Sushi Central Read online

  Alasdair Duncan was born in 1982 and is currently studying at the University of Queensland. In 2001, his short story ‘Love’ won the State Library of Queensland Young Writers’ award. Sushi Central is his first novel.

  You can visit Alasdair’s website at

  www.alasdairduncan.com

  Contents

  Cover

  Author bio

  Title Page

  Part 0

  Part 1 – A Friend with Weed is Better

  Part 2 – Young Dumb and Full of Cum

  Part 3 – They Only Want You When You’re Seventeen

  Acknowledgements

  Imprint Page

  0

  Pause.

  ‘Give it to me.’

  ‘No!’

  ‘Give it to me Jonathan! You always die in this part.’

  ‘Do not.’

  ‘Yes you do.’

  ‘I didn’t die last time.’

  ‘Yeah you did! Come on, we had to go back after that and it took forever.’

  ‘It didn’t take that long! And I’ll be able to kill the monster this time. I’ll do it right.’

  ‘No you won’t. Come on. I can do it better than you anyway.’

  Jonathan always dies in this part. I just want him to give me the left control pad, just this once so I can do it. There are three characters: a guy, a girl and this little red-haired thing — neither of us can figure out what it’s meant to be — but you get to control one of them and the other two follow you around. The boss here — the boss that has just beaten my little brother again — is this giant tiger that falls out of the sky and attacks you. All you need to do is hide down the bottom of the screen until he’s stopped moving, then you use the girl to hit him with the arrows a couple of times and he’s dead. Big deal. He’s all scary and stuff and he roars at you a lot, but that’s about it. He’s one of the easiest bosses to kill in the entire game, but Jonathan never gets it right and we always have to start this part over.

  ‘Jonathan, I’ll punch you unless you give it to me.’

  ‘Calvin, don’t!’

  He moves away from me; he slides across the tiles towards the window, but he still won’t give me the left controller. He’s holding onto it really tight. He wraps his body around it in this kind of ball. He’s always scared when I say I’ll punch him. Half the time I don’t even mean it but he gets so worked up that it makes me want to punch him.

  He pushes the start button. The guy and the girl and the little whateveritis are locked in the room now; the tiger isn’t there yet, but it’s about to be. Jonathan starts pushing buttons on the control pad, moves the little guy closer to the centre.

  ‘Stop!’ I yell. ‘Come on, seriously, pause it!’

  He’s surprised, and he pauses it.

  ‘Give it to me. Once I kill this boss I’ll let you play again.’

  ‘No you won’t.’

  ‘Yes I will. Promise.’

  ‘You never do. Come on Calvin, just let me do it this once.’

  He has this look on his face. Stares at me. Pleading with me or something. I don’t know why, but I give in.

  ‘Fine,’ I tell him. ‘But you’ll die. The tiger’s gonna kill you then we’ll have to start over.’

  ‘No we won’t! I won’t let it kill me Calvin. Swear.’

  He pushes the start button again. The music goes all crazy; the tiger falls from the sky and starts attacking. My eyes kind of go between the screen and Jonathan, because he has this weird look on his face. He’s concentrating really hard or something. I don’t know. But he’s doing some damage to the tiger. He’s using the guy, slicing at the tiger with his sword. The tiger’s fighting back. Rolls around in this ball and knocks the girl over, then casts this spell which makes them all catch fire.

  Jonathan’s doing okay. It’s weird. Normally he’s really really bad at this — my little brother kind of sucks at anything to do with video games — but now he’s doing pretty well. He’s doing more damage to the tiger than it’s doing to him. He even goes down the bottom like you’re supposed to. Suddenly it looks like he’s going to beat the tiger. Weird.

  I don’t know why I do it. I want to, maybe. I can’t stop myself. There’s no way Jonathan could beat this boss. I lean over. Punch him in the arm. Hard. He drops the controller, leaves himself open. The tiger starts ripping into the little guy on the screen. Girl’s dead. Guy’s standing there not doing anything. The music’s going crazy.

