by Scott Monk
‘And me nearly with broken hands.’
‘But you got him good.’
‘Yer,’ I said, the memories of power returning. That was the deadly lure of gangs. Being a somebody rather than a nobody attracted a lot of kids.
‘At last, that’s the Mitch Jarrett I know speaking. I thought we lost you, good buddy. C’mon in. We’ll go pick up the guys and cruise the city.’
‘No, Wheeler. I’m heading home. The Thunderjets ain’t my scene any more.’
‘How bout chicks? You turned off them too?’
‘No way.’
‘If you come I’ll find you one,’ he said. ‘Blonde and all.’
I twitched a smile.
‘Short-haired?’
‘Short-haired,’ he agreed. ‘I’ll give her twenty bucks for a haircut if you think it’s too long; a bottle of peroxide if it’s too dark. What d’you say?’
A short-haired blonde. Now that was tempting. I don’t think Sarah-Jane would mind if we saw other people at the moment considering our present situation.
‘I don’t know. Like I said, the Jets ain’t my scene any more.’
‘So you’re outta the gang,’ he shrugged, unconvinced. ‘Just hang with a couple of the guys for the night. Y’know, like we used to.’
‘Who’s going?’
‘Peep, Jack and Marc.’
‘No fights?’
‘No fights.’
‘No tricks?’
‘No tricks.’
‘If you —’
‘Yer, yer, I know. Keep clean till we’re home again. You don’t want the heat burning a hole in your record.’
‘You got that right. I’ve shrugged cops off my back longer than I’ve known you.’
‘Yer, yer, yer. Whatever,’ Wheeler said. ‘Get in. We’ve got a short-haired blonde to find.’
I had to be stupid to even consider going out with Wheeler, but Peeper, Flash Jack and Marc were my buddies. I’d hang with them most of the night, checking out babes. As for Wheeler, I’d ditch him the minute he went off. The guy was crazy and crazy people cause trouble for their friends. Tonight, I would use Wheeler while he tried to lure me back into the Jets, then ditch him. After that a pact of peace would be mentally signed between us. As long as I didn’t cause any trouble or try to be leader again, Wheeler and the Thunderjets would leave me alone forever.
Picking up Peeper, Flash Jack and Marc, we headed into the city, rap pumping from the car stereo. Sydney by night was always a buzz. It electrified people with excitement. Guys eyed chicks, and chicks eyed guys. Everyone was out to have a good time. Hot babes and their boyfriends swarmed in and out of cafés, clubs and bars, laughing and singing. Music blared into the streets from seven-foot high speakers. Petrol heads crammed into Toranas and Cortinas shouted and hooned it up. Monorails whizzed overhead bringing more party-goers in from Darling Harbour. Arcades rang with the sound of coins. Lovers played hide-and-seek around Town Hall and shoppers tried on new outfits in the Queen Victoria Building. Late-night workers stopped by coffee houses to revive while other bellies grumbled at the smell of hot food.
We stopped at McDonald’s George Street for dinner. Inside, five teenage girls dressed up as thirty-year-olds teased us with a game of winks before catwalking over to see how well they had scored. Flash Jack put his arm around two of them and smiled that thousand dollar smile of his. ‘Ladies, your date for the night has arrived,’ he said, flashing his teeth again and drawing laughs. ‘It’s a pity there ain’t more of you to share with my friends.’
We introduced ourselves and paired off when the chit-chat finished. It was enough time to establish if the blind date was going to be enjoyable. (Hey, I’d picked up chicks in shorter time.) Flash Jack and Wheeler got the lookers, and Marc the skinniest girl I’ve ever seen. I got Tiffany, a name that was probably fake. She looked more like a Cindy or a Becky. A Daddy’s little princess who snuck out with her friends for the night. Whatever, she was the last pick. And a brunette with scraggly long hair.
The night had started badly.
Within five minutes of our blind date, Tiffany told me I was a geek. When she snaked her hand around my waist I just ignored her. I was more interested in my cheeseburger. Removing the pickle slice and placing it in the centre of the wrapper, I grabbed the opposite sides of the yellow paper. With a quick flick, I launched the pickle into space, leaving it stuck firmly to the mirrored roof for all the security cameras to ogle. My good buddy “Q” taught me that. It used to entertain him during his long hours as a Macca’s worker. It still amused me. But definitely not Tiffany.
