Car Crash

by Lech Blaine

  ‘Listen to the man,’ said Nick, whose biceps were the size of my thighs. ‘Henry is friends with all the birds.’

  Nick and Henry switched places on the bench press.

  ‘The Blaine Train is the most eligible bachelor in Toowoomba,’ said Henry. ‘He just hasn’t worked it out yet.’

  Dom arrived after dusk in an eight-seat Tarago packed with a motley crew. Will was there, a loyal attendee of these last-minute jamborees. So was Vincent. Because his blond hair was cut in a daringly metrosexual style, and he was in the choir and school musicals, some of the jocks called him a faggot behind his back.

  ‘It’s good,’ said Nick, who’d found a different tribe. ‘We’re not just a bunch of dumb pricks.’

  A man pulled into the driveway, a deer in the sensor lights, freeing his daughter and a group of her friends.

  ‘Yes, Dad!’ she said. ‘I won’t get pregnant.’

  Beer pong distracted twenty teenagers from a mosquito ambush. ‘A-Punk’ by Vampire Weekend segued into ‘Electric Feel’ by MGMT. Henry flirted with Eliza, a tall blonde. She went to an elite girls’ school filled with sophisticated students who didn’t usually associate with St Mary’s boys. Tongue-tied, I went inside to play eight-ball with one of the guys.

  Henry took my arm. ‘This is Frida,’ he said, leading me to one of Eliza’s friends. ‘She’s the only person here smarter than you.’

  Frida was olive-skinned with a billowing brunette bun. She had a small face that was symmetrical except for a mole high on the right cheek. I’d never seen jean shorts and a black crop top worn with such sangfroid.

  ‘I’ve heard a lot about you,’ she said.

  ‘What? From who?’

  ‘Henry. I came prepared for a debate.’

  Dentists had altered Frida’s teeth to perfection, but her gaze was naturally amazing. Brown irises were guarded by thick black eyebrows. Her father was from a well-known Lebanese family who grew rich in a new country.

  ‘I have a question,’ she said. ‘Don’t be offended.’

  ‘Go for it.’

  ‘What the hell is Lech short for?’

  ‘Nothing. I’m named after Lech Wałęsa.’

  ‘Who’s he?’

  I stared at Frida in mock horror. ‘The old Polish president? Leader of the Solidarity movement. Winner of the 1983 Nobel Peace Prize. I thought you were meant to be a genius!’

  ‘He sounds like a top bloke. But we haven’t done Eastern Europe in Modern History yet. Ask me about Vietnam.’

  We sparred about the pros and cons of Ho Chi Minh. Then Frida jabbed back: ‘I, too, was named after a famous person.’

  I tried to think of well-known Fridas, but came up blank.

  ‘Frida Kahlo!’ she said. ‘My mother was an artist.’

  ‘Never heard of her,’ I said.

  ‘Aren’t you interested in art?’ she asked.

  ‘I look at the paintings,’ I said, ‘but nothing happens. I reckon painters beat around the bush too much.’

  Frida snickered. ‘Like politicians?’

  ‘Politics is real. Even if the leaders are full of shit.’

  Henry and Eliza collected us on their way upstairs, followed by Vincent and a brunette named Anna.

  ‘Talking about politics!’ said Anna. ‘You were meant to be.’

  On the front balcony, we shared a cigarette among five – Vincent didn’t smoke – and swigged from a bottle of Jacob’s Creek chardonnay that Eliza was holding.

  ‘Let’s play spin the bottle,’ said Anna.

  We retreated to a bedroom. Vincent’s spin landed on Anna. They kissed in the dimness. It was Frida’s turn next. She pointed the bottle directly at me, like a compass.

  ‘We’ll leave you guys to it,’ said Eliza, before she and Henry relocated to the balcony. Vincent and Anna took the hint and moved to the spare bedroom next door.

  Frida and I kissed quickly and then slowly, slowly and then quickly, quickly and then slowly. My head spun with the information of straight teeth and wayward fingers.

  ‘I have a confession to make,’ said Frida.

  ‘You have herpes? I knew it.’

  ‘No! I stalked your Myspace when Henry told me about you. And you might be the only person I know who likes Pavement.’

  ‘Is that a good thing?’ I asked.

  ‘That’s why I’m making out with you.’

