by Claire Zorn
Sam watched her and felt the heat pull and coil in his chest.
‘And now! Oh look at that! Who’s the one left holding the bloody baby?’ Lorraine pointed to Sam and Minty snorted a laugh.
‘He’s not really a baby, Mum.’
Ruby let out a laugh.
‘It’s an expression, numbnuts!’
‘Lorraine, I’m staying in the caravan park. Number nine. You come and talk to me when you’re ready.’
‘I was ready seventeen bloody years ago, but you didn’t say a word then, did you!’
‘Number nine. Goodnight, boys.’
‘See ya, Nana!’ called Minty.
17
When Sam woke at dawn he got up and pulled on his wetsuit as usual, took his board from where it leaned on the wall and headed out to wax it. Lorraine was waiting for him in the kitchen. She had a mug of tea in her hand, a cigarette between her lips and her game face on. She was primed for battle.
‘Oi, no surfing. You gotta get down to the school at 8.30.’ She pointed across the kitchen to where an ironing board was set up. ‘I got Minty’s old uniform for you. Even bloody ironed it. Like you’d notice.’
Sam set the tail of the board on the floor between his feet. He told himself he wasn’t hiding behind it.
‘Aunty Lorraine …’
‘C’mon. Get in the shower. And wash your bloody hair while you’re in there.’
‘I’m not going.’
‘What d’you mean you’re not going. Of course you are.’
‘There’s no point.’
‘No point to a bloody education! Rachel’ll be turning in her grave. Get in the shower.’
‘No. I’ll get a job.’
She watched him as if deciding whether she was qualified to argue with him about the importance of staying in school.
‘Your mum would want you to go. I know she would.’
‘Well, she’s gone.’
‘That’s not her effing fault.’
Sam wasn’t sure if he believed her. ‘I’m not going. I’ll get a job.’
She pressed her lips into a firm line. ‘Yeah, you will if you’re not gonna go to school.’
Sam couldn’t make it down to the beach.
He lay on the camp bed with his eyes closed. He cranked the volume on his headphones and tried to get the breath to stay in his lungs, but his chest was squeezed like a vice and if he opened his eyes the world leaned in too far and he felt dizzy. He needed to make it stop but the best he could do was shroud himself in the black behind his eyes and the noise in his ears. Shane was right. Minty liked Sam, but Minty liked everyone. Sam wasn’t wanted. He wasn’t needed. Lorraine had problems enough without some orphan kid turning up on her doorstep. Maybe he did have a dad out there somewhere. But whoever his dad was, he didn’t give a shit about Sam. He’d never even tried to contact Sam. He had read that Jeff Buckley had grown up not knowing who his father was. Then when he was in his twenties he discovered his dad was the famous musician Tim Buckley. Sam didn’t know who Tim Buckley was, but according to the article Sam had read, he was important. Sam wondered if his own father was a famous musician and how that information would change his life. Which famous musician would he be? Knowing his luck he would probably turn out to be John Farnham.
He was better off not knowing.
The first time Sam heard Jeff Buckley and took notice of the music he had been in his room at home alone. He was supposed to be studying physics. The radio was on Triple J and he had his finger hovering over the record button, waiting to catch Rage Against the Machine or Beck or Dinosaur Jr. A hook and line in the steady stream of sound. The best thing he had caught recently was an acoustic live recording of ‘Drive’ by REM. You could buy singles and they usually had B sides, but ten bucks was a lot to pay for six or seven minutes of music. CD stores were unreliable in what they stocked, too. You could always get mainstream singles, less so rare recordings. The cheapest and easiest way to get singles was to tape them off the radio. Sam had a stack of tapes on rotation, the best ones marked so they wouldn’t be taped over, the others good to go. Always something ready to go in the tape deck.
He was waiting that night, poised, when sharp, delicate notes sounded. Reedy, thrumming, unlike the stuff he usually recorded. The space between the notes was loaded. Negative space. Then the drums kicked in and searing vocals. Sam hit record and the tape began to whir. ‘Grace’. And he had the feeling that he was hearing something important. Something with resonance.
