just_a_girl (7 page)

I came home from shopping tonight and Layla had been under the house fossicking and surfaced with my old photo albums, unfortunately lots of the pages were stuck together and some had been completely ruined by rusty muck, but she laughed and said she couldn’t believe it when she found ones of me and her dad when I used to wear my hair died black and his was cut like a mushroom cloud and every Saturday I would go to The Underground in Melbourne and I would dance and they had bands like The Chantoozies who would play
These boots are made for walkin
and the photo really took me back because it was taken the day I met Geoff, I was having a clove cigarette outside the club, when a bloke dressed like Robert Smith walked up and asked me for a drag before leaning in to taste my first kiss and not being used to smoking yet I closed my eyes and the Earth really did start to rotate, and he put his arm out to stop me from falling, and we sat in the gutter and my hands went blue in the cold and he seemed so glamorous, an older man almost from another world, and we
talked about movies but can you believe it, I didn’t even have a video player.

But I wish I’d had the Lord in my sights back then to give me an inkling of what I was in for and really, I should have known better, because it’s not like Geoff and I rushed into things but love does funny things to your brain and we were friends a long time before we got married and I was always hoping he would choose me and it’s funny when Layla saw Geoff in the photo her reaction was like mine at the time, she screamed in approval,
Hello! I like a boy in eyeliner, can’t believe dad looked so gay,
and then stopped quickly before changing the subject to our outfits and getting mad at me for not holding onto my 80s things so she could wear them now, but how was I to know then that what goes around comes around, and around and around and around, and it makes me laugh now to see her friends all in plastic bangles and black and white stripes and smocks and leggings and so much of it was ugly even back then, you know, I even saw Chelsea at Church last week in what Geoff used to call
CFM white boots,
I won’t repeat what that stood for, but you wouldn’t be caught dead in them when I was growing up, and then the photo made me feel sad because even though I was a teenager in the 80s I can’t get away with those clothes any more, and so everywhere I look I’m both nostalgic for the past and reminded of my age all at once.

So now I’m sitting here holding that photo and I’m staring again into Geoff’s kohl-rimmed dark eyes, always alert, always angry, even when he’s smiling, so like Layla’s staring back at me, and I want some answers, right here right now, and I wish I could turn back the clock and step back into that photo in Melbourne, and shake him until they come pouring out.

Davo says you can never trust anything that bleeds once a month but doesn’t die. He tells this to his mates and they honk like donkeys. All the girls in the outer circle shift position slightly as if to combat a stiff breeze. Davo also says but not to his mates that touching me is like stroking a mousepad. I get soft and sweaty. I wish Davo would go down on me. Just once so I know what it’s like. But he says that women stink like fish. And he doesn’t eat tuna. He won’t put his head down there. But he likes to watch porn where they do the same thing. Sometimes I imagine that a woman is doing it to me. I don’t think she would be so gutless.

The other day he brought over a vibrator. He probably stole it from some sex shop. I hid it in my walk-in. As a joke, I tell him it’s all wrapped up with nowhere to go. But when he’s not there it throbs quietly under my doona. An obliging plastic treat that blasts me off into a new world. A Davo-free zone.

I try not to go round to Davo’s house much. Because his mum and dad are always on edge. They’re not fighting out loud. But even the silence feels like it could hurt you. They let Davo do whatever he wants. Because they’re too intent on winding each other up. Today they’re taking us to Parramatta. To see Jayden play soccer.

Davo’s little brother Jayden always tries to spy on us. Then he dobs if we close the door. Or cries if we turn off his
Cars
DVD. He’s obsessed with Lightning McQueen so he always wants to race you. Davo locks him in the bathroom sometimes. Just to give us some peace.

Davo’s dad has just fixed the aircon in the car. But it doesn’t seem to be working. He says it’s too hot to play soccer. That it’s meant to be a winter sport. Three of us squash up in the back seat. Davo’s mum pretends to be nice to me. But I know she’s a rattlesnake underneath. Just waiting to strike me down.

We park and sit in the almost-empty grandstand. The game hasn’t even started. And Davo’s mum is already screaming at this other woman. For standing up in front of her.

