A Load of Undeserved Crap

   At the bell announcing lunch, I gathered up my schoolbag and hurried out of the classroom, down the hallway and through the doors outside to the open fields in the sunshine. 

   I was having another bad day at Avondale College.

   I’d only been in New Zealand a month. I’d only been at Avondale College two weeks, but I was a miserable, lonely little schoolboy. 

   I didn’t want to speak to anybody or see anybody. I was sick of their taunts and insults. I was tired of being the foreigner they all laughed at. I wanted to be by myself. Finding a secluded place on the fields at the far side of the cricket pitch, I lay down in the grass, on my stomach, and tried to read. 

   I was reading a James Bond novel. I was reading them avidly at the time, having acquired all the cheap paperback editions I could find at the bookshop of the SS Oriana. They were ridiculously cheap, marked down to three-and-six and dumped into rotating wire racks which stood twirling in front of the ship’s little bookshop. What a wonderful pleasure to read the thrilling stories in the beautiful, sun filled lounge at the stern of the Oriana. I’d sit in an oversized chair with the sun streaming through the large windows and read for hours and hours. Now and then I’d look up from the book and admire the frothing wake the huge ship left behind. 

   It stretched all the way back to the horizon. 

   Bond, James Bond. 

   How very English on this very English ship. I’ve never met a book I didn’t like and there’s always time for reading, but sometimes one is lucky enough to come across the right books at the right time. The Bond books were perfect to pass the time on the voyage. From them I was gleaning a look into the world of travel and glamour and sex. 

   Things I've found interesting ever since. 

   They were first books I ever read that were spelled in English English, by the way. You know, tyre for tire, colour for color, that kind of thing. These little things gave them great sophistication in my eyes. 

   To a reader little things can mean a lot, but I suppose, you being a reader, you knew that already. 

   Today though, it was difficult to concentrate on the book as I kept reliving the events of the past two weeks. What a mess my life was in! Ever since arriving in New Zealand, things had gone wrong. At school I was laughed at by the students and punished by the teachers. At home I confused and infuriated my parents while my younger brother and sister thought I was going cuckoo. 

  I closed the book and lay there, feeling the warmth of the sun through my clothes and on the backs of my legs. (The silly school uniform sported short pants, which looked absolutely ridiculous on me, for I was a tall, gawky kind of kid.) I lay on my stomach and cradled my head in my arm, using the Bond paperback as a pillow. I could hear the other schoolboys at play kicking a ball, shouting in fun. Closer by, I could hear the wind droning through the oleanders at the field’s edges. 

   Lying on the warm earth, listening to the boys play and the wind drone while the sun was beating down on my back, I fell asleep in the soft grass.  

   

   “Hey! Wake up! You asleep?”

   I opened my eyes. It was Hugh’s voice, coming from above. All I could see of him was a pair of black school shoes, just like mine, only scuffed and considerably smaller.

   “The bell’s gone,” said he. “Didn’t you hear it? Bloody hell! You’d better get moving, mate, if you’re going to class.”

   I scrambled to my feet. I was in a daze from the sleep and for a minute I didn’t know where I was, literally. 

   It had been a deep, black, dreamless sleep.

   “Right,” I said more to myself than to Hugh. “New Zealand. School. Avondale College.”

   “I’m not bothering with any more today,” bragged Hugh. “I’ve had enough of their crap!” He sniffed and rubbed at his nose, then pronounced, “I’m wagging school this afternoon!” I noticed he was smoking, a cigarette was dangling from the stubby, nail bitten fingers of his left hand. He raised it to his lips and puffed nervously. 

   “Yeah,” I said. “Me, too.” 

   Now, while I truly believed that I had been dealt a load of undeserved crap over the last two weeks, as Hugh had just said, when I said ‘yeah, me too’ I meant it only rhetorically. I wasn’t going to skip school. I had never skipped school in my life. 

   That was what bad boys did. 

   Bad boys also smoked and cursed and left it for others to take the blame. 

   That very morning I’d been caned for smoking in the toilets, when it had been Hugh who was smoking in there, not me. He’d handed me the cigarette while he tired his shoelaces, then he’d hidden under the sink when Mr Hamilton had suddenly appeared. 