  ‘Calvin!’ Jonathan yells. He’s rubbing his arm, and he’s almost crying. ‘Calvin, you made me die!’

  ‘No I didn’t. You let the tiger kill you. You never do this right,’ I say.

  Guy’s still standing there not doing anything. Music’s all weird. Little whateveritis with the red hair is dead too. The tiger keeps swiping at the guy. Guy doesn’t even fight back. Controller’s just lying there on the tiles.

  ‘Calvin! You made me die!’

  ‘Jonathan, you let it kill you. You’re dumb. You never do this right,’ I say.

  Guy’s dead.

  Message on the screen: Unfortunately, no trace of the heroes was ever found … Play again?

  ‘You did it!’ he yells. He’s rubbing his arm and he’s almost crying.

  ‘Look,’ I say. ‘I’ll let you do it again.’

  I pick up the controller and try to give it to him. He won’t take it.

  ‘Jonathan, take it. I said I’d let you do it again. Come on.’

  Jonathan doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t look at me. I can’t see him crying but I can hear it. He’s really dumb sometimes.

  ‘Jonathan, come on, I didn’t mean it …’

  I really want him to take the controller now but he won’t. He won’t take it at all. Keeps crying. Suddenly I feel prickly all over. I didn’t mean for the tiger to kill him. I try to touch his arm, see if it’s okay, but he won’t let me. He slides across the tiles, out of my reach.

  ‘I hate you!’ he yells.

  Weird, prickly feeling continues. Don’t know what it is. I shouldn’t have done that. I shouldn’t hit my little brother. I don’t know why I did it. I should take care of him. It’s just …

  A FRIEND WITH WEED IS BETTER

  1

  Yet another afternoon at school and it’s a case of hormones and anxiety running wild, and it’s all very teenage and suburban and kind of, you know. Blah. I’m sure you’ve heard it all before. Chemistry was in third period, and I tried to find the urge to learn (C6H2O6 — 2CH3CH2O+2CO2) but I spaced out completely for most of the second half. Afternoons like this I really don’t know what to do with myself. I don’t even feel human. After class I walked around for a while in kind of a daze and eventually met up with my friend and faghag Margot. She had these clips in her hair, pink ones, like a little girl would wear. I think she was being ironic. I hope she was anyway. For some reason — she never explained why exactly — she was carrying this plush raccoon around with her. It was an expensive-looking one with a black smudge over its eyes the way I guess all raccoons have, and this little red tongue that sort of poked out.

  ‘This is Haruki the Raccoon!’ she told me. ‘My dad got it for me when he was in Tokyo.’ She lifted the tag and started reading it. ‘Haruki the Raccoon! are joining you on many adventures! Oh, and check this out. Haruki the Raccoon! have many small parts that may causing children under three years to choke!’

  ‘When did your dad go to Tokyo?’

  ‘He was there last week. Some business thing. I don’t know.’ She waved Haruki the Raccoon! at me and made this grrrr noise. ‘Isn’t it fucking cool?’

  ‘It’s great,’ I told her.

  She menaced me with the stuffed toy for a while, still laughing. She was making it talk, moving it as she spoke to make it look
as though Haruki the Raccoon! was really the one talking to me. It was the kind of thing that I’d normally have found funny, but on this particular afternoon it was way more than I could deal with.

  Haruki the Raccoon!: Hello Calvin!

  Me: Margot, can you stop that?

  Haruki the Raccoon!: But Calvin, I’m your pal! I am joining you on many adventures!

  Me: Margot … Fucking … You’re freaking me out with that raccoon thing.

  Haruki the Raccoon!: You’re making me sad, Calvin … And when I get sad, I am causing you to choke!

  Margot attacked me with the raccoon. Sort of swiped at my head and chest with it, making this strangled growling noise. That was kind of funny.

  Haruki the Raccoon!: Are you going to Edward’s tonight?

  Me: I don’t know. What are the alternatives?

  Haruki the Raccoon!: Not much. If you are going, would you like to come around to my place beforehand and get stooo-ooned?

