Grease Monkey Jive (4 page)

“Are you saying you want a proper girlfriend?” asked Mitch.

“Maybe. No, that sounds like too much commitment. Ah, I think what I’m saying is I could benefit from having female influences in my life.”

“Why don’t you just try hanging on to one of the randoms for more than a week?” said Mitch.

Dan shook his head. “That’s not what I mean. I think I could do with female influences outside the bedroom.”

“Shit, you did hit your head,” said Ant.

“No, I didn’t. Don’t you get what I’m saying?”

“I get it,” said Fluke. “They hold up half the sky.”

“Are you on drugs, Flukey?” asked Mitch.

“No. Women, they hold up half the sky. It means they’re half of the world, you know,” Fluke said with a shrug.

“Too damn poetic for me, little man,” said Ant, slapping cash on the table to meet his part of the cheque.

“Yeah, that’s it. Half the sky,” said Dan, clapping Fluke on the shoulder. “Which means I need a new outlook on life.” He put his breakfast money on top of Ant’s and stood to go. “Tonight.”

It wasn’t a question, but he got a chorus of agreement anyway.

In McMurty’s garage, Dan started work on Marie’s Mini. Marie was Uncle Kev’s latest squeeze and her uninsured Mini had been rear-ended. Fixing it was a love job which meant it had to be done out-of-hours, off the books, and with much interference from Kev.

He was flat on his back under the little car when Kev arrived. He knew it was Kev because he could see his Saturday tennis game shoes, short white socks, and hairy legs. They were parked beside a pair of deeply scuffed brown work boots and the equally hairy legs of his dad. He thought it was amusing that you could tell these men were related just from looking at their shins.

“It’s not finished, Kev. I need another week.”

“Ah, Danny boy, she’s my best girl and she’s had to ride the big blue Mercedes for two weeks now.” Kev had his hands on his shins, leaning down to try to see under the car. “Can’t you get the lead out?”

“Come on, Dan, what’s taking so long? This is an easy fix, mate,” said Jimmy.

“If it’s so easy, Dad, you do it.” Dan let a shifter clatter to the cement floor of the workshop in his irritation.

“Sounds like he’s shitty,” said Jimmy.

“Sounds like you’ve been drinking, Dad.”

“Don’t pick on your old man.”

Dan rolled out from beneath the Mini to look at his father. “It’s not even lunchtime and you’re already three sheets to the wind.”

“What’s it to you, boy? I’m not working. It’s the weekend.”

“I’m working and having you both stand over me isn’t helping.”

“Don’t make him more shitty, Jimbo. It’ll slow him up,” said Kevin.

Jimmy just grunted, glared at his son, and made for the driveway.

“Dad, did you drive here? Kev, did you let him drive?” Dan scrambled to his feet to catch his father already behind the wheel of his old Commodore, revving the engine.

“He’s alright, Danny boy,” said Kev.

“Argh,” said Dan, frowning at Kev, pushing his hair back from his face, and leaving a streak of black gritty grease on his forehead. Jimmy was a pig-headed son-of-a-bitch at the best of times, but his drinking and driving was seriously stupid, a disaster waiting to happen in a family already wrenched apart by alcohol and speed. He walked over to the Commodore and reefed the driver’s side door open. “Get out. You’re not driving.”

“I’ll do what I bloody well want.”

Dan’s breath was coming in tight exhalations through his open mouth. He kept his hand on the top edge of the door when Jimmy reached for the handle to pull it closed.

“Let go.”

“You’re on two strikes, Dad. Get out of the car.”

They eyed each other through the dirty window of the Commodore – stalemate. They’d been here before, more than once.

“Fellas, settle down,” said Kev, coming around the side of the car. Both his younger brother and his nephew ignored him. “How about I drive?”

“That’d be good, Kev,” said Dan, not taking his eyes off his father’s face. If Jimmy got pulled over drink driving one more time, he’d lose his license and his job.

Jimmy didn’t move, not the flicker of an eyelid, his grip on the door steely, then he broke eye contact and stomped his boot down on the accelerator, making the engine rev.

“He’s alright, Danny,” said Kev, going around to the passenger side and getting in the car.

Defeated, Dan took his hand off the door and without attempting to shut it, Jimmy reversed hard out of the driveway, the door slamming from the motion of the car as it shot forward into the street. That was so Jimmy, gruff, stubborn, careless, and a hot-head by nature, then mean, stupid, and ugly when drinking.

