The Way We Roll

by Scot Gardner

  Also by Scot Gardner

  The Detachable Boy

  Bookmark Days

  Happy as Larry

  The Dead I Know

  This project has been assisted by the Australian Government through the Australia Council, its arts funding and advisory body.

  First published by Allen & Unwin in 2016

  Copyright © Scot Gardner 2016

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the publisher. The Australian Copyright Act 1968 (the Act) allows a maximum of one chapter or ten per cent of this book, whichever is the greater, to be photocopied by any educational institution for its educational purposes provided that the educational institution (or body that administers it) has given a remuneration notice to the Copyright Agency (Australia) under the Act.

  Allen & Unwin

  83 Alexander Street, Crows Nest NSW 2065, Australia

  Phone: (61 2) 8425 0100

  Email: info@allenandunwin.com

  Web: www.allenandunwin.com

  A Cataloguing-in-Publication entry is available from the National Library of Australia

  www.trove.nla.gov.au.

  ISBN (AUS) 978 1 76029 039 9

  eISBN 978 1 95253 339 6

  Teachers’ notes available from www.allenandunwin.com

  Cover design by Astred Hicks, Design Cherry

  Cover photos: Red Wall: Christian Adams / Getty Images; Shopping trolley: Glenn Homann / EyeEm / Getty Images; Goat: Eric Isselee / Shutterstock

  Typeset by Midland Typesetters, Australia

  For Robyn

  Contents

  Smashed

  Purse

  Cat

  Lies

  Crew

  Shagged

  Freak

  Share

  Father

  Surprise

  Overshare

  Security

  Boss

  Raven

  Partay

  Naked

  Video

  Box

  Porsche

  Biology

  Claire

  Escort

  Toxic

  Gangsta

  List

  Acknowledgements

  About the author

  SMASHED

  ‘WHAT WE’RE LOOKING for,’ Julian began, and I paused to listen, ‘is a group of hot Asian chicks. Younger than say . . . twenty. School kids ideally, but they’re probably all at school.’

  I’d followed him through the tradesman’s entrance into the food court to do what a hundred and eleven-teen other people were doing at lunchtime on a weekday, but he seemed to have lost focus.

  ‘You’re having hot Asian chicks for lunch?’

  ‘There’s a thought.’

  His tattooed biceps twitched as he drummed without rhythm on the back of an empty chair and scanned the crowd. A pair of sparrows flew low over the tables.

  ‘Bingo!’ he hissed, and began weaving between the seated diners. He stopped short of a group of four girls, each with long, straight black hair and delicate physiques, eating delicate food with delicate movements of disposable plastic forks, chatting in . . . Mandarin? I joined Julian. Yes, Mandarin.

  ‘What are we—’ I whispered.

  Julian raised a finger and stared absently at the front of the ice-creamery.

  The girls collected their phones and handbags and left.

  Julian swept into one of the vacated seats and gestured for me to sit opposite.

  ‘We’ve got a fair whack of noodles here, even if she did eat all the chicken.’

  He handed me a plastic fork and began shovelling sauce-stained noodles into his gob. ‘Sit,’ he said. ‘Have some of that rice.’

  ‘I’m not sure about eating a stranger’s leftovers.’

  ‘They’re not strangers, Will. They’re hotties you haven’t hooked up with yet.’

  I looked around. People ate. I sat down.

  Julian inspected a serviette then wiped his mouth with it. ‘I ask myself, “Would I get nasty with that woman?” If the answer is yes, then eating her lunch is like fast-forwarding to the good bits. Sharing spit can be gross or horny – you choose.’

  ‘Germs?’

  ‘Don’t think about it, can’t catch it. That’s my motto.’

  ‘Why not buy your lunch?’

  ‘Could,’ he said. ‘I’m providing a community service here. Recycling. Stops the bins filling up.’

  ‘Why Asian women?’

  Julian shrugged. ‘Eat like birds. Never clean up.’

  I took a forkful of rice.

  Julian chewed and nodded. ‘Seeing this is our first official date, I think you should tell me a bit about yourself. How long you been pushing trolleys?’

