Luck In The Greater West Part 1

Luck in the Greater West.

Damian McDonald.

PART ONE.

ONE.

Patrick White - Whitey to the customers of his small business situated in Rooty Hill in the western suburbs of Sydney - mixed the Glucodin with the amphetamines, roughly one part to two in favour of the goey. From the cereal bowl he weighed and bagged the mix into quarter, half, and one gram zip-locks. It was pension day, and customers from the Housing Commission estate in Colyton would be crossing the highway to score. Colyton and Rooty Hill lay on either side of the highway. Colyton was a newer development: in brick; but Rooty Hill offered larger houses in fibro and weatherboard.

Like chainsaws had done to the eucalypts that once reigned here, the highway sliced through the outer-western suburbs. There was an overpa.s.s ostensibly linking Colyton and Rooty Hill, enclosed with welded mesh to prevent kids and teenagers from killing motorists with half-bricks, but the bridge was too far east of Whitey's place or the big cut-price bottleshop, Booze World, to be convenient for the customers of these and other businesses. All day and night there was a corridor of metal and alloy streaming through, and past, the twin Housing Commission estates. A smaller stream of flesh and bone would wait for breaks in the traffic and cross it. There had been fatalities; collisions and explosions of flesh, bone, metal and alloy, leaving dark patches on the asphalt - kangaroo, dog, cat, and welfare recipient.

There was a shopping mall in Mt Druitt, the next suburb to the west of Rooty Hill. The supermarket, auto banks, bottleshop and, of course, Welfare Centre branch were patronised by the tenants of Colyton and Rooty Hill, but the rest of the retail outlets targeted their marketing to the east, north, south, and further west to the mountains. Rooty Hill had its own smaller shopping precinct that was misleadingly referred to as a plaza. Mt Druitt was a mostly private housing suburb except for a wall of some five hundred Housing Commission flats on its eastern edge, closest to Rooty Hill. Whitey didn't have many customers from here, as there were always plenty of dealers among the flat's transitory tenantry.

People were lucky in the western suburbs. They were housed. They had access to decent food and fresh water. They could indulge in stimulants of pleasure and they could numb themselves. But they were also at the bottom of a bowl of land, parched by having too much of its flora stripped from it, and rimmed by the bright and exclusive northeast that made up Sydney and its inner suburbs, and the lush range of nature and culture further south-west that rose as the Blue Mountains.

The fibro house Whitey sat in sagged at the front. If given the chance, it would one day slide, front bedroom first, into the street it faced. It had been given a coat of baby-blue paint sometime in the seventies, and the panels now looked navy-destroyer grey with sun damage.

Although his housemate had the Housing Commission rental agreement in his name, Peter Crawford, or Pete the Bull, paid no rent himself; for that he let out the front room. Pete lived on cask wine and rollies, and meals prepared mainly by other people. He needed the short-lived, but occasionally warm relationships. And Whitey, a quiet drunk, and always with drugs, had been there for more than four months now.

-Goin' up north next week, Pete said, searching the ashtray for a lightable b.u.t.t.

-Up north, huh? Whitey replied.

-Yeah. Time ta see the relos I reckon. Even though the c.u.n.ts come down an' drank all my p.i.s.s las' month. 'Member?

-Yeah.

Whitey remembered the unpredictability of Pete's brothers and uncles after they'd done their dole on the rum, Coopers and port; and the port on Pete the Bull's niece's lips.

Pete the Bull poured Fruity Lexia into an RSL schooner gla.s.s that'd found its way into his possession.

-Want some gooney, Whitey?

-Yeah, f.u.c.kit.

Whitey liked the buzz of morning wine, but the afternoons then tended to be down and nauseous; but there was goey today.

Whitey skimmed off the top, but never ripped anyone off. Price and quant.i.ty were, in this area of retail, predetermined, well-known, and unquestioned. Credit could be obtained, but terms were very short. On the flipside though, unlike the more commercially established credit organisations, there was nil interest.

