Buggerlugs and Millsy

The young woman stepped towards Millsy as he headed for the gated exit. Her dog grabbed his attention right away: a wire-hair Jack Russell terrier, the white-and-tan colouring, the high energy level, the long hard stare that fixed Millsy like Eddie did with Kelsey Grammer on Frasier.

He had never seen the dog and its owner at the park before.

“Excuse me,” she said. “Could you hold your hand out for me?”

He held his palm out—impulsively, a courtesy. “I reckon,” he said.

“You’re in the way,” she told him, gesturing at the jogger approaching behind them.

He lowered his hand and moved aside, part entertained, part bewildered. “Do you think I stole something?”

“No, I just wanted to check you were empty-handed.”

He took stock of her now. Underneath those daggy St Vinnie’s clothes she was skinny, but not unattractive, not the skull-face and messed-up teeth of the typical meth-heads who sometimes frequented the park on weekends. “Why?”

“You come here most Saturdays,” she said, bypassing the question, “around ten or thereabouts. You and your dog.”

“His name’s Spike.”

“Suits him,” she said, turning a blind eye to his dog and her dog sniffing each other in a circle dance. “Your dog likes to play near the statue.”

He nodded slowly, unsure of where this was going, but intrigued with the surprise of it. “Yeah. And?”

“Are you short of money?”

“What?” he said.

“You don’t look like you’re short of money. You drive the ute with the cartoon dog logo on it, right?”

“Second-hand,” he said, without thinking. “How do you know what car I drive?”

“I’ve got my sources.”

She lifted out a clear sandwich bag from her green reusable Woolies bag and waved it in front of his face. The bag contained squashed-up dog poo.

“Your hand’s empty because you never clean up your dog excrement,” she said. “And you’re not poor, so you can afford the bags.” She handed the offending item to him. “Now take this.”

Dumbstruck, he took it. Excrement? Who said excrement?

“What’s it to you, anyway,” he said. “Are you the park police?”

“I have to sleep here sometimes,” she said, maintaining eye contact. “Don’t like anyone messing on my doorstep.”

He hadn’t picked her for homeless, wondered if he had any spare change on him.

“Sorry to hear.”

“Yeah, everybody’s sorry.”

She walked away, muttering “good dog” to her Jack Russell. Millsy, humiliated, enraged, didn’t move until Spike nudged his ankle.

The incident—reshaped to a good yarn for his tradie mates, with the homeless girl the psycho and himself the hero—preoccupied his Saturday. Those he came into contact with loved it.

“Lucky you’ve got a boxer and not a Saint Bernard, Millsy.”

Katt also was amused when he picked her up that afternoon. He met her in the pub, sharing a jug of beer with Mick and his girlfriend Sarah, old mates from Tafe days. By now the trio were borderline tipsy.

“A shaggy dog story,” Sarah laughed at the telling.

“She threw the shit at you,” Mick clarified. “That’s assault with a deadly—I mean a doggie—weapon.”

The trio laughed as if it was the funniest line they’d ever heard. Millsy could see he had some catching up to do but wasn’t in the mood. “She must have been stalking me,” he said.

“Faeces attraction,” Mick crowed.

Afterwards, as he chauffeured Katt back to where she lived, he found himself taking a detour by the park.

“What are you doing?” she asked.

“Nothing.” He stopped the car, got out,  and looked at the darkening trees, the foreboding silence broken by the thrash and screech of a couple of nocturnal creatures having a barney, the damp, sweet scent of fauna and foliage mingling with the faint whiff of stale urine from the public toilets. What bad choices, or lack of choices, would cause anyone to end up sleeping rough in such a place? A memory sparked: his old man blasting Simon & Garfunkel through the tape deck in the Holden on their way to the footy. Homeward bound, I wish I was. Thanks, Dad, for the music and the footy, and the small inheritance that helped with the deposit. Thanks, Mum, for stretching out the cancer until after my eighteenth.

He got back in his ute, grateful he could always sleep in it if life ever reached the point where he couldn’t pay the mortgage on his unit. Spike would stick with him; Katt, probably not. She dozed in the passenger seat, her snores warning of the matrimonial bed of the future. Bad choice? If she fell pregnant, would it mean no choice?

