The Punjabi Pappadum (5 page)

SHAI BAINGAN BHARTA .......... $8.00

A traditional vegetarian specialty of eggplants baked over an open flame, mashed and seasoned with spices, then sauteed with onion and green peas.

P
umped. It was the only way to describe Dexter's mood as he stood in his garage in front of his two best friends.

“Well?” he asked. “What do you reckon?”

He waited for them to scoop up his brilliant idea and go nuts. Nothing doing.

“What about the choir?” asked Travis.

“I'm over it,” wailed Dexter. “Come on, fellas, we're fourteen. It's time to cut loose. It'd be brilliant.”

For the moment, Dexter put Travis on hold.

“Veejay, what about you?”

“What exactly is a boy band?” asked Veejay.

“A boy band is usually a group of four or five singers, all male of course. There's dozens around at the moment. All we need to do is pick a few cool songs we like, then organise some backing music. Couldn't be easier.”

“I don't know if my dad's going to like it,” said Veejay, worried.

The time had arrived for Dexter's trump card.

“Okay then,” he continued, “I've got one word for you, Veejay … are you ready?”

He was.

“G R O U P I E S,” mouthed Dexter slowly. “And I'm not talking about eighty-year-old women in wheelchairs.”

“Do you mean girls?” asked Veejay excitedly.

“Hundreds.”

“I'm in.”

One down and one to go.

“Travis?”

“It all sounds very nice, but there are a couple of very important things you've forgotten.”

“There are?”

“None of us can dance.”

“Dance,” protested Veejay. “You didn't say anything about dancing.”

“Take it easy, I've got it covered. That's where Theo Ryan steps in. How hard can it be to string a couple of moves together?”

“I'm not dancing,” croaked Veejay. “No way.”

“The other thing,” continued Travis, “is that there are only three of us.”

“I've thought about that,” retorted Dexter. “And I say we advertise for the fourth spot. They'll be knocking down the door to be a part of this.”

To minimise the risk involved in sneaking out late at night for the stake-out sessions, the boys decided on a rotating roster. Each of them took it in turns with Ron in the old Morris. To date, the report sheet (Veejay's idea) mounted on the sparkling dashboard remained empty.

During the day, however, things were hotting up. A punchy advertisement placed in last week's
Longwood Tribune
had proved a great success. It read:

HAVE YOU EVER DREAMED OF BEING FAMOUS? WONDERED WHAT LIFE ON THE ROAD WOULD BE LIKE - FULL OF LIMOUSINES AND HOTEL MINI BARS?
DOES THE IDEA OF ENDLESS SHOPPING MALL APPEARANCES GET YOU GOING?

IF YOU ANSWERED YES TO ANY OR ALL OF THESE QUESTIONS, THEN GIVE US A CALL. WE ARE A TRIO OF SINGERS SEEKING A LIKE-MINDED FOURTEEN-YEAR-OLD TO JOIN. OUR NEWLY FORMED BOY BAND. OUTSTANDING SINGING VOICE ESSENTIAL. THOSE EASILY EXCITABLE NEED NOT APPLY AS SOME HANDLING OF FEMALE UNDERWEAR MAY BE INVOLVED.
NO WEIRDOS PLEASE.

LAMB VINDALOO .......... $11.95

‘CAUTION'—This one's HOT!! Lamb marinated in a blend of spices and vinegar, then cooked in piquant sauces with onions and potatoes.

E
verything was set. Three chairs sat neatly behind the trestle table in the Macallisters' garage. Dexter had arranged for candidates to enter through the front door where they would be greeted by his mother and offered light refreshments. At twenty-minute intervals, each candidate would be led out to the garage for their audition. Simple.

“Come on,” barked Dexter, “we've got ten minutes before they start arriving.”

“I don't know what's wrong with ‘Vindaloo',” protested Veejay.

“You can't call a boy band ‘Vindaloo',” snapped Travis. “It sounds ridiculous.”

Veejay looked hurt. “I suppose you've got something better?”