Finished, we crossed the main road towards the movies and checked out every flick showing for the night. Homeboys in expensive threads and jewellery slouched out front on the steps, looking mean and smoking packs of “coolness”. Every sporting cap, sweatshirt and bomber jacket of the American baseball, gridiron, basketball and ice hockey leagues was represented, as well as every designer shoe on the market. No Rabbitohs, Roosters, Bulldogs, Eels or Swans were to be seen. Rap and techno blared from the portable ghetto blasters the homeys carried into the cinemas premiering the latest Hollywood blockbusters.
Uncle Sam would be smiling.
We agreed on what movie to watch, went inside and handed over our tickets to the usher at the door. Flash Jack “accidentally” bumped into her chest and got his cheap thrills for the night. Pathetic, I know. The guy was a full-on sleaze behind all those charming teeth. Another image, I guess.
Sitting in the very back row, Wheeler and his gang snuggled up to their women while Tiffany and I sulked as far away from each other as possible. They passed popcorn along the row and annoyed the people sitting in front of them by putting their feet between the armrests. An old lady with blue hair and a popper of vegetable juice complained to one of the ushers about the guys’ behaviour. But ushers ain’t police and the gang dumped on the spotty geek before they upturned a tub of butter-and-honey on the old lady. They enjoyed being the worst kind of jerks.
The movie started and I slumped in my seat. I loved watching movies, but I preferred being alone. People like Wheeler always seemed to mess up the experience for me. Tiffany tried to turn me on again by resting her hand on mine but I removed it and replaced it with a Coke. She got the hint.
Ten minutes into the movie, a horror flick, Wheeler and Peeper decided there wasn’t enough action on screen to keep them tuned in. Reaching into his pocket, Wheeler pulled out a couple of joints and passed them along the row. Dope. In the movies, right? The girls took them hesitantly — stupid try-hards desperate to impress possible boyfriends — before Wheeler offered one in my direction. ‘No way,’ I said. ‘I got so paranoid last time I lit up I started throwing punches.’ That made the chicks think twice. Tiffany looked to me, then the joint, and took one. It was her little protest to say ‘You’re uncool’. Hey, I didn’t care. She could become a pothead smoking her brain out until she forgot she owned one. No chick was going to turn me on with drugs. Besides, I made a promise to my brother.
Marijuana fumes drifted throughout the theatre and people started to shuffle their feet, cough and clear their throats. They were subtle hints to stop it or get in trouble. Even I wanted them to stop, the stink was that bad. But the smell wasn’t the worst aspect of it all. As anyone who has been stoned knows, marijuana leaves the smoker with three symptoms: red eyes, uncontrollable giggling and a bad case of the munchies. Wiping back tears, Wheeler and the gang started giggling, picking popcorn off the ground to eat and yelling how lush the weed was tonight. Before long protests growled and Word War One erupted.
‘Put those out or I’ll call the cops,’ a girl yelled out.
‘Make me, sexy,’ Wheeler called back. ‘Come over and make me a man.’
‘Oh, grow up.’
‘Why? How tall are you?’
This set the gang off with more giggling.
‘Shut up,’ a guy called out this time.
‘Why don’t you?’ Wheeler answered.
; ‘Because I’m not as stupid as you, mate.’
‘What? You’re dumber?’
‘Shut up!’ Now it was several people.
‘I’ve gotta gun!’
No one believed Wheeler.
An uneasy silence settled.
Then he yodelled and dragged on his joint again.
‘Security, the back row,’ the old woman with blue hair said, pointing safely from behind two pumped-up guards. ‘Those young people are the troublemakers. Yes, them.’
‘Thank you, ma’am. We’ll handle it now,’ they said, turning and flashing their torches at us.
‘Busted,’ Marc giggled.
‘You’ve got that right, buddy,’ security guard number one said.
‘C’mon, up out of your seats. It’s time you left,’ security guard two added.
‘Oh man,’ Peeper whined.
‘And if you don’t put those things out immediately, the police will help you put them out. Got it?’ security guard one warned.
The gang stood and exited the aisle, swearing.
‘You too,’ security guard two said, shining the torch in my eyes.
‘But I didn’t do anything.’
‘Yes he did,’ the old woman protested. ‘I saw him.’
