My Life As an Alphabet

by Barry Jonsberg

I might have raised an eyebrow. Possibly two.

  ‘You are autistic, aren’t you?’

  ‘No,’ I said.

  It was facsimile Penelope’s turn to look puzzled.

  ‘Then what are you?’ she asked.

  ‘I’m me,’ I said.

  Dad had arranged to pick me up at seven, so I had time to watch Douglas make his attempt at returning home. Penelope and Joe didn’t join us outside. I had the impression this was a spectacle they had witnessed before and were less than impressed.

  Douglas climbed the tree with a practised air and balanced on one of the lower boughs. He glanced at his watch and closed his eyes. It was obvious he was concentrating fiercely, doing things with tesseracts taken to higher dimensions. I stood well clear. I wasn’t worried about flashes of light and the crackling of air that might accompany transportation to another world, but a boy’s body falling from a tree was clearly something to be avoided. Actually, it was all quite exciting. Then again, I’ve led a sheltered life.

  Douglas must have been counting down because at precisely six-thirty [I say ‘precisely’ but of course my watch might have been wrong] he bent his legs, swung his arms back and launched himself into the air.

  He landed in a puff of dust.

  Douglas opened his eyes and I saw such a look of loss that it made my breath catch. He glanced at me and shook his head.

  ‘Not enough gravity,’ he whispered.

  ‘Dad?’ I said on the way home.

  ‘Hmmm?’

  ‘Can I have a bike?’

  He looked at me for a moment before returning his eyes to the road.

  ‘You can’t ride a bike, Candice.’

  It was true. I found it almost impossible to believe that anyone could balance on such thin strips of rubber, even though I’d seen it happen many times.

  ‘I could learn.’

  ‘Maybe for your birthday.’

  That was no good, though I didn’t say anything. I needed a bike by tomorrow. For once in my life I had somewhere I needed to be and transport was a problem.

  H

  IS FOR HAPPINESS

  Dear Denille,

  I understand that Americans are fond of life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness. On the off-chance that you have pursued happiness and caught it, I would welcome your advice.

  My family is a mess. Ever since my baby sister died, things have become steadily worse. I could go into intimate detail about the causes of this, but I know that you are American and therefore time-poor. Consequently, I will be brief:

  – Mum: breast cancer, double mastectomy, depression.

  – Dad: thwarted ambition, loss of wife’s love (possibly), resentment of brother Brian for perceived wrongs.

  – Rich Uncle Brian: materially wealthy, but emotionally poor.

  – Candice (me): socially inept. Add to this list a permanent sense of loss and possible guilt because of dead sister Sky and, as you can imagine, we are not the front-runners for Australian Happy Family of the Year.

  What’s more, SIGNIFICANT OTHERS are faring no better. Take my English teacher, Miss Bamford. She has an eye that is not so much lazy as a complete bludger (do you have that word in America? You should. Actually, now you do, if you didn’t before – an unexpected benefit of cross-cultural communication. What fun!). Children can be cruel. Her bludger eye causes much teasing from her students and I know this upsets her.

  Then there is Douglas Benson From Another Dimension who is desperately unhappy at being stuck in this dimension with facsimile parents who are neither quantum physicists nor experimental musicians. I worry he is paying too much attention to a certain ravine. Sorry to be cryptic, but I dare say you get the general idea.

  Now. The thing is this. Everyone wanders around, more or less aimlessly, in apparent acceptance of their fate. Douglas is the exception. He spends time jumping out of trees, but becomes dispirited when nothing happens except the occasional sprained ankle. No one is successfully pursuing happiness, with or without sprained ankles. I suspect happiness for us is not even a dot on the horizon, but has emigrated to foreign climes and left no forwarding address. Maybe it’s gone to America . . .

  This must change.

  I talked things over with Earth-Pig Fish last night as is my wont when momentous things are weighing me down. Or not weighing me down, which is another matter entirely. I have to tell you, Denille, that in addition to all the other troubles afflicting me, I am totally flat-chested. My breasts have either never made an appearance or they went AWOL as soon as they did (I suspect it is the former).Earth-Pig Fish did not help in any practical way, especially with the breast dilemma, but I took her repetitive mouth opening as a piscine method of showing emotional support (I am up to the letter P in my nightly reading of the dictionary.

