I, Snorticus

By Ade March

Set in Sydney’s gritty underground of the 1990s, I SNORTICUS is a hysterical portrayal of an X-Gen antihero, searching for relevance in a changing world. Julius, the narrator, is a rebel with a myriad of causes, most of which he is seldom sober enough to remember. A lord trapped in a peasant’s world he uses all his powers of resistance to reinvent his way out of his existential prison. At times a violent story, the charmingly ineffectual Julius takes us on a journey through flashbacks into the youth subculture of the 1980s, when skinheads, punks and Mods ruled the streets. An aspiring writer coming out of that milieu, changing addresses as frequently as he loses jobs, he finds himself at a crossroads. Landing a junior role at a prestigious chartered accountants firm, he battles his fear of mediocrity, and the officious secretary to one of the partners who wants him gone. Meanwhile, having been bailed out of impecunious circumstances by his grandmother, he is torn between the powerful pull of a fashionable bohemian party house known as The Colosseum, where in this alternative world he enjoys the status of an ‘Emperor’, and the knowledge that if he screws up again it might be the end. Once again, all the cache he finds in self-reinvention needs reinventing again as a new era dawns.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Ade March
• Release date: Sep 27, 2018
• ISBN: 9780463811443

Ade March

Ade March is just this guy, you know...

Book preview

I, Snorticus

ADE MARCH

Copyright © Ade March 2018

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and

incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or

are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

♠

Payback Press

All rights reserved.

Was I part of a lost generation? What is with all these lost generations anyhow? Fitzgerald’s generation was lost, Kerouac’s was lost, and Bret Easton Ellis’s was lost, too. Will a time ever come when these generations are found? How would Wilde put it, To lose one generation is unfortunate, to lose more than one seems like carelessness.

INTERIUS

The deaf prick

The boss’s lunch

The hipster and the scab

A funny thing happened on the way to the asylum

Sausage fest

Not so heaven senate

A piece of cake

Twitch upon a psychic thread

All at sea

Andy and his woman

Velasco cleaning services

Gladiators of the Colosseum

File under ‘S’ for Schneider

Granted life

Working the clitty

Out of class

Built for speed, not comfort

Tony’s

Then came the word

A wog in the office

To the manor Sean

Accidental party

Working class heroes

Served by Velasco

Not climbing, falling

Wordsworth

Ness distressed

Too cool to s**t

Club bovver

Room without verse

The bust up

No face

The end of empire

Bad Vibe

The golden exit

Interfered with

Shadow boxing

Bounced

New life

The deaf prick

I LANDED the job with Beasley Langford & Sly just before I turned twenty one. BL&S were forensic accountants. I breezed through the interview with golden tonsils. My references miraculously passed scrutiny and two days later I was hired. Obviously, I was not to be investigating money trails I was merely the handsome dogsbody whose responsibilities included filing, mailing, running errands, and tidying the kitchen. No graduate here. But my lowly station would not exclude me from the office’s social activities, which involved drinking mucho beer with the boys, during and after work. I was replacing Lindsay the filing clerk who was partially deaf and didn’t touch the aqua vitae. I could tell even before laying eyes on him that he was a social retard. Lindsay had not been popular and by all evidence was a poor ambassador for the hearing impaired. A flesh tone aural aid clipped behind his cabbage ear — one of those clumpy old models — Lindsay squinted when spoken to; screwing up his ferrety face as he made exaggerated attitudes about his discomfort while he strained to hear what was being said. I found this off-putting but I had an idea he was overstating his hearing problem both as a means to sympathy and the slackness it occasionally profited him. Sartorially, as in every other respect, he screamed dweeb. Despite social handicaps that were surely obvious to him of all people he adopted superior airs. This made him difficult to deal with. Prising information out of him about my duties was like trying to solicit directions from a mountain goat. From the outset, he made it clear that he did not like me, which was rich. See, in this Darwinian landscape, Lindsay was too weak for survival. Moreover, he had left a legacy in the minds of the professional staff that all filing clerks were developmentally arrested. I planned to exorcise his daggy aura from the joint and overturn that impression by bringing a much needed charisma to the role.

