Green (54 page)

I should never have invented Phoebe. Or all of the other things I've made up as I've gone along. I should stop being so full of shit and start being full of something else instead. Look at Vanessa Green. She wanted tree lopping in the same kind of way I want film making, but she made it happen. I should be making things happen. Or at least trying, instead of hiding out here, in fear of Los Angeles. Hanging around at parties at Sunnybank Hills and Carindale, silently seething about them not being New York. Seething about grass and darts and who left the lights on. And so what? Seething about Sophie, and all that.

Geography's not the problem. It is what it is, places are what they are. And so what if they can't all be Manhattan? So what if some people's map of the world is bounded by the Hudson and East Rivers? It happens that my map's bigger than that, even if it includes places where people argue about six lights, or grasses that'll grow under fig trees, or whether or not people have the guts to do certain things. And all of that has to be as real as anything else.

It feels real enough, when the drink hits you in the chest, when the chance is gone, when you've taken another conversation at some stupid angle and turned it all wrong.

Darts, the new tactic: death or glory. I fling ambitiously at the triple twenty every time. I miss every time. The poor form of World of Chickens slumps to an improbable new low. Barb is pushing me aside saying, ‘Here, give me those,' when Frank comes down the steps.

‘We should be off, I reckon,' he says. ‘I'm guessing the team'll find a suitable replacement.'

And finally, my darts time served, Ron lets us go. ‘Righto lads, good to see you. See you back at the World, then. Thanks for everything.'

‘I can catch a bus,' I tell Frank when we're going through the kitchen on our way out. ‘A bus into town, then another one home.'

‘It's raining.'

‘They still run them in the rain. They've got roofs on them now. Besides, waiting at the bus stop would give me a chance to rinse my shirt out. It's starting to get sticky.'

‘It's dark, it's raining, it's very off-peak and you'll be waiting ages. Sticky is the least of your worries. And anyway, your camera's in my car. For safe-keeping. People were really starting to dick around with it. Mainly me.'

In the car, before he gets the chance to speak about what happened upstairs, I tell him I don't want to discuss it. I know we had that talk where he checked if I had any kind of interest, and I know what I said and let's just leave it at that.

I'm going to go home, I'm going to study Beischer and Mackay, I'm going to pass obstetrics. Even though, right at the moment, I don't care about it at all. I don't care about anything, I don't want to talk about anything.

‘You know,' Frank says, three songs later during an ad break on Double B, ‘once you've rinsed out the shirt, I think this is going to be fine.'

‘Yeah, right. It's such a special shirt, after all. If it's in good shape, I'm pretty much guaranteed to be okay.'

‘You, and your special shirt, and your rum smell and your video camera.' He's trying not to laugh, but not trying hard. ‘Party boy. You should play the tape when you get home.'

‘Yeah? I really don't think I'm likely to.'

‘Okay, here's what I'm saying. Play the tape. You get inside and you play the tape. After that, it's totally fine for you to be in whatever mood works for you.'

‘If this involves your arse and anything you found in their kitchen . . .'

Now he lets the laugh out. ‘I'm so easy to read, aren't I? Bugger. I always wanted to be complex and interesting like you, but the old arse joke—it's too tempting. How could you go past it? No Tim Tams though, not this time.'

‘Oh, no. What did you use?'

‘Watch it and see.'

 

*

 

My parents are out when I get home. I want to throw the tape in the bin or at the very least erase it without watching it, but I told Frank I wouldn't. So I stick it into the machine, and press play. I know my mother will come home from rehearsals right now, as soon as Frank's buttocks are gleaming from the screen.

The picture crackles, from black into trees, shuddering trees. Sophie running away shouting ‘piss off', an invisible Frank laughing. He traps her among the statues, her back to the
Venus de Milo
. He's got her looking west, straight into the sun. She's holding her hand up and he's losing her eyes in a triangle of shadow.