  It is an interesting letter). You see, I want to pursue happiness. I want to catch it, grab it by the scruff of the neck, drag it home and force it to embrace all the people I mentioned above.

  I’m just not sure how to accomplish this. But I am determined to try.

  What do you think of my plan?

  Your penpal,

  Candice

  P.S. I suppose it isn’t really a plan. A plan should . . . well, plan, I imagine. The pursuit of happiness is more of a goal or a wish. If you think of a plan, please let me know. In the meantime, I’ll make it up as I go along.

  I

  IS FOR INSIGHT

  I rang Rich Uncle Brian when I got home and arranged to go sailing on his yacht the following day [Sunday]. RUB was very surprised.

  ‘I’m very surprised, Pumpkin,’ he said, which gave me the initial clue.

  I couldn’t blame Rich Uncle Brian for being surprised. He had been trying for years to get me on board and I had always refused. I refused, not because I was being deliberately obstructive, but because boats make me sick. Literally. I do not have sea legs. I don’t have sea arms. In fact, no part of my anatomy, from the smallest cell to the most major of organs, is sea anything. I throw up if someone shows me a photograph of a ship. I am suspicious of swirling water in a bathtub. You get the general idea.

  ‘So am I, Rich Uncle Brian,’ I replied. ‘But it is because I need a bike.’

  There was a long pause on the other end of the phone. He was probably furrowing his brows and stroking his moustache, but I wasn’t in a position to say for certain. But the odds were certainly on him doing that while jingling loose change in his trouser pocket.

  ‘Not sure of the connection between the two, Pumpkin,’ he replied eventually.

  ‘I can understand that,’ I said.

  There was a further long pause, which I enjoyed. I am a fan of pauses.

  ‘Why do you want a bike, sweetie?’ he asked.

  ‘I am not at liberty to say.’

  ‘But you can’t ride a bike.’

  ‘True. I was hoping for one with training wheels.’

  ‘Aren’t you a little old for training wheels?’

  ‘Probably. But I am not trying to make a fashion statement.’

  Rich Uncle Brian sighed. He does this a lot when we talk. Sighs and pauses. Pauses and sighs. It works for us. Then he spoke with the air of a man trying for one last time to get an answer he could understand.

  ‘Are you saying that you will come on board the Motherboard if I buy you a bike with training wheels, Pumpkin? A kind of barter – one favour for another?’

  That’s the name of Rich Uncle Brian’s yacht. Motherboard. I think he is exceptionally pleased with this name. He once told me he had sailed with my mother on board the Motherboard, and then laughed for a very long time. I laughed too, even though the joke was so weak it could barely stand. It is good to laugh at other people’s jokes. It gives them pleasure and I am in favour of that.

  ‘Correct, Rich Uncle Brian,’ I replied.

  ‘I’m happy to buy you a bike, Pumpkin. You don’t have to go sailing with me to pay for it.’

  I knew this was true. RUB always wanted to buy me things. It an
noyed Dad and caused him to mutter. It worried Mum. It worried me, too, because I rarely wanted anything. The only person it actually pleased was Rich Uncle Brian and that was strange when you thought about it. Maybe it was best not to think about it.

  ‘I know,’ I said. ‘But I also need to talk to you. In private. And it does not get much more private than a yacht in the middle of the sea. Unless we are boarded by pirates, of course, but I am prepared to take my chances.’

  It was arranged that I would be picked up at seven in the morning. RUB promised to have a bike for me – I would need it on the Sunday evening – but I had no idea how. It was eight-thirty on a Saturday night and the shops would be closed. But Rich Uncle Brian is rich and people who have money can achieve anything.

  Dad told me that, though he didn’t seem especially happy when he muttered it.

  I didn’t eat that night. I didn’t have breakfast in the morning either. It struck me there wasn’t much point, since I’d probably see it again [all down my front and splattered on my shoes] a few hours later. I also asked Earth-Pig Fish’s advice on dealing with water because avoiding seasickness must count as her speciality. She wasn’t in a communicative mood, however, so it didn’t help.

