Underdogs Page 9

  "Fair enough" was my conclusion.

  "I s'pose, yeah."

  We parted ways a few moments later, and looking back at him, I looked at Greg and tried praying for him, like all those prayers I had made earlier on in this story, but I couldn't. I just couldn't. Don't ask me why. I hoped that he was okay, but I couldn't summon the strength to pray for it.

  What good had my prayers done anyway?

  They sure as hell hadn't helped my own cause too much -- but remember? I never did get around to praying for myself, did I? Maybe that's what was behind it, though. Myself. Maybe the only reason I'd prayed for others to begin with was to bring myself good fortune. Was that true? Was it? No. No way. It wasn't.

  Maybe the prayers did actually work.

  It's quite probable when you think about it, because back home, Sarah had started talking on the phone to replace the intense getting-off sessions on the couch, Steve was starting to walk again, Rube had sorted himself out a bit, Mum and Dad seemed happy enough, and no doubt Rebecca Conlon was happy fantasizing about Dale Perry....

  It seemed that everyone was going along just fine.

  Except me.

  Quite often, I found myself chanting the word misery, like the pitiful creature I was.

  I whinged inside.

  I whined.

  I whimpered.

  I scratched at my insides.

  Then I laughed.

  At myself.

  It happened when I was out in the evening, after dinn The sausages and mushrooms were settling in my stomach and amongst all the anguish I was carrying around, a very weird laughter broke through me. As I lifted my feet over the ground, I smiled and eventually placed my hand on a telegraph pole to rest.

  Standing there, I allowed the laughter to come out of me, and people coming past must have thought I was crazy or drugged or something like that. They looked at me as if to say, "What are you laughin' at?" They walked on quickly, though, toward their own lives, as I stood paused amongst mine.

  That was when I decided that I had to decide something.

  I had to decide what I was going to do, and what I was going to be.

  I was standing there, waiting for someone to do something, till I realized the person I was waiting for was myself.

  Everything inside me was numb, vaguely alive, almost as if it wasn't daring to move, waiting on my decision.

  I breathed out and said, "Okay."

  That was all it took.

  One word, and sprinting home, I knew that what I was going to do was make it back, clean myself up a bit, and run the five kilometers to Rebecca Conlon's place and ask if she wanted to do something on the weekend. Who cared what anyone thought? I didn't care what Mum or Dad would say, what Rube or Steve would say, what Sarah would say, or what you would say. I just knew that this was what I had to do.

  "Right now," I emphasized as I ran, forcing my shoulders forward and going like I was after a fake rabbit. Sickness swept over me as I ran, as if food was turning to acid. Still, though, I ran harder and jumped our front gate and into our house to find.

  Sarah on the phone.

  Phone.

  Yes, phone, I thought. Of course. Running all the way there and talking to her face-to-face seemed pretty scary by now, so the new plan was to get to a phone box somewhere. I got some change out of my drawer, wrote down the Conlon number on my hand from Dad's work pad, and ran back out for the nearest phone box.

  "Oi!" A voice followed me onto the footpath. It was Steve, from the porch. I hadn't even noticed him when I'd come charging into the house. "Where y' goin'?"

  I stopped, but I didn't answer his question. I walked back to him quickly, suddenly remembering what he'd said to me the last time he'd spoken from the porch, the night Rube and I returned the give-way sign.

  "You guys are such losers." That's what he'd said, and now I walked up our steps and pointed a finger at him as he leaned on the railing and stretched.

  I pointed at him and said, "If you ever call me a loser again, I'm gonna smash your face in." I meant it, and I could see from the lookhe knew I meant it. He even smiled, like he knew something. "I'm a fighter," I concluded, "not a loser. There's a difference."

  My eyes stayed in his for barely another moment. I meant it all right. I meant every word. Steve enjoyed it. I enjoyed it more.

  Phone box.

  I took off again, obsessed.

  The only problem now with the phone box plan was that I couldn't exactly find one. I thought there was one at a particular spot on Elizabeth Street but it had been taken away. I could only keep running, this time in the direction of the Conlon place, until about three kilometers later, I found one. Had I run another two kilometers I could have talked to her in person after all.

