The Way We Roll

by Scot Gardner

  Julian lunched on strangers’ leftovers. I bought nori rolls and nigiri sushi. We shared a table.

  ‘Do you ever think you might get exploding bum disease from eating that shit?’ he said.

  ‘It has to be fresh. They’re the rules.’

  ‘What, rules never get broken in China?’

  ‘Japan.’

  ‘Wherever. It’s still raw fish.’

  ‘True, but it’s my raw fish that I just bought.’

  His phone buzzed on the table. As he read the message he stopped chewing. He pocketed his phone and resumed chewing, as if he could only manage one task at a time.

  ‘Could you cover for me tonight?’ he asked. ‘I’m supposed to be working until nine-thirty.’

  ‘Sure,’ I said.

  ‘Joanie leaves at six. It’ll be cruisy.’

  ‘No problems.’

  ‘I’ll pay you back.’

  ‘No need. It’ll be my pleasure.’

  ‘Don’t say that. You’re creeping me out.’

  I laughed. ‘Why?’

  ‘I don’t know. You’re just all so perfect with your manners and that. It’s unnatural.’

  ‘Unnatural?’

  ‘Abnormal, then. You sound like someone from Garland.’

  ‘I am—’

  ‘Ah!’ His hand shot up to stop me. ‘None of that.’

  I stood up. ‘Do your shift? What, you reckon I haven’t got a life? You wanker.’

  Julian grinned.

  ‘You’ll pay for it, don’t you worry about that, Jules,’ I said, and spat on the ground. ‘You’ll pay for the rest of your life.’

  ‘That’s enough, Will-the-Westie. Now you’re freaking me out the other way.’

  As it turned out, the late shift was indeed cruisy. I bought and ate rogan josh in the lonely food court, then it was just me, Jelat, Tefari and a carpark full of discarded trolleys. Tefari was the only one licensed to drive the tractor and the responsibility freaked him out. He drove more slowly than we could walk with a chain of twenty-plus trolleys.

  ‘Find the accelerator yet, Tef?’ Jelat said.

  ‘Shut your mouth, you Sudanese dog,’ Tefari replied.

  ‘Look who’s talking, you big gay black man.’

  ‘If I’m gay, then you are a woman. You disgust me!’

  Jelat squealed with laughter. I didn’t know whether to cover my ears or laugh along.

  I did my recce of the bowling alley and just kept walking. A police car lit the lane with red, blue and spotlight white. Voices were coming from under the building, radios barking. I stepped past a small crowd of tenpin bowlers in team uniforms who’d gathered to gawp, and headed for my fallback position beneath the railway bridge on Cable Road.

  My worldly possessions had just been pared down to my work backpack and its contents.

  SHAGGED

  I SLEPT FITFULLY in a dusty hollow beneath the girders of the railway bridge. The dirt seemed dry and warm enough when I lay down, but I got colder as the night went on and woke shivering some time just before dawn. My back ached, my fingers and toes stung with the cold. I stood, dusted myself off, collected my backpack and ran to the gym.

  Daniel was just opening the doors as I got there, so it must have been six o’clock. I paid the extra three dollars for a swim and cut fifteen laps before the activity and the warmth of the water melted the ice in my bones. I showered and emptied my backpack onto the bench in the change rooms. Chamois towel and toiletries, wallet, headtorch, work pants and high-vis shirt – everything I would need to make it through the day.

  My mental inventory of the things I’d left behind continued over breakfast at a cafe in the shopping centre. Nothing had my name on it. Everything could be replaced.

  Almost everything.

  I ran hard, back to the bowling alley. The crawlspace door had been padlocked. I scanned the surroundings for a tool to lever my way in and noticed blood spots on the laneway – a trail of red splashes leading from the crawl-space door towards the street. Perhaps a cop hit his head? The cat? Unlikely. I hurried to the rear wall of the alley, found the narrow depression the cat had used to get in and out of the crawl space, and dug at it with my fingers. The soil was dusty and loose on the surface and I found the base from a smashed bottle to use as a gouge when the dirt turned hard. I scratched and clawed until the hole was big enough to slide under. Inside, I donned my headtorch.

