'Yeah.'
We exchanged a look of mutual friendliness and I felt much more at ease in the firing line of the scissors, the chair, and the barber.
He started cutting and like I said a minute ago, I reviewed the woman on the cover situation. My theory on this subject was and still is that I obviously desire the physicality of a woman. Yet, I honestly believe that that part of my desire for a girl is somewhere on the surface of my soul, whereas further and much deeper inside is the fiercer desire to please her, treat her right, and be immersed by the spirit of her.
I honestly believe that.
Honestly.
Still, I had to stop thinking about it and talk to the barber. That's another rule of the barber shop. If you talk to the man and get him to like you, maybe he won't screw it up. That's what you hope for anyway. It doesn't mean you'll have instant success, but it might help, so you try it. There are no guarantees in the world of barber shops. It's a gamble no matter which way you look at it. I had to start talking, and fast.
'So how's business?' I asked, as the barber cut his way through the thickness of my furry hair.
'Aah, you know mate.' He stopped, and smiled at me in the mirror. 'Here 'n there. Keepin' my head above water. That's the main thing.'
We talked for quite a while after that, and the barber told me how long he'd been working in the city and how much people have changed. I agreed with everything he said, with a dangerous nod of my head or a quiet 'Yeah, that sounds about right'. He was a pretty nice guy to tell you the truth. Very big. Quite hairy. A husky voice.
I asked if he lived upstairs from the shop and he said, 'Yep, for the last twenty-five years.' That was when I pitied him a little, because I imagined him never going anywhere or doing anything. Just cutting hair. Eating dinner alone. Maybe microwave dinners (though his dinners couldn't be much worse than the ones Mrs Wolfe cooked, God bless her).
'Do you mind me askin' if you ever got married?' I asked him.
'Of course I don't mind,' he answered. 'I had a wife but she died a few years ago. I go down the cemetery every weekend, but I don't put flowers down. I don't talk.' He sighed a bit and he was very sincere. Truly. 'I like to think I did enough of that when she was alive, you know?'
I nodded.
'It's no good once a person's dead. You gotta do it when you're together, still living.'
He'd stopped cutting for a few moments now, so I could continue nodding without risk. I asked, 'So what do you do when you're standin' there, at the grave?'
He smiled. 'Just remember. That's all.'
That's nice, I thought, but I didn't say it. I only smiled at the man behind me in the mirror. I had a vision of the large hairy man standing there at the cemetery, knowing that he gave everything he could. I also imagined myself there with him, on a dark grey day. Him in his white barber's coat. Me in the usual. Jeans. Flanno. Spray jacket.
'Okay?' he turned and said to me in the vision.
'Okay?' he said in the shop.
I woke back into reality and said, 'Yeah, thanks a lot, it's good', even though I knew it would be standing up within forty-eight hours. I was happy though, but not only for the haircut. The conversation too.
With my hair congregating around my feet, I paid twelve dollars and said, 'Thanks a lot. It was nice talking to you.'
'Same here,' and the large hairy barber smiled and I felt guilty about the magazine. I could only hope he would understand the different layers of my soul. After all, he was a barber. Barbers are supposed to have the answers to running the country, along with taxi drivers and obnoxious radio commentators. I thanked him again and said goodbye.
Once outside, it was still mid-afternoon so Why not? I told myself. I might as well head over to Glebe.
Needless to say, I got there and stood outside the girl's house.
Stephanie.
It was as good a place as any to watch the sun collapse behind the city, and after a while I sat down against a wall and thought again about the barber.
The importance of it was that he and I were really doing similar things, only in reverse order. He was remembering. I was anticipating. (Hopeful, almost ludicrous anticipation, I admit.) Once it was dark, I decided I'd better get home for the dinner. It was leftover steak, I think, with vegetables boiled into oblivion.
I got up.
I slipped my hands into my pockets.
Then I looked, hoped and walked, in that order.
Pathetic, I know, but it was my life, I guess. No point denying it.
It turned out to be later than I thought when I finally left, and I decided to get the bus back to my own neighbourhood.
