Brownsville Tales - Jordan

(Thanks Baruch)

Brownsville High's annual athletics day was held at the end of Febuary each year, for some strange reason.

Actually, there were good reasons for holding it then. First, it was still close to the start of the year and so was a good chance for the students to show what they could do and for the Phys Ed teachers to rate them. Second, holding it at the same time each year meant that conditions were roughly the same each year; which was fair on current and previous record-holders. Third, it was a chance for a collective day off after the grind of settling down and beginning another year's work.

The day was a good bonding exercise for the student body and the weather, pretty much, was guaranteed to be fine.

'Fine for some.' Dillon frowned at the group of 'supervising' teaching staff sitting comfortably in the shade under the wide verandah roof around the sports pavilion. It was all right for them, they didn't have to bake in the sunshine and run around all day, sweating their rings out.

It was still the middle of freakin' summer and, and as far he was concerned, it was a seriously dumb-arse time to be holding an outdoor sports meeting. Winter would make more sense, but then, he frowned at the staff again, some people wouldn't be keeping warm by burning calories.

He glanced up, briefly, at the wicked sun beaming down. 'A bit of rain would be nice.' Even some cloud cover would be better than this. This was bloody torture.

The next event on their schedule was the 1500 meters, long distance race. In this heat, that was just too long – too long and too much. He'd done enough running around in the sun. Now was the time to sit and cool off a bit. 'That'd be cool!'

He grinned at his own, weak, joke and looked enviously at the teachers. They were sitting there like bosses on a cotton plantation while the slaves toiled in the sunshine. So not fair!

Outside the pavilion wasn't the only shaded area. He glanced over at the line of old trees at the back of the playing fields. All he had to do was to get in under the lower branches and he'd be out of sight and home free. They could keep their bloody buggery races, he'd had enough.

The discus, shot-put and hammer throws were still dragging on. He'd bombed-out there ages ago and he didn't care.

He stood up, did a few half-hearted stretching exercises, and then, without saying anything to anyone, started jogging slowly around the outside track. Anyone watching would think that he was warming-up for the big race, he hoped.

He wasn't the only one doing it so, hopefully, no-one would take any notice of him.

He stuck to the outside of the track and, when he came close to the trees, he stopped for a 'breather', leaning forward with his legs wide-spread and his hands on his thighs. He sat down on the grass.

Damm, even the ground was hot! No-one was looking at him. He lay on his back, and then quickly rolled over and into the dark shade below the trees.

The bottom branches didn't quite reach to the ground, they were about a meter clear of it. Lying on the bare ground, he could see everyone out there but, hopefully, they couldn't see him there in the shade. The glorious shade! It was better, but still not very cool in there. There wasn't a breath of wind and it was hot and stuffy everywhere.

'What a dumb day for a sports meet.'

It felt like it was the hottest day of the year.

There was no undergrowth at all in there, not even a single blade of grass. The only covering on the hard dry ground was a layer of litter – years of fallen leaves, small dead branches and the occasional round cone. Macrocarpas are like that, they don't like competition and they kill everything trying to grow below them. That's probably why groundsmen like them for borders – less maintainance to be done around them.

'It wouldn't hurt to rake all this stuff up. It's all so dry, it must be a fire hazard. One match and there'd be a raging inferno in here. However, not my problem.'

He had no matches on him anyway. There was nowhere to put them in the silly little sports-shorts that he was wearing. He crawled further back in and sat leaning back against a trunk, with his eyes closed, enjoying the relief from the heat.

He didn't know what it was, but some strange noise made him snap his eyes open again.

There was a small patch of colour up in the tree, a few meters above him. What? Someone's sports clothes thrown up in the branches? Why?

Puzzled, he stood up, then grabbed the branch above him to pull himself up for a closer look. Yes, it was sports clothes that he'd seen, but they weren't just thrown up there. Someone was wearing them.

There was somebody up there, sitting in the branches. He wasn't the first one to have the brilliant idea of hiding in here then. But who? He couldn't see.

He climbed right up and, carefully, stood on the branch, keeping one steadying hand on the trunk next to him. Okay, he was still not sure, so he climbed up on to the next branch, and the next, and pulled himself up next to the boy sitting there.

