Here Come the Dogs Page 2

Blind in one eye with a kinked back leg,

  he’s smaller than the other dogs,

  but somehow he beats all comers.

  Every time, he starts slow

  but ends with power,

  hunger.

  We’ve heard that in training

  he’s thrown real rabbits and possums to chase

  so that he keeps the blood lust up.

  An ageing warrior,

  close to the end.

  We all sit silently,

  drinking.

  Aleks

  We never get to see Aleks.

  He’s got a missus, a young daughter

  and a house he built himself.

  Still, even after all this time,

  he has that pirouette of smoke

  in his eyes.

  At age five he moved here from Macedonia

  and despite limited English

  quickly established himself

  as king of the kids

  with his fast, big fists.

  At age thirteen he knocked out an English teacher

  who tried to make him

  spell his name with an ‘x’,

  not a ‘ks’.

  It was around this time he found

  another use for his hands.

  One day, when a graff crew from Sydney

  painted a wildstyle piece under the bridge

  over the river,

  Aleks discovered a love

  to replace the sweet science

  (though if lessons needed to be taught,

  cunts needed to learn).

  From then on it was burners/

  boltcutters/

  blackbooks

  and

  guerilla expeditions to Bunnings

  to rack paint cans/

  And don’t forget

  that rush that makes your dick hard.

  The Old Timer

  ‘When I was in England,

  I visited Old TRAFFORD,

  the home of MANCHESTER UNITED.’

  ‘We can hear you, mate –

  we’re right here.’

  The old timer’s been talking frog shit for nearly

  fifteen minutes now.

  Sad bastard –

  desiccated look of a dedicated drinker.

  Threads from a cheap Western –

  ten-gallon hat, bolo tie,

  spurs on boots.

  ‘Johnny No-Cash,’ says Aleks in my ear.

  I stifle a smile.

  ‘The coach told me I had the BEST LEFT BOOT

  he had ever seen.’

  Bullshit artists

  come a dime a dozen in this town –

  it takes one to know one, ay?

  A message from Georgie

  Good afternoon, beautiful boy.

  In boring lecture having naughty thoughts about u.

  Can’t wait 2 c u 2nite. Luv, Porge x

  Love?

  I pocket the phone.

  When’s this race gonna start?

  A little something to rev things up

  I wipe the top of the cistern

  and bring up my hand –

  there’s white powder on my palm.

  I love doing that.

  It’s almost like I’ve busted someone in the act.

  Aleks takes out a marker

  and writes his tag on the cubicle wall

  with a flourish.

  JAKEL

  Meanwhile, Jimmy racks up

  three lines

  with a seasoned hand

  and his keycard.

  My brother Jimmy, who could never

  even handle his beer back in the day.

  Aleks does a line and blinks.

  ‘Dearo fucken me! This is good shit, bro. Aryan white.’

  I roll up the drawn-on five-buck note

  and hoover a line.

  The cocaine hits immediately –

  a cold zoom in the guts,

  a perfectly timed tackle.

  I backflip

  into a glacial crevasse.

  The track

  The track smoulders.

  Thick lights shine down

  holding within them insects

  and motes of dust.

  The dogs’ feet articulate

  on the soil of the holding pen.

  In part dieted on honey, vegetable oil and eggs,

  their coats glow.

  Tinny announcements over the loudspeakers.

  The trainers are hand slipping the dogs now,

  one hand on the collar

  the other arm hooked at the base of

  their undercarriages

  shuffling them forward into the traps.

  Like everyone else,

  we riffle and check our betslips.

  In the stands,

  we can hear the dogs’ high-pitched

  whimpers and yelps

  as they scrape in the traps.

  We begin to cheer.

  The race

  Bang goes the gun,

  zoom goes the artificial rabbit,

  off go the hounds

  like water out a

  sluice.

  They are a rumbling mass at first

  but as they round the corner

  they separate into surreal, spear-headed things

  that lope and arch through the air –

  feet, dust, sound.

  The crowd rises

  and we do too,

  ten-feet tall and charged with powder,

  seeing the race in jittering frames.

  Here comes Mercury Fire!

  A grey streak of

  ribs/

  sinew-lashed muscle/

  light.

