A Couple of Dudes
They drove to Delilah Street and pulled up in front of his parent's house. It was a sorry sight. When he was there at least he kept the front presentable, mostly to stave off the prying eyes of his peers.
‘Looks quite empty,’ said Sharon, doubt in her voice, ‘are you sure you don’t live there alone?
‘May as well,’ muttered Joel, as he grabbed his skate board. His mood had changed radically. He left the pyjamas in her car. The hospital could have its prison uniform back.
‘Thanks for everything,’ he hesitated by the driver’s window, uncertain, but wanting to say something about Mr Port-Robert. Was the nasty feeling about Mal which persisted in the pit of his stomach real? He scrabbled to find a way to maintain contact with her. But Sharon smiled as she looked out the window, one eye closed against the brightness of the sun.
‘I love your picture of Perkins. When you go to visit your friend on Higgins Street, call in and say hello, but only if Mal’s car isn’t there.
Joel knew what that meant. Mal kept his own circle of prestigious ‘friends’ and a street kid on his premises just wouldn’t cut it. He guessed that was why nothing much ever happened for the poor when it came to politics.
Because Sharon sat watching for a moment, he was forced to go inside his house. He didn’t want to go there. All was silent. If any one was home they were asleep - as usual. As he heard Sharon roar off in her little bubble car, anger sprang up, dangerous, like a black snake. He threw his skate board down hard on the floor. A hissing growl emerged form the room down the hall. So his father was home sleeping it off? What did it matter? Circumstance no longer forced him to live here. Rage swelled in him and finally burst like a boil. He grabbed his skate board again and threw it against the wall that had once given him refuge. A chunk of plaster fell from the dizzy mountain height he’d painted there. Driven by who knows what, he repeated the action again and again, destroying the amazing paintings of his self created haven. He hoped he would never have to do this again, but deep inside, he understood vandals.
His father appeared in the doorway. Red lines showed in his drooping eye lids. ‘Don’t you come here vandalising the place you good for nothing delinquent,’ he slurred.
‘Watch me!’ Joel yelled. He realised that suddenly, he’d grown almost as tall as his father and could look him in the eye. He flipped up the skate board and though he was tempted to throw it at his head, he threw it against the wall again. More plaster fell.
‘How dare you. I’ve kept a roof over your head for the last fifteen years.’ His father raged
‘Yeah, and that’s about all.’ Joel raged back.
His father took a swing at him. 'I don't owe you.' Joel ducked and though he had always been afraid of his father drunken cuffs, he found, despite the thin skull diagnosis, he had no fear.
‘I’m out of this dump for good, old man,’ he laughed harshly as he pushed his father roughly backwards and made it down the steps and onto the street. Leaping onto his skate board, he was away. The breeze blew back his curls and he felt immense relief as he left 54 Delilah Street behind, and skated like mad to JD and Jason. The only missing piece in the new world he was constructing was Sharon. He didn't realised he'd moved from creating virtual worlds around himself to the real one. He thought he was doing this for Jason, but missed the fact that he was really trying to build a different family, to add the missing jigsaw pieces to his life. He had no idea what a puzzle it would prove to be.
As he skidded into Jason’s driveway, JD went berserk, slathering him with affection as he squeezed through the gate. At least he knew what a dog’s love was, though it would be very different with Sally Grey.
He spent the afternoon with JD, putting him through the hoops, running, playing, but he couldn’t lose the hot anger that boiled just below the surface. Then he remembered his phone and Jason coming to the hospital to see him. He was relieved to find it in his back pocket, though it was very flat. Jason had probably been to the hospital to pick him up. He could have run into Sharon’s sister and she might have told him he had gone home with Sharon. That would blow his plans. Why hadn’t he remembered Jason? What was wrong with his brain? Seemed his memory was still out at lunch. What an insult to Jason not to have phoned him. Joel wasn’t used to being cared about and he wasn’t used to the responsibility it creates. When his phone finally held its charge he found it was full of messages from Jason, also two from Sally. Hers simply said ‘R U OK?’ And ‘Where R U?’ He decided that his accident was simply too silly to tell her about.
Jason’s messages were more explicit, the last of five ending in ‘****! answer, will you?’
