Chapter 6 #2
Something made me gravitate to him today. I need to vent about the Pride shit. Even if Doug doesn’t have a lot to say, he’ll tinker with a car and listen to me talk.
When I rock up, the front desk chick – a tough old bird named Raelene – congratulates me on a cracking season and takes a selfie with me (her fourth).
She’s an Eagles fan. Being famous gets irritating sometimes – like at the pub when some turbo wants to kick off to prove he’s tougher than an AFL player – but meeting fans isn’t usually too hard on the old ego.
When I get into the workshop, Doug’s on his back on the oil-stained concrete, head underneath the engine of a shiny red Falcon with the custom number plate S3ND1T.
‘Yeah, some idiot’s used the wrong glue putting the headers back on,’ Doug’s voice wafts up to his other mechanic, a skinny bloke with a goatee named Mick, who nods at me.
‘You got a visitor, Dougie,’ Mick says.
‘Just me little brother Kade, he can fucken wait,’ Doug replies.
Mick sticks his tongue out at me. I hate being called Kade and Doug knows it.
‘How’d you know it was me?’ I blurt out.
‘Recognised the tune of your engine when you drove in,’ Doug mutters, tinkering with a pipe I can’t see.
‘Shit, impressive,’ I say.
‘I can see your shoes, dipshit,’ Doug adds.
He rolls himself out from under the Falcon, issues instructions to Mick and wipes his hand on a rag so black it makes his fingers dirtier. ‘No footy today, bruz?’
‘Game’s tomorrow,’ I say. I wanna add, As if you don’t already know.
Doug pretends to not follow my career even though he’s an Eagles supporter.
Not everyone has a brother who’s an AFL star.
Most guys would be stoked, wouldn’t they?
Cheering their brother on, coming to games, asking for tickets?
Doug only comes to a game twice a season, and always bails early.
Bit shit that your brother becomes a big deal and you don’t get around him.
Reckon he’s just jealous I got more famous than he’ll ever be.
Doug leads me into the break room and rummages in a drawer for a lighter.
Doug’s break room is as festy as herpes.
The faded posters of Peter Brock and Daniel Ricciardo are ripped.
The sink is always dripping onto a saturated sponge that gets more brown every time I visit.
Dog-eared copies of Just Cars and Street Machine magazines are strewn everywhere.
The cheap microwave is splattered with dried curry sauce.
The only scungier things in the workshop are the dunnies, and Doug himself.
I dunno what went wrong with my older brother.
He’s like the sacrificial sausage you chuck on a barbecue to soak up the grease before the grill is ready for the prime cuts of meat.
Or the first pancake of a batch that doesn’t turn out fully cooked.
Scars aside, Doug’s face is munted, like his eyes are too far apart and there’s something not fully sharp about him.
I’ve never seen him with a chick. I don’t think he’s into dudes, either.
He refers to utes as sexy so often I wonder if he cracks a fat looking at cars.
If I ever walk in here and he’s humping a Commodore via the exhaust pipe I deadset wouldn’t even be shocked.
Doug finds his lighter. We head out the back to stand in the sun while he smokes. Doug starts our catch-up the same way he always does. ‘How’s tricks, cob?’
I use the term ‘catch-up’ loosely. Doug never has much to say. Today follows the same Doug-style bullet points as always:
I tell Doug footy’s good and he says, ‘Shit season for youse, isn’t it?’
I tell Doug the team’s rebuilding and he says, ‘Bin saying that a while now, ay?’
I tell Doug I’m enjoying playing under Roo and he says, ‘Not gonna get a premiership by having a good time, but, are ya?’
I tell myself not to break Doug’s nose.
I ask Doug how he’s doing, and he says, ‘Not bad, things are picking up.’ Things are always ‘picking up’. They’ve never picked up fully, or dropped down, just in a permanent state of picking up.
I ask Doug if he’s heard from Dad and he says, ‘Nah, not since I saw you last. You?’ Neither of us has any issue with our old man, he just doesn’t talk much.
He phones me about my game performance every week and that’s all we talk about.
Less a father talking to his son and more an investor checking the performance of his shares.
Dad was a gun forward for East Freo in his heyday and never made it to AFL level, so he’s always trying to live his old dreams through me, I reckon.
