Box Hill

The last time I was here Boxhill was a leafy, sleepy middle class urb. Now the place is like some cyber punk gritty Asian mean-street. Max has dragged us all off to a Laser Zone so Patric has something memorable happening on his 18th Birthday. He is sitting in the car with me listening to an audio book on phones while Max and brother and friends play at ersatz war.
Outside the car Asians and punks of various varieties scurry past, lots of the pedestrians are wearing photo ID of various sorts. The women wear Jiffies and the males brightly colored or grungy sneakers depending on financial circumstances or tribal allegiances. In a restaurant the sign on the window says you can order a Peking Duck Feast if you pay cash. The entre is chicken and ducks feet. Maybe it’s code.
A young Asian walks past dragging a full black garbage bag. He spits on the footpath and then drags the bag over it, smearing it out. It visibly dries on the hot concrete paving.
Hot. The sunlight on the grey is not bright. The photochemical skystain browns it out.
More boys go past spitting. Young girl things with pierced faces, microscopic shorts and saggy tops (falling off pale, toddler soft shoulders) turn into Dark Zone, giggling in anticipation of virtual mayhem.
Patric and I are waiting to be elsewhere. He is dozing listening. I am looking and writing this. Waiting.
Mallacoota is a long way from this nowhere.

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