  "Oh, mate." I stuck my hands on my knees when I made it to the phone. "Mate," and I knew very abruptly that running there had been the easy part. Now I had to dial the number and talk.

  My fingers were claws on the ancient dialer as I called up the number, and ...

  Waited.

  "...ing."

  It was ringing. "Noth-ing."

  "Noth-ing."

  "Noth-ing."

  She didn't answer and I had to explain to the person who did exactly who I was. "Cameron."

  "Cameron?"

  "Cameron Wolfe, y' silly old cow!" I felt like screaming, but I kept myself back. Instead, I said with quiet dignity, "Cameron Wolfe. I work with the plumber." I realized after speaking those words that I was still very much out of breath. I was panting into the telephone, even when Rebecca Conlon was finally on the other end.

  "Rebecca?"

  "Yeah?"

  The voice, her voice. Hers.

  I stuttered things out, but not dumbstruck. I concentrated, and it was all done with purpose, with desire, almost with a severe, serene pride. My voice crawled to her. It asked. Squashing the phone. Go on. Do it. Ask.

  "Yeah, I was wonderin' ..."

  My throat hurt.

  "Wonderin' if ..."

  Saturday.

  That would be the day.

  No.

  No?

  Yes, no -- you hear

  Although, Rebecca Conlon didn't say the word no when she rejected me for some kind of meeting between us on Saturday. She said, "I can't," and I look back now and wonder if the disappointment in her voice was genuine.

  Of course I wonder, because she went on to tell me that she couldn't do anything on Sunday or the next weekend either because of some kind of family thing, or another thing of some description. No point pretending. She was giving herself some good safe ground to keep me at bay. See, I hadn't even asked her about Sunday yet. Or the next weekend! The pain in my ear counted at me. The black sky above me seemed to come down. I felt like I was sucking in the gray clouds that stood above, and very slowly, the phone call faded out.

  "Well, maybe some other time." I smiled viciously inside the dirty phone box. My voice was still nice, though, and dignified.

  "Yeah, that'd be great, ay." Nice, great voice. The last time I would hear it? Probably, unless she was dumb enough to be at her house on the upcoming weekend when Dad and I would finish the job.

  Yes, her voice, and somehow, I couldn't be sure if it was so real to me anymore. It was too far out of reach now to be real.

  "Okay, I'll see y' later," I finished, but I wasn't seeing anyone later.

  "Okay, bye-ee," adding insult to injury.

  Hearing her hang up then was brutal. I listened hard and the sound was something ripping apart my head. Slowly, slowly I dropped the receiver down to leave it hanging there, half-dead.

  Caught.

  Tried.

  Hanged.

  I left it hanging there and walked away, home.

  The way back wasn't as bad as you might think, because thoughts fighting in my head made the time go past quickly. Every step left an invisible print on the footpath, which only I could smell on my way past in the future. Good luck.

  Halfway there I notic
ed another phone box in a side street, sitting there joking me and laughing.

  "Huh" was all I said to myself, as I kept walking and eased an itch on my shoulder blade with a tired hand stretching at the end of a bent, twisting elbow.

  This time, I staggered into the front gate, stayed around a while, and went to bed at about ten-thirty.

  I didn't sleep.

  I sweated, shivering, alone.

  I saw things, plastered down onto my eyes.

  Thrown into them.

  I saw it all. Every detail. From a baseball and cricket bat, fluoride treatment, an empty signpost, dreams, fathers, brothers, mother, sister, Bruce, friend, girl, voice, gone, and into. Me.

  My life trampled my bed.

  I felt tears like hammers down my face.

  I saw myself walking to that phone.

  Talking.

  Staggering home.

  Then, close to one o'clock, I stood up and put my jeans on and walked barefoot out into the backyard. Out of our room. Down the hallway. Out the back door. Freezing cold night.

  Past the cement and onto the grass, till I stood. I stood there and stared, into the sky and at the city around me. I stood, hands at my side, and I saw what had happened to me and who I was and the way things would always be for me. Truth. There was no more wishing, or wondering. I knew who I was, and what I would always do. I believed it, as my teeth touched and my eyes were overrun.

