The Never Boys

by Scott Monk

  At last. It was just the two of them. And twelve hundred other clubbers. He was about to make a move when — typical! — a high-pitched scream behind him was answered with hugs and what-are-you-doing-heres? He waited for an introduction — got none. The girls left for the bar, abandoning him — jiggy in the middle. Not. Maybe out of sympathy, maybe out of loneliness, Michelle danced with him but it wasn’t the same. He chickened out and left for the toilet.

  When he came back, Zara’s friends were nowhere to be seen. Hayden zoomed in on her first, claustrophobic with his interest, wisecracking and stealing his spot.

  Determined now, Dean shouldered through flesh and reached them. Hayden got all defensive and blocked him, trying to keep her to himself. It worked until baitworm girl returned and lunged for him. Hey, his new moves paid off and Hayden got her instead.

  Temperatures rose as the crowd pressed Zara into Dean. They danced as one. Boy and girl. Skin and bodies. Bass and beat.

  It was now or never.

  The first move —

  STOP!

  Too late! The music ended! And a jungle of arms shot up amid the cheers!

  WHACK! A fist slammed into the back of Dean’s head by accident and momentarily dazed him. Holding the pain, he waved away the apologetic clubber with a stinging smile then turned to Zara but she’d fled to the side of the room.

  It was his last moment inside the club. A hand slapped him on the shoulder, hauled him backwards through the crowd and threw him into the gutter. ‘I warned you kids to stay outside!’ the second bouncer bellowed.

  ‘Hayden!’ Dean yelled, spotting his friend by the front doors. ‘Hayden! Tell Zara! Tell her we’re outside!’

  But Hayden disappeared inside with the crowd — smiling.

  Michelle offered him a hand. ‘I don’t think he heard you,’ she said.

  Chapter 15

  The receiver clanged in the pay phone’s cradle. Another recorded voice. Another missed call.

  ‘Still no luck?’ Michelle asked, getting up from her seat outside the nearby McDonalds.

  Dean shook his head darkly. ‘How ’bout you?’

  ‘They still won’t let me in.’

  ‘Have you tried the side entrance — that bartender?’

  ‘No, they’ve put an extra bouncer on.’

  The pair stared at the nightclub. Even fake IDs wouldn’t help.

  ‘Hayden should’ve told Zara by now that we’ve been kicked out.’

  Dean tightened. Yes, he should.

  A catwalk of beautiful people strolled straight between them as if they didn’t exist. ‘So do we wait here?’ he asked slumping into a metal seat. The dancing had caught up with him. ‘I left a message on her mobile saying that if we weren’t out the front, we’d meet them at the car.’

  She watched the crowds. ‘You hungry?’

  ‘Yeah. Yeah, I am.’

  Past the tattoo parlours, X-rated clubs, hotels, movie cinemas and yiros shops, they found an Italian café in the East End offering wood-oven pizzas, tortellini and bruschetta. They sat outside drinking Cokes, shoulder-to-hip with the crowd jockeying along Rundle Street.

  ‘How about you? Any brothers or sisters?’

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘One was enough, Mum reckoned.’

  The conversation had kept to the same polite topics since they’d left the club. His mind was too busy strobing with scenes of Hayden — laughing, writhing, touching! — on the dance floor. That traitor! His own mate! The barbecue, the photos, the ride here — oh yeah. Plenty of evidence that he was interested, but he couldn’t have her. She was off-limits. Only one guy was going to win her over.

  ‘How about your parents?’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘Your parents? Are they still together?’

  ‘Er, yes. Yes, they are.’

  He was mad. At Hayden mostly. Mad at the bouncers. And mad at himself. He might have moved too fast with her — that last dance, that intimate moment. He’d tried kissing her and she’d shied away.

  ‘Your mum? What does she do?’

  This conversation was going nowhere.

  ‘Hey, you and Zara are pretty close, right? Has she said anything about Hayden?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Like does she know of anyone who might like him?’

  (Including herself.)

  ‘Romantically?’

  ‘Romantically.’

  ‘Are you kidding? Ask any girl in the Barossa. You’ll find one.’

  ‘You included?’

  ‘No.’ She blushed. ‘He’s too old for me.’

