The Punjabi Pappadum

by Robert Newton

To minimise the risk involved in sneaking out late at night for the stake-out sessions, the boys decided on a rotating roster. Each of them took it in turns with Ron in the old Morris. To date, the report sheet (Veejay’s idea) mounted on the sparkling dashboard remained empty.

  During the day, however, things were hotting up. A punchy advertisement placed in last week’s Longwood Tribune had proved a great success. It read:

  HAVE YOU EVER DREAMED OF BEING FAMOUS? WONDERED WHAT LIFE ON THE ROAD WOULD BE LIKE - FULL OF LIMOUSINES AND HOTEL MINI BARS?

  DOES THE IDEA OF ENDLESS SHOPPING MALL APPEARANCES GET YOU GOING?

  IF YOU ANSWERED YES TO ANY OR ALL OF THESE QUESTIONS, THEN GIVE US A CALL. WE ARE A TRIO OF SINGERS SEEKING A LIKE-MINDED FOURTEEN-YEAR-OLD TO JOIN. OUR NEWLY FORMED BOY BAND. OUTSTANDING SINGING VOICE ESSENTIAL. THOSE EASILY EXCITABLE NEED NOT APPLY AS SOME HANDLING OF FEMALE UNDERWEAR MAY BE INVOLVED.

  NO WEIRDOS PLEASE.

  LAMB VINDALOO .......... $11.95

  ‘CAUTION’—This one’s HOT!! Lamb marinated in a blend of spices and vinegar, then cooked in piquant sauces with onions and potatoes.

  Everything was set. Three chairs sat neatly behind the trestle table in the Macallisters’ garage. Dexter had arranged for candidates to enter through the front door where they would be greeted by his mother and offered light refreshments. At twenty-minute intervals, each candidate would be led out to the garage for their audition. Simple.

  “Come on,” barked Dexter, “we’ve got ten minutes before they start arriving.”

  “I don’t know what’s wrong with ‘Vindaloo’,” protested Veejay.

  “You can’t call a boy band ‘Vindaloo’,” snapped Travis. “It sounds ridiculous.”

  Veejay looked hurt. “I suppose you’ve got something better?”

  “As a matter of fact I’ve got two names. Ron’s favourite, which he wanted me to pass on, is ‘The Nancy Boys’. But my choice is ‘Roundhouse’.”

  “Dexter?”

  “I still like ‘Deadly’, myself.”

  “Yeah, you would.”

  Before the boys had time to decide on their new name, two figures appeared at the garage door.

  One was Dexter’s mum and the other was a scary-looking bloke wearing dark lipstick with huge bags under his eyes. A mop of tangled hair, jet black, hung well below his shoulders.

  “Boys, I’d like you to meet X Cubed,” croaked Mrs Macallister. “Mr Cubed is first up.”

  With that, Dexter’s mum turned to leave.

  “Thanks for the cuppa, Mrs Mac,” said X Cubed.

  “It’s a pleasure.”

  Nervously, the boys took their seats behind the trestle and opened the interview sheets.

  “X Cubed,” pondered Veejay. “I must say that’s a little unusual.”

  “It’s my stage name,” explained Cubed. “My friends call me Roger.”

  “So it’s kind of like the artist formerly known as Prince?”

  “No, not really.”

  To fill the uncomfortable silence, the boys ruffled through the pages in front of them.

  “So, you’re a performer then?” asked Dexter. “What kind of stuff have you done?”

  “Parties mainly. Experimental stuff. I like to throw the musical genres into a pot, give them a stir and see what happens. I hate being pigeonholed.”

  “I see,” continued Dexter. “You sing then?”

  “Of course.”

  “Dance?”

  “Only on the inside.”

  Standing before them, X Cubed looked nothing like boy band material. He yawned then commenced chewing on a chunk of matted hair.

  The pen in Veejay’s hand got busy, scribbling something on the “Comments” pad on the table. It stopped with an almighty exclamation mark.

