Publicly transported
She swung on to the Smith Street tram with a can
of Jack Daniels and Coke clenched in her teeth;
bulky bag in each hand, slouched to a seat. Hot.
Opposite her, a neat-collared man who was not
about to accept this affront sitting down,
must have muttered his immediate disdain.
The girl's blank smile snapped from her face
and the main show began. 'What's it to you,
you old fuck?' voice gathering volume.
No way out now, he must have given her,
sotto voce, more grist to work with. 'Hey!
Did you hear that?' she challenged us all.
'He said he was going to hit me. I'll have you
charged, mate!' Her right index finger arced down
at him, left hand with clasped can hovering,
the effect like a bird of prey with wings
lifting, prior to ascent. 'You heard him,' she
flashed round to the hapless tram driver,
cringing in his closed cubicle, from where he
had attempted placatory words and gestures
but had only upped the anger ante. Next stop,
an old lady hobbled on with walking stick.
Mister Jones loomed to his feet, offering
his seat. Time for a regenerative can slurp.
'Watch out for this fucker ... ah sorry
lady, for language ... but he threatened me.'
A distinct word now carries from Standing Man:
'Uncivilised.' A wispy-bearded young Malaysian
opposite me hazards a grin. I don't return it.
Other passengers shift sweatily in their seats.
Her flick knife is out and up, blade waving
under the man's nose before anyone can react,
even if they had the daring to do so.
Collared Man stands on but understands now
what he's bought into. Edges off at the next
stop. Victoria Parade. Away. But no -
she's following him off. 'Ya bald, fat fuck!' Her
skimpy top rises as she clambers down, exposing
a thin, sun-denied midriff, lightly bruised. Bing!
The tram shoves off, bound for Bourke Street
and beyond. I turn but already the two have been
swallowed in milling Melbourne pedestrians.
Bill Wootton
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