‘Put your glasses on, lady. That’s a lie.’
‘We’ll talk about it outside,’ security guard one said. Yer, right. That meant get out before we kick you out.
Since I was the last to leave, my “arrest” got the most applause from the audience. Hundreds of people clapping and whistling at me was embarrassing. I was innocent, but to them I was a bomber. And bombers were criminals. Only half an hour into the night and already Wheeler was getting me into trouble.
‘You idiot,’ I said to him outside.
‘Hey man, chill,’ he said, off his face. ‘Just having fun.’
‘You always lose it when you’re stoned. Man, can’t you see that?’
I knew he couldn’t. When a person was stoned they didn’t care about anything. Even if their best mate was being beaten up.
‘What are you saying, Mitch? I’m in complete control of my body.’
He laughed and dropped his Coke. Soda and ice fizzled on the sticky ground as hundreds of people walked by.
I shook my head. ‘I’m catching a train home.’
Wheeler grabbed my jacket. ‘No, no, no, man. You ain’t going home yet. We haven’t had any fun. Ain’t that right, Vicki?’
His date’s name was Julie.
She agreed and swayed like a dero on methylated spirits before collapsing into the arms of her teenybopper friends.
‘C’mon, man. We’ll go play a few games, okay?’ Wheeler said, pointing to an arcade filled with more homeboys than games. ‘There’s still a lot we can do. Fun stuff. Don’t sweat it. I’ll even pay. But don’t spend it all in one place. I’ll have to rob a bank if you do.’ He slapped me on the back and everyone laughed, thinking it was the greatest joke ever told.
‘Don’t go home, Mitch,’ pleaded Marc. ‘Hanging out with you is the only reason why I came tonight. We haven’t been out together since that rumble with the Barbarians.’
‘Yer, hang with your buddies for the night,’ Flash Jack covered quickly, seeing me flinch. ‘It’s been a long time since we’ve cruised the city. There’s plenty of things to do yet. Stay with us, man. We’ll find you another chick.’
‘Hey!’ Tiffany said.
Ignoring her protests, I ran my hand down my face to hide the anger. ‘Okay,’ I said, giving in only because Marc and Flash Jack wanted me to stay. As for hanging around because Wheeler wanted me to — no way. He only got me into trouble.
We crossed at the lights.
The arcade rang with explosions, cannon fire, gunshots and twin lasers. Kids could stay on these machines for hours, just putting coin in after coin until they were good enough to invite their mates back and prove how cool they were. Arcades were teenage hang-outs, the equivalent of the milk bar of the fifties and sixties. And the homeys — the bodgies.
With me in tow, Wheeler and the gang headed over to a game called Street Fighter, where the player controlled a bloodthirsty hero bent on beating up street crims. (It always amused me the same guys who played these games were usually the type of crim depicted.) Wheeler gripped one joystick and Peeper the other. Soon, they were hypnotised by the game, kicking, punching and foot-sweeping their screen opponent.
Ditched again, our thirteen-year-old-turning-thirty dates hovered by the doorway. Tiffany’s stomach was threatening to redecorate the footpath. They said computer games were for kids. Wheeler said ‘get lost’. For the teenyboppers there was little comfort in the fact they weren’t alone. Groups of girls chatted and smoked outside the arcade while their dates beat up bad guys to rescue the blonde chick inside.
Everything was mellowing out until I spotted Sarah-Jane in the back of the arcade, sitting in one of those booths reserved for Grand Prix games. It wasn’t her being here that completely made a downer of my night but the guy sitting beneath her, his hands all over her! To say nothing of his lips! That backstabbing cheat. Didn’t she know she was mine?
Standing outside the booth, I cleared my throat loudly. ‘I see you’re going full throttle tonight, Sarah-Jane.’
The two lovers choked and pulled apart — a long, gooey strand of spit attached to each mouth. ‘Mitch? Er, hi,’ she said, quickly sucking in the white mess. ‘When did you arrive?’
‘When you moved up a gear.’
She blushed and coughed.
‘Who’s your friend?’
‘Chad Segrave,’ he introduced himself with a handshake. ‘From Vaucluse.’ Wow. A posh money-daddy. Sarah-Jane was sniffing out the wallets now.
‘G’day, Chad,’ I smiled through clenched fangs. ‘With a name like that you should join the navy.’
