Jarvis 24

by David Metzenthen

  ‘Just adds to the challenge.’ Mikey slam-dunks his chamois into his bucket. ‘We gotta eat, Marc. So you’ve gotta hit your target.’ And he makes a dot-point in the air as if poking someone’s eye out, smiling, earrings flashing in the clear morning sunshine. ‘It’s that simple.’

  It doesn’t sound it.

  But that, I guess, depends on your point of view.

  After washing the cars we have morning tea. So far only two people have come into the yard: a lady selling glowsticks to support endangered parrots, and a Goth chick who test-drove a yellow Hyundai, but rejected it – surprise, surprise – on the grounds of colour. Of the beautiful girl, there’s been no sign.

  ‘Mikey and I are not supposed to be full-time.’ Belinda nips the corner off an apricot Danish that looks like a radioactive fried egg. ‘But when Vinnie’s not in, we hang around to keep things going. We’re all sort of … partners.’

  ‘Strange partners.’ Mikey concentrates on his salad sandwich. ‘Queer, even.’ He rattles his bracelets, smiles. ‘Our differing outlooks complement each other.’

  I leave that one alone, and suck on a juice that came cheap because the juice bar girl’s an artist that Mikey knows, and outside of work he’s trying to set up a gallery.

  ‘I also do some secretarial work.’ Belinda pats her computer. ‘I did a course at Tafe, figuring that if I was going to be a single mother, I’d better know how to do somethin’ more than change nappies.’

  A single mother! Man, that’s another new experience I’ve had today!

  I mean, I’ve met mothers of guys at school who are single now, but they weren’t always, so they don’t really qualify.

  ‘Here’s someone,’ says Belinda, looking down over the cars, ‘who looks a little interested in our wares.’

  I see a lady about as old as my mother – but bigger, with scarier hair – take two steps into the car yard then stop.

  ‘So, Mikey.’ Belinda taps her pen thoughtfully. ‘Shall we send Marc out? He seems smart enough. Goes to a good school. Has straight teeth. Can speak the language.’

  The lady outside looks worried. I don’t blame her.

  ‘Yep. On your bike, Marc.’ Mikey pedals with two fingers. ‘And remember that customers are just friends we haven’t met yet. And smile, smile, smile!’

  I don’t like the sound of any of that.

  ‘Marc!’ Belinda points. ‘Go. Before she leaves. I’m serious.’

  It appears she is.

  ‘And remember the FAB Principal.’ Mikey holds up three fingers. ‘F is for features. A is for advantages –’

  I go out the door.

  ‘And B is for benefits! Good luck, Super Boy!’

  What was F again?

  I walk down the driveway towards the lady, thinking, thank God I’m too young to go to gaol if things go badly. And also, if I had time, I’d nip back to ask what the difference is between an advantage and a benefit.

  If anybody ever had anything written all over their face, it’s this woman. And what it says is, ‘Run!’

  I blurt out the first thing I can think of.

  ‘Good morning! Sorry, afternoon.’ I look at my watch, which unfortunately I don’t have on. ‘My, how time flies. Can I help you? Er, madame.’ Oops, I think I said that in French. Oh, well, points to me for something. Whatever.

  The lady takes a step back on pale-coloured high heels. And then another.

  ‘Ah.’ She looks at me as if pondering some foreign vegetable she’s not too sure about. ‘Well, I was going to ask someone about that little mauve sporty thing with the black roof but seeing you’re … ’

  I wait for her to finish, but it she appears she has. Fifteen metres away I spot the car she’s talking about: a seven-year-old Mazda MX5. I also try to come up with at least one feature, advantage, or benefit.

  ‘Yes,’ I say. ‘That’s a great little car with, er, low K’s. But since I’m only, er, new here, and not that familiar with that particular model, I’ll get Belinda. She’s just helping another client at the moment.’ Possibly.

  The lady relaxes. She lets out a deep breath, secure in the knowledge that soon I’ll be a long way away from her, and that someone who knows what they’re talking about will be here to help.

  ‘Yes, that would be nice.’ Suddenly she looks me full in the face, a finger raised. ‘Your mother’s Pamela Jarvis, isn’t she? We worked on the school fete together. I’m Rhianna Lockwood. You’d know our son, the lovely Luke. The swimmer. And you’re Marc, aren’t you? Have you left school?’

