Boyz 'R' Us

by Scott Monk

  The old Aborigine lay with his back to me, the sheets and pillows kicked about his feet. He turned his head slowly, saw who I was, then stared back at the curtains.

  ‘You’re the Trolley Man, right?’ I asked.

  ‘That’s what people call me,’ he grumbled.

  ‘I’m Mitch Jarrett.’

  I waited for ‘Really? The guy who saved me? Wow, man, you’re a hero.’ But all I got was ‘So?’

  ‘D’you remember much from the night you were stabbed?’

  A good conversation opener any time.

  ‘It hurt. Why?’

  ‘I was there.’

  This seemed to shake him. ‘You were there?’ he asked, now more animated. He fixed his eyes on me and squinted as the memories resurfaced. ‘Yeah, I remember you. You were there, weren’t you! You did it!’

  ‘Did what?’

  ‘You little murderer, you tried to kill me! Nurse? Nurse!’ The Trolley Man slapped his hands above his head to reach the emergency buzzer. I snatched it away from him before he could press it and told him to settle down. Security would be up here looking for me once the front desk attendant alerted them anyway.

  ‘Give me a second, would you? I’m not the one who attacked you. You can call for the nurse all you want when I’m finished if you don’t believe me. I came here to talk.’

  ‘Why?’ Trolley Man asked, scowling. He sagged back down into his bed, one eye on me and the other on the buzzer. ‘What do you want?’

  ‘To see how you’re going. I —’

  ‘You’re here to finish me off, aren’t you?’

  ‘No, I —’

  ‘That’s it. You’re going to kill me! To stop me telling the cops it was you who stabbed me. Help, somebody. Help!’

  We wrestled for the buzzer again until I yanked it away from the old man. One of his roommates hobbled over to investigate what all the commotion was about while the other two still slurped away in their beds watching TV.

  ‘You okay, mate?’ the patient asked Trolley Man.

  ‘Yes, he’s okay,’ I answered, hanging the buzzer out of reach this time.

  ‘No, I’m not. Call a nurse. This kid is trying to kill me.’

  ‘Take your pills, grand-dad,’ I said. I turned to the nosy patient and said, ‘Pop suffers from Alzheimer’s. He can’t remember things and people, y’know.’

  ‘Yes, I can. You tried to kill me!’

  The patient stood at the curtain looking at both of us. He didn’t know who to believe — the homeless wacko or the mean-looking kid in a school uniform. With us waiting for him to make a decision, he finally said, ‘I’ll go find a nurse. She’ll sort this out.’

  ‘Now you’ve done it,’ I hissed.

  ‘You better leave now! I’ll tell the nurse to call the cops when she gets here.’

  ‘You can tell her to call every cop in Sydney for all I care. They can’t arrest me cause I’m innocent, old man. I’m the guy who saved your life the other night.’

  The Trolley Man stopped and eyed me suspiciously. ‘You? But you’re one of them. I saw you attack me. You came running to finish me off before it all went black.’

  That’s gratitude.

  ‘I came running to help you. An ex-pal of mine attacked you.’

  ‘How do I know that?’

  ‘Call the cops. They’ll tell you. They’ll even read you the sworn statements of several witnesses who saw you get knifed.’

  ‘Call the pigs? No way. They’re the last people I want to see right now.’

  ‘But you just wanted to call them.’

  ‘To get you away from me. I’d get rid of you myself if I had the strength. But thanks to your “ex-pal” I can’t, can I?’

  ‘So you finally believe I didn’t do it?’

  ‘Nope. I still reckon you’re part of it. I’ll ask the coppers the truth when they come up here next time.’

  ‘The cops’ve already been up here?’

  ‘Yep, lots of times. They wanted to know how much I remembered of the stabbing. If I could tell them what my attacker looked like. Funnily enough, I said a kid who looks exactly like you.’

  Now that was an insult.

  ‘And have they arrested anybody? Nooo. Not a single person. Half-a-dozen witnesses and they still don’t know anything.’ Trolley Man snorted and rolled over. ‘Pigs! They hate guys like me. Always have. I know what they’re saying down at their pig pen now. Let the old Abo die. He’s just another coon who’ll be found in the gutter one day. The world’ll be better without him.’