  “GET RID OF HIM!” it said.

  Finally Travis took control.

  “Thanks for coming, Cubed. We’ll be in touch.”

  “Don’t you want to hear any of my material?” he protested.

  “We’re saving that for the second-round interviews,” explained Travis.

  Candidate number two, escorted by Mrs Macallister, stepped into the garage as X Cubed hung a left at the bottom of the driveway.

  “Boys, I’d like you to meet Scratcher,” she announced, before departing.

  Stepping forward, Scratcher produced a tape from the pocket of his denim jacket then dug his nails into the scalp behind his left ear.

  “Eczema,” he explained, itching frantically. “It gets bad in the summer.”

  Like X Cubed, Scratcher’s hair was black but it was twice as long. It fell down over his face, was parted by a huge beak nose and finished at his chest. An untidy goatee suggested that his boy band years were well behind him.

  “You do realise that we’re auditioning for a boy band, Scratcher?” asked Travis.

  “All right, I’m willing to lose the goatee,” he replied, attacking an itch at the base of his skull, “but you’re not touching the hair. I haven’t cut it in ten years.”

  Scratcher, it seemed, was persistent.

  “Do you sing?” asked Veejay.

  “Nuh.”

  “What do you do, Scratcher?”

  “Guitar.”

  “Cool. What sort — bass, lead, rhythm?”

  “Air.”

  “It’s a boy band, Scratcher,” said Dexter. “We don’t do air guitar.”

  Flicking back his hair, Scratcher’s face got angry. His left shoulder began twitching violently in an uncontrollable spasm.

  “There’s only one way to serve up Rock and Roll,” roared Scratcher. “And that’s WELL DONE!”

  His eyes, a shocking green colour, did a series of 360s then settled on Dexter. Both hands were up now scratching wildly at his scalp.

  “I’m gonna break something in a minute. How about I start with your head?”

  Beside him, Dexter heard chair legs scraping across the concrete floor as his pals deserted him. Scratcher was advancing now, wild and out of control. Running wasn’t an option so Dexter did the next best thing.

  “Mum!”

  * * *

  Candidate number three was an eighteen-year-old harpsichord player called Russell who was looking to branch out into something more mainstream. It was hard to question his music ability, but like the others, he was far too old for a boy band. The next three looked the goods but couldn’t hold a tune. That left just one.

  “I’ve saved the best till last, boys,” announced Mrs Macallister from the roller door. “I’m afraid Sam’s a little nervous.”

  “Well, bring him in, Mum, let’s have a look.”

  Slowly a figure moved into view.

  “Hi, I’m Sam.”

  This time the silence was more than uncomfortable.

  “You’re a girl,” protested Dexter.

  “What do you know,” grinned Sam, “a boy band with brains.”

  Her voice was sweet and kind of husky.

  “I’m afraid it’s out of the question,” said Veejay shaking his head. “We’re a boy band.”

  “So?”

  “A boy band, as the name suggests, is made up of boys. If you start throwing girls into the line-up then it’s just a band, isn’t it?”

  “That’s sexist,” protested Sam. “What if I’m the best candidate?”

  “You couldn’t possibly be,” said Veejay, laughing.

  “Why not?”

  “Well, for starters, you smell nice. Your clothes are clean and neatly pressed and your hair is brushed silky smooth … I bet you cleaned your teeth before you came. Am I right?”

  “Well, yeah, I did.”

  “See. You’re just not what we’re after.”

  Suddenly Sam bent over and started undoing the laces on her Converse runners.

  “All right,” she seethed, “cop a whiff of this then.”

  In a flash she was up near the trestle, a Converse in her right hand. The smell was rotten, like something had crawled into her shoe and died.

&nbs
p; “I’m full of surprises, boys,” she grinned.

  The smell soon filled the garage, as thick as a mountain mist.

  “Okay, okay,” said Travis, coughing. “Enough of the aromatherapy.”