  Me: I probably wouldn’t object to that.

  Margot laughed. Or rather, Haruki the Raccoon! laughed. Both of them did.

  ‘Cool cool,’ she said. ‘Get it together and come over to my house later this afternoon. Think you can get a lift?’

  ‘With Mum? Not likely. I’ll probably have to bus it.’

  ‘She’s … ?’

  ‘Don’t even ask.’

  2

  The sky this afternoon is grey, almost too grey, like a computer-generated version of a grey sky, which is almost real, like, say about ninety-five percent real, but there’s something there, just something on the edges that isn’t quite right.

  Margot and I decide to head to the library, Margot because there’s this book she needs to find — something by Virginia Woolf, because some friend told her she just had to read it — and me because I have nothing better to do. The library adds to the air of unreality. It’s this huge, vaguely threatening construction — it’s all glass and bizarre angles and it looks like that famous museum, whatever it’s called, I’ve seen a picture of it in a coffee table book somewhere, though the memory is pretty much impossible to place. That bothers me a lot for some reason, though I can’t really say why.

  3

  The sky reflecting off the glass panels of the library; the weird, staticky feeling in the air; the clouds. It feels like we’re all just characters in some huge, incredibly involved video game. I played too many video games when I was a little kid. Blips of unreality. The sickeningly bright colours — cathode reds and iceberg blues; vast pixellated worlds to be navigated through; tiny pixellated heroes — frogs leaping across ponds when I was really little, then dinosaurs and plumbers, then general purpose anime boys armed with strange weapons and unbelievably cool spells, then the next thing, then the next — to navigate them. These things are all a part of my subconscious now.

  Those blips of unreality provide my reference points for just about every real-life situation, which, all things considered, probably isn’t an entirely bad thing.

  4

  Something I wrote in my notebook doing chemistry: Some of the time, when the events occurring in real life become too difficult to deal with, you can reduce them to other things, make them seem less significant. If you remove ‘yourself’ from yourself, if you can take a step back and see life as a movie, see you and others around you as characters in that movie, difficult situations become less difficult, painful memories don’t hurt any more because, after all, you’re not really there.

  5 EXT. LIBRARY. AFTERNOON

  It is nearing the end of afternoon break and many STUDENTS are milling around outside the library. The camera lingers on various STUDENTS, including two BOYS who are throwing pretend punches at one another, and a GIRL who is sitting on the ground reading a book. PATRICK is standing by himself on the edge of the crowd. CALVIN and MARGOT approach. MARGOT menaces CALVIN with a stuffed raccoon. As they make their way through the group of STUDENTS, CALVIN notices PATRICK.

  CALVIN

  (VOICEOVER) Patrick. Seriously, I don’t know what you’d call him. Boyfriend, maybe, although you’d have to say ex-boyfriend. But he wasn’t really. He was never even a friend. Just this gorgeous and kind of screwed-up boy I used to see sometimes. Patrick was fairly unbalanced, but like, unbelievably cute. Apologetically cute, or cute in spite of himself. We used to catch the bus home together, which is how we met. He was in the grade below me. For someone so physically perfect, psychologically he was always vaguely disconnected from everything, like he was constantly receiving messages from Jupiter or something. Like I said, we weren’t exactly boyfriends or anything. We had this strange kind of arbitrary relationship; I used to go over to his house in the afternoons on the pretext of going for a swim or playing Nintendo or something. His family never seemed to be home. We’d be sitting on his living room floor and he’d be explaining the subtleties of all the games in this deadly earnest tone, who all the characters were, what buttons you had to press in order to do what, and mostly I followed, even though I was checking him out the whole time.

  PATRICK looks up. His eyes meet CALVIN’s. Both look away, embarrassed, but turn to look at one another again.

  CALVIN

  (VOICEOVER) It didn’t really matter though, because by the time he’d finished explaining whatever game we were playing, he’d always be staring at me with this intense, impossible to ever decode or understand expression on his face, and he’d say something like: ‘Calvin, I know this is going to sound weird, but like … Um … If you’d like to, you know, touch me or something, I’ll let you.’

