Davo's Little Something (6 page)

‘Alright.'

Davo stared at her for a second not quite believing what he'd heard. ‘What was that?'

‘I said alright, I'd like to go.'

Davo tried to speak but somehow his tongue seemed to be getting in the way. ‘Yeah. . . well. Okay then,' he finally blurted out, almost swallowing the words.

‘I'm supposed to be going out with a couple of girlfriends on Saturday night, but I should be able to get out of it alright. I'll tell you what.' Sandra took a biro and a small notebook from the pocket of her white uniform. ‘Here's my phone number, ring me on Saturday afternoon to make sure. But it'll be okay.' She tore the page off and handed it to Davo who put it in the pocket of his windcheater. ‘Now don't forget to ring me will you?'

‘No. No I'll ring for sure.' Davo was still slightly dumbfounded. Shit! I can't believe this he thought. She said yes. Just like that. I don't believe it. Then he noticed her glance a little cautiously over her shoulder.

‘Hello, here's the boss back. I'd better keep doing what I was doing.' She bent down, picked up a few more bottles of conditioner and continued packing the shelves; rearranging the other bottles so she could fit them in.

Davo continued to stare at her in disbelief for a few more seconds till he realised the man she had pointed out as the boss was looking over at them. Well I'd better not stand around here like a Lowes dummy he thought. I suppose I'd best make a move.

‘Anyway, Sandra. Give us that toothpaste and those tissues and I'll get going.'

‘Very good, sir,' she replied, with a brassy grin. She walked around to one of the other aisles and got the two articles which she handed to Davo who was following sheepishly about two
steps behind her. There you are, sir, Kleenex tissues and Colgate fluoride. And . . . something for the PMT was it?'

‘Ah . . . you needn't worry about that, miss. I might just get the doctor to change my pill.'

‘Good idea, sir. I've noticed you're getting quite a bit of hair on your upper lip.' She pushed her finger into Davo's chest. ‘What about round your nipples.'

Davo felt that good he wanted to burst out laughing and kick his heels together as he followed her over to the cash register and paid her.

There you are, sir,' she said pleasantly, as she handed Davo the two articles in a white paper bag with the name of the pharmacy on it. Thank you very much. And don't forget Saturday night,' she added with a whisper.

‘As good as gold,' whispered Davo. ‘Thank you, miss.' He smiled at her for a moment then turned and walked casually from the shop.

Sandra had a smile on her face too as she watched him walk out the door. Well he finally got round to asking me our she thought whimsically, as Davo disappeared amongst the other shoppers. I don't suppose I can actually accuse him of sexual harassment or monstering me. It's only taken him a year. She couldn't help but chuckle to herself as she stared out the door after him.

‘Are you alright, Sandra?' came a voice to her rear.

‘Huh?' She turned around to see the owner looking at her curiously. ‘Yes. Sure, Mr Gilmore. It was just something that customer said—that's all.' She smiled at the owner and went back to stacking the shelves.

The sun had started to go down and a chilly, westerly wind was whipping along the quickly darkening, concrete canyon of Oxford Street Bondi Junction as Davo strode past Grace Bros towards Bondi Road and the warmth of home. The people huddled at the bus-stops or swarming along the bleak, windy footpaths blinked their eyes against the dust and grit swirling in the air and buried their necks further into the collars of their jackets as they cursed the bitter westerly that chafed their lips and stung their ears. Jesus I reckon I'll be wearing
something a bit warmer than this tomorrow thought Davo, stuffing his hands deeper into the pockets of his windcheater. He felt the piece of paper with Sandra's phone number on it, stopped, pulled it out and opened it. Have a look at that. Can you bloody believe it. He stood there smiling and shaking his head, stared at it for a moment or two before folding it neatly and placing it in a safe part of his wallet. He jogged across Oxford Street to get a newspaper off a kid who was still shivering despite a heavy layer of scarves and jackets then, at a brisk pace, headed up Bondi Road; despite the cold Davo was smiling and whistling and walking along like he had wings on his feet.

