All That I Remember About Dean Cola

by Tania Chandler

  He said he’d ring today, but I’m scared he won’t. At the end of last night, when we went back to Jay Jays & met up with Petra & Christos, something changed — Dean seemed distant, aloof. He wouldn’t tell me what was wrong, said he’d tell me next time. Next time. What if there is no next time? Why am I worried about the ending when it’s only the beginning? About then when it’s still now?

  He was pretty drunk, so I shouldn’t believe the things he told me. But I’d had 3 West Coast Coolers, & I know exactly how I felt, & still feel. I know think he likes me, but there’s some problem.

  I SLID my diary and pen into my desk drawer. Hot midmorning sunlight lay across Petra, still asleep in my double bed beneath a poster of Bon Jovi. Make-up smudged, ginger hair glued to her face. She’d kicked off the sheet, and I could see her ribs poking through her singlet. Wish I could eat as much as she does and stay that skinny. At school, her nickname was ‘Matchstick’, or ‘Tampon’ if we were fighting. Little black bugs — there was a plague of them, but nobody knew what they were called — stuck to the sweat on her skin like poppy seeds on a roll. The bugs were attracted to the light, and when you turned it off at night they all died and dropped from the ceiling.

  The sun caught in the crumples of the red dress I’d worn last night. I stepped over it on my way out to the kitchen for coffee. Mum had turned on all the pedestal fans; there was at least one in each room. Their drone was the sound of summer in our house.

  A million black bugs floated in Barky’s water bowl. I refilled it while the kettle boiled. The pump moaned. Through the dusty flywire screen, Mum looked faded. She was hanging clothes on the line. Sun-bleached hair pulled back in a ponytail, cigarette hanging from the side of her mouth, ‘Sleeping Beauty’ nightie washed so many times it was see-through. Our peacocks, Elton and Liberace, flew from the paddock into the yard and crash-landed on the chook shed. ‘Aah–aah! Aah–aah! Harelip! Harelip!’

  Barky — a black-and-white flash with pink tongue flapping — barked at them.

  I slipped back through the frosted-glass doors etched with palm trees. Five big steps across the foyer, don’t stand on the tile cracks. I glanced at the phone. Please ring today, Dean Cola.

  Touch my bedroom door handle ten times — with elbow was OK, to avoid spilling the two mugs of milky instant coffee. Every time, or I would get cancer and die like Uncle Colin.

  Petra sat on the edge of my bed picking off bugs. ‘Dunno how you can stand those fucken peacocks.’ She yawned and rubbed her eyes. ‘Why’re you up this early?’

  ‘Oh my God, Pet, I am so in love.’ I brushed aside a mess of papers and books to make room for the mugs on my bedside table, and did a pirouette. ‘The way he kissed me, the way he held me. His hair, his eyes. I love his eyes, dark, rich brown. He has an old-fashioned movie star’s face, don’t you think?’

  She twisted her mouth, unimpressed.

  ‘What?’ My heart flopped. ‘He’s got a girlfriend, hasn’t he?’

  ‘How should I know?’ Her voice was late-night-and-cigarette croaky. She cleared her throat and sang, ‘Met him in a club they call old Jay Jays, where I sucked his dick and it tastes just like Dean Cola. C–O–L—’

  ‘Get fucked.’ I pushed her, giggling, back onto the pillows. ‘Who sang that song?’

  ‘Dunno.’

  ‘Lou Reed? No, it was the Kinks.’

  ‘How do you always know this stuff about old shit?’

  ‘I read. You heard of that?’

  She farted, sat up, and sipped her coffee. ‘Christos reckons he’s a dickhead.’

  ‘Dean? No, they’re mates.’

  ‘No, they’re not.’

  ‘Yes, they are.’

  ‘They were until last night, he said.’

  ‘That doesn’t make any sense.’

  Petra shrugged. Her cheeks were red.

  ‘Oh my God, you like Christos!’

  The colour spread down her neck.

  MONDAY 2 JANUARY 1989

  Nothing of note has happened today in this dry, dusty, flyblown piece of shit.

  Mum went back to work (Target). Petra went home. Dean didn’t ring. Bet he’s got a girlfriend.

  I haven’t been able to concentrate on anything because I can’t stop thinking about him — I forgot to light the stupid chip heater & now we have no hot water.

