Just Tricking!

by Andy Griffiths

  But I don’t get mad.

  I grab a glass of water, drink a big mouthful and, standing on one leg with my arms out to the side – like a fountain – I begin to squirt the water through my teeth. Ail over Jen. She starts screaming at me.

  ‘Andy – that’s enough!’

  That’s Mum. And she means it.

  Time to split.

  I put my arms over my head, like I know I’ve been a very naughty gorilla, and skulk towards the stairs.

  I forget that my feet are too big for the steps and end up in a heap at the bottom.

  Not a very dignified exit, but a gorillagram they’ll never forget.

  I pick myself up off the restaurant floor as if nothing out of the ordinary has happened – as if this is the way gorillas always come down stairs.

  Some women are watching me and smiling. One of them is the woman in the purple dress.

  Just a gorillagram, eh?

  I lope up to their table like I’m the sweetest, meekest gorilla on earth, just coming up to have my head scratched. Then, without warning, I raise my arms and roar as loudly as I can. They all jump back in fright.

  It works better than I’d expected.

  In fact, they get such a fright that I get a fright myself. With my heart racing, I make it back out onto the street.

  I was going to go back to the car and change, but I’m too pumped up. This suit has powers I never even dreamed of.

  There is a seafood restaurant next door to La Trattoria. Everybody is staring at me through the glass. It’s weird. I’m feeling less and less like a human being.

  This must be what it feels like to be one of the gorillas at the zoo – being stared at all day long. People watching you eat. People watching you go to the toilet. People watching you while you’re trying to watch TV.

  Except for one important difference – I’m outside on the street, free. The human beings are the ones who are trapped.

  I start to imagine that I have just escaped from the zoo, and that I am seeing the street and its inhabitants for the first time – as if the human world is the zoo and I am the visitor.

  I move up to the window and press my face against it.

  I start staring back at the humans – pointing and poking my finger against the glass.

  The humans are not quite sure how to take this. Some smile. Others just stare back blankly. They’re not used to being watched.

  An old man and lady are sitting at the table nearest the window. They are not taking any notice of me. I ignore the other patrons and study the old couple intently.

  They just keep eating and talking, as if I’m not there.

  I break off a couple of twigs from a tree on the edge of the footpath and hold one in each hand.

  As the old man cuts his food with his knife, I cut an imaginary plate of food with my twig. As he puts the food into his mouth with his fork, I put the imaginary food into my mouth with my other twig.

  The man looks at me. He says something to the old lady. She looks at me and waves her hand dismissively.

  I ask myself what a real gorilla would do in this situation and the answer comes to me.

  I turn around, bend over and moon them. I hoot loudly and run down the street to the next restaurant.

  I can’t stop laughing.

  That old couple will probably spend the rest of their lives wondering why on earth they were mooned by a gorilla.

  This is better fun than gorillagrams. I am a gorilla with a get-out-of-zoo-free card and I’m not going to waste a second.

  At the next restaurant I don’t press my face against the glass. I don’t imitate anybody. I just stand gawking.

  After a few minutes, one of the waiters comes out. He seems a little nervous.

  ‘Urn, er, ah . . .’ he says in a shaky voice. ‘Can I help you?’

  I cock my head to the side, as if I don’t understand.

  ‘Can I help you?’ he asks again after a long pause.

  I step towards him.

  He steps back.

  I grunt.

  ‘I’m sorry, sir, but I really must ask you to move away from the window or I will have to call the police.’

  I grunt again and step closer to the little man. He stands his ground.

  I reach out and give him a big hug.

  But he doesn’t freak out. He hugs me back. The people inside the restaurant applaud.

  I grunt, release the waiter and pat him on the head. Then I give a low bow, turn around and walk on down the street.

  I’m having such fun visiting all the restaurants along Lygon Street, that I lose track of the time.

  I’m not sure how much later it is when I return to the seafood restaurant. The old man and lady are gone, but a couple of girls are sitting at their table.

