Jarvis 24

by David Metzenthen

  Trav knows I’ve been doing a heap of bicep and tricep work, although I have to say it’s been somewhat unsuccessful; although my veins show up more, so that’s cool. I even bought some power food bars from the health shop, but after about the first fifty, I was kind of over them.

  ‘I might,’ I say. ‘But she might not like footy. I didn’t ask her.’ Amongst many other things.

  ‘Marc bloody Jarvis!’

  I look around to see Coach Tindale flinging his arms around.

  ‘Whadda you doin’ kickin’ goals? You should be doin’ drills.’

  ‘Yeah, Marc.’ Trav gives me a filthy look. ‘You’re not injured.’

  I don’t answer Coach Tindale. I just try to look confused.

  ‘Five laps, Jarvis! Go!’

  I jog off toward the boundary line. I don’t care. Tindale can’t count. I’ll do two, blend in with the soccer guys, and that should see me over and out for the rest of the afternoon.

  Trav and I walk home. Cars pass in unbroken lines. Peak hour.

  ‘So what’d this chick have to say for herself?’ Trav hitches his bag over one shoulder so he can put his hands in his pockets. ‘What school’s she go to?’

  I can see this direct questioning could get quite tricky.

  ‘Ah, St Helen’s.’ No need to explain how I found that out.

  ‘So where’s she live? What street?’

  ‘Er, I dunno, exactly. I didn’t ask.’ Well, that’s true.

  Travis shoots me a look.

  ‘So what year’s she in, dumb-arse?’

  ‘I dunn – ’

  ‘Don’t.’ Trav holds up a warning finger. ‘But if she’s not at one of our games in the next few weeks, I’ll know you’re as soft as everyone thinks you are. Which brings me to my next question.’ Travis waggles the same finger. ‘Are you and me and your boyfriend still gunna do lunch tomorrow?’

  I laugh; it’d be good if Mikey came to lunch with us. And it won’t worry Trav, because he would never have asked if it did. I mean, deep down, although he’s hardcore, he’s not as bad as everyone thinks. Once he gave a street kid his jacket. Well, it was Dillon’s jacket, and too small anyway, but he didn’t have to.

  ‘Yep, still on,’ I say. ‘Come in at twelve. And that Electra Tesselaar, she lives at her coach’s house. It’s somewhere around here. Not too far. Maybe, er, Hawthorn. East. Or South.’

  Travis backs off up his street. ‘Her name’s what?’ He stops.

  ‘Electra Tesselaar.’ I hope I got the second bit right. I think that’s what Belinda said. Now I really do take a step out into unknown territory. ‘I think it’s Dutch.’

  ‘You made that up,’ Trav says, although he knows I don’t make stuff up about anything. Or not stuff that is important. Or would put anyone’s life in danger. ‘You’re shittin’ me?’

  ‘I’m not. That’s her name.’ I don’t think I’ll go much further with this today as it probably wouldn’t be particularly helpful. ‘Anyway, I might run into her again tomorrow. I’d say it’s very possible. The way things are going.’

  Trav looks at me carefully. ‘Not if she sees you first.’

  And that’s a point I guess I need to consider when setting up my athletic rendezvous; perhaps it might help to place a little more emphasis on the Marc E. Jarvis Ninja Element of Surprise. I mean, I wouldn’t hide behind a bush, or drop out of a tree, but I think some place between the visible and invisible might suit me fine.

  ‘I think you’re dwelling on the negative,’ I tell Trav, drawing on Ms Inglis’s fine use of the English language. ‘This could be the real thing.’

  Trav laughs. ‘I doubt it. But hey, you never know.’

  13

  The next morning I’m up early, which is unusual, but I’m on a mission. I have a shower before putting on my running gear, as I do not intend getting sweaty, then I get stuck into some serious styling, perfecting all hair angles, forward and back. Then I brush my teeth, steal some of the Monster’s moisturiser, and put on a different-coloured Elwood T-shirt from yesterday, as I don’t want Electra, if I see her, to think I’m a dirty pig.

  Then I do push-ups, bicep curls, and a few leg stretches, as it would be embarrassing to tear a hammy when I am whizzing around the park impersonating a charming and handsome potential Olympic athlete. And now for the acid test: the Early Morning Mirror.

  I take a look, under bright lights.

  Not so bad!

