Jarvis 24

by David Metzenthen

  Do I tell her it’s not my writing? Do I tell her I have no idea what I’m doing? Do I tell her I can’t drive? Do I tell her I know nothing about cars? No, I tell her that the MX 5 is an automatic, it gets stacks of kilometres to the litre, and then, after Belinda has photocopied Antonella’s licence, I suggest we hit the highway – which would also suggest I’m doing a great job, until Mikey comes back in to politely hold up something I’d completely forgotten about.

  The keys.

  Oh, yeah!

  Antonella is either a really good driver or a really bad driver – I haven’t quite worked out which. One minute she’s nipping along with the traffic, the next she’s stopping without warning like the commander of a Leopard tank with Attention Deficit Disorder.

  ‘My mum says you know my brother, Luke.’ Antonella does a fast right-hand turn in front of a tram. ‘This is a groovy little car, isn’t it? It’s very snazzy.’

  ‘What? I mean, pardon?’ For a moment there I was so busy pre-planning my funeral, and what songs I’d have, I almost missed what she was saying. ‘Oh yeah, it’s um, Mickey Mouse.’ I decide going with the mouse badge theme is a good idea. ‘And with the price of petrol, it’ll save you stacks. Which is a real benefit and a great advantage. And a terrific feature, too, come to think of it.’

  ‘Is petrol expensive?’ Antonella smiles and takes her hands off the wheel. ‘I don’t know much about cars. I tend to focus more on music and study and things. But I do like this one, Marc. It’s cute. Although I think my piano is a lot easier to drive.’

  I laugh, because if that’s not a joke she’s a Martian, and I’ve just been abducted.

  ‘It’s got a CD player,’ I say. ‘You could listen to, er, Beethoven on the way to uni. Or to the pool. If you’re a good swimmer. Like Luke.’

  At this point, either with miraculous navigation skills or sheer luck, Antonella has driven us back to GateWay Auto. She stops the car neatly in the driveway and turns it off. Rain patters cosily on the roof, isolating us from the outside world.

  ‘Can I ask you something, Marc?’ Antonella turns towards me, her face the face of someone who’s not only far more intelligent than her mother or brother, but also a lot nicer. ‘Do you like my brother, Luke? Honestly.’

  Hmm. Honestly? In this situation? Well … I look at Antonella, a rare flower of a musical girl who’ll end up marrying a butterfly specialist, or an importer of French cheese or English fountain pens, and I take a deep, business-like breath.

  ‘Ah, no, not particularly.’ Then I laugh, because I know that she wants to know if I’m a liar. And I want her to know that I’m not.

  She smiles to herself, as if she’s worked something out that’s quite important.

  ‘All right then, Mister Marc.’ She tucks her hair behind her left ear, revealing a cheek so smooth and pale, tinged with pink, I’d like to kiss it. ‘Do you think this is a good car for me to buy?’

  ‘Yes, I do,’ I say, which is true, for many reasons. ‘And I’ll ask Belinda to drop the price by five hundred bucks.’

  ‘Okay.’ She touches the dashboard gently as if she is testing a strange type of keyboard. ‘I’ll buy it. Or rather, my dad will.’

  ‘Great,’ I say. ‘Deal.’ And we shake hands, her fingers, long, cool and delicate, holding my clammy but relatively clean paw for the count of one, two, three.

  Mark it down on your scorecards, folks.

  That’s first goal of the week to Marc E. Jarvis, Number 24, wingman, salesman, superstar!

  In the office I’m treated like a prince – once I’ve seen Antonella off the premises. Belinda makes me a coffee and Mikey has bought me a double-chocolate-chip muffin.

  ‘But she hasn’t signed anything,’ I say. ‘I haven’t really sold it yet, have I?’

  ‘No,’ says Mikey. ‘But it deserves a muffin anyway.’

  ‘She’ll stick to her word.’ Belinda sips tea from a red-and-white Holden Dealer Team mug. ‘Whether or not her dad will is another thing. But you did really well, Marc. Vinnie’ll be impressed. I think he might be coming in tomorrow.’

  I sit, listening to the rain on the roof, feeling as if the MX deal is hovering right over my head. Around here, I know a sale means different things, important things, to all of us. So I will do my best, even if I only ever went to Scouts once.