  My mouth opened.

  It happened.

  Yes, with my head thrown into the sky, I started howling.

  Arms stretched out next to me, I howled, and everything came out of me. Visions poured up my throat and past voices surrounded me. The sky listened. The city didn't. I didn't care. All I cared about was that I was howling so that I could hear my voice and so I would remember that the boy had intensity and something to offer. I howled, oh, so loud and desperate, telling a world that I was here and I wouldn't lie down.

  Not tonight.

  Not ever.

  Yes, I howled and without me knowing it, my family stood just beyond the back door, watching me and wondering what I was doing.

  At first, all is black and white. Black on white.

  That's where I'm walking, through pages. These pages.

  Sometimes it gets so that I have one foot in the pages and the words, and the other in what they speak of. Sometimes I'm there again, hatching plans with Rube, fighting him, working with Dad, getting called a wild animal by my mother, watching Sarah's life stumble at the hands of Bruce, and telling Steve I'll smash his face in if he ever calls me a loser again. I even see Greg's bought stash going up through his chimney, drugging the air above his roof. One foot walks me toward Rebecca Conlon's place and working there, and ringing there. One foot stands me in the picture where the strangled public telephone hangs, dead, with only the remains of my voice left inside it.

  Sometimes, when I am deep inside the pages, the letters of every word are like the huge buildings of the city. I stand beneath them, looking up.

  I run at times.

  I crawl.

  Throu

  Every page.

  Dreams cover me sometimes, but at others, they strip the flesh off my soul or take the blanket away from me, leaving me with just myself, cold.

  Fingers touch the pages.

  They turn me.

  I continue on.

  I always do.

  All is big.

  The pages and the words are my world, spread out before your eyes and for your hands to touch. Vaguely, I can see your face looking down into me, as I look back. Do you see my eyes?

  Still, I walk on, through a dream that takes me through these pages.

  I arrive at the point where I see myself walking out to the backyard into the freezing cold. I see city and sky, and I feel the cold. I stand next to myself.

  Jeans.

  Bare feet.

  Bare chest, shivering.

  Boys' arms.

  They're stretched out, reaching.

  A wind picks up and sheets of paper take flight and fall down around us as we stand there. A howling noise stumbles despairingly for my ears and I receive it.

  I hang on to that desperation, because.

  I need it.

  I want it.

  I smile.

  Dogs bark, far away but coming closer.

  Next to me, I hear myself howl.

  This is a good dream.

  Howling. Loud.

  Intense.

  The last sheets of paper still fall.

  I'm alive.

  I've never been so --

  I look down.

  The words are my life.

  Howling continues.

  I stand with pages strewn at my ankles and with that howling in my ears.

  FIGHTING RUBEN WOLF

  For Scout

  CHAPTER 1

  The dog we're betting on looks more like a rat.

  "But he can run like hell," Rub

  e says. He's all flannelette smiles and twisted shoes. He'll spit, then smile. Spit, then smile. A nice guy, really, my brother. Ruben Wolfe. It's our usual winter of discontent.

  We're at the bottom of the op

  en, dusty grandstand.

  A girl walks past.

  Jesus, I think.

  "Jesus," Rube says, and that's the difference, as both of us watch her, longing, breathing, being. Girls like that don't just show up at the dog track. The ones we're used to are either chain-smoking mousy types or pie-eating horsy types. Or beer-drinking slutty types. The one we watch, however, is a rare experience. I'd bet on her if she could run on the track. She's great.

  Then there's only the sickness I feel from looking at legs I can't touch, or at lips that don't smile at me. Or hips that don't reach for me. And hearts that don't beat for me.

  I slip my hand into my pocket and pull out a ten-buck note. That should distract me. I mean, I like to look at girls a bit, but it always ends up hurting me. I get sore eyes, from the distance. So all I can do is say something like, "So, are we puttin' this money on or what, Rube?" as I do on this grayish day in this fine lecherous city of home.

  "Rube?" I ask again.

  Silence.

  "Rube?"

