Screw Loose

by Chris Wheat

  Now that really was crazy.

  ‘Not crude stuff, Khiem. I am an ex-Mary Magdalene girl, after all.’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘Just me helping people and enjoying myself and meeting famous and interesting people and doing stuff with guys. You know, while I organise the formal. Then I want you to post it on YouTube. I’m going to call it: Mysterious Girl.’

  ‘Will I get paid by the hour?’ Khiem asked.

  ‘Yes, by the hour. It’s a business plan. McDonald’s rates, and you can keep the tips.’

  ‘What tips?’

  ‘If you do things really well, I may be prepared to tip. This formal will be, like, the most talked-about social event ever.’

  She winked at him and raised her Singapore Sling. ‘To a successful business relationship, clean pool, my future fame – and who knows what else?’

  They clinked glasses.

  STR8 GUYS

  DON’T

  TIPTOE

  JOSHUA YEATMAN HAD a picture in his mind of the boyfriend he wanted: about his own age and height, good swimmer, funny, able to sing karaoke in tune, able to cartwheel, out of braces. He knew getting that combination would be a challenge, but he liked challenges.

  On Gaywayz, he had pretended to be a nineteen-year-old college student from Orange County called Brad who was doing pre-Med; then he was Jeff, an eighteen-year-old farm boy from Mildura. But he’d tired of lies and decided to be himself – and he’d quickly met Fly. Fly had posted a photo: cheeky smile, long hair, eyes looking directly at you – not drop-dead gorgeous, but okay. No braces. Looked like fun. If it was him.

  They’d been communicating easily: school, sport, phone plans, music, fave foods; the usual nervous rubbish. You built up a picture, and Joshua was starting to like the picture – although who was he really talking to? Frankly, he had no idea.

  Quite a chunk of physics and maths had been lost thinking about Fly. Earlier on in their exchanges there had been a few cryptic remarks like no music obsessives, which made Joshua wonder if Fly wasn’t a bit strange. Fly was also an Aries, and their symbol was the goat – not exactly the hottest member of the animal kingdom. Under hobbies, he’d written: Going sick at Flinders Street Station, guinea pigs, causing havoc. Flinders Street Station hardly seemed the best place to go sick, and guinea pigs were really rather quiet animals, but Joshua now had a picture of Fly nursing a guinea pig and running around Flinders Street Station screaming – a picture that was strangely attractive. Was this the boyfriend for him? You could never be sure on Gaywayz. He couldn’t even remember now what crap he’d told Fly when they first came across one another.

  Fly had promised to be on Gaywayz after school. Joshua examined the rowing blisters on his hands and clicked in.

  yanmate? wots wiv the nick anyway? Joshua read. It was an anagram of his surname, but Fly didn’t know his surname.

  just a nick. wots with urs?

  its a clue, Fly responded. Josh wondered. It wasn’t a really

  attractive nick. Perhaps his first name was Louie.

  been gay long? Fly asked.

  all my life, answered Josh.

  i new when i was 6, Fly responded.

  u in braces? asked Josh.

  no but i wear something else.

  wot?

  secret.

  Fly had a secret – a secret something? This wasn’t good.

  Prosthetic nose, hairpiece, glass eye, ammunition belt? Josh felt a welling concern.

  anything prosthetic i don’t mind.

  wots prosthetic? Fly wanted to know.

  false.

  lol, answered Fly.

  He was hiding something for sure.

  if the floor is cold do u tiptoe? Fly asked.

  Strange question. i tiptoe, wrote Josh.

  ur gay, str8 guys dont tiptoe, responded Fly.

  Joshua tried to think whether he’d ever seen Angelo tiptoeing. He hadn’t. He couldn’t remember ever seeing Tom, his older brother, tiptoe either – except on stage when The Tank Engines did Rolling Stones covers and Tom tried to be Mick Jagger. And Tom certainly wasn’t gay – he was a tank engine, or so he’d been bragging ever since he got back from London the other day.

  crap, Josh typed in.

  true. do a survey.

  Certainly he always tiptoed if the floor was cold, but did straight boys? It would be hard to survey them – you couldn’t just hang around in change rooms and ask.

  eva had a bf? Fly asked.

  not really, Josh responded. Angelo wasn’t a boyfriend – just a sad crush.

  gf? Fly wanted to know.

  once. He had his usual twinge of guilt.

  wot skool u at?

  vistaview. u? wrote Josh.

  judith durham sec college. eva heard of it?

  no. where is it?

