A bedraggled youth is standing inside a room which resembles a small, dank old church hall. It appears that it also serves as a classroom, because a blackboard stands on an easel beside him. A man, presumably his teacher stands on the other side of the board and a crowd of similarly aged boys, presumably his classmates are seated on the floor before him.
The boy has a piece of chalk in his hand and writes something at the top of the board. He carries on writing, filling up the board with his words. It is impossible to tell what he's written though, because the letters are of no recognisable alphabet. They are simply a mish mash of shapes and squiggles. However, the teacher and his classmates seem to understand this strange language because they are looking at him and his work with a degree of engrossment and anticipation. When there is no more space available on the blackboard, the boy stops writing. He turns to face his audience with a haughty expression, and hands the chalk back to the teacher. With a wave of his hands the teacher gestures to all of the pupils, inviting them to come closer and admire the magical formula on the blackboard.
The teacher talks to the boy in a strange American-Australian accent. “Okay then, young Larry.” he says. “You’ve done your punishment of one hundred lines of 'In future I will inform my teachers before I go gallivanting through the outback to the back of Bourke and along the wallaby track to the Black Stump then past the billabong onto Bullamanka where the crows fly backwards!' Just remember the next time you feel like going walkabout without telling anyone, you’ll get TWO hundred lines!”
For some strange reason, everybody, including the boy laughs loudly at this, though the noise of the class sounds suspiciously like it is being produced by perhaps three voices.
Heather Surning lay on the empty Santa Domingo beach soaking up the sun. She was a regular visitor nowadays, for this place had come to represent as much a sanctuary for her as for nature and wildlife. She lazily stirred, sat up on her towel and surveyed her surroundings. Palm trees behind her, sand beneath her, clear blue sky above her and a wide open turquoise sea spread out before her. She heard a distant shouting over the noise of the waves and the birds, and noticed the three boys trying to ride their surfboards further down the beach. She turned over, lay down on her stomach and crossed her forearms on the towel to form a pillow to rest her head on. The warm gentle breeze blowing against her skin, the sound of the rolling surf and the heat on her back seemed to drain away any tension she had carried in with her. She laid her head to one side, closed her eyes and her mind drifted away. Nowadays it strolled down a randomly linked list of memories which ended in restful slumber rather than chaos in an aeroplane.
She’d decided to represent herself in court and sued both the airline and airport authorities. They strenuously denied any responsibility whatsoever, and employed their well versed tactic of rolling out their slick corporate machinery to swallow her up. Their lawyers revealed, to much mirth around the courtroom, that the flight delay which Surning now accused them of having caused her “so much pain, anguish and suffering” had actually been due to a broken toilet. With an unsmiling face she countered with her discovery of emails which confirmed that both corporations had been aware of their separate and combined mistreatment of her. Yet here they were, happy to maintain a code of silence which kept them blameless, meanwhile leaving her and her reputation dangling on a hook. She won her case. The judge ordered that from henceforth airports and airlines had a legal obligation to provide an acceptable level of service for nervous passengers, instead of withholding information from them and providing them with sedative pills which didn’t mix with alcohol.
Afterwards she felt more alive and freer than she had done for years. Buoyed by these new spirits, she reconsidered her own stance on the act of protest. She realised Marcia was right. It was time to start creating solutions. How many other people had, like her, been victims of unprincipled corporate behaviour? How many other people needed protection? After spending so long running away from confrontation, she was now going to start fighting for her principles. She would, of course, still do it politely though. In the meantime, she was publicly exonerated and her tattered reputation was gradually being restored. It was time to start looking for a ladder to climb up.
Her ex-boss the newspaper editor recently contacted her, asking her to reprise her column. Two thousand words to be published each Sunday and she could return to Washington, the hub of empire to write them. Although she didn't feel a permanent attachment towards Santa Domingo, she decided that for once she was in no hurry to move on. At least not until the moment felt absolutely right, and she didn’t sense any urgency in the air just yet. Her ex-boss agreed she could complete her journalistic assignments in her spare time between duties at Marvin Hopkins Progressive College. She also insisted the subject matter and written words were to be chosen and implemented by her and her alone. She might be stepping back onto the ladder, but it was going to be on her own terms this time.
