by Bill Day
His audience looks blank, “Hits, what do you mean hits?”
“It means 50 million people watched Monty’s poop pyrotechnics the day after we broadcast it.” Eyes widen and jaws drop open. “And, don’t ask me how this works, but we get paid every time.”
Fingers’ looks are incredulous. “Fifty million people watched Monty cleanse his Chakra down the side of the building?”
“Yes indeed, television as well, CNN, ABC, BBC and others have covered it. And they all want to interview the artist. Major galleries around the world are ringing here and want Andrea McTavish. The popular press is asking, “Who is Andrea McTavish?”
“And she hasn’t come out of her room in two weeks.”
“Exactly, we need her. Monty, you need to get her out. Go up and tell her to be in the basement at 7.00 pm. It’s time for therapy.”
“Me! Lucky, I am the cause, not the solution.”
“No Monty, this isn’t the first time and it’s not about you and your dung display. Get her out and down here - we will see her right. Fingers! We need tomatoes - and lemons, lots of lemons.”
Fingers is on his phone in seconds. He is the go-to man for fresh produce.
I know she won’t come out. The morning after the ham sandwich debacle I take flowers and knock on her door. It opens, there’s a banshee scream as she snatches the flowers away and thrusts them into my face like a dagger. I still pick shards of rose prickle out of my cheeks. The next morning the door opens and the devil dogs bound through. She must have had them in her room all night, waiting. I turn to flee, trip over the brown one, and fall down the first flight of stairs. She hates me.
I knock on the door.
“Piss off.”
“Andy you can’t stay in there forever.”
“Why not? I’ll stay as long as I like. Don’t tell me what to do Monty. Now piss off!”
“There’s a therapy session.” A long pause. “Tonight, at 7 o’clock I think.” A longer pause.
“Ah shit, tell Lucky I’ll be there. And you’d better be there as well Mr Shit For Brains.”
I call through the door. “I’ll be there Andrea.”
I head down to deliver the news. Along the way, I look at the doors that hide various residents. I have seen most of them but don’t really know many. They know me though. In a few short days, I have offended almost everyone and been forgiven and ruined their art project and been forgiven. I seem to be well-liked. Everybody says hi as I pass by. They seek me out and talk about recent events or the latest gossip. They are good people.
Come 7 p.m. everyone is seated in a semi-circle around a single chair at one end of the room. A baseball bat leans against the chair. The general mutter of the crowd stops abruptly. Andy walks in, eyes and shoulders down. She slumps on the single chair.
Minutes pass and nobody makes a sound. Andy sits motionless. More minutes pass until she finally looks up and speaks.
“I’m depressed.” I gasp when everyone rubs their eyes and pretends to cry. They begin to heckle. “I’m so sad!”
“My installation was a disaster.”
“Oh, Boo Hoo Hoo - disaster, such a disaster.” The crowd mocks relentlessly.
“My art is always a disaster.”
“Poor you - boo hoo.”
I begin to feel outraged. I rise from my seat but a hand on my shoulder pushes me down. It’s Maxine. “Just wait, Monty.”
“My father told me not to be an artist. He said I hadn’t the talent.”
The crowd agrees: “No talent - listen to Daddy.” “Should have been a dentist.”
“I tried painting but critics said it was unskilled, clichéd, even boring.”
A row of hecklers in the back row sway from side to side and chant, “boring, boring, boring.”
“I tried sculpting but someone broke into my studio and stole my equipment.”
A heckler from the back calls out, “That was me!” Everyone laughs loudly.
Andy’s eyes flash but she continues. “Every time I try something it just goes to shit - I am spent. I have nothing left.” Andy is near tears now. “I am a failure.”
The crowd warms up and begins to chant. “Loser, loser, loser.”
“The installation was something different. It was for all of us and it was going to be great.” She points straight at me. “And he fucking ruined it.”
“Way to go Monty!” The hecklers have dragged me into this cruelty.
Her voice rises with anger, “I’ve faced more rejections than anyone here but I still paint! I still write! I even still sculpt. One day I’ll find those thieving bastards, rip them a new arsehole, and get my gear back - you see if I don’t. So fuck off - I am more an artist than anyone here.”