  MARGOT gives PATRICK a suspicious look.

  CALVIN

  Hey Patrick.

  PATRICK

  Hey … Calvin.

  CALVIN and PATRICK look away from each other again.

  CALVIN

  (VOICEOVER) We’d always end up on his floor touching each other’s bodies and then kissing, and then eventually when that wasn’t enough we used to fuck, either in his room or his father’s office or wherever. It only lasted for a couple of months. Then this one afternoon his father came home and walked in on the two of us … in the living room … which kind of screwed everything right up. We didn’t really talk that much or anything after that. Nobody apart from his dad ever found out about it, but things were awkward afterwards. I stopped going over to his house and eventually we stopped even looking at one another when we met and that was kind of that.

  I later found out that I was the only person Patrick had ever really been friends with, which was sort of, you know, weird, or intense, or something. How are you meant to deal with information like that when it’s presented to you? I don’t know.

  MARGOT and CALVIN walk past PATRICK and enter the library. CALVIN shuts his eyes and holds them shut.

  6

  Seeing Patrick makes me feel strange and uncomfortable and it’s like the game has frozen up for a second and I’m having to push the start button a whole bunch of times to get it going again. As the library doors are closing, I look back at him just to see if he’s looking at me, but he isn’t.

  I try to think of the term for my relationship with Patrick, but I can’t. The conventional ones don’t really fit. I’m thinking:

  a) Friend. But Patrick and I were never ‘friends’. We never had anything to talk about or had anything in common besides attraction or whatever you want to call it.

  b) Lover: But it’s not like we were ever really boyfriends. We weren’t in love or anything, it was just, like, mutual fascination or need or something similar that brought us together.

  We were fourteen/fifteen and totally denied an outlet for our fears and desires etc, and we just happened to find each other, at which point we went totally fucking crazy on one another’s body, and then we were caught and we stopped altogether and now we can’t even talk to each other any more. What’s the word for that?

  If there is a word to describe the relationship Patrick and I had, I don’t know what it is. Is it deliberate or accidental that such a word
doesn’t exist?

  If you don’t have a name for something, it’s not real. It doesn’t have any power. As far as the world in general is concerned, it means nothing.

  7

  The Patrick thing is an unexpected variable and the afternoon begins to make even less sense than it did before. I’m in this total Attack Of The Teen Angst Monsters Part XVIII state of mind. Agitated, or like … Whatever. I don’t know what you’d call it. Margot walks off. I tell her I’ll see her tonight and she tells me I’d fucking better. I sit down at this desk by the window, pull my notebook out and start to write.

  Words: Sometimes words aren’t enough. In terms of describing a particular emotion or even thought, most words don’t seem … adequate. For example, the things we refer to as ‘attraction’ or ‘fear’ or ‘love’, we only do so because those words happen to be the most convenient. There are too many colours and textures and subtleties attached to those concepts to call them by their real names, because when it comes down to it I don’t think they even have real names.

  Emotions are like those giant sea creatures you read about — prehistoric squid living miles and miles below the ocean surface, the kind that no human has ever laid eyes on. We know they’re there, even though we don’t know what they look like or how to describe them — that’s why we don’t give them names. We can’t.

  8

  For about an eighth of a second, as I finish writing that, I feel incredibly profound. Then I look up into the glass, the surface of which is more reflective than usual thanks to the overcast sky outside, and it takes me quite a while to make sense of the image I see there, to realise it’s my own face.

  My reflection: For a second, my features don’t fit together at all, then once they do I seem like more than myself, like a hyper-real version of Calvin, and I feel kind of dizzy for a second before it goes back to normal.

  I look back down at my notebook and none of it makes sense any more. It’s just words on a page, or whatever — which is obviously exactly what it is, but it had meaning before and now it doesn’t. I consider tearing the page out but it’s really fucking annoying when the edges get all tatty and I’m totally anally retentive about my notebook so I just leave it as it is.