seemed quite dismissive of her and angry, too, about how his childhood panned out. It’s the easiest thing in the world, isn’t it, judging your mother? He had pretty much flunked his HSC, lost a few years to pot along with many of his ‘semi-rural’ compadres, and then sobered up enough to enrol in the Bachelor of Nursing course offered by the University of Western Sydney. It was taught at the Campbelltown campus, a bingo for an Appin lad.
In modern times, he lived in Marrickville, just one suburb over from me and Tim, in a cheerless flat of blonde brick, at the very back of the block. There was a flatmate, Terry, who was an amalgam of every geek stereotype known to man. Pale, weedy, quiet, long hair in a ponytail, glasses, spent a lot of time on the computer, worked in statistics.
‘How did you manage to hook up with him?’ I asked, mystified, after meeting him for the first time.
‘We go back,’ explained Nick. ‘It’s an Appin thing.’
I asked him early-on if he had a girlfriend.
‘No . . . not really. No Jill to my Jack.’
‘Jack and Jill were brother and sister, weren’t they?’
‘No.’
‘I think they were.’
‘I really don’t think it specifies. I personally think that Jack and Jill were . . . you know . . . on a wavelength with each other. And I used their example by way of illustrating that when I skip up the hill to fetch a pail of water, I go on my own. And when I fall down and break my crown . . . there’s no one to administer vinegar and brown paper.’
So apparently no girlfriend, but often when we walked down King Street in Newtown together, he’d dodge behind me upon seeing some chick or other with Uma-Thurman-in- Pulp-Fiction hair, or dreadlocks swinging down past her ass, who he had rooted and not called.
High verbal IQ. That’s what I loved about Nick immediately and forever. Our minds went to very similar places, eros crystallised throughout every conversation as a matter of course.
I felt paralysed in my chair that morning. Why had I woken at 5 a.m. feeling restless and tired at the same time? I sat quietly at my desk until people started to trickle in. Johanna was screeching from the meeting room, where was everyone, it was gone quarter to nine , handover should have already started . And so forth.
I just couldn’t bring myself to get up and go in to listen to the day’s sad stories, the folks who had fallen upon the thorns of life and wer K liine,e bleeding.
‘ Thirty seconds, ’ Johanna shouted.
People stirred at her tone, and got to their feet, even Nick. He walked around to my side of the partition and looked at me slumped in my chair.
‘What gives, bella?’ he asked.
I shrugged. ‘I just can’t do it today.’
‘This isn’t you . . . usually you’re in there at 8:40, shuffling papers all Hollier-than-thou, tut-tutting everyone else for being late.’
‘I can’t do it, Captain. I don’t have the power.’
‘Come on . . . What are your legs?’
I immediately got that he was quoting Gallipoli .
‘Steel springs . . . ’ I said, without much conviction.
‘What are they going to do?’ he barked.
‘They’re going to hurl me down the track.’ I sat up in my seat.
‘How fast can you run?’
‘As fast as a leopard.’
He pulled me to my feet.
‘How fast are you going to run?’
‘As fast as a leopard!’
‘Well! Let’s see you do it then!’
He clapped his hands, and I turned and jogged to the meeting room.
That became one of our little catch-cries, whenever either of us needed a little inspiration or motivation at work, or was too drunk or drug affected to move.
‘ What are your legs?!
’ Try it on yourself. It’s strangely motivating.
To: Lara Kirkwood; Abigail Ryan; Daniel Pryde; Timothy Espie
From: Holly Yarkov
Hey y’all, only two-and-a-half days til quittin’ time for the week. How’s about we meet for drinkies at the Exchange after our travails on Friday night?
Woz x
To: Holly Yarkov; Abigail Ryan; Daniel
In modern times, he lived in Marrickville, just one suburb over from me and Tim, in a cheerless flat of blonde brick, at the very back of the block. There was a flatmate, Terry, who was an amalgam of every geek stereotype known to man. Pale, weedy, quiet, long hair in a ponytail, glasses, spent a lot of time on the computer, worked in statistics.
‘How did you manage to hook up with him?’ I asked, mystified, after meeting him for the first time.
‘We go back,’ explained Nick. ‘It’s an Appin thing.’
I asked him early-on if he had a girlfriend.
‘No . . . not really. No Jill to my Jack.’
‘Jack and Jill were brother and sister, weren’t they?’
‘No.’
‘I think they were.’
‘I really don’t think it specifies. I personally think that Jack and Jill were . . . you know . . . on a wavelength with each other. And I used their example by way of illustrating that when I skip up the hill to fetch a pail of water, I go on my own. And when I fall down and break my crown . . . there’s no one to administer vinegar and brown paper.’
So apparently no girlfriend, but often when we walked down King Street in Newtown together, he’d dodge behind me upon seeing some chick or other with Uma-Thurman-in- Pulp-Fiction hair, or dreadlocks swinging down past her ass, who he had rooted and not called.
High verbal IQ. That’s what I loved about Nick immediately and forever. Our minds went to very similar places, eros crystallised throughout every conversation as a matter of course.
I felt paralysed in my chair that morning. Why had I woken at 5 a.m. feeling restless and tired at the same time? I sat quietly at my desk until people started to trickle in. Johanna was screeching from the meeting room, where was everyone, it was gone quarter to nine , handover should have already started . And so forth.
I just couldn’t bring myself to get up and go in to listen to the day’s sad stories, the folks who had fallen upon the thorns of life and wer K liine,e bleeding.
‘ Thirty seconds, ’ Johanna shouted.
People stirred at her tone, and got to their feet, even Nick. He walked around to my side of the partition and looked at me slumped in my chair.
‘What gives, bella?’ he asked.
I shrugged. ‘I just can’t do it today.’
‘This isn’t you . . . usually you’re in there at 8:40, shuffling papers all Hollier-than-thou, tut-tutting everyone else for being late.’
‘I can’t do it, Captain. I don’t have the power.’
‘Come on . . . What are your legs?’
I immediately got that he was quoting Gallipoli .
‘Steel springs . . . ’ I said, without much conviction.
‘What are they going to do?’ he barked.
‘They’re going to hurl me down the track.’ I sat up in my seat.
‘How fast can you run?’
‘As fast as a leopard.’
He pulled me to my feet.
‘How fast are you going to run?’
‘As fast as a leopard!’
‘Well! Let’s see you do it then!’
He clapped his hands, and I turned and jogged to the meeting room.
That became one of our little catch-cries, whenever either of us needed a little inspiration or motivation at work, or was too drunk or drug affected to move.
‘ What are your legs?!
’ Try it on yourself. It’s strangely motivating.
To: Lara Kirkwood; Abigail Ryan; Daniel Pryde; Timothy Espie
From: Holly Yarkov
Hey y’all, only two-and-a-half days til quittin’ time for the week. How’s about we meet for drinkies at the Exchange after our travails on Friday night?
Woz x
To: Holly Yarkov; Abigail Ryan; Daniel
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