I wiped my face. Instead of a cool breeze the air just brought a smell; that salty mixture of sweat and fish unmistakeably human. Why were so many of them about in this kind of weather?
A seagull squawked as it pecked at some scattered chips on the road. A car drove by. The seagull dropped the chip and flew off.
I slunk back against the large support of the overpass, giving myself some shade. The cracked metal was warm against my back. The whole thing was built only a dozen or so years ago, heralded as a new dawn of prosperity by the handshakers. For my brother and me it was an extension of our back yard. We'd even snuck in and carved our initials in the concrete while it was getting built. But they'd destroyed the park to make it. Didn't matter, we still used it as the most expensive goal posts in Port Adelaide. It felt old now; like it had taken a look at the surrounding buildings and decided to age quickly just to fit in. Maybe it was the salty air?
Through the throngs of people I watched the crusty deli across the road. She strolled out, pushing through the plastic flaps draped from above the door. I shuffled my suit jacket, pressing against the inside pocket instinctively before reaching up and lowering the sunglasses from my head down over my eyes.
She was wearing red - quite a change from the classic black of before. I'm sure someone's had a hand in that. I lost her for a moment, thinking she had already wondered off. I twisted my head around some passers by and eventually made her out, still in front of the deli. She looked down, as if forgetting something, before rushing back inside. I touched my ear without thinking.
A dog yelped. Behind the rat scuttled an Asian, her feet barely lifting above the footpath. If sliding feet was an infraction - even at ten percent commission - I'd be rich with all the nips 'round here. Not that we're racist. We used to have a national immigration policy where white was all the rage. Then we got the wogs in the 70's, the nips in the 90's, and finally the blacks. Now we're full of colour.
A couple strode by, his arm over her shoulder. I watched closely as their sticky lips met. I could just image how foul-smelling and horribly tasting her lipstick was. They finished up with a tiny bit of tongue but nothing you could write them up for.
Just when I thought it was going to be a long day a car pulled up, removing all doubt. A short, pudgy Itie stepped out, brandishing a bunch of electronics all over his body, his chest hairs displayed proudly through a very damp Port Power guernsey.
The man looked around, wiping his forehead. His vague expressions made him appear even more vulgar. For a split second I thought he hadn't seen me. Without looking my way he turned and headed in my direction.
To avoid looking at him I focussed my attention on the car: it had more lights that flashed and more bits that beeped than any episode of Star Trek. The original, that is. Why do they always have to ruin things by rehashing old...
'Dominic,' said the voice to my left. I turned to look at Carlo. He looked out at the street in front of us, his large sunglasses covering most of his wet face. 'Thought you was working nights now,' he continued.
I walked closer to the road and looked down past the throngs of people. 'Too many moonlighters,' I responded. 'Get in the way.' I walked back to the pillar and stood the other side of Carlo, so that my ripped ear was away from him. I could hear out of it fine but I didn't need anyone asking questions.
'Ah, not like us professionals, right?' He didn't mean it as a question but I was close to giving him an answer. He loved that word, professional, and had a very amateur way of saying it.
Without looking toward me he touched some of his electronics. They were fairly stock-standard: a recorder, an EM cage, a high-viz interp., some long range IDers and an open link. You could get them from most anywhere in the port, at probably one tenth the size.
When I first met Carlo, I noticed how he wore his profession on his sleeve; happy to show off in front of kids, adults, whoever. I thought he took pride in the job. Thought he was a real professional. Said we're like cops who're paid on commission. Bit later I realised he was in it for the money. At least a cop has moral responsibility, civil duties. Carlo's first bit of business was his mum, who made the mistake of cooking without a fan. How can you give respect to someone who doesn't show any?
Of course the money's just a way of getting power. He'd told me many times how he loved to watch peoples eyes flicker a little when he told them he collected on infractions, their minds quickly going over what they'd done since meeting him. That's the real problem – when they make anything a crime, everyone's a criminal.
'So what are you up to, mate?' asked Carlos.
After a moment's hesitation I began, 'Just working...'
'Yeah, that's what us wogs do, aye, always workin' hard' he said.
Us wogs? Us wogs?! I was born here. I'm Australian. I don't need to prove my integration by pretending to like Australian Rules football.
Carlo whistled at a large mop of greasy blonde hair. The girl under it had a look which seemed to be popular these days, her clothes not hiding enough of her stick figure.
'Don't walk away so quick, baby,' said Carlo, his eyes focussed on the girl.
'Don't talk like that,' I said, half under my breath.