  Right down the straight

  he looks like a young dog again,

  propelled by furious, otherworldly energy.

  He’s neck and neck for the lead with

  two black hounds,

  loping forward, urging/

  and we’re screaming, screaming/

  ‘Come on, boy. COME ON!’

  and Mercury Fire is straining onwards

  every muscle working for the one goal,

  courage and conviction in the blood,

  launching over the track for the last time.

  He comes in third.

  I realise that I’ve been holding my breath

  the whole race.

  What happens to a racing dog past its prime?

  Jimmy says they find them homes

  where they get retrained as house pets.

  Aleks says he’s heard of a bloke

  in Wollongong who’s killed over five thousand

  healthy hounds with a captive bolt gun

  once they lose speed.

  I say they get their ears cut off

  (cos of the ID tattoo)

  then let go in the bush

  cos owners don’t have the heart to kill them.

  Jimmy

  Jimmy is arguing with me about money again.

  ‘Jimmy, it’s five fucken bucks, mate. I’ll pay ya back tomorrow.’

  ‘That’s what you always say.’

  Jimmy –

  catfood-hearted,

  jelly-spined motherfucker.

  Cheap-deodorant, call-centre Jimmy.

  No good with his fists

  but uses rumours like napalm.

  He’s family but,

  so what the fuck can you do?

  Outside the racecourse

  Eyes tick like a stopwatch/

  People head home or out/

  A cop car smears by/

  Then a Ninja Turtle-green Supra

  with two chicks hanging from one window/

  techno pumping/

  ‘Ay, boys, show us where ya piss from!’/

  We’re cracking up

  and our middle fingers go straight in the air/

  This is good shit/

  ‘Oi, I’m tilted.’

  ‘Me too.’

  I’m trying to keep it toge
ther but

  Jimmy and Aleks not so much.

  Chewing like mastodons,

  they must’ve taken pills, too,

  the sly cunts.

  People are milling around the entrance.

  The old timer is rabbiting on to someone

  and we swerve to avoid him.

  ‘ . . . the best left boot he’d EVER seen.’

  Gladys

  I chase her down in the carpark.

  Red, wary face,

  god-awful turquoise windcheater

  and a cockney accent.

  But there’s something about the old duck

  that chokes me up.

  I introduce myself,

  squat down and pat Mercury Fire.

  ‘He did good, yeah? Especially for his last race.

  I trained him since he was a pup,’ she says.

  Mercury Fire studies me with

  his one good eye, grinning and panting.

  ‘I know, I know. Me and my mates have

  been watching him race for the last year.

  The best there was, seriously. I mean is. Was.’

  I’m talking too fast. Slow your roll, Solomon.

  She’s looking away now –

  ‘Yeh. Probably gonna send him to a new home, or . . .

  I’m moving back to England in a few weeks.’

  Why at that age? Are those tears?

  She keeps talking –

  ‘They like it, you know. The dogs. They like racing.

  People reckon it’s cruel but we treat em better

  than most owners treat their dogs.’

  She’s looking directly at me now.

  I wonder if she can tell I’m out of it

  but then she looks past me.

  I shake her hand awkwardly. ‘Best of luck, ay.’

  ‘Yer, you too.’

  She smiles and I smile back.

  ‘Hey, can I ask you something?’ I say.

  A phone call

  Georgie’s busting my balls

  and it’s ruining my high.

  ‘It’s cruel, Solomon.

  They exploit those poor animals.’

  Hasn’t she got something better to do?

  I thought she was studying.

  ‘Can we talk about this later? Please.’

  I hear Jimmy behind me

  singing ‘My Cherie Amour’

  like Stevie Wonder.

  I throw a crushed tinnie at him.

  ‘I’ll be back at yours a bit later, all right, babe?

  Don’t wait up for me.’

  The cypher

  On the way to get chips and gravy

  we see a cypher –

  a circle of youngsters rapping.

  Seven kids, seven heads bobbing,

  some of them sipping on longies

  as they wait for their turn to rap.

  The lad beatboxing is a Koori fulla –

  I used to play ball with his older brother.

  He’s supplying a steady, boombap beat.

