The Avalanche
by
Brian Parker
Published by MoshPit Publishing
https://www.moshpitpublishing.com.au
Copyright 2012 Brian Parker
The Avalanche
by
Brian Parker
Rod and Marge Applewhite wanted to expand their horizons further, so they decided to join the Mahjong Club at the community centre. Both were in their mid seventies and in an effort to stave off a decrepit old age, they filled their lives with as many activities as possible. They firmly believed in the ‘use it or lose it’ theory.
Although they were very good friends, ‘bedroom activities’ as Marge called them, had ceased some five years earlier. Rod, who complied with his wife’s wishes, still had wisps of testosterone and male nastiness (another Margeism) coursing around in his veins, so he welcomed the increased activities in the daylight hours. At night, however, he was like their very old and much scarred tomcat, Brutus, who slept most of the day in his bed by the Aga stove and spent the night hours with evil thoughts, reliving a virile youth and what he might do to the little tabby queen next-door, if only … if only.
So, along with the gardening, house maintenance, general DIY (keeping their Subaru ticking over smoothly, coaching the local Under 12s rugby union side, attendance at church every Sunday), they had now added Mahjong. Rod and Marge had played the game when they were first married and had only faint recollections of the rules or how to play.
Mahjong is an old Chinese game played with tiles rather than cards. There are three suits, Bamboos, Characters and Circles, and there are honour tiles, being the four Winds together with Red, Green and White Dragons. There are also tiles representing the seasons. The object is to collect any one of a large number of hands, comprising a mixture of suits and honour tiles. These hands have wonderful names such as Gates of Heaven or Moon at the Bottom of the Well or Girtie’s Garter. When a player needs only one tile to complete a Mahjong hand, he or she says, ‘I’m fishing’ or ‘I’m calling’.
Mrs Olivia Goldsworthy, the Mahjong Convener, welcomed them and introduced them to some of the regulars. There was Colonel Hampton, a dapper little man puffing on a pipe. Mrs Goldsworthy explained that the Colonel was allowed to smoke a couple of pipes, as long as he sat near the window and used a mixture that was not too strong. Next, there was Barbara Swindon who was the carer for her blind cousin, June. June and her guide dog always sat just behind Mrs Swindon. Rod doubted if he would remember the names of all the others—there was a Sally, two Pats suitably called Pat I and Pat II and so on.
Mrs Goldsworthy then said, ‘I will put you both at the table with Mrs Snowden who will be here shortly. She is a very experienced Mahjong player and will be able to help you. She told me that she is bringing along her niece who will make up the four.’
Just then, a very smartly dressed woman in her sixties arrived with a much younger woman, a strawberry blonde with a low cut dress of the type that Rod used to call ‘a low and behold number’. Jen Snowden introduced the young woman as, ‘My niece, Trixie.’
The game started and the rules and intricacies slowly came back to Marge and Rod. However, he seemed somewhat pre-occupied with the young woman’s over developed chest, as it heaved and shook opposite him. Marge, on his right, alert to the situation, stamped furiously on his toes like some manic treadle machinist, in an effort to bring his attention back to the game.
From the four tables in the room there was a constant clicking as the players discarded their unwanted tiles and a low hum of conversation as they called out the suits and values. Calls of ‘I’m fishing’ or ‘I’m calling’ were heard, closely followed by ‘Mahjong!’ and then the cooing of admiration as a player displayed their hand.
Marge was picking up the rudiments of the game quite well but never got within ‘calling’ distance at any time. Rod on the other hand was twice pipped at the post, just one tile from going Mahjong despite still having difficulty in taking his eyes off Trixie’s frontage.
Then, not long before the session was due to end, Rod found that he was well on the way to making up a very good hand of all honour tiles called a Windy Dragon. On his next turn, he picked up the Red Dragon that he desperately needed. Just as he discarded, but before he could say, ‘I’m calling’, Trixie’s bosom gave a particularly violent heave and Rod, staring straight at her upper deck, inadvertently said, ‘I think I’m coming!’
