his way in. Aaron moans/groans as

he pushes forward. I clench my teeth. More chemicals. The perimeters of the room shooting

off. Free-falling. He pulls my hair as he begins to move back and forth. I can feel his teeth

biting into my shoulder blade as he penetrates me further, more and more each time. He grabs

for my throat, pulls my face back up awkwardly towards him so that he can look into my eye.

He tells me I’m tight. He tells me that I’m a dirty little cunt/fucker/cocksucker. He lets me go.

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A noise escapes my mouth as he thrusts, each time with a little more force than the last. I take

it. I like it. As we fuck I picture myself in the third person. I am watching me getting fucked.

I am a slut, a cunt, debasing myself. I make myself sick. I make myself hot. I take in more of

the chemical vapour until I’m separated from myself, until I feel like I’m not entirely

here/there in this/that moment, until there are many Everetts existing on Aaron’s bed. There

is an I that can feel the pain of this, another I that can feel the joy. And there is an Everett

who is a slut being fucked and there is an Everett who is lost and scared. Aaron calls me a

naughty little rich boy even though he knows next to nothing about me. He calls me a good

Catholic boy and he asks what my father would think if he knew I liked being bent over this

way. Aaron’s words mean little, though. I don’t join in. I can feel his belly resting on the

small of my back as he crouches over me, hearing his build to climax in his throaty moaning

as he thrusts into me. I put a hand back and push his belly away from me, a part of me still

somewhat practical. I tell him not to come inside me, that I don’t want that, but he fights my

hand away, taking hold of my wrists as he did outside. He fucks me hard, using his body

weight to pin me down so that I’m unable to manoeuvre my way out, to break the connection

between us. His final thrusts are excruciating, too much. He calls me a dirty little faggot. And

then he comes. The hot trickle of it is strange and unnerving – an invasion. Breathless, Aaron

says, -Sorry. Fuck. Sorry. It just got away from me then. Are you alright?

-Yeah. It’s okay.

-God, you’re just so … Fuck. You’re fucken amazing.

Aaron gets off the bed and begins to wipe himself down with a small towel from the

floor. He passes me an old t-shirt. -You’ve got nothing to worry about, anyway. I’m clean.

The tingle in my ears. Free-falling. You’re a half-man, the voice reminds me.

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Aaron leaves the room and I pick myself up from the bed and pull on my jeans and

boots and wipe myself with the t-shirt, which comes away clotted with lube and come. Panic

rushes up through me, floods my lungs. I feel embarrassed, disgusted. I pull my shirt over my

head and walk down to the bathroom. I can hear that Aaron is showering and I lock myself

into the separate toilet cubicle. I sit down and it’s not long before I am doubled over with

pain, my body contracting after the sex and the effects of the chemicals have worn off, trying

to set itself back as before. I sober up quickly, the sudden sharp pain in my rectum taking

over everything. It’s excruciating and I want to cry out, but I manage to bite my lip, hold in

the cry and breathe deeply as the remnants of Aaron fall out of me. When I look between my

legs I notice that the toilet water has turned pink and I want desperately to tap my heels

together, close my eyes and chant there’s no place like home. But I can’t. It occurs to me that

I wouldn’t even know where home is these days. I can see the three storeys waiting for me.

Their empty interior. I wipe my arse. The paper comes away covered in this slimy film that is

red and cream and brown and translucent. Everything inside of me is on the toilet paper:

blood and shit and come. I am looking at my whole being. My entire identity is there, reduced

to a smear.

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JAMES:

Later, at some TAB shithole near the train station, an argument breaks out between

Stephen and me about Grace in which I’m saying, ‘I told you she’s a little sluz. who cares?’

and Stephen’s saying, ‘she’s not. you don’t get her, J’

and I’m saying, ‘I can’t ever get her, that’s for sure. that’s something I

understand’

and Stephen’s saying, ‘what’s that mean?’

and I’m saying, ‘whaddaya think? Grace cares about profile and persona, not

about person, not people – she’s a fucken rich android, a fucken Kim

Kardashian clone. there’s a thousand girls like her running around this city –

it’s like Gadge was saying-’

and Stephen’s cutting me off saying, ‘Gadge? you’re quoting fucken Gadge now?

Jesus fucking Christ, J – Gadge is fucken gone’ as he taps his temple with an index

finger

and the divide between us seems unbridgeable even though I’d been on his side tonight, had

stuck up for him against Brent. Realise that maybe I’m actually on no one’s side and that

that’s the problem – I don’t have a team – and think suddenly of how helpless I felt

the night of Everett’s seventeenth, when I knew he was taking Grace home to fuck her for the

first time, and how angry it made me hearing the story at school the following week about

how she’d lost her virginity to him and the details of her bleeding and pain. How I’d wished

to have had the honour of witnessing that, how I wanted so badly for Grace to bleed onto me,

to give and to take from her something of significance. How I knew definitively that I was

unworthy and would be so forever in this life.

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This memory is compelling, it drives me, fills me with an urge to swing on Stephen

the way he did Brent, but think that perhaps that won’t ease much, won’t conquer and quench

– possibly an action that isn’t NEW and TOXIC enough. Note the need to ADAPT and MORPH

and appease the ANCIENT BLACK THING, bring a little of the Merri out here to these useless

suburbs that aren’t in the north. And then I’m standing up from my bar stool and walking out

the TAB shithole we found near the train station, walking across this grotesque multi-

coloured carpet and past the pokies and outside past the smoking gambler degenerates and

into the carpark. There’s fuck all out here, by the beach; not so much a part of Melbourne as

some fucked up satellite village – not Melbourne at all really, just a place for big expensive

houses, cashed-up tradies, and D-list entertainment industry types.

But then I spot the freakshow climbing into his Holden Commodore and I think new

and toxic and I walk towards him and say, ‘hey man, can I get a ride?’ and he says, ‘where

you going?’ and I ask, ‘where are you headed?’ and he says, ‘Mornington’ and I tell him,

‘that’s perfect’ even though it’s in the complete opposite direction, because I want to be

going awayawayaway.

Freakshow tells me to, ‘hop in, then’ and I’ve had enough to drink to be comfortable

with him steering the wheel, but as I’m getting in Stephen is shouting at me from the entrance

of the TAB, shouting, ‘what the fuck are you doing, James?’

Get into the car and Freakshow gives this look like who’s that shouting at you? and I

tell him to, ‘just drive, dude’ and we roll out of the carpark and past Stephen and onto Beach

Road.

Wind down the window and feel the salty, cold air coming in off the ocean for the

second time tonight as the car builds speed and there’s no one out here because it’s maybe

two a.m. on a weeknight, and because of this Freakshow pushes the Commodore up to eighty

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and then beyond – to ninety and then one-hundred; and we’re hurtling along the winding road

that follows the shoreline. Wonder how many times I’ve been drunk in a car, how many times

I’ve been drunk and behind the wheel, how many times I’ve cheated death, and start to feel

sick thinking that the jig is up so that I fasten my seatbelt. Freakshow leans across and presses

play on the radio and a CD starts up mid-track and I think maybe it’s Shihad, could even be

Audioslave, maybe even Deftones, but my adrenaline’s firing now and my mind isn’t sharp –

it’s clouded and a tad fearful, but scared mostly by the wish beneath the surface: please, let us

crash.

Imagine my funeral – a sad little affair with mum and sister and John in a Le Pine

somewhere before a trip out to Fawkner to bury the body; realise as I’m dreaming this up that

I’d like to be cremated and scattered somewhere where I might drift off and live another post-

life, my ashes dancing away downstream along the Merri and out into an ocean where I could

see something new maybe. Don’t want to be a stiff corpse rotting in the earth. Picture the big

funerals that Stephen and Everett and Brent would get and the prominent figures and families

that would attend them: Stephen’s dad with his AFL contacts; Everett’s family with all their

money, the hundreds and thousands that depend on his father, CEO of some massive logistics

firm; Brent’s father too – a research analyst for a boutique brockerage on Collins Street who

appears frequently on the news giving financial reports. All these people, these friends of

mine, their families, they’ll be immortalised and remembered. But for me there’ll be nothing,

just a whimper; and I realise: I’m not a lot for the world to lose.

I say, ‘pull over, man. I need to get out here’ but Freakshow doesn’t hear/doesn’t

listen, pushes down on the accelerator so that I’m forced to repeat, ‘can you pull over, please?

I need to get out.’

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No response so that I shout, ‘oi,’ but Freakshow just looks at me and says, too calm,

‘you’re not going anywhere,’ his pupils small and hard and focussed, his face contorted into

this expression that reminds me of the stone bird along the Yarra, trying to put the chills into

me but not knowing that it can’t possibly work.

Lean across and take Freakshow around the neck with right arm, grab steering wheel

with left and shout, ‘then go faster, you cunt. fucken floor it.’

Freakshow shits it and squirms, but not so hard, knows he could fuck us both if he

panics, shouts back at me, ‘let go, man. fucken let me go’ and I keep shouting, ‘floor it,

motherfucker. let’sgolet’sgolet’sgo’ and I whoop and laugh and the car begins to slow

rapidly.

Freakshow pulls to the kerb, says, ‘I was only messin around, bro’ and I say, ‘yeah,

cheers for the lift’, but I don’t leave, just sit quiet and still and lock my eyes on Freakshow’s

until he looks down at his lap, says, ‘can you just get out?’ and I smile at this – another

VICTORY.

Walk back towards the city lights that I can see from around the curve in the bay until

I manage to hail a cab, and cabbie wants to know what-I’m-doing/where-I’m-going/can-I-

pay-half-up-front? and a whole list of bullshit, but I’m able to act sober enough and convince

the guy he’ll get his full fare in Brunswick, and half-an-hour later I’m back on the right side

of town and directing the cabbie to pull over near where I know there’s a walkway down to

the Merri Creek. And then I hop out and leg it down the dead end street and the cabbie gives

chase brandishing what I think might be a screwdriver in one hand and shouting all kinds of

obscenities because I’ve done a runner on an eighty-dollar fare, but the cunt should never

have left the doors unlocked before I paid up so this isn’t all my fault – law of the jungle, I

think.

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Lose the cabbie in the bushes, lose him on my home turf, then skip across the stones

at the ford and wait it out a while before chancing a walk back out onto Nicholson. Then

walk home feeling dizzy and tired and in need of some serious sleep.

Close to six in the morning, retching in the bathroom as the door swings open and John walks

in to find me on the floor, hunched over the bowl and singing softly to myself between

heaves – perhaps lyrics I’ve created, but what might also be an old Doors song. A bout of

hiccups before expelling the last of whatever’s inside me, then taking off my shirt because

it’s suddenly too hot somehow and John, watching me struggle to get the t-shirt up and over

my head, says, ‘for fuck’s sake, mate. how much’ve ya had to drink?’

And I say, ‘I dunno. a bit’ and I obviously say this too loud ’cause John goes, ‘keep it

down, lad. do you wanna wake your mum and sister up?’ and I say, ‘shit. sorry’ and John

goes, ‘didn’t think about them, did ya?’ and I don’t say anything.

John doesn’t bother with a big speech or with getting me a towel or offering some

water – he’s too pissed off, I can tell. But he wants me to feel something, wants for a message

to sink in so instead he says, ‘look, I’ve got work. I can’t deal with this, alright?’ before

adding, ‘you know, James, you mean a great deal to me when you’re being yourself, but not

when you’re like this.’

John must think he’s a philosopher or something with that line – real words of

wisdom – because he gets this look like he’s nailed it, thinks that’s the line to wake me up,

which only infuriates me, makes me say, ‘do you think it means anything to me to mean a

great deal to someone like you?’

John has a think about this, a big one in his overalls, the rustle/rasp/scrape of his

fingernails as they scratch against his bearded neck. Takes his time before answering me

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solemnly, says, ‘s’pose not, mate. but anyway, like I’ve said, I’ve got work. just don’t wake

your mum up.’

And after John’s exited the doorframe and is gone from my life for now, I laugh, and I

laugh because he’s a fucking loser, a man whose dream it was to one day own a sail boat, but

who had to settle for a dinghy instead, and so I say to myself fucking pathetic. But after a

while, lying on the bathroom floor, I don’t feel so great – a deep shameful embarrassment

swallows me whole and I want to be made ash and forgotten. I can’t fathom why I’ve said

what I’ve said to John, have no I idea why I say anything at all, and the pain of this not

understanding, the pain of my incomprehensible self, is like the greatest loss of all.

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CHAPTER 5

RUTH:

When I wake up my eyes are stuck together and my cheeks are damp from crying in my

sleep. My unpacked boxes, still on the floor since moving in, cast shadows in the early light –

nothing but blurry black shapes until my eyes finally adjust. I wipe my face with the palms of

my hands and as I do I feel the creases of skin at the edges of my eyes, the folds of future

crow’s feet, and I glimpse, suddenly, my aged face before death. I don’t remember dreaming

last night and can’t imagine why I’ve cried this time.

Outside my bedroom door I can hear the male voices that have woken me up. They

are accompanied by the sounds of an item being moved into the house – scraping and

grunting – and I realise that Tanya’s antique mirror must have arrived. I peel back the

bedsheet and stare at my abdomen for a long time, noticing the irritated red dot just above my

navel where my belly button ring used to be. I take the skin between my fingers and squeeze

the red dot and a stream of green-yellow pus oozes out onto my stomach, into the miniscule

blonde hairs that form a barely noticeable snail-trail. I wish I had man hair, a long snail-trail

down into my pubes, connecting my crotch to my gut. I wish that I had big pectorals and a

rug of hair on my chest. I wonder why it is that my navel piercing hole never heals over

entirely. It will go weeks without a hitch, but then some days I will see that it’s red and

irritated as it has been this morning and the residual pus will need to be let out. The pus

smells – sour and stale and partly like feet extracted from damp socks and partly like the head

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of a penis that hasn’t been washed. I get a small kick out of producing this disgusting slime,

how I can make it come out of me, give birth to it. The smell is just one of those smells you

produce that you can’t help but like a little because it’s your own, no matter how gross.

I get up and locate a tissue and wipe the pus off my belly before padding down the

hall and into the living room where Tanya is signing for the mirror. One of the movers – a

younger guy in a Bonds t-shirt and board shorts – asks Tanya for her number and she tells

him that she never gives out her number, but that she will take his if he writes it down. He

does before saying goodbye. When the front door closes and the movers are gone Tanya

laughs as she tears the scrap of paper in two and places the pieces in the bin under the kitchen

sink. Looking up to discover me watching, she says, -Good morning.

-Hey. So the mirror finally came.

-Yep.

Tanya begins to roll a joint. She flashes a glance at me and says, -Oops. Sorry. You’re

detoxing.

-It’s fine. What have you got on today?

-Nothing. Well, Lindsay has an appointment at The Olsen this afternoon at four, but

apart from that absolutely nothing. You know, we should go to that children’s farm in

Collingwood. You can pat the chickens and the piggly-wigs there. I bet it’d be great stoned.

Tanya lights the joint. I glance at the microwave: 9:17. I have to wonder if this isn’t

designed to test my will. I say, -That sounds like an interesting plan. But I have uni now. I

have to get going. Sorry.

Tanya pouts and makes a dismissive noise, -Uni schmooni. You can do that any time.

Take a sickie and keep me company.

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-Sorry.

There’s a sadness behind her eyes that I find alarming. What is there for Tanya to do

when she’s not being Lindsay? I look down to the floor and notice how slick her ankles are

with sweat, the big knot of bone covered in the accumulated liquid eking out of her pores. I

say, -We’ll hang out tonight, okay? We can get dinner with Maddie or something.

-Alright.

I walk back up the hall to take a quick shower and dress before taking the tram into

uni with the other wet-haired girls hooked up to their iPods/iPads/iPhones, who all check the

reflections of their lips in their compacts before departing at the superstop on Swanston

Street. I have gone almost a week without a cigarette and when I disembark the tram I walk

straight to the gym, past the glass wall beyond which the boys curl and press and pull, and

inside where I get changed into runners and find a treadmill in the cardio room. I clock

twenty-five full minutes on the treadmill, running a little over five kilometres. My lungs feel

clear and clean, my breathing easier, the heavy chested-ness no more.

After stretching and a long, hot shower I feel limber and alert and filled with those

good endorphins I’ve rediscovered, and I take myself off to writing class feeling happy and

carefree.

When I reach my tute the room is mostly filled and I take up my usual seat beside K-

ROC, who smiles politely and says hello. When Aaron arrives he goes around the room

rapidly, checking off everyone’s name. He has memorised us all. The scab, James, is seated

in his usual position too, opposite me, and he flashes a smile when I look across the room at

him.

Aaron runs a bunch of exercises on characterisation. We have to provide single-

sentence descriptions of people using a maximum of ten words. Aaron then gives a seminar

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on overusing adjectives and adverbs. The final writing task is one involving the other

students in the class; he asks us to write a description of somebody in the room without

describing anything about their appearance. Then we are to guess who has been written

about. Aaron says, -And for God’s sake, do not write anything mean or too personal. I

shouldn’t have to say this; it should be obvious to you all. The idea is to see what you’ve

observed of one another so far this semester.

I realise that, as far as the other students are concerned, I haven’t noticed them at all. I

know that K-ROC sits next to me and James opposite. I realise that James’ friend with the

moustache who I met last week isn’t here today, although I’m not entirely sure he’s meant to

be or whether maybe he came last week as a way to make up a missed class somewhere else.

I know also that there’s a Sri Lankan girl who sits closest to Aaron that was in my

Anthropology class in first year, but despite hearing it earlier I can’t remember her name.

For the exercise I decide to write about K-ROC’s voice and when I read my

description aloud the class guesses pretty much straight away. When the class gets to James

he reads, -Whenever this person speaks they bring the backs of their hands up to their

forehead as if they were embarrassed.

I almost have a stroke upon hearing this, realising that not only is James talking about

me, but that my most awkward, nervous tic hasn’t gone away over the years. I remember

doing a long course of CBT with Dr Smythe in which this habit came up and we tried to

break it. I’m certain that I’ve gone red as James looks at me from across the room, and, out of

embarrassment, I force my hands beneath my desk and entwine my fingers so as to keep them

from creeping up onto my face. But, surprisingly, at least to me, nobody guesses who James

has written about. Eventually, Aaron asks the room, -May I have a go?

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Somebody encourages him to guess and he says, -You’re talking about Miss Shin,

aren’t you?

James nods and the class looks to me. I force a smile, but inside I feel mortified. I feel

really annoyed at myself, because I cannot unstick myself from the past.

I’m not sure why – something about not wanting to appear like I’ve been gotten to –

but after class I approach James and give him hell for embarrassing me so much and he

seems almost worried that I might be serious, which I am, but he shouldn’t be able to tell.

And because he actually seems worried I tell him not to worry. I say, -My mum used to give

me grief about it too, so you’re not the first person to notice.

He smiles and asks, -Did you want to go for that drink today?

I shift suddenly from embarrassment to all-enveloping panic, remembering that this

was on the cards after we spoke last week. One week in and my sobriety is in jeopardy,

because I want to say yes. I suggest a café across the street, deciding to steer James toward a

coffee instead of something alcoholic.

I walk him across to Animal Orchestra, glancing once or twice at him as we walk off

campus. He’s handsome in this nonchalant kind of way. He carries himself with his arms

loose at his sides and his back is slightly hunched so that he looks as if he were leaning in to

talk with someone, only permanently. I observe his soft belly and imagine that at one time he

played soccer or basketball and was quite good, but that he hasn’t exercised since high school

ended and the structure of organised sport went away.

Inside the coffee shop, in keeping with my health kick, I order a green tea, but when I

glance around the café and notice the drinks menu I can already feel my resolve wavering.

It’s warm out and the cocktail list looks inviting. I find myself wondering if an Aperol Spritz

can even be counted as an alcoholic drink, really. I remind myself of those mindfulness

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techniques Dr Smythe used to preach and try to draw myself into a conversation with James,

but he doesn’t really have a lot to say. Instead, I watch the way his fingers dance nervously

across the table, taking in the surface, fiddling with the sugars and then the salt and the

pepper. Out of nowhere, after too much time has passed, he asks, -So, like, what school’d you

go to?

Oh no, I think, don’t be one of those people. I tell him the name of my school with

disdain and I put the question down to nervousness on his part – a poorly chosen ice-breaker.

Some people are just awkward. James seems restless, though – he’s very twitchy and makes

me anxious like I might’ve done something wrong. He looks like he hasn’t slept for days. But

with his soft midsection, unkempt hair and the bangles at his wrist, he’s really just like a

sleepy surfer-type, if a little on edge. I could see him bumming around the coast in a Kombi,

at home in thongs and shorts year round. I ask, -So, what do you do? Outside uni, I mean.

-Oh, you know. Stuff.

-Stuff?

-Yeah. Ah. Well. I, ah, play guitar a bit, but that’s mostly just, like, a hobby.

-Are you in a band?

-Um, no. But I used to be.

-Really? What were you called?

-Died Red, Died, like as in d i e d, not d y-

-Yeah. I got it.

James stirs two sugars into the coffee the waiter places in front of him, growing

quieter with each rotation of his spoon. I ask, -So, what happened?

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-With what?

-Died Red. What happened to your band?

-We broke up.

I take a sip of green tea, blowing cool air across the surface of the hot water. James

practically drinks his coffee in a single gulp. We sit in silence for a moment until, looking up

to a large analogue clock on the wall, he bursts out, -Hey, so do you wanna get a drink? Like,

a drink drink. It’s kinda weird in here, don’t you think?

James demonstrates this energy that wasn’t there a moment ago when he asks this. I

look at the clock too. It’s early in the afternoon. I have to make a decision quickly and while

one part of me thinks I should abandon this whole thing altogether and go home and eat a

tofu burger, there’s a much larger part of me that wants to see where this is all heading. James

has this pull – like a magnet – and I find his turns from high-energy to fidgeting to

uncommunicative sullenness weirdly appealing. All I can think is there might be more to this

boy and this thought is enough for me to agree to his proposal and to abandon my green tea

and positive life decisions in a snap.

As we walk out of the café I sense this heat in my chest, a feeling of having a lump in

my throat too. But I tell myself: You’ve been for a run today. You should be able to have a

single glass of wine, at least. And besides, you’re not an alcoholic. The key is to learn to

drink in moderation.

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JAMES:

Skip Postmodernsim and take the tram into uni for writing class in order to see blonde Ruth

with the intention to get her out for a drink today. Block three calls that come

oneaftertheotheraftertheother from Michele who, I imagine, wants to bitch me out about

skipping out on Grace’s party, what transpired there – things I don’t want to think or talk

about.

Note Everett’s absence when I arrive at writing tutorial and take up the same seat

opposite Ruth as always, and as always a smile comes from across the room and I feel good

and when an opportunity presents itself in the form of a writing exercise I try my hand at

flirting with her, making my writing task, which I have to read aloud, about her.

Flirt goes somewhat okay because writing piece strikes a chord and Ruth approaches

me after class when everyone’s leaving and says, jokingly, ‘thanks for embarrassing me

today’ and I say, ‘sorry. didn’t mean to. you just look so funny when you do that,’ ‘that’

being the adorable way she presses the backs of her hands against her forehead whenever she

talks, and Ruth laughs at this, says, ‘thanks a lot.’

Something fresh and clear and clean about Ruth, a weird way of saying/describing it,

but these are the words that come to me as I look in her eyes in the classroom and share a

laugh – something relaxed that puts my mind at ease and I find myself saying, ‘did you

wanna get a drink or something now?’ and Ruth raises her eyebrows and says, ‘a drink? what

kind?’ and I realise it’s morning and although I mean LET’S GO TO THE PUB AND GET PISSED, I

say instead, ‘you know, a coffee or whatever’ and Ruth gives me this little look, like she

knows exactly what I really mean, and says, ‘sure.’

Walk across Grattan Street and up toward Swanston near the KFC and enter this

dingy/cramped little café I’ve never been in before, but one all the uni staff seem to hang

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around and smoke outside. It occurs to me after I order a flat white that I don’t really like the

taste of coffee all that much, I just feel kinda obliged to drink it because everybody else does

and because it’s the first thing waiters say; waiters always say, ‘can I get you a coffee?’ and

I’m never smart enough to say no or to remember there’s other drinks on the menu that don’t

have alcohol in them, drinks like orange juice and stuff.

Ruth orders a green tea and gives me this sheepish look, says, ‘I’m on a health kick at

the moment. I’ve been running’ and I say, ‘cool.’ I don’t really know what to say beyond this

or how to drive the conversation along, realise I don’t have much experience with girls except

for fucking a handful of them, but it doesn’t matter much because Ruth just blabs for a while

about not much.

Look at the empty beer bottles sitting up on a shelf behind the counter displaying the

range of pilsners and IPAs and the one dark ale the café has to offer; think up something to

test Ruth out with; say, ‘so what school’d you go to?’ and Ruth says, ‘Magdalene’s. why?

where did you go?’ and I think, plastic scrap after all and say, ‘St Anthony’s’ and Ruth says,

‘oh yeah, I know that one’ and then we’re silent for a moment as I try to work up the nerve to

make a decision – to stay or to go. But then my coffee is placed in front of me and the

decision’s made for me.

Persevere with conversation despite plastic scrap disappointment and find myself

conflicted because Ruth can be so completely self-deprecating that it’s hard not to like her.

Tells me that she’s not from Melbourne originally; tells me about parents’ long and ugly

divorce and how it was the reason she was sent down here from Sydney to board; tells me a

little more than I might need to know, but enough to get the picture, possibly enough to

absolve her. And so when coffee and tea are done it’s midday and A REASONABLE HOUR FOR

DRINKING and I say, ‘if you’re not doing anything, would you wanna get a real drink?’ and

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Ruth thinks about this for a long enough time for me to become certain she’ll say no, but then

she says, ‘yeah, okay. why not?’

Pay for coffee and walk outside and the sun is amazingly bright so that Ruth begins to

rummage around in her too-large handbag until, under her breath, she mutters, ‘for fuck’s

sake’ and crouches down, dumping the handbag onto the pavement and opening it wide to see

inside properly until finally she locates a giant pair of black sunglasses and pushes them onto

her face. I say, ‘better now?’ and she laughs and says, in this dumb voice, ‘totes.’

Walk east along Grattan to Lygon Street and then head north and walk through the

hordes of tourists getting sucked in by the shitty/over-priced/not-so-authentic Italian

restaurants – a lot of out-of-towners eating pizzas with knives and forks for some reason.

