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Dad is dead.
My body shakes and shivers, my ears ring, the sounds of the city blur. Dad is dead shouts, on repeat. I ride hard, gulp air in uncoordinated breaths, out of time with my techno heartbeat. Cars beep as I cut the intersection, gripping the handlebars tight, my fingernails piercing the skin on the palm of my hand. The pain does nothing to release the pressure in my chest.
Down Main Street cars speed past me. One intentional wrong twitch of my handlebars and I’d be free, the crushing weight gone. I wouldn’t have to face his lifeless body, like I had to with Mum. The images is cemented forever – her taking her last breath, her eyes that rolled, her grey, lifeless face that would never speak and which I’d never see again; it’ll torment me till the end of my days.
The hospital looms in front. I can’t do it again. I carry on past.
I bike along the beach track, further out of town than I’ve ever biked before, until the track ends and the main road turns away from the coast and winds up a forested hill. I turn down Boulder Bank Beach Road. My chest heaves; it takes three gasped, forced breaths to inflate my lungs. The tears catch the wind and sting my eyes. I should have tried harder to get him help, to find him, to say sorry.
On one side of the road, houses sprinkle the grassy hills. On the other, paddocks with sheep and cows extend to the beach line. At the end of the road, I stop at a fish-and-chip shop slash dairy. Inside I pick up three bottles of wine and walk out unnoticed. I need to detach from reality. Right now, I’m teetering on crumbling ground above a black hole. What will happen when I fall is too unpredictable, too uncertain, the aftermath un-survivable.
Across the road, I lock my bike to a children’s slide, wind the top off the bottle of red wine and skull the alcohol, which flows, warm and tingly. I pace around the kids’ basketball court, pull my fist back and slam it into the concrete wall below the basketball hoop.
Searing pain radiates through my fingers and up my shoulder. Blood drips from the gashes onto the concrete as I gulp more wine till the bottle is empty and I crack open the next.
“I get it, Dad!” I yell. “You needed a break from your own brain.”
I stumble down a track and through a thick hedge to the beach. Instead of sand, there are smooth stones, all different sizes. Waves rush in and crash on the shore, raking the pebbles, grinding them against each other.
Down the beach is a tepee made from long, weathered pieces of driftwood. I sit inside and skull till the bottle’s empty; the view out to sea is perfectly out of focus, and reality is nearly on hold.
My phone beeps. And rings. Beeps and rings. I check my emails, but the words and their meaning are a blur.
This text is to confirm that your interview with SOFA is tomorrow at nine. Please check your confirmation email for further details as we have been unable to reach you at the previous address.
I’m probably hallucinating.
I stumble along the rocks back to the playground and drop the wine bottle in the empty rubbish bin. The glass shatters into a thousand pieces.
“We’re all a bit broken, aren’t we?” I can’t tell if it’s night or day, or remember where I am. Once the wine fully hits, I won’t be able to walk.
I crawl under the hedge and lie down, using my bag as a pillow. The trees and stars wobble out of focus, and I pass out.
I bolt awake. Beams of first light stream through the tree canopy; the children’s playground is dusted in white.
Dad is dead.
I’m flooded with memories. Every Sunday after footy practice, me and Dad would order hot chips if we had the cash, and eat them on this beach. We’d collect rocks and stack them in mounds, largest to smallest, Dad always with a beer in hand. It was just him and me while Mum worked. That was ten years ago, and there have been no moments like that since.
I crawl out from under the trees, wander the beach, pick up a rock and skim it into the ocean, though I use too much force and instead of bouncing it plops dead, lost at sea. I let the tears fall, let it all out, don’t hold back, not because I’ll miss him but because I’ll never be able to change the fact that things didn’t end right with us. I failed Mum.
I check my phone and ignore the missed calls and messages.
I re-read the SOFA interview message and see that my phone will run out of power at any second.
Dad was uncomplicated. He never spoke of having big dreams, or maybe he did. I never asked, and I’ll never know. He seemed content with his life – to just exist. The polar opposite of me. At my core, I won’t be satisfied if I don’t at least fight for better.
I change into my ball clothes. My phone is flat.
I ride along the beach track, still drunk from last night. Bumper-to-bumper cars on the main road toot their horns as they hustle into a single lane; whoever is on the interview panel, I hope they’re stuck in traffic.
SOFA Enrolments is etched on the giant frosted windows of the gallery where, inside, dreams happen. I wish I’d dragged Dad here, told him about SOFA. But the fact is, he wouldn’t have come, or got it.
I open the heavy glass door to enrolments. My head pounds and my stomach churns, turning queasy somersaults.
