W.J.P.Newnham was born in Melbourne in 1965 at the Royal Women’s Hospital and whisked away from his mother as part of the white stolen generation policies where un-wed mothers were stripped of their children. He was adopted and raised all over country Victoria having at age 17 lived in 11 different houses and attended 9 different schools. At a grade 6 literacy test he read at a university level and when matriculating he won the schools humanity score prize. His attendance at university was sporadic.
W.J.P.Newnham has hitchhiked around Australia working as barman, bum and waiter; slaughter hand, deckhand and master spending 25 years working in the Northern Prawn Fishery. He has travelled extensively in south-east Asia, the Americas and Japan and speaks market-place Indonesian with some fluency.
2 of W.J.P.Newnham’s early stories were published in the inaugural edition of the seminal Melbourne literary magazine ‘Nocturnal Submissions’ in the early nineties, a recent story accepted by ‘Overland’ for publication, and 2 pieces accepted for Web-Lication[1] on ‘horrorsleazetrash’
He lives in Brisbane with his partner and 2 blue-heelers.
‘These stories speak to character and choice. Obligation and duty are given and choices made according to need and want are not always wisest as accounts add up and balances are inevitably reached: the universe holds no mystery it just is as it is and ever shall be.’
wjpnewnham@optusnet.com.au
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”THE NICE LADY”<” height=”59″ width=”425″>
By
W<J>P. Newnham.
“Desperate
All night crying
Pillow’s soaking wet
I’m going cold on the wall
I gotta get back home!”
Article I. “Dang”
I just wanted to dance; honest!
From the moment the ‘Jon Spencer Blues Explosion’[1] got on stage and Mr. Spencer plugged in his guitar and with reckless downward chops went:
BWAAAAAAAH
BWARRRPPPPPP!
He said:
“I JUST WANNA’ FUCKEN’ DANCE!!
THE FUCKEN BLUES ARE NUMBAH 1 MUTHA-FUCKA!!!
THE BLUES ARE NUMBAH 1!!!!”
I just wanted to dance!
Article II. “Sweat”
I pushed my way forward through the dancing crowd; right in front of the stage, close, within range of touch. Close enough that when Mr. Spencer swung and thrashed his sweaty forelock his sweat anointed my brow in splashes:
I am, with the others frenetically dancing, communicant.
She dances beside me, unconcerned with the heaving hurly-burly of the Mosh-Pit, her eyes closed and face turned up to the radiance of performance as if momentarily blinded.
She dances beside me: in the heaving hurly-burly of the Mosh-Pit we are pressed against each-other and we dance; close enough to sense her scent of sweat and rose-water and need.
We are, with others frenetically dancing, communicant.
I had seen her earlier that evening whilst outside the front door and smoking in the designated outdoor smoking area and talking shit with the Samoan bouncer about the weather and the football and the peptides; all the minutiae I could muster that might pass for conversation.
She was accompanying an obviously disabled man and assisting him as he spastically perambulated on dual metal crutches with one of her hands at his arm for support and comfort.
The Samoan bouncer holds up one hand to me to signal:
Pause Bro!
And with the other he touches a finger to his ear piece and says softly:
“Crips Cuz”.
She smiled and said that they were O-K and that she would help her friend and that there was no need for any kind of assistance as she had done this many times before and thanks anyway.
The bouncer smiles and reciprocating her politeness explains that:
“It’s policy Sister-Girl, for the health and safety you know: we gotta’ assist all dem’ folks.
It’s the law!”
She smiled and reiterated that they were O-K and that she would help her friend and that there was no need for any kind of assistance as she had done this many times before and thanks anyway but that if one of them could perhaps follow on behind them up the stairs for just-in-case that she would be grateful and that it would make her friend would feel welcomed and safe.
The bouncer smiles and reciprocating her politeness
He touches a finger to his ear piece and explains the situation softly
He wishes them both a good night
And watches as another
Samoan bouncer
Follows them up the stairs
Just-In-Case.
The Samoan bouncer turns back to me and says:
“That, Cuz, is a real lady.
You know?
She a real nice lady”
Article IV. “Bag Of Bones”
He was a bag of bones; her friend.
They got him a seat and placed him front of the mixing desk where supported on one side by the balustrade for the stairwell and to the rear by the mixing desk set-up and with the nice lady at his side he could have a view of the stage and be unlikely to be knocked or bumped or disturbed.
She bought him drinks at intervals and swayed gently to the cacophony of the support acts.
He nodded, sometimes in time with the beat.
I wonder if she was doing this professionally, if there was any money in escorting the impaired to rock concerts and if so how much and what was the agency specializing in such services.
It seemed like a job I could do.