“Midget! What're you doing up here?”

Jordan Houston looked around and, if looks could kill he'd be in trouble. So that was what a 'look of disdain' looked like. Without saying a word, Houston made him feel like he was the little one – little and stupid.

“I mean, umm, well . . you're obviously here for the same reason that I am – escaping from the torturers out there But why climb up in the tree?”

“If you half a brain, you'd work it out for yourself. They can see you when you're sitting on the ground. Dimwit.”

“Dimwit?”

“Fuckwit then. That fits better actually.” He got up and stood on the branch without even holding on to anything.

Dillon was impressed. If he tried that, he'd be down on the ground and hurting by now. He glanced down and nodded. 'Hurting all over, probably.'

He looked up again at the boy standing above him. “You've got good balance. If I tried that, I'd be flat on my arse on the ground.”

“Do it then. I could do with a laugh.”

“Hey! Don't be like that, Midget.”

“Go fuck yourself, Kirkwood.” He reached up, grabbed the branch above him and, with two jerks, stood up on that one.

Then he began climbing higher up, walking around the tree like he was on a spiral staircase. He had to duck and weave around some twigs, but basically the branches grew out of the tree in a spiral. Dillon hadn't realised that, but then, he'd never spent a lot of time up in trees. This kid obviously had, he was quite at home here, comfortable and good at it too.

“Hey, wait. Where're you going?”

“Anywhere away from you.” He kept climbing.

Dillon was puzzled and a bit pissed. What the hell was wrong with him? He was an okay sort of person, wasn't he? He had a lot of friends and some good ones too. He got along with most people and was not used to being hated – not like this.

What the hell was up with the Midget? They'd never been close, but he'd seen him around a lot, always laughing and joking. He wasn't grinning now. Why not? What had he done?

There was one good thing about all this. Houston might be mad at him and running away, but he was going up, not down. Sooner or later, he was going to have to come down again. Only problem was – it might be later.

Once everyone out there had finished sweating in the sun, they'd be going back to school and those who were not there would be missed. He didn't have a perfect record, but it was pretty good and he didn't want to get in trouble – or cause Houston to either.

There was only one thing to do then. He started climbing – going up to make things right with the kid. Hopefully.

Going up the tree was nowhere near as easy as Houston had made it look. Even following the spiral of the branches, it was hard work. But, he was careful, slow and steady, and he got there.

The tree was getting smaller. The branches thinned-out and the trunk was starting to sway. That'd look funny from the outside; there was no wind at all out there. He climbed up to where the other boy was stopped and glaring down at him.

“Damm. I'm not as good at this as you are. You made it look easy.”

“Just fuck off, will ya!”

“Don't be like that. I want to talk.”

“Tough! I don't want to talk to you. Not now, not ever. Fuck off and leave me alone. Come any closer and I'll boot you in the face.”

“You really don't like me, Jordan? Why not? I'm a good guy.”

“Says who?”

“Well, there's my mum. She likes me.”

“She has to. That's her job, innit? It's not mine and I don't, so fuck off!”

“If you want me to, I will. But first, tell me why you don't like me. I've never done anything to you, have I?”

“You have.”

“What then? Tell me and I'll apologise.”

Jordan glared down at the big, brown, puppy-eyes pleading up at him. His face softened and he sighed. “All right then. You called me 'Midget' and I hate that. I hate it and I hate anyone who says it and I hate you.”

“Oh. Sorry. I didn't know it upset you that much. I just thought it was a name that people called you. I won't do that again. Sorry.”

Dillon waited but there was no answer, so now he sighed, turned away and started climbing back down, slowly and carefully. “I'll leave you alone now.”

Jordan watched him and thought, 'Sorry? Yeah, I think you are. Maybe I was a bit harsh, you seem like a good guy. Only one way to find out.'

“Kirkwood, wait. Stop there, I'm coming down.” He skitted down to where Dillon was and sat on a branch next to him. “They'll be a few minutes before they're finished out there. Sit down and talk to me.”

“Okay, sure!” Dillon lost the worried look and a smile lit-up his face. He sat down, carefully keeping one hand on the trunk. “What do we talk about?”

