She got that tattoo for that bloke she used to mess around with.
Can’t remember his name. Never wore closed in shoes. Always smelt of Chinese food. Smoked the blues. He hung around the edges of corners and seemed like he was always placed and waiting for me to walk past him. I always thought he was strange. Looked like he would fuck ‘em rough and then leave the toilet door open to piss. Think his name was Phil. Not sure. I remember one afternoon him rolling a smoke out the front of the corner bar in Annerley. Had a leather pouch with the name James on it. But I reckon they called him Jim. He had this crease on his left eyebrow where the hair wouldn’t grow. Looked like a brawl scar. I’m guessing it was. Never knew the real story. Made it up to entertain myself. She hung around for a while with him. Used to sit on his lap and grind her arse into him while he looked straight at the sports television. She’d always eye me off, point her finger and tell me to talk to her. Always some vile shit coming out of her mouth. Told me she liked to fuck like a man. Liked to see the bottom of a ball sack. Liked to drive to the East Coast at any chance she got. He would sit
there as she said this. Just stare straight at me. Didn’t even smile. Just stared. I felt like getting my fist around his apple’d throat and pushing him to his fuckin’ knees. Make him look at my crotch. Make him sit and fuckin’ stare. Think about it, behind these jeans and two-year-old underwear. I wanted some kind of reaction just to hold his interest. Instead I’d just smile at her and walk away. Sit back on the stool and slide into my beer thinking, man she’s got a huge set of tits. How many kids have hung off those things. Everything on her body reminds me of the chewing gum the hookers on Ann Street sustain all their nutrients from. (My father used to tell me with an arthritic fist and yellow fingers that women past their prime often took an over the counter remedy. No prescription needed, to “make ‘em as wet as a dolphin’s fuckin’ nose Son.”) I remember in the news last Easter that she had gone missing, left everything behind but her favourite childhood toy her uncle had given her. The tattoo of the initials J.T. on her arse blew over every god damn 6pm televised show, mixed up with some game show host’s cheesy smile and Lassie’s return home. I sat in my house thinking of her with my jack off sock, a $3 porno and some take away burger, watching thinking that I probably would have fucked her if I hadn’t promised myself I’d change for Max. Given old Phil a run for his money. Taken her for a drive to the East Coast. Invite her over to clean my bathroom sink. Stare at those tits for days.
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© Mandy Beaumont
Mandy Beaumont teaches Creative Writing at Griffith University and was the poet in residence at the State Library of Queensland. She has been published widely, and in 2014 won the MOTH International Short Story Award. She has been shortlisted for the Val Vallis Award and the ACU Poetry Award and has been a guest at numerous festivals. Mandy has had her writing shown on the side of Brisbane’s Ferries, in the State Library of Queensland, at Brisbane Festival, and for telephone signal boxes on the streets of Brisbane. She was the Director of Poetry After Dark at the Zoo nightclub and the very popular SPOKEN events at the State Library of Queensland. Mandy also is a member of the advisory committee for Arts Queensland Literature grants. http://mandybeaumont.com/
