The Glass Canoe (21 page)

NO KISS FOR THE CAR

Next time I see my darling she's washing her hair. You know the concentration birds get when they're doing something about themselves. They're in a world slightly to one side of the world you've just come from. Everything stops, the world sleeps while they pick clothes, paint nails or wash hair.

It was my bad luck she was expecting her cousin that day. He was in the rag trade, owned a clothing factory where they made women's dresses and things, and she had to go to a wedding in the family. He was the most convenient one to go with. And there was Aunt Yvonne to see—a sort of duty call so that she got round fairly regularly to see all the relatives—especially since her daughter, another cousin, had a new baby.

‘You're not interested in that sort of thing, I know,' she said. And her eyes looked out at me from under
the wet hair and the towel. And the merry glinting of the coloured part of her eyes and the clear white as she looked at me had the usual effect.

You couldn't resist those eyes. They cracked your face open and you had to smile back, no matter what was on your mind.

As it turned out, she was in a hurry and didn't have time to dry her hair in the sun, she used an electric dryer. I held it for her, and it was hard to take my eyes off the white skin on her neck as it shaded to pink up near her cheeks and ears. From the side and back her head looked so small and finely made, you wondered at yourself for letting her go out in the street by herself.

The cousin turned up, a pale sort of guy with very expensive tailoring and gold cuff-links. Cars are for transport, they don't impress me. To me they're not a symbol. But I guess his white Mercedes sports was a satisfaction out on the open road when he put his foot down.

I didn't wait for them to go, I left. It wasn't my world, it was too far from the Cross of the South.

I made a point of turning up next day after work instead of going to the pub, but as usual I didn't bother to ring and let her know I was coming and this time she simply couldn't make the time to drop what she was doing. She had her accountant in and her tax return was late already.

My old car felt a bit sad, I think, driving away without her coming out and running up and giving him a big kiss on the forehead.

AIRBORNE

At the course we had a mixed day. Young Stan got the wind in his tail and began riding the little red Honda all over the place pretending to be taking tools to Laurie where he was working laying water pipes, but actually he was riding up the steeply banked greens —staying on the banks, of course—and peeling off like a hell driver.

He'd rev the motor, get into top, and come careering down the slope above the thirteenth tee. The thirteenth tee was newly grassed with kikuyu and made so there was a five foot drop at the end facing the fairway. He'd travel through the air about ten metres before the back wheel touched down. The suspension bottomed each time.

It was a slack day for golfers. He didn't get dobbed in.

I was lucky. The grass wasn't growing fast, and I got the job of planting trees. Couldn't have given me a better job. Nothing I planted there ever died on me except those willows the kids ripped up after school and tossed in the creek.

Even the truckloads of screaming pigs going past didn't bother me. I never eat bacon.

Once, when the sun was high, I looked up around me and wondered. From up there, what was I? A young guy that never thought of anything but his own concerns. Asking questions he didn't want answers to.

Not even bothering to tick off the days as they vanished behind me.

The blank moon flew like a kite among clouds. How big could the whole thing be? I mean, was it all
IN
something, the stars and galaxies and all that space? Was it all in a discarded cosmic soft drink bottle and was all our time contained in the time it will take to fall from a cosmic table? And were we such tiny specks that the world outside the bottle would never know our universe existed?

I struck some heavy clay and had to use the crowbar to loosen it up. That clay stopped my little gallop: I forgot about the size of the universe.

RETURN OF DOG MAN

That afternoon in the Cross I felt pleasantly worked. The ground at the course was hard, you often had to use the bar to get down eighteen inches, and all in all it made the back and shoulders feel good. I never tire in the arms.

I was about an inch from the bottom of my second schooner, when who should lob but Dog Man. Eight months ago he'd gone for a pee in the middle of telling us about this sheila who invited five of them up to her flat.