  ‘Three months.’

  ‘See, that’s just sick. How could we work for the same company for three months and never have a proper conversation?’

  ‘Easy,’ I said. ‘While Doug was sick you were always with Ricky.’

  ‘And you were a total loner.’

  ‘That was Joanie’s idea. She gave me a day’s work without any promises and I went at it as hard as I could. I turned up the next day and the next and she eventually gave me regular shifts.’

  He nodded and shovelled more noodles. ‘What did you do before this place?’

  ‘School.’

  ‘Oh yeah? Which one?’

  ‘St Alphaeus.’

  ‘Whoo, an Alfie? You gay?’

  ‘Not that I know of,’ I said.

  ‘Where do you live?’

  ‘Garland.’

  ‘Ha! Why’s an Alfie from Garland pushing trolleys? Shouldn’t you be in a bank?’

  ‘Not my style.’

  ‘Why’d you leave school then? How old are you? Seventeen?’

  ‘Yep,’ I said.

  Julian munched. Munched and stared. ‘And?’

  I shrugged. ‘It’s complicated.’

  Julian rocked back in his chair. ‘I hate that. “It’s complicated.” Just answer the question.’

  ‘I . . . I’d had enough of school.’

  ‘What’s complicated about that? School sucks arse.’

  I laughed and took another forkful. The rice was good.

  ‘Family?’

  ‘Dad works offshore. One older sister, Sofie, studying Arts/Law at Huddington. They don’t talk.’

  ‘Do you guys talk?’

  ‘Father, no. Sister? Facebook, mostly.’

  ‘Pets?’

  ‘Two dogs. Rottweilers.’

  ‘Names?’

  ‘Dillon and Maude.’

  ‘Named after relos, I bet.’

  I shook my head. ‘Poets, I think.’

  ‘Only in Garland!’ he said. ‘Girlfriend? Or boyfriend? Whatever.’

  ‘Girlfriend. Not anymore.’

  ‘Enough said. Mum?’

  ‘She died when I was five. Is that my twenty questions done? I’m trying to eat.’

  ‘Sorry, Will. Sorry. You ask me.’

  ‘Okay, same.’

  ‘That’s just lazy,’ he grumbled.

  ‘So fire me.’

  ‘You’re fired,’ he said, and shot me with a finger pistol. ‘I live in West Tennant. Westie born and bred.’

  He held both fists in the air and nodded to the indifferent crowd as if they were his fans. His tribal tattoos continued onto the pale skin under his arms.

  ‘I was in juvie for smashing a bloke. Mum and Dad are around but they don’t live together. I live with Mum and my older brother, Duane. He’s gay but he doesn’t know it. Got a hot girlfriend, Nishi and a Maltese ter
rier, Booboo. Been working here for a year.’

  ‘You smashed a bloke?’

  He stacked his empty container on another and swept them both into a plastic bag. ‘He had it coming.’

  PURSE

  WORKING ALONE, WE’RE allowed to push a maximum of twelve trolleys. Together, twenty.

  That afternoon, out in the broad savannah of the southern carpark where boss Joanie couldn’t see us, Julian and I drove huge pythonic trains of fifty trolleys each. Joanie never walked if she could avoid it and when she came out to the carpark her tractor and trailer rattled like old metal garbage cans over every speed bump. We heard her coming over the crashing waterfall of white noise that a hundred moving trolleys make. We diced our snakes into man-sized bites before heading for the collection bay.

  ‘Who’s the fastest out of youse two?’ she asked, as she killed the tractor. ‘Whoever is the fastest can run down to the fire hydrants and collect that runaway before she gets lost.’

  ‘I reckon that’s you, Will,’ Julian said.

  ‘Thanks,’ I said, and jogged off.

  I stretched out my stride. If nothing else, Julian’s short legs would have added another fifty steps.

  As it turned out, I collected first prize for my efforts. Beneath a ribbon of till receipt in the dumped trolley was a woman’s black leather purse. New and glossy, it bulged at the seams.

  Don’t worry, madam, I thought, your purse fell into the right hands. Stuffing it into my back pocket, I trotted the rogue trolley back to the trailer and shoved it aboard.