Take him down!
she yells. When Jayden’s team starts playing. Like he’s going to war or something. Like he could even do that in soccer. Later she reckons Jayden was kicked on purpose. She looks at me for backup. But I wasn’t watching when it happened. Davo’s dad screams at Jayden at half time. For missing a really easy goal. Then the coach comes over all red-faced. And tells Davo’s mum and dad to settle down. I say to Davo,
I can’t believe your parents take it so seriously. He’s only five.
Davo says he stopped playing sport in primary school. They just couldn’t control
themselves. In the end his coach said it was better for the team. If Davo didn’t come along any more.

Jayden’s team loses the match. And we lose Davo’s parents. We text them to see where they are. We head out into the parking lot. A guy’s lying on the ground on his stomach. There’s blood coming out of his ears. Davo’s dad is sitting on the bonnet of his car just watching. Sweat’s like a river down his face. Everyone’s on their mobiles. Calling the ambulance or telling their mates to come see. The St John’s dudes come out with a stretcher. And take the bleeding man away. He looks like he’s still breathing. He’s holding his head in his hands. Davo’s parents are quiet on the drive home. His mum strokes his dad’s arm like a soft kitten.

I never want to go over there again. Davo’s house smells like desperation. And the cat litter tray that no-one seems to empty.

Davo’s just got his P’s. For his 18th birthday. His dad gave him keys to his old car. It’s just been sitting in their garage. Waiting for someone to love it. Davo’s dad’s a mechanic. There’s a sea of car parts out their back door. The car doesn’t go too fast. But Davo’s not complaining.

It means we can get out of the hole that is Springwood. We’re heading up to Newcastle. He’s meeting granny for the first time. We’re going to have a picnic at Nobbys. Mum made us some chicken sandwiches. And I’ve got a bottle of gin for granny. That will hopefully make the distance. And so we’re out cruising past Kuringai. And we’re screaming along to Beastie Boys. And I’m thinking of all the places Davo can take me.

But of course it happens halfway up the freeway. Davo’s car decides to have a sickie. Death rattle and that’s it. We ram up against some ferns in the shade. With a trickle of water coming down the rocks. Open all the doors and drift. His dad’s with the NRMA. So the dude comes out and can’t start it. And we’re picked up an hour later in a tow truck. With a back seat, thank god. The driver, Mick, gives me a bottle of water and turns the aircon up. Turns out Mick’s great love is music. After the sound of his own voice. His band Beats 4 U plays regularly at the Oxford Tavern. He invites us along to his next gig. Davo turns back to me and we smile. It’s the place everyone goes for their bucks nights. Jelly wrestling topless dancers playing pool. A bit of tittylation. But Mick’s moved on to a possible gig at Tamworth. At the Oasis where Russell Crowe is headlining. His voice buzzes like an outboard motor.

Look, Russell Crowe is a fair musician. I went to one of his gigs once and tried to talk to him after the show. But he had all these security guards around him like he was the President of the United States or something. He wants to be a man of the people, but what about that phone affair? I mean, you don’t go to an international country like America and behave like that.

Mick calls his wife
the missus.
He’s the kind of guy you’d like down with you in the trenches. A good mate. Someone you can trust. Someone you’d call
digger.
The kind of guy who bores me to tears. And makes me wish I didn’t live in Australia.

Maybe I could move to Japan. I’ve started learning Japanese at school. It’s hard but I like all the characters. I like trying them out with a calligraphy pen. And I love eating sushi. Maybe I would fit in there.

I watch the flat greys and greens of the bush float by. I think about the guy who saved the moth. I’ve seen him on the train again a few times. He likes to sit in the same seat. At the back corner where no-one is facing him. I thought he might remember me. But when I get on he doesn’t budge. Just continues to read. As if he’s got a cone of silence around him. Sometimes his lips move a little bit. As if he might be praying. He always reads the same book. By H-A-R-U-K-I M-U-R-A-K-A-M-I. I wrote it down. So I could ask my Japanese teacher. She said he’s one of the best. And that he always writes about talking cats. She brought a book for me the next day.
To look after.
She said it was from her own personal collection. It is called
The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle.
It’s like a brick in my backpack.

