‘I guess,’ I say. ‘The boss seems okay. He seemed to think it was funny. He didn’t think that working in a car yard was quite suitable for a school like ours.’
‘Well, he’d be right,’ Trav said. ‘But who cares?’
Not me. And anyway, I quite like it when people talk stuff down, and not up. Let’s face it, in reality you can’t always get what you want, otherwise we’d have a hundred thousand prime ministers, two hundred million astronauts, and fifty billion billionaires. I mean, I don’t want to sound too negative, but get real.
‘Bling.’ Trav clicks his fingers. ‘You’ll need that.’ He glances at a girl with messy blond hair who’s wearing a tight, red-checked kind of a cowboy shirt. ‘I’m sure she could get some catalogue work, if she tried. Bras and undies. Gumboots and gardening department. Toys and books.’
‘She could do whatever she likes,’ I say. ‘As far as I’m concerned.’ Because when it comes to classifying girls for modelling assignments, as Trav and I often do, I tend to think that they’re all pretty nice in the hope that they’ll get the vibe and think the same about me.
So in that regard I’m quite positive.
‘Kick the footy after lunch,’ Trav says. ‘I’ll see you at your place.’
Done.
4
My parents like Travis. My mum says he has a ‘sunny disposition’, which basically translates as: ‘So why don’t you have a sunny disposition, Marc? You’re about the same height.’
Well, maybe I do have a sunny disposition – around at Trav’s house, because his mum isn’t my mum, and his house isn’t my house. So there’s sunny for you; it’s pretty much a complete waste of time trying to find it around your own home, with your own kids, if you are a parent – although my fourteen-year-old sister, Gretchen, was quite sunny until she hit her High Maintenance Tennis Rock Chick Super Model LA Lawyer phase, and now she’s about as stable as a stick of dynamite of the same age.
‘Shirts off,’ Trav says, as we arrive at the park. ‘It’s sunny enough. And there are girls.’
I’m not so sure about the shirts-off thing, as I’m more bone than muscle, but in the lizard-cool air of late afternoon, the sun holding haloes over the heads of two girls sitting on a seat, Trav and I play kick to kick. And I might say, without any opposition and with no one keeping score, we look quite flash.
‘Take a break.’ Trav holds onto the ball, brushing the hair out of his eyes. ‘They’ve gone.’
We sit on the girls’ seat, the smell of their perfume like a sad song left behind. Trav spins the footy, the sound of it papery in his hands.
‘So what do we do tonight, genius?’
Good question. ‘Not sure.’ I look around, hoping to see more girls, but the park is empty apart from a dog walker, and a kid trying to kill himself on a skateboard on the concrete steps. ‘There’s not a lot on.’ That’s an understatement.
‘Default setting.’ Trav gets up, spins the footy on a fingertip, drops it, slaps it, hits me in the face with it. ‘Whoops. Sorry, maaate. The movies. We’ll talk.’
‘Yeah, the movies,’ I answer. ‘Good enough.’
‘There’s one with helicopters.’ Trav handballs up, waits, catches the ball. ‘Big black suckers. I saw the ad. No words. Heaps of fire power.’
Perfect.
So Trav and I go to the movies, and although it’s a long way below our dignity, it is better than doing nothing at all.
‘At least we’ll see chicks,’ says Trav, as my dad drops us off, somewhat uncoolly, in a Disabled Parking Zone.
This is true, as going to the movies on a Saturday night obviously isn’t considered such a bad option by girls. In fact, the place is packed. Some of them are probably even here to see some of that subtitled arty-farty rubbish where grumpy French chicks shout non-stop, smoke topless in bed, or carry home their shopping through Paris in the dark, often in the rain. And boy, do I know that crap; my mum borrows the DVDs endlessly.
But not Trav and I, oh no, bro. We like firefights American-style.
‘I bet nobody on the ground saw that coming,’ Trav says, as we watch a black attack helicopter spiral down to crash onto the road outside a busy African marketplace. ‘When they were at home makin’ up the shopping list.’
