My Private Pectus

by Shane Thamm

  I check the bong water. It's green and murky. I don't smoke much, mostly because of my chest. Sometimes I think the indent restricts my lungs slightly, but I figure the odd bong is worth the risk. I put my thumb over the air hole and suck slowly, watch the smoke gather in the glass then release my thumb and feel the smoke surge into me. I let it out as slowly as I can, but I can't do it like Ryan.

  He turns the volume up more, taps his foot and bobs his head to the beat. The three of us stick our heads around the engine and I loosen the bolts from around the leaky radiator. Gez holds the book and reads out instructions, but I don't need them. It's pretty straightforward, really. We heave the old radiator out and put in another that I picked up last week from Oscar's—a mechanic and car wrecker from down the road. We yell and joke over the music and rub our greasy hands on each other.

  ‘Check it out,’ Gez says, stopping to watch the TV.

  A surfer is getting towed into a giant break. I stand, spanner in hand, Gez rubs his hands on his shorts.

  The wave rears up as the surfer races down the face, the board skipping on the rippled surface. A spray shears off as the wave crests and curls over, sucking the surfer up with it. He disappears in the explosion.

  ‘Oooohhh, that's gotta hurt,’ Ryan says, grinning and grimacing at the same time.

  Gez rewinds and we watch it again. He cheers. I laugh. We all look at each other.

  ‘Who's up for a surf this weekend?’ Ryan asks.

  For the rest of the afternoon we sit in the lounge room, drinking, sorting out the details. We'll stay at their uncle's place at Lake Currimundi on the Sunshine Coast. It's an old beach shack stuck between high-rises, which he rents out to holiday-makers and family. Ryan gives him a call. It's vacant. We make a list of things we'll need: snags, bread, beer, chocolate, weed, our boards. We'll go in the van. That's about it. Our weekend is sorted.

  That night I stare into the fridge. I see nothing, but I'm thinking about the weekend, not my stomach. I don't want the beach to be crowded. I don't want it to be too hot. I always surf with a wettie to hide my chest.

  Dad is nearby at the dining room table doing Sportsbet on his laptop. His credit card and a sachet of pain-killers lie beside his wallet. He puts fifty bucks on the Broncos each week. Safe bet, he reckons. When he's not on Sportsbet, he'll be trailing through junk emails, reading Fox Sports or playing Stick Cricket. In the last couple of years he's become an internet junkie. And meanwhile, Roger's paperwork piles up.

  At home, it's just me, Dad and his dog Knight Rider, a black Staffordshire terrier. My parents busted up when I was six. Things were always rocky. I knew it even back then. When Dad got posted to Townsville, I was always going to end up with one or the other. Mum refused to go.

  In the end it was Dad who won me over, but more for Mum's lack of effort than because Dad and I were especially close. It's not like I was convenient for him, either. Being a single soldier with a kid, he was never going to be sent on dangerous placements, the kind of stuff he was trained for. But Dad's always said a boy needs a father. I can't work out why. It's not like he puts in a special effort. But for the six months before the move he told me stories of tropical storms with wild lightning, and clouds climbing higher than I could imagine. He won me over with a lust for the tropics.

  But it's not rain or storms I remember about Townsville. What I remember is the heat, smoke from dry-season grass fires, and the army childcare centre. It was never what I thought it would be. I still see Mum on occasions, such as Christmas and birthdays, just enough to know I've got a biological past.

  ‘Oh, Jack,’ Dad says. ‘I bought a coaching book today.’

  I shrug.

  ‘I can't wait to get back into it,’ he says. ‘I did a bit of coaching with an army team back in my day. Have I told you about that? Anyway, we'll talk about that another time. I've been thinking about your height. I think full-back is the position for you. You'd be great under the high ball. But I think you need to beef up. We'll get you doing some weights.’

  I stick my head deeper into the fridge. There's no way I'll join. He'd give me a spot I don't deserve. Imagine what the boys would say.

  ‘Twenty-five boys have signed up,’ he yells to make sure I listen. ‘Twenty-five!’ he shouts again.

  I think about stuffing some cheese into my ears.

  ‘That's quite a group. There'd have to be a few good players mixed in amongst them. Gerald's name was there.’

  ‘Really?’ I act surprised and look up.