Steve, a senior manager, asked to see me on the morning of my first day. An unrepentant yuppie in a 1980s vogue, he had round-lens glasses on and his hair was slicked back. He got down to brass tacks, I don’t like the deaf prick. No, he lowers the tone. If he gives you grief, let me know. I hear he can be a real toad. It’s not just the look of him I dislike, either; it’s his whole loser attitude. Yield to spastics like him and the tail wags the dog. Before you know it you will be assisting him on the toilet.

I thanked Steve for the advice before he offered up a further admonition worth minding if I was to conform at Beasley Langford & Sly: Never wear brown pants. If you want to get ahead here, try wearing brown and see how generous your next pay rise is.

I nodded, but he hadn’t finished. He snapped his braces: Brown is not a pay rise colour. It fosters a negative mental association. It is the biggest faux pas you can make. Present for work in brown and you can join the deaf prick out at the spazz farm. He wears brown you know.

I was dressed dapper in jeans, a maroon Fred Perry, shiny black leather brogues and a sporty black Harrington Jacket with its tartan lining: a street fashion out of England. Not strictly office attire, but acceptable for a filing clerk. I thought it might be funny to ask whether brown-nosing was also verboten but curbed my anarchic tongue.

Got it. No brown trousers.

No brown anything. It’s best to get brown out of your head altogether: no brown trousers, no brown shirts, no brown tie, no brown shoes, and no brown cardigans. In fact, cardigans are a major no-no. No cardigans. Other than that, keep an eye on the deaf prick. Don’t let him filch stationery. And watch him around the tea room whenever there’s cake, he’ll mooch most of it. God knows how he’s such a scrawny rodent since he stuffs his face like a bored housewife.

I was won over by the splendour of the man’s contempt; we were of a similar oeuvre.

Long before, just out of school, I worked at a city travel agency. I was a messenger. It was my first office job. Miss Lin was Chinese and one of eight booking consultants I reported to for errands. I often felt a compulsion to censure her for her fussy nature. Seeking a reaction, I let it build up, joshing her about this, then having a go about that. She had some funny ways. Finally, I mentioned her constant teeth-sucking. I hit pay dirt. She leapt from her chair like a cat flicked with a towel. If I had son like you, I kill him! I drown him in sea! I cut his throat with razor. I push him down stairs! You drink, you smoke, you swear! Why you like this? What your parents do? How you do these things so young? You never tell truth. Is all big joke. The things come out of your mouth. You never have respect. You take two hours to do one thing. You come to no good, kid, I tell you this, I promise, you come to no good!

Memories of that awesome outburst floated back to me as the deaf prick escorted me on a tour of the offices and begrudgingly explained the colour-coded filing systems used in each partner’s section. He had been forced to do this since I was compelled by duty to inform Steve Sherwood that he was not properly explaining my chores to me. Steve summoned him to his office and savaged him. I listened at the door. Steve tore into him. After that, the deaf prick was humbled. He let down his guard enough to lament to me, I am glad I am leaving this place. I’m ready for a change.

What will you do?

I’ll study computers. I have an uncle in Silicon Valley and I will probably move over there. I could be earning $10,000 a week in about two years.

I let him crap on. Earlier that day, he thought he impressed me by boasting about partying at The Globe. This was a dance venue a few blocks from the office where they played the latest house music. In reality, their door policy would have blocked him at the bollards.

The boss’s lunch

BEFORE RECOUNTING my ascent in the worker day world I will firstly detail my descent. You may have already formed an opinion on my character based on what I just revealed about Miss Lin and the travel agency but that was forever ago. I was fired from my last workplace at a printer’s shop after an impolitic joke about the boss’s missus. The timing sucked as I had saved nothing and was broke. Forced onto the rock ‘n’ roll, I came up short on rent and was evicted. This was the 1980s when drugs and money abounded. The one ate the other till there was neither. Securing work at BL&S restored my independence. It had been a tiring road; I vowed to no longer treat life like a mini bar. But things were grim before that and to prove it I will you back there.