  Joshua was momentarily startled by the click of the front door opening below. It was almost certainly his mum.

  st albans. where do u live?

  fitzroy.

  He heard her footsteps in the hall. Where was St Albans?

  She was coming up the stairs.

  brb. wait 4 me. Joshua minimised.

  There was a knock at the door. ‘Joshie!’

  ‘Yes, Mum.’

  ‘Just saying hello. What are you doing?’

  ‘I’m on the computer.’

  ‘May I come in?’

  ‘Yep!’ He leant back.

  ‘School okay?’

  ‘Okay.’

  She bent over and kissed him on the top of the head.

  ‘How’s Angelo?’

  ‘Fine, I guess. I haven’t spoken to him for a while.’ She was so nosey.

  She put her arms around him and hugged him. ‘Never mind.’

  ‘Mum, I’ve told you! We’re just acquaintances. He’s going out with Zeynep. He’s straight.’

  ‘Poor Zeynep – passed from one boy to the other. I hope you’re both respecting her feelings.’

  ‘Mum!! Angelo is not gay! He’s obsessed with girls. Obsessed.

  He doesn’t tiptoe!’

  That got her.

  ‘What?’

  ‘He doesn’t tiptoe?’

  ‘What’s that got to do with the price of bananas?’

  ‘Straight boys don’t tiptoe. It’s well known.’

  You could hear her thinking. ‘Your father tiptoes! Your brother tiptoes!’

  ‘They don’t. Not properly.’

  His mother was silent again. ‘What’s properly?’

  ‘Right up. Tippy-toes.’

  ‘Really? Very strange,’ she said. ‘Japanese?’

  ‘Japanese is fine. But no sushi.’

  She hurried out. ‘No tippy-toes!’ she called as she left.

  He maximised.

  wots up? Fly had written.

  sry, mum came in.

  wanna meet? asked Fly.

  where?

  flinders st stn. this sunday.

  Sure he did, but he was nervous. ok, time? he typed.

  5 and meet my mates, see something difrent.

  Joshua stared at the screen with a sense of unease. The truth about Fly. What would be different? I’m actually a fifty-three-year-old without teeth. I’m halfway through a gender reassignment. I’m fifteen and prematurely bald. No, he was wearing something. A sombrero, stilettos?

  tell me, he typed.

  find out for urself.

  give us a clue.

  read my lips.

  that’s the clue?

  thats the clue.

  He wore lipstick.

  g2g cya mwah!!! :)

  cya sun :)

  Josh’s hands were shaking. He was meeting a guy at Flinders Street Station. Was he being lured there to be murdered?

  He decided not to send a mwah back. He didn’t believe in kissing on first dates.

  FRUITLOOPS

  ATTRACT

  THE BALL FLEW out of the sky like a bomb and smashed into Angelo Tarano’s nose. The impact flung him backwards into the mud;
his mouthguard was still only half in, and it stabbed into his lips as he landed. The crowd howled. The ball had just come out of nowhere! The pack thundered away, and he heard one of his own team call back, ‘Wake up, Tarano!’

  He got to his feet in a head-spin, blood all over his front. The blood rule. They were running on to get him. Bummer: he wanted to punch something.

  The long walk back to the rooms and the doc. Head down. Blood dripping onto his shorts. At least it looked good. He let it drip, leaving a trail of drops in the grass. The trainer was walking beside him. The stands roared and jeered. Cute girls would feel sorry when they saw the blood. He hoped Zeynep was watching. Kiss it better, Zey, please.

  He’d been a star in this final quarter! He’d run on fast and nervous, and the crowd had boomed. He was just a pocket, but who cared. He was on some gorilla he hardly knew, but he’d still managed to run all over the guy for most of the quarter, and he’d even scored a goal. A goal! Four possessions. His name might have ended up in the footy book of legends, but then – then – he’d spat on his mouthguard to get the mud off, let down his guard, and bam.

  They were going to crucify him. The fans, Vasilevski, the news, replays, The Big Sticks. First the little finger, and now this. Why him? There were drops of blood up the race; cameras and noise. This would definitely make the front page, the six o’clock news. Show a bit more pain. Bit of a quiet groan. Into the rooms.

