Davo's Little Something

by Robert G. Barrett

  The first one made him howl with pain. Never having done it before he didn’t realise how much power he could generate with his elbow and for a second he thought he’d broken his arm. After a minute or so he had another couple of goes but he’d taken the skin off his elbow and it hurt too much. Then a thought occurred to him. Rubbing his elbow gingerly he walked over to the old metal locker in the corner and opened it. Hanging inside was the top half of an old wetsuit he’d bought ages ago when he at one time entertained the idea of doing a bit of bodysurfing in the winter. He’d ended up using it about once. He took a knife and cut two identical sections out of the sleeves and fitted them over his elbows. Now, let’s see how this goes. He threw a flurry of blows according to the book, up, down, sideways and back. Ahh yes, that was much better. The thick, neoprene rubber absorbed the shock perfectly and stopped any further skinning of his elbows; any restriction of movement was hardly noticeable.

  He had another rest for a few minutes while he studied the book then got stuck into the bag again in a fairly sustained workout of punches, kicks, elbows and knees; most of the techniques were according to the book, some he made up himself, but they all seemed to work. Davo was starting to feel his confidence soar already; all he had to do now was train and practise, keep training and keep practising. He thumped away at the bag while the music pounded out in the background—Mi-Sex, LRB, Machinations—and before long he was in a lather of sweat and barely able to hold his hands up. He finished off with sixty sit-ups then sat on the bench in the silence staring at the ticking of the old alarm clock while he got his breath back; over two and a half hours had gone by. The shower he had afterwards and the stack of lamb chops and salad for lunch had never felt or tasted so good.

  The second week, except for the variation in training, was a repetition of the first—training in the garage twice a day, walks at lunchtime and early nights. The two highlights of the week were another postcard from his parents who were now in Scotland on the second month of their six month world tour. Davo had given them the travelling bug when he shouted them that small trip away to Lindeman Island and his father, being a retired public servant, had a bundle of superannuation so they decided to tour the world before it was too late. He smiled wistfully to himself when he remembered the old man saying to him just before they left that it was no good leaving all that money to an idiot like him. When it came to a smartarse remark it wasn’t hard to see where Davo got his upbringing. Or as his mother used to say when he and the old man would get together and do and say stupid things ‘the fruit doesn’t fall far from the tree’. The old girl was always full of those homespun philosophies he mused happily. He hoped they were having a good time in . . . where was it? He had another look at the postcard—Inverness.

  The other highlight was his first cheque from the Department of Social Security and an accompanying letter saying they would pay it straight into his bank account if he preferred. One hundred and sixty dollars a fortnight. That’s alright. He smiled as he looked at it—for nothing. But then why not, he thought cynically. After all, I am a bloody cripple aren’t I? Then another thought occurred to him. With all this newfound determination and training, was he starting to get his sense of humour back? He shook his head and shrugged his shoulders.

  The third week Davo started on the Hapkido. There were only two or three things in the book that really interested him; a front kick to the solar plexus, or anywhere else around there, and those backfists. The rest was alright but too involved, too time-consuming and not really necessary for what he had in mind.

  As before, the first attempt nearly crippled him and if he’d been barefoot like the expert in the book instead of wearing gym boots he probably would have broken his foot. He limped painfully around the garage cursing till the pain went down, consulted the book once more and tried again. Ahh yes, that’s a little more like it. Keep the toes tucked up. Right. He started off the same as with the Thai kicks: five with each foot till he’d done fifty. These weren’t all that difficult either once you got going and before long he could see the heavy bag shuddering under the impact and feel the vibrations running up his leg. He could imagine what a good one would feel like if it caught you in the solar plexus. He subconsciously ran his hand across his stomach and was mildly surprised; he hadn’t quite realised how hard it was getting.