  Dean has this crease across his brow (even though he’s only 21), which makes him look clever & thoughtful. Clear skin with a shadow of stubble — no acne like Brett, the weed (my ex). & his body: long legs, tall, well-built. Substantial — is that the right word (probably not, but I like it)? Not solid, though.

  TUESDAY 3 JANUARY 1989

  Dean still hasn’t called. If nothing more happens between us, at least I’ll always have the memory of New Year’s. Our one beautiful, magical night still burns bright & colourful (like fireworks) in my mind, but it feels like a dream now. I’ll try not to expect anything more because it’s obvious that he doesn’t like me. Petra says he does like me & he will ring.

  Maybe he’ll ring tomorrow.

  IN THE bathroom, I sat on the toilet lid, smoking, and feeding balls of scrunched-up newspaper and bits of wood into the little round door of the chip heater. Why couldn’t we just have an electric hot-water service like normal people? I lit the edges of the paper from my cigarette and blew gently as a fire started to smoke and flame. It went out. I wasn’t supposed to waste the firelighters, but I took two from the pack and threw them in with a lit match and the end of my cigarette. Woosh — up she went. I slammed the heater door shut.

  Five big steps across the foyer, don’t stand on the cracks, touch my door handle ten times.

  Safe in my bedroom, I slid Bon Jovi’s new record from its sleeve and, careful to touch only the edges, placed it on the turntable of my stereo — a Christmas present from Auntie Stella. I flopped on my bed, and picked at the New Year’s red nail polish while I listened to the music. Barky jumped up and licked my feet.

  In the crackly quiet between tracks two and three, I heard Mum’s Fairlane crunching along our unsealed driveway.

  At the back door — we never used the front — the heat almost knocked me over. Stirred-up yellow-clay dust from the road hung in the air. Auntie Stella, a slightly older and bigger and more groomed version of Mum, stepped out of the car’s passenger side. She was wearing a pink Chanel suit like Jackie Kennedy’s. And a lot of perfume — I could smell it from where I stood on the back step. Since Uncle Colin’s death two years ago, Stella had been spending up big with the money he’d left her. Her latest holiday had been in France. She gave me a hug, and a Chanel address book.

  Glinda, our goat, went nuts bleating and butting when she saw Mum struggling to lift a bale of hay from the boot. There was nothing left for Glinda to eat in the yard or paddock. The property looked like the set of Mad Max.

  ‘Sid,’ Stella said, lighting a Gitanes cigarette, ‘I’ve just been telling your mother that I’ve decided to sell my house and travel the world.’

  ‘Unreal.’ Stella said the same thing every time she returned from a trip.

  I walked across to the clothesline, and unpegged a crunchy towel. Sunlight shot off from something new behind the milking shed of our nearest neighbour, the dairy farm half a kay away. I squinted. A modern rainwater tank. It looked like a spaceship, or a giant silver breast with vein lines, and a nipple on top. Now all they needed was rain. I blinked hard, but the image remained stuck on my retinas as I took the towel inside.

  In the kitchen, my hand knocked something hard at the back of the plastic-bag cupboard. The bottle of whisky Mum got for Christmas. I tied the towel inside a bag and shoved it in the chest freezer. Mum and Stella were still yakking out in the yard, so I opened the whisky, poured a splash into a glass, and topped it with Coke. Coke, Coke, Coke.

  I returned Bon Jovi to the plastic record rack with m
y other two albums and switched on the radio. DJ Simon Groff was playing ‘Never Gonna Give You Up’. Dean had given me up.

  Groffy must have known about Dean and me — next he played Tiffany’s ‘Could’ve Been’.

  ‘Can’t hold what could’ve been on a hot and dusty niiight …’ I sang, sitting on my bed, laughing sadly, and sipping whisky and Coke, Coke, Coke.

  Time to get the frozen towel to cool down my bed. I stood up, and the walls seemed to move away from each other. Shouldn’t have had that whisky. I plonked back on my bed, grasping handfuls of sheet so I wouldn’t be sucked away with the walls.

  WEDNESDAY 4 JANUARY 1989

  Dean still hasn’t called. I’m staring at the phone, willing it to ring. & checking that it’s working. & then worrying that he might ring while I have the receiver off the hook. Please, God, let Dean ring. Please, please, please.