The supply of recreational drugs was not an industry that Whitey had exactly chosen as a career. Rather, he'd found himself selling them by default. Before drugs, the teenage Patrick White had found life uninteresting and uncomfortable. He found himself at odds with how his cla.s.smates seemed to deal with each other and with life so ardently, but with a kind of effortlessness. Whitey couldn't find anything to really get into the way others did. He liked heavy metal music, but only because there was nothing in pop music he could relate to. The devotion of the metal-heads at his school seemed contrived to him though. And he never really had much to say to anyone. He could sum up everything in a few words when he had to talk, and he was aware that his conversations left others waiting for something more from him that didn't seem to be there, making him feel self-conscious and wanting to talk even less. He got into using drugs not through curiosity, but because it seemed like an easy way to become part of something. And quite instantly, Whitey found people who accepted him and seemed to know how to express humour and indulge in maximum leisure; and best of all at that time, some of these people were female. The notion that drugs were dangerous, as Whitey had heard innumerable times when the cops visited the school to give lectures, seemed ridiculous. Drugs helped, soothed and enhanced life. Drugs were a communal thing. Whitey had something in common, finally.

For all the English, maths and science exams, it was only the extracurricular activities that'd paid off. For Whitey, selling beat the h.e.l.l out of working for wages. But, like his experiences of working for wages, it wasn't really what he wanted to do. He didn't know what he really wanted to do, but selling seemed to be a transitory occupation. But again, a transition to what, he didn't really know.

Booze World didn't open until ten-thirty in the morning, so the ten am weekdays' airing of the Jerry Springer Show was the Breakfast Show for most of the inhabitants of the twin Housing Commission estates. On pension day, or at least more noticeably on pension day, people would be standing around the reinforced gla.s.s doors waiting for Agro, owner and theft dissuader, to unlock. As well, people would roll up to Pete the Bull's place to score off Whitey by the time the theme credits had flashed on Springer.

Whitey preferred to sell only to those he knew, so if someone was going to be a regular, an introduction had to be made. The worn steps to the house were cracked and buffeted the fibro when stepped on, giving away any approach to the front door. It was early afternoon when Whitey heard someone's tread for the seventeenth time that day. He checked the peephole, spied Natalie Caxaro, an ex-lover of his, and unlocked the door. Natalie and Whitey had had s.e.x with each other exclusively for a time in summer the year before. They'd never really broken up, just stopped having s.e.x; and so didn't see each other much any more.

-Nat. Howsitgoin? Whitey said, and nodded slightly toward the guy who was standing next to her, whom Whitey had not seen through the peephole.

-This is Eddie, she said. I know 'im from the club. He's cool.

Whitey let them in.

-What ya after? Whitey asked Nat, but quietly.

-Eddie wants to talk to ya, she said; and gave in to her bladder that had begun to burn since the ride over to Whitey's. Can I use ya dunny?

-Yeah, Whitey said, and sat down. He sipped some wine and looked up at this Eddie guy. Sit down if ya want, mate. Whitey motioned to the torn green chair.

-Tah. So, Nat tells me you may be able to set me up with some decent speed. I'm after an ounce, at least to start with, Eddie said, sitting and gripping his hands together like a Catholic praying.

-An oz? That'd wipe me out, mate, Whitey replied. Best I can do is a couple a eight b.a.l.l.s.

-Well, maybe you could put me in touch with your dealer, Eddie suggested, and rubbed both his thighs.

Whitey didn't answer, but scratched his neck and watched Nat walk back into the lounge room. This guy seemed like a bit of a yuppie. His hair was too deliberately tousled, his jeans too newish. Whitey wondered if Nat was trying to make him jealous. Or maybe make Eddie jealous.

-What about H? Eddie asked.

-Ya don't look much like a user ta me, mate, Whitey said.

-Not for me. But I'm after some for some friends of mine.