  He had a rest for a few minutes while he consulted the book again then dropped in another cassette and as the Electric Pandas crashed out Big Girls, Davo crashed his first attempt at a backfist onto the punching bag. Ohh yeah he thought. I definitely like these. They were easy and the force and speed he seemed to generate wasn’t far short of amazing. It was something like giving a backhand serve in tennis only you kept your arm parallel also and used a bit of follow through. Davo, like most butchers, had fairly strong forearms from wielding a heavy chopper and boning out bodies of beef and other cuts, and with his weightlifting on top of that, in no time at all the backfist blows were slamming into the heavy bag like it was being hit with an axe handle. Now that he was starting to get results Davo was beginning to enjoy his training more and more every day.

  By the end of that week the skipping rope was just a blur as it literally hummed through the air, the weights were being thrown around as if they were pieces of balsa wood and Davo was moving around the heavy bag throwing kicks, punches, elbows and knees like a well-oiled machine; he’d also gone up to 100 sit-ups. By now his confidence was soaring and apart from the lingering headaches Dave couldn’t remember feeling so good in all his life. He was almost tempted to go out and start ripping into some hood right then. But there was plenty of time and a lot more training to do before he got round to that and like he’d said before, if he felt this good now what would he feel like in another six weeks. Besides, it was all very well puffing yourself up with weights and ripping into the punching bag like a backyard Bruce Lee—the punching bag didn’t hit back. And even though he knew he was getting fit, tough and strong, he still needed to find that edge, that insurance: that little something. He’d thought about it a lot and he still didn’t know what it was, but it would come to him, eventually. Nevertheless he still couldn’t help but feel great. In fact he felt that good that after seeing Doctor Connely on Thursday he went and bought himself a walking stick on Friday.

  ‘So Bob,’ said Dr Connely, shaking his head, a look of deep concern on his face. ‘You went for a walk on Waverley Oval and you almost fell over a couple of times?’

  Across from Dr Connely Davo sat in the chair looking all sad and upset, almost like he wanted to burst into tears. ‘Yeah,’ he nodded, ‘I was getting along alright too only I started to get these dizzy spells. Good thing I was standing alongside the fence and I could grab it or I would’ve fallen over.’

  ‘Tch. That’s no good, mate,’ replied Dr Connely, still slowly shaking his head. He paused for a moment or two while he stared at Davo. ‘Bob, I think I’m going to have to send you in for another CAT scan and possibly some other tests. I’ve asked them to send me your first X-rays but they haven’t arrived yet and I’m not sure we should wait.’ Dr Connely had a quick look at Davo’s file. ‘I know you’ve only been out of hospital a little over a month, but we could have missed something.’

  ‘Yeah righto,’ nodded Davo, looking deliberately apprehensive, ‘when do you want me to go in?’ He was reluctant to do it but anything to go along with the act.

  ‘I tell you what, I’ll give it . . . another week,’ said Dr Connely, stroking his chin thoughtfully. ‘In that time your X-ray should be here and . . . even though I know it’s painful for you, I’d still like to see how you feel after just a little more walking.’

  Davo suppressed a sigh of relief as he looked sagely at Dr Connely, then had to force himself not to laugh when he spoke. ‘Joe . . . I know this might sound a bit silly. But I wouldn’t mind getting myself a walking stick.’

  Dr Connely slapped lightly at the desk then made a magnanimous gesture with his hands. ‘Bob, on the contrary, that�
�s a bloody good idea; in fact I should have thought of it myself. That bit of support is just what you need to help you with your walking. There’s a place up in Bondi Junction which has got just the one you need.’ He started flicking through a book of phone numbers on his desk then picked up the phone. ‘They’ve got these lightweight aluminium ones. Got a support for your forearm and a grip you hold onto. Hold on a sec, I’ll just make sure they’ve got one.’ He pressed the buttons, told them who it was then had a brief conversation on the phone and hung up. ‘Yeah, no worries.’ He wrote something on a piece of paper and handed it to Davo. ‘There’s the address . . . can you get round there alright? I can get them to deliver it here if you like.’

  ‘No that’s alright.’ Despite the hatred and bitterness inside him Davo still couldn’t help but feel a certain amount of remorse at Dr Connely’s genuine concern for his alleged condition. It was a disgraceful act he was putting on and he’d never done it before. But then he’d never been kicked half to death before either. ‘I can get around there okay. I’ll get a cab if I have to. But I ah . . . want to try and walk as much as I can.’

