The Life You Choose and That Chose You

by Figment Publishing

  He shook his shake.

  An hour later we were back at work.

  I was still confused. I didn't know how to act when we shot the scene that, in the proper timeline, took place the morning after our night in the bush, where we woke up by the burnt-out camp fire and everything was all incredibly tranquil and relaxed. Or when Doogan talked about the various ways that the sunrise meant stuff to the land's original inhabitants, and talked about how this very spot had once been a sacred site for a group of people whose name had a lot of dj and ng sounds in it. He explained how we used to think that the original inhabitants belonged to the land, not the land to the inhabitants, but nowadays? Nowadays we knew better. We had to shoot that bit a few times, because a tourist helicopter kept making passes overhead.

  Between takes, Rob the director kept pretending to fix something with the camera while an assistant came up and whispered to me, ‘Maybe just stop trying to act a bit? Just act like yourself?’

  But that was hard when they wanted so many cutaway shots of us walking along, my thumbs tucked in my backpack straps near my flexed biceps, or of Doogan hacking at bits of fake bush, of me nodding really gravely at absolutely nothing, or of me hacking at bits of bush, and then, only afterwards, doing the scene where Doogan jabbed a finger into my chest and said, ‘You're soft, boy. You're soft and you're slowing me down. But I'm gonna make a man out of you,’ and thrust his big knife's handle into my hand.

  And then night fell, and we shot the camp scene.

  I knew this was the make or break moment in the show because Rob's assistant came up to me and said, ‘This is totally the make or break moment of the show.’ I had to lay it on just right. They'd arranged the modular bush sections in a tight little circle around us. The campfire was burning low and it took a while to get the amount of smoke it was making right, so it'd look nice and smoky but you'd still be able to see what was going on.

  Rob called, ‘Action!’

  I paused for a long time. Doogan stoked the fire with a stick, then leaned back against a tree module with locked wheels.

  ‘I want to thank you for bringing me out here,’ I said.

  Doogan nodded. ‘It's been an adventure.’

  ‘Yeah. I mean, being out here in nature. You just feel so I-don't-know,’ I admitted with great difficulty, searching the air around my head for the right words. I took a long breath through my nose. I could smell the catering van. ‘I mean, you just. It's really big out here in the bush. Incredibly open. The scale, it just makes you feel incredibly, like, humble.’

  ‘I hear ya, kid.’

  ‘I mean, it's beautiful out here. The night, the bush air. You can taste the difference. City air, it tastes different to air out in the bush. You know? And the trees. This tree we're sleeping under. It's just so what's the word? Majestic. It's majestic. What kind of tree is this, anyway?’

  ‘Gum.’

  ‘I really want to learn the names of all the trees now,’ I said. ‘It really, you know. It makes you recognise what's really important. I've led this crazy life over the last year, since winning IdolII: Encore!, My life in Hollywood isn't real, in a weird way. You get caught up in the success, the lifestyle. It's not healthy, but you get swept up. Anyone who gets to have an experience like this, though, to come out here, into the wild, they're just so lucky. And this is here. It exists, you know? And it costs nothing. But it's worth so much. You get to realise that a lot of the stuff you worry about, it's just made up. Then you have an experience like this, and it just, I just. Wow. I mean, this is a connection with something so real, and so fragile. So important.’

  ‘Get some rest, mate,’ Doogan said, his eyes all twinkly. ‘We gotta get an early start.’

  Back at the hotel, a couple hours later, I was getting drunk at the bar downstairs. The Carrington was as creepy and musty and old and authentic as ever. I'd had my first few drinks in the piano bar, just down the driveway, and then retreated here, to the lobby area, to see if the plant-spritzing assistant was anywhere to be found. She wasn't, so I'd ordered another drink and sat.

  At some point Doogan passed through on his way back from dinner to his room.

  ‘Good job today,’ he said. ‘You got a lot better. Settled into yourself.’

  ‘Thanks, Doogan. You too.’

  ‘Having a couple to wind down?’