  Wind. Rolling can. Bloke smoking and coughing close behind. "Rube, are we betting or not?"

  I hit him.

  A backhander.

  To my brother's arm.

  He looks at me and smiles again.

  He says, "Okay," and we look for someone to con into placing our bet for us. Someone over the age limit. It's never hard around here. Some old bloke with half his crack pouring out the back of his trousers will always put one on for you. He might even ask for a share of the winnings, if the pooch you bet on wins, that is. However, he'll never find you -- not that we would leave him out anyway. You have to humor those poor old alcoholic please-don't-let-me-turn-out-like-him sort of fellas. A cut of the winnings isn't going to hurt them. The trick is to win something at all. It hasn't happened yet.

  "C'mon." Rube stands up, and as we walk, I can still see that girl's legs in the distance Jesus, I think.

  "Jesus," Rube says.

  At the betting windows we encounter a small problem. Cops.

  What the hell are they doin' here? I wonder.

  "What the hell are they doin' here?" Rube says.

  The thing is, I don't even hate cops. To tell you the truth, I actually feel a little sorry for them. Their hats. Wearing all that ridiculous cowboy gear around their waists. Having to look tough, yet friendly and approachable at the same time. Always having to grow a mustache (whether male, or in some cases, female) to look like they have authority. Doing all those push-ups and sit-ups and chin-ups at the police academy before they get a licence to eat doughnuts again. Telling people that someone in their family just got mangled in a car wreck.... The list just goes on and on, so I'd better stop myself.

  "Look at the pig with the sausage roll," Rube points out. He clearly doesn't care that these cops
are hanging around like a bad smell. No way. It's actually the exact opposite, as Rube walks straight toward the cop with the mustache who is eating a sausage roll with sauce. There are two of them. There's the sausage roll cop and a female cop. A brunette, with her hair tied under her hat. (Only her bangs fall seductively to her eyes.) We arrive at them and it begins.

  Ruben L. Wolfe: "How y' feelin' today, constable?"

  Cop, with food: "Not bad, mate, how are you?"

  Rube: "Enjoyin' that sausage roll, are y'?"

  Cop, devouring food: "Sure bloody am, mate. You enjoyin' watchin'?"

  Rube: "Certainly. How much are they?"

  Cop, swallowing: "A buck eighty." Rube, smiling: "You got robbed." Cop, taking bite: "I know."

  Rube, starting to enjoy himself: "You should haul that tuckshop in for that, I reckon."

  Cop, with sauce on edge of his lip: "Maybe I should haul you in instead."

  Rube, pointing at sauce on lip: "What for?"

  Cop, acknowledging sauce on lip and wiping it: "For plain smart aleck behavior."

  Rube, scratching his crotch conspicuously and glancing at the female accomplice cop: "Where'd y' pick her up?"

  Cop, beginning to enjoy himself now as well: "In the canteen."

  Rube, glancing at her again and continuing to scratch: Cop, finishing sausage roll: "A buck sixty."

  Rube, stopping the scratching: "You got robbed."

  Cop, remembering himself: "Hey, you better watch it."

  Rube, straightening his ragged flanno shirt and his pants: "Did they charge you for sauce? On the sausage roll, that is."

  Cop, shifting on spot: nothing.

  Rube, moving closer: "Well?"

  Cop, unable to conceal the truth: "Twenty cents."

  Rube, staggered: "Twenty cents! For sauce?"

  Cop, obviously disappointed in himself: "I know."

  Rube, earnest and honest, or at least one or the other: "You should have just gone without, out of principle. Don't you have any self-control?"

  Cop: "Are you tryin' to start somethin'?"

  Rube: "Certainly not."

  Cop: "Are y' sure?"

  At this point, the accomplice brunette female cop and I exchange looks of embarrassment and I consider her without her uniform. To me, she is only wearing underwear.

  Rube, answering the cop's question: "Yes sir, I'm sure. I'm not trying to start anything. My brother and I are just enjoying this wonderfully gray day here in the city and admiring the speedy beasts on their way around the track." A showbag, he is. Full of garbage. "Is that a crime?"

  Cop, getting fed up: "Why are you talking to us anyway?"