Ironbark

  The assistant tries to sign me up for an expensive plan, but I’m firm. I explain it’s not for me, pick up a pre-paid SIM, ask him to install it, activate it and charge it up. I store the new number in my own phone. There’s one thing I discover about Tassie shops, though. The service is really good. I’m talking to the phone dude about where the post office is and if there are any decent movies on and he tells me that by the time I watch a movie and the phone is charged, the post office will probably be closed. So if I want to get an envelope stamped and addressed – a pre-paid overnight delivery satchel – he’ll drop it in the postbox for me.

  It’s enough to restore my faith in human nature. Nearly. Granddad is still on the bench and looking reasonably content. I check to see if he’s happy to stay there while I rush to the post office. I also want to check out the movie times and see if there’s a shop that sells decent kitchenware. I can’t imagine Granddad would be thrilled to drag along behind me and, anyway, time might be at a premium. Turns out he’s nearly asleep and happy to stay that way. So I leg it to the post office, get an express delivery envelope and address it to Kris care of the school. I wouldn’t want her dad to intercept it. Then I whip to the cinema, but there’s only a couple of movies on around this time. One is this seriously sad-looking number involving period costumes and moody protagonists, the other a sci-fi flick I’ve already seen. I decide I’ll give Granddad the option. Just to prove that miracles still happen, I also find a place that sells pots and pans and other kitchen equipment. It’s not cheap, but the quality is good. I’d like to spend more time browsing, but I need to get a move on so I buy a decent heavy saucepan, a mid-size wok and a mortar and pestle. Then I lug the bags back to the phone shop and hand over the envelope.

  After all that I’m tempted to join Granddad on the bench for a few zees, but onward and upwards is my motto. I plop myself down beside him and he opens his sticky eyes.

  ‘Hey, Granddad,’ I say. ‘How about we catch a movie? My treat.’

  On the surface, he doesn’t look thrilled at the prospect, but I detect a small gleam in the corner of his eyes. Course, it could be a cataract.

  ‘What’s on?’ he says and I know I’ve got him hooked.

  ‘Squires and wenches in the seventeenth century,’ I say, ‘or aliens and wenches in the twenty-second.’

  ‘Let’s go see,’ he says.

  I’d put good money on Granddad going for the period costume drivel, particularly when I find it’s won a minor award at some random European festival. But he goes for the Hollywood sci-fi. Like I say, I’ve seen it before and it was lame then. Good on blasting aliens to hell and back, but seriously sad on storyline. I don’t mind, though. I can watch it again.

  Granddad insists on buying the tickets and I don’t want to insult him, so I get the popcorn and the drinks. Costs more than the tickets. But I also manage to sweet-talk the chick behind the counter into putting my phone on charge. In the rush of getting Kris’s organised, I’d forgotten mine. I note I still don’t have any text messages.

  We’ve got about fifteen minutes before the film starts, so Granddad watches while I play this arcade game in the foyer. It’s one where you have to shoot bad guys who pop up from behind crates. Sometimes good guys leap out and you’re not supposed to shoot, but I blast them as a matter of principle. My final score is chronic on account of doing the wrong thing by the goodies, but the gore level is impressive. I ask if Granddad wants a go, but he just shakes his head, like the modern world is something he doesn’t understand. That’s okay. I don’t understand it either.

  The film drags for me. When you know an alien is about to leap out of futuristic woodwork, the shock effect is kinda diminished. When the whole film rests on these scenes, there’s not much else to keep your interest. Granddad’s rapt, though. I sneak a glance at him occasionally. He’s all bug-eyed, stuffing popcorn into his mouth, hypnotised by flying alien bits. He’s a surprise, I’ll give him that. The story is not so much lame as out-and-out paralysed. But it doesn’t seem to make any difference to his enjoyment. To be honest, I get a buzz out of his involvement. I consider watching him instead of the film, but I worry he’ll think I’m weird.

  Finally, the last alien gets atomised and the credits roll. I’m out of my chair as though it’s got five thousand volts coursing through it, but Granddad grabs my arm and sits me down.

  ‘Watch the credits,’ he says.

  ‘What for?’

  ‘These people made the film,’ he replies. ‘The least you can do is show them some respect.’