  10

  Next morning, while eating Weetbix, I listen to Gretchen going off because her bras have been hung to dry outside for the whole sick neighbourhood to see – which is a bit much from a girl who wants a tattoo of Rafael Nadal just above the tag on her undies, and who now comes screaming down the stairs because the strings on her tennis racket are the wrong colour. So I take off, like my dad did hours ago, into a cool grey morning that smells of wet gardens and clean Saabs.

  Then I see her.

  It’s the Girl.

  Electra.

  And she’s coming my way, running so smoothly it’s like watching the World’s Best Ever Short Film, her face serious and serene, white and orange running shoes flickering like fire, her hands slicing air as she closes in.

  What do I do? Well, firstly, I get out of the way. Then I take a big risk. I decide to put it all out there.

  ‘Hi,’ I say, stepping back onto the nature strip, looking for a split second into seriously dark blue eyes as her left foot touches down in front of me like a skipped stone.

  ‘Hi,’ she says, and is gone, leaving the scent of soap, the feel of speed, and the sound of running shoes running very fast.

  I watch as the World’s Best Ever Short Film comes to an end, the running girl running away, heading for the oval at the bottom of my street where lots of people run, leaving me to stand like one of Carlo’s garden statues, stone dead, watching the credits roll, show over.

  But is it over?

  Is it really?

  No, I think not!

  Because runners often run the same circuit every day, I live right here, and that means our paths will cross again, if I wait long enough.

  Of course, I wouldn’t go so far as to call what I have planned an ambush; it’d be more like a carefully planned coincidence. And those things happen every day; twice, otherwise they wouldn’t be coincidences, but that’s not the point. The point is she’ll come back and I’ll already be here. Perfect!

  But now I have to go to work, which is something I thought I’d never say.

  Mikey and I pull back the black steel fence and free the cars. With huffed-up windscreens, they look like they’re still asleep.

  ‘Here we go again, Marc.’ Mikey picks up a French Fries packet someone’s flicked over the fence. ‘Back for another crack. So, how are you going this fine morning?’

  ‘Good,’ I say, knowing that when Mikey asks how you’re going, he means it; even if perhaps he’s not going that great himself. We stroll up the driveway. ‘How are you going?’

  ‘No problem.’ Mikey unlocks the office, flicks on the lights, and we go in. ‘Yeah, you know. Waving. Not drowning.’

  ‘How’s the gallery thing working out?’ I ask. ‘What are you up to down there?’

  Mikey pulls back the vertical blinds, dusty flecks and silver specks drifting like a million tiny stars caught by the sun. For a moment he looks down over GateWay Auto, at the cars, the road, the shops.

  ‘A bit of hole-fixing and bush carpentry.’ He heads for the kettle. ‘But I’ll be painting pretty soon, which’ll be like Stage One complete.’

  ‘Cool,’ I say. ‘And if you, like, need to borrow a ladder or anything, just ask. My old man’s got stacks. Or did you bring some down from Queensland?’

  Mikey grins, fires up the kettle, then sits in Belinda’s chair. I sit opposite.

  ‘Nah, I brought nothing from Queensland.’ He undoes the zip on his yellow rain jacket. ‘I left it all behind. Even Chopper, my poor old dog.’

  I could hang up on this conversation. I could just nod once and hang up. But because I play footy, and I’m a human being, I know you always support your mates. />
  ‘Shit.’ I say. ‘That’s a bit rough. Will he be okay?’

  Mikey smiles. ‘Oh, yeah. My family loves dogs. A lot more than they like art. Or people who do. So that’s that. End of story.’

  Click.

  Crikey.

  I think Mikey’s hung up on me.

  Belinda, Mikey and I polish cars while listening to a CD struggling out of the unhappiest loudspeaker system I’ve ever heard. It’s good fun, and it also gives me time to come up with an idea as to how I’m going to have an extended conversation with Electra; my plan being that this conversation will have to be had on the move, as she sure didn’t look too inclined to stop. Fortunately this is possible, as I’m football fit, reasonably fast, and I only intend to run a few hundred metres.

  No worries.

  I’ll catch her tomorrow.

  ‘Heads up, people,’ Mikey says. ‘We have an incoming gentleman who looks to be here on a mission. And not of mercy.’

  I look down the driveway.

