Jarvis 24

by David Metzenthen

  To be able to do something that has the power to change your whole life is a big thing. And perhaps, for Electra, coming to Melbourne might only be the start of it. But I don’t like to think any further than that, so I won’t.

  ‘Hey, Marc.’ Mikey puts his cup down on the steps. ‘Belinda and I went to see Vinnie yesterday. He sends you his best wishes. He’s not real well but he’s hangin’ in there. We took him flowers.’ Mikey smiles. ‘Lots of flowers.’

  ‘That’s nice,’ I say enigmatically, now that I’ve got a good hold on that word. ‘So, d’you think he’ll go home in a while? Or –’

  Mikey looks for a few seconds at the front garden, which is really just a row of dead sticks. Now there’s where you could do with some flowers. ‘Maybe not. I get the feeling that where they’ve put him is the place you go when you’re running out of time, and they’ve run out of ideas.’ Mikey crosses his arms. ‘But they’re looking after him. They’re doing everything they can. They’re lovely people.’

  I understand what Mikey’s saying; that sometimes death’s a fact of life, no matter what hospital you’re in. And it can’t be ignored, even when it’s the last thing you want to deal with. I know; I only have to think about Amelia-Anne.

  But never have I ever used the word ‘dead’ to describe her, because it doesn’t fit, and it doesn’t sound right because it’s too tragic and too wrong. I just think about things she did, most of them mad. And perhaps I might even start to invent things that she would’ve done, just so that she can go on, my twin 24, because that was the number of freckles she had on her back when we were thirteen, and I needed a lucky number for footy.

  ‘On a brighter note,’ says Mikey, bringing me back to the real world. ‘Let’s call it a day and I’ll shout tea. We can walk down for a pizza.’

  You got me.

  29

  I realise the pizza place we’re going to is owned by Carlo from school, which turns out to be lucky for us, because just as Sunday afternoon is turning into Sunday night, some guys in a passing Commodore hose us down with a stream of abuse about dykes without bikes, fags, and our mothers, which Trav returns with interest.

  Immediately I feel FEAR unfold a camping chair and take up residence in my stomach, because the car stops down the road, doors fly open, and five guys head back towards us like German storm-troopers about to harass a group of innocent Swiss house painters on their way to the noodle bar.

  ‘Uh-oh, ladies and gents.’ Mikey glances left and right. ‘I’m predicting a little heavy weather. So let’s just keep on walking to the pizza joint, okay? And see if we can’t get inside.’

  Trav tenses up, which I did years ago. I hate this kind of crap. It’s complicated and it’s dangerous, and don’t let anyone tell you any different.

  ‘Be calm, everyone,’ Mikey says. ‘Let me do the talking, if there’s goin’ to be any. Otherwise, protect yourself first then help the other guys.’

  It makes sense to listen to Mikey, as he’s the oldest, and has done the most kickboxing.

  ‘I think you might have to make it a pretty quick chat, Mikey,’ Trav says. ‘They don’t look smart enough to do much talking.’

  Trav’s right. The car guys, two with those modern Mohawks that footy players love, plus a couple of plain old rough-heads, and a guy with a mop-top cut that has to be a joke or a wig, seem intent on war.

  ‘I thought the world had moved on from this type of shit,’ Immy says, staring dead ahead. ‘What kind of people are these?’

  ‘The enemy,’ says Jodie.

  Correct. Even FEAR agrees on that score.

  ‘I wish Rocco was here,’ she adds. ‘They wouldn’t even get started.’

  Yep, and if Rocco could bring along Danny Green, the boxer, that’d be good, because Danny seems like a nice guy who can punch holes in steel. Plus three or four of those wrestler chicks from Smackdown would be handy, because they can kick arse, and, just for interest’s sake, I’d like to see how big they really are.

  ‘We stick together,’ says Mikey. ‘It’ll be okay.’

  Right now we’re about forty metres away from the door of Carlo’s restaurant, where I wish I was already, sitting down reading the menu. Instead, I’m facing five guys looking at us as if we’ve just put their pet pit bull in a sack, and thrown it off the Westgate bridge.

  ‘You’ll be right, Jarvy.’ Trav lightly whacks my shoulder. ‘Hands up. Chin down. Keep moving. Don’t wait.’

