When I was 7 in 1957 Melbourne my parents got back together, I was 4 years without a mother because my dad had beat her up. They both suffered trauma from wartime blood, so they fought each other till they'd had enough and split. It was hell to be so lonely, without love life is shit.
My dad had no job for 11 broken years, he finally found work making cars, and drinking beers, down Fishermans Bend for Chrysler, clink clink, raise the glass, three cheers.
My mother came back in 1956 from the wilds of sanitoriums where she'd been sick from a bashing that I witnessed near the kitchen sink, much blood on the lino made my little heart sink. There were no jobs for women in the harsh post-war, she survived as best she could as a dolled-up braveheart whore.
My dad sometimes went psycho in a wounded tiger way, he king hit me as a baby and a child on life's hard grade. Teachers in Primary spanked me bad, growling, "That chalk from the blackboard we saw you had you stole which makes you really bad."
I found the colours scattered in the school's playground, my wish to draw existence, myself astound. I was only 6 when that lynch mob gazed at me, they saw the truth, my soul the proof, they shook their boots surprised my youth and rebel empathy.
I'd been put with my granny in working class Richmond. She was nursing my old grandpa dying in the front room. I had no supervision and I ran free and wild on the grungy streets of Richmond like a voodoo child.
When ny mom squeezed into the crowded house she was treated as if she was a wayward mouse, There was uptight tension and frozen vibes, scraps for dinner and daggers from eyes towards my mum, the scarlet woman, from the family tribe. Relieved to get away from the judging straight-laced skunks we scored a social housing flat where I learned to be a punk.
In 1957 we moved to West Heidelberg, to the Olympic Village an enslaved cattle herd, a four flat block for 10 years our domicile, arranged in a circle with other blocks in brutal style, like a wild west wagon train to ward off outside guile. The Olympian athletes left Aussie paradise post-haste while swarms of worker's nasty brats increased suburban waste.
Our favourite sport was making trouble, law and order boiled and bubbled, trashing, romping, ripping, stomping down upon the flowers of the Olympic rings. We set on fire communal backyard sheds, shot rockets from bottles at each other's heads. We enacted Ben Hur chariot races in our billy carts, whipping chains on arms and legs, with hard laughs and thumping hearts, tearing down steep hills our billy carts would crash, we'd tumble as we rumbled and get a gravel rash.
We blew up neighors garden gnomes with crackers big as atom bombs; the meanest of these rascals shot cats with spear-guns. I screamed, "No! Don't do it! This is not bloody fun! I don't want to live in a world that hurts dear animals, or be friends with ugly killers with souls of criminals."
Still I believe there are mugs who deserve to be undone, to disturb their minds is a guerilla battle won. Take Dirty Dick across the road, at his window blows a load for school girls quickly pasing by, what dirty trick would make him cry? We stole his bottle of pineapple lemonade delivered to his doorstep every Friday, we drank it then pissed in it till the bottle was full, resealed it nice and yellow to fuck that fool.
Darebin Creek bordered the Olympic Village, Preston a next door haze, exploring down the creek our boyhood craze. In 1957 the creek was clean, with fish and ducks swimming all serene. Blue tongued lizards roamed the rocks, magpies in gum trees, kangaroos hopped about chased by our dog Spot. This was keen adventure for uncontrolled boys, riding rafts down rapids yelling loud in joy, climbing trees and swinging from ropes into raging water like fearless dopes. And fighting the Preston boys with lethal slug guns, it hurt to be shot but it's where the warrior male begun.
Deviant misdeeds also played out down the creek. Hard-up girls were gangbanged for a lousy quid, the boys then kicked them in the face, they saw girls as real cheap. Boys from the nearby British migrant lodge were captured and thrown into muddy bogs, all the time Aussies yelled at them, "Go home you fucking pommie wogs!" For me it was too horrible, it was an unwilling bloody flog.
