Boyz 'R' Us

by Scott Monk

  ‘No more gangs?’

  ‘No more lecturing?’

  ‘Mitchell,’ he growled.

  ‘Okay. Okay. No more gangs.’

  ‘You swear?’

  ‘Gotta Bible handy?’

  ‘Okay, I trust you.’

  ‘But,’ I added. ‘I want you to spend a bit more time with your “gang of three”. Deal?’

  ‘Deal,’ he said with a smile. ‘C’mon. We’ve hassled the Batrouneys long enough. We better be going. Ally’ll be driving Elias’s parents crazy by now. There’s only so many tricks you can entertain a five-year-old with.’

  I laughed. It felt good. It also felt good having Sean there for me. I needed him more than ever if I was going to break my blood oath to a gang I once swore loyalty to when I thought the whole world was out to get me.

  Under a light for the entire street to gawk at, Sean’s old Sigma rusted in the Batrouneys’ driveway. It huddled in the cold August evening, waiting for the kinder warmth of spring. Across the road three guys, aged fifteen to seventeen, sat on the kerb, watching Ally, Sean and me approach it. The first, a tall guy, dressed in track pants and a Chicago Bulls sweatshirt, waited a few seconds longer before joining his mates. They were dressed in bomber jackets, twisted caps and baggy jeans.

  ‘We’ve got trouble,’ said Sean, pushing Allison into the car.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ she said.

  ‘Shhh, Allison,’ I said. ‘Do as Sean says.’

  ‘Who are they?’ he asked.

  ‘Three Jets. Let me talk to them.’

  ‘You sure you want to? We can get out of here in a second.’

  ‘No, just watch Allison. If things get ugly I’ll call you.’

  Unwillingly, Sean agreed. He stayed by the passenger door and watched me meet the three Thunderjets in the middle of the road. I shuffled to a stop and heard what they had to say.

  ‘Hey,’ the first guy said. He smelt strongly of cologne and the gold jewellery around his neck rattled as he stroked his goatee out of habit.

  ‘Hey, Flash Jack. What’s going down?’

  ‘You. We came to see how you were going.’

  I shrugged. ‘The usual. Still walking after someone tried to do me in.’

  ‘You know we had nothing to do with it, don’tcha Mitch?’ the tall guy said.

  ‘Yer, Marc. I know it was all Wheeler’s doing.’

  ‘Good, I was worried you’d blame us for you getting pounded. We couldn’t stop it. The Oath and all that.’

  ‘I didn’t expect you to. I would’ve appreciated someone telling me about the fight though.’

  Peeper crawled under my stare.

  ‘Good to see you up anyway,’ Flash Jack said, slapping me on the back and trying to lighten the mood. ‘You want to go shoot some hoops then stop by Bankstown? I’m on the prowl for chicks.’

  I turned to Sean. ‘No. I’m going home. You go to the mall yourselves. I’ll see you round.’

  ‘Mitch,’ Flash Jack called, stopping me. ‘You gone mad, man? You want to go home? On a Thursday?’

  ‘Yer, I need some more sleep to get rid of the pain. I’ll see you at school tomorrow. We can shoot a few hoops after lunch.’

  ‘How about the chicks?’

  ‘Another time. You don’t need me. You’re the stud. Work your charm.’

  Flash Jack, Peeper and Marc looked at each other. They couldn’t believe I was dumping them for a night in front of the TV. It was unheard of. The best recovery for them was hanging out together. For me, spending some time with my brother and sister was what I wanted the most.

  ‘Okay, Mitch,’ Flash Jack said, looking down and shrugging. ‘We’ll bring you home a short-haired blonde if we can find you one.’

  I half smiled. ‘Make sure she’s been a woman all her life.’

  The guys laughed. Wheeler had spotted this lush chick once only to have his dreams killed when he discovered she was anything but a “she”.

  ‘See you round, man.’

  ‘Bye.’

  I swapped sides with Sean.

  ‘I’m impressed,’ he said.

  ‘Told you I didn’t need them. There shouldn’t be any more trouble with the Jets after tonight. The guys’ll take care of it. Now, c’mon. Let’s get home. I’m starving.’

  CHAPTER THREE

  After throwing my Raiders jacket over a chair, I poked my head in the fridge. ‘What’s for dinner?’

