And finally, that expulsion from school would set him free.
I jumped the small brick fence, as the wrought iron gate had rusted shut long ago and made my way along the path to the front door. The weeds in the front yard were close to half a metre high, the summer sun bleaching them the colour of straw. It’d lost the right to be called lawn around the same time as the gate gave out.
Dayne toyed with the idea of buying a goat to maintain order in the yard, but a neighbour got wind of the plan and threatened to involve the city council. He now relied upon a kindly old pensioner who lived across the road to mow the small strip once a month in exchange for unlimited technical help with his computer. Judging by the length of the weeds, the neighbour must have sold his computer.
Standing on the front veranda, under the curved corrugated iron roof, I noticed the once-white weatherboards were covered in a little less paint and a lot more rot than I recalled on previous visits. “Better to match the rusty roof,” would be the optimistic response from Dayne. Inside, the noise from a raucous and frenetic drum beat seeped through the boards. Knocking would be pointless so I tried the handle.
Craiggo! Come in, mate. Thought you’d skipped town, been bloody weeks since I’ve set eyes on ya.
Three weeks to be exact. The new job was taking up a lot of my time and energy, and with Mum… well… Dayne slipped to a distant third on the rungs of importance in my life.
Yeah, sorry, mate. Got a lot on my mind with the new job and all.
No worries. Check this out. Skip was just playing us a tune from his homeland. Fuckin’ brilliant, isn’t it?
From the hallway, I’d a clear view into the lounge room which was more music studio than a typical home. An array of three Krug keyboards sat arranged in one corner, an old armchair losing its stuffing in another. Against the far wall, two Takamine guitars stood in their stands, one electric, the other acoustic. And several throw rugs, rescued from a St Vincent de Paul thrift store, were strewn haphazardly over the wooden floorboards.
Dayne sat on a small wooden stool by the keyboards, propped against his knee was another acoustic guitar. He’d pulled his shoulder-length brown hair back into a ponytail, cargo shorts and a faded Something For Kate concert T-shirt completed the outfit.
In the centre of the room stood Skip Patel, still dressed in his Harvey Norman uniform – sans tie. Skip, as he was affectionately known – for his given name contained 13 letters and was utterly unpronounceable – pounded away on an instrument I’d never seen before. With the effort of his drumming, the long fringe of his sleek black hair fell forward over his face, his coffee-coloured skin covered in a thin sheen of sweat.
Skip held two long, thin, sticks, one slightly thicker than the other and which curved at one end. The drum hanging from a strap looped over his shoulders was barrel shaped, though slightly wider in the middle than at each end. It was around 60 centimetres in length and with pigskin stretched tautly over both ends.
I stepped into the room as his performance came to an end.
It’s called a Dhol.
A what?
With the vibrato sound of the drum was still ringing in my ears, I hadn’t caught Skip’s words.
A Dhol. My grandfather sent it to me from his home in Ahmedabad. Pretty kick arse sound, right?
Skip was born in Australia but talked with the refined English tones of his parents, rather than the more guttural Australian accent. To their disgust, he spoke not a lick of their native Gujarati language.
So, is this going to be a part of the new band?
Dayne was the first to answer.
I think so, but we have some working out to do.
Come on, man. I can totally pull this off.
Dayne ignored the pleading of Skip and turned back to face me.
The problem we have; Skip only knows two speeds on this thing. Flat out balls-to-the-wall, and off. He’s great on the up-tempo numbers, but bloody useless on ballads.
Ballads, who wants to hear ballads? We need to rock, man! Besides, I can always go back to the keyboards for the slower tunes.
Skip, as well as Dayne, was one of those rare individuals who could pick up any instrument and play it competently, to my disgust, with minimal practice. For as much as I loved music, mastering even the most basic of chords on a guitar was like learning Chinese arithmetic.
About this new band. Have you a name yet?
Dayne’s old band, Mattresses on Motorways, broke up a little over a month ago, when both the singer and rhythm guitar player, two accountants with Deloitte, transferred to Adelaide. Leaving Dayne, on lead guitar and occasional vocals, and Timmy Owens who played bass guitar, as the only remaining members of the Mattresses.
Timmy Owens was Dayne’s department manager at the Harvey Norman electronics store in Richmond. Married, with two young kids, he dreamt of living the rock star life but was forced to make do with the occasional mid-week gig at a pub that wasn’t too picky about who they booked.
Timmy was also responsible for bringing Skip into the fold. With the departure of the accountants to Adelaide, he wasn’t about to let his music dream drift away to the west with them. While interviewing applicants for an opening in his department, he noted the music background on Skip’s CV. A pedestrian discussion around computer system knowledge turned into a full-on music shop lovefest. Skip was provisionally offered a job on the spot, it being dependant on Dayne’s approval with him joining the band.
Yeah! Gunga Dingo! It’s an Indian/Indigenous fusion thing.
I smiled at the play on words.
I love it. And I get the Indian part. But what about the indigenous angle?
