Davo's Little Something

by Robert G. Barrett

  Bondi looked beautiful first thing in the morning as he cut along the promenade. The winter sun, rising slowly at the back of the cliffs, was turning the clear blue water into a carpet of sparkling diamonds, in front of which the waves were breaking gently towards the sand. It had been ages since Davo had seen Bondi early in the morning during winter and he’d forgotten just how lovely it looked. It was a lot different than in summer, when the constant nor’easters blew the murk from the sewage treatment plant beneath the golflinks straight into the beach and turned that same turquoise water into a frothy pea-soup green, with the smell settling over the area like a blanket. He stopped for a few minutes to rest and check out the surprising number of people jogging or walking either along the promenade or on the beach—some fanatics were even in swimming—then took a deep breath and headed up Military Road towards Dover Heights.

  Going up Military Road was a different story. By the time he’d got as far as North Bondi golflinks he thought the long winding hill was going to break his heart. But every time he felt like stopping or giving up he’d picture that red swastikadaubed boot slamming into his face and remember why he was doing this and keep going. He made it to Dover Heights alright. His head was swimming and he was almost exhausted but he hadn’t thrown in the towel. He flopped down at a busstop across from Page Reserve to give himself a good five minutes rest. His breath was coming in gasps and hurt like hell as it expanded his lungs across his still bruised ribcage. But Jesus he felt good. He was that elated he was almost moved to tears. He removed his sunglasses and ran the sleeve of his tracksuit across his sweat-stained face then, when the five minutes was up, took another deep breath and headed back.

  Going back down Davo felt like he had wings on his feet and at one stage was almost tempted to break into a jog. Before he knew it he’d reached the beachfront again and, apart from the hill going up past the old Astra Hotel and the Royal, Bondi Road, compared to Military Road, was a breeze. After stopping at George’s to get the paper, he was home by 10.30.

  He had a shower then made another mug of Ovaltine and flopped down in the lounge to rest and listen to the stereoradio for a while. Even though his head ached and he was exhausted the feeling of accomplishment more than compensated for it. He’d done it. He’d started. You have to crawl before you can walk and he was going to walk before he could run—but he’d run. He got some fish out of the deep-freeze, cooked that for lunch and after an hour or sos rest, rugged up again and walked down to Clovelly via Bronte Cemetery.

  This time there was no great, winding hills, just a few sharp, shorter ones which made it almost enjoyable walking along the cliff edges and gazing out over the ocean as the nor’wester whipped around his ears. He took his time, stopping every now and again to attempt a few stretches and stare into the foam where the waves and ocean crashed and surged against the shaded cliffs below. This also gave him an opportunity to reassess his situation. Even if he was, if not exactly in pain, in acute discomfort, mainly from the headaches, the weight loss more than compensated for it. Without that extra girth walking and touching his toes was a breeze. The only thing stopping him was the bruised ribs, his headaches and being laid up for over a week—but already some of that was improving. Before long he was at Clovelly.

  He stopped next to a small set of steps leading into the clear cold water that surged and lapped musically against the sides of the lovely little open air pool and stared into the inky blue depths while he caught his breath. Winded and sore as he was, something inside him told him he was going to get fit before long. Very fit. Probably the fittest he’d ever been in his life. Maybe all this had happened for the best. He kept staring into the water. No. That was ridiculous, he didn’t have to get put in hospital and Wayne didn’t have to die just for him to lose weight and get into some sort of top physical condition. Suddenly, in the gently moving swells he could picture Wayne and the look on his face that Davo had woken up in the salon to find Wayne had given him a rat’s tail. A smile crept momentarily across his face and for a second or two he almost mellowed out. Then it just as quickly disappeared as he pictured the look on Wayne’s face that Thursday night when he’d tried to help him in the lane and the thugs had turned on him. He scowled murderously into the water as a sudden burst of adrenalin spread across his stomach then he turned abruptly and started walking back home.

