White Ute Dreaming by Scot Gardner Page B

tattoos, he just told me to know myself before I started getting them. If you don’t know yourself, like the things that really crank your handle, then there’s a big risk you’ll get a tattoo that you’ll regret later on.’
    I nodded and thought about that for a minute. What about when you get a new girlfriend and you’ve already got someone else’s name tattooed into your skin? That’s a bit awkward. He must have read my mind.
    â€˜Yeah, but even so, life’s a journey. If you don’t change every now and then, you die. Kim Hun is my wife. We’ve been married for sixteen years. Jill is my eldest. She’s fifteen and Amy is twelve.’
    â€˜Cool,’ I said, and bit down on my tongue.
    â€˜I wanted my body to be a work of art. All the pictures mean something to me. They all tell a story.’ He rolled up the leg of his pants so I could see his left calf. Oriental warrior.
    â€˜This bloke, Musashi, is a Japanese folk hero. A Samurai. He could fight. Mate, he was the best of the best. He could sit a grain of rice on your head and cut it in two without hurting you. When he’d had enough of fighting he’d retreat into the forest and meditate. That’s me. I’m on the train now to Melbourne to catch a plane out of Tulla to Darwin. I work for the whole of the dry season on a mango plantation and my wife and kids live here, with her family. Great money. And when the wet comes and things get a bit uncomfortable up there, I fly back home with my pockets full of cash. Me and the missus and the kids pack our gear in the ute and go bush for a couple of months every summer. Mate, it’s a good life.’
    He looked at his boot and mumbled, ‘Except for the week before I go back to work.’
    He had spoken softly. His voice was sort of like music, like he’d be a good singer. He told me some great stories about his tattoos. His life. My favourite was the tattoo on the underside of his right arm. Near his wrist. It was a car wheel. No shit. Even had ‘Good Year Wrangler’ on the wall of the tyre. It was circled by the sort of art I’d seen earlier on that bloke’s didjeridu and three letters. W. U. D.
    â€˜On the station there are lots of Aboriginal workers. My boss, Todd, the bloke who owns the farm, employs them during harvest when they haven’t got other stuff to do. The station backs on to an Aboriginal reserve so they don’t have to walk far to go home. They’re a happy mob and one of the blokes—Peter—comes back every year and works with me. I’d say he’s my best mate up there and I was telling him about my summer trip with the family a couple of years back and he gave it a name. He called it my “White Ute Dreaming”.’
    The trip went so fast. I didn’t even know his name. I told him about Uncle Don. He asked me about Dad and I told him stuff that hadn’t had words wrapped around it very often. Like how I hated my dad. Like how I reckon he’s hot for Pat but he can’t be honest with me. Like how I sometimes think the reason he doesn’t want me around is because he doesn’t like me.
    â€˜I doubt if it would be like that, mate,’ he said, and looked out the window. ‘Sometimes dads find it hard to tell their kids that they love them. Don’t take it too personally.’
    We had started zipping past metro stations when he asked me how I’d lost my hand. He was innocent andhonest about it like a year-seven kid with guts so I told him straight. I had an accident with a brick saw.
    He screwed up his face and sucked air through his teeth. ‘Bet that hurt.’
    I nodded. ‘It was a year ago. Bloody painful for a long time. Just tingles when I get in a hot shower now, though.’
    â€˜How was it at school?’
    â€˜Fine. No problem,’ I said, and his brow scrunched up. ‘To be honest I felt like a bit of a retard to start with.