Roadman Read online

  He removed his finger from the broken pipe and inspected it. Rust-stained water coated his finger up to the knuckle (Almost like blood, isn’t it Max?), confirming his initial diagnosis. “Can’t do much more for you, I’m afraid,” he said, and showed her his finger. “Look, see, the fuck… sorry, the pipe’s completely rusted through. Plumber will need to fix this.”

  She looked downbeat for a moment, then said, “So it’s not my fault? I didn’t cause this…” and she gestured to the wet floor, “when I tried to fix it myself?”

  Max shook his head. “Nah, lady. Was an accident waiting to happen. Your landlord will have insurance to cover it. He can thank his lucky stars you didn’t get hurt. You would’ve been well within your rights to sue the bastard.”

  As if it were a knife she’d just committed murder with and was now shocked to find the weapon in her own hands, she laid the wrench she’d been holding all this time on top of the washing machine and gave a barely visible shudder, probably thinking how close she had come to inflicting some serious damage on herself. Then she smiled, and when she did her whole face lit up, as though some mysterious darkness had been keeping her in shadow all this time. He felt his own spirits lifting with her.

  “Thank goodness. I was worried I’d have to foot the bill for this one and I’m not exactly swimming in cash at the moment.”

  “None of us are,” Max said. “Otherwise we wouldn’t be hanging around this fuck’n shit… this place.”

  Sandy from Grease giggled again and this time Max managed a smile too. “Let me get you something to drink,” she said and gestured for Max to exit the laundry back toward the kitchen. “It’s the least I can do for saving me from drowning inside my own house.”

  Max sat down at the kitchen table, thinking the chores around his own house could wait for a bit longer, if not for fuck’n ever. Despite his initial misgivings, he was kinda liking this woman’s company. He watched as Sandy from Grease tried to fill the kettle at the sink, but when she turned the tap and nothing happened she remembered that the water had been turned off at the mains. She looked inside the kettle, figuring there was enough for a couple of cups, popped it on to boil, then excused herself for a minute while she got out of her wet things and put some dry clothes on.

  Frilly white lingerie, Max hoped.

  While she was busy getting dressed in her bedroom, Max surveyed the sparse kitchen. The lime laminated bench top and cupboards would’ve looked just fuck’n dandy in the seventies, but now they looked dated, scratched and as damn horrible as the dark paisley wallpaper lining the corridor. The brown window curtains didn’t fare much better and looked as if they hadn’t been washed or replaced since the boys were sent packing from Vietnam. The wooden table he was sitting at looked the most recent addition to the room, yet even that could’ve done with a sand and a fresh coat of varnish to cover the scratch marks and bottom-of-the-cup coffee stains. There was only one painting on the off-white wall, a frameless print by some or other famous artist he couldn’t remember the name of, a sunflower in a vase that looked too bright and too vivid and completely out of fuck’n place in this seventies time capsule.

  Like the sunflower print, there was only one photo in the room, a young Sandy from Grease kneeling on the beach with what he assumed were her mother and father. It sat like an only child pride of place on top of the fridge. The Happy Days family were all wearing bathers and sunglasses, smiling as if it was the best fuck’n day in the history of the whole fuck’n world. He figured the picture had been snapped in the late eighties. She had the complexion of a teenager, her skin wrinkle-free and smooth, almost shiny, in its elastic newness. She even had her hair in pigtails. Confirming his guesstimate, where the sand met asphalt behind the smiling trio, a multi-coloured row of late model Holdens, Fords, and Datsuns were parked under the full glare of the baking summer sun. Unlike the sunflower print, this picture was framed. Or should he say, re-framed? The silver edging looked as sparkly new as the teenage nymphette’s wrinkle-free skin, without a scratch or speck of dust on it, or any signs of ageing whatsoever for that matter.

  At least the kitchen didn’t smell old, or musty, not like some of the older houses he’d been in over the years. Broken in, don’t you mean Maxy? You weren’t so shy in breaking and entering a few houses in your youth, were you? Thought it was an easy way to make a buck. Thought it was funny too. Kinda picked on the senior citizens, though, didn’t ya? The little old ladies were the easiest, especially the half-deaf and blind ones. Couldn’t hear or see a fuck’n thing even when you snuck into their bedroom while they were sleeping. Like taking candy from a fuck’n baby. Easy-peasy Japaneasy.

