Academic journal article Antipodes


Academic journal article Antipodes


Article excerpt

Silence in Homer Street. No pedestrians, barely a passing car.

At four a.m. the streetlights burn for no-one, shedding kilowatt

after kilowatt of incandescent brightness onto a sea of dumb,

black bitumen. A blue Hyundai Excel stops outside the Wine

Emporium. A boy, no older than fifteen, gets out of the car,

a crowbar in his right hand. Craving another scrap of Utopia,

he swings the crowbar hard, trying to break through this fucking

tough glass. Tiny diamonds shatter and fall, but the door holds.

He swings again. Again. Attempting to murder his reflection,

to cleave through the outline of his own shining skull.

Putting his shoulders into it, the diamonds leaking onto the footpath.

He is bent on entry, on feeding the screeching sirens in his head.

He doesn't see the passing car or hear the policeman approaching.

But just in time he realizes, turns to the stolen Excel, opens

the passenger door and slides inside. The policeman, only

twenty himself, notices that the driver's window is a third

of the way down. He puts his arm in, attempts to open

the door. He knows this kid: DJ, a Marrickville boy.

But before he can lift the knob, the engine roars and the car

takes off. "Stop!" the copper yells, "Stop." With his left arm

hooked over the window, he has suddenly become a stunt man.

And this is no movie. …

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