Walk into Percy’s and take a seat up at the bar like always and after the first round I feel like

I’m on even ground, though I wonder why I didn’t choose a different place to take Ruth. But

then she doesn’t seem to mind the bar and the old men sitting in it and this lack of

pretentiousness on her part, that she doesn’t screw up her nose or pull a face or say ‘this place

is depressing’ pleases me and I have to wonder, after we drink several drinks, if I might

actually be on a date with Ruth. Don’t recall ever having dated anybody, not even Michele,

because the way I am makes it impossible to go through the life processes in a way that

resembles NORMAL. Think about the fact that Michele and I just seemed to fall in together,

never really considered what it was until we were sleeping together a lot, and even then not

really that much consideration; said the L-word – love – only after a decent amount of time

had passed and it seemed appropriate to do so, but really have no idea what the L-word

means or feels inside because maybe it’s not been experienced, only been theorised and

expected and taught to myself by myself. Don’t believe I could love Ruth, but maybe, but

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then think no – probably no chance of it really, because what a person is always gets in the

way, because I can’t let go or forgive or turn brain off properly without the aid of

booze/drugs/hateful sex.

Midday turns into afternoon, then late afternoon and almost onto early-eveninghood

before Ruth says, ‘what are you doing tonight?’ and I say, ‘I dunno. why?’ and Ruth tells me

she’s meant to be going to a new club with her flatmate and wonders if I might want to tag

along because she doesn’t really feel like going but kinda has to. Ask, ‘why do you have to?’

and she gives long-winded explanation of the dynamic between her and housemate/friend,

some girl I’ve never met who, when Ruth describes her, seems overbearing and maybe not

such a great friend – kinda like what I am to Stephen I think; like what I might be to mother,

sister, John, Michele – a PAIN IN THE NECK.

Tell Ruth I have a friend that I need to patch things up with and could he come along

with me and her and the flatmate/friend and Ruth says, ‘actually, yeah, that would be great’

and suddenly my evening is mapped out and I realise that since writing class ended I’ve spent

five-plus hours in the company of Ruth and that it hasn’t felt like such a long time at all and

that maybe this is a sort of date-type situation and that I feel like I could spend many more

hours in her company and that I’d like this very much despite the doubt that weighs heavily at

the back of head.

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RUTH:

James takes me to a dive bar on Lygon Street where this grumpy woman tells me they’re

out of white wine. As in: THIS BAR IS LITERALLY ALL OUT OF WHITE WINE. I tell her to pour me

a beer instead, but regret it the moment the alcohol hits my lips. The cheap draught is like fire

through my nostrils. After a single mouthful I feel bloated and I can only assume that some

bizarre curiosity has gotten me here, to this place, with James. I’ve never felt this about

anybody before, but I feel like I would follow him a long, long way, if only for a glimpse at

what makes him tick.

After a couple of drinks James becomes more talkative. He loses his shyness,

shedding it suddenly like a Chippendale and his tearaway trousers – bang! Look what I’ve

got, world! And he talks and he talks and he talks. He tells me everything and in turn I find

myself telling him things I haven’t spoken to anyone about in a long time – like my parents

and their divorce and how terribly I resent them both for leaving me by myself in this city.

James says, -Melbourne’s fucked. You’re right to hate it here. The city’s nothing like what it

used to be. You used to be able to move in the city, now you can’t walk anywhere without

bumping into someone. It used to be the height of cuisine here were those pre-made foccacias

every café used to serve; now there’s a fucking cupcake shop on every street corner.

Melbourne’s over, dude. It’s fucking New York now.

I feel a swelling in my chest. All I can think is, I want this one. I say, -I know. I know.

It’s so pretentious. Just be happy knowing those cupcake shops will all be out of business in

five years.

James laughs heartily at this. He even claps his hands together, which makes me smile

proudly. I said something and it was funny and a boy I like laughed. I’m pathetic, but I don’t

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care. I haven’t met anybody I’ve wanted to take to bed in over a year and I haven’t gotten laid

in eight months. James says, -It’s even worse where I’m from. I mean, where’d you grow up?

-Well, I went to boarding school, so …

-Right. Of course. Well, I’m from Brunswick, right? And, like, Brunswick used to be

kinda rough. Like, a bit. But now … man. Now, it’s full of these little middle-class idiots

who’ve relocated from the eastern suburbs. All, just … they’re just the worst. And they come

over into my suburb and they re-develop it and they gentrify it now that it’s ‘safe’, which is

to say since a lot of the wogs moved out. But, like, those gentrifying fuckers, they’ve all got

tattoos, tattoos on their necks even. Like, guys from my neighbourhood who were really

tough, they’d never get a tatt on their neck – too easy for the cops to ID ’em. These fucken

fakers, man, they shit me up the wall. The problem with Melbourne though is it’s not vocal,

you know? They talk about this ‘classless society’ we’re all supposed to be living in, but

that’s just bullshit. There should be a riot here. The next time some faker comes into the north

someone should just stop him and send him back; say, ‘not fucking welcome’. Man, there

should be a riot here.

James’ neck is red and covered in goose-pimples by the time he finishes. He takes a

large gulp from his beer. His hand is shaking noticeably when he spreads it out on the table

after drinking and I allow myself to place my hand near his. I edge my hand closer in slight

increments until my fingers come into contact with his pinky. I feel his small finger curl over

my own and we leave our hands this way for some time without making eye contact. Looking

at James’ near-empty glass of beer, I say, -Time for another one?

-Sure. I can-

-I’ve got it.

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I get up from the table and attract the grumpy woman’s attention and purchase another

beer and a vodka-tonic for myself. I don’t care about my health plan. All I know is that I want

to be here with this boy.

When we arrive home in Richmond Tanya is pouring herself a large glass of red wine in the

kitchen. She turns at the sound of James and I entering the living room and scowls at the

intrusion. She looks flustered and annoyed, yet her make-up is perfect; there isn’t a hair out

of place on her head. I notice her stilettos that have been kicked off her feet behind the couch.

-Hey, Tan. This is James. He’s a friend from uni.

James makes a move towards Tanya with an outstretched hand, but she drinks back

her wine instead of shaking it before refilling her glass. -So, James, do you want a wine or

what?

-Yes, thanks.

Tanya snatches another glass from the drying rack on the sink. -And none for you I’m

assuming, Ruth. Correct?

-Well, actually …

-Good girl. Tanya snatches a third glass from the rack and pours without looking in

my direction. She raises her glass to us and says, -Cheers.

In the microsecond my glass touches Tanya’s something shatters internally, the same

panic as before, when James first asked me out for a drink, rising up through me. But I’m

beyond it now – there is no going back tonight. Like ducking under a wave, I can only hold

my breath and hope to make it out the other side without being dragged down for good.

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Tanya takes out a packet of cigarettes and offers one to James. She says, -Ruth’s

trying to quit. I should probably quit too, honestly. But cigarettes just taste so good, you

know? I think I’ll quit when I’m thirty, though. You know, before it starts to look gross.

I cannot imagine her at thirty. I cannot picture her ever being a more mature age than

she is in this moment. I have no concept of what this person would be. Watching the end of

James’ cigarette burn I figure I have already broken so many promises to myself, what’s one

more? I take the little death stick between my fingers and take a drag and the relief that

washes through my body is comparable to those good endorphins I’ve worked so hard to

discover and believe in. I hand the cigarette back to James. You’ll never get out of here, I tell

myself.

The doorbell rings. James says he’ll answer it, because most likely his friend has

arrived, and I wait in the kitchen with Tanya, this vague dumb hope that perhaps James’

friend is quiet and nice and innocent, but without the same broody anger that makes James so

sharp and intriguing, because such a person would be good for Tanya. But the friend isn’t any

of these things. James introduces us to Stephen, who charms Tanya by taking her hand and

planting a kiss on the back of it like men used to do in another century. And I can tell Tanya

likes this because Stephen is handsome – perfect looking, in fact – and slick and too

confident.

Tanya asks if everybody is just about ready to go and the boys shrug and say yeah.

Tanya says, -Well, Ruth and I have to get changed. We won’t be long. Can one of you call a

taxi?

-Sure. No problem.

I walk down the hall with Tanya and into her bedroom where she insists I wear one of

her new dresses from Gorman and a pair of uncomfortable-looking heels.

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-Those things are huge. I’ll topple over.

-Oh, come on. They’ll look great on you. Just try them on, at least.

I put the shoes on. They are like stilts. Tanya says, -You look fucking amazing. Are

you going to sleep with that James?

-Um. I dunno. Why?

-You should. It’s been ages since you’ve been with somebody. You seem like you’re

into him. Why not?

-

-What do you think of his friend? That Stephen. He’s kind of cute, don’t you think?

Tanya isn’t really interested in my answers to these questions. She wriggles herself

into a navy dress before checking her make-up in her new mirror. Taking a step back, she

assesses the entirety of her current look. -What do you think?

-You look good. Great. Hot.

-Hot?

-Defs.

Tanya laughs. Rifling through a duffle bag in her closet she says, -Here, try this too.

She hands me some lipstick, one of the many shades in her possession. I paint on the

very dark red lipstick thickly and purse my lips, striking a pose. Tanya says, dryly, -Totes

hot.

I laugh, wonder how it is she can seesaw back and forth like this between moods. I

feel certain she was angry when James and I first walked in. Now we’re laughing as she

makes up her mind to sleep with Stephen. I ask, -Is everything okay with you?

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-Of course.

-How’d it go today? At The Olsen?

-Client never showed.

-Who was he?

-Nobody. Just some guy.

The way she says this makes me think it wasn’t nobody, that it wasn’t ‘just some

guy’. She seems disappointed. Upset, maybe. I ask, -Are you sure everything’s okay?

-Ruth, everything is perfect. Let’s just have fun tonight.

Looking at Tanya I am looking at Lindsay. Part of me feels that I am looking at my

maker.

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JAMES:

Stephen texts to say he’s maybe twenty minutes away, running late because of a tram

breakdown, and Tanya, Ruth’s flatmate/pain-in-neck, says, ‘so, is your friend cute?’ and I

say, ‘I guess’ and Tanya rolls her eyes at Ruth like I’m the most horrible bore she’s ever met.

Doesn’t bother to hide her disdain and I realise that with my increasing girth I’m really not

appealing in the looks department and that Tanya is used to much better looking boys being

let into her home. Have never really experienced being aesthetically disappointing to

someone before, what it must be like for the ‘fat friend’ of the girl you’re dating when you

pass her off to your mate to distract, and the plasticity is suddenly very high (an all-time high

around Tanya) and this plasticity is toxic and infectious and my lungs feel coated with

ethylene glycol and terephthalic acid (the components of common plastic) so that it’s vaguely

difficult to breathe and I ask Ruth if she happens to have a cigarette and Ruth grins in a funny

way and says, ‘I told you I’m on a health kick’ while holding onto a glass of wine and it’s

maybe eight pm and she’s already fairly drunk which I can tell is pissing Tanya off and I

think that I’m kinda like this thing that leads people astray, into states of intoxication that

maybe they shouldn’t be in.

Lighting a cigarette given to me by Tanya and feeling weird because I’m smoking

inside somebody’s home, which is something I’ve never really done before (except for in my

bedroom occasionally and in the bathroom under the shower before school where the smoke

would get lost in the steam and leave no trace of smell), and then passing the smoke to Ruth

upon request and watch as her ‘health kick’ gets booted out the door, and it’s because of me,

and feeling bad about it, but only just a little.

Doorbell rings and I say, ‘that’ll be Stephen’ and walk down the corridor to answer

and let him in and Stephen is wearing another fucking baseball hat with a different American

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sports logo (the Raiders, I think) and when he sees me with a cigarette lit and dangling from

lips, says, ‘hey man’ and we shake hands and he adds, ‘good to see you’re still in one piece’

and a flash of

Freakshow driving out the TAB carpark past him.

I say, ‘did you bring those pills we got off Gadge? think we could use’em tonight’ and

Stephen says, ‘shit, man. I sold ’em’ and I go, ‘nah, that’s cool’ and we start walking down

the corridor towards the sound of Tanya and Ruth chatting and Stephen whispers, ‘who are

these chicks?’ and I say, ‘just this girl from uni and her mate’.

Walk into the living room and I say, ‘girls, this is Stephen. Stephen, Tanya and Ruth’

and Stephen does kiss-on-the-cheek hellos in this ultra-smooth kinda way, like the lead singer

of a band kinda smooth, and Tanya approves, drinks in the biceps and the v-neck t-shirt and

the skinny jeans and the dipshit hat and is maybe thinking to herself, CUTE.

And then with Stephen there things pick up – conversation flows and Tanya laughs a

few times, surprising to discover she has teeth, and music is put on and turned up loud. And

during all of this we drink, bottles of red wine that I don’t know anything about – whether or

not they’re fancy or good or what varietal type they are, only know that they hit me hard

when drunk quickly – and according to Tanya this drinking that we’re doing is called ‘pres’,

a real plastic scrap term for getting schickered before you’re s’posed to, before the main

event, but what I just call ‘drinking’ because if anyone cared to listen to the health

professionals you’re never supposed to booze, not ever.

Smoke a couple of cigarettes with Stephen in the courtyard outside the house so that

private conversation can be held while the girls change their clothes and put on make-up

inside. Ask, ‘hey, so any consequences?’ and Stephen clarifies, ‘with Brent you mean?’ and I

say, ‘yeah’ before taking a long drag on my smoke.

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Stephen says, ‘nah, haven’t heard from Brent. Grace called me up to bitch me out

about it, though’ and I say, ‘at least she’s talking to you, dude. that’s what you wanted’ and

Stephen looks at the ground for a moment before he says, ‘Grace is pretty miserable these

days, man. I feel kinda bad. you know, you really can’t be too harsh on her – she’s sick’ and I

say, ‘yeah, well, whatever, damage is done now, can’t take it back. Michele’s pissed at me

too. looks like we’re the two outlaws, out on the lam’ and Stephen says, ‘if this is the life of

an outlaw then fuck that’ and laughs to himself like maybe he has something better to do and

I say, in this stupid American accent that’s part-rapper/part-New Yorker, ‘hey, man, bein’

Ned Kelly ain’t no joke, yo’ and laugh to myself.

Stephen asks, ‘so, where the hell did you end up then?’ and I say, ‘after I left you? not

far, just took a ride down the road a bit’ and Stephen says flatly, ‘why?’

I don’t have an answer to this question, just say, ‘seemed like a good idea at the time.

anyway, whaddaya think of the girls?’ and Stephen doesn’t respond to this, just shakes his

head at me like a frustrated parent, which only serves to make me angry, and he says, ‘you

ditched me, you know? do you get that?’

I say, ‘yeah. sure. alright’ and add, ‘so whaddaya think? Tanya’s pretty hot, hey? bit

of a cunt but she-’ and Stephen cuts me off, saying, ‘can’t you just say sorry? can’t you just

say yeah, whoops, sorry mate, I fucked up a bit?’

Take another long drag off the cigarette and steady my rage, say, ‘Steve, I’m never

going to apologise to you. that’s just something that’s never going to happen’ and Stephen

shakes his head one last time, but the gesture isn’t so profound, not so dramatic and

exaggerated as it was a moment before. Watch as he resigns himself to all of this and wait in

silence until he says, ‘Tanya’s fucken hot, man. tonight’s gonna be fun’ and I say, not sure

that it’s true, ‘tonight’s gunna be off tap’.

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The sound of fingernails tapping against glass makes me look to my left and when I

do I see Ruth on the inside of the house, beckoning us back indoors. And once inside I note

the transformation – Ruth’s high heels and cocktail dress and face full of make-up, this

perfect blonde glamour queen, but not really what I’m into. Another wannabe porn star, I

think, and note the small amount of disappointment over the fact that life is always like this –

thesamethesamethesame.

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EVERETT:

Brent shows up at the house out of the blue, buzzing the intercom and asking if I’m free to

‘hang’. I’m in my underwear and tell him to come inside before racing into the living room to

throw on my jeans and t-shirt.

When Brent enters the house he looks sullen. I notice the purple bruises either side of

his nose and the under his eyes and the swelling in the centre of his face. I say, -You look

good.

-Tell me about it. Can’t believe Steve punched me. Cheap prick.

Between Grace’s voicemail message that she left the other week, calling me up drunk

to bitch me out about not attending her party, and the dozen-or-more texts Brent has sent

since that night too, I have a very detailed, if biased, picture of what exactly went on there.

Not that I care, particularly. I’m too preoccupied with trying not to think about a house in

Collingwood and what may or may not have happened there instead.

Brent says little. He just mopes around the house, picking up a framed photograph of

my parents from a shelf in the living room and turning it over. My parents keep a series of

photos of themselves on display, the two of them on trips of overseas. They are riding

elephants in Africa, posing together on a rock outside some ancient temple, lying on a beach

in Hawaii, on top of the Empire State Building. In the photos my mother is cold and distant,

never looking into the camera, never really acknowledging my father. My father looks tired

in the pictures, like there’s something on his mind. Looking at the photos I have two

compulsions: to burn the house down; to seek out Mark. I say to Brent, -Do you, like, want a

drink or something?

-Yeah, please. Maybe just a cuppa would be nice.

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Tea? -Sure.

I boil some water and make two cups of tea and apologise to Brent that ii don’t have

any milk. It feels strange, though, having to say sorry, having to play grandma. It’s too fake;

feels too much like playing adult. Brent looks like a stray dog, a wounded animal, as we walk

outside by the pool. The weather is warm and a breeze causes the less firm branches in the

gums that lead down to the river’s edge to shimmer and shake. I never drink tea, but holding

the mug of hot black liquid that my mother would always prescribe for stomach aches, and

looking at the pale gums, I feel distinctly Australian in this moment. Brent asks, -So, thought

any more about our jam sesh? We should get together soon, I reckon.

What is he talking about? I think. As I make up a lie, telling Brent about how the

timing is bad for me right now, something about needing to study for uni, I locate the copy of

Gatsby I abandoned the other week, lying with the pages opened and face down against the

cement beneath one of the banana lounges. I walk over to the book and pick it up. The open

pages have absorbed the dirt and grime off the ground and are now brown. -What’s that?

-Just a book.

I toss Gatsby onto a banana lounge and turn to face Brent. It’s late. I don’t know why

he’s here. He finishes his tea and says, flatly, -Thanks for that. Thanks for listening. I should

probably get going.

-Um, yeah, okay. If you want.

I walk him back to the front door. As he exits he waves goodby from the front gate

and says, over his shoulder, -Jam sesh soon, though, dude. I’m holding you to it.

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After he’s gone I walk back to the pool and pick up Gatsby. I flip to the back page and

read the last line: ‘So we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the

past.’ But, out of context, the words are meaningless.

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JAMES:

Join the queue outside Truth or Dare on Greville Street, a mass of girls in short dresses and

heels who wait impatiently to be let into the club, uttering irritations between bouts of

texting. And then inside where the bass hits like hard-punching fists slamming into my body

over and over, and with the alcohol coursing through me it’s like coming home, but a real

home and not the one I’ve got.

Walk over to the bar and nudge our way through to the front and Stephen is the first to

buy a round – beers for us, cocktails for the girls, tequila shots for all – and I wonder where

he gets the money from, if his parents don’t just give him cash, and when will this stop if it

hasn’t already? Feel slightly panicked about buying a round here when I hear how much the

eight drinks come to, a frighteningly high number, but then think that if I can get everyone

interested in doing ecstasy then we’ll probably stop drinking anyway and I’ll be able to bail

myself out. Turn to Ruth and Tanya and shout over the din of the music, ‘you feel like

dropping tonight?’ and Tanya and Ruth share an exchange of looks before Tanya says,

‘definitely. do you know anyone?’ and I say, ‘maybe. Stephen’s got his number, I think’ and

then Tanya says, ‘don’t worry. I know a guy. he’s super-reliable’ as she takes out her iPhone.

I say to Ruth, ‘I don’t have any cash on me right now’ and Ruth says, ‘don’t worry.

Tanya always carries loads’ – another VICTORY.

Tanya buys another round of shots, bumps into someone she knows and they talk very

briefly – kiss-hello and then kiss-goodbye. Talk to Ruth and tap feet to beat of music and start

to sweat a bit from the bodies and the dancing and the small, cramped club.

It doesn’t feel like a long time (maybe thirty minutes, maybe an hour, hard to tell

while wine drunk) before Tanya’s waving and saying, ‘there he is. Finally,’ and Gadge is

approaching us in his bowler hat, and when he sees the four of us together he’s surprised and

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says, ‘woah, shit, J, I didn’t know you guys knew each other’ and Tanya’s saying, ‘you guys

know each other?’ and Gadge is saying, ‘me, J and Steve all went to school together. small

world, huh? what can I do you for?’

Tanya and Stephen work out the money with Gadge, buy another ten-bag, feed one

each to Ruth and me and Ruth starts laughing as she takes the pill, knocks it back with a

mouthful of cocktail, but I can’t decipher what’s so funny, why she’s laughing half-hysterical

by the time she’s swallowed the ecstasy. I say, ‘what’s up?’ and she laughs and says, ‘small

world’ while tittering, the funny-almost-painful in her face and I’m realising just how drunk

she must be and maybe just how much like her friend and everyone I’ve ever known she is

too.

Gadge says loudly, ‘how’d you boys pull up after Grace’s last week? heard about

everything that went down there, man. all I can say is, wow, you know?’ but I don’t know,

not at all. Say, ‘what do you mean by everything?’ and Gadge says, ‘you know, just … you

know’ and I say, ‘um, yeah, totally fine,’ because it’s apparent Stephen isn’t saying anything,

and I wonder if Gadge knows about Freakshow and the things I said to John in the bathroom

afterwards and what type of pyjamas sister wears, the shorts with the penguins all over them.

Tell myself to reign it in because mind is unravelling again and heart is getting jumpy,

beatybeating/beatybeating and I want to dance badly, want to throw fists into Gadge’s

ribcage, too.

Gadge says, ‘well, anyway, safe travelling, dudes. I gotta be going. text me if you

need anything else’ and extends his fist toward me, but I refuse this time and shake the balled

up fist instead, my way of letting him know his way is unacceptable.

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RUTH:

By the time I arrive inside the club Tanya has directed us all to, I’m fairly drunk from my

afternoon with James and from the wine I drank at home before leaving. As predicted, I find

the heels virtually impossible to balance on and position myself close to the bar so that I can

lean against the large marble slab. James hands me a cocktail and then a shot and then

another cocktail and I drink them all back as the music changes rapidly, Rihanna sliding into

Lady Gaga, which slides into something by Kanye, which then becomes Jay Z. And because

the music is transitioning this way I realise that time is passing quickly. My stomach churns

and I note that I can no longer keep downing the alcohol. Despite the positive way I had

started the day – cardio and green tea and good intentions – I find myself now suggesting to

Tanya that maybe we should score something if Gadge is around, because I can’t keep

drinking tonight. Tanya’s grin is devilish. Tanya’s grin is Lindsay’s grin and Lindsay makes

the call.

Gadge, of course, is not far away. When he arrives, however, he arrives with Maddie.

She comes crashing through the crowd around the bar, waving at us before leaping into my

arms. We exchange hugs and hellos and kisses. She’s been drinking too – she is extra smiley

and speaks even louder than is necessary despite the loud music in the club. She squeals

something about tequila-based cocktails at a restaurant somewhere. I figure she’s had a few.

To Lindsay and I she says, -So, you guys, I have something to show you.

Maddie displays her wrist, extending her arm across the bar where there is more light.

Circling her flesh like a bracelet is a tattoo, the ink fresh and black and raised on her skin

beneath cling wrap. The tattoo is of a vine that snakes its way around her wrist and then part-

way up her forearm. There are small, delicate leaves clinging to the vine and the pattern

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makes me think of something medieval, like what might have been engraved on the handle of

a sword once upon a time. Lindsay says she loves it. She asks, -Where’d you get it?

-Got it today on Chapel Street. Just round the corner, actually. Gadge was there. Do

you like it, Ruth?

-Yeah, it’s cool. Really pretty, Mads.

-Thanks.

Behind Maddie, Gadge is smiling. He pushes through the crowd to see what we think

of the tattoo and we tell him we like it. He says, -She swore so much while they were doing

it. It was fucking hilarious.

He hands Lindsay a bag of pills in exchange for cash and says, -I had no idea all you

guys knew each other. James and Stephen and me all went to school together, you know.

Small fucking world, hey?

Gadge buys a round of shots for everybody and we all raise our glasses to toast the

connectivity of our respective narratives – James, Stephen, Lindsay and I all dropping along

with the tequila. I shut my eyes as the hot liquor flushes the pill down my throat and Drake

transitions into Nicki Minaj.

Gadge says his goodbyes, as does Maddie, and the two of them leave the club

together, pushing back out through the crowd hand in hand. I look at Lindsay, who raises her

eyebrows at this development. I am amazed that after the night in Rob’s guest room Maddie

has found something in Gadge to fall for. But then, to each their own, I guess.

Stephen suggests we all dance and when James turns to me to take my hand and pull

me out into the crowd on the dance floor I tuck a finger into one of his belt loops, pulling him

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close. I feel the Lindsay inside myself, my tongue skirting the edge of my mouth as I smile,

another dark corridor, as the ecstasy begins to come on, making me crave connection.

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JAMES:

Do more shots before moving out onto the dance floor

where a heatwave runs through my body

and where the music, like fists, slams into me repeatedly

and where Ruth grinds her arse into my crotch

and where a guy with an afro snaps our picture, the light from the flash blinding me

momentarily

and where I lose myself another time, all over again

and where I realise that escape has a limit

and where I find this limit, lock onto it and acknowledge the permanence of it

and where I’m coming to a decision

and where I’m coming to a conclusion

THEN DROP AGAIN

and the second pill plays tag with the first, picking up where #1 left off, on the

crest before the other side, at the peak before the descent

and #2 takes hold of me

harder than before so that all the parts that are I/James are suspended before me, and upon

examination I discover that were I to put them back in the box that they came out of, the box

wouldn’t be filled; there would be several missing compartments, like John’s tool board in

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the shed after he takes the Phillips-head off the hook and there’s only an outline where the

screwdriver should be

and when we emerge from the club after closing it’s morning along Greville Street,

bright light piercing our eyes, painful and nauseating. Tanya trips on the kerb in her heels and

Ruth starts laughing, reaches out to try to stop her from falling but only ends up collapsing on

top of her, the two girls laughing in the gutter in their dresses, and from somewhere, someone

cries, ‘taxi!’ at the top of their lungs, joining in on the scene, another drunk/drug-fucked

Prahranite? Prahranian? with nowhere to be on a Friday. Help Stephen lift the girls up out

the gutter, jaw clenching, chewing on nothing, craving a smoke, then lighting a cigarette

because Tanya has her deck out and is feeding us the nicotine we need. And then moving east

along Greville Street to Chapel and finding a 7-Eleven where someone buys gum and

sparkling water, a packet of Doritos and another pack of Benson and Hedges. Tear the cap off

the water Stephen hands me and drink down half a litre in a second, peel back the wrapper off

a stick of Juicy Fruit and start to chew before lighting another smoke, the smoke like the

tomato sauce to my goog-pie. And then marching in the swaying/unsteady/not-sure-footed-at-

all group of four north along Chapel Street toward Richmond and past the working wankers

waiting for a tram in their office clothes and feeling brilliant and alive, but also like the worst

toss-bag in human history, but then too high to care, too high to do anything about it, just

embrace THE PLASTICITY and become A SCRAP and blow smoke in the faces of the tram-

waiting-cunts and laugh and spank Ruth’s firm arse and get a giggle and raise a few eyebrows

and think, new, adapted and fucking toxic.

