White Ute Dreaming

by Scot Gardner

  ‘Isn’t Den going with you?’ I croaked.

  ‘Nah, he’s having a day off so you guys can go camping.’

  ‘What, and you’re going to school?’

  ‘Yeah, I’ve got to pick up the tickets at lunchtime.’

  I felt like a real dog. I let Ernie out the door and went into the kitchen to give her a hug. She pressed her body against me and my boxers suddenly felt very small.

  She grabbed me where I most needed to be grabbed and said, ‘You’ll just have to wait.’

  The toilet flushed and I jumped, hurried to my room and got dressed.

  I borrowed Barry’s pack. It must have been ten years old but he had looked after it. It fit my back like a glove, even with the truckload of noodles and dog-food cans inside.

  ‘Do we need water?’ I asked as we stepped onto the rough track.

  Den scoffed and wriggled his pack. ‘It’s right at the river.’

  ‘What, you can drink it?’

  ‘Comes straight out of the National Park. Probably the cleanest water in the state.’

  We turned left where we’d ventured right to find the rocks and I remembered a pillow.

  ‘I forgot to pack my pillow. Keep walking. I’ll catch up.’

  ‘You don’t need a pillow. Just use your clothes. Don’t worry about it.’

  Ernie can smell adventure. He’d belt along at forty ks, running right up in front then galloping right at us, nearly tripping over his own feet with his tongue like a pink flag at the side of his mouth.

  We walked for an hour, maybe more. I started looking for places where we could set up tents and that. Nice flat patches of grass and leaves on the side of the track.

  ‘How far is it, all up?’ I asked.

  ‘Not much further.’

  Half an hour later, a shining white four-wheel-drive wagon came up behind us.

  ‘Hey hey!’ Den said, and looked at me. ‘Walk no more.’

  Chris was driving. Hunched over the steering wheel, he stalled it as he got close to us.

  He poked his head out the window. ‘Where you headed?’ he said, and smiled.

  ‘Just up the road,’ Den said, and slapped him playfully about the face.

  He pulled his head back in. ‘Do you want a lift?’

  I shrugged my pack off and threw it in the back seat of Chris’s car. Den climbed into the passenger’s seat. I crawled in the back with Ernie.

  ‘Didn’t think you were going to make it,’ Den said.

  ‘Yeah. Mum didn’t leave until ten o’clock. Gave her half an hour or so before I went, just in case she had to come back for something.’

  ‘Did you get the stuff?’ Den asked.

  ‘What do you reckon?’ He pointed over his shoulder to the box at my feet. I flipped open the lid and counted six bottles. 750 ml Jack Daniels. 750 ml Southern Comfort. 750 ml Jim Beam. Three big bottles of Coke.

  ‘I bags the bourbon,’ I shouted.

  ‘Uh-uh. They’re all to share,’ Den said.

  It was going to be a camping trip to remember. Or maybe not remember.

  I think I would have been better off if I’d waited until after lunch to have my first drink. I might have been able to remember more of the red and gold rocks and the foaming river that made up the canyon. I saw one lizard, sunning itself on a rock by the edge of the water. And I saw quite a bit of bush when I had to go to the toilet. The blowflies were on me before I’d even finished; tickling my back and my bum and testing my bourbon balance as I swung at them and told them to piss off. Ernie, quite sensibly, kept his distance. Chris and Den had made a huge fire. They’d collected a good load of wood and probably rubbed two sticks together to get it going. Whatever. It was warm and that was all that mattered. The sun disappeared behind the wall of the canyon at about three o’clock and the air cooled quickly. The fire made me nice and warm on the outside, the bourbon made me glow on the inside.

  Chris was a funny bloke. He knew hundreds of jokes and the more pissed he got, the better he remembered them. What do you call a cross-dressing dinosaur? Try Sarah’s Tops. What’s the difference between broccoli and snot? Kids don’t eat broccoli.

  Den set up our tent. Took him about four glasses but he did it.

  Just on dusk, Chris suggested we go for a burl in the four-wheel-drive.

  ‘Nah, shouldn’t drink and drive, Chris,’ Den said, wagging a finger at him.

  ‘Who’s going to know?’

  ‘Nobody.’