  So I sit and watch. Do you have any idea how many people are listed in the average set of credits? The list goes on forever. There are gaffers, whoever the hell they are, and assistant gaffers and assistants to the assistants. Then there are dolly operators and stunt doubles and grips and assistants to the producer and catering firms and transport managers and make-up artists and God knows what else. It’d be quicker listing the people who weren’t involved.

  We sit through the whole lot. Everyone else has left, but the two of us are staring at the crew of toilet paper suppliers. It’s nearly as boring as the film. Only when the screen goes dark does Granddad lift his creaky bones from the seat and we can leave.

  ‘That was good,’ he says as we stand blinking in the lights of the foyer.

  ‘Granddad,’ I say. ‘It was cinematic offal, dude. Come on. You’re the older generation. With standards. You know that was garbage.’

  ‘Oh, yeah,’ he says. ‘It was garbage. But it was good garbage and I was in the mood for it.’

  ‘You know?’ I say. ‘I think you’re as weird as me.’

  He looks suitably insulted.

  I collect my phone from behind the counter and check again for missed calls or messages. Nothing. Sometimes it’s a real burden being so goddamned popular. It’s gone fourforty and it’s about time to make a move towards home. I just need to pick up a few ingredients for dinner tonight to go with the new cooking pots and such. So I’m scoping the area for a supermarket when I see it.

  A games arcade.

  Actually, it’s not so much the games arcade in itself. What really grabs my attention is the machine just inside the door. Dance Dance Revolution. Now, I need to explain myself. A few years back in Melbourne, when everyone was hooked on this game, you’d have to queue for hours to play it. Naturally, at the height of its popularity, I avoided it like the plague. But then everyone lost interest, got addicted to Drum Mania and then deserted the arcades for World of Warcraft at home. So, of course, I got into Dance Dance Revolution in a big way. I’d always have the machine to myself. Now, it’s rare to find the game at all. I get all nostalgic just seeing it. Without wishing to sound like I’m really up myself, I am seriously crash-hot at Dance Dance. Maybe I shouldn’t be surprised that Tassie would still have the game. It’s that kind of place. Anyway, I’m grateful. I can’t pass up the opportunity. I just can’t.

  There’s only five other people in the arcade – a couple of guys about my age and some girls. They’re all on a carracing machine, the girls giggling and spinning their cars around like crazy and the guys deadly serious about beating each other. Granddad stands patiently, while I hover in the doorway. I put on my most reasonable voice.

  ‘Granddad, do ya mind if I have a quick go on this machine? Well, a coupla goes, but it won’t take long, I swear.’

  He glances at his watch and frowns slightly, but then waves his hand.

  ‘Go ahead.’

  ‘You’re a prince, Gramps. Won’t be long, seriously.’

  I shove in the money and scroll through the music lists while Granddad stands next to me and examines the pads on the floor.

  ‘What is this game?’ he says.

  ‘Dance Dance Revolution, Granddad. You see this screen? When the game starts, arrows fly up in time to the beat. I have to stamp on these pads on the floor at the same time the arrows pass through the outlines at the top of the screen. The better I do it, the bigger the score I get. Simpl
e.’

  ‘So, you’re just dancing, then?’

  ‘Yeah, basically. But it gets kinda frantic after a while. You watch. I’ll start on Light mode, just to get warmed up.’ I choose a simple song and get into the rhythm pretty much straightaway. It’s sad how rusty I am, though. I mean, a year or so ago I’d be scoring perfect on every move, but I miss plenty this time. At least it loosens me up. When the game is over, I turn to Granddad.

  ‘See? Just a question of keeping time. I screwed up big time in a coupla places, but you get the idea.’

  Granddad scratches his chin.

  ‘It’s pretty slow.’

  ‘Yeah, but that’s because I was on Light mode and the song was slow. Watch. I’ll crank it up this time.’

  I do too. I go for one I’ve nailed plenty of times before. It’s actually not that difficult, but it’s got plenty of flashy moves and sections where it borders on crazy. I reckon Granddad will be impressed. I’m so busy concentrating, I don’t notice we’ve got an audience. I’m sweaty now, but the score is pretty sharp. I wipe my forehead and note that the five who were playing the racing game have finished. They’re watching me, standing off to my left and slightly behind. No big deal. You draw audiences when you play Dance Dance. It comes with the territory.