Skip placed the Dhol on the floor and headed to the kitchen to fish around in the fridge for beers.
Ah, you haven’t met Getch yet. A voice like an angel, she has.
He returned with three beers, Boag’s Lager, and handed them around.
Thanks, Skip. Did you say, Getch?
Yeah, well her name is Annie, but we’ve dubbed her Getch. You know? Annie getch ya gun.
I see. Rodgers and Hammerstein. Clever, mate.
Skip piped up.
Rodgers and who? Don’t they play football for Geelong?
Dayne almost spat his beer out across the floor.
I’ll explain it later, Skip. Any rate. Getch goes to RMIT and works part-time at the Aboriginal Art Shop on Bourke Street.
The Royal Melbourne Institute of Technology campus was a short walk from the city centre.
I don’t think working at the Aboriginal Art Shop qualifies you as indigenous.
Wait, wait. That’s what I asked her when we first met. And when you see her you’ll know why. Her skin is as white as pure driven snow. But she told me she could trace her ancestry back to the Gurindji tribe up past Katherine somewhere.
And you believed her?
Well, it worked well enough to get her a grant to study at RMIT. So, who am I to judge?
We all three nodded our heads. I couldn’t help but agree.
Anyway, I still had my doubts. She seems about as stable as stilettos on cobblestones. But all doubt went out the window when I heard her sing. She sounds like an angel, mate. Like an angel.
Skip finished his beer and said it was time to hit the road. He faced a long bus ride to Moonee Ponds where he lived with his parents.
See you later, Craig. See you at work tomorrow, Dayne.
With beer bottle to his mouth, Dayne waved at Skip’s retreat.
I spoke for the both us.
Later, Skip.
Dayne wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and placed the bottle on the floor by his feet.
Speaking of work. How’s the wonderful world of banking going? Made your first million yet?
Oh, yeah. I’m just rolling in the dough. Can’t you tell by the new set of wheels out front?
Peering out the window, he saw the Beast parked forlornly by the kerb.
Jesus, Craig! They let you drive in Toorak with that thing? I�
��m surprised you haven’t been ticketed for lowering property values.
Just let ’em try.
Yeah, you’d probably avoid a ticket, because if they pulled you over and got too close to that bucket of bolts they’d probably decide to shoot it and put it out of its misery.
Am I going to have to put you on probation again?
Dayne laughed.
Sorry, mate. Sorry. So, is the job going okay?
Ah, I don’t know. I’ve gotten over the part where my brain just won’t shut down, and where banking terms bounce around in my head all night long. They said a light bulb would eventually come on, and it would all begin to make sense, but I think I received a dud bulb. It doesn’t help that the banker I work for is a real prick. He’s more interested in making money than taking the time to teach me anything. Which, I guess, I can’t blame him. Some days I just sit in the parking lot wondering what I’m doing.
Having finished my beer, I ambled to kitchen for another. I’d make this the last. I still needed to get to the hospice to see Mum before visiting hours were over. I felt guilty enough having first detoured to visit Dayne. But I needed to talk, and more importantly, I needed someone who could answer.
I hear you, mate.
Dayne leant forward and picked up his beer bottle from the floor.
You think I love showing up at Harvey “bloody” Norman every day? But I think of the band, think of my other outside interests, and I persevere. It’s what we all do, mate. It’s why it’s called work.
Dayne didn’t speak much of his “other outside interests”. He’d let slip on a few occasions he did a little outside consulting work for some freelance computer types. I read into his vagueness “hacking” but didn’t want to dig too deep. I’d seen the complex computer set-up assembled in his bedroom. It’d put many high-tech security firms to shame. But if he wanted me to know, he’d tell me. We’d been friends for so long; the occasional secret wasn’t anything to worry either one of us.
I drank off the last half of the bottle and tossed it into the near-full bottle bin in the kitchen.
Well, thanks mate, for both the beer and the kick in the arse.
Dayne rose and walked with me to the front door.
Craiggo, I know with your mum’s situation your free time is limited, but you have to make some time for you too. You know what they say, all work and no play…
We stood outside on his cramped front veranda, Dayne leaning against the door jamb, and I distractedly peeling paint from one of his weatherboards.
Yeah, you’re right.
So, you’ll be there on Friday night? At the Yarra?
Dayne was performing a short solo set before the night’s main act. The 30 minutes he spent on the cramped stage paid virtually nothing, but for him, it was 30 minutes of pure unadulterated bliss.
What? Watch you sing covers and dodge insults from the drunk locals? Wouldn’t miss it for the world.
Just so as they only hurl bloody insults, it’ll be grand.
I smiled and shook my head. Dayne, forever the optimist.
Later, Dayne. See ya when I see ya.
Not if I see you first.
Our old goodbye brought a smile to my face as I headed back down the path, between the weeds, to the Beast.
