Omar Musa - Here Come the Dogs

Jimmy’s got it all mapped out. If he can just play this cool, not rush her.

A new court

This one is near the train tracks,

abandoned,

lines long faded.

Little chance of bumping into someone,

thank fuck.

The backboard has been turned into an Aboriginal flag

by some clever person with a marker.

Chain net.

An ants nest covers the whole back half of the court,

then there’s a swale filled with empty cans and bottles,

a tall rusted fence

and the train tracks behind,

going all the way to Sydney.

The sun is at its peak,

the apex of a blown-glass sky.

I squint at the hoop

and carefully stretch my quads,

grunting from the pain.

A low wind at my feet,

a ghostly shawl of dust.

At first I let Mercury run free,

but he keeps trying to chase the ball,

so I tie him up again.

He looks wounded.

Bloody thing.

Mum says the neighbours

keep complaining about his barking.

Yet another thing she can get on my case about.

Dishpig

Centrelink are yappy cunts

so it made more sense to get a job.

Mum’s disappointed

that I’m ‘just’ a dishpig,

but I like it.

No responsibility,

mindless,

headphones on,

beats all day.

Aim the dishwashing gun –

spray the congealed gunk off the plates –

make em brand-new,

all facing one direction like satellites.

Mum says I’m wasting my talent,

that I owe it to her, to Dad,

to do something more.

Don’t wanna think about that now

I pound the ball hard for a minute with each hand

till my shoulders ache

and the blood’s coursing.

Then it’s And One, streetball shit –

feints, spin moves, crossovers.

A step slow, though,

always a step slow.

I’m drenched after minutes.

Nothing like a chain net,

and how the ball chanks out the bottom of it.

Something forgotten starting to rekindle now.

My shirt’s soaked so I take it off.

Ahhhh.

The sun across my shoulders,

skin darkening,

back slick.

Sweat runs over my tatts

and I feel kinda ashamed

I don’t really know what they mean.

Sometimes they feel like a burden.

I hear Dad’s voice:

‘If I save up enough money,

I’ll send the boys back to Samoa.

They need to learn that in your ‘aiga it must be about we, not me.

The boys have to learn, Grace.’

Sometimes I wish he had sent me back.

As I’m working on a hook shot

I feel someone watching me.

It’s a skinny young boy

seated against a tree.

I avoid his eager eyes

and turn back to the hoop.

I wish I didn’t give Mum

so much hell when she stopped sending cash

to Dad’s village after he died.

She was trying her best, ay.

Several minutes later

the boy moves back into my sightline,

again smiling,

standing on one of those dumb Razor scooters.

I wipe sweat off my brow,

collect my shit,

and head home

to get ready for a massive night out.

An underground bar with sweating walls.

Jean Grae, rapping in a bloodstained wedding dress, has whipped the crowd into delirium. Moving bodies, silhouettes, paper cut-outs tinged with malevolent red. A general madness in the air.

‘Can’t believe Aleks isn’t drinking,’ says Jimmy to Solomon when Aleks goes to get a water.

‘Fark, relax, bro. He’s buying you drinks, isn’t he? He’s only out cos you bought him the ticket. He’s got a missus at home.’

‘Yeh, so do you.’

Solomon turns to the stage, ignoring him. To the right Jimmy can see Tall Simon, the biggest hip hop fanatic in town, who is at every single local or international rap show. A photographer darts in and out of the crowd, snapping away, wearing an Ishu tee. She too is at every gig. Against the wall are two old school heads, one in a Def Wish Cast shirt and a Kangol, the other in a Zulu Nation shirt, talking to the support act Dialectrix. The two old school heads look like relics of another era, before the streets gave way to the middle class in Aussie hip hop. At the front is a mix of hippies and young fans, reaching up to touch the performers, and a staunch bouncer. Several minutes later, a young hip hop fan, white-eyed and white at the corner of his mouth, starts freestyling in Solomon’s ear, spraying him with saliva. He’s pilling off his head. Always at least one of these cunts at a show. Jimmy grins as he watches Solomon trying to accommodate the pillhead for a minute, before he pushes him away.

The moment of epiphany about hip hop had come at age twelve. A cassette tape passed from paw to paw, backpack to backpack, had ended up in Jimmy’s pencil case. On each side of the tape a name written in Wite-Out. Public Enemy. Wu Tang Clan. Jimmy, Aleks and Solomon had gathered around an old cassette player. A crackle, and then suddenly a maelstrom of noise from the tinny speakers — street, eloquent and masculine — tough as Smokin’ Joe Frazier. It was love at first listen.

Hip hop was a readymade culture for the fatherless, those born of fracture — family, culture. They all loved listening to raps, of course, but Aleks leaned more towards graffiti, Solomon b-boying, and Jimmy production and DJing. Jimmy, especially, adhered to the idea of hip hop culture religiously. If he could have prayed at an altar of hip hop, he would have.

There was a taut string that yanked back and forth between individual and community, with each person’s style and flourish encouraged, the way someone rode a beat or moved their hands when they rapped, but adherence to the tribe was paramount. And no school could teach it. You learned for yourself, you learned from your brothers and sisters.

One rhyme turned into a sixteen-bar verse that turned into a whole song then maybe even an album that could be pressed and performed live in front of your peers. A simple top rock turned into a whole routine, to be paraded in front of other b-boys in the arena of battle. Tags led to throw ups, which led to full-colour burners, which archaeologists would one day pore over like the chrysography of illuminated religious texts on vellum.

Pharoahe Monch is on stage now, already drenched in sweat, his tee bunched up around the biceps, tatts visible; lead and mic and human creating an amplified creature all new, a philosopher’s stone for an alchemy where every molecule in the room came to a pristine understanding, something sublime in spirit and body, the rupture, the flow, the rapture, something conjured for a brave, hopeless few.

When the world-ending horns of ‘Simon Says’ come on, there is pandemonium.

Afterwards, Jimmy pushes through and gets a CD signed at the merch desk and a photo with Pharoahe. Outside, he and Solomon rap, word for word, Pharoahe’s verse from the Kweli song ‘Guerilla Monsoon Rap’. Jimmy smiles triumphantly. He wants to stay in that moment forever, then he realises he’s agreed to meet Hailee at a club called Luxe.

* * *

Deep in the guts of Luxe.

Tequila.

Whiskey.

Sambuca.

‘Ergh. Tomorrow’s gonna be trouble.’ Jimmy takes a sip of vodka and checks his phone. No messages. She did say twelve, didn’t she? He holds up his drink and the ice cubes glow blue from the mirror balls and bar lights. He imagines goldfish swimming around in his glass.

‘Buy this lovely lady another drink, Jimmy. A Cowboy!’ yells Solomon.

‘Nah, nah, no more for me, thanks.’ The bar chick rolls her eyes.

He’s scanning for Hailee again. There’s a mess of people dancing and making out on the balcony. He moves to it and looks over. Below is the dancefloor, a moving puzzle of bodies. The strobes come on and send a shudder through him. His mouth tastes sour so he takes another sip of vodka and lets his eyes wander to the corner of the dancefloor, closest to the DJ. There she is. Hailee is dancing in a group of people, arms above her head, blonde hair swinging from side to side in a wave, like a model in a shampoo commercial. Too good for this fucken place. Jimmy’s about to wave when a hand yanks him around. It’s Aleks.