by Paul Collins
Mum shook Pop’s shoulder but she knew he wasn’t going to wake up. She knew Pop was dead.
Pop did not look scary or sad when he was dead; he just looked peaceful. The only difference was he looked a bit pale. Although somehow he looked smaller, too, which was odd. But maybe we have a spirit and when it leaves we shrink a bit. I don’t know.
When we packed up Pop’s bungalow we found all sorts of stuff that we didn’t know Pop had. There were finger paintings that us kids did in prep, and Christmas decorations we made in creche from wooden clothes pegs and green and gold ribbon. There was a plastic folder stuffed with magazine clippings of Princess Diana, and Masterfoods spices in glass jars with 1998 use-by dates.
There was also a small black-and-white photo of a handsome young boy in an army uniform. The boy’s hair was blond and curly. Mum said, ‘That was Pop when he was a teenager.’ I had to look closely and use my imagination. I never knew that Pop had hair. I never knew he was a teenager, either. Somehow I always thought he was, well, you know, Pop.
They are coming to pull the bungalow down next week. It’s okay, though. Pop always said, ‘Get rid of The Doghouse when I’m gone. Plant yourselves a decent veggie patch.’
So that’s what we’re going to do. We’re going to grow vegetables ... and herbs ... and a few flowers. But we will never, ever grow mushrooms.
The coloured lights are on our front verandah now. Every night at eight o’clock I turn them on so pretty on these dark winter nights. I always look at the sky and wonder about Pop. Can he see the coloured lights from where he is? Does he know how much we miss him?
At eleven o’clock Dad turns the lights off. But I’m asleep by then.
‘Is it a virtual-tag or a tattoo?’
I shrugged. ‘Whatever.’
I never expected to end up in the International
Rights Court in front of a judge and jury.
We don’t even speak the same language. They were arguing about my chest art and who owned which words.
The interpreter shuffied some papers, then began to read:
‘You are charged with being a Virtual Vandal. The band Hip-hop claims this song belongs to them. They own the rights. You had the lyrics tattooed on your chest. Every time someone looks at your chest and reads those words, you must pay a royalty fee to Hip-hop. You have outstanding debts of 2,371,977 dollars in your currency owing now. How do you plead?’
‘Guilty.’
‘Anything to add?’ asked the judge.
‘It was on my body. I’m the legal canvas.’
The courtroom was warm with afternoon light. Sunlight glinted on the designer watch worn by one of the jury members. Was that real or a copy watch?
‘You copied lyrics illegally.’ The judge looked at my face, not my chest. ‘And then others copied you.’
‘I was a fan, then.’
How could this dare get so out of control? It happened ages ago. Worst decision I ever made. It’s ruined my social life. I can’t get rid of the tatts. Can’t afford the skin grafts. And girls won’t come near me! I have massive debts. Please don’t look at me!
I need to go back to the beginning. To my suburban high school, Greysville. I’ll never forget Leb the ‘Boss Kid’ who tagged his territory. And the arrival of Picasso, the awesome art teacher.
Our school was one of those grey places. A bit run-down. Weeds. Peeling window frames. As if no one wanted to stay long enough to fix anything. Principals changed each term. In the streets nearby, any abandoned house was graffiti-covered within days of the tenants leaving.
Leb’s gang would tag any walls or even bumpy fences to mark their territory. Sometimes the estate agents would repaint fast if they had tenants coming. They tried dark blue and Leb used white spray. They tried light paint and he used dark spray to tag. But after a while, they gave up.
Greysville became Graffiti-ville. But tags weren’t the only kinds of branding.
Tatts were skin graffiti, a different kind of tag. Leb had a few.
In between school races at the pool, I was trying to work out a row of Roman numerals just above the back of Leb’s bathers. His swimsuit featured school colours because the squad had to wear them.
Leb noticed me staring.
‘Like my tatts?’
‘Er ... what are they for?’
‘My year of birth. In Roman numerals MCM.’
‘Can’t you remember how old you are?’ His eyes narrowed and I quickly added, ‘Hey, we’re on. Let’s go.’