I needed a lifeline. I had nowhere to go and was homeless for about four hours. Thankfully, luck intervened. A Scottish kid from my subculture days talked his mum into putting me up. He had brought home strays before. I agreed to pay board and promised to make myself scarce in the apartment. It was an unlikely arrangement. We were chalk and cheese. Yet, here we both were living under his mum’s roof. The question was how did I end up so low? The answer was irresponsibility. It was also youth or a combination of both, but in those days, I was more interested in hanging out than giving two figs about work. Alas, this was a double helix; without work you could not afford a social life, while nights out cost your job. But, all my jobs had been junior roles with not much room to move. And to my dubious credit, I always lost them with style. It was an unforgiving cycle. The drudgery left one watching the clock. The week came to drag so badly, I could no longer wait until its end before indulging in the recreation that my day job underwrote. Thursday nights I popped the cork, and well before the last working hour had ended. I was an upstart living a drug cartel lifestyle on a pain killer budget. However, as from the moment that BL&S hired me I had resolved to start mending my ways. This time round I would abstain from eating the boss’s lunch. And that is a story I wish to share as a caveat to all would-be shirkers out there.

A little background first: Burns Copying was a small concern with a handful of big clients and a walk-in trade. On staff, there was me, old Walt on the plan printer, Sally in the Xerox room, and this big blubbery ox named Breen. Hired the day after me, Breen worked the heavy-duty Xerox copier. Nobody liked Breen. A Head Banger with a surly manner Sally’s Irish boyfriend dubbed him ‘Goober’. Starting the working cycle proved a struggle; I was anxious for my first wage packet. Money was tight, and I went without lunch. The day before payday, I poached the boss’s sandwiches. In fact, this happened twice. The first time nothing was said. The next time, I again presumed that he wouldn’t miss his sangers. What led me to believe that he disregarded this epicurean extravagance packed for him each day by his bush pig wife was that just before lunch hour he typically dispatched me to the food court at Circular Quay to fetch a tub of macaroni and cheese. Explaining his standing order, he told me, I hate variety. His uneaten sandwiches were tossed into the rubbish the next day. I seized the initiative in the name of the world’s starving. I initially commandeered the nosh for survival, but this latest round was down to dissolute living as I had blown my weekly expenses on partying. I was splicing edges off some sepia copies when Mr Burns called me aside. Burns was a stumpy Canadian with a melon head and chunky glasses. It was winter. A bulky pullover furnished him with marsupial physiognomies. I remember he sidled over and whispered, Julius, someone’s ate my lunch. I left my lunch in the fridge. Now it is not there. Nodding intently, I asked, Who would swipe your tucker, Wayne?

Someone who wants to get fired.

Any hunch who the culprit is?

Not yet. 

It is not old Walt!

He shook his head, Heavens no.

And Sally is a vegetarian.

No, Sally is on no meat.

I hope you aren’t suggesting it was me.

I never said that.

In that case, Breen is most likely the culprit. I mean, he is strange.

I agree. He wears all that black leather and studs. He is like those guys that shoot up their workplace with military-grade weapons.

Very good, Wayne, ho ho... You reckon he’s on drugs? You think he might be doing some of that crack?

Just quietly, I say yes. I have a neighbour whose kid is also a space cadet. He wears eyeliner. I hope they lock him up.

You ought to confront him, Wayne.

What if he has a knife?

Commando tactics, Wayne, grab his wrist when he lunges.

I think I’ll just call on you.

Indeed. First up, we need evidence.

Hands in his trouser pockets, Wayne rocked back and forth on the balls of his feet. What evidence?

Where did he stash the wrapper? Are there crumbs at his workstation? Has he put on weight suddenly? You know — general tell-tale signs that somebody has been eating other people’s lunches.

Wayne’s eyes brightened. I might see how he’s going with the Hartogen job and have a snoop around.

Sure thing, I said, putting aside the stack of copies. I will run down and get your pasta then. You will want pasta now under the circumstances.

Since Burns never bought the macaroni himself, I convinced him the price went up. I would pocket the dollar’s difference. It was fair enough, I thought, because of capitalism and stuff. I even figured out a whole macaroni scam where I cooked the Mac and cheese then heated it in the office microwave. That way I could bleed him for the whole four dollars. It never came together, but.

When he finally sacked me a tense standoff ensued. I wasn’t sure which offence he had rumbled to; so, it was a poker match where I worried the police may be involved. It transpired that his missus found a satirical sketch of her I left in the photo copier and freaked. I drew her super fat and added stink lines. She held all the money, so Wayne had no choice, even though there was a rumour that he was hitting the prossies because she was such a beast. For my sins, I wound up at Simon’s. Well, between that and pissing away the rent money.