  ‘Look,’ I said. ‘I don’t like cops either but they are doing something. Barry Wheeler, the guy who stabbed you, he’s on the run. I dobbed him in.’

  ‘Congratulations. I’ll find you a medal when I get out.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You heard me. I said I’ll find you a medal when I get out.’

  ‘What’s that gotta do with anything?’

  ‘That’s why you came here, wasn’t it? To be treated like a hero?’

  ‘No,’ I said defensively.

  ‘Yer, right.’

  Conceited fool. What did he know? I walked around to the other side of the bed to shout him down, but Trolley Man rolled over again. So the crusty old geezer was playing games, was he? Let’s see how he liked this. ‘What’s your problem, mate? All I came to see was if you were okay. I’m not here to cop your attitude.’

  He turned back. ‘Attitude? I’ve got an attitude? Kid, you’ve got an attitude. You come up here to make yourself feel better. You don’t care what’ll happen to me once I leave this joint. Do you care if I end up in a gutter next time? You’re fake. This whole place is fake.’

  ‘And you’re not living in some fake world? Look at you. You push trolleys round, collecting junk. Don’t you do anything but bum around?’

  ‘No, look at you. You’re the one wearing American baseball caps and jackets. You collect junk too. Junk culture.’

  ‘Don’t you judge me by how I look.’

  ‘Then don’t judge me by how I live,’ the old Aborigine grinned.

  His rotten, snaggle-toothed smile nibbled away at my patience. I could feel the anger growling inside me. I came here to check on his condition, but now I felt like telling him where to go.

  Flicking up my collar, I spun to leave. I wasn’t going to spend the rest of my day in hospital arguing with this old fool.

  Trolley Man chuckled.

  I stopped.

  ‘Who are you, old man?’ I asked, facing him. ‘Tell me. In this world, what did you amount to?’

  ‘Smart for a start,’ he snapped, now agitated enough to sit. ‘Smart enough to know we’re the same, you and me. Don’t shake your head. I know what you’re thinking. The world don’t do us any favours. Everybody’s out to get us. No one seems to care. It might even be true. But watch out, boy. Feeling that way hurts you in the end. Makes you cold inside. You’ve still got time to change. I haven’t.’

  ‘What would you know bout my life, old man?’

  ‘Lots of things. All you bomber kids are the same. If you were happy you wouldn’t be out on the streets causing trouble. You wouldn’t be doing dope or drinking or stealing. And don’t stand there thinking I don’t know what I’m talking about. Look at me. I ain’t got a home any more. I lost two daughters and a wife because I let booze take over. That’s what happens when you run away, mate.

  ‘Are you happy, kid? You wouldn’t’ve been at that train station Friday night if you are. You wouldn’t’ve been with those thugs. You know they’re trouble. Stay away from them.’

  ‘I have, man. I’ve given up the whole scene.’

  ‘Have you? For how long? A day? A week? Have you got the guts to stay out of trouble?’

  ‘Yer, I’ve got guts.’

  ‘Then prove it. You’re still one of them if you hate the world. Get rid of the things hurting your life, boy. If you don’t you’ll end up like me.’

  ‘Like you?’ I said, hearing the voices of the patient and nurse
ringing down the corridor. ‘Old man, no matter what happens I’ll never end up like you.’

  And with that, I walked out. There was nothing else I could say.

  But like in the movies, the final word went to the other person.

  ‘Hey boy, you saved me for a day. But can you save my life?’

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  A car horn beeped me.

  ‘Mitch, stop screwing me around,’ Sean said, getting out of the Sigma. ‘What’s going on? Why are you here?’

  ‘I came to see the Trolley Man,’ I said, stubbing out a cig. ‘Sternfeld kicked me out of school and I had nowhere to go. So I came here.’

  ‘But why?’

  ‘To check if he was okay. I wanted to see the results of something good I did.’

  Sean huffed and looked away. He’d floored it to St Vincent’s after answering the reverse charge call during eighth period at school. I hadn’t told him on the phone why I was here. Just that I needed a lift and I was all right. To find out I’d left school to visit the Trolley Man caught him unaware.

  ‘Is he okay?’ Sean asked, not amused.

  I turned and glanced up at the seventh floor. The old Aborigine stared back down at me, grinning. ‘Yer,’ I said, grudgingly.