  He's twisting in his chair, peering over his reading glasses. ‘But there was one name missing.’

  I groan and shove my head back into the fridge. The phone rings and I sprint to grab it.

  ‘Hello?’ It's Ryan. I'm saved! ‘What's up?’ I ask.

  ‘I pranged the van,’ he says as I head to my room. ‘Put a towbar through the radiator.’

  My guts sink at the thought of spending the weekend with Dad instead of the surf.

  ‘I'm all right, but,’ Ryan goes on. ‘Thanks for asking.’

  ‘Sorry,’ I say. ‘There goes the weekend.’

  ‘That's why I called,’ he says. ‘I was thinking maybe we can take the Pissan?’

  The Pissan is Dad's old Nissan twin cab ute. It has N-I-S-S-A-N in bold red letters across the tailgate. Whenever I drive, Dad makes me put the P-plate on, so I always put it over the N. Most weekends the Pissan just sits in the driveway growing rust and gathering bird dung because Dad's too crook to drive. Ryan knows this full well.

  ‘Are you kidding?’ I say. ‘I've only had my licence for two months. He'll never go for it.’

  He laughs. ‘Just a thought,’ he says, ‘but you're still gonna ask, right?’ Then he hangs up.

  Bastard! I throw the phone onto the mattress, get up, go to the door and stop. What about the Bluebird, maybe we can get that going in time? A few sessions after school and who knows? I call Gez, but he says he's got each afternoon planned already. Says he's going out with his new girlfriend, Lisa Patrick.

  ‘But I can't ask Dad for the Pissan, he won't go for it.’

  ‘Have you tried?’ he says.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Then how do you know?’

  ‘Come on, Gez, you know what he'll say. We can work on the Bluebird, we'll get it going. Go out with Lisa some other time.’ Then I try some emotional blackmail: ‘You're not gonna dump your mates for a chick, are you?’

  Gez is silent for a moment, as if thinking. ‘We need a roadworthy. It's not registered. Just ask your old man, Sticks. Tell him Ryan will drive.’

  ‘I'm not telling him that.’

  ‘Why not? He loves Ryan.’

  ‘If we're taking Dad's car, then I'm driving.’

  Gez breathes out. ‘Whatever, man.’

  ‘Great spuds, Dad,’ I say over dinner, trying to soften him up before diving in about the Pissan. It's usually only Knight Rider that shows interest in Dad's cooking. Right now he's sitting nearby, panting, eyes alert, ears pricked.

  Dad eyes his food then nods at me in appreciation. ‘I put rosemary and butter on them.’ He says it like no one ever thought of doing that before.

  ‘Ryan pranged his van,’ I say casually.

  ‘Really? What happened? Is he all right?’

  ‘We were meant to go up to Currimundi this weekend, but the radiator's got a towbar-sized hole in it.’

  ‘Is he all right?’ he asks again. ‘Whose fault was it?’

  ‘I was thinking maybe we could take the Pissan.’

  ‘Whose fault was it?’ he asks again.

  I push at a slice of tomato with my fork, wondering how to get the conversation going in my direction. ‘I don't know.’

  ‘What do you mean you don't know?’

  ‘I forgot to ask.’

  ‘You didn't ask?’ Dad stops cutting his food and looks at me.

  ‘I forgot!’

  ‘Jack.’ He shakes his head as if I'm stupid. ‘What kind of car did he hit? Who's he insured with?’<
br />
  ‘I don't know, who cares?’

  Dad squints at me. His jaw goes tense. ‘I'll have to call him,’ he says. His eyes light up and then he barks an order: ‘Jack, get the phone!’

  I groan.

  ‘Jack, go on, get it!’

  I get up and give it to him.

  ‘How old is Ryan?’ he says purposefully.

  I can see where this is going. ‘Nineteen.’

  ‘That's strange,’ he says.

  ‘What's strange?’

  ‘He's not like that.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘A hoon.’

  Here we go.

  I say, ‘Accidents can happen to anyone.’

  He shakes his head and says with conviction, ‘It's always the boys and nearly always between seventeen and twenty-five.’ He emphasises seventeen because that's how old I am. He points his fork at me and commands, ‘Ryan's phone number!’

  ‘You're generalising,’ I tell him. ‘These things happen.’

  ‘I am not generalising,’ he bellows. ‘That's the danger period.’ He says danger with a capital D.

