Gordo by Ashley Earls Davis

1

His eyes are fixed to the street, staring blankly at the late sunlit cars queuing over the cross. Like he’s thinking. Or perhaps he’s pissed. He lifts a full ten of stout to his pouted lips and takes two long gulps, spine arched tautly at the dust-strewn pane. Is it Rod? Or that bloke we called Doggo? I scratch my neck and try to remember his name. He lowers his glass and digs out some chips from a bowl in front of him. Dips them in tomato sauce and shoves them in his gob. Reaches for his cold one again. I grin at him. His hand movements are overly cautious. Like those of an old codger’s. Well I suppose we are both over the hill now aren’t we? Poor us bastards.

I nick at him but he still doesn’t see me. I start walking again, turn into Macquarie Street and follow it a way. When the Hope and Anchor sign comes into focus I suddenly recall his face as a young man. As if it jump starts my memory. Gordon. That’s it. Friend of Owen’s wasn’t he? Started tagging along with our bunch. He was two or three years younger than us. His older brother was a bit sus. Sold good as new car stereos on the side. Until someone dobbed him in. Silly sod.

I chuckle to myself. Gordo was good value. Everybody liked him. Drank too much of course. Like the rest of us larrikins. But at least he was the only one who threw up on Milly’s front porch at her twenty-first. Bloody oath did she spit the dummy at that one. Then the drongo moaned that he didn’t have any money on him and couldn’t get home. So guess who ended up bundling the wanker into a taxi? And forking out his bloody fare? No one else was willing to help. Mike and Chocko were laughing their heads off. Said just to leave him there in her front garden. In the bloody rain.

I’m still chuckling as I pass City Hall and start rifling through the two bins on the corner. And then I remember. He still owes me those twenty dollars. Every damn one of them. I swivel hard and start back. 1976? Or was it 1977? Would have got me three cartons of Cascade back then. Easy. Or West End. Plus one of fags. And here I am pissing along on my craparse pension, forced to scrounge around for tinnies and poppers half the day. Does he think I can sit somewhere all nice and comfy and warm like him? And stuff my ugly face?

I try to walk faster but my crook leg starts to stiffen up. Should be right sarcastic about it to him shouldn’t I? I can still hear his voice like it was yesterday. You can wait another couple of weeks cobber can’t you? You earning money being an apprentice and all eh? Typical me what? Always helping my mates out. And look where it bloody got me.

When I reach the Hope and Anchor again my lungs are crying out for a smoke. I check my back pocket but it’s empty. Never you mind. Gordo’ll have some on him. Interest on his loan eh? Fair’s fair. Then we’ll traipse down to the bottle shop near me merry as can bloody be. He can help carry the first lot back. Rest I’ll be saving till Christmas I reckon. Might even shout the mongrel one if I’m feeling generous. For old times’ sake and all.

2

I press my good leg forward, force the other to follow. Hobble for a bit and lean against a lamppost for another breather. I look up. Gordo is just leaving the pub. He starts in my direction then lurches around like he’s been shot by an elephant gun and heads into Argyle Street. I shout his name but he doesn’t seem to hear it. I push as fast as I can up to the corner but he’s much too quick for me. After a few more steps I give up and watch him thread his way through the stretched shadows of the street’s buildings and trees until the hill eventually swallows his hunched shoulders and bald head.

I glance to my right. His chips bowl is still on the table, empty except for a curved smear of tomato sauce on its inside like a big bloody smile. I stare ahead again half  expecting him to reappear. When he doesn’t I cross at the lights and try to collect myself for a bit. Should I shuffle on down to the Cenotaph? No. The boat park might be a better bet eh? Saturday afternoon. Picnics. Kids’ birthday parties. Might be able to find enough for some single smokes. Maybe a beer if luck’s with me. Not that it ever is.

I stop and press back against a parking sign. Rub my paining leg.

Old Gordo eh? Never liked him that much now I get a chance to think about it. In fact I never liked him at all.

The snotty-nosed little brat.

Ashley Earls Davis

Image: A dish of crinkle cut chils covered with tomato ketchup from Pixabay.com