My Private Pectus by Shane Thamm Page B

sucks his lips in momentarily then takes his mobile from his trouser pockets. It's dainty in his huge hands. He uses his pinkie to dial. He gets through, stares out the window and talks, one hand on his hip. After a while he hangs up. ‘Pizza's coming,’ he says much louder than he needs to.
    â€˜What do I owe you?’ Dad asks.
    Roger laughs him off then flicks through some more paperwork.
    Dad met Roger in 1977 while they were both in the army. They ended up serving in the same unit—Roger a few ranks above. Going by the bits and pieces Dad has said in the past, Roger liked him right from the start. He was committed, showed loyalty. Years later when Mum and Dad split up, Roger told Dad he admired a soldier who could bring up a boy on his own. Dad wasn't just a good soldier; he was a model for society. I became the Pasks’ surrogate nephew. After Dad's accident and the onset of his migraines, Roger took it on himself to help Dad get through. Roger got him posted to a cushier job. When the army doctors weren't convinced, Roger wrote fitness reports about Dad's bad health. And now he dishes off work for Dad even though he doesn't need to. It's Roger's way to help out. So there are plenty of reasons to like Roger, and no doubt I would—if he wasn't such a knob.
    The pizza takes forever to arrive and I think that's great because we won't have to pay. But when the delivery guy rocks up—dressed in trousers and a button-up shirt, driving a turbo-diesel Volkswagen—Roger slaps him a fifty. I wait for the change. Nothing. These must be some pizzas. Moments later they're on the table—spirals of cheese and sour cream on one, delicately placed mussels in open shells on the other. I look at Dad in disbelief.
    â€˜Best grub in town,’ Roger tells us and gives us a slice each. We use scrap paper as plates. I suck out a mussel then flick the shell at Knight Rider.
    â€˜Jack belted this kid up at school the other day,’ Dad says all of a sudden with disappointment pasted all over his face. Then he starts re-telling Roger my incident with Cuppas in the dunny.
    Roger, however, holds his lips tight to conceal a grin. ‘How'd it all start?’
    Dad shrugs and looks to me to set things straight. Buoyed by Roger's half-hearted response, I start out with confidence, but when I tell him I was waiting to get into the cubicles, he screws his face and says, ‘Why'd you wanna go in there?’
    â€˜ To get changed.’
    â€˜Changed?’ he says like it's the dumbest thing he's ever heard.
    â€˜I wanted privacy.’
    â€˜Privacy?’ He puts his pizza down. ‘What's your problem? You're all blokes. You've all got the same packed lunch!’
    â€˜Packed lunch,’ I say and snigger.
    He grins. ‘That's what we called it back in my army days. Packed lunch, isn't that right, Brian?’ and he punches Dad in the bicep.
    Dad gives Roger a stern look. ‘What?’ Roger says. ‘Just saying the facts.’
    â€˜Thanks, Rog,’ Dad says, but as he shifts his attention back to me, Roger goes on.
    â€˜And I packed more than you!’ he bellows. He bends over and slaps his thighs amid howls of laughter.
    â€˜Do you mind?’ Dad says to him.
    â€˜Ooooh, touchy,’ Roger says and shoots me a wink.
    â€˜Tell Roger what happened next,’ Dad prompts me.
    I look at Roger for support, but the moment's passed. ‘What does it matter?’ I ask.
    Dad puts his beer down.
    I stare momentarily at the pizza, my appetite gone. ‘The boys were cracking Cuppas with the towel and I was trying to leave,’ I lie, ‘but The P grabbed me and put the towel in my hand.’ Dad's eye twitches as he watches me. ‘It's not like I wanted it,’ I say.
    Roger purses his lips, probably trying to imagine the scene. ‘Who's The P?’ he asks.
    I mumble, ‘Dale Petersen.’
    â€˜Dale,’ Roger spits. ‘Sounds like a