Dan Kaufman
Falling pregnant and shooting bush pigs
2.
My back bicycle wheel clicks regularly, methodically, as I round the corner onto my street. The warm sticky air buffets my face while the houses around me lie dormant, windows covered up, gardens filled with old tyres and rusty bikes. The only signs of life are the tree leaves shining in the streetlamps’ luminescence.
Halfway between the coast and the desert, nestled at the foot of the mountain ranges, this town is like a cross between a tropical greenhouse and purgatory. Without a beach the tourism is as stagnant as the local lagoon, and with the iron ore plant shut down it’s just a race to the bottom before this place becomes a ghost town.
There’s a frontier element to towns like this, as if anything goes. Other than falling pregnant and shooting bush pigs, there’s not much to do – it’s too hot for bushwalking and the lagoon’s too shallow (not to mention fetid) for swimming.
Trouble, however, can save you from idleness. Head to Waratah Street in our waterside district (as the town’s tourist brochure calls the squalid block near the lagoon) and you’ll find the unholy trinity of Big Boy’s Tattoo Parlour, Fascinations erotic store/brothel (in a small town, every business has a slash to it), and the Iron Castle Hotel, the only other bar in town other than the Mercantile.
The Castle’s idea of décor is a black and sticky floor, and walls that are bare save for a Women in Waders calendar (where the month’s always August and a busty bikini blonde’s always cradling a dead trout) and a dartless dartboard. Rumour has it the owner confiscated the darts after a patron (which in this pub means a bikie) lost an eye, which is easy to believe. Quite frankly, anything sharp in this pub is a health and safety hazard.
I live halfway between the Merc and the Iron Castle in a flatette at the back of Dave’s house, where he lives with his demented gran.
I arrived in town five months ago and met Dave by answering his rental ad. I initially thought there was something a little Norman Bates about him since it’s not normal for a young guy to be cooped up in an old house with his granny. However, it turns out the poor old bird is as batty as Dracula and Dave’s so pov the only retirement home he can afford makes prison look like Club Med. As for his parents: well, I just don’t know. They’re probably dead, but we never talk about it.
That’s one thing we have in common, since my parents are long gone too. I think I have memories of my mother, but it’s hard to tell if my mind’s just playing tricks.
To reach my flatette I have to ride around the back of the property and toward a thicket of trees and bushes that hide a wooden gate. This opens onto a small path that cuts through the garden, though it feels more like a mini forest, and past the swing that sways by itself late at night, creaking in the wind as its invisible passenger enjoys the ride.
Dave’s grandfather must have built the swing since it’s at least 30 years old. The wood is rotten, the chain rusty, and the whole thing lopsided, as if the tree became crooked over time.
I reach the outhouse (which is a bitch to use when you’re hungover) and lean my bike against it before climbing the outside stairs to my bachelor pad/flatette/rathole. On the porch (can you call a tiny area one-metre squared a porch?) a wrinkled choko waits expectantly.
Great – another gift from Dave’s gran.
Every week she leaves random odds and ends on my porch. Two weeks back it was an out-of-date calendar; last week an old hairdryer from the 1970s.
If Eve had offered Adam a choko instead of an apple, we’d still be living in the Garden of Eden. Still, it is technically edible, so I place the choko on the chipped vinyl table in my kitchenette/bathroom, which is so small you can make toast while showering.
In just three more steps is my bedroom/lounge/study, where black mould intersects with spider webs and flaking paint.
You can’t fight the mould here any more than you can beat the humidity: all you can do is tear off your clothes, keep your breaths shallow, and pray the mould won’t kill you too quickly.
Not that I’m complaining: hell, this is still the nicest place I’ve ever lived.
I never planned on staying long in this town but … well, despite the violence and my stripping for rent money, I’ve somehow become used to it. Perhaps I have Stockholm Syndrome but it’ll almost be a pity when it’s time to leave.
My mobile buzzes with a new text message: it’s Dave suggesting we hit the Castle. There’s nothing else to do, so I text back “c u in 5”, peel myself off the bed, and try to find a clean shirt – not that anyone else worries about hygiene at the Castle.
In fact, forget what I just said about this town. Sure, I’d probably miss Dave if I left, but moving to a city that has more than two shitty pubs still sounds good to me.