Some time later – it could have been minutes, yet equally might have been hours – her eyes blinked open. She lifted herself up, took a bottle of sun lotion out of a bag resting on the sand by the towel, and rubbed some into the exposed parts of her body. Then she wiped her hands on the towel, lit up a joint, took her laptop computer out of the bag, turned it on and started to write the opening paragraph of the first edition of her new work. After her recent bitter legal experience, she wanted to write something about corporate America. She had a vague idea of what she wanted to say, but no notion of how to best convey the message. So she simply let her mind run freely and the words began to flow. She wrote the title “The American NeoEmpire” and started typing text.
“We live in a period of history when America is the most powerful nation on earth. Since the Soviet Empire imploded in 1991, we have stridden across the globe with more influence than the Roman and British Empires combined. Our troops have overseen an invasion and regime change in both Iraq and Afghanistan. Yet according to our own government we are not an empire. How can this be so? It would appear somebody somewhere is incorrect, and this situation requires some explanation. So let me take you by the hand and lead you through a story“.
“I’d like to start by travelling back to June 12th 1812. This was when our government issued its first ever declaration of war, against the British. It was in response to the Royal Navy seizing and confiscating goods from American merchant ships, accusing them of supplying the Napoleonic army in France, who they were already at war with at the time”.
“America reacted to this contemptuous treatment with furious indignation and the argument for war seemed unequivocal. However, in reality all this was merely a pretext dreamt up by a rich cabal known as the War Hawks, an inner circle who were close to President Madison. The real reason for the 1812 war had nothing to do with honest outrage. It was all about creating the right conditions for invading Canada, at once removing a potential enemy and increasing the fortunes of the already wealthy War Hawks“.
“Even in those days ordinary Americans demonstrated rather less hunger for foreign wars than their leaders. For example, the militias from Connecticut, Massachusetts, New York State and Rhode Island refused the call to arms on the grounds they would not fight beyond their state borders. Yet despite such resistance, the War Hawks had their way and battle commenced”.
“A small American force successfully defended New Orleans against overwhelming British odds and inflicted heavy casualties. But in-fighting, rivalries, scheming and treachery resulted in Detroit being occupied by British forces and the White House in Washington being burnt to the ground”.
“However, the importance of this first war should not be measured by degrees of success or failure. Its significance lay in the way the agenda was driven by the interests of industrial lobbyists and fought on the basis of greed and fear despite little or no support from the electorate. These combined to establish America on the path towards becoming the empire we live in today. Ours is a new type of empire, one based on purely on commerce i
nstead of land. It is a NeoEmpire”.
Later that evening she sat in her apartment reviewing the completed article. She wondered whether she should include the obvious modern day parallels or leave it to the reader to work them out. She was also aware her summary of 1812 picked out the tastiest morsels and ignored those with a less appealing aroma, but decided historians have always done this. The written truths of history depend on who’s doing the writing, and right now she was the one wielding the pen. The message in her first chapter of truth was that corporate America regarded it as a constitutional right to take the country to war whenever that war looked like good business.
The next afternoon Kenny unsteadily drove Principal Givens’ car through the entrance gate at McKinley’s Marijuana Farm. The narrow winding gravel path was flanked on either side by towering hemp plants, and journeying down it was like wobbling down a toboggan run. The farm buildings at the end were log cabins, just like those built by the original settlers. The car came to an abrupt halt as Kenny drove into a post set in the ground, just in front of the farm factory outlet. The surfboards, which were tied down to the roof of the car with a length of elastic cord, shot free of their fixings and the noses thudded down onto the hood. The three of them jumped out of the car.
“Jeez dude!” barked Neil. “You’re gonna totally trash this car one of these days! When are you going to get trained up and get your driver’s license?”
Kenny lazily shrugged off the tirade and bent down to inspect yet another dent in the front fender and pronounced nonchalantly. “It’s only a scratch mate. No one will notice it, no worries”.
As they neared the shop entrance a policeman wandered out. “Howdy boys.” he said casually as he paused to roll himself a joint.