The mocking continues: “Yeah, we can all fuck off.” “Ohh, she’s an artiste.” “No one wants my crappy poems.”
A tomato flies through the air and hits Andrea on the chest. She stands. Tendons bunch at her shoulders and neck. Suddenly she seems bigger and more powerful. The hecklers fall silent.
She picks up the tomato and crushes it. “COME ON YOU BASTARDS!”
There are a few calls of encouragement. She scoops up the baseball bat. “Come on!!” she cries again. Another tomato lobs in and she smashes it back with the bat. Tomato sprays over the front row. A lemon hurtles across the room. Andy smashes it back. Lemon sprays down the aisle and up the wall. Two tomatoes and another lemon are pitched. Impossibly, Andy slogs them into a mist of red and yellow. Citric acid etches at the eyes of the crowd. The heckling stops and calls of encouragement begin.
“Smash them all Andy!” “Still swinging - go Andrea!” “Your back girl - belt them into next week!” And so on.
A rain of tomatoes and lemons follow and all are slammed into pulp. Andy, the thin, swanlike artist has a hit like DiMaggio.
“I’m here you bastards - come on!” she cries, as she belts spray after spray of tomato and lemon across the room.
She stops, covered in fruit slime and paces up and down. She slaps her chest. “I’m Andrea McTavish - artist. I have been messed about by bigger arseholes than you and still get up in the morning.”
She paces over to where I sit. “Hey, gutless wonder - let's see what you’ve got.” I just sit for a second but she comes right up to me with her powerful, angry face and yells “COME ON!”
Lucky hands me a bag of lemons. Andy limbers up like a baseball pro. I lob a lemon and she lets it hit the floor.
The crowd cries: “Like you mean it Monty. Don’t be a wimp”.
I throw a lemon with more gusto - she swings - it returns to me in a blast of citrus mush. Everyone cheers. “Again!” I throw a second, harder this time, and the returning spray hits me full in the face.
Andrea screams. “Come on Monty you little bastard.”
Throw after throw is smashed back. It rains lemon pulp. I am drenched and dripping, my eyes feel like a bee sting, my shoulder burns. Andy shows no sign of fatigue. Cheers of encouragement meet each of her swings.
She cries jubilantly. “Oh Yes, still here - I’m back - watch out.”
At last, she throws the baseball bat to the floor and strides over to me. I want to run. She throws an arm around my shoulder and howls like a wolf. She lifts her arms in victory, tomato and lemon dripping from them. The one-time hecklers chant her name. Then pandemonium erupts as a full fruit melee breaks out. Tomatoes and lemons fly in every direction and everyone is a target. Andy slips and falls with a splat.
“Stack the chairs.” she cries. The chairs are stacked. She dives and slides wonderfully along the floor and collides with a thud into the wall. Laughter erupts and within seconds a dozen others are slipping and sliding on the slick, fruity floor. Others continue to hurl lemons and tomatoes to spend every last piece of ammunition.
I look about at the chaos and decide there is only one thing to do. I go to find the dogs. They are never far away and sure enough, they are at the back door sniffing out the activity inside. I open the door and they spr
int down the stairs. They pour into the basement like a mini tsunami and wreak havoc. The kelpie sprints around and around the large basement. She slips and slides into those on the edges of the melee. The Labrador lumbers about in the centre of the group, taking out participants at the knees. They are the perfect addition. Chaos turns into a snake pit of drenched writhing figures. The laughter is a roar.
Abruptly, the dogs exit the room as if called by a hidden beast-master. The laughter slows and people climb to their feet. Andrea is helped up. She is drenched. She heaves with exhaustion and grins from ear to ear. Her clothes hang loosely and hair hangs in soggy tendrils. She looks spectacular.
With a final howl, she ascends the steps. Everyone follows as Lucky announces a barbecue on the lawn. I hang back and survey the carnage. I suspect it will be my job to clean it up. I make a note to compliment Fingers on his fruit procurement abilities.
Alone, I sit on a fruit-soaked chair and laugh. Therapy - would I expect anything else from these crazy bastards?
