The guy wears a loose, blue shirt that says ‘Rena’s Orgasmic Organic Fruit and Vegetables’, which has me thinking I should perhaps tell him about the pears in the fruit shop.
‘So he makes that genuine errrrrr-tickety tickety tickety Vee Dub noise?’ The guy even bends his knees as he does it.
Hey, I do know that noise! ‘Yeah. Absolutely he does.’ Mikey started the Vee-Dub the other day and it did sound like that. ‘Because he’s a manual. And an older model.’ Right on to that. ‘You like him? You can always take him for a test drive.’ This conversation is beginning to sound like a scene from Playschool.
‘If that ain’t a problem.’ The guy pinches a bottom lip that is complete with devil-spade goatee and three piercings. ‘But I like that little old English green machine, too. I’m Ronni, by the way. With an i, for the positive Feng Shui thing.’
We shake hands. ‘I’m Marc,’ I say. ‘With a C. At the end.’
‘Yeah, shalom, Marc.’ Ronni nods. ‘Harm no living thing, brother. And take no shit. Now, tell me about that little green Humber number.’
‘Well, this is the truth, Ronni,’ I say. ‘Truly, it was owned by a little old lady who was a music teacher, so she didn’t exactly do a lot of miles. Although, she may have done one or two road trips up the east coast following Delta Goodrem.’
‘So, this old soul sister has wandered off to heaven?’ Ronni’s eyes are as deep and dark as black stones in a rainforest creek. ‘That’s a shame, man. We need more music. And musical people. And trees. And bees. Amen. Bless that lady.’
‘Oh, she didn’t die,’ I say, seeing with some fear that Mikey’s closing in fast, carrying two bunches of flowers. I turn my back on him, hoping for once I might be skinny enough to be invisible. ‘She bought a Honda Civic.’
‘Shall I put these roses in your office, Marc?’ Mikey says. ‘Red or yellow? Both are gorgeous. It’s your call.’
This flower thing’s gone way too freakin’ far.
‘You pick, Mikey,’ I say lightly. ‘Thank you. Just on my desk will be fine.’ I turn to Ronni who is nodding appreciatively. ‘We’re experimenting with floral aromatherapy in the office, Ronni. Mikey is a tropical fruit artist from Queensland. He used to juggle fire, too, but with the total fire bans over summer, he’s branching out. Aren’t you, Mikey?’
Mikey gives a little bow. ‘Art is everywhere, Marc. Even here.’
Ronni hitches up his pants, which are Vietnamese Fisherman’s Pants; this I know because Ms Inglis wore some to Careers Night, as she was on the surprisingly popular Commercial Fishing table, where Trav’s only question was to ask what type her trousers were, exactly.
‘Right on, Mikey.’ Ronni smiles, showing wonky teeth. ‘Marc, I will take the Dubby out for a whirl, because she’ll be lighter on the juice than the little green Humber number.’ He pats me on the shoulder. ‘I’m likin’ this place a lot. You and Mikey are just two really solid karmic car guys.’
I decide I like Ronni, too, and will certainly recommend Belinda make available the full Super Soul Brothers Discount, established by me in memory of notable West Indian reggae rocker and tireless worker for world peace, Bob Marley.
‘No problem, Ronni,’ I say. ‘Come on up so we can photocopy your licence. Then you can hit the road.’
‘Solid.’ Ronni nods as if he’s keeping time, Jamaican time. ‘Now we’re cookin’.’
We are.
After Ronni has come back from a test drive with Belinda, and I’ve come out of hiding with cups of tea for everyone, it seems, apart from all the flowers around the place, that Gate Way Auto is almost back to normal.
‘Now, Ronni.’ Belinda straightens up some forms. ‘Or should I call you, Mr Water Python, as written on your licence?’
‘Call me Ronni, darlin’.’ Ronni studies the photo of Casey on Belinda’s desk. ‘You have a lovely daughter, Ms Belinda. She has an angel spirit and I can see that she loves you very much. So harmony to you, sister. Harmony.’
That stops Belinda in her tracks. And Mikey, who’s just removed the tea cups.
‘Well, thank you, Ronni.’ Belinda produces a tissue from thin air and dabs at her eyes. ‘Now, let’s just work out an acceptable price, fill in a form or two, and that’ll be that.’