“As a matter of fact I've got two names. Ron's favourite, which he wanted me to pass on, is ‘The Nancy Boys'. But my choice is ‘Roundhouse'.”

“Dexter?”

“I still like ‘Deadly', myself.”

“Yeah, you would.”

Before the boys had time to decide on their new name, two figures appeared at the garage door.

One was Dexter's mum and the other was a scary-looking bloke wearing dark lipstick with huge bags under his eyes. A mop of tangled hair, jet black, hung well below his shoulders.

“Boys, I'd like you to meet X Cubed,” croaked Mrs Macallister. “Mr Cubed is first up.”

With that, Dexter's mum turned to leave.

“Thanks for the cuppa, Mrs Mac,” said X Cubed.

“It's a pleasure.”

Nervously, the boys took their seats behind the trestle and opened the interview sheets.

“X Cubed,” pondered Veejay. “I must say that's a little unusual.”

“It's my stage name,” explained Cubed. “My friends call me Roger.”

“So it's kind of like the artist formerly known as Prince?”

“No, not really.”

To fill the uncomfortable silence, the boys ruffled through the pages in front of them.

“So, you're a performer then?” asked Dexter. “What kind of stuff have you done?”

“Parties mainly. Experimental stuff. I like to throw the musical genres into a pot, give them a stir and see what happens. I hate being pigeonholed.”

“I see,” continued Dexter. “You sing then?”

“Of course.”

“Dance?”

“Only on the inside.”

Standing before them, X Cubed looked nothing like boy band material. He yawned then commenced chewing on a chunk of matted hair.

The pen in Veejay's hand got busy, scribbling something on the “Comments” pad on the table. It stopped with an almighty exclamation mark.

“GET RID OF HIM!” it said.

Finally Travis took control.

“Thanks for coming, Cubed. We'll be in touch.”

“Don't you want to hear any of my material?” he protested.

“We're saving that for the second-round interviews,” explained Travis.

Candidate number two, escorted by Mrs Macallister, stepped into the garage as X Cubed hung a left at the bottom of the driveway.

“Boys, I'd like you to meet Scratcher,” she announced, before departing.

Stepping forward, Scratcher produced a tape from the pocket of his denim jacket then dug his nails into the scalp behind his left ear.

“Eczema,” he explained, itching frantically. “It gets bad in the summer.”

Like X Cubed, Scratcher's hair was black but it was twice as long. It fell down over his face, was parted by a huge beak nose and finished at his chest. An untidy goatee suggested that his boy band years were well behind him.

“You do realise that we're auditioning for a boy band, Scratcher?” asked Travis.

“All right, I'm willing to lose the goatee,” he replied, attacking an itch at the base of his skull, “but you're not touching the hair. I haven't cut it in ten years.”

Scratcher, it seemed, was persistent.

“Do you sing?” asked Veejay.

“Nuh.”

“What
do
you do, Scratcher?”

“Guitar.”

“Cool. What sort — bass, lead, rhythm?”

“Air.”

“It's a boy band, Scratcher,” said Dexter. “We don't do air guitar.”

Flicking back his hair, Scratcher's face got angry. His left shoulder began twitching violently in an uncontrollable spasm.

“There's only one way to serve up Rock and Roll,” roared Scratcher. “And that's WELL DONE!”

His eyes, a shocking green colour, did a series of 360s then settled on Dexter. Both hands were up now scratching wildly at his scalp.

“I'm gonna break something in a minute. How about I start with your head?”

Beside him, Dexter heard chair legs scraping across the concrete floor as his pals deserted him. Scratcher was advancing now, wild and out of control. Running wasn't an option so Dexter did the next best thing.

“Mum!”

* * *

Candidate number three was an eighteen-year-old harpsichord player called Russell who was looking to branch out into something more mainstream. It was hard to question his music ability, but like the others, he was far too old for a boy band. The next three looked the goods but couldn't hold a tune. That left just one.

