This Excellent Machine

by Stephen Orr

  The raised voices turned to mumbles, whispers.

  ‘Therefore, we’ve asked for a replacement.’

  ‘He said he wanted to move on?’ I asked.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘But didn’t he …?’ I thought about it. Was this my John Lennon moment? Was I about to incite a riot, demand the truth? ‘Was it cos of the murals?’

  ‘It’s a confidential matter and I’m not willing to discuss it.’

  Bullshit, I thought. He’d been taken out back, and a bullet put in his head. Then they’d airbrushed him from official photos. He no longer existed, and soon, any mention of his name would land you in a shitload of trouble.

  ‘Not fair,’ the girl said.

  ‘It was his choice. His personal circumstances.’

  ‘That’s not what he told us,’ I said.

  She sniffed insurrection. ‘I think he said something about wanting to move interstate.’

  What was the point? The paperwork had been completed, forwarded to regional office, photocopied and filed. Persona non grata. And there’d be someone nicer, and more reliable, in his place.

  ‘Not really fair,’ Curtis said.

  ‘Why?’ White asked.

  ‘We shouldn’t have to change teachers in Year Twelve. Maybe he could come back?’

  ‘Maybe you could finish your work?’ She stood, stormed across the room, studied his drawing and said, ‘That’s a dog?’

  ‘I can’t draw dogs.’

  ‘That’s the point. You try. You get better. You stick at it.’

  ‘Like Nick did?’

  ‘Yes, no … what do you mean by that?’

  ‘What I said.’

  She returned to her desk, found her detention pad and started writing.

  ‘I mean, we wanted to do them murals, and you lot painted over them.’

  ‘Get your things.’

  ‘For no reason. He let us decide what to do, that’s why—’

  ‘Go!’ She stood, presenting him with the slip.

  He turned to me. ‘Again.’

  I shrugged, and realised I was no Lennon or Lenin or anyone, really, with a backbone. He gathered his few things, took the slip and left the room, saying, ‘Nearly eighteen, but you still won’t tell us …’

  At recess, as we sat eating one of our last Twistie rolls, Curtis said, ‘There’s a list of rules in the behaviour room as well.’

  I squished my roll innards into a little ball and threw it across the yard.

  ‘Thou shalt not speak, move about … thou shalt copy the school rules. Ironic, rules about rules. And Pearson’s there, pickin’ his nose.’

  Pearson, Harry James. Chose the behaviour room. As a sort of calling. Appears to write poetry as he oversees the silent destruction of teen souls. Sonnet form? Types them up and forwards them to journals, and they’re published under a pen name …

  ‘I thought you were gonna speak up?’

  ‘What’s the point? He’s gone.’

  It was disappointing that we’d miss a year of Andrews, but encouraging to know you could go through life thinking, doing and saying what you felt. ‘No walking through the car park,’ I said.

  But he didn’t seem to care about rules anymore. ‘John’s been over your place.’

  ‘He’s helping Pop fix Mr Harper’s car. They beat out a panel and smoothed it, and sanded it back.’

  Nothing.

  ‘He’s good at it.’

  ‘Hoo-fuckin’-ray. Tell Mum.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I wish he’d piss off, or die.’

  I knew. Violence was kept in kitchen cupboards. Brought home from the shops and packed away until it was needed. Used, returned, and never talked about.

  ‘He might come good,’ I said.

  ‘Your pop’s delusional. He’ll be okay for a few weeks before he robs a shop, pisses off back to McNally’s.’

  ‘Apparently if you walk past their cars you might pull off an aerial. It’s funny that they think that about us.’

  ‘They’re paid to deal with us. They’ve got mortgages. They need money. That’s the only reason.’ He sat slumped, holding his half-eaten roll. ‘Quiche.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Apparently you can die from eating pies.’

  It was no fun being unloved. But we all started off, and ended, this way. ‘I think when I’m older I’ll go to Greece,’ I said.

  ‘Greece?’

  ‘Work on a fishing boat.’

  ‘You’re too lazy.’

  A long pause. Someone thumping pavers. A dog that never stopped barking.

  ‘There are good bits.’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Like, the best, when the baker’s van used to come.’