  I put my hands up behind my head, start swivelling my hips and singing, ‘I’m too sexy for my gorilla suit’.

  I’m dancing pretty well I think – for a gorilla – but the girls are not interested. They are looking at something behind me.

  That’s when I notice the flashing blue light reflecting off the restaurant window.

  I turn around. There are two police officers – a man and woman – crouched beside a police car.

  Uh-oh.

  The man is talking into the handpiece of his radio. The woman is holding a gun. The gun is pointed at me.

  Time to become human again.

  ‘Don’t shoot!’ I yell. ‘I’m not a real gorilla! It’s just a suit!’

  The policewoman brings her left hand up to her gun so that now she is holding it with both hands.

  ‘Stay there, big fella!’ she says. ‘Don’t move. Everything will be all right.’

  ‘No, you don’t understand,’ I say. ‘You’re making a terrible mistake!’

  But either she’s not listening, or my voice is muffled by the mask, because she keeps that gun pointed right at my chest.

  I realise that the quickest way to convince her that I’m not a gorilla would be to take my mask off.

  I grab the hair on top of my mask and pull. But it won’t come off.

  I can’t undo the eyelets that attach the back of the head to the suit because my hands are inside the big rubber gloves. And I can’t get the gloves off because I need the use of my fingers to undo the press-studs on the cuff.

  ‘Come on,’ I say. ‘I know it looks real, but it’s just a suit, okay? Just a dumb gorilla suit.’

  ‘Okay, boy,’ says the policeman. ‘It’s okay. We don’t want to hurt you. Just want to get you back to the zoo where you belong.’

  ‘I don’t belong in the zoo!’ I yell. ‘I’m a human being! I’m wearing a suit, but I can’t get it off!’

  The police look at each other. They frown.

  ‘What do you think he’s trying to say?’ says the policewoman.

  ‘I don’t know, but he sure seems to be trying to tell us something.’

  ‘Almost human, aren’t they?’

  ‘Yeah, it’s scary.’

  ‘I am human, you idiots!’ I bellow.

  Then I have a brainwave. I’ll sing ‘Happy Birthday’. That will prove beyond a doubt that I’m not a gorilla.

  I start singing at the top of my voice.

  ‘Why is it making that horrible noise?’ says the policewoman.

  ‘I’m not sure,’ says the policeman. ‘Sounds like it’s in pain.’

  I hear applause and laughter coming from the other side of the street. A large crowd has formed. And Jen is amongst them! Thank God!

  ‘Jen!’ I call. ‘Jen! Help me!’

  She doesn’t move.

  ‘Jen!’

  I jump up and down and point to her.

  ‘That’s my sister!’ I say to the officers. ‘Ask her! She’ll tell you I’m not a gorilla!’

  But Jen makes no attempt to come across to me. She just stands there scowling, her arms folded.

  ‘Excuse me, miss,’ calls the policewoman. ‘This might be a silly question, but do you know this gorilla? He s
eems to know you.’

  Jen looks me up and down.

  She hasn’t forgiven me for the gorillagram. Or for what I did to her spaghetti.

  In fact, it was probably Jen who called the police.

  I know she’ll help me, but it will take some serious suckering-uppering.

  ‘I’m sorry for the gorillagram, Jen,’ I call. ‘I didn’t mean to muck up your party. I’ll make it up to you, I promise. Anything you want. I’ll give you money – I’ll be your slave for a week – I’ll give you all my Easter eggs next Easter. You name it, it’s yours. Can you just tell these police that it’s me? Come on, Jen, please . . . this is serious!’

  But my words are drowned out by the roar of a large green truck with ZOO painted on its side. The truck screeches to a stop behind the police car.

  A group of zoo-keepers armed with nets and tranquilliser guns pile out of the back.

  ‘Well?’ says the policewoman to Jen.

  ‘Now, Jen, now! Tell her!’ I call.

  Jen shakes her head.