“About you, for a start,” Jordan grinned. “All I know is that you haven't been in town very long and your name is Kirkwood. Tell me more – what's your proper name, where are you from and why are you here?”

“Okay. I'm called Dillon, we came from Christchurch a few months ago when my parents split-up. Mum's got a job here, she's a receptionist and medical assistant at the dentist's.”

“Sooner her than me,” Jordan grimaced. “So are you earthquake refugees?”

“Not really. Our house was okay – a lot better than most. A chimney came down through the roof and there was some liquification in the driveway, but that was all. But, yeah., I suppose we are refugees in a way.

We didn't lose the house and shit, but the stress probably helped break-up the family. It's happening a lot and thousands of people are getting out of there.”

“They'll go back in time. Things will settle down and there'll be heaps of jobs there soon – they've got a city to rebuild.”

“I suppose. I'm glad we're out anyway. It's nice to walk into a building and know it's not going to fall down on you.”

“Ah, but do you know that? Earthquakes can happen anywhere, anytime and the experts say that we're overdue for a big one here.”

“Oh, great! Thanks for that. Here I was thinking that we're safe now.”

“You most likely are safe, for now. Christchurch will be the safest place in the country now the pressure has all gone. It'll take years for it to build-up again for the next big one”

“If the pressure has all gone. Nobody knows if they're finished. Let's talk about something else. How about you? You're a local?”

“Well,” Jordan shrugged. “Almost a local. I wasn't born here, we moved down from Nelson when I was a baby. Dad's a driver at the mine and Mum works, part-time, commercial cleaning. I've got one sister – Kate. She's 12 and bigger than me. Have you got siblings?”

“No, no brothers ever and no sisters now.” Dillon's face fell.

There was obviously a story there, and not a good one. He looked upset, almost like he was going to cry, so Jordan changed the subject. “What are you doing, hiding away in the trees here? I thought a big, strong kid like you would be really into sports.”

“Yeah, sometimes I am, “ he grinned again and shrugged. “But not now. It's too dammed hot out there and I've had enough of it. Why are you here? Not the sporty type?”

“Hardly! I'm not built for it, am I? With these arms and legs, people run all over me and I get sick of losing, so I get out of it whenever I can.”

“Fair enough, I guess. Can't you get a note from a doctor to say that you can't play sports? Then you wouldn't have to hide.”

“A doctor? Watch it, Mate. I'm not sick, I'm just little.”

“Yeah. You are that. You're small for your age.”

“Only on the outside. What sort of music are you into?”

“Music? All sorts, I guess. I like metal – Megadeath, Asking Alexandria, Chelsea Grin, that sort of thing.”

“All right! You've got good taste. That's our sort of music.” Jordan beamed his cheeky grin.

“Our music? You and who else?”

“Us, of course – the Tight Five. We've got a group. Do you play anything?”

“Me? No, just play the fool, sometimes. What do you play?”

“I'm on drums. If you say 'Little Drummer Boy', I'm outta here!”

“O – kay. Am I allowed to think it?”

“Thnk what you want. Just don't say it.”

“I won't then. Who else is in your group?”

“Ashton Morris is our star. He's on lead guitar and he's really, really good. Gene Crestani is rythym guitar and Lucas Breene on bass.”

“That makes four. Why call yourselves the Tight Five?”

“Because we are – very tight. It's a rugby expression, the Tight Five are the front row – the Hooker, two Props and two Locks.”

“But you've only got four.”

“No, there's five. The Cat does vocals.”

“And the Cat is?”

“Caitlyn Sawyer. She's our mate too.”

“So one of your mates is a girl. Is your group any good?”

“No. We're just crap really, apart from Ashton, he's good. We have a lot of fun and it's something to do.”

“Fair enough. I hope I get to hear you play sometime.”

“You can if you want. We're entering the Smokefree Rockquest this year – we won't win but it'll be an experience.”

“You're not exactly over-confident.”

“Yeah I am – confident that we'll lose, and we will. As long as we have fun, that's what matters.”

“I guess so. Good luck anyway.”

They sat up in the tree and talked, both enjoying themslves until they had to cut it short. Someone was running around out there, blowing a whistle like a mad thing. The sports day was over, it was time to get down and go back to school.