Take a Life

by Phillip Gwynne

  ‘Our friend is unwell,’ I said.

  ‘Unwell?’ said Macca’s Manager.

  ‘Yes, it means “sick”,’ I said.

  ‘Well, that isn’t my problem, he can go and be unwell somewhere else,’ said Macca’s Manager, giving the ‘unwell’ some quote marks with his fingers.

  ‘You ever watched Today Tonight?’ I said.

  ‘Of course I have,’ he said.

  ‘So how do you reckon your boss would feel if he saw his “restaurant” on Today Tonight because they kicked out a customer who was …’ I stumbled here because I wasn’t sure how hard to play this. But PJ came to my rescue.

  ‘… if they kicked out a customer who has a terminal illness,’ she said.

  The Macca’s Manager backed down at that; he even sent over some free drinks and extra French fries (though they were really cold and I’m pretty sure they’d just scraped them off the floor).

  ‘The old terminal illness,’ I said to PJ, my mouth full, remembering the conversation I’d had with Brandon in the hospital. ‘Comes in handy, eh?’

  PJ gave me a look.

  ‘What do you mean?’ she said. ‘Brandon’s got cancer.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Non-Hodgkin’s lymphoma, but a really weird type. He’s got a few months to live, probably less if he keeps going the way he’s going.’

  ‘There’s nothing they can do about it?’ I said, thinking of all the times I’d seen Brandon looking sick and had attributed it to some sort of drug addiction – ‘The Needle and the Damage Done’.

  ‘No,’ said PJ. ‘I guess that’s why it’s called a terminal illness.’

  The McBreakfast now tasted like McShit. I spat it out onto the plate.

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ I said, getting to my feet, and getting out of there.

  THURSDAY

  SHUT UP

  I cycled like crazy, trying to pedal what PJ had told me right out of my head. At first I kept to the footpaths, but that was too complicated, so I veered onto the road, mixing it with the morning traffic.

  People cycle a lot on the Gold Coast, in fact many elite cyclists base themselves here, so you’d think that motorists would be used to us pedallers and display a certain amount of courtesy.

  Wrong.

  It soon became obvious that most of the motorists hated cyclists and would have been quite happy running them over, except for a few laws that dissuaded them against this. Horns were beeped, fists were shaken, and some not-too-polite words were directed towards me.

  I wasn’t about to be beaten back to the footpath, however; I started returning some of what I was getting.

  At the traffic lights I made sure I got in front of the first car.

  I jumped the red lights.

  I returned every glare I got, and with interest. By the time I arrived at the Halcyon Grove gate I was hot and I was flustered and I was full of aggro. I barged into the kitchen, and the whole family was there, even Gus. They’d been talking, I’d heard the static of conversation from outside, but it immediately stopped when I appeared.

  Deduction: they’d been talking about me. To save all those tiresome questions about where the hell I’d been, I got in first.

  ‘I went for a surf this morning,’ I said. ‘The take-off was a bit fat, but I got in this grindy barrel, popped the fins, slashed down the face, did the filthiest floater, and finished it all off with the sickest aerial.’

  Miranda laughed, which earned her some disapproving glances from the parental units.

  ‘What?’ she said. ‘That was funny.’

  Mom then went on to make some pretty obvious points about not knowing where I was, about the value of communication, about there being no excuse in this age of the mobile phone.

  I didn’t really respond that much, just nodded my head – she hadn’t really said anything I could argue with.

  I guess if that had been it, then everything would’ve been fine.

  But for some reason Dad thought he’d have his two cents’ worth, though I’m not sure about that expression; it obviously hasn’t been value-adjusted for inflation.

  ‘There really is no excuse for not letting somebody know where you were,’ he said, that bland TV-show-host voice coming out of that bland TV-show-host face.

  I looked straight at my dad, sitting at the table, the tiniest smear of soy milk on his chin, and I said, ‘Shut your mouth.’

  There was this collective intake of breath.

  Eventually Dad said, ‘What did you just say to me?’

  ‘I said shut your mouth.’

  Nobody knew what to do, how to react.

