by Sean Kennedy
“You know,” Roger said, leaning against the counter, waiting to be served. “I wish for once you would tell me something before you tell Fran. You’ve known me longer, remember?”
“I can’t help it if you don’t work in the city a few offices away from me,” I said, placating him. “It’s really easy to catch up with her.”
“Yeah, and I live so far away from you,” he pointed out.
“I do want to tell you things, she just gets to you in the meantime. Besides, you’re not a fag hag.” The word rankled on my tongue; I had never liked it. “Female companion. Gossip girl. Something.”
“Whatever.” Roger was approached by the barman, and he placed his order.
“Do you really want me to tell you everything?” I asked, leaning in closer to him and lowering my voice. “You want all the details? Of how I tried to blow him, and he wouldn’t let me?”
Roger jumped as if he’d been scalded. “You couldn’t be a little less vulgar?” he asked primly. He was acting like he had just escaped from a BBC classic drama, with Elizabeth Bennett waiting beneath a weeping willow for his return.
“See? You can’t hack it.”
“I can so,” he said petulantly. “Just try me.”
I hadn’t wanted to be vulgar. It’s really not me. But it was fun to test Roger. Like most guys, he’s easy to gross out when you describe any guy-on-guy action to them. It’s my opinion they usually act so grossed out because they’re too scared to think about if it actually happened to them, they might enjoy it. I’m not saying everyone’s a latent queer, but when the juices start flowing sometimes you might not care about who’s on the other end of your dick. But I wasn’t even sure if I truly believed that either.
“Okay. To put it simply, I tried to go down on him, he acted like you are at the moment, and then he drove me home.”
Roger frowned. “Maybe he’s not really gay.”
“Oh, come on!”
“Maybe he’s… confused.”
Bloody Roger. Now he was helping to plant the seeds of doubt in me, something I could do very well on my own. Maybe it was true! This kind of thing happened all the time, although usually to kids in first-year Bachelor of Arts courses. They turned bisexual for a few months and then quite as happily slid back into heteronormativity when selection for second-year units came around and thus causing true bisexuals to be lumped in the same category with unicorns and other mythical creatures.
“Or maybe he’s just never done it with a guy,” Roger suggested helpfully.
I think that was even more unbelievable. Declan Tyler, one of the current gods of the AFL, unable to get a date?
“You’re making me feel worse,” I told him.
“Sorry,” he said cheerfully.
“This is why I like talking to Fran.”
Roger scratched at the end of his nose. “What kind of guy turns down a blowjob?” he asked, just as the barman returned with our drinks.
Not realising it was a rhetorical question, the barman answered, “No guy would.”
“You got to have standards, though. You wouldn’t just take one from anyone, right?” Roger asked him, completely forgetting he was discussing sex with a total stranger.
“Dude, I would take a blowjob from Mr. Squiggle, if it was going free.”
I shook my head. “That’s just sick.”
“Calling it as I see it.”
As we made our way back to the table, Roger giggled like a schoolgirl. “Even I thought that was going a bit too far.”
I could only shake my head, too dumbfounded and too grossed out to even formulate words.
“You took your sweet time.” Fran frowned as we sat with them again.
“We just found out the barman would take a blowjob from Mr. Squiggle if he could.”
“That’s disgusting!” Fran and Nyssa said in unison.
“But would he take it from the blackboard?” Nyssa asked thoughtfully, chewing on the lemon from her gin and tonic.
Fran just shook her head and found solace in her beer.
Roger nudged me and pointed at the television set up in the corner. It was hard to hear what was being said above the music and the general hubbub of the pub, but it displayed a familiar face.
Declan. In the locker room at the MCG. He was sitting in a blue suit with a Tassie Devils tie closely knotted at his throat. He didn’t look too happy.
Fran had now noticed as well and was showing interest that had nothing to do with the game.
