by Paul Collins
Another odd thing about Waldo was that he talked to Maynard all day long. And Maynard talked right back to him! Well, it was only the chittering, squeaky noise any rat makes. But Waldo seemed to understand it perfectly.
‘Oh, really?' he'd say to Maynard. ‘You saw it on the TV, did you? Well how about that!'
The rat would nod its head like a wise old man and chitter some more.
If anyone asked Waldo who he was talking to, he'd tell them without any embarrassment.
‘My friend, Maynard,' he'd say, pointing at the rat. ‘I know it's hard to believe, but that rodent and I have simply amazing powers of communication.'
Most people got on just fine with Waldo. But there were two sneaky young brothers – Neil and Jack – who Waldo didn't like one bit.
The brothers were the ones who had given him the nickname Waldo the Weirdo. Whenever they visited the servo they taunted Waldo by making jokes about him just under their breath.
One day they crept into the service station when Waldo was sound asleep. Maynard peeped out from behind Waldo's right ear. The rat's beady little eyes followed Neil and Jack as they tip-toed ever closer to the sleeping man.
The pair didn't make a sound, but suddenly the rat screeched and Waldo's eyes popped open. He jumped to his feet when Maynard dug its claws into his shoulder.
‘I know what you boys are up to!' he yelled.
‘No you don't.'
‘Yes I do! You were going to pull Maynard's tail!'
The brothers exchanged a look of surprise. That's exactly what they were going to do. But how did Waldo know?
‘No way!' said Jack. ‘We like your rat.'
‘We just don't like you,' added Neil.
‘Don't lie to me,' replied Waldo with a shake of his head. ‘You were going to tease Maynard. I know that for a fact.'
‘How could you know?' Neil shot back. ‘You were asleep.'
‘Maybe so. But Maynard has a sixth sense about these things. He knew what you were up to. And he tells me everything!'
The boys laughed.
‘He's a bigger weirdo than we thought,' said Neil.
Waldo cuddled Maynard and stroked the animal's soft, furry back. But when Neil reached out to touch it, the rat bared its teeth and snarled. It sounded more like a miniature tiger than a rat.
‘Let's get out of this dump,' Neil grunted.
‘Fine by me.'
The boys talked a lot about getting even with Waldo, but they weren't brave enough. They steered well clear of the servo for a month. But that all changed as they pedalled home on their bikes one Sunday after a day's fishing.
At the foot of Coalmine Hill, Neil noticed that their bike tyres were going down. They were never going to make it up the steep hill on flat tyres. Across the road was Waldo's service station. They forgot about their fears and headed straight for the air pump.
Neil and Jack were too busy pumping up the tyres to notice Waldo looming over them. He swiped the pump away and glared as if they were a couple of bank robbers.
‘I don't want you boys around here,' he growled, waving his finger at them like a big stick.
‘Get a life, you creep,' replied Jack. ‘We only want some air for our bikes.'
‘Air's free, Waldo,' added Neil, taking a deep breath to illustrate the point. ‘See?'
‘For decent people it is, but not for you troublemakers. If you want air it's fifty cents a tyre. Now pay up or get lost.'
Neil and Jack weren't scared any more. They were just angry. They felt like wrapping the air pump around the old geezer's neck and squeezing the life out of him, but there were too many people around for that. Besides, light-fingered Jack had a better idea.
‘Pay him, Neil,' he said. ‘It's only fair.'
‘No way! He can't charge us for air. That's –'
His words trailed away as Jack winked at him, a wink that said, ‘Shut up, stupid. I've got a plan.'
Jack had nicked the key ring dangling out of Waldo's pocket.
Neil forked over two dollars and Waldo stood watch while they used the pump, making sure they didn't get up to any mischief. The brothers smiled at him politely. They even thanked him. It was very suspicious, but he couldn't do a thing about it.
An hour later the phone rang at the service station.
‘Waldo's Servo. How may I help you?'
A high-pitched voice replied: ‘I'm a regular customer of yours.'
It sounded like an old lady.
‘I've locked my keys in the car. I'm at number twenty-six Cliff Street – just across the road from you. Will you help me? Please. I'd be ever so grateful.'
