Lowlife
From Griffith REVIEW Edition 13: The Next Big Thing
© Copyright Griffith University & the author.
Written by Stephen Smith
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The apartment is his again. She's gone – he's sure of it. They cooked up a storming fight over the long weekend. Booze, sex, boredom. Two days of that, and she reckons she's leaving. He needs to sleep this one off.
Twelve hours later Dan wakes up. He is groggy. Dried out, sugary mouth, sticky with the whisky and Cokes. He lies there. Nudges up the blind to see the busy street below, lights turning on, night drifting into the city. Puts the blind down. Reassesses the situation. Past lovers came into it somehow. That was the turning point. His fault – might as well admit it.
She's gone. He's slept on it, and he thinks it's for real. He gets out of bed and checks the phone. No messages. Twelve hours, no messages. Knowing Claire, that's significant. He feels empty. Not for long. Holes get filled, that's existence. He's standing against the sink waiting for the kettle to boil, and the thought surfaces that Claire will now be going out single. Clubs, bars, parks. Single. Considering new men. It cripples him. He strains, gasps, clenches his jaws, fists, back, moans, grizzles, stamps up and down.
He runs for the phone. He's putting in the numbers as quickly as he can. Three rings and she picks up. "Hello?"
"Hey."
"Oh. You. Dan, I'm over it. Don't even bo ..."
"Wait, Claire. Wait."
"I'm on my way out. I mean it. Right now, I was half out the door."
"What? Where? What? What do you mean you're going out?"
"None of your business. I just realised that this weekend. You always have to know. And then when you know, you blame me, get shitty at me. I have to babysit you through this bullshit. Well stop asking. It's none of your business. Sometimes I think you're a real perv."
"Claire, stop. Claire, I'll stop asking, I will, if that's what you want ..." His voice shifts up in pitch. He whinges, whines, pleads, he tries to prolong it, but it's over. She's going out and there's nothing he can do to stop her. He can call her in a week. They need some time. She needs to think about the relationship, where it's taking them. He, she tells him, needs some time to think about himself. Time. Space. Some personal space. "I need some personal space ... I think we both need a bit of personal space."
ALL THIS TALK, THIS NEW AGE, SOCIAL WORKER SELF-HELP TALK – he had a fair idea what that meant. It meant she was going out with her girlfriends to get smashed and party.
"Fuck," he says when she hangs up. He stares at his reflection in the window. The rooms seem very quiet, too dim. He gets up and turns on the lights. He thinks about the places she'll be tonight. Who she'll be with. Mandy and Rebecca probably, all that crowd. All those women. Bitches. They'd be encouraging her to have a fling. That's the way they operated. Undermined him, men in general, on principle.
He should go out looking for her, he thinks, grinding his palm on the table. Nah, better not, says the other part in him; nah, it'll only mean trouble tonight. Yeah, yeah, yeah; he knows, he knows, he knows. Maybe he'll go round to Curly's place first, cool off a bit.
He walks round to Curly's. He thinks about Claire; he tries not to think about Claire. Curly was always sitting at home watching TV. Sometimes he went down the street for beer; sometimes on the weekends he'd go out to a pub or a party, but less and less often; and every fortnight he had to get on a bus to go to Centrelink.
Dan gratefully climbs the stairs. He's been alone for less than two hours and he's getting anxious. It creeps up on him, a sort of emptiness, purposelessness. That's when a friend like Curly comes into play. Curly's not really likeable. More reliable. You could wake him up at three in the morning. Chances were he'd already be awake playing Playstation.
Dan knocks on Curly's door. Even the door is dirty, a greasy off-white. After a while, someone opens up. It is not Curly. It is Burger. Burger is this short fat guy who seems to be at Curly's place more and more lately. He's got muscly little forearms, skinny legs, big pork chop belly and a head squashed down into a thick neck. Small eyes close together. Always looking around, always licking his lips.
"Hey Burger."
"Yeah mate, howareya ... what's yer name again?"
"Dan."
"Yeah, right, that's it."
Dan doesn't like Burger. Even less than Curly. If Dan knew where Burger lived, and knew that he was always there, he still wouldn't go visit. Burger just stands there in the doorway, the dirty yellow light behind him touching up his edges. Dan has an urge to push past him, contemptuous, but – short and fat as he is – he's strong. Despise him as he does, Dan doesn't want to start physical trouble with the little fuck. "Is Curly home?"
"Yeah mate. He sure is." But he still doesn't move.
"Well can I see him?"
"Yeah mate." Burger shifts subtly, almost imperceptibly. Dan squeezes past his bulk. Burger gives a little grunt and shuts the door.
Down the hall, second door to the right, Curly's in the TV room. A porno is on the screen with the sound down. The stereo's turned up. Curly is lying back on the couch, eyes closed. When Dan sits down he stirs himself.
"Hey. Dan. Long time no see." He reaches over to shake hands. "Whatcha been doin'?"
"Not a lot. Claire dumped me, I think. I'm pretty sure."
"What, she said that?"
"Well ... not quite. But you know."
On the screen, a big-toothed blonde gets it from this big, buffed bimbo bloke.
Curly's hair has grown. He's got a beard now, a big shaggy brown thing.
"Oh well," says Curly after a period of consideration. "She was alright too, man – Claire. She was a bit of a fox."
"Fuck off Curly."
Burger comes into the room. He's fixed himself a sandwich. A big peanut butter and honey sandwich. Lots of peanut butter, honey oozing out the sides.
"What's he doing here, Curly?"
"Oi," says Burger. "Watch it. I live here now."
"What?"
"Yeah, that's right, Dan," says Curly. "That's right, that's true."
"Since when?"
"Two weeks. Nearly three. You 'aven't been round for a while."
It was true. He'd had Claire. She'd lost her job and kind of moved in. Three hot weeks. Too long, too much. The edges got taken out too far, the bar got raised, it turned complex. Went introspective: jealousy was dark, suffocating, cancerous, the growth starts growing in the wrong direction. Hot life – body sweat, red raw dick, sex in the morning – turned into mouldy shit. Time to come round to Curly's den. And now Burger. Burger?
"Yeah, Dan, that's right," says Curly, weakly.
"Why?" asks Dan, rudely.
"Oi," says Burger. "Watch it."
Curly doesn't answer the question. On the porno, a woman smokes a cigarette in her vagina. Curly points to that instead. "Check that out boys. Bet ya haven't seen something like that before."
"Are you joking?" snorts Burger. "The internet's a big place."
"Hey Curly," says Dan.
"Yeah?"
"Have ya got anything to drink? I need a drink."
"Yeah man. There's beer in the fridge. Or Burger's got some rum, don't ya, Burger?"
"Yeah I'd like some of that."
"Ya wanna chuck us a few dollars then?" says Burger.
"I'll fix you up some other time. I don't have anything on me at the moment," says Dan, lying on both counts. Burger decides to make an issue of it. They carry on nagging, hostile negotiations. Curly sits with his hands in his lap, uncomfortably focused on the sex. They eventually agree to drink the bottle, with some menace from Burger.
"You better bring it round. I don't like cunts who don't pay tikko."
"Yeah, yeah, I'm good – just go get the bottle." Dan's starting to feel a bit crazy. A bit drunk already, brain assimilating the effect in anticipation. Burger, he's thinking, fuck Burger.