  ‘Are you kidding?’ she says. ‘I’ve never seen it before in my life.’

  hursday night.

  Mum and Dad have gone out and left me at home all by myself.

  Normally I would be making prank phone calls, setting up buckets of water over half-opened doors and putting rubber snakes underneath pillows – but not tonight.

  Tonight I’m standing on a ladder polishing the light-globes in the loungeroom with Dad’s CD cleaning cloth.

  Don’t tell me. I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking, Andy, if your parents really have gone out and left you all alone, why are you wasting precious practical joke preparation time polishing light-globes? Why aren’t you making prank phone calls, setting up buckets of water over half-opened doors and putting rubber snakes underneath pillows?

  Well, the reason is that tonight I’ve decided to clean up the house as a surprise for Mum and Dad. I’ll admit, it might seem a bit unusual to polish light-globes, but the trick to making a place look really clean is in the details. And believe me, I have to make this place look really clean.

  See, Mum and Dad have gone up to my school for parent–teacher interviews and I already know that my reports are not going to be that great. Lousy, in fact.

  It’s not my fault, though. I’ve worked really hard this year, but my teachers are all against me. They think that just because I spend a lot of time talking and laughing in class, I’m not concentrating. But what they don’t realise is, I can’t help talking and laughing in class because I get so excited about schoolwork. I’ve tried to explain this to them, but they won’t listen. It’s like I said – they’re all against me.

  So what I’ve decided to do is tidy up the house and make it absolutely clean and spotless – right down to the very last light-globe. That way, when Mum and Dad come home fuming about my lousy reports and launch into their ‘it’s time we had a little talk’ routine, they’re suddenly going to be struck by how beautiful the house is looking and they’ll forget all about lecturing me.

  They’ll be so impressed that I cleaned up the house without being asked that, as a reward, they’ll let me eat a whole bucket of chocolate ice-cream and stay up till midnight watching TV. It’s a lucky thing for me that my parents are so gullible; otherwise I might have been in a lot of trouble.

  I’m halfway through polishing the second light-globe on the chandelier. There’s a knock on the door. It can’t be Mum and Dad because they’re not due back for at least half an hour.

  I climb down the ladder and open the front door. But there’s nobody there.

  ‘Hello!’ I call. ‘Hello?’

  No answer.

  That’s strange. Whoever it was must be really impatient. I hate that.

  I close the door, climb back up the ladder and continue polishing the light-globe.

  There’s another knock at the door.

  ‘Hang on,’ I yell, ‘I’ll be right there.’

  I practically jump off the ladder, and rush to the door.

  I open it.

  Nobody there.

  This is obviously somebody’s idea of a joke. And I can guess exactly who that somebody is – Danny Pickett.

  Poor Danny. That guy is a compulsive nick-knocker. He can’t bear to walk past a house without knocking on the front door and running away. I reckon he should join Nick-Knockers Anonymous.

  He’s probably out in the garden somewhere right now, laughing at me.

  ‘Danny!’ I call. ‘You might as well come out. I know it’s you.’

  I peer into the darkness but I can’t see him anywhere.

  ‘Okay,’ I say, ‘have it your way.’

  One last scan of the garden and I close the door. Let him freeze if he wants.

  I’ve hardly put my foot on the first rung of the ladder when he knocks again. But this time I don’t answer it.

  He knocks again. And again.

  I climb to the top of the ladder and start polishing the third light-globe. I concentrate on it to help block out the sound of the knocking.

  It’s actually a very interesting light-globe. An Osram. 60 watts. Clear. A little squiggly thing in the middle. Ouch. It hurts to look at the little squiggly thing for too long.

  Danny’s still knocking, but I’m not going to open the door. It will only encourage him and make me look like an idiot. He can knock until his knuckles are red-raw and he’s bleeding to death right on our front doorstep. See if I care.

  Yeah, see if I care.

  I don’t care . . .

  Yes I do! I do care!

  It’s driving me crazy.

  He knocks on and on and on. He’s not going to stop until I open the door.