  Six thirty am. The van parked in the middle of the road. Mums in nighties and dressing-gowns drifting out, choosing fresh bread and finger buns. Val saying to Mum, You want ’em looked after tonight?

  ‘That was the best smell,’ I said.

  Or me and Curtis, sent out in our pyjamas to buy a pipe loaf. Me, to the man: Mum says can you put it on her bill?

  ‘Why’d they stop it?’ Curtis asked.

  ‘I dunno.’

  ‘All the good bits end.’

  I guessed he was right. It was all coming to an end: the desire to pull on shorts and a T-shirt, go out, hop on your dragster and ride Lanarks I—III for hours. No reason. No result. No arguments or wondering why anything happened the way it did. ‘Come on,’ I said. ‘Before next lesson.’

  We walked to the front office. The girl was young, but she could type. I motioned to her and said, ‘Mr Andrews, the art teacher.’

  She just smiled.

  ‘I need to call him. Do you have his number?’

  ‘We can’t do that.’

  Curtis leaned over. ‘My brother says to say hi.’

  She smiled again.

  ‘They let him out.’

  The idea seemed to interest her.

  ‘I’ll do you a swap.’ He found a slip of paper and wrote his phone number in big, blocky letters.

  ‘I could get in trouble,’ she said.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ Curtis said. ‘We were never here.’

  And she turned, and excitedly opened the filing cabinet.

  John had decided: the car could be fixed so Mr Harper wouldn’t know. The engine refit, made to purr. The whole package presented in some sort of Wheel of Fortune moment to the world’s second most happy customer. He’d made it his business to come every day, and Pop had made sure he was there, to unlock the shed, turn on the power, open the louvres and supply Coke. To stand back, and encourage him.

  And it continued, into the last weekend of March. It was still hot, but once you got working you didn’t feel the heat. Things just fell into place: rods, bolts, belts.

  As John sanded he looked at me and said, ‘Why do you bother?’

  ‘He’s okay.’

  ‘He’s not right in the head.’ He blew the putty dust, wiped the panel with a damp rag and examined it closely. ‘What do you reckon, Doug?’

  Pop stepped forward, turned, walked a few steps and stopped. ‘One foot, two, two and a half …’ I’d been watching him for a few minutes, and the behaviour never varied. He was lost in his own world of distance and counting.

  ‘What do you reckon?’ John asked again.

  Pop said, ‘Doin’ a good job. Nice and smooth.’

  John felt it with his hand. ‘Baby’s arse. He won’t be able to tell, eh, Doug?’

  ‘No.’

  John continued working the sandpaper in small circles. ‘Curtis was dropped on his head. I’ve read that list of his.’

  I waited, and wondered what Pop was really measuring.

  ‘Everyone he hates. But if you counted all the people who hate him … And he upsets Mum.’

  I wasn’t about to buy into it.

  ‘Always on detention. Then she’s thinking …’ He wiped the panel again and said to Pop, ‘How’d you manage to do this?’

  ‘
Wasn’t concentrating.’

  ‘Maybe it’ll come good. D’you reckon it’s ready?’

  ‘I reckon if you reckon.’

  John wiped his hands, opened a tin of primer, and started stirring it with a stick. He tried me again: ‘I know I’ve been in trouble, but at least I’m normal. Curtis just likes upsetting people.’

  Depends on your definition, I thought. Counting steps. Upsetting.

  ‘He used to record Mum and Dad in their room, you know, and write it all down. I mean, why would anyone do that?’

  ‘It’s the sort of thing that interests him,’ I said.

  ‘Did the same with me, in the toilet, but I let him have it.’

  He slipped on a mask, picked up the airbrush and fed the tube into the paint. ‘All ready.’ He switched on the compressor, stood back and laid paint in long, smooth lines. Then he stopped and took off his mask and said, ‘What d’you reckon, Doug?’

  The spell was broken. Pop walked over, indicated a few spots, and John fixed them. ‘Long as we can blend it,’ he called, above the noise.

  Pop sat down beside me and lit a smoke. He was back in the land of the living. Without any concession to the counting, he said, ‘You wanna go?’