  They’d been thorough. Even my small stash of two-minute noodle wrappers had vanished. A confusion of cat prints marked the soil where my sleeping mat had been. But they hadn’t taken everything. I collected the white iPhone from its hiding place on top of a floor joist and sighed with relief as I slid it into my pocket.

  ‘You look old, Will,’ Ricky said. ‘Did you forget to go to sleep last night?’

  ‘Leave him alone Ricky,’ Doug stammered. ‘How would you like it . . .’

  ‘Shut up, busybody,’ Ricky snapped. ‘Mind your own beeswax.’

  ‘Beeswax?’ Jelat said. ‘What has beeswax got to do with anything?’

  ‘It’s a saying,’ Tefari mumbled. ‘Means mind your own business.’

  ‘Then why not say that?’ Jelat said.

  Tefari shrugged. ‘Not my language,’ he said. ‘I just borrowed it from a friend.’

  Julian barged through the door and slumped into the seat next to me, panting.

  Joanie tutted and shook her head.

  ‘What?’ Julian said. ‘We start work at eight. What time is it now?’

  ‘Seven fifty-nine and ten seconds,’ Ricky announced. He checked both his watches twice. ‘Actually, seven fifty-nine and twenty-two seconds . . . twenty-three . . . twenty-four . . .’

  ‘I’d call that early,’ Julian said, and slapped my thigh. ‘Wouldn’t you?’

  ‘Right,’ Joanie said. ‘Same crews. Youse all know what to do. ’Member your sun hats . . . It’s going to be a scorcher. Get to it.’

  Julian held my knee so I couldn’t stand. He waited until the others had left.

  ‘You look like shit,’ he said. ‘You okay?’

  ‘Don’t you start,’ I said. ‘Ricky reckons I look old.’

  ‘You do,’ he said. ‘I know the best medicine – bourbon. Your appointment is at my joint after work.’

  ‘I’m on late tonight,’ I said.

  ‘After that, then.’

  I shrugged.

  Joanie may have missed her other true calling, as a meteorologist – the day was a scorcher. By brew time, the chill from the night before had drowned in sweat, as had the band of my Milton’s sunhat.

  ‘I love it hot,’ Julian told me for the third time that morning.

  I wondered who he was trying to convince.

  ‘All the shorty shorts and low-cut tops and we get to check them out and work on our tans.’

  ‘And push a few shopping trolleys.’

  ‘All-day workout,’ he said, and flexed and kissed a tattooed bicep.

  Julian scanned the lunchtime crowd while I drifted off to buy sushi. He was still standing there when I returned.

  ‘Can I shout you lunch today?’

  He looked at me. ‘Why?’

  ‘Well, there are some advantages to buying lunch. And it would please me to buy you food. I’ve got fifty bucks, thanks to you.’

  He showed me his palms. ‘Go for it, Will. Buy me lunch every day if that’s what gets you hard.’

  I smiled. ‘What will it be? Burger?’

  ‘Steak sandwich from The Shell.’

  ‘Done,’ I said, and walked off.

  ‘Here,’ he said, tugging on my sleeve. ‘Don’t worry about it. I was joking.’

  ‘No, I insist.’

  I bought his sandwich – with the lot – and found him eating leftovers at a table for two.

  ‘Sorry, Will,’ he said. ‘Couldn’t wait.’

  I handed him the sandwich. ‘No problems. I’m sure you’ll eat both.’

  He shook his head slowly. ‘Freak.’

  ‘Thanks ve
ry much.’

  ‘Not as in bad freak. Unusual. You’re the politest homeless dude ever. Shouldn’t you be begging?’

  I shrugged and ate my sushi in silence. Truth be told, I was contemplating what I needed to buy before the shops closed. Thermal mattress and sleeping bag for a start.

  ‘You look shagged,’ Julian said through a mouthful.

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘What happened?’

  A man bellowed at his child on the other side of the food court. The kid cried.

  Julian kicked me under the table.

  ‘I don’t live at the bowling alley anymore.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘The police were there when I got back last night.’

  ‘Ah. And your gear?’

  ‘Gone.’

  ‘You should have come to my place. Why didn’t you? You could have had a bed, a real bed.’

  ‘Thanks, but I—’

  He held up his hand. ‘Come over after work tonight.’

  ‘I have to—’

  ‘Just until you find somewhere else.’