“…Tyler,” I could hear the reporter say, “once again benched due to injury but supporting his team in the best way he can. So, Declan, when do you think we can see you out on the field again?”
“I’m not sure,” Declan said evenly, not really looking at either the camera or the reporter. “We’re really just taking it one week at a time and hoping that I won’t have to go in for another surgery.”
“Because that just means more time out of the game, right?” the reporter asked.
“Exactly,” Declan replied.
The camera swung away from him again to focus on the reporter. Fran, Roger, and I exchanged looks. Luckily Nyssa had been distracted by someone she knew coming over and asking her if she wanted to play pool.
“The man looks good in a suit,” Fran said, finally.
He did, but I kept my mouth shut.
“I look good in a suit,” Roger huffed.
Anybody could look good in a suit. Even I could.
“Biggest waste of fucking money,” came a voice not far from us.
We turned around. One of the local oldies was leaning up against the wall, his stubbie in his hand. He drank from it with disgust, although apparently it was with what was on the television rather than the taste of the beer.
“What’s a waste of money?” Fran asked politely.
“Fran,” Roger hissed, “don’t engage the crazy man.”
Too late.
“That Declan Tyler,” the man said, as viciously as if he was invoking the name of Beelzebub himself.
“What’s wrong with him?” I asked defensively, finding myself now brought into the fray.
“All the money they forked out for him to get him released into the draft so the Devils could pick him up, and he’s been benched ever since!”
I opened my mouth to speak, but Fran got in there before me. “Are you a Devils supporter?”
The old man laughed derisively. “No way! I haven’t forgiven the AFL for selling Fitzroy up the river!”
“Me too!” Roger declared, happy to find a like-minded individual and totally forgetting he had earlier dismissed him as crazy.
“Is that why you went to Hawthorn so quickly afterwards?” I asked him.
“Shut up!” he snapped back.
The man was still staring at the telly. “That Tyler’s a sham. Makes me think that all his awards were just a fluke. Maybe he did himself in deliberately so he wouldn’t eventually be found out. Best thing for his career.”
“Hey!” I said. “Anyone who wins all the awards he did, plus the respect of players and umpires alike, is no sham! He’s just been cursed by injury, and given time, he’ll probably be back to form soon enough!”
Fran and Roger stared at me, openmouthed, surprised by my impassioned delivery.
The old man sized me up. “You his manager?”
“No,” I said coolly. “I just believe in credit where credit is due. Everyone bitches about Tyler, but they all wish he was on their team.”
That made Fran and Roger lose it, and I shook my head slightly for my unheralded double entendre.
“The only team I would want him on is Fitzroy,” the man said. He leaned in to Roger. “You’re a disgrace to the memory of your team!”
Roger sat up fully. “Hey, wait a minute!”
But the man disappeared into the main bar.
“They’ve been gone for almost twenty years!” Roger called out. “You have to let go sometime!”
Fran dug at me with her finger. “An
d you! What was that all about?”
“What?”
“Flying your flag for Declan Tyler!”
“Credit where credit’s due, remember?”
“I’m not a traitor,” Roger mumbled to himself.
Fran grinned smugly at me. “You are a smitten kitten.”
“Shut up,” I said. “It’s your shout.”
Chapter 7
THE Devils lost that night and the next morning it was all over the papers that Declan Tyler should have been playing, as if he was singlehandedly the saviour of his team and they were dying without him. They didn’t care about his injuries, and I thought for what was really the first time how hard it must be to be him. The old man’s words from the Napier kept coming back to me; it was like Declan could never win. What would happen when he returned from the field, and his injury was too bad for him to start over again?
His previous record would be tarnished, people would feel justified in saying that he was like a beginner in poker, with a run of good luck that never had the test of time to show his true worth as a player. If he did come back, and the Devils started winning again, it would only set him up for a greater fall when they would inevitably come down again. It seemed like too much pressure to me.