  Except for Dad. He got up from his chair and he moved over to where I was and he grabbed two handfuls of my shirt and he slammed me hard – and I mean hard – against the wall. The word that came into my head was ‘mongrel’ – I had no idea my dad had this much mongrel in him.

  I don’t think the rest of my family did, either, because there was this pretty major reaction.

  Toby said something and Miranda said something.

  ‘David!’ said Gus.

  Mom grabbed the back of his shirt and began pulling him. ‘Let him go!

  But Dad the mongrel wasn’t letting anybody go – he kept pressing me against the wall, his face right in mine, our noses practically touching. I should’ve been scared – my dad had never even smacked me before – but I wasn’t.

  ‘I saw your little film,’ I whispered, my eyes zeroing in on his. I could see that he didn’t understand what I was talking about. ‘Your little snuff film.’

  Now he got it, and that bit of mongrel became a lot of mongrel, and he brought me back and slammed me into the wall again.

  This hurt; my ribs were shaking, the burn on my hand on fire.

  All during this, Mom had hold of Dad’s shirt, and suddenly there was this tearing sound.

  ‘Let him go, David!’ she yelled. ‘Let him go!’

  But Dad wasn’t letting go. Not until Gus got into the act, chopping Dad’s hands away with those bench-press arms of his.

  I smoothed down my T-shirt; I didn’t want anybody to think he’d got the better of me.

  ‘I probably should get ready for school,’ I said.

  Miranda laughed, but there was no levity in the sound, it was pure nervousness.

  As I walked up the stairs, nobody said anything. I think we all knew that something had changed in our family. We all knew that something had been broken. And it would never, ever be fixed.

  THURSDAY

  THE LAST DAY OF SCHOOL EVER

  I’m not sure exactly when I knew.

  Was it as soon as I got into the car? Was it when Mom opened her mouth several times to say something but couldn’t? Was it when I walked through the school gates and Tristan came up to me and started rabbiting on about Imogen and sucking her face right off her head? Or maybe it was when I went to sit down at my desk and there across the aisle was Droopy Eye. Droopy Freaking Eye!

  Halfway through home class I couldn’t stand it any more: I got up from my desk.

  ‘What do you think you’re doing, Mr Silvagni?’ said Mr Travers.

  ‘I’m going to see the principal Mr Travers,’ I said.

  ‘No, you’re not,’ he sputtered.

  ‘Yes, I am – it’s time for me to leave this moron factory,’ I said, emphasising the last two words. This direct quote from Mr Traver’s Facebook post did the job. Yet again. No more sputtering as I made my way out of the classroom and towards Mr Cranbrook’s office.

  There were already a couple of boys waiting outside, and from the glum looks on their faces I guessed it wasn’t to receive any sort of commendation.

  ‘You guys in the poo?’ I asked.

  They both nodded – in the poo.

  The door to the principal’s office opened and an even glummer kid exited.

  ‘Mr Jacks?’ came the voice from inside.

  Mr Jacks stood up but I beat him to it, squeezing in through the open door, closing it behind me.
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  Mr Cranbrook looked up from his desk, clocked who it was, and said, ‘You don’t appear to be Mr Jacks.’

  ‘Sorry to barge in like this, but it’s really important.’ I’m pretty sure if my father wasn’t a major donor to the school, then I would’ve been shown the door.

  But instead Mr Cranbrook shot his cuffs, adjusted his tie, and said in that pompous voice of his, ‘Hit me with your best shot.’

  I hit him with my best shot, and it was my best shot: all the right words coming at all the right places.

  When I’d finished, Mr Cranbrook said, ‘Well, you really are an impressive young man.’

  I wasn’t sure if that compliment was major-donor related or not, but I couldn’t help feeling a bit flattered.

  ‘And I could sit here for hours and tell you all the reasons why you shouldn’t be leaving school.’ More cuff-shooting. More tie-adjusting. ‘And they’re excellent reasons.’

  I went to say something, but Mr Cranbrook held up his hands.

  ‘But I’m not,’ he said. ‘All I’m going to do is explain the practicalities of somebody your age leaving school.’

  Which is what he proceeded to do, and when he’d finished he said, ‘So now when you sit down tonight and discuss this with your parents you’ll all know what the facts are.’