-I'll see what I can do. I'll let Nat know if I can get hold a some. So, ya after anything smaller than an oz?

-Any chance of getting hold of your dealer to see about the ounce and the H? Eddie asked.

-Nuh.

Whitey held up his gla.s.s as Pete the Bull stepped into the lounge room. Pete had a ma.s.sive torso, but long, thin legs, and moved silently. Through living with the man, Whitey was able to sense his sudden presence - it could be menacing, but it was a comfort in this situation. He knew he wouldn't like the look of this Eddie guy either. Pete poured some gooney into Whitey's gla.s.s, and nodded at Nat.

-'O's this c.u.n.t then, he said, looking sideways at Eddie.

-The name's Eddie, mate. You're Peter, right?

-Hey, do I know you, c.u.n.t?

-No, I - -Well f.u.c.k off. Go on, git.

Whitey looked at Nat and shrugged his shoulders. She motioned to Eddie, and he got up to leave.

-So, let me know about what we talked about, huh? Eddie said to Whitey, who'd ceased to look at him.

-Yeah, he said.

Whitey watched them leave, Eddie talking closely to Nat as they walked quickly to a late-model Ford XR6.

-Don't like that c.u.n.t, Pete the Bull said. Think I recognise 'im from some place.

-I think 'is just a rich p.r.i.c.k. Some try-hard Nat wants ta bang, Whitey said.

-Tell her ta come on her own next time, Pete said, and sparked the rollie sitting on his lip.

It was a good day, but then pension day always was. Disability and Sickness Benefit recipients received more than Unemployment Benefit clients - their stipend was at least two hundred dollars more a fortnight - and the payment was always put into accounts every second Thursday; unlike the dole, which was paid depending on the day of the week the recipient joined the queue. Of course, not all pensioners scored drugs, but many of them offered short-term loans to their off-week dole friends. It was always a big day for Agro at Booze World and Whitey at 22 Acacia Avenue.

He'd moved two ounces of pot and nearly one of goey. For every ounce of pot he sold he made a hundred bucks. For every oz of goey, about a hundred and twenty dollars, but it varied depending on the uncut price. With this on top of his dole payment, tomorrow night would be one to forget at the Workers Arms Hotel.

Whitey grilled some Homely Brand frozen fish fillets and threw them on a plate next to half a loaf of bread. The bread was showing blue mould, but only on the outer crust. He ate one fillet and bread, but left the rest for Pete. He was p.i.s.sed and had had three lines of goey. Food just didn't fit the mood.

He sat down in front of the telly to watch Law and Order. But speed made watching television a ch.o.r.e. Waves of elation would make him totally empathise with the cast and plot, but then his attention would slip and he'd become impatient with the insipidity of it. He pulled two cones in a row, as a counterweight. He would have liked to ride the speed and alcohol, to go up the pub, but he had to stay in. Pension night could be bigger than the day; people would be coming back for more drugs, because they'd gluttonised in the fever of payday, while others would be just getting out of bed.

The Workers Arms was in Seven Hills, next to an older Housing Commission estate that'd gone mostly private back in the eighties when the government offered Commission tenants a purchase-cost reduction calculated according to how many years they'd paid rent on the property. It was three stations away on the city train, but you could walk it in about half an hour with a few lines of goey under your belt. The signposts that marked the borders of the suburbs were simply nomenclature anyway. The large, spa.r.s.e blocks of land that sat like static moats around flat houses blended yellow and grey-green into each other. The surviving ghost gums and stringybarks rose and reached out and collectively marked the distinction between the interchangeable outer suburbs and the deciduous inner-urban environment.

The pub hadn't been refurbished in quite a few decades, unlike the majority of its compet.i.tion who'd gone Irish or cosmopolitan, and that was why it packed out on Fridays and Sat.u.r.days. The beer was cheap, the bouncers lenient, and the decor unpretentious. Union banners and prize catches from the fishing club, and red carpet that soaked up whatever was thrown at it. AC/DC shot holes in conversation, firing from the old jukie speakers. But then Bon Scott spoke for just about everyone in the room anyway; as Angus and Malcolm's Marshalled riffs perfectly complemented the nicotine-stained air they vibrated through.