Luckily, the market shoppers and stallholders are the enemy of the guys in the helicopter, and most carry automatic weapons, otherwise it could’ve been a very dull movie. I give it seven out of ten, although Trav and I agree that it would’ve been a rip-off if we’d had to pay for it with our own money.
‘Thank God for desert warfare,’ Trav says, as we head out into the bright lights of the upper-level foyer, where a few people are milling about looking lost. ‘Imagine what sorry crap we’d have to put up with if they didn’t make those kind of shock and awe feel-good things. Hey, check this out. It’s chick city.’
I look down the steps. The lower foyer is filled with girls, their hair out-shining the lights, their faces hammering indentations right into my heart, the sheer themness lifting my mood so fast I kind of feel like I’m levitating. And there are more coming in through the big glass doors by the second, bringing with them noise, colours, clothing hot off the rack, and shoes straight from the box.
‘And they smell fantastic,’ I say, although I think I actually say this to myself. ‘Man, how many girls are there?’
We head down the carpeted stairs into this chattering ocean of shower-fresh babes. And even after I’ve sorted out the too-young from the too-old, the too-weird from the too-loud, there’s still like a hundred great girls buzzing around like beautiful bees.
‘Far out.’ Trav scans the place from his great height. ‘How do you even start to catalogue all this?’
‘You don’t.’ I shrug. ‘Just save it to your head-drive and hope.’
‘Well, whatever,’ says Trav. ‘It’s freakin’ wunderbar.’ Which is all he’s got after five years of German, plus a school trip to Frankfurt, where luckily he stayed with an Irish family who spoke English all the time, or he would’ve starved to death.
Then I see her.
I see the most striking girl.
I see the most striking, gorgeous, great girl.
And she is – snap!
The same girl I saw coming out of GateWay Auto last Thursday night.
I’d bet my life on it.
And Marc E. Jarvis, number twenty freakin’ four, wingman with a great leap, good speed, and skinny arms, would never forget a face like that.
In my life I see a lot of girls, and unfortunately I see a lot more girls than actually see me – even if we’re walking toward each other on the same footpath. Perhaps this is due to some ancient sex-specific difference between males and females; like the way dogs can’t watch TV but people can, who knows? Although I have heard the odd smart hound doesn’t mind an animal show, which is understandable.
So although I can’t take my eyes off this girl, she’s not even looking in my direction. In fact, she’s looking at a wooden door, as far as I can make out.
‘Trav.’ I whisper and point. ‘See that girl there? The tall one with the black hair and the kind of white-green shirt with those other chicks in the polos and shoes and shit?’
Trav nods. ‘Yeah. Your point?’
My point is that she’s unbelievable.
‘Well,’ I say, ‘I saw her at the place I’m gunna do Work Experience. She was going out as I was going in. So maybe her old man owns it. And maybe she – shit, oh man, she’s so nice.’
She is more than nice. I mean, there are heaps of stunning girls in the eastern suburbs of Melbourne, and maybe in other areas, too, for all I know. But this girl has the look that I’ve been looking for for years. Or that’s what it feels like.
And she’s smiling.
Not at me, unfortunately, but at least it shows she’s human.
‘Yeah, she’s all right.’ Trav looks elsewhere, peeling a Mintie, dropping the paper on the carpet. ‘Seen better.’
I haven’t. Truly,
I don’t think I’ve ever seen a girl in real life who looks better, according to me, my rules, my hopes and dreams, than her. And she’s right in front of me, five metres away, just talking, now smiling, her eyes catching the light.
Then suddenly she’s gone, through double doors into the cinema, leaving me stranded like a polar bear on a beach, with not an iceberg in sight.
‘She was hot,’ I say. ‘Man, she was.’
‘Squeeze her into the old catalogue somewhere.’ Trav rolls up his shirt sleeves as he looks around. ‘On the treadmill or trampoline. She did look kind of athletic.’
Which is Trav-speak for girls with small boobs.
‘Fit her wherever,’ I say, meaning she could fit into my life wherever. ‘She was gorgeous.’ I’ve never felt quite like this. Usually I just see a great girl and walk off blinking, once into a pole, but this is different because there’s less of the ‘wow’ factor and more of the ‘her’ factor. She’s like some incredible mystery song you hear on some lost volunteer radio station that you know you’ll never hear again. And it leaves you feeling just nailed.