A naked suntanned man lurked in the blackberry bushes enticing naive young boys come rub lotion on his tushy. Though I was a burgeoning gay boy the sight of him made me sick. I kept my distance, told the others, don't go near that twisted dick.
Northland shopping centre eventually got built on top of it all, and the creek got filled and put through an ugly sewerage pipe for us to explore, splashing through hepatitis shite. Before the grand opening of the shopping wonderland us boys broke in and made a renegade's last stand. We hotwired a fork lift driver and smashed through prefab walls while we cried, "Im El Cid, come to destroy it all!" Somehow we twigged it was a citadel of plastic crap, then the security guards chased us threatening to shoot us in the back.
As my teenage years crept upon me I heard older boys curse with insults about something that was the worst. "You dirty fucking poofter" sang like a bad pop song and I trembled as I worried, "What the fuck is going on?" When one of my mates asked me what a poofter was I could only stutter, "I don't know but it sounds real gross. I think they're cannibals who only come out at night when the moon is full, like a were wolf they bite, worse than zombies and vampyres, they stab you in the back, set your arse on fire while your legs go slack."
It came to be that I gulped with fear when the boys stripped off and my guts changed gear. I figured it meant illicit desire for my cock rose up and my heart felt dire. Beauties of my own sex wickedly turned me on, I couldn't avert my eyes, I couldn't stop perving on. It didn't take long before I was seducing my mates into the game of bumming, body sliding, it felt so great, and I tried not to think about how it would bring big hate. All I could think about was the boys' round arse, we both enjoyed it, we groped and laughed.
When I was 14 I got the shock of puberty as I entered the 2nd year of high school intrepidly. In 1964 it was called Rosannah High but by mid 1960s it got changed to Latrobe High as Latrobe University got built alongside, whatever the snooty name I was in for a bumpy ride.
All the boys came to know about my sexual proclivities as I was always horny trying to seduce the big spunkys, down the back of the football field or anywhere hidden so a touch I could feel. They sniggered when I smiled at them as I strolled on by, I was a nonce, a pansy, a poofter, a nasty blow fly. I didn't like sports and I couldn't fistfight, I liked to read books and dance in disco lights. I was bashed at recess on the basketball court and bashed on my way home from school, a hard lesson taught.
In the face of this bigotry and dehumanisation I escaped to the movies and their rainbow fascination. In fits of rebellion I was thrown out of class for tourettes like disruption calling out, "Stick it up your arse!" I took refuge in the school library, I read all the books and realised life is scary, full of crooks. I wagged school a lot and snuck into the city to watch movie classics, witty and gritty, at cinemas such as the Regent, the Capital and the Forum, my mind got blown and I lost all polite decorum, I met handsome men and I went for 'em.
I lay on my bunk bed in my prison bedroom and I dreamed that one day I would be given a boon, become a movie star or a novelist Nobel, both if I could swing it, if not I'd be in hell. I wrote in a diary every movie that I saw, and I also wrote stories, naive, fantastic, raw: Huckleberry Finn adventures "down the creek" or Time Machine pale creatures, me a hero future freak.
In my 5th year of high school when I turned sixteen we got a sweet teacher for English named Miss Greene. She asked us to write a short story that would intrigue the mind and I wrote "Venessa and Modessa", a satire about humankind. Based on a potboiler, Bette Davis as twins, I saw it at the Atheneum, a movie turgid and grim. One twin was a failure who murders her sister because she was a rich success and takes her place only it all turns into tragic distress. Miss Greene was so impressed she got me to read it out in class, all the kids were entertained, I was a star at last. Modessa was the brand name of menstrual pads advertised on TV which every girl must have.
The class thrummed with laughter, didn't stop till the end, pissed themselves fully when the murderess's heart was rent. She clutched the sanitary napkin she'd stolen, no longer to pretend, screaming, "My sister was a stingy bitch, shared nothing, never lent me what was needed when I finally got a root, a condom, though I pleaded, that cunt I had to shoot!"
