My Private Pectus

by Shane Thamm

  There's a million guys out there who haven't got laid at seventeen—that's what I tell myself. But I poke at the fire with a stick feeling like I'm the only one.

  ‘Never?’ Mike asks.

  I shield my eyes from the smoke.

  He giggles and looks back and forth at everyone. ‘He's never been laid!’

  ‘That's not what he said,’ Gez says. ‘He says he's never been with one like June.’

  I send him a thankful nod, but Mike's on a roll.

  ‘Never?’ He giggles. ‘Never!’ He keeps giggling and repeating the word: ‘Never, never, never.’ He takes a stick out of the fire and points the burning end at me. ‘Never say never!’ He bursts out laughing.

  ‘Leave him alone,’ Gez says.

  ‘What about you, Gez?’ Mike says. ‘You must be getting some.’

  He nods. Of course he's getting some. He's going out with Lisa Patrick. And if he's not getting any now, he soon will be. Lucky bugger.

  Ryan reaches over and takes the joint from Mike. ‘What's her name again?’

  ‘Lisa,’ Gez says.

  ‘The Moaning Lisa,’ Ryan says and starts giggling too. He looks at Mike and they giggle together. Mike rubs his crotch and spills his beer.

  Gez and I squint through the smoke, but don't say anything.

  ‘Moaning Lisa,’ Mike says again and bursts into more laughter. Then he gets up and throws his stick on the fire. ‘I'm hungry, you guys hungry?’

  ‘There's still snags on the barbie,’ Gez says.

  Mike shrugs. ‘I'm taking a piss.’ He stumbles off.

  ‘You didn't have to admit to it, you know,’ Ryan says to me.

  ‘I didn't admit to anything! He jumped to a conclusion.’

  The boys wave at the smoke.

  Gez finishes his beer and changes the topic. ‘You gonna get up early for a surf?’

  ‘Sure. Crack-a-dawn,’ I say, thinking anything will be better than this. I go inside, take a few stubbies from the fridge and wonder if coming up was such a great idea. I go back out and give the beers to Ryan and Gez. I crack mine and take a huge swig.

  Mike is stumbling through the bushes in the garden near the fence, laughing to himself. ‘Never say Moaning Lisa…’ We watch his silhouette enter the house. ‘Who wants some chocolate?’ he yells, followed by a few bangs, crashes and swearing. ‘Who wants beer and chocolate?’ It takes some time before he comes out, but when he does, he has a six-pack tucked under one arm and a slab of chocolate in his hand. He puts the six-pack down near the fire and I drag it away before the plastic melts. He bites the chocolate like a piece of toast. ‘Anyone?’ he asks then passes some around.

  He sits and says, ‘Wish I was still at school.’

  Gez and I laugh. That's the last thing I expected Mike to say. Ryan smirks, as if he's heard this before.

  ‘Nah. Serious. I'm fair dinkum.’ He swallows some chocolate, then looks about. ‘Where's the lighter?’

  ‘Use the fire,’ I say.

  Mike points at me with his chocolate and says, ‘Never would have thought of that,’ and starts giggling again. He stares into the fire and goes silent for a while. I break off a square from the segment of chocolate he gave me. ‘You gonna eat the rest of it?’ he asks.

  Ryan says to him, ‘Tell 'em why you still wanna be at school.’

  Mike looks up, his eyes vacant. He waves his stubby at us. Beer spills out. ‘Wait till you get out,’ he says, ‘it's a desert.’

  Gez and I look at each other.

  ‘I mean, you two have got it on a platter. Chicks. How many chicks in your year?’

  ‘I dunno. Fifty. Sixty,’ I say and Gez nods in return.

  ‘Guess how many there are at the corner store.’ Mike cuts the air with his hand. ‘Zip. Bugger all. Least nothing I'd root.’

  Gez says, ‘But you can go to clubs and stuff. You'd meet plenty of girls there.’

  Mike shakes his head. ‘Yeah, but I don't know 'em. You guys know fifty chicks.’ He looks at us. ‘Fif-ty,’ he says slowly, spraying spit. ‘You know their names, what they look like, what kind of stuff they're into. The hard work's done.’ He stares into the flame, then at me, then at Gez. ‘You gonna finish that beer?’ he asks.

  ‘Get one yourself,’ Gez says.

  ‘But they know us, too,’ I say. ‘That doesn't always help.’