  With the Converse safely back on her foot, the air quality in the garage dramatically improved. A light breeze filtered under the door.

  “Phew, that’s better,” croaked Dexter. “So Sam, what makes you think we’d be interested in YOU?”

  “’Cos you’re desperate, that’s why.”

  “And what gives you that idea?”

  “Your mum, for a start. She worded me up inside.”

  Behind the trestle, the boys put their heads together for a quick conference.

  “Okay then, Sam,” announced Dexter, breaking from the huddle, “let’s see what you’ve got.”

  With a little yelp, Sam spun on the spot and began setting up. She moved around the garage like a tornado, all arms and legs, knocking things over as she went.

  “Take your time, Sam,” said Travis, encouragingly.

  “Sorry, I’m a bit clumsy sometimes,” she replied, upending a toolbox onto the floor.

  Despite her look of concentration, Sam was a walking disaster area — a fourteen-year-old state of emergency. It was as if her brain and body were slightly out of sync. Off she’d go, ploughing into things without thinking. But there was something about her you couldn’t help liking. She believed in herself. And if she had to go through life crashing and banging on two left feet then she was quite prepared to do it. The path of destruction she blazed was like her very own fanfare. Here I am, world, it said. Have a look at me!

  With various tools and garden equipment scattered on the floor around her, Sam picked up her guitar and sat on a stool in the middle of the carnage.

  “That was one hell of a performance,” said Veejay, looking at the carnage.

  “I haven’t started yet, you goose.”

  Sitting before them, Sam cradled the guitar on her thighs. She slid her fingers along its neck, making the strings squeak, while the other hand found a plectrum in her pocket.

  “Okay then,” she smiled. “You guys ready?”

  “Go for it,” answered Travis.

  “The song’s called ‘Four Seasons in One Day’,” said Sam. “It’s by Crowded House.”

  After tapping a slow four-beat intro, Sam began working the plectrum up and down the strings. The boys tuned in to a crisp and haunting minor key.

  “This’ll test her,” whispered Veejay.

  With the simplest of ease, Sam slid into the vocals. Three sets of ears jumped to attention behind the trestle. Her voice started clean and perfectly pitched, then glided across phrases sweetly, showcasing her surprising range. No doubt about it, Sam was all class. She worked the song, giving it light and shade when required, then ended with a perfect note that seemed to drift off into the air long after she’d finished.

  “Well?” she said, smiling. “How’d I go?”

  Too blown away to speak, the boys looked at each other in stunned silence then nodded.

  “Five woks, Sam,” croaked Travis.

  “Is that any good?”

  “It doesn’t get any better. Welcome to ‘Deadly’.”

  DAL MAHARANI .......... $10.00

  Assorted lentils with kidney beans simmered in exotic spices, cream and coriander.

  The mood in the Pappadum was worse than a losing team’s locker room on grand final day. Sombre it was, to say the least. Mr and Mrs Singh had invited Dexter and Travis for a feast with the relatives to celebrate Veejay’s birthday. But no one, especially the birthday boy, was in the mood for partying.

  The restaurant was in desperate trouble now. The trickle of customers each week meant that the Pappadum was choking to death slowly. Mr Singh knew enough about business to know that you can’t pay overheads when you’ve got an empty till. But he refused to give in. And you had to admire him for that.

  “You could get a job,” said Uncle Ravi, scooping up some dal. “Start at the bottom somewhere and work your way up. That’s how I made my fortune.”

  Mr Singh was firm. “No.”

  “Don’t be stubborn, Ranjit, you’ve a family to feed. I’ve made some inquiries on your behalf and I know a place that’s looking for a chef. You could start straight away.”

  Uncle Ravi had their attention now.

  “It’d be mainly burgers” — he grinned cruelly — “but hey, beggars can’t be choosers.”

  The jibe was designed to hurt and it worked.

  “If you weren’t my brother, Ravi, I’d ask you to leave right now.”