I studied her during the support acts and noted:
Her hair, all tied back
[In a bun]
And
The almost military cut of her leather jacket
[Buttoned at every hole]
And
The almost ecclesiastical severity
Of her calf-length
Grey [A-line] skirt
And
Her boots.
[Her ‘Fuck-Me’ boots.]
She says:
“Come on then!
Let’s get your pants off and clean you up!”
He says nothing but grinds his teeth
His pants are peeled from him
With the pungent redolence
Of piss and shit.
She says:
“It’s ok. Nothing new!
Let’s get you cleaned up ok?”
He grinds his teeth
And silent tears
Perambulate spastically down his cheeks.
She cleans him
And holds him
For comfort
And support.
I just wanted to dance; honest!
‘Jon Spencer Blues Explosion’ on stage
Mr. Jon Spencers’ guitar and reckless downward chops:
BWAAAAAAAH
BWARRRPPPPPP!
He repeated:
“I JUST WANNA’ FUCKEN’ DANCE!!
THE FUCKEN BLUES ARE NUMBAH 1 MUTHA-FUCKA!!!
THE BLUES ARE NUMBAH 1!!!!”
I just wanted to dance!
So did she
Or
So it seemed?
Article VI. “Zimgar”
She dances beside me: in the heaving hurly-burly of the Mosh-Pit we are pressed against each-other and we dance; close enough to sense her scent of sweat and rose-water and need.
She dances beside me:
I sense her scent
And need.
Her eyes now open she mouths the words as she looks at me as if seeing me for the first time.
She seems to be speaking them
To me
She mouths the words at me with growling intensity:
“You’re Two Kinds’a Love…
Ain’t that the law up above
You got Two Kinds’a Love”
And
“Two Kinds’a Love
that ain’t bad!
Get it right away
Get with it, man”
And
“Yeah, Two Kinds’a Love
Way down below and up above
You got it
You’re Two Kinds’a Love”
I just wanted to dance; honest!
But…….
We are pressed against each-other
Me against her sweat and need
And scent of rose-water.
I howl out
“Chicken Dog”
And forget
Any of the kinds of love.
Jon Spencer leans forward through the spot lights and grins at us and says
“Yeah! You Know That’s Right!”
And then howls with his lips wrapped around his microphone:
“I KNOW WHERE I’M GOING NOW
CHICKEN DOG
CHICKEN DOG
MAMA BOUGHT A CHICKEN, THOUGHT IT WAS A DUCK
PUT HIM ON THE TABLE WITH THE LEGS STICKIN’ UP
IT’S JUST AS EASY AS FALLIN’ OFF A LOG
EVERYBODY DOIN’ THE CHICKEN DOG”
I had been a fan for twenty years without ever having see the [JSBE] live having been, euphemistically; away, whenever he had toured though friends had seen him on numerous occasions. Seeing him I went in with expectation high having had reports the [JSBE] caused dancing to the point of hip dislocation.
I danced the whole set
I am not gay but Jon Spencer was so rock-and-fucking-roll
That even I wanted to grab his leather clad ass
As he pumped in and out of the spotlights!
I had been a fan for twenty years
And This was the first [JSBE] song I had ever heard
On some random cassette tape
Whilst
Euphemistically;
Away.
My home- boys and I had smoked valium
[Drunk on pruno and hooch]
And had chanted these very same words:
“Spray Paint Walls / Trash the Halls
Make It Fucked Up / Fuck Shit up
Take A Stand / Fuck The Man
Make It Fucked Up / Fuck Shit Up”[2]
[JBSE]
THE BLUES ARE NUMBAH 1!!!!”
Finally!
Make It Fucked Up/
Make It Fucked Up
[JSBE]
BLAST INTO
“High Gear”
Article VII. “Afro”
She dances beside me:
I sense her scent
She says:
“Here; Look!”
And lifts
The almost ecclesiastical severity
Of her calf-length
Grey [A-line] skirt
And shows:
Sans-pants.
I go
‘Wukka-Wukka-Wukka-Wukka”
Euphemistically:
Porn guitar
[JSBE]
Say
“AFRO
AIN’T THAT RIGHT
ALL RIGHT, AFRO
SHAKE THAT ASS!”[3]
She guides my hand
And fingers
To her Ruby-Fruit-Jungle and says
“Sorry”
And
“It has been awhile “
And Ohhhhhhhh
And UUUUUUUMMMMMMMHHHHHHH
We achieve Inter-Section-Al-Ity
She says:
“Come on then!”
I say nothing but grind my teeth
She says:
“It’s ok. Nothing new!
Let’s get you cleaned up ok?”
I grind my teeth
And silent tears
Perambulate down my cheeks.
She cleans me
And holds me
For comfort
Article IX. “Sticky”
