Underdogs (12 page)

“Oh, man.”

“Damn right. I chucked ‘em in the compost, up near the back fence.”

“Good idea.”

“I was gonna show ‘em to y’, but they stank so bad, I fully ran out there with ‘em.”

“Even better idea … Where was I?”

“Next door, returnin’

“Oh yeah.”

Change of topic.

“Are y’ thinkin’ about it?” I ask. “About that Perry character?”

“Yep.”

“You reckon we can do it?”

“Hard to say.”

“It sounds …”

“What?”

“I d’know — scary.”

“It’s a chance.”

… Yes, but a chance at what, I wonder. Our bedroom seems extra dark tonight. Heavy dark.

I think it again. A chance at what?

It’s Friday evening and we’re watching
Wheel of Fortune.
It’s rare for us to watch a lot of TV because we’re usually fighting, doing something stupid in the backyard, or hanging around out front. Besides, we hate most of the crap on the telly anyway. The only good thing about it is that sometimes when you watch it, you can get a bright idea. Previous bright ideas we’ve had in the midst of TV are:

Attempting to rob a dentist.

Moving the small lounge table up onto the couch so we could play football against each other with a rolled-up pair of socks.

Going to the dog track for the first time.

Selling Sarah’s busted old hair-dryer to one of our neighbors for fifteen dollars.

Selling Rube’s broken tape player to a guy down the street.

Selling the telly.

Obviously, we could never carry out
all
of the good ideas.

The dentist was a disaster (we pulled out, of course). Playing football with the socks resulted in giving Sarah a fat lip when she walked through the lounge room. (I swear it was Rube’s elbow and not mine that hit her.)

The dog track was fun (even though we came back twelve bucks poorer than when we left). The hair-dryer was thrown back over the fence with a note attached that said,
Give us back our fifteen bucks or we’ll bloody kill you, you cheating bastards.
(We gave the money back the next day.) We couldn’t end up finding the tape player (and the guy down the street was pretty tight anyway so I doubt we’d have got much for it). Then, last of all, there was just no way we could ever sell the TV, even though I came up with eleven good reasons why we should give the telly thop. (They go like this:

One. In ninety-nine percent of shows, the good guys win in the end, which just isn’t the truth. I mean, let’s face it. In real life, the bastards win. They get all the girls, all the cash, all the everything. Two. Whenever there’s a sex scene, everything goes perfectly, when really, the people in the shows should be as scared of it as me. Three. There are a thousand ads. Four. The ads are always much louder than the actual shows. Five. The news is always kind of depressing. Six. The people are all beautiful. Seven. All the best shows get the ax. For example,
Northern Exposure.
Have you heard of it? No? Exactly — it got the ax years ago. Eight. Rich blokes own all the stations. Nine. The rich blokes own beautiful women as well. Ten. The reception can be a bit of a shocker at our place anyway because our aerial’s shot. Eleven. They keep showing repeats of a show called
Gladiators.)

The only question now is,
What’s today’s idea?
The truth is, it’s more of a decision to conclude on last night, as Rube speaks over at me. He starts with an “Oi.”

“Oi,” he says.

“Yeah?”

“What are your thoughts?” “On what?”

“You know what. Perry.” “We need the money.”

“I know, but Mum and Dad won’t let us help pay the bills.”

“Yeah, but we can hold our own end up — pay our own food and stuff so everything lasts longer.” “Yeah, I s’pose.” Then Rube says it. It’s decided. Concluded. Ended.

He speaks the words, “We’re gonna do it.”

“Okay.”

Only, we know we won’t pay our own food. No. We have no intention. We’re doing this for some other reason. Some other reason that wants inside us.

Now we have to wait till Monday so we can ring Perry Cole, but already, we have to think — about everything. About other guys’ fists. About the danger. About Mum and Dad finding out. About survival. A new world has arrived in our minds and we have to handle it. We have decided and there is no time to stick
our tail between our legs and run. We’ve decided in front of the telly and that means we have to give it a shot. If we succeed, good. If we fail, it’s nothing new.

