Just Tricking!

by Andy Griffiths

  The plane finishes its long slow taxi out to the runway. It turns and then starts rushing forward. I can feel my body being drawn back hard against the seat as the wheels leave the tarmac and we climb steeply into the sky.

  The pilot is right, of course. It’s one of the smoothest take-offs ever. But I jiggle and shake and rattle the seats to make it seem really wild and rough.

  ‘Ooohhh,’ I groan. ‘Oooooohhhhh. I feel sick already. Are you sure you don’t want to change seats?’

  ‘No, love,’ she says, taking my hand in hers. ‘I’ll look after you.’

  Oh no! What did I do to deserve this? Now she wants to be my mum!

  This calls for serious evasive action.

  Forget the emergency life-jackets and the emergency oxygen masks. They are absolutely no use to me.

  This situation calls for the emergency corn relish.

  Actually, I don’t call corn relish ‘corn relish’. I call it ‘spew relish’. Because, as far as I’m concerned, the only difference between corn relish and spew is that corn relish comes in a jar.

  It looks like spew.

  It smells like spew.

  It even tastes like spew.

  The only thing more like spew than corn relish is custard, and I don’t even want to think about that because it will really make me spew.

  Anyway, I always carry a jar of spew relish with me for emergencies just like this.

  I slide my hand out of the old lady’s.

  ‘It’s okay now, thank you,’ I say. ‘I’m feeling much better all of a sudden.’

  ‘Well, you just let me know if there’s anything I can do for you,’ she says.

  The air hostess unbuckles herself from her seat and starts her mad rush to offer us all drinks and food. The flight usually only lasts about an hour. As soon as she’s finished giving out teas, coffees, fruit juices, cans of drink and biscuits in cellophane, it’ll be time to collect all the left-overs, pack everything up and strap herself back into her seat, ready for touch-down.

  She approaches our seat.

  The old lady orders a cup of tea and biscuits. I want to order one of everything, but I can’t. For the old spew relish trick to work, I’ve got to convince her that I’m too sick to eat.

  ‘Nothing for me,’ I say to the air hostess. ‘Maybe just a little water.’

  The hostess returns with the tea. While the old lady’s busy adding her sugar and milk, I reach down to my bag and dig out my jar of spew relish.

  By the time I’m through, this old lady is not going to want to sit next to me.

  She’s not going to even want to sit on the same plane as me.

  In fact, I’ll make sure she never even wants to go on a plane again.

  I’m bent over, facing the wall of the plane so the old lady can’t see what I’m doing. I screw the lid off the jar. I pinch my nose and tip the jar of spew relish up to my mouth. I try to suck in as much as I can without swallowing. I manage to get about half the jar in. Lucky I’ve got such a big mouth.

  I put the lid on the jar and tuck it back into my bag.

  I sit back in my seat, hold my belly and moan quietly.

  ‘Are you all right?’ says the old lady.

  I can’t answer, of course, because my mouth’s full.

  I just groan, louder this time.

  ‘Do you need a sick bag?’ she says.

  I nod.

  She grabs a bag from in front of her – the one with my rubber dog pooh in it – and passes it to me.

  I rock back and forth and puff out my cheeks and then pretend to splurk up into the bag. Not that it all goes into the bag, of course.

  I take care to dribble some down my chin and onto my T-shirt.

  ‘Oh, you poor thing,’ says the old lady. ‘You poor old thing.’

  Huh? She’s calling me old?

  ‘I’m okay now, thanks,’ I say. ‘That feels much better.’

  ‘You know, it’s funny,’ she says, ‘but I’m not feeling sick at all. This is one of the smoothest flights I’ve ever had. You must have a very delicate stomach.’

  ‘Extremely delicate,’ I say. ‘But I’m really hungry now.’

  ‘Oh, what a pity,’ she says. ‘You’re too late to order any morning tea.’

  ‘That’s okay,’ I say. ‘I brought my own. Could I borrow your teaspoon?’

  ‘Why certainly,’ she says. ‘Here you are.’

  I take the teaspoon. This is it. Any minute now she’ll be out of her seat like a rocket.

  ‘Well, down the hatch.’

