My Private Pectus

by Shane Thamm

  Dad nods enthusiastically. ‘Jack would love that.’ He turns to me with a grin. ‘Right, Jack?’

  I drop back down behind the bar and fill my shot glass.

  ‘You know what else I'd like to do,’ Roger says. He's as pissed as Dad now, which makes me nervous.

  ‘What's that?’ Dad asks.

  ‘See him play.’

  I stand up. ‘Oh, no, listen, Roger, I'm not that good.’ And for once in my life I want Dad to say, ‘The boy's useless, don't bother,’ but he doesn't.

  Instead, he says, ‘He's pulling your leg, Rog. Jack goes great. We play every Wednesday afternoon.’

  ‘This week?’ Roger asks.

  Dad nods. ‘It's the battle for the wooden spoon.’

  Roger smiles with an open mouth and bulging eyes. ‘What a ripper!’ He leans over and punches Dad's arm. I flinch. It wasn't soft. ‘It'll be like the old days,’ he says. ‘Back in the sheds again, Brian. You and me!’

  Gloria comes back in. ‘What's going on?’

  I lean against the bar and let my legs collapse beneath me. Surrounded by alcohol I reach for something else.

  With Gloria joining in on their conversation, their voices drop and they talk more about their holiday in Turkey. I slug down shot after shot. After an hour or so, I try getting up but I hunch over and lean on the bar for support. I swallow, listen to the saliva in my throat: thick and sticky. The room rolls about and I loll my head, amazed at the looseness of my neck and the weightlessness of my head.

  ‘Jack, are you all right?’ Gloria says. ‘Jack?’

  I go to speak, but it's a mess of incomprehensible words.

  ‘You're not drunk, are you?’

  I stop lolling my head and stand as tall as I can. I stagger.

  Dad yells, ‘Oh, for crying out loud!’

  Roger laughs. Gloria puts her hand to her mouth.

  I slip, catch myself on the bar, regain my balance and stand tall again. Dad gets up and I start hurling. Just a small one at first, a dribble down my chin and a drip onto my shirt. Roger laughs even louder and starts drying his eyes. But he bellows in fury the moment I heave up over his mahogany bar. Green-brown acidic liquid: Jägermeister, Drambuie, Midori, the chocolate mousse. It bubbles and fizzes on the varnish, burns in my throat and nose. I hurl again, more violently this time. It clears the bar and sloshes onto Gloria's plush, ivory-coloured rug.

  my private pectus

  It's the hottest September day I can remember. Thirty degrees or more. It's half-time and we're sitting in the change room, throwing back Gatorade. If we had a commentator, he'd say the game has been played at a ‘feverish pace’, that all the boys are ‘digging in’, like soldiers in the trenches. It's the fight for the wooden spoon. Our last game is next week, but that's only because we can't make the finals. So this is the game everyone wants to win. But it's so hot I feel like I've got a brick lodged in my chest. Gez sits next to me, bent over, vomiting into a bucket. He's not the only one struggling with the heat, we all are.

  ‘Take your jerseys off, cool yourselves down,’ Dad says.

  Anyone who hasn't already, pulls theirs off. Everyone except me. I sit, drawing back rapid breaths, my jersey sticking to me.

  Dad points his finger at me. ‘I'm not asking you, I'm telling you,’ he says. ‘Take it off.’

  ‘It's all right,’ I say, ‘I don't feel too bad.’ But I feel rotten, feel like I'm going to hurl up all over the concrete floor. My head throbs and I wipe sweat from my eyes.

  He eyeballs me like he would have eyeballed the opposition back in his playing days. Roger's nearby, pacing, revelling in the heat of battle. Even though I plastered his place with my innards he turned up just like he said he would. I was in the car park with Cuppas and Gez when his black BMW purred in. He got out and scanned for Dad. His dimpled face followed me as I went with the boys onto the oval. I walked as tall as I could, trying not to look intimidated, but I was packing it.

  The day after dinner with the Pasks I had to go pick up the Pissan. I was in bed, still hung-over, when Dad thrust forty bucks at me before bundling me into a cab. Roger greeted me at the door wearing a Hawaiian shirt, boardies and slip-on leather sandals. He crossed his arms over his solid pecs and his jaw set like an All Black before the haka. He ran his tongue slowly behind his lips.