Leb couldn’t see those numbers, even doing a back flip. Unless he looked at himself in a double mirror, and then they’d be back to front. Or would they?
We won the relay, due to Leb. He was a splashy swimmer, but fast.
Then Picasso arrived as a relief teacher. That wasn’t his real name. Picasso was what we called him. He was small, round, and loved fine art. In our school, that was a first.
‘Graffiti is like a tattoo for a building, but the owner and the wall have no say in it,’ said Picasso.
‘Graffiti was in Ancient Rome and Greece, too.’
‘Awesome,’ said Leb. ‘I’m part of history.’
‘They were Vandals,’ said Picasso. ‘They destroyed cities like Rome. That’s where the name vandal comes from.’
‘I knew that,’ said Leb, who didn’t.
Picasso suggested we Google graffiti. He wrote the spelling for us.
‘If you’re going to be a street artist, let’s go for quality. Write something others will notice, some thing that matters. A tag is a keyword for informa tion. Like a meta-tag.’
‘A tag?’ Leb thought he was the expert.
‘You should specialise.’
‘Duh?’
‘Saw your tag on the railway fences.’ Leb smiled. ‘Yeah, I’m a bit of a celeb.’
‘Celeb scribbler.’
‘Scribbler?’ just like pre-schooler scribble. No message for change.’
‘Don’t do politics,’ said Leb. ‘Nothing to say.’
Picasso smiled. ‘You’re wrong there. Paint some thing others will think about. Try a mural.’
‘A what?’
‘A story in pictures on buildings. And on roofs. Tourists still pay a fortune to visit some famous murals.’
Leb Googled murals +tourists +visit.
Later, supervising our swimming squad, Picasso noticed Leb’s tatt.
‘MCM means nineteen hundred. When were you born, Leb?’
‘Two thousand.’
‘That’s MM. You’re a century out.’
‘Short-term memory, Leb?’ someone called.
But street-smart Leb said quickly, ‘That ‘C’ stands for my dog’s name.’
‘Lucky the tatts aren’t on your elbow. No one can lick their own elbow,’ joked Picasso.
We tried. He was right. It was the quirky stuff that Picasso knew that got us interested. Took us on a virtual tour of these old galleries online. Leb was keen on the ‘Loo’, as he called the Louvre, the famous place in France.
‘Tatts are your choice at the time. They’re perma nent. Later you may regret them. Temporary graffiti is on walls owned by others. They have no choice. The third option is quality work on a legal canvas.’
Picasso got us painting murals on the sports store walls. We did space footy figures, and cyber-scooters and stuff
‘Mural is history in paint,’ he said.
The store became our legal canvas. We put up cool designs with bright reds and yellows and lots of black.
I was a fan of Hip-hop’s lyrics. So I drew them, too, to music.
‘We’re going into the adoption business,’ Picasso said as he unpacked boxes of art supplies.
‘What’s that?’
Picasso suggested each of
us ‘adopt’ a local wall or even a street to repaint immediately after tags were sprayed on them.
He looked direcdy at Leb when he said that.
‘Choose.’
Picasso held up spray cans and brushes. ‘Practise.’
‘What do you mean?’
Then Picasso told us about Intergalactic Central.
‘This Exhibition requires artists to submit under their real names. Not just a tag. Or you can Photoshop graffiti online, instead of just photographing street art for an entry.’
‘Why do that?’ asked Leb.
‘So your parents can see your work exhibited internationally.’
‘I’ll think about it,’ said Leb. ‘My mum might come.’
I never remember whether there are two f’s or two t’s in graffiti. Leb used spell check for his entry. And he always wore a belt now, to cover his Roman numerals.
I started thinking about another legal canvas, once I was old enough. As a fan, I could advertise for them, like a T-shirt.
‘Lyrics belong to the creator who wrote the song, not to you,’ warned Picasso.
After the exhibition, Leb’s graffiti wallpaper designs sold online, and ‘Sew Trendy’ was a sell-out in temporary tattoo lip stickers.