  FRIDAY 6 JANUARY 1989

  I almost had a heart attack when the phone rang before. Just Brett, the weed. Wanting me to go camping with him & his family at the end of January, like we did last summer. I said I was busy then.

  The phone!

  It was only Petra. We’re meeting out front of Jay Jays tonight at 9, & she’s sleeping over here. She’s wearing her new ra-ra skirt & lace top. Think I’ll wear my denim skirt & black shirt (‘Boor–ring’, according to Petra).

  ‘WHAT DO you wanna drink?’ Petra yelled over the music.

  ‘Can we dance first?’ I said, my eyes adjusting to the dimness.

  ‘No. Drink.’ She pointed to the pink-backlit bar.

  ‘Dance. Come on.’ I took her hand and dragged her across to the shiny floor.

  There were only two other bored-looking girls dancing to a Bananarama song.

  We dropped our little handbags between us and danced around them. In the UV black light, Petra’s white bra glowed through her lace top. She smiled and I felt somebody behind me.

  ‘Hello, ladies.’ Marcus Frick, in acid-wash jeans and matching jacket, loping from foot to foot, not quite in time with the music. ‘Can I buy youse a drink?’

  I was about to say no, thanks, but Petra said, ‘Fuck yeah. Bourbon and Coke.’

  I shrugged. ‘A West Coast Cooler, please.’

  We followed Fricky to the bar, and then perched on stools at the tall, round table he was sharing with Gareth Maher. Mahersy handed around cigarettes, and told us he was sick of working at his dad’s stockfeed store and was thinking of becoming a cop.

  ‘Why not a fireman?’ Petra said, exhaling smoke.

  ‘Nah.’ Mahersy flicked his long dark hair off his face. ‘But Christos reckons I’d get in if I wanted to.’

  I caught the flutter in Petra’s eyelashes, and asked for her: ‘Where is he tonight?’

  ‘Christos? At work.’ Mahersy swigged from his stubby of beer. ‘I’d be fit enough for the CFA, but.’

  ‘You’re fucken dreamin’, mate,’ said Fricky, who was a farmhand.

  ‘Nah. Used to be a champion swimmer, you know.’ Mahersy rolled up his shirt sleeves. He had very broad shoulders. ‘Almost made it to the Olympics. Just missed out in the final qualifying round.’

  I was watching the door, wishing so hard for Dean to walk through it that, at first, I didn’t notice Fricky’s hand on my waist. I brushed it away, stubbed out my cigarette in the ashtray, and said I had to go to the ladies’.

  On the way to the toilets, Brett, the weed, sprouted up from somewhere, blocking my path. He gripped my shoulders and tried to kiss me. I pushed him away.

  ‘Why doncha love me anymore?’ he said, swaying with a something-and-Coke in his hand.

  ‘I’m going out with somebody else now.’

  He narrowed his eyes at Fricky and Mahersy, who were both twice his size. ‘Slut!’ he spat as I walked away.

  When I returned to our table, Petra was onto her second drink. Fricky’s hand was on her waist now.

  After Petra’s third drink — I was still on my first — she was kissing Fricky on the dance floor.

  Mahersy watched me sip my West Coast Cooler. He had cold-blue eyes, like a husky-dog. I couldn’t think of anything to say to him.

  He burped and said, ‘Wanna dance?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘What music do ya like?’

  ‘Bon Jovi. And Poison’s OK.’

  He nodded.

  ‘And Leonard Cohen.’

  He furrowed his brow. ‘Really? My oldies like him.’

  ‘What do you like?’

  ‘AC/DC. Guns N’ Roses are all right.’

  ‘How about books?’

  He shrugged and finished his beer, banged the stubby on the sticky tabletop and wiped his mouth. Looking at my drink, he said, ‘Want another one?’

  ‘Haven’t finished this one yet.’

  He bought me another one anyway.

  Petra trotted over, breathing heavily in between giggles, red lips smudged and swollen as if she’d been sucking a raspberry icy pole. She swayed as she whispered sloppily into my ear that she’d be back in a little while.

  ‘Where are you going?’ I hissed.

  ‘Dunno.’

  ‘Thought you liked Christos?’

  ‘He’s not here.’