People who had seen Jeff Buckley on stage said that he had a rare presence, a magnetic aura that drew every eye to him, tuned every ear to his breath. He made himself so vulnerable in his lyrics, but it somehow translated into power. He could stand in front of a crowd, hundreds, thousands of people, lay everything bare and be respected for it.
How did he do that?
Jeff made Sam think of one of those Renaissance guys in leggings, cross-legged playing the lute or something. But then with something more: a raw, tortured, seething undercurrent. Like the guy with the lute played a song, recited a few sonnets and then stabbed someone in the neck. Jeff Buckley sang that he wasn’t afraid to die. Sam wondered if he was afraid to die.
Swim little fishes, way down below.
Wiggle their tails
And away they go
The knowledge that he wasn’t shuddered into his chest.
He had listened to that first recording over and over; it started twenty seconds into the track. Finally he got the thirty bucks for the album. His mum heard it for the first time and proclaimed that she was going to have Jeff Buckley’s babies. Sam really wished she hadn’t said that out loud. Girls loved Jeff. They’d probably still love him if he did snap, put down his guitar and punch someone in the head. They’d probably love him more.
Gretchen probably loved him. She was the sort of girl who thought a lot about the world. She wasn’t mainstream. Sam had decided this because she was sporty but she wore a ‘Zero’ T-shirt. Surely she would be into Jeff Buckley. He should have said something about music. They could have talked about it. But it seemed that whenever she was in close proximity everything in his head was erased – like a magnet and a floppy disk. What if the Smashing Pumpkins was the only good band Gretchen listened to? What if she listened to Celine Dion as well? That would be an interesting combination, though. No one was perfect.
No, she was probably perfect.
Minty and his mates would think Sam was pathetic because she really wasn’t even super hot, not in an obvious way like the girls Minty was into. She was more subtle. More classy than hot. They wouldn’t get that.
Sam had heard enough talk out on the water to know that if you didn’t sleep with any girl you had the opportunity to, you were a loser. Case closed. His own virginity felt like a shameful disease, more so since he’d moved to the coast. There was zero chance of him admitting he was a virgin, even to Minty. Sam knew that when it did happen, it wouldn’t be with someone like Gretchen. He would never be able to play it right around her. Speaking to the girl was probably a prerequisite and he’d barely managed that much when he’d had the opportunity. And now he was officially a high school dropout, diminishing his chances with her even more.
Shane sat in the line-up and talked about women like they were livestock. Things he said about girls he’d been with made Sam’s stomach turn. Minty wouldn’t join in exactly, but he’d laugh. He’d call Shane a dirty bastard as if it were endearing to reduce girls you’d been with to bits of meat. Shane didn’t seem to care whether Ruby was in earshot or not. In fact, Sam felt that he amped it up when Ruby was out there. If she cared, she didn’t show it. Or she’d make some remark about Shane having to look for his dick if he wanted to find it, which would make his whole head flame red, like steam was going to shoot out of his ears, like he might take a swing at her if she was in reach. She never was.
It must have been mid morning when Minty walked in and tugged the earbud out of Sam’s ear. ‘We’re goin’ south. Get y
our board.’
‘We’ meant he and Shane. Brothers. They didn’t need Sam there. He just shook his head and plugged the earbud back in.
In the afternoon, when Sam knew school would be finished, he wandered up the hill to Jono’s place. Mrs O’Brien had laid out an epic spread of afternoon tea for her flock of boys and she welcomed Sam into the chaos. Jono said she liked Sam because he looked like Jesus. Sam loved being in the house with the noise and stuff everywhere, the yelling and laughing. Jono’s mum looked like she needed a long nap, but Sam found it comforting to be there: a sense that the world was well and truly still spinning and would continue to do so whether Sam felt like shit or not.
Later, in front of GoldenEye, Sam shot people and half listened to Jono pretending to be a music historian.
