Merry Christmas You Saggy *rsed Old B*tch
It was an argument that began a long time ago but arrived in our street the week before the Christmas Holidays. I thought they were suffering under the burden of Christmas financial and emotional stress. As the ferocity of their altercations intensified, the insides of the surrounding little old Queenslanders rattled in the night, the insides of my stomach felt queasy and the cat ran and hid in the cupboard.
The battle raged in the cottage right across the road from the Premier's office.
"You saggy *rsed useless old b*tch!"
Slam!
Stomp! Stomp! Stomp!
THUMP.
Ornaments and pictures slipped from the veejays.
Nobody called the cops. It was kind of funny at the start - perhaps they were embroiled in a perverse sexual ritual. Besides, it was the festive season and inner city folks were visiting their families or thought it would pass. No one likes a dobber.
On it went, erupting into loud and sozzled dialogue after midnight, in the morning, afternoon, evening - anytime the booze ran out or heads were sore. A venomous brew of humidity and a neverending stream of filthy inanity.
The New Year.
Residents of the Street were flummoxed, yet their collective Christmas consciences prompted calls to the police. Others retreated to their air-conditioned concrete edifices. Some contacted agencies providing counselling and support for domestic violence but it was only verbal abuse and nothing could be done.
"Please Get some help!" I screamed one morning at 2 am.
After a long night, the bros paid a visit to dispense their special kind of justice.
"Keep your b*tch in line!" they yelled from the middle of the street as the yuppies twittered on their balconies. Disenfranchised economic throwbacks are good entertainment when you're safe and sound in your ivory tower.
A week of eerie silence then more strange streams of consciousness, wailing and maniacal laughter echo around the neighbourhood. A volatile mix of booze? Speed? Prescription drugs? Delirium Tremens? I remembered my mother's childhood reminiscences of the old alcoholic drover down the road who would go on a bender and yell out into the long, dark night…
"One more bullock!"
"F#$K! F#%k! F(*K!"
Earplugs were purchased.
"Woof Woof dog"
More groups of rookie cops arrive with helpful pamphlets. The captive audience ponders what these tragic method actors have experienced in their godforsaken lives. Not ebullient childhoods but terrifying cyclical abuse mingled with despair and a lack of love.
Ice Ice Baby?
Relentless oratory assault - rent, bills, and work - she goads him until he explodes. The air crackles with frazzled nerves as terrified possums race across the corrugated iron roofs.
See her at the bus stop late at night then stumbling down the street with a bottle of bubbly elixir.
See him apologise to the elderly neighbours as he drives up the street.
Sleep deprivation has transformed this quaint and beautiful old street into a creepy and uninhabitable no man's land. An Easter storm fails to mask the racket. He will crack one day and it will be over, leaving another flailing story thread.
Postscript:
This couple lived in our street in 2005. The police attended their house at least 20 times prompted by calls from concerned neighbours. On some occasions they arrested one or the other. Finally the couple was evicted, but according to police they kept up their antics.