Little did I know.
30.
BLANKING HELL!
It was now or never. I knew the first sentence of the speech off by heart. I looked the audience right in the space a metre or so above their eyes. My legs were jumping like jackhammers. I took a deep breath. I just hoped that when I opened my mouth something vaguely approaching recognisable words would come out.
‘Ladies and gentlemen, madam chair …’ Not bad, apart from sounding like I was being strangled by one of those vibrating exercise belts. ‘Tonight my team will prove to you that … ‘ Now be careful here. Don’t mess it up. ‘… that the public part of private Uves … um … the public lives of private people … wait … public figures on private property … ahhh … the private part of public property … the public … the private …’ Oh my god. The topic had turned to chop suey in my mind. I had to concentrate–get it right and get it out. OK, here goes. ‘… that the private parts of public figures should be made public’
There, at last … wait on … what was that murmuring, snuffling noise? I risked a quick glance around the room. What were the audience grinning about? Why did the spiky–haired adjudicator have her mouth open? Why was that Lourdes girl choking on her water? Why was Razza lying on the desk shaking? Why was Scobie’s face screwed up like a rag? What was the matter with these people? Didn’t they understand that debating was a serious business?
I had no time to solve this mystery. Best just to keep going. I shifted my legs to try to stop my kneecaps from leaping off. I felt another soft jab high up in my inner thigh. What was that? Either there was a part of me that I didn’t know about or some foreign object had made a home for itself in my pants. I slid my right hand down and lightly fingered the front of my shorts. I glanced up. Everyone’s eyes were locked on my groin. I snapped my hand back to my palm card. I felt like someone had shoved my head in an oven and twirled the dial to roast. Say something, say something … say something!
‘Ahhh … ummm … ahhh …’ Now I was cooking. ‘… before I … ah … continue with my team’s case … ah … I would like to rebut … a couple of points made by the first speaker from the Affirmative team.’ Yes, I definitely would have liked to, but unfortunately I didn’t have a clue how to! It didn’t stop me, however, from launching blindly into the Four Steps of Effective Rebuttal.
‘She said that privacy was a basic human right. This is not true because … because …’ Come on, Four Steps of Effective Rebuttal, don’t desert me now. ‘… because … if everyone had privacy … people in the magazine industry would be out of a job.’ What? Doesn’t matter–keep going. ‘We say if you want privacy, then don’t become a public figure.’ OK, I know, not exactly brilliant, but who cares? I was home and hosed. Now it was straight to the palm cards, head down and start reading.
I looked at the first card. I saw three rows of flattened bowling pins. I flicked over to the second–more flattened bowling pins. I frantically shuffled to the third … the fourth … the fifth–an entire bowling alley of flattened bowling pins flashed before my eyes! Somehow I must have got Scobie’s notes mixed up with Kingsley’s. I turned over another card. Surely here I would find something intelligible. The words ‘Hubba hubba!’ leered back at me. I told myself not to panic. Fortunately the next card was very helpful. Let’s see, my first point would be that the private lives of public figures should be made public because … my girlfriend has hot legs. Yes, that would work juuuust fine. I began to shuffle through the remaining cards with skyrocketing desperation. The next card was blank. The next one … blank. Then … blank … blank, blank, blank, blank, blank, blank, blank. Blanking hell!
I looked back to my desk. Bill Kingsley’s palm cards were on the floor under my chair. Would the adjudicator take off points if I crawled under the desk to get them? I glanced up. Everyone was watching me and waiting. My head-oven turned itself up to ‘scorch’ and my legs started doing a Riverdance. But not only that, something else was happening. Whatever had taken up residence in my pants was working loose. I could feel it slipping.
I tried to keep still, but I was so nervous my hips were shaking like a hula dancer’s. The thing in my shorts dropped down another notch. I twisted my right leg in and up to stop it. I looked like I was busting to go to the loo. I fumbled with my palm cards. The ‘thing’ slid lower down my thigh. It was hard and cigar-shaped. I twisted my leg further around till I was balancing on one foot. But it was no use. Whatever was down there was dropping … dropping … dropping … At the last moment I made a desperate lunge and clamped my hand on my shorts. But I was too late. A blurred object shot from my pants, bounced off the toe of my shoe and skidded across the tiles. It pulled up about two metres in front of me, spinning like a dying propeller.