“I've saved the best till last, boys,” announced Mrs Macallister from the roller door. “I'm afraid Sam's a little nervous.”

“Well, bring him in, Mum, let's have a look.”

Slowly a figure moved into view.

“Hi, I'm Sam.”

This time the silence was more than uncomfortable.

“You're a girl,” protested Dexter.

“What do you know,” grinned Sam, “a boy band with brains.”

Her voice was sweet and kind of husky.

“I'm afraid it's out of the question,” said Veejay shaking his head. “We're a boy band.”

“So?”

“A boy band, as the name suggests, is made up of boys. If you start throwing girls into the line-up then it's just a band, isn't it?”

“That's sexist,” protested Sam. “What if I'm the best candidate?”

“You couldn't possibly be,” said Veejay, laughing.

“Why not?”

“Well, for starters, you smell nice. Your clothes are clean and neatly pressed and your hair is brushed silky smooth … I bet you cleaned your teeth before you came. Am I right?”

“Well, yeah, I did.”

“See. You're just not what we're after.”

Suddenly Sam bent over and started undoing the laces on her Converse runners.

“All right,” she seethed, “cop a whiff of this then.”

In a flash she was up near the trestle, a Converse in her right hand. The smell was rotten, like something had crawled into her shoe and died.

“I'm full of surprises, boys,” she grinned.

The smell soon filled the garage, as thick as a mountain mist.

“Okay, okay,” said Travis, coughing. “Enough of the aromatherapy.”

With the Converse safely back on her foot, the air quality in the garage dramatically improved. A light breeze filtered under the door.

“Phew, that's better,” croaked Dexter. “So Sam, what makes you think we'd be interested in YOU?”

“'Cos you're desperate, that's why.”

“And what gives you that idea?”

“Your mum, for a start. She worded me up inside.”

Behind the trestle, the boys put their heads together for a quick conference.

“Okay then, Sam,” announced Dexter, breaking from the huddle, “let's see what you've got.”

With a little yelp, Sam spun on the spot and began setting up. She moved around the garage like a tornado, all arms and legs, knocking things over as she went.

“Take your time, Sam,” said Travis, encouragingly.

“Sorry, I'm a bit clumsy sometimes,” she replied, upending a toolbox onto the floor.

Despite her look of concentration, Sam was a walking disaster area — a fourteen-year-old state of emergency. It was as if her brain and body were slightly out of sync. Off she'd go, ploughing into things without thinking. But there was something about her you couldn't help liking. She believed in herself. And if she had to go through life crashing and banging on two left feet then she was quite prepared to do it. The path of destruction she blazed was like her very own fanfare.
Here I am, world,
it said.
Have a look at me
!

With various tools and garden equipment scattered on the floor around her, Sam picked up her guitar and sat on a stool in the middle of the carnage.

“That was one hell of a performance,” said Veejay, looking at the carnage.

“I haven't started yet, you goose.”

Sitting before them, Sam cradled the guitar on her thighs. She slid her fingers along its neck, making the strings squeak, while the other hand found a plectrum in her pocket.

“Okay then,” she smiled. “You guys ready?”

“Go for it,” answered Travis.

“The song's called ‘Four Seasons in One Day',” said Sam. “It's by Crowded House.”

After tapping a slow four-beat intro, Sam began working the plectrum up and down the strings. The boys tuned in to a crisp and haunting minor key.

“This'll test her,” whispered Veejay.

With the simplest of ease, Sam slid into the vocals. Three sets of ears jumped to attention behind the trestle. Her voice started clean and perfectly pitched, then glided across phrases sweetly, showcasing her surprising range. No doubt about it, Sam was all class. She worked the song, giving it light and shade when required, then ended with a perfect note that seemed to drift off into the air long after she'd finished.

“Well?” she said, smiling. “How'd I go?”

Too blown away to speak, the boys looked at each other in stunned silence then nodded.

“Five woks, Sam,” croaked Travis.

“Is that any good?”

“It doesn't get any better. Welcome to ‘Deadly'.”