   Mr Hamilton caught me in a room full of smoke with a cigarette in my hand, and I was caned for it. 

   Now Hugh had stopped to find out what kind of trouble he was in, if any. He’d probably stumbled upon me accidentally while crossing the playing fields on his way out. The selfish little so-and-so, I thought to myself, he couldn’t even show human compassion at the misery of others, meaning me and my misery of course, when he was the outright cause of that very misery! 

   Hugh was impressively self-centered, I thought with admiration. I’d never met anyone quite like him. 

   “Ah, I wanted to, ah, ask you how it went with Mr Hamilton,” he stammered. He gave me a worried look. “You know. You gettin’ the cane. Haha. You didn’t mention me, did you?”

   “Your name never came up.”

   “Really?” His face completely changed, now creased by a big smile. “That’s great!”

   “Hugh, believe me, nothing I could have said would have availed me,” I said and I laughed as I said it. 'Nothing you can say will avail you now.' That was exactly what Mr Hamilton had said before he caned me. 

   I think the beginning of the dark, ironic side to my sense of humor was born that day.  

   “Bloody great, mate,” said Hugh, all smiles now. “I owe you one. Well, I’m off. Cheerio!” 

   Saying that, he turned and walked away, instantly forgetting that he owed anyone anything.

Twenty to a Pack

   From Orlando to Honolulu via Los Angeles is a long way. 

   By the time we’d sorted ourselves out at the airport we didn't arrive at our Waikiki hotel until 11PM. We were kindly received and shown to our room. Saucy Boy (a nickname for my wife) quickly unpacked and put away her things. 

   “I don’t like people touching my things,” she said as she unpacked.

   “That’s not what you said last night!” I boasted. 

   “You!” she laughed. “Don’t you ever think of anything else?”

   “Nope!”

   Believe me, with Saucy Boy, it’s difficult not to. 

   “Good!” she answered, and we embraced.

   Then she made us gin and tonics. Within minutes Saucy Boy can work miracles in any kitchen. And a good gin and tonic is a miracle of sorts, don’t you think? Her eyes sparkled as she handed me the drink. She loves to travel. It’s when she’s happiest. 

   With our stuff put away and drinks in our hands, we felt at home on our travels.

   Ah, those gins hit the spot and eased out some of the kinks! 

   We stepped through the sliding door. The night was warm. I bumped my head against a tree limb that overhung the patio, and we laughed. We sat in chairs beside the pool and spoke of things we hadn’t spoken of in a long time. After awhile we dropped into a comfortable silence, both of us staring into the shimmering black water of the hotel swimming pool. 

   It was well after 2am. They had turned off the pool lights hours ago. I lifted my tired eyes from the water. 

   “I need some sleep,” I said. 

   Saucy Boy did too. Her sparkling eyes had dimmed and were slowly closing.

   “C’mon,” she said. 

   We returned to our room, undressed and fell into bed.

  “KA-TWANG!” 

   “What the…?” I asked.

   “Ice-maker,” explained Saucy Boy.

   “KA-BOING!” The ice-making machine next to our room was making ice. “KA-THUMP!” it groaned. I lay awake and listened to it. Where does all that ice go, I wondered? “KA-TWANG!” it croaked. Saucy Boy had closed her eyes and looked to be asleep. What had they done to cool their libations in times before ice machines, I wondered? “KA-BOOM!” it crashed. Saucy Boy didn’t move. Once she was asleep she could sleep through anything. “KA-PHOOEY!” it sputtered. What is it about some machinery that it must be loud to get the job done?

   Ha! Ha! We humans are often guilty of that. 

   “KA-THUMP!” it coughed. It continued to rattle and sputter and crash through the night.

   Somehow, I fell asleep…

   I was awake before daylight thinking about breakfast.

   But before food, a smoke. 

   You cannot smoke within and around buildings in Hawaii, so I got up and threw on some clothes and went out. Saucy Boy was asleep so I left her in bed. The ice machine was silent, so I left it there too. Within a few minutes I was puffing contentedly along as I ambled toward the all-night Denny’s. 

   A pair of drunken young men lurched up from the opposite direction. 

   “Got a spare smoke?” asked one. 

