Читать книгу War/Peace - Matthew Vandenberg - Страница 20

'You've got nice hands.' She says this as she rubs two or three of my fingers with the necks of hers. She says this with a smile on her face so mischievous, so devilish, yet so discreet. She around 30 or 34 years of age, she has dark brown hair, wavy like her body. She's of average weight and height for a Texan woman her age. She's clearly a hick and giddy as a prick but I like her. She has this mystic tone to her voice: she speaks like a Gypsy with the sincerity of no woman I have ever met, and so brazenly also, especially considering the proximity of her husband. I can see a twinkle in her eyes as she stares down at my naked palms.

I'm in the back seat of an old sedan, rolling along a back street of Bankstown. I'm leaning forward, facing this woman who is sitting, her body twisted around to face mine, in the passenger seat, her husband in the driver's seat. I'm calm, content, relaxed, and somewhat excited. No doubt I hitched well. This time, for once, I hitched a ripe ride, an excellent ride, a safe ride through some of the south-side. I'm fortunate, lucky, and protected, for now at least.

A cat is sitting comfortably on the dashboard. It sleeps peacefully despite the volume of the music: one moment Slash, the next Michael Jackson. It's oblivious to the world inside the car, let alone the world outside: oblivious no doubt to the war, to the changes taking place as we speak, think and breath, oblivious no doubt to the ravaged streets that run like dirt tracks through fields of black and brown, and which would even leave T.S. Eliot speechless. (Not that anyone wanted to hear him speak anyway, that talentless prick!) Oblivious to this war, still raging, raw like an uncooked onion, that strikes the fragile hearts of Sydney-siders like naked onion fumes the eye ducts, this cat purrs and for a moment this is almost all I can hear: this pleasant tone a backing track to muttered words which the female hick speaks. She speaks with a fluent Southern American accent, the texture of Texas if it were to be drawn, colored, turned to fabric and qualified. Her husband also.

'Ok: we'll drop you off here,' the guy says, pulling over onto a grassy knoll to the left.

'You can't drop him off here!' the woman protests. Beneath one eye one freckle appears larger, framed by the perimeter of a pretty tear. 'How can you drop him off here? It's dangerous! He's from the north Terry!'

'He said he wanted a ride to Bankstown. We're in Bankstown now. This place is fine. It's safe here.'

'Yeah. Here's good,' I say, shrugging.

'The can't drop you off here,' the woman says again, grasping tightly my hand. She shakes her head as the car grinds to a halt. The sound of the churning of mud replaces the beat behind Beat It.

'Thank you so much for taking me this far,' I say. 'I know south-siders are not supposed to talk to north-siders . . .'

'Think nothing of it,' the woman says. 'We're American, so we cop a lot of shit from people in the south anyway.'

'Ok, bye,' the guy says, tapping some fingers on the steering wheel. I let go of the woman's hand.

The man is smiling as I step out of the car, a half smile which suggests the presence of a thin, tight wire hooked onto one end of a lip, being pulled by an unknown force – perhaps a front: this wire a wire which helps keep his mask intact.

'Please don't drop him off here!' the woman yells.

'It's ok,' I say, one hand resting on the door. 'This is the University of Western Sydney. I actually know someone who works here. Bye.' - I swing the door shut and then take two steps back from the car. They speed off, or, rather, the male speeds off, while the woman sits frozen in the passenger seat, no doubt a potential client, a nice woman I could have fucked if it weren't for the overly protective husband. The wife's arm, stiff like a cock, vertical like a mast, is held in a salute to me as the two of them and the car they're in exit my field of vision.

******

References

1 Closing Time - Semisonic

2 Heavy Cross – The Gossip

3 The Show Goes On – Lupe Fiasco