  ‘You know it.’ It was hard around Doogan not to do an Australian accent, even though his had been much stronger in our scenes than it was now. ‘Join us for one? Mike said they're gonna show a rough cut of our final scene in a bit. They're putting it together for Andy, so he'll stop chewing out Rob. Stay and have a drink with me?’

  ‘Nah, mate, I don't drink,’ he said. ‘Dad's in hospital at the moment with liver problems. That's why the delay with shooting this week. Sorry if I seemed a bit serious earlier in the day.’

  ‘Mate, sorry to hear it. He gunna be right? Gunna be sweet?’

  He gave me a strange look.

  ‘Waiting on news. On his way out I reckon, sorry to say.’

  ‘Bugger,’ I shook my head. ‘What about the rough cut?’

  ‘I'll see it soon enough.’

  ‘It really, you know. It makes you recognise what's really important. I've led this crazy life over the last year, since winning Idol II: Encore! You get caught up in the success, the lifestyle. Anyone who gets to have an experience like this, though, to come out here, they're just so lucky. I mean, it's here and it costs nothing. But it's worth a bloody lot. You get to thinking that a lot of the stuff you worry about, when you're living this big celebrity life, it's sort of, it's just made up. But then you have an experience like this, and you just, I just. Wow. I mean, this is a connection with something so fragile, you know? So real and so. So important.’

  They'd gone with bits of take two and three in the end. You couldn't really appreciate it on the editor's laptop screen, because it was so small, but Mike agreed with Rob and me that the bush seriously did look good. Way better than the real thing. And I looked really great too. Doogan was right, I had gotten better. I looked really at ease by the campfire. I looked rugged with my hair messed up a bit. And the way I know I'm the perfect weight is there's this muscle visible in my jaw, this kind of little knot of muscle that makes me look really serious, even though my face still doesn't have any lines on it, which is a good thing. I looked like a man.

  And I can't say I didn't feel better.

  After the earthquake

  Hannah's breathes sour milk

  and her coffees are made of

  long-life.

  Her shelves don't clink

  with my weight

  as I pass them.

  There is nothing to browse

  but eggshell-blue tiles, shattered

  beneath whatever has fallen, though

  there is a pickled corner

  a prickling scent

  and half an aisle of

  perfect ceramic

  where the chocolate had been.

  It's in a basket now

  beside Hannah's

  spluttering machine.

  We do not break our breath

  our vacuous gaze

  with talk.

  Milk

  suckles and kisses.

  A mother swaggers past.

  Her dark breasts

  childless, shudder

  with the scuff

  and drag

  of her chalk-palm feet.

  Her clenched head bursts

  and lows.

  And somehow

  there is a box working,

  murmuring news

  from elsewhere

  in a rhubarb voice.

  His lips do not shape out

  Port Vila.

  Walking here

  the locals had stood in bare doorframes

  braced portraits

  and I counted jellyfish

  stripped from the water,

  flat and perfect as discuses,

  sides split from the
weight of the air

  and the suck of parched earth.

  Those ponies I passed once

  standing idle and squinting—

  I imagined them

  moments before, white-eyed

  rust-bucket rumps

  and shit-stained haunches

  shuddering.

  Weight tentative.

  Wire fences thrumming

  with intimation.

  On the lip of suburbia

  a man sat outside

  nothing but cement stairs.

  His fingers rolled

  gravel

  like rosary.

  I pictured those stones

  pendulous from his fist, skin

  smooth as the foam Hannah cowbells from her milk jug

  hard against the bench—

  bringing me back.

  She smears a hair from her brow

  with the meat of her thumb.

  Something wails.

  ‘Stop going on about that bloody duck.’

  Mum turned and glared at the three of us even though Skids was the one doing all the whinging. I said nothing. Skids stuck out his bottom lip. It was him who filled the rusty bath with water every day and locked the bird in its cage at night so pythons, eagles and dogs couldn't get to it. Despite all this, Duck was dead. I kept my mouth shut.

  Mum did a quick scan of us boys in the back of the car. Four grey hairs zigzagged from the top of her head as if they had a mind of their own and were running away from the brown ones. Mum could sense fear. If I looked straight at her, she'd see it in my eyes for sure.