Leb dared me. ‘You say words matter, Wimp. I dare you to get Hip-hop’s lyrics on your chest. Skin words are better than wearing a fan T-shirt.’
Leb was wrong about that. Tatts are forever.
Images of my chest art went on viral-cam. Someone uploaded pies of my tatts online and the pictures went viral. And then along came the copyright issue. Hip-hop owns those words in that sequence.
Now I have to pay every time someone looks at my chest, anywhere in the world.
I’ve been sentenced to wear skivvies for life.
It crouched scarlet and shiny on top of the slope that led downhill to the paddock. Its front was rounded and bug-eyed, like a massive lady beede, but its sleek jutting bits made it look squat and fierce. A rhino. A red rhino at rest.
Of course I didn’t notice any of this. Pip did. He said every word out loud to Mum as we sprawled on the day bed on the back deck, like sleepy cats. The midday sun was too hot for the real sleepy cats. They’d disappeared ages ago.
‘They’re going to dream about milk pools in the cool part of the house,’ Pip commented as we watched them slink away.
‘There is no cool part,’ I grumbled.
He screwed up his nose and his big ears wiggled. He looked like the gingerbread goblin from one of the books he loves reading.
‘It’s cool in the fridge,’ he said. Mum snorted. I closed my eyes and began to count to ten. It was something I did a lot now.
When I opened them, he was still sitting in his favourite spot at the edge of the deck, his long pins swinging to and fro, intent on things that only he seemed to see.
Mum gave me a smile.
‘Shall we tell Dad about the Red Rhino, Pip?’ I said, brightly.
‘Dad won’t get it. He’s not very good at describ ing stuff.’ Pip’s look was scornful. ‘I mean, the last mower didn’t look a bit like a lemon to me. It wasn’t even yellow.’
Mum laughed and this time I joined in. Suddenly Pip fixed his eyes on Mum’s teacup.
‘Why do people drink hot stuff on boiling days?’ he asked, still staring. I made a face at Mum. This one was all hers.
Before she could answer, a shuddering rumble cut through the air. The whole house shook. I jumped up so fast I almost knocked Mum’s cup out of her hand.
‘He’s started! He’s started!’ Pip yelled above the roar and pointed excitedly across the lawn. ‘Quick! Come and see,’ he insisted and hauled himself to his feet.
A few metres beyond the deck, Dad sat astride the
Red Rhino. He was dressed in the clothes that Mum made him wear in the garden. His gardening pants - torn blue denims - a T-shirt that might have been white once, a hat with a mullet like the ones kindy kids wear, and his stinky, brown work boots.
Dad snapped on his earmuffs and positioned his goggles. Mum had no control over those. He kept them meticulously clean, swaddled in soft cloth, in their boxes in his neat shed. They made him look like a model, sort of . . . like the kind of dads you see in hardware-store catalogues. I said so. Pip looked puz zled. ‘But he’s not in a catalogue, he’s right there.’ He pointed.
‘You’re right, Pip,’ Mum reassured him.
Maybe I should write a rulebook for Pip and me. I don’t know what the rules are for us lately, but I always feel like I’ve broken them anyway.
Pip’s not good with rules either unless they’re painted on clowns as questions, like in the fun park near Grandma’s house.
Are you as tall as me?
He was thrilled to find that he was tall enough three summers ago. He squealed with delight and tried to hug the wooden dodgem clown. But he didn’t go on the ride. He always shied back at the last moment and refused to get in the car with Dad.
It was different this summer. We went to the park without our parents. I was in charge. I took him to the dodgems and ordered him into a car.
‘Noooh, Sara,’ he shouted, stamping his foot.
‘Don’t be a baby, Pip.’
‘I don’t want to.’ His eyes were wide, his eyelids blinked rapidly.
‘Baby, Baby, Baby,’ I taunted.
Finally he allowed me to push him into a car.
The music thumped, the ride started and I was exhilarated.