  ‘Oh, no,’ I say. ‘I’m only here on Work Experience.’ And yes, I do know her son, Luke. He threatened to kill me once. I can’t remember why.

  Mrs Lockwood seems to find the Work Experience thing amusing. Her eyebrows go up and stay up, as if she’s making a mental note that Pam Jarvis’s son, Marc, has lost his mind; although if he’s not quite right in the head, then he seems to be getting along fine.

  ‘Oh, really?’ Mrs Lockwood takes a step towards me, like a wrestler. ‘Luke did his Work Experience at Bollinger and Cartel, the law firm. They said he was brilliant.’ Mrs Lockwood smiles, her teeth so white they have to be made from some type of space age yachting fibreglass. ‘Your father’s in banking, isn’t he? Middle management.’ She glances around, ivory and gold jewellery giving off a bony rattle. ‘Anyway, Marc. So how have you found working in a car yard so far?’

  ‘Good,’ I say. ‘And that little Mazda, it’s quite new.’ Comparatively. ‘And it’s an extremely rare colour.’ Allegedly. ‘Is the vehicle for yourself?’ Apparently not, as I doubt she’d fit into it.

  Mrs Lockwood glances at the MX5, which is a neat little car.

  ‘Oh, no, Marc.’ She touches my hand as if I’m the button for a lift. ‘I’ve got my little Lexus four-wheel drive. That tiny sporty one would be for Antonella, our daughter, for excelling in her piano exams.’

  Now, the next thing I was going to say was that the MX’d be perfect for taking a piano around in – but I decide even Mrs Lockwood might not go for that.

  ‘It’s got a concert hall—quality CD player,’ I say, which is a term I doubt I could even remember, even under hypnosis. ‘And it’s automatic. Plus it’s convertible. Which are great advantages. And substantial benefits.’ I add, in case Mrs Lockwood prefers one to the other. ‘You’re more than welcome to test-drive it. Or Antonella.’ I smile. ‘If you can drag her away from that violin. Cello, I mean. No, sorry, piano. Or does she play all three?’ Boy, that was tiring.

  I must say, though, if Antonella does all those things I’ve just said she does, I wouldn’t mind meeting her myself.

  Mrs Lockwood flashes a smile. Man, those teeth are bright.

  ‘You know, Marc – ’ she rests three long fingernails on my wrist, ‘I might send Anty down very soon. I believe her next twenty-four hours are piano-free.’ Mrs Lockwood now seems quite pleased with me. Perhaps because I’m a slow swimmer? Actually, Trav’s a pretty good swimmer, because he’s so tall and his feet are so big, although that’s not entirely relevant at the moment. ‘You’ve been very helpful, er, Marc. Perhaps there is a career here for you.’

  ‘I’m not quite sure about that,’ I say. ‘But I can say that Mr Gates guarantees every car for some number of months. And that I’ll personally ring you later with full details about the warranty and/or the vehicle’s vehicular history.’

  ‘Good!’ Mrs Lockwood takes out a card from her purse, slots it into my hand, and her smell, which is like hot air escaping from the double doors of a duty-free cosmetic department, sweeps over me. Man, she’s like a force of nature. ‘Thank you, Marc!’

  And before I can help myself, I say, ‘No, thank you, Mrs Lockwood! And remember –’ I hold up two fingers and then add another. ‘It has dual airbags and air-conditioning.’ Then I escort her to the gate, thinking that if Antonella does get that car, she would be one lucky piano-playing unit.

  My God.

  I’ve even convinced myself!

  Belinda a
nd Mikey give me a round of applause and a chair. I slump into it, aware that I’ve suddenly developed a headache.

  ‘Her daughter might come back in later to test-drive the purple MX.’ Exhausted, I put Mrs Lockwood’s card on Belinda’s desk. ‘She knows my mum from the school and I know her son. Unfortunately. He’s an idiot.’

  ‘That car’s a peach.’ Belinda is putting on eye make-up as we speak. ‘But not cheap. There are other things here that are cheaper.’

  ‘Less expensive, I think you mean, Bell.’ Mikey scrunches up his lunch bag and bins it. ‘You rocked, Marc.’ He drops a fist onto my knee. ‘You went out there, you listened, you looked positive, and you kicked a goal. And it’s only Day One. And you didn’t even have to sleep with anyone to get to the top.’

