“Bloody good day to be a duck!” Keith said to himself.
He pulled back on a bent rollie, coughed, and spat on the concrete slab of the garage. Black clouds hanging in the sky had finally burst, turning the job site into a dream for a work safe rep trying to line their wallets. Keith was to take charge of Dan and Lachy; two first year apprentices. It was the first time Keith had been given any responsibility; he was on his last warning after losing his license for drink driving. Simmo had gone to Bali and said the fix had to be done when he got back; It was the last day before the weekend when he’d return.
Keith watched a group of chippies on the building across from him pack up their toolboxes as the rain began. One drop we stop, the saying goes for union builders; they’d be paid for the day and left for the pub.
“Have a good one knackers!” The union builders said. They trudged past Keith, smiling and discussing lunch options. Keith raised his index finger to salute the group.
“Soft cocks,” he said under his breath.
The chippies dragged the temp fence through the thick mud and disappeared into the rain, leaving Keith and the apprentices remaining on the site.
“Orright poofs, smoko’s over! Get off ya porn.”
Lachy and Dan sat on a timber pallet, surrounded by empty energy drink cans and servo pie wrappers. Keith flicked the butt of his cigarette at the two, narrowly missing Lachy’s head, then cranked up the radio to compete with the pummelling rain. The radio had a sticker on the top that read “The only true wilderness is between a greenie’s ears!” and a faded “Triple M Rocks Croydon!” sticker. Keith grabbed a large stack of single bevel architrave that lay across timber bearers to keep them clean. He swung them up onto his shoulder, narrowly missing Lachy then slumped through the dark hall of the town house. When he returned to the end of the hall, he hovered by the entrance, listening in on the young boys to see how he was faring.
“He’s fucken rough, isn’t he?” Lachy said
“Simmo said his dad got locked up,” Dan placed his hands onto his thighs and pressed up into a stretch.
“No shit? That’ll do it!”
“You think he’s been put away too?”
“Dunno, some of those tattoos on his arm are sketchy as. Looks like the bloke that did it only had one eye.”
“No-shit! I thought that too.”
“Remember the labourer that came in last week? Said his brother went to school with Keith. Used to wag class all the time, smoking ciggies behind the portables. Keith got into a huge punch on with another bloke once and he never saw him after that. Reckons he got booted from school.”
“No shit! Cooked unit.”
Keith stood in the shadow of the doorway, digging his forefinger into the quick of his thumb nail. He was their age when he’d been caught stealing beer from his neighbour’s fridge. He had no idea he was an ex-cop. He never remembered seeing him in uniform when he was younger, especially the time he picked him up from school after a group of kids had pinned him down and drawn black stripes across his shirt so he would match with his dad.
Keith’s mum had called him begging to pick him up from school; she couldn’t afford to leave work. Keith’s neighbour had sat down with his mum after he’d been caught and said he wouldn’t press charges if Keith agreed to work for his mate, who needed a first-year apprentice. Keith wasn’t upset when she delivered him the ultimatum; he liked the option more than jail or returning to high school.
“What are youse cunts doing? Stop fucking around and set up the drop saw; Lachy, go get the nail gun out of the toolbox! Once you done that, mitre some skirts for the door jamb and make sure they’re bang on cos I won’t be goin to Bunnings for more in this shit; always fucked there when the rain hits in – fucken weak cunts these chippies nowadays ya think they’re made of fucken clay or sumthin.”
“Reckon you can show us again? We only did this once with Simmo, but – uh, we reckon you’ll show us better,” Dan said.
“Arghhh-Fucksake! Righto, but yas better work quick once I shown ya – I’m already hangin’ the doors - we ain’t got much time left! Go get the shit then, quick smart!”
The apprentices returned with the machine and placed a sawhorse either side while Keith measured the material twice; grumbling about being in the breeze of the garage. The rain smashed down against the building as they began to work.
