Mac Slater Coolhunter 2

by Tristan Bancks

  'You're standin' on it,' he said, shaking his head. You know your sense of direction is pretty bad when GPS can't help.

  I looked back at the phone, turned around, looked up the street, and saw a girl crouched next to a brown brick building opposite a park called Tompkins Square. She had a backpack on and a set of paints laid next to her on the ground. Paul and I cruised up the path.

  'You sure that's her?' Paul whispered.

  She was painting on the wall–a Native American dude wearing a headdress, riding a bull.

  'Melody?' I said.

  She whipped around, taking a sharp breath. 'God, you scared me,' she said.

  'Sorry. Did you think we were cops?' I asked, kind of hoping she'd say yes. No one had ever mistaken me for a cop before.

  'No,' she said. 'I thought you were some creepy guy.'

  Not quite what I was looking for.

  '... but you're the Aussies? Mac and –'

  'Paul,' I said.

  'Right.'

  'What do you think?' she asked us.

  'Yeah,' I said, looking at the work. It was pretty good.

  'It's the Wall Street bull,' she said, standing up.

  'There's a huge statue of a bull down in the financial district. It stands for, like, economic aggression or something. And this guy here's a Lenape Indian. I liked the idea of him taming Wall Street's butt.'

  I laughed.

  'Aren't you worried about cops?' Paul asked.

  'You kidding me?' she asked. 'Lock up the artists? This is my gift to the city of New York. Have you guys seen Banksy or Swoon's stuff?'

  'No,' I said, shrugging.

  'Street art's the lifeblood of the city.'

  A guy on the other side of the street started screaming at no one in particular. Melody wiped paint off her hands on a cloth and slipped her phone glove on.

  I wanted to ask if we could shoot her artwork but it felt a bit weird, so soon after we'd met again.

  'I didn't expect you guys to search me out this morning,' she said, making me feel like a loser. Then she said 'Wasabi gum?', offering a small packet of green pellets. I took one, ate it, chewed. Not bad. I smiled. Then I breathed out. The gum was burning a hole into the centre of my brain. My nostrils were on fire. I coughed and squeezed my nose hard.

  She grinned. 'Good, huh?'

  'Great,' I choked, crying and trying to look like everything was cool. 'We just don't know that many people so we thought we'd kind of look you up.'

  'I'm about to go get a bite,' she said. 'You wanna roll with? I know the best place. It's across town but it's worth it.'

  'Yeah, sure,' I said, spitting the gum out and pocketing it as soon as she looked away.

  She headed off and Paul raised his palms to me, annoyed. 'We should've shot her artwork.'

  'What? We meet her and two seconds later we want to bleed her for her coolness? Relax, duders,' I said.

  We headed off down 7th Street and over 1st Avenue. I loved the street names. They were so New York. Melody ate the town up. It was hard to stay with her as she ducked and weaved in and out of traffic.

  I was in desperate need of a drink so we stopped for bubble tea from a street cart on wheels along the way. Melody couldn't believe we'd never had one before. She ordered two drinks, lychee flavour, and paid for them. Paul refused.

  'Take a sip,' she said, sipping on her own. I was a little suspicious after wasabi gum but I sucked on the big paper straw. Nothing happened. I tried again. Nothing. I jiggled the straw and tried one last time and a rush of lumps sped up through the straw and down my throat. I nearly barfed them back up again and she laughed till green stuff came out of her nose.

  'It's tapioca,' she said, once she got hold of herself. 'The lumps.'

  'This is wrong,' I said and Melody laughed again.

  'Stay with it,' she said. 'I'm hooked.'

  We started walking again. My near-death-by-tapioca had broken the ice and we chatted easily after that. Melody thought it was pretty cool that my mum (or my 'mom' as she insisted) was a fire twirler. I was trying to twist conversation towards her inventions but she always managed to answer a question with a question. So I told her about the stuff Paul and I had created over the years, our failed attempts to fly.

  'That is so cool, she said.

  Paul hung back a bit, looking miserable (his favourite way to be) and not saying much. His mum called just as we stopped at Broadway. Traffic streamed by. I saw more cars in three minutes than I'd see in a year in Kings. I was reminded what a hick from Hicksville I was and how much I wanted to live in New York.

