Imaginary Foe (6 page)

Middleton also has an American-owned alumina refinery, which opened in the early eighties. The refinery makes the most of a bauxite-rich escarpment formed from an ancient fault line. That’s where Dad works now, in the laboratory. I often imagine him leaning over beakers in a white lab coat, not unlike Beaker from
The Muppet Show
, examining samples of noxious chemicals. I’ve never actually asked him what his job involves; it’s never the right time. He always comes home after work completely stressed out and in a bad mood. He yells at us for no good reason and then seats himself at the kitchen counter and consumes beer after beer. Slowly, with each beer, a slightly happier man emerges. Sometimes, I feel like hiding Dad’s beer, but I don’t think I’d live to see the light of day if he ever found out. It’s not his fault that he likes a drink after work. I don’t blame him at all. Who wouldn’t have a drink after a hard day’s work? And I’m certain he
does
work hard. You don’t come home looking like that after sitting on your arse all day.

The Middleton town site sits to the west of the escarpment. Further west of town lies a large flat plain, occupied by farms. There are crops and pastures, dairy farms, livestock farms and rows and rows of fruit and vegetables. I like to ride my bike around this area. Sometimes, I stop off on the side of the road, and, for a laugh, try and strike up a conversation with a cow. The cow always behaves in the same way. It stands still and looks me right in the eye, as if it’s trying hard to understand what I’m saying. Maybe it’s thinking, ‘What are you looking at, stupid human? Cows don’t speak English!’ After a while, I get bored with this and ride off, but not before expressing my disappointment to the cow that I might as well be talking to a brick wall!

Steve’s parents own a property in the hills, just off the road that winds its way up to the dam. They’re pretty cool. Although they’re over the hill – in their forties – they seem quite young at heart. They even take the time to talk to you as if you’re a person of substance and not just an annoying, shitty teenager. They also have good taste. Years ago, they decided to build their dream home up in the hills. It’s an awesome place. It vaguely reminds me of the house from
The Amityville Horror
. It’s made of stone, and the upstairs section features two windows that stare out like evil eyes. But Steve’s family is really nice and none of them seem to be falling apart or harbouring a deep desire to murder the others.

The really awesome thing about living in a small town is that you get to explore all the magical little spots in the surrounding area. There are secret bike paths that lead to private swimming holes, dilapidated bridges that you can bravely or foolishly cross, footpaths that weave through the bush and open on to trout streams, and there are even abandoned hay sheds where you can take a girl for a bit of one-on-one. But in the main part of town, you could be anywhere in suburban Australia.

Every Sunday, Steve, Jeremy, Mike and I have a jam in the shed on Steve’s property. The shed sits in a valley beneath the house. Routinely, as it happens, we smoke a bit of hooch. It helps us with our creative flow, or lack thereof. We have a dream to form the most kick-arse band in the universe. Steve plays the guitar and sings. Well, it’s something akin to singing, anyway. He sounds like Lou Reed on Valium. I play bass. One of Dad’s mates lent me his bass guitar that he hasn’t picked up in years. It’s the ugliest bass guitar in the world, a 1960s Yamaha that has no bottom horn. Its body is rounded where it rests on your lap, so it just slips off if you play it sitting down. You have no option but to play with a strap. To top it all off, it’s yellow. So it’s known as the ‘banana bass’. Jeremy flinches whenever I take it out of its case and he always says the same thing, every time, without fail: ‘I can’t believe how fucking ugly that thing is. It’s so
fucking ugly
!’

Jeremy plays the drums. He owns a nasty cheap kit that knows no subtlety. Every hit of the snare makes us wince, which results in all of us turning up our amps. It gets pretty noisy in Steve’s shed. Mike plays the guitar. He’s got a genuine Fender Telecaster and Fender twin amp, which sound superb. He’s the only one of us who has saved his money and bought some decent gear.

So far, we’ve written a total of three songs and they aren’t too bad, considering both the amount of pot we smoke and that we’re all self-taught. Our favourite song is called ‘Hollow Man’. It’s about most of Middleton’s male inhabitants. It has an eruptive chorus, during which we all scream in unison, ‘Hollow man, you’re gonna die someday! / You better start living before they start digging your grave!’

We all sit around after rehearsal, talking shit.

‘Hey, Mike, did you tell them your idea for a band name?’

‘No, I didn’t.’

‘What is it? I bet it’s woeful.’ Jeremy is such a shit-stirrer.

