by Darren Groth
‘How great is this?’ says Caro, examining the school of glass tropical fish hanging from the ceiling.
‘It’s something else,’ I reply.
Bernie appears from a small nook near the screen-printing area and scurries over. She’s blinking at regular speed, but the rest of her is pumped. Hands flicking, mouth twitching. Her cheeks are redder than cherry Kool Aid.
‘Munro, I’m so glad you’re here!’
‘Bernie, I’d like to introduce you to someone.’
‘I’ve figured it out!’
‘This is Caro.’
‘The word for my clothing line!’
‘She’s my friend.’
‘After all this time, I’ve finally got it!’
Caro holds out her hand, but it’s left hanging.
I click my fingers. ‘Caro’s saying hi.’
For a few seconds, Bernie is thrown; she tucks her elbows into her hips and hunches forward, trying to gather my words in her chest. Then she turns and stares at the hand suspended in midair.
‘Lovely to meet you, Bernie. Munro has told me heaps about you.’
Bernie makes a fist and pushes it into her chin. ‘I’m very sorry,’ she says, staring at Caro’s sneakers. ‘I was a bit excited and forgot my social skills. Munro and I have been working on this for a while.’
‘It’s been all you, Bern.’ I lean to the side. ‘In your back pocket – is that one of your new shirts?’
Bernie snaps her head up and stands tall. The hunch in her back (I’ve learned that it’s called a ‘kyphosis’) shrinks and flattens. She plucks the tee from her pocket and lays it across her extended forearms.
‘“Freetard”? That’s the word you came up with?’
She nods enthusiastically. ‘It’s someone who doesn’t use the R-word. And “Freetard” changes the bad word to something good. I’ve done shirts in my three favourite fonts: Forte, Impact and Helvetica. This is the Forte one.’
‘It’s eye-catching,’ I say. ‘Do you think it could be taken the wrong way, though?’
‘How?’
‘Well, people might see “Freetard” as a different sort of insult.’
Bernie gives a big belly laugh. ‘No way, Jose! It changes the bad word to something good. Duh!’
‘I think it’s great,’ says Caro. ‘Where can I buy one?’
‘You can have this one. I’ll give you a cap, too, when we start making them.’ Bernie looks me up and down. ‘I think you should have an Impact shirt, Munro.’
‘Okay, sure.’ I hitch a thumb over my shoulder towards the bustling studio. ‘How can we help out this inefficient, poorly run, hater operation?’
Bernie baulks, then pulls a face. ‘You’re joking, ha!’ She plunges her hands in her pockets and looks around. ‘Hmm … Everyone understands the equipment and the rules and what to do. The Fair Go Working Partners have more responsibility for things “backstage”, such as buying materials and getting donations. If we get something new in the studio – like our new kiln over there – they teach us how to use it. I s’pose you could help me with screen-printing?’
Under the careful watch of Bernadette Polk, Caro and I spend the rest of our scheduled hour making Freetard T-shirts. Like everyone else in the studio, we laugh and sing and display our work for the Etsy photographer. When our shift comes to an end, it hurts a little to leave.
Good thing First-aid is next.
We arrive to find Iggy looking at letters he’s scribbled on his hand.
‘D-R-S-A-B-C,’ he says. ‘You know what that means.’
I nod. ‘Danger, Response, Send for help, Airway, Breathing, Circulation.’
‘You and I both hope you’ll never need CPR, Munro. But if you do, and I’m here, I’ll do it and I’ll do it well. You’re in good hands. I’ll even shake on it.’
‘You stealing my speeches now, Ig?’ I say, laughing and accepting his offered elbow.
At the front of the class, the instructor is talking quietly to himself, prepping for the session. I recognise him from the day of my interview.
‘The guy up front running the show – is his name Percy?’
Iggy shakes his head. ‘Perry. Perry Richter. He’s good. Very smart.’
‘He’s not a resident, is he?’
‘No. He just comes here to teach.’
‘First-aid and car-washing, yeah?’
‘And nuclear physics.’
‘Did you just make a joke?’
‘Yes.’
‘Not bad.’