  Our tryst was interrupted by a car horn. A minute later, a ringtone sounded through the wall. A minute more, and Anna banged on the door. ‘My father is here!’ she yelled. ‘Sorry, Frida. I told him not to come till eleven.’

  Frida kissed me insistently. ‘Text me,’ she said. ‘Get my number from Henry.’

  Eliza, Anna and Frida disappeared downstairs. The chauffeur beeped again. Through the curtains, I watched three apparitions slide into a luxury four-wheel drive.

  Henry entered the bedroom and put an arm around me. ‘See, Blaine Train,’ he said. ‘Girls dig personality.’

  My lips made a big, dumb grin. We got two beers from the fridge and went back outside to the lingering party.

  At the end of first term, Nick travelled to New Zealand and Fiji on a prestigious school rugby union tour. I drove from St Mary’s to Downlands to collect Henry, who had narrowly missed out on team selection. He couldn’t keep his dejection a secret from me.

  ‘No offence,’ he said. ‘But I wish I was in Fiji.’

  For the first time, he stayed the night at my noticeably broken home. We watched Billy Madison in the granny flat. Henry was well-mannered to my mother and didn’t cringe at the sunken couches or frayed carpet, but couldn’t ignore the outlines of missing memorabilia.

  ‘Did your old man move out?’ he asked.

  ‘Yep.’

  ‘When?’

  I opened the sliding door and lit a cigarette. The collar of our half-breed dalmatian, Mazda, rattled as he licked my feet.

  ‘The end of 2007.’

  ‘Christ,’ he said, joining me. ‘You never said anything.’

  I could talk to Henry, perhaps because his parents had divorced when he was young. We had kindred sensitivities. I witnessed his frequent moments of empathy and longing, a hint that he wished reality might be different.

  ‘That sucks,’ he said. Henry talked about his parents’ divorce without bitterness or self-pity, which made me feel less damaged. ‘Remember not to take it personally.’

  On Saturday afternoon, Henry and I picked up Tim and Big Red on the way to the gathering at Dom’s newly built house in Mount Lofty, where Will and Vincent had stayed the night before. Dom’s parents were away.

  ‘You Downlands guys are actually all right,’ said Tim.

  We strawpedoed Vodka Cruisers overlooking the pool. A koala sanctuary shared the horizon with a rifle range.

  ‘You should see what Frida is doing,’ said Henry.

  ‘I don’t think she’s keen on me,’ I said.

  Since we made out at Nick’s place, Frida kept rain-checking our first date, blaming pedantic parents.

  ‘Dude,’ said Henry. ‘She likes you.’

  So I texted Frida to see what she was doing.

  you’re in luck Mr Walesa, she texted back.

  She arrived in a taxi with Eliza and Anna. ‘Happy crucifixion, Jesus!’ Frida announced.

  After a game of Never Have I Ever, we sauntered from a fog-swamped Mount Lofty to Queens Park for the Australian Gospel Music Festival, trespassing through Downlands. There was a grim history of boarders hanging themselves from the camphor laurels.

  My friends tried to convince me that the spirits of dead students haunted the heritage-listed buildings.

  ‘Tell me none of you believe in that shit,’ I said.

  ‘Don’t disrespect the ghosts!’ said Will. ‘They’re listening …’

  Henry lit up his face with a phone. In a rasping voice, he told a story about a teacher on fire often seen running through the trees towards the highway.

  ‘True story,’ he said. ‘I’ve seen
him.’

  ‘You’re a liar!’ cried Frida, linking her fingers with mine.

  We reached the footpath at the front of a rambling campus. Frida and I fell back from the others. She used the privacy to compare her grades with mine. I sat on a VHA 10 in English Extension – 100% – five rungs better than Frida, who was viscerally wounded by the defeat. She was a prefect of unique beauty and conventional perfectionism.

  ‘Who do you want to be when you grow up?’ I asked, not what, an appropriate faux pas.

  ‘I want to shake up classical music,’ she said. ‘Like Philip Glass.’

  ‘Philip who?’ I asked.

  ‘Glass. The composer and pianist. You know so many big words, Mr Blaine. But deep down you’re still a philistine.’

  Frida’s parents wanted her to study at the Conservatorium, but she remained undecided about the practicality of piano in the face of rising sea levels and Israeli occupations of Palestine.