  I left a note on the kitchen table telling Mum and Dad I was spending the day with RUB. There was no one around and, after all, they can both read. Then I lined my shoes with brown paper. I’d read somewhere that this is good for preventing jet lag and I thought it might work for other forms of travel. My reasoning was that if it didn’t, the worst that could happen was I’d have brown paper in my shoes. This, let’s be honest, was not a huge inconvenience, if I ignored the fact that I crackled slightly when I walked.

  Rich Uncle Brian turned up at seven in his very big four-wheel drive. He unloaded a bike from the back of the car and wheeled it down the side of our house. It was a proper-sized bicycle and it had two big wheels at the back instead of the customary one. A grown-up tricycle, in fact.

  ‘It’s perfect, Rich Uncle Brian,’ I said. ‘How did you get it at such short notice?’

  He rubbed the side of his nose.

  ‘Ah, that’s for me to know and you to find out,’ he said, and winked.

  ‘It is unlikely I’ll find out if you don’t tell me,’ I replied. I wasn’t a detective and Rich Uncle Brian knew this. But I winked back at him anyway.

  As we walked to his car, he stopped and gazed at me.

  ‘You are crackling when you walk,’ he stated.

  ‘Indeed,’ I replied. There was no point denying it.

  He scratched his nose again.

  ‘Any reason why?’

  ‘I have brown paper in my shoes.’

  Rich Uncle Brian’s mouth opened and it was obvious he was on the point of framing a question. But then he closed it again and opened the car door for me.

  ‘Of course you have,’ he muttered out of the side of his mouth. I was glad we had both accepted this because it was clearly true and not open to any kind of interpretation.

  We headed for the marina, which was where Rich Uncle Brian kept his boat. It’s what marinas are for, after all. It took an hour and three minutes and we spent that time discussing my motives for going on board. Well, RUB discussed my motives. He knows about my chronic seasickness and was curious about why I would put myself through it just to talk to him [which is something I could do at the local burger bar over something deep fried and of dubious origin [see ‘B Is For Birth’]]. One of the advantages of being me is that no one expects sensible answers to sensible questions, so he didn’t make much progress. But it passed the time.

  Even I have to admit that RUB’s yacht is beautiful. It is white. And long. And luxurious. It has Motherboard written in cursive script on the prow [that’s the front of the boat – I think I mentioned I am up to P in the dictionary] and there are all sorts of amenities on board. Two large bedrooms with shiny manchester and DVD players built in to the ceilings. A spa, in case RUB wanted more water than the ocean provided. On deck, there were tall masts with winches, ropes and stainless steel cranks for purposes that remained a mystery to me. Rich Uncle Brian was dressed all in white and sported a peaked cap with Motherboard written in cursive characters identical to the letters on the side of the yacht. He wore pure white deck shoes, which I threw up on as soon as I set foot on the gangplank.

  ‘Sorry, Rich Uncle Brian,’ I said.

  He looked down at what appeared to be diced carrots on his previously pristine [the letter P is fabulous!] shoes and smiled crookedly.

  ‘Love is never having to say you’re sorry, Pumpkin,’ he said.

  ‘I have no idea what that means,’ I replied.

  ‘Neither do I,’ he replied.

  I gestured towards his shoes.

  ‘I haven’t eaten carrots in . . .’ I did some mental maths. ‘Well, never, actually. I’m not sure that is mine.’

  ‘Seems to be mine now,’ he added, and stroked his moustache. ‘Not a problem, Pumpkin. A little water clears us of this deed.’

  ‘That’s Lady Macbeth,’ I said. ‘You are rich, Rich Uncle Brian, and a computer expert. How do you know Shakespeare?’ I would have been interested in his reply, but unfortunately I threw up again and that put a cap on the conversation. If this was how my body responded to being on the gangplank [and clearly it was], I was concerned about how I would react when I finally got on deck. If water was going to clear us of these deeds, then it was just as well there was a whole ocean out there.