  ‘It does for us,’ Gez says, ‘but not for Mike.’

  We all laugh.

  ‘You're all losers!’ Mike moans and goes inside.

  Gez and I get up early. I like getting out there before there're people on the beach. We go into Ryan's room. He's still asleep so Gez nudges him in the ribs with his foot. ‘C'mon, surf's up,’ he says.

  Ryan grunts and rolls over. We go to Mike, who's on a mattress in the lounge room. I shake him by the shoulders.

  ‘Get lost,’ he groans.

  More pleased than disappointed, I head off with Gez, our surfboards under our arms. He's wearing only boardshorts; I have a large shirt on and a wettie, the zip undone, hanging limply from my waist.

  The conditions aren't what the paper said. The swell's big, but it's overcast, there's a south-east breeze and the waves are blown-out. We wander down the beach, hoping for a spot where the waves break more cleanly. The water is dark with churned-up sand. The waves dump in a shore break, but we spot a better break further out. It's windblown too, but a bit cleaner. I wait for a couple of joggers to pass then pull my shirt off and reach over my back for the zip of my wetsuit. I look up at Gez who quickly turns his gaze away from the depression in my chest.

  We wade into the cold water and dive through the shore break. Whitewash rushes at us in long solid walls. We duck-dive underneath, but the waves roll through in steady succession, so we paddle hard in between. The horizon rises and falls with each wave, rippled and gnarled by the wind. A wave begins to climb. I inch forward on my board, ready to dip the nose underneath. But instead of curling over, white water boils and bulldozes through us. We recover, paddle again, only harder, so by the time we make it through the breakers, we've had it. My arms are sore and my eyes feel bloodshot. Salt water dribbles from my nose. But I love it. There're no surfers out, the world is ours. I slap the water in delight.

  As with most things, Gez is better at surfing than me. He'll go out in any break no matter how many people are out there or on the beach. He doesn't have a body to hide. I watch as he carves up the messy waves, toying with them. It takes me half-a-dozen rides before I find my balance. We spend most of the morning surfing, paddling back out, sitting on our boards behind the breakwater.

  ‘Don't worry about Mike,’ Gez says, covered in goose bumps, which make him look even more cut than usual. ‘He was pissed, that's all. And stoned.’

  ‘So were you, but you didn't go on about it,’ I say, watching the horizon for another set, not wanting to talk about last night.

  ‘He was surprised, that's all.’

  I look at him. ‘What's the surprise, Gez?’ I rattle off a bunch of guys at school. ‘I guarantee you they haven't done it either. And what about Cuppas? Only thing he's screwed is a sock.’

  Gez blows his nose into his hand, then splashes the snot in the water. ‘Mike likes you, that's all.’

  I laugh in disbelief.

  ‘It's true, he does.’

  I shake my head.

  ‘He thinks you're funny.’

  ‘I'm not funny.’

  ‘You're gonna join the army, aren't you? That's pretty funny, if you ask me.’

  ‘Dad wants me to join the army. That's his wild idea, not mine.’

  ‘He pays out on you for fun. It's his way of being a friend.’

  ‘Friend? Some friend.’

  ‘Think about it, Sticks. What Mike needs are friends. How many has he got? Ryan, that's it. Let's face it, making friends is not his strong point.’

  But I don't like Gez's observation. ‘And how many friends have I got, Gez? Nothing to get jealous about.’

  ‘Come on, a friend
like me? That's plenty to get jealous about.’

  I laugh, but it's true.

  As the morning gets late, Gez and I head back in for lunch. We laze around with Ryan and Mike, then head back to the surf before dusk. The wind has died down and the waves are starting to crest. We paddle out, sit on our boards behind the breakers and let the swell roll underneath as we talk about school, the convenience store and Lisa.

  ‘So there must be a girl at school you like?’ Mike asks me. He seems genuinely interested.

  ‘I dunno,’ I say.

  ‘You're weird,’ he says, then rolls off his board, ducks underwater and comes back up. ‘I always had the hots for someone at school.’ He wipes water from his eyes. ‘Jeez, I'm hung over.’

  ‘What about Sam?’ Gez asks as a small set rolls underneath.

  ‘Thanks a lot,’ I say.

  ‘Why, who's Sam?’ Ryan asks.

  ‘Samuel,’ Mike says and laughs at his own joke.

  ‘Samantha,’ I say. ‘She's a chick from school.’

