Category: American Creek (page 2 of 3)

I can feel the nettle, stuck in my leg,
this remnant of Nebo’s glory, shoved
deep inside my thigh, and poisoned
too. I can just imagine the swelling
there, and the pain. Totally worth it.
An opportunity I’d never had before
In the field. The perfect ambush. No
Sound save for the odd raindrop. Op.†

The only one I missed. We drank
Victory sips from our canteens. Mine
Was nearly empty but I shared it with
Thurston. Up above, the water tower
Promised unlimited canteen refills
But offered us no source, not a tap.
The irony of it was lost on us. Once
We’d recovered we marched, our

Cut, leech & scratch inspections. JR.
My preferred call name. Sure, we’ve
Got walkie-talkies. Sticks, also. My
Hands a circuit board of cuts, made
by brambles. On the other side of Mt
Nebo there’s just the escarpment, and
a farm we don’t ever go to. Rumours
of ordnance, of secret tunnel dumps.

Jason Malvern. Securing the sting’s
Venom could take some time. Must
Remember to breathe normally, thin
Whistles of air between the teeth, my
Nostrils an army brown face mask.
On sale at Aussie Disposals. Should
Pop in there after my haircut. A flat
Top. It’s a totally Full Metal Jacket

perimeter, through the grey cotton.
Wasps and burrs. A three-cornered
Jack. Scorpion of the weed world.
Wheeling around to face an attack,
Thurston dropped his walkie-talkie
In the creek, laughing as its cricket-
like bleeps faded in the jungle dusk.
Returning home, mum read the tale

on my shorts. That’s better. I have
some Dettol in my locker, beside my
camo paint. Lee’s pocket knife still
there, ever since he got suspended.
No more afternoon detentions. His
Chance came early in the game, as
I foolishly left myself exposed from
The direction of Mt Kembla. I had

to cut a fresh trail through jungle –
to win. The second part was easier
than the first. Falling finally behind
the rock, I listened with my stick as
Lee and Thurston slowly advanced.
My first sighting of them would end
The game but they’d improved over
The months and all I saw was jungle

up at the source of American Creek.
Chest heaving, waiting with a stick
For a rifle and an empty canteen, as
My enemies close in on my position.
There’s something of a quiet jungle
when I return to my crow’s nest, my
eyrie of calm in a turbulent world. A
flicker of t-shirts between two trees.

The school yard’s dense with bodies
BUT I CAN’T HEAR A THING. No need to
shout, a corona’s hanging around her
head. The silence of summer. Here we
go, across the iron bridge and onto
the sports oval. Grass whistle. I’m
still asleep. Memory tastes of Vita
Brits. Something snaps in my ear as†

the fog on Mt Nebo clears. Pressure.
Younger morning. Raindrop fans on a
jacaranda. Oil rainbows on the road.
Then I get my best thinking done. So
Figtree wakes up. I see it every day.
Watch the streets change shape, grow.
Trajectories of wet newspapers still
visible to me, in the air. Energy of

a little volcano, the one that feeds
the sky with its extinct knob. Nebo.
O’Briens Road like a trail of ants
up its side. There’s the water tank
and the barbed wire fence. Its sign.
The long strip of black tar leads to
the high school far below, base camp.
I rode down it once, without brakes,

into American Creek. It’s flooding.
This is the best, so untold. By this
afternoon, I bet O’Briens Road will
be under water. Mum tells me to shut
up. She doesn’t know. Does anybody?
Try lighting a fire in a flood. Try
what I tried. Curled up in a little
ball, powerless to resist. Try this.

Call me Clint. Yes, I’m the eldest.
Not so easy to pick, at first glance.
Hairdressers are a nightmare, so this
summer I’m growing my hair long. Yep.
As long as Melissa’s. Meeting up with
her, after tennis but maybe it’s been
cancelled. Underwater by now, I’d say.
A ripple on the sports oval. The bell.

It’s okay. Happens all the time. Well,
you’d be surprised. I don’t work out
at all. Why I never make the team. No,
really, it’s okay. I’m used to it by
now. It doesn’t seem to make much of
a difference to them. Never has. We’re
a family. Wonder where we’ll go this
summer. Dad’s got the map out already.

There’s the bell. I’d better run. Got
to clear out the locker and transfer
it all to mum’s car. Easier that way.
One period. Assembly. Lunch. Then two
periods in the afternoon. Surely they
can’t expect us to do much, on a day
like this. Mel’s distracted. I see it
in the way she sits there, thinking of

our big assembly today. Sure. Bye now.
Don’t let me keep you waiting. Fog’s
nearly gone. Maybe it won’t be so bad.
Disappointing really. I’d have liked
it to flood on my last day at school.
Watch the pens and pencils flushed out
of the classrooms, across the sports
oval, into the churn of American Creek.