Lucky pokes his head in, “Come on Monty. Party outside - you can take over the cooking!”
Of course I can.
5
Trotsky and Helen
I lean against a garden wall and watch the last of the feast. There is barely a chop left on the barbecue.
Lucky comes up to me, “Monty this is Gerro. He looks after Trotsky and Helen.”
“Trotsky and Helen?”
“Yeah, you know, the dogs. Trotsky is the big brown one - he seldom runs, just trots. Helen is the white one.”
So, the ill-disciplined, semi-wild creatures have a keeper? I extend my hand, “Good to meet you Gerro.”
“Monty, I am going away for a while and I am told you are looking after Trots and Helen.”
“Umm.” I look over at Lucky, who nods.
“That’s fantastic. I dropped them in at your place this afternoon.”
“They are in my unit, now?” I get a sinking feeling.
“Yeah, hope you don’t mind. Lucky let me in. They will be restless by now so you really should check on them.”
With that, Gerro is gone like a fart in the wind. In my mind, I picture the two dogs from hell as they reduce my living quarters to rubble. I run for the stairs and take them two at a time for the first few floors, singly at a brisk pace for the next, and then I stagger and wheeze up the remaining floors to reach my level.
I approach my room. I can hear strange, repetitious noise - scratch followed by a thud, then shake, and finally growl. Over and over - scratch, thud, shake, growl - scratch, thud, shake, growl.
I turn the key and wrench the door open. Trotsky is sitting on my leather recliner, idly chewing a pair of my underpants. He seems quite relaxed. In contrast, Helen sprints a circuit around the floor. First, she leaps on the table and does a scratchy tap dance as she slides along it and jumps off the end. Next, she takes three bounds and jumps onto my bed with a thud. She then grabs my pillow, or what is left of my pillow, and kills it with several vigorous shakes. Finally, she sprints over to the recliner and leaps onto Trotsky, who gives a low growl. Before he can do more she is back to the table tap dance again. And so it goes on scratch, thud, shake, growl.
I need to intervene to save what I can of my possessions. First, I try to move Trotsky. He must weight 40 kilos and is not budging, so I focus on Helen. I run around and round the room in futile pursuit. I decide to catch her on the leap from Trotsky to the table. I imagine she will sit calmly in my arms. This is not the case. On being caught Helen thrashes about madly and manages to crack my cheek with her flailing head.
Eyes swimming, I glance over at Trotsky, who has started to gnaw at the recliner arm-rest. I drop Helen and run to save my recliner. Trotsky sees me coming and panics. He stands on the recliner and leaps straight at me. With an “ooff” I fall on my arse with a writhing Labrador on top of me - its butt waving in my face.
He abandons me and runs into the kitchen. Helen has discovered the rubbish bin and he is loath to miss out.
While Helen gently extracts tasty morsels from the bin, Trotsky rips the bin liner out and shakes its contents across the room. For a few seconds, they seem to dance about in a snow of plastic bag and styrene meat trays - then a feeding frenzy ensues. Trotsky falls on a banquet of leftover breakfast. Helen licks the inside of a corned beef tin to extract every morsel of meat.
Trotsky decides Helen has a better deal. He trots over to investigate. Helen growls. This convinces Trotsky that she is on to something tasty so he muzzles in closer. Helen goes ballistic. Her gums peel back to reveal savage white canines. She growls and snaps at him in quick succession. Trotsky is outraged and uses his bulk to bowl Helen over and pin her down. Both dogs growl, snap, and drool as they roll around on the kitchen floor.
I am at risk of being bitten or bowled over in the fracas so I leap onto the kitchen bench. The kitchen no longer feels safe so I stand on the kitchen bench and edge towards the door. I make my way along the bench and across the sink. I put my hand on the fridge to steady and ready myself for a leap into the dining room.
Helen springs up and runs. She slides into the fridge with a thud. Trotsky hurtles after her and hits the fridge like a wrecking ball. I overbalance and grab the fridge tightly. I misjudge my grab. The door swings open and I begin to fall. The more I fall the more the fridge door swings open.