He found it difficult to process what had happened hours earlier: the nerve of the homeless girl, with her op-shop clothes, her accusation—and the proof.

“It’s not like I do it all the time,” he said.

Katt snorted awake. “Eh?”

“Not picking up after Spike. Big deal.”

Katt planted a drunken kiss on his cheek. “You’re no litterbug.”

“It was a mistake, that’s all. I won’t do it again.”

She placed her hand on his thigh. “Bad boy,” she teased.

He felt aroused, soberly devil-may-care. He unzipped his jeans, placed his hand over the back of Katt’s head, and sought absolution.

The following Saturday he waited by the fountain with Spike, hoping—dreading—the homeless girl would show up. In his hand, a little yellow bag with Spike’s deposit in it, plus a spare bag in his pocket.

He waited forty-five minutes. Maybe she wasn’t coming. In his mind, he’d already rehearsed his Star Trek joke to tell her—it wasn’t a great comparison with the bag of dog poo she’d given him, but it would do. He was still replaying the line—What do Kirk and Picard call their shit? Captain’s Log—when she appeared.

“Well if it isn’t Mister Hi-Vis,” she said. She wore the same hand-me-downs, and Eddie—the name he chose for her Jack Russell—gave him the same hard stare.

“This is a rough park,” he said, opting for his backup line, hoping she hadn’t heard it before. “Even the arms on the benches have tattoos.”

She made no reply, and he felt stupid: second-hand jokes to go with his second-hand car. He watched Spike and Eddie do their circle dance and cleared his throat.

“Thing is, I made a mistake and got caught. I’m not a bad person.”

“I wouldn’t know.”

“My name’s Millsy,” he tried a smile. “I’m a sparky, self-employed.”

“Good to hear. I’m Buggerlugs. I’m a nothing, unemployed.”

Buggerlugs? She saw his confused expression, brushed her long, straw-blonde hair back with her hand, pointed to her ears. “It’s better than Dumbo.”

He hadn’t noticed her ears stuck out a bit from her head until she made it clear. He smiled his acknowledgment. “It’s cold out,” he said. He pulled on Spike’s leash to stop him from humping Eddie. “You look a bit on the young side to be sleeping rough.”

“There’s no age limit. I’m nineteen.”

“You from Tassie?”

And now she returned his smile. “Born and inbred.”

“The coffee van’s just there,” he said, pointing. “I’ll shout you a coffee, if you like.”

“You’re not a perve, are you?”

“Ask my fiancée.”

They walked alongside each other, the dogs trailing amiably behind them.

“You’ll never guess who I bumped into in the park,” he said to Katt later that night. They were sitting on her sofa, watching another trauma-infused show on Netflix.

“The Prime Minister?” she said, eyes locked on the screen.

“The homeless girl.” He waited, then added, “Her name’s Buggerlugs.”

“What?”

“She’s unemployed, lives in—”

“Ssh!” she said, shifting in her seat. “I’m trying to watch this.”

“She’s coming to my birthday drinks.”

“What?”

“Friday at the pub. With Mick and Sarah.”

She pressed pause on the remote—he could hear her sigh when she did it. She sighed too much these days.

“Buggerlugs? What kind of a name’s that? Who is this person? And why in hell is she coming to your birthday drinks?”

“She’s not as bad as I thought. She likes dogs. Her Jack Russell looks just like Eddie from Frasier. You’ll like him.”

“Is he coming to drinks, too?”

“Don’t be like that. She’s temporarily homeless.”

She gave him one of her “Do I know you?” glares.

“It’s just someone I’ve asked to make up the numbers.”

He had planned to tell her about the hour he had spent with Buggerlugs, drinking coffee, talking about the habits—mostly bad—of their dogs and the state of the world, but now he knew to save it for another time.

“Who else invites a total stranger—a homeless stalker—to their birthday party?” she said, no longer hypnotised by Netflix, ready to pounce.