  I thumbed over my shoulder at the Pissan. ‘I've come for the—’

  ‘Keys are in the lounge room,’ his voice rumbled from deep in his throat.

  I squeezed past him. Once inside, I waited for permission to go further, but he kept standing there, so I scurried off anyway. I paused at the bar, ran my hand over the varnish. There was no stain, but the rug was gone. The smell of spew and potpourri choked the air. I snatched the keys from the coffee table.

  Roger was still at the door when I got back. Holding the keys up, I forced a smile and gave them a jingle. His breath wheezed through his hairy nostrils, his Adam's apple rose and fell as I squeezed through the space again. Then we faced each other, me waiting for him to say something, him probably waiting for me to apologise like a private grovelling to his superior.

  But apologising to him would be letting him win, even worse, letting Dad win, so I said, ‘Guess I'll be seeing you,’ then practically sprinted to the Pissan and reversed out, nearly collecting a palm tree on the way.

  Dad keeps glaring at me. Several eyes head my way. Roger stops pacing, waiting to see if I'll do what Dad told me to do. He squints in disgust.

  ‘It's all right,’ I tell Dad again. My head throbs. Beside me, Gez reaches forward and grabs the toe of his boot to stretch a cramping calf.

  Dad gradually stands taller—his shoulders roll back. His chest rises beneath his chin as if being called to attention. There's a game at play here and the longer it goes on the higher the stakes will get. I failed him with what I did at the Pasks, and by me failing him, he failed Roger. I'm just a part of the chain whether I like it or not—his good fatherly image is now in ruins.

  ‘Jack,’ Dad says through his teeth.

  Gez turns to me. He knows what I'm afraid of. My shoulders ache. I don't want this to happen, not in front of everyone, not in front of Roger, but I should've expected something like this. Dad wants to crush my disrespect.

  I didn't come straight home after the Pasks, but parked the Pissan at Kangaroo Point and sat at the cliffs until dark. I didn't care about the cold, or how hung over I felt. All I could do was think about Sam and how screwed-up it all had gotten. I tried calling her, but she didn't answer.

  When I did get home, I copped a tirade from Dad. Screaming and yelling, banging of tables. I'd never seen him like that, never could have imagined it. He went spastic, like I did with Cuppas.

  ‘For all of my effort, this is what I get!’ Dad yelled. ‘I can't believe you've been off gallivanting at Ryan's place, fixing up that bucket of bolts after what you did last night!’

  ‘I wasn't at Ryan's,’ I mumbled.

  ‘Then where were you?’

  There was no point arguing, so I walked past. Dad followed me into the lounge room, going on with his rant. ‘Over a thousand dollars, Jack. Over a thousand dollars is what that rug cost.’ I kept walking away, now to the dining room, but he followed. ‘And to think Roger's given us so much with no flippin’ thanks from you!’ The table was covered with piles of paper. ‘And look at this. Jack, are you listening? See this? Roger doesn't have to give me this work, you know, but he does it out of the goodness of his heart. He could find someone more qualified, but this is what he does for me—for us!’

  I pointed at the table and the piles of paper. ‘When are you going to do something about it then? When will you tell Roger you've done jack-all for three weeks? You told him my failings. What about yours?’

  ‘That's not fair! He knows I'm crook.’

  ‘What about those hours trawling the net, Dad? What about those, are you too crook for a bit of paperwork then?’

  ‘Jack!’

  ‘It's true isn't it? For we
eks you do nothing, but whenever Roger comes around you brown-nose him like a high school nerd.’

  ‘How dare you!’

  ‘So what's your excuse, Dad? Why doesn't it get done?’

  ‘I do what I can when I can!’ he screamed, his voice exploding from deep within.

  ‘Whatever you can to control my life!’ I yelled.

  ‘You didn't even apologise to Roger,’ he went on.

  I groaned.

  ‘That's right, Jack. He called and told me all about it.’

  ‘Just let me through.’

  But he shoved his hands on my chest and started pushing me. ‘You're going to the kitchen, picking up the phone, and calling Roger!’

  I grabbed his wrists, pulled his hands away and tried to push him back, but I couldn't budge his bulk. As if packing a scrum, he locked me with his arm and shoulder. He trudged forward, forcing me backwards. I punched him between the shoulderblades, but he kept on going. ‘Let go!’ I yelled.

  ‘You're calling Roger!’ he boomed, his head down as he drove forward.

