Free Loaded by Christos Tsiolkas

More empty phrases follow. This is a great place. Yeah. It’s crowded. Sure is. Greeks make some noise, don’t they? Sure do. He stopstalking for a while and looks around him, his eyes settling on a woman across the bar. He smiles softly at her and she returns the smile. Then she looks away. He turns back to me and drops his voice to a whisper. Peter said you might have some speed. I answer in a normal voice, no reason to whisper in a pub as noisy as this one, how much do you want? I’ve got a gram. Can I have half? Too much trouble I tell him, I’ll sell you the gram for sixty. He agrees and tells me he’ll meet me in the backyard in twenty minutes. Where’s Peter? I ask him. He points to somewhere near the exit. I nod and he moves away and finds a place next to the woman who smiled back at him. Spiro is tall, good looking, a good body. He doesn’t have much trouble starting a conversation.
    An older man, maybe in his forties, with a long, thick moustache is staring at me. He’s opposite me on the other side of the bar. I don’t avoid his eyes. A blue fishing cap sits on his head, and a faded yellow shirt is open to his navel. He’s wearing a white singlet underneath. Coarse, heavy hair appears over the top of the singlet. His chest is muscled, his stomach is beginning to fall to fat. But his thick arms, strong, tense, hairy, are pure muscle. I drop my gaze but keep him in the corner of my eye.
    Sensuality, the availability of sex, I feel it every time I am surrounded by Greeks. Not only Greeks; Latins, Arabs too. In small ways, even if you don’t like the clothes they are wearing, don’t admire the style by which they present themselves, everyone in this place wants to be seen, to be admired. A chain of flirtation is ever-present. My mouth is dry. I need a drink. The drugs are circulating through my body. My skin is alive in sharp bursts of electricity. My nipples are erect, my face is flushed, the hair on my naked arms is tingling. I’ll have to dance soon, or fuck soon. The energy inside me is pushing against the confines of my body.
    The barman gets to me. Whatcha want? I ask for a pot,and for a whisky and soda. I watch him pour the whisky into a glass and notice he’s only pouring me a short one. I raise myself on the bar and yell more whisky, in Greek. The man in the fishing cap looks up. The barman grimaces but pours another dose into the glass. He slams the drinks down hard in front of me and barks out five dollars. I hand him five bucks, wink at the fishing cap man who turns to ignore me and I move back to my table.
    Joe takes his beer and I tell him I’m going to take a wander. He doesn’t hear me, he’s talking to friends. I weave through the dancers and the crowd and find my brother. He’s with a crowd of Greeks from uni. He hugs me, slaps me on the shoulder and says hello little brother. Introduces me around. I don’t take in the names. Someone offers me a cigarette and I take it, light up, and take a big mouthful of whisky. Peter’s face is flushed and he is slurring his words. He looks drunk.
    â€“Spiro’s looking for you, he tells me.
    â€“He found me.
    â€“Any go? Yeah, I reply. Peter smiles a big grin. His little brother supplying drugs lends him attitude amongst the uni crowd.
    â€“Where’s Janet? I ask.
    â€“Don’t know, with friends. Janet hates wog crowds, they intimidate her. I’m not surprised she’s elsewhere. I want to ask where George is, but I don’t. Peter doesn’t offer the information, not that he knows he should.
    â€“Have you danced yet? someone asks me. I shake my head. They’ve only played demotika so far, I say, I want something heavier. Conversation happens, talk about uni, a bit of politics, who is fucking up who. I don’t join in. I’m content to hang around the edge of the circle, listening in. A woman comes into the pub. Her black hair in rich, thick curls