‘On how senior you are,’ I come up with. ‘But as Mr Gates is not here at present, Belinda would be the best person to talk to. I can get her if you would be so kind as to wait.’ Idea! I open the driver’s door. ‘Take a seat, if you like. I’ll be back in one minute.’
Mrs van der Camp takes off her hat, revealing short grey hair that looks like another smaller hat.
‘All right, Marc. But first, help me into the car. And be so kind as to hold my hat.’
I do, and with my free hand, lower my new prospect slowly into the Honda.
‘Excuse me, Mr Jarvis.’
I look up to see Mikey grinning like a baboon.
‘Yes, what is it, er, Denzel?’ I snap. ‘Can’t you see that I’m assisting Mrs van der Camp with an automotive inquiry.’
Mikey’s grin widens.
‘Yes, I can see that. But if you like, I shall go and get Belinda, who can inform Mrs van der Camp fully of the GateWay Auto Senior Citizens Discount Policy and Loyalty Forwards Rewards Awards Bonus Points Scheme.’
I decide that this is the best fun I’ve had since Trav went by mistake into the ladies’ toilet at the circus, and all the girls started screaming.
‘Yes, very good, Denzel.’ I wave him away with Mrs van der Camp’s hat. ‘And do please bring me the keys for this vehicle. Merci.’
Mrs van der Camp looks up at me with satisfaction.
‘It’s nice to see some young men with manners. You don’t play the piano, do you, Marc?’
‘No, I don’t,’ I say. ‘But Denzel does. And he’s quite a good dancer. He did calisthenics for years. He was Queensland state champion.’ I know about calisthenics; Gretchen hit me on the head with one of the skittles.
Mrs van der Camp drums her fingers on the wheel, as if she’s keen to hit the highway.
‘Yes, he’s quite a graceful-looking young man. I can quite easily see you both on the stage. I’ve always liked theatrical boys.’
I’m not sure that’s all good. On the other hand, it could be true, given today’s performance. Maybe next year I will try out for the school musical? It’s certainly been a while since I starred in the kindergarten performance of Waltzing Matilda, as the sheep who went into the tuckerbag.
Mrs van der Camp and I go for a test-drive, which is an experience I’m not keen to repeat, as although she doesn’t drive fast, she drives close. To everything.
‘I might just pop down here, Marc.’ She points to the busiest road in the eastern suburbs where trucks, trams, cars, bikes, and buses all squeeze together under the one railway bridge.
Oh, no.
‘Of course,’ I say. ‘It’s a good idea to get a feel for the car in traffic.’
‘No, it’s not that.’ She lets go of the wheel. ‘Since we’re down this way, I thought you could nip in, and pick up my dry-cleaning for me.’
Well, I will, if I don’t have to pay for it.
We squeeze under the railway bridge, I pick up the dry-cleaning, we then go and pick up an ironing board Mrs van der Camp won in the Camberwell Lawn Bowling Club raffle, and buy some stamps and an avocado. Then, returning to GateWay, I see Travis, crippled with laughter, standing beside Dancing Denzel AKA Mikey.
‘Don’t mind that tall chap with Denzel, Mrs van der Camp,’ I say, as we drive in. ‘He’s a young lad with special needs that we’re sponsoring in a Read-a-Thon. Although, unfortunately, he’s only read one comic in two weeks. His background’s quite tragic. He was savaged by a bilby on Fraser Island and has never fully recovered.’
‘Yes, he looks a little odd,’ says Mrs van der Camp.
I nod. ‘I’d drive all the way up to the office. And keep the windows up.’ Politely I give Travis the finger as we pass.
16
Mikey, Travis and I do lunch, the three of us sitting at a table for four. I do note that Trav seems very careful not to bump knees with anyone, but apart from that he seems pretty relaxed, eating a salad roll that spills ham like a Labrador’s tongue.
‘So, Jarvy.’ He wipes his fingers on my serviette. ‘The Electric Telescope or whatever her name is. Anything to report? A super salesman like you shouldn’t have too many problems there, I wouldn’t think.’
This morning’s semi-accidental meeting with Electra seems like it took place years ago.
‘Well, I did run into her, Trav. By sheer chance.’ I look at Mikey. ‘You know Electra, don’t you, Mikey? The one who was going to stay with Mr Gates while she’s over here on an athletics scholarship?’
Mikey nods. ‘Yeah. She’s a great girl. Really nice. A speed machine.’