Ooops! At no time did Joel want to seem careless or ungrateful to Jason, especially now that he’d burned bridges behind him. He was his rock. Quickly he texted, ‘Sory, i’m ok. Styed w frend. Fone switched of, also memry.’ He liked texting. It was comforting. He could legitimately get away with shocking spelling. He found he was afraid of Jason’s reaction, then realised, he was very different from his father. He wouldn’t behave in the same way. One thing he’d worked out about relationships is that you have to be 'there’ and you have to ‘respond.’ He knew he’d have to learn fast if he didn’t want to offend everyone. There had been no role models to copy in his household.
He took a shovel and buried some of JD’s poo, then sat down with him under the tree in his yard. Anger still surged through his veins like molten metal and would not abate. His father had called him a delinquent. Is that what he wanted him to be? If he was bad would it absolve all guilt? Well, he wouldn’t be. He’d sit there and control his rage, just to spite him. Slowly, he realised it consisted of disappointment heaped on disappointment, years of it. Tears tried to squeeze out under his eye lids. Joel had not allowed himself to cry for years, and he wondered if the smack to his head had loosened things up a little too much. Thank God for JD. He didn’t judge, and obligingly licked the evidence off his face.
Jason arrived on dark. ‘Thought you might be back,’ was all he said as he went inside. Joel didn’t follow. He sat confused. Was Jason mad at him? His stomach lurched like a bag of snakes. Leaving home had opened a Pandora’s Box inside him and he didn’t want to spill it all over Jason.
After a long time, Jason came out. ‘Do you want to eat? Or maybe more appropriate, what’s eating you?’
‘Nothing.’
‘Yep, right!’
Joel sighed. Sharon’s comment bugged him. ‘The trouble with Jason is he never shared what he was feeling with me.’ He realised he was doing a ‘Jason’ on Jason. If that kind of behaviour got rid of someone like Sharon, he didn’t want to be the same. He decided he’d better learn to talk, so he said, ‘I pushed my dad over; he called me a delinquent and now I want to bust the world.’
Jason grinned and squatted down, ‘Yeah, I wish I could have done that.’
What? Busted the world?’
'No, my dad. I did bust the world and all it got me was jail.’
‘But you never got to thump your old man?’
‘Nup.’
‘That why you’re so bottled up?’
‘Me? Bottled up? Nar! I just get on with life. I’m a simple soul,’
‘Like yeah! I reckon you’re carrying enough shit to sink the Titanic.’
‘Speak for yourself,’ Jason returned the sling-shot. Joel seemed poised to sting him like a wasp, so he changed the subject, ‘The Titanic didn’t sink because she was full of shit. She hit an iceberg.’
‘Like Sharon did.’ muttered Joel, hanging on like a dog with a bone. Jason's glance held a warning. Joel new it was a punch below the belt, but he didn't care. Before his mind’s eye he saw Sharon, the Titanic, all love and celebration, running up against Iceberg Jason. He thought Jason’s eyes even looked like smashed ice - clear blue and full of little white shards. Joel supposed women would find them attractive. Women! He’d been away from school only a couple of days and Sally was firing frantic texts at him. He felt under siege. Maybe sh
e thought he was going back to his old ways, wagging, stealing etc.? Though he really needed to talk to someone, she was the last person he felt he could deal with. He felt embarrassed. Jason should understand, but would the Iceberg choose to share equally with him, or just listen? He fought the idea of being just another of Jason’s juvenile delinquents. He wanted to feel special and to be his friend. Jason turned and walked into the house. Joel got up and followed.
He could not understand why he wanted to tear the world apart, right now, after coping like a champion for so many years. The desire to go home and really show his father what it felt like was burning him up. He wanted to pour the stupid grog over his stupid head and smash the bottle over the same. All those bad moments in his life seemed to ball into one. If someone couldn’t help him soon, he feared he’d go ‘off his face.’ He put his head in his hands and felt every muscle in his body shake.
Jason shoved his chair back. Joel couldn’t look up at him. Insight told him he was at the same fork in the road where Jason had lost the plot. Jason had made his enraged decision to spill it on the world and the world had fought back. He once told him. ‘If you try to destroy the world, kid, it will return the compliment - ten times harder. Take it from me; it's not the way to go.’
There seemed no way out! Just as he felt he was in danger of imploding, Jason reached across and dropped a telephone book at his feet. He pushed a short length of flexible hose into Joel’s hand and said,
‘Hey, Thunder-God. Lay into the book before you blow a fuse.’