  'You guys could do with flying transport here,' I said.

  'Tell me about it. But where do you take off?' Melody asked.

  'Parachute's too messy,' I said. 'You can't have a million wings filling the sky.'

  'I have friends who're working on an environmentally friendly jet-pack,' she said as dozens of yellow cabs tore past.

  'Really?'

  'Mmmm, but it's got issues,' she said. 'I think the future's in the personal helicopter. Have you heard about the guy who's come up with foldable rotors so that you can drive around after you land?'

  'No,' I said. 'But Paul and I once made a backpack solo helicopter with ceiling fan blades.'

  'Really? Did it work?'

  I stopped and rolled up the leg of my jeans to show her the scar.

  'Ewww,' she said, screwing up her face. 'Work-in-progress, huh?'

  I loved showing people my scars.

  'Have you heard of that flying car,' I said, rolling my jeans back down and catching up to her, 'that can drive on a regular road and you fold out the wings for take-off at an airport?'

  'I want one,' she said.

  'Me too.'

  There was this weird smile between us for a second. Something that said, 'Hey, you're cool.' Well, that's what mine said. Hers might've said, 'You have something large sticking out of your left nostril.' I wiped just in case but there was nothing. By then the moment had passed.

  'Have you guys thought about sustainable fuels?' Melody asked.

  'We're all over sustainable,' I said. 'We want to make our own bio-fuel.'

  'Do it, baby,' she said.

  We crossed the street and then cut through Washington Square Park, which I'd read a bunch about. It used to be a cemetery and they reckon that maybe twenty thousand people are buried beneath the park. I felt bad for walking on their heads.

  Pretty soon we arrived at a diner in Greenwich Village. Melody shoved the door open and went inside. Paul grabbed my arm.

  'Don't tell me we're eating here,' he said.

  'What do you mean? What's wrong with here?'

  14

  Peanut Butter Sandwiches

  We were standing outside Peanut Butter & Co., an old-skool American sandwich shop.

  'I have a nut allergy,' Paul said.

  'What?'

  'If I walk inside that place I'll probably fall over and die. On the spot.'

  'You don't have a nut allergy,' I told him.

  'Oh, right, so you're me, are you? You know, do you?'

  'I've been your best friend since we were, like, six. So I think I have a pretty good idea of when you're lying like a dog,' I said.

  'Have you ever seen me eat nuts?'

  I tried to think and I couldn't exactly remember. But what did that mean? What kid carries a pocketful of cashews to snack on? He was lying.

  'Not exactly,' I said.

  'There you go.'

  'But if you did have a nut allergy don't you think you might have mentioned it? Don't nut people have to be, like, on freak-alert for nuts in everything they eat?'

  'Do you see me eating a varied diet that might expose me to nuts?'

  Maybe that was why he ate so many sausages and egg whites, I thought. But then I remembered. 'I've seen you eat chocolate with nuts in it plenty of times,' I said accusingly.

  'They're ... not real nuts,' he said. 'They're –'

  'Shut up,' I said. 'Come inside. Smooth or
crunchy?'

  'I am allergic to nuts!'

  'You're allergic to life!' I said. 'You make this stuff up just so you don't have to talk to people or do anything. Come inside, sit down. She won't bite.'

  'I'm outta here,' he said, turning and walking off up the street.

  'What?' I said. Melody saw me through the glass door and made a face and hands that said, what's going on? I motioned to say back in a minute, however you do that. Then I chased Paul up the street.

  'What?' I said again, spinning him around by his shoulder.

  'I'm going home.'

  'Over a peanut butter sandwich?' I said. 'This girl is, like, a festival of cool and you're just gonna walk away?'

  'You're falling in love again, Mac. Like you did with Cat. Like you do with every girl who doesn't look like a dog's bum. I'm telling Jewels.'

  'Yeah, good response. I'm in love. That's it. You got me. Are you jealous because I actually opened my mouth and spoke to her?' I said, chasing him across the street and into the park.