  ‘That’s no gentleman,’ I say. ‘That’s Antonella’s old man.’ I recognise Mr Lockwood and his old red BMW. It’s usually parked in the Loading Zone outside the tuckshop so Luke can get to the pool without getting wet when it’s raining.

  ‘I’m looking for a Marc Jarvis,’ Mr Lockwood says somewhat nastily. ‘I believe that yesterday he tried to sell my daughter a car.’

  I put my rag down. In my stomach I have a sinking feeling that is usually associated with private talks with Ms Inglis and empty Lost Property Boxes.

  ‘I’m Marc Jarvis,’ I say. ‘I spoke to Antonella yesterday.’ No need to ask if there’s a problem, as I’m sure I’m about to be told there is.

  ‘Well, there’s a problem, sport.’ Mr Lockwood attempts to tower over me. But I’m not scared. If it was Travis’s dad I would be, because he is big, and he is scary. And if it was Carlo’s dad, I’d be terrified, as he carries an aluminium baseball bat on the back seat of his Mercedes, and I don’t think he’s the sporting type. ‘I believe that yesterday you tried to talk my daughter into – ’

  ‘Good morning! Lovely day. A delightful day.’

  From behind Mr Lockwod, Mr Gates emerges from his old Jaguar, like a one-man cavalry coming over the hill, perhaps with a Senior Card tucked somewhere in his pocket. He has a raincoat folded over his arm, wears a suit almost as wrinkled as his face, and carries a tartan thermos.

  ‘Sir.’ He puts his hand out, advancing neatly. ‘I’m Vincent Gates, the proprietor of GateWay Auto. And if there’s a problem I’m sure I can remedy it.’ He sweeps a hand as if showing Mr Lockwood how to hit a cricket ball for six. ‘My office is that way. If you would be so kind. Good morning, staff.’ Mr Gates winks at me.

  ‘Good morning, Mr Gates,’ Mikey and I say in unison in our best Grade Two voices, smiles busting out.

  Without a word Mr Lockwood stalks off with Mr Gates, watched by Belinda who squeezes out a sponge as if she’s wringing a chook’s neck.

  ‘Look on the bright side, Marc,’ she says, raising her eyebrows like two little dark drawbridges. ‘It’s character building.’

  11

  Mikey and I are back in the Leadlight Coffee Shop. It’s my shout because my dad gave me twenty bucks. He does this sometimes, I think, because I don’t upset mum, and he’s not a bad guy, as long as he gets down to the golf club once a week, and doesn’t have to coach any of Gretchen’s six basketball teams.

  ‘Playing footy on Saturday?’ Mikey asks. ‘Has the season started?’

  I notice two girls looking at Mikey; I guess he does have one of those model-like faces, everything kind of shiny and glowy, nothing wonky or broken. And he smiles a lot, flashing his chompers around the place, even when he’s not that happy about stuff. I make a note to trial that.

  ‘Nah, we’re not into the real games yet.’ I munch a cinnamon doughnut. ‘But we’re training pretty hard. D’you think it’d be all right if I leave a bit early tonight? I mean, I don’t have to go, but I wouldn’t mind.’

  ‘I’m sure that’d be fine.’ Mikey finishes his coffee. ‘Especially if Vinnie can sell that car to what’s-his-name. Which he will. Once he gets all the rubbish out of the way.’

  I think Mr Lockwood’s one of those guys who thinks he’s tough, but isn’t. Unlike Trav’s dad, who is tough because he’s two metres tall, says nothing when he gets mad, and played rugby league when he used to live in Sydney.

  ‘Let’s go back and see how things are goin’.’ Mikey stands. ‘And find out if you’re still Crew Member of the Week.’

  Speaking of crew members, I know a kid who worked at McDonald’s. First night on, he got run over in the drive-through by a pizza delivery guy. Unbelievable.

  Mr Gates is sitting at his desk with about ten bottles of pills in front of him.

  ‘He liked the car because his daughter liked it,’ he says. ‘He just didn’t like the idea of the deal being done without him. I agreed completely. Although, of course, he did insist on keeping the five hundred dollars you’d knocked off the price. And then asked for another two fifty. But he bought it.’

  I nod, and let the figures fly away.

  ‘So, Marc – ’ Mr Gates pokes a pen into a gold pen holder. It takes him a couple of tries as his hands are pretty shaky. ‘Do you play golf at all?’