‘All right,' said Waldo. ‘No trouble. I'm on my way.'
Quickly he switched off the petrol pumps and picked up his toolkit. He was halfway out the door before he realised that Maynard was still on his shoulder. He may not have remembered except that his pet let out a warning squeak. The rat looked agitated. Its tail slapped against Waldo's head.
‘No need to get excited, pal,' Waldo said. ‘I won't be long.'
The rat scampered into its cage as Waldo pulled the door of the servo locked behind him, then strode across the highway towards Cliff Street.
Jack shook with laughter as he put his father's mobile back into his pocket.
‘Come on,' he told Neil. ‘It's time to have some fun.'
Using their stolen key, the brothers entered the office. They were going to teach Waldo the Weirdo a lesson.
Maynard cowered in a corner of his cage as the boys went to work. They emptied the wastepaper basket on the floor. They scrambled some papers on Waldo's desk. Then dripped coffee over them. Then they hid a few things. A pen disappeared under a book. A clock was dropped behind Maynard's cage. As an afterthought, Waldo's asthma puffer was pushed to the back of a filing cabinet. Then finally, with a can of spray paint, they scrawled across the wall of the office, FREE AIR!
Then Jack's evil gaze fell on Maynard. He shut the door and twirled the cage around, sending Maynard in dizzy circles. The boys were considering what nasty business they could get up to with their prisoner, when they saw Waldo hot-footing it back. Dropping the cage, Jack sprinted out the back door with Neil, then hid in the bushes out front where they had a perfect view of the office, and their victim.
Waldo's face was red and he was breathing heavily even before he walked inside the door. When he saw that there had been a break-in, he let out a muffled ‘Ohhh!'
As his breathing became more laboured, he eased himself into a chair and groped around on the desk.
‘He's probably after his asthma spray,' said Jack.
‘It'll take him ages to find it,' added Neil happily.
When he couldn't find the spray, Waldo frantically searched the desk, pulling the drawers out onto the floor and tipping them upside down.
‘I wish we had a video camera,' lamented Jack. ‘This is so good!'
After a few minutes of searching, Waldo slumped to the floor.
Neil cracked first.
‘Maybe we should help him.'
‘I suppose so,' said Jack, reluctantly. ‘Come on then, if we have to …'
The brothers strolled into the office.
‘You don't look too good, Waldo,' said Neil. ‘Anything wrong?'
‘Asthma!' the old man gasped. ‘Need my spray!'
Jack took the spray from the filing cabinet and held it temptingly in front of Waldo.
‘Is this what you want?'
‘Please,' said Waldo as he groped for the spray.
‘Okay, you can have it. But if you tell the cops what we did, we'll be back.'
‘And next time you won't get off so easy,' added Neil.
He dropped the spray next to Waldo.
‘There's one more thing,' Jack said. He dangled Maynard's cage in front of Waldo. ‘The rat is ours.'
‘No!'
Waldo tried to raise himself off the floor, but he was too weak.
‘Don't take Maynard away from me,' he pleaded. ‘He's all I've g
ot!'
Jack smiled.
‘Yeah, I know. That's why we're taking him.'
As soon as they got home, the brothers tossed a coin to decide Maynard's fate.
‘Heads we stomp on it. Tails we drown it.'
The coin rolled against a door and rested on its edge, neither heads nor tails.
‘What'll we do now?' Neil asked.
Jack smirked.
‘We'll stomp on it and we'll drown it!'
The brothers took Maynard outside to do the dirty deed. But the moment the rat was free of the cage it wriggled from their grasp and was off and running.
‘Get it! Kill it!' screamed the brothers.
Maynard rushed across a field and headed up a windy trail that led to a mountain top. The higher up the hill it went, the slower the rat became. It was almost as if it was waiting for the brothers to catch up.
‘We've nearly got it!' shouted Jack.
Now they were at Prospector's Hill, an old mining site. The area was fenced off to stop trespassers. Maynard hurtled underneath a fence. Jack and Neil ducked under it too. They were about to pounce when the ground opened up and swallowed them.