  I open the neck of the sick bag and dip the spoon in. I scoop up a spoonful of spew relish and pull it out of the bag. I pass the spoon under my nose a couple of times and sniff deeply.

  ‘Ahhh!’ I say, smiling. ‘I love it when it’s nice and warm and fresh!’

  I open my mouth very slowly. I put the teaspoon on my tongue and close my mouth. Then I slowly draw the teaspoon out and lick it clean, making sure I get every last drop. I close my eyes and sigh, as if I’m in heaven.

  I open my eyes. I expect to see the seat next to me empty. I expect the old lady to be as far away from me as possible, and warning everybody else to stay away too.

  But the seat is not empty.

  The old lady is still there. Still watching.

  ‘Was that nice?’ she asks.

  ‘It was beautiful,’ I say. Tasted even better going down than it did coming up.’

  ‘That’s nice,’ she says. ‘I’m glad. Have some more.’

  What?

  If she’d said, ‘Let’s take our clothes off and run up and down the aisle,’ I would only have been half as surprised.

  ‘Um, okay, thanks. I will.’

  I eat another spoonful. Only this time I finish with a big belch.

  ‘Excuse me,’ I say.

  ‘Oh, don’t mention it,’ says the old lady. ‘In some countries it’s good manners to burp after a meal. It’s considered a compliment to the cook.’

  This old lady is unshakeable. If she thinks this is normal, I’d hate to see mealtimes at her house.

  This calls for some serious grossering-outering.

  I get another spoonful and, instead of putting it in my mouth, I plonk it on top of my head.

  ‘Makes great shampoo, too,’ I say. ‘Or should I say “sham-spew”?’

  The old lady just nods.

  I load up my spoon again, and this time I splatter spew relish all over my face. I rub it into my eyes, my cheeks, my ears.

  ‘I reckon it’s just a great all-round beauty cream,’ I say. ‘Do you find that gross?’

  The old lady just looks on, a slight smile on her face.

  ‘No,’ she says calmly. ‘In fact, I’d love to try some of this amazing food that doubles as a beauty cream. What do you call it?’

  The penny drops.

  I hold up three fingers in front of her face.

  ‘How many fingers am I holding up?’ I ask her.

  She pauses.

  ‘I don’t know, dear. I’m blind. Why do you ask?’

  ‘No reason,’ I say, trying not to gag from the stench of the spew relish, which I just know I’m not going to be able to get out of my skin and hair for months. ‘No reason at all. But I think I’m going to be sick again.’

  ‘Oh, you poor thing,’ says the old lady, passing me another sick bag. ‘You poor old thing.’

  anny and I are about to play the most wicked joke in history. We’ve been working on it all morning. We owe the idea to my mum.

  Mum listens to the radio non-stop. It’s always going in the kitchen. Wouldn’t be so bad if she listened to something good, like Triple J, but she prefers the golden-oldie station Triple B. The B stands for Boredom. Talk about sad music. It’s so sad and boring they have to run competitions all the time to bribe people to listen to it.

  They’ve got this competition at the moment called Beat the Bomb. Every hour they ring up a listener and then start the clock ticking. Every few seconds, over the sound of the clock,
a voice says ever-increasing amounts of money, like ‘One hundred dollars . . . one hundred and fifty-five dollars . . . two hundred and three dollars . . .’ and so on. The listener has to tell the DJ when to stop, and if they do it before the bomb explodes, then they get to keep that amount of money. It can last anywhere from a couple of seconds to half a minute.

  The trick is having the nerve to let the clock tick for as long as possible. I’ve never heard anyone win more than a few hundred dollars, but still, that’d buy a lot of CDs, a heap of chocolate, and a lot of drag-racing at Timezone.

  All you have to do to be in it is send a letter with your name and telephone number into Triple B. If they draw yours from the barrel they ring you and you get a chance to play.

  I’ve sent in about fifteen envelopes. I reckon that makes me fifteen times more likely to win. I don’t think anybody else would be clever enough to have thought of that.

  But in the meantime – while I wait for them to call – Danny and I are going to have some fun. We’ve recorded the station signature tune, a couple of advertisements and a couple of songs. And I can do a pretty convincing imitation of a DJ when I try. We’re going to ring Marvin Bonwick and pretend that he’s about to play Beat the Bomb.