  I gulp, as if I’m kind of swallowing that information.

  ‘Right,’ I say, wishing like hell I was home. ‘Yup.’

  Now we’re walking past the kitchen window, where guys in white T-shirts are shovelling pizzas into a big oven. The restaurant door is still miles away.

  ‘If possible, Trav,’ I suggest. ‘Let’s try to keep this non-contact.’

  But if it does start, I instruct myself to punch hard and straight, kick low, stay low, and protect myself at all times, as the referee says on Big Time Boxing. And cover my head if I go down. And keep off the tram tracks.

  ‘You fuckin’ weirdos,’ says one of the mohawk guys who wears a cut-off cowboy shirt. ‘You need a good smackin’.’ He holds his hands up as if he’s posing before a world title fight. ‘You’re gunna get hurt.’

  ‘Oh, aren’t we allowed to walk down the street, mate?’ Immy says. ‘Why don’t you leave us alone? I mean, we’re just headin’ home after visiting Stevie’s little brother who’s in hospital after a hit-and-run. So chill, eh? We’ve got enough shit to deal with. Not to mention it’s not cool to attack girls, and I just rang the cop shop that’s fifty metres away in Roslyn Road.’

  The cop shop used to be in Roslyn Road, but it’s not there anymore. I think it’s a Leaf Blower Showroom.

  ‘Ugly cow,’ says another guy, who has tattooed barbed wire wrapped about six times around both his arms. ‘Rich pricks. Dykes. Homos.’ He does this karate thing with his hands. ‘Bring it on.’

  It seems that at least two of these guys couldn’t care less about our little brother in hospital.

  ‘Make yore move.’

  I look straight ahead, the mop-head guy opposite nods at me as if he thinks it was me who put their dog in the sack, and then went and got the bricks. ‘I’m gunna kill you,’ he mouths, his eyes locked onto mine. ‘You’re fuckin’ dead.’

  I click over a notch and drop lower in my stance.

  ‘I’ll bite your nose off,’ he adds, which is a line from a movie, I think. And not a very good movie, either. ‘You skinny prick.’

  The cowboy shirt guy shows us some of the Ali Shuffle. Trav raises his left hand as if he’s got something reasonable to say, but instead throws the fastest overhand right I’ve seen in real life. Shirt-guy ducks, but gets clipped anyway, and down he goes.

  Then it’s a blur of bodies and blows in a sea of swearing and shouting, me managing to connect with a straight kick and a soft punch, the whole world seething with violence and heavy contact until people, big people, in black shirts and black pants, suddenly erupt out of a huge black car that’s pulled into the No Standing zone like a race car into the pits.

  ‘Italia to the rescue!’ I hear a voice yell. ‘Go, go, go!’

  It’s Carlo. And into the chaos, Carlo and his brothers, cousins, and entire extended family move like a formation of tanned bulldozers.

  ‘Back off!’ they yell, like riot police. ‘Back off! Back off! Back off! Back oof!’ And then they start to fight.

  I get hit but it doesn’t hurt. Then I fall over but that’s not too bad, either. So I throw about five uppercuts into the fly of a pair of jeans I don’t like, get up, and suddenly find myself with no one in front of me as Carlo and his army have swept the enemy back, taking Trav and Mikey with them, leaving me, Immy and Jodie to catch our breath and follow on.

  ‘This is no good,’ I hear Carlo’s dad say, an enormous guy in a grey suit, his hair swept back in a silvery wave, hands glinting with gold. ‘Not nice. No good for business. No good for boys. No good for
gurls,’ he adds, with a sideways glance at Immy and Jodie. ‘No good at all.’

  Then it’s over – the car guys are back in their beast and gone, leaving me to simply enjoy the knowledge that I am still a walking, talking, fully functional human being. And so it seems is everyone else, especially Carlo, who’s on over-drive motor-drive to the max. He’s dancing, shadow-boxing, grinning and spinning, and making one huge racket.

  ‘Too great! Too great!’ He bounces around between his cousins and/or brothers as they come walking back. ‘Just too great!’

  Mikey turns, walking back towards us, shaking a skinned hand, a graze on his forehead dripping blood onto his shirt.