‘Look. I’m not saying they’re bad, yeah? I’m just saying that the thing with Stone Temple Pilots is they aren’t part of that original movement. They aren’t pure-bloods as far as the grunge scene goes.’ Jono was lying in front of the screen, propped on his elbows with the console in his hands and his eyes fixed on the game. Sam wasn’t aware that he had even begun a discussion about the authenticity or otherwise of Stone Temple Pilots. That detail didn’t seem to bother Jono. Sam re-loaded his gun and shot two guys in the back of the head, clearing the way for Jono to kick down the door.
‘Nice. I mean, they hit pay-dirt with one solid song. It’s a good song, sure. But I’m not sure they deserve to be talked about on the same level as the Pumpkins or Sonic Youth or even Soundgarden.’
‘I didn’t know anyone was talking about them. I didn’t know we were.’
‘Oh yeah. They do. But it’s people who like to think they are so edgy that they are ahead of the wave, like. I just don’t think that if you are having a serious discussion about the scene over the last ten years, you should consider them. They’re just pretending they’re not totally mainstream. I mean, I think Mellon Collie has changed the tack a bit, of where things are heading. And then the other side of it is the stuff that’s coming out of the UK. Tricky, for instance. Portishead—’
‘Who?’
‘Oh man. Sam. How can you be into music and not into Portishead?’ He barely stopped to draw breath. ‘And I don’t think there’s a huge disconnect between them and something like Nine Inch Nails, even. My question is, what have Stone Temple Pilots actually contributed to the evolution of the sound …’
Sam was pretty sure that most of what Jono said was bullshit.
‘Did I tell you about the thing for Drum magazine? Sam?’
Sam tuned back in. ‘What?’
‘Yeah, Drum. You know, the street press? I’m writing an article for them. I’m going to send it in, see if they publish it.’
‘Really?’
‘Yeah. I want to start reviewing gigs too. I mean, I have to wait until I’m eighteen so I can actually see them. You ask Minty about that Tumbleweed gig?’
‘Yeah. He’s up for it.’
‘Cool. I think music journalism could be something that really works for me. UTS have this communications/journalism course too. I’m gonna shoot for it. The entry score’s heaps high. But I reckon I can do it. And you know, this World Wide Web thing is going to change everything. Like journalism and everything.’
‘You think?’
‘Yeah. People are gonna have it in their homes, man. It’s gonna change everything.’
‘I gotta find a job.’
‘You can work at Jewel! Got a resume? I’ll hand it in. There’s nothing going at the moment, but people chuck it in all the time. Something might come up.’
‘I’ll think about it.’
There was the padding sound of feet coming down the stairs. Sam expected to see some of Jono’s brothers in the doorway. He didn’t even look up until he heard the female voice.
‘Good afternoon, Jono!’ Stassi was holding a six-litre tub of ice-cream and a VHS tape. ‘We come bearing gifts!’
Gretchen was beside her. Curls everywhere. She avoided Sam’s gaze. Stassi looked beyond Jono and her face fell when she saw Sam.
‘Oh. You’re here.’
He ignored her and focused on the game. Stassi and Gretchen sat on the carpet, in the space between Jono and Sam: Stassi next to Jono, Gretchen next to Sam. He could smell her hair or moisturiser or something. Vanilla. She hadn’t looked at him and he didn’t look at her. He hadn’t seen her since the party on the weekend – when he had ignored her like a massive tool.
Stassi took the console from Jono’s hands and handed him the tape. Jono glanced at Sam. ‘Forgot to tell you, there’s people coming over and we’re watching Pulp Fiction.’
Stassi gave Sam a cheesy fake smile. ‘Jono’s Movie Monday. It’s an institution.’
‘An institution of three people?’ Sam intended it to sound like a joke but he got the tone wrong.
‘Feel free to leave,’ said Stassi.
‘Thanks for the heads-up, Jono,’ Sam said.