I held my breath.
The spinning stopped. So did my heart.
From vast experience with such matters I can tell you that there are certain times in your life when it’s best to pretend that something that obviously just happened, didn’t.
‘For my first point …’ I said, holding up my left index finger in a feeble attempt at a gesture.
But no one was listening. They weren’t even looking at me. Every eye in the room was fixed on the old wooden clothes peg that lay on the floor. It had a big nose and a mop of dark hair.
I abandoned my first point and joined in the communal stare.
One of the Beatles had just fallen out of my pants.
I was pretty sure it was Ringo.
31.
TIME FOR BEDDY-BYES
The next thing I knew, Prue’s peg person was being swallowed by darkness. I tried to lift my head but my neck had turned to rubber and my legs seemed to have decided that it was time for beddy–byes. Then the whole room turned into a jumping castle and the last thing I saw before I passed out completely was Kelly Faulkner’s face rushing towards me.
When I came to, cold and clammy, in another room, all I remember is people fussing over me and asking me if I was all right and my brain working in slow motion so that if I turned my head too quickly everything blurred then sloshed to a halt and left me dizzy.
After that there was the drive home with Razza babbling on until his mum finally said, ‘Orazio Zorzotto, for once in your life, shut up!’ When we got to my place Mrs Zorzotto said she’d explain everything to my parents, and so I went straight to my room.
Of course Mum and Dad came up later and told me not to worry about what had happened and that I had been brave and that they were proud of me. Dad also added that if anyone was going to fall from your pants it might as well be a Beatle because the Beatles were the best group there ever was. He did make the point, however, that if he had his choice he would have picked John, Paul or George to drop from his trousers because Ringo was by far the least talented. Even better still, he suggested that if there was room in my pants it would have been great to have a Fab Four reunion. I think my father might have been trying to lighten the mood. It didn’t work.
Then Prue came in and said she was sorry one of her peg people had caused so much trouble, but she suggested that the probability of something like that happening would be astronomical and that I should feel privileged to have been part of such a mathematically improbable chain of events. I didn’t. When she heard what Dad said about the Beatles she said it would have been better if it had been the Sigmund Freud peg that had fallen from my pants because of the ‘sexual connotations’ and because then the whole incident could be dismissed as a ‘Freudian slip’. I wasn’t sure what all that meant, so we just looked at each other for a couple of seconds and then she left.
When I went to bed that night, I was hoping that I would wake up and find that it was all a dream. (Even though Miss Tarango wouldn’t have liked this, because she told us that if anyone in the class ever gave her an essay that ended with ‘it was all just a dream!’ she would rip it up, bake it into a pie and make us eat it.).
Of course, when I woke up it wasn’t a dream. Miss Tarango would be happy at l
east, but I was left feeling like a blob of that grey gunk that Dad scrapes out from our insinkerator.
32.
CLOSE ENCOUNTER OF THE NERD KIND
‘Tell me again why you had a little wooden dolly shoved up your daks.’
It was the next day-Thursday lunchtime–and we were having our usual debriefing session.
‘It wasn’t a doll,’ I said wearily in reply to Razza’s neverending questions, ‘it was one of my sister’s peg people. I told you it must have got caught on my pants or my shirt or something when I pulled my clothes from the line. I was in a hurry. I didn’t have time to think. I just … I didn’t … ‘ I gave up.
‘Peg people?’
‘It’s a long story,’ I said darkly.
‘All right,’ Scobie interrupted, ‘I think it would be more beneficial if we just got on with the debriefing.’
‘Shouldn’t take long.’
‘Thank you, Orazio. Now, if we could start?’ Scobie said coldly.
Razza was right, though. What was there to debrief? Following my stunning performance the debate was stopped and the points were awarded to Lourdes College.