He’s sometimes there on Friday arvos, 4.30pm. Express to Springwood then all stations. I stand while he sits in the corner single seat. I wonder where he gets off. He doesn’t look like the Leura type. The train’s packed at this time with weekenders. North Shore couples retreating to their ye olde worlde cottages. Where they can fuck in the spa and have cups of tea on doilies. The cooler people head for Katoomba. They can buy alpaca wool. Or score some heroin to help the local junkie culture.

I never see him on other weekdays. He must live in the city. He tries to look cool but he sticks out. He always carries the same bag. It’s weird and old. Doesn’t even have wheels. A huge scruffy brown suitcase with silver snap locks. You could fit a body in there. He always has it on the floor with one hand resting on it. I think it might be something valuable. I want to pick up the case and run. To see if he’ll chase me down. To see if there’s anything
precious inside. Sometimes I get so tired standing up. That by Glenbrook I want to open his suitcase. And lie down there for a little rest. He’s got really nice ears, the suitcase guy. They’re kind of tiny and sit pinned to his head like a bow. I’d like to nibble them off.

Anyway. I tune back in to the tow truck and Mick’s still wound up about Russell. Davo’s hanging on every word. He’s the biggest name-dropper. He’ll be telling all his mates. The aircon’s going full bore. I snooze down the freeway and we end up back where we started. In the driveway of Davo’s parents. Who hadn’t even realised that we’d gone.

Mika had an arrival date now, St Patrick’s Day. Maybe he could dress her in green and they’d share their first Guinness on the apartment balcony, watching the trains pull into Strathfield station as the shadows fell. She would sit quietly, and smile sweetly, all cute, maybe cheeky. He’d always avoided pubs on St Paddy’s after that first time. Red-faced Irish men singing
Oh Danneeeeeeeee Boyyyyyyy
and Aussies spewing into the gutter before heading inside for another beer and a bitter kiss from some poor reedthin girl, spaced out and propped up at the bar.

He returned to the wigs on eBay, weighing up the length, colour and style, what she might like to be seen in. He imagined her flicking her ponytail or peeking from beneath a fringe, sharing a laugh. As she was very petite and he’d read that small women look taller—their figure more elongated—with a cropped cut, he settled on the
Pamela, naturally yours,
a short, straight brunette bob with a fringe. The dummy model wearing the wig was from
Shanghai so it made it easier for him to imagine Mika in it. He hadn’t realised that 100% human hair wigs were so expensive so he finally settled on a blend. He wished he could touch one to see how soft the hair was. He carefully checked the seller’s reputation (99%) and whether they had PayPal (yes). With no bids on the item and a starting price of $66.99 ($AUD), he’d entered a maximum bid of $75.50. By the end of the day the item would close and probably be his.

He thought it would be easy to wait for Mika but he was kept awake at night manic with what-ifs and buts: What if they opened her at customs and he had to explain himself? What if FedEx got suspicious about the shape of the box and wouldn’t hand her over? What if she didn’t look as good in the flesh—a lifeless piece of work? What if she’d been broken in transit and he couldn’t get a refund?

He calmed himself with imaginings of what he was going to dress her in.

At first he’d played with the idea of going to the op shop and buying a school uniform, sandals and white socks. But the more he thought about his girl, the more she morphed from innocent tween to sophisticate with expensive tastes, and he decided he’d like to treat her; he didn’t want her first outfit to be from St Vinnies. So he bought
Marie Claire
and
Vogue,
took notes on fashions in season—
yellows and metallics, short skirts and slim legs, emerald green the new black, so hot right now!
—and worked his way up King Street in Newtown from the vintage clothing stores down to the bottom end, acting the doting husband on an anniversary mission, telling the shop ladies his wife’s tiny measurements to squeals of disbelief and asking what
they could recommend. He came out with bags of silks, lace, sequins and velvet, and soft grey fishnet stockings that attached with a metal clip.

When he got home he put the stockings on himself, careful not to stretch the fabric too much over his own slender legs, practising with the clips so he would know what to do when the time was right.

He slept with a green velvet dress laid out on the bed beside him, waiting for her body to fill it.