  He leaned back and chewed on his pizza. Now there was a plan —

  ‘Do you follow the footy?’ she added, quickly changing subjects. A taxi with an Adelaide Crows sticker had braked hard in front of an unapologetic jaywalker.

  ‘Yeah. You?’

  She showed her key ring. ‘Can’t you tell?’

  ‘A Port Adelaide girl, hey? I wouldn’t have picked it.’

  ‘Through-and-through. And you’d support the Lions, right?’

  ‘No, the Eagles.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Why’s that so strange?’

  ‘Coming from Brisbane and all.’

  He shifted in his seat. ‘I kinda go my own way on those sorts of things.’

  The waiter asked if they wanted more drinks, but they didn’t. A movie theatre emptied with a rush as they paid the bill.

  ‘So when are you going to introduce us to your new friend?’

  ‘Who’s that?’

  ‘The girl who kissed you at the club.’

  He groaned. ‘She was something, wasn’t she? She gave a whole new meaning to “suck face”. I felt like I was fighting a vacuum cleaner.’

  ‘My friends call that a submarine kiss.’

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘You’re just waiting to surface for air.’

  He grinned.

  ‘So we won’t be meeting Mrs Mason?’

  ‘Nah. I don’t date girls who can grow better moustaches than me.’

  ‘Or wear better lipstick,’ she pointed.

  He swiped his mouth.

  ‘Gotcha.’

  They joined the Rundle Street throng, but rather than go back to the club, they settled on dessert. ‘What’s gelati?’

  ‘Brace yourself. You’ll never eat normal ice cream again.’

  She ordered chocolate and hazelnut for him, and lemon and mango for herself. ‘Good?’

  ‘Get me a napkin. I’m starting to drool.’

  Scratching out the last mouthfuls, they plodded along North Terrace, taking in the busts, statues and old buildings. A full belly had lightened his mood. ‘You sure your parents won’t kill you for being out this late?’

  She lowered her watch. ‘I told them Zar was having a sleepover. I should be all right as long as they don’t ring the General to check up on me.’

  A streak of red flashed down the street in quick gear bursts. It was a long-nosed Stingray — all class, metal sinews and attitude. An unexpected reminder of home.

  ‘How’s the guitar going?’

  The Stingray thundered out of sight. ‘Not too bad. Why?’

  ‘No reason.’

  ‘Yeah there is. C’mon. ’Fess up.’

  She turned coy. ‘After hearing you play, I bought my first flamenco CD the other day.’

  ‘Oh yeah? What did you think?’

  ‘I’m starting to like it. I can almost hear the stories.’

  ‘It makes you want to dance, doesn’t it? Or dream of being at a great big fiesta?’

  ‘How’d you know?’

  ‘Ah,’ he said. ‘It’s what my dad calls jalapeño music — chilli for the soul. Just one taste and it burns inside you.’

  ‘Your dad? He’s a musician?’

  ‘Yes and no. He was a luthier before he retired.’

  ‘A loo —?’

  ‘Luthier. They make stringed instruments like guitars and violins. He learnt while living in Spain.’
r />   ‘You’re Spanish?’

  ‘Mum is. Dad’s a hundred per cent ocker. They met when they were nineteen.’

  ‘On holidays?’

  ‘Yeah. Funnily enough while they were backpacking, him and a couple of mates. They didn’t know what they wanted to do after finishing school, so they saved like crazy and flew to Europe to drink and chase girls.’

  ‘And what happened?’

  ‘Y’know — stuff. But you don’t want to hear about my parents.’

  ‘No, go on. I’m interested.’

  Surprised she was genuine, he took a moment to think. It had been a long time since he’d heard it himself. ‘Dad and his mates were bumming round France when they met up with a busload of animal activists on their way to Seville in southern Spain, right. They didn’t really care about saving the bulls; they just wanted to scab a free ride. So off they went. They planned to stay only a couple of days but found themselves in the middle of the Feria de Abril — this huge festival with parades, singing, dancing, horses, sherry, casetas — the lot. Dad instantly fell in love with the place — and, of course, all the pretty Spanish girls.’

  ‘That’s where he met your mum?’

