Cigarettes and Karma

Rule 1: Don't walk out of Mayfield Woolies with your new pack of smokes on display. As soon as the eftpos says "approved' put them in your back pocket and pretend you didn't buy smokes, you bought a lighter, or a phone recharge. I learn this rule the hard way, and field five requests for a smoke before I get to the back car park. I'm feeling karmic and grant each one, turning down the offer of a dollar twice, I'll get money tomorrow to buy more anyway.

I change my mind and go back to the main road to get the bus instead of the train. The lady security guard stands on duty at the building across the way. Everyday opening the door for, and talking to the endless parade of Mayfield head cases. I try to imagine someone worked up enough about their insurance that a security guard is required, and if the small woman in her mid 30's , one broken nose away from Extreme Makeover, would actually do anything. I wonder if I could take her out, decide I'd get my arse kicked, and wander off to get a cheese and bacon roll. When I get back to the bus stop the 100 bus has stopped and a wiry man with a face like a beaten leather bag gets off. The security guard bristles visibly as soon as he steps to the footpath. He sees her suddenly, and yells "SORRY! I didn't mean to" and leaps back into the bus between the closing doors. The security guard relaxes, and I wonder what bizarre circumstance I've intruded on.

Rule 2: Don't buy cigarettes from school girls. They're all of fifteen, looking older than fifteen year olds should look, but still visibly unsure of themselves. I approach and they instantly go to defensive positions, though I don't take it personally. Strangers in Mayfield are usually worth the defensive approach. As soon as I offer a dollar and it's clear there's no sex in my proposal, they fight to be the first to produce a smoke and claim the golden coin. The transaction complete, and the 3 old ladies on the other seat looking at me as though I'd crapped on the street in front of them, I'm on way and can't help but feel disappointed they took the dollar, my karmic efforts all in vain.

I smoke the 8, and miss the harsh embrace of the 16s I usually smoke. I rationalise my actions internally for the benefit of the old crones, one less cigarette for those poor young girls to smoke. They can miss cancer, I'll take the bullet. The bus arrives before the bullet.

Rule 3: Don't ask snooty old ladies for a free smoke. My karma completely deserts me and she sneers at me like I'd proposed a full cavity search. A taxi pulls up to the rank and I don't wait, grab the front door handle and wear a full body assault of verbal rage from the old lady. She rants and yells about being at the rank before me, I open the door and the cabby says "taxi for Mr Pink". I laugh and look back at the old lady and tell her about the merits of calling ahead. She latches onto the back door handle, throws her bag in and leaps behind it to the back seat, and says firmly that she's not leaving.

I stand outside the taxi, the driver looks at me, looks at the old lady and tells her politely that I have booked the taxi, and she gives him an earful of violent threats. She finally screams "FUCK THIS!", throws her bag to the street outside the car, and gets out. The driver looks at me again and I shrug casually, "no idea mate". The old lady spits on the cab, and I pull a bible quote card from my top pocket, a card given to me buy the local religious guy earlier that day. A puppy floats in a pool in an inflatable rubber ring, "Go With The Flow" written dreamily above, I suggest this to the old lady as the cab pulls away and toss the card to her from the window, as she launches into a fresh spate of aural abuse. The cabbie laughs, pushes the automatic windows down and offers me a smoke, as my karma comes flooding back to me.

Munchies

The gate clangs behind me and 7 of the 8 billies I pulled are getting along fine, then the 8th kicks up a stink and the world turns to a wonderful slanting angle, and seems to make more sense. A black t shirt, blue hoodie and thick black coat only just dull the cut of the wind, and I hug the coat closer around me, a pleasant shiver rolling across my body like butter on a hot pan. My steps weigh nothing, and my head sways gently. The moon hangs silent high above, behind a thick blanket of clouds, and the empty streets ring with the verbal bullets of a domestic in full swing. Someone ruined some one's life and there's hell to pay. F and C bombs are dropped casually but clearly above the rapid fire abuse, someone lobs a "piece of shit" into the mix and an old lady across the road stands inside her screen door listening to the commotion. It'll all be over by the time I get back, dad will be out on the street, his toes hanging over the drive way and a smoke at his lips, removed as far as the bonds of family will allow him to go and swearing under his breath. His open, damp white robe open over his boxer shorts, his familial rage defying the cold.

I stumble at the automatic doors and straight away the security guards are looking at me, and I'm paranoid that the security guards are looking at me, which they are. It's late and the Woolies bread hasn' t been marked down for the night yet, but the 14 year old with the face like it's being pulled tight from behind is marking down the cheese and bacon rolls a few metres away.
"If I come back in a few minutes you reckon these will be marked down"? I ask, pointing at the 3 loafs left. He makes a non-descript sound and half nods his head which is assurance enough.
"Thanks mate" and I stumble away. Chocolate...the weed will want it later. I survey the purple Cadbury (TRADEMARK!!!!) blocks with their Crunchie (TRADEMARK!!!!) treasures, the Lindt with the wankish swagger of a Swiss brand name and the organic chocolates with the smug, feel good after taste. It's all too much to process just no, and it's likely there's only a few bbq chooks left. I see the last one sweating in the plastic bag in the heating rack and make a loud zooming noise as I sweep in and snatch it. The lady behind the deli counter has seen much stranger than what I'm peddling and continues wrapping slabs of sliced pig in plastic wrap, and I try to remember what else I came here for.

Aisle 3...jam, Vegitmite (TRADEMARK!!!!), cereal, Tim Cahil's kiddie appeal begging me to buy Wheet Bix (TRADEMARK!!!!), challenging kids outright to send their parents poor by eating 15 wheetbix a day. Toy Story 3 "mystery bags" beckon with the clarion call of "15 TO COLLECT" screamed from a red star on the white bag. 15 chances for it cost me $9.65 extra to just buy nappies with my kid. A guy walks past like a Bizarro-World version of me, fuller beard, darker hair, and a thick shiny jacket that says London Gangstar and a look on his face that said James Fletcher. He looks me up and down, I look at him, red eyed, smiling, don't look at him, look at him. He moves past and a low hiss wheezes from his throat, I don't look back. I take my 3 mystery bags, my bbq chook and the first block of chocolate I can lay a hand on, completely forget my bread, and fumble my way through the self serve checkout. I spend a full 5 minutes trying to get the plastic bag open to put my groceries in, and the computer shrieks I've got unexpected goods in the bagging area. The soon to be obsolete human assistant opens the bag for me, and watches to make sure the technology doesn't bamboozle me any further.

Dad is still smoking at the footpath when the gate clangs behind me again, this time as I come home. The billy is packed and waiting, and the chocolate is burning a hole in the bag I'm carrying in it. Through the open front door I hear the domestic assault restart as Dad enters the breach again across the road, and the clouds rolls across the heavy moon.