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Rubbish stories

Rubbish story 7: Omar & Reggae

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“Ok, let’s be like…Hackney hard boys, yeah?” Omar says, slowing his pace.

“I knew we shouldn’t have banged out the whole season of Big Boy in one night” says Reggae.

“Come on bruuuuv…“

“Right, right, ok…so how izit bruv, all dem clowns in the States be taking horse worming pills to fight off COVID? Makes about as much sense as bathing in pea soup for erectile dysfunction.“

“‘Cause of socials, blood. ‘cause they don’t get out enough, get too much of their reality online. They need to mix up their company more.”

Reggae’s wearing an unconvinced pout. Omar continues.

“Seriously. Like…like you know how you say no one has made a good tune since Ozzy left Black Sabbath…“

“Truth man, but you weren’t interested in no choons written before ‘79 ‘til I played you Dark Side of the Moon.”

Omar is holding a “hold on” hand up.

“Ain’t disagreeing bruv, in fact that’s exactly what I’m saying. You play me Pink Floyd on a school camp up the Akatarawas, I take you to see Shihad at Bodega. We both gone an’ expanded each other’s realities.”

Reggae lifts an uncertain eyebrow.

“Serious, variety of lived experience, that’s what protects us from ignorance. “

Reggae gives a relenting nod. 

“Like that time You and Lei snorted them horse tranquilisers ‘cause Danni said it unlocks your third-eye chakra?”

“Ok ok, so yoof is the wellspring of both bravado and stupidity, yeah?”

“You hear Danni reckons Lei be coming back bruv? Said his grandma died last…”

Reggae slows suddenly, lifts something up from the gutter.

“Ok, so that’s weird right? Why the fuck is this here?”

He holds up a dirty black plastic zip tie. 

Omar leans closer.

“Yeah, maybe leave it there man…”

Reggae suddenly flings the tie up into the bush.

“Oh shit, that could have been evidence!” says Omar.

“Evidence we’ve been watching too much crime drama over lockdown bro. The tie was probably just holding up some Aunty’s tomato plant or something.”

“Do you see any tomato plants on this roadside? Only house ‘round here is old man Monvoison’s.”

Reggae picks up the pace, shaking his head.

Omar glances up to the house on the hill, then follows Reggae towards the skyline.

“I’d looove to catch up with Lei again, blood.”

Rubbish stories

Rubbish story 6: Danni

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Ok, so why have I paused by this roadside timber crucifix? Latent Christian heebie jeebies? 

I guess a little anxiety’s ok. Melody reckons Ms Monvoisin drove Willie Naverson to a nervous breakdown, but Melody then also believes that she once saw Patrick Swayze’s ghost in the Pak ‘n’ Save butchery. And that she looks like a Scottish Beyonce. 

I rip into a snow white Snickers bar, gnawing at the chocolate shell. The sugar hit gets me moving again. That’s it Danni, time to be brave, time to validate my suspicions. If I’m right, I’m about to spend an hour with an old school influencer. Besides, the alternative’s a drudge-walk back to Josh, a supermarket lasagne, and the 1pm COVID count on TV.

Yip, must be dozens of women that have headed up to your house on the hill. You see each and every one of ‘em coming, don’t ya? Three tarot readings in and you’ve got old lady Flammel quitting her legal career and packing up for Queenstown. Just one session and Jennifer Laycock’s kicking Joffrey out and turning his garden room into an AirBnB. 

Me though, I’m not coming for divination, nor implied permission. Nup, I’m coming for tuition. 

I’m not completely artless. I know if I drop my voice by an octave Josh’ll fetch me a glass of wine, even three minutes out from the full-time whistle. I’ve got a talent for reading people, learnt that from navigating Mum’s…let’s say mercurial…moods. I know if little Grace lifts her left hand a little before she speaks, no matter what she says, she’s hoping for validation. And I can see Josh’s lies six months before he mouths them.

You though, you’re on a whole new level. These modern-day influencers, they’re all pretenders, right Monvoison? All on the paycheck of this man or that. Not you, nuh-uh, you kicked your man out two years back. And somehow you kept the house and custody of sweet young Delilah. 

So sure, I might be slowing a little as I approach your driveway as the light fades and I get to shivering. I’m not stopping though, this girl’s ready to level up.