“Dylan Marshall, here for the SOFA interview,” I say to the receptionist, my voice cracking. The room is packed with interviewees and their support people; I suck in a purposeful breath and swallow hard.
The receptionist peers at me with kind eyes. “Take a seat; they’ll come get you.”
I take the seat furthest from anyone else. It looks out over the car park.
A car skids into a car park and lurches to a stop. Miss Reed bursts through the doors. How’d she know about the interview ... and, by her screwed up face, about Dad, too?
“Dylan,” she gasps, sitting down next to me. “I’m so sorry about –”
Dad’s dead, Dad’s dead. I shake my head. “Shhh. Don’t.”
She eyes me up and down. “Right.” I’ve never seen more pity in a look. “Have you been drinking?”
I don’t answer. I can’t. If she asks how I am, it’s all over.
“You know you don’t have to do –”
“Don’t.”
A lady with thick, black-rimmed glasses, wearing a mustard-coloured floaty skirt and white shirt walks down the glass corridor. Noticing these small details helps – the wood grain in the clipboard she’s holding, her skirt swishing side to side with each step. The twelve different-coloured pencils in a mug on the receptionist’s desk.
I’m about to go into a room to be judged by strangers, to see if I’m good enough. I’m not sure I can speak without my voice quivering, my outsides cracking and what’s left spilling out.
“Dylan Marshall,” the lady says to Miss Reed, as if they recognise each other.
“I’m Pam.” The lady reaches out to shake my hand all formal-like.
Miss Reed stands. “I’ll come? Be your support person.” They stare, waiting for me to follow.
“No ... thanks.” After the thing with Mr Campbell, I don’t need another person judging me.
I follow Pam up a long, glass hall. The silence suffocating, the walk too long. Dead. Dad is dead. We turn into the last classroom.
A desk sits in front of a black brick wall with the words SOFA is Art in gold cut vinyl. The colours and the vinyl remind me of Libby and the ball. I park that for later. Sitting behind the desk is Mr Campbell. I do a double take. I’m at capacity, zero room left for more. My mind numbs like I’m watching a bird’s-eye view of someone else’s life about to fall apart.
“This way.” Pam motions for me to take a seat in front of the interview panel.
I’m never going to see Dad ever again; he’s dead, gone.
“Nerves can be mean, can’t they?” Pam says.
I say nothing, avoid eye contact with Mr Campbell.
Pam grins. “Let me introduce you to the team. This is Mr Campbell; he will be taking over when I retire in a few weeks.”
Mr Campbell holds out his hand, I shake it.
“Michael. He tutors our first-year programme,” Pam says.
I shake his hand.
Pam looks down at the piece of paper in front of her. “Tell us about yourself.”
Dad is dead, Dad is dead. I gulp tiny quivery breaths to inflate my lungs.
“Do you need a minute – a glass of water?” Pam passes me one.
Don’t ask me if I’m okay. Don’t ask.
“I’m a homeless street artist.”
Surprise and confusion etch their faces. I could lie, be embarrassed, or tell the truth. But I’m done living a lie.
The silence isn’t unexpected; it’s more confronting for them than for me.
“Art is my life. It’s not what I do; it’s who I am.” I know I’m being deep; they’re lucky I’m not a blubbering mess, lucky I haven’t mentioned Dad yet.
Pam looks directly at me. “I see. It must be extraordinarily tough. Is homelessness what motivates your art?”
“My work reflects my world, but to me, art motivates me to fight for a better life, to inspire others to do the same.” I pause. “Sorry, I’m rambling.”
“It’s okay,” Pam says. “Go on.”
My voice quivers. “My point is, my art is a voice for those who don’t have one.”
Michael flicks through pages of my work, his face expressionless.
“I like to capture raw emotion and challenge people’s misconceptions about homelessness to show we’re imperfect beings with hopes and dreams, like everybody else.”
Pam flicks through the folder. “Your art clearly reflects empathy.”
Dad lived up to the stereotype. He wasted his life; I can’t be what everyone believes homeless people to be.
Mr Campbell passes me tissues; I ignore the welling tears and push the box away. I can be sad later.
“I admire your passion for your work,” Pam says.
Mr Campbell clears his throat. “Street art is often sprayed in illegal places; does that bother you?”
I can’t pick his tone; he speaks as if we’ve never met before, and I appreciate that.
“I choose walls based on having the greatest emotional impact, not because that location is illegal to bomb.”
Mr Campbell continues, “Being homeless would certainly be a barrier to studying with SOFA, especially storing and carrying out assignments. How would you get around this?”