  Man, some of those old ladies’ houses stank. Shit and piss and sweaty armpits and god-knows what else. Sometimes the air was thick with whatever air freshener they’d sprayed to try and cover their decrepit stench, usually something laced with high concentrations of lavender. He pushed those thoughts aside. At least this place didn’t smell like some old lady’s dirty fuck’n laundry. Although he did detect that faint smell of sickness he’d caught wafting from one of the bedrooms down past the laundry.

  He glanced up. The light fittings were covered in a film of grey dust and the ceiling had a dirty mattress-stain the size and shape of an Aussie Rules football where rainwater had obviously been leaking through the roof over the past thirty years or so.

  Someth’n else the fuck’n landlord had conveniently overlooked.

  His attention was drawn back to the bench top as the kettle bubbled and clicked off. Several seconds later, Sandy from Grease hurried back into the kitchen. She was drying her hair with a bath towel, frizzing up the blond locks that made Max think of the penultimate dance scene in Grease. The scene where Olivia Newton John stunned every pubescent lad in the audience into horny, erectile silence when she pranced onto the big screen in her skin-tight black leather outfit and stilettos, just before John Travolta sank to the ground in lustful awe and started singing You’re the One that I Want.

  In fact, looking at the woman in front of him now, he nearly got down on his own fuck’n knees and started singing it himself. She wasn’t wearing skin-tight black leathers or stilettos (You fuck’n wish, Maxy boy!)—just another pair of track pants, navy blue this time, white Ugg boots and a loose fitting pink Nike sweater through which he could still make out the delightful mounds of her breasts—but the likeness to the famous Aussie actress was now even more striking than when he first saw her half an hour ago.

  “Sorry about that,” she said, giving her hair one last frizz before tossing the towel onto the bench top. “How do you like it?”

  Max was taken off guard, almost as much as when she’d come running onto the road outside screaming for help. “Uh… sorry? Like what?”

  Sandy from Grease took a teaspoon from the cutlery drawer. Then, in one seamless motion, she reached into one of the cupboards beneath the bench top, removed two mugs—a white one with I LOVE COFFEE written in dark coffee-brown lettering and another dark blue one with a black crow’s head, the logo of the Adelaide Crows footy team—and put them next to the kettle.

  “Your coffee,” she said, now moving to the pantry and grabbing a jar of Nescafe. She held up the jar as she made her way back to the bench top. “I hope you like instant. I’m afraid that’s all I have.”

  He’d have drunk rat shit with possum vomit if she’d served it up, he reckoned, then asked for another cuppa. “Ah, instant’s fine. Black, one sugar thanks,” he said.

  “Strong and sweet, huh?” she said, spooning out the coffee and sugar into the cups and pouring the boiled water. “I like it strong too. My friend Georgina says I drink it industrial strength.” She giggled the sweet girly giggle he was coming to adore and sat down at the table, handing Max the blue Crows mug. “Hope you like the Crows. I’m afraid it’s all I have. All my other cups are chipped and my mother taught me never to serve a guest coffee in a chipped cup.”

  “Don’t mind ‘em,” he said, taking a sip. It was good
, strong and sweet, just as she said.

  There was a moment of awkward silence as both were stuck for something to say. Sandy from Grease held her mug of I LOVE COFFEE in both hands, pursing her lips in a little ‘o’ and blowing the steam that was rising above the rim in ghostly shimmers before taking a sip. Max too sipped his coffee, avoiding eye contact. Not because he was embarrassed, but because his mind had suddenly become blank, as if someone had put a vacuum cleaner to his ear and sucked out all his fuck’n thoughts.

  You always could charm the pants off the ladies, couldn’t you Max?

  It was Sarah’s voice and the cynicism was as black and strong as his coffee. Industrial strength. Not sweet though, bitter. Very bitter.