Rube’s thinking about it, I can tell.

Personally, I try not to.

I try to focus on the woman’s brilliant legs on
Wheel of Fortune.
When she swivels the letters, I can see more of them, just before she turns around and smiles at me. She smiles pretty, and in that split second, I forget. I forget about Perry Cole and all those future punches. It makes me wonder,
Do we spend most of our days trying to remember or forget things?
Do we spend most of our time running toward or away from our lives? I don

“Who y’ goin’ for?” Rube interrupts my thoughts, looking at the TV. “I d’know.”

“Well?”

“Okay then.” I point. “I’ll take the dopey one in the middle.”

“That’s the host, y’ idiot.”

“Is it? Well, I’ll take the blonde one there on the end. She looks the goods.”

“I’ll take the guy on the other end. The one who looks like he just escaped from Long Bay Jail. His suit’s a dead-set outrage. It’s a dis-grace.”

In the end it’s the guy from Long Bay that wins. He gets a vacuum cleaner and has already won a trip to the Great Wall of China, from yesterday apparently.

Not bad. The trip, that is. In the champion round, he misses out on a ridiculous remote control bed. In all honesty, the only thing keeping us watching is to see the woman turning the letters. I like her legs and so does Rube.

We watch.

We forget.

We know.

We know that on Monday we’ll be ringing Perry Cole to tell him we’re in.

“We better start training then,” I tell Rube. “I know.”

Mum comes home. We don’t know where Dad is. Mum takes the compost out to the heap in the backyard.

Upon returning she says, “Something really stinks out there near the back fence. Do either of you know anything about it?”

We look at each other. “No.”

“Are you sure?”

“Well,” I crack under the pressure. “It was a few onions that were in our room that we forgot about.

That’s all.”

Mum isn’t surprised. She never is anymore. I think she actually accepts our stupidity as something she just can’t change. Yet she still asks the question. “What were they doing in your room?” However, she walks away. I don’t think she really wants to hear the answer.

When Dad arrives, we don’t ask where he’s been.

Steve comes in and gives us a shock by saying, “How y’ goin’, lads?”

“All right. You?”

“Good.” Even though he still watches Dad with contempt, wishing he’d get the dole or Job Search payments or whatever you please to call it. He soon changes clothes and goes ou

Sarah comes in eating a banana Paddlepop. She smiles and gives us both a bite. We don’t ask for one, but she knows. She can see our snouts itching for the gorgeous sickly cold of an iceblock in winter.

Next day, Rube and I begin training.

We get up early and run. It’s dark when the alarm goes off and we take a minute or two to get out of bed, but once out, we’re okay. We run together in track pants and old football jerseys and the city is awake and smoky-cold and our heartbeats jangle through the streets. We’re alive. Our footsteps are folded neatly, one after the other. Rube’s curly hair collides with sunlight. The light steps at us between the buildings. The train line is fresh and sweet and the grass in Belmore Park has the echoes of dew still on it. Our hands are cold. Our veins are warm. Our throats suck in the winter breath of the city, and I imagine people still in bed, dreaming. To me, it feels good. Good city. Good world, with two wolves running through it, looking for the fresh meat of their lives. Chasing it. Chasing hard, even though they fear it. They run anyway.

“Y’ awake, Rube?”

“Yeah.”

“Jeez, I’m a bit sore, ay. This runnin’ in the mornings isn’t much chop for the ol’ legs.”

“I know — mine are sore too.”

“It felt good but.”

“Yeah. It felt great.”

“It felt like I’m not sure what. Like we’ve finally got something. Something to give us — I d’know. I just don’t know.”

“Purpose.”

“What?”

“Purpose,” Rube continues. “We’ve finally got a reason to be here. We’ve got reason to be out on that street. We’re not just out there doin’ nothin’.”

“That’s it. That’s exactly how it felt.”

“I know.”

“But I’m still sore as hell.”