  ‘Youse two do the western carpark now,’ Joanie said. ‘Ricky and Doug are cleaning up the north. Tefari and Jelat are up on the second level, over east. I’ll see youse there in half an hour. Run if you have to.’

  Julian scoffed, mostly to himself. ‘Yep, see you there, Joanie. Don’t be late!’

  I chuckled. I doubted Joanie had been late for anything. Ever. She should be working in public transport where that sort of compulsive disorder is welcome. She started the engine.

  ‘What did you score?’ Julian whispered.

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘What did you find in the trolley? Wallet?’

  ‘What?’

  He scanned my pockets.

  ‘You shifty bastard,’ he said. ‘It’s a purse, isn’t it?’

  ‘What are you—’

  He pointed at my backside, and clicked his fingers. ‘Hand it over.’

  I jogged for the western carpark.

  Julian appeared beside me, his legs and arms pumping. ‘You should hand it in.’

  ‘I will,’ I said.

  ‘Give it to me. I’ll hand it in.’

  He flicked my shirt up and made a grab for the purse. I slapped his hand away and turned up the pace.

  Julian matched my speed. ‘It’s the right thing to do. You know it’s the right thing to do.’

  ‘Of course it’s the right thing to do. And I can trust me to do it.’

  He grabbed the back of my shirt and yanked me off balance. I stumbled, righted myself and turned on him. ‘Let go.’

  ‘I’ll hand it in,’ he said again. He didn’t let go.

  I twisted hard. My shirt ripped and popped free of his grip. I bolted.

  In ten strides he’d caught me again. This time, with knuckles wrapped in my shirt, he kicked my foot out from under me. I hit the tarmac hard, knees and hands first.

  Julian let go. He hooked the purse from my pocket and took off in the direction of the main entrance. I sprang to my feet and gave the pursuit all I had. Gimpy at first, I shook off the pain and closed the gap. Julian glanced over his shoulder – his lips were smiling but I saw the panicked white of his eyes. Then he put on a burst of speed; like a rabbit, he darted between a pair of cars. There was a crunch of plastic and Julian swore. He’d hit a mirror. I missed the turn and slid between another pair. The gap between us halved. At full tilt, I launched myself at him and rode him to the tar. The purse clattered clear.

  Julian squirmed beneath me, his eyes shut and mouth tight with pain. I climbed off him and collected the purse.

  Julian’s shoulder hit me in the middle of my back and I went down again. In a flash, he’d locked my neck in the crook of his elbow and punched me in the mouth. In the cheek. In the eye. I tore my head free and shoved him off balance. Once he was down, I pinned him with a knee and gave him a few fisty repayments. Plus tax. The fight quickly went out of him and I stood.

  Julian lay curled on his side, his bloody hands covering his bloody face. He spluttered.

  Someone was screaming. ‘Stop, stop!’ A woman in a hijab held her child’s hand and watched us, eyes wide. ‘Leave him alone!’

  There were witnesses. My guts chilled. This was a public space – my workplace. Assault was instant dismissal. Assault was a criminal offence. I didn’t need that complication.

  ‘Sorry,’ I said. ‘Julian?’

  I reached for his wrist to help him up. He whimpered and pulled away.

  I dropped the purse and ran.

  CAT

  I COLLECTED MY backpack from the brew room and ran to the gym. It was too early to go home and I didn’t know where else to hide.

  ‘You okay?’ the woman at the counter asked. Sabine.

  I flashed my membership card and she scanned it. ‘Fine,’ I said, and forced a smile. ‘Had an argument with the stairs at the post office.’

  ‘Oh, dear. That sounds nasty.’

  ‘My fault. Shouldn’t text and walk.’

  She covered her smile.

  I thanked her and slunk off to the change rooms. I showered and inspected my face in the mirror. One cheek was redder than the other and my right eye was bloodshot. I tongued the cut inside my lip. No grotesque swelling or bruising. Sabine would be the first and last to know I’d been injured.