  I looked at the scar on his neck. The failed operation. I decided to give him a headache he'd never forget. I clenched my fists together and raised them high. Then I drove them down onto his dodgy vertebrae.

  He stopped. Went limp.

  He dropped, his face cracking on the kitchen tiles. But then he rolled over, clutching his head. His eyes were clenched shut. ‘You bastard,’ he said. He rubbed his temples. ‘Turn off the lights.’

  I stood there.

  ‘Turn them off,’ he pleaded. ‘Turn them off.’

  I flicked the lights, put the house into darkness. I went back to him. ‘Your pills are on the table.’ And I went to bed.

  Sweat drips off my nose. I watch it fall, like a drop of rain to the floor. My eyes go from Dad's feet, up his legs then rest on his face.

  ‘Take it off,’ he growls.

  Everyone's watching, wondering what the deal is. I know what they're thinking—what a pussy, too scared to take his shirt off in public. They wait, questioning with their eyes. My fingers linger at the bottom of my jersey. I hope for Gez to put a reassuring hand on my shoulder and say, ‘You don't have to do it.’ But he hangs his head and stubs his boot into a crack in the concrete.

  I still don't want to lose. Dad thinks he's got me cornered and perhaps in a way he has, but there's more to it than he suspects. He has no idea how bad my chest is. Stuff him, I think, and Roger too, standing there with a satisfied smirk. So I start lifting my jersey, just slowly at first. Dad plants his feet, sneering. Bit by bit I pull it up and finally lay it across my knees, baring my concave chest. He reels back, his face white, his eyes bulging, his hands rising to his temples. There's a scattering of comments and intakes of breath.

  ‘What's that?’ The P says, pointing at me.

  ‘Jesus, Sticks,’ Steve says.

  Greg has his face screwed and head tilted. ‘What is it?’

  Dad drops his head. ‘It's nothing,’ he says in a barely audible voice.

  Everyone avoids my eye contact. I can feel their shame.

  Roger baulks at my appearance, lifts his lip in disgust.

  The P says, ‘No wonder you're useless.’

  ‘Shut up, P, you tosser!’ I yell.

  He stands up aggressively, and taps his chest with his palms, inviting a fight. But it's Dad who reacts. Like a dog released from his chain he lunges at The P. He plants both hands on The P's shoulders and thrusts him backwards. ‘Shut up, you hear me!’ he screams.

  Roger turns away. The P falls to his butt, somersaults backwards. His head crunches against the aluminium seat.

  Dad turns to me. ‘Put your jersey back on,’ he says.

  But I push it off my knees and it drops to my feet.

  Comments keep coming.

  ‘What are you mob staring at?’ Dad roars.

  They drop their heads and The P slumps over.

  dyna-mike

  The P has been out to it for a solid half-minute: eyes curled into his head. Maloney and Steve kneel beside him. I'm behind them, watching, still shirtless. Dad's in the middle of the group, rubbing the scar on his neck, his face ashen. The P coughs, he comes around, his eyes glazed over, his pupils unevenly dilated. The guys who are still sitting scratch nervously at their knees. Someone says we should take him to the hospital, but Roger says we shouldn't make it a bigger incident than it is already. The P refuses with a groan. I guess it's an insult to his dignity.

  I pick up my bag, put my jersey back on and walk out. I leave the footy oval and the school grounds. I just need to be alone for a while.

  Wandering a footpath above the muddy banks of Norman Creek, I watch the tide ebb, taking with it empty chip packets and a plastic bottle. Insects dart over the surface of the brown, almost black water. An ibis sinks its long curved bill into the festering mud. I replay the afternoon's events in my mind. Not-so-private Jack anymore. I've revealed myself, but don't feel any better. My phone rings. It's Dad. I turn it off.

  I wander down the bank and into the mangroves. The black mud squelches under my feet, releasing a reek of rotting vegetation. I go further down until the mud comes up to my shins. The ibis walks further upstream. Looking about and seeing no one, only mangroves, I take my jersey off and hang it on a nearby branch. Kneeling, I take some of the black rotting mud and fill my chest. It's cold against my skin. I squeeze the mud tight against me until dark water oozes out, snaking down to my navel. Slowly I take my hands away. The mud stays there. I stand tall, roll my shoulders back and stretch out of my hunch, but as I do so, the mud drops out and gollops by my shins. I pull my jersey back on and leave.