  Then I was a stray cat, lapping milk and eating tuna but at the same time poised, ready to scarper.

  Julian rammed his short snake of trolleys into the side of mine. I turned to abuse him, but he’d scarper.

  ‘Fight!’ he shouted, beckoning me on.

  Across the carpark, Jelat and Tefari – obvious in their hi-vis Milton’s shirts – were being shoved by three, now four young blokes from a P-plated black sedan.

  My switch flipped and I ran too. Twenty metres from the car, I’d singled out my target. He was backing up when I launched at him – spear tackle. His teeth clapped as he hit the tar, the breath forced from him bitter with beer and ciggies. I got yanked to my feet by my hair. A fist clubbed into the back of my head, behind my right ear. It spun me free and I staggered but caught myself. Through a momentary fog of pain, I saw a second guy make his charge. My punch was pure reflex. It threaded between his tattooed arms and crashed into his cheek and nose. No seatbelt, no airbag and that neckless gym junkie looked as though he’d hit a wall.

  One more punch and the guy was on the tar, squirming and bubbling blood and snot as if he’d been stomped.

  I recoiled and took stock. The blokes bundled into the car, silent through their retreat. The engine revved hard and I braced myself to run behind the trolley bay, but the tyres coughed and the engine stalled. The driver swore at the windscreen and shook the wheel with both hands. Jelat chuckled. It took a full minute of cranking to get the engine going, and their exit from the carpark involved kangaroo hops and several backfires.

  Julian grinned at me, his teeth bloodied.

  ‘It’s over, Will.’ He slapped my shoulder. ‘Our work here is done.’

  Tefari had his hands on his knees and a small pool of blood and spit between his basketball shoes. Jelat had his arm on Tefari’s shoulder and seemed unscathed. I offered Tefari the handkerchief from my pocket. He thanked me, but shook his head. He pinched the blood from his mouth and nose and flicked it at the ground. He wiped his hand on the front of his jeans and stood.

  ‘It’s all good, brother. Thank you.’

  ‘You owed them money?’ Julian said.

  ‘Something like that,’ Tefari said.

  Jelat crossed his arms. ‘Nobody owed anybody any money. They were stalking him, talking their white supremacist bullshit.’

  That sounded more like the truth. Those dudes were hardcore Westies. This was their sport.

  Dr Knightly, the principal at St Alphaeus, had said one thing I remembered. Hours of insufferable assemblies and lectures and only one thing had made it through. It was the idea that a common enemy unites men. At the time I had thought an alien invasion might be the key to world peace. Right then, I realised the things that brought our band together were hi-vis clothing and an inability to turn the other cheek. Trolley boys, one: Westies, nil.

  We retreated to the underground carpark after the fracas, though the air wasn’t any cooler and the car exhaust made my eyes sting. Julian had gone inside to the toilet when I heard some kind of wail like a car alarm or siren echoing off the concrete walls. Beyond the roofs of three cars a young woman in a black blouse was struggling with an overloaded trolley. The emergency wailing came from a small child strapped into the trolley seat. The mother shushed her child and threaded her trolley out of sight between two large four-wheel drives. The kid paused for a breath and I heard the familiar scrape of a shopping cart kissing a car. The mother swore. I left my snake of trolleys behind an old Corolla and jogged over to lend a hand.

  I took the front of her trolley and guided it to a sleek Honda station wagon.

  ‘Thanks,’ the woman said.

  I shrugged and began transferring the shopping bags into the rear of the vehicle. The woman leaned into the trolley and collected a nest of bag handles. As she stood, the child’s fingers locked into her blouse. A button popped and revealed her cleavage. Her black bra barely held her boobs in place. She dropped her bags and scrambled to cover up.

  I averted my eyes, crouched and collected the dropped bags.

  Her face was pink. ‘Sorry,’ she said.

  ‘Someone’s trying to get your attention,’ I said. ‘I’ll get these.’

  She thanked me again and unclipped the child from the seat. The wailing changed tone instantly and by the time I’d emptied the trolley, it had faded to broken sobs.

  I closed the boot and rolled the trolley clear.

  ‘What’s your name?’ the woman asked.

  ‘Will.’

  ‘Thank you, Will.’

