Brown Skin Blue (3 page)

That's how I remember that first day. I like to play things over in my mind as if they're still happening. Like it's all unfolding again with me in the middle of it, only I know how it's all going to end up. Something about it feels like having my toes tucked up in boots instead of flapping free in thongs at the edge of the river. Comforting.

That memory is real strong, the pictures are fresh and vivid, because it was only three weeks ago. I decided to use some of my remaining money to get a room at the Humpty Doo Hotel. I ate a burger in the dining room at a table with a plastic, strawberry-printed tablecloth.

My room is basic. A single bed with a yellow bedspread. A small table in the corner with a green plastic chair and a bar fridge. A toilet with a basin and a small mirror. The windows are covered with orange lacy curtains and the light filters
through so the room glows. I feel good in that room. The walls look like jumbled-up timber frames because the joins in the wall sheets are covered with thin timber strips. It's like a puzzle that hasn't been put together properly. Like me. So I pay the weekly rate and that's my home each night after the jumping crocs. There was a Humpty Doo Hotel magnet on the fridge, so I put the list of my fathers underneath it.

‘Hey, Barramundy!' Boof yells and I'm jolted back to the broom in my hand and the work to be done. ‘Floors need sweeping then the boat needs cleaning.'

I like the feel of the broom in my hand. The even strokes of the brush against the floor. I like taking something dirty and brown and making it all clean. The leaves and dirt and twigs and bits of gum and cake and scattered ice-cream sticks all go into a big heap. The day's over and the boats rest easy on the water, rocking back and forth with the current. And all along the river, crocs prowl their territory, watching and feeling for anything that's a threat.

When you stand and look out at the river, you wouldn't know they were there. The crocs, that is. The river bends and curves through the land, wide and long with bushes and trees and scrub along the banks either side. But once you know there are crocs in there – plenty of the beasts – it changes the way you look at it. The water is somehow deeper, menacing. Alive and dangerous. It's another world with power and intrigue, disguise and desperation. And in some places, it's war.

The sun's still strong outside. There's not much wind and the humidity's high. I'm covered in sweat and thirsty
again. I've got my ‘Top End Croc Jumping' shirt and pants on – the uniform – and I bought a grey Akubra hat so I'd fit right in. But my drink bottle says HUMPTY DOO HOTEL on the side. With a set of white buffalo horns. I've filled it up three times today.

Heat and humidity suit the crocs just fine. It's the best lure down to the water there could be. Animals, of course, don't read signs. Don't remember lessons learnt by their mothers, brothers, cousins or siblings. They keep going back down to drink and wash no matter they're one family member short from the same mistake a month before.

On afternoons like this one, it's tempting to dive in. Just a quick dip. Not too long. Not long enough for a croc to swim all the way across and get you. But that's the thing about crocs. They might look slow and old, ancient reptilian beasts left over from the times of the dinosaurs, but they're fast in the water. You fall in – even upstream from the nearest one – and you'd be snapped up in a minute. They can sense activity in an instant. By the time you have your arse scrambling up the bank, their jaws would be round your waist and you'd be a goner. But when it's this hot, you wonder,
just a quick dip of the toe. It all looks okay?

‘Just the floors and windows,' Cassie says, walking past me with a swish of her plait. There's a sweat patch on the back of her shirt like a long shark fang. Patches under her arms, too. She's got one hand clutching a brochure for Berry Springs, flapping it up and down around her face to cool her down.

They've got used to my quiet ways. They know I'll do what I'm asked. Do a good job, too. It's the floors
and windows of the boats that get the dirtiest. All the feet treading back and forth over the mud before they hop in, and all those hands pressing against the glass to get a good look at a croc jumping out of the water. I clean the windows first with Windex and a clean Chux cloth. Then I mop the floors. Twice, usually, to get the mud all off. The boat rocks a bit when I'm on board, and the first few times, I thought it might tip over. I knew it wouldn't but I couldn't help thinkin' it might.