  You know something about that bloody duck, don't you? She was likely to say. I sat on my hands. Was the whiff of dead duck on my skin? Could Mum smell it?

  How far to Sydney? I wanted to say.

  Or Look at them houses, Mum, wouldn't you like to live in a house like that? But there weren't any houses out here.

  I stared at the runaway hairs on top of her head as she gave us another black look. She turned to the front and talked to Dad about how when we stopped for lunch, us kids, if we were good, could share some hot chips. She'd brought along a loaf of bread and a bottle of tomato sauce to save some money. Dad nodded and turned on the radio.

  My hands were sweaty. I was in the middle—between Skids and Davo—and desperately wanted one of them to open the window.

  Air, let in some air.

  I turned around and looked at Bluey in the tray of our twin-cab ute, hanging his face in the wind as we rolled along the Pacific Highway. Back with Bluey there was no Dad or Mum or pesky older brother, and no Skids moaning about a dead duck. Maybe I could blame Bluey, he could've killed Duck. But there were no dog marks on the bird—just a white, limp body with its neck twisted the wrong way, its thin windpipe crushed without a sound.

  Shit, it's hot in here. Open the bloody window, Davo.

  I shot a glance at Mum but I'd only sworn in my head.

  Mum muttered to Dad above the hum of the radio. Davo pulled a brown thread from the edge of his jeans pocket while Skids sat with his arms folded and his chin on his chest. He was still sulking about Duck.

  My hands were dripping now. If I didn't do something Davo might notice and then I'd be in for it. No-one was watching. Bit by bit I slid my fingers out from under my thighs and rested my hands at the sides of my legs.

  ‘Get off,’ said Davo.

  ‘Leave your brother alone.’ Mum didn't even turn around.

  Was she talking about me or Davo? I tried to turn up the corners of my mouth just a little, not too much, just to look sort of innocent.

  ‘I told you, Pete, any trouble from you and you're walking to Sydney.’

  I said nothing.

  ‘We've got enough on our plate with your dad's interview. You hear me?’

  ‘Yep.’

  I slid my hands onto my thighs.

  Davo turned to me. ‘What are ya doin’?’

  ‘Nothin’.’

  He poked his elbow into my ribs and then went back to pulling the thread. It was getting long. I could dob on him, then no-one would notice my sweaty palms or my duck guilt.

  Open the window, one of ya, please.

  ‘Anyone cold in here?’ I said in a high voice.

  ‘Cold? Ya spazzo.’ Davo flicked the button and the window slid down. ‘Cold?’ He looked at me like I was crazy.

  I wore my best poker face. If he knew I wanted the window open he'd shut it for sure.

  What could I offer Skids for the window seat after the next stop? I didn't have any money; there were some paperclips and rubber bands in my pocket but I was saving those for an emergency. Tell him how much I liked his duck? Tell him what really happened to Duck? Nah, I'd keep the middle seat for now until I came up with a better plan. Maybe I could tell Mum I was feeling woozy, then she'd make one of them move over. If it was Davo he'd make my life hell for the rest of the trip. Keep my mouth shut, that was the best thing. Think about something else besides Duck and keep my bloody mouth shut.

  Now I had a plan, I felt better.

  I let out a small fart.

  ‘Pig.’ Davo pushed against me.

  I would've put money on that fart being silent and pong-free. No such luck with Davo around.

  ‘Armadillo,’ I said back.

  He frowned. ‘You're such a dickhead.’

  ‘Better than being a dead duck,’ I muttered under my breath.

  Coolongolook. Ten kilometres. Petrol stop only, Dad had said. Yep, Coo-long-go-look. The word rolled silently around my tongue like chocolate bullets. We pulled up at the service station and Dad climbed out and filled the car with stinky petrol.

  ‘Coo-long-go-look,’ I said, getting out behind Davo.

  ‘Dad can we get some bullets?’

  No answer. I followed him towards the servo. His big steps in big shoes made me skip a little just to keep up.