“Ya gotta click this in here and set to 45 for the mitre. Hold this latch in the whole-time cos it’ll kick down if ya’s don’t. Guide her down first to see how much wriggle room ya got before you bring her up a touch and turn it on – don’t fucken turn it from top height or she’ll be grumpy. Ya both got that?”
“Yeah think so,”
“Yep,”
“Orright now youse do a couple before I go off, so I know ya won’t fuck the rest up,” Keith stepped back behind the boys, lighting a cigarette.
“Line up the next one,” Dan shouted over the rain and the radio, guiding the skirt up to the blade while he operated the saw.
“We’ve got about 30mm to play with,” Lachy shouted.
“Hold it close where you marked it; don’t wanna go over!” Dan shouted.
His hand gripped the lever of the machine.
“That’s gonna be pretty close?” Lachy said
“It’ll be fine just do it!”
“Spose so,”
“What?”
“I spose so!”
Lachy picked up the second last length of architrave and lined it up close to the blade. The machine zinged as it fired up. Dan slammed down the handle.
“Fucking Jesus! You nearly cut my finger off!” Lachy screamed.
“Fuck sorry this thing’s fucked, it just dropped before I knew. I reckon its fucked,”
“Just watch what you’re doing. I use these fingers on your mum all the time,”
“Yeah righto, incel!”
“Hey, Hey! What’d I fucken tell ya! Don’t turn the fucken thing on before you click the latch over. Daniel did ya fucken listen to me or what?”
Dan wiped a mixture of sweat and MDF from his brow then smeared his dirty hands against the back of his shorts.
“Sorry Keith - Last one Lachy; you marked it?”
Hail had begun to pelt down against the scaffolding like the sound of twenty snare drums duelling in ensemble.
“2040 right?”
“Yep,” Dan said.
The loose driveway of the townhouse slowly shifted towards the street; bits of aggregate floated down the incline of the muddy stream. Scraps of old concrete bags floated off like paper boats. Lachy marked the skirting and placed it up against the backing of the drop saw. The radio played the same song that was on forty minutes ago.
Keith trudged back into the room he was working on. One shock should make the boys pay close attention. He didn’t want to waste any more time showing them everything twice. He passed the time by firing a modified nail gun into a door packer that he’d drawn a body on, complete with cock and balls and labelled ‘Union worker.’ He chuckled to himself, firing another nail that missed the door, piercing the plasterboard.
“Fuck!” Keith Said.
He picked up a claw hammer to yank the nail out of the wall but made it worse. Swearing to himself, he moved the door across to cover the hole. He lit up another smoke and continued to fire nails with a more cautious aim, squinting one eye, lit cigarette in his mouth, ash on his tattered, blue flannelette shirt; the gun raised, clenched tight in both hands. When the clip had ran out he walked to end of the hall to check on the boys.
“You poofters done or what?”
Dan leaned into the workhorse to brace the impact of the saw which pushed the architrave out of alignment. He turned on the saw - the high-pitched zing of the rusted blade began to roar to life.
“Hang on, it’s out of whack,” Lachy said.
The downpour of hail was tremendous. The radio blasted. Dan had not heard his workmate. Lachy reached to move the architrave back in alignment. Bracing himself for the saw was not enough; the blade came down without control. The rusted brown disk turned red as Lachy’s right hand was severed across the base of his index finger to his wrist before the saw jammed. His hand flopped back like soggy spaghetti noodles. Hot spurts of blood shot out of his hand; his face a pale white sheet. His eyes rolled into the back of his head before he could scream out. He collapsed onto the pile of scrap, blood pooling around his limp body. Dan stood speechless, holding on to the drop saw. He was covered in a mist of blood that had painted his face down to the middle of his chest.
Crimson red lapped at the mud by Lachy’s body. Keith threw the nail gun down and ran over to Lachy, ripping off his flannelette shirt and white undershirt. Keith wrapped Lachy’s hand in a makeshift tourniquet with his white shirt, placing the boy’s hand against his chest in a sling made with his flannelette shirt; Keith’s white shirt soaking deep red.
“Dan what the fuck!”