The brothers fell heavily to the bottom of a mine shaft. They rolled to safety under a rock ledge as dirt tumbled in from all sides, sealing up the shaft. Their only hope came from a tiny beam of light above them.
‘Don't panic,' said Jack confidently. ‘We'll just climb up to that light and dig our way out. Easy.'
‘Let's do it!' replied Neil.
But instantly the crack of light disappeared.
Neil stood on Jack's shoulders and pushed at the cave roof, trying desperately to find the opening. He did find it, but there was something wedged tightly against it. Something soft and furry, with very sharp teeth. Something that, in their last moments, would make the brothers think of nothing else … but the cost of air.
When we were in first year at high school, my friend Doris Gulgong had a crush on our French teacher. His name was Alex Rostrum, but everyone called him Rooster. Nobody except Doris liked Rooster.
‘It's not “silver plate”,' he'd scream. ‘It's s'il vous plaît. Repeat after me, s'il vous plaît.'
‘Silver plate,' we'd chorus back at him.
None of the teachers liked our class very much. Perhaps it had something to do with the time Marshall Fielding was secretly smoking in class and his desk caught fire. Or when Spike Harrison put rotten egg gas in the staff room for a joke. Or when Judith Webber started a rumour that the maths teacher, Mr Watson, was having an affair with the deputy principal, Ms Baldwin. Mrs Watson caused a scene in the playground when she found out.
So our French lessons with Rooster continued, and with each lesson he grew more and more sarcastic. For some insane reason, Doris fell further and further in love.
‘I just adore the way he says, “It's not ‘mercy buttercups', you morons, it's merci beaucoup”,' Doris mooned. ‘His eyes flash like neon lights when he's mad. He's so gorgeous!'
‘You've got to be joking,' I said. ‘Why, he must be fifty if he's a day! And besides, if he's so gorgeous, how come he hasn't got a girlfriend?'
‘He's just shy,' Doris said by way of excuse. This was true. Once we'd discovered that Rooster was prone to blushing, we flirted madly with him at every opportunity just for the pleasure of watching his face ripen.
‘I don't know why you can't see his natural charm and sex appeal,' Doris went on.
Doris had a reputation for insanity, so I forgave her. It's hard to be normal when you're the daughter of the head of the languages department. Besides, I liked her. And I felt sorry for her, too: she was asthmatic and missed a lot of school.
The rest of us, though, were getting pretty sick of Rooster's sarcasm as well as his ridiculous French translations, so, egged on by Marshall Fielding and his offsider, Spike, we set out to make Rooster's life as miserable as he made ours. Someone found out – quite by accident – that Rooster was allergic to flowers, so bunches started appearing on the teacher's desk every time we had French.
The first time they appeared, Rooster sniffed the air suspiciously as soon as he walked into the room. Then he started sniffling and his eyes watered. He pulled the flowers out of the vase, went out on to the balcony, and threw them as far as he could.
Inside the classroom we all moaned. But we hadn't counted on Alice McInerny. Everyone – guys especially – had a soft spot for Alice with her flawless skin and baby blue eyes. Alice wanted to be an actress when she left school, and now she had a great opportunity to practise for her budding career. She pretended to be really upset about Rooster tossing out the flowers, and she did it so well that after a while I wondered if she wasn't genuine.
‘I grew them myself, just so I could give them to you, sir,' she said in a tearful voice, ‘… and you threw them out.'
The class held its breath. Rooster reddened. Alice sniffed. And Doris grunted with disgust.
‘I'm sorry,' Rooster said gruffly. ‘I didn't realise.'
Alice rewarded him with a Nobel prize of a smile and we watched as a wave of crimson washed over his face. Alice's talent was astounding!
‘Bitch,' Doris muttered beside me.
We continued to bring flowers to school every day we had French. And each time Rooster would smile kindly at Alice and say, ‘I'm sorry, but I get hay fever. I'll just leave them up here on the cupboard near the window away from the desk, where I can see them.' And Alice would smile coyly in her best Hollywood style.
One day Rooster hit on the bright idea of using conversational French in class.