“Howdy, Sheriff Williams.” they replied in unison.
They then trooped through the doorway and up to the counter.
“Good Afternoon gentlemen.” beamed the shop assistant. “What can I get for you today?”
“I'll have an ounce of Juicy Fruit please.” ordered Brian, passing over a wad of money in return for a bag of happiness.
“I'll have an ounce of Bubblegum.” said Neil doing likewise.
“An ounce of Redbud for me.” requested Kenny, accepting his gift bag with barely disguised glee.
They emerged from the shop clutching their treasures, carefully placed the bags in the car and reassembled the surfboards on the roof. Brian noticed yet another new dent in the car hood and rubbed it in the hope a little buffing might disguise the bruise. They then got back into the car and Kenny drove off in fits and starts towards the beach for another self-taught surfing lesson, while Brian and Neil sat in the back, jerkily attempting to roll up joints.
That night a moth fluttered through an open window into a room, carried in on the back of the soupy stillness of the warm evening air. It made straight for the dazzling brightness in the ceiling and flung itself at the light bulb. The three boys ignored the dancing shadow on the wall as they crowded around a computer screen.
“Listen to this.” smiled Neil, reading aloud. “Someone who is clever is cunning as a dunny rat. A dunny is a toilet”.
“If something is as scarce as rocking horse shit then it’s like really rare dude.” Brian informed wisely and then looked up. “Where do you hide money from a pom?”
The other two shook their heads.
“Under the soap. Ha ha! See, a pom is an Englishman. And poms don’t clean themselves too often. Geddit?”
The other two stared at him blankly and went back to their work.
“And what about this one dudes,” chuckled Kenny. “The microwave has gone cactus. That means it’s totally stopped working. And here’s another. Dancing the chocolate cha-cha. It means performing anal intercourse. Ha ha!”
He paused thoughtfully for a moment. “Uh, what exactly does that mean?”
“It means having gay sex.” informed Brian, wisely again.
Kenny pulled a face. “Oh. I think I’d prefer to not put that phrase in then”.
“No way dude!” Brian shouted, faint spasms starting to ripple across his cheeks. “It's totally our mission statement to be as provocative as we can. Dancing the chocolate cha-cha stays in. Is somebody getting all these down?”
“Yup.” affirmed Neil, leafing through an exercise book and transcribing. On the cover of the book, written in different coloured marker pens, was the title “The 100% Unofficial Strine Phrasebook”.
After their Damascene experience on the beach, the surfer boys decided to swim in the surf of the internet in their pursuit of further knowledge and understanding of Strine. They found a number of websites and downloaded an assortment of words and phrases. Now they were busily engaged in the process of assembling their own phrasebook, making translations of each entry into American English. It was a laborious exercise, but one tended with loving care and devotion nonetheless.
“G’day Doc. Ain’t it a beaut?” breezed Kenny as he ambled in for his latest appointment with Dr Surning.
“Good day Kenny.” she replied with a grin. “How’s the stammering these days?”
“No stammer, ma’am. Everything’s ripper”.
“Good. How’s the phrasebook coming along?”
It had been her suggestion that they arrange and compile the random samples they gleaned from the internet into an ordered collection. It was just another small step on the long journey back to an appreciation of the many wonders of learning.
“It's ridgy didge ma’am”.
She searched through her case notes and asked “So what letter of the alphabet are you up to this week?”
“P, ma’am”.
She updated her notes. “That’s really good, Kenny. Last week you were at H. At this rate you’ll be finished soon”.
She closed her file. “I must say how impressed I am. I’m extremely pleased with the progress you’re all making. It’s good to see the three of you moving on. Not long ago you were grunting in surf speak”.
“Still surfing ma’am,” he smiled. “Just not a shark biscuit anymore”.
Next it was Brian's turn. “Well now,” he pronounced as he relaxed on the couch. “I’ve decided too many of the Strine words mean the same thing. You know, like for instance, there are totally loads of Strine words for puke or puking”. He started to count them off on his fingers. “There's pavement pizza, carrot casserole, kerbside quiche, liquid laughter, rainbow sneeze, technicolor yawn, hugging the toilet bowl, talking to god on the porcelain telephone, tossing a tiger on the carpet, calling for George, driving the porcelain bus. There's eleven I've given you, and that’s without even thinking”.