  ‘You're paranoid.’

  He slams his cutlery down and glares at me. ‘Being right does not make me paranoid.’

  ‘Doesn't stop you, either.’

  He stands and leans towards me. I watch the roof of his mouth as he states: ‘What you need to do right now, Jack, is shut up!’

  Thinking I've already lost, I hold Dad's eyes with mine. ‘You can find his number in the phone book.’ Then I go to my room, and crash on my bed.

  A few minutes later my door swings open. Knight Rider runs in, his tail swinging. Dad stands in the doorway, holding the phone. He points it at me and says, ‘I've decided to let you go.’

  ‘You're kidding me!’ I say and get up. ‘You're serious, right?’

  But a wild grin starts to stretch across his face. ‘Sure am. You can take the ute if you join the team.’

  ‘That's not fair!’

  ‘Either that or none of you will go.’

  ‘That's rubbish!’

  ‘I've phoned Ryan and he said he's happy to drive.’

  ‘Let me drive!’ I yell.

  ‘Only one person will drive my ute and that person is Ryan.’

  ‘No!’

  ‘Then I suppose you'll have to call him back.’

  ‘He's not driving!’

  ‘He has more experience than you.’

  ‘But he just pranged his van!’

  ‘And he told me it wasn't his fault.’

  ‘I'm not letting him drive.’ My voice breaks.

  Dad throws the phone and it lands on the bed. ‘Then give him a call. Tell him the weekend's off because you won't let him drive.’ He walks out.

  Knight Rider sits in the middle of the room, panting, drooling happily. I yell and kick at him, ‘Get out!’ I miss and he scuttles out the door.

  I lie on my bed and stare at the ceiling. What a dick! While trying to decide what to do, I get a text message. It's from Ryan: Good job on the Pissan, Sticks! Cya on the weekend. I put it down and keep staring.

  I go to the lounge room. Dad's watching the telly. ‘Remember,’ he says, not looking at me. ‘Ryan will drive.’

  never, never, never gotten laid

  On Friday afternoon, I wait outside Gez's house, the car running. He comes out; a bag slung over one shoulder, a phone in hand. I can tell he's talking to his new girlfriend Lisa by the way he's holding his mobile—like it's something that needs to be handled with care.

  ‘My board's still in my room,’ he says to me. Then into the phone: ‘Nah, I was talking to Sticks.’

  I follow him inside, take his board then dump it in the tray of the ute. Sitting back in the driver's seat, I wait. A jogger runs past. A couple walking their dog. The afternoon is dragging on.

  ‘C'mon, Gez!’ I yell and blast the horn. He peers through parted curtains, the phone still to his ear. He holds up two fingers like a peace warrior and mouths, ‘Two minutes.’ I hold up two fingers in return, not so peaceful though.

  Several minutes later he comes out holding his hands up like a footy player appealing to a referee.

  ‘Took you long enough,’ I tell him as he climbs in.

  I pull hard at my seat belt, but it clicks and jams. I swear, pull again, but it won't come and I drive off anyway.

  ‘What's up you?’ he says, but I don't reply.

  Ryan and his housemate Mike, who also works at the corner store, are sitting on their bags beside the footpath when we arrive. Their surfboards are beside them. Mike's an average height and build. He's wearing long black shorts and a white T-shirt. This is the first time I've been away on a weekend with him and I have to admit, I'm not sure what to expect.

  ‘Sticks is bummed,’ Gez says as Ryan comes round to the driver's door, ‘but he's not saying why.’

  Ryan laughs. ‘C'mon, get out,’ he says.

  Gez looks at me then at Ryan. ‘What's going on?’ he says.

  ‘Dad won't let me drive,’ I say.

  Gez starts to laugh, but stops when I fire him a dirty look. ‘That's rough, man. Real rough.’

  I make sure the boards are secure in the tray then climb onto the back seat. Mike's sitting in the middle so he can lean forward and talk to the boys up front. Ryan turns around and shoves the beach report from the paper onto my lap. ‘This'll sort you out, Sticks. Two-metre swell!’

  Gez claps. ‘All right!’

  The traffic is congested through the CBD and past the Royal Brisbane Hospital. Ryan zips in and out of lanes, trying to get ahead. He switches the radio on, turns up the volume until the speakers crackle. I push my leg against Mike's, trying to make some room. ‘Tell me, is Sticks always so riled up?’ Mike asks the others.