  A few of them nod at us

  and we observe from outside the circle.

  I always thought that, from above,

  the circle of heads

  would look like bullets loaded in a chamber,

  each MC ready with his percussive, weaponised voice,

  some rapid fire,

  some jamming.

  A pretty brunette is up first.

  She’s got a dope flow

  but it’s obviously a written verse.

  Next is an African cat

  who’s using an American accent –

  we all wince.

  Someone else takes over the beatboxing

  and the Koori fulla starts freestyling,

  clowning on people in the circle.

  He’s a cocky cunt, just like his bro.

  His flow is a bit off

  but his punchlines are hitting

  and soon we’re all laughing.

  I make a mental note

  to keep an eye out for him.

  I look up and for a second

  I swear I can see skulls swinging

  from the trees above us

  but then I realise it’s a trick of the light.

  Jimmy and I step forward

  and rap for a bit

  but we’re rusty.

  All it takes is a week off

  to lose the edge.

  Plus neither of us were ever MCs.

  But it’s part of the game –

  gotta give it a go.

  Afterwards, we smoke a joint with the youngsters.

  ‘You lads aren’t going out tonight? Heaps going on, uce.’

  The Koori lad and the brunette are arm in arm

  and he says, ‘Nah, brus. Can’t get in anywhere, ay.’

  The brunette pipes up, ‘Would rather be doin this anyway.’

  We laugh.

  ‘True.’

  Fights are freight trains

  You can see em coming a mile off,

  and if not,

  make em happen.

  The line for chips and gravy is rowdy.

  This shardhead behind us is

  gnashing and doing a weird jig

  on the spot.

  Jimmy blows kisses

  at his methed-up, cue-ball eyes,

  taunting him.

  Aleks places

  a hand on Jimmy’s shoulder –

  ‘Leave it, bro. Leave it.’

  My bro cocks his head,

  as if trying to hear a faint noise.

  He looks at me,

  then back at Aleks.

  Then he turns to the shardhead

  and spits in his face.

  When the meth head lashes out,

  it’s wild but somehow finds its mark –

  a savage kiss on the end of a whip.

  Jimmy drops straight away.

  Before he even lands Aleks and I

  are on the shardhead and

  there are no words,

  just the sound of rockmelons

  dropped onto asphalt from a bridge

  and soon blood mixes with chicken salt

  and footsteps are everywhere and a chick is on her mobile

  and Aleks is grimacing as he punches

  and the methhead is shrieking like a berserker now

  and some of our punches are landing on each other

  and one of us is yelling same team, same team

  and Jimmy is on his feet unsteadily

  smiling eagerly,

  and he says ‘white cunt’ but we all know

  it’s not about that well it may be

  and he starts to kick the shardhead in his face

  but that’s not cool so Aleks edges back and is shaking his great head

  and the chick is screaming

  the cops are on their way fuckheads

  so we wrestle Jimmy out the door

  and into the early morning darkness.

  What’s got into him?

  These swings are too small for us.

  Aleks is throwing tanbark into the dark –

  he hasn’t said a word since the fight.

  I roll a joint and pass it round,

  Pete Rock playing from my iPhone.

  Jimmy won’t shut the fuck up

  about the fight,

  reliving it over and over,

  as he always does.

  Without warning, Aleks stands up,

  walks to Jimmy and stops in front of him,

  faces centimetres apart.

  Jimmy looks confused at first

  then stares back,

  face hardening.

  Aleks searches Jimmy’s face,

  holding him squarely with his stare,

  breathing, searching.

  ‘I’m off, brother.’

  Jimmy starts after him but I grab his forearm.

  ‘Leave him alone, bro. Jimmy. James, leave him alone,’ I say.

  Aleks is now a slash of ink,

&n
bsp; darkening into the crosshatch of trees.

  Jimmy sits back down –

  ‘What’s got into him?’

  Wish we had a white person with us

  Ten empty cabs have passed us by.

  The cabbie

  His breath smells of cardamom tea

  and a twelve-hour shift.

  He eyes us warily –

  ‘If you need to vomit you tell me, yeah? I’ll pull over.’

  ‘Nah, nah. No worries. We’re big boys, mate.’