I am in a shop on Brunswick Street, North Fitzroy.
At last I have found the blue and white striped top that I’ve wanted for some time. The blue’s not quite the correct blue. The neck is not a boat-neck. But it has long sleeves and is thick enough fabric and I have sold a painting and am cashed up so it will do for me.
It is a horrid shop. Everything’s on sale so there are a lot of people here. I get two of the same top to try on, a size 10 and a 12. I go up and down the racks, looking for something for Darren to wear, but nothing is suitable, especially t-shirts with things like “WHO FARTED?” or “MULLETS RULE” printed on them. Humph! Dismal.
Nope, nothing for the chap. I head over to the change room area but of course there is a queue of women all holding multiple items and take-a-number cards. A long wait ahead, longer than the toilet queues in a nightclub. Well, bollocks to that, I’m sure I have a singlet on under my layers of black clothes, so I peel them off whilst standing near the change rooms and near a mirror until I am down to the black singlet, then add the size 12 striped number to it. Obviously the Chinese pattern makers have been told Western women all have strange spindly arms like E.T. as there is some restriction going on under my armpits and around my elbows. Comparatively thought it’s not too bad…
“It will stretch.” I decide.
The little voice says “You know this fabric will only shrink and you won’t wear this after a few washes.”
As I said, comparatively the top is okay. Some tops I’ve not been able to get my hands through the sleeve-ends. Or my back threatens to flex like The Hulk and split the fabric straight across the back, thanks to those muscles at my shoulder blades. I’m not huge but rather the tops are cut to fit grasshoppers and stick insects.
Right, it’ll do. I re-dress myself having checked the stripes in the mirror – yep, not bad still being able to wear horizontal stripes at 42 going on 43 – although it was the briefest of glances. I wait in line at the cash register, behind a woman who looks and acts like one of those special types of women who are used to conning their way to get anything, as much as they can. But she has her daughter with her and I wonder if she’s pinchy from single parenthood, growing up poor. She is clutching about 10 cheap nasty handbags in one hand and a fist full of tops in the other. This is going to take a while, I think.
It does. She does the standard con of trying to get the bags discounted even more than they are. Discount for bulk. Jeez, they’re only five bucks each! She also wants to pay less for the already discounted tops. The sales people aren’t having it, of course. So the woman shoves all the bags across the counter at them, buys the tops then decides she wants one of those bags for her daughter, a baby blue one. She gives her daughter the bag and the daughter clutches it with one hand in a vice-like grip and opens the zipper with the other. She takes out the lip gloss or whatever the trinket is that’s bubble-packed and included with the bag.
They finish and I step forward to buy my one top. Before leaving the store I decide to go upstairs where there are more clothes and fabrics and furniture. Mmm, fabrics! I wander through the clothes looking for something for Darren, leaving the fabric perusal for last, the tasty meat of the shopping trip. Like eating your vegies before your meat, you know.
There is that little girl again. I thought they had left.
What is the girl doing?
She’s stealing.
She’s stealing more of the lip glosses from the other blue bags and stuffing them into her bag. I look about but there is no shop attendant. I cannot see her mother. The little girl is oblivious to my presence, sitting on the floor surrounded by blue bags, stuffing in the lip glosses with speed.
I stand right behind her but she is too focussed to be aware of me.
“What are you doing?!” I say in a deep, serious voice – I am angered by what she is doing and angered by the thought that probably her mother knows and has condoned what she is doing. My voice is thickened by the anger.
She looks around and up, up, at me - I have positioned myself where she will have to crane her neck uncomfortably to see me.
“Nothing.” She is scared.
“You’re stealing, aren’t you?”
“No. My Mum bought this bag.”
“But those things don’t belong in your bag. They belong in the other bags. You’re stealing!”
“No I’m not.”
“Oh yes you are. I’ve been watching you. You’re stealing.”
She’s chubby and struggles to stand, then scurries away, calling for her mother. I nearly leave it there but my anger keeps me going, ready for a confrontation with her mother if challenged, ready to pursue the matter with the shop manager.
“Mum! Mum!” and the mother answers her in some Asian language. Like a lamb calling for its mother out in our neighbours paddocks after I had captured it for a while then let it go. A discussion between them follows about that woman over there (me). I should leave this, let it go and send myself home.
Calm down and remain calm.
But anger is roaring in my ears like an ocean, the crashing waves drown any sense.
What sport - I cannot leave now! When they descend the stairs looking over their shoulders at me I wait… I have remained in the power spot, high above them at the top of the stairs, a looming presence.
The Black Goddess of Honesty stood at the top of the sacrifice temple.
Come to weigh your souls.
Not that I am in the position to judge them for I have stolen things, you know. Or was it that Evil Lucy, my twin sister? She is such a devil! There is always some disadvantage to be had, having an identical twin sister. She is such a naughty girl. Always has been, always will be.
I follow them down the stairs. They glance back over their shoulders again and move towards the doors, towards the street.
I follow.
They head south up Brunswick Street towards the council flats.
I follow.
They look over their shoulders at me then say some more words to each other then look back again and keep moving. Not very fast, they are as uncertain as sheep, with their eyes set on the sides of their heads, glancing around nervously to see where that wild dog is.
It follows them.
I follow them.
I herd them up the road until they reach the tram stop, whereupon I casually cross the road at the pedestrian lights as if there has been nothing going on at all, going to get my bike. There I stand and watch them. In my mind I am camouflaged by a thicket, my pink dog tongue is lolling out and my yellow eyes follow their every move, just waiting and watching and waiting. I can hear the birds above and the breeze stirs my coat.
The little girl starts to squirm in the shelter. She tries to stare me out but it is too much for her – she says something to her mother and they both stare at me. I do not care. I am motionless and my eyes are yellow and they can know nothing of what I am thinking.
Sun goes up, sun goes down.
Slowly, very slowing, the girl unzips her new bag and extracts the stolen items from it.
Slowly, very slowly she creeps over to the rubbish bin and drops them in.
I curl my top lip up at her, turn back into a human, unlock my bike and ride off. Job done.
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