‘Bring it on, Belinda.’ Ronni sits back, folds his hands behind his head, and wiggles a red sneaker. ‘And Mikey.’ He turns to Mikey. ‘With guys like you around, the world’s a better place, man. There’s power in flowers, bro. You got the gift. I can see you’ve travelled a long way in your life. You got a lot to offer. Keep up the good work. Go in peace, my friend. Go in peace.’
Work Experience.
It certainly is one, that’s all I can say.
24
When Ronni has gone, and Belinda, Mikey, and I are agreeing to never mention the issue in The Big Issue again, a taxi pulls up outside the office, and Mr Gates slowly gets out, using two walking sticks. So I nip outside, and hold the car door.
‘G’day, Mr Gates,’ I say. ‘Er, how are you going?’
Mr Gates plants his walking sticks on the concrete. He seems smaller than I remember, and his eyes look older, as if they’re not capable of seeing anything new. He looks worn-out, and he stands catching his breath like an elderly dog.
‘Tortoise-like was how I was going yesterday, Marc.’ He looks towards the office as if there’s a mountain range in between. ‘But I’ve slowed down considerably since. Well, the Humber looks grand. Belinda told me you polished it.’
‘It’s a great little car,’ I say, and even think about adding that I’d like to buy it, but in the car business there’s a big difference between saying what you’d like to do, and what you can do, which is pay. Which I can’t. ‘I like looking after them.’
‘You’ve got a good attitude, Marc.’ Mr Gates lifts one walking stick and tries to shake it. ‘I will make sure to tell Electra.’
Goal!
Minutes later Mikey and I head to the Leadlight to buy a cake and deluxe coffees. We stand at the road, waiting for some Saturday morning driver to give us a break.
‘Thanks for the flowers, Marc.’ Mikey says this so carefully I have no idea if he’s actually thanking me for the flowers, or if he’s not thanking me for the flowers, or if he’s going to punch my lights out. ‘They’re nice.’
‘No,’ I say, equally straight. ‘Thank you for the flowers, Mikey.’ Which is an extremely stupid conversation, even by my low standards. ‘And I apologise for calling you a tropical fruit artist and a failed fire juggler.’
Then we laugh so hard Mikey starts to cry; at least, I hope that’s why.
‘Are you all right?’ I ask.
He looks at me, his face teary and bleary but not that unhappy.
‘Of course I’m not. But I’m feelin’ a lot better since you turned up. You’re a good dude.’
‘No, you’re a –’
He holds up a warning finger. ‘Don’t.’
We sit at Mr Gates’s desk and eat cake and drink coffee. The flowers, I’m glad to see, have all been rounded up and stuffed into one big vase.
‘Belinda’s been telling me about all the work you’ve done this week, Marc.’ Mr Gates lifts his coffee with a shaky hand. ‘We’ve been lucky to have you along. I wish I’d been around to help out. So thank you.’
‘Yeah, well done, Marc.’ Belinda cuts more chocolate cake. ‘You have to come back and see us. We won’t even make you do any work.’
I look at Mr Gates. There are saggy black rings under his eyes, and his face is bony and sharp. But he looks dignified and brave, like an old soldier.
‘I’ve really enjoyed it here,’ I say. ‘The cars are cool.’
Mr Gates manages a small smile, a tram rattling away, as if making sound was the only service it needs to offer.
‘Yes, I must say they’ve given me fifty years of bloody good fun. The silly things. I loved them.’ Mr Gates looks at us. ‘But not as much as I’ve loved the people I’ve worked with. With the help of peop
le like you three, I’ve had the greatest life I could ever ask for.’
Belinda’s quietly crying, Mikey’s looking at his hands, and I’m thinking, amongst other things, about Amelia-Anne running for the footy, then kicking it over the primary school fence so she could go and get it and pat the dog next door.
‘See?’ AA had said, coming back with the ball. ‘No one cares what you do around here. It’s great.’
And it appeared they didn’t, until Principal Halley announced over the loudspeaker that Amelia-Anne Sorenson was to report to the office immediately.
‘Wow,’ she’d added. ‘I must’ve won a prize.’
I think that guy Ronni would’ve liked AA a lot. I think he might’ve even been able to tell me how to think about her now in a way that wouldn’t trip me up every time I do. That would come in really handy.