Despite herself, she smiled at these phrases. “But they are an exotic and colorful usage of the English language. And amusing as well”.
“Yeah,” he agreed. “I do like them though, so I’ve decided to change some of the meanings in our phrasebook. For instance, I’ve shortened ‘Tossing a tiger on the carpet’ to ‘Tossing a tiger’ and it now means to throw a tantrum”.
She was about to admonish him for distorting the truth and inventing his own when she realised she had spent much of her professional life doing the same thing herself. It was a hard decision, for she wasn’t one of those hypocritical types who admonish “Do as I say, not as I do”. So she drew a deep breath and simply scribbled an entry in her case book, noting he was exhibiting creative qualities by inventing new phrases with new meanings.
She shuffled her papers. “Okay, I think that’s about it for this week.” she said, and went back to her laptop as Brian got up to leave. He was halfway out of the door when he stopped in his tracks, turned back and pulled a scrap of paper out of his pocket. “Can you take a look at this,” he mumbled with embarrassment as he handed it over to her. “And tell me if it’s any good or not?”
She quickly scanned the single verse, scrawled in grubby handwriting, then rescanned it and scanned again as she tried to take in the meaning of the words.
&
nbsp; I believed that black and white were brothers
And hate would disappear.
But failed to see the embrace of lovers
Is a manifestation of fear
“I’m not familiar with this piece of work.” she replied. “Where did you get it from?”
“No, no,” he stuttered, his face showing the first symptoms of exploding. “I didn’t get it from anywhere. I er, I did it myself”.
She looked incredulously at both the verse and him. “Well, I’m astounded Brian. Are you sure you wrote this yourself?”
He nodded firmly. Her initial astonishment gave way to admiration. “I must say I’m most impressed. What do the words mean?”
“I don’t know”. He fidgeted awkwardly as he tried to rebuff her praise and get to the real point of the conversation. “Can I start attending English classes again?”
“I’ll see what I can do. And if you write any more poetry I’d like to see it”.
The door clicked shut and she made another amendment to her notes. She underlined them, added a couple of exclamation marks for effect and punched the air with delight. At long last, a sign of progress.
Neil was last. “G’day mate.” he sighed vacantly as he slumped onto the couch.
“G’day Neil.” she replied. “How are you finding things these days with your new project?”
“Well, doc. It's really hard yakka 'cos I seem to get to do all the writing stuff down, and I've been as busy as a cat burying shit, but she'll be sweet”.
She thought she'd caught the general drift of the last sentence and nodded her head, despite not really being sure.
“And how did you come to do all the work? Did you let the other two bully you into it?”
“Oh no, doc. I don’t let people do that to me any more. I’m thinking for myself these days”.
“So what are your current thoughts on the future? Do you still regard surfing as a viable career option?”
He looked at her and shrugged. “I’m not sure doc. I still like surfing big mobs, but as for making a quid from it, well I reckon I've probably got two chances – Buckley’s and none. I guess I'm pretty much back to square one on the old career plan, but she’ll be sweet. I’ll come up with something”.
She made some notes about how rapidly and effectively he had picked up the usage of Strine. “I'm glad you've come to realize it's a big decision, Neil. But don't worry too much, there's plenty of time yet before you have to decide. Just try and focus on what's achievable rather than what's fanciful and I'm sure you'll get there in the end”.
Dr Surning was in Principal Givens' office for their weekly progress meeting. Marcia shuffled through some paperwork. “These boys seem to be making good progress Heather, particularly Brian Lovett. His English tutor reports he is producing some excellent work”.
She tapped her smoking joint against an ashtray, passed it to Heather Surning and sighed as she further reviewed the reports. “But his grade average has been so awful for so long I can't see him ever being accepted by any reputable university in the country”.
Heather took a puff and exhaled the smoke. “Well, if you really think Brian is capable of the level of scholarship required, I have a contact in the English department at UC Berkeley who owes me a big favor. I could at least get him an interview and maybe he could sit some form of entrance exam”.
