I’m tired. There’s not enough time. I didn’t even drink last night. I realise now that my waking hours are going to be consumed by a twelve-hour shift, two hours of travel, half an hour getting showered and changed morning and night, then there’s preparing dinner and eating it, which is at least half an hour unless you’re a dickhead who eats two minute noodles, so, what, that leaves a bit over nine hours to fit in all leisure, all unwinding, all socialising, any chores, a quick wank, exercise and adequate sleep? Impossible.
Today I’m stationed in Red Compound. Bailey, a few years my junior, takes me under his wing. He’s easy-going, and it only takes me about ten minutes to realise he’s a pretty smart guy. I’m actually a bit surprised he works here. Sharp, young, personable — there’s got to be better jobs he could be doing.
“How’d you end up here?” I ask.
“I’m from Fitzroy Crossing. Not that much full-time work there, so I found this job up here and they offered a better roster if you live in town. It’s not too bad, but I dunno how much longer I’ll stay.”
“What else you planning on doing?”
“I’m thinking about going to uni, maybe doing a degree if I can get in.”
“What area?”
“I’m not sure. My sister’s a teacher, so maybe teaching. Or maybe something like film.”
“Nice. What sort of films you like?”
“Everything. I just saw an old Australian film that’s been rereleased. It’s called Wake in Fright. It’s bat-shit crazy, but probably the best Australian film ever made,” says Bailey.
“Hell yeah, I saw it a while back, it was in some of the little cinemas.” I’m quietly impressed. Your average bogan definitely would not know Wake in Fright.
“Hey, how young is Jack Thompson in it? He would have been a loose man back then,” says Bailey.
“For sure. You look at that film, they must have all been pretty loose. They probably just found some shithole town and paid the locals to drink and fight for a week,” I say.
“Yeah, no, I think they basically did, I read something about it, how it was shot on location. And you know that the roo-shooting scene was real? They went out with actual roo-shooters and shot the footage. I’ll tell you something you won’t see on the credits — that notice you normally get about no animals being harmed in the making of the film.”
“Yeah, right, it looked pretty real,” I say. “I thought they must have just gone out themselves: ‘There you go, Thomo, go murder Skippy. And don’t forget to smile!’ ”
Bailey laughs.
“You go shooting up here?” I ask.
“I used to, not much now though. I’ve got a mate on a farm out from Broome. He drove up a few months ago and brought his guns, so we went out with another mate. We just drove around in some empty paddocks shooting shit. Then there’s these lights coming and we’re like, ‘Yep, not good.’ This ute pulls up and an old cocky gets out with his gun. He wants to know what we’re doing on his farm; he reckons he’s going to call the cops. But my other mate sort of knew him because his son plays on the same footy team, so basically he just told us to piss off and never come back.”
“Jesus. The old bastard could have shot the lot of you and buried you on his land.”
This time I laugh. I suppose nothing we’ve said is exactly funny, but sometimes you laugh at things anyway.
The hours trickle by. Lunchtime, Bailey and I are stationed in the detainees’ mess. Our job is to make sure nothing goes out apart from the detainee’s cup, plate, bowl and a single piece of fruit. Two pieces of fruit could lead to an escape attempt, and three — almost certainly a riot. Which is to say, Bailey and I just stand around shooting the shit. We’re talking about what the township of Derby is like.
“You know that Chris Rock joke?” asks Bailey. “The one about the difference between a black man and a nigger? ‘Ain’t nobody who hates the black man. But everybody hates a nigger.’ Heard it?”
“Um, don’t think so.”
Bailey adopts a stance like he’s addressing an audience. The clever bastard has memorised the entire monologue.
“See, there’s black people, and then there’s niggers. The niggers have got to go. You know the worst thing about niggers? A nigger will brag about some shit a normal man just does. A nigger will say some shit like, ‘I take care of my kids.’ You’re supposed to, you dumb motherfucker!”
I laugh a true laugh because that’s a clever little piece, and I can just imagine Chris Rock saying it in his deranged screech, but then I see an Afghani man glance our way and it occurs to me that here and now might not be the best time and place to be yakking it up over what might be considered — when told by a white man — a racist joke. I mean, of course you can laugh at race or racism and that is not itself racist. But a joke about scumbag African-Americans told by a white Australian who’s shouting nigger this and nigger that? Honestly, I’m not sure.
Bailey’s rendition of the Chris Rock monologue makes me think about a joke I haven’t heard and haven’t even thought about in a decade. When I was a kid it used to pass around every year as if it had just been conceived. I tried telling it myself, once, but my delivery has always been too flat, better suited to satire. It still got a laugh, but nothing like when my father told it. It went something like this:
A truckie picks up a hitchhiker. The hitchhiker dozes off, when suddenly he’s woken by a noise.
CRASH! CRASH! BOONG!
The hitchhiker sits up and says, “What’s going on?”
“Oh, we just hit an Abo,” says the truck driver.
“Oh, right,” says the hitchhiker. “But what were the first two crashes?”
“I had to go through two fences to get him!”
These days, your average urban Australian wouldn’t think such a joke funny, but everyone thought it was hilarious when I was growing up, and I reckon it’d still get a decent reception if you whipped it out in the Manji pub or at a Harris family reunion.
Standing in the mess hall, looking about for displeased clients, I choke my mirth into a simpering grin, but I needn’t bother. Nobody says anything. No one even looks irritated. Still, I wonder if I should say something to Bailey. Not bust his balls, just mention that maybe there’s a time and place.
I decide to err on the side of caution and stay quiet, knowing that projections of rectitude rarely result in another man’s mind being changed, and would definitely not endear me. I do, however, adopt a barren equanimity as Bailey delivers some advice.
“It’s the same with the Indig’ up here. I’ve lived in Derby three years now and some of them are ok. But you’ve gotta watch out for the coons. The other week I was on day shift, but the Indig’ were having a party in the park, so I couldn’t sleep. About 11 p.m. one of ’em started bashing his missus. Yeah, it was a pretty terrible sound, went on for a while. Then there was a bit of a commotion, and after that it was all over. Silence. Yeah, mate, if you just keep to yourself and avoid the coons, you’ll be right.”
“Yeah, ok,” I say.
I get Bailey’s point — keep to yourself, don’t get involved in shit you can’t change anyway — yet I can’t help but think, why didn’t you do something? How could you stay in bed that whole time?
The hours tick by till, mercifully, it’s home time. Jesus, these days feel long, long like the road back to Spinifex City, stretching out in a straight line till my vision fails ahead of the horizon.