The first words he said were, ‘So the five of us were in it like rats up a drainpipe. She's laying there legs open and by the time it's Danny's turn he comes out blood all over the front of him, singlet and all. Mum'll think I cracked a maiden when she goes to wash this, he says. But when he's having another go I sneak round
on my hands and knees and tickle the sheila on the arse and she gets going, bucking like a mule. Go, baby, go! yells Danny and rides her like a cowboy. This time he doesn't get thrown.'

‘How did you go with your dogs,' I asked him.

‘OK for a bit. Up Tweed Heads, managing for owners. Took the caravan, wife and kids. Tell you what, I was up there and got a temporary job in a club when things were light on in the dog game, and this woman latches on to me. Working there in the bar. Don't know why, but she wanted
me
.
You know me, she's sweet for a month or so, but I couldn't get rid of her. She'd do anything. One night I'd had three at her place by one o'clock and fell asleep, dog tired. Five in the morning I woke up to find her slurping on it. Chewing it. Tried everything to get rid of her. Then I stayed late working. At two I thought it was safe to go home, but there she was up the road, waiting for me in the car. Don't you want me, she says. For once I tell her the truth. The magic's gone, I say. Next thing I know she's gone and told the wife. I pack a bag at home and say to the wife, OK, you got me. I'll go. But the wife wouldn't hear of it. She said, No, that slut'll go. And she did.

‘A month ago I see her in a pub at Tamworth, all daggy. Gone to pieces. She saw me, came over and threw a beer over me. The blokes I was talking to, one of 'em was a copper and he says You want to charge her? No, I said, I had it coming. And left it at that. I'll
never forget that bird. Talk about keen. Never met one like her before or since.'

He'd only been there the space of one schooner and he was putting work on the new barmaid. Sharon went on forever, but the casuals often only stayed a day or two.

‘I'll wait for you,' he whispers across the bar.

Sure enough, next day I find he's waited for her till ten-fifteen and he's only in boots and shorts.

‘I give her a few smoushes, ask her how she's getting home. No, she says, I'll be in nothing like that. Get out! she said when I had her in the car and tried to get the pants off. So I thought I'd better waste some of my cans on her. I fish under the seat and bring out two cans of draught. We'll have a beer instead, I say. So she has a beer. By the time she's finished two cans she says, Did you say instead? So I climb aboard and have three zots, three quickies—I don't want her drinking all the cans—and next day she doesn't want to know me. I walk up to the bar and say How was it last night? But she turns away and doesn't answer. Her old man's in boob,' he added.

Next day he comes in with that look about him that says he doesn't want to talk to anyone yet he's busting to talk to someone.

‘Car's pranged. Thank Christ I haven't been down here zotting 'em down. Some idiot up the road came in from the left past a bus, it's peak hour and put the Torana into the Coach Inn.'

The Coach Inn was a tiny old stone house used since last century as a restaurant. I often used to go by and see candles flickering over the tables. It's gone now. They've put up one of those modern erections. Plenty of parking space, seventeenth century roof and all that.

His Torana was a write-off. It was the only dealings Dog Man ever had with the police that didn't end with him spending time in a cell. Apart from that drink at Tamworth.

While he was off the road he experimented with training a dingo he captured on a shooting trip.

‘He's only a few months old. I wouldn't write off dingoes if I were you. It's not being a coward to keep out of range of rifles when there's cunts aiming at you: it's intelligence. And kid this dog isn't loaded with it. He won't do a thing you tell him.'

‘Is that intelligence?' I asked. I knew it was the way I worked.

‘I'll say it is. You know the sort of bloke that follows orders and does everything he's told. You get your first taste of that when you start work and someone sends you over to the store for four pounds of compression or a blank verbal agreement form. I never ever fell for that sort of cock when I was a kid.'

He stopped, waiting for me to say something.

‘Me either,' I said. ‘In my case it was striped paint.'