  Rollerbladers sped by, women breastfed babies, punk dudes sat there looking sick and white, tourists snapped photos in front of the fountain.

  I walked around in front of Paul and stopped him.

  'You're always saying "Be scary", but what do you do to be scary?' I asked him. 'Nothing! You make up all these diseases for yourself. You're all: "Oooooh, help me, Mac. I'm scared of old people, small spaces, flying – and now peanuts!"'

  Paul looked at me for a second like he was going to smack me. Then he just pushed right past and continued walking through the park. I let him go. Almost.

  'You don't even know where you're going,' I yelled. But he kept walking.

  'Idiot!' I screamed, and everybody looked at me.

  'Smooth or crunchy?'

  'Crunchy,' Melody and I said together.

  We were at the counter of Peanut Butter & Co.

  'Cinnamon-raisin, dark chocolate, white chocolate, honey, maple syrup, spicy or plain?' she asked.

  'Um, spicy?' I said, not really sure.

  'Definitely maple,' Melody said.

  'And would you like Marshmallow Fluff? Strawberry, raspberry or original?'

  I looked at the row of Marshmallow Fluff jars on the counter.

  'We'll both have raspberry,' Melody said, looking at me. 'Trust me. You want raspberry.'

  We paid and she led us to a booth. I took a bite.

  'Holy ...' I said, through a mouthful of peanut butter and fluff.

  'Is that the best thing you've ever tasted?' she asked.

  'Better,' I said, taking another bite. 'This is, like ...' I couldn't even put into words how good that peanut butter sandwich was. Maybe it was the cooked bread. My mum had us on uncooked bread as part of the raw thing and that stuff should be banned.

  We sat and ate and talked for a while. We talked about Buddhism, which my mum was into and I knew a bit about. Then we talked about art (her mum was an artist) and then we got onto planet hunting.

  'Scientists have found over two hundred planets circling other stars,' she told me. 'I one hundred percent know that there is other life out there. Did you see they found water on Mars?'

  We talked about nuclear weapons for a while (my dad had taught me tons on nuclear) and then inventing again. She mentioned a place called The Hive where she creates her stuff. It was the wildest conversation. She seemed to know everything about everything. And I knew a little about some things.

  When there was a lull I pulled out my phone and filmed a bit of the store.

  'Nice phone,' she said.

  'Thanks.'

  'Where'd you get that?' she asked.

  'Um, someone gave it to me,' I said.

  'Sweet.'

  My shot came to rest on her.

  'I'm kind of a coolhunter,' I said, looking at her on the phone screen.

  'What?' she said, covering her sandwich-filled mouth with a hand.

  'A coolhunter,' I said, putting the phone down. It felt weird saying it to her. I don't know why. Maybe because I saw myself more as someone who creates stuff than someone who just reports on things that other people have created.

  'I find stuff and put it on a website, cool things other people might not see. Hey ...' I said, trying to make it sound like I'd just thought of it, '... do you think you might be able to show me some stuff you've designed some time? Like, maybe, your glove and your skates ... and maybe I could put them on the site?'

  She went a bit weird then.

  'I can't,' she said.

  'Why not?'

  'I just can't really talk about the things I make.'

  'You're a great speaker, you'll be fine,' I said, hitting record.

  'That's not what I mean,' she said. 'I gotta go.'

  She stood, bobbing out of my shot.

  'Why?' I asked.

  'I have to meet some people.'

  'Look, if you don't want to show me the skates, just –'

  She squeezed out of the booth.

  'It's been really nice talking to you. Maybe send me a text before you leave, huh?' Then she said, 'Catch you later, mate,' in a very dodgy Australian accent.

  I called out, 'That was pretty good.' Then she headed out the door and onto the street. I watched her go, wondering what I'd said wrong. Why wouldn't she want her stuff on Coolhunters? When she was out of sight I grabbed my wallet and phone. I figured I'd give Paul a call, see where he was at. But, as I went to stand up, I saw Melody's phone glove sitting on the seat.