At the bus stop there was a handful of people waiting. There was a man with a briefcase, a chain-smoking woman, a guy who looked like a labourer or carpenter, and a couple who leaned on each other and kissed a while as they waited.
I couldn't help it.
I watched.
Not obviously, of course. Just a quick look here and there.
Damn.
I got caught.
'What are you lookin' at?' The guy spat his words at me. 'Don't you have anything better to do?'
Nothing.
That was my reply.
Absolutely nothing.
'Well?'
Still nothing.
Then the girl got stuck into me as well.
'Why don't y' go and stare at someone else, y' weirdo.' She had blonde hair, green eyes shrunken in under the streetlight and a voice like a blunt knife. She beat me with it. 'Y' wanker.'
Typical.
You get called that name so many times around here, but this time it hurt. I guess it hurt because it was a girl. I don't know. In a way, it was kind of depressing that this was what we'd come to. We can't even wait for a bus in peace.
I know, I know. I should have barked back at them, nice and hard, but I didn't. I couldn't. Some Wolfe, ay. Some wild dog I turned out to be. All I did was steal one last look, to see if they were about to level some final fragments of abuse at me.
The guy was also blond. Not tall or short. He wore dark pants, boots, a black jacket and a sneer.
Meanwhile, the briefcase man checked his watch. The chain smoker lit up another. The labourer shifted his weight from one foot to the other.
Nothing more was said, but when the bus came, everyone pushed on and I was last.
'Sorry.'
When I got on and tried to pay, the driver told me that fares had just gone up and I didn't have enough money for a ticket.
I got off, smiled ruefully and stood there.
The bus was pretty empty.
As I started walking, I watched it pull away and shove itself along the street. Many thoughts staggered through me, including:
- How late I'd be for dinner.
- Whether or not anyone would ask where I'd been.
- Whether Dad wanted Rube and me to work with him on Saturday.
- If the girl named Stephanie would ever come out and see me (if she knew I was there at all).
- How much longer it would take for Rube to get rid of Octavia.
- If Steve clung to the memory of the look we'd exchanged on Monday night as often as I did.
- How my sister Sarah was doing lately. (We hadn't spoken for a while.) - Whether or not Mrs Wolfe was ever disappointed in me or knew that I had turned out such a lone figure.
- And how the barber was feeling above his shop.
I also realised as I walked, then began to run, that I didn't even have any bad feelings towards the couple who'd abused me. I knew I should have, but I didn't. Sometimes I think I need a bit more mongrel in me.
the cemetery
We move on, but the dog still keeps his distance. There are no words. No questions.
He takes me out, beyond the city, to a darkness that smells like evil at first. As we get closer, though, I realise it isn't evil we walk towards at all. It's death.
Just mild-mannered death, in all its patience.
We stop u
nder a charcoal sky, and I know that this is the graveyard of the world. It holds every person that's ever lived and died, and every person that's going to live and die. We're all here. Everyone.
The dog stops.
His head hangs.
It always hangs. Almost sags.
There are graves as far as the eye can see--an infinity of death.
We move through it until the dog sees another person simply standing at a grave.
She holds no flowers or spoken words in her hands.
It's just a person, remembering.
She sees us, takes a last look at the grave and leaves.
We walk.
Heads down, to where she stood.
When we get there, I look at the name on the grave. There are words I can't decipher, and dates I can't read.
I can only read the name:
CAMERON WOLFE.
I hope it's true.
4
THIS DOG'S AN ABSOLUTE EMBARRASSMENT,' SAID RUBE, and I knew that some things would never change. They would only slip away and return.
After the whole bus stop issue, I got home, and after dinner, Rube and I were taking Miffy, our neighbour's midget dog, for his usual walk. As always, we wore our hoods over our heads so no-one could recognise us, because in the words of Rube, the sight of Miffy was an absolute shocker.
'When Keith gets another dog,' he suggested, 'we'll tell him to get a Rottweiler. Or a Doberman. Or at least something we can be seen in public with.'
We stopped at an intersection.
Rube bent down to Miffy.