  M. E. Jarvis, 24, is ready to rock!

  I peer cautiously down the footpath, in case she’s ahead of the schedule that hopefully she’s on. Then, seeing the coast is clear, I head for the park, aiming to look something like a cross between a leopard and a male model/rock star/rodeo rider/genuinely cool guy.

  Once on the gravel path I start the first of hopefully not too many six-hundred-metre laps. As I slowly run, I concentrate on breathing smoothly in and out of my nose like a world-class sprinter, which will hopefully persuade Electra that I am a freakin’ human Ferrari, and obviously worth talking to.

  That’s the plan, anyway.

  Jogging, jogging, jogging. Boring, boring, boring. Marc, Marc, Marc. What’s goin’ on? I don’t know. But I’m not happy.

  I’ve run three laps and I’m beginning to sweat, which isn’t good, because I’ve got that much deodorant on it’s starting to steam up and sting my eyes. And there’s no way I can keep up the nose-breathing thing. Plus I’ll have to abandon the whole operation pretty soon, or I’ll be late for work. One more lap. Two, max. That’s all I can give it.

  I’ve hit a rhythm now as I’m pretty fit from a good footy pre-season. And because I feel good, and since it’s obvious that Electra’s a no-show, I decide to put in one final power shot to show some old guys that they were kidding themselves when they passed me halfway around before.

  I lift my rate. And go.

  I stretch out, running the bends in between the trees so fast that I have to lean in like a Japanese bullet train on the scenic route around Mount Fuji. Then, what the hell – I sprint the last bit absolutely flat-out, the legendary winged wingman, Marc E. Jarvis, 24, leaving for dead the poor pooper-scooping clowns wearing Country Road caps and carrying tennis balls covered in dog spit.

  Man, I’m flyin’ now, and I keep on flying until not only am I out of energy, I’m out of track, and I have to hit the anchors or have a head-on with Thomas the Tank Engine in the playground.

  Then, of course, when I’m absolutely shattered, resting hands-on-knees, sucking air like a seal through a hole in the ice, I see her.

  Electra’s running towards me like only an ultra-fit, ultra-fast girl can. Her shoes, two sky-blue pinpoints, prick the ground as if she’s sewing an invisible seam, her gaze level and unswerving. It’s obvious she was born to fly. Her style is stopwatch perfect, her legs like golden pistons, her pace I estimate close to world record time for this track.

  There’s no time for me to recover, start running, or hide. All I can do is look up into a face that is settled and calm, existing in the specialised zone available to only a few athletically evolved people, and say the only thing that I can say in one split second.

  ‘Hi.’

  ‘Hi,’ she says, and is gone, her shoes tick, tick, ticking.

  Then, possibly brought on by severe oxygen deprivation, I kind of lose my mind.

  ‘See you at GateWay car yard!’ I shout at her fast-disappearing back. ‘I’m doing Work Experience there! I’ll buy you a coffee! Belinda says to say hello!’ I feel as if I’ve started a boulder rolling down a hill, possibly towards a great big glasshouse full of rare orchids and critically endangered butterflies. ‘Welcome to Melbourne!’

  The running girl slows and eventually stops. She turns, standing hands on hips, thinking, I’d guess, some not very positive thoughts.

  ‘You can’t be serious.’

  ‘Yes!’ I yell back, and start to run after her. ‘Of course I am! Belinda told me about your sprinting, and that you come from Broome – ’ I’ve nearly caught up
to her so I ease off, not wanting her to run away, because I’ll never catch her then. ‘Of course I’m serious. Why wouldn’t I be?’ I can feel sweat trickling down my face.

  ‘Because you’re a maniac.’ She looks at me, arms crossed, her breathing deep and even. ‘My mother warned me about people like you.’

  ‘Well, yeah,’ I say, and smile what I hope is an award-winning and straight version of the Mikey model-boy smile. ‘She has a point. But truly, come on, we’ll do coffee. And I’ll tell you all about Melbourne and whatever. You know, since you’re new here. And I’m not.’

  ‘I’ve gotta go.’ She begins to move off backwards. ‘But maybe,’ she adds. ‘And that is only a maybe. And don’t follow me. Or I’ll call the police.’

  ‘Of course I won’t follow you,’ I say. ‘What d’you think I am? A stalker? Anyway, I’ll look out for you after school. You walk down Glenferrie road, don’t you?’