  I jump off the ladder, sprint to the door and open it – all in one fluid movement. I’m going to catch him and kill him. But even before I open the door I know I’m too late.

  He’s gone. Nobody but the wind. A flurry of brown autumn leaves blows through the door and onto the carpet – the carpet that I vacuumed only fifteen minutes ago. I slam the door.

  This means war. I’ll be ready for him next time. Danny’s fast on his feet, I’ll give him that. But when it comes to brainpower, he’s no match for me.

  I go to the laundry and grab the yellow plastic bucket. I take it back to the kitchen and fill it to about halfway with white flour. I put the bucket on the table and go into the pantry. I take out a bottle of tomato sauce, a bottle of soy sauce, a tin of blackberry jam, a can of tomato paste, a jar of corn relish, a bottle of vinegar, a can of spaghetti, a jar of peanut butter, a jar of Vegemite, a dozen eggs, a jar of honey, a packet of cornflakes and a small jar of crushed chilli peppers.

  I tip all the ingredients into the bucket and start mixing them up with a wooden spoon. It’s hard work because the mixture is so heavy and gluggy.

  I add heaps of water and spoon the sludge around and around. That’s better. And now I have a whole bucketful of the stuff.

  I can’t wait to see Danny’s face when, just as he’s about to knock, I whip open the door and throw all this in his face. That ought to cure him of nick-knocking, once and for all.

  After about ten minutes of mixing there’s still a lot of lumps, so I get out the electric blender and pour a litre or so into the jug. I turn it on high.

  Suddenly, there’s reddish-black stink-sauce everywhere. All over me, and all over the kitchen.

  I forgot to put the lid on the blender. I hate that.

  Once it’s all pretty-well mixed, I carry the bucket up the hall to the front door. The bucket’s so full and the mixture’s so runny that, no matter how slowly I walk, it slops over the sides, all the way up the hall. Never mind – plenty of time to clean that up after I’ve dealt with Danny.

  I set the bucket down on the carpet and crouch down to wait.

  Danny will be back any minute now. I know Danny. He thinks that if something is funny once, then it will be a thousand times funnier if you do it a thousand more times.

  I know ho
w he thinks. He’ll figure I’ve left the door by now. But he’s wrong – I’m here, waiting.

  I’ll hear him step onto the porch. I’ll hear him open the wire door. And just before he knocks, I’ll open the door and give him a bath.

  The house is very quiet, except for the sound of the gum trees brushing against the roof.

  I’ve got my ear pressed up against the crack of the front door so I can hear even the tiniest movement on the verandah.

  I hope he comes soon. The sludge is making my eyes water. I need to get a peg to put over my nose, but I don’t dare leave the front door. Timing is crucial.

  A mosquito whines around my head. I grab at it, but I miss and it flies up towards the hall light. I start to get up to have another go at it when I hear a footstep on the verandah. I crouch back down.

  More footsteps. He’s coming all right.

  I move my hand up to the doorknob. I’m so wound up, I’m shaking. I’ve got to get this exactly right.

  I strain to hear him. Another footstep. He must be at the wire door now. It creaks as he opens it.

  I can see him in my mind’s eye – in slow motion – pulling the door open. Curling the fingers of his left hand into the knocking position. Drawing his hand back. Stifling a giggle with his other hand as he raises his arm, ready to strike.

  That’s it. Now!

  I open the front door and heave the contents of the bucket onto Danny. It’s a perfect throw. I’ve caught him red-handed. He’s covered in the stinking gooey brew. I can’t even see his face. Revenge!

  He gasps and wipes some of the chunky stew out of his eyes.

  I realise I’ve made a terrible mistake.

  It’s not Danny.

  ‘Mum?’ I say.

  She gasps again.

  This is not good. And to make things worse, Dad appears behind her.

  ‘What’s going on?’ he says, looking at Mum and then at me.

  ‘Um, er . . .’ I say. That’s all I can think of. Pretty pathetic really.