Pages flew in all directions and the loud crashing of the hose satisfied Joel’s need for chaos and destruction. Tears of rage flew in every direction until he’d finally transformed the heavy book into a pile of butterfly pages which continued to float delicately down off picture frame and light fixture long after his frenzy had ceased. He lay down amongst the carnage, exhausted and laughing.
As he sat up, flushed and disoriented, Jason shook his hand, ‘Congratulations, Looks like you’ve initiated yourself. You passed this one better than I did. I tore down signs, smashed windows, assaulted a policeman and ended up in a remand home.’
‘I’m OK only because you’re here,’ Joel looked up then. He could see the damage in Jason. He knew little of his friend’s past, nothing of his childhood, or of the misery he must have felt being locked up so young. Sharon was right. He made everyone else talk, but he didn’t talk enough. A person could stay in their own cocoon while still helping others, but that wasn't good enough for Joel.
‘I need a strong coffee,’ he muttered.
‘You don’t drink coffee.’
‘I do tonight. I’d ask for something stronger if it was legal.’
‘Then how about an Irish coffee with a little tipple in it?’
‘I’m a minor, remember. You’re a cop and you're breaking the law’
‘It’s not the first time.’ replied Jason. ‘What else do you need to tell me?’ He arched a brow.
‘I want your story first. Then, if you're lucky, I'll talk,’ Joel stated with a belligerent scowl.
Jason dropped his spoon. As he retrieved it, he replied sourly. ‘I’ve never been good at D and M’s that involve my story.’
‘Why would I be any better?’ Joel grouched back, just as sour.
Jason’s mouth twitched. He didn’t reply, but his mood darkened. Damned kid was holding him to ransom, again!
‘You first or nothing,’ repeated Joel. He wasn't prepared to lose this round.
Jason frowned as he carefully poured the cream onto the spoon and watched it creep over the surface of his coffee. ‘You’ve got no idea how much I hate repeating my stuff.’
‘Oh don’t I now?’ Joel stuck out a stubborn chin, but slopped his coffee in surprise at Jason's burst of laughter.
‘You’re a ripper, kid,’ he said, grinning down on him, ‘You make sure everyone's equal. What’s this called? Mentoring the mentor?’
‘Leave me out of your work tonight,’ snapped Joel, ‘Can’t we just be a couple of dudes having a conversation?’
‘OK. Shove me back in my box,’ chuckled Jason. He was wise enough to know it was important to let a young male win sometimes, though he was on uncertain ground himself. Joel seemed intent on taking him back to a time when he was so confused he could barely remember it. Not everything could be solved by Tai Kwan Do and boxing.
'Psychologists couldn't pry this out of me. I hope you know you're honoured.'
'And I hope you know you're honoured too.' Joel returned, firmly holding his ground.
Jason glared at him, the strange icy glare he often handed out, but he talked.
'My problem was that my situation appeared ideal from the outside, so no one could understand what I was going through. My father is a boxer, the twice over heavy weight world champ, Lars Lander.'
'You mean, the Mad Dane?'
'Yeah and is he mad!' No one around here knows he's my father, O.K.?'
Did he punch you up?
'Not much physically, nothing anyone could charge him for. He wanted me to be a champion, see. After he lost his last fight, he took it out on me. He'd make me run kilometres after school every night, running beside me, driving me along, yelling, 'faster, faster!' and punching me on the shoulder if I didn't. I was eight years old.'
Joel felt sympathy. 'Bad news! Nothing you could do about it back then.'
'He never stopped. I was constantly exhausted. He insisted I work out all the time and called me 'piss weak' whenever I begged to stop. I was interested in building things, engineering and creating little habitats. When he came home, he'd kick over what I made. I ended up so angry I couldn't breathe. There was no outlet. When I got asthma, he had to leave me alone. I was about eleven then and clearly going to follow my mother's tall thin shape, not a boxer's build at all. I was a great disappointment to him, something he never let me forget. If he introduced me at all, it was as his 'piss weak' son.'
'Cute guy!' muttered Joel.
'By thirteen or fourteen, I hit the street like a crazy bear, a mad mix of my dad and a demented eight year old. No one could make me do anything or talk any sense into me. It was all down hill from there.'