He and Mum visit Perth three times a year, always during footy season, so Dad can come to a game and meet players in the rooms after.
He once ended up drunk on Channel 7 being interviewed by Roaming Brian. Cringe as fuck.
I ask Doug if he’s heard from Mum and he says, ‘Yeah, called her for her birthday. Did you?’ I did: we spoke for four minutes that felt like four hours cos I have less to say to my mother than I do to my father.
She has no interest in footy other than making sure I’m avoiding injuries.
She always asks about how my elderly neighbour Irene is going, cos they met once in the corridor.
While Doug and I are swapping bullet points, Mick comes out and says, ‘Dougie, I’ve got the SS opened up now – could you take a look for us?’
Doug flicks his durry to the bitumen and snuffs the life out of it with his work boot. ‘Yeah, orright,’ he says. He turns to me. ‘Oi, I seen Richelle hung out with The Veronicas the other day. She’s getting pretty famous, ay? More famous than you even. You still see her when you go to Melbourne?’
I know the ‘more famous than you’ line is the only reason he brought Richelle up.
‘Yeah, I saw that on her Insta. Yeah, we still catch up. If ya know what I mean.’ I waggle my tongue.
Doug flicks my arm. ‘Fucken showpony,’ he mutters, before offering me his fist to bump. ‘Gotta check this SS out. Good seeing ya, Kade.’
I don’t wanna leave without unloading to Doug about the Pride shit. Of all the people in my family, Doug’s the closest thing I have to a confidant.
‘Uh – I wanted to talk to ya about somethin’, actually,’ I splutter.
Doug’s already with Mick, heading back into the workshop. ‘No worries,’ he says. ‘Walk and talk.’
I glance at Mick. I guess there’s no reason I can’t say this in front of him.
Me, Mick and Doug reach a canary-yellow Holden ute parked under a hoist.
‘Sexy beast, this SS, isn’t it?’ Doug says, caressing the side of the ute.
The ute’s hood is propped open on metal struts.
The silver case that normally covers the engine has been lifted off so the engine’s inner workings are exposed, open cylinders with no fluid in them.
It reminds me of the kangaroos you see dead on the side of the Brand Highway, red, bloody intestines hanging out for birds to feast on.
‘There’s a cylinder misfiring,’ Mick tells Doug. ‘C7. Looks like a faulty lifter.’
‘Yep,’ Doug confirms. ‘Get Raelene to call the customer with your quote for repairs.’ He turns to me, ‘Didn’t you wanna say something?’
I hesitate, then tell him about the AFL’s Pride Round and the rainbow guernsey.
Mick and Doug both have expressions like they drank brake fluid.
‘Yuck,’ Mick says. ‘Wish they’d keep this faggot shit out of sport.’
‘Exactly,’ I say. ‘I wanna do something. Boycott it.’
‘Don’t fucken boycott it, dickhead,’ Doug says. ‘Just how it goes these days. No getting away from it. You never bin full-on anti-gay before. What’s changed?’
‘Nobody was forcing us to support it before,’ I explain. ‘It’s like I’m being asked to condone it, or whatever.’
‘Nobody should have to do that,’ Mick says. ‘Fuck ’em. Boycott it. You’ll be in the news. Take a stand for common sense.’
I was hoping Doug would say this. Hearing it from Mick makes me feel stupid. I hold up my fist in solidarity, but it feels like I just pledged allegiance to the Flat Earth Society.
‘Don’t,’ Doug says. ‘Woke shit is annoying, everyone knows that. But not worth risking your career over. Just keep ya head down and …’ he smirks ‘… suck it up.’
Doug exchanges a look with Mick, who makes a loud slurping noise, and they both piss ’emselves laughing.
‘Yeah, fuck youse both,’ I mutter, making the ‘wanker’ gesture with my hand.
Mick heads into the office, and Doug uses his blackened knuckles to wipe away tears of laughter.
‘Bro, I gotta get back to work,’ he says. ‘Seriously, what did faggots ever do to you? Don’t torpedo your career over this. Good luck for the game tomorrow.’
What a waste of time. Doug was no help. Nobody gets why I can’t ignore this or shake it off. I can’t tell anyone without telling them there’s something misfiring inside me, like the cylinder in the SS engine.
And if anyone ever finds out, they’ll know Doug isn’t the munted pancake of the family. I am.