The Glass Canoe Read Online Free

Monday to get over it. He held the Stop and Go signs when they had the road up.
    It was part of his personal code not to make use of his memory for money. Besides, he wouldn’t work indoors. As long as he had enough in his pocket for a beer. Even this didn’t bother him. He was into blokes all over the pub for two, five, ten, any amount. One thing about Danny, he never forgot: always paid. You might have to wait a bit. He bit me once and I only had enough cash for two more drinks, it was early on and there were plenty of guys with brass and I said no. He didn’t believe me and thought I was holding out and from that day I’ve always had enough in my pocket, but he never put the bite on me again.
    How he came to get the ball for his mantelpiece, he was a great player. After the under-seventeens the grog got him, and although he played great games up into the under-twenties, he was on the way down. In the local all-age team he played a few good games, but he’d be on the field and after two bursts upfield there he was crouching, bringing up his heart. And often blood. It was the grog.
    He played five-eighth, he was very quick, his sidestep was fantastic, but his life was practically over.
    At school he was no good at metalwork, always breaking off things and getting the lathe stuck. Hestood up to the English teacher once and swapped a few punches in class, but he was good at history.
    Now he’s history himself.
    The folks at home didn’t think too much of him. His old man used to belt him, and to make it worse his brother was a good boy, never got drunk, saved his money, always home in time for tea, while if it was Friday Danny might start the day at seven in the morning at Dorrie’s in Parramatta until it was time to go to the Southern Cross at ten and stay there all day.
    The boys said, ‘If he went on the waggon or in a convent somewhere to dry out, he’d be the best five-eighth in Australia.’
    They said this sort of thing but words didn’t do him any good. Every birthday he’d down his pint in one go, no matter how drunk he was. And he had birthdays right through the year.
    You never saw him with a girl, but sometimes a few of the boys would go up to this Sandra’s place and go through her. They’d give her something, or take a few cans up. She didn’t mind. Once he went up alone, gave her some drinks and was going to town, rasping away, when the others crept up outside the window, and one—Mick, I think—put his hand in the window and touched her between the buttocks. She liked that and went for her life, nearly throwing Danny. Just as he reached the vinegar stroke, Mick dated him.Danny flew off forwards, did a somersault over the pillow and landed on his back with his feet in the air against a wardrobe.
    â€˜You rotten bastards!’ he yelled. ‘I could’ve broke my neck.’
    He was very touchy on the subject for days after.
    He drank more and more and finally the beer wasn’t enough to give him a glow, what with his insides breaking down and pains all the time. Fishhooks in the stomach. He got on the Bacardi and that really used to flatten him. It flattened me the only times I got on it. I fell over, out like a light. Trouble is, you get used to zotting down schooners and you try to drink spirits the same way.
    Around that time he copped a load at some harlot’s place at Burwood. He was going to the doctor’s and had penicillin needles, seven in a row. He told the others it was his guts. They might not like to be drinking from glasses he’d had.
    Once in the Leagues Club—he doesn’t go there now, he’s barred—he told me he’d knocked off more houses than you could poke a stick at. You know, rich places round Pennant Hills, money, jewels. Saturday night capers, on foot.
    I didn’t believe him. How would he stand, let alone climb into windows, on a Saturday night? Full as a boot.
    But he did get