  ‘What did he say when he saw you?’

  ‘Get lost, basically.’

  ‘Get lost? Are you kidding?’

  ‘Nope. He gave me a lecture too.’ I shook my head. ‘Stupid old fool. What does he know?’

  Sean stood around and listened to me grumble about what Trolley Man said. At least it gave him time to cool off and forget about smacking me one. I asked how he felt and he said fine. Husk’s punch had only winded him. No permanent damage.

  I grumbled some more about the Trolley Man after that until my brother urged, ‘C’mon. Tell me the rest on the way home.’

  As I opened the passenger door, Sean punched me on the shoulder. ‘Hey!’ I said. ‘What’s that for?’

  If anyone else hit me I would’ve decked them instantly.

  ‘For smoking. Give it up.’

  ‘Sean,’ I groaned. ‘I wanted one.’

  ‘One cigarette or one packet?’ he asked.

  Touché. Couldn’t I win one fight today?

  ‘Don’t you ever get bored with being a good guy?’ I asked, opening the door.

  He just smiled and sat down.

  Two hours later, I quietly watched Sydney pass by as we drove back from a guitar shop in Artarmon. Our world-famous harbour rusted as the sun set over the coloured lights the city donned for the night. Pubs, clubs and restaurants asleep during the day burst with revellers. Streets rang with laughter; hotels with song. The ugly face of Sydney put on its party make-up for the long night hours.

  ‘Sean?’

  ‘Yer mate,’ he said, indicating and changing lanes on the Bridge.

  ‘I’m finished with the Thunderjets, but how can you be sure I won’t run back to them tomorrow?’

  ‘Why? Who have you been talking to?’

  ‘No one,’ I said. Sean didn’t believe me. ‘I swear.’

  ‘Then why do you ask?’

  ‘It’s something the Trolley Man said before I left. “You saved me for a day. But can you save my life?”’

  ‘Did he mean you?’

  ‘I don’t know. He was talking about himself at the time. Now I’m not sure. I think he meant me.’

  ‘Do you want to go back to the Jets?’

  ‘Never. I’m out for good.’

  ‘Don’t worry about it then. Look to the future, not the past. Live life when it gets here.’

  ‘But what if I’ve made the wrong decision? Say I want to hang with the gang again.’

  ‘That’s what life is, kid. Risks. You risked your life by getting out of gangs. You risked your image at school by quitting the Thunderjets. You risked everything you believed in to start your life again. Nobody knows if they’ve made the right decision overnight. You’ve just got to give it a chance, that’s all.’

  ‘But how do I know these risks’ll work out?’

  ‘You don’t. It makes life just that little bit more interesting.’

  ‘Easy for you to say. You’ve got everything: chicks, friends, music, money, brains, grades, a car — all those Golden Boy things.’

  ‘Ah, but do they make me happy?’

  ‘I don’t know. Do they?’

  ‘Chicks only if they’re for real. Friends only if they are prepared to stand by me forever. Music, money and the rest — not really.’

  ‘Not even music?’

  ‘Well sometimes. Music is more of a mellowing out time. It’s my escape if you like. My harmonic drug.’

  ‘Do you ever get lonely, Sean?’

  ‘Sure. Everybody does. And it doesn’t matter how many friends you’ve got.’

  ‘How do you get over it?’

  ‘Me, I put the brakes on and say to myself, “Whoa, kid. Everybody’s got their ups-and-downs. This is just one of those down times. The good times’ll return. Just be patient.”’

  ‘When do you feel lonely?’ I asked, unable to believe Golden Boy ever had any problems.

  ‘At night. When I can’t sleep. I want to curl up to someone and hold her tight. I want someone to just be there for me, you know. I want someone to love, Mitch. That’s when I’m lonely.’

  He braked at a set of lights. ‘Everybody suffers from doubt, Mitch. Nobody’s perfect. If you want what I’ve got, what’s stopping you from getting it?’

  ‘It doesn’t work that way, Sean. You know it doesn’t. Jobs, friends, chicks — in a lot of people’s eyes I’m still a criminal. Who wants to be friends with one of them, let alone date one?’