  ‘Anyhoo. That’s a little bit about the adversity of being Frida. Tell me about Lech Blaine. Who do you want to be?’

  Much of my untamed youth had been spent translating speech into plainer language, or blunting my sense of fraudulence with alcohol. Now I was overcome by the pleasure of speaking to another person in the native tongue of my internal monologue.

  ‘I want to write the Great Australian Novel,’ I said, ‘or be the prime minister. It changes depending on the day.’

  ‘You can’t be an artist and a politician.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Popularity is the enemy of art.’

  I explained how I grew up idolising Bob Hawke and Paul Keating, before growing disillusioned with the Labor Party’s basically patriotic embrace of capitalism. But I became equally afraid that my political purity was the opposite of obtaining power.

  ‘What made you fear that?’

  ‘I had a Road to Damascus moment,’ I said, alluding to my series of debates with John about asylum seekers.

  Frida’s eyes crinkled with pleasure. I wanted to make her cry with laughter like my life depended on it. That sound! It was the opposite of sorrow.

  ‘I never thought I’d hear a guy in Toowoomba describe himself as having a Road to Damascus moment.’

  ‘Sorry,’ I said. ‘I don’t usually talk like this.’

  ‘This is the best conversation of my life,’ she said.

  I kissed her impulsively on the lips. Neither of us blinked. Frida squeezed my fingers. ‘You’re an excellent person,’ she said, as if a little surprised by this. ‘It’s so nice knowing you.’

  ——

  The Labour Day long weekend started fast and lasted forever. I wiped sleep from my eyes and swiped for new texts. Frida had kept in consistent contact since Easter Saturday. The next afternoon, I was taking her to the movies, before a party at Vincent’s place.

  In the car, I played a Philip Glass CD while picking up Nick, unusually tanned from the Fijian rugby union tour.

  ‘What is this?’ he asked.

  ‘Nothing,’ I said, switching to Triple J.

  We drove half an hour to Tim’s place in Middle Ridge. ‘My brothers!’ said Tim. ‘Buckle up for a big one.’

  Nick bought banana bread on the way to Downlands. ‘I’m carb loading,’ he said. The back seat was a potpourri of petrol, overripe fruit and Lynx Africa.

  ‘You better axe someone today,’ said Tim.

  The First XV were playing a Brisbane school. The main oval attracted a flock of students staring sternly at perfect turf steamrolled into steep terrain.

  ‘Oh, when the Saints …’ I hummed.

  We watched Dom and Hamish play in the Thirds, Henry in the Seconds and Nick in the Firsts. Tim and I, two St Mary’s boys, withstood the quizzical looks of strangers as we hung in the stands with Dom, unofficial team photographer, and Hamish, who helped lead the chants.

  ‘Oi, Henry!’ screamed Hamish, as Henry sat on the bench in his cherished Firsts jersey. ‘Oi! Henry.’

  When Henry turned around, Dom captured his shy mixture of pride and vulnerability on film.

  ‘Fire up, Downlands,’ shouted the crowd. ‘Fire up, Downlands, fire up!’

  After an upset victory by Downlands, Henry invited five of us to a barbeque at his place. Hamish was staying at Dom’s. They left to get ready. Tim, Nick and Henry piled into my car, so that I could take it home.

  Hannah bought us a carton of Carlton Cold and dropped us at Henry’s place in Highfields. At the end of a winding driveway, a brand-new manor cradled the landscape. Henry’s stepfather was a successful builder.

  ‘Let me know if you need a lift,’ said Hannah.

  Henry delivered a tour of the residence. The paint and carpet smelled fresh, offset by designer furniture. Walls were decorated with art and family portraits.

  ‘Welcome to my crib,’ said Henry.

  ‘This place is legit,’ said Tim.

  I suffered an involuntary vision of my mum drinking alone in a room cluttered with pictures of a missing husband and children, and my father cheerfully pouring beers at a clubhouse for recreational racists.

  ‘Yep,’ I said. ‘This is amazing.’

  ‘It goes all right,’ said Henry.

  We met Melissa, Henry’s elegantly dressed mother. ‘You are all more than welcome to stay over,’ she said, and this seemed the likeliest option. I was saving my gunpowder for Sunday night.

  Dom and Hamish arrived. Dom had just bought a gold Ford Fairlane, meaning that we no longer had access to the eight-seat people-mover.