  When I get to Ryan's I wash my legs under a tap and leave my footy boots on a small square of lawn in front of the unit block. The door's locked so I let myself in. I hear the thud of cupboards closing and the sucking in of air as the fridge opens.

  A girl is there, filling two glasses with cold water. I've seen her before, but I'm not sure where. She's about my age, has bronze hair, freckles, a familiar face. Then it comes to me—I've seen her on the bus, in a Coorparoo State High School uniform. She seems to have a moment of recognition as well. ‘Hi,’ she says, like she's meant to be here. She's only wearing undies and a shirt, through which I can make out the shape of her nipples. Her hair's out and it falls over her face. She bends over as she puts the water jug back in the fridge. She drinks half of her glass then heads back up the hallway. Curious, I edge across so I can see where she's going. She opens the door of Mike's room.

  I go and sit in front of the tube and watch the afternoon cartoons. Ryan comes home, offers me a beer and joins me on the couch. An hour or so later, Mike walks in from the hallway, shirtless, wearing boardies that hang so low on his hips that I can see his bum crack when he turns. He's not wearing anything underneath. His hair's messed up, but he's happy, humming ‘Sexual Healing’. He makes me sick. He plunges a coffee, makes two mugs and takes them back to his room. Later, when I go to the toilet, I can hear them through the bedroom door. Panting, the bed creaking. I stop and listen, fascinated and put-off by their lovemaking. It sounds so public, so raw. It doesn't sound nice, not even exotic, and certainly not romantic. When I get back to the lounge room, Ryan turns up the volume.

  An hour or so later, after she leaves, Mike takes an apple from the fridge. He sits between us.

  ‘Do you like her?’ I ask.

  ‘Nah, she's just a bit of fun,’ he says. He notices the look on my face and shrugs. ‘It's not that I don't like her.’ He sinks his teeth into the apple. It breaks apart crisply. Juice dribbles from the corner of his mouth and he wipes it away. ‘What's up?’ he asks, his mouth full.

  I slump deeper into the couch. The three of us zone out on Deal or No Deal. On the coffee table is Ryan's bong—green and putrid—and some aluminium foil, but there's no mull left. Bored, I wait for him to offer a beer, but when the offer doesn't come, I go to the fridge anyway, take some stubbies and pass them around. I resume my seat
, and check my phone for messages. Nothing. Why is Sam still ignoring me? The guys stare as the studio audience screams frantically No deal! I sink deeper, finish my beer and strip the label.

  ‘What are you doing tonight, Sticks?’ Mike asks without looking at me.

  ‘No plans.’ I want to see Sam, but it's a Wednesday night and she doesn't want to know me anyway, let alone see me. The last few days at school she hasn't even looked in my direction.

  ‘Not going out with your mates?’ he asks in an almost mocking tone.

  ‘And where are your mates?’ I ask.

  Mike gives me the bird.

  Ryan says, ‘You can hang with us, Sticks, we've got no plans.’ He gets up and goes to the freezer, puts a pizza on the bench to thaw, then comes back with more beers and puts them on the coffee table where they sweat.

  Still nothing happens. We stare at the news then flick between current affairs shows. I go down to the garage. The car's due to get registered in a week, but I bet it'll be Gez and Lisa that go cruising first. I'll be forgotten. I run my hand over the bonnet. He hasn't even bothered to wash it, I think, and then head back upstairs.

  Ryan gets up, puts the pizza in the oven, and then says he's going out to buy some ganga, but doesn't offer an invite to join him. Great, I think. A night with Mike. I think about going home, but it's not a place I want to be right now.

  Mike says, ‘You smell like something the cat's chucked up.’

  I tell him I went swimming in Norman Creek. He looks at me like I'm a freak.

  Sometime later I get the pizza, which is blackened on the bottom and almost cheeseless on top. As we eat, Mike starts bragging about his high school girl. I think, Ryan, please be back soon.

  ‘It's just gonna be the one root,’ Mike says.

  ‘Any good?’ I ask, not because I care, but because I know he'll tell me anyway.

  ‘Blood oath.’ He sits forward on the couch, legs spread, hands on his knees and he goes on about what he did to her like she was something he bought. He picks up on my vacant expression. ‘You ignoring me?’ He asks the question like it's a threat.