Murwillumbah

 

A family comes down the ramp at Sunnyside shopping centre. He, in fluro orange, sized XXXL, a four wheel drive of a man, big as a Nissan Patrol. Silver beard and balding, the hairs above his lips taking on the sheen of nicotine. And she, the body of a grapefruit. Waddles as she walks, thighs rub together like tectonic plates colliding. Tsunami Sal. Once upon a time quite a looker, a cheeky binge drinker, deep throating Dale in the back of his Hilux like no other. He is one of the ones on the road works. Not the one holding up the signs, that’s for the soft cocks. He’s one of the ones who doesn’t quite look like he’s ever not on smoko, and he still comes home cranky. Cos she ain’t as beautiful anymore and he forgets when he’s looking at the back of her, washin his dishes, his gut full, the back of her like the whole of America, that he is not the Mona Lisa either. And the kids, exotic names to give them a good start. Names that sound as beautiful as all the places Dale and Sal saw on the tele. Venice and Skye. They think their mum and dad are holy. They’ll hold onto the shopping trolley as mum packs it up with loaves of tip top and frozen meat pies and pizza shapes and cordial. They fight for the spot on the back, where the steel sits between the wheels, just to hold on, while mum piles it up with the bargains and the shiny glimmering rainbow packets, she’ll give them a backhander if they aren’t careful. But they have no idea. They are fluffy and floating. The world is lit up like a fish tank and they are there, crouched on their knees, noses squished the glass, amazed.  The world is amazing.