Marcia Givens stared long and hard at the reports before her, gathered them together and put them into a desk drawer. “Let's give it a try if he continues to perform next semester. In the meantime I think you should mention it to him as a possible target he should set for himself”.
Kenny knocked on the door of Brian's room. “Shake a leg mate!” he shouted from the corridor. “Surf's up”.
Brian was sitting on the floor amongst a number of books and computer printouts, all of them about Australia. Without looking up from his note pad, he shouted in return through the door. “I think I'll pass on it today dude. I'm busy writing”.
Principal Givens' car turned erratically off the old coast road onto the unmarked dirt track that led to the beach. It bounced up and down along the uneven surface for a mile or so. Then it finally staggered and stuttered to an uncultured halt in the public car park, wearing one hubcap less than it had before the journey began. Kenny and Neil emerged, dressed in their recently acquired surfing uniform of knee length swimming shorts, loose fitting grunge t-shirts, wrap around reflective sunglasses and flip flops. They unloaded the surfboards from the roof, gathered their belongings together and carried everything along the sapping scorching sand. Eventually they reached their usual private spot between the dunes fringed by palm trees, and they dumped their baggage.
While Neil sat down and leant back against one of the trees and carefully assembled a joint, Kenny stripped down to his shorts, removed his glasses and painfully tip-toed down the beach, empty save for the latest deposits of les fruits de la mer, and headed towards the surf carrying the board under his right arm. When he got there he looked straight out to sea. He noticed a pod of dolphins corralling a school of fish in the distance. Their position was betrayed by a flock of gulls flying overhead, deftly hovering in the air and waiting for opportunities to pick up any waifs and strays which might come their way. A grey dolphin head majestically rose out of the water and promptly disappeared again. Kenny looked to the left and right along the deserted beach, breathed in a lungful of the fresh air and decided it was finally time to go for it. Today was going to be the big day. The surf was up and he was definitely up for the surf.
He waded into the water, pushing the board ahead of him and quickly lay on it, on his stomach, and grabbed the nose with his hands. He shuffled his body around until he felt comfortably balanced, then starting to paddle hard with his hands towards the oncoming waves.
He saw the first breaking wave rushing towards him and went through the process in his mind as he acted it out. Firstly wait until the wave is one, maybe two yards in front of you. Okay, it's five yards in front of me and coming in fast. Then make sure you’re lying flat on the board, holding the nose firmly with your hands. Okay, it's getting nearer. Then use your arms to push yourself back along the board so you have one knee on the tail of the board and the other leg extended horizontally, and push down with the knee that's on the board.
Jesus, it was nearly on him. He didn't realize it was so huge. Now he was in it. Placing downward force on the tail lifted the nose of the board slightly. If it was too high the nose would take the force of this breaking wave and he’d get pushed back again. If it was too low then it would break over the tail and he’d get pushed back again. If he could only get this right then the wave would break over the nose and allow him to pass. The wave began to crash over him. All he could see was white foam all around him, all he could hear was a blurred roar and he was gasping for breath. He couldn't tell what was happening. What the fuck was happening?!
And then, within a second or two, he realised the wave had passed along with his panic and he’d negotiated his way through it. He had finally, finally, managed to duck dive successfully. He was about to celebrate when he noticed the next wave coming towards him and knew he would have to brace himself to go through the murderous process again. By this tortuous method Kenny eventually made his way out to the line up.
He lay motionless for a short time on the board, exhausted by the effort of the journey. As his body bobbed up and down on the water he took stock of himself. A dull ache had replaced any strength the muscles in his arms and calves might have possessed, and his lungs heaved, gasping for the richness of oxygen. His knees felt tender and bruised.
Neil, who was watching from his spot amongst the palm trees up on the beach, celebrated with the encouragement and support of noisy whistles and whoops. Kenny struggled to sit askance on his board and gave a weak and weary clenched fist salute back. He smiled to himself and gasped “Oh man, that was like Christmas on a stick!”