  Come to think of it, I wouldn’t mind a sleep.

  ‘She hasn’t bought it yet.’ I yawn, remembering to cover my mouth at the last moment. ‘I think she might want one of you guys to give her a call.’

  ‘Your job,’ says Belinda decisively. ‘And you can drop the price by five hundred bucks, if you think that’ll do it.’

  I sit looking tiredly at the V8 Supercars on the wall, and it strikes me that even if we’re not aware of it, we’re all in some sort of race or another. You just can’t avoid it.

  ‘I’ll ring her tomorrow,’ I say. ‘I’d feel sick if poor little Antonella missed out on a piano lesson just because she didn’t have a sports car.’

  At four o’clock Mikey takes off, slinging a backpack full of kickboxing gear over his shoulder.

  ‘Solid, Marc.’ We tap fists. ‘See you tomorrow. And who knows? Even Vinnie might make it in. You rocked. You did well.’

  ‘You and Belinda helped me out,’ I say. ‘I liked it.’

  ‘No, you helped yourself, bro. Catch ya.’ And Mikey’s gone, out onto Glenferrie Road, rigging his iPod as he walks off towards the railway station.

  ‘He’s a good guy,’ I say to Belinda, as we retreat into the office for another coffee. ‘Isn’t he?’ Of course, I mean that in the straightest possible way.

  Belinda sits so that I can see her computer’s screen saver. It features a picture of her daughter, Casey, and a sausage dog that I now know is called Betty.

  ‘Yeah, he’s cool and so nice. Got his problems, though. A bit of a mystery boy.’ She swings in her chair. ‘He kind of took off from where he came from up in Queensland. He doesn’t say much about it, except that it was doing his head in. Which could mean a lot of things.’

  ‘Does he live by himself?’ I ask. ‘Because that’d be hard. Like, especially if you’d left everyone you know behind.’ And that’s apart from cooking and cleaning and paying the bills.

  ‘He rents an old house down the road.’ Belinda points towards the invisible city. ‘It’s where he’s going to set up the art gallery thing. He’s got a deal that if he paints the space and fixes it up, he’ll get free rent for six months or something.’

  ‘Sounds full-on.’ I stir our coffees. ‘It’s pretty easy living at home.’ I look at the photos of Belinda’s little girl. ‘Where d’you guys live? Around here?’

  ‘We’ve got a flat near my parents’ house in Vermont. It’s not too far.’ Belinda takes her mug. ‘Thanks, Marc. It’s nothing too flash but it’s okay.’

  I know where Vermont is because my mum had a car accident there. Belinda and I sit, sip, and don’t say much. Outside, the cars face the road like a bunch of brides hoping to spot a groom. Inside, the afternoon ticks away. Belinda does something to her computer that sets the printer into a hissy fit of ticking and clicking, lights flashing, as if it’s in a particularly foul mood.

  ‘I dunno what’s going to happen to this place if Vinnie gets any sicker,’ she says, watching the printer. ‘He has this blood disorder thing.’ She breathes out tiredly. ‘He’s pretty bad already. He can only get in here for the odd hour or so. Pretty soon, we’ll all be looking for new jobs, I guess.’ She smiles. ‘Even you.’ She raises her eyebrows. ‘Another new experience.’

  I smile but I don’t laugh, because even though I may not be that bright, or that thoughtful, I do know when something serious is going down. This I certainly learnt when Amelia Sorenson began to miss week after week of school, and even our teacher began to turn up at her house after hours and on the weekends. And not with homework, either.

  ‘It’d be good if we could sell that little MX,’ I say, wanting to help, which I guess is actually what work is all about.

  ‘Just do your best.’ Belinda takes a page from the printer and shows it to me. ‘This month’s sales figures. Not good. But truly, Marc, it is a quality car, the Mazda. I don’t think you’ll have too many problems. Any questions before you go?’

  As a matter of fact, I do have one.

  ‘Yeah,’ I say. ‘Last week I saw a girl leaving here on Thursday night. She was kind of tall, about my age, and she had long black hair. D’you know her, by any chance? She was carrying a big sports bag and she had on a school tracksuit. She looked kind of athletic.’

  Belinda smiles, as if she’s read my mind.