  He was about to say something to fill in the silence, maybe something stupid like, “I like your Ugg boots,” or even stupider, “Show us ya tits.” He didn’t know exactly what he’d say and hoped he wouldn’t have to say anything, but the silence was beginning to make him feel as fuck’n awkward as when Kirsten Brunell mocked him with that scornful giggle during science class way back at Serena High. He certainly felt like a little boy again, whichever way he thought about it. Thankfully, he was spared the ignominy of wedging his Blundstone boot in his stupid mouth.

  “Been living in the neighbourhood for long?” she asked, glancing up at him with her lovely pale blues over the rim of her I LOVE COFFEE mug.

  “Yeah, a while,” he said, not wanting to give too much of himself away, however much he was liking this sexy wench sitting across from him. Really, he only wanted to talk about her. In fact, he wanted her to talk about her. He just wanted to sit back and listen to her delightful cream-on-cupcake voice and not say a fuck’n word at all. Would be just perfect, better even than sitting on the banks of the billabong sucking the lagers and reeling in the mullet.

  “Do you like it here?” she asked, although she probably knew the answer to that one.

  “Nah, it’s a shithole. I’m sick of it. Wanna get out.” Then, realising how that might’ve sounded, said, “Sorry. It’s… uh… it could be better.”

  He half expected her to giggle in recognition of his plight, but she didn’t. Instead, her dreamy blues clouded over and she was lost somewhere else. Some paradise island in Queensland or Thailand, Max guessed.

  “Yeah, know what you mean,” she said, then took another sip of coffee.

  Just as she put the I LOVE COFFEE mug down onto the table, a loud hacking cough severed the sullen silence. Max guessed it was coming from one of the bedrooms down the corridor past the laundry. It was a man, that much was fuck’n obvious. The forceful, stomach churning hack no woman could ever come close to making, not even his fuck’n ex-wife in the middle of one of her nuclear PMS moments. Her husband, maybe, and should he start making a beeline straight for the front door before he got himself caught up in the middle of some domestic? Probably not. A quick scan of her hands revealed no shiny gold bands or sparkly diamonds, not that every woman wore her wedding or engagement rings 24/7, especially when they were doubling as a handyman about the house, but he figured he was pretty much on the money. He suspected the guy making the racket down the corridor was the same guy in the Happy Days photo on top of the fridge.

  The dreadful hacking peaked in a frightening, wall-shaking climax and then eventually subsided. For some reason, Sandy from Grease went rosy pink and started fiddling with the handle of her I LOVE COFFEE mug. “Sorry, that’s dad,” she said. Then, as an afterthought, “He’s not well.”

  That’s stating the fuck’n obvious, Max thought. The guy needs to be in fuck’n hospital by the sounds of it. He kept his thoughts to himself, however, and another awkward silence was shared between the two neighbours.

  “My mother died a while back and we don’t have any other family in Adelaide to help out.” She kept fiddling with the handle of the mug as she spoke. “I… I moved back in three years ago. Been here ever since.” She glanced up at him and smiled, but it had no warmth.

  Max got the impression she wanted to tell him more but was afraid to for some reason. Just not the thing to talk about with your neighbours, especially when you only just met them. He figured this was probably the best time to make a move. He did the polite thing and downed his coffee in three huge gulps, not wanting her to think her coffee was god-awful shit when it wasn’t and hurt her feelings.

  “Thanks for the coffee,” he said, standing. “But the chores won’t wait for nobody.”

  She didn’t try to stop him. “Okay… thanks for your help. Honestly, you saved me big time.”

  He started making his way toward the front door. “Didn’t do noth’n, really.” He stepped outside onto the porch, then turned and said, “Remember, you got no water until the main’s back on, not even for the toilet.”

  “I’ll call my landlord right now. I’m sure he can organise an emergency plumber to come out.” Max nodded and turned to leave when she held out her hand and said, “By the way, I’m Lorraine. Lorraine Jackson.”

  He shook her slender hand, liking the feel of her touch, liking the silkiness of her palm and fingers so much he probably held on a little too fuck’n long for her liking. But, to her credit, she didn’t show it. “Max,” he said. “Max Grieff.”