And helpless when it came to raising a kid.

Dan could see that now with all the wisdom of his twenty-eight years. He could summon a degree of sympathy for this man who had never prepared to be a single dad. But not today. Not with the drinking. Today it was too easy to recall the skin crawling fear and bottomless hatred he’d felt as a nine year old when he’d first learned he was Jimmy’s son.

Mostly he remembered the beatings, but the hatred was stiffened into something rock hard by the neglect. No other kid at school made his own dinner and washed his own clothes. No other kid paid the electricity bill, cleaned the bathroom, and did the grocery shopping.

But it was just as well he’d learned to do all that because by the time Dan was fourteen, Jimmy was driving long haul trucks and only home intermittently. They had more money so there were more toys around, big screen TVs and stereo units with woofers and tweeters, and there were fewer girlfriends, which meant less embarrassment at breakfast. But the flat was hardly ever clean, and they both ate too much food from cans and cartons.

By the time Dan was fifteen, people started to say, “You’re so much like your dad,” and he determined he would find a way to be nothing like him.

Now the two of them existed in a circuit of tenuous attachment, linked by the reality of relationship and grudging acceptance, but separated by dislike and the rough justice of their history together.

But the drinking and driving, that was something Dan could never forgive. How could he? He saw the effect it had on cars. He could imagine the effect it had on the people in them without too much difficulty. Besides, that’s what killed her, so it was sheer, bloody-minded, unfathomable lunacy that Jimmy could still do it.

He was royally pissed off at both Jimmy and Kevin, at Marie’s Mini, at McMurty who made it hard to do someone a decent turn, and at himself. He should’ve stopped Jimmy getting into that car; he certainly should never have let Kev ride shotgun.

He looked at Jeff, sprawled on the floor next to the compressor, his tongue hanging out, his eyes watchful. “What’re you lookin’ at?” He rubbed sweaty palms down the front of his overalls. “You were absolutely no help at all. Thanks a lot.”

Ignoring the aggression in Dan’s tone, Jeff wacked his tail on the cement floor once, twice, and gave a little whine of acknowledgement, but he didn’t otherwise stir himself. He knew when to lie low around the Maddox men.

“Useless,” said Dan and turned back to the Mini. It would give him something to hit that wouldn’t hit back.

Hours later, showered, changed, and with wet hair and fingers still pink from the pumice stone, Dan was holding up the bar of their usual night spot, Son of a Beach Bar, with Mitch and Fluke. Jimmy had made it home without incident and he’d all but finished work on Marie’s Mini, but the foul mood his father and uncle had left him in hadn’t lifted. He was drinking hard and if Vanessa, Veronica, whatever her name was, showed up, he had every intention of taking her home again, boyfriend or no boyfriend. And if she didn’t, well she was easily replaceable.

Thinking about that option, he scanned the room. It was still early, so the dive was only half full and the music was actually danceable, not that he was thinking of dancing. He didn’t dance, never did, but the chicks did, always. They did it to show themselves off, they did it to be seen and bought for the night, that’s what it was all about. The rules were dead clear and slanted in Dan’s favour. He wasn’t entirely sure why that was, but he’d never had any trouble picking up women – just like Jimmy – and tonight he was beyond questioning the fundamentals of that natural order.

When Mitch said, “Belinda’s here,” and groaned like he’d been thumped in the solar plexus, Dan turned back from the flirty blonde who was shaking her tits at him. “Where?”

Mitch inclined his head and Dan could see Belinda watching them. “You should talk to her, mate.”

“And say what?” said Mitch.

“’Hi, how are you’ would be a start,” said Fluke.

“I don’t think that’s going to cut it.”

“How about, ‘I’m sorry’ then?”

“But I’m not sorry, so that’d be a big fat lie.”

“Stew then,” said Fluke at his philosophical best.

“Fluke’s right, mate. Go talk to her,” said Dan. He gave Belinda a wave and got one in return.

“She’s got some new bullet-head boyfriend,” Mitch sulked. “And I saw that,” he snapped.

“It was a wave, mate. Just ‘cause you won’t talk to her doesn’t mean I have to ignore her.”

“Yeah, it does.” Mitch had the grace to laugh. “Might try that blonde, the one shaking her stuff at you, do you mind?”