After the first week here, I spent the whole weekend between the beer garden and lying on my bed thinkin' about things. Firstly, I thought a lot about fear. Because that's what this boat-tipping business was all about. Fear's a funny thing. No one teaches about it in any direct way. You're supposed to know what it's about, but no one teaches you how to use it. By the end of the weekend I figured out that I didn't have enough of it before I met McNabm Blue. And by the time I'd met him, I had too much of it.

‘When you're finished, Barra, come up for a drink,' Boof yells. I watch him from the window. He's got his hands up to his face, calling for Bait. The little terrier appears from around the corner and Boof's smiling wide, his twiggy arms on his hips. He bends down and pats the dog when he arrives. Lowers his face and holds Bait's ears and, from this distance, it looks like they're kissing. Bait flaps out his tongue and licks Boof's nose. ‘Oh, who's my mate, then, hey?' Boof says, enjoying it.

It makes me sick, watching the way Boof and Bait get on like that. I don't mind a bit of animal affection, but Bait's
the kind of dog you want to nudge away with your foot. You don't want to pat him, let alone have him lick your face.

‘You and that bloody dog, Boof,' Cassie yells from the office. She can't stand it either. ‘You have a shower before you lay one hand on me.'

She disappears inside the door again and Boof straightens up. He takes something from his pocket and throws it down to Bait. Bloody dog doesn't even jump for it. Just waits on its stumpy little legs and snaps. I'm wiping my hands on my pants just thinkin' about patting the thing.

I like being on the boat by myself. It's kind of like a cage. For the first week I couldn't take me eyes off the crocs each time they jumped out for the pig meat. But now, after too many trips to count, the fascination's wearing off, but I'm still captivated. Last night I lay on my bed and wondered what it would be like from the croc's perspective. A cage of food floating down the river with glass windows so they can get a good look.

Hey, Albert. Wouldn't mind a go at the chick in pink.

Trust you, Elvis. She's not my style. I like a woman with meat on her bones. Big breasts and thunderous thighs. Mmmm. Lucky they can't see me drooling.

One day, Albert. One day I'm gonna figure out how to open that cage and then it'll be party time!!

I know all the crocs like they're friends to me now. They're not as familiar to me as they are to Boof and Cassie and the other captains, but they're like my mates, in a way. I've begun lookin' forward to seeing them each day. Wondering what they've been up to.

For all their power and fear, crocs don't have much to enjoy about life when you think about it. It's not like they've found a way to survive so they can enjoy the good life. If I had that much power, I'd use it on a nest that was better than a patch of mud, leaves and water, that's for sure. I wouldn't be living in a room at the hotel. I'd have one of those places you see in magazines with indoor swimming pools and spas. A croc's life is pretty boring when you look at it. They eat, sleep, prey on animals, rear babies and fight for every boring bit of it. If they were human, they'd have found a way to squash the world down underneath them. That's what people are really good at. White people, especially. Black people are good at squashing themselves down.

There was a kid, Deano, in my class when I was at school. He was smarter than any of us and he had the darkest skin. His eyes were like white burning lights, sometimes. I used to think they could drill holes down to my soul when he looked at me. I used to think he could open me up with those eyes. He always knew everything, but it wasn't often he'd show it. He used to wag school a lot and go fishing with his uncles or take off into the bush for weeks at a time. Our teacher used to go wild on him.
All that potential,
she would say.
Wasted.
Deano never liked lookin' in a white person's face, either. The teacher would get all mad and flustered and Deano would just shrug his shoulders and sink down under the weight of her emotion. She never got that frustrated with me. I wasn't dumb, but I wasn't Deano, either. He was just so used to being squashed down he didn't know how to stand up straight. Some of us just don't know how to look up at the
world. It makes us so dizzy it's easier to keep lookin' down at the ground. The ground is our kind of colour. Some days if you do look up, all you see is white fog or blue sky.

I'm finished with the boat and I tip the bucket of dirty water over the side into the river. Then I sling the mop over my shoulder and walk down the jetty to the bank. It's Friday afternoon and drinks are on in the café for the Croc Jumping staff. Apart from Cassie and Boof, there's Sally who works the café, Jim and Janice who run the other boat,
The Turnkey,
and Bob who does other odd jobs as well as helping out in the café when it gets busy. Sally is about my age, more or less, and Bob is a bit older again. He's got a steady girlfriend in Darwin – so he says – and he's always telling us about her. I steer clear of Bob, for some reason. I can tell he only wants me around to listen to his stories. Just because I'm a bloke who likes to keep my thoughts to myself, doesn't mean I want to be around someone who can't keep any to himself.