Iggy smiles and resumes the study of his palm. This is the best I’ve seen him. No coughs or throat-clearing, no cool washcloths or warm blankets, no sickly voice. No darting looks for suspicious strangers. There’s a bit of sunburn on his nose. I’m not surprised. First thing he said to me today was ‘My comic! I’m three-quarters done!’ The way he’s going, he’ll be doing cartwheels and one-arm push-ups at the finish.
‘So, does Perry teach the group on his own?’ I ask.
‘Yes.’
‘No Working Partner?’
Iggy points out a bald, bearded guy with a tattoo sleeve, counting bandages off to the side of the room. ‘Baz is always here. He helps with putting stuff out and cleaning up, and he’s a really good victim for practising. But he doesn’t teach.’
‘Perry’s got a certificate or something?’
‘Yeah, he shows it to us at the beginning of each class.’
‘He sounds perfect for the job,’ says Caro.
Iggy nods. ‘He has real-life experience, too. He saved his sister by giving her cardiopulmonary resuscitation. It must be true ’cause he kept saying “No lie!” all the time.’
Iggy tells the story of the rescue. Earthquakes, car stunts, a mad dash to the hospital – it sounds more like a movie than something that actually happened. I don’t feel great as I listen in – my heart’s jumped up a level and my stomach is a bit watery – but I don’t feel ambushed. I know where I am. I know who I am.
Caro tugs my shirtsleeve. ‘You with us, Munro? You okay?’
I scan the room. Residents take up their positions, and Perry Richter calls for attention. ‘Hello, everyone. As my father used to say, “What do we want? No more delays! When do we want it? As soon as possible!” That’s a good joke.’
‘I’m fine,’ I say, patting Caro’s hand. ‘Let’s get hurt.’
Arms are broken. Legs are stabbed. Systems go into shock. People turn into mummies, bandaged in head dressings and figure-eight wraps and collar-and-cuff slings. Perry is as good as advertised, clear in his steps and in his demos on Baz the victim. He sees everything that’s happening in the room, even when he’s looking to the side or at his fingernails. He talks about Jackie Chan, injuries he suffered, films on which they occurred. At the end of the session, he approaches us, holding a batch of DRSABC pocket cards and a small green dome.
‘Hello, my name is Perry Richter,’ he says, fanning the cards so we can each grab one. ‘Thank you for coming today – and you too, Iggy, even though you are here all the time.’
‘I’m Caro. It was an awesome class, Perry. Everyone was totally into it.’
‘Thank you, Caro.’
‘Yeah, you rocked it,’ I say. ‘By the way, I’m –’
‘Munro Maddux, the young person from the excellent city of Vancouver, home of the Qube building and Stanley Park and the PNE.’ Perry dips his head to one side and flutters his half-closed eyes. ‘You are here on a student exchange.’
‘That’s right. How did you know?’
‘Kelvin Yow told me about you and said you would be here today.’ He flicks his fingers. ‘I would like to talk to you alone, please.’
‘Alone?’
He turns to Caro and fixes his gaze on the Rip Curl badge on her cap. ‘I’m sorry, Caro, it is not great manners to take Munro away to talk.’
‘Go for it.’
‘Thank you.’
Perry moves to the front of the room, where a CPR manikin is laid out on a table, awaiting
pick-up from Baz. I shrug and make my way over. We end up on either side of the manikin, which is named Annie, according to the nearby storage bag.
‘Were you comfortable in my class today, Munro?’ asks Perry.
I glance at Caro and Iggy. They’re watching something on Caro’s phone and laughing. ‘I felt very comfortable, Perry.’
‘No lie?’
‘Um, no. No lie. It was great to be a part of this session.’
Perry squints. ‘Excellent! Kelvin told me that you might not be comfortable in the class this morning. He did not say why.’ He puts the small green dome on the table beside Annie and gives it a pat. ‘I didn’t feel anything in my seismometer here, in the lead-up or during the class.’
‘That’s … good.’ I stare at Annie’s lifeless face. ‘Iggy told me about your sister. It’s awesome that you saved her life.’
Perry makes a pop sound with his mouth. ‘It is. I couldn’t save my parents, though. My father died from pancreatic cancer two weeks before my twin sister and I turned eighteen. My mother died of lung cancer last spring. Now it’s just me and Justine and her husband, Marc, and their baby, Daniel Leon Richter. He’s my nephew. No lie, it would be very good if my parents were still alive, but they’re not, so I try to make things very good without them.’