‘Well, I really don’t care what you think, Jeremy. In fact, if you think it’s bad, that’s actually a pretty good indication that it’s good.’

‘Yeah, yeah, blah, blah, what is it?’

Mike pauses and holds his hands out to emphasise the pause. ‘The Night.’

‘The Night? What the fuck is that?’ Jeremy hoots.

‘I kind of like it,’ says Steve.

‘Well, you would, wouldn’t you? Come on, we can come up with something better than The Night!’

‘Yeah? Like what?’ Mike asks.

‘Um … I don’t know … How about … Hades?’

I chip in. ‘You guys, we can’t have a name like Hades or The Night.’

‘And why is that?’

‘Because, moron, people are gonna think we’re some crap metal band and we’re not. We’re not in the least bit metal. We’re way beyond metal.’

‘Ooh. Poor pussy Stan doesn’t wanna be associated with metal. Would you prefer to be associated with petals? Maybe we should call ourselves The Flowers, or, better still, The Pansies. No, I’ve got it, The Poofter Pansies. Would you like that, Stanny?’ Jeremy is fully immersed in his drug-induced shit-stirring. His beady bloodshot eyes fall on me, waiting for an answer. His mouth hangs open.

I decide to humour him. ‘That’s perfect! The Poofter Pansies – I love it!’

We all burst into raucous laughter. We laugh for so long that it ends up hurting. A light rain of tears falls on to the concrete floor while we all clutch our stomachs, trying desperately to control ourselves. Gradually, we regain composure.

‘I think it’s still too metal,’ says Mike suddenly, setting off another torrent of laughter.

Finally, we all sit back, nursing our stomachs while the shed becomes a haze of cigarette smoke.

‘Hey, Stan, I saw your old lady down the street the other day. I must say, she’s looking pretty hot,’ Jeremy says, out of the blue.

‘What the fuck? You can’t say that about Stan’s mother!’ Mike, like me, is horrified, but Jeremy knows no shame.

‘Why not? I mean, you must have noticed, Stan. Something’s going on with your mum, dude. She’s doing herself up. She’s wearing those tight little tops and putting on a bit of lippy. Your old man must be doing something right, hey?’

‘Whoa – low blow, Jeremy!’ Now even Steve is taken aback.

‘What, you mean we can’t say things about each other’s mothers? What is that stupid fucking rule, anyway? I don’t care – you can say whatever you like about my mother. If you think she’s cute, I’ll invite you over for a barbeque so you can have a nice long perve.’

‘Are you trying to drop a hint, Jeremy?’ I ask sternly. ‘Are you suggesting that I invite you all over for a barbeque so you can check out my mother?’

‘Hell, yes! What are friends for?’

As the summer heat lingers well into autumn, school shifts gears. Sure, there are classes and people are being educated, but that’s not the be-all and end-all of it. School is a whole way of life! When a large group of people, who all happen to be going through puberty, are brought together, the fundamental purpose of school becomes largely irrelevant. In no way do textbooks and microscopes represent the experience, as some may have you believe (the poor misguided fools); on the contrary, it’s wholly and fully defined by the interaction between the sexes. Girls! They’re everywhere! I’m captivated by the richness of their perfume and the swing of their skirts. By sunlight on hair or the puffiness of a shirt. Girls’ clothing leaves a lot to be desired – I’m regularly attempting to figure out the shapes of girls’ bodies that’re hidden beneath billowy starch-white school shirts. Where do the breasts curve out from the body and just how bountiful are they? Such considerations have me living in a fantasy world where the never-ending stream of lascivious imagery has a Vaseline-lens-like quality.

And then there’s Rhonda. She’s the leading lady in my brat pack movie. I kid myself that I’m playing the leading man, based on a cool, calm Andrew McCarthy from
Less Than Zero
. Sometimes, I actually wish our school had detention so that I could be stuck in the library with Rhonda, like in
The Breakfast Club
. We’d be hanging out smoking pot and getting hot.

Ever since Year Eight, I’ve had a recurring daydream that plays in my head during English class. I think it’s the room and the atmosphere of English class that lends itself to such fanciful daydreams. Anyhow, a knock sounds on the door and Mr Rogers lets in two Hollywood executives. They say they’ve been scouring the world over for a suitable actor to play an intense teenage role in a movie they’re making. Then they spot me and they can tell straight away that I’m the talented person they’ve been searching the planet for. I get up from my seat and walk towards them. They lavish me with compliments. They admire the way that I walk. They say that I perfectly embody the handsome, yet rugged, teenage character they want to portray. I shrug my shoulders and say, ‘What took you so long?’