 

EXT. GARDEN. LATE AFTERNOON

SOPHIE's back is to a statue, as though she's pinned there, having been caught. She still has her glass in one hand, but she's spilled at least some of her drink during the chase.

 

FRANK

So, how's it going today, Soph?

 

SOPHIE

You're sure there's no tape in that thing?

 

FRANK

Of course. But you can still look through it if you press the button. It's like watching you on TV. So, Sophie, tell everyone what you think of the party so far.

 

SOPHIE

It's as bad as I thought it'd be. Slightly worse.

 

FRANK

How about that Mowers crowd?

 

SOPHIE

Exactly. How about that Mowers crowd? Chickens rule, Frankie.

 

FRANK

And what do you think of Philby?

 

SOPHIE

Phil? Why?

 

FRANK

Just wondering.

 

SOPHIE

(She frowns, drinks) You're not lying to me about the tape, are you?

 

FRANK

There's no tape. It just looks like TV when I look through it. Like you're on TV. It's like a doco.

 

SOPHIE

So, what was the question?

 

FRANK

What do you think of Philby?

 

SOPHIE

What's it to you?

 

FRANK

Okay, how are things with Clinton?

 

SOPHIE

Clinton? (She pauses, drinks) Over. If you really want to know. Fucked up for ages, finally over a week ago. Friday of last week. Not one of my better days. For all kinds of reasons. Anyway, I think I have to go now. There's something I have to do. Something I have to fix.

 

INT. BEDROOM. LATE AFTERNOON

SOPHIE is sitting on her bed, propped up by her Holly Hobby pillow. There's a Madonna poster from about 1981 on the wall behind her, and various objects that suggest she transplanted her childhood bedroom here when they moved to the house about four years ago. She looks distraught.

 

FRANK

So, you're embarrassed, you were saying.

 

SOPHIE

Stop this stupid pretend TV thing.

 

FRANK

Sure. Just tell me what you think of Philby.

 

SOPHIE

I don't think that matters now. I think we just had a big fight. I threw my drink at him. I've never done that kind of thing in my life. He's, like, practically my best friend, or he was until I did something really stupid. And I know it was stupid and I went in there, where he was—I'd been looking all over the house—I went in there to tell him things. Fix it, and stuff. And he shouted at me and I shouted at him and I threw a drink at him. And I don't know how we pretend I didn't and go back to going halves in a chicken suit.

 

FRANK

Supposing I suggest you have an interest.

 

SOPHIE

Supposing I suggest you turn that thing off.

 

FRANK

And how long might you have been harbouring these feelings?

 

SOPHIE

I'm not a feeling harbour. I'm not a harbour of any kind.

 

FRANK

Anything to stop you making some kind of move?

 

SOPHIE

No way.

 

FRANK

No way?

 

SOPHIE

That's right. I don't know what he's thinking. I don't know what he wants. He's got accepted into UCLA. Why doesn't he send them the money and go? I don't know what he wants. What would I say? What would I say to him? Okay, there's this bit on page two of
Bright Lights, Big City
where the guy talks about the likelihood of where you aren't being more fun than where you are. I might say that to him. And then I'd say, dickhead, have fun where you are. But that's enough. Enough prose. Now I'm going to do a poem. Are you ready for the poem?

 

FRANK

Yep. Always.

 

(There's a bad attempt at close-up, losing half of SOPHIE's face, then a change of mind and reversion to previous framing.)

 

SOPHIE

‘Had we but world enough, and time, This coyness, Lady, were no crime. We would sit down, and think which way To walk, and pass our long love's day.' He said that once. It's from a poem, but the poem's about time, so don't get any big ideas, just because it's also from a coy bastard. He said it a couple of times in the chicken suit. On the back steps of the World.

 

FRANK

And you can remember it all.

 

SOPHIE

Well, yeah.

 

FRANK

What do you think that means?

 

SOPHIE

I don't know. What do
you
think it means?

