punchbowl

An overheard conversation, between two workmates on a break, in a dingy tea room in a warehouse in Homebush, six in the morning. One, a Samoan kid, about twenty, built like a rugby player, but with a clean-cut, good-natured appearance. The other, an Indian kid, literally half his size, about the same age but looking even younger, wearing glasses, an engineering student.

The Indian guys on my street should stop trying to look like Leb guys. They look stupid.

Oh, yeah? What else?

They look stupid. Leb guys look stupid.

Yeah, what else?

That style is stupid. They have no style.

What else?

Track suits and gold chains, trying to look like gangsters.

What else?

They should have their own style, instead of take Leb style.

What else?

Leb style is stupid anyway.

What else?

Too many Indians in Punchbowl anyway.

What else?

Too many Indians coming over here.

What else?

There’s too many of them on my street. I can see them out my window all day.

What else?

My street smell like curry.

What else?

Punchbowl smell like curry.

What else?

Sydney smell like curry.

What else?

Australia smell like curry.

What else?

[pause]

I hate curry.

What else?

They need to go back home.

What else?

They need to go back to India.

What else?

They need to stop eating curry.

[laughing] What else?

[pause]

I don’t know what else.

Okay, start over.

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