  I bought a sports drink and flicked through a day-old tabloid in the cafe. Apparently, an IED in Pakistan had killed seven people and wounded twenty-three others. Apparently, sporting hero turned commentator Ian Gale had yet another teenaged girlfriend. Apparently, salmon was the trending colour for spring. A salmon neckerchief? It’s hard enough to feel like a man without the handicap of a salmon neckerchief.

  I phoned my sister from the payphone in the foyer, but it went straight to her voicemail. ‘Hi Sofe, it’s Will. Just wondering how you . . . yeah. I deactivated my Facebook account. Still haven’t got a number you can call back on. Catch you when I do.’

  The clock in the gym cafe had a bent minute hand. I waited until the tip made it to four o’clock before I walked home. I did my usual recce pass of the front of the bowling alley and veered into the lane. A quick head check, and then onto one knee to open the crawl-space door. I felt the gravel keen on the fresh grazes under my jeans. I shut the door behind me and reached between the slats to slide the pad-bolt home. From the outside, you’d just see a locked door.

  A cat was curled on the foot of my sleeping bag. I stopped – it hadn’t heard me enter. I held my breath. Until that moment, it hadn’t been more than a fleeing tabby streak. I made a high-pitched squeak that pierced the low rumble of bowling balls rolling overhead and the cat’s ears pricked.

  ‘Hey, little mate,’ I said gently, and it blinked awake. I squeaked again and it bolted. I watched it squeeze beneath the slats and gallop up the neighbour’s paling fence. It had eaten some of the tuna I left it. It had drunk all the UHT milk from my plastic breakfast bowl. I felt its warmth lingering in the hollow it had made in my sleeping bag.

  I decanted some water from my camel pack and boiled it on the hiking stove. Two-minute noodles and a can of sweet chilli tuna, a quick rinse of the saucepan.

  The grazes on my knees had begun to crust and I groaned like an old man as I lowered myself onto my bedroll.

  Someone was bowling on the seventeenth lane – the one right above my bed. Balls intermittently growled past and collided musically with the pins. Another strike. And another. Bowling is a more interesting game from beneath the floorboards. There
’s no winning or losing, no shoe hire or scoring and no artificial tension. From my bed I got the rolling thunder and the wooden chimes of success. I got the steampunk rhythms of the pin-setting machines and ball return and I could enjoy it all with my eyes closed.

  The downside was I couldn’t really hear anything else until the place closed.

  I’ve learned to surrender.

  When a sudden light scorched my eyelids, I may have been asleep.

  I sprang to my feet, half-blinded, and snatched up my pocketknife.

  ‘Whoa, settle down there, Will. It’s just me.’

  I recognised Julian’s voice before he flashed the torchlight on his own face.

  ‘What do you want?’

  ‘Nothing. I just thought I’d come and see how the Alfie boys live in Garland. It was Garland, wasn’t it?’

  ‘How did you—’

  ‘I saw you dart down the lane yesterday. I got curious.’

  He shone the torch into my camp space.

  ‘Cool set-up,’ he said. ‘All the best gear.’

  Cats began fighting in the laneway.

  ‘Oh, it’s on like Donkey Kong out there. That your Rottweilers going at it?’

  I stood mute. In a single day I’d lost my job and the security of my hide, and all thanks to Julian.

  ‘I think you should leave,’ I finally said.

  ‘I just got here! You got a beer or a Coke or something? Duh, no fridge. Cup of tea?’

  My fingers curled around the pocketknife.

  ‘Hot chocolate! I could go a hot chocolate. Any marshmallows?’

  ‘Get out,’ I growled.

  ‘All right, all right. I’m out of here.’

  He scanned the floor with his torchlight.

  ‘You’ve got your water there, your stash of food. Bed looks comfy.’

  ‘Leave!’

  ‘Okay!’

  He turned for the door but paused, looking at my breakfast bowl on the ground. The torchlight wobbled. A stream of piss arced through the light and splashed in my bowl.

  ‘Mind if I use your toilet?’ Julian said.

  I charged at him and he spun to piss at me. The light blinded me again and then he was gone, out through the crawl-space door and into the darkened lane.

  It was his receding laughter that pushed me over the edge.