The Kid
Scene 6
ASPRO:
You hate me. That’s it, you hate me. That’s why you drag me around all those offices. They say: ‘No, you’ve come to the wrong place, Park Street, eighteenth floor.’ We walk there. You know that’s difficult for me in my condition. We get there. The girl says: ‘No, you’re in the wrong place. Why did they send you here? Clarence Street, third floor.’ We walk there, all the way, in the boiling heat in the middle of the day. We get there. The girl says: ‘No, this is the Occupational Section. Liverpool Street, ninth floor.’ We walk there. When we get there it’s lunchtime. The girl we have to see isn’t there. By now I can hardly stand up. We have to wait. We have to take this ticket from this stupid machine and wait for our number to come up. We sit and sit and sit and it’s hot and everyone’s smelly and sweaty from walking the same streets all the time. We sit and sit and sit and listen to the Sound of Music ‘Bossa Nova.’ There’s some smart arse wants them to see him first ‘cause he’s really important ‘cause he’s been there before and someone told him he wouldn't have to wait. But you always have to wait when somebody owes you something. We sit there. We sit and sit. All these cripples and fuckwits like that Irishman from Caringbah. I felt sorry for him, but, he couldn’t stop chucking for months. Nothing of him. You’re lucky I didn’t ask him home with us. Then you’d have been sorry. At last the girl comes back from lunch and the numbers start rolling. The girl puts her lippy on behind the counter where everyone can see her, just so we all know how important she is and how we’re all in the palm of her hand. You have to wait and wait and wait. Your number gets closer and closer and it gets hotter and hotter. Then, oh, boy! Someone’s given up in despair so your number’s even closer. Then. At last. It’s your turn. You go over to the counter. She’s bored and hot. Goes ‘tsk-tsk-tsk.’ Rolls her eyes. At the desk behind the counter another girl. Hot. Bored. Rolls her eyes. Sweat in her mo. Rolls her eyes. Some poor sick bugger pours his heart out over the phone. Begging. Pleading for scraps. She’s important too. Works in an office. Has a desk and a phone. Goes home in the train reading Cosmo. Has tea with Mum and Dad. Complains about all the awful people she sees all day. Boyfriend Greg. Works in the Valuer General’s. Comes over. Watch Prisoner. He works his finger up her crack.
Oh, I know it all. It’s all true. They don’t care what they say in front of me. I’m too sick to worry about. They talk away. I listen. She asks questions. Fills in the form. Rolls her eyes. Puts her hair behind her ear like this. It keeps falling over her face. She keeps putting it behind her ear ‘cause it makes her feel important and busy. She says: ‘Have you lodged a previous claim?’ and I say ‘yes’ and start to explain. She grinds teeth, rolls eyes. Looks at the girl at the desk. Says: ‘Well it’s being attended to’, and I say I can’t wait any more. I’m sick. I’m sick. I’m getting sicker and sicker. [To DONALD].
You, you touch me, you little fairy. I’ll smash your face in.