Losing Face, page 22
There was no calling an Uber because his account was still suspended from the time Kyri had vomited all over the back seat of a ride after a big night out. Kyri was moving to Melbourne, was going to study art. Joey was aimlessly walking in the rain in Bankstown.
Hot, dizzy and under the refuge of a butcher shop awning, he texted Emma: What’s doin? Wanna hang out?
Emma replied immediately: Got heaps of uni work. Soz x.
That’s all he could come up with. Who else was there? It would be dumb to call Ivan. He opened Instagram and went to Ivan’s profile. He did that quite often. There was a new story update, which was unusual. In the time since they’d met, Ivan hadn’t ever posted anything new. Joey’s pulse quickened as he tapped on it.
The post was an old photograph of Ivan’s father, smiling and holding up a glass of rakia, toasting everyone who would ever see the photo throughout time. The man looked much younger in the photo than the memory Joey had of him wedged under the garage door drilling his son. The text on the post read: Three months without you.
Joey’s shoulders fell, his heart brimmed. Maybe Ivan was just grief-stricken and not a prick. He replied to the story: Hey, sorry to see this. Hope you’re doing okay. There was nothing in the world he had to do but stare at the screen until the little ‘read’ notification appeared under his text. Luckily it only took a few seconds. Ivan liked the comment. He waited patiently for the ellipsis to appear. Surely he’d reply with a thanks at least. Nothing. It sat there, static, underneath Joey’s last stupid message, Hey man.
The rain thrashed. The gutters rampaged, carrying wrappers and leaves somewhere. There was no-one around, not even any cars. A night to be home, but he preferred the wet.
Just as he was about to exit the chat window and aimlessly enter the deluge, the three flashing dots appeared, followed by text. Thanks man. Pretty shit go but that’s life hey. Sorry I forgot to reply to your last message. I just saw it again now. My head was all over the place cos it was like the week of my dad’s funeral when you sent it and I’ve been off socials and stuff. You been good?
Joey was weightless, floating. His head was about to hit the aluminium roof of the awning. It could have been the message, it could have been the G kicking in. He closed his eyes. He wanted to rip his wet clothes off and dance. He had to reply to Ivan.
All good. You wanna chat?
Ivan replied with more than Joey ever expected. Wanna come over?
How the hell was he going to get to Greenfield Park in the rain and high on G?
He jogged to a busier intersection and waved a taxi down. The driver opened the window ever so slightly to keep the rain out.
Joey yelled over the clatter, ‘How much do you think it will cost to get to Greenfield Park?’
‘Between thirty and forty dollars.’
The barber returning his cash was fate. There was only seventeen dollars in his account. He hopped into the taxi. Hopefully Ivan would drive him home later or, better yet, ask him to stay the night.
The G kept kicking in and out. When the car took off, he held on to the seat really tight, thinking he would fly out the windscreen, but when he checked the odometer they were only travelling at thirty kays. He didn’t dare look at the passing lights and signs and buildings for fear they would come together and spell something out to him. He needed to ground himself.
‘Busy night tonight?’ he asked.
The taxi driver grunted.
The rain stopped as they approached Greenfield Park. Joey laughed and put the window down. The trees were disco balls in the night. The moon, shrouded in cloud, was a giant eye in the violet sky. It winked at him. A dance track started up on the stereo. The screen said it was ‘Beachball’ by Nalin & Kane.
Joey felt the music rush inside of him, change him. ‘You mind turning it up?’
The driver raised the volume to blaring from the controls on the steering wheel.
People get ready, people get ready, get ready to flow.
He closed his eyes. The car could have been a ship, an aeroplane, a floating turd. He was riding something, somewhere. His muscles twitched. The closer he was to Ivan’s place and to the crescendo of the track, the more he swelled against the seatbelt, swelled against the walls of the car, until he was spilling out of the window and flapping away into the night.
Acknowledgements
This book was written on beautiful and sovereign Gadigal-Wangal land where I am a guest. I pay my respects to the custodians who have always cared for this place.
Endless gratitude to:
Western Sydney University and my very sage supervisors, Anthony Uhlmann and Sara Knox.
Incredible people who listened patiently while I answered my own questions, Patrick McDavitt and Bec Kavanagh. And Brie Hicks for your legal smarts.
Aviva Tuffield, Margot Lloyd, and the rest of the team at UQP – for placing this story in readers’ hands.
First published 2022 by University of Queensland Press
PO Box 6042, St Lucia, Queensland 4067 Australia
University of Queensland Press (UQP) acknowledges the Traditional Owners and their custodianship of the lands on which UQP operates. We pay our respects to their Ancestors and their descendants, who continue cultural and spiritual connections to Country. We recognise their valuable contributions to Australian and global society.
uqp.com.au
reception@uqp.com.au
Copyright © George Haddad 2022
The moral rights of the author have been asserted.
This book is copyright. Except for private study, research, criticism or reviews, as permitted under the Copyright Act, no part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means without prior written permission. Enquiries should be made to the publisher.
Where required, every effort has been made to trace copyright holders and to obtain their permission for the use of copyright material. The publisher apologises for any errors or omissions in this list and would be grateful if notified of any corrections that should be incorporated in future reprints or editions of this book.
Cover design by Josh Durham (Design by Committee)
Author photograph by Patrick McDavitt
Typeset in 12/17 pt Bembo Std by Post Pre-press Group, Brisbane
University of Queensland Press is assisted by the Australian Government through the Australia Council, its arts funding and advisory body.
A catalogue record for this book is available from the National Library of Australia.
ISBN 978 0 7022 6555 6 (pbk)
ISBN 978 0 7022 6682 9 (epdf)
ISBN 978 0 7022 6683 6 (epub)
ISBN 978 0 7022 6684 3 (kindle)
George Haddad, Losing Face
