I’ve been in a few scraps over the years, but I actually abhor violence — or, at least, the kind perpetrated for the sheer sake of it. Fighting for fighting’s sake is either the mark of stupidity or the product of the worst disillusionment, and too often it ends in harm, not hurt. The only defensible violence is defensive violence. When I fight it’s because the fighting has already begun and I’m either defending myself or my mates or someone who cannot defend themselves. All of which makes me a kind of saint, really, like Joan of Arc.
That said, depending on how one looks at it, an outsider might judge me partly responsible for some of the fights I’ve gotten into. My tendency to speak my mind and not suffer fools lightly, especially but not exclusively when drunk, does seem to rile a certain type of person. A few terse or brusque comments have preceded a number of the scraps in which I’ve been involved, but that is purely an observation of chronology, of correlation and not causation. I contend that a fight does not and cannot begin with words. A fight begins with the first punch thrown. Frankly, the sort of moron who cannot defend against words with his own words is the sort of moron who deserves a good thrashing.
So it is somewhat unexpected, and entirely peculiar, to find that not only has the story of my little scuffle turned into the legend of an epic pub brawl, but those exploits have attracted not a word of disapprobation and more than a few of admiration, and not just from manly men who think fighting is a fine thing.
Yesterday Karen told me she thought it was very good of me to defend Roy. This morning on the way into the centre one of the female managers who I’ve barely spoken to smiled at me and said, “Hey there, Plugger. We’re going to have to get you into the ERT.”
And right now I’m talking to Allison who till now has always looked straight through me. Allison is a bit younger than me, I’m guessing about twenty-three, and quite cute. Because she’s had a lot of experience she is designated a rover, though today I notice she’s spent a fair bit of time in Blue Compound, where I’m stationed. Currently, it’s just the two of us in the office. Allison tells me bits and pieces about the eighteen months she spent working at the Christmas Island centre.
“It was ok before it got really overcrowded,” she says, “but then clients started sewing their lips together and there were fights and protests and the whole place just became fucked. It totally screws people up.”
“The clients or the staff?”
“The staff I mean. That’s why I asked for a transfer, even though the money’s better over there. Some of the guys are just constantly like …” Allison balls both fists together as her face adopts the far-off look of insensible rage. “If you start off a bit of a cunt, then odds are you’ll be a major one by the time you leave.”
“You seem pretty sane to me. Potty-mouthed, but sane.”
Allison laughs. “Yeah, that’s something else. I never used to say the ‘c’ word. Now I can’t stop. I accidentally said it on the phone to Mum the other day and she lost it.”
“What a cunt,” I say.
There’s silence. Then Allison bursts out laughing. Close one.
Another officer comes into the office and Allison goes back to filling in some pointless form. When the officer leaves, Allison turns around, catching me looking at her arse.
“So where are you from?” Allison asks.
“Do you know Manjimup? It’s in the south-west.”
“Oh yeah, it’s near Pemberton. I’ve driven through there. Like, with the karri trees.”
“Yeah.”
“It’s nice. I’m originally from Kalgoorlie. We don’t have trees.”
“Oh shit, Kal … so you’d be right at home here.”
“Exactly. Except it’s never really humid in Kal. But, yeah, I’m pretty used to being surrounded by red dirt and coons,” says Allison, chuckling a little as if she’s made a joke.
“Hmm,” I murmur. It’s the best I can muster given I want to convey some sort of censure, but she did just give me a pass, not to mention I want to keep flirting with her. Why do all the pretty girls have to be so racist?
“So do you still live there?” says Allison.
“Where?”
“Manjimup.”
“Oh, no. I don’t really live anywhere.”
“Like … what do you mean?”
“Well, before this I was travelling in Central America and before that I was travelling up the coast of New South Wales and Queensland, just working when I had to, picking fruit and that sort of thing, so I haven’t had a fixed address for a while.”
“So are you, like, a bum?”
“You mean a bohemian.”
“Like a Jamaican or something? No, a bum.”
“I’m not a bum. Are you a bum?”
“What? No.”
“Well, exactly.”
“Ok …”
“Do you know where the term comes from?” I ask, my tone a little harsher than I intend it to be.
Allison gazes at me. She has the look — a look I recognise from experience — of a person on the verge of transitioning from perplexity to antipathy. I don’t care. I hate that word, and intend to plough on regardless. I’ve been called a bum too many times by too many dumb people who think honour (as if honour matters) only lies in the stolid pursuit of misery through unending employ in meaningless labour. Fuck them.
“‘Bum’ is an American term for a homeless person who doesn’t have the resolve or moral fibre to do an honest day’s work and drag their arse out of the gutters, which is obviously not me because I’m in this shithole right now. So, no, I’m not a bum.”
“Awesome. Congratulations.”
“Do you know what bohemian means?”
“Apparently not. But it sounds like you’re dying to tell me.”
“A bohemian is someone who pays no heed to rote rules or the expectations of society and finds their own individual way in life instead.”
“Great. Can’t wait to use that in a sentence,” she says.
“Sorry, I just mean, I’m not a bum. I’m sick of fuckheads calling me that.”
Allison snorts and her eyes glare.
“Not that you’re a fuckhead,” I backtrack, trying to find a light-hearted tone. “That’s not what I mean. I mean some people who are fuckheads have said that to me.”
“So I’m not a fuckhead and you’re not a bum.”
“Yeah,” I chuckle pathetically, as if the levity hadn’t already dissolved.
Allison doesn’t say anything else. She just walks out of the donga. I sit there, brooding. We were having a nice conversation. We were flirting. Why did she, out of the blue, have to accuse me of being some piece-of-shit bum?
Oh — and have to be a racist?
Fuck her.