The hipster and the scab

SIMON’S PARENTS divorced soon after arriving in Australia. A confirmed sponge, whose inevitable sticky end on either skid row or in a public lavatory was a given, Simon served as a daily reminder to Mrs. Campbell of her lazy ex. His sloth was ingrained. Innately clueless, Simon fancied himself a notch higher. He was a 17-year-old who aped gamecock maturity. When he attempted wit, it grated on my nerves. I had to check my irritation as I was dependent on him. One afternoon, I watched Simon’s mother try to rouse him from bed in her gravelly Glaswegian accent, Ur, fur god’s sake, gie it ay yer scratcher. It is fower ‘o’ clock in th’ efternuin, an’ yoo’ve dain nowt the-day. Her frustrated petition was greeted with a grumbled fuck off from Simon, who sensed his mother may be given to trying to persuade him to perhaps seek work. This was an intolerable violation of what he perceived were the fundamentals of their relationship, which he reckoned was predicated upon her unconditional support while he did as he pleased. In fact, in all the time I knew Simon, he had only one job, and as I recall, for just one week. It was in a warehouse. His boss refused to pay him the week’s wages Simon argued he was owed for his five-day cigarette break.

Our days were inevitably mind-numbing in their indolence. Simon held the keys. I had to follow him around. He seldom arose before three in the afternoon. When he dragged his lazy bones off the mattress it was so he could empty the refrigerator. After an overlong shower, he donned his jeans and jacket. At this stage, he was wont to imbibe lager, so we wet our whistles down at the Frog & Skillet in the city, where during Happy Hour a pint cost a dollar. We got sufficiently tanked in that hour. Whatever we skolled there was always extra pints hurriedly lined up with an eye on the clock before the hour lapsed. On days when the money was spent our evenings were squandered smoking cigarettes in front of the idiot box until the next monetary boost again sent us burning tracks toward the big smoke. In those circumstances it was tough saving for a place. Every so often I received respite when Morton, Simon’s fellow Blockhead, engaged his company. They shared a skiver’s attraction for wasting their lives. Morton hailed from a piss-weak part of England where lying and petty thievery were local pastimes. The two attended the same high school. I prefer not to speak of this pinhead huckster other than to characterise him as a kleptomaniac. Loose change, food, personal effects, was all fair game. All of your possessions needed nailing down. He was forever cadging drinks; smokes; drugs. Twice I swapped places and spent the night in Morton’s rented room in Kings Cross, so he and Simon could be together for a pyjama party or whatever they did. My offer was not made out of munificence on my part; I would do anything to avoid those lug nuts. Morton readily accepted. He longed for a home environment even if it was someone else’s. The closest he came to experience such was staying over at Simon’s. His dad abandoned him and his mother when he was a sprog. Not being the effectual sort, his mum cast him from the nest as soon as she could legally do so. It was not hard to see why. I craved time alone to write. I was perfecting my prose having become enticed to letters by a boyhood with my head stuck in between the pages of fabulous books. I also wanted to score hash from The Penthouse, a seedy pool hall. It was a short skip from Morton’s. I would pack my Head Shop pipe. When the effects made me hungry, as was its nature, I had only to mosey a block for the tastiest Yeeros in town. I was not much into the lush in those days, preferring the herb. In the end, given our opposite natures, a schism that had hovered for some time fell decisively between Simon and I. The Bankstown situation became untenable. Simon’s mum took me aside, not to reproach me, but to express disenchantment with her son whose apathy grew worse by the day. This happened just as I secured my new job with BL&S and was about to move into a flat in Newtown.

Ach, Simon’s mum sighed, one day, Ah wish Ian hud jist half ay th’ common-sense ’at ye dae mah loon.

I received this commendation with aplomb even though I only half-understood it. I had her fooled.

Ah can’t gie heem it ay scratcher. Ah can’t gie heem tae swatch fur wark, an’ th’ way he’s gonnae his sister, fa thinks she is Van Goh wi’ titties, will end-up paintin’ th’ streets while he ends-up sweepin’ them.

I gave an elegiac nod; the saintly hipster.

Aye, weel, Ah am hopin’ ’at yer example micht spur heem oan tae gie up aff his backside an’ dae somethin’ wi’ his life besides watchin’ TV an' skitin’ aw hoors ay the’ nicht.