  On the other hand, Dr Connely was filled with compassion for Davo. Here was a man who’d been beaten insensible, was in constant pain and was lucky he wasn’t spending the rest of his life in a wheelchair; yet he was getting around as best he could and making a genuine effort to try and recuperate so he could get back to work. Not like half the workers’ compensation bludgers and sickness benefits rorters he was used to see coming in there day after day. He always knew Davo was a good bloke.

  ‘Good man,’ he said, then looked at him seriously. ‘You don’t walk down here though do you?’

  Davo shook his head. ‘No, I catch a cab. I don’t like to drive my car . . .just in case I have a dizzy spell.’

  ‘Fair enough,’ said Dr Connely nodding his head slowly. ‘You getting your social security benefits alright?’

  ‘Yeah, sweet.’

  ‘That’s good, stay on the pension too. And when you’re finished go on the dole. The government will love you for it.’

  Davo looked at Dr Connely quizzically. ‘You said something about this before, Joe. But I still don’t quite follow you.’

  ‘It’s simple, Bob,’ replied Dr Connely, with a quizzical smile and a shrug of his shoulders. ‘Free enterprise is finished in Australia. The government doesn’t like people to work any more. All the Sun King wants is public servants, pensioners and people on the dole.’

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘My very word. If I had my time over there’s no way I’d ever spend six years studying my arse off to be a doctor.’

  ‘Yeah? What would you do?’

  ‘I’d be a gay Aborigine heroin addict, with two wives and six kids.’

  ‘Why’s that?’ Despite himself Davo couldn’t help but laugh a little.

  Dr Connely started ticking things off on his fingers. ‘The government would feed me, clothe me and I’d get free Methadone. I could go for any government job I wanted and when they knocked me back I’d scream discrimination. Then when I got the job I’d tell them to stick it ’cause they’re harassing me, cop a settlement out of court then the government would pay me about $300 a week on top of that and I’d just sit around in the sun out of it all day.’ Joe smiled at the expression on Davo’s face and made a gesture with his hands. ‘Beats workin’, mate.’

  Davo started to chuckle and place his hands over his ears. ‘Don’t make me laugh, Joe,’ he said. ‘It plays havoc with my headaches.’

  Davo was laughing when he left the surgery and limped off down the road about five minutes later. He was still laughing at lunchtime the following day when after almost three hours of training he walked down to Bondi Junction and picked up his walking stick.

  It was a beauty too, just as good as Dr Connely had said it was. Nice and light, a good grip and the metal support wrapped snugly around his muscled forearm; as well as that the Department of Social Security would pick up the bill. Just what he needed to slow him down next time he was out in public and felt like breaking into a run. I’d look pretty silly galloping along with this tucked under my arm he thought as he threaded his way through the milling crowds of shoppers in Oxford Street. As he shuffled along he was surprised and amused at the number of people who moved aside for him and he had to keep reminding himself that he was a cripple. He caught his reflection in a shop window and with his sunglasses still on on such a cold cloudy day and the walking stick he did look like some kind of accident victim.

  The green walk light was on and the Plaza was just across the road so he went down to have a cup of coffee and a couple of donuts. He sat there for a while, like he used to during his lunchhour, watching the people walk past and mainly checking out the girls. But for some strange reason they didn’t seem to turn him on like they usually did. He sat there slightly disinterested but still enjoying his donuts for a while till they started up some sort of raffle on the podium—then the blaring MC’s microphone and a suddenly increased crowd of parents with their screaming kids grated on his headache so badly that he quickly finished his coffee and decided to go home. At the exit to Oxford Street he paused for a moment. Seeing he was down that end of town he thought he might as well make a couple of visits; it had to be done sooner or later and now was as good a time as any to get it over and done with.

  Through the window he could see that Eddie and Dennis, along with Kathy and Krystina, had taken the early lunch as he shuffled through the supermarket towards the butcher shop. Len was there, working away, along with the other two girls and a big beefy blond-haired butcher he recognised from one of the stores out at Maroubra: Pat Flannery.