  ‘I’m really sorry that happened, Marc.’ He gives me a sad smile when he gets close enough. ‘I just don’t know how else we could’ve played it.’ He dabs at his forehead with Immy’s hanky. ‘Everyone’s all right, though. Thank God. Man, I’m so sorry. I’ve spent most of my life trying to avoid stuff like that.’

  ‘Everybody!’ Carlo’s teeth flash like a neon sign. ‘Come inside for pizza!’ He shoots a mad grin at his dad. ‘Whadda you say, Papa? It’s pizza, pizza, pizza, on the house!’ Carlo goes over, bearhugs his dad, and tries to lift him off the ground. ‘It’s the Italian way.’

  We don’t move. The five of us stand loosely together like the survivors of a shipwreck.

  ‘Nah, I don’t think so, Carlo,’ Trav says. ‘I think we might just head off.’ Trav’s pretty toned down. He shakes Carlo’s hand. ‘But thanks, man. You and your bros. Thanks a lot.’

  Mr Caleja steps forward, like the star of a big budget crime show. ‘No. Come in. Everyone.’ He sweeps a big arm around. ‘But Carlo will take you around the side as I want no more fighting. But you are all very welcome. I insist. And my big boys will make sure all is safe.’

  That sounds good; safe is good. So in we go, although I’m not so sure I’ll be eating all that much, as my heart is beating that hard it’s as if someone’s bouncing on my chest on a pogo stick.

  Still, it’s reassuring that it’s working.

  We walk through the back streets to Mikey’s place under street lights that follow the road like a string of pale moons. Then we say goodbye, hugs all-round, which seems right after what we’ve been through.

  ‘What about your ladder, Marc?’ Mikey says. ‘How about I take it to the car yard tomorrow? And you can pick it up on your way home from school.’

  Trav laughs. He has a couple of big red welts on his face, but as usual, I think he gave out far more punishment than he got. Some people are just like that.

  ‘Not happening, Mikey.’ I shake my head to emphasise that I’m not carrying any ladder anywhere anytime on public transport ever again. ‘I’ll get the old man to come’n get it. Anyway, you might still need it. Keep it here. No problem.’

  ‘I wish,’ says Jodie suddenly, her sharply cut short hair snow-white under the street lights, ‘that there were guys like you at the school I went to, because you’re so – ’

  ‘Lovely!’ Immy grabs my wrist, and kisses me hard on the lips. ‘Thank you, Marc.’ She turns to Trav and kisses him. ‘And thank you, Travis. We love you both.’

  Well, for once I guess I can’t say I didn’t do anything exciting on the weekend, although I doubt Ms Inglis would approve.

  I’m quite happy to walk all the way home, as I need time to calm down after the fight; it’s one of those things that I know I’ll replay for the rest of my life, from about fifty angles. Looking on the bright side, at least I didn’t lose anything, like my teeth, for example.

  ‘Boy, that Immy can go a bit.’ Trav stops to pick up a mad little ginger cat that’s happily tagging along with us, its tail up like a flag. ‘Still, lucky Carlo dropped in. Man, that was spectacular. I am definitely going to talk to Tindale about him bein’ captain. Talk about leadership. Blam! Right off the front foot.’

  Trav must be impressed, as he only ever talks to teachers to tell them he’s going to the dentist or a funeral; which he does in rotation, otherwise they’d work out he’s been having a filling, or going to a church service, every month for the last two years.

  ‘Yep.’ Trav puts the little cat up a tree. ‘We need someone who’s prepared to cross the line. I mean, that’s if the other pricks cross the line first. Or look like they might.’

  Lines, and crossing them, are tricky concepts, especially to do with fighting; my idea being that I stand behind the line, but I am also ready to cross the line in an emergency, or in self-defence. This does not mean I’m prepared to let the other guy hit me first.

  ‘Then maybe,’ I say, ‘Carlo could explain to Tindale how the interchange bench should work.’

  ‘As in, that you and I should never be on it.’ Trav’s standing on tiptoes trying to see what’s on someone’s upstairs large-screen TV. ‘Unless it’s too muddy out on the ground.’

  Exactly.