You know it’s just that every day
this wave of International Roast it
just hits me, in the common room,
and I want to run. I see a pile of
papers that may never get marked,
handwritten notes, attendance rolls,
and I just want to bolt. I navigate
classrooms, listen to the bells but†

it’s as if I’m a starter’s gun. Take
your marks, get set, then go. Mrs
Malvern! shouts the small crowd,
Peace, land, bread! As if it’s some
re-enactment, not two unit History.
Summer has stolen its march on the
end of another school year. I could
smell it on the bridge by the Creek.

Mrs Malvern. Mum. Here he comes,
turning into his father once a minute,
slouching like a fucking hat. Swiped.
And then seated. Eighteen years old.
Two weeks of exams. His first adult
Summer. Barely ready. Pretends to
read. Has got a lift to the city library
with Ralph every Saturday this year.

Later than usual, with a look on his
Face like Mt Nebo in fog. Blackout.
Won’t answer me in class. Somehow
I gave up long ago. He’ll get through.
More than I can say for some of his
mates, those two girls in particular.
What he sees in that one Mac Davis
Alone would know. Or The Shadows.

Their last high school summer day.
Zippedy. That strange feeling in the
Empty car park, experienced every
Year, like a loop of teen graduation
Footage. Drawn in for one more lap.
Each curriculum’s circumnavigation
Bringing me closer to no, didn’t buy
Any smokes. Sure Brian’s got some.

Relief’s like the change that brought
Ralph home early one evening once.
I’d support the seniors’ demands for
a smoking room myself if I wasn’t
already compromised. All they ever
go on about. Life without mum. Ha!
I can’t see the look on his face but
He’d get used to it. They’ll have to.

Hot morning. The creek swells under
its bridge, and traffic banks up along
the highway. Assembly, then lunch,
then sweet relief. House to ourselves
for the first time in weeks. Five silver
comet children, spinning out of orbit
into the bleeding Wollongong night.
Might even hear a sound of the creek.

By the old iron footbridge I watch it.
Often changes colour, a kind of khaki
tone today. Sometimes rust, or blood.
Never have followed it down to where
It meets the river, or the sea, if it even
Does. What does the creek remember
Of me, of us? How will we get through
an afternoon of revisions, corrections?

By American Creek there’s a fig tree
with someone’s name written on its
trunk. I hesitate to say mine. Okay,
yes. In some fit of adolescent vanity
I carved the initials RM there one day,
after school. Never have gone back to
look at it. What would be the point?
Just a memory now, like the fig tree

that’s been chopped off at the waist.
I suppose it was infected with some
Kind of disease. I used to drive past
it every day, you know, on my way
to the F6 and Sydney. This kind of
semi-dead tree, down by the creek
there, at the end of our street. Then
someone chopped it off at the waist.

Nothing but a brown stump remains.
I can’t look at it anymore. In fact, I
drive a different way now, cutting
across Figtree Heights to reach the
on-ramp. It’s actually about fifteen
minutes faster. A lot less traffic. As
a result I don’t drive past the school
that often now. Or the fig tree stump.

It’s the reason for my suburb’s name.
I’d like to crawl inside that name and
sit there for a while, listening to its
silent refrain. Fig tree. Figtree. Two
words fused together to form a name
that’s no longer valid. A kind of lie,
perhaps. Cruising in a Newcastle lane.
Anyway, what’s in a suburb’s name?

As for mine, if you ask, Ralph will do.
Yeah. Ralph Malvern. And you? Well,
pleased to meet you. So what do you
want? A lift? Sure, hop in. I’m driving
that way myself. Working in Sydney?
Yeah, I used to catch that one too. It’s
not too bad a commute. I’m stationed
out at Holsworthy. No, Ralph will do.

Mr Malvern to their friends at school,
of course. Not that I get to see a great
deal of them. It’s in the nature of the
job, as they say. Not much more to it,
really. I enjoy the driving, as long as
I break it up a bit. About a thousand
clicks a week, at the moment. Yeah,
Ralph Leyland’s about right. Malvern.

Watch them walk down O’Brien’s Rd
like Brown’s cows, the herd of them.
Another reason I never come this way,
most days. Good to see the old streets
again, every once in a while. God, kids.
Where was the last place I so much as
Talked to any of them? O’Brien’s Rd?

Reflected in the Fairlane’s rear-view.
Then they’re gone. Turning left onto
the highway, the Figtree Hotel in my
right eye & Westfield straight ahead.
I’d be almost at the entrance by now,
If I’d come the other way. Yes, well,
anyway, there won’t be any delays.
A fig tree in the Fairlane’s rear-view.