  I bowed a little. ‘My pleasure,’ I said, and didn’t realise until after the words had left my mouth how creepy they might sound in light of the circumstances. I rolled the cart away and rammed it home as the new head of my trolley snake.

  FREAK

  JELAT AND I SHARED the evening shift. There was an awkwardness between us I didn’t know how to bridge. Joanie drove the tractor and emptied the trolley bays we’d filled. The silence between us got deeper and more awkward until the sun went down and Jelat took off his pants. He was wearing red soccer shorts and I noticed a twenty-centimetre scar on his right calf.

  ‘What happened to your leg?’

  ‘Say what?’

  ‘The scar on the back of your leg.’

  ‘It’s a looong story.’

  ‘Fair enough.’

  The silence resumed, heavier than before.

  ‘When I was five, the Janjaweed attacked our village,’ Jelat said. His voice wasn’t much more than a whisper. ‘I saw my father beaten to death on the road in front of our house. They poured petrol on his body and burned him in the street.’

  I stopped my chain of trolleys. Jelat read the horror in my face.

  He nodded. ‘True. Me, my mother and brother escaped in the back of a truck that night, along with half the village. Maybe thirty people. We had no choice. The driver tried so hard to keep the truck on the road but he couldn’t. It rolled and many people were hurt. Six people died. That’s when I cut my leg.’

  ‘I . . . I’m sorry,’ I said.

  Jelat laughed. ‘You’re sorry? Why are you sorry? Are you Janjaweed?’

  ‘No. Of course not. I’m sorry I brought it up.’

  ‘Don’t be sorry.’ He slapped my back. ‘It’s my story. I’m a survivor, baby. I’m a lucky one. Very lucky.’

  ‘How did you end up here?’

  ‘The people from the village rolled the truck back onto its wheels. We left the dead ones on the side of the road and drove. There wasn’t anything we could do. We lived in a refugee camp in Chad until I was seven, then we came here. Now I have money. I go to school at night. I have a girlfriend, she just doesn’t know it yet.’

  The silence settled around us again – a shocked silence on my part. Jelat stuffed an earphone in and beat-boxed a dub-step bassline as we herded steel beasts. At the end of the shift, after we’d collected our bags, Jelat held up his hand, as tho
ugh he wanted to arm-wrestle. I grabbed his thumb and he pulled me in and thumped on my back.

  ‘Keep your eyes open, Will.’

  ‘Yep, you too, Jelat.’

  ‘See you Monday.’

  Jelat’s story bounced around in my head as I walked to West Tennant. I realised there is loss and there is loss – losing your camping gear is nothing like losing your father. I imagined what it would be like to see my own father burn, and part of me couldn’t bear to look. Another part of me was searching for more petrol.

  I could hear the metal music from the street. I didn’t bother knocking on the front door of the house, just slipped down the dark driveway to the source of the noise. I knocked on the door of the bungalow. No response. I opened the door and found Julian and Nishi, topless, pressed against the hallway wall.

  ‘Sorry!’ I shouted, and closed the door. My cheeks filled with blood in the darkness.

  I could hear Julian laughing above the music, then the volume dropped and the door popped open.

  ‘About time,’ Julian said. ‘Ten minutes later and that could have been seriously embarrassing.’

  ‘Sorry . . . I can go . . .’

  He grabbed my sleeve and dragged me inside. Nishi had dressed herself. She smiled and waved with three fingers as Julian dragged me to the bedroom and flicked on the light.

  ‘Tadaaaa!’ he sang.

  The piles of garbage bags had gone. On the neatly made double bed lay my hiking pack, lumpy with gear. I stopped breathing.

  ‘Tadaaaa!’ he sang again.

  ‘How did you . . . ? Where did . . . ?’

  ‘I came past the bowling alley after work yesterday and saw a kid climbing in through your front door and I followed him in. Turned out he and a mate were robbing you so I turned all LAPD on their arses and told them to drop everything and leave. The big one got a bit lippy so I may have smacked him. There was a bit of blood. He went running home for Mummy.’

  My lungs wouldn’t fill. Tears barged at the back of my eyes. I wanted to scream. I wanted to punch a wall or spew my guts out or something. I needed air. I slammed into the doorframe on my way to the yard.

  Nishi arrived barefoot beside me a few seconds later.