Friday Night
7.08 pm., still warm for autumn.
James Dibble tells us about some fire somewhere, or maybe it was a flood, I don’t really listen, the news is the old man’s thing, I just shut up and wait for tea.
“What’s happening with footy?” Mum screams from the kitchen, over the hissing of frying chops. “Mr Edgar called again, he…”
“Yeah, yeah, I’ll do it.” I hated footy, but you had to do it around here. Too much aggro if you didn’t. Mum knew it too, thus the hassling.
‘12 people were found buried under a rockslide in Bolivia when…’
“Christ,” I sigh, “they should call it the ABC bad News.”
The old man says nothing, he never does.
Through the window I see Duffy and Phelps walk past in the last light. Pricks. They’re big enough now to get past the front desk and into the Club without a hitch. I tried last Christmas and that Kiwi bouncer didn’t even let me through the front door. “Piss off,” that’s all he said. Punch’s brother’s band’s playing there tonight, Self Scented, they’re supposed to be unreal. God this place shits me.
Next door, the Harris’ start into it again, something about “respect.” Mrs Harris always sounds like she’s going to blow up when she screams, like her head and body will just explode everywhere. I hate it. Dad hears them and turns to the kitchen, “Second time this week,” he says loudly so mum can hear, “it’s not on.” He waits for her response, but she hasn’t heard. “Stupid people,” he says, possibly to me.
I look down at Jane Farrah’s initials right along my arm, I hear Cornick’s Monaro turn over and rattle our fake chandelier, I feel the high metallic drone of cicadas surrounding me, closing in, I feel everyone and everything drawn to, moving to, surrendering to Friday night, except me.
“You on top of your HSC study, Brian?” Dad asks, with his usual tinge of panic, “I very much hope so. You only get one chance, mate.”
A car rumbles past right on time, and Led Zep preach the word deafeningly from an open window, threatening, sympathising, warning, ‘You need cooling, baby I’m not fooling.’
For a tiny, drive-by moment, Friday night is fucking mine.