English is my favourite class. It’s doubly great because it’s the only class we have in which the desks are arranged into groups and, therefore, the possibility of sitting close to someone from the opposite sex is thrillingly increased. Today, as I make my way into the classroom, my eyes connect with Rhonda’s. She’s seated near the back of the room. The sunlight coming in from the northern windows falls upon her with a gentle serenity. I float towards her, accompanied by a string quartet. I haven’t seen her since the dance on Friday night and as I advance towards her, I’m staggered to find myself completely in love with her. She’s the one. She’s it. Other girls are dead to me.

‘Hi, Rhonda.’

‘Hi, Stanley. Sit here.’ Rhonda pats the seat next to her and, somehow, remarkably, I am seated. She leans close to me and whispers, ‘It feels like
ages
since I last saw you.’

Well, how about we just go for it now, baby? There’s never any time like the present
. I think this. I don’t say it, but I think it. Oh, how I think it.

Mr Rogers clears his throat. ‘All right, people. Let’s get settled in. We’re going to be incredibly productive today, so get your heads screwed on. Today, I want you to produce some quality haikus. I want you to pick out your best one and read it to the class.’ We all moan. ‘Oh, come on, this is fun. Joshua, from where does the haiku originate?’

‘Japan.’

‘Correct. The haiku is a form of poetic expression based on Zen Buddhism. I want you to clear your minds and think about how you can represent something with just a few words. Simplicity is the key. You can write about any subject you desire. In fact, you can even write about the
object
of your desire.’

The whole class sniggers and hoots.

‘But that doesn’t mean I want a heap of poems about hot cars from all you would-be rev heads in the class. Think deeply about this. Haikus can vary in length, but today we’ll use the English structure of seventeen syllables. That is, the first line will have five syllables, the second line seven syllables and third line five syllables. If you’re having any difficulties, raise your hand and I’ll come and help.’

For a good fifteen minutes, we get on with our task in silence, which is pierced by the odd cough and the dropping of a pen. Then, suddenly, Jeremy erupts with laughter. It’s laughter he can’t contain. His face is distorted with pleasure and pain. He laughs so hard that he’s bent forward, holding his stomach. He manages, impressively, to voice the sporadic, ‘Sorry!’

Mr Rogers stands by Jeremy’s desk with his arms folded, rocking from heel to toe. ‘It appears that Jeremy has finished his haiku. Thank you, Jeremy, for nominating yourself as first reader.’

Jeremy struggles to stand. His laughter subsides as the reality of a classroom audience hits him. ‘OK. Here goes: “A jog round the block, / Flatulence encumbers him, / cheeks flapping in breeze.”’ He bursts out laughing again.

Mr Rogers places a forceful hand on his shoulder, seating him. ‘We should have known it would be toilet humour. At least you’re consistent in your approach. Who’s next?’

Barbara stands and clears her throat. ‘“Small town sheltered down. / Days merge with one another. / We watch for the end.”’

‘Thank you, Barbara. Now, everyone, haikus are traditionally descriptive. For example, they may describe something as simple as a leaf, a flower, an insect or the sky. Through describing something simple, complexity is revealed. Do we have any descriptive haikus?’

‘Mine might be.’

‘OK, Laura, let’s hear it.’

‘“Dead tree, oh, dead tree, / Your eerie hands touch the sky, / Reaching for dear life.”’

‘Very nice, Laura. I think, for some reason, I prefer it to Jeremy’s poem.’ Laughter fills the room. Someone throws a paper ball at Jeremy. ‘OK, who’s next?’

I rise from my seat. ‘“Beautiful round eyes, / Within your face they reside, / Window to your soul.”’

‘Nice. Thank you, Stan. We’ll have another.’

Brenton stands. ‘“Surfing killer waves, / Bikini babes on the beach, / Long hot summer nights.”’ Brenton drags out the last line of the poem. As he resumes his seat, his mate high-fives him.

‘Interesting, Brenton. One more?’

Steve rises. ‘“One puff on a joint, / I’m driving through the heavens / On a motor-cloud.”’ Once again the classroom erupts.

‘Well, Steve, that, at least, explains many things. Now what I want you all to do is produce two more haikus for your homework. Think about a feeling or an image that you want to describe. Going to a park might help if you need inspiration. Otherwise, just focus on something simple. Remember, simplicity is the key.’