Page 42 of Isn’t It Nice We Both Hate the Same Things

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

As suspected, the footage of Graham goes viral. Within twelve hours it’s across every social platform, seen in every corner of the world.

In the background of the video, frozen in shock, is me, watching on as he tumbles, his legs flipping over his body.

The comments are a mix – some caring, some ruthless. The headlines are worse. If people didn’t already think he was past his prime, that he was too old to be doing his job, they definitely do now.

Ivan is the first person to message.

Old geezer is popular again.

Then Dora.

Painful to watch. Your dress is slaying though!

Finally, Genevieve.

Oh god, poor Graham. Is he okay?

Nothing from Naya.

Graham comes to find me just after nine o’clock as I’m pulling together some breakfast in the kitchen. No doubt he’s seen the video – his expression is withered and deflated, bags under his eyes, hands sunken inside jean pockets.

We glance at each other, and he mumbles, ‘My suit is too small.’

‘Sorry?’

‘My suit,’ he explains, stepping forward. ‘I didn’t realise it until I saw the video. It doesn’t fit me anymore. Why didn’t you tell me?’

‘I didn’t notice.’

‘Liar. What are you eating?’

‘Are you okay?’

‘Yeah, why?’

Why? Because we got demoted last night on the carpet. Because everyone bypassed us. Because your suit jacket tore and you fell over on the carpet and now everyone is laughing at you – more than before. Because you’ve been fired, and you’ve only got a few weeks left in your job.

‘Just checking.’

He pulls out a bowl of grapes from the fridge, pops one of them in his mouth. ‘You free today?’

‘I don’t like to drink during the day.’

He rolls his eyes, then laughs. ‘Not to drink. I’m going for a drive. Would be nice to have some company.’

His mysterious Saturday drives. I feel honoured to be invited, like I’ve been accepted into some sort of secret club. ‘Where?’

He doesn’t answer, just eyes my oversized T-shirt and khaki leggings. ‘You wearing that?’

‘No, I sleep in this.’

He checks his watch. ‘Can you be ready in ten minutes? Meet me downstairs.’

He doesn’t tell me where we’re going. Not when we get in the car, not when we enter the highway, not even two hours later when we exit and drive through a small town that has certainly seen better days – dilapidated housing on the verge of falling apart, broken windows, cracked driveways, overgrown lawns with grass to the knees, tarps over roofs to stop water seeping through cracks.

I’m yet to see a single person. It’s deathly deserted around here. Like the start of an apocalypse movie, after people have fled.

‘Is this where you go?’ I ask, filling the silence. He doesn’t need me to finish the sentence. Is this where you go, all those Saturdays you disappear?

‘Yes.’

He seems more relaxed than normal, I’m now realising. Softer expression, head resting against the driver’s seat. And when he looks over at me, he stills.

‘I’ve loved having you in the house,’ he says. ‘I want you to know that.’

‘Okay.’

I wait for him to continue, but he doesn’t. A moment later and we’re pulling into the driveway of a sports centre.

Graham parks, and I see the lot is half-full, busier than anywhere else in town.

The sports centre itself is dated – 1980s, if I had to guess.

Retro neon lights bordering the building.

Colourful graphics on a wonky entrance sign.

Gardens full of weeds. Faded flyers on the brick wall by the door.

Basketball and squash courts, aerobics, tennis and a gym.

Behind the centre are stretched barren fields – brown and desolate – and industrial buildings, with crispy shrubbery lining the sidewalks.

‘The people here,’ Graham says. ‘They do good work. Try not to say anything insensitive.’

‘What would I say?’

He glances behind us, at the rest of the town. Gives me a pointed look, as if to say, You know what . Then exits the car.

Inside, reception is unmanned, so Graham rings the bell three times, then shoves his hands back inside his pockets.

Glancing around, I feel I’ve been propelled back in time.

Bold carpets with zigzags and geometric shapes, patterned tables, floorto-ceiling mirrors along the outer walls, old motivational posters from the end of the twentieth century, and a set of teal lockers in the lefthand corner.