  ‘Mince,’ Sean called back from the hallway.

  ‘Again?’

  ‘Yes, again. Unless you’re prepared to get a job, shut up and don’t complain. It’s all we can budget for this week.’

  Mince three nights in a row. The ants ate better. I pushed aside a jar of mayonnaise. Couldn’t we eat something different for once? Savoury mince. Snags. Toasted cheese sandwiches. Frozen vegies. Pies. Sausage Rolls. Chips. Pasta. And two-minute noodles. My taste buds just couldn’t stand it any more. They wanted variety. I swear if a starving beggar stopped by our place asking for food he’d have one look at our cupboards, say no thanks and find a nearby bin.

  No wonder I ate over at my mates’ places whenever I was invited. Their families ate chicken, veal, chops, steak, lamb, stir fry, pizza, lasagne and fish. If Dad stopped drinking so much our family could too.

  I grabbed a couple of Kraft Singles and the Meadow Lea. Toasted cheese sandwiches again. Great. Remind me to invite the guys over for a party one night.

  I bunged the sandwiches under the grill to toast then walked down the hallway to the bathroom. ‘Ouch.’ In the mirror my cheek was puffed up and purple, and dried blood plugged a cut to my forehead.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ Sean asked.

  ‘The way I look.’

  ‘Can’t help that, kid. You —’

  ‘— were born that way. Ha-ha. No, my face. They must have laid into me good.’

  ‘What, with you caked in blood and bruised, with half your shirt ripped? Nah. I’d say you’d look normal — that’s if you were Jeff Fenech’s sparring partner.’

  ‘That bad, huh?’

  ‘Yes, that bad.’

  Back out in the kitchen, I wolfed down my toasted cheese sandwich as Sean washed up. ‘How are the Pirates?’ I asked.

  ‘Perfect as usual,’ he beamed. ‘Our jam session gave us enough material for two new songs.’

  ‘Oh yer. What are they called?’

  ‘“Rebel of Misery Street” and “Pirate Rock”.’

  ‘Cool. When can I hear them?’

  ‘Oh, I reckon you’ll have to wait until the album comes out,’ Sean joked.

  ‘And when will that be, guitar guru?’

  ‘After you bring home some good grades, little brother.’

  ‘You’ll be an old man by the time that happens.’

  ‘And you still in school.’ He threw the tea towel at me.

  ‘You looking to start a fight?’ I teased.

  ‘Any time, kid. I’ll only have to breathe on you.’

  ‘Yer, that breath of yours could knock anyone out,’ I lied, laughing.

  ‘Does my breath really stink?’ Sean asked, cupping his hand over his mouth and blowing into it. ‘You are joking, aren’t you?’

  I kept laughing.

  ‘Mitch? Be serious, man. Does my breath stink?’

  ‘Chew garlic. It might help.’

  ‘What?!’

  Sean hurried to the bathroom, breathing and sniffing. ‘You better not be lying, mate. I’ll shave your eyebrows once you go to sleep tonight.’

  Sean would too. The Monday before, he’d mixed invisible ink with my toothpaste (the kind that becomes visible after a few hours) after I’d wrapped his car completely in newspaper as a joke a few weeks back. It cost him five bucks down at the local games shop and me my rep. I turned up at school for the year photo smiling cheesy smiles with this purple gunk all over my teeth. No one dared tell me what was so funny until Sternfeld hauled me off the stage and put me on detention. That was one of the most embarrassing days of my life. Inclu
ding the time I wet my pants at a camp excursion when I was nine.

  ‘What’s so funny?’ Allison asked, turning from her window.

  ‘Sean thinks he’s smelly.’

  ‘You’re not smelly, Sean!’

  ‘Thanks, Ally!’ he yelled back, gargling mouthwash.

  Allison looked back at me. ‘I drew you a picture today. Want to see it?’

  ‘Yer, sure,’ I said, amazed Allison had done anything today. Normally, the only thing she brought home was a letter from her kindergarten teacher requesting a meeting with Dad.

  When she came back from her bedroom she plonked herself down by the window and flattened out the drawing. Five stick people stood outside a two-storey block of units under a blue sky filled with flying M’s.