Then he took a deep breath of trepidat
ion. Now he was going to have to get back to the beach somehow without drowning.
Heather Surning's morning contemplation of her newspaper column was interrupted by a knock on the office door. It was Brian and he was looking flustered. He passed her his notepad. “I've written a poem and you said I was to show you anything I did.” he explained, uncomfortably. She took the notepad, squinted at the scrawling lines of handwriting and read aloud.
Australia in Strine
There's a lucky country somewhere down under,
See Aborigine legends litter the ground.
The Coolabah drops orange blossom in wonder
Like farmyard confetti, sprinkled around.
Go walkabout from a Billabong
To the distant shores of Adelaide Bay.
Bands of minstrel dingoes sing their song.
A koala hangs from a sunshine ray.
By Ayers Rock, marooned in a sandy ocean
A lonely yellow Kookaburra bathes
In the Katherine river which flows with devotion
Up through Darwin and into the swallowing waves.
Wandering along the wallaby track,
Set the billy to work on a brew.
Find some scrub and some grub, add a crack of the fat
For a cuppa of bush tucker stew.
Sydney Opera House sails ‘neath harbor bridge.
The Queensland Barrier Reef slips like a gown.
Surf’s up in Perth and life’s ridgy didge,
From Melbourne city to Ulverstone town.
Go flat out like a lizard drinking the air.
Fly with the fairies alongside fools.
Roll up, roll up for the Corroboree fair
Where the games play to Rafferty's rules.
Plants with beastlike limbs, animals looking like plants
Stalk empty deserts which bloom upon the blue moon.
Jungles that kill given an unwary chance,
Surround a new world by new men hewn.
So don't toss a tiger, just pick up a tinny
Sell your worries for a brass razoo.
Get me a stubbie of grog that’s skinny
And I’ll chuck a snag on the barbie for you.
“I'm not certain I understand half of this, but it looks extremely creative Brian.” she concluded. “It conveys to me a vivid sense of Australia and I think any student would be proud to have written this piece of poetry”.
She left unsaid the thoughts she was really thinking. Although the meter was unsteady in places and some lines didn't scan perfectly, it was a miraculous production for a student with Brian's academic record. What Brian, in turn, didn't tell her was that he’d mischievously planted some verbal bombs in the text, though he was disappointed with himself that he hadn't managed to come up with a rhyme for chocolate cha-cha.
With his permission, she made a copy of the poem and excitedly presented it to Principal Givens as solid evidence that their project was capable of delivering positive results where others had failed. Marcia decided it should be published in the school annual, and Brian should also publicly deliver it to an audience at the upcoming school review. At first Brian adamantly refused, citing the suspicious aroma of a “Fascist Dictatorship Plot”. But when it was put to him that the use of the principal's car was a temporary arrangement which might be withdrawn at any time, he ungracefully agreed to perform. His sole proviso was that his two friends and workmates would have to stand up on the stage alongside him. He was pleasantly surprised by Principal Givens’ ready agreement to this demand, so he set Neil and Kenny to rehearsing the work. Seeing as they were going to recite the lines together he was generous enough to allow them a modicum of the authorship, which then meant Principal Givens had happy news of progress to deliver to three sets of demanding parents.
One night Heather Surning sat on the comfy chair in her living room, sipped on a glass of wine and opened the exercise book Neil had given her. The boys had finally finished their project and it now announced itself in proud multi-coloured letters inscribed on the book cover, “The 100% Unofficial Strine Phrasebook”.
She smiled to herself at the first few entries. Apparently amber nectar was beer and an ankle biter was a small child. However, she wasn’t too sure about the questionable taste of entries like arse/arsehole (defined as rectum, backside, ass if you must know) or the phrase “Bangs like a dunny door in a storm” (someone who is sexually promiscuous). She vaguely flicked through the pages and then stopped and flicked back through them as her mind caught up with her eyes. What was this? Crack a fat, defined as getting an erection. The phrase was mistily familiar to her, though she couldn’t place it. She turned back a page. Bash the bishop; Masturbate. She turned a few pages forward. In more shit than a poofter’s finger. What was a poofter? She turned to the section for definitions of words beginning with the letter P and ran her finger down the page. Hmm. Polly, Pom, Poofter. A poofter was defined as a homosexual. In more shit than a homosexual’s finger? What did that mean? And then she pulled a disgusted face as she realised both the connotation and latent racism implied.