‘I imagine that’s hard to do.’
‘It is hard to do, but that is today, that is the future.’ Perry scrunches his eyes and sucks in a big breath. He lays a hand on the seismothingy. ‘You are positive you felt comfortable in my class this morning?’
‘One hundred and ten per cent.’
Perry scoffs. ‘That’s not possible!’
He says goodbye, waves to Caro and Iggy, then exits. I wander back to the pair.
‘Good chat?’ asks Caro.
I nod. ‘It was. No lie.’
After a quick lunch in the cafeteria, Caro and I crash the Personal Safety talk at the Rec Refuge. A Working Partner named Darrell is in charge. His subject for today is online dangers, specifically ransomware. As he outlines the best course of action – Whatever you do, do not pay anything to these people! – Caro notices a second instructor readying for her bit.
‘Is that Florence?’
‘Yep.’
‘There’s not much to her.’
I nod. ‘She’s real strong, though.’
Caro rubs her hands together like an evil mastermind. ‘I’ve been looking forward to this. What’s that move you said she was showing the others at Bribie?’
‘The Blue-ringed Octopus Bite. I think Iggy’s still recovering.’
Darrell passes on his final bit of ransomware advice: ‘Whatever you do, do not pay anything to these people!’ then motions for Florence to join him at the front. ‘Okay. To finish up, folks, as per usual we have our resident ninja goddess, Florence, here to teach you her self-defence move of the week.’
‘You weren’t kidding about her teeth,’ says Caro.
‘She refuses to get them fixed,’ I reply. ‘I don’t know why.’
Caro presses on her thigh, close to the site of her scar, as Florence begins.
‘The Flo-jitsu move I wanna show youse today is called the Kookaburra Laugh. It sounds like it’s funny, but it isn’t, ’specially for the person getting it.’ She grins and a squirrel’s squeak leaks out of her mouth. ‘I’m going to need a volunteer. A bad guy.’ She scans the room and lands on me. ‘Come here, Munro.’
All eyes laser-point my way. Caro nudges me forward.
‘Um, okaaay.’ I shuffle to the front. Settling in beside Florence, I whisper, ‘You sure you don’t want to thumb-wrestle instead?’
She ignores me and addresses the class. ‘So, the Kookaburra Laugh is really good if you wanna get someone under control pretty quick. But you gotta be up close, within reach.’
Without warning, her Swiss cheese grin vanishes, replaced by the stony stare I’ve encountered on a regular basis. She spins me around and clamps onto my neck.
‘The reason I call this the Kookaburra Laugh is ’cause it makes the bad guy giggle and cry at the same time.’
The grip tightens and it’s like I’m being tickled with a pair of pliers. My eyes water. Giggles dribble from my lips. My knees start to give. I try to squirm away but Florence just tightens her hold.
‘You hear that? And can you see where I’ve got him?’ She turns me with ease, deftly avoiding my flailing arms. ‘Make sure you get it right where the neck and the shoulder muscles join together.’
I’m going wobbly in the legs. It’s like I just came out of the water at Centennial Beach on New Year’s Day.
‘Now, if your sensei kept goin’, I could put Munro down on his knees, maybe even on the ground. Would you like to see that?’
There’s a ‘yes’ or two from the class. I want to shout ‘NO!’ but my throat is thinner than a drinking straw.
‘I said, “Would you like to see that?”’
A better response this time. They’re going to be disappointed when I pass out.
‘Well, as much as I would love to do it,’ says Florence, ‘I think this bad guy has had enough.’
She releases me. I stagger away, moaning with relief. The class gives a round of applause. As they file out, Darrell reminds everyone not to practise on each other. I collapse into a nearby chair.
‘Flo, don’t I … get to try … on you?’ I ask.
She cracks her knuckles. ‘Never.’
Caro joins us. The two share intros and a few thoughts on self-defence. Caro lifts her shorts to reveal the scar on her leg. ‘I could’ve done with a few of your moves when this happened,’ she says.
‘But you got him, yeah?’ asks Florence.