  ‘Na.’ I knew this was John’s gig, and we had to make it work. Then he might come good, and Gary and Anne would be grateful. ‘Doesn’t interest me.’ But there was something in John’s eyes: an intensity, blue, focused, with sharp lines on his forehead where he concentrated.

  John finished, put down the handset and sat next to Pop. ‘I reckon we might do it.’

  ‘I reckon.’

  He took his smoke, had a puff and returned it. Then Pop said, ‘You got a good eye, and good hand, John.’

  ‘You reckon?’

  ‘That’s what I said at the start, remember?’

  When the twelve-year-old would come over, help Pop with an engine, remove a radiator, change oil.

  ‘I told you there was a future. First time you come, you were knee high. You’d take a tyre on and off, remember?’

  No reply. Which meant he did.

  ‘That’s why I was so disappointed, but …’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You might not be interested.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Johnson’s, where I got this paint—crash repairs.’

  Pop had already told me. It seemed a good idea. Society had to take care of its lost and lame. We saw that every day, when the opportunity class went gardening. In a way, it didn’t seem fair, but it’s just how it was.

  ‘Mr Johnson—Harry. I told him about you.’

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘Said you got a steady hand, mechanical aptitude, been workin’ with me for a coupla years.’

  The gal expanded as it got hotter; the heat came through onto our backs.

  ‘He said he might have a spot.’

  ‘No shit?’

  ‘But the thing is, before he’d take you on he’s gotta know you’re reliable.’

  John sat up.

  ‘He said, What sorta kid is he? I had to be honest, and I told him you’d been in a bita trouble, but I said, That’s only because of some issues at home.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘Which seem to be sortin’ themselves out.’

  John admired his work, like he was wondering if he’d be up to it—six am starts and long days, weekends. ‘So?’

  ‘He didn’t seem against it. I been doin’ work for him for thirty years, so I guess he trusts me. Said this fella he’s got now’s leavin’ in a few weeks, then I could bring you in for a chat.’

  John smiled. ‘That sounds good, Doug. You reckon—’

  ‘I tell you one thing, John. I’d only take you if you stayed clean and helped around the house and didn’t give yer mother grief every five minutes.’

  ‘I don’t—’

  ‘I talk to her, she tells me.’

  ‘Well, they tell you bullshit.’

  ‘No.’ He turned to his apprentice. ‘That’s just the thing. If you’re told something.’

  ‘I’ve always done what I’m told.’

  ‘Breakin’ inta delis? Johnson won’t put up with any of that. First time you answer him back …’

  John glared at me, like he wanted me gone. I took the hint, stood, left the shed, but lingered outside, listening.

  ‘You say I stole, but what about Dad?’

  Pop took a moment. ‘I’m just sayin’, takes a bita work to hold down a job. I gotta be sure.’

  ‘And I’m tellin’ you, there’s nothin’ wrong with me.’

  I didn’t think Pop really believed there was any excuse. I’d heard his speech about the sins of the father, and how you weren’t them, and you had to answer for your own deeds, and other bits of Bible he’d trot out when it suited him.

  I noticed the shadow, turned, and saw the broad shoulders, the white shirt, the tie. ‘How are yer, Clem?’

  ‘Hi, Mr Harper.’

  ‘Your pop around?’

  ‘I reckon, somewhere. Said he was gonna call you when it was ready.’

  ‘I hadn’t heard, thought I’d look see.’ He just stood, waiting.

  ‘You wanna come in?’

  ‘Is he in there?’ He indicated the shed door.

  ‘Well …’

  But there was no point: Pop’s voice, John’s, venting from the shed. Mr Harper went in anyway, and I followed.

  ‘Doug? How are you?’

  ‘Glen … this is John, he’s been helping me with yer car.’

  Hands shook, smiles exchanged. Then Harper noticed his car. ‘You got it back in okay?’

  I couldn’t watch. I stepped back and leaned against the outside of the shed.

  ‘We were putting it back in and we had an accident … me and Clem.’

  ‘Jesus.’

  ‘You can see, it damaged this panel.’

  ‘Why didn’t you call me?’

  ‘I’s gonna, but John here, he’s got an apprenticeship at Johnson’s, reckoned we could fix it, so I didn’t want to worry you.’

  ‘It’s never had a dent, nothin’. I thought you were good.’