She scanned the rest of the book, put it down and drained her glass. One of the problems with giving people freedom was that they were then free to abuse the freedom. And just as with adult males, whom, if they were allowed total freedom would always end up wallowing in the lowest common denominator of pornography, boys would wrestle in smut. She was going to have to devote time for some serious discussion with them in their next sessions to define what was socially acceptable and what was not, and get some of these words removed. And then she was going to have to start reining in some of the freedom she had granted them.
The days and weeks passed by silently and imperceptibly, and the evening of the school review arrived. The three boys stood on the stage at the back of the school hall, nervously peering out through the small gap between the curtains, surveying the audience gradually assembling in the seats. Their moment of ordeal had arrived and was knocking on the door. Brian suddenly ducked back behind the curtain. With a look of shock in his eyes he peered out again and instantly recoiled again, his head throbbing and a sickening fear wedged in his stomach. “Fuck, dudes!” he hissed. “I just saw my old man sitting out there. What the fuck is he doing here?!”
Neil took a peek and darted back. “Shit! Both my mother and stepfather are here too! What's happening man?”
Kenny was reluctant to look, but pushed himself to glimpse out. “Oh no!” he shrieked. “That bitch of a stepmother is here too. Why did they have to come? They're gonna ruin everything!”
It instantly became obvious, even to them, that Principal Givens had trussed them up and stuffed them up like turkeys at Thanksgiving by inviting their respective parents of varying degrees to observe them parading upon the stage and performing. She had turned the gentle exercise into an obscene, grotesque circus act.
“Man, I need a joint, and I need it now!” Brian gasped, as he re-developed his facial twitch. “Who's got one?”
The other two shook their heads. “We're... all.. out.. mate.” stuttered Kenny, fighting to get the words out.
“We've got to get down to the farm pronto, dudes.” cried Neil. “Need the weed! Feed the need!” He was bent double and desperately trying to halt the flow of piss building up in his bladder and preparing to explode all over his pants.
They instantly took flight from behind the stage curtain and ran out of the fire exit at the back. Then they dashed across the car park and ran to Principal Givens' home, where her car was resting peacefully outside. While Neil hurriedly relieved himself against a bush, Kenny searched through his own pockets in a panic, pulled out the keys and tore open the doors.
“Hurry..up..man!” he screamed at Neil as he scrambled to turn over the ignition. He drove off with a roar while the other two were still trying to get in. An open back door flapped around like a wounded bird’s wing, with a screaming Neil hanging off it. The car lurched to a sudden halt, Brian pulled N
eil in, and then it screeched around the corner and disappeared.
Kenny drove with even more than his customary abandon, and five minutes later the car screeched into the unlit darkness occupying the shop at McKinley’s Marijuana Farm. Leaving the car engine running and the lights on, they all dashed out and banged their flailing arms against the shop window, but to no avail. It was closed up for the night and deserted, the only sign of life being the warm glow of a neon light on the wall above the counter inside.
“What are we gonna do now?” howled Brian, his face twitching ever more manically.
“Calm down, calm down, we've gotta think.” trilled Neil, his hands clutching his pockets.
“We're... going... to... have... to... break... in.” concluded Kenny.
The other two regarded each other, pondered for a few seconds, then looked at him and nodded their agreement. Kenny went to search for a rock to hurl through the front door so they might get into the shop. He scrabbled around amongst the blackness and returned with a few pebbles and threw them at the window only for them to bounce off and back at him. One of them hit him on the head.
“Goddamnit!” he roared, the craving for a misty pacific mind driving him ever closer towards the edge where rationale becomes consumed by panic. “That... shop door is.... coming down... dudes. It's... coming down”.