‘Well, I’ve met her,’ I add. ‘A couple of times. And things are kind of, well, going along.’
‘Oh, really?’ Trav eats chopped lettuce as if it is spaghetti. ‘Where? How? When?’
So I tell the entire story, even if it does make me look a little desperate.
‘You’re that freakin’ tragic it’s alarming, Jarvis.’ Trav looks at me. ‘But then again, it’s so pathetic it may just work.’
Mikey gives me a high five.
‘Marc,’ he says. ‘I think it was brilliant.’
‘Seriously, Mikey, don’t.’ Now Trav’s eating a bun with pink icing – not that that’s got anything to do with anything; not anything gay, anyway. ‘Yes, sure, what Marc did might be okay once. But it’s what he might do next time that worries me. Not that I’m saying he’d do anything weird – ’ Trav glances at me. ‘But he probably would. And then his whole family’d suffer. And he’d be hammered senseless at school.’ Trav sits back.
‘Says you,’ I say. ‘Who was the idiot who followed some girl home on some freakin’ dud train line, and got so lost you didn’t get back until eleven o’clock at night?’ It’s my turn to sit back now. ‘It wasn’t me, bright boy.’
Trav gives me a pitying look. ‘Yeah, well, genius, how was I s’posed to know the trains go through the city loop in a different direction after dark? What d’you think I am? Some kind of brain-dead train nerd?’
‘Obviously not.’ I eat the last bit of my lamington. ‘You’re not that smart.’
Trav turns his back on me. ‘Anyway, Michael, before I was so rudely interrupted – when are we getting along to this kickboxing gym of yours? I think I need to smack Marc really hard in the head.’
I notice Mikey’s eating a pink bun like Trav’s.
‘Tonight, if you’re keen.’ Mikey takes out a ten-dollar note. ‘I’m going at six. It’s only a couple of stops on the train, and it’ll only cost you like five bucks to hit the bags.’
‘We’re there.’ Trav brushes crumbs all over the floor. ‘But I think we’ll catch the tram.’
‘No wonder,’ I say, then add, just for fun, ‘Electra and I are going to do coffee, Trav. And you’re not invited.’
Trav wipes his hands on my shirt. ‘Yeah? I bet you’re not, either.’
Mrs van der Camp has bought the Honda, thanks to Belinda, who also managed to calculate the mysterious Marc Jarvis/ Vincent Gates Sliding Scale Senior Discount Awards Rewards Scheme. So it seems, at present, I am Salesman of the Week, with only Mikey having sold a Commodore that was used in a drive-by shooting, to some guy in a Scarface T-shirt.
‘It’s a good news week, boys.’ Belinda pours out a big pack of Twisties into a bowl as we kick back in the office in the afternoon. ‘Except that Vinnie’s back in hospital. I just got a call from his wife. He kind of fainted. And he isn’t real good.’
Silence descends. Obviously when someone’s not real good there’s a good chance they’re probably real bad.
‘Barbara says they’re going to keep him in. For a while. To do some tests. Some more tests,’ Belinda adds.
I visited Amelia-Anne in hospital, and although it was well over a year ago, I still think it was the hardest thing I’ve ever done, because she was too sick for words, and I was too destroyed to speak – except that when you have to say goodbye to someone, you do. You ignore all the machines, monitors, tubes and other people, and you talk. And all I can ever hope is
that she heard me, because if I’d lost that chance, as well as losing her, I would’ve never got over it.
I still haven’t, anyway. I have a great big hole in me, jagged and wide, that I feel myself falling into every other day.
‘We’ll go and visit, Mikey.’ Belinda opens a bottle of Diet Coke. ‘On the weekend. Same place. More serious. God, sometimes life sucks.’
I can tell that Belinda needs to talk to Mikey alone.
‘I’m going out.’ I stand up. ‘To clean Antonella’s car.’ Which shouldn’t take long, as it’s clean already. ‘Didn’t her dad say she’s coming in to get it?’
‘Tomorrow,’ says Belinda. ‘In the morning.’ She dabs at her eyes with a tissue. ‘Don’t mind me, Marc. It’s just one of those things you’d think you’d get used to. But you don’t.’
I know that. You don’t get used to it. And you don’t forget about it. It’s as if sadness turns into an endless echo, coming from near and far, and at times you least expect it.
17
The kickboxing gym is noisy, it stinks, and it’s full of people beating up blue and red punching bags as fast and as hard as they can. The sound of speedballs is like machine-gun fire.