Trav knuckles my shoulder. ‘There’s your dad, mate. In a very strange shirt.’
I turn away from the open door of Cinema Two. My dad is outside on the footpath, wearing a short-sleeved shirt that my mum would have bought for him. This one has the Sydney Opera House on it.
‘Oh, that one’s nothin’,’ I say, trying to talk myself back into the real world. ‘You should see his fruit salad number. It’s like a tea towel designed by a monkey.’
‘I have seen that,’ Trav says. ‘It’s unforgettable.’
We leave the Rivoli cinema, me thinking constantly about this girl that I’ve just seen, and praying I’ll see her again. Yet I’m also thinking about Amelia-Anne, the first girl I was really in love with, although I didn’t know it until it was almost too late. But she’s gone now, and unlike the last minute of a basketball match, in real life you cannot stop the clock.
Meaning time goes on and you gotta go with it.
5
I spend part of Sunday walking the long way round to Trav’s house, so I can think about The Girl. And although I know there’s something not quite right about guys going on walks – as people think you’re either smoking dope, planning a burglary, writing poetry, or just plain odd – I don’t care because I need time to think. And I come to some serious conclusions.
Conclusion One: this girl that I’ve seen is a girl I want to talk to so closely that we will share air.
Conclusion Two: if this girl wanted to go for a walk, and she had a little fluffy white dog, and I had to carry the poo-poo bags, I’d still be in.
Conclusion Three: this is a girl I’d do coffee with and enjoy it.
Conclusion Four: this girl is simply beautiful.
Conclusion Five: I will never forget Amelia-Anne Sorenson, who will stay fourteen and three quarters forever.
Conclusion Six: I think I definitely need time to chill.
We watch TV, Trav on his bed, and me on the beanbag which belongs to Dot, Trav’s dog. At the moment, Dot’s out at the park with Trav’s little brother, Dillon, who is fourteen and has no personality. So he takes Dot, in the hope she might help him meet some girls. This is win-win, because if Dot were here, she’d get nothing from watching television, and I’d have to sit on the floor.
‘Work Experience tomorrow.’ Trav turns down the volume, some Nascar silently smashing at three hundred kilometres an hour. ‘Y’all set for Car City?’
I am, and I’m nervous. Stuffing up at Work Experience isn’t hard to do.
Last year, one guy from school set the factory he was working in on fire, which was an achievement considering it made fire extinguishers. And another kid, possibly on purpose, freed seventeen pigs at a piggery, half of which were killed on the freeway, so not very successful from an animal liberation point of view. And there was some other kid who fractured his skull whilst test-playing a piano, but I didn’t really hear the finer details.
Anyway, I hope not to do too much damage at all.
‘Think positive.’ Trav stands to stretch, hitting the light. ‘We can do lunch. And you might see that girl. Things could work out.’
Immediately my heart skips a beat, which reminds me how stressful it is to be in love. Or that maybe I really am freakin’ sick.
‘Yeah, I hope so. And lunch is on.’ I give my chest a hit, which seems to fix the heart problem. ‘Yeah, that girl.’
Which is all that I can say. So I say it again.
‘Yeah, that girl.’
6
On Monday morning, without a packed lunch and wearing jeans and runners, I make my way to GateWay Auto. And, as far as I can see, I’m the first employee to arrive. So, good on me! What a great start for Marc!
A black collapsible steel fence seals the driveway, the office is shut, and just when I’m about to make a mercy dash to the toilet at McDonald’s, a little blue Mazda pulls into a No Standing zone, and a little, short-haired, blonde chick gets out.
‘Hi.’ She wears a white dress with a red belt, holds a big fat set of keys, and smiles brightly. ‘You must be Marc. I’m Belinda. Vin explained what you’re doing. Michael’ll be here soon. And Vinnie a little bit later, with some luck.’
We shake hands. Hers is small; she’s small, but her sunglasses are big, and so is her watch and handbag. Really, I don’t think she looks much older than me, but obviously she must be, as she can drive and I can’t.