  Within two hours we were surrounded by nothing, unless we counted the sea as something, which it obviously was. I managed to get rid of everything that had been in my stomach for the last three months, which raised interesting questions about biology. Surely I must have digested something in a quarter of a year? RUB gave me a bucket which he emptied over the side at regular intervals. I worried about the fish out there.

  In the short intervals between vomiting, I got straight to the point.

  ‘Rich Uncle Brian,’ I said. ‘There is a schism between you and my dad.’ [I hadn’t got to S in the dictionary yet, but was looking forward to it.] ‘This is a great shame and there must be a way to mend that breaaaaach.’ I meant to say ‘breach’ but spread its syllable somewhat. I spread quite a bit of everything actually. Rich Uncle Brian hosed down the deck and considered his response.

  ‘Do we really want to go there, Pumpkin?’ he said finally.

  ‘Yes,’ I said, wiping my mouth.

  RUB sat opposite me and stroked his moustache, but kept his hand away from his pocket. I was pleased about this. It was obvious he was thinking carefully, weighing words, deciding exactly what he could or couldn’t say about my father. I decided to help him out.

  ‘I know that Dad thinks you stole his ideas and that you believe you didn’t,’ I said. ‘I do not make judgements, but it is obvious Dad is jealous of your success and wealth. And it is also obvious you have more money than is seemly. Wouldn’t the simplest solution be if you gave him a whopping pile of cash and then everyone would be happy?’

  This was the longest speech I had made in, possibly, years. Not so much in terms of words [though I couldn’t remember the last time I had strung so many together], but certainly as far as time was concerned. I have transcribed it as best I can remember, but it actually took ten minutes to get the words out as I was throwing up into a bucket for most of that time. Rich Uncle Brian cleaned up with a rueful expression, and a mop that was getting smellier by the second.

  ‘I’ve tried, Pumpkin,’ he said. ‘I’ve tried. It’s not that simple, unfortunately.’

  Twelve years is not a huge number to accumulate and call it a life, but even so, I wouldn’t mind a dollar for every time I’d heard that things are not that simple. I wouldn’t be able to buy a yacht, but I could afford my own tricycle. I waited for RUB to continue. It was obvious he was squirming on the horns of a dilemma.

  ‘I offered your dad half of my income from that patent,’ he said. ‘He turned me down. What he wanted was t
he legal acknowledgement that he co-wrote it, as well as half the royalties. I couldn’t accept that. He didn’t write it. I did. The money? Hey, he was welcome to that. But I wouldn’t lie about the authorship. I couldn’t, Pumpkin. I simply couldn’t.’

  He scratched his nose and bent his head towards the contents of my sick bucket, which is indicative of how desperate he was to avoid my eyes. I’d seen inside that bucket from close range, and it wasn’t pretty.

  ‘So you don’t talk to each other because of a signature, or lack thereof, on a piece of paper?’

  ‘Sounds silly when it’s put like that, but yes. That’s about the sum of it.’

  I didn’t say much for the rest of the trip. I needed to chew over the insights that Rich Uncle Brian had provided. As well as the remains of diced carrots stuck between my teeth. But just as we were coming into port, I gave it one more go.

  ‘Rich Uncle Brian?’ I said.

  ‘Hmmm?’

  ‘Do you still love your brother?’

  While considering this question he plonked the empty bucket in front of me, did things with stainless steel cranks, threw ropes overboard and tied them to metal posts. The yacht bobbed gently in the swell and ropes creaked. Or maybe that was my stomach. Finally, he sat down, took off his cap and wiped sweat from his face. There were tears in his eyes.

  ‘I do, Pumpkin. I surely do.’

  ‘And would you do anything to mend that breach?’

  ‘Of course. Apart from acknowledging he was the co-author of my program. That’s the only thing I cannot do.’ He gave a tired smile. ‘And yet that’s the only thing your father wants. It’s an impossible situation, Pumpkin.’

  I wasn’t sure. A plan was forming in my mind. It wasn’t foolproof. It wasn’t ironclad. It wasn’t even fully formed. More of a proto-plan, really. But it might work.

  I was so excited by the possibilities I didn’t even throw up as we went down the gangplank. And I didn’t feel like talking as Rich Uncle Brian drove me home. He tried, though.