“Be my guest.”

Dan and Fluke watched Mitch dance his way across to the blonde who lit up with a big smile when he approached.

“That’s him sorted,” Fluke sighed.

“Let’s get you sorted,” said Dan. “The ponytail near the jukebox?”

“Nah.”

“How about the yellow miniskirt?”

“Can almost see what she had for lunch, bit too, you know, for me.”

“Ok, the white dress,” Dan angled his glass towards a girl on the edge of the dance floor. “She’s all alone, mate, easy prey.”

“Yeah, alright, I’m going,” said Fluke, half full beer glass in hand, setting off towards the girl. He was back in less than thirty seconds.

“Not your type?” Dan wanted to laugh, but choked it back. Ant, newly arrived, didn’t feel the same way. “That was brutal man,” he thumped Fluke on the back.

Dan bought them another round and, several more rounds later, he spied a sassy looking brunette in a halter-neck dress. She’d do. He watched her and when she caught him looking, he smiled at her. She smiled back and the way she slanted her body towards him advertised her interest.

He dug car keys out of the pocket of his jeans and handed them to Fluke. Fluke loved the Valiant and he’d stop drinking now, so by the time he felt like going, he’d be ok to drive. Hopefully it made up for the humiliation of the white dress. “She’s round the back. I don’t need her tomorrow.”

“No worries,” said Fluke, pocketing the keys.

“Later, boys.”

Her name was Irene or Imelda or Imogen; she was a dental nurse, and an hour later he had her backed up against a wall in the alley way outside the bar with her halter undone and his hands down the front of her dress. She appeared pretty happy about that and had her hands down the front of his pants. She lived close by so after a quick stop over at the bottle shop they went back to her place. They drank, they fucked, they drank some more, and then went at it again, and when Ingrid fell asleep, Dan finished the bottle of rum, found his clothes, and left.

He was thoroughly wasted and walked for about ten minutes in entirely the wrong direction before he figured out where he was. Grumbling, he turned back the way he’d come, and tried to hail a cab until he realised he didn’t have a wallet. He didn’t have keys either which meant he’d need to use the spare to get in his flat.

About a kilometre from home, he had a lie down in a bus shelter, just to catch his breath. At four in the morning, he was making his way down Campbell Parade towards home, singing Cold Chisel’s
Khe Sahn
, his dad’s favourite, when he caught sight of a figure in a plate glass shop window.

He grinned at the figure and the figure grinned back, a broad shouldered, handsome man with messy hair, his shirt open and flapping, a half full bottle of wine in his hand, and only one sock.

The man looked like Jimmy.

“Bruce, this is my girlfriend Alexandra. She’s doing a business degree at the University of Sydney,” said Phil and Alex extended her hand to his boss. “Alex, this is Bruce, he runs the department,” Phil finished, beaming at Alex proudly.

“Nice to meet you, Alex,” said Bruce. He introduced his wife and another three colleagues and their partners leaving Alex frantic to remember who had what colour tie on and who was married to whom.

She was dog tired and her feet were aching after a full day rehearsing yesterday and the first competition event today. She was also very excited to be here with Phil as his guest at the bank’s anniversary celebration and to have won her heat with Scott. She was secretly delighted at how easy the win was and one look at Scott’s Uncle Trevor who owned Wallace Studios confirmed it. Trevor was ecstatic. No one still alive had won more championships than Trevor so he knew what he was being ecstatic about, primarily the fact that Scott and Alex looked set to beat his record.

Part of her had wanted to go with Scott and Trevor to celebrate and to plot the next competition appearance, but Phil really wanted her to be with him and this was an important night for him, important for his career, or so he’d said about a hundred times.

Gran had made her a new dress and she knew she looked good. They’d used a Vogue pattern and the material was lilac sand-washed silk that fell against her body in soft waves.

No one would be able to tell it wasn’t a shop bought dress; it was elegant and sophisticated, a complete contrast to the beaded, fringed number with virtually no back that she’d worn for their performance. Gran had made that one too, her skill with needle and thread in no way diminished by her age. Her willingness to create extravagant, risqué, barely-there dance costumes was in no way hampered by the fact she hadn’t so much as bared her own elbows for decades. By tacit agreement they never showed Sylvia the dance costumes; there was no point aggravating her.