  ‘So what ya reckon, Granddad? Awesome, or what?’

  ‘You’re good.’

  ‘Not me. I’ve got two left feet at the moment. I mean the game.’

  ‘Beats the shooting thing you were playing earlier.’

  ‘That’s for sure. Are you all right if I have another go?’

  ‘Go for your life.’

  So I try a real tricky one. I screw up badly in one part. I always do. With Dance Dance it’s mainly practice and not thinking. Just letting your feet do their own thing to the music. After a while, you don’t have to follow the arrows on the screen at all. You just know where you’re supposed to be putting your feet. When I’m done I’ve got a respectable score and I’m feeling good. All loose and hyped on adrenaline.

  I step off and the audience is still there. I turn to them.

  ‘Are you waiting for a game?’

  One guy, he’s wearing a leather jacket and clearly thinks he’s some kind of hot deal, gives this snotty smile.

  ‘Nah, you’re right, mate. We’re just watchin’.’

  One of the girls giggles like he’s made the funniest joke ever and I give her a stare. I can’t stand those dudes who just watch, waiting for you to crash. They probably can’t do it themselves, but it doesn’t stop them taking the urine out of those who can. I reckon they might be in that category. The guy in the jacket is good-looking in a rough, unshaven way, but you can bet your life he knows it. The others are followers, I can tell. I shrug and turn back to the machine. I might have one more go.

  ‘Can I try?’

  I nearly fall over.

  ‘Granddad, dude,’ I say. ‘You serious?’

  ‘Sure,’ he says. ‘I used to dance, way back when. I can’t have forgotten everything. And it looks like fun.’

  ‘Fun, it sure is,’ I say. ‘Come on. I’ll sort you out a slow song on Light mode.’ I scroll through the music, but there’s nothing here he would recognise. I find this slow Irish sounding track and that’ll have to do. It’s got plenty of tap-tap stuff, but nothing too tricky. I run through the instructions again and step back as he starts.

  I tell ya. He might be a grumpy old geezer most of the time, but he’s got cojones of pure brass. He stuffs up a few times – jeez, who wouldn’t on their first go? – but he’s got natural rhythm. He gets a few perfects as well. It sounds really dumb, but I’m proud as hell watching him. I’ve never seen an adult give it a go, let alone someone of his age. I try to imagine Dad getting up on it, but it doesn’t work. He wouldn’t put down his laptop to have a bowel movement, and the image of his Armani suit flapping around while he dances is just too much.

  Granddad is busting some serious moves, all traces of his dodgy joints a dim memory, when I notice our audience has a fit of the giggles. I turn to face them.

  ‘Got a problem here, or what?’ I say.

  The dude in the jacket makes like he’s trying hard to keep a straight face.

  ‘Nah, mate,’ he says. ‘Just enjoying the show.’

  The girl gives another high-pitched giggle and I feel a twitch at the corner of my eye. There might even be the whooshing noise, but I can’t be sure. It could be coming from another arcade game. I should leave right here and now. I know I should. But I don’t. Instead, I give an additional hard stare and they seem to settle down.

  Granddad finishes and mops at his face with a handkerchief. I didn’t know people still carried handkerchiefs. This one’s got polka dots all over it. The real old-fashioned sort. Granddad is smiling, though.

  ‘How did I do?’ he says.

  I check his score. For an absolute beginner, it’s spectacular. In fact, if memory serves me, he’s done way better than I did on my first attempt.

  ‘Awesome,’ I say. ‘You kicked serious butt, Granddad.’

  ‘Set me on a more difficult level.’

  ‘Well . . .’

  ‘C’mon. I’m having a good time here.’

  ‘You are bad,’ I say, sorting through my change. ‘Okay. I know just the thing.’ It’s a good one, too. Even on Light mode, it’s doable, but it does have some tricky stuff. It might not look tricky, but it can catch you out. It’s energetic as well, but not crazy. I don’t want Granddad needing a hip replacement or keeling over with a heart attack halfway through. Any way through, come to think of it.