  He stopped on the way to get a barbecued chicken, he’d have that for tea with a bit of rice and salad; then after stopping at George’s for the paper he was inside. While he made a cup of coffee he rang Dr Connely. Joe wasn’t in so he left a message with the receptionist that he was still tired and headachy and was just sleeping and taking it easy; he’d ring back tomorrow and probably call in for some more digesics.

  He rested and read the paper for the rest of the afternoon then after some of the chicken for tea settled back on the lounge to watch a bit of TV. Another thing he’d noticed. Since he’d lost all that weight—it didn’t take anywhere near as much food to fill him up. All in all a pretty good day. Day one. A day of accomplishment. He was bone tired and he ached all over, but he still felt good. He would keep walking over the next week or so, then there would be much better, much more interesting things to do than walk. Much more rewarding. He was in bed by 8.30; looking forward to the alarm going off at six am.

  Davo walked twice a day, every day, for the rest of the week. By Wednesday most of the stiffness and soreness had just about gone, the headaches remained but if they ever got too bad Davo would simply take two digesics. His hatred and determination however seemed to override the pain; they were certainly the two main contributing factors in his speedy recuperation. He didn’t go out and he never phoned anyone. The phone rang a couple of times but he never answered it. Davo’s week consisted of early to bed, early to rise, walk every day and do stretching exercises. The only break from this schedule was a visit to Dr Connely on Tuesday and a trip to the Department of Social Security the same afternoon.

  Dr Connely’s wife was all sympathy, smiles and understanding when Davo limped into the waiting room; he didn’t particularly want any of that but he went along with the charade. Dr Connely was the same when he opened the door for Davo to enter the surgery.

  ‘Mate, there was no need for you to come round,’ he said, as he ushered Davo into the chair. ‘I could have called in.’

  ‘I caught a cab down,’ lied Davo, putting on the most painful, hangdog expression he could muster as he slumped into the seat. ‘Anyway, it gives me a chance to get out of the flat for a while.’

  ‘Fair enough. But, Bob, you’re going to have to take it easy, mate. You’ve got to get plenty of rest.’ Dr Connely eased back in his seat and laced his hands across his stomach. ‘So, how are you feeling anyway? The headaches any better?’

  ‘I’m just tired all the time Joe,’ replied Davo slowly. ‘I don’t seem to have any energy. And these bloody headaches are really giving me the shits. Can you give me some more painkillers?’

  ‘No worries. The reason you’re tired all the time, Bob is that your brain’s sending out messages for you to rest. It’s telling you to take it easy.’

  That’s not all it’s telling me thought Davo.

  ‘Anyway, undo your top and I’ll have a look at your ribs.’

  Davo did as he was told then stood there while Dr Connely ran the stethoscope over his chest, made him take in several deep breaths then probed around the bruising with his fingers. Davo winced at his soft touch as if it was absolute agony.

  ‘Sorry, Bob. Still pretty tender are they?’

  ‘Bloody oath.’

  ‘Mmhh. Well the bruising and swelling have gone down a lot. There’s probably a hairline fracture there or some cartilage damage. How are the crown jewels?’ Dr Connely nodded towards Davo’s groin.

  ‘They’re sore too. Especially when I have a piss.’

  ‘Mmhh.’ Dr Connely returned to his chair while Davo put his top back on. He scratched his chin thoughtfully for a moment or two before he s
poke. ‘Bob, the only thing I can prescribe for you, apart from the painkillers, is plenty of rest. The more the better. Maybe in a few weeks or a month you might be able to do a bit of walking or swimming. But in the meantime—rest.’

  ‘I’m going to be laid up that long eh?’

  ‘’Fraid so, mate.’ Dr Connely picked up a pen and began scribbling on a pad. ‘I’m going to give you a certificate to say you’re unfit for work for twelve weeks. Take it to the Department of Social Security and you’ll be eligible for sickness benefits.’

  ‘I got some dough in the bank. I don’t really have to go on that.’ Davo had never been on the dole in his life and the very thought was anathema to him.