‘I like it.’ Trav looks around admiringly. ‘Let’s get into it. There’s Mikey over by the drinking thing.’
We make our way through the gym to catch up with Mikey, me and Trav dressed in the seriously traditional kickboxing uniform of runners, boardshorts, and cut-off footy jumpers. Mikey, in long white shorts and a black singlet, laughs when he sees us. He has his hair tied back and up; not a look I’ll be trying any time soon.
‘Hey, boys. Don’t you guys look the real deal.’ Mikey points with a drink bottle towards a small glassed-in office. ‘Just wait here a minute while I go and get Rocco. He’s the boss. Kind of like to check you in.’
Trav and I wait, watching guys and a few girls with flying ponytails smashing anything that moves. I can tell Trav’s itching to let loose, as he’s always trying to hit something or someone, often me. Plus he has an extremely high pain threshold, in that he doesn’t care who he hurts, or how much.
‘We need some of those handwrap things.’ Trav waggles his fists. ‘We’ll look like pussies without ’em.’
Good point. Everyone has their hands wrapped like professional fighters, even some big weird jellyfish guy wearing a green cardigan.
‘I’m down for the black ones.’ Trav nods seriously. ‘The yellow ones are gay.’ He laughs then punches me in the ribs. ‘Uncool, I mean.’
We wait, listening to the ticking of skipping ropes, and the hard smacking of gloves as everyone trains as if they want to kill somebody, even those shadow-boxing themselves in the mirrors. I see Mikey coming back over with a guy in a black windcheater, who’s built like a concrete mixer – a concrete mixer that doesn’t shave a lot.
‘Travis and Marc,’ Mikey says, arriving. ‘This is Rocco Galtieri. The boss. He’ll get you started.’
We shake hands with Rocco. He’s like a planet with his own onion-scented atmosphere. His eyes are black, he has arms like logs.
‘Now, boyss. Lissen.’
We listen.
Rocco holds up two massive fingers. ‘We drain for doo minutes. Then we rest for one minud, and lissen to da music while we seddle da mind and da breethin’. But no dancin’, please. And rememmer dis.’ He lifts a fist, wrapped in black. ‘Da baddle never ends. Neffer effer. Da baddle neffer ends!’
‘Right on, Mister Rocco,’ says Trav, with feeling. ‘Let’s get started!’
Rocco watches as Trav and I work on opposite sides of a heavy punching bag. Basically we’re okay with the old left jab, straight right, left cross routine, which Trav’s dad taught us years ago. Then Rocco has us ripping with elbows, knees, and back fists – all good stuff that is going straight into Trav and Marc’s Personal Encyclopaedia: Fight Technology For Use On The Street And Perhaps On The Sporting Field If Things Get Out Of Hand.
‘Keep your breethin’!’ Rocco shouts. ‘Hanz up! Elpows in! Prodect your rips!’ He holds up fists as large as pineapples. ‘Now addack!’
I’m doing my best, no longer worried that I have yellow handwraps, because Trav got the last of the black ones, and that the girl next to me has bigger biceps than mine. What worries me now is lack of oxygen, and the possibility of a teenage heart attack that might get me onto A Current Affair.
‘Nice work, boyss!’ Rocco shouts. ‘Han zup! Han zup!’
I’m fading.
‘Marc!’ Rocco roars at me like a Kodiak bear. ‘Dat bag gunna kill you! No sleepy time yet! Ponch him! Kneep him! Elpow him!’
I try, but my elpows sag, my kneeps are exhausted, and my ponchs sock. The world title’s slipping away. The bag’s killing me. I’m in the red zone. I’m goin’ down… then, in the distance, through a wall of pain, I hear something. Is it the bell?
No! It’s YMCA, the extended dance mix.
I’ve been saved by the Village People!
For a while Trav and I practise a basic front kick that Rocco taught us, then we wander over to watch Mikey spar with some guy with red dreadlocks. Unlike us, they have bare feet, shin guards, mouth guards, and head gear. And they mean business.
It’s cool to watch. The red-headed guy is light and fast, flicking out jabs and kicks, sometimes leaning back on the ropes, weaving and swaying like a cobra, waiting for Mikey who slides in, watchful, almost still, before unleashing kicks and fists, forcing the other guy into the corner. Then it’s all on, gloves, knees and feet flying.