  “I know… I mean, pleased to meet you,” she said and smiled. The warmth was back. “Now that we’re not strangers anymore, don’t be shy.”

  Max was liking this chick’s attitude even more. With a spring in his step, he crossed the street towards the lawnmower sitting idle in his front yard, knowing Lorraine was tracking his butt as he went and liking every second of it.

  This day had turned out pretty fuck’n all right after all.

  Saturday, 2nd August 2008

  Dear Diary,

  OMG! I did it! I can’t believe it! I actually did it! I met Max! He’s just left the house. For real! I mean, in the flesh. He was really here. God’s honest truth. I have to pinch myself to make sure I’m not dreaming.

  Oh goodness, my hands are shaking. I can hardly hold the pen while I write. I’m just so excited. So nervous. He’s no longer a figment of my imagination (your fantasies, Lorraine, let’s get that straight, ha ha). He’s really real. Flesh and blood. I can actually see him now through the window mowing his front lawn while I’m writing this. And I must say his butt looks even better close up. Whoo! I’m getting all flushed just thinking about it. Calm down, Lorraine, calm down.

  That’s better. Where was I? Oh yes. I just had to race in and tell you (Agony Aunt Diary) what had just happened before I started to doubt that it actually happened at all. At least I would have it in writing. Proof! Somehow it all seems more real when you write it down, doesn’t it?

  I won’t say too much, other than to say it was all an accident, but what a glorious accident! I don’t know really what to say about it except it was like the whole thing was meant to be. This morning I saw the laundry tap start to drip and thought it just needed tightening up a bit. I found the wrench in dad’s old toolbox in the shed, but when I went to turn the tap the whole thing exploded off the wall! The water came gushing out of the broken pipe like a fountain, or waterfall, or like one of those water cannons you see police on TV use against rioters.

  I freaked out. Panicked like Henny Penny as though the sky was falling on my head. Worse, I was saturated to the bone, needless to say. The whole laundry started to fill up with water so quickly I didn’t know what to do. It really was like the heavens were falling on my head in sheets of rain. I opened the door to the back door but it didn’t seem to do anything to the water level, so I did the only thing a woman in position could do: I ran outside to the road screaming for help. I hate to think what I looked like! But there he was, as though God had plucked him out of my dreams and put him right where I needed him to be. My white knight in shining armour! Mowing the front lawn of all things. He ran over and switched my mains off and stopped the flood of water pouring into my house.

  Now why didn’t I think of that? Anyway, I’m actually glad
I didn’t because then I wouldn’t have met Max. They say fact is stranger than fiction. If it happened in a movie you wouldn’t believe it.

  Oops, anyway, that reminds me. I’ve got to call the landlord and get an emergency plumber out to fix the broken pipe. Gotta go. Otherwise won’t have any water, not even to do a pee.

  Sunday, 3rd August 2008

  Dear Diary,

  Did I tell you I met Max, aka Mr. Dreamboat?

  Plumber came early this morning and fixed the broken pipe in the laundry. Now I don’t have to hold on to my screaming bladder like a kid at school waiting for the bell to ring!

  Monday, 4th August 2008

  Dear Diary,

  It’s all happening so fast! My head is starting to spin like I’ve had one too many glasses of champagne. I just got home from work and was preparing dinner (Irish stew, nothing special) when I heard a knock on the front door. I thought it was Georgina again, coming to tell me the latest gossip or to grill me again about the new boyfriend I’m “seeing”. I opened the front door thinking I’d have a lot more to tell her about him, but it wasn’t her. It was Max! I got the shock of my life. Well, second shock, after the mayhem of last Saturday that is.

  Worse, I was still in my factory uniform! My hair was still tied up in a bun and I didn’t even have any makeup on. Ugh, it couldn’t have been more dreadful. I’d rather have been naked in front of the judges of some reality TV show. He stood there for a moment without saying anything, just shuffling his feet a bit and chinning his chest like a little boy being told off in front of the headmaster. I was beginning to wonder what on Earth was going on, when he said suddenly said he’d just been invited to his boss’s house for a BBQ this weekend and wondered if I’d like to come with him?