  ‘Bob. There’s people out there ten times healthier than what you’ll ever be and they get it. Besides, it’s only a small compensation for what happened.’

  Davo was puzzled at the bemused smile on Joe’s face. ‘Yeah but. . .’

  ‘Bob, mate. You’ve got to understand, this is a socialist government. They’d be terribly disappointed—in fact they wouldn’t like it one bit—if you didn’t take it. They get a hundred people start thinking like you and that’s one less public servant they can employ. You’re only rocking the boat thinking like that. The government doesn’t like you to rock the boat. Here, take it.’ Dr Connely smiled as he finished scribbling out the certificate and handed it to Davo.

  Davo looked at the piece of paper for a second or two. ‘Yeah, righto,’ he shrugged. Actually this will come in handy he thought. While I’m on a pension people will assume I’m too sick to work. And if I’m too sick to work, I’m definitely too sick to train.

  Dr Connely wrote Davo out a prescription for some digesics which Davo folded up and put in his pocket with the other certificate, then he got up to leave. Joe offered to have his wife drive him home but Davo said it was okay, he’d catch a cab. Dr Connely and his wife saw him off at the door and Davo limped towards the shopping centre at 7 Ways. Instead of catching a cab home he walked straight up to Bondi Junction and applied for Social Security.

  That took about forty-five minutes of filling in forms and waving away cigarette smoke while he waited among some of the dirtiest, smelliest, most moronic-looking people Davo had ever seen in his life. It was the first time he’d ever been in the DSS and he didn’t quite believe people like that existed. No wonder they can’t get a job he thought, staring at some girl with her hair shaved up like a lime-green toilet brush, clothes deliberately made to look like rags, chains and pins and God knows what else hanging out of her nose and ears and a cigarette dangling out of the corner of her sour, pimply face. Davo was more than glad to get out of there and hoped no one he knew would see him coming out the entrance.

  That was the two highlights of week one. The rest was just walk, rest, sleep and not eat a great deal: mainly chicken, fish and salad. Then it was in to week two.

  Instead of walking down to Bondi first thing Monday morning Davo drove over to Maroubra Beach. He pulled up at the north end opposite the hotel, and walked across the promenade to the sand. Davo rarely, if ever, went to Maroubra. It was too big and windy for him. Besides, he grew up in Bondi and that’s mainly where he stayed. He had an aunt who lived up near the junction and apart from visiting her, occasional drinks at the Maroubra Seals Club and dropping a few girls back there with Colin now and again, he rarely made a trip to the popular southside beach. At least no one knows me over here he thought, glancing around the long, almost deserted strip of white sand that stretched from the rocks at his left to the rifle-range at the southern end.

  Instead of his tracksuit Davo was wearing running shorts, a sweatshirt with a T-shirt underneath and a sweat band made out of another old T-shirt wrapped round his head; his tracksuit top was in the car. It was low tide and the sand was cool and firm beneath his feet at the water’s edge. He touched his toes several times, took a few deep breaths and gingerly jogged off.

  He did two slow laps then gave himself a breather. Running was a step up altogether from walking but Davo was slightly surprised to find that he wasn’t all that out of breath when he pulled up. He was sweating profusely and his heart was thumping, but he wasn’t exhausted—not by any means. His head throbbed slightly but he was getting used to that so it didn’t really worry him. He gave himself a couple of minutes then ran another two laps.

  By the following Sunday Davo was running four laps in the morning and four in the afternoon and from Wednesday he wasn’t stopping for a breather. After the Sunday afternoon run Davo stood outside his car and ran his hand up and down his stomach while he checked the reflection in one of the windows. Where there used to be an expanse of flab it was now straight up and down and fairly firm. Davo found he was getting fit a lot quicker than he expected.