The tape started and Jono opened the ice-cream, passing it and the spoon along the line. Stassi handed it to Gretchen and, despite keeping his eyes on the screen, Sam was acutely aware of her every movement as she moved the spoonful of ice-cream to her lips and, no doubt, her tongue. He wanted to touch her; the space between her body and his was charged with tension only heightened by the fact that neither of them would look at the other. The opening scenes played out, and Gretchen passed the ice-cream to him. His fingers brushed hers. He took a scoop of ice-cream and handed the tub back to her and their fingers touched again. Still they didn’t glance at each other. Instead of folding her arms again she left them loose at her sides, her elbow millimetres from his. He moved his arm ever so slightly so it touched hers. She didn’t move away. He moved closer, his heart pounding, so his skin was touching her smooth, cool forearm. She didn’t move or look at him. The two of them sat for the entire time like that until the movie finished – with Sam barely able to recall anything about it. Stassi jumped up, flicked the lights on and the spell – that he was connected, that he had someone – was broken.
AUTUMN
18
Sam had borrowed a collared shirt from Minty’s wardrobe. He didn’t have a tie; his mum would have told him to wear one. But it seemed pretty dumb to wear a tie to a supermarket job interview. The manager’s name was Garth and he was in his twenties with acne and an old-man’s haircut. He carried a clipboard and led Sam into a stockroom out the back of the supermarket. He turned a milk crate over and indicated to Sam to sit down. Sam sat.
‘So, why would you like to join the team, Sam?’
‘I’m really passionate about customer service and I like working as part of a team.’
Garth wrote his answer on the clipboard.
‘And what are your strengths?’
‘I’m good with people. I’m punctual. I’m reliable.’
‘What are your weaknesses?’
‘I’m a perfectionist. I put a lot of pressure on myself to do well, you know? I’m also a workaholic. I just love … working.’
‘Sure. Do you have any previous work experience?’
‘I worked in a video store in Sydney for a bit.’
‘And can they provide a reference for you?’
‘It’s um, actually closed down now, so …’
‘Okay. Who are your references?’
‘Um, my aunty. And my cousin, Minty Booner. You know Minty?’
‘No.’
‘He’s a professional surfer. You would have seen him around.’
‘I don’t like the beach.’
‘Oh.’
‘Now, I’m going to give you this form to fill out. You’ll notice a declaration down the bottom: it asks if you have a criminal record or have ever received a police caution. I would like to remind you that it is a legal document and we will be checking.’
‘Sure.’
‘I’ll leave you to fill it out. You can leave it on the desk there, Sam. Thanks for coming in and we’ll be in touch.’
Garth handed Sam the clipboard and left the storeroom.
Sam stared at the page.
The room had become very small and very hot.
He stood up, put the clipboard on the desk and left.
Outside the afternoon air smothered him and the black static choked his brain. He stood on the footpath and watched the cars. People – mums with strollers, old ladies, kids in school uniform – walked around him like he was a stick caught in a stream. In the weeks since school had started he’d managed to chip away at the hours – the long stretches of time when he should have been in class – listening to music, making notes about the swell forecast, trying to surf, skating and sleeping. When the manager from Jewel had rung and asked him to come in for an interview, he’d felt like maybe it would all fall into place and he would go from a bludging, jobless dropout, to a legit person with an income and options. In the brief instances when he’d seen Gretchen he’d been able to have a chat with her and he felt he was working his way up to something. Now he felt on the edge of panic. Sydney, the trouble he’d been in with the cops and the caution he’d got, he’d thought it was behind him. But it wasn’t. Now he couldn’t catch his breath, as if he was sprinting instead of standing still.
He couldn’t move toward the place he was supposed to be next. He didn’t know where to be next. The beach seemed a long, long way away. Everywhere seemed a long way away. How long could you stand there in one spot, not moving, before someone noticed or said something or asked you to move? He was thinking about that when he heard his name being called. He looked up the road toward the chicken shop and saw Minty and his mates sprawled in the white plastic chairs on the footpath – somewhere he could be.