My Private Pectus

by Shane Thamm

  Sam's mum pops her head around the corner. ‘Sam, is everything all right?’

  Sam waves her away.

  I go on. ‘I shouldn't have pushed you away. I didn't mean it like that. I freaked out. I'm sorry.’

  She moves deeper inside, towards her mum.

  ‘Sam, I loved and hated that party. I loved it when I was with you, hated it when I wasn't. People were watching us most of the night, did you notice? I did, but I didn't care. I didn't care about being seen with you, that wasn't the issue.’

  She stops and turns to face me.

  ‘The issue was me, it was this.’ And I pat my chest. ‘What I came to tell you is that I like being with you, being seen with you. In fact, I want to be seen with you more. Heaps more,’ I say.

  She bites her lip. Her mum is smiling.

  ‘Can I keep seeing you?’ I ask.

  Sam covers her mouth with her hand. Then she slowly walks towards me. She pushes me out the doorway, but she comes with me. Once we're both outside, she closes the door. ‘You've got a lot to make up for,’ she says.

  I gently pull her close. I feel her body against mine and then I kiss her.

  A horn blasts. We jump. The Pissan's in the driveway. ‘Enough, all right, let's go!’ Dad booms, leaning out the window.

  ‘Who's that?’ Sam asks.

  I cringe. ‘Dad,’ I say.

  She pushes me away. ‘What's he doing here?’

  ‘Taking me to my job interview.’

  ‘With the mechanic?’

  I nod.

  ‘That's now?’

  ‘I'm five minutes late.’

  She pushes me towards the car. ‘Go, Jack! Go!’

  ‘I'll see you at four!’ I shout as I dive into the car.

  Dad doesn't bother dropping me off up the block from Oscar's. He screeches straight into the car park.

  I open the door. ‘It can't take longer than a couple of hours.’

  ‘Really?’ he says. ‘Coz, JOES starts at about one, I think.’

  I grab my bag, get out and slam the door.

  ‘Sorry!’ he yells, his voice now muffled. ‘Good luck!’

  There are two guys waiting at the entrance. I glance at the car park: a souped-up Subaru WRX, and an old hotted-up Commodore. I look at the guys again and I take a bet at who owns what car. The guy in the black AC/DC T-shirt owns the Commodore; the one with his iPod in his ears owns the WRX.

  ‘Which cars are yours?’ I ask them. They point to their beasts. I was right.

  ‘You guys here for the interview?’

  They nod.

  Oscar comes over and runs his tongue between his teeth and lips, as if summing us up. ‘C'mon, you lot,’ he mumbles and leads us out the back to the wrecking yard.

  There're cars everywhere—rusting shells piled on top of each other. To most people it would look like a pile of junk, but to me it's a gold mine of enjoyment. Oscar takes us to an extension of the garage, a large wing made of steel posts and corrugated iron with a floor of concrete covered in black patches of oil. There're three cars. Each has had an accident of some sort, they all have their bonnets open and are surrounded by car parts on the concrete.

  Oscar rubs his nose with a greasy finger. ‘I've got a car for each of youse to fix up,’ he says through his beard. ‘I don't expect youse to get it right. Jeez, youse wouldn't want a casual job if youse knew everything to do. They're all old and clapped out, so don't worry if youse screw up. Just get in and have a go.’

  Oscar points to the first car. ‘That one's yours,’ he says to the Commodore guy. He scratches at his beard. ‘1984 Mitsubishi Sigma,’ he says. Commodore guy stands there. Oscar waves his hand and says impatiently, ‘Well, go on.’ The Commodore guy shuffles off and Oscar shakes his head then points to the next car. ‘1981 Toyota Corolla,’ he says. ‘Who wants it?’

  Neither of us move, our hands stuffed in our pockets. The WRX guy probably doesn't like the idea of laying his pristine hands on a donk that can't put out even a hundred kilowatts at red line. I've got my eye on the next car. Oscar rolls his eyes and mumbles something about initiative. ‘You.’ He points at the WRX guy.

  Oscar leads me over to the last car. ‘This one's yours,’ he says. ‘It's a—’

  ‘1981 Nissan Bluebird. A two litre piece-a-junk.’

  Oscar looks at me with his dull blue eyes. He sniffs and rubs a blackened hand in his beard.

  ‘What's your name?’ he asks.

  ‘Sticks,’ I say.