Chad turned to Sarah for an explanation. ‘What?’
‘What do you want, Mitch? We were kinda busy.’
‘Oh, I can see that. I just stopped by to say you were right. I dumped you because I can’t stand chicks with hairy backs on the run from the cops,’ I lied. ‘See you.’
Chad jumped. ‘What?’
‘Mitch, you get back here! Mitch! Mitch!’
The smile on my face was so wide I knocked people at my sides off their feet.
Halfway through the crowd, though, I stopped. In the distance I watched Wheeler and the Thunderjets sizing up seven Bankstown Brawlers and arguing over something one of them had said. The Brawlers outnumbered Wheeler and the guys by two men if I joined the rumble, which wasn’t going to happen. I promised Sean no more fights and I intended to keep my word. The situation threatened to get uglier the more I watched it. Kids were forming an arena around the two groups and crowding each other to get a better view. Soon they’d be throwing punches. Then the inevitable would happen: cops raiding the place. One cop station was around the corner, and a second across from Town Hall. A call from the arcade owner and fifty boys in blue would haul every guy wearing a baseball cap into the station for questioning. If Wheeler wanted a fight it was going to be without me.
I wasn’t a coward. Nor a fan of hospitals. I was just smart. Sensing cop trouble, I bolted to the dunnies and pushed against the door. A guy on the other side pushed back, effectively stopping me. ‘What’s the password?’ he grunted. ‘Cash. Lots of cash,’ I answered. The door swung wide open in welcome, the stench of nicotine and marijuana gushing out from inside. ‘What do you want, homey? We’ve got uppers, downers, ecstasy, grass …’
I jumped onto a toilet seat and thumped open the small window above it. Not an attractive escape route, but an escape route nonetheless.
‘Hey, where are you going?’ the dealer yelled.
‘It’s a bust! The pigs are here,’ I lied. Hey, if the peddlers didn’t flush it down the dunnies the drugs would end up on the street and some wannabe would wind up spewing his guts in a gutter after buying liquid rat poison instead of LSD. That, or attending his own funeral.
Outside in the alleyway, I pressed against the wall and became a shadow. Shooting my eyes left, right, left, right, I waited. Anybody after me? No. Nothing. Good. I was just paranoid. One last scan and I was out of there. Zig-zagging through Sydney’s backstreets to where we’d left the car, I didn’t stop running till I heard the sound of paddy wagons and ambulances wailing in the opposite direction.
CHAPTER SIX
Bleeding and winded, Wheeler stumbled back to the car park supported by Marc and Peeper. Flash Jack tagged behind, nursing a sore hand.
‘I hope that guy didn’t have AIDS, Wheeler,’ Marc said.
‘Shut up, you dumb idiot,’ Wheeler snapped.
‘You better have a blood test in the morning.’
‘I’m not gonna have a blood test in the morning. Now shut up or I’ll punch your head in like that loser from Bankstown.’
Marc shut up. He stood at 190 centimetres and was about as wide too. There was no way Wheeler could ever defeat the big guy in a fight, dirty tricks or no dirty tricks. When Marc hit, he really hit. But he did as he was told. The Oath.
‘Hey, Mitch. We were wondering where you got to,’ Flash Jack said.
‘Yer,’ Wheeler growled. ‘We were wondering where you were while your crew was taking on the Bankstown boys.’
‘The Brawlers? Sabretooth-T’s crew? At the arcade? When did they turn up? I never saw them.’ I hoped that sounded convincing. ‘Sorry, man. I didn’t know. I was out the back trying to put the moves on this redhead when someone yelled: “The pigs!”. So I did the dash and escaped. I thought you guys did too. I didn’t hear anything bout a rumble.’
‘Didn’t you hear me call you?’
I paused then shook my head. ‘Not that I can remember. I was in the dunnies showing the redhead how to dance up close Mitch Jarrett-style,’ I smirked. As if. I hated pretending to be a stud. But that didn’t mean I was some kind of sensitive New Age geek. I was just sick of showing off.
‘Did you win?’ I added, avoiding any more questions of loyalty. I sensed Wheeler was about to go ballistic.
‘You betcha,’ Peeper said, his eyes bulging with adrenalin. ‘Seven of them. Four of us. We took them down, no sweat.’