‘How did you know it was a him?’
‘It’s always a him. And you got him, yeah?’
Caro’s face goes rock-hard for a second. ‘Yeah, I got him.’
Florence grins. ‘Fuck yeah.’ She checks the time. ‘I gotta go. I wanna help Iggy stack shelves at the shop. But we can talk more this afternoon at The Shed.’ She looks at me and sighs. ‘I s’pose you’ll be there too, bad guy.’
‘You’re not doing another demo on me, are you?’
‘If you didn’t treat Ig so good, I would.’
Florence departs. Caro lays her hands on my neck and begins massaging the site of the Kookaburra Laugh.
‘You make a much better good guy,’ she says.
‘Oh. My. GOD!’
Blake screams and hugs Caro. Then she hugs her again.
‘Soooo pretty!’ she says, punching me in the arm. ‘Just as well you’re good-looking, too, Munro! Otherwise, she would want a better boyfriend!’
‘We’re not together, Blake.’
‘What?’
‘Caro isn’t my girlfriend. We’re not together. Yet.’ Blake looks at Caro. She shrugs and nods. Blake looks at me like a disappointed coach. Before she can follow up with a comment, I redirect.
‘Blake, why are you in this hut?’
‘It’s a gazebo.’
‘Okay, gazebo. Aren’t you supposed to be doing Agriculture this shift? Looks like a good time out there.’
A girl whistles as she stacks mangoes into a wheel-barrow. A guy in a scruffy straw hat is down on his knees, talking softly to a bed of tomato plants: ‘Keep growing, babies … You’re going well, babies …’ A Working Partner is high-fiving a resident as the two of them bring a tractor back to the small barn.
‘Agriculture Precinct is not my favourite. I hate getting dirty,’ says Blake. ‘So I do extra in the Digital Media Centre.’
‘Are you working on something now?’ asks Caro, nodding towards Blake’s open laptop.
‘This is something for me and Dale. Our wedding invitation.’
‘Oh, wow.’
Blake spins the laptop around and pushes it across the table. ‘Could you look at it for me? My spelling is really bad.’
Caro starts reading. I put a hand up to shield my eyes from the sunrays sneaking through the gaps in the gazebo. �
�Is Dale here? Does he hate getting dirty, too?’
Blake busts out one of her giant laughs. ‘No chance! Agriculture Precinct is totally his favourite! He stinks like hell when he’s finished a shift.’
‘What about Shah? He’s scheduled to be here too, yeah?’
‘I haven’t seen him today. I think he chucked a sickie.’
‘Uh-huh.’
Caro raises a thumb. ‘This is great, Blake. I love the border of roses. Only two spelling mistakes that I could see: “occasion” has just the one “s” and “celebration” has a second “e” instead of an “a”.’
Blake punches me in the arm again. ‘Pretty and smart.’
‘Oh, and you didn’t put in a date.’
Blake flicks her hair. ‘That’s right.’
‘You haven’t decided on a date yet?’
‘No, there isn’t one.’ She tells Caro about how her dad won’t allow her and Dale to get married. Caro fidgets and frowns. She’s about to launch into a response when Dale rocks up to the gazebo, all grime and sweat and a grin to put The Joker to shame. Blake stiff-arms his cheeky attempt at a hug and lifts his iPad from her bulging handbag.
He taps the screen and bows in Caro’s direction. ‘Hey, I’m Dale.’
‘I’m Caro.’
More taps. ‘Would you like a tour of the Agriculture Precinct?’
‘We’re here to help, Dale,’ I say. ‘We did enough touring during the school term, eh?’
He makes a sound, a cross between a cough and a meh. ‘We’ve done the tasks for today: watering, spraying, bringing stuff to the kitchens. Tomorrow, there is more to do.’
I clap my hands, hoping it hides my disappointment. ‘I guess a bit more touring wouldn’t hurt.’
Dale fist-bumps Caro and me, blows a kiss to Blake, then leads the way. He takes us through the greenhouse and the barn and the vegetable patches. He gives us the lowdown on Fair Go’s produce, with a special mention to basil. ‘It goes good in hot, dry weather. Too good. We have so much bloody pesto to sell!’