 

FRANK

I didn't say it. What do you think it means?

 

SOPHIE

(This time like de Niro) No my friend, what do you think it means?

 

FRANK

Are you talking to me?

 

SOPHIE

Are you talking to me? We watch a bit of Scorsese round here now. Are you bullshitting me about having no tape in there?

 

FRANK

Why would I do that? I'm against bullshitting. You know that. There's not one tactic in me. That's what they say. All I've got's the direct approach. Ask Phil. So, trust me, I'm a three-quarters doctor. If I scrape through surgery.

 

SOPHIE

I know I've blown it. I accused him of sleeping with my mother. I'm guessing that's one of those automatic strike-out things.

 

FRANK

He's not the kind of guy who'd do that. It's just not him.

 

SOPHIE

Thanks for your support.

 

FRANK

Hey, I'm just calling it how I see it. It doesn't mean you don't have my support. Some people are like that and some aren't. And, I figure, as long as you're up-front about things, there's not much to complain about.

 

SOPHIE

Are you sure there's no tape in that? The red light's . . .

 

FRANK

That's just because my finger's on the button.

 

SOPHIE reaches out, the picture goes to crackles.

 

Frank's buttocks don't appear once. I rewind the tape, and I play it again. I take it out, I put it in my room, and I rinse my shirt. I let another ten minutes pass, and I call the Greens. It's Frank who answers.

‘It's Phil.'

‘Figured it might be. Good timing. I just walked in.'

‘I've watched the tape.'

‘Which bit did you like best? The bit where I had Ron's spare wig coming out of my arse like a bear from a cave, or the bit where I clenched his spare dentures between my buttocks and made them talk?

‘Well, they were good, but I preferred some of the quieter bits, actually. The character-based stuff.'

‘Yeah, surprisingly subtle, wasn't it? I like the way you don't even see the argument scene but, if you're going with
The
Taming of the Shrew
formula, it's pretty much understood to be inevitable now, so you can run it off camera.'

‘Very clever.'

‘Well, it's all down to characterisation, and having that understanding of the inner workings of people. I think that's the key to being a really good film-maker.'

‘So do you reckon I should call Sophie?'

‘I can't believe you're asking me for advice.'

‘Yeah, sorry. I think it was just a reflex. What I meant was, I might give her a call and see what she's doing tomorrow. I will give her a call, now. And apologise for my share of all that. For my excellent work off camera. I hope Ron doesn't answer. I know he'd be a pushover for a trip to the movies, but it's just not the same.'

‘Even if your mother thinks it is.'

‘My mother . . . not a word of this to my mother.'

‘Never. You can trust me. Anyway, I owe you. I owe you something. Even when you were really shitty with me, you didn't blow my cover. But, yeah, you should call Sophie. I'm sure I'm not the only person who's been thinking all along that that looked obvious. Not that that's a problem, is it? Not in terms of my movie. It's all about the journey, isn't it? Something like that. I think I can remember someone saying that.'

‘Yeah, me too. Some loser in one of his many angry moments.'

‘Hey, that's “loser who helps people”, not just loser. There are plenty of losers around who are selfish pricks. Remember that. You should stop being shitty with us all for a second—however justifiable it is—and look at what you've done. Look at Ness, look at every single Todd, look at the World. Look at me. You could have done nothing, and you didn't. And it made some kind of difference, right?'

‘Thanks. There's still a fair bit to sort out, but thanks. I should go. I've got some paperwork to take a look at.'

Back in my room and under a pile of other things—obstetrics notes, miscellaneous junk—I find my UCLA documentation. The offer is about to expire, and maybe I was going to let it. Maybe I was going to let it slip quietly away, rather than risking a few weeks somewhere very different. I've made a lot of noise about getting out of here, and I've probably never looked like doing it. But all that noise is probably not even about here. This place is just an easy thing to be dissatisfied with, a fall-guy for anything that isn't working the way I'd like it to.