“It’s not a birthday party,” he said, deflecting, “it’s just drinks.”

“You said she was feral!”

He had, to his shame, referred to her as skinnier than a feral cat. How casual with his cruelty it dawned on him he could be, Millsy the tradie from Tasmania, role model for the male human physique.

“She’s not feral,” he said. “A little underweight, maybe. Model skinny.”

Mistake. Katt, perpetually five kilos over her ideal weight, smelled competition.

“Have you got the hots for her?” she snarled. “Went down on you behind the trees, did she? Cash for pash.”

She could be crude when she wanted to.

“Don’t chuck a wobbly,” he said.

“Rack off.”

“Let’s just watch the show.”

He didn’t want to watch the show. He didn’t want to talk. It required force of will to refrain from walking out of the room, walking straight out of the relationship, even life itself.

“Bet she’s a no-show,” Mick said. “We should’ve taken a slab to the park instead.”

“She’s probably claiming the single mother pension,” Katt said.

“Her dog’s her only fur-baby,” Sarah qualified.

“No-show, guaranteed.” Mick knew best.

And in she came, as if on cue. Millsy stood and waved, awarded her an invisible gold star. “Settle,” he murmured to the gang.

He pulled a chair out for her. She wore faded jeans and a white jumper, one of those Aran-knitted chunky ones, tactile; he imagined running his fingertips along the patterns. Her boots were scuffed. She’d tied back her hair and put on some lippie, nothing too fancy but it hit the spot. She reminded him of Cate Blanchett as the Lady Galadriel; in his mind, he told her this and she punched him gently on the shoulder.

“Happy thirty-first,” she said, handing him a small gift-wrapped box. “It’s nothing much.”

“Thanks,” Millsy said, curious to know what she’d bought him, how she could afford it, pleased she’d given him any thought at all.

Mick and Sarah hadn’t given him anything as yet; Katt had given him a card with a fifty-dollar voucher inside at breakfast. He felt let down at this lack of celebration—the lack of thought more than any lack of material gifts. He had hoped for something a bit more special than the usual Friday drinks at the pub, but his friends—Katt’s friends, really—behaved as if the occasion merited no deviation from the norm.

Buggerlugs, after the awkward smiles and brief introductions, sat quietly in her corner sipping on the glass of sparkling Moscato he’d shouted her. Her self-assurance in the park seemed compromised.

“They barred me from this pub once,” was her only contribution for the first half-hour.

He wanted to tease the story out of her, but Katt sent him—fetch—to the bar for some salted cashews, and then she homed in on Mick and Sarah’s babble. Watching from the bar while he waited for service, Millsy felt disappointed by the charade playing out at the table: Mick showing off his knowledge of everything, cracking jokes trawled from the internet; Sarah, her perfume barely concealing Mick’s bricky b.o., laughing as if her man hosted his own late night TV show; Katt looking down her nose at Buggerlugs, sighing, and drinking too quickly.

“What did one saggy boob say to the other saggy boob?” Mick said. “If we don’t get some support, people will think we’re nuts.”

The more Mick’s beer-fuelled jokey pontificating dominated the table, the less Buggerlugs’s presence mattered. When she could get a word in, which became harder as the drinks kept coming, she kept her voice low, wary.

“I wrote a short story,” she said during a momentary lull, fumbling in her Woolies bag, pulling out a box of Tic Tacs. “It’s depressing how the magazines want you to pay a fee just to read submissions.”

Silence around the table, no doubt prompted by disbelief.

“So that was that,” she added.

Millsy, who had returned to the table, observed his friends struggling to rearrange their faces. The speech bubble from Mick’s dropped jaw said: Unemployed homeless people can’t read let alone write.

“You wrote a story?” Katt said. She might as well have asked if Buggerlugs had climbed Everest.

“Never sent it,” Buggerlugs said. “Partly because I didn’t agree with the fee, but mainly because the story sucked.”

“So you’re a writer,” Mick said.

“I’m nothing. I wrote a short story, that’s all.”

“You need an agent,” Sarah chipped in, “otherwise you just end up on the, what do you call it, the mush pile.”