“Me too.”

“So are we still runnin’ again tomorrow?”

“Absolutely.”

“Good.” And in the darkness of our room, a smile reaches across my lips. I feel it.

“Bloody hell.”

The phone’s been cut off because we don’t have the money to pay the bill. Or really, Mum and Dad don’t have the money to pay it. Steve or Sarah could pay, but there’s no way. It’s not allowed. It isn’t even considered.

“Well, up this, then,” Steve rips through the kitchen air. “I’m movin’ out. Soon as possible.”

“Then they miss y’ board money,” Sarah tells him.

“So what? If they wanna suffer they can do it without me watchin’.” It’s fair enough.

As well as being fair enough, it’s Monday night, and it’s close to seven. This is not good. This is
very
not good. Very not good at all.

“Oh no,” I say across to Rube. He’s warming his hands above the toaster. This means we can’t use the phone in Sarah’s room to ring Perry. “Hey Rube.”

“What?” His toast pops up.

“The phone.”

He realizes.

He says, “Bloody typical. Is this house useless or what?” and the toast is forgotten.

We go next door with Perry’s number in Rube’s pocket. No one home.

We go the other side. The same.

So Rube runs into our house, flogs forty cents out of Steve’s wallet, and we take off. It’s ten to seven. “You know where there’s a public phone?” Rube talks between strides. We pant. This is close to a sprint.

“Trust me,” I assure him. I know about phone boxes in this district.

I sniff one out and we find it hunched in the darkness of a side street.

It’s bang on seven when we ring.

“You’re late,” are Perry’s first words. “I don’t like being kept waiting.”

“Calm down,” Rube tells him. “Our phone got cut and we just ran close to three Ks to get here. Besides, my watch says seven sharp.”

“Okay, okay. Is that y’ breathing I can hear?”

“I told you, we just ran nearly.”

“All right.” Business. “Are you in or out?”

Rube.

Me.

Heartbeat.

Breath.

Heart

Voice.

“In.”

“Both of y’s?” A nod.

“Yeah,” Rube states, and we can feel Perry smiling through the phone line.

“Good,” he says. “Now listen. Y’ first fights won’t be this week. They’ll be the week after, out at Maroubra. First though, we gotta get some things organized. I’ll tell y’s what y’ need and we’ve gotta give you some hype. Y’ need names. Y’ need gloves. We’ll talk about it. Can I come over again or do y’s wanna meet somewhere else?”

“Central,” is Rube’s suggestion. “Our old man might be home and that won’t be apples.”

“Okay. Central it is. Tomorrow, four o’clock. Down at Eddy Avenue, where it leads into Belmore Park.”

“Sounds good.”

“Good.”

It’s settled.

“Welcome,” is Perry’s final word, and the phone runs dead. We’re in. We’re in and it’s final.

We’re in and it’s final, because if we back out now, we’ll probably end up at the bottom of the harbor. Down near the oil spill, in garbage bags. Well, that’s exaggerating, of course, but who knows? Who knows what kind of seedy world we’ve just entered? Our only knowledge is that we can make money, and maybe some self-respect.

As we walk back, it feels like the city is engulfing us. Adrenaline still pours through our veins. Sparks flow through to our fingers. We’ve still been running in the mornings, but the city’s different then. It’s filled with hope and with bristles of winter sunshine. In the
evening, it’s like it dies, waiting to be born again the next morning. I see a dead starling as we walk. It’s next to a beer bottle in the gutter. Both are empty of soul, and we can only walk by in silence, watching people who watch us, ignoring people who ignore us, and Rube growling at people who attempt to force us from the footpath. Our eyes are large and rimmed with awake-ness. Our ears detect every opened-up sound. We smell the impact of traffic and humans. Humans and traffic. Back and forth. We taste our moment, swallowing it, knowing it. We feel our nerves twitching inside our stomachs, lunging at our skin from beneath.