  ‘Who cares what other people think? You know what Mum used to say when one of my “friends” teased me? “Cut off the dead wood before it kills the tree.” If you have friends who backstab you, get rid of them now before they hurt you.’

  ‘Have you ditched any friends in the past?’

  ‘Heaps. You know how popular I am at school —’

  ‘Yer, you and your ego which is taking up the back seat,’ I grinned.

  Sean growled, ‘Cheeky,’ and swung at me. Make that two sore shoulders.

  Laughing, I said, ‘Yer, go on.’

  ‘— well, because I’m popular, people want to be friends with me just to be part of the cool scene. Then they backstab me.’

  ‘Backstab you?’

  ‘Yep. So I trust very few people, and usually ones I’ve known a long time.’

  I knew one of those people was me.

  ‘All I can say, Mitch, is get rid of the dead wood now.’

  He sounded like the Trolley Man.

  Sean and I kept quiet for most of the remaining journey. We needed time to think. Sean knew about my expulsion from school but left the subject unspoken. A transfer to the local Baulkham Hills High School would hopefully solve the problem. I only had another three months to finish my education and no Sternfeld was going to stop me from doing that. Finishing my School Certificate would prove him wrong. Teach him not to prejudge me.

  ‘Can I have a smoke?’

  ‘No,’ Sean said, indicating right for the Marrickville turnoff.

  ‘My nicotine fix’s calling.’

  ‘Then don’t listen to it.’

  ‘Sean.’

  ‘I said no. Here. Have some gum.’

  Balancing the wad on my lips, I asked, ‘Got a light?’

  ‘Very funny.’

  ‘Hey, why are we turning into the ’ville? I thought you said we were going home.’

  ‘We are — to our house in Marrickville.’

  ‘To Allan’s? You’ve gotta be joking me, man. I’ve had a bad day.’

  ‘Don’t get worked up. I’m only stopping by to pick up my guitar. I’ll only be a couple of seconds.’

  Why did anyone who said, ‘I’ll only be a couple of seconds’ always mean they’ll take a few hours?

  ‘I’ll be right back,’ Sean said once we arrived
.

  He ran up the path, climbed the stairs then disappeared inside. Sure enough, a couple of seconds turned into a couple of minutes and my patience turned into impatience. Finished tuning into every boring radio station in the southern hemisphere, I beeped the horn for him to get a move on. Twice. And then with a series of beeps. After my last blast, he stepped outside, his father behind him. The old man looked decent tonight. He was dressed casually; not a dirty singlet or a pair of shorts in sight. Even his speech sounded clear.

  ‘Tell him I’m making an effort, Sean.’

  ‘Okay, okay,’ Sean said, noticing I was looking the other way. He came over and tapped on the passenger window. ‘Mitch,’ Sean whispered, ‘Dad wants me to tell you he’s sorry for last week. He’s making an effort for us to be a family again.’

  ‘What, and he has to use you to talk to me?’ I snorted.

  ‘C’mon, Mitch. This is Dad’s first step. He’s still on crutches. Hold a hand out. If not for you then for me.’

  ‘What’s he doing to prove he’s worth coming back to?’

  ‘He went to an AA meeting last Thursday. He’s going again tonight.’

  ‘What’s the reason for the about-face?’

  ‘The night in the slammer. It shook him up bad. He’s willing to clean his act up if we drop the assault charge.’

  ‘Is this what this act is about?’ I said, loud enough for Allan to hear. ‘To stop him going to jail? He’s conning you, man. Don’t fall for it.’

  ‘It’s for real, Mitch. And lower your voice. Give the old man some credit. Don’t forget the father we had before Mum passed away. He’s still there. You’ve got to give him a chance to fight his way out.’

  I peeked at Dad, a dejected look on his face. He appeared to be making an effort on the outside, but could I trust him? Could I forgive and forget?

  ‘Hey, Dad,’ I called out, the term not easy in my throat.

  ‘Yes, Mitch?’ he said, forcing a smile.

  ‘Is this for real? You clean?’

  ‘You betcha. I’ve sworn off the grog.’

  ‘For life?’

  ‘Hopefully.’

  ‘Not hopefully. You better.’

  ‘I’ll try.’

  ‘You will.’

  ‘I’ll try.’

  ‘I don’t believe you,’ I said.

  ‘Mitch,’ Sean snapped.