He strode across to the car, opened the trunk and produced one of the lengths of elastic cord they normally used to tie the surfboards to the roof. He tied one end around the front fender of the car and the other end around the shop door handle. He then jumped into the car and reversed away with a screech. The strain on the cord caused it to stretch to a seemingly impossible length. It was about to snap when the car fender gave way instead, and flew back towards the shop like a lumbering missile. It crashed into the window with a sickening thud quickly followed by an orchestra of breaking glass, creaks of snapping wood and a blurry cloud of dust.
There were a few moments of eerie silence, then the dust settled and it became apparent the entire front fascia was destroyed. The fender had shot across the interior of the shop, over the counter and smashed into the neon light. The odd spark of electricity spat out over the counter with a crack and a cackle, as the three of them disregarded safety in favour of gratuity and dashed inside. They carefully stepped around the biggest shards of broken glass, helped themselves to a bag of marijuana each and dashed outside again. Brian stood at a safe distance, shakily rolling up a joint as he surveyed the damage they had wreaked, and his face continued to twitch involuntarily.
Neil whistled, having temporarily forgotten his incontinence. “Lucky our parents are here, ‘cos this is gonna cost us some”.
Kenny attempted to assess any damage which may have occurred elsewhere. “At least.. the car... looks... okay.” he sighed.
At that moment the sparks in the shop started to flash wildly, and showered the room with a spray which quickly transformed into small flames. Within seconds these guzzled oxygen and combined to create a whooshing inferno which sped through the building with a will of its own. The beating heat caused the boys to hastily retreat to a cooler distance, where they stared in hypnotic awe upon the lightning-like flashes filling the night, as the blaze spread from the shop to the surrounding farm buildings and the fields beyond. They then realised there was an incredible buzz to be had if they breathed in the swirling herbal smoke. Kenny, on the verge of falling over, started to giggle manically. The other two looked at him, then each other and also broke out into uncontrollable giggling. As they stood there smiling and breathing in deeply, the lonely wailing of a distant police car siren was carried along the air. The noise grew ever louder and a patrol car screeched into the farm entrance. Sheriff Williams and another officer got out and marched towards them. As they did so, Principal Givens' car caught fire and exploded like a bomb with a huge boom. They were all forced to throw themselves to the ground as various parts of the chassis flew through the air above their heads. A fire engine arrived and the crew immediately set about the task of controlling the flames.
After they all unsteadily got back on their feet, Sheriff Williams turned to the boys.
“Sincere apologies gentlemen, but I hereby arrest you on suspicion of arson. You have the right to remain silent, but anything you do say will be taken down and may be used against you. You have the right to an attorney and if you cannot afford this, one will be provided for you”.
His colleague put handcuffs on each of them.
Sheriff Williams shook his head balefully. “I tell you something boys, the judge is really gonna throw the book at you. He was due to receive a shipment from the farm tomorrow. Let's go”.
He then escorted them to the patrol car.
Principal Givens was standing at the school entrance, waving off the departing parents and making polite conversation as they streamed out of the school hall at the end of the annual review.
“I'm so sorry Mr Lovett,” she apologised gushingly. “I have no idea what happened to Brian tonight. Perhaps we’ll see you some other time?”
Brian's father fixed her with a hard glare which signalled that he wouldn't be returning.
The police patrol car wailed into the school car park and came to a halt beside her. Sheriff Williams got out of the driver’s door, while his colleague bundled the three handcuffed boys out of the back. A suspicious alertness sprang into Principal Givens’ eyes. What was supposed to be a pleasant evening was now in danger of crashing down around both her and her special guests.
“I hate to spoil your evening, Marcia.” sighed the sheriff. “But I'm taking these boys into custody for the night. They just burned down the farm and destroyed your car. They'll be up for a bail hearing in the morning and it would help if you could call Eli Levenson and make it down to the courthouse”.
The alertness and surprise in her eyes turned to pure shock and terror. She turned to Mr Lovett for support and council, but he had already turned on his heels and was walking away, his back facing them. He was stroking his neck and wearily shaking his head.
She frowned at Brian and implored. “What’s happened Brian? What about the plans for Berkeley?”
He beamed involuntarily, as another spasm twitched across his face, and muttered “Fuck Berkeley”.
Chapter Six
One Great Guide, One awful Actor