He never changed out of his work shirt for the walk home. The other guys rushed to change their gear as soon as the shift was over, or put on a sweatshirt, embarrassed by their uniform and the job it represented. They didn't want to be known as supermarket workers. But Dan was glad for the uniform, that it defined a station and gave him a role. He liked work and the routine of it, how his days and the week were shaped by the spread of his supermarket shifts.
Every time his dad came back from an interstate haul, he'd ask whether Dan had given a thought to his future. What was he going to do? A few months before, Dan had mentioned something about becoming a manager, thinking that might allay his father's concerns, get the prick off his back. His father had tried to remain impassive, but there was a moment, just a flash, like the ghost of an image under an old spent videotape there was a flicker in his eyes, just for a moment, of something like contempt. Dan had been mortified. 'Well,' his old man had said finally, after a long pause, 'just remember that a lot of those manager positions nowadays don't mean shit, Dan. They're just ways of making people believe they're something but in reality they don't pay you more, you're not learning any skills; it can be a dead end, you know that, don't you, son?'
Dan crossed over the railway track, his chest tight. Given a thought to your future, Dan?
He flexed his right hand, opening and closing it, stretching his fingers till he could feel them tingle, then clenching them in tight. Sometimes in the garden he came across dried-up plum kernels from fallen fruit that had been buried all winter and then resurfaced. He'd pick up a kernel, it would be shrivelled, the colour of the soil, and it would disintegrate into dust in his hand. That was the future, that's what had become of it.
His hand opened and closed.
He'd had a future. It had been as hard and as strong as the stony heart of an unripened plum, so strong it would have taken a hammer blow to crack it. He'd had that future for years but it too had crumbled into dust. His theory was that you only got one future to dream. He'd fucked it up. He'd failed and now it was gone.
He was walking through the suburbs. The sun had almost disappeared and the purple and grey half-light made everything seem colder. He concentrated on slowing his steps. He was nearly home.
Theo had a friend over from school, Joel, a sweet-faced shy boy, all elbows and legs, whom Regan called Spider behind his back; the boys were sitting on the couch, watching the television.
Theo was jumpy. 'An hour to go,' he said, the excitement making his voice rise. 'You're gonna watch, aren't ya?'
The TV commentary was already hystericaclass="underline" would the ceremony be any good, would the world like it, would the world give it their approval? One of the commentators couldn't stop talking about Sydney, saying the word over and over with the subtlety of a racecaller, making it three syllables. And underneath that sound he could hear that chant, that ugly stupid chant from the crowd: Aussie Aussie Aussie, Oi Oi Oi.
Let it be a failure. Please let it be a disaster.
He shook his head at Theo. 'Nah, mate, I'm going out.'
Theo drew his legs up to his chest, hugging his knees and looking deliberately in the opposite direction.
His mum appeared in the doorway. 'I'll heat up dinner for you, honey. How was work?'
He followed her into the kitchen, where she put a laden plate into the microwave, the aromatic sourness of chillies and ginger hanging in the air.
Dan got out his wallet, took out three notes and gave them to his father. Behind him, he sensed that his mother had tensed.
His father took the board money and pocketed it, muttered a quiet 'Thanks.'
'No problem.'
Dan opened the fridge. There was a six-pack of Cascade on the top shelf.
His first beer, that tasted of earth and light, the touch of the first summer sun on wet ground.
He pulled a bottle from the carton. 'Mind if I have a beer, Dad?'
His father nodded and Dan sipped his beer as his mother placed the plate of chicken stirfry in front of him.
He ate slowly, knowing that if he let himself eat too quickly he would wolf it all down, and that would mean he'd overeat. He remembered Bennie's sly remark about his belly, how it had got under his skin and made everyone laugh.
Dan put down his fork, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, then drank from the bottle.
'Is that all you're having?'
Dan and his father traded glances. Stop fussing, said his father's look, just sit down and leave the kid alone. As if he had spoken it aloud, his mum grabbed the plate and threw what was left in the bin. It was Dan giving his father the money for board that had upset his mother. It always did. She and his father had argued about it for years. His father thought that at eighteen a youth should take on adult responsibilities, but his mother would shoot back, 'No, I'm a wog and we don't do that to our children, we look after them.'
His father would groan and respond, ‘That’s what I am doing. Teaching children about responsibility is looking after them,it’s preparing them for the real world.’ His mother wouldn’t listen, saying she’d never allow it. ‘What about when they turn twenty-one?’ his father would counter. ‘Can we ask it of them then?’ and his mother would spit angry words back at him.
Then his father would lose his temper. ‘And what if he’s here when he’s forty-fucking-one? Are we still not allowed to ask for fucking board?’
‘No!’ his mother would scream. ‘Not even when he’s forty-fucking-one!’
It had all stopped the year before on his nineteenth birthday when Dan had come home from work and given his father three notes, a fifty, a twenty and a ten. ‘Will that do, Dad?’ he’d asked. ‘Is eighty a week fair for board?’
His father had smiled, a real, full smile, and Dan could still remember the pleasure on his father’s face and the relief in his father’s words. ‘Yeah, Danny, thanks, mate. I reckon that’s fair.’
‘Can I have another?’ Dan pointed to his empty bottle.
His father nodded but he wasn’t looking at Dan, he was looking at his wife, who had her back to them at the sink. He began to sing, ‘Something told me it was over when I saw you and her talkin’.’
Dan could see that his mother’s stance had relaxed, her hands were no longer gripping the bench.
His dad’s voice was low and resonant, there was a croak to it, but it suddenly lifted. ‘Something deep in my soul said, Cry, girl, when I saw you and that girl walkin’ by.’
‘Dan’s mother had turned and was smiling, and singing along. His dad kicked away the chair, and took her into his arms, and they swayed together, her hand draped around his shoulders and the other hand resting in the small of his back.
‘I would rather, rather go blind, boy, Than see you walk away from me, child.’
Regan had slipped into the kitchen and leaned on a chair watching their parents dance. Dan thought they looked so good, dressed up to go out dancing at their favourite club. They would dance all night, to Motown and to rock and roll. His mum was wearing a strapless black-and-white-checked dress, finely patterned red lace stockings and her best shoes, shiny black pumps. His dad was wearing his favourite cowboy shirt, black with white piping, and his black suede oxford dancing shoes. His hair was gelled and quiffed and made him look youthful, even though there were flickers of white in his once sandy-blond hair. They looked beautiful together. Dan stole a glance at his sister. Regan was scowling. She hadn’t cut her hair in months, it hung lank and greasy; her clothes were all cheap, sweatshirts and jeans from the Northland mall. She isn’t trying, thought Dan, she doesn’t dare compete with Mum. He swigged his beer, looking down at his own crumpled work shirt, the shapeless grey trousers and nondescript white sneakers. His mother and father looked good, their children looked ordinary.