  He’s all geed up this time, his feet twitching and his eyes glued to the screen. I recognise the signs. I’ve seen it plenty of times with beginners. This guy will get seriously hooked, I think, as the music kicks in. I step back and watch him go. I’m grinning like a lunatic. I can’t help it. I’m even going through the steps with him. What an idiot. And I tell ya, I’m impressed, big time. He’s giving it his all. When he screws up, he gets right back into it – just a couple of beats and he’s back with the program. He’s three-quarters of the way through when I notice them. The audience.

  The guy in the leather jacket is hopping around, impersonating Granddad. He’s doing all this stiff-legged action and holding his back, like he’s got rheumatism. The others are cracking up. He’s the funniest guy in the universe. A twitch in the corner of my eye jumps and suddenly I have a sense of something prowling inside me. It’s pacing back and forth. I should be checking the locks, forcing it back into the corner. Instead, I’m opening a door.

  I stand in front of the group. I’m aware of rolling up my sleeves.

  ‘What’s so funny?’ I say.

  Leather jacket stops jumping around and holds his hands up in front of him. He doesn’t stop grinning, though.

  ‘Whoa, mate,’ he says. ‘He’s awesome. I mean, what is he? A hundred and ten?’

  One of the girls – I’m not sure if it’s the one who was laughing before – spits out this insane giggle and I turn to her.

  ‘I suggest you shut the hell up,’ I say. ‘I’m talking to the organ-grinder here, not his monkey.’

  That shuts them up. Leather jacket stops grinning and takes a step closer.

  ‘Hey, f—head. Did you call her a monkey, or what, mate?’

  I smile. His words echo, but that’s cool.

  ‘You need to watch your language, mate,’ I say. ‘Ladies present. And at least one monkey, as far as I can tell.’

  The guy’s face drains of blood and he rocks backwards.

  I’m screaming. My throat is sore and I’m screaming. The stupid, wrinkled face is right up there in front of mine. I want to punch it. I need to punch it. I need to put my fist right into that purple, pitted nose, feel the bones crunching. Those goddamn watery eyes bore into mine, pools of moisture in a bed of wrinkles. I’m still screaming. I spray foam into his face. My hand is cocked back behind my right shoulder. The fist is so tight I can feel nails digging i
nto flesh. His breath, sour with the faint memory of popcorn, puffs into my face. I don’t know who he is. I don’t care.

  ‘Go on,’ he says, and though his voice is real quiet, it pierces through my screaming. I can see his yellow teeth. ‘Go on. Hit me. That’s what you want, isn’t it? Hell, you’ve just put those two down. Shouldn’t be a problem with a guy my age, should it? Come on. What you waiting for?’

  Suddenly, I’m panting like crazy. I’m aware of other sounds, girls sobbing, mostly, groaning from behind me, music coming from one of the machines. My left hand is bunched up and twisted in Granddad’s shirt. I’ve pulled him to me. His face is pressed up close. The screaming chokes and dies. I force my fist to uncurl and he drops a centimetre or two. But he doesn’t back off. In fact, he puts both hands up and pushes me in the chest. I stumble back a few paces.

  ‘Go on,’ he says again.

  Only then does my right hand uncurl. I stare down at my palm, dumbly. Four small crescents, bright purple against my skin, scored like fresh brands. There are all these noises in my head, like a radio that isn’t tuned properly, caught between stations. I shake my head, but it doesn’t do any good. Suddenly I feel weak. I want to lie down. I just want to lie down and go to sleep and never wake up again. I look around. A part of me knows exactly what I’m going to see.

  The guy in the leather jacket is sprawled against the wall, tangled up in a mess of machinery. His face is covered in blood, his nose mashed. One eye looks up at me. The other is closed and puffing up. The one eye is filled with fear. His legs twitch frantically as he tries to push himself back into the corner. The other guy is on the floor off to my right with his head in his hands. Blood is dripping from his skull, pooling between his feet. He groans. My hands ache. My knuckles are scraped. One or two beads of blood glisten. The girls scream when I turn to them. I put up a hand, palm forward. I don’t know why. Tell them it’s cool. I guess. Even though it isn’t. It’s anything but cool. But it doesn’t work. One of the girls just screams louder and buries her head in the other girl’s shoulder. There is broken glass on the floor. It’s like someone pulls a plug somewhere inside me. The strength floods out, and my knees buckle.