Read Online Ironbark by Barry Jonsberg - Free Book Online Page A

seagulls wheeling over equally random fishing boats. I don’t know which option fills me with more horror.
    I pull out a smoke. There are only four left in the packet, so I saunter over to the newsagent’s to stock up. There’s an old biddy behind the counter, with this ghastly perm and a mouth that looks like it last smiled in 1952. I ask for a carton and she fixes me with the same runny eyes that Granddad has patented.
    â€˜Do you have any ID?’
    I try a winning smile.
    â€˜I’m afraid I left it at home. I’m flattered, though. It’s been a couple of years since anyone mistook me for being under eighteen. Oh, and a newspaper, please.’ I reckon if I buy a copy of this sad-looking local paper she’ll think I’m a responsible and sober citizen. It doesn’t work, though. She points to the sign behind her. No ID? No Purchase! As if that’s the final word, which, of course, it is.
    â€˜Ah, come on . . .’ I say, going for the heavy duty, hardcore persuasive tactic.
    â€˜I’m sorry, young man, but I cannot sell you cigarettes without proof of age.’
    â€˜Look, who is going to know? Come on, it’s not like a whole bunch of police are about to storm the joint.’
    But I’m talking to myself. She’s gone over to tidy up some magazines. Not too far, though, in case I make a grab and do a runner. I’m seriously considering it.
    I wander outside and scope out other possibilities. There’s only the supermarket or the bottle shop, so I go for the bottle shop first. But I know what’s going to happen. In Melbourne, there are dozens of places where I can get grog and smokes and no one ever asks for ID. But this place is a joke. A little community still clinging to moral standards. No one here would break wind in public. In the privacy of their own homes, they’re probably all downloading porn and converting domestic appliances into sex toys, but they won’t break the law, no sir.
    The guy behind the counter can only be about twenty, tops. I’m hoping I can tap into a kindred spirit. That we will discover a common bond of disenfranchised youth. Turns out he makes the old biddy in the newsagent’s seem radical. He’s not even prepared to discuss it like a reasonable human being, so I give him the finger and get out of there.
    So it’s the supermarket or bust.
    Trouble is, I don’t want to do the grocery shopping and then be saddled for half an hour with a bunch of heavy bags. So I check out this antique store opposite the bottle shop. Man, I’m desperate. The shop is dark and smells of dust. So does the owner. He’s something of an antique himself and he’s wearing a red bow tie.
    I’m so good I scare myself sometimes.
    He looks up at me when the bell rings over the front door and he doesn’t seem overjoyed at having a customer. In fact, he gives the distinct impression he’s about to call the cops. For a moment I think I might have to buy something expensive, just to prove to him that appearances can be deceptive. But I won’t. It wouldn’t do any good, anyway. He’d only take my money and still think I wasn’t worth spitting on.
    â€˜Morning,’ I say.
    He peers over the top of half-moon specs and mumbles. I hate that. And I’ll bet he’s one of those geezers who constantly complains that young people don’t have any manners anymore. I browse and it’s as I suspected. More junk shop than antique store. I mean, there are one or two items that look fairly old and might be worth some money, but most of it is chipped and stained jugs and rusty toast racks and bilge like that. I check a couple of the price tags and it’s clear that, despite his grumpy appearance, the dude has a well-developed sense of humour.
    I’m tempted to keep on looking around, simply to annoy the bow-tied fossil, but I haven’t got the energy, so I split.
    I stroll up and down