  30

  After school on Wednesday I go to watch Electra train at the Eslake Athletics Reserve. Circled by concrete walls, the synthetic track looks like a big red plug in a big grey basin. Above it is parkland dotted with ancient trees that stoop like old guys who got stuck picking up litter, of which there’s quite a lot, I might add. Trees and litter, that is. Not old guys.

  I sit in the small grandstand, catching sight of Electra on the far side of the track. She’s with another girl, setting up starting blocks, and I must say both of them look, well, extremely professional and extremely athletic in black tights, tight tops, and space-age fluoro running spikes.

  ‘Man,’ I murmur, because I actually can’t help it, as they look quite sexy.

  I watch them kneel, kick their feet back before delicately lowering their spikes into the blocks, and now, balanced on fingers splayed like little Eiffel Towers, they rise, get ready – and go, but not fast and not far, running only a few metres before slowing and walking back to repeat the whole process. I guess this is called warming-up, and it’s kind of hypnotic.

  It’s also like watching someone you know become a stranger again right before your very eyes. I get the feeling that I’m about to see Electra do something that no other person I know can do. She looks so quick, so balanced, so confident, and so specialised it gives me goosebumps.

  Of course, I’ve seen people run, and run fast. But when I look at Electra, knowing where she’s come from, what she’s like, and how she looks right now, I know her decision to come to Melbourne is nowhere near as simple as people might think.

  She hasn’t been bought by her school like a racehorse; I think that Electra has gracefully allowed herself to be brought over here to run for them. And stay, I hope, for a long, long time.

  Now, finally, Electra and the other girl are poised on fingertips, long legs angled like arrowheads. From some old guy I hear a single clap, then the girls are running, hands flashing, legs powering, absolutely everything about them moving forward.

  So quickly do they accelerate they seem to float along the concrete wall like images on a silver screen. Above them the darkening park is poised – a distant solar system, icy and black, the two girls flashing through it like twin comets on their way to the future, their spikes trailing fiery orange and green fluorescence as they enter the bend, stride for stride, as if this is an exercise in style, to see how perfectly they can mirror each other.

  Together they lean into the curve, taking power from the angled track, running the long bend before sweeping out into the straight, where Electra pulls away as if all she has to do is lift her hands a little higher, and stride a little longer, and there will be all the speed she’ll ever need.

  She is metres in front, the muscles in her legs absorbing shock after shock, every movement balanced, precise and effortless. Yet I know it’s not effortless at all; that it relies on muscle and mind power and plenty of both. Then she’s pulling up, two hundred metres run, slowing to an elegant, long-legged jog, as if she’s reluctant to end what was so perfect that it had to be an illusion. But it wasn’t; it was beautiful, t
hat’s what it was. Beautiful.

  I kid me not.

  It was.

  I watch Electra walking towards the other girl, hands on hips, smiling, and I don’t think I’ll ever be the same. I mean, I knew I really liked her before tonight; hell, I might have known it before I even talked to her. But seeing her here, doing what she does, has added another dimension.

  The problem is, I can also see that what she loves is running, and running either makes her free in a way I don’t understand, or holds her prisoner in a way that I do, because talent like that cannot be ignored because it’s big time.

  I see a guy in a black jacket holding a clipboard, talking to the old guy that I think is Electra’s coach. They’re both watching her closely, and you don’t have to be a genius to see they’re discussing her, her speed, her future. So how does Marc Jarvis, 24, wingless wingman, loser of property, fit into this equation?

  That’s a very good question.

  Electra and the other girl sit beside their bags and take off their spikes, talking and laughing before standing to pull on tracksuits and windcheaters. It’s like watching a DVD of a secret society, and that’s not only because I’m watching two girls getting dressed; it’s because Electra exists in a specialised zone where only speed will get you in. Luckily, the speed zone isn’t the zone that I want to be in with her; it’s the other one. The normal zone.

  Electra stands, slings her bag over her shoulder, says a few words to a few people, including her coach and the black jacket guy, then heads for the gate. I move to meet her, hoping she’ll want to talk to me, whilst admitting that there’s a chance that she won’t, as that has happened before with girls who I felt seemed to like me at some point. And as inexplicable as this was (to me, anyhow), I’m prepared – well, I really have no choice – to risk having it happen again.