‘Go, Mikey!’ Trav leans on the ropes. ‘Punches in bunches!’
Mikey punches fast and kicks hard, only stopping when the bell rings. Then he and the other guy touch gloves, the music starts, and everyone rests.
Man, if only real fights were like that, the world would be a better place.
While we’re waiting for Mikey, Trav and I find a corner as far away from Rocco as we can get, and punch these pumped-up leather balls on big rubber bands. The idea is that as soon as you hit them they bounce back, meaning the whole exercise can go on indefinitely if you have the energy. Fortunately, a girl with black handwraps, cropped white hair, and a panther tattoo on her arm, interrupts us.
‘Do either of you guys want to spar?’ She holds up a fist that looks like a little black hand grenade. ‘Just for a couple of rounds?’
Of course we don’t. Why would we? Talk about lose-lose. You fight with a chick and she beats you up. Is that good? No. Or, you fight with a chick and you beat her up. Is that good? No, none of it’s good. Wrestling might be okay, but that’s a different story.
‘No thanks,’ says Trav. ‘We’re just beginners. We really only came to watch our mate, Mikey. And to listen to the music.’
‘In the Navy’ is on.
The girl, who’s small and stocky, studies Travis. I actually think she’s pretty cute. Firstly, because she doesn’t push the sparring issue. Secondly, because she’s very pretty in a chubby sort of a way. And thirdly, because she smells like dried apricots, which I like.
She glances at Mikey, who is talking to the red-headed guy he’s been punching up. How civilised. They’re even using a bucket to spit in.
‘Yeah, he’s a lovely guy, Michael.’ The girl wipes her mouth guard on her singlet. ‘So, are you guys … um, pardon me for asking, gay friends of Michael’s?’
I laugh, but Trav is so shocked he looks as if he’s hit an electric fence.
‘Us? Shit, no!’ Trav elbows me. ‘No way. Mikey’s a mate of Marc’s from work. I’ve only met him today. We’re straight-as.’ Trav laughs at something I think he’s about to say. ‘Well, maybe Marc’s a little dodgy, but no. Really. We’re straight.’
‘Cool.’ The girl smiles. ‘I’m not. Anyway, so are you comin’ along to help him paint the gallery on Sunday? Me and my girlfriend, Jodie, are.’
I struggle to pretend I’m not a little shocked, as this girl is the first self-confessed lesbian I’ve ever met. I mean, there’s a lady in our st
reet who plays in a brass band and wears marching pants, but that could mean anything.
‘We didn’t know that he was,’ I say. ‘Painting, I mean. But yeah, we could get along, couldn’t we, Trav? Sunday’d be okay. No problem.’
‘My name’s Imogen.’ The girl puts out her black-wrapped hand and I put out my yellow one. We shake bro-style. ‘Call me Immy.’
I introduce myself and Trav, who is unusually quiet now, probably because we don’t meet that many lesbians at an all boys’ school.
‘We might see you Sunday then,’ I say. ‘We’ll try and get there, for sure.’
‘Great. Lovely. See you.’ And Immy heads off, leaving us to raise our eyebrows like actors in a soap opera when someone’s just got up off a life support machine to unload the dishwasher.
‘Now, Marc. Listen.’ Trav drops a hand onto my shoulder. ‘I know you’re never gunna be the kind of guy who’ll make school captain or house captain. Or even be an arsehole prefect. But I reckon there’s a good chance you could become one of the real superstars of the gay community.’ And with that, he goes back to the floor-to-ceiling ball, laughing so hard he can hardly hit.
We stand at the station in the rain, me minus a spray jacket that I left somewhere, which is a pity because I’d just found it again a week ago. While we wait, I check out the computer studies nerds, all carrying laptops, wearing glasses and strange shoes, although I must say that some of the girls look okay. I could catalogue quite a few of them, no worries. Even Tandy Electronic ads need babes. In fact, they probably need them more than anyone.
‘We met a very nice lesbian at the gym,’ Trav tells Mikey. ‘Imogen. I believe she’s a house painter.’
‘What he means,’ I say, ‘is that we’re coming around to help you paint on Sunday. I’ll bring my dad’s stepladder, if you want. And some brushes.’
For a moment Mikey says nothing, and I listen to the rain pattering on the tin roof, and try to pick which girl I can see that I’d most like to go out with. In the end I select an Indian chick with a nose stud in tight white jeans who’s eating chips with sauce.
Jarvis 24 Page 7