Scientists who have studied avalanches and rock falls have stated that a single grain of sand shifting position often causes the whole process. This grain then moves another which then moves a pebble and then another and another, and then a stone and so on until rocks start tumbling down the mountain.
Although Rod’s gaff was not much more than a grain of sand, it was enough to start the whole process off. The sequence of events was almost instantaneous but to the players and others in the room, it as though life had gone into a television ‘Super SlowMo’ mode.
Trixie, who rather liked the attention being paid to her, could not believe what she had just heard and rocked back in her chair, shrieking with loud laughter. Her sudden movement put such a strain on her neckline that one of her ample bosoms broke free into the light of day. Realising what had happened she gave a further piercing shriek, this time in horror. Her aunt, Jen Snowden, who was rearranging her tiles on top of the display rack, shot two of them across the table at Marge.
Colonel Hampton, on hearing the noise from the next table, looked across and, not believing his eyes, involuntarily bit through the stem of his pipe, which caused the smouldering ball of tobacco to shoot out and it fall into the handbag of one of the Pats, on his right. It took her a few seconds to realise what was happening but by then some tissues in her handbag had caught alight and the smoke was intensifying. She pushed her chair back in order to bend down and deal with the flaming receptacle but shot backwards with such force that she cannoned into the player at the table immediately behind, pushing her off balance. That poor lady, in trying to steady herself, pulled the tablecloth right off, sending the Mahjong tiles and racks onto the floor.
Colonel Hampton, man of action, jumped up to grab the now seriously smouldering handbag to douse it but only succeeded in standing on the hind leg of the guide dog, sleeping peacefully behind its owner.
The dog, beautifully mannered though it was, got such a fright that it bit the leg of the woman nearest it. The poor woman shrieked in pain and threw herself backwards to evade the Labrador’s jaws.
Rod, who had started the avalanche with his inappropriate remark and then sat there as though frozen in time, was finally galvanised into action. He jumped up to help the player who had been bitten and who was now sprawled on the floor. The dog had let go of her leg but it had started to emit a baleful yowl; whether in sorrow for the woman that it had inadvertently attacked or for its owner to take charge of the situation, no one knew. Either way, it just added to the general cacophony of human screams and shouts.
Before Rod reached the bitten player, he trod on some fallen tiles. His leg shot from under him and he ended up in the lap of Mrs Goldsworthy, the Convener. Unfortunately, the chair that they were now both sharing could no longer keep up the unequal struggle and disintegrated, throwing them both on the floor.
The end table, which had been placed slightly apart from the others, had not been affected by the mayhem. The players had watched on in horror at the sequence of events and when they all jumped up, simultaneously, to help, they somehow upset the mechanism on their card table, which folded itself up, shooting even more tiles into the melee.
Finally, the avalanche had run its course and for a few seconds there was absolute silence in the room before the moaning, crying and baying started again. Rod, who was by this time l
ying half on top of Mrs Goldsworthy, started to apologise to the Convener. However, Mrs Goldsworthy, whose Mahjong club had been ruined, had only one thing to say, ‘I think you had better go Mr Applewhite … now! Before you cause any further damage!’
(c) Brian Parker 2012
About the Author
Brian Parker finished school, then immediately went out to Ceylon (now Sri Lanka) to become a tea planter.
In 1970 he joined the advertising department of the London Evening Standard.
Three years later, with wife Ruth and their three children, he emigrated to Australia, joining News Ltd. After three years working on suburban newspapers, he joined The Australian, before forming his own media services company.
Despite spending the majority of his working life in the tea industry and the media, Brian has also worked as a fur porter (a long time ago when people actually wore fur!), an office cleaner, a barman and a door-to-door encyclopaedia salesman. As he says - all great sources of material!
Brian and Ruth moved to the Blue Mountains, NSW, in 2002 and have lived there ever since. They have three children and four grandchildren.