I take a moment to scan photos lined on walls behind the reception desk – sporting teams all the way back to when the centre first opened.

Sepia tones, everyone seated in rows with hands on their laps.

‘You ever wonder where these kids are now?’

Graham is sombre. ‘Long gone, I hope.’ He runs a hand over the chipped concrete wall to his left.

Then, a great wheeze erupts and the double doors next to reception are pushed open.

In walks quite possibly the tallest man I’ve ever seen. Well over seven-foot. Dark-skinned, thick black hair plaited and pulled into a ponytail at the base of his neck.

‘Graham,’ he says, reaching out for a handshake. ‘Good to see you again.’ He’s got a gruff voice, gravelly. ‘And you must be Charlie. Graham talks about you a lot.’

‘He does?’

We shake hands. Firm but brief. He’s wearing one of those boxy singlets with basketball shorts, red shoes with blue socks. ‘I’m Zane. Come on through.’

Graham slows a little as we follow him.

‘You could’ve warned me about the height,’ I say.

He hides a smile. ‘More fun this way.’

Through the doors, it’s a hot, sweaty, loud place.

Like entering the belly of the sun. Courts line the right-hand side – we’re surrounded by the distinct sound of basketballs slapping against vinyl flooring – and a glass-encased gymnasium adorns the left.

The building stretches ahead, beyond. Signage points to tennis courts and a swimming pool.

For how old this place is, and considering the rest of this town, I’d assumed it would be run down in here too.

But the flooring looks new, the walls recently repainted.

There’s gloss to it all. A sneak peek at the gym reveals it’s modern – recently renovated, I suspect.

And kids are everywhere. This place is alive .

Chatter and laughter. Children playing in every corner, on every court.

Barefoot, wearing old, tattered clothing, maybe socks with holes at the toes, and they’re having the best time.

Making friends, inventing games. One boy has a broken arm, the whole thing sheathed in plaster, but he’s playing basketball with the rest of them. Injury be damned!

Zane steers us towards the back corner, to the dodgeball team, eyes following us the entire way. No – eyes following Graham the entire way.

Awe. Excitement. Whispers behind hands, palms curled in ferocious waves, toothy grins that follow us all the way to the back basketball court. Graham is incredibly loved here.

‘How are they?’ Graham asks.

Zane nods. ‘Good. Great, actually.’

Turning towards me, Graham explains, ‘Zane’s a volunteer. Coaches here on weekends.’

‘Dodgeball?’ I ask.

‘And tennis,’ Zane says.

‘And basketball, and squash, and swimming,’ Graham adds, then points to the gym. ‘Runs some of the classes too.’

I’m impressed. ‘Every weekend?’

Zane’s clearly modest, doesn’t like drawing attention to himself. Can’t quite look me in the eye when I compliment him, or when Graham calls him the soul of the centre.

‘This place would be closed if it weren’t for Zane.’

He scoffs at that, then gestures around to the other volunteers, voice hardening. ‘You know that’s not true.’

Looking back at Zane, only now do I notice the scar on his chin – short but deep, wiggly like a worm. It trails his jawline like a cord.

‘You didn’t get that from dodgeball, did you?’

Rubbing his palm along his chin, he chuckles slightly. ‘No.’

He rallies the dodgeball team. Introduces us to the kids, speaking about each of them like they’re his own. ‘Randall is six – he’s got a wicked sidestep and incredible speed; Mitsy is nine and has a strong left arm; Trinity is ten and a gun on the tennis court – you should see her backhand.’

This continues long after we’ve met the team, because other kids come up to greet us and Zane introduces us all. And it just keeps going.

The kids are buzzing – impatient. Desperate to see Graham. And Graham is smiling. Good lord, it’s actually a little alarming. I’m not sure I’ve seen him grin like that.

When Graham’s busy with the kids, Zane pulls me to the side of the court. Asks me how Graham’s doing. ‘You know, with everything that happened. And last night. The video.’

‘Oh. You saw that?’

Zane smiles. ‘We do get internet here, yes.’