  ‘Rack off,’ I say.

  Ryan smiles back at me in the rear-view mirror.

  ‘What you need is a beer,’ Mike tells me.

  ‘I'm fanging for one,’ Gez says and puts his feet against the dash. ‘Or two.’

  ‘Or three or four,’ Ryan says.

  ‘Not in my car, you're not,’ I tell them. While I'm not happy with the conditions of use, there is no way I'm going to let them ruin my car privilege in just one weekend.

  ‘C'mon, Sticks.’ Ryan says, still looking in the mirror.

  Mike leans over me and points out the window. ‘Hey, we just passed a bottle-o!’

  Ryan does a u-ey at the next set of lights. Mike ducks in, comes back out with a carton of Fourex. Meanwhile, Ryan gets out and opens my door. ‘You can drive,’ he says and climbs into the back with Mike, the carton between them. If only Dad knew.

  They drink steadily as we head north. Gez has one or two, takes care to keep his beer below the window. Mike offers me one, but I refuse so he says he'll have it for me.

  By the time we arrive, it's dark, they're drunk, sniggering, talking nonsense. Ryan gets out, leans over the gate and lifts a metal stake that was holding it shut. He throws the stake onto the grass. I park the ute in the weatherboard shed. There are several mattresses leaning against the walls, a patch of oil soaked into the concrete.

  The house isn't much more than a beach shack: corrugated iron roof, fibro walls painted green. The furnishings look as if they've been there since the seventies or eighties, I can't tell which. There's a big yard, and a path runs from the back fence about one hundred metres to the foreshore of Lake Currimundi, which is protected from the surf by a spit of sand.

  ‘Honey, I'm home!’ Mike yells at last year's Sports Illustrated calendar hanging in the hallway. ‘Which one's better?’ he slurs at me, ‘August or September?’

  ‘I like April!’ Gez calls from the front door, bringing in his bags. We've had this debate before.

  I flick through the months. ‘June,’ I say. She has dark hair and deep brown eyes. I like her because she's looking at the camera, as if she's looking straight at me. There's a hint of a smile.

  ‘June?’ Ryan comes in and peers over my shoulder.
<
br />   ‘Then June it is,’ Mike says and leaves her hanging there.

  It's a warm night for July and we settle in the backyard where there's a brick barbecue; the hotplate leaning against a nearby tree. We try to put it in place, but one end dips, so I find some rocks in the dark to prop it up. Ryan comes out with some folding chairs. I light the fire and Gez throws on some snags. Mike stands, watching, rolling a joint. He gives me a strange look when he offers it and I don't take it. Then he makes sure he has a bigger pull than Ryan or Gez. We talk about getting trashed and sunburnt in tomorrow's surf and fantasise about girls on the beach sunbaking topless even though it's the middle of winter. We go back and forth from the fire to the fridge, making sure we don't run dry. The whole time I try to catch up. We take the embers from the barbecue and get a fire going in the middle of the yard then sit on the grass, facing the flames. Ryan and Mike get stoned; start to giggle about things, funny or not.

  ‘June,’ Mike says to me. ‘You ever been with a girl like June?’

  I fumble with the label on my beer. He keeps looking at me, trying to read my expression. I've never had a girlfriend before, not even had one interested in me as far as I'm aware. Too tall, too stooped, too skinny.

  ‘Have you?’

  I watch the fire. ‘No,’ I say. I look up at Ryan, who drops his gaze to his beer. He's smiling too, but says nothing.

  ‘You for real?’ Mike asks. When it comes to girls and sex, Mike always has a story or advice. It really annoys me because I've never seen him with anyone. But all the same, the topic makes me embarrassed, especially with these three. They've all done it, even Gez. He used to do it with Carmen Grieves from Coorparoo High. Ryan's had a fling or two with girls he met at the pub or clubbing in town and then there was that girl from uni—Anna—which lasted six months or more. My inexperience embarrasses me and the way Mike keeps looking at me doesn't help. It's not as if I don't like sex—or the idea of having it—it's just that I might never get there. What with my chest and all.

  Mike goes on. ‘You've never been laid?’ He's leaning towards me, eyebrows raised, pupils dilated.