  Len saw him first and a huge grin lit up his craggy face, he said something to the girls and they quickly spun around, surprised happy smiles on their faces. Davo shuffled round behind the cabinet as Len came over and opened the door for him.

  ‘Jesus how are you goin’, Davo?’ said the excited manager, as Davo stepped through. ‘Christ it’s good to see you. I’m glad to see you’re up and about too.’ He took Davo’s free hand and squeezed it warmly in his own huge mitt. Dutchy and Marie came over and hugged him and there were almost tears in their eyes as they held him to them.

  Pat walked across and shook his hand. ‘I heard what happened Davo. Sorry mate.’

  ‘Thanks Pat,’ replied Davo.

  ‘Jesus, where’ve you been?’ said Len. ‘We’ve rung up a heap of times but the phone didn’t answer. We didn’t know whether you were back in hospital or what. We got that message when we went in to visit you so we figured you must’ve been pretty crook.’

  ‘I’ve been under a lot of heavy sedation Len. The doctor gave me these bombs that kept me asleep nearly twenty-four hours a day.’

  ‘So how are you feeling now, love?’ said Dutchy. ‘You look like you’ve lost a bit of weight.’

  ‘I’m still pretty knocked about Dutchy. But I’m a bit better than I was.’

  Davo left his sunglasses on for effect while he gave them a story about how he still had brain damage, though it was just starting to heal, and how he had to rest and sleep nearly all day and night which was why he couldn’t hear the phone. He was still in a lot of pain and lucky to be alive and could only get around with the aid of a walking stick. He’d still be laid up for a while yet but was slowly getting better and with a bit of luck he might be back at work in another month or two. Len said not to worry about his job, it would still be there even if it took ten years. Davo smiled and thanked him.

  ‘Jesus the others only went to lunch a few minutes ago,’ said Len. ‘They’ll be as disappointed as buggery at missing you. Especially Kathy. Shit, she hardly spoke to anyone for days after it happened. They’re up in the canteen now if you want to go up.’

  ‘Maybe next time,’ said Davo. ‘I’m still pretty weak and I want to get home to bed. I’m not really supposed to have walked this far, Len.’

  ‘Fair enough, mate.’

  Davo stood ther
e talking for a few more minutes then finally said he’d better get going—he was feeling pretty buggered. There were more handshakes and hugs all round then Len opened the door and Davo shuffled off out into the supermarket. He turned round at the end of the cabinet to see them all standing at the window watching him so he gave them a quick wave. They all smiled and waved back enthusiastically, then Davo disappeared up one of the aisles.

  He was just at the end of the aisle and thinking that hadn’t been as punishing as what he thought it would be, if anything it was nice to know how much they all cared about him, when suddenly he recognised a loud penetrating voice behind him. ‘Bob, Bob Davis.’ He stiffened and turned slowly around. Coming towards him was the manager, Mr Murray Brinsden. Ahh shit! This is gonna be nice he thought.

  ‘Hello, Murray,’ said Davo, as he caught up to him.

  ‘Hello, Bob. I heard all about what happened. I’m very sorry, that was terrible, absolutely disgusting. And I’m truly sorry about your friend Wayne too.’

  Davo was slightly surprised. After all the smartarse remarks and putdowns he’d heaped on Brinsden since the store opened he was expecting him to gloat or at least have a ‘Ha ha, I told you so’ attitude. Instead he appeared genuinely concerned and his handshake was warm and sincere. It was also about the only time he’d ever called him by his first name.

  ‘Yeah, it wasn’t the best. Thanks anyway, Murray.’

  ‘I’ve tried to contact you on several occasions, but Len said you were probably laid up. How are you feeling now? Any better?’

  ‘A little thanks. I’m still pretty shaky.’ Davo made a movement with the walking stick and adjusted his sunglasses for a bit of emphasis. ‘I’ve just been in to see all the team.’ He nodded towards the butcher shop.