Dad cuffs me in the kitchen, for the third time, and that’s when I decide to go.
I can’t stay here anymore, I can’t do it. I’ve been through this so many times already: the energy in the air, the building tension. We’ve performed all the drama in these scenarios before.
The small retaliations have started: Dad moving my crutches, banging into me in the kitchen, picking at me for no reason until I snap back. The cuffing – like this morning, when I got in his way at the sink – is the current stage in a predictable cycle. The next stage is when the damage gets done.
And I’m in no shape to be dealing with it, so I’m basically defenceless. I can hardly balance on my crutches and the throbbing in my thigh over the last few days has been keeping me awake at night. I thought the bloody thing would’ve healed by now. I’m out of pain meds, so I’m screwed.
By the time Friday comes around, all I can think about is getting outta this house, even for a few hours. The smell of it, the hum in the rooms, the way Dad stalks around… If I don’t get some space soon, I’m gonna go fucking nuts.
So I have a few beers with Dad in the late afternoon to move things along. Wait out the hours before he crashes on the couch in front of the telly. When he’s good and snoring, I grab my crutches and close the screen door behind me as quietly as I can.
The cool breeze on the front porch is a relief, but it’s not enough. I wobble my way down the stairs. I guess I’ve had more than a few beers.
The ute’s parked right up near the house but I can’t drive it, of course. I’ve always thought Dad’s insistence that his vehicles be manual was a vaguely cool retro thing. Now it’s just another barrier to leaving.
Well, fuck it. Fuck the ute. I’ve walked to the Five Flags from here before. And it’s a clear full-moon night, I’ll be able to see where I’m going.
I’m on the road before I think about it too long.
I’ve got my jacket on and my wallet in my pocket, I don’t need anything else. My leg is hurting, but at least I’m not lying in bed feeling like I’m suffocating, trying to ignore the pain. I swing through my crutches to keep up momentum. I’ve done crazier shit than this.
For the first thirty minutes, I’m savouring it. The moonlit road I’m on, the smell of the wheat in the paddocks, the sneaky jubilation. After that, I start to forget where I’m going. Thecrrunch-crrunchof my rubber crutch-stops slipping on the sandy gravel becomes a monotonous soundtrack. I’m sweating under my clothes; in combination with the cold night air, it burns and chills me in turn.
By the halfway point, my armpits are aching and my leg pulses in time with my swaying gait. I run my tongue over my parched lips. Right now, the only plan is to make it to somewhere I can get a drink. It doesn’t even have to be alcoholic.
I’m not in my room at home, though. I’m not trapped. I feel apprehensively, excitingly free.
I get into Five Mile…maybe an hour later, maybe more, I’ve totally lost track. My head is throbbing and my leg is dragging, but I don’t care: I’ve made it. When I push through the door of the Flags and up to the bar, I feel like celebrating.
Because it’s a Friday night, I’m not the only person in a celebratory mood. It’s after nine, but the bar is loud, well-populated.
Col Geraldson is taking beer orders faster than he can serve them. ‘Back again, Harris?’
‘Yes, yes, I am.’ I smile wide as I lean my crutches on the wooden ledge, pull my wallet out of my jacket pocket and throw it on the bar. ‘I’d like to get completely shit-faced, thanks very much.’
Col just raises his eyebrows. ‘Okay, then. Sounds good.’
My T-shirt is sticking to me, and that first long cold pull from my glass is like sex. Christ, I needed that. I slam the rest, bang the empty glass down, break out in goosebumps. There’s another beer already waiting for me. It tastes almost as good as the first.
Thirst slaked at last, I turn around to see what’s happening in the pub. Joe Krane is arm-wrestling with Taylor Schmidt to a lot of raucous laughter and shouting. A bunch of old-timers nearby is threatening to tip a beer on them. A couple of guys from Murrayville are standing in the pool-room doorway, holding their cues and having a smoke, yelling encouragement. Some dickhead has put Jackie Onassis on the jukebox; the brassy chorus is belting out so hard, Col’s forced to lean over the bar to hear the orders.
I spot Snowie Geraldson’s white mop and Hawaiian shirt. He’s holding court at one of the tables, flags me over. Col sends a UDL down the bar and I stick it in the waistband of my jeans so I can manage my crutches, finally make it to the table. ‘Fuck, is it loud enough in here?’
Snowie laughs. ‘You wanna hear a joke? What’s a redneck’s last words?’
I know this one. ‘“Hold my beer and watch this”?’
‘Ah, shit, mate, you stole my punchline!’
‘It’s old as the hills, ya dumb bastard.’ I crack my can, hold it up for admiration. ‘Mate – this is living. Right here.’ I sink about half of it in the first swallow. My throat seems to go dry the moment I stop drinking.
‘Nice one.’ Snowie grins, slides a glass across the table in my direction. ‘Here you go, get that into ya.’
It’s a shot of vodka, from the bottle he’s got on his right. I’m not usually a vodka-drinking man, but tonight any contributions to the ‘Get Harris Wasted’ fund are gratefully received.
I down the shot, pass the glass back with my eyes watering. ‘Cheers.’
‘Bottoms up.’ Snowie pours, belts back a shot of his own.