Snap the remaining pills in two and drop another half each and recline on the couch in the

living-room together, a tangle of sweating bodies all talking a mile-a-minute and smoking a

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lot, but then Stephen starts in with the old schtick – about us being in a band, about the two

EPs we recorded, about how we almost got signed (a fabrication that I hate) – and the girls,

like so many other girls, lap this bullshit up and I think pathetic scraps, and it really burns me

inside that Ruth’s nodding, at all impressed, really burns me that Stephen can’t let the past go

and let it be distant and black like it is for everyone else, detest him for dredging this crap

back up. And suddenly, though I believe I shouldn’t feel this way, the drugs have made me

flakey and confused, a deep anger welling up behind it all, when really I should probably be

relaxed and mellow and letting the L-word flow in.

I’ve made a decision, come to my conclusion, at some point only a few hours ago and

this is really all I can see – the clarity of a final action. Turn to Stephen and say, ‘knock it off

with all that band crap, man’ then say to the girls, ‘I don’t play anymore. I fucken hate

music.’

Stare into Stephen’s dumb face, drive him toward fear – my only objective now –

until the face moves, lips form words that say, ‘alright, J’ then to the girls, ‘enough band talk

then, I guess’ – says it real sarcastic and smarmy so they laugh, like I’m the irrational/irritable

one. I am I guess, but better to be that than lying through teeth; better to be genuine and with

nothing than a fraud with so many unreal things.

Because of chippy-ness mood in room changes, a pause of some kind that’s followed

by a silent-stillness until Tanya takes the reins and steers to her benefit – stands up from the

couch and takes Stephen by the hand and guides him away until they’re both no longer

here/there. Feel Ruth’s back against me in the soft couch, get lost in the warmth and textures

of human person and fabric and breathing skin. Ruth pushes back against me, a slight force

that wants for me to resist and so I play and push forward. Don’t say anything, just push hard

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against one another until it’s a tiny struggle we’re locked into, like two hands pressing against

each side of a balloon, waiting to burst.

Bring hand to Ruth’s throat, squeeze throat and bite into back of neck/shoulder blade,

kiss lightly up neck to ear and hot breath in Ruth’s ear causes her to turn and squeeze erection

through pants, begins to unzip my jeans. My throat’s dry and my jaw’s tight and when I press

my mouth to Ruth’s she pushes her tongue inside and her tongue is rough and thick and dry

like mine must be.

Strip off clothes between kisses until I’m sitting naked on the couch and then Ruth on

her knees in front of me sucking, working up saliva on my not-as-hard-as-it-could-be, then

switching places because I really want to taste her, and when she lies back on the couch she

props herself up by the elbows so she can watch. Touch Ruth’s cunt, push a finger inside

before tracing it back up to the top of her sex, spread her stickiness across vagina so that I can

taste her come as I begin to lick – tastes nice, texture like Clag though, possibly the drugs,

maybe just her.

Ruth is all droopy eyed when she asks for me to fuck her and so I stand up and spread

her legs, get onto the couch on my knees, spit on hand and massage small amount of spittle

into knob, guide myself in. Push head against entrance, but have to extract – too dry – and

Ruth spits onto hand and gives me some of her saliva, applies it to shaft so I can try again.

Slide in and Ruth wraps legs around waist – small hole and maybe a bit painful, she says,

‘stay still for a sec’ and I wait inside for her to get used to the invasion of newness. Then fuck

Ruth face-to-face on couch, sweat forming on tip of nose and on brow from exertion and

internal drug-heat. Feel heart beating too fast once more – beatybeating/beatybeating as it

was in the club and think that this is all maybe going too fast, that the world’s spinning off

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and away and will be gone shortly, and Ruth says, ‘come on, come on, fuck me. please. really

fuck me,’ which is something only a plastic scrap would say.

Push in againandagain, heart beating too quickly, becoming fucked off with this

because I don’t want Ruth to want it, not this way, because this type of fucking is

usual/common/beneath-me/beneath-what-I-thought-Ruth-was-or-could-be, her smooth tunnel

now some object set for destruction. And looking at her lying on her back with her make-up

smeared in parts, her nostrils flared so that I can see the small hairs on the inside, she looks

like an imbecile. Fucking a demanding imbecile while heart races and picture all the plastic

scraps ten years from now stuck behind office desks working regular jobs and maybe a bit up

shit creek after years of drug taking and anonymous sex and not having begun the career

climb at a reasonable age, but perhaps not because of CONNECTIONS and FAMILY and

INFLUENCE and think, where will you be? And the conclusion that I’ve come to is staring me

in the face now and all I want is to block it out so I begin to squeeze.

Squeezing hands together, hands around Ruth’s throat, out of breath, fucking a girl

and wringing her neck maybe and wondering if I shouldn’t take a bite, but not like before, a

real bite, because THE CREATURE FROM OUT THE MERRI NEEDS FEEDING. And all the while,

these faint panting moans that distort the images – of Michele, of John, of mother, of sister,

of stupid hats, of a guitar, of a solution, of a band, of the dead, murdered porno girl Gadge

masturbates over, of the faces of girls on dating sites. And when I look into Ruth’s eyes I see

a torrent of sadness running through her, a torrent of sadness intersecting all of life’s actions

and inactions, everything I’ve ever done and ever will do. Looking at the perfect blonde girl

from class turned plastic scrap, I see the end.

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RUTH:

James’ tongue is raspy between my legs. The stubble on his cheek irritates my thigh. I lean

forward and take his face in my hands and kiss him deeply, encouraging him back up on top

of me as I push his boxer shorts down onto the floor. With the heat of a second pill flushing

through me I feel crazy like I did the night in Rob’s guest room. I guide James’ hands to my

throat where he squeezes gently as he moves back and forth in a steady rhythm. I ask if he

likes being on top, fucking me. I tell him to tell me how he feels, what he thinks of my body,

to tell me what he wants to do with my body.

I don’t know why, but the dirty talk spills out. James seems to like it, though. He tells

me that he likes the way I feel. He tells me he likes my wetness. As I push down into him he

asks me if I like the way it feels – his penetration, his cock. I tell him that I do, playing along.

I even tell him that he’s big. He asks if I want it harder and I tell him yes and James spreads

my legs wider where he can move in more easily, faster. He pushes my legs back, taking my

throat in his hands once more and I enjoy being doubled back this way, being made small –

just this little ball of person. I feel connected. And I feel other.

James asks how many boys I’ve slept with. I tell him I’m not sure, a few. James asks,

-Are you a slut?

The word rings like gunfire. I tell him no. He says, -I bet you are. I bet you’ve fucked

more guys than you can even remember.

His hands grip tighter on my throat. He pushes my legs further back. In an instant the

moment has been turned around. James is carried away now and I feel uncomfortable. I’m

pinned – submissiveness turned to helplessness. I feel short of breath as his thrusts become

more violent, beginning to hurt, until I have to say, -Hang on, slow down a bit. I’m not

comfortable with this.

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-With what?

-What you’re doing. It hurts.

-Oh, so you don’t like dirty talk no more? Don’t want it rough now? Come on.

-No, just not like- Hang on, slow down. James, stop.

He presses his thumbs into my throat. I can feel my back giving out, a sharp pain in

the muscles right in the centre as I gasp for air. He says, -You’re gonna make me come, you

dirty fucking slut. Come on, take my cock, rich bitch.

I can feel the tears rolling down my cheeks as I beg for him to stop, but he won’t. The

panic comes back to me. I’m scared. All I can see are my stupid decisions. I want to be a

million miles away. I want to be in Sydney. I want to be there with my mum. I scream, -

Tanya! Help! Someone! Please stop! Please stop, get off me! Please!

I see the face of James’ friend next. It hovers above me before he begins to wrestle

with James, pulling him off of me and onto the floor. Tanya is there next. She yells abuse at

the two boys as she places a large pillow over me, taking me under her arm and putting her

body between mine and James’. I can’t control myself. Tears flood my face. I gag on my own

breath. Tanya has her phone in her hand. She is dialling Triple 0, telling James and Stephen

that she is calling the police. I am terrified. I shut my eyes and swallow – no fiery liquor this

time, no pill either, just fear.

The boys attempt to run out of the house, but for some reason Stephen doubles back.

Pausing in the living room a moment too long, he says, -I’m so so sorry. I’m so sorry, Ruth.

Please, just forget him. You’ll never see us again, I swear.

Tanya barks, -Get the fuck out of here. Now.

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I hear Stephen’s footfalls down the corridor. When I open my eyes and look up there

is only the dark mouth of the corridor shaded from the morning light and the room is silent

absent them both.

Tanya inspects my neck. -God, what did he do to you? Are you okay?

-I don’t … I’m not really sure what happened. What do you see?

-Your neck’s all red. It might bruise. Did that bastard strangle you?

-I don’t know. He just scared me.

-Ruth, tell me exactly what happened.

-I don’t know. We were having a nice time. One minute it was, like- and the next …

he took it too far. I thought he was nice.

Tanya holds me while I cry. She asks, -Do you want to go to the police?

-No. No way. You know what they’d say.

-I can take you, though. If you want.

-No. Tan, you know what that’s like. They’d say it was my fault – with all the

drinking and that. Maybe it was, anyway. I was the one that started-

-Don’t do that. I know why you don’t want to go, and okay, fair enough – it’s shitty.

But don’t make excuses now. Let me get you some clothes. I’ll make tea. I love you, you

know?

-I know. I love you too.

Tanya stands up from the couch. She puts on the kettle before retrieving some track

pants and a t-shirt for me to wear. I feel nothing in this moment. But I know this won’t be the

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case in a day or two. There will be depression. There will be more fear. But for right now,

while in shock, I am numb.

Tanya pours me a tea and sits back down on the couch. She apologises for dragging

me out tonight. I tell her it was my idea. She says she shouldn’t have let me drink. I tell her it

was my choice. She says she doesn’t know what to say. I tell her not to say anything. I lie

back and place my head in her lap and she strokes my forehead with her thumb, back and

forth very slowly and gently, guiding me to sleep the way my mother used to late at night

when I was too scared to be left alone in the dark; so scared to sleep alone in my own bed that

I was still knocking on her and dad’s door when I was eleven.

A shiver runs down my spine. Before I lapse into an exhausted sleep, words that I am

unable to control slip out and I find myself begging Tanya, -Please don’t leave me.

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JAMES:

Sprint hard through the backstreets of Richmond not knowing where I’m going, just

running, and then into a lane where I have to stop to catch breath, lungs fucked and burning

from the night, from smoking too much, so that I have to bend over and really suck in the air.

And when I straighten back up, breathing hard, Stephen looks terrified and angry, says,

‘we’re fucked, man. what the fuck did you do?’ and I say, ‘nothing. I don’t know’ and

Stephen says, ‘they’ve called the fucken cops, man. we’re fucked. what the fuck have you got

me into now?’

Look Stephen dead in the eyes and say, ‘Steve, man, there’s no way that crazy cunt

called the police. and even if she did she’s high – they won’t listen to a word she says’, but

Stephen isn’t listening, just asks, ‘why did you hurt that girl?’ and not knowing the answer to

this question I say, ‘I didn’t.’

Stephen, standing in a lane in Richmond, is reaching a crossroads, is perhaps coming

to his own conclusion, is losing his mind when he screams in my face, ‘you were strangling

her, you fucking maniac’ is tapping me on the forehead when he yells, verging on tears,

‘YOU

ARE

A

FUCKING

PSYCHOPATH’

and I don’t really know what to do, just take it.

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Stephen goes all trembly, backs away from me until his back is up against a

corrugated tin fence in the lane, where he begins to sob, starts muttering uncontrollably to

himself, ‘everything’s fucked, everything’s fucked’ and eventually I become sufficiently

creeped out to try and comfort him, try to place a hand on his shoulder and say, ‘don’t worry,

this is my fault. everything’s on me, man. you’re in the clear,’ but Stephen swats my hand

away like it’s poisoned, like if I touch him he’ll turn to ash, says, ‘I can’t be around you

anymore, man’ and I say, ‘I know. it’s cool’ and Stephen says, ‘you’re outta fucken control.

why are you so unpredictable, man? why are you like this?’ and I say, ‘I dunno’ and Stephen

says, from seemingly nowhere, ‘I really loved, Grace, you know? do you get that? do even

understand feelings?’ and though I’m unsure, wanting to save face I say, ‘of course I do’ and

Stephen says, ‘then why do you fuck over Michele all the time? you know she’s mad for ya.

why are you such a piece of shit?’ and I stay silent.

Stephen straightens up, rights himself before saying, ‘sorry, mate, but we’re done. lay

off the pills, man’ and with an outstretched hand adds, ‘good luck, yeah?’ and I shake his

hand, look him one last time in his silly face with his stupid American hat on and wonder

what it was about Grace that drove him to ‘love’, drove them both to trash the band with their

little affair, think, if Ruth really does call the police, I’m fucked.

Arrive home early in the morning to find mum sitting in the kitchen drinking coffee, and

when I walk in she looks at me, really looks, makes me uncomfortable, like a violation, but

then she smiles and says, ‘good morning’ and I say, ‘hey’ and mum asks, ‘do you wanna

coffee?’ and I say, ‘nah, thanks.’

Take up a seat near mum and swallow down the panic and guilt, hope she doesn’t

sense it, press fingers together on table out of nervousness and mum asks, ‘you wouldn’t

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wanna come to mass with me this morning?’ laughing at herself because she knows to expect

that I’ll say no, but then I realise that it must be Easter, or getting to that time, it’s Lent

definitely I’m sure, and think that it might be the last time for all of this, say, ‘yeah, okay. if

you want.’

Mum smiles bright and says, ‘really?’ and I say, ‘sure. okay’ and mum says, ‘thanks,

James. it’ll make my day.’

Mum finishes off her coffee, stands up to walk over to the sink and rinses her cup,

says, ‘if you’re ready to go I’ll just grab my jacket. then we can be off’ and I say, ‘yep, no

worries.’

The church on Barrow Street hasn’t changed since I was a kid – the same stained glass

windows, the same fraying carpets up at the altar that I used to pick at when I served here

years ago, the same disgruntled Italian priest, Father Dom. For whatever reason mum’s

stayed loyal to the place despite the diminishing parish members, many of them driven off by

Father Dom’s bad temper – an obnoxious and ungrateful old cunt at times. When I used to go

to the primary school connected with the church there were loads of people that used to turn

up for mass; now most of them have gone off to the church over near Pentridge for the better

atmosphere, the nicer priest. But mum likes Father Dom a tonne and to be fair he’s never

done wrong by her or me, remember I even used to have a laugh with him on occasion in the

presbytery before masses started when I was forced to come regularly with the family and he

used to hang shit on me about the Blues, being a Hawks supporter and all – loves old Buddy

Franklin does Father Dom.

Bless myself with the holy water as I walk in and find a pew with mum, who

genuflects, but I don’t bother kneeling and slide in onto the hard wooden seat and wait in the

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stillness, the little chamber of prayers called Church where every sound is amplified, every

cough or sneeze or utterance like a gun going off. And then Father Dom and a bunch of altar

boys emerge from the sacristy and the mass gets under way – a special one today called

Mary’s Way of the Cross where the priest and the altar boys stop under each of the fourteen

stations of the cross to make a blessing. I remember the days when I wore the white and red

garments of the altar boys, remember having to lead this very procession and how stopping

under each station felt like an eternity, how heavy the candle in its giant brass holder would

become in my hands, how keeping still and silent was a near impossibility, how the tension

was like bugs crawling all over my skin. But I remember too the Sundays after service when

Moose and I would occasionally nick a bottle of wine from the sacristy and keep it in the

bushes in the primary school behind the church, taking swigs between turns on the swing set

in the school playground. And then later, showing up at his house for those Sunday lunches in

his backyard with his huge extended family – all the cousins and uncles and aunts; and I

recall the smell of meat being cooked on a spit, his mother showing me how to enjoy the

cooked food, her fingers pushing into the pulp of a lemon wedge as she sprayed the juice

across charred slices of lamb, and the transformation of my soul after I tasted it. But watching

the procession now I feel unmoved and the possibility for change seems out of reach – there’s

nothing here for me, no salvation or what-have-you.

After mass mum waits for confession and asks if I want to do one, but I shake my

head and say, ‘no’ because the thought of telling anybody about anything I think or say or do

is scary. Wonder what God would think and what Father Dom would prescribe me for my

sins – probably only a handful of Hail Marys and maybe a few Our Fathers, and this fact only

terrifies me all the more; realise that there may be no consequences for me; realise that

sometimes you have to make the consequences for yourself.

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Sitting on a pew, waiting for mum to come out of the little confessional booth, I try to

think of the words you’re meant to say, that little spiel at the start after you kneel down

inside; try and remember how it goes, but only get the first part and I’m not even sure that it’s

right: O my God I am very sorry for I have sinned against you, it has been (however long it’s

been) since my last confession … Goes something like that I think, maybe something more to

it, but I can’t remember – it’s been a long time since my last confession.

When mum gets out she asks, ‘fancy a drink somewhere?’ and I say, ‘yeah. maybe

just a quick one, though’ and she says, ‘oh?’ and I say, ‘I’m gunna go up to Gippsland with

Michele today’ and mum says, ‘oh alright.’ And it’s true what I’ve told mum, I’m gunna go

up to Gippsland with Michele, because I need to now and because I know that when I call her

and suggest it Michele will say yes. And because I can’t be in Melbourne any longer, not

after last night/this morning, not anymore.

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CHAPTER 6

JAMES:

ONLY SLEEP CURES FATIGUE - a sign that winks at me and I wink back as Michele slams foot

down into clutch, pale mint green fingernails ripping gear-stick out of fourth and driving it

hard into fifth as we whiz round the South Gippsland Highway, Interpol’s ‘The Lighthouse’

playing on repeat, filling up the cabin of the Astra with haunting sounds that follow us around

every turn and curve, and I’m being delivered now, rushed across the Victorian state to be

born anew.

Think back two hours on the phone to Michele, to the apology she asked for, an

apology for my behaviour in exchange for a lift to Gippsland, and my words, ‘Michele, you

know I don’t do apologies’ and then her sigh before her eventual arrival at my home. Think

back two hours sitting on the embankment along the Merri making my mind up to call, to go

through with all of this. Back three hours – coffee with mum; back four – church. Any further

back and it gets dark, so I stop, open up the glove box instead and rifle through the detritus

inside, hoping to find another CD to put on, but find instead, under the service record book, a

copy of our first EP, Hole. Study the drawing of the hangman on the front, the letters H O L

E filled out in the spaces below. And on the back: a picture of the band looking too young

even though it wasn’t so long ago – Brent without his tattoo and Stephen without his biceps

and Everett without a moustache, and me looking ridiculous, standing in the background and

staring off into the distance, trying to locate a horizon or something – and above this picture

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the track listing, the first six songs we ever recorded. And looking at the EP there’s only one

word: dead. I think, dead.

Say to Michele, ‘do you have anything else to listen to?’ and she nods and flicks up

the centre console where there’s a round leather case filled with CDs and I select M83’s

Saturdays=Youth and the piano cords that kick off the first track, ‘You Appearing’, put me at

ease, soothe me so that I’m able to return the EP to the glove box and stop thinking dead.

In Foster Michele and I pick up supplies for the house – it’s the middle of the day and

the sun’s out but the weather’s cool, throw on jacket and bury hands in pockets and squint

without my sunnies. We do groceries first in the Foodworks across the road from the pub, and

Michele takes forever selecting a shampoo before filling up the basket with crap – Burger

Rings for her and frozen chicken fingers for me. And then we buy booze and cigarettes and

because Ballantine’s is on special I buy a couple bottles of whisky as well as some cheap

wine and a couple of longnecks Melbourne Bitter, and Michele grabs some cider too before

putting it all on her Eftpos card, and I tell her I’ll pay her back.

Head back outside, dump groceries in car, then over the road to the bakery where I

buy us coffees and a pie and ask Michele, ‘do you want anything to eat?’ and she shakes her

head. Sit in silence at one of the tables in the bakery while the girl makes our coffee, not the

same girl as last time, which disappoints me because I remember her soft body and the banter

and only came in for another glimpse really. But the coffee’s needed, my second for the day,

and the pie keeps my belly full and the hangover somewhat at bay. Feel a little less jittery

after eating, but can’t escape the flat/washed-out/depressed sensation within me, the feeling

of one massive comedown. But can’t give it any mind, because when I think of how I’m

feeling I think of last night, and then there’s only panic and worry and Stephen walking away,

and DEFEAT.

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Arrive up at the house on the crest of Mount Best, the lambs running about bleating in the

neighbour’s paddock, some guy far off on a dirt bike, the sound of a moaning

vrooomvrooooom from far away as he checks his stock. Hop out the car and open the gate, let

Michele through, then relatch and hop back in to go up the small rise to the car port. Then

bring in the luggage, turn the fridge on and stock the wood pile by the fire box, make up the

bed and unpack the groceries. All small chores completed quickly and when they’re finished

I feel very horny, erection growing, washed-out/empty inside and desiring fulfilment.

Find Michele outside sitting at the picnic table that looks off to the ocean, where I like

to eat breakfast when we’re up here, and walk up beside her and press erection into her

shoulder blade so that she giggles and asks me, ‘how many of them do you get a day?’ and I

say back, ‘just the one. he’s always hard’ and Michele laughs at me like I’m six and telling

her I can outrun a cheetah, the stupidity/inanity of myself not lost on her, nor me.

Say, ‘feel like mucking about a bit?’ and Michele looks up from her seat and says,

‘okay. but why did you say all that stuff at Grace’s the other night?’ and I say, ‘oh, god, look,

I dunno. I was just pissed, that’s all. I dunno what I’m on about half the time,’ then add,

‘look, I didn’t mean it. promise’ and this seems to be enough for Michele, enough for now.

Michele gets naughty grin on face and pulls erection from pants and starts the suction

and I feel sorry for the bleating lambies that have to cop an eyeful, get a bit nervy wondering

where the moaning motorcycle might be, if some farmer isn’t watching from afar and having

a wank. But then Michele pulls a face and says, ‘shit, James’ and rolls her tongue around her

mouth and I realise I haven’t washed since I got home, didn’t wear a condom last night/this

morning either.

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I say, ‘shit, sorry, I’m a bit gross’ and Michele says, ‘take a shower and I’ll meet you

in the bedroom’ and I say, ‘yeah, sorry’ and walk back inside, realise my rare sorrys come

when I can get something in return.

Take a shower and walk through to the bedroom with wet hair and find Michele

stripped down and naked on the bed and figure I’ve got some make up work to do, so take her

by the hips and pull her to the edge of the bed so that her arse hangs off a bit. Get her to

spread her legs and hold them back, then hop down onto knees and go to work – give it the

big long strokes, from arsehole all the way up to clittie top, just how she likes when she’s real

worked up. And she loves it – gives me the deep moans of gratitude, those big moans that let

you know you’ve done good, but also that what you’re doing is heaps on the rude side too. I

don’t mind low licks to be honest, get a bit of a kick out of tickling the spokes, giving ’em a

good tongue polish. Michele’s cunt is basically flooding itself after a few minutes and she

begs for my cock and so I stand and slip in, feel a bit shit about how good I feel giving it to

two girls in a day and note the spaces between people and the shit beneath the surface of

things that only I can perceive. What Michele doesn’t know, I think – an unnerving thought.

Wonder how many times I’ve slept with other people and wonder why it is I’ve allowed

myself to think of it as NOT CHEATING, because it has been all along, and how could I not

have known this? and how can I not know now? and why can’t I stop myself from fucking with

Michele in this way, just stuffing my unprotected cock in her so soon after last night with the

blonde? and experience a small slow death inside myself at all of this and how unstoppable

the sex is, because I can’t help myself, and because I need Michele badly in this moment,

badly enough to risk her harm, to hurt her, and why is it that this degrading bullshit gives me

a measure of release? because, after all, penetrating her in this way is a complete and total

betrayal that makes me a weak person, a dog, a toxic newbie. Under the hood of my cock is

saliva and semen and Ruth’s come and Michele’s come all mixed in and maybe it’s under

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there, somewhere on my knob, beneath my foreskin, that an answer can be found, but the

only answer, really, is sleep – it cures fatigue.

The colours across the Gippsland sky at sunset are these stunning yellows and oranges and

blues and purples that all swirl together after the birds have flown back to their nests. And

looking at the colours in the sky I’m reminded of the screeching, angry female voices of the

musicians I admired – Adalita and Karen O and Kim Gordon and Stevie Nicks (mum’s

favourite) – and I feel tired because of things past, things that will be missed and others that

will never be accomplished: all the music I wanted to construct that will never be realised,

passion that has long since faded, a boy named James drowning in a toxic stream. And I tell

myself it’s okay, no big loss.

Michele joins me outside as I bring the longneck of bitter up to my lips and slurp

down frothy harshness to numb thinking and take me way out over the line later on, starting

the descent now – a second night in a row.

Michele says, ‘do you like this scarf?’ and I take in the knitted red scarf she’s wearing

about her neck as she takes a sip of cider, say, ‘sure. it’s alright’ and Michele says, ‘mum

knitted it for me, I hate it’ and I ask, ‘then why are you wearing it?’

Michele tells me it’s the only scarf she packed because her mum insisted, then says, ‘I

don’t hate it, I just hate the design. see?’ and begins to unravel the scarf which comes off

awkwardly and lifts her brown hair into a tangle above her head. She places the cider on the

picnic table and untangles her hair, displays the looped red knit and says, ‘it’s called a snood

– I hate how the two ends are joined, you know?’

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Take in the scarf and ask, ‘what’s wrong with that?’ and she says, ‘I dunno, it’s just

too limiting or something. you can only wear it one way’ and I say, ‘everyone wears scarves

the same way, anyway. who cares?’ and Michele just shrugs and looks intently at the scarf.