  Why Marvin Bonwick? Because we always play jokes on Marvin Bonwick. He takes everything so seriously. We use his name whenever we get the chance. Like writing comments on the service evaluation cards at Kentucky Fried Chicken. We always write dumb things like: This KFC shop stinks. I wanted fish, but the cashier wouldn’t give me any. She said you’ve got nothing but chicken. That sucks! Yours sincerely, Marvin Bonwick. P.S. What does KFC stand for anyway?

  We always supply his full name, address and phone number. I’d give anything to hear what they say when they call him up to discuss his comments.

  ‘Let’s do it,’ says Danny. ‘It’s ten past four.’

  ‘Okay,’ I say. I pick up the receiver and start punching the buttons.

  Danny is laughing.

  ‘Hey, shut up,’ I say. ‘It’s ringing!’

  ‘Hello?’

  It’s a woman speaking. Must be his mother.

  ‘Hello – it’s Chris Robbins from Triple B FM,’ I say in my radio voice. ‘Could I speak to Marvin Bonwick please?’

  ‘Yes, just a minute.’

  ‘Marvin!’ she calls. ‘Telephone!’

  ‘He’ll be with you in a minute,’ she says. ‘Marvin!’

  Knowing Marvin, he’s probably doing homework.

  Finally he picks up the phone.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Marvin Bonwick?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Chris Robbins from Triple B FM here. How are you doing?’

  ‘Good mate . . . What did you say your name was?’

  ‘Chris Robbins. Your name’s been drawn this hour to play Beat the Bomb.’

  ‘Beat the what?’

  ‘Beat the Bomb!’

  ‘What’s that, mate?’

  You know, our competition. You should know – you entered it. I’ve got an envelope here with your name on it.’

  ‘I don’t remember doing that.’

  ‘Well, maybe a friend did it for you. Would you like to have a go?’

  Yeah, mate,’ he says. ‘No worries, mate.’

  ‘Well, stand by, we’re about to go to air. I’ll just play a couple of ads and a station ID and then you’re on. Oh, and by the way, Marvin?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Turn your radio off. We will be transmitting on a ten-second delay and it can get very confusing.’

  I point at Danny. He presses the tape-recorder. It starts into a jingle for Cheapies carpet-cleaning service. I put the phone right next to the speaker.

  ‘I think we’ve got him!’ I whisper to Danny.

  The carpet ad finishes and one for a supermarket starts. Then the Triple B station ID comes on. It sounds really spacey – like comets and meteorites whizzing past your ears.

  ‘Triple B – taking you back to the sixties and seventies . . .’ says the voice-over. The sound of the meteorites ends in a shower of xylophone notes. It’s the only exciting sound on the whole station.

  ‘Good afternoon,’ I say. ‘Chris Robbins with you on Triple B, and to play Beat the Bomb this hour we have Marvin Bonwick on the line. How are you doin,’ Marvy?’

  ‘Good, mate.’

  ‘Great! What are you up to this afternoon?’

  ‘Nothing much, you know.’

  ‘Fantastic! Ready to play?’

  ‘Yes, mate.’

  ‘All right – now, you know the rules, Marvy?’

  ‘No,’ he says.

  ‘I’m going to start the clock ticking. You say stop when you think you’ve won enough, and it’s yours to keep. But don’t leave it too late. If the bomb explodes, you end up empty-handed!’

  ‘Yeah, mate, no worries, mate.’

  ‘Okay. Clock’s ticking.’

  Danny switches tapes and presses play.

  tick tick tick tick tick tick tick

  He picks up an empty Gladwrap tube and puts one end to the telephone and the other to his mouth.

  ‘Twenty dollars,’ he says. The tube gives his voice the spacey echo of the real voice. It’s this sort of attention to detail that makes our practical jokes so special.

  tick tick tick tick tick tick tick

  Marvin says nothing.

  ‘One hundred and sixty-three dollars,’ says Danny, obviously enjoying himself.

  ‘Three hundred and fifteen dollars.’