  ‘Not if I don’t want to.’ She smiles for one nano second, and is gone, in five strides regaining her rhythm, running so beautifully through the trees that someone should put her on a Nike poster. Or in a movie. Man, what a girl.

  So, hot and sweaty, I head for home. And, strangely enough, I don’t even feel too bad. After all, she smiled, didn’t she? And gave me a ‘maybe’.

  14

  Mikey and I are painting tyres with Tyre Black, which is black stuff that you paint on tyres, amazingly, to make them go black. It sinks into the rubber, it looks like it’ll do nothing, then somehow it makes even the oldest, baldest, most hopeless tyre look brand new. What a miracle product!

  I’m still amped after this morning’s conversation with Electra. Of course, I do know that if I tell Trav exactly what happened when I see him, he’ll think I’m an idiot. But when it comes to relationships, I think that everyone does things that are a little odd.

  One guy I know walked past a girl’s house six, maybe seven, times on a Saturday afternoon, until the police were called. I think he told them he had amnesia. Or that he’d lost his dog. Actually, he told them both; and that he’d forgotten what the dog’s name was, and what it looked like, and so it turned out to be a very hard dog to find (he doesn’t have a dog). They let him go with a warning – I’m not sure what about. The girl wouldn’t talk to him after that. A wasted afternoon, anyway.

  ‘Hey, Mikey.’ I keep clear of the Tyre Black, as it’s not the kind of stuff you want to get on your jeans. ‘What was school like where you grew up? Er, there.’ I laugh. ‘Wherever. In Queensland. Or was it South Australia?’

  Mikey squeezes the bridge of his nose. But he’s still smiling.

  ‘Well, primary school was all right. But from then on things got a bit tough, actually.’

  I can’t remember that much about primary school, apart from where it was, that Amelia-Anne was on the footy team, and that a jumper of mine was in the Lost Property Box for five years, which was a school record. That’s about it.

  ‘Why? Did you get into a few fights?’ It’s funny. Mikey and I know we’re not exactly talking about him being gay, we’re talking about the problems it caused him. I think. ‘I mean, you know. Over things.’

  ‘My fair share.’ Mikey leans against a car, holding a sponge that looks like a big yellow brain. ‘It was weird, though.’ He looks down. ‘Most of the kids who wanted to fight me didn’t even know why. Like, I’d never admitted anythin’, mostly probably because I hardly knew myself. So I dunno how that worked. Except that all the girls loved me. So work that out.’

  ‘I wish I could,’ I say. ‘It would help a lot.’

  Mikey grins, then free-throws his sponge into his bucket as if it were full of memories he’d rather not have.

  ‘Still, I could fight all right for a pretty boy. And my older brother, Brad, is a born killer.’ Mikey shows me a fist. ‘And no one wanted to tangle with him. Or not more than once.’

  That’s the best sort of brother, I reckon. It’d make school a whole lot more peaceful for a lot more people, gay or straight.

  ‘I’ve thought about it a lot,’ Mikey says, coming over. ‘That Brad sussed me early on but never said a word. Probably half the time I reckon he didn’t know whether he wanted to belt me, or the other kids. But, I guess because my mum told him to look after me, he did. That was one reason why I took off. To give everyone some peace and quiet. And the old man, too.’

  I know how this works. For example, I hate Gretchen, right? But if some guy, let’s say, pushed the boundaries inappropriately, then I’d flatten him without a doubt, and hard.

  ‘But he must like you,’ I say reasonably. ‘Mustn’t he? Otherwise he wouldn’t have got into the fights. So I’d say he seems pretty cool. A cool guy, anyway,’ I add, as a safety measure.

  Mikey looks up at the scrappy old streamers as if there might be some information there, but it seems that there’s not. He looks at me.

  ‘Nah, he’s not cool with it, Marc. But, hey, blood’s thicker than water. And the one thing he could do for me was fight, so he did. Same goes for the old man. He even belted a bloke down the pub. But everybody in town, apart from a couple of crazy girls, would’ve preferred it if I’d lived somewhere else. So now do you see why I had to take off?’

  ‘I’m beginning to get the picture.’

  We laugh, Mikey as cool as a Hollywood stuntman, knowing more about danger than most people.

  ‘Look, you know, Marc, it’s just the normal dysfunctional family nightmare.’ He shrugs. ‘But thanks for asking. You did ask, didn’t you?’