I think of something suddenly, say, ‘what about those blankets with holes for arms.

you’ve got one of those, don’t you?’ and Michele says, ‘my snuggie, you mean?’ and I say,

‘yeah, your snuggie. what’s the difference?’ and Michele says, ‘no, that’s totally different,

you’re talking about two completely different things’ and I say, ‘they both keep you warm’

and Michele says, ‘yeah, but I don’t wear my snuggie outside’ and I tell her, ‘I think that’s

mean – discriminatory really. you’re like the Pol Pot of comfortable shit: you’ve banished

your snuggie to the house and you’re anti-snoods. a snood deserves a place in the world,

Michele.’

Michele laughs, looping the snood back over her neck for warmth, takes another sip

of her cider and says, ‘I just don’t get it, though. I mean, why attach the two ends?’ and I

ponder this question of hers for sometime between mouthfuls of beer, admit, ‘that sounds like

a big life question, like a big metaphorical conundrum. I can honestly see myself asking this

forever now, never really getting a good enough answer’ and Michele says, ‘oh, shut up’ and

I say, looking at her and giving my best philosophy professor voice, ‘no, really Michele, why

attach the two ends?’ and she punches me on the arm.

Michele raises her bottle of cider to the paddocks that stretch from where we stand to

the ocean and asks them, ‘why attach the two ends?’ and I laugh, shout while raising my beer,

‘because a snood is the circle of life complete.’

Michele steps up on the seat and then onto the top of the picnic table and yells,

‘FUCK SCARVES! THE SNOOD IS THE CIRCLE OF LIFE COMPLETE!’ and I stand up

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to join her, and standing beside her I shout to no-one and nothing, ‘FUCK SCARVES!

LONG LIVE THE SNOOD!’

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RUTH:

Not long after Schoolies you bring home a boy you meet at a house party in Toorak, where

a kitten is found dead in the laundry room. The boy’s name is Peter. He is tanned and good-

looking, with black hair and vacant eyes. He tells you that life is all just forward motion.

‘Forward motion, sweetie’, he says to just about everything you tell him. You take pills

together and fuck quietly on a large bed for a long, long time. Peter likes to squeeze your

throat while you make love and you let him. It scares you a little, especially when you look

into his eyes and see nothing, but it feels good all the same. He tells you that he knows a

werewolf. You can’t tell if he’s joking. And then he hits you. He punches you hard in the face

so that you become dizzy, and the mixture of ecstasy and alcohol and lack of sleep and being

hit is too much. You curl up into a ball on the floor and start to cry while he screams SLUT at

you before running away, back out into the night.

Later, you relay this event to Dr Smythe in his consulting rooms in Camberwell. He

asks you why you didn’t call the police and you ask, ‘What’s the point?’ You know what the

police would say. You have witnessed Tanya write a police report once before and you have

felt the rash of judgement spreading across your body. You have seen how it was handled –

the questions about drug and alcohol consumption, the phrase there’s really not a lot we can

do. You know that the system is flawed, that it fails in these matters. Hence, ‘What’s the

point?’

Dr Smythe prescribes Paxam for the anxiety. He teaches methods to deal with panic

attacks – breathing techniques, leaning against a wall. It’s mainly useless stuff, things you

could figure out yourself, but nothing concrete that actually stops nightmares.

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Eventually you learn to live with it. After a few weeks you bury it away. Months later

the depression passes. Within six months you are back to your usual tricks. Sure, the fear is

always there, but it’s far in the background. You even learn to laugh about it.

Getting out of bed takes every reserve of energy I have in me. I walk out of my room,

stepping around the clothes and boxes and across the hall into the bathroom. My back is stiff

as I sit to urinate. It takes a long time for my bladder to empty and as I sit there I notice the

red bruise on the inside of my thigh. After I wipe I heave myself up and take in the finger

marks around my throat. I make a promise to myself to treat today like any other, to drive my

body through the pain. I shower and coat my neck in concealer and walk outside to take a

seat on a tram going into the city. When I find a seat I plug my headphones in between

strands of wet hair and turn the volume up on an old Nine Inch Nails song and the ride into

the city, with the music flooding my head, is like lucid dreaming – the sun is out and it’s a

beautiful day and I feel dead and empty inside.

I get off the tram at university and walk to the gym. I put my runners on and find a

treadmill and get lost on the machine, turning my legs over and over, my feet pounding the

endless tread. Outside my headphones I can hear thudding techno and the muted panting of

the other girls on cardio equipment. The day is hot already and the gym is warm and so all of

the fans have been turned on and they spray cool air out across the space. When my mind

begins to turn to the events of last night I reach for the buttons on the treadmill to elevate the

speed. I want to run it out of me, run away from it all. But there’s no escape for me, because

when I locate the control for the speed that’s when I notice the heart rate chart on the machine

outlining the heart rates for various age ranges.

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The heart chart tells me that for someone in their twenties a heart rate of 120 bpms is

roughly sixty percent effort, while a heart rate of 200 or more would indicate a maximum,

one-hundred percent cardiovascular effort. Someone in their thirties at sixty percent will have

a heart rate of 111, and at one-hundred percent their heart rate will be 185. The chart goes up

in age this way, giving averages for each decade up to seventy, in which case a sixty-percent

effort will yield a heart rate of only 90 bpms. At one-hundred percent effort a person in their

seventies will have a heart rate of a mere 149. To me, these heart rates chart only the steady

decline of age, the slow, inevitable march toward death. I feel as though I could crumple, but

I tell myself not to quit. I jam my thumb down on the speed button and the tread begins to

rotate more and more rapidly until my legs are firing back and forth beneath me and my head

is clear. I am running so fast, pounding on the tread, that I don’t have a chance to think. All I

can do is breathe and get lost in the rhythm of my body propelling me forward.

When I step off the treadmill more than forty minutes have passed and I have run a

little over eight kilometres. Back in the changing room I discover that my concealer has

rubbed off. Some of James’ fingerprints are visible again. I take a quick shower before

reapplying my make-up and walking back to the tram stop.

When I go to board my tram back into the city I have this sudden change of mind.

Some impulse tells me to take the tram on the other side of the platform heading the other

way – further north and away from the city instead. The tram I get on says Moreland and the

driver tells me it goes through Brunswick. I want to invade James’ home suburb like all the

people he told me he loathes.

The tram comes to a dead stop ten minutes after leaving the university, stopping along

a busy stretch of road outside this giant cemetery. There are three or four trams already

backed up in front of us and the driver announces that it looks like we won’t be going far.

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After five or so minutes he opens the doors on the right hand side of the carriage and tells

anybody who wants to leave that they can so long as they take care crossing the road to the

footpath on either side. A bunch of people jump out, muttering under their breath. I decide to

hop out too. I cross to the cemetery side of the street and walk up to the front of the queued

trams. At the front of the stoppage is an ambulance pulled across the tracks. Immediately I

look for a crumpled bicycle, a prone body lying near, but there aren’t any of these things.

Inside the first tram there are a team of paramedics working on someone. Two young, blonde

men are staring at the floor of the carriage. On the pavement a small group of passengers are

huddled together talking by the fence that lines the cemetery. I ask them what happened. A

woman says, -We were on the tram and this young lady just started having a fit. Someone

told the driver and he stopped and called an ambulance.

-What kind of fit? Like a seizure?

-Not sure, love. No idea, really. She just fell on the floor. She was in a lot of pain.

An old man wearing glasses says that the girl might have had diabetes. He says, -I

used to work with a bloke once who had it. He had a fit just like that once. Anyway, that’s

what I reckon it is.

I move away from the group and walk a little further on to where there’s some shade.

When I look back the paramedics have the woman on a stretcher and are putting her in the

back of the ambulance.

I keep on walking. I walk the length of the cemetery and then a handful of suburban

blocks before entering Brunswick. By the time I am walking past the bars and restaurants the

trams that were backed up have caught up to me and they pass me one after the other, all four

carriages now almost empty. I’ve never been in this area before. I walk into a second-hand

bookshop and browse the titles. Next door I walk into a little fashion shop and buy a not-too-

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expensive pair of earrings, and the girl working behind the counter with this geometric tattoo

on her forearm tells me they’re made by a local artist who works at the café across the street.

I tell her thanks and notice the little black and tan dachshund sitting on a rug behind the

counter. I say, -Is he yours?

-Yep. That’s Kevin. You can pat him if you like.

I walk behind the counter and pat the dog, ogling over little Kevin, who wags his tail

when I rub him behind the ears. I have trouble tearing myself away from the shop because the

dog is too adorable and I want to pat him for the rest of the day. I wish I had a pet to curl up

in my lap and keep me company.

I say bye to Kevin and to the girl and walk back out onto the street, stopping outside

every store and looking in. I don’t know what James hates so much. I wish I understood. But

then I feel tired. My legs feel like lead weights. It’s hot and I haven’t really slept too well.

And because I exercised and because I’m bearing a fear that badly wants to resurface I feel

suddenly overwhelmed standing on a street in Brunswick, the neighbourhood of a boy who

hurt me badly less than forty-eight hours ago. I notice a bar across from me and I walk

between the slow moving traffic to get to the other side of the street and enter it.

Inside, I tell the bartender to pour me a Hendrick’s and soda with a slice of cucumber.

He obliges, says nothing. I pay him. There are three other people in the bar celebrating

something. Each person is wearing an animal mask. Behind me, in a booth, there is a bear

and a wolf and a possum. The animal people look at me when I look at them. There are curly

straws coming up out of their cocktails and they fit the straws in the slit in the mask where

their mouths should be, pulling their drinks up through the plastic tubes. Eventually they turn

away, going back to whispering between themselves. I feel unnerved and look to the

bartender for conversation, but he has his back turned to me and is fiddling with the playlist

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on an iPod, changing the music over from Patti Smith to Neil Young. I drain the gin quickly

and leave. I decide to go back to Richmond, but can’t be bothered with the trams again, so I

hail a taxi instead. As I step into the cab I feel this terrible pain coming on in my chest and I

pray that Tanya is home when I get back. Pray that she has some marijuana lying around to

help block this out. Whatever it is.

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EVERETT:

Aaron’s email reads:

Hey Ev,

Missed you in class the other day. I hope everything is okay. It would be good to

touch base again soon. Let me know.

Cheers,

A

Touch base? I delete the message from my inbox, slip my phone back into my pocket

and open the two Coronas sitting on the kitchen bench before walking them back outside by

the pool, where Mark is reclining in the same banana lounge I discovered Gatsby beneath

only yesterday. Mark asks, -Are your parents ever going to come back?

-Not that I know of.

-Is that, like, weird for you?

-How?

-I dunno.

Mark shrugs as I pass him a bottle of Corona. Maybe he thinks I’ve been abandoned. I

recall Grace asking if that was how I felt right after my family moved away to New York. I

say, -I’m fine with it. I kinda hope they never come back.

-Well, me too. Cheers.

Mark raises his bottle, laughing, and I raise the neck of my own to meet his. When he

first walked through the house he couldn’t stop saying ‘wow’ and I knew, like I’ve known

with other people before him, that he was impressed by the grandeur of this place, that he

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would want to stay, perhaps permanently. In some ways I find this devastating. In others I am

pleased by his predictability – it affords me a measure of control. Gatsby is still out here by

the pool and Mark has spent the last half hour flipping through my copy of it, sinking into a

lifestyle he seems at ease with. He asks me what I thought of the novel and I tell him I never

really read it and he says, pointedly, -It’s shit. I had to read it for year twelve. Fucken Gatsby.

What a cunt.

We spend the afternoon outside by the pool, dipping in and out of the water in our

underwear, listening to good music I’ve set up on the sound system inside, which pumps out

through the speakers indoors and out to us across the pool deck – The Drones, Moby,

Fleetwood Mack, M83, Incubus, a whole range. The warm weather is relentless, unceasing,

and we drink beer and rum and do some of the speed Mark brought with him between

attempts at canon-balling into the water. I realise I don’t ever recall spending time like this –

playing games and laughing and talking trash – with my family and, for the first time, with

Mark here, the three storeys feels kind of alive, warmer and happier. But, still, I can’t shake

what Mark first said when he arrived here this morning. I called him very late last night and

extended this invitation and he came over first thing today on the train. And when he arrived,

he said, almost ominously, ‘I knew there was more to you’. Literally or metaphorically? I

wondered at the time. Did Mark suspect I owned more things, or did he, and does he still,

take this house to be a reflection of some hidden depth I feel sure is not within me?

Mark dive-bombs into the water, creating a splash disproportionate to his slim body.

When he resurfaces I swim over to meet him, kissing him beneath the sun, the alcohol and

the whip coursing through me, this moment becoming one I want to live out/through/into for

an always. I was right, the loneliness has diminished greatly. I am being uplifted, revived by

booze and gak and the presence of another. Beneath the water Mark grabs at my waist,

pulling me in closer to his body. The sudden gesture triggers something, though. Mark’s

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hands grabbing me are Aaron’s hands locking my wrists. I break contact immediately, saying,

-Sorry. I’ve gotta take a piss.

I swim to the edge of the pool and roll out ungracefully. Mark laughs. He yells,

ordering me around like a cabana boy, -Hey, rich boy. Another beer would be nice while

you’re up.

I laugh, shaking my head in mock-disgust as I tread wet footprints across the deck and

back inside. What was that? I ask myself. You’re such a weak fucking faggot, the voice

reminds me. You’re a half-man. I really do need to piss, so I do before locating two more

beers in the fridge and bringing them back out to the pool. I hand one down to Mark in the

water. -Getting back in?

-Nah, I think I’m good for now.

I walk over to the banana lounge and sit down. I won’t allow myself to get back into

the water. Mark looks at me suspiciously. He plays around for another ten minutes or so then

gets out, looking bored all of a sudden. He walks to me, his body shimmering in the sun, and

says, -Hey, so why don’t you give me a tour? I still haven’t seen your room or anything.

-Oh, yeah. Okay.

I stand up and take Mark inside and downstairs, past the pool table and the drum kit in

the rec room and into my bedroom. He can’t help banging a cymbal as he passes the kit. He

asks, -Who plays the drums?

-Me. I used to, anyway.

-What? For real?

I nod. I acknowledge how difficult it must be for him to see me in another light, with

a talent or a skill, as someone with a life outside of getting wrecked and looking for trouble. It

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occurs to me how my bedroom looks, too – the racks of CDs, the bookshelf, the enormous

bed, the view of the river, the framed Died Red posters all over the walls. I see it all through

Mark’s eyes as he walks to one of the CD racks and begins to finger through them. He

searches around for a while before locating the box of EPs on my desk. Pulling one out, he

wipes away a thin layer of dust then studies the cover, and asks, -This is you?

-Yeah.

-Oh shit. And this is you too, huh?

Mark points to the framed posters, noticing them properly for the first time, drinking

in my image. He says, -You look so different.

In the posters I am younger, even thinner than I am now. I don’t have a moustache

either and its absence makes my face look too narrow. The posters are all from gigs, basic

promos that all clubs put out, but I collected them over the years when the band meant

something to me and their presence on my wall boosted my sense of cool. I haven’t even

noticed them hanging there since we split. They do not remind me of some lost past, nor are

they symbols of regret or missed opportunities. They are a record only. Documents of the

past as it was, absent emotion. I have no desire, noticing them now, to tear them down, to

cross out the faces of my friends. Mark asks if he can listen to the EP he’s holding. I say, -If

you want. It’s not very good, though.

He walks to the CD player and opens the top and places the disc inside. I cringe upon

hearing the first few cords of ‘Daybreak’, the first track. It sounds terrible to me now. I can’t

believe that at the time we recorded this I actually thought it was good. I even liked it. I say, -

Opinion?

-Not bad. Very high school, though.

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I laugh. -Tell me about it. You can keep it if you like.

I take the cover from Mark’s hand and study it: the image of the hangman, the letters

filling out the spaces below spelling out the title, Hole. The cover was Stephen’s idea and the

title was James’, and the photo of the four of us displayed on the back was taken here, at the

back of the property where it leads down to the Yarra, where I don’t go anymore. I haven’t

been down to the rotunda since late last year. We used to drink down there and see who could

throw things out furthest into the river. I dim the volume on the CD player and ask, -Why

don’t we listen to some better music? Feel like another drink?

Mark looks around the room, locating his half-empty Corona that he placed on my

desk when he first walked in. He says, -In a sec. There’s no rush, is there?

-No. Of course not.

Mark bows his head, his tone has changed. It’s obvious where this is going, obvious

what he wants. As I change CDs, returning the EP to its case and placing it down beside the

sound system, Mark moves behind me and rests his nose on the back of my neck. He’s trying

to be soft. He thinks a gentle approach is what’s required now.

I select a Kasabian album off the rack and insert it into the player. Press play. It’s

beginning to get dark outside and something about the approaching night and the new music

and being in my bedroom with someone under these conditions, while I can feel my heart

creeping up into my throat, makes me feel nervous and small – the way I often did in this

room as a child.

I turn around to face him, let him kiss me, let his hands grope my cock. Mark kisses

my chest and slowly migrates south down my abdomen until he drops to his knees. Leading

out of my bedroom are a series of wet footprints. I notice a small puddle of water by the drum

kit, below the cymbal where Mark stopped to beat it. And then I close my eyes.

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JAMES:

Day passes quickly after a trip into town to buy toothbrushes that we forgot to pack, and

proceed to spend the afternoon drinking at the picnic table outside in the cold, watching all

the different birds, and then mingling with a herd of goats that wander onto the property from

another paddock. Wonder how they got onto the property, but when one gets scared when

Michele comes outside to speak with me we watch as they slip next door in single file using a

hole beneath the eastern fence. The last goat to go through is too big to fit and makes several

attempts to get under, the wire catching on his coat each time until eventually he forces

himself all the way through, making us laugh a lot.

When the goats have trotted off out of sight Michele asks, ‘how long do you plan on

staying up here?’ and I shrug and say, ‘I dunno. why?’ and Michele says, ‘you know it’s

Easter, right? mum wants me home tomorrow for lunch with everyone’ and I nod and

Michele asks, ‘I’m assuming you wouldn’t want to join us?’ and I pull a face letting her know

that I wouldn’t.

Michele says, ‘well, you’re more than welcome to stay here, but I’ll have to drive

home tomorrow. I’ll probably end up staying the night – you know what mum’s like, she’ll

spring some last minute thing on me. it won’t be just lunch, it’ll be lunch and then afternoon

tea somewhere and then dinner with another bunch of people.’

I tell Michele, ‘that’s okay. I’ll be fine’ and Michele asks, ‘what about your family,

though? they go to church, don’t they? won’t you be doing stuff?’ and I tell her, ‘I went to

church with mum the other day. I’ll let her know I’m staying up here with you. she’ll

understand’ and Michele nods to herself.

Head back indoors to watch Michele build a fire before the house gets too cold – late

afternoon is when the weather starts packing in and it’s time to draw the blinds. One thing to

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watch out for though is when wasps bury themselves into the firewood – they do it when the

weather starts cooling down and they’ll sleep for a long time in the wood. But once the fire’s

started and the house begins to warm so too do the logs in the wood pile and the wasps within

that wood too, and they’ll wake up and start buzzing about, getting real alive and then angry

once they start to fly. I kept an eye out when I brought the wood inside yesterday, but I

must’ve missed a few because before long there’s two big, nasty wasps smashing themselves

against the window pane and when Michele notices she shrieks because they’re close to

where she’s sitting and I run into the kitchen, grab the Mortein from under the sink and come

back into the lounge to execute them – a big spray of the old chemicals and they buzz a bit

before going down, swish them into the dustpan with the brush then flick their still-writhing

bodies into the fire where they crackle and pop.

A couple hours later and I’m drunk, beginning to pull myself together enough to make

the next big decision – whisky or wine? – as I lie on the couch, OK Computer playing through

the sound system. Stare at the fire for a while – logs aflame, glowing embers, orange – before

announcing, ‘I’m gunna have a scotch and soda’ and Michele is looking at me as I sit up, rub

face with hands, and she asks, mutedly, ‘do you think that’s a good idea?’ and then a silence

hangs in the air between us following this question.

Stand up and walk past Michele and into the kitchen and ask confidently from the

other side of the house, ‘do you want one?’ and Michele says a barely audible, ‘no thanks’

that’s followed moments later by a DEFEATED, ‘oh, alright. yeah, pour me one’ and hearing

this makes me smile to myself as I pour out two very big measures of brown liquid into squat,

wide-based tumblers and splosh a splash of soda water into each to cut through the whisky –

strong but palatable.

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Michele looks at me nervously after I pass her the drink before I flop back into the

couch; look into the fire again to quantify the heat/temperature and imagine how the skin on

my hand would burn, blister and peel in an instant were I to jam my fist into the embers

that’ve been burning now for hours. Look at my busted hand and pick at a corner of the tape

and wonder how much longer it would take to heal completely if I gave it the time.

After the first three scotch-sodas get into a nice whisky groove that makes me want to

shout and dance and stomp my feet, then acknowledge the hunger pains and have a sharp

sense/desire for eating those chicken fingers we bought the other day. Walk back into the

kitchen and take chicken fingers out from freezer, check packet instructions – a small blurry

image of an oven, the words FAN FORCED, a temperature that seems too low and a cooking

time that seems too short. Take a tray out of the cupboard and start arranging the chicken

fingers, turn the knob on the stove to heat the oven and hear Michele say, ‘what’re you

doing?’ and shout back, ‘making tea. ya want chicken fingers?’

Michele doesn’t answer, says instead, ‘be careful’ and I ask, ‘why?’ and she says,

‘’cause you’re drunk’ and I say, ‘I’ve only had a couple. I’m fine.’

Chicken fingers take longer than the package instructions said they should – not a

surprise, but a point of irritation. Open the oven door every five minutes past the allotted

cooking time to check them, but they don’t go golden and crunchy how I like ’til almost

twenty minutes has gone by while I drink down two more scotch-sodas and wonder what type

of person eats a chicken finger that’s underdone. And when they get crisp and golden I get

over-excited in my half-starved state and reach for the tray without an oven mitt and when

flesh contacts metal hand goes sizzle and I screech, ‘ah, shit’ and Michele yells, ‘what’s

happened?’ before coming into the kitchen to view me in my distress.

404

‘I told you to be careful,’ Michele says before taking my wrist and guiding my hand

to the sink where she says, ‘here’ and runs the water over the burn. She helps but she’s pissed

off I can tell because she won’t look me in the eye, won’t look in my direction in fact, tells

me, ‘stay there for a sec. you want tomato sauce or barbeque?’ and I say, ‘both. and mustard

too’ and Michele sighs because she’s talking to a six-year-old and don’t I know it. She takes

real care of me – takes out the chicken fingers and puts them in a bowl, takes out the sauces

from the pantry and a little saucer for me to squirt them onto. She says, ‘that’s enough. you

can eat now’ and I pull my hand away from the stream of cold water and turn off the tap,

walk to the counter to collect my meal and start by pouring out the sauces onto the saucer, all

three piled up together in the centre of the plate.

‘Want one?’ I ask and Michele just shakes her head, takes a packet of Burger Rings

off the kitchen table and opens it, walks away from me to the lounge to eat them. I take a

chicken finger, the first one used as a mixer to combine the sauces into a brown/yellow/red

murky-mess that tastes so much better than how it looks. And when I put the chicken in my

mouth, bathed in the combo-sauce I get punched by salty/sugary, real flavour on a tongue

devoid of a palate. But not even the taste of this favourite food I’ve fashioned can ease the

little death happening in this room, because what I’m realising/knowing to be true is that I’m

in a house with another person, getting drunk/bombed/wrecked/out-of-it once again, as

always, a person alone in a room with another, disconnected and upset and terrified inside,

which never changes, alonealonealone despite being in the presence of life. And although I

can see the back of Michele’s neck from where I stand, can see her fingers with a Burger

Ring on each, eating them as she always has, as she did surely when she was ten, she’s so

totally out of reach. What I need is another dose of her Valium. What I need is sleep – it cures

fatigue.

405

EVERETT:

Mark is the first person to have slept in my bed since Grace. Watching him wake up I can’t

help thinking that I’ve made a horrible mistake. I’ve let him too far in. I’ve made myself too

vulnerable.

Mark moves his lips around in a little circle, warming up his mouth. I imagine it’s

furry inside like mine, from drinking too much beer. When he opens his eyes he sees me

lying on my side next to him. -How long have you been watching me?

-I just woke up. Not long.

-Cool.

He scratches his face. His stomach groans. We laugh. He says, -I’m starving. Got

anything good to eat?

-Ah, no, not really. Sorry. I’ve got, like, toast.

Mark rolls his eyes. I say, -There’s a Maccas nearby. Wanna get drive-thru?

-Yeah, okay. Do you have a car?

-Yeah. It’s in the garage.

We get out of bed and pull on some clothes off the floor. Mark doesn’t put on any

underwear. I watch his jeans slide up over his soft, hairless arse.

Mark comments on the car when we get in. He asks if it belongs to me and I tell him

it does, tell him it was an eighteenth birthday present and he just laughs a lot to himself, but

says nothing else. I drive us down to the shopping centre fifteen minutes from the house. We

pick up a bunch of breakfast items from McDonald’s, then stop off at the Liquorland for

another slab and two bottles of spirits before returning home.

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Back at the house Mark flicks through the Foxtel stations while gorging on hot cakes

and hash browns. I mix up a few cocktails. It’s humid inside the living room and so I remove

my shirt then settle in beside Mark, who has now landed on an episode of The Real

Housewives, and eat the two sausage McMuffins I bought.

Later, in the afternoon, the heat has picked up again despite the clouds blanketing the sky.

There’s little sun, but the weather is hot and humid and enough of an excuse to be back

outside and in the pool once again. Drunkenly, I find it an amusing gesture to throw Gatsby

into the pool, where Mark laughs as the book sinks to the bottom. He dives under to retrieve

it and we throw the waterlogged novel at each other, back and forth, until it starts to come

apart, the pages tearing out of it in clumps.

When the book is destroyed, and small, fluffy white mounds of paper mache float

atop the water’s surface, Mark takes me beneath the water again, hands finding my waist and

guiding me toward the edge. Mark pushes me against the wall. I can feel the tiles on my back,

the crevices between them, and against the soles of my feet on the bottom of the pool. Mark

whispers in my ear, asks me if I want to go inside with him, back down to my room with him.

His hands are strong. His fingers are bony, wiry. I think of the skeleton army from Army of

Darkness. I used to watch that movie over and over as a kid, taped off the tv on a VHS.

I bring my hands up to his face, but Mark clasps my wrists and forces them back

beneath the water. Just go with it, I tell myself, despite what’s being triggered, what I’m

afraid of, those half-man fears. He licks the inside of my ear. Power play. Asks, -Or should

we do it outside? I wanna fuck you right here. Do you wanna get fucked right here?