The six pm news was just starting when Davo walked into his home unit and turned on the kitchen radio, hitting the switch for the electric kettle at the same time. He rubbed his hands together and stared out the plate glass, sliding kitchen door that led onto a balcony with a good view across Bondi Road and Waverley Oval. One of the local rugby league teams was training on the main ground. On the adjacent fields several other teams of young men were playing touch football under the milky, yellow glow thrown out by the ground lights which had just blinked on. Even from where he stood Davo could see how cold and miserable it looked and gave a little shudder; he was glad it was them running around out there in the wintry darkness and not him.

The unit being on the second floor, Davo got quite a good view of the oval and beyond and with the two bedrooms at the back, he missed nearly all the traffic noise of busy Bondi Road. Sometimes he'd go for a jog round the park adjacent to the oval for twenty or thirty minutes and maybe do a few sit-ups in his large garage downstairs but training was never Davo's forte. He was always going to put a proper gym in the garage but the longer he left it the more he seemed to lose interest, plenty of swimming in the summer months would do him; besides, working in a butcher shop was exercise enough wasn't it?

He made a cup of coffee and started thumbing idly through the paper, spread out on the bar-type kitchen table. There wasn't a great deal in the headlines. Some new group of terrorists
had hijacked a French plane and were going to blow it up. A mob of skinheads had beat up some gays in Oxford Street and one was in a coma and looked like dying. The builders' labourers and the mail sorters were out on strike along with some other union, neither knew positively what they were out for but they definitely weren't going back till they got it. The only good thing in the paper was a massive-breasted page three girl. Davo dwelt on that while he finished his coffee then, feeling a bit hungry from missing lunch and seeing as Colin was coming around at nine he decided to have an early tea. He peeled some vegetables, put them on a slow boil then climbed out of his smelly work clothes and got under the shower.

Davo couldn't help but break into a song as the steaming, hot water splashed over his body and he soaped away the sweat and grease from work; before long a grin broke out across his face as he started thinking about Sandra and Saturday night. I still can't believe this he thought. It's got to be too good to be true. She's what—eighteen? And an unbelievably good sort to boot. He shook his head. No. It's too good to be true. As he started shaving in a small mirror he had hanging from the shower nozzle he decided to put it out of his mind. If I rely on it, knowing my luck, something's bound to go wrong. It's too good to be true and I'll believe it when it happens on Saturday night. He finished showering, dried off and climbed into a track suit. In the kitchen he got two pork chops out of the fridge, placed them under the griller and switched on the TV in the loungeroom to get the 6.30 news at the same time.

Davo's two bedroom unit was quite large and modern with two balconies and a double garage downstairs. It was carpeted throughout, there was plenty of solid, comfortable furniture, some indoor plants and the odd painting or poster on a wall to brighten things up. Sue had taken more than her share of things when she left but she didn't actually leave him staring at bare walls either, and Davo wasn't short of a dollar to get it all together again. He kept it reasonably clean, especially the kitchen, and it was more than adequate for one man; or a married couple for that matter. However, compared to Wayne and David's three bedroom unit a few blocks closer to the beach it looked like a $2 a night lossman in Bali.

White, pure wool, Berber carpet, that thick you almost needed snow shoes to walk on it, splashed up against every wall and built-in wardrobe. This was enhanced by exquisite, crystal chandeliers that tinkled in every room, including the toilets and bathroom. A monstrous, burgundy coloured, crushed velvet Ottoman spread itself across the huge loungeroom, surrounded by a numerous variety of lustrously healthy indoor plants and vines that meandered around and under the original oil paintings, watercolours and beaten bronze plaques that hung on every wall except one. This wall was covered by a mammoth, antique, polished cedar bookcase, crammed with everything from the classics to Hunter S. Thompson, S^ren Kierkegaard and Allen Ginsberg. If you didn't care for reading and felt like a drink or a bit of music, a sumptuously stocked bar, complete with crystal decanters and silver goblets, stood next to a dazzlingly modern Bang & Olufsen TV, compact-disc, stereo home entertainment centre with an extensive collection of records, CDs and cassettes and not one out of place. This faced an enormous kitchen full of all the latest electrical appliances, so modern and up-to-date it was almost experimental.

