I live half my life on Kiribati, and the other half in Oz. I’m the half-and-half-man, neither one thing nor the other.
As far as men go, I know Neville Yates best. He’s my step-father, the one who throws me lifelines whenever I’m in trouble. It’s a good thing to have a person like Neville around. Neville is about six feet, and very Oz, in the old-fashioned way. I call him the real McCoy. He’s pretty skinny, and you would be too, if you slaved behind the counter of a fish and chip shop in Armidale for thirty-one years.
Neville thinks about me as the son he always wanted. We go up and down, like a couple of yoyos. People stare and say, “Jeez, that’s not a father and son!” Neville doesn’t come on like I’m a son; it’s more like a mate. He watches me play rugby league. I play up a lot, like, there’s the time I badly wanted to drive the car.
“I want to drive the car!”
“No. You’re gonna have to wait until you get your licence.”
“Let me just drive it outa here?” We were in a garbage tip, okay?
“Nuh.”
I’m really playin’ up, unloading stuff and boxes from the trailer. Somethin’ spills out of a box, along with a whole lot of maggots.
“Yuk!”
“You’re nothin’ but a softy, Tooki!”
Neville climbs inside the trailer. He walks straight in, and I slam the door shut; lock him inside.
“Neville, I know it stinks, but I want to drive the car!”
“Ben, you open this bloody door right now!”
I hop in the front seat, and start drivin’, with Neville in the back. I can hear him screamin’; he’s shittin’ himself, so I have to make a stop.
We used to go on all sorts of trips, and once he set me up for a bungee jump. I thought of myself as a big hero at the time, and I jumped. That was really scary! Oh boy, we really sent each other up in those times.