I wondered how Declan felt. Maybe he didn’t even read the papers anymore because he didn’t want to read what they said about him. I tried calling him on his mobile, but it was switched off, and I didn’t know his landline as it was a silent number and he hadn’t given it to me yet. Luckily Fran had imbibed a bit too much at the Napier and called off our shopping date, so I was still in relatively good spirits when I met Roger in town for the game despite not being able to reach Declan.
Roger was in a mood. He wasn’t wearing his Hawthorn scarf, and I could tell he was still dwelling on the whole traitor thing.
Of course, my Richmond scarf was wrapped securely around my throat in preparation for the cold winter wind that always blew through the MCG and seemed to make a beeline straight for you.
“You look a bit naked for a football game,” I said lightly as I approached him under the clocks of Flinders Street Station.
Roger stared at me grumpily, and we began to walk, melting into the crowds heading for the G. We cut through Federation Square and down like we were heading for Parliament Gardens, to where the new gates were for the plebes like us that didn’t have gold passes or corporate boxes.
“So, seriously, Rog, where’s your scarf?”
He gave me that look which, to his mind, meant I should shut up. But always contrary, I took it as a please-press-the-issue glance.
“Did you do something to piss Fran off, so she’s punishing you?”
“I just didn’t think it was cold enough to wear a scarf today, okay?”
We edged into the queue for our gate, the crowds awash in divided loyalties of yellow and black, and yellow and brown. “Are you kidding? Even the penguins are wearing mittens.”
“Drop it,” he warned.
You never tell me to drop it. It’s impossible for me. And Roger knew that. “You’re taking to heart what that crazy old man said?”
“No.”
“Bullshit.”
“Well, didn’t you take what he said to heart? You went riding up on your big white horse to defend Declan bloody Tyler—”
“What, are you pissed you didn’t do the same for Fitzroy?”
He glared at me. “You don’t understand.”
“Fitzroy’s dead, Rog. Just because some old man in a pub can’t accept it, doesn’t mean you have to go the same way. You want to be without a team for the rest of your life, yelling at younger footy fans across the bar?”
“No,” he mumbled.
Our queue remained at a standstill. Funnily enough, the queues for the rich were nonexistent.
“Hold my spot,” I said, like he wouldn’t.
“Hey, where are you going?” he yelled after me, but I ignored him.
I found one of those family-business stands like you see at weekend markets, where some bored fifteen-year-old was manning it, obviously forced into child labour in order to earn his pocket money for the week. I picked up a Hawthorn scarf and handed it over with the money. He snapped his gum and looked at the Richmond scarf around my neck.
“Trying to hedge your bets?” he asked.
“No, I’m trying to be nice to a friend.”
The kid looked unimpressed. I refused the bag he tried to stuff it in and then jogged back to where Roger had barely progressed in the queue.
“What are you doing?” he asked.
“Don’t say I’m never nice to you,” I muttered, throwing the scarf at him.
He looked down at it as it lay coiled in his hands, like a dormant snake, almost as if he thought it might bite. “What’s this for?”
I jammed my hands into my pockets. “For you to wear your colours with pride.”
“But I already have a scarf.”
“Yeah, but you’re not wearing it today, idiot. Now put it on. Seriously, even just touching it seemed to burn my hands, so you can’t make me suffer for nothing.”
Roger grinned. “Do I have to hug you?”
“No. A simple thanks would suffice.”
“Thanks, mate.” He punched me on the arm affectionately.
“You’re welcome.” I shook my head and rubbed my arm as he wrapped the scarf around his neck and threw the tails over his shoulder. “There, that looks more like my football buddy.”
“Now I have two. Does that make me a super-special fan?”
“Only if you get your wife to sew them together into a super-special scarf.”
We both chuckled at the thought of Fran actually sewing.
“Well, maybe her mum can do it for you,” I suggested.
“She can’t sew for shit either. But her dad can.”
“What?”