  ‘Whose car is that?’ I already knew the answer.

  ‘Allan’s,’ she said, pointing.

  ‘Dad’s?’

  ‘Yes,’ she nodded. ‘Allan’s.’

  Sean frowned.

  I pointed to the fattest stick man wearing a dark face. ‘Is that Dad?’

  ‘Yes.’ She didn’t touch the page this time.

  ‘And who’s this?’

  ‘Me, silly.’

  ‘And him?’

  ‘You.’

  ‘Is my nose that big?’

  She giggled. ‘Yes.’

  ‘Well, who’s this then?’ I asked, ignoring the smirk on Sean’s face.

  ‘Sean.’

  ‘What’s he wearing?’

  ‘His sports coat.’

  ‘And why’s he wearing his sports coat? Is it because it’s cold?’

  ‘No,’ she said playfully. ‘He’s wearing his sports coat because he’s cool.’

  Sean started laughing. He was cool and all I had was a big nose. Where was the justice in that?

  Sean gave Allison a wink. ‘Only the truth from the mouth of babes.’

  I ignored him. ‘Who’s the last person in the dress, Ally?’

  ‘Don’t you know?’

  ‘No.’ But I regretted asking now.

  Allison’s voice softened almost into a whimper. ‘It’s Mummy.’

  ‘Oh,’ I coughed. How could I have been so stupid! We never talked about Mum around Allison. ‘Sorry. I didn’t recognise her at first. But now looking at her … yer, it’s really her.’

  ‘What’s this I hear about your mother?’ a voice growled from the hallway. For once it was clear, not slurred by alcohol.

  I stepped in front of Allison. ‘Dad? We didn’t know you were home. Haven’t you gone to The Saloon yet?’

  The Saloon was the local watering hole, with hole being the operative word. The owners dressed the place up like an old Wild West movie and charged cheap prices. They advertised it as the best pub in Sydney for serious drinkers, gamblers and women without fear. In reality it was a dingy mess of crying alcoholics, bad music and vomit.

  ‘What did I hear about your mother?’

  Allison shrank. Her green eyes said she was sorry — really sorry. She didn’t mean to upset her daddy. But that didn’t stop him staring down at her, his thumbs hooked beneath his belt. Sean moved behind me. If anyone could stop Dad it was him. The old man had blown his top over Allison’s fantasies so many times before. Didn’t he understand? All the beatings never changed Allison’s love for her mother. No wonder she still clung to Mum’s memory with all her heart.

  ‘What did you say, young lady?’ His voice was unnaturally calm. It wasn’t hard to hear the bottled anger behind it.

  ‘That’s Mummy,’ she cried, pointing to her picture. Her small body cringed half-behind the curtain.

  Dad snatched the picture from her small hands and tore it in two. ‘No it’s not,’ he said, throwing it back in her face. ‘Your mother’s never coming home, young lady. Never. She’s gone forever. Can’t you understand that? Your mother’s —’

  ‘Don’t you dare,’ I warned.

  Dad swung around on me. ‘What?’

  Sean whispered to lay off, but I shrugged him away. ‘Don’t you dare say it.’ Despite all the times I ditched Allison at a girlfriend’s house while running with my bomber mates, I still cared for her. If my life was screwed up then there was no way hers was going to be as well.

  ‘Don’t you speak to me in that tone of voice! I’m your father. Treat me with respect.’

  Respect? Hah!

  Allison started bawling on the way to her room. She was out of this. Good.

  ‘So help me if you tell Allison that Mum’s dead I’ll —’

  ‘You’ll what? Call your gang over? Slash my tyres? Spray graffiti on my house? Huh? What are you going to do, son? Tell me. What are you going to do?’

  ‘Mitch, say you’re sorry.’

  ‘Back off, Sean.’ That came out cold and hard like the old days, even though I didn’t want it to.

  ‘I’ll take Allison and get outta here for good. Take her to a place where someone loves her, not terrorises her like you do.’

  My father was a blue collar bulldog who worked down at the wharves. He had taken a lot of flak in his life because of his job. He ignored it because it paid the bills. But this was different. This came from family.

  ‘Go to your room!’ Dad shouted. Which, as anyone my age knows, when a parent says that it means they’ve lost, not the kid. I was grounded for at least two-thirds of my natural life or some such thing. Yer sure, Dad. After that, who knew? I slammed the door in his fat face.