In an over-friendly voice, he said, 'Aren't you an ugly little bastard Miffy, ay? Aren't you? Yes you are. You are you know,' and the dog licked its lips and panted quite happily really. If only he had some idea that Rube was giving him a good mouthful. We crossed the street.
My feet dragged.
Rube's feet ambled.
Miffy pranced, and his chain jingled next to him, in time with his breathing.
Looking down at him, I realised he had the body of a rodent and the fur of something that can only be called stupendous. Like he'd gone a thousand rounds with a spin dryer. The problem was, we happened to love that dog, in spite of everything. Even that night, when we got home, I gave him the piece of steak Sarah couldn't finish at dinner. Unfortunately, it was a bit too tough for Miffy's pitiful little teeth and he nearly choked on it.
'Bloody hell Cam,' Rube laughed. 'What are y' tryin' to do to the poor little bastard? He's gaggin' on it.'
'I thought it'd be all right.'
'All right, my arse. Look at him.' He pointed. 'Look at him!'
'What should I do?' I asked.
Rube had an idea. 'Maybe you oughta get it out of his mouth, chew it up a bit and then give it to him.'
'What?' I looked at him. 'You want me to put that in my mouth?'
'That's right.'
'Maybe you should.'
'No way.'
So basically, we pretty much let Miffy choke a bit. In the end it didn't sound all that serious anyway.
'It'll build his character,' Rube suggested. 'Nothin' like a good choking to toughen a dog up.' We both watched intently as Miffy eventually finished off the steak.
When he was done and we were sure he hadn't choked himself to death, we took him home.
'We should just throw him over the fence,' Rube said, but we both knew we never would. There's a big difference between watching a dog half-choke and throwing him over the fence. Besides, our neighbour Keith would be pretty unthrilled with us. He could be a bit unpleasant, Keith, especially when it came to that dog of his. You wouldn't think that such a hard man would own such a fluffy kind of dog, but I'm sure he probably just blamed it on his wife.
'It's the wife's dog,' I can imagine him telling the boys at the pub. 'I'm just lucky I've got those two shithead boys next door to walk him--their old lady makes 'em do it.' He could be a hard man, Keith, but okay nonetheless.
Speaking of hard men, it turned out that Dad did want our help on the upcoming Saturday. He pays us quite generously now, and he's always pretty happy. A while back, like I've said before, when he struggled to get work, he was pretty miserable, but these days it was good to work with him. Sometimes we went and got fish 'n chips for lunch, and we played cards on top of Dad's small, dirty red esky, but only as long as we all worked our guts out. Cliff Wolfe was a fan of working your guts out, and to be fair, so were Rube and I. We were also fans of fish 'n chips and cards though, even if it was usually the old man who won. Either he won or the game was taking too long and he cut it short. Some things can't be helped.
What I haven't mentioned is that Rube also had another job. He left school last year and got an apprenticeship with a builder, despite getting an abysmal result in his final exams.
I remember when he got them delivered.
He opened the envelope next to the slanted, slurred front gate of our house.
'How'd y' go?' I asked.
'Well Cam,' he smiled, as if he was thoroughly pleased with himself. 'I can sum it up in two words. The first word is completely. The second word is shitbouse.'
And yet, he got a job.
Straight away.
Typical Rube.
He didn't need to work with the old man on Saturdays, but for some reason, he did. Maybe it was an act of respect. Dad asked so Rube said yes. Maybe he didn't want anyone to think he was lazy. I don't know.
Either which way, we were working with ol' Cliff that weekend, and he woke us nice and early. It was still dark.
We were waiting for Dad to get out of the bathroom (which he's always likely to leave in a pretty horrendous state, smell-wise), when Rube and I decided we'd get the cards out early.
As Rube dealt the cards at the kitchen table, I recalled what happened a few weeks earlier, when we had a game during breakfast. It wasn't a bad idea, but somehow I managed to spill my cornflakes all over the deck because I was still half-asleep. Even this week there was still a dried cornflake glued to a card I threw onto the out-pile.