  ‘We have to be home by one thirty. Make sure you’re back before one.’

  ‘Yes, Mum.’ She staggered away, tangled up with Fricky.

  I finished my first drink, took a couple of sips from my second, and pretended I had to go to the ladies’ again.

  In the toilet cubicle, I placed my hands against the walls as the space seemed to expand. Shouldn’t have let Mahersy buy me that second West Coast Cooler. The person to my right was whispering. Not person, but persons — it sounded like two people. I couldn’t quite make out what they were saying, but I caught ‘Sidney’. I bent forward until I could see under the partition. No feet. The people must have been sitting on the toilet with their legs raised. Sneaky.

  I wiped, flushed, and went out to wash my hands, quickly to avoid a confrontation with the people who’d been whispering about me. All the cubicles were vacant. I frowned at the mirror.

  A girl came in and asked if I was OK. I nodded. Another looked at me, then turned to her friend and made a drinking gesture with her hand. I held on to the basin, and watched more girls come and go in the mirror.

  ‘Where the fuck’ve you been?’ Petra — dishevelled, smudged, and red-eyed — was sitting on a pink sofa in the corner, under a poster of Samantha Fox.

  ‘What do you mean?’ I’d only been in the bathroom for a few minutes.

  ‘It’s twenty past one!’

  That couldn’t be right. ‘Where’s Fricky?’

  ‘How the fuck should I know?’

  I looked across the crowded room. Mahersy and my West Coast Cooler were gone too — a group of people I didn’t know were laughing around that table.

  ‘How much did you drink!’ Petra said.

  TUESDAY 10 JANUARY 1989

  Dean still hasn’t called. Maybe he lost my number. Perhaps I should look him up in the phone book & ring him. But if he didn’t lose my number, & just didn’t ring, the last thing he would want is for me to ring him.

  The Assistant Commissioner of the Federal Police (Colin Winchester) was shot dead at his home by a sniper. I’m trying to keep up with news & current affairs, so when/if I see Dean again I’ll have something intelligent to talk to him about.

  What if something’s happened to Dean? What if he’s hurt or sick, & here I am selfishly pissed off about him not ringing me? What if he’s dead? Oh please, God, don’t let him be dead. I should ring him just to make sure he’s OK.

  I’m sure he’s not dead, & I shouldn’t ring him, but I looked up his number & wrote it in my new address book. I’ll wait one more day — if he doesn’t ring tomorrow, I’ll ring him.

&
nbsp; Auntie Stella suggested she & Mum (& Nan & Pop too) go stay at a motel up on the Murray River border so they can play the poker machines all weekend. I’ve been making up plans in my head. If Mum lets me stay home by myself, I could invite Dean over (if he’s not dead) for a video night. I’ll rent a horror movie, or maybe a romantic comedy. I’ll make popcorn & he can bring some bourbon or vodka to mix with soft drink. Or Southern Comfort — I think he was drinking Southern on New Year’s.

  If it’s hot (as if it’s ever not going to be!), I could take him down to my special place by the river.

  THURSDAY 12 JANUARY 1989

  No video night. No river night.

  I didn’t ring him. He’s not dead, but I wish he was were. He rang me. Tonight. Not because he wanted to, but because Petra rang him & told him to. It was dumb, & I never should have asked her to do it. I was just too shy to ring for myself. I know it was childish, as Dean assured me. He thinks I’m too young for him. That was the problem all along. He said he was really drunk on New Year’s & didn’t know what he was doing. Fucking liar. Rumours have been going around, his mates calling him a ‘cradle-snatcher’. I don’t think 5 (OK, 6) years’ difference in age is a big deal, but obviously what people think is more important to him than I am. He’s not worth worrying about. I must forget him now. He loves himself too much anyway. Fuck him! I am so stupid for thinking he was different to all the other dumb, small-town boys.

  Petra says he’ll regret it & he’ll never find anybody better than me. I don’t care. I never want to see him again.

  Bastard! I hate him. Hate him. Hate him.

  It hurts. So much.

  FRIDAY 13 JANUARY 1989

  Black Friday

  So fucking hot I could die. One of our chooks (Dixie) did die from the heat. The house is an oven. The futile fans drone on, doing nothing but moving the heat around, while the black bugs take over.