When morning slits across the horizon the following day, we have already been running for a while. As we do so, Rube discusses a few things with me. He wants a punching bag. He wants a skipping rope. He wants more speed and another pair of gloves so we can fight properly for practice. He wants headgear so we don’t kill each other doing it. He wants.

He wants hard.

He runs and there is purpose in his feet, and there’s hunger in his eyes and desire in his voice. I’ve never seen him like this. Like he wants so savagely to be some and to fight for it.

When we get home, sunshine splashes across his face. Again. A collision.

He says, “We’re gonna do it, Cam.” He is serious and solemn. “We’re gonna get there, and for once, we’re gonna win. We’re not leavin’ without winning.” He’s
leaning on the gate. He crouches. He buries his face into the horizontal paling. Fingers in the wire. Then, a shock, because when he turns his head back up to look at me, there’s a tear dangling from his eye. It edges down his face and his voice is smothered with his hunger. He says, “We can’t accept bein’ just us anymore. We’ve gotta lift. Gotta be more … I mean, check Mum out. Killin’ herself. Dad down and out. Steve just about moved and gone. Sarah gettin’ called a slut.” He tightens his fist in the wire and explains it through half-clenched teeth. “So now it’s us. It’s simple. We’ve gotta lift. Gotta get our self-bloody-respect back.” “Can we?” I ask.

“We’ve gotta. We will.” He stands and grabs me by the front of my jersey, right at my heart. He says, “I’m Ruben Wolfe,” and he says it hard. He throws the words into my face. “And you’re Cameron Wolfe. That’s gotta start meaning somethin’, boy. That’s gotta start churnin’ inside us, making us wanna be someone for those names, and not be just another couple of guys who amounted to nothin’ but what people said we would. No way. We’re gettin’ out of that. We have to. We’re gonna crawl and moan and fight and bite and bark at anything that gets in our way or tries to hunt us down and shoot us. All right?”

“Okay.” I nod.

“Good,” and to my dismay, Rube leans on my shoulder with his forearm and we stare onto the morning street of black light and glinting cars. I feel that we’re
together to face whatever falls down around us, and it staggers me for a moment that Rube has grown up (even though he’s a year older than me). It staggers me that he wants and aches so hard. His final words are, “If we fail, we’re gonna blame us.”

We walk inside soon after, knowing he’s right. The only people we want to blame are ourselves, because it will be ourselves that we rely upon. We’re aware of it, and the knowing will always walk beside us, at the edge of each day, on the outskirts of each pulse in each heartbeat. We eat breakfast, but our hunger is not fed. It’s growing.

It grows even more when we meet Perry at Eddy Avenue, just like he told us. Four o’clock.

“Lads,” he greets us. He carries a small suitcase.

“Perry.”

“Hi Perry.”

We all walk together to a bench near the middle of the park. The bench has been slapped hard by the pigeons from above, so it’s a pretty
dodgy
place to be sitting. Not something you’d eat off. Still, it’s safer than some of the others, which the birds seem to recognize as their own public toilets.

“Check the state of this place,” Perry smirks. He’s the kind of guy who likes to sit in a scummy park and talk business. “It’s disgraceful,” though his smirk is now a full-blown smile. It’s a smile of diseased malice, friendliness, and happiness all rolled into one devastating concoction. He wears a flanno, rough jeans, old boots,
and of course, that vicious smile of his. He looks for a place on the table to put the suitcase but settles for the ground.

A pause of silence arrives.

An old man comes to us asking for change.

Perry gives him some, but first he asks the poor old bloke a question.

He says, “Mate, what’s the capital of Switzerland, do y’ know?”

“Bern,” the old man replies, after some thought.

“Very good. However, my point is this.” He smiles again. Damn that smile. “In that country, once, they gathered up all the gypsies, whores, and drunken bums such as yourself, and they threw ‘em over the border. They got rid of every dirty swine that graced their precious land.”

“So?”

“So you’re an incredibly lucky drunken bum now, aren’t you? You not only get to stay in our fine land, but you also earn a living out of kindhearted people such as myself, and my colleagues here.”