The loungeroom light was on when Wayne opened the front door and stepped inside; he called out cheerfully before walking across to the kitchen then down the corridor where he could see the light shining from David's bedroom. David was propped up in bed surrounded by almost a wall of salmon-pink, satin pillows, matching satin sheets and a deep maroon, woollen bedcover. A pair of red, silk pyjamas, with his initials monogrammed on the top pocket, were buttoned up under his chin and a Cambridge-blue, velour shave-coat was draped across his narrow shoulders; the glossy, though elegant display of colours somehow only seemed to make him appear more miserable than he was. His fine blond hair was dishevelled and his thin featured face pale and waxy, except for two blue circles forming under his eyes. A pair of light steel-framed reading glasses were perched on the end of his nose and a copy of the latest Frederick Forsyth hardback sat unopened on the bed next to his elbow.

‘David, you poor thing,' said Wayne, pausing in the doorway for a moment before walking over and sitting carefully on the
edge of the bed. He looked affectionately at his friend then gave him a gentle pat on the leg. ‘How are you feeling? You look absolutely dreadful.'

‘Oh God Wayne, that doctor has to be wrong. This isn't flu—it's pneumonia.' David sneezed violently then plunged his hand into a huge box of Kleenex tissues sitting on a small book table next to the bed and blew his nose delicately. ‘Oh shit!' he said, and sneezed again. ‘Honestly, Wayne—I don't think I've ever felt worse. I feel like I'm going to . . . what is it those horrible children downstairs say? Cark it.' He looked dolefully at Wayne then closed his eyes and took a deep breath; which only made him start to cough.

‘Now don't be silly, David. You're not going to . . . cark it.'

‘I feel wretched though,' replied David, slowly shaking his head.

‘I know how you feel, but it's only a virus and you'll be alright in a couple of days.' Wayne smiled benignly. ‘Anyway, are you hungry?'

‘Not really.'

‘Well I've brought home some of that beautiful prawn and chicken soup from that little Chinese restaurant behind Grace Bros. Try and eat some. It'll do you good.'

‘Alright. I'll try.'

‘You're going to need your strength after what I'm about to tell you,' said Wayne, with a hint of a grin.

David looked at him suspiciously for a second. ‘What is it, Wayne? For God's sake don't make me feel any worse than what I do.'

Wayne's grin got a little bigger. ‘David, I'm going out with another man tomorrow night.'

David slumped back into the pink satin pillows and closed his eyes. ‘Oh God, Wayne, how can you do this to me in my state. Who is it?'

‘Bob Davis. We're going to Santana together.'

David groaned in mock agony and threw his hands out by his sides. ‘Oh God, Wayne, that's all I need in my abysmal condition. You're running off with the local butcher. And on my bloody tickets too. You beast.' David tried to laugh but only started coughing again.

‘Honestly, David it's so funny. Let me tell you what happened.' Wayne related to David what he'd done to Davo while he was asleep and how it cracked up all the customers as well as the girls working there. Wayne must have done a pretty good imitation of the look on Davo's face because it cracked David up too, making him laugh so much that he went into a violent coughing spasm.

‘Please, Wayne—no more. It's bloody agony when I laugh.' David flopped back on the pillows dabbing at his eyes with a tissue.

Wayne was chuckling away on the other side of the bed fit to bust when the phone rang. ‘Ooh, this could be my date now,' he said, rubbing his hands together with glee. ‘I'm so excited.'

He went out into the loungeroom to answer the phone but it wasn't Davo. It was a friend of theirs wanting to know how David was.

Davo finished his meal shortly after seven. He settled back with a cup of coffee to watch M*A*S*H and when that finished decided to give Wayne a ring and find out what was going on about tomorrow night. Wayne had got changed and was in the kitchen preparing a light tea for David and himself when the phone rang for about the fifth time since he arrived home from work; he turned the stove down and went into the loungeroom to answer it.

‘Hello, Wayne? It's Bob.'

‘Hi. How are you?'

‘Not too bad. How's David handling the flu?'

‘Not real good,' chuckled Wayne. ‘But he's soldiering on.' ‘Ahh he's a digger alright. Got a heart like a lion that boy.' Davo paused on the phone. ‘Anyway, doing about tomorrow night. Is everything still sweet?'