  We all piled in. Someone will find out, I thought. Somehow. I put my seatbelt on and got Ernie to sit with me. Chris floored it and snaked off up the track laughing his guts out. My head nearly hit the roof. Ernie bounced onto the floor and yelped.

  ‘Sorry, fellas,’ he said, and floored it again.

  Ernie was starting to panic. He couldn’t get a foothold, kept slashing into the door. I tried to grab him and hold him.

  ‘Stop!’ I shouted.

  ‘What is it, Wayne? Feeling a bit edgy?’ Den asked through panting laughter.

  ‘No, I think I’m going to spew.’

  Chris slammed on the skids. ‘Get out. Christ, don’t spew in the car,’ he screamed.

  I struggled with my seatbelt and dragged Ernie out with me. I hadn’t closed the door when Chris started off again up the track. With my hand on my knee and that horrible retch and splatter sound, I emptied the contents of my stomach on the side of the track. Some splashed on my runner. That wasn’t good.

  The car was coming back again now. I could see the puffs of steam coming from Ernie’s mouth in the headlights then the car seemed to jump off the track. There was a crunching metal sound that is right up with retch and splatter on the scale of horrible noises, and the engine stopped.

  Chris was swearing. The lights were at a funny angle; either that or my head was crooked. Nup, it was the lights. I staggered over but didn’t get too close. They were both out of the car. Chris was going off.

  ‘Mum’s going to fucking kill me. I’m fucked. Oh no.’

  The car had slipped off the track and come to rest with a tree wedging the driver’s side door closed.

  Chris was standing in the headlights pulling his hair and swearing at himself. ‘Fucking idiot. I don’t believe you fucked the car.’

  He climbed back in and started the engine. More scraping and groaning as he edged the car backward and forward, then an explosion of cracking glass as one of the rear windows broke. Chris was crying and still screaming. He’d lost the plot. He revved the absolute bags out of the engine and I picked Ernie up. The car sprang off the tree like a rope had broken and lurched back onto the track. He drove off.

  We stoked the fire and stood around in silence until my heart had slowed to a slash-metal groove.

  ‘Wouldn’t want to be in his big boots tomorrow,’ Den said soberly.

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘His dad was a wrestler. He might just kill Chris.’

  ‘I think it was his mum he was worried about.’

  ‘Yeah. Once his dad has finished with him, his mum will mince up the rest.’

  ‘Maybe we should go back.’

  ‘Nah. Fuck off. He’ll be all right. His problem.’

  I wondered if he would do the same if it was me in the car. Just dust his hands.

  ‘If it was you in the car . . .’ he said like he was reading my foggy mind, ‘that would be another story. I didn’t ask him to smash the fucking car. He did that all by himself.’

  He took a packet of smokes from his pocket and offered me one. I said no and he burnt his hand trying to light it on the coals.

  I sighed and sat on a log near the fire. Den lay down on an airbed on the other side.

  ‘We’ve been together forever, you and me,’ he said, and his voice wavered. ‘We’re like brothers.’

  He looked at me across the fire. ‘I love you, Wayne.’

  Yeah right. Have another drink Den, you pisshead.

  ‘I really do. I love you like my own brother.’

  ‘Yea
h, that’s great, Den. Don’t go on about it,’ I mumbled, and looked off into the darkness. ‘What are the chicks like at school?’

  ‘Yeah, gorgeous. Some real honeys. Some real dogs. I wouldn’t know. I’m gay.’

  ‘Yeah right-o. What are they like?’

  He lifted himself. His face was clear and he sat rock-steady. His eyes burnt into mine. ‘Did you hear me?’

  ‘Yeah, I heard you. Pisshead.’

  Then he said the words again only this time they didn’t just slide off. They hit me like a train.

  ‘I’m gay.’

  I vomited again and Ernie darted out of the way. Nothing came out, only spit and anger. My skin started to crawl.

  ‘What, so you want to root me up the arse?’ I shouted.

  He was motionless for a long while. My guts bucked and I struggled against the urge to spew again.

  He shook his head. A tear ran down the side of his nose.

  ‘Well, what am I supposed to think? You tell me—you know—then you tell me you’re a fucking poofter. What am I supposed to think?’

