Chapter 3. Being A Bad Influence, And The Wood Cigarettes
One day my compatriots and I found ourselves with an opportunity to demonstrate to each other just what Men of the World we really were. Dinger MacDougal had pinched some cigarettes from a packet of his mother’s and, being keen to light up, we headed straight for the thickest part of the acacia forest. At speed.
The deficiency was quickly noticed, however, as a result of which Dinger was banned from further associating with us – in any authorised manner, at least. We were a bad influence, Mrs MacDougal said. Little did she know her precious angel was our principal ideas man, mischief-wise.
A few weekends later – on one of those deathly-still, humid summer days that sap totally what little energy and resolve one might have to try and achieve anything – we were sitting around on the sand in the shade of a river gum, all of us numb with lethargy and boredom. Most of the afternoon we'd been there, flicking stones and breaking twigs into ever shorter pieces, totally unable of conceiving some way to pass the time in a more interesting and entertaining manner.
Then Dinger struck a match and watched as he applied its flame to a small stick. But this was no ordinary stick; it was a piece of dry gum tree root – of about the same sizeular diametric as the average cigarette (though somewhat longer and slightly bent). Unlike your average stick, however, a gum tree root is comprised of a mass of fine water-carrying tubules, which, when the root dries, will facilitate the passage of air ... as, for example, when one places an end in one's mouth, seals it with one's lips and sucks vigorously.
And I suppose it was just the lingering manifestation of one’s infantile reflex, whereby all and sundry is placed in the mouth the better to gauge its properties, which prompted our associate to shout, “Hey! Look at me!” before applying the other, non-combustulating end to his lips and taking a puff.
Within moments we were all puffing away at a piece of dried gum tree root with a hot coal at one end, the air beneath the tree quickly coming to resemble its suddenly hosting a minor grass fire. Then two of our more adventurous compatriots attempted the next step, much in the manner of our parents, by drawing a volume of the root’s “cigarette” smoke into their internal respiratory apparati.
An epidemic of violent coughing flagged a general failure, however, for the smoke’s tar content would have registered in percent rather than moles per cubic kilometre, and its acridity-factor pH something around minus several million – all of which quickly returned us to puffing delicately with our mouths.
Yet despite this setback the desired effect had been achieved: there we now were, gesturing casually with our smokes and flicking off the ash in a practiced manner as we sat around yarning, not one of us admitting that his mouth was burning fit to... Well, burn, and that the sudden epidemic of spitting wasn't so much a manly flaunting of social etiquette norms as an absolute and dire salivatory necessity.
For some time after this we all carried a few pieces of gum tree root in our shirt pockets, in case of a chance encounter with other members of our little band – in the street, perhaps, or in the lane behind the cool drinks factory. Each would note that everyone present had a couple of fags in their pockets, so honour was upheld. Yet, even though the suggestion of having a comradely puff was loudly and unanimously endorsed, we would invariably find ourselves too busy at that particular moment to do so.
“Nah. I gotta get home and look after me little sister.”
“Yeah. An’ I’m sposed to be mowin’ the lawn.”
“See y’se later then, I s’pose.”
“Yeah, see y’se later. —What time, y' reckon?"
“I dunno. After lunch praps. Hey! Try and pinch some more of your Mum’s ciggs.”
“Nah, I can’t. She keeps a count of ‘em now. Last time I did she an’ Dad had the biggest row cos she thought he took ‘em.”