It took me ages to notice Pip was holed up in the far corner of the rink, unmoving. Petrified. I looked over at the ride supervisors. They were in confab. I put my foot down and crashed into two cars at once, trying to make the most of those last precious seconds. As expected, the power to all cars was cut abruptly and Pip was surrounded by concerned staff. Eventually I broke my way through the gawping circle. Pip was making the little mewing sounds he resorts to when he’s super-stressed. His fluttering eyes landed on me and focused. He held out a large trembling hand. I snatched it and we were out of there fast as.
‘Can we go on the little cars?’ he asked, the minute we put space between the dodgems and us.
‘No. We’re going back to Grandma’s,’ I snapped.
‘Please, Sara.’
I didn’t answer and half dragged him out of the park. Good job I didn’t have to take him with me in the evenings when all my mates were there. At one point he stumbled over his own boat feet and clutched at my elbow.
‘You’re walking really fast, Sara,’ he panted.
I looked up into his eyes and saw bewilderment and fear. I felt sick. ‘Grandma’s got ice-cream,’ I said.
‘Really? Will she give me some?’
‘Definitely,’ I said.
He beamed, rides forgotten.
I wish I could forget stuff as easily as that. If I could, I’d never remember the dodgems day again.
‘Is the Rhino different from the lemon?’ Pip asked Mum. ‘I was never allowed on the lemon.’ He mim icked Dad’s cross voice so perfecdy that Mum and I doubled up.
‘You’re not old enough, Pip.’
‘You’re not coordinated enough, Pip.’
‘You’re too tired, son.’
‘I’m just finishing up, son.’
‘Your mum needs your help with something.’
‘Stop it, Pip,’ Mum snorted, fanning her face with her hands.
He giggled.
‘Do the Tupperware story, Pip,’ I urged him.
‘What Tupperware story?’ Mum asked.
Pip grinned at me. He began to mime a perfect picture of Dad opening an overhead cupboard and being attacked by falling plastic - a weekly occur rence in our house.
‘What the hell is going on with these containers?’ Pip
roared and I swear Dad’s voice was coming out of his mouth.
‘Stop buying the stuff then. There’s nothing wrong with Glad Wrap and a bowl.’ He’d switched to the best version of Mum.
‘It messes up my stacking system in the fridge.’ Now he was Dad again.
Tears were running down my face. ‘Good tears,’ I said, hurriedly, and Pip’s frown disappeared.
‘I like it when you laugh, Sara,’ he said.
‘You two,’ said Mum, trying to sound insulted but failing.
‘Look,’ said Pip. ‘The Red Rhino knows how Dad mows the lawn.’ He pointed and I followed the line of his finger. Dad and Rhino were making giant figure eights in the paddock.
‘Dad is Red’s master and Red loves him,’ Pip informed us. ‘Not like the lemon. The lemon always back-chatted, even if Dad said nice things to him. The lemon was lazy.’
‘He sure was,’ said Mum, as Dad and Red flew down the left side of the field, curved wide around the black rock, and charged back up the hill in seconds. Every time they got to the top, Dad gave us a salute.
‘We are the kings and queens of the land. They’re mowing the lawn for us,’ Pip yelled.
When Dad next came up the hill, he pulled Red to a stop and climbed off, wiping the grass from his pants. He stomped up onto the deck.
‘Drink, mate,’ he said and Pip lumbered off
My parents perched side by side on the edge of the deck, their legs swinging with mine.
‘You should give him a go,’ Mum said.
‘It’s too powerful for him,’ Dad argued.
‘Then walk beside him. It’s got a safety cut-out, hasn’t it?’ Mum asked.
‘He won’t be able to mow in straight lines,’ Dad said and Mum sighed.
‘I will, I will,’ Pip cried, sluicing the wooden floor with Coke as he rushed over. ‘Please give me a go on Red Rhino, Dad,’ he pleaded.
Dad looked at us. ‘Who?’
‘The mower looks like a rhino,’ Mum explained. Dad looked at me.
‘And it’s red,’ I added.
Dad shrugged and took out his hanky to mop up the drips of Coke. Finally he said, ‘Right, Pip, you can have a ride, but you have to really listen and concentrate.’