  ‘Well, the engine’s runnin’ fine. You wanna hear it?’

  Silence. That’d be Harper, inspecting the repairs. ‘You’re never gonna get that to match, Doug.’

  ‘Yes, we will. Teal blue. Trust me.’

  ‘Look, it’s a mess. The way it’s been knocked out, see, that’s not right, and the putty, that’s all over the place.’

  Pop, lost. ‘Well, I’m sorry.’

  ‘Bet yer fuckin’ arse you’re sorry.’

  ‘Said he’s sorry,’ John began.

  ‘Did I ask you?’

  ‘I’s trying to fix it for you.’

  Pop tried his best. ‘Righto, we’ll have it fixed, Glen. John, come on, you head home …’

  ‘I just reckon it’s pretty rude. It was an accident, and we tried to make good. That paint cost me fifteen dollars. I thought you might be grateful.’

  ‘John,’ Pop said.

  And there was a scuffle.

  ‘John!’

  And someone fell against the galvanised iron.

  I could go in, stand between them, but I’d seen what John could do.

  Mr Harper said, ‘Before you do any more damage.’ I looked in and saw him removing the masking from the car, close the bonnet, and hold his hand out for the keys. Pop gave them over, opened the shed, and moved. Harper started his car, backed it down the drive and was gone.

  Pop said, ‘It dunt matter. His choice.’

  John looked at him, his hand shaking, but held in place.

  ‘Keep yer cool.’

  Later that night, as we ate rewarmed pizza, Pop explained. ‘He did good.’

  ‘How’s that?’ Mum asked.

  ‘When Glen come at him, he just stood there, and when he pushed him, he didn’t push back. That woulda taken a bit of doing, eh?’

  And Jen said, ‘Don’t trust him, Pop.’

  But I could se
e in Pop’s eyes, the light, the challenge of fixing a car that didn’t come with a manual.

  Holidays. Stale-bread-Curtis, returned to the wrapper. Jim Rockford crawling from his van, wrestling winos in search of the murder dollar. I longed to be Jim. Late mornings, strong coffee and an open-topped drive along the Pacific Highway. Stopping for debt collectors and pimps, the teary-eyed children of nice-people murdered.

  Me, the teenage Garner, giving up on Lanark Avenue, wandering the back streets of Windsor, the flaky suburb the other side of the main road. It’d started suburban, like us, but ended industrial. Factories built between more cracked-spine fibro homes. Weedy driveways with old washers, stripped bare, piled high along fence lines. Looking in open doorways, down halls, to mums shouting at bare-arsed kids as, outside, dads collected, stripped-down and calibrated. Always twice as many cars as there were people, cos cars could be cannibalised (I’d learned that from Pop, though Mum’d never let him keep wrecks round the yard). A trampoline for the kids, perhaps, but with a hole, and someone had stacked bricks on it. So there was no distinction between living and making a living.

  I crossed the road and entered Don’s, bought a Coke and emptied my pockets, hoping there was enough. As he counted, moving uncomfortably in his Marlboro T-shirt, he said, ‘You been behavin’ yerself?’

  ‘Yes.’ Surprised he’d shown interest after so many years. Perhaps it was boredom, the quiet before the Ford mechanics, after the milk mums, the ciggie kids. ‘We’re right behind your shop.’

  ‘With the pool ladder?’

  ‘Yeah. Me and my sister, t’ get over the fence.’

  He dropped the money in the till. I wasn’t sure if he’d gypped me. It seemed unlikely I’d had the right amount.

  ‘You never buy cigarettes?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘But you smoke them.’ And he gave me a strange look.

  ‘Well …’ Then I thought, he would’ve seen me, walking past with Curtis. ‘Everyone smokes these days.’

  ‘The Post?’

  ‘Nan used to read it.’

  He waited.

  ‘Nan and Pop. You know Pop? He comes around for tobacco and papers.’

  ‘I know him.’ He returned to his newspaper, spread out on the freezer.

  I walked home around the block that was a songline, each blue metal hill and valley one that I’d made, each fence post one I’d watched peeling, rotting and falling into the soursobs. Past the Donnellans’, but Davo was inside. Then a voice, ‘Clem.’