left of the escalator, there’s a shop selling all kinds of kinky shoes and boots.
Kings Cross. I’m not supposed to be here. I’ll just get something to eat, then leave.
I come off the escalator right into the middle of a fight between an Aboriginal girl and her boyfriend; she’s yelling at him about how he never does this and he never does that. I dodge them and come to the footpath in front of the station.
There’s an ambulance, and a small crowd. Everybody’s looking at a guy lying on the ground with his head in a pile of his own puke. He’s a young guy, wearing jeans and a plaid shirt. His skin is pale and he’s out cold, but I guess he’ll live. The ambos don’t look too concerned as they lift him up and strap him to a gurney.
Nobody in the crowd looks too concerned, either. One blondish pimply flabby guy in a blue shirt is standing there eating KFC nuggets. A couple of tourists wearing sandals and bum bags are holding their cameras like they’re trying to decide whether to take a picture or not.
‘Hey, it’s something to watch,’ a dark-haired guy in an expensive-looking shirt says, with a shrug. The pretty, mini-skirted girl hanging onto his arm looks up at him and giggles. No matter what that guy said, she’d agree with it. Two Asian girls are speaking in Chinese or Korean or whatever, not taking any notice of the guy on the ground. Then the Aboriginal girl and her boyfriend come over, carrying on the same argument.
‘Yeah, yeah,’ the boyfriend says, annoyed. The girl only stops ragging on him when she hears the two Asian girls talking. She stares at them for a minute.
‘Foreigners,’ she mutters. ‘They come to my country, they can speak my language.’ Then she remembers that she’s mad at her boyfriend and starts in on him again about that thing he didn’t do, and they head off.
That Aboriginal girl was speaking English. Shouldn’t she be mad at the Asians for not speaking Aboriginal? Can she speak Aboriginal?
I’m getting confused about this when a guy who’s been hovering at the other side of the ambulance buzzes past me, circling the crowd. He’s old, maybe fifty, and is wearing an army helmet. He’s not normal. His clothes are dirty and his face, what you can see of it around his sunglasses, has that hard, crazy look. He’s carrying three library books in one hand and a tambourine in the other. He starts skipping, shaking his tambourine, doing some jerky little dance as the ambos load the sick boy into the ambulance. When they slam the door shut, the weird guy gives his tambourine a long shake, then an abrupt smack – rrrrp, BANG! As if to say, ‘That’s all, folks!’
The ambulance drives off and everyone in the crowd stands there a few seconds just blinking and looking stupid, trying to remember what they were doing before the guy OD’d and the ambulance came. The guy in the expensive shirt reaches for his ringing mobile and flips it open. ‘Hello? Yeah, we’re on our way, be there in five.’ His girlfriend squeezes his arm again, and they cross the street. A man outside a strip club says something to them, and the girlfriend squeals and does the arm-grab thing to Expensive Shirt. Does that girl ever talk? Does her arm work if it isn’t hooked to some guy’s arm?
The Asian girls move onto the footpath. The tourists amble off like a couple of confused cows. The flabby guy stuffs the rest of his chicken nuggets into his mouth and looks around for a rubbish container for the paper bag. I remember that I’m hungry.
I don’t really like the look of most places I see. There’s a KFC and a Hungry Jack’s. KFC? No thank you, not after seeing some fat guy eating KFC while he’s looking at some other guy lying in his own vomit. And I’ll probably never go to Hungry Jack’s again, after being embarrassed to death when Lyyssa took us there. There’s a Copenhagen Ice-cream and an Asian place with fish in the windows. I walk as far as Potts Point, where there are
Kings Cross. I’m not supposed to be here. I’ll just get something to eat, then leave.
I come off the escalator right into the middle of a fight between an Aboriginal girl and her boyfriend; she’s yelling at him about how he never does this and he never does that. I dodge them and come to the footpath in front of the station.
There’s an ambulance, and a small crowd. Everybody’s looking at a guy lying on the ground with his head in a pile of his own puke. He’s a young guy, wearing jeans and a plaid shirt. His skin is pale and he’s out cold, but I guess he’ll live. The ambos don’t look too concerned as they lift him up and strap him to a gurney.
Nobody in the crowd looks too concerned, either. One blondish pimply flabby guy in a blue shirt is standing there eating KFC nuggets. A couple of tourists wearing sandals and bum bags are holding their cameras like they’re trying to decide whether to take a picture or not.
‘Hey, it’s something to watch,’ a dark-haired guy in an expensive-looking shirt says, with a shrug. The pretty, mini-skirted girl hanging onto his arm looks up at him and giggles. No matter what that guy said, she’d agree with it. Two Asian girls are speaking in Chinese or Korean or whatever, not taking any notice of the guy on the ground. Then the Aboriginal girl and her boyfriend come over, carrying on the same argument.
‘Yeah, yeah,’ the boyfriend says, annoyed. The girl only stops ragging on him when she hears the two Asian girls talking. She stares at them for a minute.
‘Foreigners,’ she mutters. ‘They come to my country, they can speak my language.’ Then she remembers that she’s mad at her boyfriend and starts in on him again about that thing he didn’t do, and they head off.
That Aboriginal girl was speaking English. Shouldn’t she be mad at the Asians for not speaking Aboriginal? Can she speak Aboriginal?
I’m getting confused about this when a guy who’s been hovering at the other side of the ambulance buzzes past me, circling the crowd. He’s old, maybe fifty, and is wearing an army helmet. He’s not normal. His clothes are dirty and his face, what you can see of it around his sunglasses, has that hard, crazy look. He’s carrying three library books in one hand and a tambourine in the other. He starts skipping, shaking his tambourine, doing some jerky little dance as the ambos load the sick boy into the ambulance. When they slam the door shut, the weird guy gives his tambourine a long shake, then an abrupt smack – rrrrp, BANG! As if to say, ‘That’s all, folks!’
The ambulance drives off and everyone in the crowd stands there a few seconds just blinking and looking stupid, trying to remember what they were doing before the guy OD’d and the ambulance came. The guy in the expensive shirt reaches for his ringing mobile and flips it open. ‘Hello? Yeah, we’re on our way, be there in five.’ His girlfriend squeezes his arm again, and they cross the street. A man outside a strip club says something to them, and the girlfriend squeals and does the arm-grab thing to Expensive Shirt. Does that girl ever talk? Does her arm work if it isn’t hooked to some guy’s arm?
The Asian girls move onto the footpath. The tourists amble off like a couple of confused cows. The flabby guy stuffs the rest of his chicken nuggets into his mouth and looks around for a rubbish container for the paper bag. I remember that I’m hungry.
I don’t really like the look of most places I see. There’s a KFC and a Hungry Jack’s. KFC? No thank you, not after seeing some fat guy eating KFC while he’s looking at some other guy lying in his own vomit. And I’ll probably never go to Hungry Jack’s again, after being embarrassed to death when Lyyssa took us there. There’s a Copenhagen Ice-cream and an Asian place with fish in the windows. I walk as far as Potts Point, where there are
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