“Being homeless hasn’t stopped me from handing in all my schoolwork to you. I’m two pieces from completing the portfolio for school and the SOFA competition.”
Mr Campbell shifts in his seat. “How will you cover fees if you’re unsuccessful with the competition?”
“Find a full-time job; it’s my only option.”
“Managing a job and full-time study is quite a challenge for many of our students who don’t have the added challenge of homelessness.”
“I’m aware. I’m not unfamiliar with challenges; most of my life has been one challenge after another.” I can’t tell if Mr Campbell will make this harder or easier – he’s in a privileged position; he could easily turn them off me.
After a round of questions about what majors I’ll consider, they wrap up the interview. Shorter than I would have thought if they were actually considering me.
Pam escorts me down the glass corridor that overlooks the grass courtyard where me and Libby had coffee. “Once your portfolio and referee report is in, and we’ve had a chance to go over them, we’ll let you know the outcome.”
Back in the waiting room, Pam announces the name of the next person.
Miss Reed ushers me towards her car; I beeline for my bike. “I know it’s god-awful,” she says, “but you need to come to the hospital.”
I ignore her, put my helmet on. Dad’s grey, dead body lies in a chiller.
She rests her hand on my forearm. “You’re in shock, and grief is a scary thing. Let me drive you. We can pick up some things; we can call whoever you like. It’s going to be okay,” Miss Reed says.
I can’t stand it any longer. I jump on my bike and ride; it’s all I know that makes sense.
Miss Reed yells, “Please let me help.”
I ride towards the library, my lungs bordering on collapse. I dump my bike behind the bush and climb the fire escape. All my work has been painted over in black – the portraits of Mum, Bear, Dad. My life, gone, empty. I peer down at the library car park, at the spot the Mitsi was towed, me red hot and fuming, him drinking his life away. It must have been hard knowing it was his fault Mum died, the burden too suffocating. He gave up on life, and I never once asked how he was. We ignored it; that was our deal. I could have done more.
I look for details in the view from the rooftop – the swirling clouds over the sea. I count the buildings around Central Garden Square, and stop at Libby’s apartment, where we fell in paint and Libby snort-laughed. I spot the seat in Central Garden Square we sat at when Libby was drunk, and remember the moment she filled me with technicolour.
A van parks below and the driver steadies an elderly lady out and onto the footpath.
I lean over and shout, “I love you, Libby Green.” Weight rises from my shoulders, the weight of the universe lifts from my chest, and I’m feather-light, and for the first time all day, I can breathe with the full capacity of my lungs.
The elderly lady looks up. “Isn’t that lovely? Grab that girl and never let her go.” And she fists-pumps the air.
A man pokes his head out the van window. “Never stop telling her, that’s the key.”
It’s dark by the time I climb down the fire escape and ride to the servo to charge my phone. I ignore all messages; all she knows is I let her down, left her to manage alone with the ball stuff. I flick through her messages, the photo I sent of Bear. She’s all I’ve got left.
I dial Miss Reed’s number. I don’t have to say anything.
“Where are you? I’ll pick you up.”
“The library. Can you pick up Bear from here?” And I attach directions to the old stadium, the closest listed address to the tent.
“Sure, on my way.”
Her car pulls up, she gets out and launches her arms around me. “I was so worried about you.”
I let myself sink into the hug. Bear pops her head out the window, and I can’t hold it together any longer.
“Dad’s dead.”
She releases the hug, grips my shoulders, face to face. “Yes, sweets. But I’m going to be here always, every step of the way.”
And I can’t hold it in any longer and gushes of tears let go. I grip onto Bear and take the front seat.
“For you,” she says, motioning to the bag on the back seat.
Inside are clothes and tissues, dog food.
“So, I’ve told the school you’ll be away the next few days while we make arrangements, and that brings you to exam week, so officially, you have no classes.”
“Thanks.” I barely have the energy to speak.
We pull up to a white weatherboard house; there’s a veranda with five hanging flower baskets.
“I thought a sleep ...” She pauses. “And tomorrow we go to the hospital.”
I nod and follow her inside, to her spare room. Dinner sits on the desk, covered with a plate; a clean towel rests on the corner of the made-up bed. A bunch of street-art mags and books are on the bed. Miss Reed picks them up. “For you.” Out of the wardrobe, she pulls a plush dog bed, and Bear immediately climbs in.
“You’re welcome to stay as long as you need.”
Mr Campbell appears in PJs dotted with surfboards. “Really, bud, it’s all good.” Easy-going, genuine. Like he’s a different person.
Why are they so lovely? I don’t get it; they don’t have to. I’ve bombed about people having empathy for street people for so long. Is this what it feels like? Is this it?