  I stood up and kicked at the fire. A cloud of sparks leapt across the ground and into the sky. Den covered his face. His body shook. I launched into the night but the firelight didn’t travel far and I was in a strange and heavy darkness. Ernie bumped against my leg and I jumped.

  I sat down again and spat at the dirt. My forehead rested in my hand and I spat at the dirt. Couldn’t get the taste out of my mouth. Horrible dead taste. All those years and I never knew. He’s a fucking poojabber.

  ‘Who have you rooted? Have you rooted Chris?’

  He sat up with his wet face and red eyes and shouted at me. ‘No, I haven’t rooted Chris.’ Spit came out of his mouth and splashed near the fire. ‘I haven’t rooted anybody.’ He shook his head and big ugly drunken sobs echoed around the canyon.

  ‘What sort of a poofter are you? How do you know you’re a poofter if you haven’t rooted anyone up the arse?’

  ‘I dunno,’ he sniffed, and wiped his arm on his sleeve. ‘Probably the same way you knew you were straight before you fucked my sister.’

  ‘I haven’t fucked Kerry. I haven’t had . . . I haven’t rooted Kerry.’

  He shrugged and pushed his palm towards my face. ‘See. You know you’re straight don’t you?’

  ‘Yes. I’m straight. Straight as, all right?’

  ‘I wouldn’t touch you. Get a hold of yourself.’

  ‘Wouldn’t want to,’ I said, and rolled my fingers into a fist.

  Something crashed through the bush near the river. Ernie jumped and his ears pricked. Den picked up his airbed and dusted it off. He stumbled and grabbed onto the side of the tent as he fell. The nylon flapped and crumpled under him. He dragged himself to his feet and the tent sprang back into shape. He stuffed the airbed inside.

  ‘I’m going to bed.’

  ‘Whatever.’

  Ernie curled up in the small of my back as I huddled in front of the fire. I zipped my jacket right up so the collar covered my mouth. I could have slept right there. I thought about taking my runners off but the idea of spending ten minutes tying them in the morning wasn’t a real turn-on. I couldn’t believe it. Maybe Den was just pissed and bullshitting me. He sniffed hard in the tent. All those years of talking about girls and sleeping in the same room. Shit, I’d even slept in the same bed. I felt really dirty and could feel something stuck to the side of my face. I thought about picking my way down to the river so I could splash that cool dark water on me. I thought about it but it didn’t happen.

  Somewhere in the night, I felt a hand on my shoulder. A firm hand and growling. I grabbed at him and threw him towards the fire. It wasn’t a hand; it was a log. It struck the fading coals and rolled away. The growling was real. I sat up and could make out the faint shape of Ernie, frozen and looking at the bush. He growled again and goose bumps crawled up my spine and down to my toes. I felt around in the darkness and my hand closed around another log.

  ‘What is it, Ernie?’

  Something crashed off through the scrub at the sound of my voice and Ernie yelped. A yelp answered him from beside the river. My whole body prickled as the yelp from the river came again and turned into a howl. A long, nightmare howl that made me swear and shake. Another joined in and another. Yelp, howl. They echoed around the canyon and every monster that ever lived was out there that night. Every dead thing, every ghoul. Every zombie. I grabbed Ernie and pushed my way into the tent beside Den. He snuffled and snored at me.

  ‘Den. Den. Wake up. Did you hear that?’

  ‘Wha? Hey?’

  I held my breath. The howling had stopped. My heart pounded in my face and my throat. My mouth was as dry as sandpaper. I heard Den scruffing around then sucking on a water bottle. I asked him for some. We touched hands in the darkness.

  ‘You sleeping in here?’ he asked, his voice deep and sleepy.

  ‘Yeah,’ I grumbled as I struggled with the laces on my shoes. ‘Keep your bloody hands to yourself.’

  He sniffed and rolled over.

  Chapter Nineteen

  THERE WERE NO BIRDS SINGING WHEN I WOKE UP. A POSSUM had found its way into the tent and when I woke, it lay curled up against my cheek. In bitter panic I threw it off me. It rolled back and I scrambled on top of the sleeping Ernie. He squirmed and burst into the wall of the tent.

  The possum was still. In the murky morning light, I realised that it wasn’t a possum at all. It was Den’s head. Had to get out of there.