‘What's that?' Alice asked.
‘What do you think it is?' he replied.
‘I dunno. Is it a French word?'
Rooster thumped his forehead. ‘And they teach you English!' he moaned. ‘I want the class to talk in French all through the lesson, starting from now.'
‘Sir, that's not fair!' Judith Webber yelled. Rooster roared back at her in French (I think he told her to shut up). We all shut up.
Only a few goody-goodies in the class – Kate Curran, Sean Gilchrist, Muscles Mayne, Cheryl Mannix and love-struck Doris – showed any enthusiasm. The rest of us slumped in our desks, hoping not to be chosen. After a while Marshall and Spike and some of the other kids started flicking paper pellets around the classroom when Rooster wasn't looking. The girls were passing notes. One landed on my desk. It read: I found out Mrs Green's first name. It's Delvene. (Mrs Green was our music teacher.)
I looked across at Doris, trying to catch her attention so I could chuck the note to her. But Doris didn't seem interested. Her face was as white as a sheet, and she was gasping for breath. I could tell she was having an asthma attack. I put up my hand.
‘Sir, Doris is sick,' I said.
Doris glared at me. She hated missing Rooster's class; she would sit through hell and high water, even asthma, to be in the same room, breathing the same air, as her beloved Mr Rostrum.
‘I think you'd better go to sick bay, Doris,' Rooster said.
‘You spoke in English!' Judith roared accusingly at him.
This time he ignored her. He helped Doris to her feet. I thought Doris was going to faint – not from asthma, but because her darling had held her arm. I knew she would never wash that arm again.
‘Whoo-hoo, sir's in love with Gulgong!' whistled Spike.
‘Are you all right?' Rooster asked Doris. She nodded. You could see she was too choked up with asthma (and love) to talk.
‘Off you go then,' Rooster said to her.
Then he walked to the front of the room. ‘Ouvrez vos livres,' he commanded.
We looked at one another, puzzled, and then watched Muscles, Cheryl and a few others open their books. I waved at Doris as she walked out of the room. She ignored me.
The translation exercise that Rooster set was difficult. I laboured over it, and was looking up at the ceiling for inspiration, trying to think of the French word for ‘bananas', when Rooster picked up a piece of paper near my
foot. I realised it was the note about Mrs Green's name that I'd been trying to pass on to Doris.
Rooster looked at me. ‘Small things amuse small minds,' he said.
‘I never wrote it!' I protested.
‘Get on with your work,' he growled.
Before I put pen to paper, however, Rooster let fly a series of sneezes that sounded like a backfiring Kawasaki.
Everyone laughed.
‘Ged od wid your work!' he roared.
Moments later the quiet of the room was shattered by Rooster demanding, ‘Who did this?'
I looked up. He was standing by the wastepaper basket waving another scrap of paper at the class.
‘Did you write this, Deborah Mitchell?'
‘What is it?' I asked.
Rooster came up and shoved it under my nose.
‘This!' His face was red and blotchy. I had never seen him so mad.
I recognised the writing immediately. It read DG LOVES AR. Doris must have thrown the paper out on her way to sick bay, and Rooster spied it when he went to throw the other note in the bin.
‘I never wrote it,' I protested again.
‘Who did?'
‘I don't know.'
‘What is it, Debbie?' Judith Webber strained to read it from the back of the room.
Rooster fixed her with one of his famous ‘I'vespotted-the-trouble-maker' looks, threw back his head and crowed ‘Aha!' Then his expression changed. ‘I might have guessed you would have something to do with this, Miss Webber,' he sneered.
‘I don't know what you're talking about,' Judith said, standing with her hands on her hips.
‘I will not have rumours about me circulating around this school!' Rooster declared.
By now the rest of the class were as curious as cats. ‘What's going on?' they asked.
Again Judith and I declared our innocence.
Nobody would own up to having written what Rooster declared was ‘a vile piece of slander'.
‘You will all be kept in during lunch hour,' he told the class. ‘And you will be kept in every day until the person responsible owns up. I've had enough of this class and its idiotic little games.'