Dan stared into the distance; he had pissed down the front of his shorts.
“Dan for fucks sake mate, what’s wrong with you?”
Keith bent down and slung Lachy over his shoulder like the architrave he’d been ferrying all morning. He trudged through the hail and slop of the site, his bare back pelted by the hail. Keith booted the temp fence open just enough to wedge through, then slumped Lachy into the Hilux. Keith looked back to see Dan was still not on earth. Taking his chances, he jumped into the driver’s seat, turned the engine of the ute over and fanged out of the street. The hail continued to pelt down.
Keith sat in the pale green plastic chairs of Maroondah hospital, knees shaking from the cold, hands shaking for a drink and a smoke. A stern looking receptionist stood over Keith with a pen and clipboard.
“Fill in this form. Do you know his parents' number? Take off your boots there’s mud everywhere.”
Keith shook his head as he reached his bloodied hand out to receive the pen and clipboard.
“I dunno it, I think the boss does though.”
“Well, you should probably call them right away” the receptionist said, glaring at the muddy footprints trailing from the sliding doors to Keith’s seat. He filled out the form, returned it to reception - who handed him a disposable gown, then carried his muddy boots outside. A middle-aged man with salt and pepper hair, wearing an expensive looking overcoat, leaned up against the brick wall smoking a cigarette. He was deep into his phone.
“Hey mate you mind if I bum one off ya?” Keith said.
The man did not respond, just glanced from his phone, and reached into his breast pocket for an opened pack of tailored cigarettes. he handed the pack to Keith. They weren’t his first choice of smokes, but they would do. The man gazed back down to his phone like Keith had not existed. Keith leaned up against the wall, his explorer socks drenched. The rain had eased to a gentle downpour, the clouds began to separate. A small beam of sun cast over Keith’s wet feet, warming his big toe that hung out of a hole on his right sock.
“Hey mate, you mind if I make a call on that? I won’t steal it or nuthin. Mines out of credit, gotta call the boss.”
The man glanced slowly up to the sky, drew heavily on his cigarette, then threw his butt into an empty coffee tin. He pulled out another and lit it straight away.
He nodded, handed Keith his phone, then continued to gaze into the rain.
Keith stared at the man - cigarette in mouth, hands in pockets. The man looked down and across the large car park, reaching into his pocket. He passed Keith his lighter; knowing.
“Thanks mate.”
Keith took the lighter and placed his head inside his gown. He fed his hand up through the gown to shield the naked flame, lit the cigarette, then passed the lighter back. The man continued to gaze at the sky. Keith strode down the end of the pathway under a cream and moss-covered awning of a maintenance building. He reached for his phone from his bloodied work shorts and dialled Simmo’s number into the stranger’s phone.
Keith watched the rain slowly washing his muddy footprints from the driveway, gently dissipating any trace of him. He wondered how he was going to explain to Simmo what had happened, and how fucked he would be if he lost his job. Keith wished the rain could wash away today, wished it could wash the blood off his only pair of work shorts, wished it washed away Simmo, his shaking hands and the dickhead Daniel, probably still standing at the job-site; he should sort that out too. Keith wished the rain could wash away the bloodied knuckles of his high school hands. He wished that he’d joined the footy team instead of knocking them out. Keith had thought about the great rains flooding all the roads in the country. Flooded the whole country so much, so long ago that we never had cars or bikes and had to travel by boat. Maybe his dad would have become a fisherman instead of a Biker. They would have their own tinny and would go out together each morning.
Keith’s eyes welled up. His face was soaked from the rain. He wiped his face; in case anyone was watching.
“Keith, mate, what’s up?”
The rain continued to pour down.
Gerard Starling is a multidisciplinary artist, creating works on unceded Wurundjeri Country. As a writer, he creates short fiction and poetic verse that explore the depths of his locality in the Eastern suburbs of Melbourne. His writing can be found in the first edition of Tart Magazine, his music on Bandcamp and other streaming platforms, his photography on Instagram @gerardstarlingphoto