  I spent ten minutes tucking the laces of my runners in beside my ankles. My head was so thick that it felt like my brain had decided to have the day off and every action was a huge effort. I stumbled to the river, my tongue fat and hairy—like a little labrador in my mouth—and still tasting of vomit and bourbon. I splashed my face and hair with water and drank the shining stuff like medicine. Rinsed and spat. Begone fat dog in my mouth. I hardly had to use my hand walking back to the camp—the medicine was working.

  We packed without saying a word. Den opened some salt and vinegar chips for breakfast. I told him I wasn’t hungry and started walking home. I thought we’d make it back before Kez and Gracie and Baz left to see the monks. Den jogged to catch up. It started raining, gentle and soaking. I thought about sitting in the car and sleeping while they watched the monks make their sandcastles.

  Ernie set the pace. He’d bolt twenty metres ahead then vanish into the scrub. Just as we drew near he’d come crashing out of the undergrowth and tear off up the track again. The rain got serious. Puddles formed on the track and for the first half-hour I dodged them. My runners got wet and started squelching. After a while, I couldn’t give a shit about my runners and I splashed through the puddles instead, showering Den at every opportunity. His face screwed up to begin with and he called me a bastard under his breath, then his eyes frowned but his mouth smiled. When he kicked an arc of brown water into my mouth his lips cracked and I could see his teeth. He stumbled into me and said sorry too quickly. I rolled off the track and onto my arse. He started pissing himself laughing and before I could think, I called him a poofter. Right to his face. I’d done it a thousand times before but mate, how cruel. I sucked a breath but he didn’t stop laughing. He held out his hand. I saw his fingerprints highlighted by camping grime. I saw the scar on his thumb that he got when we stacked our bikes at the bottom of Merrimans Creek hill. I saw the smile fade from his face as I struggled to balance the pack and stand on my own.

  God must have been taking a huge piss that morning. It just kept raining. The drops hit the leaves and busted into a fine mist, ran down the trunks of the trees and made tracks of foam on the bark and fallen leaves. Felt like it took hours to get back. To the right of the track the bush was littered with broken branches. Through the grey trunks I could make out the line of a fence running the same way as the road and beyond the fence, paddocks studded with sheep.

  ‘Nearly home,’ Den said. It was the first thing he’d said for an hour and I noticed a house
in the paddock. It looked abandoned except for the smoke from the chimney. It had freckles where the blue paint had fallen away from the walls. No garden, no trees. Looked like the sheep could eat the grass right up to the stumps of the small verandah. Never have to mow those lawns. I almost walked into Den as he crossed the track and jogged down the path that led to his back gate.

  The carport was empty, except for Jesus the cat who meowed until Den let him inside. He threw his pack down on the bricks and ripped off his jumper, his shirt, his shoes and pants. I wondered if he was going to stop. He stood there in his socks and undies and looked at me.

  ‘What?’ I asked.

  ‘You going to stand there all day?’

  I swung the pack off and propped it against the wall. I untucked the laces on my runners and Den vanished inside leaving wet footprints. An electric pump started and I realised Den was in the shower. With my shoes off I stood up to undress and felt really light. I did a half-hearted dance and ripped my clothes off. I had one foot free of my jeans and stomped them into the bricks to drag the other one out when a thought raced through me like an icy breeze. ‘Where’s Ernie?’

  The gunshot was so loud I thought it was inside my head. A fierce crack that bounced off the trees until it faded to a growl. A yelp. Another gunshot, and another. In my heart, I knew what had happened before I made it to the fence, before I saw the round of his belly lying on the grass, his legs kicking uselessly at the air.

  The old man heard my scream. He’d been standing against the rail on the verandah, rifle in hand, now he vanished into the shadows.

  At first I couldn’t look, couldn’t get close and didn’t want to know. Where the hell was Den? Ernie’s body was shaking. The rain fell on him and his skin twitched and rippled. A blade of grass had stuck to his eye, the eyelid strained open. My own eyes were blind as I picked up his heavy, limp body, saying over and over, ‘No, no, no, no’. I could smell the colour of the drops falling on my thighs. I walked on unsteady legs, rocking him, praying he’d lift his head and pant. I didn’t know what to do, didn’t know where to go. I staggered to the Humes’ fence and lowered him over, the barbed wire biting into my stomach. I felt no pain.