  ‘A chick who's signed up for the footy team and will get with any guy who looks in her direction. An easy starter for Sticks, I reckon,’ Gez says with a smirk.

  Ryan grimaces.

  ‘She didn't sign up for the team,’ I say. ‘That was The P trying to be funny.’

  Mike says, ‘Either way, the only time you go for a girl like that is when you're rat-faced, it's two in the morning and she's the last chance you've got.’

  ‘Sounds like your sort,’ Ryan says to Mike.

  He nods. ‘Have you got her number, Sticks, because if you can't be bothered—’

  ‘What, and you could?’

  ‘You jealous?’

  ‘No way. She's anyone's. A bush pig.’

  ‘Nah, she's actually all right,’ Gez says.

  ‘That's easy for you to say. Lisa's a fox and she did all the chasing.’

  ‘I reckon you're a catch,’ Mike says to me, but I'm not sure if he's serious. ‘If you'd loosen up a bit.’

  I turn away and watch the horizon. It rises as a set steadily approaches, seemingly harmless and lazy. I kick slowly, approaching it, planning to let it pass underneath. But the others kick harder, stroke more powerfully. It's not until the other three have pulled out ahead that I realise it's come up faster than I expected.

  I panic, kick hard, pull frantically at the water. I try to pop over the lip, but it's too late. It catches me, points me skywards then pounds me. The world churns, salt water fills my nose, the leg rope yanks at my ankle.

  I pop up, gasp and quickly scan for the next wave. That's when I see Gez, surfing down its face, carving it up like an artist. I pull on my leg rope, slide my board underneath, duck dive, letting the wave pass over. I paddle back out. Ryan and Mike laugh, but I ignore them and turn as another wave approaches. Paddling hard, I look back over my shoulder as it starts to rise. It catches up and towers beneath me. I peer at the water below, getting further away. In a growing panic, I try to abort, but my momentum suddenly matches the speed of the wave. And then for a moment I'm lost—lost in the smell of the surf, the salt, and the raw speed of the wave. I get to my feet and the board spears down the face. I carve left then cut right, skimming the water with my fingers. I yell in delight at the sound of the wave curling and crashing behind me. Then it starts to tube. A green tunnel forms and for a moment I'm gone, I'm lost in another universe. All I can hear is water and the slice of my board. But then, in my excitement, I catch the downward rail of the board. The wave plunges me deep and thrashes my body. But this time I don't care. I love the sting of the salt, the sand in my wetsuit. I pop to the surface then paddle towards the shore.

  Standing knee-deep I turn to watch Gez ride another wave all the way in. He crouches as he nears me, and takes off his leg rope. He leaps off and tries to tackle me. I can feel his muscles as we wrestle. We both fall, laughing, then sit in the water, holding our boards as Mike and Ryan come in.

  As we walk along the beach, heading back to the shack, all I can do is think that it has been the perfect day. That's until Mike says we have to go home early.

  ‘Gotta work at ten tomorrow,’ he says.

  We all pause and he keeps walking.

  ‘I thought we were staying for the whole weekend,’ Gez calls after him.

  Mike stops, turns and shrugs.

  ‘We'll have to leave here at seven,’ I say.

  ‘Eight,’ Mike says.

  ‘What's the difference?’ Gez asks. ‘How long have you known about work?’

  ‘All along,’ Mike says then keeps on walking.

  The next morning, I drive ten Ks below the limit to prolong getting home. Mike pulls on a joint and blows the smoke out the window.

  ‘You know what we should do,’ I say.

  Ryan looks at me from the passenger seat.

  ‘Have Gez's eighteenth up there.’ I watch Gez's reaction in the rear-view mirror. He grins, leans forward then grabs my nipple and twists.

  ‘Hey!’ I yell and pull his hand away. The car jerks and he lets go.

  ‘Great idea, Sticks,’ he says.

  And for the rest of the way we talk about the party.

  ‘There'll be a bonfire on the sand near the lake,’ I say.

  ‘And we'll turn the shack into a dance floor,’ Gez says.

  ‘And I'm gonna root some chick out in the dunes,’ Mike yells.

  I turn the stereo up and the speakers distort, Ryan slaps the dash with the beat, Gez sings along.

  By the time I drop them off my mood is back up. I've got something to look forward to: a party at Currimundi! It'll be a cinch getting people along.