“They didn’t give me anything.”

(We blew our last cash at the dog track the other day.)

“Certainly, but they didn’t throw you in the Pacific either now, did they?” He grins, evil. “They didn’t chuck you out there and tell you to start swimming.” He adds for good measure, “Like they should have.”

“You’re crazy.” The drunk begins to leave.

“Of course I am,” Perry calls after him. “I just gave you a dollar of my hard-earned wages.”

Yeah, right,
I think.
It’s money he earns from fighters.

The old man is already on to the next people — a grungy black-dressed couple with purple hair. They’ve got earrings stapled across their faces, and Docs on their feet.

“He oughta give
them
the buck now,” Rube observes, and I laugh. He’s about right, and as the old man lingers around the couple, I watch him. He has turned his life into the pocket scraps of other people. It’s sad.

It’s sad, but Perry has forgotten all about the man. He’s had his pleasure and is now strictly onto business.

“Right.” He points at me. “We’ll get you out of the way first. Here are your gloves and shorts. I thought about shoes but you’re not getting any. Neither of you are worth it, because I’t know how long you’ll last. I might get you some later, so wear your gymmies for now.”

“Fair enough.”

I take my gloves and shorts and like them.

They’re cheap, but I like them a lot. Blood-colored gloves and navy-blue shorts.

“Now.” Perry lights a cigarette and pulls a warm beer from the suitcase. Smokes and beer cans. He annoys me with that garbage, but I listen on. “We need to get you a name, for when you get introduced to the crowd before your fights. Any ideas?”

“The Wolf Man?” Rube suggests.

I shake my head.

Thinking.

It hits me.

Smiling.

I know. I nod. I say it. “The Underdog.”

I continue to smile as Perry’s face lights up and I watch old beggars and weirdos and city pigeons scouring the city floor for the sake of their lives.

Yes, Perry lights up, behind his smoke, and says, “Nice. I like it. Everyone loves an underdog. It appeals to them and even if y’ lose they’ll send some tips your way.” A laugh. “It’s better than nice. It’s flat-out perfect.”

No time-wasting though.

“Now,” he moves on. There’s a finger pointed at Rube. “You’re all sorted out. Here are y’ gloves an’ shorts.” Gray-blue gloves. Cheap. No laces. Just like mine. His shorts are black with gold rims. Nicer than mine. “You wanna know what name you’ve got?”

“Don’t I get a choice?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Y’ sorted out, that’s why. Tell y’ what, you’ll find out when you fight, okay?” “I s’pose.” “Say yes.” Forceful.

“Yes.”

“And say thank you, because when I’m done with you, the women’ll fall over you like dominoes.” Dominoes. What a tosser.

Rube obeys him. “Thank you.” “Right.”

Perry stands and leaves, suitcase by his side. He turns.

He says, “Let me remind you fellas that your first fight is next Sunday at Maroubra. I’ll take you there in my van. Be here at Eddy Avenue again at three o’clock sharp. Don’t make me wait or a bus’ll clean me up and I’ll clean the pair of
you
up. Okay?”

We nod.

He’s gone.

“Thanks for the gear,” I call, but Perry Cole is gone.

We sit there.

Gloves.

Shorts.

Park. City.

Hunger. Us.

“Damn it.”

“What, Rube?”

“It’s been annoyin’ me all day and night.”

“What?”

“I wanted to ask Perry if he could get his hands on a punching bag for us, and some of that other practice gear.”

“You don’t need a punching bag.”

“Why not?”

“You’ve got me.”

“Yeah.”

“Y’ didn’t have to agree.”

“I wanted to.”

A long pause …

“Are y’ scared, Rube?”

“No. I was before, but not anymore. Are you?”

“Yeah.”

There’s no point lying. I’m scared as hell. Scared crazy. I’m asylum scared. Straitjacket scared. Yes, I think it’s pretty much decided.

I’m scared.