Whitey hadn't slept the night before and had felt like s.h.i.t all day. But now, eleven schooners later, the smoky air tasted good, the music filled his chest, and everything could be laughed at.

-Patrick White. You look f.u.c.kable tonight. Got any goey?

It was Nat. She was p.i.s.sed; an all-dayer it looked like to Whitey.

-Nah, he said. You know I don't carry drugs in here since the pigs f.u.c.ked everything up.

But he was lying. He did have a couple of lines, but only for personal use.

-Buy me a bourbon, Nat said.

-In a minute. Here, have a sip of me beer.

She drained off half the schooner. Her eyes had lost focus ability, but a fierceness had replaced it. He'd never seen her this drunk. Somewhere in the back of his own bender, he wondered what had got her to this. He would have maybe asked, but she changed his thoughts suddenly.

-We should f.u.c.k tonight, she said.

-Oh yeah? And why's that, Caxaro?

-Just because, White.

There was always a queue to get drinks on a Friday night; it paid to get as many as you could carry whenever you were up there. Whitey ordered three schooners and three bourbon and c.o.kes.

-Thanks, babe, Nat said.

Her drunk's confidence was beginning to be a turn-on for Whitey.

-No wukkas. Drink up.

-So, any chance of getting a line a goey if I come back ta yours? she asked.

-That could be a possibility. You never know your luck in the Greater West, Whitey said. We'll finish these and get something takeaway for the trip home.

Nat skulled a bourbon and attempted to tongue-kiss Whitey, getting as much cheek as mouth.

On the train, Nat pushed Whitey down on the three-seater and lay on top of him. He enjoyed her aggression. They tongue-kissed and drank straight bourbon.

-So who was Mr Aftershave the other day? Whitey asked.

Nat sat up.

-Eddie, she said, looking at the bourbon bottle.

-Yeah. Who's he?

-I told ya. I know 'im from the club. Wests.

-Bit of a yuppie isn't he?

-Yeah. Don't worry 'bout 'im. If we're lucky neither of us'll ever see 'im again. He's f.u.c.kin' weird. Acts one way, then another. I dunno, forget him.

-Yeah well, Pete don't want him 'round at the house again, so if he wants ta score, you'll have ta come on ya Pat Malone, Whitey said, taking a slug from the bottle.

-Mmm, she said.

In his bedroom, Whitey put Metallica's ... And Justice for All on the CD player, lined up two thin caterpillars of speed and pa.s.sed the mirror to Nat. She did the line, but nearly wasted the second one with a clumsy breath. Whitey finger-licked the remaining line and let the sweet/savoury/acidic goodness slug its way down his throat. They got into his bed and Whitey dragged off her jeans and panties. He kissed her v.a.g.i.n.a, but it didn't seem like his kisses were doing much. He moved up to her head.

-Nat?

But she snored and rolled away.

f.u.c.kin' waste of goey, Whitey thought. He plugged his headphones into the CD player and picked up the bottle of bourbon.

When he came-to the next morning, Nat was gone. Whitey hadn't heard her leave. The bourbon bottle was tipped over, but there was no spillage; its contents had been spilled unremembered down his throat. He did vaguely remember some air-drumming to *Eye of the Beholder' though. His room looked grey, like the hard, lonely hangover that was waiting to strike - or rather, constrict.

In the lounge room Pete sat with a gla.s.s of pale wine rolling White Ox into thin cigarettes.

-Get lucky, ya b.a.s.t.a.r.d? Pete said.

-Not exactly.

-She woke me up tryin' ta open the door, Pete moaned, spitting a piece of tobacco.

-Dodgin' a mornin' glory as well as last night, Whitey said.