The class laughed till the walls fell down, I was extremely chuffed, I was a literary genius and as well a clown, my talents recognised at last. Now I was somebody and my life would be a blast.
But then the time came when Miss Greene had to leave, she was getting married, no more to be seen. The class decided to buy her a farewell gift, a thankyou for her encouragement that gave us all a lift. Six responsible prefects were chosen, an honerary elite, I wrangled my inclusion, so innocent, so sweet. They all fell for my con and so off we set, into Ivanhoe village, a Holy Grail to get.
From shop to shop we sauntered with consumer zeal and a few precious knick knacks I decided to steal. I showed all the prefects porcelain dolls and plates, silver tea spoons, brass ladles, all if it in haute cuisine good taste. I convinced them to add to the treasure, more, galore, she will adore. They shoplifted with me, doilies, cups and vases from every store.
We toddled back to school with a bag full of loot and told all the kids who were nonplussed and mute. When lovely Miss Greene came for her last class we presented her a statue of Venetian glass. She thanked us profusely and smiled with bonhomie then was given silver teaspoons to which she squealed with glee. And with every present that was pulled from the sack the class started laughing, they couldn't hold back. Vases and knife sets, dolls and doilies, the gifts piled up and Miss Greene smiled so pleased, but with every gift the class laughed harder, guffaws of class war for sure, and Miss Greene looked confused as the class began to roar. The gifts were never ending, as if from Ali Baba's cave, and the 7 thieves were blushing, now not so brave.
As the class screamed the roof down and Miss Greene looked to faint, one prefect lost her cool and knew a hero she aint. She ran to the headmaster and confessed the crime, and blamed poor little Toby who'd hypnotised them the whole time. Dastardly Toby was marched to the big boss and was strapped like a bastard for the headmaster was uncontrollably cross.
The police couldn't be called as it involved precious prefects and I was told I would be expelled because of my defects. I had to go back to Ivanhoe and to every shop alone, give back all the treasure, apologise and thus atone. I begged for forgiveness to avoid the cops, I acted so convincing, I pulled out all the stops. Amazing every shopkeep, they were compassionate and kind, they understood my honesty and generosity of mind.
Poor Miss Greene sat in the staffroom stunned and crestfallen, she defended little Toby, said he was an angel that had fallen. When many of the teachers were calling for his blood a few spoke up for him and said, "He is an intelligent lad. For all his interjections he is top of the class!" The librarian praised him, said, "He deserves a pass. I can't get most kids to read even one book while Toby Z has gone through every pile where I told him to look." So they agreed not to expell me, it would create too much of a fuss, just let me sit for my exams which I definitely did pass.
Every Monday morning was school assembly time and 800 kids were made to stand rigidly in line. I was pushed to the front and stood upon a dais, the teachers glum and stern and me wanting to die. The headmaster harrumped and intoned sonorously through huge loudspeakers that screeched agonisingly, "Toby Z is a thief and a menace to society. He is the boy most likely never to succeed." The microphone gave one last shriek and the school crowd smirked, then briskly stalked off to class to continue boring work.
I ran behind the boy's shelter shed and cried and cried. A birdsong flowed down upon me, my spirit the magpie. Two mates followed quickly and gave me a hug. "Don't worry Toby, they can all get fucked! You've blown this crap school away, and we promise you, you've made our day. To turn six prefects on their heads, what a joke, the scandal really rocked them dead! We bet you got it in you to get wherever you want to go, probably give Australia a run for its money, surprise the brainwashed, you know."
I dried my eyes and shook his hand, "I wonder what surprise? I don't know where I will land or where my future lies. I hate that the Beast stands over me, my future as a slave. To stand against Goliath is my constant mad rave. Whatever, fuck 'em! I'll get a life, that bug to win has bit. And one thing I fucking know, that headmaster's a shit! Adventure, knowledge, achievement, I will go for it!
I won't let stuff get in my way, not hate, not sex, not money, nothing will defeat me, not even god, I pray!"