  Now I got it: he didn’t think I was going to leave school at all, because my parents wouldn’t let me.

  Well, he’d soon find out.

  The siren went – time for the second lesson. I thanked Mr Cranbrook and made my way, for the last time ever, to English.

  Ω Ω Ω

  ‘We’re going to start a new novel today,’ said Mr McFarlane.

  I put up my hand, and I can’t blame him for being as surprised as he was.

  ‘Yes, Dom, do you have a question?’

  ‘Do you know the poem “Invictus” by William Henley Ernest?’

  ‘Yes, I do, in fact I count it as one of my favourites, but today we’re going to get stuck into this wonderful new novel.’

  ‘What’s “Invictus” actually about?’ I said, doing a fair imitation of an Asperger’s kid.

  ‘Dom, like I told you –’ he started, but then he ran out of steam. ‘You’re not going to let go of this, are you?’

  I shook my head. Dog. Bone. Me.

  ‘Okay, people. Next period we start on our wonderful new novel, but this period we’re going to have a look at the poem “Invictus” by William Henley Ernest.’

  There was a chorus of moans, and a few comments.

  ‘It’s not about running, is it?’

  ‘Silvagni, you loser.’

  ‘Poetry sucks.’

  Mr McFarlane was on his laptop. ‘Now let me find the poem so I can read it out for you.’

  ‘It’s okay,’ I said. And then adopting my best poetry voice I recited, ‘“Out of the night that covers me, black as the pit from pole to pole, I thank whatever gods may be for my unconquerable soul.”’

  Someone wolf-whistled. Somebody else said, ‘What the?’

  I continued. ‘“In the fell clutch of circumstance I have not winced nor cried aloud. Under the bludgeonings of chance my head is bloody, but unbowed.”’ Nobody said anything now, you could’ve heard an iPhone beep, even one on silent mode. ‘“Beyond this place of wrath and tears looms but the horror of the shade, and yet the menace of the years finds and shall find me unafraid.”’

  I looked over at Mr McFarlane, his eyes were glistening. He gave me a nod – keep going.

  ‘“It matters not how strait the gate, how charged with punishments the scroll. I am the master of my fate: I am the captain of my soul.”’ More silence, but not just the usual type; it was the sort of silence where you could hear people’s minds ticking.

  Hey, I’m not saying it was like that bit in Dead Poets Society when they all stand on their desks and say, ‘O Captain! My Captain!’

  In fact, it was probably nothing like that bit in Dead Poets Society when they all stand on their desks and say, ‘O Captain! My Captain!’

  Except one kid – was it Charles? – actually did say, ‘O Captain! My Captain!’

  And then there was more silence, more ticking minds.

  Mr Mac let this go on for a while, and then he said, ‘Let’s start by looking at the poet, William Henley Ernest.

  ‘He was born in England in 1849,’ he said, reading off his laptop. ‘When he was twelve he was diagnosed with tuberculosis of the bone and his leg was amputated below the knee when he was twenty.’ Mr Mac let the implication of this sink in.

  ‘So basically he got legless,’ said Tristan, but the joke – if you could call it that – didn’t raise a laugh.

  ‘But what about the poem?’ I said, continuing my impression of an Asperger’s kid. ‘What does it mean?’

  Mr Mac now had the poem up on the Smart Board so that everybody could read it. ‘Dom, you obviously know it well – you recited it off by heart. What do you think it means?’

  The old turn-the-tables, number eight in a teacher’s book of tricks.

  I looked around at my classmates. Basically, this was my worst nightmare – everybody looking at me, waiting to hear my opinion. But – big but – this was my last day of school; most of these kids I would never see again. So what if I made a complete tool of myself?

  I even stood up.

  O Captain! My Captain!

  I cleared my throat of the several hundred frogs that had taken residence there. ‘I reckon what he’s saying is that even though the world throws a whole lot of crap at you there’s no use looking for God or anything like that to help you. Basically you’re on your own, and you have to deal with it yourself. Like he says, you’re the “captain of your soul”.’

  Already, there were several hands in the air.

  ‘Paul,’ said Mr Mac. ‘What do you think?’