Helen and Trots look up in fright and scuttle away as the fridge tilts. The now open door stops the fridge’s fall but spills an avalanche of leftovers onto the floor. I land solidly on a tray of cheese, a packet of French onion dip, and a pot of Bolognese sauce.
Two seconds click by. Trotsky looks at Helen, Helen looks at Trotsky. They both descend on the largess before them. I scramble to my feet and drip Bolognese sauce onto the kitchen tiles while the dogs writhe about in culinary ecstasy.
Suddenly they sit bolt upright and freeze. Lucky is standing in the doorway with his hand extended upright, palm facing outwards.
“Holy Heck Monty, you have to look after them. You have all the qualities of a shitty parent.”
He twirls his hand around and the dogs walk to him and sit.
“She is deaf and you have to use hand signals. That’s why we call her Helen. He knows the signals and follows along. We told you that.”
Of course you did.
Lucky surveys the carnage, “I don’t think dog sitting is your strength, Monty. I will ask Flick to take over if that’s alright.”
“That’s fine Lucky. I’m used to disappointment.”
Trotsky and Helen follow Lucky as he walks down the stairs. Bastard dogs.
6
Call from Paraguay
I lean on my balcony and look out at the world. I haven’t seen Lucky or anyone else for hours, which is unusual. Way below a truck pulls up and unloads numerous tropical-looking plants - monstera, philodendron, and the like.
A few minutes later Fingers emerges from a beaten old van carrying a squawking, brightly coloured bird. I think it’s a red macaw. He looks furtively over his shoulder and disappears through a side door. Strange events are afoot.
I go for a walk and it is unnaturally quiet. Something is different but I can’t put my finger on what. I’m about to go back to my room when Lucky appears at the stairwell entrance.
“Monty! We need you in the basement.”
We negotiate the stairs and enter the now-familiar basement room. I did a pretty good job with the clean-up but there are still bits of tomato and lemon dotted up the walls. There is a persistent citrus smell. One corner of the room is a hive of activity as Andy directs some kind of artistic endeavour. She gestures and calls instructions as backdrops are given a final touch-up and the tropical plants are placed to create a jungle scene.
She waves, “Monty”, it’s time to phone your parents.” Oh Crap; I forgot the promised call from Paraguay.
Over to one side Mandy, Max, and many others practise a range of animal calls - monkey; jaguar; armadillo; ocelots; bats; and birds - para
keets, rheas, herons, toucans, eagles, and doves. Their Paraguayan research is thorough but most have no idea what noise these animals make, so they improvise. They screech, growl, hoot, chirp, whistle, honk, click, and coo all at once. They sound like a zoo during an earthquake. Lucky’s hoot, hoot, hoot monkey call stands out loudly from all others.
Fingers comes in and proudly displays the macaw.
“What’s that!” exclaims Andy.
“It’s a toucan!”
Lucky comes in close and stares, “It’s a macaw, Fingers. Where did you get it?”
Fingers waves at the door non-committedly. “I thought it was a toucan.” He looks crestfallen.
“Not to worry. We can use it somewhere. Mandy made a toucan we can use.”
Lucky points up to the ceiling. Sitting on a ledge is what appears to be a toucan shaped pinata suspended on a cable. It’s set to swing through the jungle scene at the pull of a string.
“Andy, let’s try the toucan!”
Andy pulls a thin rope; the toucan pops off the ledge and swings downwards. Max adds to the moment with her toucan call - “ooorakk ooorakk”. The toucan swings though the set and neatly catches on a scaffold set up on the other wall for just that purpose. Everyone is impressed.
Fingers looks dejected and puts his macaw on a green painted tree branch with a plastic iguana glued to it. It looks about and begins to peck at the iguana.
I anticipate disaster.
“Monty, it's all ready for you.” Andy points to a small desk with a laptop open and ready to Skype. My Mother’s account is the only contact. I double click. The jungle behind me breaks out in animal and bird song.
My mother answers the call. “Max! Brian, quick, its Max calling from Paraguay!” I can barely hear her over the animal noises.
I wave enthusiastically. “Hi, Mom - Hi Dad.”