   I was startled and without thinking I answered “No.” Which was pretty stupid considering I was smoking at the time. My answer also surprised me. Why had I refused?

   Why is it so difficult to be a kind person all the time, or even most of the time, or even more than barely some of the time? 

   “There’s twenty to a pack, asshole!” said his friend. He was very intoxicated and slurred out his words with a grand gesture more to the street and the towering hotels all around us, rather than at me, the actual asshole.

   How bitter this retort rang in my ears! 

   “Hey guys,” I answered. “Hold on a minute.”

   We stood together and shared a smoke. Extracting one for later, I handed over the packet, telling them to keep it.

   “Mahalo plenty, man,” they said as they walked on. 

   Mahalo means thank you in Hawaiian.

   “Sure,” I answered. “Aloha!” 

   They waved and turned back on their way. 

   I watched them go with a smile on my face. Phew, I thought, that was a close one! I had almost been that worst of bastards, a cheapskate bastard. Funny how life throws up these cosmic moments. You’re walking down the street minding your own business when suddenly wham! 

   Hey You! To be or not to be! Are you a decent human being capable of sharing, or are you something else? Time to choose! 

   “Show us what you’re made of!” demand the gods, and they lean in, ready for a laugh.

   For a moment my soul balanced on the edge.

   Then the wise man said, “There’s twenty to a pack, asshole!”

   Bringing me back to my senses.

   That day Saucy Boy and I sunbathed on the beach in front of the Royal Hawaiian. That’s a hotel, not a person, by the way. The ocean was warm and clean. We splashed and played in the surf. Later, we ambled up the beach and stopped for a beer to cool off. On the ground by some giant bamboo I found a small, overturned bird’s nest and gave it to Saucy Boy. 

   (She brought it home carefully wrapped in her luggage and has it to this day.) 

   At sunset, sitting together under a Banyan tree with a wonderful view of Diamond Head, we sipped $15 Mai-Tais and watched the waves rolling in. It was very romantic, but we couldn't drink long at those prices, so we left to walk the beach hand in hand. 

   As darkness fell we were on the beach, watching Venus rise out of the crashing ocean. A sliver of moon hung in the sky over our shoulders.

  Later we swam in the hotel pool together. Petals fell in graceful arcs from the nearby plumeria trees. Some of the petals landed in the water. One of them stuck to Saucy Boy’s shoulder, perfect and pink against her smooth brown skin.

   After swimming we went to our room. 

   There we kissed and made love. 

   Soon afterwards we fell asleep, not hearing a sound from our mechanical ice-making neighbor, as if it understood that tonight, right next door, the night was young and the stars were old. 

   Shhhh, nighty-night, little tourists. 

Rusty Reads Aloud

Rusty Reads Aloud

   I met my friend Trooper at Stardust Cafe in Winter Park the other night.

   He used to be a student of mine when I taught animation at Full Sail University. He’s called Trooper, by the way, because he works so hard. It’s a show business tradition to call someone a trooper if they can be relied upon to try their best and never give up.

   Now he’s my go-getting wanna be creative director, and I’m the one being taught. 

   Life’s funny, isn't it?

   He arrived early, setting up his camera equipment to record me when I read one of my stories at the open-mic, on stage in front of some of my writer friends.

   I was nervous, but the Fireball Bourbon I was sipping was helping a bit. I kept looking out for Oola Goodens, the gorgeous blonde sex goddess I like to be seen with on these occasions. She’d said she might make it. Rusty has to look smooth and a beautiful girl on your arm is certainly that.

   Oola never showed up but sent me a text message telling me to break a leg.

   Oola has shapely brown legs, I was thinking when Trooper spoke. 

   “Don’t worry,” he said. “You’ll be fine.”

   “If you say so,” I said, hoping they wouldn't announce me until I’d finished another Fireball.

   “Better take it easy on the Fireballs,” suggested Trooper. “How many’s that? You don’t want to fall down on your way up to the stage like you did last time.”

   “I blame my eye patch for that!” I answered defensively. “I had it on the wrong eye.” 

   Did I mention that another of Rusty’s ideas about looking good is to look something like a grinning deviant half-drunk pirate?