  He was in and out of the shower in a blur, and next thing he knew he had a stitch in his lip. It was still throbbing as he sat on the floor feeling like crap fifteen minutes later. They were going to give him hell. The game was over, they’d won, and the guys were all coming back into the rooms, yelling and laughing.

  They formed a circle. The team song.

  Roaring:

  We’re the Cockatoos and we’re all right We’d like to make the finals, and we just might.

  Angelo stood up and pushed into the circle. Put his arms around the other guys.

  The team for the crown From old Hobart town… But it hurt too much to sing.

  …We love the Cockatoo story, we’ll struggle for Cockatoo glory.

  He sat on a bench. Omar came up. ‘Ang.’ He was muddy and still puffing. ‘What’s going on?’ He sat too and put an arm around Angelo. ‘Great goal.’

  Angelo shook his head. ‘Where’d the ball come from?’

  ‘You gonna miss next week?’

  He nodded gloomily.

  ‘Crap luck, mate.’

  Omar was getting to be his best mate in the club. They’d trained together in Hobart this week, because it was an even week. Odd weeks they trained on the mainland. He’d had to piggyback Omar around the ground at a jogging pace, then Omar had had to do the same thing with him. Good bonding stuff.

  They both gazed around the room. Guys were singing and slapping each other on the back. There was mud everywhere.

  Later, Speckles, one of the trainers, came up. ‘They want to see you upstairs, Ang.’

  ‘How come?’

  Specks shrugged. ‘See how you’re travelling.’

  This was not good. It would be this mouthguard fiasco. Or Cinderella. Or Zeynep. Whichever they chose, they would not be happy.

  After packing his bag, Angelo jogged to the meeting room with trepidation. He looked round the door and saw them all waiting. ‘Angelo, enter!’ Paul Vasilevski called out. Man, this guy was a joker. The coach, Davis Beck, was there too. He was a big bloke with a really mean face as if he’d been in heaps of punch-ons in his youth, and he made Angelo tense. He beckoned him in. Ashley Waugh, the assistant coach, was sitting alongside Davis. He was the opposite – small tanned face, friendly. All three of them had their hands clasped on the table as if they were about to fire him. It was good cop, bad cop, with Paul Vasilevski as the dobber and general psycho.

  Angelo sat down and let out a long and unexpected whistle.

  They all looked up at him.

  Paul spoke first. He was shaking his head slowly. ‘What’s the matter with you, Angelo? I’m starting to wonder if we’ve made the wrong draft pick. What was all that mouthguard cleaning? A serious footballer sticks it right back in, mud and all – delicious.’

  Angelo was silent.

  ‘Nice goal, mate,’ Ashley said. ‘How’s the lip?’

  ‘It’s just a stitch,’ Angelo said. ‘It’s fine.’

  ‘Goooood!’ Coach Beck exhaled as he flipped in a preoccupied way through a folder in front of him. ‘We’ve got your personality test – Myers Briggs; the psychologist’s update; a report from your school…’ He patted them. ‘We’re impressed, Angelo.’ He nodded and looked over the top of his glasses. ‘And we’re not impressed! A few concerns. A few…’ He seemed to hold his breath. ‘…concerns.’ This was his intimidating style.

  ‘How are you liking the club? Good club? Happy club?’

  Ashley hunched his shoulders and leant forward. He looked supportive.

  ‘Very happy, thanks, Ash. Really happy.’

  ‘No need to tap your foot, Angelo. We’re your friends,’ said Coach Beck. Angelo grabbed both his knees. ‘Happy with yourself in the calendar shoot?’

  He nodded and tried to look positive. ‘I looked okay. Pretty funny playing footy without any clothes on, but.’

  Paul Vasilevski frowned. ‘It’s called publicity, Angelo. It’s called income. Remember that.’

  ‘Melanie told us you had a few problems with the makeup,’

  Coach Beck said. ‘Bit of a panic about the eyeliner, we heard.

  Screamed a bit with the hair removal?’

  Angelo cracked his fingers under the table. He had refused to put the makeup on, and he’d screamed quite a bit during the Brazilian.

  ‘It’s okay. I’m just not used to that sort of stuff.’

  ‘You’ll need to get used to it if you want to play footy.’ Coach Beck scowled, pressed his lips together and seemed to hold his breath again. His face reddened.