  Nearing home, I slow down as I go along Deshon Street. I peer at the shops: panel beaters, an engineering works, a wrecking yard and Oscar's, the mechanic. That's where Dad takes the Pissan. I pull in thinking I'll pick up a few second-hand door handles for the Bluebird.

  Oscar's giant shed smells of cigarettes and grease. He's behind the counter, wearing oil-stained jeans and a tucked-in blue T-shirt with holes that reveal the white skin of his fat stomach. I tell him what I want and he thumbs in the direction of the wrecking yard.

  ‘I need a screwdriver,’ I say.

  He scratches his greasy hands in his beard and mumbles something I can't catch and pulls one out from below the counter.

  Ten minutes later I return with two door handles I took from a Bluebird shell out the back. I slap a tenner on the counter and he nods in appreciation. Then just as I'm about to leave I see something—an advert stuck to the counter with masking tape. Oscar's looking for a casual to start in early October. It says apply within as if you're not in already. He sees me looking and hands me a business card. I shove it into my pocket and drive home without much thought.

  Pulling into the driveway, I still feel pretty good. Then I feel great when I get to the door and realise Dad's not in. Knight Rider yelps, runs circles around my feet and slobbers in excitement. I go back out to the Pissan and unload my board and take it to the back shed. I go back for my bag then head inside. Cranking the lounge room stereo I sing along, but when I get to my room I stop. My bag slips from my shoulder and thuds to the floor. There's a brand new jersey on the bed and a pair of red footy boots on the floor.

  cuppas cops the lot

  It's after school. The boys mill around the oval, pushing and tackling each other. I'm sitting on the edge, not wanting to be here. Our first training session. Dad's over at the Pissan unloading brightly coloured field markers and his favourite Steeden footy.

  The P is teaching Cuppas how to pass the ball by making it spin and torpedo through the air. Cuppas throws another wobbly pass. As I get close I can hear The P say, ‘Jeeesus! How many times do I have to show you?’

  ‘Rack off,’ Cuppas says.

  The P says, ‘You're a wanker.’

  Cuppas grabs his man boobs and shakes them.

  I stop next to Gez, who looks at my boots.

  ‘I can't believe they're red,’ he says, grinning.r />
  His boots are new as well, but they're cheap. Black. Inconspicuous. He scuffed them against the wall of the change room before coming out. They look a season old already.

  Frank Maloney wanders onto the oval, a net bag of footballs slung over one shoulder. Dad's with him, chatting away, almost bouncing with excitement. But he's also nervous. I can tell by the way he keeps rubbing the scar on the back of his neck. He scans the faces and bodies before him, probably trying to guess at their calibre. His chest is puffed, but not enough to stop his round belly from protruding over his shorts. A number of the boys turn to me, grinning. Steve pads his own stomach in reference to Dad's.

  Maloney gathers us around. ‘This is Mr McDermott, Jack's dad,’ he says.

  Dad stands proud and says, ‘You can call me Brian if you like, or by my rank, which is Captain.’

  ‘Or Ferret,’ I say. ‘His nickname is Ferret.’ But only a few boys laugh.

  Dad raises his hand and accepts the halfhearted laughter, but his eyes flick threateningly in my direction. Maloney, meanwhile, glares at me, hands on hips. He's not into this preferred name stuff, he's too old-school for that. Maloney's a rules man. You can tell by the stiff way he dresses: polo shirts, sneakers so clean they glow, a strap for his sunnies so he can hang them from his neck. But the socks are what set him apart: hauled up to his knees, kept there with a band of elastic. He's in his mid-fifties and he loves school structure. He gets off on sending kids to the principal.

  ‘Can we play a game, sir?’ Cuppas asks Dad.

  ‘It's Brian or Captain, are you deaf?’ The P tells him.

  ‘Or Ferret,’ someone up the back shouts, which is followed by a stronger volley of laughter.

  ‘Sir, can we?’ Cuppas insists.

  Dad looks to Maloney to see if he's happy to get things started. Maloney nods.

  ‘This is how it will work,’ Dad says, his arms crossed. ‘You do what I say, and you do it well, you'll make the team. You take a slacker's approach, and sit around on your backside and don't have a go, your skinny butt will be lucky to make the bench.’ He looks straight at me before sending his attention back to the team. ‘I've played footy for years,’ he says, one finger raised. ‘I played Kingaroy A-grade and we were the best team in the South Burnett,’ he says.