I like Sally. She's tough and self-contained. She doesn't take shit from anyone. But she's nice, in her own way. She likes to say hello to me, and sometimes we have lunch together if there's not a tour group in. She likes to talk a bit, but she's alright with a bit of silent company, too. I like the way Sally looks. She's not the most beautiful girl I've ever seen, but in some ways that's better. She's got dead-straight brown hair. Her fringe hangs limp on her forehead and she flicks her head sometimes to get it out of her eyes. She's got freckles around her cheeks and halfway down her nose. Just a couple around her eyes. Her mouth is small, I suppose. And she's thin.
She looks happy. Built for life. She's a bloody good worker, too.

Boof has told me more than once on the way home how they're lucky to have her around. He tells me a lot of things in the car. And I don't mind it much, either. Listening to Boof isn't like listening to Bob. With Boof I get the feelin' that he's unpacking his thoughts. Like I'm needed. But with Bob it's more like he's dumping his thoughts on me, and he could as easily do that with a tree log, a bog slick, or even a croc.

Friday drinks is part of the job. Cassie and Boof's way of thanking everyone for a week's work. It's beer and chips. Samboy salt-and-vinegar or plain. It's always the same. At least it's been the same for the last two Fridays, and I'm anticipating them again today.

I was uncomfortable that first Friday, being invited to sit around with them all. I sat at the back of the group and only ate the chips when they were offered. And one beer. I spent most of the time by myself in the dunny. Last Friday was better.

I feel funny in my guts about going there again now. But in a way it's a good feeling. It's like learning to look up for a change. I don't ever remember sitting around with a group of people more than once or twice since I left my mum. And in a way, those old times don't count because they weren't made on my own. They were Mum's times, really. And these times are mine. Sometimes I feel like there's a layer of glass between me and everyone else in the world. I can't let them come too close. I've let that happen before and I won't do it
again. It suits me fine, most of the time. Except there's times when I wonder what it feels like not to have to barricade myself away. I look at other people, like Cassie and Boof and Sally, and wonder what it's like to be them. I'm smart enough to know there's something I've got to learn or unlearn about being with people. In my heart I know life's a sham without untangling myself from the mess of my childhood, but I'm dumb enough to listen to every alarm bell inside my head.

‘Carn, Barra,' Boof yells from the café door, beer in hand.

I'm nearly at the door so I smile and nod. I place the mop in the laundry at the back of the café where the cleaning things are kept and wash my hands in the basin. There's a small mirror in the back above the basin. It's old and patchy. Smeary from age and wear, but I see myself in the reflection. Serious. Dark. Dirty. I run a hand through my hair then I lower my face to the basin to wash my face. I use the soap and I'm all in a lather. I dry off on the towel and look in the mirror again. Nothing changes. I wouldn't know how to describe myself. I don't know what else I see there. I don't know if it's ugly, mean, plain, good. I'm always the same to me; serious, dark, dirty.

I've seen plenty of Aboriginals in my time. I've learnt you can't tell who's an Aboriginal and who's not just by the colour of their skin, 'cause some are so dark you'd swear they were night itself, and some are so light, I'm darker than they are. But there's a look that some of them have. Huge eyes. Wide and deep. A lot like Deano. Mouths built for laughing and telling stories. They've got a way of walking
and talking, I reckon, and while I've met plenty of people who think they're trash, I'd call it pride. There's a belonging underneath all their individual differences and, even if they don't recognise it themselves any more, they have something I don't. Most of them, at least, know who they are and where they've come from, even if they don't always respect it. But I've got no bloody idea what lurks inside the muddy waters of my own blood. I'm like a river without a name. Flowing through life because that's what I do, without knowing where I've come from and where I'm going. There's beasts that have made a good home in me, too.