“Slush,” Mick corrected.

“You need to be published to get an agent,” Buggerlugs said, “and you need an agent to get published. It’s a catch-22.”

Blank looks.

“Millsy tried to write a novel once,” Katt said. “Can you believe it?”

“A thriller, wasn’t it?” said Sarah.

“I haven’t read it,” Katt said.

“Neither did anyone he sent it to,” Mick joked.

Sarah had an attack of the giggles, wine fizzing up through her nose, making Mick and Katt laugh along with her.

It struck Millsy, observing, that Katt revealed the ugliness within them. Or had he imbibed too much of the amber fluid already, imagining his girlfriend and her cronies as Buggerlugs might perceive them? Had Sarah ever guffawed like this, Mick been so pompous, Katt such a bitch?

“Homeless people shouldn’t have pets,” Katt blurted at one point, when the conversation turned to Buggerlugs’s struggles with her Jack Russell.

“He’s all I’ve got,” said Buggerlugs.

“Where’s the mutt now?” asked Mick.

“Waiting outside.”

When the familiar piss-take started—refugees, Asians, greenies—the vitriol spewed out. And now it hit Millsy like a slip-slop-slap in the face: the trio were performing a pantomime of Aussie stereotypes for Buggerlugs’s sake, pretending to be real arseholes, being obnoxious for a lark, resorting to Reddit posts. No one would accuse him of being PC, but still.

If the goal was to make her leave early, they scored: Buggerlugs left the pub an hour later, awkward hug with Millsy on the way out. For the next half-hour she was the subject matter around the table.

Sarah stuck the first boot in. “Short story,” she said. “Imagine.”

“Deluded,” Katt said. “She’s probably illiterate.”

“I can’t see her readin’ War and Peace waitin’ in the Centrelink queue, can you?” said Mick.

“Skiter,” Katt said.

“Deadset,” Mick confirmed.

“What’s with the Woolies handbag?” said Sarah.

“And those ears,” Katt said.

“Would she be in the anorexia range?” Sarah asked.

“It’s the drugs that do it,” said Katt.

“Speakin’ of anorexics,” Mick said, searching the empty cashew packet for crumbs, “Who’s for a feed?”

“Ask Millsy,” Katt said, “it’s his party.”

“I don’t know what I’m in the mood for,” Millsy said, fingers tapping the gift-wrapped box on the table. Everyone’s attention pivoted to the box.

“I wonder what she got you?” Sarah said.

“Yes,” said Katt, “I wonder.”

Mick beat a drum roll with his fists. “Open, open, open!”

Millsy wanted to keep the gift to himself. They would make fun of it, and her. The temptation to ask Mick and Sarah where their presents were almost overpowered him.

“Maybe it’s another dog poo,” Sarah said.

“Engraved,” Mick laughed.

“To Millsy: Smell the Roses,” Katt said.

Mick poured the remainder of the beer jug into Millsy’s schooner. “Bloody open it,” he pressed.

“I gave him a fifty bucks gift voucher this morning,” Katt said. “If he plays his cards right, he’ll get another gift later tonight.”

Hoots of encouragement all round.

“We’ve got our prezzies for you at home,” Sarah said. She pointed at Mick. “Someone forgot to bring them in the taxi on our way here.”

What strangeness not to know whether they were lying or not. And Katt, more likely she’d pick a fight with him later instead of bestowing any happy ending.

He looked at the gift-wrapped box: the racing cars on the paper, the innocence of linking him to his ute, a man to fast cars. He would be driving his ute soon, over the limit, possibly, but only five k’s from home, keep to the back-roads. No chauffeuring tonight; Mick and Sarah could find their own way back; Katt could catch a taxi, or crawl. She’d grumble, but so what? It was his birthday and he could do what he bloody well liked.

Tomorrow he’d take Spike to the park, and Buggerlugs, if she hadn’t done a runner, would be there with Eddie. They’d have coffee and tell each other stories about their stories.

Stephen Beckett lives in northern Tasmania. Before the pandemic put a stop to it, he ran his own independent theatre company for twelve years.