‘Now obviously, there’s not much we can say about the actual debate itself …’
‘Oh, I don’t know. I reckon Leseur’s dive was worth at least nine out of ten–bit too much of a splash on entry for a perfect score. Still, I think …’ Razza finally wilted under Scobie’s glare.
‘As I was saying … the purpose of this meeting is to thank Ishmael. Things may not have gone exactly to plan last night, but if it wasn’t for Ishmael stepping in at the last moment, we would have been out of the finals. So I think we should all give him a round of applause.’
Scobie, Prindabel and Bill Kingsley clapped while Razza whistled, pounded on the desk and made a sound with his mouth like a roaring crowd.
‘Yeah, I got to admit, Ishmael, you came through, man–the cavalry to the rescue. But I reckon they’ll have to rewrite the debating handbook. Why worry about preparing a case or trying to rebut the other team’s argument? Just practise the Leseur Lunge. Yeah, when all else fails, grope one of the opposition.’
‘What?’
Razza stopped and stared at me.
Scobie, Bill and Prindabel stared at me.
‘What do you mean, “grope one of the opposition”?’
Razza turned to Scobie. ‘Oh my god, I don’t think he knows.’
Scobie frowned and shifted uncomfortably in his seat. ‘Ishmael, do you remember what you were doing just before you … passed out?’
‘Yes. Trying not to pass out.’
‘Do you remember anything after that?’
‘No. I was passed out,’ I said, becoming more irritated with the pointless questions.
‘Well, yes,’ Scobie said with a bleak smile, ‘but for instance, do you recall making a gesture with your left hand?’
‘Yeah … so what?’
‘Well …’
‘Let me tell him. I’ll tell him. Come on. Please. I’ll do it.’
Something about Razza’s enthusiasm was deeply disturbing.
‘No. I think it would be better coming from me.’
That didn’t sound good. That was the kind of line people said in soap operas when they were about to deliver some devastating news like, ‘I’m leaving you, Rodney. I’m marrying your evil twin brother who everyone thought died in that explosion but who really escaped and had plastic surgery and for the last ten years has been our gardener and … my lover!’.
Scobie faced me and frowned. ‘After you made that gesture with your left hand-which, incidentally, was a very good attempt at a non-aural persuasive technique …’
‘Quit stalling, Scobie,’ Razza said impatiently.
‘After that … you started to fall forward … and then I guess because your arm was up … you overbalanced to the left … and then you obviously tried to break your fall because you reached out …’ Scobie hesitated before adding, ‘and that’s when your left hand … came in contact … with the opposition-or, more particularly, the first speaker of the opposition.’
‘Yeah, she had sort of a close encounter of the nerd kind,’ Razza said.
‘Oh god. She’s all right, isn’t she? I didn’t hurt her, did I?’
James Scobie stared back vacantly.
‘Well, did I?’
Razza looked around at the others, beaming like a lighthouse. Prindabel’s thin lips were pressed into a grin, as if he had just received the latest edition of Algebra Monthly. Even Bill Kingsley stopped drinking from a big carton of strawberry milk long enough for a brief flicker of something close to comprehension to scuttle across his face. This was bad. This was very bad. There was only one possible subject where those three could find common ground.
‘Scobie, what kind of … contact?’ I asked with growing dread. ‘Scobie? What kind of contact did I make with Kelly … with the first speaker of the opposition?’
Scobie opened his mouth to speak, but before he had the chance Razza leapt from his chair, placed his hand on my shoulder and leant in close. ‘Let’s just say, Ishy you old devil …’ and suddenly Razza’s hand had slipped down to my chest. ‘… it looked like you were very keen to keep a-breast of the opposition’s argument.’
‘What?’ I said, flinging Razza’s hand away.
‘Don’t worry, she probably just thought you were rebutting one of her impressive points.’
‘What!’ I reeled around in horror. ‘Scobie, what’s he on about?’
By now Razza was prancing around the room like a prizefighter, digging Prindabel in the ribs and slapping Bill Kingsley on the back.