  ‘No. That happened later. When the Feria de Abril finished, he was keen to stay, but his mates weren’t. They’d blown most of their money on beer and were lucky to still have their plane tickets home.’

  ‘So he stayed?’

  ‘Uh-huh. His mates abandoned him with the second-hand guitar they’d lugged round Europe, a pocket full of change and the phone number of some obscure relative in Paris who might or might not help him if he got in trouble. I still don’t know how he pulled it off. He didn’t know anyone. And he didn’t speak Spanish. But he adored the city — especially its flamenco, which he was dead keen on learning.

  ‘Through some other backpackers, he heard about a British company that was looking for cleaners. He applied, got the job and spent six days a week scrubbing toilet bowls and mopping floors at the airport to rent a small second floor apartment in a crowded villa. When he wasn’t working, he travelled round tablaos, plazas and river parties, learning flamenco by ear. Then, with his own guitar, he’d go and busk on the steps of cathedrals or in the markets, making a bit of money here and there.’

  ‘Did he sing too?’

  ‘No, which is probably why his neighbours never complained — except one — a young woman, his age, who lived upstairs and absolutely hated him.

  ‘She worked as a lab technician through the day and nursed her dying cousin during the night. She didn’t seem to have many friends, she didn’t go out and no one seemed to visit her. The only people who did pay her any attention were the local gossips.

  ‘That’s where Dad comes in. His music drove her crazy. It woke up her cousin or stopped her sleeping at night. If she heard him playing on the balcony, she’d tip pots of water on him. If he was inside, she’d stamp on his roof or pound on his door, threatening to call the policia. Once she even bombed him with a pumpkin when he and a neighbour were drunk in the courtyard.

  ‘He laughed most of it off. He’d never been a serious man, always preferring a good joke. Besides, the girl always complained in Spanish. He would look up to her, shrug and say, “No comprendo”.

  ‘Okay, so one day, when he was in a cheeky mood, he picked up his guitar and played it as loud and as off-key as he could. Sure enough, the girl stormed downstairs, banged on his door and started swearing in Spanish for five minutes! After she finished, Dad, who was hiding inside, quietly opened the door, guitar in hand, and strummed loudly every step she took back upstairs.

  ‘Boy, did that ever make her mad. But she wasn’t going to let him win. She froze midway, foot hovering, refusing to budge until he went away. Nup. He stood at the bottom of that staircase, grinning, and with his fingers ready. Slowly, the cramps grew too much and she put her foot down. He continued strumming until she slammed the door on him.

  ‘Later, during summer, a lot of the country was in severe drought. Everyone was miserable. Funnily, this helped Dad land a job. He was practising reading a Spanish newspaper in a ham shop — y’know, one of those you see with all the garlic and jamón hanging from the ceiling — when he overheard this guy talking about how the drought had forced one of his workers to go back to the family farm. He was looking for an apprentice and wanted to know if the shopkeeper could recommend anyone. Dad spoke up, introduced himself and got the job. Only later would he find out that the man was one of the best luthiers in Spain.

  ‘From then on, he was rarely home. During the day, he learnt how to make guitars, and during the evening, he and the luthier would travel among the cafés either playing or listening to flamenco.’

  ‘What happened to the girl?’ Michelle asked, as they stopped at a bridge crossing the Torrens River.

  ‘Ah, I was just about to come to her. On the last Sunday of summer, the rain finally arrived and there were street parties everywhere, including Dad’s courtyard. People were eating and drinking and dancing — even the oldies. The cranky girl was there too but she stayed on the edges, helping her cousin watch the celebrations. Dad saw her and decided to have some more fun. He walked up to her and started playing flamenco. Of course, she freaked. Who wouldn’t? Some nutter chasing you with a guitar! But there was nowhere to go. The courtyard was packed. He played again. She tried pushing through, but the crowd laughed. He played a third time. “Stop embarrassing me,” she said in broken English. “One dance,” he said in Spanish. “That’s all I ask, then I’ll leave you alone.”

  ‘The girl kept backing away but he kept playing. Finally, she couldn’t stand it any longer and she started dancing. Dad said she was awkward at first, but when she got her rhythm, she was fantastic.

