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 heydayand 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.