‘You see? Well this dog's the same. If you can convince him there's some sense in doing something, like if you do it yourself first—and it has to be done at a time when it's really necessary—he'll soon get the idea. He might even do it. But all the time he's telling you: I'm just as good as you are, mug. And if it sounds like an order, it's out. He won't have a bar of it.'

‘I like the sound of this dog. Are they all like it?'

‘That's why I'm trying. I'd be the first. Other blokes have had a go, but no dice. Make one mistake in handling 'em, and that's it: no second chance. It's as if they decide you're a nong and won't have any part of you. Boy, is this one loaded with personality? Independent! I don't think I'll ever tame him, but I'm having a go.'

He didn't succeed. Two weeks later the dog was gone. He'd made the mistake of confining it. Built a sort of cage. It ate through the steel pipe that formed the bottom rail of his neat cyclone wire prison.

‘Steel!' I said. I believe most things, this was a bit much.

‘Steel,' he said firmly. And we wondered about that for some time until he came out with something that threw me.

‘You get around,' he said. ‘You talk to a lot of people. I never did much in the mechanical line, apart from mucking about with cars.'

He leaned a bit closer and said, ‘You know when you play a record on a record player?'

I knew what was coming. ‘Yeah, I know.'

‘Well, you wouldn't happen to know how the bloody thing knows what size the record is, would you?'

‘Wouldn't have a clue.'

Why spoil it for him? He'd have a mystery now. There weren't many besides me that he'd care to ask. They'd rubbish him, roar it all over the pub.

Babies drinking their bathwater, we buried our mouths and noses in the froth of beer.

At a certain stage we hesitated, shaking our heads to disengage a thought. Perhaps the violence would be now, and we'd sailed too long and too far out on Beer River.

There's always that one fist you miss, one knee you don't see.

THREE FRIENDS OF ROGER

I should have used the phone. She'd always drop everything and come out and see me whatever time I rang or interrupted, but I just got in the car after work and dropped in on my darling.

There was a delay before she skipped out and cannoned into me. She didn't have her usual momentum—I wondered if she was losing weight or sickening for something—and didn't knock me over.

But the welcome was there. After the breathless kisses, she explained that she couldn't come and make love right away, she had this meeting in her office, very important for business.

I happened to look up—you can see her window from the street—and some of her business associates were there, looking down. She saw me looking, turned her little head and saw them, and said, ‘Three friends of Roger's.' Roger was her brother.

‘We're doing a promotion. Just getting our ideas together at the moment.'

‘A sort of seminal session?' I said helpfully. I meant it as a joke.

She hesitated before replying.

‘I suppose that would describe it.' She was looking at me differently. Estimating something. Her breath smelled of cigarettes.

‘You smell of smokes,' I said stupidly. I didn't smoke.

‘Oh, that. Yes, I've had one or two.' She seemed relieved to be talking of cigarettes and went on about it. I had to stop her.

‘I didn't mean to criticise.'

‘But you're right. I smoke too many. I'll try to cut down.'

‘To one at a time,' I smiled, trying to get her good spirits back.

‘Oh, I only ever smoke one at a time,' she responded gaily.

‘Well, I'll be off,' I said. I felt a bit of a dill. After all, she was a businesswoman. It was pretty unreasonable of me to expect her every time I turned up.

The figures at the window of her office were still looking down. In shirtsleeves.

‘Sorry, darling,' she said. I watched her walk back. The zipper at the back of her dress wasn't done up. She was a terror for little details like that. Ten to one
the tiny thread-catch or hook and eye at the top was broken.

She stopped at the entrance of the building to turn and wave. She always waved me out of sight. Something I hadn't noticed before caught my eye. She usually wore a brassiere, her dresses were the sort that looked better that way, but from where I stood her breasts seemed lopsided. As if one of the cups had risen off that breast, or the other one had dropped.

By the time I was in the car and off down the street she was still waving. The men in shirts had vanished.

I was a bit sad, going away, but there was no reason.

That night, from my window I could see flashes, like someone lighting matches in the dark. And the wind blowing them derisively out.