Mark grabs my cock. My erection bothers me. It’s a disappointment. A predictability

that gives him all the power. Despite his slight frame, he’s able to turn me around so that my

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belly presses up against the pool’s edge. From behind, he grabs for my throat, grabs for my

cock again, kisses my ear, tongues it, bites my ear lobe. Aaron’s body is pinning me to his

bed, the warmth he left inside me afterwards, that bit of him sloshing out into the toilet later.

My identity reduced to a smear. I yell, -Get the fuck off me.

I let an elbow fly back, sending it into Mark’s ribs. It connects and Mark makes an

angry sound. He says, -Hey. What the fuck?

-Don’t fucking touch me that way. I didn’t ask you to, for fuck’s sake.

-Jesus Christ, Ev. Chill the fuck out.

-Fuck off. Don’t tell me what to do. You can’t tell me to do anything.

I get out of the pool. Mark follows me, tailing me as I march back inside the house.

This was such a mistake, I tell myself. You’re so stupid and weak. That will never change.

Inside, down in my bedroom, I locate some more of the speed Mark brought over yesterday.

There’s a baggie inside a small pocket in the lining of his jacket. Seeing me playing around

with his stuff he says, loudly, -What the hell are you doing?

I don’t answer. Just remove the drug, bring it across to my desk and begin to form

lines. -You’re not going to ask for permission? You’re not even going to ask if that’s alri-

-Is it okay with you that I rak a fucking line? Is that what you want? Please, Mark,

could I have permission to do a line? Or would you prefer I grovel on my fucking knees?

-What the hell is going on with you?

-Nothing.

I roll a note. Snort. Ignition sparks. Mark says, -You should see yourself.

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-You should see yourself. You think you make any of this look any better when

you’re doing it?

-That’s not what I meant.

-No? What exactly did you mean then?

Mark doesn’t give a solid answer, just snorts and says, -Typical.

-Do you have something you want to say? ’Cause if so, then fucking spit it out.

-You are a typical rich cunt. You don’t give a fuck about anybody but yourself. My

drugs are your drugs. My body is your body. Whatever you want you get or you take or you

already have. And you always have it your way. You don’t feel like scoring? You don’t

score. Don’t feel like fucking? You don’t fuck. Someone does you a favour? You’re under no

obligation to return it.

-Oh, fuck off. I pay for half your shit when we’re together, more than half most of the

time. So, yeah, these are my fucking drugs, because you probably paid for them from money

I left you last time.

-I didn’t.

-Well, whatever. I bought you breakfast this morning, and beer, and rum and whiskey.

I can’t have one fucking line?

-Are you keeping a tally?

-No, but I should be. I mean, Jesus, you’ve been leeching off me for months.

-Leeching off you? Fuck you. When I have money I pay for things, and I don’t keep a

running tab on the people I know either.

-You mean when you make money bilking desperate fags out of a few bucks.

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-You’re such a fucking cunt. I’ve never told anybody that, and you’re so quick to turn

it against me. I’ve tried to be honest with you, but … you’ve got no empathy. You’re really

fucking empty inside. It’s no wonder you come from a place like this.

Mark gestures at the room. I guess he means the house, though. Dr Mark, I think,

champion psychologist diagnosing the peculiarities of today’s youth. I say, -Look, just go,

okay? This was a mistake to bring you here. Just leave.

-No. I’m not going anywhere. Not until you say something that’s real. Not until you

tell me what your fucking problem is.

-Right now. You’re my fucking problem.

-In life. What is your fucking problem in life?

-Nothing. There’s, just … nothing.

I falter for words. Do another line. Hope the speed gives me something to say. That it

backs me up. I add, -Look, I’m never going to fuck you, okay? That’s just something that’s

never going to happen, alright? So, you know, you’re wasting your time.

-And why not?

-

-Huh? Why? Fucking answer me. I’ve tried to give-

-Because you have nothing I want. Alright? You don’t have anything, Mark. There’s,

like, no point to you. You can be fun, but … but that’s it.

Mark looks genuinely hurt. I didn’t think that was possible. I want to say sorry, but I

don’t, just as I never did with Grace. There’s a side of me still kicking against that half-man

remark and so I remind myself of it, that it was Mark who called me that, and my sympathy

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subsides. Looking at me, his eyes soft, vulnerable, he says, -I think what you mean is that I

don’t have enough money.

-No, it’s not tha-

-I think, what’s really going on here, is that you wanted to slum it for a while, but you

don’t like the way it looks on you sometimes. And the problem with people like you is you

can afford to try on different looks because you’ve always got somewhere to run back to if

the shoe doesn’t fit the way you want. You’re a fucking lie. All of you. Every part. You cross

the river once in a while and you think you know something, but you don’t know shit. I

mean, my god, you’re just some rich kid virgin running scared because he’s terrified he’s a

faggot. And you are a faggot, by the way. In every sense of the fucking word too.

-I think you should leave now.

-Maybe that’s why your parents left. I mean, did they really just leave you here?

Dude, your family literally left you behind. I mean, what kind of piece of shit are you? Did

they leave in the middle of the night? Did they not even bother to say they were going? I bet

your father was like, ‘Honey, quick, let’s get out of here, I can’t bear to look at the fuck-up

faggot anymore, let’s go to the other side of the fucking planet.’

Mark’s words cut deep. My ears are burning. I can feel the speed mounting its

defence. I say, -There’s one thing you’re wrong about, you know. I’m not a virgin.

-Yeah right.

-I fucked Aaron last week. And he didn’t have to beg me either, the way you do. I

went to his reading and we got drunk, and after I asked him to fuck me. And we fucked for

ages too. You should’ve seen his face when he came. You should’ve seen mine. I even let

him come in my arse. And it felt good. Really fucking good.

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-That’s bullshit.

-Bullshit? Really? You think so?

Mark locks eyes with me, tries to read me. I say, -You know I’m telling the truth,

don’t you? I could never fuck somebody like you, Mark, and it’s not because you’re a

dumbarse, dropkick, drughead either – it’s because you’re a loser. I mean, shit, did you ever

really think you had a chance? Why would I ever fuck you? You don’t seem to get it – it’s

people like me who employ people like you. What did you think this was?

-You’re so fucking gross.

-No. You are. You’re a whore. You can be bought. That’s so much worse than

anything I am. Make no mistake about this, you have been in my employ this whole time.

You have been bought and paid for and I am finished now, so I am asking you to leave.

Mark shakes his head before picking up his jacket. I wonder if he’s going to punch

me, but he doesn’t. He just says, -You’re a cunt.

I say nothing, just let the word wash over me as he walks out of the room. From the

rec room he says, -Keep the whip, dude, on me.

I listen as he kicks over the cymbal, upends one of the drums. And then I listen until

he is out of the house and the door upstairs slams shut.

And then I’m alone again.

412

RUTH:

I wake up in the dark. My chest is pounding and when I touch my face my cheeks are slick

with tears. On the bed next to me my phone is ringing, the screen glowing in the blacked-out

bedroom. The screen reads: MUM. I pick it up. -Hello?

-Hi, sweetie. It’s just your mum here. I wanted to call you to wish you a happy Easter.

-It’s Easter?

-Tomorrow. Yes.

-Um, wow. Sorry. I, ah, didn’t know.

-That’s alright. Anyway, how are you? How are you getting on?

-I’m good. Yeah. Fine. How about you?

-Oh, okay. We’re doing good business, so I’m happy. It keeps me busy. Miranda says

hi, by the way.

-Oh, right. Well, say hi back. She’s still with you at the shop then?

-Yes. I don’t think I could get rid of her if I tried.

My mother chuckles. There is a long pause on her end before she says, softly, -It

would be good to see you, sweetie.

It takes everything in me not to cry. -I know. I miss you too, you know? I’ve been

thinking, maybe I’ll come up and visit after semester is over. In the winter break.

-That would be perfect, Ruth. I’d really like that.

Another long pause before the inevitable question. Mum asks, -Have you heard from

your father?

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-What do you think?

-No. Alright. Sorry, I shouldn’t have asked.

-It’s okay.

-Well, you know, he’s-

-Mum, don’t. It’s fine. Honestly, I don’t care. It’s nice to hear from you. I’ve got to

go, though. I’m late for an appointment.

-Oh, alright. Well, have a nice Easter then. Call me when you arrange your flights. I’ll

pay for the tickets.

-Okay. Bye.

-Bye. Love you.

-Love you too.

I hang up and throw the phone back onto the bed in the darkness. I’m not sure where

it lands. I have told myself over and over that I hate my mother, but it’s not true. I am so

desperate to see her, for her to be here with me right now that to think about her absence is

too painful – this lance driving itself through my chest. From down the hall I can hear music

in the living room. The sounds make me shudder. I feel like a child at a grown up’s party:

locked away in my room, frightened of all the drunken strangers with their loud, shrill voices.

I am a prisoner in my own home.

I pull the blanket back up over my head. I won’t be going out today.

414

JAMES:

Michele leaves me in the morning, kisses me goodbye and says she’ll be back in a day or

two and reminds me to look after myself and says, ‘don’t drink too much’ before jumping in

the Astra. I walk down the gradient beside the car and unlatch the gate and wave goodbye and

it’s a genuine goodbye too as I stand there waving until the brake lights are no longer visible

around the bend, because I’m saying it for real: GOODBYE.

There are questions to answer

and things to think,

but most important is the decision to drink.

My rhyme for my last day – my conclusion. Start with a beer and watch and listen to

the morning birds then graduate to the wine with a packet of Burger Rings and list in my head

all the foods I’ll miss eating – sausage rolls and pies and burgers and pizza and chips and ice

cream and mum’s apple tea-cake with whipped cream. Think of those faces – mum and John

and sister – and the hurt, but know this is my only option if I’m to truly honour them and

myself, clog the toxic stream that’s been polluting them all.

I’ll tell you this now because we’re close to the end and there’s not a lot of time left

together for confessions, but I’ve tried this once before. John said, after I’d botched it, that

the hurt I’d cause would be on me and that I’d have to wear that with me in an always-after,

but I’m not convinced there is an afterlife and if there is I think I’m ready to wear it. I just

don’t fit here is all and my not fitting is already causing too much pain and bother – you’ve

seen that, you know by now surely.

Thoughts to be thought go as follows:

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-can’t tell if what I believe to be true is so because I bore witness to truths, or

because somebody once told me that the world is a certain way and I’ve gone

along with this

-can’t tell if maybe I didn’t dream up the problems in my life and didn’t just

simply insert them into my mind one day while lying in bed

-know that none of the things I do and feel and think should be happening to a

person like me

-know that there’s love to be had in the world and that I’ve chosen to block

this love out

-can no longer tell whether what I’m feeling is what I’m actually/really/truly

feeling or if emotions and desires and dreams weren’t placed there for me by

another mind

-perhaps my life and my inner workings – the landscape of plains and valleys

and mountains that are in some way my soul – maybe they’re the

manifestations of a larger design and were tailored for an end to which I’m

unaware, but an end which I’ll surely experience

-and perhaps the grasslands and creeks and waterfalls were cultivated a long

time ago before me, were grown and etched with detail before being placed

within me

-know that I’m adrift

-know that I’m detached entirely from the living reality

-and finally ask, Whose life is ever really lived? and Whose life is ever really

known?

416

And after ponders/wonders time is made for writing – a note to be placed on the door

outside telling whomever comes to this door after tonight not to enter this house and to

simply dial 000, because there’ll be a body in the bathroom. Write to Michele that I’m sorry

for all of this, and write the words I love you and know that everything I-am/ever-will-be/was

is on this page to be taped to the door.

Tape note to door and switch to scotch as afternoon cold rolls in on the summit, but

don’t bother attempting to light the fire – just drinkdrinkdrink into oblivion. Gets really cold

so that I have to go for one of the beanies I brought up here with me that are sitting on the

kitchen table – a navy and a grey. Pick up the grey one and put it on head and notice the oval-

shaped mirror by the far eastern wall that I’ve never noticed before. Walk to the mirror and

study the bloated face that used to be more handsome, or so I thought, and look into sad eyes

that’ve gone loose and watery with whisky. Take another pull from the bottle and yell into

the mirror, ‘KONG DE RONG’ and belt chest like a mad, boxing Dutchman, but have no

idea why this comes to me, nor what it means. Think that maybe this might be the black,

ancient thing out the Merri – but could it be?

Then notice it, the beanie on my head, the colour of it, navy and not grey. Turn

around and look to the kitchen table and see the grey beanie, the one I had placed on my

head, sitting on the table still. This wasn’t my action a moment ago – it was the grey beanie

and not the navy that I put on to wear. And staring at the grey one I experience a sudden

knot/gut-punched feeling in my stomach, a wave of nausea that drives me to dry retch. Think

that maybe the ancient black is inside me no more, that it’s out now and in this room with me

playing tricks. Feel the weakness in my legs, how slack they’ve become, experience the

trembling in my hands, shaking uncontrollably. Bring the whisky bottle to now-parched lips

and take in another long pull, breath fire and think, one or two last smokes before the Valium.

417

Walk outside and into the darkness of night and the little sensor light flicks on above

the porch illuminating the note on the front door. Light one of Michele’s already-rolled

cigarettes from the pouch she left up here and take the nicotine down deep into lungs and feel

weightless before the sensor light cuts out. Raise arm above head and wave for it to come

back on, but the monitor doesn’t register me, doesn’t sense me and the light doesn’t turn on. I

wave and move, but still nothing – I’m nothing in the void. Look up to the sky and find the

Southern Cross glaring at me in the darkness as I smoke my last cigarette down and crush the

butt beneath my shoe. And when I turn back to the house and walk to the front door the

sensor light still doesn’t come on and I consider that all these years I’ve been no more than an

apparition passing through a landscape, unacknowledged and unheralded and unwelcome,

because the land was never mine.

In the bathroom of Michele’s parents’ holiday home I come to my conclusion:

swallow down a dozen or more of the five-milligram tablets of Valium I

pinched from Michele’s handbag this morning before she left,

polish off the last of the whisky,

fasten the length of electrical cord (which I’ve known was in the utility cabinet

up here for a long time) to the frame of the shower cubicle,

slide back the two panels of frosted glass so that I have enough room to drop,

then tie the other end of the cord around my throat, wrapping it over and over

until it’s secure and tight,

feel the weight of the Valium kicking in, making me drowsy and heavy and

know that time is running out,

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fasten the belt around my waist until it’s as tight as it can get before placing

my hands behind my back and tucking them under the belt so that my wrists

are fastened and unable to struggle,

and when I close my eyes ready for the big fatigue-curing sleep I know that I

have no ability to fight my way back out of this one,

no chance of fighting his way back out this time like he had before, because he’d

taken all the measures, was going to finally get something RIGHT FOR ONCE. And as he slid his

feet out from under him, his head faint and his breathing slowing from the overdose, the

darkness that enveloped him triggered a memory he’d not thought of in many years, one he’d

blocked out, he believed. He was seven years old and in the backseat of his father’s car – his

biological father, not John, a man whose face was not distinct, but whose presence was

palpable, unmistakable – and it was late at night and well past his bedtime and he was hungry

and he didn’t know where they were going. He was scared and uncomfortable; his eyes itched

from the cigarette smoke he was breathing in as his father puffed away in the car, because at

seven years of age he was allergic to this smoke. Together they were on a country road

somewhere and everything outside the car, all around them, was a black nothing. All he could

see was the small passage of road directly before them lit by the car’s headlights. In his

memory this light was dim and yellow and created the illusion that he and his father were

driving into a tunnel that went on forever, a tunnel to which there was no end.

As his own light dimmed he experienced the same fear that he’d felt in that moment

with his father – that he would spend eternity travelling into the dense nothing of an

unknown. And so it was this fear that gripped the body of the once me/I/James before its final

release, and this fear was extinguished in the same moment as his life.

419

In the morning everything that surrounded the house was as it had always been. Birds called

to one another from the small creek that ran along the fence line at the edge of the property,

from the foot of a steep slope, as the sun rose across the acres of grasslands and paddocks that

stretched on, all the way out to the ocean. There was the yack-yack-yak-yack that came from

a flock of crows as they evacuated a nearby pine tree and there was the whip-crack/whistle of

the eastern whipbirds that cut through the almost silent and eerily still air.

And then, far away and in the distance, there was the .ping of the bell miners.

420

CHAPTER 7

EVERETT:

I’m sleeping when the doorbell rings. By the time I get out of bed and walk upstairs to

answer the door the intercom is being pressed over and over, frantically. For whatever reason,

I cannot believe that when I look at the monitor it’s Grace who is causing all this fuss. Then

again, maybe not such a surprise. I press the intercom and shout, -For Christ’s sake, Grace.

What is it? Why are you here?

-Please. Let me in, Ev. I need to come in. I have to tell you something and I couldn’t

reach you on your phone.

My phone has been off for a few days now. Ever since Mark left. She says, -Please,

just let me in. This is important.

Grace’s voice is low and hollow, her words bubbling out of her mouth in this strange

way. I tell her okay and press the button to release the gate, despite an irrational fear that she

has lead the men in white coats here to collect me. But when she arrives on the doorstep and I

open the door to greet her it’s just Grace and no one else. I ask, -What’s going on? You

shouldn’t come here unannounced like this.

She steps through the doorway and into the lobby. -I tried to call you, I said. But your

phone’s off. Anyway, it’s not the point, Ev. Ah … maybe let’s sit down in the living room.

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Grace walks through to the lounge. I follow. She asks, -No one has been in touch?

Not Brent or … not Stephen?

Stephen? The name is so strange and unfamiliar and unnerving coming from her lips.

Suddenly I feel sick. Something is very wrong, I realise. -What’s going on, Grace?

-You don’t know, do you? Oh, Ev, I’m sorry. James died.

-Huh?

-James. He’s dead, Everett. He passed away the other night. He killed himself.

-What? Are you fucking joking right now?

-No, it’s not a joke, Ev. Sweetie, he’s … he committed suicide. He’s not-

-That’s bullshit. That’s bullshit, Grace. This is a prank. Someone’s playing a prank on

you. No one I know would ever kill themselves, certainly not J. That’s fucking crap.

But I know it’s true. I can see it in her eyes. I can feel the weight of it radiating from

her body. I say, -This is fucking bullshit. I’m calling him.

I run downstairs to find my phone. Grace chases me, yells at me to stop. I turn the

phone on, watch the little Apple logo appear as it powers on. And then, with Grace there

telling me to stop, to let it go, crying and trying to hug me, trying to make me accept the

truth, I scroll through my contacts until I find James’ number. I hover my thumb over the

button to make the call, but I know I’m wrong. All I can say is, -This is real, isn’t it?

Grace nods, blinking through tears. Her face is so thin, her eyes so large and bright

and wide and beautiful. Perfect eyes. I say, -How? I mean, why?

-No one knows yet. Oh, Ev, I’m really sorry for you. For all of you.

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She holds me. But I don’t cry. I don’t feel much except for a shiver of disgust that

shoots up my back. I feel angry, like I want to disown James suddenly. I ask, pissed off, -

Who found the body? Michele?

Grace cries loudly, pressing her face into my chest. This is her answer – the torture of

empathy for a close friend’s suffering. I say, quietly and to myself, -That fucking prick.

I can’t restrain my anger, but it isn’t rage, just a controlled, measured anger like I’ve

never experienced before. It rises through me so unexpectedly, so sharply, acutely. I say, -

That fucking prick. Who does that to somebody? What the fuck is going on? Jesus Christ,

Grace, I’m so angry for her. Have you seen her?

-Not yet. She’s at James’ house. I think everybody’s going to go over there later

today.

-Oh my god. This is so fucking bad.

Grace is still holding me. She lets go when she looks up to me and says, -Don’t be

angry. Be sad for James right now, for his family. You can be angry later. I know, I am too,

but we’ve just got to support Michele.

She moves toward the posters in my room. The same Died Red posters that Mark had

looked over when he was here days ago. I haven’t noticed anything in that time it seems.

Grace says, -He looks so happy here.

I walk toward one of the posters. James is smiling. I say, -Let’s go back up. Let’s

have a drink.

-I can’t. I’m driving.

-You’re not driving anywhere. Give me your keys, I’ll put it in the garage.

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She hands me her car keys from her handbag. She thanks me as I go to move her car

off the street. When I come back inside she’s still in my bedroom staring at the posters. I say,

-Come on. Let’s go up and have a drink.

The couple of hours that follow are this sad, slow collection of minutes. We sit

together on the couch in the living room with the television on in the background turned

down low. I say, -I shouldn’t have called James a prick. You tell me he’s dead and the first

thing I do is call him an areshole. There’s something wrong with me.

-No, you’re right to be angry. I’m angry for Michele. He always treated her like shit,

but this– I can’t believe anybody would do something like this, not to a person they claimed

to love.

-Well, he probably wasn’t thinking. How could he be?

-They were fighting at my party. They were always fighting. Still, she really loved

him, though.

-Have you spoken to her? I mean, do you know any of the details? Like, how he did

it?

-She was the one that called to tell me. From what I understand they’d gone to her

holiday house up in the country, but Michele had to come home for the long weekend for

Easter. And she ended up staying an extra night. She blames herself. She said she couldn’t

get a hold of him, but that she just figured he was moody or playing music too loud to hear

his phone ring or something. Then she drove up and found him. She said there was a note on

the door. She said she’d never forget finding that note.

-Fuck. There’s nothing she could do though. If he killed himself then, like, how long’s

the drive from the city to her folks’ place?

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-Three hours, I think.

-Exactly. It’s not like she could’ve saved him.

-I know. But she still blames herself. It’s such a mess. I think, from what I gather, he

might’ve died a day or more before she finally arrived back up there. And then the police and

the ambulance had to be called, and this is all in a fairly remote location too, so she was up

there with the body, just waiting for them the whole time. He’d hung himself. She said she

couldn’t get him down.

-For fuck’s sake, Grace. I feel sick.

-And then his parents had to be called. And her parents had to be called as well,

because it was their house and everything. It’s just such a mess. Can you imagine? Imagine

being up there that day? And she was just in the middle of it all. I’m so …

Grace shakes her head. She doesn’t stop shaking it until I touch her face and tell her

everything is going to be alright. But it’s not. I’m lying. This is not something that can be

made ‘alright’.

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RUTH:

I cut through the buildings at university heading for the gym. In the laneway, before the

glass wall, I come to a white station-wagon parked to one side. It strikes me because there

aren’t any car parks and cars aren’t meant to be here. As I approach I notice the grey mound

of matter sitting on the bonnet, pushed up against the windshield wipers. I stop short,

realising what the object might be, and then move close enough until I can see the object

clearly: a kitten. The small cat is dead. Its limbs are broken and positioned awkwardly – a leg

is jammed under one of the wiper blades. The skull appears to be crushed and its throat has

been slit. White tendons hang from the open wound. Congealed blood mats the kitten’s fur

along its abdomen. It occurs to me that the cat may have been tortured and that because of the

way in which it has been mutilated and positioned on the bonnet of the car, it might be a

warning of some kind. Perhaps, I think, it is a warning to the owner of this vehicle. But then,

I think, maybe it’s a warning to me.

I turn around quickly and walk away from the car, back down the laneway and away

from the gym. It has been a week since I last saw James and I thought that I could face him in

class today. I want to be here to show him that I’m not afraid, but the kitten scares me and I

feel my nerve shattering. I can’t, I can’t, I tell myself.

I walk down the street and find a milk bar where I purchase a packet of cigarettes and

a lighter and a can of Coke. I walk through the suburban blocks in Parkville until I come to a

place to sit – a park bench beneath a shady tree. I open the can of soft drink and light a

cigarette and close my eyes, trying to rediscover the gumption to walk into my writing

tutorial in forty-five minutes.

The time passes slowly. The cigarette ends accumulate on the picnic bench and my

head lightens with each smoke, making me dizzy and dry and a little nauseous, though I don’t

426

mind. I realise that I’m going to be late if I don’t make a move, but I allow myself to smoke

one last cigarette, which spins me out entirely so that I don’t mind drifting back onto campus,

avoiding the laneway, and finding my tutorial in the John Medley Building.

When I open the classroom door I am a little over ten minutes late. The room is silent

when I arrive, each student sitting quietly at their desks with their heads bowed. Aaron is

standing at the front of class in silence as well, and he gestures for me to take a seat and join

the collective meditation. I note James’ absent seat as I take my own. After several more

moments pass, Aaron checks his watch. Raising his head to the class he says, -Thank you all.

Now if you could open your books to Week Nine. Um, Emma, I believe you were scheduled

for workshopping today, and Daniel, you’re going to be leading discussion this morning. So,

Emma, please pass out your work, and Dan, could you get us started please? We will finish

up early today, of course. So let’s get cracking. And, ah, Miss Shin, could I see you for a

moment outside, please?

Aaron gestures to the door. He takes two strides toward it and opens it, waiting for me

to join him outside. I turn to K-ROC, but she doesn’t make eye contact with me. The other

students begin talking about Monday’s lecture and the readings for this week – a series of

short stories written by Raymond Carver. I stand up and make my way out into the hall with

Aaron.

Outside the classroom my stomach begins to do little flips. I say to Aaron, -Look, I’m

really sorry about always being late. I didn’t mean-

-No, no, Ruth. Please, it’s not that. Look, ah, Ruth, maybe just take a seat here with

me.

Aaron sits on one of the plush chairs in the hall and I sit down beside him. He says, -

It’s very hard for me to say this, but I was informed only this morning that one of our class

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members died over the weekend. I’ve just told the class that James Hanlon passed away.

When you came in just now we were having a couple of minutes silence for him out of

respect to his family and what they must be going through at this moment. I was told he’s

being buried in couple of days time.

Cold fear runs back through my body. The dark mouth of a corridor I am falling

down. I ask, -How did he die?

-I’m not certain what the cause was.

Tanya’s mouth. Aaron continues, -I don’t know how well anybody knows each other

here, so I’m unsure what this means to you. Did you know James at all?

-We, ah, yeah. We had a drink together one time. Last week, actually. After class.

-Oh. Right. Well, why don’t you take a moment now if you need? Maybe go and get

yourself a drink or something if you want. You don’t have to come back. We’re just going to

be running through Emma’s work and the lecture notes and then I’m going to cut things

short. Everyone seems a little upset and, to be honest, I’m feeling rather strange having heard

this news. I think we could all do with a lighter load today. Alright?

I realise that Aaron’s hand is covering my own. I squeeze it. He has the callouses that

Callum’s hands do not. I think, Lindsay’s mouth. I say, -Thanks. I think I’ll go.

-That’s fine.

-

-You know, Miss Shin, when I was your age somebody I knew died. If you want to

talk about it you can come and see me. My door is always open.

But where’s your door? I wonder. I say, -Thanks.