'What did your mum do?'
'At first we had nice times, but then I noticed she was weaker than me around him and I lost respect for her. She could have defended me, but she never did. She was 'piss weak.' Jason hadn't stopped moving the whole time the whole time he spoke. He took out a pile of delinquent files and slapped them on the counter.
'Your turn,' he growled. His residual anger was like steam left in the air after a kettle has boiled. It did not help Joel get started.
He sat frowning for a while, then he said. 'Put those things away first.' He could see now why Jason gave everyone close to him a lot of freedom. Young offenders saw him as the strong man, some saw him as a hero. He disciplined them very fairly and seemed to know exactly what line to take with each one. No one could call Jason 'piss weak.' Why didn't he talk about his struggle? Joel guessed it was because there'd been no one to talk to all through his young life - not even his mum. Ditto! He wondered if softening towards a woman made Jason feel 'piss weak?'
'Done mine. Your turn,' said Jason tightly.
'Seems like you got too much attention and I didn't get enough, but it landed us in the same place.'
'Yep. Your turn.'
'Alright. This is it, for what it's worth. My life feels like one big hole and I'm trying to fill it with meaningful things. Graffiti: JD: you.' He hesitated almost adding "Sharon," but Jason dropped "Sally?" in for him, then hesitated when he remembered he shouldn’t put words in client's mouths.
Joel continued, I don't know how to do this very well, but in music, I think they call it improvising. Anyway, I'm trying to improve - ise on all the things in my life. You want my history? I've really got nothing to say. It's a big black hole. I remember some good times, with dad and mum and me playing together, but that was when I was a little grommet. Then they st
arted to stay away in the pub night after night. I got so lonely I'd draw and draw and draw to make worlds for myself. I learned to keep out of their way when they were home because my father lost any kindness he had when he was drunk and my mother was too pissed to care. She was 'piss weak' in a different way to your's. You don't need to know any details, it's easy to guess them anyway. I used to feel angry when I saw kids who seem to have it good acting bad.'
'Yeah, like me. Because I was the great Lars Lander's son and we were rich, they all wanted to be me. Idiots!'
'O.K. I'd better put that one in me pipe and smoke it, hadn't I?' Joel said with a wry smile.
Jason gave him a glance of appreciation, 'You know where I reckon you have the edge on other kids? You're creative, so you think it's possible to change your situation. You don't just rail against it as I did - like a condemned pig on the rampage in a slaughterhouse. I wanted to fight something, but I didn't know what to fight.'
Joel shook his head. 'You're too hard on yourself, you're still being just like Lars Lander taught you to be. He didn't even let you breathe, so don't make it your fault.'
Jason cracked a smile, 'Thanks for the insight, doc. I've read kids become very perceptive around puberty, though it's true most of us lose our brains after that. A few find them again later on, if they're lucky.
'Yeah, 'said Joel dolefully, 'you just need to watch young guys trying to talk to girls. All the posing and bragging they go on with looks stupid to me. Maybe that's why I go blank around Sally.'
'Testosterone blues, drives men to booze,' Jason howled, imitating JD's mournful cry. He seemed a little lighter for having shared his childhood suffering. 'Let's clean this place up. It looks like a serious brawl's gone on in here.'
'It has,' said Joel, 'I Jihadded myself, and what's more, I won!'
Jason chucked him on the shoulder. 'You know, when I was your age, I pinched money off this old guy who wore a turban. He tried to help me. He said, 'Fight the good fight' lad, sort it out, do true Jihad.' Because I couldn't figure out what he meant, I thought he was a twit - as we do. What you said just then made it clear. You might be the best thing that ever happened to a worn out youth worker.'
Joel's chest swelled with pride. No one had said anything like that to him before.
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Note from Author. This is like a 30% sample of a complete ebook. Obviously, there are a few issues to be resolved, so I might continue it, if you want me to. 'Likes' and useful suggestions encourage authors and help them deliver better stories. Blog.
Poetry
What Ned Said
Susan Sowerby
This poem which won a place in the Bunbury writing for performance street festival, 'Shorelines,' It happened on a strange night when I was caught in a storm which kept me in my studio. A fellow artist, Lorraine Bawden, had sculptured a very good likeness of Ned Kelly. It was as though he was there and said what he wanted to say.