‘It wasn’t your fault. It obviously wasn’t intentional,’ Scobie said reasonably. ‘It’s just … she was there … and your hand was reaching out. No one thinks for a minute that you …’
‘Oh my god!’ I looked from Scobie to the other three grinning faces. ‘Oh my god! No! You’re making it up. You’re lying. It’s garbage.’
‘Ishmael my man, calm down. It’s no big deal. She’ll understand. Just tell her that you’re a hands on sort of a guy?’
‘Oh my god. That’s it. My life is over. Just take me out and shoot me.’
Razza bobbed in again. ‘Look, Ishmael, I don’t know why you’re so upset. I think what you did was very brave.’
‘Brave? What the hell are you talking about!’
‘Well, who knows, she could have been booby-trapped.’ Razza whooped and bounced around, pushing and prodding Prindabel and Bill Kingsley. ‘Eh, eh, booby-trapped? … doncha see? … booby? … boob?’
‘Orazio, could you be serious for a minute? Ishmael’s obviously upset and you’re not helping.’
‘Sorry, sorry,’ Razza said, lowering his head and holding up his hands as if to deflect Scobie’s glare, ‘but I really think he’s making too big a deal out of it. As far as I’m concerned that chick just got a bit of her own medicine back.’
‘What?’ This time it was Scobie’s turn to be confused. ‘What do you mean, her own medicine?’
‘Well she had a bit of a go at us in her speech, didn’t she? So Ishmael had a go at her-sort of like tit for tat.’
This time Razza draped himself between Prindabel and Bill Kingsley, wrapped his arms around their necks and pulled them in. ‘Tit for tat! Tit for tat! Somebody stop me!’
Ignatius Prindabel’s face contorted in a bizarre leer until he looked like Mr Burns from The Simpsons, and his head bobbed up and down and air hissed in and out between his teeth. At the same time Bill Kingsley began to make a strange noise like an engine struggling to turn over. ‘Errummm … errumm … errummm.’
Not only had I shown Kelly Faulkner that I was a babbling idiot as well as a deviate who liked to store wooden objects in his pants and a wimp who passed out under pressure, I could now add ‘pervert’ to my impressive list of credentials. There was only one course of action left open to me. I wrapped my arms around my head, lay on the desk and moaned.
‘Loo
k, Ishmael …’
‘Orazio, that’s enough!’
‘Scobes, I’m just trying to help here. Give me some credit, will you? I think I know where to draw the line. OK? As I was saying … look, Ishmael, I know you think that that Kelly chick is perfect, like some sort of a goddess or angel or something, but are you sure you’re not getting carried away?’
‘What’s your point exactly, Zorzotto?’ I mumbled from under my arms, sensing danger.
‘My point is, Ishmael, that maybe not everyone thinks she’s perfect. What I’m trying to say is, I’m sure she’s got her knockers. But hey, I don’t have to tell you that, do I?’
At this point Razza collapsed on the floor holding his stomach and groaning with laughter. Meanwhile Prindabel hissed and spluttered with even greater intensity and Bill Kingsley’s grinding engine noise seemed on the verge of lurching into life. It was only Scobie’s hard, unwavering voice that sliced through the simmering hysteria.
‘Orazio, show a bit of maturity for once. We’re here to support Ishmael. So let’s cut out all this nonsense over what are, after all, just mammary glands.’
‘Just what?’ Razza managed to choke out while he gasped for air.
‘Mammary glands,’ Scobie replied like a dictionary, ‘the milk-producing gland in female mammals. In other mammals called the udder but in humans called the breast.’
Razza dragged himself to his feet. ‘You’re a sick individual, do you know that, Scobie?’ he said seriously. ‘It’s people like you that give us perverts a bad name.’
I lifted my head from the desk. There was only one question I wanted answered. ‘What will I say to her?’
Four pairs of eyes turned towards me.
‘Kelly Faulkner–what will I say to her?’
I looked around for an answer. Prindabel and Bill Kingsley stared back like pre-schoolers asked to explain the scientific theory behind the existence of black holes. Even Razza had run out of smart replies and weak puns. Scobie was my last hope. Scobie always knew what to say. He could always find the right words.
Don't Call Me Ishmael Page 12