  I don’t. Well, mini golf I do, and I’m better at it than Trav, who got his putter caught in the windmill once. They actually go around, those things. It was quite powerful. We were surprised. Luckily Trav’s strong.

  ‘No,’ I say, ‘but my dad’s into it.’

  ‘Good.’ Mr Gates opens a drawer and brings out a clear-topped box filled with golf balls. ‘Give him these. Normally I would’ve given you a bottle of Scotch and some cash for selling your first car, but I think that’s probably against school rules. And most other rules to do with cars, as well.’

  I agree that it probably would be. Anyway, my dad’ll like the golf balls. He loses heaps. He probably wouldn’t have minded a bottle of Scotch, either. Or some cash.

  ‘Thanks, Mr Gates,’ I say. ‘Yeah, I’m glad it worked out. You know, Mikey and Belinda helped me through. I hardly did anything.’

  ‘Call me Vin, Marc.’ Mr Gates tilts back in his chair. I can see cracks open up in the black vinyl. ‘You must’ve done something right. And what you did do was important. You set up a deal. And deals make the world go round.’

  I nod, listening to Belinda’s keyboard clicking, and a tram groaning along. Mr Gates swallows a couple of red-and-white pills, and pulls a face, as if he doesn’t quite believe in their power.

  ‘Bloody things. But anyway, Marc, some day you’ll have to be part of some type of deal. Maybe not selling cars, but something that’ll allow you to do other things. Anyway, I’ve got to go back to the quack. Well done.’ Mr Gates gets up and we shake hands; his are dry and sand-papery. ‘I’ll see you later in the week.’

  ‘Yeah, I hope so,’ I say, and I mean it. ‘Thanks for letting me work here, er, Mr Gates,’ I add. ‘It’s a good place.’

  Mr Gates looks outside to where Mikey is at work with a sponge and a hose, and some guy is walking around warily, as if a car, or a salesperson, might leap on him like a panther.

  ‘I must say I always liked it, too.’ He looks at me. ‘Cars have always been a hell of a lot of fun. And keep your eye out for Electra. She’s a lovely girl. Belinda says you know her.’ Mr Gates loads his coat pockets with pill bottles. ‘She was going to come and live with my wife and me, but I got ill, so that was that. Now she boards with her coach. It would be nice, Marc, if you could help her find her way around the place.’

  It sure would.

  I nod. ‘Yeah, I’ll do my best. You know, if I see her around. For sure. See you, Mr Gates.’

  ‘Yeah, see you, Mr Jarvis.’ And we go outside, the sun shining, adding at least a thousand dollars’ value to every car.

  12

  We only have one compulsory session at footy training this week because of Work Experience, a
nd Trav and I spend most of it kicking for goal. This is because a box of vacuum cleaners fell onto Trav and he has sore ribs. Me, I just wandered down there when Coach Tindale wasn’t looking.

  ‘So how many were in the box?’ I ask, as the two of us line up at the fifty-metre mark like young guns who can kick the distance, but mostly can’t.

  ‘None.’ Trav starts his run-up, straight, steady, and way too long. ‘But it was a very high shelf.’

  Smack!

  The ball flies fast and high, and if it was straight, it’d be a great kick – but it’s not. It sails past the net, over the fence, and lands in someone’s pool.

  ‘Shit.’ Trav’s face compresses. ‘What happened there?’ He motions to me. ‘C’mon, Jarvy. Give us yours. I’ll nail it this time.’

  ‘No chance.’ I wave him away. ‘Go get that one. You can swim.’

  I start my run-up, looking up from the ball to where the goal posts stand high and white like two frosty aerials.

  Boot!

  I feel the hard/soft thud of perfect connection, and watch the ball fly to collide with the top of the post as if it was never going to miss.

  ‘That’s shitful,’ I say. ‘Anyway, I saw that girl again. The one from the movies.’

  Trav spits his chewy out. ‘Yeah, the one with no set. I remember.’

  ‘Well, I ran into her near home.’ No need to over-explain. ‘And hopefully I’ll be seeing her again tomorrow.’ I motion for the kick-out guys to send us a couple of footies, watching them coming our way, spinning. I have to chase mine, but Trav marks his single-handed.

  ‘This all sounds a bit too successful for you, Jarvy. But I’m listening.’ Trav bounces the ball as we head back to the arc. ‘Why don’t you get her along to watch us play a game one day? Show her your big arms.’