  ‘Our fate is in God’s hands, not our own.’

  This was received with several groans; it looked like Paul’s born-again phase still wasn’t over.

  ‘And Derek, what do you think?’ said Mr Mac.

  It was a teacher’s dream: a frank and lively discussion that refused to abate even when the siren went.

  Eventually an obviously chuffed Mr Mac said, ‘Well, we can continue this discussion next time we meet. Maybe Dom has another poem he’d like to share with us.’

  Not really, I thought. Except maybe: no more rulers, no more books, no more teachers’ dirty looks.

  As the other students filed out, still talking about the poem, I lingered by my desk.

  Should I say something to Mr Mac? He was my favourite teacher, after all. Maybe even trot out the old ‘O Captain! My Captain!’. It was Mr Mac who had showed us the movie, so he’d get the reference.

  But it was too cheesy, so instead I just said, ‘Thanks, Mr Mac.’

  ‘No, thank you, Dom,’ he said. He was beaming so much you could’ve stuck him on a headland and called him a lighthouse. ‘And see you tomorrow.’

  Probably not, I thought, but I didn’t have the heart, guts, whatever it takes, to tell him. So I just shuffled out, master of my soul and all that.

  Next was Chemistry, and weirdly enough they didn’t let me anywhere near the Bunsen burners. Poor Mr Arvanitakis. I did my best to assure him that it was nothing to do with him or his teaching methods; I was just this masochistic pyromaniac.

  At lunchtime I made my way to Hogwarts.

  Knocked on that now-familiar door. That now-familiar voice came from within: ‘Enter.’

  As I walked inside, it occurred to me that it was pretty weird that my second-favourite teacher at this school had never taught me one subject.

  Still, I’d learnt a lot from him, stuff that I actually remembered: how Pheidippides had run two hundred and forty kilometres at the battle of Marathon, how it was the god Pan who had invented pan-ic in order to help the Greeks win a battle, how the great earthquake of 1349 had knocked down half the Colosseum; all sorts of cool stuff.

  Dr Chakrabarty
’s room had always been quite spartan – to use a word he would approve of – but it was even more so now: the books were gone, the photo of Gandhi was gone, the picture of the spinning globe was gone.

  ‘What’s going on?’ I said, indicating the empty shelves.

  ‘I’m afraid we’ve failed to secure a single enrolment this term,’ he said. Mr Chakrabarty always had that theatrical way of speaking, as if there was an audience just behind my shoulder, but I could detect the sadness in his voice. ‘The classics are just not as sexy as they once were.’

  ‘I reckon they’re still pretty sexy,’ I said, which was a pretty empty thing to say given that I, too, had failed to enrol in any of his subjects.

  Dr Chakrabarty shrugged.

  ‘What about Peter Eisinger?’ I said, naming the kid who always took all the weird and wacky subjects.

  ‘Peter’s parents, in their wisdom, have insisted that he take a more vocational approach to his education, and he’s enrolled in Business Studies instead,’ he said.

  ‘Oh,’ was all I could contribute to that.

  ‘Anyway, what brings you here, Pheidippides?’ he said. With the mention of the Ph word, Dr Chakrabarty brightened up, as if it brought with it a memory of cheerier times.

  ‘I’m leaving too,’ I said.

  ‘Another school?’ he said. ‘Brisbane Boys, perhaps?’

  ‘No, I’m going to join the workforce,’ I said.

  ‘You have secured gainful employment?’

  ‘I’m going to work for a private investigator,’ I said, though I felt a bit phoney saying that. Yes, Hound de Villiers, PI had offered me a job, but had he really meant it?

  ‘And your parents have approved of this?’

  ‘They’re not that happy about it, but they respect my wishes,’ I said, sounding just like a character from a corny American movie. I wasn’t sure how to end this, so I went with the theme of the day. ‘Hey, I’m master of my fate, captain of my soul.’

  ‘Well said!’ said Dr Chakrabarty. ‘Indeed you are!’

  I was just about to make my exit when he said, ‘Wait!’

  Bending down, he rummaged in a box of books. Eventually he found what he was looking for and held out a small paperback towards me. I read the title: The Art of War by Sun Tzu.