The tram shuddered to a jerking halt on the corner of Victoria and Elizabeth Street. Its heaving hulk strained at the brakes which grunted and seethed at the effort. The doors swung clumsily open on their creaking decrepit hinges and those passengers who were standing were flung back momentarily as they gripped the plastic hand-grips more tightly against the motion.
A group of three males in their mid-twenties swung aboard with all the swagger and bravado afforded to those who move in belligerent groups of drunken powerhouses. They quickly moved to the back of the tram where they welled around the steps at the rear, safe from too many prying eyes.
I looked up from my book and studied them for a moment. One, who was shorter than the others, and with a heavier sturdy build, had three gashes across his face which were glistening with blood, still wet, from what was obviously a recent wound. As I sensed he was about to see me watching him I turned back to my book, alternating between reading and peering out into the damp wet Melbourne night. It was winter and people were scurrying between the shelter of shop awnings and the open unprotected streets. I watched a business man in a grey suit pull the collar of his coat up around his neck to keep out the chilling rain. I huddled back against the warm cloth of my seat and felt warmed by the heat coming up beneath me, generated by the trams internal heating system and listened to the short and sturdy man speak to his friends.
“Fucking bloody junkies, mate. Fucking junkies. Never trust a fucking junkie.” He was emboldened in his inebriated state, swaying with the tram’s motion as the door’s slid shut once more and with a ding of the tram’s warning bell, it shuffled off and turned the corner onto Victoria Street. He was speaking loudly as though to make his point known to all those aboard. Those sitting closest to him were predominantly Asians, families and students, trundling their way home after a trip to the Markets with black wire-framed shopping trolleys laden with all manner of vegetables and produce for the week ahead. The mid-twenties sturdy white male with the bleeding cuts and bravado then knelt down next to one such unwitting passenger – a petite Asian girl, who clutched her bag of University books and plastic bag of groceries closer to her chest for protection as he lent in – and began a didactic dribble:
“Never trust fucking junkies. D’ya hear me? Never. Fucking fuckers will fucking nearer rip your face off than talk to ya. She fucking spat on me when ah went up to grab me’self a fucking beer! Spat on me – all down my jacket and all ‘cos I bumped into her with me shoulder on the way past. Totally fucking fucked. Ah. Fuck. Bullshit. Fucking bullshit!” He looked back up at his two friends. They nodded in agreement. One spoke back, while the other settled himself further down in the back steps adjoining the exit doors not in use on this journey.
“Fucking ‘a mate. Fucking ‘a. Bullshit is right.”
“I mean fuck! Look at me face! Bleeding an’ shit all over the friggin’ place. My face is fucked up man.” He suddenly caught my gaze and I quickly averted my eyes. The last thing I needed was to be accosted by a drunk violent blow-hard Aussie yobbo. I looked out of the window once more and a smile broke upon my face as I thought about the irony of the situation.
Image sourced from: http://www.beluba.com.au/ww3/fotos/m_tram.jpg
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