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I walk back into the classroom and pick up my bag. Then I leave.

It doesn’t seem possible that a life can end. Not a life that is young. Not a life that

goes to university with you. Certainly not a life that has hurt you and been intimate with you

and impacted you. Those lives are meant to live out into old age, into a zone where death

doesn’t mean so much. I don’t bother taking the tram. Instead I walk along the footpath,

following the tram line back into the city, stopping to smoke a cigarette in Lincoln Square

where I watch the young skaters flip their boards and grind along the cement pavers and ollie

over small objects. And then the tears come and I cry for a while, exposed and in public and

not caring that I’ve let myself go in this way. All I can see when I shut my eyes are the kitten

on the bonnet of the station-wagon and James’ finger marks on my throat. And I think of the

heart rate chart on the treadmill too, marking the slow inevitable march toward a place I don’t

understand – a place that James now does.

When I open my eyes the skaters are still flipping their boards, ollie-ing small objects.

But many of them are watching me now, too. They are young boys. They are looking at a

blonde girl, older than them, who is crying in public. If I weren’t this way, I wonder if they

would want to take me to bed, whether one of the boys now staring at me, the one who jabs

his friend in the ribs and nods in my direction, will go home later and masturbate using my

image. For some reason I want to know how many boys have done that. How many wadded-

up balls of tissue paper have ended up on the floors of boys’ bedrooms in homage to me?

The skaters look at me with something like sympathy until one of them – wearing a

Bonds singlet and low slung jeans and a cap on backwards, his hair longer than a good school

would allow, his arms greasy and sweat-covered – comes over to me, and he’s maybe fifteen

years old this boy, and he says, -Are you okay, Miss? Can we, like, help ya out or anythin’?

-No, thank you. I’m just feeling sad today.

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-Uh, alright then. No worries. If ya need, let me know though, hey? You know, like, if

ya need some help or whatever.

-Thank you very much. I’m fine, honestly.

-Okay, then. Uh … alright.

The boy walks back to his mates. He has the same checked boxers billowing out the

back of his jeans I don’t see so often now. If this boy had a lip ring and had been at a party

four or five years ago with me, I could see myself ending up in a room with him, fumbling in

the dark. For some reason I want to go back there – back to the end of school when it was a

nightmare and I was thoughtless and nothing meant anything. It was easier then. I didn’t

know what I was doing, which made everything okay. But I’m conscious now, awake and

wise to the world in a way I so desperately don’t want to be. And somehow, I can’t help

thinking that maybe this is all Lindsay’s fault.

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EVERETT:

Grace hangs up her phone. She informs me that Brent is coming round in a taxi to collect

us before we all go on to James’s house. I ask, -Is that really a good idea?

-Michele’s there. She’s been with James’ family since they all drove back. She told

me they were going to open up the house once everyone had collected themselves enough to

do so. It’s what they want.

-Why?

-So people can go and pay their respects. So those that need it can be part of the

grieving, too. I think it’s brave.

I’ve never heard of this type of thing happening before and I don’t really understand

it. I thought people would want to shut themselves away. But then I don’t know anybody

who’s died before either – not like this, so unexpectedly.

Brent arrives sometime later. The bruises surrounding his nose have faded. I open the

front door to let him inside and we hug. He says, -I can’t believe this is happening. Are you

guys ready to go? Taxi’s waiting.

I turn around and ask Grace if she has everything and she nods. I ask, -Should we take

alcohol? Or is that, like-

-I have a slab in the car. I thought we could all do with a beer.

-Right. Let me just grab something.

I walk into the living room, take the near-empty bottle of whiskey from the bench in

the kitchen and give it to Grace to fit in her handbag. I don’t particularly feel like drinking

beer.

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I lock the house before getting into the taxi with Brent and Grace and then we drive

north to Brunswick, taking the Burnley Tunnel beneath the Yarra, where it is silent and black,

like being underwater. It reminds me of the platypus exhibit at the zoo – the eerie calm of that

void-like space. Nothing is said until we arrive outside James’ house, where Brent pays the

cab fare and where the cabbie, perhaps reading between the lines, picking up on our

collective silence and the tears that drip slowly from Grace’s eyes, says, -Good luck, to you

all.

The taxi driver looks out from his window and across to James’ house where there are

a collection of cars parked tightly together in the street and where a group of people – who I

assume are James’ relatives or friends of his parents – stand in a huddle, talking on the front

porch. I’m surprised by the taxi driver’s sympathy.

As we approach the house, Brent carrying a slab of beer, I think of the many times I

have approached suburban houses in this manner before – walking up to the door, beers in

hand, arriving for the party. Only it’s the middle of the afternoon and the mood here is so

freakishly sombre absent the typical drunken yelling and music being blasted from inside.

The people on the porch, all middle-aged and smoking cigarettes, turn to us as we arrive. One

of the women says, softly, her voice peppered with understanding, -The family are all in the

living room. Please, go inside. I think Michele and James’ other friend are in his bedroom, if

you want to go through.

-Thanks.

As we walk into the house the woman says to me, -You were in the band, weren’t

you? We’re so very sorry, dear.

-Thank you. And, ah, like, me too.

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Inside, as we file through, everything has this gravity to it – the texture of the walls in

the hallway, the floorboards, the pictures on the wall – all have this heaviness to them. One

framed photograph of James as a child is suddenly this monstrous image leaping out at me, a

reminder of death, of a non-existent life.

When we enter the living room James’ mum and step-dad are sitting with a group of

people, all of them drinking wine and occasionally reaching for cheese and crackers as

James’ mum explains how he had had an interest in one of his university subjects and that she

thought he was going to make this subject his major next year. She’s just sitting there, telling

stories about her son, in this calm way – he was interested in this, I think he would’ve done

that, we can only imagine that, etc. It spooks me, the way she talks. As does the food in the

centre of the coffee table. Crackers and chips and dips and cheese – the ordinariness of

hosting people in your home – it’s so creepy under the circumstances because my mind is

only accustomed to seeing these items being offered up in celebration of something, when

you’re entertaining people, not when your son dies.

James’ step-dad, John, notices us in the room. He stands up with surprising energy

and enthusiastically shakes Brent’s hand, gives Grace a peck on the cheek, welcomes us into

his home. I feel like I’m free-falling again, only this time it’s worse. I’ve leaped out of an

aeroplane without a parachute and I know what’s coming. The end. John shakes my hand,

pulls me in close for a hug, and says, -Now, you three know where James’ bedroom is, don’t

you? Of course you do, Brent. Why don’t you head down there and say hello to Michele and

Rach, they could do with a bit of company.

Rachel, I think. James’ sister. I’d completely forgotten about her. When John sits

back down in his armchair he retreats into this stunned silence, giving up on the performance.

I remember going out on John’s boat one time with Stephen. I remember that we had been

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rehearsing music and that John offered to take us for a spin in a dinghy he’d just bought on

Gumtree, but that James had feigned illness and refused to come. We must’ve been sixteen

and because Stephen had never been on a boat before John took just the two of us all the

same, without James. I remember how pained he’d been, how hurt and quiet he was because

James just seemed to hate the guy so much. But he was nice to us. He seemed genuinely

happy to hang out with us. It’s the only memory I have of James’ family, the only real insight

into James. Beyond this, I realise, my friend – someone I spent hours with rehearsing and

getting drunk – was a complete fucking mystery to me. I have no idea why he is now dead.

We leave the living room, moving past James’ mother, who weeps occasionally

between her words, pausing to breathe deeply, drawing back the tears and the pain, not

allowing them to control her influx of memories and information. This is how she’ll honour

her son: she’ll tell everyone everything. She won’t allow him to be forgotten.

Inside James’ room Michele and Rachel are sitting on the bed together having a very

quiet conversation, the two of them trying not to cry. Stephen is standing in the corner,

looking through James’ possessions. When we enter the room Grace rushes to the girls on the

bed. I look down at my shoes as they embrace and begin to cry heavily together, holding onto

one another. Grace just says Michele’s name over and over, like a mantra. I don’t know what

this means. She strokes her hair, asks Rachel if she’s okay. She isn’t of course, but Grace is

there for them both and I’m relieved, as is Brent and Stephen, that another girl has shown up

to deal with them.

Brent dumps the slab onto the floor and tears open the cardboard box. He pulls out a

couple of stubbies and twists off the caps and approaches Stephen, who is leafing through a

book he just picked up from James’ bedside table. The two stare at each other, and then Brent

passes a beer to Stephen who takes it, takes a sip. He extends a hand for Brent to shake, but

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Brent hugs Stephen instead, whispering something into his ear that I don’t catch. That Hole is

playing rather loudly only dawns on me now, the music affects me so differently compared to

when I heard it with Mark the other day. Then it had made me cringe, had made me think of

just of how detached I am from it. But today it’s different. When I hear ‘Losing’ become ‘Out

the Other Side’, the guitar chords make me want to cry because there is a dead boy playing

some of those parts on our album now. I still haven’t cried, though. I wonder when that will

happen. The voice says, Only if you’re capable. And that is a very big ‘if’.

I move over to the sound system and turn the volume down so people can talk. I ask

Grace where her handbag is. She points to the floor. I take my bottle of whiskey and take a

swig. I say, -Hi, Michele. I don’t know what to say. I’m sorry.

-Can I have some?

I pass her the bottle. She takes a drink. I ask, -What about you, Grace? Rachel? Do

you want something?

Rachel nods, looking at the beers on the floor. I take over as host. Slipping into the

role is easier than being myself. I open some of the beers and distribute them to the girls.

Rachel has grown up a lot since the last time I saw her. She’s exceedingly pretty and no

longer a girl. She could pass for eighteen. Maybe she’s even started sneaking into clubs. She

reminds me of Grace in a way. She is how I imagine Grace used to look when we were dating

in school, but I realise that might not be accurate.

The girls have stopped crying and when Rachel takes a sip of beer she pulls a

disgusted face and this is enough to break the ice in the bedroom. Stephen and Brent are

watching from the corner and they laugh and there’s something in this moment that allows

Michele to laugh as well. And then Grace. And then myself. Grace says, -First beer, Rach?

435

Rachel nods, still holding the bitter liquid in her mouth. Brent says, -You better

swallow, get it over with.

-Yeah, you don’t wanna develop a reputation.

Rachel laughs and the beer trickles down her chin. The laughter is important, it

manifests as something bigger, setting us off reminiscing about James – the silly things he

did, how he made us laugh – all of us chipping in with stories. And despite the circumstances

this feels like old times, like something great, from the past, coming back to revisit us. We

are all so open with one another, in a way I’ve never been. And it is fear that drives us. The

fear of the end which tells us to make it count in the now, to get our stories out there for the

record, to embrace love and each other, to strip away the barriers that have stopped us from

connecting for too long. This fear of death reduces us to children. We are little boys and girls

once more, giggling at the back of the classroom, not grasping those false, adult constructs of

restraint, safety and responsibility. Stephen says, -We should do something tonight.

-Like what?

-I dunno. We should go out. We should be together. We can’t stay here.

Rachel says, -My parents won’t let me.

Michele is holding her hand. She says, -Do you really want to stay here tonight,

sweetie?

Rachel shakes her head and Michele says she’ll talk with James’ mum. I say, -Why

don’t we all just go to mine. You can all crash. We can do what we want. It’ll be safe,

Rachel, and I’m sure your parents will be okay with it. You can sleep in one of the guest

rooms. Stephen’s right. We can’t stay here.

436

Stephen looks at me when I say this. When we make eye contact he drops his eyes to

the floor. Not everything has gone away. And not everything will. But I don’t care. I feel

nothing about much of the past. I just wish I could cry.

Rachel goes to her room with Michele and Grace to pack a bag. When they come

back Michele takes a bundle of CDs from James’ room. She says, -I need to listen to these,

but I can’t do it here. I’m not sure what’s on them. Do you mind if I bring them with me to

Everett’s house, Rachel?

-They’re yours. All his stuff is yours.

I look at Grace. Another tear rolls down her cheek when she hears this. And then we

leave.

In the living room Rachel tells her parents that she wants to come with us and that

we’re all going over to my house to hang out. I say, -Don’t worry, we’ll be safe. There’s

plenty of places for people to sleep, too.

John says for Rachel not to drink, reminds us to be responsible. James’ mum says, -

She can drink if she wants. Just not too much. Make sure you all take taxis and be careful.

Here, sweetheart.

She hands Rachel some cash and Michele promises we’ll all take care and I get the

feeling that John is relieved to see his daughter go, that he’s glad there’s a bunch of young

people around to take her away from so much unhappiness. Tonight the three storeys will

have nothing on the emptiness of James’ home.

Outside, standing on the nature strip waiting for a maxi taxi to arrive with Grace and

Stephen and Brent and Michele, I think that if it weren’t for James’ absence I could almost

believe I have been transported back in time.

437

RUTH:

When I walk through the front door in Richmond I am met with a typical scene. At first

the sounds of a Portishead album hit me and the odd, confronting noises instantly put me on

edge. I can feel the hair on the back of my neck stand up as I walk down the corridor and past

the antique hall stand. In the kitchen Tanya is standing with a lit joint between her fingers,

swaying back and forth to the music. I notice the half-finished bottle of wine on the sink by

her elbow. When she looks at me she smiles.

When I look to my right, over in the living room, I see what Tanya has bought: the

life-size driftwood lion that I had seen on display in South Yarra over a month ago. The beast

looks savage, ready to kill. I stare at the sharp, jagged pieces of wood that fan out across its

shoulders, making up its mane. Something about the statue causes me to lose control. I snap, -

Tanya, what the fuck is going on?

Tanya looks at me confused. I feel like I could throttle her. I want to grab Lindsay’s

throat with my hands and squeeze, just like dead James. I rage, -What are you doing? Why

are you just standing there doing nothing? What is your fucking problem?

-Jesus Christ. What the hell, Ruth?

-No, no. Jesus Christ to you, Lindsay. What the hell to you, Lindsay Belle. What the

hell, Lindsay, is that fucking lion doing in our god damn living room? What is that? Is this

your idea of some sick fucking joke? Stop fucking with me. Stop fucking with me, okay? I’ve

done everything. And you can’t even be nice. So stop. Stop. Stop. Stop. Stop. Stop. Stop.

Stop. Stop.

Lindsay’s hands around my waist and hot breath in ear and sinking to floor and crying

stop againagainagain and the words it’s okay/it’ll be okay and my words it’s not okay/it won’t

be okay/nothing is fucking okay anymore followed by awful guttural howl which emanates

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from mouth involuntarily, all of the images of men and women and me falling down being

spewed up and out of this monstrous cry

and all the while James’s face somewhere above and below [me]

Later, I am stoned and lying in the bathtub. Tanya knows everything – about today, about

James, about what I found on the hood of a station-wagon. She splashes water at me and I

watch as her hand moves in slow motion. Her slender fingers pierce the water’s surface and

send a spray of droplets into the air that land across my chest and neck making me laugh. She

says, -I saw you looking at it that day in the shop. I thought you liked it so I put in a request

and placed some money on it. I bought it now because I thought you needed it. I dunno, I

thought it’d cheer you up.

I laugh. Giggling, I tell her, -I hate it. That lion scares the shit out of me.

Tanya laughs along with me. She draws back on the joint and passes it to me. -It

really scares you?

-Oh, god yeah. You know, I have these nightmares sometimes – they’re always about

animals. It terrifies me.

-I can take it back.

-Have I ever told you that? That I have nightmares?

-Yes. You used to tell me about them all the time. Don’t you remember, you used to

wake me up in school?

-Oh, that’s right. I’d talk in my sleep.

-You still do.

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-How do you know?

-I can hear you sometimes. At night.

-Sorry.

-It’s fine. I’m always up anyway.

I look at Tanya. I hold her hand beneath the water, look at the way her arse is perched

uncomfortably on the edge of the bathtub. -I wouldn’t be able to take the statue with me

anyway. I’m thinking about going to Sydney.

-To see your mum? You told me that.

-No. I mean, for good.

-Seriously?

Although this has only just occurred to me – that my trip to New South Wales to see

my mother might be a permanent one – I tell Tanya, -Yeah.

-Wow. That’s a big change.

-I have to change something, Tan. This isn’t working. I’m all screwed up and I don’t

know what else to do.

Tanya says nothing. She nods her head almost imperceptibly as she stares into the

water where my legs lay atop the off-white enamel beneath. She asks, -How do you feel

about him dying?

-I don’t have a clue.

440

EVERETT:

Gadge comes over around 8pm, showing up at the house in customary regalia with a blonde

by his side, this girl with too many piercings and a tattoo of a vine snaking up her wrist, who

is introduced as Maddie, and who smiles politely as Gadge hugs me and says, over and over,

-This is fucked.

I walk them through the house and out to the pool where the girls are drinking with

Brent and Stephen. Michele hasn’t put on her CDs yet and I let Gadge mingle with the others,

waving Michele over and into the house. She comes to me and I say to her, -Did you want to

listen to the records alone? I can set you up downstairs if you like?

-Maybe I should just play them out here? Maybe everyone should know what’s on

them.

-I don’t know. Maybe. Maybe not.

-What do you think’s on them?

-You won’t know until you play them.

-I’m scared, though. What if it’s something really messed up?

I look at Michele; she’s not lying. She’s terrified of what she might discover. I say, -

Do you want me to listen alone first? I can tell you what they are.

Michele thinks about this. She bites her bottom lip. I say, -If it’s not appropriate I’ll

tell you and I’ll give them back.

-Would you?

-It’s fine.

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I take the CDs down to my room and place one in the CD player. The disc has a date

scrawled on it with a biro. It’s from a few weeks ago. When I press play the recording starts

with a mic check before James tunes his guitar. Once everything is in order he begins to pick

out a steady rhythm. He builds momentum, finds a comfortable zone, and he plays these

jagged, haunting chords to this off beat that is and isn’t there. The sound is really, profoundly

good – so much more rich and textured than anything we ever did together – the controlled

chaos of Sonic Youth and the steady, heavy alt-rock of Kasabian combined with a bizarre

guttural emotional mood, like a Tool album. It’s frightening. Sexy and piercing. And when

James’ voice finally cuts in over the guitar – howling and screaming, a bloody rage – it

dawns on me just how genuinely talented he actually was. He’s just jamming, riffing, but it

shits all over Died Red. I never got to see this side to him. I stop the CD and eject it. Michele

needs to hear it. They all do.

Back upstairs I tell Michele. I tell her I’m going to put the CD on. She seems relieved

to discover it’s just guitar recordings, not some audio file of James spewing a suicidal

monologue. Out by the pool Gadge is handing around free ecstasy and Rachel looks eager.

Michele asks if she’s ever done it before and Rachel shakes her head, no. She says, -Jim used

to come home high all the time. It looked fun. He was always happy then.

-Not always, sweetie.

Rachel asks what it’s like and we all just look at each other. For a moment nobody

knows how to respond. There’s a flash of something on Brent’s face, like maybe we

shouldn’t take Rachel down this road, like maybe where this is going is a really bad idea. I

note that Gadge, standing there with his product, is not first in line to turn the girl onto it.

Michele asks, -Do you want to try it?

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Rachel nods, smiling. Michele takes one of the tablets and cracks it in half. She passes

Rachel the smaller half and we all watch in silence as she hesitates. Nobody is brave enough

to egg her on. The girl, Maddie, finally says what we’re all too afraid to, breaking the silence

by saying, -Take it, honey. It’s one of the greatest feelings in the world. You need it.

Rachel washes it back with a Cruiser and Grace and Michele clap in this funny little

way. Grace gives her a hug, says that they’ll take care of her and reminds her to drink plenty

of water. I put my hand out to Gadge and take one with my beer. You need it. By the time I

swallow it back, James is finished tuning up on his recording and the jam I listened to

previously has commenced, and Stephen asks, -What’s this?

-The CDs Michele brought round from J’s room. Listen, man, it’s fucking brilliant.

When the pill comes on, when the heat wave hits, when I’m peaking and the sweat is

developing on my brow and my jaw is locking up, I dance. I give myself over to James’

recordings. I thrash my body. Stephen follows too, as does Brent. My legs are shaking along

to the odd rhythms and I’m snarling and pulling my best Jagger faces when I position myself

between the girls, my hips thrusting and swaying. It all pours out of me – hatred and love. I

take Rachel’s hand and move her body into mine – her eyes are wide and filled with hope and

joy – and I twirl her about before doing likewise to Michele, her cheeks streaked with tears,

eyes red, but wide and joyful too. Michele takes my hand again. She’s beautiful in this setting

– poolside, the muted light glowing beneath the water. Down there, down below, there are

clumps of Gatsby slowly dissolving. I shout at Stephen, -Turn it way the fuck up.

He doesn’t bat an eye, just rushes into the house and jacks the sound system up to its

top volume, until half my neighbourhood can hear James screech and empty his soul onto

them, dumping the love and hate just as I’m doing. The screeching, angry voice and the

guitar take me into oblivion. Michele is gyrating with me, grinding into me, jumping up and

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down all in this profound, unhappy ecstasy. And so is Grace, who looks at me and smiles and

winks. We are all, together, lost in the music – our bodies ripped open by the riffs and

rhythms – until we are a single, writhing snake, being charmed by a superior talent from a

beyond place. And it is dazzling. True.

There are no lower lows than death, than non-existence. This tragedy is an eclipse.

It’s nearly dawn when people start to drop off – tired and coming down and ready to pass out.

Grace and I set Michele and Rachel up in my bedroom, tucking them in together beneath the

sheets where they spoon each other, Michele stroking the young one’s hair. Grace smiles at

me. She whispers, -How do you feel?

-Out of it. You?

-Pretty out of it. But I’m still awake. I don’t think I can sleep.

-Me neither.

-When’s the last time you went down the back?

I realise she means the back of the house, by the river. I say, -Not for ages. I’ll pack

some stuff.

I take a couple of hoodies from my bedroom drawer and then, in the kitchen, gather

up a bottle of vodka and some mixers and two cups. I put all of this, except for the jumpers,

inside a satchel. Outside, we put on the hoodies – it’s cold now. Grace looks funny in my old

St Anthony’s sports jumper that comes down to her thighs, particularly when she brings the

hood up over her head, tucking her hair inside. I take her by the hand and sling the bag over

my shoulder and we traverse the dirt track at the back of the property together, finding our

way down to the rotunda not twenty metres from the river’s edge.

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The path down there is overgrown. It was once well laid out and covered in small

grey stones so that you knew exactly where to walk, but without the gardeners coming

anymore the path is muddy in parts and barely distinguishable and we have to do some bush

whacking to find our way down in the dim light. At one point Grace slips in her sandals,

caking her arse – my jumper and part of her jeans – in mud. I help her up and ask if she’s

okay. She says, -Yeah. Thanks. Why is it so wet down here?

-It’s the river. The tree roots pull all the water up from the Yarra.

When we get to the rotunda the structure is overgrown with ferns and vines that have

snaked their way around the wooden beams. We take up a seat together and I pour more

drinks and we settle into a pretty banal, ordinary conversation. Handing a mug to Grace she

says, -Hey, you know you never called me to let me know you weren’t coming the other

week.

-The other week?

-You know. My party.

-Oh, right. Yeah, I know. I’m sorry. Something came up, though.

-Like what?

For the first time in a while I think of Aaron. I say, -I went to a poetry reading in the

city.

-Okay, Ev, if you’re going to lie at least make it believable.

-I’m not lying. Swear to god. Anyway, it doesn’t matter now.

-No, not after this, today. And besides, Brent and Stephen seem to have patched

everything up.

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-Mmm.

-You know, James was so angry that night. I’d never seen him like that before. After

those two fought he told everyone there to go and fuck themselves and stormed out while he

and Michele were having an argument.

-Really? James?

-I know. Maybe it was a sign.

Before today I’d never have believed James could become angry. He was always so

chilled out, like nothing ever bothered him. Grace places a hand on my knee. Looking at me

she says, -This has really brought everyone together.

-I know.

-It’s brought us together a little, don’t you think?

-Yeah. Sure.

Grace edges closer to me. She takes a sip from her drink. She asks, -Do you think

about me?

-In what capacity?

-In any way?

All the time, the voice reminds me. -Sometimes. Sure.

Grace leans in to me clumsily, pressing her lips against mine. She kisses me, but I

don’t kiss back, not fully. She says, -But you don’t think of me like that.

I reach out and run my hand through her hair, like a comb. I bring her head onto my

chest. She says, -Michele told me he wasn’t taking his medication.

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-What medication?

-I don’t know, something for depression. He wouldn’t take it consistently, apparently.

You didn’t know?

-No. I didn’t know he had any problems at all.

-She told me he tried to kill himself once before.

-When?

-About a year ago. Maybe less.

-When did she tell you?

-

-Grace, when did she tell you that?

-When it happened.

-Fucken hell, Grace. You never told me this. You never told any of us.

-She asked me not to. He was embarrassed. It wasn’t my story to tell.

-Jesus Christ.

I stare off into the river. Grace is a good friend to Michele. In a weird way it makes

me proud. We remain silent together, absorbing the new light of dawn that sheds itself across

the water. Grace eventually breaks the silence, her head against my chest. She says, -I’m not

well, Ev. I’m struggling again. Mum thinks I might have to go into one of those clinics. Like

before.

-It’s gotten that bad again?

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-Yes. I think mum thinks we’re still together, or that we’re getting back anyway. She

wanted me to tell you. But we’re never getting back, are we?

-No.

-It’s okay. You know, you can be honest with me about stuff. If you’re seeing

someone, or whatever, you can tell me. I never want to not be close again. I hate it. I still love

you. You can tell me things, about, well, boys or whatever.

-Grace-

-What? It’s fine. I can handle it. You can say.

-I don’t think you– I’m not sure … I’m not seeing someone, so, there’s nothing to say.

Grace sits up. She asks, flatly, -Do you forgive me? I guess that’s what I need to

know.

-You ruined my life last year, Grace. It was really hard. I mean, I felt so foolish, you

know?

She begins to cry. She says, -I know. I’m sorry. I know.

-But, I don’t know? Forgive? There’s nothing to forgive. We both tortured one

another, but did we ever do anything that wrong?

Grace smiles. She laughs. She says, -I miss this logic.

She returns her head to my chest and I allow her to entwine her fingers with my own.

There is no forgiveness. There is nothing much at all. The constructs the world has created –

they don’t apply to us.

The first of the rowers emerge on the river, boys from Xavier in their leotards passing

by us. They can’t see us behind the trees. The cox yells for them to keep their oars in time

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and Grace and I laugh. She says, -They’re always so little. The little angry men making them

row.

I stand up and shout from the safety behind the trees, -Stroke! Stroke! Stroke you

fucking faggots! Stroke!