  ‘I think so,’ I say. ‘I can’t quite remember.’ I know we’re cool. ‘But I won’t ask if you’ve got a sister. Anyway, hey, d’you want to come to lunch with me and my mate, Trav? We’re just gunna grab a milkshake and roll or something. He’s a funny guy. He’s getting here about twelve.’

  Mikey runs a knuckle across his face, leaving a streak of Tyre Black.

  ‘Yeah, love to. Oops.’ He nods towards the footpath. ‘Incoming. A little old lady who only drives on Sundays. And probably not very well.’

  I spot a little old lady dressed in black. She looks like a beetle, waddling towards us up the drive.

  ‘Good morning,’ Mikey and I say, which is so ridiculous I step back and push Mikey forward, chimney-sweep face and all.

  The lady peers up at us crookedly from underneath a little black hat that has a folded edge like a gutter, which might just prove to be a great Feature, Advantage, or Benefit, if it was raining.

  ‘Good morning to you,’ she says. ‘I’m looking for Mr Marc Jarvis. One of my pupils, a musically gifted girl called Antonella Lockwood, said that he’s very reliable.’

  Mikey performs a loop-the-loop with a yellow rag.

  ‘Madame, this is the ever-reliable Mr Marc Jarvis. So I’ll wish you both a very good morning.’ And with that he slips back in amongst the cars like Robin Hood disappearing into the blackberries. ‘Adieu!’

  ‘She’s a really nice girl, Antonella,’ I say, which she is. ‘And talented my, er, word. She was telling me about that piano. My, she must be a gun. I mean, she says it’s a lot of fun. You know, all those keys, black and white. I don’t know how she does it. I truly don’t.’

  Oh, my God. I’ve turned into a monster.

  15

  Mrs van der Camp takes a good look around GateWay Auto. This she does by turning her head, then taking a few steps, until she has completed the whole 360 degrees.

  ‘Mmm,’ she says. ‘I’m confused.’

  ‘About what?’ I ask. ‘Cars?’

  ‘Yes, of course, cars.’ Mrs van der Camp looks at me a little strangely, which is fair enough because these days you never know who might spring an issue on you. ‘My little Humber is just about exhausted.’

  Hummer?

  ‘Oh, really?’ I look towards Glenferrie Road, expecting to see something like Samson the Monster Truck in camo colours. ‘Did you park it close?’

  Mrs van der Camp looks as if she’s having doubts about the good things Antonella said about
me, and so am I.

  ‘It’s right in front of you, Mr Jarvis. The little green one there with the white-wall tyres.’

  Little green one … with the … what the hell are white-wall tyres?

  Suddenly I see it. And them. And they’re exactly what she said they are; they’re tyres with white walls! And the car is little and green, with a rounded roof, and nothing at all like something off Black Hawk Down – it’s more like something out of an English police show set in a village full of idiots.

  ‘Oh!’ I say. ‘That sort of Humber! What a cool car.’ Suddenly it occurs to me that I’m supposed to be selling one of ours to her, not encouraging her to stick with one she’s already got. ‘So something small you’d be looking for? Automatic? With low K’s and an unbelievable warranty? What about …?’ I spot a little Honda that has road hog written all over it. ‘The Honda Civic in Arctic White? It’s compact but comfortable and has, er, four doors. For convenience in and out, er, front and back.’

  Plus very nicely blacked tyres, if I may say so myself, and windows that I cleaned less than ten minutes ago. So good on me again.

  ‘The windows aren’t very clean.’ Mrs van der Camp peers at the Honda. ‘Still, Marc, it is a nice little car. Mind you, I’m a part-time piano teacher, a widow, a pensioner, a tax payer, a rate payer, a senior citizen, a pet owner, and I don’t have a lot of money. How much is it?’

  I stand on tip-toes to read the detail sheet.

  ‘It’s ten thousand, nine hundred and ninety-nine dollars,’ I say, although that could be the registration. ‘But you do have your Humber to trade in, Mrs van der Camp. And Mr Vincent Gates, of GateWay Auto, has a discount policy for all senior citizens.’

  ‘How does that work?’ Mrs van der Camp peers at me from under her hat.

  ‘It varies,’ I say warily. ‘Depending.’

  ‘On what?’

  I’m regretting saying anything about it now.