Ironbark (18 page)

Granddad looks up at the sky.

‘Not much chance of that,' he says.

‘Someone could steal him,' I say.

We both look at Jai. He's already curling up, his ratty tail curved into the bald patch on his side.

‘Not much chance of that,' we say together.

At first glance, Milton looks exactly like Granddad's home town. I wouldn't swear to it, but I reckon they're the same seagulls. Rent-a-flock. But it soon becomes clear it's a bigger place. There's probably two horses here. Certainly there are people on the streets and they look like they have purpose. One or two even carry briefcases.

We find a shopping centre. Actually, we find
the
shopping centre. Expectations are not high when we go in. Maybe a hay-feed store and five cruddy antique shops. But I have to confess I'm surprised – not a lot, just mildly. There's a music store and a couple of shops that look like the clothes were at least designed this century. You could fit the whole business into a quarter of one decent shop back home. But this is Tassie, after all. They probably get people with two heads who drive from all over the state just to stand outside and marvel.

There's a food hall downstairs and I steer Granddad in that direction. It occurs to me we haven't eaten since ingesting the pale goo that passed for porridge at breakfast and I could eat a random horse. The food hall is lame. It only has four stalls and three of them are selling dried up scraps of cow gristle disguised as Asian dishes. They've probably had them on display for two weeks. You'd need a jigsaw to get through the crust on the edges of the serving trays. But we find a deli that makes sandwiches and order four between us. The meat has seen better days and the cheese is more like plastic, but I'm not too fussy. I grab a couple of coffees, as well. Me and Granddad get ourselves outside the food in double-quick time and I glance at my watch. It's coming up to two-thirty.

‘C'mon,' I say as Granddad stuffs the last of a sandwich into his dentures. ‘Let's find out what downtown Milton has to offer.'

The short answer is, not a lot. But I find a store selling mobile phones and park Granddad on a bench nearby. I check out the bottom-feeder pre-paids, but in the end I can't bring myself to buy one. I try. I really do. But I can't. Finally, I go for a mid-range, costing $300. It's got a camera and Bluetooth, but not a whole lot else. Looks good, though, with a big screen. I feel pleased. On the one hand I haven't spent a fortune, on the other it's not a sad piece of plastic crap.

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. Simple.'

‘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.