The sun hung low in the western sky, a giant orb hovering just above the lip of the horizon. I turned the key in the ignition and felt a sudden blast of warm air from the vents. I waited for the air to cool and remembered an Augie March classic which was one of my dad’s favourites. They sang of a sun that didn’t set but settled. I realised it described perfectly where my life presently lay, I was just settling. Stagnant. At the whim of life. Blindly accepting whatever happened to come my way. I pulled away from the kerb and tried to recall the rest of the lyrics, hoping they’d provide some much-needed inspiration.
At the intersection of Hoddle and Johnston Streets, waiting to make a left-hand turn, the lyrics sprung forth from some distant corner of my mind. Words beautiful in their simplicity yet which cut to the bone. They spoke of a time and a place which could never be returned to, no matter how hard you wished it to be so.
So much for inspiration.
***
Good evening, Craig.
Evening, Mrs M.
Walking through the front doors of the Sisters of Mercy, leaving behind the refreshing eucalypt and gardenia scented front gardens, was an assault on the senses. No amount of chlorine disinfectant and deodorising spray could ever hope to dispel the ever-present smell of human waste and lingering death. Though, now, as a regular visitor, I managed to keep my facial features under control.
I stopped for a moment at the front desk and chatted with Mum’s old friend, the forever perky Mrs Morris.
Your mother is looking well today. I popped down to see her before I started my shift. Enjoy your visit.
Thanks, Mrs M.
The hallways were quiet at this time of night. With my work hours continuing to grow, I’d unfortunately been arriving later and later each evening. And tonight, I was even later than usual. The few patients still able to roam the halls were safely tucked away under their covers. And late enough for the more raucous dementia parents to be silent. Each alone and adrift in their drug-induced dream world.
In a small, perverse, way I was glad Mum wasn’t displaying the same symptoms afflicting many of the others. Their haunting cries of anguish echoing through the hallways torturous to endure. It made her appear less tormented, more in command of her reality, but ultimately, I knew it was merely for my spoilt edification. Still, even in her relative silence, I wondered what went through her mind when one of her rare lucid moments occurred, and the actual horror of her plight struck deep like a dagger to the heart.
Mother’s new roommate, an elderly lady with terminal cancer, was asleep once again. The poor dear lay on her back, mouth wide open, making a faint whistling sound. Her skin was the colour of ash, almost translucent. It appeared so thin and vulnerable that with the slightest touch it would tear and peel away from her bones. Judy informed me the amount of pain-killing medication administered kept her blissfully unconscious the majority of the day. Unfortunately, this situation couldn’t last forever. At some point, the pain would surpass the maximum dosage available, and then everyone involved would be praying for a swift end.
I wondered if my mother faced the same future. I’d never asked her doctor; of how it would end. As if by burying my head in the sand I could infinitely delay the inevitable. It was pure selfishness on my part – a weakness even – clinging desperately to the status quo, but someone or something was going to have to make the first move. I pushed aside those thoughts as best I could, and continued on into her room.
Hi, Mum.
She lay facing the window. The last rays of the sun gone leaving the golden elm in the courtyard to fade into the shadows. I stepped around to the other side of her bed and noticed her eyes closed. I thought it strange her sleeping this early in the evening, but her medication often left her extremely groggy. I leant over the bed and gently shook her shoulder.
Mum?
Gradually, her faded blue eyes opened and fixed on my face. Not an inkling of recognition. Her mouth agape and her chest rising and falling ever so slightly, I could tell she was attempting to dispel the fog within and to orient herself to her surroundings. My heart wanted to explode with the helplessness I felt for her, and selfishly, for myself.
I was in no mood to regurgitate the commandments of banking bestowed upon me the day before by Eric. Nor, the ugly dismissal of Meredith. So, I filled the next hour with news of Dayne’s upcoming solo show, and the travails of his yet to be unveiled, new band.
Dayne’s excited about the solo show, but a little nervous. But you know Dayne, he’ll be brilliant as always. I don’t know how he does it. The new band is still a work in progress. You’d get a kick out of the new drummer they’ve brought on. And I hear the new singer is something to see.
Mum remained silent througho
ut. Her eyes focussing on me for short bursts, then return to roaming about the room.
I also let her know Judy would be accompanying me on Friday night. I thought I detected a spark of delight in her eyes, but it was probably just a trick of the fluorescent lighting.
It was nearing 10:30 and Mum’s eyes began to droop. I rose from the soft vinyl chair by her bedside and kissed her on the forehead goodnight. I’d browbeaten her enough for one night with my inane stories.
In the hallway, I noticed Judy leaving another room with towels and a bedpan in hand.
G’day. Catch you at a bad time?
I’d snuck up to within a few metres, my shoes making little noise on the linoleum floor.
Bloody hell! Don’t sneak up on someone like that. Do you want the contents of this all over me? Or better yet, you?
I couldn’t help but laugh as she struggled to contain the sloshing contents of the bedpan.
How was your mum tonight?
Okay. Good, I guess. She was in one of her silent moods. She seemed really fatigued, I found it hard to keep her awake. Must have been my thrilling stories.
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