  Silence. This guy’s got nerves of steel. Either that or he’s really greedy. Most people would have bailed out by now.

  ‘Three hundred and eighty-three dollars.’

  Danny looks at me. I shrug.

  ‘Four hundred and forty-four dollars!’ says Danny.

  tick tick tick tick tick tick tick

  ‘Five hundred dollars.’

  ‘Stop!’ says Marvin.

  I signal to Danny to stop the tape.

  ‘Marvin?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Do you know what you’ve just done?’

  ‘No, mate, did I do something wrong?’

  ‘Wrong? Marvin, you have just won five hundred dollars! What do you think about that?’

  ‘Oh, mate! That’s fantastic! I can’t believe it! Mum – I just won five hundred dollars!’

  Marvin’s mother starts squealing in the background. She’s so loud, I have to hold the receiver away from my ear. Danny can hear it too. He’s rolling around on the floor killing himself laughing.

  ‘Hey, Marvy,’ I say. ‘What are you going to do with all that money?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ says Marvin. ‘I don’t know. I’ve never won anything like this!’

  ‘Well congratulations, Marvy. Now, if you can stay on the line while we get some details, Elton John is going to take us back and show us how to do the Crocodile Rock. This is Triple B FM where – like Marvin Bonwick – we make your dreams come true. Good on ya, Marvy!’

  ‘Thanks, mate!’ he says.

  Danny starts playing ‘Crocodile Rock’.

  We’re about to yell, ‘Just tricking, you stupid berk!’ when I hear a strange sound on the other end of the line. Like somebody crying.

  I can hear Marvin talking.

  ‘It’s okay, Mum, it’s okay. You should be happy!’

  ‘I am happy,’ she says.

  Why would she be crying?

  Danny’s laughing so hard I’m worried he’s going to wet himself.

  ‘Shhh!’ I tell him. ‘Shut up!’

  ‘What’s wrong?’ he says.

  ‘I’m not sure,’ I tell him. ‘Just keep the noise down.’

  Danny screws up his face.

  ‘Marvy, are you still there?’ I say.

  ‘Yeah, mate, sorry, Mum’s a bit emotional.’

  ‘That’s understandable,’ I say. ‘Five hundred dollars is a lot of money.’

  ‘Yeah,’ says Marvin. ‘Especially for us . . . see . . .
since Dad died we’ve been really struggling. Mum has to work pretty long hours to hold things together. This money is really going to help out. You’ve got no idea how much it means to us.’

  As Marvin talks I feel smaller and smaller. How was I to know his dad died? He didn’t say anything. Not that he would have told me – I don’t know him that well. But someone could have said something.

  ‘Yeah, ah, um, glad to be able to help out, Marvy. Now if I could just get your address . . .’

  Well, what else can I say? Somehow, ‘Just tricking, you stupid berk’ doesn’t seem quite as witty as it did a few minutes ago.

  Danny’s stopped laughing. He’s frowning and looking at me like I’m off my nut.

  ‘What?’ he says.

  I wave him away with my hand.

  I take down Marvin’s address.

  ‘Thanks, Marvy. We’ll send you a letter in the next few days with details of how to collect your payment.’

  ‘Chris,’ says Marvy, ‘can I just say that you’ve made me and my mum really happy today – thanks a lot.’

  ‘Don’t mention it,’ I say, and hang up.

  ‘Are you out of your mind?’ says Danny.

  ‘His dad died.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘They really need the money.’

  ‘So you promised it to them?’

  I nod.

  ‘Oh, man . . .’ Danny is shaking his head.

  ‘His mum was crying, Dan. He said they’ve been really struggling. I couldn’t tell them it was just a joke. I couldn’t.’

  ‘So, you’re going to send him five hundred dollars because you feel bad about a little practical joke.’

  ‘It’s not a little practical joke,’ I say. ‘It is an almighty stuff-up.’

  ‘Know what I reckon?’ says Danny.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Just do nothing. That way there’s no need to explain. There’s nothing to trace it back to us.’

  ‘But what if they ring the radio station?’

  ‘The radio station won’t know anything about it,’ says Danny. ‘Marvin will realise it was a joke.’