  ‘Oh, that’d be Electra Tesselaar,’ she says. ‘And she’s athletic, all right. Vin knew her dad years ago when he lived in Darwin for a while. He had a four-wheel-drive dealership up there. She’s over here from Broome on a sports scholarship. Vin had something to do with setting it up. She’s a sprinter. She drops in to see us every now and again. She’s got a lot going for her, hasn’t she?’

  I kind of wish Belinda would stop smiling that all-knowing smile. Ms Inglis does it at school, too. It’s very annoying and extremely hard to counteract.

  ‘She seems to have,’ I say. ‘I saw her at the movies on Saturday night as well.’

  Belinda begins the process of tidying her desk and shutting down her PC.

  ‘And if you keep your eyes open, you’ll see her again.’ She pulls out a memory stick and drops it into her handbag. ‘Because she goes to school just around the corner. Keep an eye out, Marc. She’s a lovely girl.’

  I know! And I will keep an eye out for her because about ninety-five percent of the St Helen’s girls walk past here on their way to the station and tram stops. They also wear stupid summer hats that look like UFOs, so they stand out in a crowd.

  I get up. It’s five o’clock.

  ‘I’ll see you tomorrow,’ I say. ‘Thanks. Today was really good. I learned a lot.’ And I leave, pulling on my cord jacket as I wander off down the driveway, thinking that Electra is one hell of a name, Belinda is a top person, and Mikey’s a good guy. And I don’t fancy him a bit! Even if he does have big arms and blond hair.

  Which is a great relief.

  On the way home I think about Amelia-Anne Sorenson, the girl I lost, and there’s this pain of losing her, of knowing I’ll never see her again, that feels like a slow suffocation. She was a runner, too, although not a very fast one.

  Not that Amelia cared; she didn’t seem to care too much at all about anything, except having as much fun as possible whatever was happening, although she could be serious – sometimes for as long as five seconds at a time.

  She had hair the colour of copper and gold.

  ‘It’s extremely rare,’ she used to say, holding a big bunch of it above her head. ‘Extremely rare. Stefan, my hairdresser, says I’m one in a million.’

  Stefan was right.

  She was.

  And still is.

  Just the circumstances have changed.

  7

  I’m relieved it appears that I’ve settled the gay thing with myself, for today at least, because I think most people have to deal with it at some time in their life; although there’s also a time in your life when you don’t have to deal with it at all, because from about zero to say ten, you don’t know anything much about being gay, straight, metro, lezzo, or vego. All you care about then is what time’s bedtime, the rules of tippety, not wearing a bike helmet, and whether ghosts are real; and if somebody says they are, then leave the freakin’ light on! />
  Life was simple then. But times have changed, unless you’ve been kept down a well, and if you have been, then you have a whole other set of problems to deal with.

  Anyway, in regards to Mikey, I think it’d be safe to say, although the wording would have to be absolutely correct for the dudes at school, that he’s a cool guy, he helped me out big-time on my first day of Work Experience, and he didn’t suggest we go and see Combat Choppers Go To Hell. Even if I’ve already seen it with Trav, who is a guy, too, but that’s different.

  You know, the big arm muscles thing with me is just a comparison deal, which is fine, as it’s okay to want things, no matter who’s got them. Well, perhaps if I wanted big breasts, that would be a problem, but I don’t. And anyway, a girl at the beach once said I have nice arms, and I ended up pashing her in the dodgem cars, which wasn’t easy to do, either, I might add. So that all adds up to killing at least two birds with one stone, even if that is what Ms Inglis might possibly call a cliché.

  The bottom line is: Mikey’s cool, and that’s all that matters. And I hope he can get it together here in Melbourne, with his art gallery and stuff, not that I really like art because art’s actually pretty – no art’s all right.

  Anyway, I think I might shoot around to Trav’s after dinner. Hopefully he won’t be doing his nails.

  We have things to talk about.

  We always do.

  Other people’s houses; it’s a whole subject in itself.

  And I must say I like Trav’s house, especially the biggest lounge room, where we are now. It’s large, white and clean, and everyone has their own couch, even Dot, who faces the TV – obviously a waste of time, although if I was to say who was brighter out of Dot and Dillon, Dotty would win paws-down.

  ‘Marc’s working in a gay car yard,’ Travis tells his folks in the stupid, innocent tone he generally reserves for teachers. ‘He’s trying to sell a mother from school a pink sports car. I don’t think that’s what Work Experience should be about, do you, Dad? It doesn’t seem right.’