  Davo had his last run at Maroubra on Monday. He was there at seven and home, cleaned-up and sitting in the kitchen by ten, thinking, over a cup of coffee with honey while the radio played softly in the background. All the kinks and bruises were just about gone now and although he’d only been training for a couple of weeks Davo was beginning to feel better—apart from the headaches—than he’d ever felt in his life, but now it was time to change again. Someone was bound to see him running sooner or later and it would be pretty bloody hard to pass himself off as poor crippled Davo while he was bounding around like a gazelle. Dr Connely and his wife were both convinced he should be in a wheelchair. But now it was time to start a new schedule: time to go into week three. He finished his coffee and went down to the garage.

  After tidying it up the other week he didn’t have to rummage around long to find what he was looking for. The springloaded tape measure was right where it should be, he stretched it out and took a few measurements; yes, no problems there. The electric drill was working alright and there were several brand new masonry bits still in their plastic packets sitting next to it. There were enough dyna-bolts for his needs and the two long threaded eye-bolts he’d bought years ago to make a chinup bar were still there; he’d only need one of these for the purpose he had in mind. The several swivel meat hooks he’d stolen from work for no particular reason were still there under the bench: they were a little rusty but now he finally had a use for them. Yes, everything he needed was there. He locked the side door and went back upstairs.

  It didn’t take him long to find the place he was looking for in the phone-book; he rang them to check out a few prices and make sure they would be open when he got there: they would be. He checked out a couple more addresses in the city then with his passbook in the back pocket of his tracksuit he locked the flat and drove up to Bondi Junction to get $1000 out of the bank.

  Although he looked a little sinister with his broken nose, piercing green eyes and wild brown moustache, the young solidly built fellow behind the counter at the Martial Arts Warehouse in Ryde couldn’t have been more polite or helpful when Davo walked in and said he was the bloke that had rung up earlier. He showed Davo all the equipment he thought he’d need for his purposes, advised him on which stuff was the best and told him how he could save himself money. After about thirty minutes of browsing and asking questions Davo finished up with an 80 pound heavy punching-bag; a pair of leather bag mitts; a new space age leather skipping rope with lightweight plastic handles; and two sets of hand dumbbells with 100 pounds of weights. After much deliberation he also bought three books. A fairly big one on boxing. A smaller one, but with plenty of illustrations on Thai boxing. And because of what he’d seen those two Koreans doing on TV, a fairly voluminous book on Hapkido. He paid the man in cash: almost $650.

  ‘So you’re going to do a bit of stunt work in movies are you?’ said the young bloke from behind the counter, as he helped Davo out to his car with all the equipment.

  ‘Yeah,’ replied Davo. ‘I’ll just put this up in my garage and practise on it. Might help me to get a bit fit during the winter too.’

  ‘Not a bad idea. It doesn’t hurt to know a bit of something these days either.’ The assistant gave Davo a hand t
o clamp down the tonneau cover on his utility. ‘There’s a lot of mugs getting around on the streets. It can come in handy.’

  ‘Yeah. Oh well, I always manage to avoid any of that sort of trouble.’ Davo moved round to the driver’s side and opened the door. ‘Anyway, I might see you again. Thanks for your help mate.’

  ‘That’s alright—it was a pleasure. Good luck with your movies.’ The assistant gave the roof of the car a couple of taps and Davo drove off. Next stop—the Central Railway end of George Street.

  He found a parking spot on a loading zone just a few yards from the secondhand record shop he was looking for; he quickly backed the ute in and walked up to it. There were album covers, cassettes and magazines all over the front window, he checked out a few of the titles and prices then went inside. He had no trouble finding what he was looking for as there were literally thousands of records, albums and singles, stacked neatly in racks all in alphabetical order. He started with the A’s and soon had his first album AC-DC: TNT. He bought nearly all albums. Cold Chisel, The Angels, Radiators, Dragon, Rose Tattoo: all driving, thumping bone crunching rock ’n’ roll. After about twenty minutes he had quite a stack, enough tracks to fill at least four sixty-minute tapes. He paid the attendant—over a hundred dollars—and left with his records in two bulging plastic bags.