Omar Musa: Here Come the Dogs

Unlike many in his family, Aleks has always liked Muslims. He even has a grudging respect for Albanians. They may all be criminals, but at least the proceeds of their crime go back to their country, back to the cause. He thinks with shame of some of the Macos here, who are Macedonian by name only, so eager to become like the Aussies, the kengurs (based on the word ‘kangaroo’). Like Julian, the local car dealer. Aleks can’t stand people like him: Macos who won’t speak their own language, who know no music or folklore, who never go back, who keep stacking money higher and higher as if it would make a staircase to God. If every Maco in Australia went back to the homeland with even $20,000, it would save the failing economy, he thinks.

Aleks pulls up at a nearly completed block of new apartments next to a barren soccer oval. He gets his gear out and climbs the stairs, nodding at the foreman on the way up. A day of hard work ahead, but he looks forward to it. His work ethic is what ensures his and his family’s survival.

His partner is already there; a young skater in his late teens, who Aleks knows had some problems with heroin but is now on methadone. He works for half the price but twice as hard. Aleks lets him play his own music on a paint-splattered radio, because it helps him keep up with the latest shit. Today, it is mostly a jumble of Odd Future’s lo-fi, off-kilter horrorcore and Yelawolf’s mercurial drawl.

‘Seventy-five per cent of painting a room is prep — always remember that,’ says Aleks. The boy nods.

They lay plastic sheeting on the floor, check the wall for discrepancies with a light and sand away the few they see. They put down the base coat with a paintgun. Then they begin painting the trim of a bedroom. Aleks is careful but moves with ease and is soon finished. He stands back, admiring his work with pride. Flawless.

His phone lights up with a message. Number unknown.

Well well look at the big boy comin in2 the playground. how dare u come here and steal all my friends?

Aleks smiles. It could only be one of two people. He pauses, then types back with two thumbs.

I dont giv a fuk whoz playground it iz. Ne time I wanna drink from the bubbla, Ill do it and theres fuk all u can do bout it.

Send.

Then he starts to paint the dry walls with a roller, keeping a wet edge to avoid lap marks. Where these apartments now stand there was once a big block of land where an old Croatian couple lived and tended to their flourishing vegetable garden. All summer there would be a grapevine covering the whole fence, free for all who passed. The boys would gorge themselves and do chin-ups on the old plum tree that hung over the fence. All of that was gone now.

His phone lights up again, this time with the message, we’ll see bout that cunt. He texts back immediately — lets talk pursonaly. meet me tmorro at the old cemetery. i got a proposal for ya. He clicks send then switches the phone off. He’ll deal with all of that later — there’s work to be done.

At lunchtime, he makes an excuse to his co-worker and drives a few blocks to meet Solomon. There are barely any people on the street, and those few cast no shadows. A red-brick pub stands on the corner and Solomon is lounging outside, in the middle of telling a story to two Tongan blokes. Aren’t Samoans and Tongans supposed to hate each other? Solomon is wearing a singlet and honey-tinted sunnies and is gesticulating as precisely as an orator, his face serious. The two men are rapt, eyebrows knitted. Suddenly Solomon says something with a final jab of the index finger and the two men begin laughing hysterically. He leans back in his chair, smiling, rubbing papaya ointment into his lips and then his elbows.

Aleks and Solomon order chicken schnitties and mash with schooners of draft and sit inside to escape the sun. The pub had once been a notorious, sweat-reeking, liquor-soaked bloodhouse. There had even been several murders in the rooms above it. However, it had recently been renovated by a local entrepreneur and was now clean and airy, lavender scented and surprisingly, full of people. Solomon is suddenly sullen, but Aleks makes no comment, used to his shifting moods, from charismatic to brooding to street to booksmart. It is something women find mysterious and attractive, Jimmy finds endlessly annoying and contrived, and Aleks ignores. Solomon keeps looking around at the trendy decor, paintings on the wall and trim barstaff and eventually mutters, ‘It’s a fucken disgrace, man. I swear to God.’

‘ Tsk . It was a shithole, brother. It’s a lot nicer now.’

‘Should’ve left it how it was.’

Solomon, adamant that hip hop should change and progress, is equally adamant that the Town is changing too fast, losing its working-class identity, becoming yuppified. This is his town and repository of his life’s story. Aleks looks at him and thinks: everything in the world exists with its death alive in it. Every fire dies, every story, every star, every town. Every nation? Childhoods are macadamed beneath asphalt and paint rolls, but just for other childhoods to exist. This, the nature of change, of modernity. Buildings go up, dreamings wander in search of graves or new owners; some remnant will stir occasionally, but these buildings will one day turn to dust and float through the bushland like ghosts. Eventually, the bush would die, too.

And besides, it’s not like Solomon contributes anything — at twenty-seven lazing around with a half-arsed dishwashing job, still living at his mum’s place, monkey-swinging from woman to woman, feeling sorry for himself about an injury he had almost ten years ago. Nah, there is dignity in hard work.

Solomon cheers up after a second beer and starts telling Aleks about a perfect spot for a mission, a fuel depot on the edge of town where a piece would be seen by everyone leaving for the City in early morning traffic. Aleks is mopping up some mash and gravy with a piece of bread, nodding. He knows the spot.

When he gets back to the apartment block, the kid is working at a furious pace, painting meticulously. Must’ve done a good apprenticeship. If you’re taught to paint badly in the first place, you’ll go thirty years painting like shit. Aleks is glad he didn’t take the kid with him to lunch — Solomon has complete disdain for bogans.

It is now Freddie Gibbs’ deep voice booming from the radio with fuck the woooorld attitude. Aleks paints with the bassline reverberating deep within him, completely calm. They are both in a zone. Before he knows it, they’re finished for the day. He switches his phone back on and gets another text from the unknown number. Done. Seeya then.

He picks up Mila from school, takes her to ballet practice and waits outside in the Hilux, drawing in his blackbook. An hour passes, then fifteen minutes more. It has become dark. Getting tired of waiting, he gets out of the Hilux. He spies the bag in the back of the truck, among the tins of paint. The street is empty, but for an owl that swoops down onto a fence, its eyes two yellow phosphors. He is about to reach for the bag when he hears a voice.

It’s another parent, a bloke Aleks calls Mr Chuckles because he can’t remember his real name. The man is a lawyer and speaks with a patrician’s briskness, giving off the impression of a civilised man marooned among savages, a benevolent dictator. Aleks smiles, remembering that the man is a renowned lawyer, an unscrupulous but aggressive tiger on the court circuit, and you never know when someone like that might come in handy.

He excuses himself and goes in search of his daughter. He opens the door into the mirrored light of the dance studio and sees her and ten other girls lined up, twirling around and around with varying degrees of skill. She sees him in the mirror, and smiles at him, open-faced, then twirls again, but trips and falls onto the ground. He laughs, eyes glittering. When she’s finished, he takes her sweetly by the chin, kisses her on the cheek, then hoists her onto his shoulders and carries her out.