Rube picked it up.
Examined it.
'Huh.'
Me: 'I know.'
'You're pitiful.'
'I know.' I could only agree.
The toilet flushed, the water ran, and Dad came out of the bathroom.
'We go?'
We nodded and gathered up the cards.
At the job, Rube and I dug hard and talked and laughed. I'll admit that Rube's always good for a bit of a laugh. He was telling me a story about an old girlfriend of his who always munched on his ears.
'In the end I had to buy her some bloody chewy, otherwise I wouldn't have my ears any more.'
Octavia, I thought.
I wondered what story he would have about her in a few weeks' time, when it was dead and gone and thrown out. Her searching eyes, ruffled hair and human legs and nice feet. I wondered what quirks of hers he'd have to talk about. Maybe she insisted on him touching her leg in a movie, or liked turning her fingers in his hand. I didn't know.
It was quick.
I spoke.
I asked.
'Rube?'
'What?'
He stopped digging and looked at me.
'How much longer for you and Octavia?'
'A week. Maybe two.'
There was nothing for me to do but continue digging then, and the day wandered past.
At lunch, the fish was greasy and great.
The chips were sprayed with salt and drenched in vinegar.
When we ate, Dad looked at the paper, Rube took the TV guide and I started writing more words in my head. No more cards today.
That night, Mrs Wolfe asked me how everything was going at school, and I returned to my earlier thoughts that week of whether or not she'd had cause lately to be disappointed in me. I told her everything was all right. For a moment, I debated whether I should tell someone about the words I'd started writing down, but I couldn't. In a way, I felt ashamed, even though my writing was th
e one thing that whispered okayness in my ear. I didn't speak it, to anyone.
We cleaned up together, before dinner's leftovers had a chance to get stagnant, and she told me about the book she was reading called My Brother Jack. She said it was about two brothers and how one of them rose up but still regretted the way he lived and the way he was.
'You'll rise up one day,' were her second-last words. 'But don't be too hard on yourself,' were her last.
When she left and I was standing alone in the kitchen, I saw that Mrs Wolfe was brilliant. Not smart-brilliant, or any particular kind of brilliant. Just brilliant, because she was herself and even the wrinkles around her ageing eyes were the shaded colour of kindness. That was what made her brilliant.
'Hey Cameron.' My sister Sarah came to me later on. 'You feel like goin' out to Steve's game tomorrow?'
'Okay,' I replied. I had nothing better to do.
'Good.'
On Sunday, Steve would be playing his usual game of football, but at a different ground to the local, out more Maroubra way. It was only Sarah and me who went to watch. We went up to his apartment and he drove us out there.
Something big happened at that game.
the colour of kindness
We arrive back in the city from the graveyard, and the night is still beginning.
As we stagger forward, I think about the colour of kindness, realising that its colours and shades are not painted onto a person. They're worn in.
The dog glances at me.
He knows my thoughts.
Soon he stops again, and we're standing in front of a building that spires to the sky.
It has glass doors, like dark mirrors, and we stand.
The dog barks.
A defiant, deep bark, making me stare at my reflection. I have to.
I look straight into me and see the colour of awkwardness and uncertainty and longing.
And for the first time ever, I don't shrug myself away from that. I get inside it, to feel the force of it.
I get ready.
To climb through it.
5
ON THE WAY UP TO STEVE'S, I WONDERED WHAT THE HELL my sister Sarah was going to do with her life. She walked next to me, and most men who walked past us watched her. Many of them turned around once they'd gone past and took a second look at her body. It seemed that to them, that's all she was. The thought of it made me a little sick (not that I can talk), and I hoped she would never end up actually being that life.
'Friggin' perverts,' she said.
Which gave me hope.
The thing is, I think we're all perverts. All men. All women. All disgruntled little bastards like me. It's funny to think of my father as a pervert, or my mother. But somewhere, in the crevices of their souls, I'm sure they've slipped sometimes, or even dived in. As for me, I feel like I live in there at times. Maybe we all do. Maybe if there's any beauty in my life, it's the climbing out.