   “Don’t forget to put this camera on the table behind you and point it at the audience,” reminded Trooper, handing me a camera. “And don’t scratch your crotch if you can help it!”

   “Sure,” said I, taking one last sip of my Fireball. “That’s easy for you to say.”

   “And now... for all you Rusty fans!" called the DJ Chet and for a moment I thought I was in Vegas. "Open your toolboxes and reach inside... because I give you … RUSTY PLIERS!” 

   I heard applause as my mind went blank and I started for the stage.

   “Thank you,” I stammered into the mic. “I’m Rusty Pliers.”

   I cleared my throat and began speaking.

Nocturnal Events 

   My family emigrated to New Zealand in 1967, when I was fourteen-years-old. 

   I was a gawky, introspective kind of kid who didn't adapt very well to my new country. I especially found school difficult. My parents, trying to be helpful, said that I should ‘buckle down’ and try harder. 

   They kept insisting a boy with my talents could do better. 

   Much better.

   I told them I was doing my best, but I don’t think they were falling for it.

   So during the week on schooldays, my usual nighttime occupation was homework. My parents insisted on that, too. “Better hit those books, son,” ordered my dad every night. Studying History, Math, Geography, English. Not very exciting nocturnal events. 

   However, not every nocturnal event that year was unexciting.

   Sometimes there came to me unbidden in the night while I slept, realistic visions of an extremely sensuous nature.

   Unfortunately, rather than enjoy these wonderfully erotic dreams for what they were, the morning found me covered in shame and the sheets spotted in semen.   

   I’m sure I’m not the first person that that has happened to, awaking to shame and semen, but that didn't make it any less disturbing when it was happening to me, especially the first few times.

   I did my best to hide my shame and my sheets. 

   Naturally, my mother discovered my secret almost immediately.

   “You’d better talk to your father about this,” she said, blushing a little. She wasn't disgusted, as I feared she would be. That made me feel a lot better.

   “It’s a natural thing that comes to every growing boy,” she added. She had been a nurse and I figured she knew what she was talking about. Also, my mother could never tell a lie so I knew I would get the truth, and even a fourteen-year-old boy knows that truth sheds light and light dispels fear and shame.

   “And,” she said, “being part of nature, it’s not unhealthy, do you see?”

   “I think so,” I said.

   “So don’t be worried or ashamed, honey.” 

   I felt relieved, but questions flooded my mind.

   “Yeah,” I started. “But what about when my…”

   “Your dad will explain everything,” she hastily promised, anticipating me and dismissing the subject. 

   And explain dad did. 

   I think he was more nervous than I was, as we sat down to talk. After the first hour, my head was dizzy, my innards were knotted, my faith was crumbling. After a few hours more we had to halt for an intermission and call for sustenance. Mom, bringing in the tea and cookies, glanced nervously at us and departed in silence. After another hour Dad’s voice grew horse and he resorted, as I suspected he had planned all along, to diagrams. Being an artist, I believe he felt himself on firmer ground with a pencil in his hand. Try as he might though, Dad’s explanation was vague and more dismissed the subject than elucidated it. Maybe it was me, although I’m usually not so dumb about a subject I’m interested in. 

   I wish I’d taken notes, because this particular man-to-man talk between a father and son, with its confusing mix of science, religion and voodoo, could never be realistically captured all these years later by a writer of my, shall we say, modest endowments. 

   Yes, I said modest endowments and a pun was intended there. After all, I’m a humorist and I’ve got to grab them when I can. 

( To those of you looking for a joke about grabbing endowments, I salute you!)

   Odd, but I remember that our epic ‘Birds and the Bees’ tete-a-tete, covering human history and the sciences from the dawn of man to the present time and lasting more than four hours according to the kitchen clock, had not one mention of sex, or bird, or bee. 

   Mom later said, as the hours passed and we had not emerged, that she was getting ready to call in the marines, although how in the heck they could have helped I have no idea.

   I stopped reading.
   I heard applause.
   It was over. 

   Incredibly nobody had thrown rotten fruit or empty bottles at me as I read.

   “Thanks for listening,” I said as I left the little stage. “I’m Rusty Pliers. 

   “Goodnight!”