25
On Saturday afternoon, after some intense styling and tactical fibbing, I head over to Trav’s to get Dotty, secret dating dog weapon.
‘Poo-poo bags.’ Trav holds up a black bundle. ‘You’ll need a few. And Dotty’ll have to walk in the middle. But don’t worry about the growling. She’s pretty much just playin’ with your mind to see what you’re made of.’
I’m beginning to have my doubts about Dot, although she has done some very good work in the past, bringing unknown chicks well within striking range. I’m also concerned that if Dot does bite Electra, her school, and possibly the government, will sue me.
‘About pickin’ up the crap,’ I say. ‘It’s not such a good look, is it?’
‘Well, you could just ignore it.’ Trav shrugs. ‘I’ve gotta say that’s my preferred option. Although there’ll still be a few seconds of kind of awkward silence while Dotty’s doing the business. And don’t stand down-wind. It can be horrific.’
I look at Dot, who is looking around with eyes the colour of ice, and just as cold.
‘Remember what she did to those guinea pigs and goldfish,’ I say. ‘When she was out with Dill. Because that got in the local paper and everything.’
‘Yeah,’ Trav concedes. ‘I s’pose that wasn’t so great.’
‘Where’s her muzzle?’ I think that was something the Council insisted on, after Pet Massacre Three.
Trav looks at me as if I’ve accused him of torturing children.
‘She doesn’t wear it, Marc. I’ve told you. She can’t express herself.’
That does it.
‘Sorry, Dotty.’ I pat her on the head. ‘You’re stayin’ home.’ So off I go to meet Electra in the park, near Thomas The Tank Engine, on which I noticed earlier this week someone had sprayed a big black Swastika.
I mean, yes, Thomas was a tool, but he wasn’t really that bad to the other engines.
26
It’s a windy, cloudy, sunny, cold day; the kind that autumn clothing catalogues love for whatever ridiculous shit – like scarves or trousers – that they think some guys might be dumb enough to wear. But, like, who ever would?
I have on jeans, sneakers, an orange T-shirt, a faded sleeveless top I found up a tree at the beach, and a grey-black zip jacket that makes my shoulders look wider. I hope. Of course, while waiting for Electra I don’t hang around Thomas the Tank Engine, I walk in the vicinity, and into the wind so as not to stuff up my hair.
Then I see her.
And she looks stunning, with a smoky blue-black skirt thing and a white surf top thing, and blue sneakers from a company that normally doesn’t make sneakers, meaning that probably only elite freaks get to wear them, and probably for free. Her hair flies around in the breeze like black silk on a washing line.
But it’s the way she walks that knocks me out.
She walks with the most perfect posture and she walks thoughtfully, leading me to hope that she might be thinking about me – although I doubt this, because I’m the one who knows my life best, and it’s quite plain there’s not a lot there. She can’t even replay the seven or eight games of footy I’ve absolutely starred in. Or know the great jokes I’ve told. Or seen the great dives I’ve performed off Trav’s pergola into the pool. And I wouldn’t think she’d be thinking about my face, either, beyond the fact she’s hoping to recognise me.
Anyway, hopefully, I wave.
And wonderfully, she waves back.
We follow the path that curves away under the gumtrees. Already I am trying to slow time down, hoping the afternoon might last forever.
‘You didn’t bring the dog?’ Electra’s face is golden in the low autumn sun. ‘I miss mine. Lally. She’s a Labrador. She chases fish.’
Snap!
‘So does Dotty,’ I say. ‘In ponds. And she doesn’t put them back. She also bites a bit. You know, like if you tell her to sit, she’ll nip.’ I shrug. ‘She picked it up at obedience school. So I thought it might be better to leave her at Trav’s.’
Electra smiles, looking away, as if she’s thinking about something other than dogs – before zeroing back in on me.
‘You’re quite good-looking, Marc.’ She talks slowly, as if she’s as surprised to find this out as I am to hear it. ‘But better than that, you’re, you know, nice to talk to.’ Gently she touches the front of my jacket. ‘And you’re funny. I’m very glad you came along.’
When someone says something nice to me, for some reason I always try and say something twice as nice back.