  ‘Well, Sticks,’ he says, ‘make it less like junk, would ya?’

  I stand for a while, wondering where to start, ignoring Oscar who's waiting and watching nearby. I look into the engine bay and at first glance everything seems to be in place, but the longer I look, the more I see wrong. The spark plug leads are so old that the rubber insulation is cracked and ruined; a radiator hose is perished; there's a trail of oil oozing from a gasket, caked with dirt. There's no way Oscar wants that fixed, it's not worth the effort, and I can't see any new gaskets lying about, so I go to my bag and take out my notepad. I start compiling two lists: the things I can fix with the parts lying around, and the things that will still need fixing when I'm done. The gasket goes on the second list.

  The Commodore and WRX guys both try to start their cars without much luck. One car doesn't kick over, the other runs for a few seconds then conks out. Glancing over my shoulder I see Oscar grinning. He watches me, probably waiting for me to do the same. But I don't. I know it won't go, not yet anyway—the battery's not even attached.

  So I get to work. I replace the spark plugs, the leads, fix the hoses, and fill the radiator. I replace the fuel and oil filters with other old filters Oscar's got lying around—he kept his expenses low. It's obvious this whole thing is for demonstration purposes only, not to get the cars back on the road. I go hard at it for two hours and only stop when the pie van comes around.

  After I've chugged down a sausage roll, I get back into it. I check the battery with a multimeter. It's not dead. When I try to kick the motor, there's nothing more than a clicking sound, so I pull the starter motor off. It's cactus, the copper coils are burnt black. Oscar must know this already, because there's a secondhand starter motor on the concrete. I put it in then get the motor running. It splutters just like Gez's car, but it's still good enough to get the other guys looking over. I kill it, then check my list. While I'm doing this, the WRX guy gives up and walks off. Not long after, the Commodore guy finishes too. Oscar comes out for a quick look with a toothpick balancing on his lip. He grunts to himself before walking off. I keep going, still finding things to do.

  I get the motor running as best I can with the parts available, then stand back and listen. Not perfect, but I think Oscar will like what he hears. It's quite an improvement. Coming up to midday, I wander the wrecking yard, collecting odds and ends like door seals and wiper blades. The last thing I do is get a bucket and a sponge and give it a once over, but it's like polishing a turd. Satisfied it's better than it was when I started, I go back to the office and find Oscar. I give him my two lists.

  He reads through them and sniffs. He opens a drawer on his desk and pulls out some paperwork and shoves it at me. I take it. His black fingermarks are all over it.

  ‘Fill this out and bring it back next Saturday,’ he says to me. ‘We open at seven.’

  I don't know what to say, so I just lean over the counter and shake his hand.

  Walking out, I see the Pissan in the car park. Standing behind an open door Dad yells, ‘Well, how'd ya go?’

  I hunch my shoulders and stare at my feet as if the world has collapsed around me. I open the passenger door and get in.

  ‘Jack?’ he says. ‘Jack?’

  ‘Let's go,’ I tell him.

  Dad keeps looking at me. ‘I wouldn't be too worried, you know.’

  ‘Dad, shut up.’

  He reverses out and starts up the road. ‘I think it's time I told you something. You know how I almost played for a Brisbane club? Ho
w those scouts came out to Kingaroy?’ He's looking at me instead of the road, his face sincere. ‘Well, I didn't make it. Some other bloke got the spot, not me. I joined the army because I wasn't good enough at footy.’

  ‘No way,’ I snigger.

  ‘Nah, that's fair dinkum. So don't feel bad about missing out. It's not the end. I mean, I'm sure there's another intake in a few months and—’

  ‘I know it's not the end, Dad.’

  ‘That's the spirit.’

  ‘I got it!’

  ‘Huh?’

  ‘I got it!’ I yell and thump the dash. ‘Are you listening to me? I got it!’

  He swerves towards the gutter and slams on the brakes. He hugs me. A huge hug. A man's hug. Then he honks the horn and thumps the wheel. Both of us hit anything we can. I punch him in the arm.

  When I get home I jump in the shower and clean up. I sing as I clean off the grease. After drying off I stand naked in front of the mirror. I wipe the mist off with the towel, and then measure the crevice in my chest with my fingers. It still goes in to the second knuckle. I flex my biceps. I grin. They're getting bigger.

  I go back to my room and turn on the stereo. I want to dance. I feel great. Feel superb. And why not? I've got a hot date at four.