I glance over at Graham. ‘I tried to ask him.’

‘Me too,’ Zane says. ‘Was calling him all morning. Didn’t know if he’d still turn up. I worry about him. We’re friends.’

‘He’s never mentioned you before,’ I say, then clock his expression. ‘Sorry, that came out rude.’

‘I’ve known him since I started here four years ago.’

Looking over at Graham, I see he’s high-fiving the kids. Testing out his dodgeball skills. Pretending to duck but deliberately getting hit by a ball, feigning pain as Mitsy celebrates. ‘I didn’t know this place existed, before today.’

Zane runs a hand over his stubble and seems to understand what I’m trying to ask. Why this place? What’s so special here?

‘You’d have to talk to him about that.’ Then, straightening, he adds, ‘He owns this place. Bought it like ten years ago. I don’t even want to know how much money he sinks into it.’

‘He owns this place?’ I ask.

Seconds pass. It takes a moment for my brain to comprehend. ‘Why?’

A stray basketball hits Zane’s ankle. He picks it up and lobs it over to court three.

‘He pays for all of this?’

Zane nods. ‘The renovations. The food. The classes. Pays the wages, too. We’d do it without the money, but he insists.’

Soon, Graham and I catch eyes across the court, and there’s an unspoken understanding between us. The way his shoulders relax when he sees me, the small smile.

On the way home, later that day, Graham fidgets with the steering wheel, the volume knob, then adjusts his posture in his seat. Shifts the height of the open window at least four times – up, down, further down, up all the way. His breath is shallow.

‘Are you going to tell me why you own a sports centre in the middle of …’ I look out the window. ‘I don’t even know where we are.’

He smiles. Rubs a hand over his jawline, glancing out the window at the desolate land around us. ‘I didn’t have that as a kid. And I wish I did.’

I wait for more, but apparently he’s done. Nothing further, your honour.

‘That’s all I get?’

His lip twitches, amused. Then he elaborates. ‘It’s hard to find places like that.’

‘A sports centre? For kids?’ I ask, sceptical.

‘Most of those kids have nothing. Some of them have slept there, in that building. Look at this town, you know?’

He’s trying to tell me something, now, in the way he can’t look me in the eye.

‘I know this isn’t just about me. I don’t want to make it about me.

That’s why I’ve never …’ He trails off, looking out the window.

‘I know your dad died, and I know there are other people out there who’ve lost a parent.

But both my parents were dead by the time I was eight, and I had no one .

Nowhere to go. Your dad died in his sleep, didn’t he?

I wish that’s how mine went. My dad died with a needle in his arm on the sofa, and my mum had a psychotic episode and walked in front of a truck one month later.

Right out the front of our unit, so I had to watch paramedics walk up and down the street collecting body parts like some kind of easter egg hunt. ’

An uncomfortable silence ensues, and Graham cannot seem to look anywhere but straight ahead. Doesn’t appear to be blinking. Clenches his jaw so hard I’m worried his teeth are going to crack.

‘I didn’t know.’

‘Don’t exactly broadcast it, do I?’

‘I’m sorry.’

‘Don’t be.’ He straightens. ‘I got very good at relying on myself. And handling things myself.’

‘You didn’t have any other family?’

‘All gone. Or dead. Never really knew. Went through foster care for a long time, and I spent two years living in that town. That place saved me.’ He points behind us, signalling the sports centre. ‘If I didn’t have it? Growing up? I don’t think I’d still be alive.’

He clears his throat. ‘I made it, you know? Despite everything. Been alive a long time now, and I’ve survived a lot. Gives me perspective. Reminds me that I’m fine. That I can battle just about anything.’

Then he holds my gaze. ‘So the next time you’re wondering if I’m okay, know that I mean it when I tell you I’m fine. Getting fired or falling over on a red carpet, in the grand scheme of things, is nothing.’

‘Okay.’

‘I mean, it’s embarrassing, but I’m an adult. I can handle myself.’

‘I’m sorry.’

‘Don’t be.’ He smiles.