“Yeah, from when he was in the Navy. They had to know how to sew to repair their own uniforms. Fran said back when she used to go to school it was her father that always did their mending.”
“Wow. I can’t picture that.” And seriously, if you had ever met Fran’s dad, you wouldn’t be able to either. The man had the handgrip of a steel-jaw trap. A needle would get lost in his meaty paws.
Our queue finally started to move, and we made our way into Mecca. As usual, we were in the nosebleed section—the one where you get vertigo just from looking down and seeing the building drop away from you down into the faraway oval.
“I think these seats are even worse than the last ones we had,” Roger said. “If that’s possible.”
I grunted my agreement, and he suddenly perked up.
“Hey, do you think if you-know-what continues happening with you-know-who, you might be able to score us better tickets?”
“Roger!” I hissed. “Shut up!”
He looked hurt. “I didn’t mention any names.”
“Yeah, well, you’re still no Mata Hari.”
“Who?”
I considered strangling him with his new scarf, but decided against it. One of the teams from Auskick were playing on the field, and the crowd was suitably oohing and aahing for the little kids as they were able to do what very little of us could; that is, touch the hallowed ground of the G.
“Do you think we’ll ever see one of your kids down there one day?” I asked Roger.
He looked horrified at the thought of there being a kid in his future. But I saw the little smile he tried to hide as he stared at his knees and then looked back at me. “Maybe we’ll see yours before mine.”
I scoffed at that for many reasons. Logic was never part of Roger’s repertoire.
“Hey,” he said instantly, “there are plenty of ways it could be possible—”
Thankfully, my mobile rang. “Hold that thought.”
My smile could not be hid when I saw Declan’s name pop up on the screen.
“Hello?”
That voice, starting to become so familiar to me, came through loud an
d clear. “I’m not interrupting anything, am I?”
“No,” I said honestly. “Perfect timing, actually.”
Roger’s eyes narrowed.
“I just rang to wish you luck for today.”
“Really?”
He laughed. “Only because you’re not playing us, of course.”
“Of course.”
“I still want to have that talk with you, you know.”
Yikes. “You know, normally when someone says something like that, I dread it.”
“Not in this case?”
“Okay, a little bit. But looking forward to it more than any other time.”
“You’re so quick with the compliments, don’t strain yourself.” Declan snorted. “I was thinking we should make a bet for when the Tigers play the Devils.”
“Oh. Really?” A thousand and eight possibilities ran through my mind, and I bet Roger could tell just what I was thinking by the way he was looking at me.
“A carton of beer. Good beer. Not the cheap shit.”
Fuck. That wasn’t one of my thousand and eight possibilities.
“Of course,” Declan said slyly, “I think the loser should help the winner drink it.”
Aha! That was more like it. “Sounds good.”
“Anyway, I’ll let you get back to the game. I’ll speak to you soon.”
“Yeah, good. You know how to reach me.” I felt like slapping myself in the head as soon as I said it.
Declan chuckled. “You’re on speed dial.”
Cheesy. But I liked it. And I had a sneaking suspicion he knew that I did.
“See you, doofus,” I said, and I let him go.
Roger’s mouth was hanging open. “See you, doofus?”
“What?”
“No wonder you’re always fucking single.”
I couldn’t believe Roger was critiquing me on my romantic etiquette.
“Seriously,” Roger said. “You need help.”
“This from the man who once called his wife Frangipanidellasqueegymop?”
“Hey, I was drunk. And it was cute! It was from Strictly Ballroom.”
“Yeah, it was used as an insult against that character.”
Roger opened his mouth to try and defend himself once again, but luckily at that moment, I was saved from certain death by the roar of the crowd as Hawthorn ran out onto the field. I couldn’t believe he still really thought that Fran thought that was cute, but as he said, he was drunk at the time. And he didn’t know her well enough back then to properly interpret the expression on her face, although, one would think that now they had been together for almost six years that he would have cottoned on to what bad impressions he may have given on their first meeting.