  ‘Dad, can we get some bullets? Please…’

  I chased his trouser leg and his posh black shoes across the oil-smeared concrete. Tags of dust clung to the edges of his trouser hem, a bit of bush chasing Dad to the city.

  ‘Dad?’

  He took two giant steps through the automatic doors. Magic doors I used to say until Davo burst my bubble when I was four. He pointed to the line that triggered the door: open, shut, open, shut. It wasn't me and my special powers, after all.

  Dad marched to the counter without saying a word about the bullets. He dug into his trouser pocket for his wallet. It used to be Granddad's, he'd told me. The black leather was worn thin through years of reaching for another five-dollar note.

  ‘Dad, you get two for five cents.’

  He flicked a fifty-dollar bill from the old wallet and handed it to the lady at the counter. It was a new note, clean from the mint. I'd done a class project on the Australian Mint and ever since then I'd thought about what I'd do with all that money. That was when I wasn't thinking about Duck.

  Skids would like some bullets, I'd give him an extra one of mine.

  ‘Dad?’

  The lady gave him the change and he slid a pink note back into the wallet. He looked down at me.

  ‘Dad?’

  He flipped a gold coin into the air, it twisted and turned and fell towards the lino floor. I reached out for Dad's dollar spinning in the air. The coin was coming down, past the dusty stand of Chupa Chups and the smears of finger streaks where people rested their hands while they waited for their change. One dollar. One shiny gold coin that could buy me out of trouble for an hour—maybe two. I stretched my arm across the counter as the shiny coin slipped between the Chupa Chups stand and the till. Dad just shook his head and went back to the ute. My chance of a window seat disappeared with that dollar. Middle brother, middle seat.

  When I climbed back into the car, no-one gave me a second thought. If I dropped dead they wouldn't even notice, except Skids. He looked at me with that longing, dead-duck look. He'd heard me ask Dad for bullets. I shook my head.

  ‘No bullets, litt
le brother.’

  Davo put his hands on his waist so his elbows stuck out and took up as much of my car space as possible.

  Back on the road in the middle seat with no chocolate bullets. I don't know what made me blurt it out. Maybe I was tired of the duck face on Skids. Besides I knew the truth.

  ‘I killed Duck,’ I said.

  No-one said a word.

  ‘I did it, I didn't mean to…’

  Dad didn't brake suddenly. Mum didn't scream. Davo didn't punch me. And Skids, well, Skids kept his arms folded across his chest.

  ‘I knew,’ he said. ‘I knew it was you.’

  ‘I don't know what happened. One minute I was stroking Duck and then we were wrestling—’

  ‘What?’ It was Skid's turn for a black look.

  ‘You know, like I do with Davo, but he always wins. I was just muckin’ about.’

  Skids punched my arm. Hard.

  ‘I'd give you some chocolate bullets if I had em,’ I said.

  He punched me again but this time it was softer, much softer.

  The wind rolled through the window and as Davo went to wind it up, I leaned towards him.

  ‘Keep it down.’

  Davo folded his arms. The wind blew across our faces, flicked our hair and filled the car with a coolness I hadn't felt in a long time. I stared out the window. There were more houses now, and not so many trees to climb. The road and the car took us further from that one lousy dollar at the petrol station. I could have done a lot with that dollar.

  His scars always tighten in a storm. His fingers trace the taut spider's web—over his cheeks and across his eyes. The wind batters the large wooden doors of the hall and the caretaker knows no-one will visit the temple today. Still, he piles yellow grapefruit into a pyramid on the lotus altar and adds blue hydrangeas to the empty vase. The seated Buddha is quiet, his eyes closed in prayer in his dark hall. The caretaker can't see the top of the Buddha's head in the darkness, but he knows it is covered in rows of tightly bound cabbage curls. The folds of the Buddha's robes look to be of the finest gold silk rather than gold-leaf on bronze.

  The rain starts. It is hard and loud and drowns the howling of the wind. Now he hears tiles being scraped off the temple's roof by jagged-glass rain and the wind's scooping hands. He tries to ignore the sound of gutters gushing like waterfalls over the sides of the wooden hall and listens for the Buddha's breathing, like he does every other day.