I look up as a light appears on the porch. She’s a silhouette and I’m grit and determination. And maaaaybe just a wee twist of fear.

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Rubbish story 5: William

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An avocado bounces past at speed. I shrug and stop. 

I close my eyes, slip the fresh pack from my pocket. The cellophane resists my picking, fingers which used to be so artful are now cumbersome. 

I never smoked as a kid. “Never” was my byword though. Never gonna have a Jap car. Never gonna let no cunt call me William. Never gonna sit next to a stranger in the cinema after buying a ticket last minute so no cunt would see me going to see a film about gays in a laundry. 

Then that mad, bent Beijing beanstalk detonated it all. Caught me at a vulnerable moment: my teenage years. I’m down the pines, alone. Fade to Black on my ghetto blaster, bevvies in my school bag. Suddenly he’s there, all fucking grins and air guitar. Bewilderment can be a useful state of mind, like mental white noise.Temporarily cancelling out logic and preconceptions. I offered him a beer.

I open my eyes, hold the packet up, unintelligible gold characters over oxblood. Fingers rediscover their old rhythm, I loosen the foil and slip loose a prisoner.

Turned out Lei was more bogan than me, in a weird, canted way. Modding mopeds, throat singing, bombing bus shelters in artful script with his Dad’s paint brushes. I spent so much time with him that Summer I ended up standing up to Dad over Tiananmen Square. That reckoning that had been brewing a long while. 

He gave me a key to his parents' shop so I could kip out the back when Dad blew a gasket.

He taught me just enough Mandarin to impress his Mum, not nearly enough to impress his Dad. He taught me to make peace with who I was. I taught him how to shotgun beers and make a pie sandwich. On reflection I guess I got the better deal out of the skills and talents exchange.

Lei left five years ago, off to live with his Grandma. Old bird was being pushed about by the government. Now he sends me these dodgy Chinese cigarettes every August. I have one each time, then dump the rest with the nearest hard-up street sleeper.

He’s still with me though, in the most important ways. I breathe him in on the days I’m courageous. Out on the days I’m not.

I strike a match, inhale briefly to ignite, then once again to ingest. Then set off after that avocado.
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Rubbish stories 3: Willow & Harper

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“Fucksnatch” Harper blurts as the bag splits.

“Harp! Oh Harrrrpeeeeeer, chase it!” yells Willow, giggling.

The avocado tumbles down the gutter faster than Harper’s motivation to chase it.

“Fuck it,” Harper says, kneeling to repack the one intact bag-for-life.

“Come on, you’re not going after it?”

“It’s one avocado Willow, I ain’t climbing this hill again for one unripened vegetable.”

“Maybe that’s why we’re being told we’re wasting all our money on smashed avocado.”

“Ha fucking ha, cram some of this in your backpack will you?"

Willow grins and squeezes the tub of salted cashew ice cream into her pack. 

“Seriously though, four weeks into lockdown I’m going stir crazy. Then I read that the government is supporting training, and I’m like, why the fuck can’t I design electric Harleys?“

Harper gives a shrug and pulls her vape out, inhales, puffs out a thick scented cloud of vanilla custard.

“What you need is one of them tech guys, all money, no self confidence. Build em up, bleed em dry, boot em out”

“Mmmm, and how did that work out with Caleb?”

Harper shrugs again.

“‘Apparently there’s more to making a billion in crypto than that boy’s prepared to learn.”
Willow takes a long breath and lets it out slowly, shaking her head. Harper carries on.

“We have to face it girl, we’ll never own houses. We won’t have friends named Tarquin or Genevieve or fucking Riccardo. I got a reading from that Ruth woman, you know, Delilah’s Mum. She says we’re a product of destiny. Fighting it’s a waste of spiritual currency.”

Willow looks over her nails, the worn blue paint, and lifts a lazy yet highly defined eyebrow.

“Do you think maybe it’s the people we surround ourselves with, which maybe hold us back, Harp?”

“Na, you’re trippin’, we’re surrounded by the same damn people. Next thing you’ll be choosing fucking Mima’s fucking yoga retreat over my 50th”

Willow turns back to face Harper’s incredulous expression.

“I just need to...evolve Harp.”

Harper lifts her brows in contemplation.

“I mean sure, I’m all-the-fuck about evolution, just so long as I don’t gotta change.”