  ‘I’m gonna miss the Tarago,’ said Nick.

  Henry’s driving test was still months away. He did an inspection of his panel van, which needed a motor, four wheels and a fresh coat. Hamish and Dom went to collect kindling for the fireplace from the jungle out the front.

  ‘D’you wanna start the fire, Blainey?’ Hamish asked me.

  ‘I wouldn’t have a clue,’ I said.

  ‘You’re supposed to be from the bush,’ said Dom.

  ‘I grew up in a pub,’ I said, ‘not on a farm.’

  The six of us sat around a table sipping mid-strength beers and shivering until the miniature bonfire heated up, while Henry’s stepdad supervised and cooked a barbeque.

  ‘Get some pictures,’ said Henry.

  I took a few on my digital camera – Henry pouting while Hamish smiled, Dom and Nick grinning, Tim grimacing, he and I scowling through the smoke.

  Henry’s stepfather retired upstairs. Will arrived in a small car with three girls. It changed the atmosphere. Henry and Nick were in their element. Hamish and I grew quieter. We went out the front for a smoke.

  ‘I haven’t been to Wondai in yonks,’ I said.

  ‘Come out to the farm in the holidays,’ he said.

  Hamish told me that he wanted to study engineering in Brisbane after school, a destiny overlapping with mine and Henry’s. This seemed like fate. We returned to the warmth of the courtyard with a new rapport.

  Someone received a text message from the friend of a friend with the address of a party near the airport. It didn’t matter whether the event actually existed: as soon as there was an exit strategy, leaving became a hypnotic possibility. Ten bodies split between two cars.

  The girls were noncommittal. I wanted to stay at Henry’s, because I had my rendezvous with Frida planned for the next day and didn’t want a hangover.

  We came to a vague plan: Dom would drive back to his place. Those who wanted to go to the party could make their own way. Those who weren’t keen could go home. The plan relied on the arithmetic that the female driver would chauffeur two of the guys to Dom’s.

  ‘Let’s get going,’ said Dom.

  Henry went upstairs to kiss his mother goodbye. We skylarked around the Honda Civic parked on the driveway. I smoke-bombed from the posse to claim the front passenger seat, gripping my iPhone like an asthma puffer.

  are you getting crunk tonight?? asked Frida.

  nah! i’m a mature old man these days

 
Footsteps came towards the getaway vehicle. There’d been a shift in the plan. The girls were driving the other way and needed to make it home by curfew, so seven bodies now divided into five seats. Doors were slammed. Tim took the middle, Henry on his left and Will on his right.

  Nick and Hamish arrived last. I didn’t see the process of their entry. Teenage boys don’t stage committee meetings before climbing into boots. And that’s how we wound up in a car on the dark edge of town.

  ACT II

  THE GRADUATE

  ‘Well, everyone can master a grief

  but he that has it.’

  William Shakespeare

  Class Excursions

  I returned to school on a Monday morning, sixteen days after the collision. Leadership badges were pinned to my navy tie. On the way, I drove past garbage trucks with robotic limbs emptying wheelie bins. Sandwich boards advertised bags of The Purest Thoroughbred Manure in Toowoomba. This was the most shocking thing about trauma: the continuing ordinariness of a world invisibly rigged against me.

  I didn’t shiver or burst any hidden rivers of emotion as I accelerated past the garage 200 metres from my school, where two metal relics from the crash were padlocked inside chain-link cages, so police could study them.

  At school, my mates bag-whacked each other and threw apples at the younger kids. I kept getting tugged from the present to the past by an undertow of sorrow.

  At 3:15 pm, I lit a cigarette and drove from the student car park to the police station for my first interrogation. For the previous fortnight, Toowoomba had been rife with innuendo. The fictions filtered back, mostly through my father, the publican, a profession second only to taxi drivers when it came to gauging the deranged population. Drunken customers leaked the rumours that friends didn’t want to upset me with. Don’t shoot the messenger, but …

  The driver was speeding, clearly. At some point he’d been blindfolded from behind. The front passenger – me – had yanked on the steering wheel. We were committed to a suicide pact. Witnesses saw ziplock bags of weed on the back seat. In certain retellings, pot became speed or crystal meth. Bongs and pipes littered the back seat. At the hospital, every illegal substance imaginable had been located in the driver’s bloodstream.