  15

  The A Train To Inweird

  I rammed the restaurant door open and bolted off in the direction I'd seen her go. I scanned streets packed with tourists, buskers, and brunchers. A squirrel scurried up a tree to get out of my way. A couple of BMX kids nearly cleaned me up at an intersection. Then I caught a glimpse of Melody about fifty metres away heading into Washington Square Park, right near where Paul had disappeared.

  'Melody!' I screamed and everyone in the street except her looked around. By the time I got to the park I couldn't see her anymore. I looked at my phone, hoping to Dawg Find her, but the Melody icon was winking at me on the very spot I was standing. The GPS was in her phone glove.

  I turned back to the street and thought I caught sight of her heading up West 4th, so I jumped the fence and ran. Surely if I returned her glove she'd let me interview her. This girl would knock Speed sideways, I reckoned. I chased her all the way into the subway station.

  I grabbed a ticket and took the stairs, two at a time, trying to keep her in my sights. As I made it down to the platform the train doors were closing so I long-jumped, squeezing through, but got my back foot jammed. As the train left the platform I tried to reef the doors apart but they wouldn't budge. Then a guy with masses of black facial hair and a trench coat saw me struggling and shoved the doors open. I pulled my leg inside just as we disappeared into a long, dark tunnel.

  'Thanks, man,' I said, breathing hard, rubbing my ankle.

  'No problem. Happens to me all the time.'

  I looked around the packed carriage but couldn't see Melody anywhere. Was she even on this train? I started walking, searching the sea of faces. There were people from everywhere. It was like the whole world had jumped on the train with me – African faces, Asian, European, Middle-Eastern, South American. It was cool. But then there was the guy eating a kebab, meat and sauce spilling down his chin and onto the floor, a woman doing a puppet show that no one would look at, rank body odour from random pits.

  As we pulled into the next station and dozens of people poured out and in, I hung my head through the door and scanned madly for Melody. I even called her name a few times but people looked at me as though they wanted to beat me so I kind of stopped doing that.

  By the time I'd been through three carriages I was thinking two things: (1) I was pretty sure she wasn't on the train, and (2) what the hell was I doing on it if she wasn't? Then, about nine stops uptown, around 116th Street, I saw her. She was in the second-last carriage, reading a book
, wedged between a Rastafarian dude with dreads in a colourful woollen hat and a woman who looked suspiciously like a man.

  I wanted to go up and give Melody the glove, but I was kind of curious about where she was going. I mean, why had she taken off so quickly when I asked her to talk about her inventions? I sat down at the other end of the carriage and watched her. Did this make me a stalker? I liked to think not. I wasn't a weirdo. Not really.

  As I sat there, the train stammering along the tracks at lightning speed, I tried not to think about the fifty or so metres of concrete and dirt above me, and then skyscrapers on top of that. I wasn't really sure why the tunnel didn't just collapse on us. To distract myself, I looked at the glove, the flexible screen and keypad sewn into the top of it. It was made out of stretchy black Lycra. I felt around to see where the battery was hidden but there didn't seem to be one. I was tempted to have a play with it but I held back. If I started hacking into the thing and got caught I could kiss my Melody interview goodbye.

  At 175th Street station it seemed like we'd been on the A Train forever. Where were we going? Canada? I started to worry. I'd figured we might only go a couple of stops, but now we'd been through sixteen. I pulled out my NY book. I had nothing on Manhattan this far north. Harlem was as far up as my book went. I didn't even know there was anything up here.

  I looked over towards Melody and she wasn't there. I panicked and stood up, but she'd just changed seats. I sat down again, wondering if I was nuts for doing this. Only the day before, we'd been chased by the skaters and here I was, speeding up towards the Arctic Circle, following some peanut-butter-eating, graffiti-artist, inventor chick that I didn't even know.

  Then there was a recorded announcement over scratchy speakers. 'Last stop, Inwood–207th Street. Please gather your belongings and exit the train. Last stop, Inwood.'

  Last stop? I thought. The handful of people still left in our carriage stood, ready to leave the train. Why had she come all the way up here? Maybe she'd meant to leave the glove in the restaurant so she could lure me up here, take me to an alley and chop me up? Then again, there was always the chance that she lived here, I guess.