It’s strange to meet someone new. At school who do you meet? No one. But here, already, I’ve met Belinda at my place of work, which can mean only one thing: I’m in the Work Force. Far freakin’ out!
———
Belinda and I push the fence back, she parks her car next to the office, then we go inside, put the jug on, and sit. Boy, I’m liking this so far!
‘Vinnie tells me you want to be a car salesman.’ Belinda turns on her computer. Her desk is in one half of the office, Mr Gates’ is in the other, an open doorway in between. ‘Why?’ She smiles, chewing gum.
On Belinda’s desk I see a framed photo of a little blonde girl with hair like soap suds. On the wall is an autographed poster of a V8 racing car, signed by the driver, I presume.
‘Well, I’m not so sure about that,’ I say honestly, because of her smile. ‘But,’ I add, with a touch of genius, ‘that’s what I’m here to find out.’
Belinda keeps smiling, elbow propped on her desk. Her sunglasses are up on top of her head, where I think they’re going to stay.
‘Yes, well. Good.’ She lifts a finger. ‘You’re a bit like Mikey. He doesn’t want to sell ’em, either. He just works here. Nice guy, though. From Queensland.’ She picks up a pen and opens a big diary. ‘He’s gay. You’ll like him. You can help him out. He should be here in a sec.’
Now there are a few things to think about.
‘Right,’ I say, and then because I’m determined to make a Good Workplace Impression, I offer to make the coffee. ‘If there’s some milk around,’ I add, because I can’t see any near the jug.
Belinda grins like a pretty little shark. ‘All right. Out through the back door there’s a little kitchen with a fridge. And a toilet. So. Thanks, Marc. You’re obviously a go-getter and we like those.’ She hits a button on her computer and the radio comes on.
So I get up and get going.
Mikey and I are washing cars. We each have a trigger hose, a bucket, and a chamois, which is made from some weird part of a goat, I think. Michael, I can report, is not wearing anything pink or glittery, but he does have blond hair pulled back in a ponytail, and wears a T-shirt with ‘Rocco’s Kick Boxing Gym’ on it. He seems like a good dude, even if his arms are bigger than mine.
‘Work Experience? Here?’ Mikey swaps a sponge for a windscreen cleaner. He’s got one of those even, angular faces and crinkly blond hair that would probably get him a gig on a world surfing tour, if he could surf. ‘Well, that’s a novel idea, Marc. When d’you think it’ll
start?’
I give my hose a professional flip. Man, I’m slipping into this already.
‘When the boss arrives,’ I say, knowing I have to say something. ‘Maybe.’
Mikey runs the black rubber blade across the windscreen in three perfect arcs, leaving the glass so clear it looks surprised. He wears gold earrings, I notice: two in each ear, and steel and leather bracelets on both wrists. And a really nice diving watch.
‘If he arrives.’ Mikey drags a rag from his back pocket and buffs away a spot on the Corolla’s roof. ‘Vinnie’s not real well, Marc. He hardly comes in anymore. But we just pretend nothing’s wrong and carry on.’ Mikey looks at me. ‘It’s kind’a hard times here. But we’re hangin’ in. By the skin of our teeth. Just.’
Holey schmoley.
Well. I mean, I knew my Work Experience wasn’t exactly going to be me doing heart-lung transplants with a crack team of highly trained Swedish professionals, but I did think it might be somewhat kind of organised. But hey, at least we’re cheerful!
‘Who normally sells the cars?’ I ask. ‘When Mr Gates isn’t here? You and Belinda?’
‘Correct.’ Mikey scrubs bird poo off the duco. ‘But now that you’re here, my friend, we’re spreading the burden as well as the love. Your weekly sales target has been set at one. And I’m fair-dinkum.’ He grins, widely, with white surfer teeth.
I don’t grin. I’m thinking this thing is already out of control, and I’ve only been here forty minutes.
‘I can’t sell a car,’ I say. ‘I can’t even drive one. I’ll get arrested. God, I’ve never sold anything in my life.’ Except for some fundraising chocolate bars that Trav and I were supposed to sell door-to-door, but ate instead, and which his mum had to pay for.
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