Grace screams, -Row you cunts! Row!

And we burst into hysteria in the rotunda, laughing and laughing and laughing before

sitting back down, the boys in their sculls flipping off the trees, the river bank, unsure as to

who said what. One of them shouts, -Fuck off, wankers!

That James has died, perhaps it hasn’t really sunk in yet. But, despite the fact that my

head feels hollowed out from inside, I feel purified somehow. As I look out from the rotunda,

the sun rising and bathing the Yarra in light, I realise that I am bearing witness to the hand of

something greater sweeping itself across the city. But, the voice asks, how long can these

good feelings last?

449

II

Winter

450

CHAPTER 8

RUTH:

In my dream I fall into the lion enclosure at the zoo, onto a mound of dirt and grass in the

centre of the enclosure. I am wearing a bikini, one I used to wear down at Callum’s holiday

house over the summers. The lions around me are large and muscular and stalking about

waiting for food, their manes rich and golden. They are kings. When they notice me these

kings approach. They come closer and closer before standing up on their hind legs. And by

the time I realise that they are not lions, but are in fact people wearing masks, it’s too late.

The people are upon me at once, grabbing for me. They begin feasting and I scream out

desperately, wanting to know their identities. I scream, -Tanya? James? Mum?

But they don’t answer.

When I wake up my face is streaked with tears. I use the bedsheet to dry my damp cheeks

before turning off the alarm on my phone. Like being punched in the gut, I am hit by the fact

that today is my last full day in this city and that tomorrow afternoon I will be in Sydney,

reunited with my mother. There are so many things I want and need to do that to do nothing

seems like the most appropriate course of action. But, of course, I sweep my legs out from

under the bedsheet and place my feet on the ground before walking across my bedroom floor

– stepping over the piles of clothes and still-unpacked boxes from when I first moved in –

and out into the corridor, where Tanya’s bedroom door is closed. I take a quick shower, leave

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Tanya a note in the kitchen saying I’ll be home this afternoon around four. I avoid the lion’s

gaze before walking outside to catch a tram into university to make some last minute

adjustments on my assignments before handing them in.

It is a cold morning. There are no sparrows bathing in the sand on the tram tracks at

my stop and the sun is hidden behind layers of cloud. It is a typical grey Melbourne winter

morning. When I get on board the tram I sit down and put my headphones in my ears and

look around. The girls are all dressed for the colder weather now, no longer in summer

dresses with their hair wet. Some wear beanies perched on their heads so that the hat bunches

up at the top. They are all wearing the same type of puffy vest from The North Face, black

yoga pants and Nike trainers. I am one of these girls, a carbon copy still.

When I arrive at university I walk over to the gym and cancel my membership. I

avoid the lane and double back, walking the long way through campus over to the library

where I smoke a cigarette outside before going in.

Inside, I take up one of the carrels on the second floor and unpack my books, paper

and pens, and my old laptop that weighs a tonne. I spend the day going through my

assignments, finalising each one and ensuring that the footnotes are formatted correctly,

making sure there are as few grammatical and punctuation errors as possible. I compile some

notes – things that need double-checking – and after several hours each assignment is ready

to print off and hand in.

When I’m packing up, ready to move down into the basement in the library to use the

printers, a hand touches my shoulder. I turn around in my seat. K-ROC is looking down at me

– blank but smiling. She says, -Hey, Ruth. What’s up?

-Oh, hey, um, Katherine. Just getting my assignments together. Yourself?

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-Yeah, the same. I’m waiting for them to get bound. Just killing time really. Are you

free for lunch?

-Ah, no, sorry. I’ve got to get going. I’ve got a lot on today.

-That’s cool. Hey-

Katherine leans in close to whisper into my ear. She says, -Have you heard all that

stuff about Aaron?

-Ah, no, I haven’t. What stuff?

Katherine looks around the library, making sure no one can hear. The only people

nearby are a group of Asian girls studying in silence at a large table. She says, -Apparently

there’s this rumour that he raped one of his students one time. I heard it from this girl who

had him last year. According to her, he’s done it before. Like, a bunch of times. She says he

always tries to sleep with his students.

-Ah, really? Are you sure? I mean, like, he seemed nice to me.

-I know. Me too. It’s just what she said.

-It’s probably just a rumour.

-Maybe.

K-ROC doesn’t sound convinced. She wants to believe the rumour. I say, -Well,

goodbye, I guess.

-Oh, no worries. We should catch up soon. You know, over the break. Just Facebook

me.

-Actually, I won’t be here. I’m moving to Sydney tomorrow.

-Really?

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-Yeah. I’m going home to live with my mum.

-Oh, wow.

She grabs me suddenly, forcing me into a hug. This is the most we’ve ever interacted

and the hug frightens me. She says, -I’ll really miss you.

-Ah, yeah. Thanks. Me too. Well, goodbye then.

-Bye, Ruth. Have a safe flight.

I walk away from K-ROC to the elevator as she waves goodbye, feigning sadness,

like what we shared sitting next to each other this past semester was something more than

nothing. I don’t feel anything except for how much I detest the finishing jumper she’s always

wearing.

Downstairs, the printing room smells like old KFC leftovers. I hand my USB over to

the guy behind the desk and get everything printed and stapled before walking across campus

to the post office, where I buy a bunch of stamps and manila envelopes so my assignments

can be posted to Sydney for me to read after they’re marked.

In the John Medley Building I put the assignments in the slot at the school office and

walk downstairs for a cigarette before returning to Richmond. When I walk down into the

courtyard there is a boy sitting on one of the benches who looks familiar to me. It takes a

minute, but I realise he is the mannequin boy who sat beside James once in class. We spoke

that day and smoked cigarettes together in this very spot. I feel compelled to walk over to him

and do. I say, -Hi.

He doesn’t recognise me and I reintroduce myself, explaining how we once met and

he nods, though I’m not sure if our meeting registers. We shake hands and he reminds me

that his name is Everett. I ask, -Are you handing in your assignments today?

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-Yeah. The ones I completed, anyway. I’m pretty screwed. You get everything

finished?

-Yeah. I don’t think I’ll do too well, though.

-Fuck it, so long as you pass. Ps get degrees, after all.

I chuckle as he stamps out his cigarette and begins to light another one. I ask, -Do you

mind if I sit with you for a bit?

-Nah, go ahead.

Everett slides over to allow room for me to sit even though the bench is long and there

is plenty of room. I say, -Hey, so look, I heard about James passing away. I know you knew

him, obviously. I’m sorry.

-Yeah. Thanks. That was bad.

-Were you guys really close?

-Yeah. For a while. We used to be in a band together.

-Oh, Died Red?

-Yeah. Um, how-

-He told me about it one time. We went for a drink once after class.

-Oh. Cool.

Everett crushes the second cigarette butt under his shoe. He stands up abruptly and

tells me good luck with my assignments. I wish him well. I watch his back for a long time

when he walks away from me. I watch him until he blends into a crowd and disappears for

good.

455

EVERETT:

Aaron’s email reads:

Dear Everett,

I’m emailing to notify you of a possible fail grade for subject CWR20001. This is

strictly uni business and I’m telling you for your own sake you must make an

appointment to come and see me regarding this. I believe we can sort it out.

I suggest we meet in my office (Room 613 – John Medley, East Tower) this

Wednesday at 11am. I’ll be there.

All the best,

Aaron

I’m hesitant about going into campus, but if Aaron could pass me through the writing

subject he teaches then I might have just enough grades to push on into second semester

without having to enrol in any make-up studies over the break. However, Aaron’s last email,

which he sent at 3am about a week ago, read:

Why the silent treatment? Haven’t heard from you in weeks. Let me buy you a drink.

P.S. I know where you graze.

I consider whether or not it’s really such a good idea to go in. The line ‘I believe we

can sort it out’ is ominous at best, but I don’t have any other option except to fail another

subject. I figure I can always blackmail him should it come to that and so I take the train into

the city, hoping this is brief.

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South Lawn is drowning in plastic bags when I walk across campus to find Aaron’s

office. The bags have spilled out of the bins, which look to have been knocked over by a

strong wind that has swept garbage all across campus. The university looks like a tip.

When I get to the John Medley I take the elevator to the top of the building and then

climb a further flight of stairs and locate Room 613. Aaron’s name is on a plaque on the door.

I knock before hearing his thick accent coming from inside telling me to enter. I open the

door to find him sitting in a small, plastic chair, his stubble grown out into a beard, wearing

an old cardigan where there is cigarette ash at the sleeve. He doesn’t greet me, doesn’t shake

my hand, just gestures at the spare seat beside him and I sit down, leaving the door open.

Aaron stands up to close the door, takes up his seat once more and asks, -So, are you

passing or failing?

-Ah, I don’t know.

He looks hungover. He may possibly even be drunk at this moment. His eyes are

swimming inside his head – loose and red and watery. I notice that the heavy silver ring is

missing from his middle finger. He says, -Let’s just cut right to it, alright?

-Um, sure.

-I’m going to pass you, Everett. I’m doing this on good faith, alright? But I’m only

going to let you scrape by. Is that fair? Do you think that’s fair?

-Yeah, whatever, a pass is good.

-Ps get degrees, as they say. You know that I can’t, in any good conscience, give you

a top mark, though.

-Of course.

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Aaron looks relieved. The lines in his face look darker today. He looks like he hasn’t

slept in a month. He says, -Now, one other thing before I let you go. Our email chain. I need

for you to delete it.

-Okay.

-I need you to do it now. I want to see you do it.

-You don’t trust me?

-Not really, no.

Aaron tilts his monitor screen my way and passes me the keyboard and mouse. I log

into my university account and delete the emails – Aaron inviting me out, Aaron asking to

buy me a drink. I wonder who’s looking over his shoulder or at least who he believes is

looking over it. He says, -Thank you. And, of course, you know we never had this

conversation.

-Yeah. I know.

I stand up to leave. As I’m about to open the door he says, -I meant to tell you that I

was sorry to hear James died. I know you went to school together.

-Oh, yeah. Ah, thanks.

-I’d like it if you called sometime. You know, stayed in touch.

-I don’t think so.

-Alright then.

I walk away without saying goodbye and take the elevator downstairs. Outside, I light

a cigarette and take a seat on a park bench. This might be my last time on campus, I think.

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There doesn’t seem to be much point in coming back to keep failing this way. While I’m

sitting contemplating this some random blonde girl comes up to me and says, -Hey.

-Hello.

-Mind if I join you for a smoke?

I look around. There are a lot of other places she could sit. I say, -If you want.

The blonde sits down and lights a cigarette. She has a book with her from the library.

I read the spine. It’s called Woman, Native, Other. She says, -I’m Ruth.

I shake her hand and tell her my name is Everett and she says, -I know. I was friends

with James. I’m really sorry about all that.

She’s the second person in a row to bring James up and I feel uncomfortable because

of this. She tells me she knows Died Red and I figure she must’ve been a fan, maybe one of

the girls who came to a few shows. I wonder if Brent slept with her. He probably did, she

looks like his type. She says, -This weather is so strange. It’s cold, but it’s, like, not cold, too.

-Yeah. I get what you mean. It should be colder.

-Exactly. Anyway, it doesn’t matter. I’m moving to Sydney tomorrow.

-Oh, cool. Like, forever, you mean?

-Maybe. I’m not sure yet.

I finish my cigarette. I really don’t want to be on campus anymore. I don’t want to be

around all these talking people. I say, -Hey, well, good luck with that, you know?

-Thanks.

I shake her hand. I want to get away from the groupie. As I walk off campus I make a

decision: I’m never coming back.

459

RUTH:

When I get home Tanya is listening to music in the living room, dancing around the lion

statue in high spirits. I laugh when she twirls around, her movements becoming exaggerated.

She rushes toward me and asks, -So, have you seen what Maddie posted on Facebook today?

-No. What?

-Holy shit, Ruth. Are you serious?

Tanya begins to laugh as she twirls herself into the kitchen to retrieve her phone from

the bench. She brings something up to show me, but holds the screen to her breast so I can’t

see it too soon. She says, -Okay, okay, so you won’t believe this – actually, you probably will

– but Mads got another tatt yesterday.

This would be the third or fourth in the past month. After getting the vine along her

wrist, it was then an extension of the pattern further up her arm, and then there was the

anchor on the inside of her index finger, and the treble clef behind her ear. Now this,

whatever the hell it is. I tell Tanya she’s right: I’m not surprised. This only makes her grin all

the more. She’s beaming when she says, -But this will surprise you. Okay, so it’s this massive

piece, all the way across her chest in cursive and it says-

Tanya holds her index finger and thumb like she’s trying to show the size of

something. She traces an arc in the air in front of her own chest as she announces what

Maddie has tattooed in this position: -Lady Luck.

-What?

Tanya laughs and laughs. She says, -That’s at least what it’s meant to say, anyway.

But- Well, here, see for yourself.

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She passes me the phone. I am looking at a picture of Maddie’s chest permanently

scarred now in cursive lettering, the raised black ink and the red rash that surrounds it. Tanya

says, -Tell me what you think it says.

I can’t speak. It’s too awful, too obvious. It doesn’t say Lady Luck at all. When you

look at it, because of the curly writing, it just looks like it says Lady Fuck. This is what is

branded across Maddie’s chest now forever, all that anyone will ever see, all anyone will

want to see.

-Oh my God, Tan. It says Lady Fuck. For crying out loud.

Tanya laughs and laughs. She laughs at the shock on my face. I want to punch Maddie

for doing this to herself. I want to call her parents and ask if it’s alright that I have her

committed. But then I laugh too. I laugh because it’s not me, it’s someone else, someone

else’s bad idea. Someone else’s stupid decision for once. And because I’m not going to be

here anymore. As of tomorrow this is no longer me and my world and my mess by

association. I am cutting the strings and I can laugh as the balloons ascend out of reach.

When finally I manage to stop giggling I say, -You’ve got to be kidding. Why did she

do this?

-How should I know? I tried to talk her out of it. No points for guessing who went

with her when she got it done.

-Gadge?

-Bingo.

-Jesus Christ. She has such beautiful skin, though.

-I know. Anyway, I didn’t want you to see it for the first time in person. We’re

meeting them on Chapel Street at six.

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I roll my eyes and check the time display on my phone. Tanya pours a couple glasses

of wine and hands one to me. More distressing than Maddie’s tattoo is the fact she’s in a

committed long-term relationship with Gadge. I change the music in the living room,

scrolling through the wheel on the iPod until I land on Interpol and blast ‘Evil’. The lion is

looking at me in judgement and I tell him, It is my last night and I will allow myself one more

tumble down the corridor.

Maddie and Gadge are sitting at a big table outside Yellow Bird when we arrive in Windsor.

It’s Mexican night (three dollar tacos, cheap tequila and beer) and they are drinking

margaritas and arguing good-naturedly about music, something about Solange Knowles. We

exchange the usual greetings before a waiter comes out and takes another drink order and

Tanya and I ask for margaritas too. Maddie laments, -It’s so sad you’re leaving, Ruth. I can’t

believe it. What are we going to do?

Gadge asks, -Is it permanent?

-I’m not sure yet, but I think so. I just want to see my mum, you know? It’s been ages.

I’m kind of playing it by ear.

Maddie is fiddling with her nose ring, turning the loop over and over through the hole

in her nostril. I can’t keep my eye from the tatt across her chest: Lady Fuck. She asks, -Are

you going to keep studying?

-Maybe. I might take next semester off, though. I could always work part-time for

mum and save some money. I’m really not sure. She told me the business was doing well, so

maybe she could use an extra pair of hands.

462

The margaritas come out, thick chunks of salt plastered to the rim of the glass. Tanya

toasts my leaving the city and we clink glasses and I drink the cold, green cocktail and look

out to the street. Cars cruise by with music blaring, thudding bass. Across the road some

strung out guys, wearing dirty tracksuit pants and singlets, yell at each other. People on the

street move around these men as if they are not there at all. They don’t exist. One of the men,

I notice, has a Southern Cross tattooed on his right bicep. When I notice this it’s like a bomb

going off, this realisation that nothing in this city means anything to anyone. I know that

Sydney won’t be any different, not with its race riots and Bondi bimbos, but I need the

change.

I watch my friends as they talk, order food, order more drinks, pick at a plate of tacos

when it arrives. Mostly they ignore the food. I don’t know why they won’t gorge themselves.

They must be starving. They must be as famished as I am – for substance, for change, for life.

Across the street the men are moved on by a supermarket employee, an Indian guy who

shouts at them and tells them to move away from the entrance of the shop or he will call the

police. The men yell back, call him names, racial slurs. I am scared by and for these men,

scared for the supermarket employee, too. But then, I am scared of my own shadow – of

Maddie’s tattoo and all the markings I see people have adorned themselves with; scared of

corridors, passageways, and darkness; and scared by the death of a boy I never really knew,

that only Tanya knows hurt me. Melbourne isn’t afraid of death, though. This city doesn’t

believe in dying – it lives for youth and sex, following the beat of a misguided drummer who

has mistaken idiocy for hedonism. I realise now that life is a small, fragile thing that needs to

be nurtured. Melbourne just doesn’t get it. My friends don’t understand.

After dinner Gadge goes to the bathroom. Maddie leans across the table and in this

odd gesture of intimacy tells Tanya and me that he has really been struggling with the passing

of his school mate. Maddie speaks of Gadge as if they have been together for a decade; she

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even uses his real name sometimes. Tanya glances at me. Maddie does not know what

occurred that night a month ago and she never will. This disconnection haunts me. We are all

so completely unknown to one another. It is hard to swallow the fact that everything in life

comes down to a simple matter of perspective.

When Gadge returns to the table he and Maddie say goodbye. They’re off clubbing

and want to know if we’ll join them. I tell them I need an early night, because I have to fly

out tomorrow and want to feel fresh on the aeroplane. Maddie hugs me for a long time, she

says, -Don’t leave for good. It’ll be too sad here if you do.

I laugh. I say, -We’ll see.

-I’m going to miss you so so much, Ruth. I can’t believe you’re actually going.

Gadge slips a small baggie into my handbag and tells me to enjoy my last night in

Melbourne. He tells me one last pill won’t hurt the flight tomorrow. I smile and say thanks

before giving him a hug and a peck on the cheek. He grips me too tightly when we embrace. I

realise that in the last four years I haven’t spent longer than a week without seeing Maddie or

Tanya, without moving in this circle. It’s going to be weird not being here, but it’ll be better.

After Gadge and Maddie leave Tanya asks what I want to do next. I tell her I want

one last night out in the city. Just us. She smiles.

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EVERETT:

My father is in town. He calls to ask if I’m free for lunch tomorrow and I tell him yeah, sure

and we make plans to get together before he flies out to Singapore on Saturday. After he

hangs up I wonder why he never contacted me before leaving New York and why it is he left

it so late to make plans with me to catch up.

I walk outside by the pool and attempt to locate Gatsby, but the book has dispersed

into the body of water now entirely – the pool and the novel now one. I promised Grace I’d

go and visit her at the clinic before visiting hours are over today. I’ve got a few hours to get

over to East Melbourne before then so I drink back a couple scotch-sodas to work up the

courage to see her. Since James died, it’s been downhill and because I haven’t seen her since

she was admitted I’m frightened of what I might see.

Despite what the blonde girl had said at uni, it’s really cold inside the three storeys. I

put on an overcoat and there’s something about drinking scotch inside the house and wearing

this big jacket of mine that makes me feel old-fashioned, part of another era. I drink enough

scotch until I feel solid enough to call for a cab to take me over to the clinic. I desperately

don’t want Grace’s mortality exposed to me, not after James’ funeral. Not after carrying out

the coffin from a packed church in Brunswick with Brent and Stephen, out to the waiting

hearse, while one of the funeral directors – this older woman in a dark navy suit with the Le

Pine Funerals insignia sewn onto the breast pocket – cried as much as anyone else, and where

the final track from Hole, a song James wrote and named ‘Our Story’, played as we exited the

church. I don’t want any of this. I want it all blocked out. I need for it to go away. I had

thought that with James’ death there was a definitive end point to things, but it wasn’t the

case at all. Because bullshit always carries over. It never stops. Nothing changes.

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The taxi gets me over to East Melbourne in twenty minutes and when I arrive outside

Grace’s room I can see her on her bed. She is lying very still on her back on a bed that is very

white and her face is gaunt and there is a line of sweat across her brow. I observe all this from

the corridor, drumming up the courage to enter the room.

I drag my feet across the grey-white carpet where, in patches, floor has been worn

down to a fine, smooth surface. When I come close to Grace I notice that her skin is pale and

clammy and that lotion has been rubbed into her arms. I notice the fine hairs on her forearms,

the clusters of these same fine hairs beneath her chin and along her upper lip that have almost

mummified her in this bizarre light fuzz. These hairs catch against the sunlight when she tilts

her head towards me. I am looking at an artefact, not a person. Not Grace. She says, -Hey.

Ev. How are you?

Her voice is croaky and weak, like she is just waking up. I sit down on the chair

beside her bed and I hold her hand and I say, -I’m okay. Good. I’m sorry I took so long to

come visit. How are you feeling?

-Tired. But I’m alright. You shaved your moustache off.

-Yeah.

-Oh, I kind of liked it.

Her voice is a whisper. I touch my bald upper lip. Grace says, -You missed Stephen

and Michele. They were here earlier.

-Cool. That’s good.

-Have you seen them much?

-No. It’s the end of semester, though. I’ve had assignments.

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She smiles. She doesn’t bother exposing the lie, doesn’t get caught up with the details.

I ask, -How are they doing?

-Michele’s struggling. But, she puts on a brave face. She brought me over some

Aesop cream, for my skin. It was a nice gift.

-Cool.

-I have something for you. Open that top drawer for me.

She motions to the chest of drawers by the bed and I open the top drawer and remove

the cube-shaped object wrapped in silver paper. -What is it?

-It’s for your birthday. I know it’s early, but I wanted to give it to you now. I couldn’t

wait.

-So, I should open it then?

-Please.

I remove the wrapping paper. Underneath there is a small wooden box with a hinged

lid. I look at Grace. She says, -Open it. Come on.

When I open the box, I’m shocked. Something from the past that I thought was

broken is now mended. She asks, -What do you think?

-Wow. Thank you – so much. Where did you even find it?

-That’s for me to know.

I remove the greyhound brooch and examine it in my fingers. Its surface is smooth,

the dog elongated, captured in a pose mid-sprint – its front paws and hind legs stretched out

in opposing directions. The brooch is sleek and silver-grey like the wrapping paper, the dog’s

one eye this odd orange colour. I have to look very closely to find the hairline split that severs

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the dog’s hind legs and tail from its body. It has been put back together with precision and

care. I ask, -Who fixed it?

-I did.

-But I thought it got thrown out.

-No. I held onto it. It was so beautiful, Everett. I’m sorry that I broke it.

-Don’t you want it?

-It’s not that I don’t, it’s just that I thought it should be with you. There’s something

about it that’s very you. Every time I looked at it– I mean, I absolutely hated you that day.

But every time I looked it while it was broken I used to think of you – of us – and it used to

make me angry for what was broken.

I smile. That Christmas Day in Dublin, years ago, after school had ended, was one of

the worst days of my entire life. We fought horrendously when Grace had dropped this

brooch – my gift to her – and it had broken on the hotel room floor. We had screamed at each

other so loudly that security had been called to our room. It was early in the morning and I

was already drunk and I had called her a bitch and a fool until she had taken it upon herself to

smash all the bottles of alcohol on the bathroom floor so that I wouldn’t be able to drink.

Later, we sat opposite one another at a table in the hotel’s dining room and we ate little of the

food that the buffet provided.

Looking at her now on the bed Grace is stripped back and bare, with nothing. She is

not wealthy or drunk, not tanned, not on drugs, not smoking, not dancing, not naked and in

the dark. She is not pretending to be happy, not surrounded by people, not talking or crying or

asking questions that I cannot answer. She is not filled with hate or jealousy or spite, not

resenting me, not thinking less of me, not wanting to be loved, not needing to be noticed.

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She’s just terribly sick, a smiling skeleton, my frail angel. I kiss her forehead. It’s not fair. I

feel like I should be the one in that bed.

She reaches out and touches my face. She smiles and says, -Put it on for me.

I pin the brooch to my coat. -How’s it look?

-Great. It suits you. It’s your spirit animal.

We laugh. Of all the spirit animals, mine is a fucking greyhound. I look at Grace, feel

my face tense up with fear. I become serious all of a sudden. I say, -I do love you, Grace.

You know that, don’t you? I mean, I know it’s been hard to tell, but I-

-I know. It’s okay.

She tells me that she’s tired, that I should go before visiting hours are over. She

doesn’t want to hear me talk about love. I know it must kill her to hear me use the word. But

we have reached an understanding and that’s more than enough for today. I swear to her that I

will be back soon and she nods and we kiss each other and say our goodbyes.

Outside, with the brooch pinned to my coat, I realise that I don’t want to go home

alone tonight. I think about calling Mark, but it’s been so long since we spoke – maybe six

weeks or more. I can’t go home alone. That’s all I know. Because I think that if I do, I might

cry.

469

RUTH:

I follow Tanya up the stairs through Curtain House, all the way to the top of the building

to the Rooftop Bar. The stairwell is hot and smells of perfume and sweat and the sour smell

of alcohol that has been spilled on the steps by people sneaking out with their drinks. The

rooftop is crowded and noisy – blaring house and laughter and exclamations coming from the

offcuts of many conversations, the occasional shout/scream/yahoo that I catch as they come

drifting through the smoky air. We walk through the horde, past girls wearing leather skirts

and caramel-coloured dresses, wearing g-strings underneath, noticeable from the lack of VPL

when closely assessed.

Tanya perches herself on an available bar stool, squishing in to allow space for me as

she orders a round. I climb up onto another stool, dump my handbag on the floor under our

feet as a double vodka-soda is placed before me, lime wedge floating amongst the ice. There

are many young, lonely girls in this bar tonight pretending to be happy. Girls with keys in

their handbags that open the front doors of empty houses – houses with white kitchens filled

with stainless steel appliances, shiny surfaces; houses where, in the backyard, pool water lies

still and freezing, not moving despite the wind blowing across its surface. Tanya yells into

my ear as I look out at the people, -What are you thinking about now?

She looks perfect, her teeth white, hair straightened, lips glossy, eyes large and

voluminous, like they can see everything, eyes you could be sucked into, get lost within. I

yell back, -Nothing.

-That sounds like a lie. You’re always thinking something.

I slurp the vodka back, drain it, and order another round. I want to lose myself once

more to this city. I want to make myself hideous one last time before I can leave it all behind.

Tanya says, -I don’t know what to say to you, Ruth. I’m really sorry.

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-Why?