  ‘When the song ended, there was this huge cheer. The Sevillanos shouted for an encore, but the girl blushed and shook her head. She tried escaping again but the gossips pushed her forward. So she danced once more and everyone joined in.’

  ‘This girl? She’s your mum?’

  ‘Yeah.’ He grinned. ‘It was love at twenty-first sight. Two days later, Dad knocked on her door, holding a pumpkin as an excuse to ask her out. Twelve months later, they were engaged. Two months after that, they eloped and moved back to Australia. End of story.’

  ‘Wow,’ Michelle said, half-smiling, half-laughing. ‘Have you been to Spain yourself?’

  ‘I wish. One day, though. I want to meet my Abuelo and Abuela.’

  ‘Your who?’

  ‘My grandparents. Mum never let us talk about them. I think her parents weren’t too keen on her marrying an Australian.’

  ‘You’ll have to send me a postcard when you get there.’

  ‘Sure.’

  The story ended with their walk. They reached Adelaide Oval, where the Chevy was parked under a streetlight. But leaning against its bonnet were two drunks, toasting each other with songs.

  ‘Oh ho ho!’ Hayden said, spotting the approaching pair. ‘Look who’s finally showed up.’

  ‘Shelley!’ Zara cried, running to hug Michelle with one shoe on, one shoe off. Her hair was ratty, her dress spoiled and her voice creamy with Baileys. She looked anything but sexy. ‘And Deano! We thought we’d lost you.’

  ‘Lost, eh?’ he said.

  ‘Where’d you go? We looked everywhere for you.’

  ‘The bouncers kicked us out. They must’ve been tipped off.’

  ‘What? You didn’t go to McDonalds?’

  ‘I said I thought they must’ve gone to Maccas to get something to eat,’ Hayden interrupted. ‘I didn’t know exactly where.’

  ‘How about the front gutter?’ Dean said.

  ‘The gutter?’ Zara laughed. ‘What would you eat there, stupid?’ She snorted then suddenly buckled at the ankles. Dean steadied her before Hayden did. ‘Dumb earthquakes.’

  ‘Time to go home, hey?’

  ‘No,’ Hayden said, trying to pull her away from him. ‘There’s plenty of time yet. C’mon, Zar. Let’s see
the sun.’

  ‘The sun!’ she said.

  In the background, Michelle rechecked her watch.

  ‘The General’s waiting for us,’ Dean said soberly, not letting Zara go.

  ‘Mum can wait!’ she said, brushing them away. ‘Doesn’t she know I’m sixteen! I’m in control of my life, not her!’ And with that, she stood defiantly — until her ankles gave way a second time and she fell into Dean’s arms. ‘Nice catch,’ she said hotly against his neck. ‘But you’re always here for me, Deano, aren’t you? Always getting me out of trouble. You shouldn’t waste your time, y’know. I worry that you’re too serious. That you don’t have enough fun. Did you have fun tonight, Deano? Hey?’ With one hand, she clamped his cheeks together, as if trying to squeeze out a smile.

  That was it. He hated drunken talks. With his free hand, he threw Michelle the car keys and asked her to open the back door. ‘We’re going home.’

  ‘Not until one last dance,’ Hayden said, more sober than drunk. ‘You heard the girl: Mummy can wait.’

  ‘You go back to the club if you want to. We’re leaving.’

  ‘Says who?’

  ‘Says me.’

  ‘But who’s listening?’

  ‘I am,’ said Michelle.

  Hayden glared at both of them, but they didn’t move.

  ‘What do you say, Zar?’ he asked over Dean’s shoulder.

  She couldn’t answer. A belly full of vomit scattered them into the night.

  Chapter 16

  Hayden ran barefoot across the warming concrete and dived into the swimming pool. He powered along a lane bobbing with orange markers, reached the far end and kicked off its edge. Two pretty girls, dressed in one-pieces, hurried to meet him at the start again.

  Out of breath, Dean pegged himself on one of the markers halfway along the pool and cleared a noseful of snot. He watched as Hayden completed another two laps just to show off then hauled himself out of the water. The girls loved it and it wasn’t hard to see why. Toned chest, flat stomach, promising eyes, pickup lines and confidence. Any guy who wore racing Speedos in public was comfortable with his body shape. That was why Dean hid in the pool, wearing boardies.