‘Well, you’re beautiful.’ This is at least twice as nice as good-looking. And true. ‘You should be a model. In catalogues. Of any sort.’ I don’t say which section of these catalogues as that might be a little incriminating – and while I’m at it, I’m also really annoyed that I might’ve missed some great opportunities in the past with shallow girls who possibly could’ve liked me just for my looks, if what Electra says is really true.
‘Yeah, right.’ Electra swings away from me, laughing, and I see her calf muscles, long, smooth and angular, like no other shape I’ve ever seen. ‘Well, I might need a career option. Although I doubt that’d be it. ’
‘Can I come and watch you run one day?’ I follow her down the track, the trees around us like sheltering friends. ‘You know, just to train. I wouldn’t get in the way.’
Electra looks down at the gravel track, and when she looks up her face has changed. The softness has gone, her cheekbones are angled and sharp, her eyes hold a distant, steely focus that reminds me of Dot, actually. Even her hands are different, like weapons no one but the owner is allowed to touch.
‘All right,’ she says warily. ‘But you mightn’t like what you see. It’s kind of an out-of-mind experience for me. Still, my coach can’t stop you, although he might try. But we won’t be allowed to talk until the session’s over. Right over.’
I get that. Coach Tindale doesn’t like people talking, either, but what he really hates is when you lie down.
‘Cool,’ I say. ‘When?’
Electra relaxes. ‘Wednesday, maybe. D’you know where the Eslake Athletic track is?’ She points towards the city, the buildings visible in the distance through the trees. ‘It’s about the only place in Melbourne I do know, apart from school.’ She smiles at me, and I smile at her to complete the equation.
‘Yeah, I know it,’ I say. ‘Trav’s dog pulled the tyre off someone’s bike there.’
We have a milkshake at this cool little shop that exists right in the middle of suburban wilderness. Trav and I come here sometimes, because we can tie Dot up outside, and see what develops.
‘Melbourne’s so cold,’ Electra says, and hugs herself, even though there’s a heater above us on the wall. ‘It’s like the air’s really thin and sharp. It gives me a shock. At home it just kind of surrounds you, like a cloud. Here is definitely not tropical.’
No, here is not tropical. I’ve been to the tropics. Well, I think Port Douglas is in the tropics. It has palm trees, anyway. Lots of Melbourne people go there, so they can show off their fake tans when they come back.
‘Yeah, it can get chilly.’ Not that it’s even close to cold today. �
�So what does your dad do in Broome? Much? Something? Nothing? Anything?’
Electra takes a breath that is like a sigh in reverse. I can’t help but look at the scar that loops across her cheek like a loose thread of silver. In a way it only makes her more lovely; focusing your eyes on hers. She hunches back into her jacket, as if the mention of Broome has reminded her how cold she is, or how far away it is.
‘He manages the gardens for a resort on Cable beach. And my mum sells pearls for a pearl company.’ She reaches into her top and brings out a silky, grey-blue pearl on a gold chain. ‘They gave me this when I came over. And I’ve got a little brother and sister. Antonia and Deanie. And you know about the dog.’
‘Are they fast, too? Your little brother and sister?’ I know that until I’ve actually seen Electra run, I won’t know how to deal with it, because freak ability puts you into freak territory, no matter how normal you are. And if she is a super freak, she might soon realise that she shouldn’t even be talking to such a dumb-arse as me.
‘Yeah, they’re pretty quick.’ Electra nods and I realise with dismay – there’s no other word for it – that her eyes have decided to cry while the rest of her is trying not to. ‘But they’re only little. Dad just lets them muck around down at the oval.’ And then she does cry, reluctantly, and silently, with her eyes wide open. ‘I’ll be all right in a sec.’ She takes a serviette from a silver steel holder that’s shaped like the skeleton of a sandwich. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘Don’t worry about it,’ I say, which even to me sounds quite useless, because obviously, she is worrying about it. ‘Being away from home must be hard. It’s a long way away.’
I never know what to do when girls cry. Often it turns out that they’re crying about something or someone I don’t even know, like that their brother’s in prison in Bali for possessing a bong when he thought it was a bamboo ant farm, or they’ve poked themselves in the eye doing their make-up. And if they are crying about me, I deal with it by just kind of mumbling until their tram comes, then they stop automatically because they have to get on and go, and that’s that.
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