The neighbourhood itself was a worry. It was Hanoi at one end and Beirut at the other. A couple of white boys did not feel secure until they had crossed the square. One time the two of us were followed late at night by Lebanese teens. In doing so, they strayed onto the Vietnamese side. A Viet gang faced off with them and let us through. Yet, it was not just the environment, the energy of being with Simon and Morton was dicey. The gods did not like them. Simon, Morton and I, were homeward bound on a Sunday evening after a weekend clubbing in the city. We were tired, hungry, and desiring shelter. But waiting for a train to Bankstown took long enough without it being a Sunday; especially at that hour, which was around ten pm. We found ourselves on a deserted Sydenham station, resting on the bitumen at the far end of the platform. It was a mild Autumnal evening, but the breeze cooled and even tucked up in a denim jacket, the chill whispered goose bumps on my skin. Our backs rested against the wall of the men’s block. Out of the moon-shadowed night, a group of Islander lads appeared. They came striding from around the platform, glaring at us. Whilst I was oblivious to their intentions, Simon was immediately conversant with the physical grammar. Minding his vocal levels, he urged, Let’s get outta here! They’re coming around again, and they’ll bash us!

Morton was cataleptic. I knew how he felt.  What do we do?

Wait till they’re on the other side and get over that fence! said Simon.

The spell was broken. Bouncing onto the tracks, we scrabbled over the other platform until the fence, which alined with billboards, was within reach. Despite its height, we adroitly surmounted it. Such was the charge of our adrenaline that we traversed the trammels of the station in under 30 seconds. We were safely on the street-side of the fence. Just as Simon had forecast, they burst upon the spot where they had last encountered us. They halted their ingress. We observed them through cracks between the fence palings. The paltriness of their combined intellect proved our salvation for near where we had sat was a small decorative bush. The Islanders were so baffled at our disappearance that one of them pawed through that mite-like bush trying to flush us out. The obvious explanation that we had dashed across the platform and over the fence didn’t occur to them. Their bewilderment was comical.

My Gran phoned clear out of the blue. It was a sombre day. I was not even sure how she came to know the number, as I never spoke to my parents, and I had not seen her in a year or so. I was penniless and sat at the living room table, craving a cigarette and fantasising about Byronesque dalliances with exotic substances. I was famished too. Simon and Morton had eaten all the food. Then the phone rang. Normally, I would let it ring, as it was seldom ever for me. This time I answered. My grandmother was on the line, which was, as I explained, surprising. She had been thinking about me. She said that my chances of gaining employment might be greatly enhanced if I had presentable attire for a job interview. Gran offered me a small amount of money if I visited her for lunch. Lunch and money, this was a score: this was the hoped for turning point. Would I squander the readies on hash? In those days, I was immaturely devoted to stoning. I could only interpret good times through Chinese eyes. I seized any opportunity to ditch the baggage and catch up with my preferred crowd. Nevertheless, the jeans I was wearing, a size-32, hung loose around my waist. I had gotten so skinny, and the heels of my shoes were worn down to chisel ends. I desperately needed new gear so whatever money gran offered I promised myself I would not blow it all up at The Penthouse. I agreed to meet her for lunch.

I could not afford a train ticket, as was typical in those days. Circumstances compelled me to avoid the attendant and locate an alternate exit. After I alighted at Rockdale station I snuck to the back of the platform and scaled the fence. Landing on its opposite side, I was immediately aware of a soft and bulky object crushing underneath the flimsy sole of my sneaker. When I shifted my foot to investigate I found I had landed on a bag of bud. A fare evader had likely dropped it while executing a similar exit path. When I arrived at my grandmother’s, I wheedled cigarettes off my uncle Roy, who was a few sandwiches short of a picnic. I smoked two of his Benson & Hedges on the balcony. Then I ravenously scarfed down the chops and boiled vegetables in gravy that Gran had prepared. Letting blast a satisfied eructation I replaced my knife and fork with a clink onto the greasy plate. Gran disappeared into her bedroom and returned several moments later. As I sat satiated, anticipating my earlier fortune and how I might go about smoking it without sharing any with Simon and Morton, she said, Now, I can’t afford very much, but this little bit ought to help you buy some nice clothes for job searching. My expectations were not exorbitant, maybe two-hundred dollars if her generosity so determined. Gran was very wealthy at one time, my grandfather having been a prosperous businessman who made his bones through property acquisition and selling used automobile parts during the 1950s and 1960s, until his death in the early 1970s. Mind you, he would not have approved of me.