  ‘Don’t mind the travel up and down to Hobart?’ Ashley asked.

  ‘No worries. I like flying.’

  ‘But not charity performances? You still don’t want to be in the Cockies’ production of Cinderella, I hear?’ said Coach Beck.

  The wrinkles in his face made him look evil. His glasses were at the end of his nose.

  ‘Sorry, I can’t.’

  ‘Can’t is not a Cockatoos’ word, Angelo,’ snarled Coach Beck.

  Paul interrupted. ‘One minute, Davis, before you get into that. Angelo, have you been using Manlee?’ Paul was peering at Angelo’s face.

  He nodded. ‘Sure.’

  ‘Daily?’

  ‘Sure, Paul.’

  ‘You don’t look moisturised at the moment.’

  He’d forgotten to put it on after the shower. ‘I was worried about the lip. Normally I would. I missed a few times at school.

  The other guys comment.’ He could tolerate Manlee because it was invisible. But how could he explain his problems with makeup to these guys without losing his place in the team?

  Paul’s face was dark. ‘Moisturise twice a day. Got it? We’ve got a major sponsor to keep happy.’

  Paul had it in for him. ‘I know.’ He kept his eyes lowered.

  ‘Back to you, Davis,’ said Paul.

  Coach Beck was still frowning. ‘You told the psychologist that you have a hang-up about clowns … and drag queens.’

  He was holding his breath in again, looking ready to blow up.

  Angelo nodded.

  Beck exhaled loudly and snapped, ‘This is fruitloop stuff, mate!’

  ‘If guys are dressed up like clowns or ladies I can’t look at them. I kind of lose it for a bit.’

  ‘Lose it?’ said Ashley.

  ‘I hyperventilate,’ said Angelo.

  ‘You hyperventilate?’ Coach Beck was shaking his head.

  ‘But you don’t mind the ladies dressed up like ladies, I hope?’

  Ashley asked.

  ‘No, I like that.’

&
nbsp; ‘What about ladies dressed up like men, then?’

  ‘No, I like that too?’

  ‘Just men dressed up like ladies are the problem?’

  ‘Yes. It’s the makeup.’

  ‘You don’t like makeup on guys?’

  ‘No. Not too much.’

  ‘But you moisturise?’

  ‘I do. It’s different. It’s okay if it’s invisible.’

  Ashleigh was looking at Coach Beck. Coach Beck was looking at Paul.

  ‘That’s pretty weird stuff, old chum,’ said Paul. ‘Pretty weird stuff indeed. Most blokes like to dress up like ladies: it’s a sign of mental health. You a bit low on testosterone or something?’

  He started flicking through the reports. ‘Medicals ...’ he mumbled.

  Angelo shrugged and looked down at his hands. It was best to get it all out on the table and ’fess up about all the others so they’d know what they were getting with Angelo Tarano.

  ‘I don’t really like Santa, either!’

  Coach Beck whistled very slowly. He leant right back in his seat and put his hands behind his head.

  Paul sat up very straight and gripped the edge of the desk.

  ‘Are you saying you believe in Santa Claus?’ He spoke quietly.

  ‘No way! Of course not. But I don’t like fake beards.’

  Paul scoffed. ‘Scared of hair pieces as well, are we?’

  Angelo glanced at Paul’s hair. It looked real, but you couldn’t always tell. He laughed. ‘No way. Hair pieces are cool. But not ladies’ wigs on guys, or fake beards.’

  ‘Hmmm!’ Coach Beck looked down at one of the reports.

  ‘Well …we’re expecting you to start seeing the team psychologist more regularly.’

  ‘Daily,’ interrupted Ashley.

  ‘Hourly,’ sneered Paul.

  Coach Beck’s eyes glared. ‘You can’t be a professional footballer and refuse to dress up like a woman. That’s out of the question. We have players’ reviews every year. It’s a bonding thing. We want well adjusted young lads in the Cockatoos, not fruitloops!’

  Vasilevski interrupted. ‘Angelo, Candibelle what’s-her-name, you’re going to drop her? Or have you dropped her?’

  Angelo nodded: ‘Dropped her.’ He felt sick. That was an outright lie. He was such a coward.

  ‘Good thing,’ Paul said.

  ‘You rejected all our girls, though?’ Coach Beck was scratching his cheek.