  I jumped onto my bed, hating my father, hating how I treated Sean and hating myself. I heard my father’s words again. ‘You’ll what? Call your gang over? Slash my tyres? Spray graffiti on my house? Huh? What are you going to do, son? Tell me. What are you going to do?’

  I mocked him quietly to myself. ‘At least I can go to sleep without a bottle, Dad. Remember Ally’s name when I’m sober, Dad. “Tell me.” Don’t worry. I’ll tell you to —’

  Thumping my fists into the bed, I threw my pillow at the door. I wished it was his head. Fat old alcoholic! Why didn’t he die instead! We’d all be better off! I hated him. I really hated him! I grabbed Sean’s pillow and chucked it too. It hit the bedside table, knocking everything off onto the ground. And just my luck, something smashed.

  Holding my throbbing head and running my fingers through my hair, I sat on the end of my bed, puffing. I was shaking and ready to go another round but I’d done enough damage so I waited until my breathing returned to normal. Cooled off, I dragged my feet across the room to check the mess I’d made. Twisted sheets, broken glass, steepled books, pens, music sheets and coins were scattered from one end of the orange carpet to the other. An unwashed coffee mug was also broken. But that wasn’t what had shattered. It was a picture frame that I hadn’t seen for some time. It’d been buried under all the other mess now on the floor. Normally I couldn’t have cared less about what I’d done, but seeing that photo changed everything.

  It was of Mum.

  Standing under a tin roof, a young Sean, barely in his teens, stood next to our mother who was ballooned out with her third, unborn child. He held a koala and she a bunch of leaves. I was there too, full of gassy lemonade smiles and wearing The Tower Club t-shirt; an embarrassing reminder of the days before Chicago Bulls caps, Nikes and baggy pants that looked like funky, fluorescent maternity suits. We were staying up at Port Macquarie for a family holiday. It was the last one Sean, Mum, me and Dad went on together. We’d stopped by an animal park for lunch and Dad had wanted to take a picture of us patting a koala. So we all lined up and waited with cheesy grins on our faces until he pressed the button.

  I hadn’t thought about it since.

  Sean quietly slipped into the room and closed the door. He saw the photo, bent down and paled. I thought he was going to cry or at least hit me. He took the picture and dusted off the glass without saying a word.

  ‘I’m sorry, Sean,’ I said. ‘I’m sorry.’ Dead set I was. Joining a monastery looked pretty good at that moment.

  Sean suffered quietly and I suppose that
hurt more than any shouting or namecalling. He started picking up the broken glass and placing it in the bin. Not knowing what to do, I helped him. ‘Sean, say something. Please, big brother. Anything.’

  He didn’t say a thing.

  Then he stopped. Hanging his head, he sighed. ‘Did you know that was the week she found out about the cancer?’

  Now I stopped. Not one, but two tonnes of bricks hit me. ‘No.’

  ‘I didn’t think you knew. Dad either. I only found out when we got back and the hospital called. A doctor asked me to go get Mum. He used the tone that means bad news. You and Dad were out shopping so it was only me and her who were home. She took the phone into her room, but I listened at the door. I knew something was wrong when she started sobbing. Mum cried all night and wouldn’t tell anyone why. She wouldn’t even tell me.’

  Sean’s voice started to break up and I put a hand on his shoulder. All I could do was be there for him.

  I’d messed up again. It wasn’t the photo Sean was upset over. It was the memory of our mum. Sean was Mum’s favourite. She loved us all but it wasn’t hard to see he was her number one child. Sometimes when I yearned for my mother I looked at my brother and saw her in his face. They had the same black coffee eyes.

  ‘Sean, I’ll do anything. If you want, hit me. Go on.’ I half closed my eyes, waiting for the punch. But it didn’t come. Fighting just wasn’t Sean’s style.

  ‘The photo frame can be fixed, Mitch. Memories can’t. We’ve been hurting ourselves too long. You and the gangs. Me and Mum. I still haven’t let go of her. I have to, but I can’t. I just can’t.’

  ‘Mum’s dead, Sean,’ I said. ‘We’ve never talked about her since she died. Maybe we should.’