-You’ve been miserable ever since you moved in. I don’t know how to help you. I

guess I’m a bad influence.

-No, it’s fine. It’s not you.

-That’s crap. I’m a bad person. We both know that. I’m not good, like you.

-You’re not a bad person, Tan. I just can’t be here anymore. That’s all.

More drinks are placed before us and Tanya nods and smiles, touching her glass to

mine as we leave the conversation behind. We put the ‘real talk’ in the rear view, stomp

down on the accelerator, pour in the vodka. Tonight is about the nothing, the barely anything,

as it has been all along. We take the pills Gadge placed in my handbag and later, after the

warmth floods my body, I dance closely with Tanya whose mouth I cannot stop looking at,

whose mouth is Lindsay’s mouth, a mouth that is a tunnel, a corridor that I want to fall down

into, like so many men now can and have and will. Because Lindsay Belle = She. Is.

Available.

Back home we practically fall out of the cab before staggering inside and lying down together

on Tanya’s bed. Tanya runs to the kitchen to grab water and a bottle of wine before coming

back where she kicks off her shoes and sits cross-legged on the bed. She rolls a large joint

and we smoke and drink and hydrate and talk and smoke. We listen to all kinds of music

together, mainly stuff from the past that we reminisce over listening to in school – old hits by

the Killers and Muse. We listen to Jeff Buckley and some songs from the Garden State

soundtrack. Imogen Heap. Kings of Leon. Yeah Yeah Yeahs.

The sun is nearly up when Tanya says, -Do you remember that time in school?

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I laugh. -Sorry, Tan, I think you’re going to need to be a little more specific.

-Well, it only happened once.

My mouth is dry from the ecstasy and from smoking. When I swallow it feels as if a

billiard ball is lodged in my throat. We have never talked about that time before. I say, softly,

almost hoping she won’t hear me, -Yeah, I do.

I drop the end of a cigarette into the empty bottle of wine and swish the bottle about

so that the butt is extinguished by the dregs. I say nothing until Tanya probes, -Well?

-Well what?

-How come it never happened again?

-I don’t know.

-Did you want it to?

Did I want it to? Of course. I have spent countless hours thinking of that time in

school. Despite the fact we shared a dorm together, for whatever reason it never happened

again, and we have not spoken of it until now. Part of me wants to disintegrate and to be

swept away, but I embrace this awkwardness and I tell her, -Yes. But, Tanya, you know that

I’m not-

-I know. There’s just some people sometimes. They’re special.

-Yeah. It’s funny like that.

-I love you, you know?

-I know. I love you too.

-

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-

-But you do realise that after tomorrow I don’t think I’ll ever see you again.

-I know.

473

EVERETT:

It’s around 10pm by the time I’m walking up Flinders Lane, drunk and desperate and going

out of my mind with frustration, the brooch still pinned to my coat, this funny badge of

remorse and confusion. I watch as a group of boys pile out of a Maxi Taxi at the top of

AC/DC Lane. They are all wearing skinny jeans and v-neck t-shirts and leather jackets and

boots, all vaguely Mod-ish looking, and they are drunk and loud. A McDonald’s takeaway

bag falls out of the cab and into the gutter, spilling burger wrappers and serviettes. One of the

boys kicks the bag into the storm water drain while the last remaining passenger inside the

taxi haggles with the driver over the fare. It turns into a loud argument that ends when one of

the boys on the street sticks his head back inside the cab and yells, -Shut the fuck up, ya

stinky curry.

The boys go bounding down AC/DC Lane, telling the driver to get fucked. One of

them boots a McDonald’s cup down the lane like a football, showering a group of goths

smoking by the dumpsters outside Cherry Bar in ice and cola. The boys laugh hysterically

and the goths give them the finger. I can’t help thinking that the boys are exactly the way we

were at one point.

I walk down AC/DC too and join the queue outside Third. Everyone in the line looks

bored, but the queue is mercifully short and so I light a cigarette and wait patiently. The line

moves forward slowly and once I’m inside, speaking with the girl working the door, I give

the name of an old list I used to be on that I’m not even sure exists anymore, but that,

thankfully, still does. The girl waives the cover charge and I walk through to the club where it

is much warmer inside, but I won’t take off my coat, fearing that if I pay for cloaking I might

lose the brooch again.

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In the corner, near what looks like an empty DJ booth but isn’t, there are two girls

engaging a guy in a three-way kiss, the three of them trading saliva and laughing all the

while. One of the girls’ dresses is so short that I can see clearly the bandolier tattoo that

wraps around her upper thigh. And then I make my way over to the bar where I order a

scotch-soda. The bartender puts in too much ice and I give him a dirty look, but he doesn’t

notice.

I stand around for a while and text Gadge to see if he’s still dropping by and he says

he should be making his usual rounds and will be at Third closer to 11pm. I don’t feel like I

can wait that long. All I can think of as I stand at the bar and try to catch the attention of a

good-looking boy with sandy hair is James’ body decomposing beneath the ground and I

need something to help block this out. I remember reading somewhere that fingernails and

hair continue to grow for a long time after someone has died and been buried and each time I

close my eyes I conjure the same image of his body: this horrible, ugly skeleton with long,

long hair and these long yellow toenails.

All around me tall, slender girls are drinking what the club has nicknamed ‘Rave

Juice’: zip-lock bags filled with ice and vodka and soda water and a glo-stick. There’s maybe

some other stuff in them too, but dotted all around the club are the brightly coloured bags

glowing in the dark room – vibrant pinks and oranges and reds everywhere.

I last until 11. Gadge shows up with the blonde girl with too many piercings that he

brought over to my house the day we visited James’ family. Everything and everyone is a

reminder of that time a month ago it seems. The girl has a giant tattoo on her chest above her

tits that I didn’t notice then. I buy some ecstasy and Gadge asks who I’m here with and I

make up a lie about going out tonight with a bunch of new friends from uni. He asks, -Where

are they?

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-They left to grab some food. They’ll be back soon.

-Alright, man. Take it easy, okay? We gotta keep moving.

-No worries. Thanks.

Gadge makes a choo-choo noise and motions like a train leaving the station, his date

giggling along with him and pretending to be the carriage behind his locomotive.

I drop and step out onto the dance-floor, pursuing the sandy-haired boy, moving in

next to him. He’s a good catch – a perfect little jock, maybe even played rugby at Scotch,

hopefully with a fat cock. He’s wearing designer jeans and a striped t-shirt that I saw on a

display model in the window of a Country Road recently, and in the light of the club his

muscles are better defined than perhaps they really are, giving off this illusion of perfection.

He looks like he works out and eats healthy. I can see him lying on the beach in Sorrento.

Yes, I think, this is the one I want. A whole-man.

Over the din of the music I ask if he’s holding anything and he smiles and says he has

some speed and I tell him I’ll trade. He asks, -What’ve you got?

-Googs.

-Sweet.

We go to the bathroom together, do some of the speed. I feed him one of the pills I

bought. The boy looks concerned and I grab at his crotch, watch as the concern goes away.

He touches back, rubs against me. I say, -Wanna get out of here?

-With you?

-What do you think?

-I dunno. I’m not gay.

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-Me neither. I still feel like fucking around, though. You interested?

-

-Come on. I’ll pay for the cab. Just come back to mine for a drink. Just one. You can

party with your girlfriends anytime. Think about it; I might not ever be in this mood ever

again in my whole life. How many moments in life are you going to let pass you by?

He laughs. He says, -Okay, but I wanna buy another drink here first. I paid a fortune

on entrance, let me at least dance a couple more songs.

-Sure.

I follow the jock back out into the club. I can feel the sweat creeping down my skin,

on my back, down my legs, my jeans soaking up the moisture. My feet are tired but I

continue to bounce up and down with everybody else. The boy looks at me, into me. Animal

lust. A naughty little rich boy, too. A perfect blonde jock. Maybe someone I could hurt. I’d

like that. A boy ready to give himself over to something worse. Me. All I know is that I’m

going to fuck this kid and I want for it to hurt. I want to do some damage, because I need to

feel something. Because my life feels like a collection of things no one knows about. And

because, the truth is, I’m not sure how else to grieve.

After we leave the club we get into a taxi on Flinders Lane and I give the driver

instructions back to my house, which he punches into his GPS. On Russell Street, as the cab

crawls by in the slow-moving traffic, we watch a fight that has broken out between two

groups of men. A man is walking between traffic with his nose spread across his face, blood

soaked into the collar of his shirt. His girlfriend, standing in the median strip between the

lanes of traffic, is screaming and crying. The jock just laughs. He says, disgusted, -Fucken

wogs.

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The anonymous men continue to throw punches. One of them, falling to the ground

between traffic, has his face kicked into the rear bumper of a stopped car. The man lays prone

on the road as our taxi pulls off, the traffic ahead of us surging forward suddenly. For all I

know I might’ve just witnessed someone die, but the jock beside me tugging at my coat pulls

my attention from this. I pull at his shirt, make him move – a little game of tug-of-war

playing out that I derive real satisfaction in winning. He moves across to me and I let him

kiss me. He grins. Looking at him I am thinking that he is letting in the worst.

Back at the three storeys the jock walks across the marble foyer and into the living room.

This is all normal to him. Unlike Mark, he doesn’t say ‘wow’, isn’t at all moved by the size

of my house. He asks for a beer. I tell him I only have scotch and he just shrugs, watches as I

pour two large glasses, neat.

He asks if I want to do another line and I say, -Yeah. Let’s go down to my room.

Downstairs, the jock forms lines on my desk. After he snorts one I notice that he is

rubbing his cock through his jeans and it occurs to me that he is so high that he will do

virtually anything I tell him. I say, -Take your clothes off. I wanna look at you.

He smiles, slides his jeans down as he kicks off his shoes, removes his t-shirt. He is

wearing a pair of tight Bonds briefs with a floral print. I do a line, snap another pill in two

and feed him another half. I get hard looking at the boy. He’s maybe two years younger than

me, maybe even three. His cheeks are flushed and I take in the freckles on his shoulders. I

take off my clothes and lie back on my bed. I say, -Come and suck my cock.

He goes to work on me. Only, I’m not free-falling this time. It’s different. Looking

down at him, there’s something childish about his eyes, which dart up to catch glimpses of

my face while he blows me; that puts me off and I start to lose my erection. I pull my legs

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back and tell the jock to eat my arse and he complies without hesitation and I feel my dick

grow harder again.

After a while I stand up and tell him to remove his underwear and to lie back. I make

him spread his legs and notice that his arsehole has been waxed and I wonder who he’s done

this for. I spit on my cock, spit onto his puckered, pinky/purple hole. When I press into him

he moans. I retract, loosen him with a finger. He starts tugging on his cock and so I slap him

hard across the face. This shocks him. I say, -You don’t get to have any fun until I say so.

I twist his nipple, push his legs back again and try once more, easing in the head,

making him groan, pushing in deeper and making him spread wider. I’m still looking for

something here, though, and I don’t seem to be getting it. I spit onto my shaft and push in

hard, start thrusting, causing him to breathe deep, clench his teeth, concentrate on locking it

out internally. I know that look. Start the free-fall.

He claws at my thighs, trying to control my movements. I clasp his wrists, force them

back over his head and stare into his face. Pump hard. Watch the childish eyes turn black,

clouded with doubt. In his face, I snarl, -What’s the worst thing you know?

-What?

Thrust hard. Ask again, -What’s the worst thing you know? Something about you

maybe, a secret.

-I don’t get it.

-Fucking think.

Between breaths I watch as he thinks. He tries to get his hand away from my grip, but

I hold onto his wrists more tightly. He says, -Can you slow it down just a little?

-Not until you answer my fucking question.

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I thrust again. He squeals – this pathetic little sound escapes his lips. I can feel his

flaccid cock pressed against my belly. I scream in his face, -Fucken tell me!

-My parents are fat.

-What?

-My parents are fat. My parents are fat. My parents are fat. Okay?

There are tears in his eyes when he says this. He cries, -What do you want? They’re

fucking obese, alright? They’re overweight.

I pull out of the jock, the little half-man. I say, -Put your clothes on and get the fuck

out of my house.

The boy sobs, collecting his clothes from the floor, fumbling as he puts them on too

fast. He says, -What’s your fucking problem, dude? What’s wrong with you?

-Get out, I said.

-What the hell was that, man? Huh?

I locate my wallet on the desk, take out a fifty. -Here. For a taxi. Now, go.

-I don’t want your fucken money, man.

After the jock leaves I go upstairs and shower in my parents’ bathroom, letting the

steam build up until I can no longer see my reflection in the mirror. And in the mist, alone,

with no feelings except for my pumping heart, overstimulated from the speed and the ecstasy

and the alcohol, I cry for a long, long while under the running showerhead. The tears just

keep coming, they are an endless stream. Nothing in my life works, I realise. I am broken, I

acknowledge. But I’ve never been able to sort this out. And maybe it’s okay. It’s just the way

things are. Nothing changes.

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CHAPTER 9

RUTH:

Lying in Tanya’s bed hungover the first thing that I notice is that my eyes are dry and that I

have not cried in my sleep. The next thing I register is her voice coming from the kitchen

when she yells, -Where’s my friggin’ handbag?

I roll my eyes and shout, -On the hall stand. Where you always leave it.

I walk out into the corridor where I witness her pick up the bag from the antique piece

of furniture. She has a grin on her face when she turns to me and says, -I’ve gotta stop doing

that. Ready for some brekky?

-Yes. I’m starving.

I pull on some shoes. Tanya takes out her keys and locks the door behind us as we

walk outside.

Three blocks from the house we take up a booth in a café along Swan Street where we

order coffees and browse the menu. Tanya tells me breakfast is on her – a farewell gift. I tell

her thanks. I’m on less than five hours sleep and the menu is a blur in front of me. This deep

aching tiredness consumes each part of my body.

When the waitress comes back to our table with coffee I order poached eggs and

avocado on toast. Tanya orders the same, but with roasted tomatoes on the side and the

waitress leaves again. There are things I want to ask Tanya before I leave. I want to know

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about the fight she had with Callum in the city last year when I had to come and pick her up. I

want to know what exactly she was doing with Rob the night I was downstairs hooking up

with Maddie and Gadge (but I’m keeping that to myself). I want to know why she doesn’t go

back to university or when the last time she saw her own mother was. And I want to know

how good or bad it is to be Lindsay Belle. I have thought often that Lindsay might contribute

something quite negative to the world – a cause, perhaps, for James’ treatment of me – that

once you sell your body and your images, soon enough boys get round to thinking we’re all

for the taking. But I do not ask her these questions. Instead, I sip my coffee and think how

nice it would be with a cigarette. But today I’ve quit. Officially.

Tanya says, -I’m so happy for you, Ruth. I’ll miss you, but I’m happy. You shouldn’t

ever come back here. I know you won’t.

I don’t say anything. Perhaps Tanya knows me better than anybody, even myself.

There’s still a part of me that thinks maybe this is only temporary, that one day I’ll revisit

Melbourne. But if I look deep inside, tell the truth, I don’t see myself coming back either. I

want to reassure Tanya and say something like I’ll be back, I swear, but as I’m thinking this

our plates of food are put in front of us and we say little else for the rest of the meal. I watch

Tanya eat every morsel of her food. Every last bite.

After breakfast we take a long walk back home and stop off in the children’s playground near

the house. We sit on the swings. There is no one around. My taxi to the airport comes in an

hour, so we kill a few moments on the swings, running back over the details of my departure.

Tanya says she’ll send up what I don’t take with me today in the following weeks, the bigger

items once I’ve settled in. What I can’t take – my bed, for instance – she will sell for cash and

transfer the money to my account for me, or, if she finds a new housemate, work out some

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other arrangement and send me some money. I tell her not to worry, but she insists.

Laughing, she says, -Moving you out’s going to be a cinch, seeing as you never even

unpacked properly.

I laugh, thinking of my room filled with the still-unpacked boxes. From the corner of

the playground, this tiny cat emerges and strides over to us across the tanbark. The cat rubs

up against my leg and purrs and begins to cut a figure eight between my legs. Tanya makes a

face, feigning jealousy over the attention I’m receiving. I say to the cat, -Hello there, little

guy.

I pat his head. The cat does not have a collar. No markings at all. I say to Tanya, -I

think you just found a new house mate.

-Do you think he’s lost?

-I dunno. He doesn’t have a tag.

I can see that she likes the cat and wants to keep it. He walks over to her and does the

same: purrs and rubs and cuts a figure eight between her legs. She beams. We don’t pick up

the cat, but when we walk home he follows us all the way to the front door and Tanya says

that this is a good enough sign to allow him inside. We let him in and Tanya pours some milk

into a small plate and the cat laps it up. I say, -That was fast. Looks like he’s yours now.

-I think it’s you. You’re good luck, Ruth. You have to name him before you go.

I pause and think. I say, -Tatt.

-What?

-Tatt. The bad tatt-hating cat.

Tanya laughs. -You’re cruel. Tatt, it is then.

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When the taxi arrives we say a tearful goodbye on the street. I hold onto her for a long

time, not wanting to let her go, feeling that our separation might mean my end. We have been

together for so many years. How can I survive without her? But before I know it I am getting

inside the car and Tanya and Tatt are standing outside a minor’s cottage in Richmond, the

two of them waving goodbye, her index finger and thumb animating the cat’s paw.

And then they are gone.

484

EVERETT:

My father is looking very nautical, dressed in tan slacks, white shirt and navy blazer,

flirting with a petite brunette waitress up at the bar as I approach him. -Son, how are we?

My father stands to greet me. It’s all business. A firm handshake and a slap on the

back. -Good. Good, dad. How’ve you been?

-Overworked, as usual. Been run off my feet with the new position, but I can’t

complain. How’s university treating you?

-Yeah, good. My subjects were actually really interesting this semester.

-Good to hear, son. You should enjoy it. The best years of your life, I’m telling you.

-Yeah. Definitely.

I force a smile. Maybe for your generation, I think. Flashes of the jock, of Mark, of

Aaron, of Grace lying on a bed, of James lying in his coffin. I’m not sure that my father even

knows about James, but there’s no way I’m going to tell him. There’s no point. He buys me a

beer and we chat about New York, about where he’s off to next (Singapore), how my mother

and brother and sister are doing.

After a couple of beers I follow my father up to the dining room. Upstairs, at

Sullivan’s, I can see out across the ocean from St Kilda beach. I find the endless body of

water unnerving, daunting somehow when I look into it, its vastness. The waves lap against

the shore, the water constantly rolling over itself, onto itself, consuming itself.

My father orders a tonne of seafood – prawns to start, scallops in pesto for a main

course. I don’t feel like eating much; the small sea creatures make me feel kind of nauseous. I

drink another beer and have the soup of the day, which is pumpkin and something, and which

485

I insist on cracking too much pepper into, wanting it hotter, spicier, because I can barely taste

it.

After lunch my father suggests we have another drink back at his hotel. I tell him fine

and we take his service car over to Prahran, where he’s staying at The Olsen.

At the hotel, nothing happens. My father drinks two scotches, tells me that he’s glad

I’m taking good care of the house while everyone is away, then mentions he has to get up

early for his flight. He wishes me an early happy birthday and I thank him for lunch. We

shake hands. Before we part he hands me two hundred dollars, then pats me on the back. He

says, -I’m glad you’re doing so well, son. Go and buy a few CDs or something, for your

birthday.

Or something, I think. I say, -Thanks.

I push the money into my back pocket before leaving the hotel. I roam around Chapel

Street for a while, browse through the CDs in JB HiFi, but nothing really interests me and I

decide to leave.

On the train home a good-looking girl sitting opposite me is staring out the window. I

look at her for the longest time before noticing the dirt under her thumbnail, which instantly

repulses me so that I have to stand up and switch seats. When I get up to move the girl says to

me, in this glassy-eyed trance, -This train is really hot. I’m so hot.

But it isn’t hot at all. It’s actually freezing on board.

486

RUTH:

At the airport I check my bags in and walk through the terminal to my gate. After passing

through security I check my handbag, rifling through it to find what needs emptying out. I

find a bin and throw out my last two cigarettes and a bunch of old receipts. But as I dig

through I find something I didn’t know I had. At the bottom of my bag there is a cheap plastic

mask with a piece of elastic stapled to the back. The mask is that of a lion cub. I don’t know

where it is from. I cannot recall ever purchasing or being given this mask and the thought that

it has been placed there or, worse yet, has somehow materialised from nowhere unnerves me.

I go to throw the mask into the bin as well, but I find my arm hovering above the rubbish and

unable to toss it inside. Instead I put the mask back in my bag. Maybe it’s good luck, I think.

Maybe I’ll need it.

I find an empty seat outside my gate and wait to board the plane. I put my headphones

in and look around at the other people. There is another girl my age, alone and listening to

music also, and I wonder whether, like me, she is leaving this place behind for good, too.

I sit for about an hour before the plane is ready to board. A lady from Jetstar makes

the announcement and I queue with everybody else and have my ticket checked by the same

woman before walking down the cold, metal passageway attached to the plane. I find my seat

and strap myself in, turning up the volume on an old Devastations song as we taxi down the

runway. My stomach does a little flip as we take off, the engines powering up and propelling

us forward, up into the air.

In the past weeks in the news there have been reports of many violent attacks in

Melbourne. Along the Yarra, on the Tan Track, six joggers were assaulted by the same man

dressed in black, who struck out at them from behind the bushes to grab and molest them. In

the CBD a young boy from Spain, a sixteen year old, the son of a diplomat, was arrested and

487

charged for raping female office workers at knife point, striking in broad daylight in the

laneways off Collins and Russell. And in Fitzroy a newscaster was kidnapped and raped and

butchered, her body left by the side of a road to the north of the city.

Looking back from the aeroplane window as the buildings below diminish, I feel

nothing but relief. In the air I am safe. I am leaving it all behind, going away at last. I am

leaving behind a place inhabited by strange, dead boys and lonely, terrified girls. I am leaving

behind emptiness, and the darkness of all those corridors that have haunted me for too long.

488

EVERETT:

I find myself on Sydney Road sometime around 9pm, walking through the throngs of people

outside the bars. I’m hit by the vibrancy of the place. I miss it. I miss the smell of incense and

hookah pipes and cigarettes and car fuel. Miss all the noises and the sights.

Standing at the bottom of Mark’s apartment building, I reach out to press the buzzer

for Flat 5, but retract my hand. I feel nervous, scared he won’t take me in. I pat my pockets

anxiously for no reason, maybe needing to make sure that I’m a complete person, a man with

a wallet and a phone. I realise that my father gave me money today, but when I check my

pocket the two hundred dollars isn’t there and I guess that it must’ve fallen out afterwards,

when I was on the train or waiting at the station. I kick myself, but it’s no great loss, I

suppose. You’re such an idiot, the voice says.

I breathe in. Then I press the buzzer. The intercom crackles. -Who is it?

-Ah, hey, Mark, it’s me. It’s, ah, Everett, man.

-Oh, shit, Ev, hey. What are you doing here?

-Ah, like, I dunno. You know?

-You wanna come up?

-Um, yeah, if, like, that’s cool.

-I guess so. Come on up. I’ll buzz you in.

The door screeches and I push down on the handle and walk through into the building

and then up the stairs to Mark’s. Inside the flat, nothing has changed. There are dishes piled

high in the kitchen sink, the mattress on the floor is unmade, and the arm of the couch,

pressed up against the wall, has finally fallen off. I say, -It’s good to see you.

489

-Yeah. You too.

Mark and I don’t acknowledge the past. There are no apologies. I appreciate this. I

appreciate that he isn’t looking for one. He just passes me a stubbie of Melbourne Bitter and

asks if I feel like playing a game, gesturing at the old PS2 beneath the television. -Yeah. Sure.

Sounds cool.

We play Crash Team Racing for hours, passing the time telling stories and laughing

and drinking beer. I notice the dust motes inside his apartment, floating, suspended in the air.

The way they float looks like freedom, but I know this is only an illusion. They’re not free

because they’re not living, not alive and with consciousness.

Much later, Mark runs a hot bath when it starts to get cold. When I strip down to get

into the bath he examines the greyhound brooch pinned to my coat. He asks me where I got it

and I tell him the story, tell him everything about Grace and the way we used to fight and hurt

each other. I weep telling him that I’m scared for her now, because she is in a clinic because

she refuses to keep her food down and hates herself and hates the way she looks even though

she was always beautiful. I cry telling him that I think maybe this is partly my fault, because I

never complimented her enough and treated her like shit all the time and was always looking

out for someone else to fuck, and because how could this not have affected her and made her

feel worse about herself? And I tell him about James. And I tell him about Aaron. And I tell

him about the blonde jock. And I tell him that I am an awful person. And he lets me cry.

Afterwards, I dry myself off and lie down on Mark’s mattress and I ask for him to

fuck me. He wants to know if I mean it and I tell him that I do, because I’m ready, because I

am choosing North over South. We make love, Mark fucking me gently, slow and rhythmic,

and I find myself looking into his eyes as he kisses me, feel his breath on my neck when he

comes, his warmth filling my body.

490

In the morning we ride the train down to Coburg and cut through the supermarket carpark

adjacent to the Moreland Library, walking over to Half Moon café where we order felafel

wraps and buy a couple of orange juices, the good ones with all the pulp at the bottom. Mark

doesn’t bother to shake his bottle up, he just tears off the cap and drinks back the juice, a

trickle of it on his chin. I light a cigarette and offer one to Mark. I ask, -When’s Crab Hand

supposed to show?

-He’s on his own schedule, dude. He’ll show when he wants.

I’m finishing my cigarette when a tall Egyptian man comes out with our wraps. I’m

starving. I haven’t eaten since having soup with my father yesterday. I tear off the paper and

take a bite – the salty heat of the felafel, the crunch of the pickles, the savoury sweetness.

Looking down the mall, waiting for Crab Hand to show, I take in the old Italian and Greek

men playing their card games, arguing good-naturedly, sharing coffee and cigarettes together.

It’s a community, I think. Something I don’t really understand.

When Crab Hand shows, he whistles at us to get our attention. I slip Mark the money

and he walks off to the public toilets next to the library, his skinny jeans and boots and sleight

frame – like a gypsy, like an untameable nomad. I look back at the men playing cards again. I

think of Grace. The voice asks, What happens?

Minerva Access is the Institutional Repository of The University of Melbourne

Author/s:

McCorkell, Tobias

Title:

(Re-)examining Blank Fiction: an excerpt from Barely Anything, a novel & Sex, narcissism

and disconnection in Australia and the United States

Date:

2016

Persistent Link:

http://hdl.handle.net/11343/129812

File Description:

(Re-)examining Blank Fiction: an excerpt from Barely Anything, a novel & Sex, narcissism

and disconnection in Australia and the United States

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