'I hate to see you go, but I love to watch you leave!' he shouted.
Oh brother. Luckily she didn't bend down – I'd have been subjected to the 'While you're down there' line.
'Not bad, aye mate,' said Carlo, nudging me conspiratorially.
'Shouldn't talk to a lady like that.'
Carlo turned to me for the first time. 'What are you talking about?' he said. 'Fuck mate, you never have fun. Live a little, you know?'
'I live fine,' I said, not as confidently as I had hoped.
'You need to get a girl. Loosen you up. What was your last one? Hayley? Fiona?'
'Jess.' I looked over at the Deli. She came out quickly, looking to the cross the road.
'Jess. Yeah, she was hot, mate. No offence. So get someone new. You're not, uh, too ugly. Oi! Get back in the car, Richard!'
That last bit was directed at his son. Wogs and their slave labour! Bet he did more work than his dad, too.
Where did she go? Don't tell me this dago has made me lose her? I pushed some civs along, looking around their fat heads. I'm sure they mumbled some type of protest.
Carlo resumed the conversation. 'Look at all the hot chicks down here. Take your pick.'
I found her standing on the island, gripping an object tightly, as a steady stream of traffic flowed by.
'Don't need the hassle.'
'Yeah, but you need the fucking. Hey? Right?'
'Watch your language,' I said. 'Swearing just disrespects yourself.'
She started to cross the road.
'Mate, you're a fucking dinosaur,' said Carlo. 'You're half my age but you're older than me. You gotta move with the times.'
She stepped up onto the footpath.
Carlo continued: 'You're out here looking for infractions and you don't even have equipment on you. You could earn ten times what you get if you just bought some interps.'
She walked in my direction, looking down at the bag of hot chips in her hand.
'Don't need equipment,' I said. 'Just need eyes and a brain. And this.' I pulled out the gun from my suit pocket.
'What the fuck? Put that fuckin' thing away, mate. Do you even have a licence?'
'You think you're moving with the world but nothing changes,' I said. 'Everything repeats. Sure, gets more refined each time through, maybe, but the same stuff happens and always with the same result.'
A bike flashed by, the sound of its bell hung in the air.
I heard the buzz of Carlo's EM cage starting up. The scum didn't even realise this wasn't some new-fangled pulse gun but a real, old-fashioned revolver; the kind that fired bullets. His cage wouldn't do a thing.
A dog yelped.
'No day is different to any other day,' I said. 'No matter what you do. You can't stop it. No way out.'
I stepped in her way. She raised her head.
'Oh, sorr...Dominic?' she said.
I was frozen.
'Richard, back in the car now!' said Carlo.
'Oh my God, it's great to see you,' she said as she leaned in to hug me. I let my hand dangle, hiding the gun by my leg.
'Seriously mate, put that thing away,' said Carlo.
'What have you been up to?' she said, smiling. Oh, that smile!
'Not much,' I replied.
'Oh, your ear,' she said. She motioned to touch it but I recoiled. The sound of that yelping dog hit my ear instead.
'It's nothing,' I said.
Carlo grabbed at the gun. I tried to shrug him off without alerting her.
'Look, I'm already running late,' she said, 'but it's been great seeing you again.'
'Yeah,' I said, spellbound. 'Hey, maybe we can catch up some time...'
'Sure,' she said, already fleeing the scene. She had changed her number ages ago. Even changed her address. I had no way of contacting her. Don't know if she realised it or not.
Carlo succeeded in snatching the gun from my hand. I turned quickly. I opened my mouth, about to blast him. No words formed. Nothing was said. There was no point.
The short burst of a siren. Two cops hit the footpath and rushed me.
'I got commission!' shouted Carlo.
After a taze I fell to my back, unable to move.
'I ID'd him and everything!' said Carlo.
The overpass shielded my eyes from the sun. The salt in the air filled my nostrils. The sounds faded.
I pictured myself lying here, but not like this. I pictured it the way it was meant to go. I imagined my blown-off ear acting as a precursor, rather than simply evidence of failure. But the worst part wasn't that I didn't succeed – I'd done that plenty of times in my life. The deflating and inescapable thought that came to me, at this point, lying on my back, below Carlo, below the world, was that there was no hope. I realised that anything I ever do will not work out. You can get through a lot in life, plough through so much crap, rub off so much filth, if you know that around the corner there's a fresh start, a clean opportunity. But once you realise there is no corner, there is no hope...
Nothing ever changes.
© 2010 Ben Safta
This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial 3.0 Australia License
