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.