  As far as Dexter and Travis were concerned, Uncle Ravi was now in the red, wok-wise. He was one of those big-noters — someone who dragged others down in public with the warped intention of making themselves look better. But in this instance, the tactic backfired. The cheap shot, delivered with a stinging tongue and an evil smile, reeked of bitterness and sour grapes. It did some damage all right, but Mr Singh, proud and dignified, came out the winner.

  But still Uncle Ravi wasn’t done.

  “You can’t live on pride, Ranjit,” he said. “Pride doesn’t pay the bills.”

  “Enough, Ravi.”

  “You want your wife and boy to go without?”

  Across the table, the brothers locked eyes.

  “Like the mongoose and the cobra,” laughed Uncle Ravi. “Just like old times, hey?”

  A hand slid into the coat pocket of his expensive suit and pulled out a wad of cash. With steely eyes he pushed the bundle across the table.

  “Take it, little brother. Don’t be fool.”

  HARYANA SUBJI .......... $11.00

  A variety of seasoned vegetables cooked with a spinach sauce and exotic herbs.

  That night, a full complement stood on the footpath ready for the stakeout. They’d invited Sam along, not so much for her surveillance skills, but more as a “getting to know each other” session.

  The old Morris flashed its headlights then pulled up kerbside.

  “I’ve got a good feeling about tonight, boys,” said Ron, his face beaming.

  “Me too,” said Sam, sliding in across the front seat. “Pleased to meet you, Ron,” she continued. “I’m Sam.”

  “You’re Sam?” he asked, confused.

  “Last time I checked.”

  “But you’re … a … a … girl!”

  “So everyone keeps telling me. You don’t mind if I ride up front, do you, Ron?”

  “Suit yourself.”

  Reluctantly, the car lurched forward and away from the curb. Up the hill it chugged, creaking and groaning in protest at the full load.

  “Nice old Morris, Ron,” said Sam. “What year is it, 1954?”

  “How’d you know?”

  “My dad’s a mechanic. He restores old cars. I’ve been crawling under ’em since I was three.”

  “Well, fancy that.”

  Crunch. The gear stick found second.

  “Sounds like a dodgey clutch cable, Ron.”

  “You reckon?”

  “Pretty sure.”

  Ron and Sam did most of the talking on the short drive, which suited the boys just fine. Like long-lost relatives they were, mouths running at full speed.

  “Do you mind if I ask you something, Ron?” said Sam.

  “Shoot.”

  “No offence, but I was wondering what the go was with that nursing home. I mean, you’re not that old, are you?”

  “I don’t actually live there, Sam. My unit’s round the back in Cecil Street. I do a bit of voluntary work with some of the more mobile residents — gardening mainly. It does them wonders to get outside in the sunshine.”

  “So you’ve still got a driver’s licence, then?”

  “Don’t worry, Sam, I’m not ready for a wheelchair just yet.”

  Finally they glided past Burger Barn, and for the third week in a row Ron backed the old Morris into the darkened alley.

  “The boys tell me your fee
t smell like old fish,” said Ron.

  “Is that right?” Sam glared over one shoulder.

  “Yep … reckon you’ve got a voice like an angel, too.”

  “Yeah?” She beamed. “They really said that?”

  Grinning from ear to ear, Sam ducked down to the bag at her feet. On her way there she bumped her head hard on the dashboard.

  “Ouch!”

  “Clumsy too, they said.”

  Carefully she removed something from her bag and placed it on the front seat.

  A bright flash lit the car as she struck a match.

  “Da daaaaah!”

  “Is that what I think it is?” asked Ron, drooling.

  “Chocolate mud cake,” smiled Sam, lifting it aloft. “Did they tell you I could cook?”

  Suddenly the boys in the back perked up. Sam turned to them, her face lit by a flickering flame.

  “Happy birthday, Veejay.”

  As they soon found out, there is only so much partying you can do inside a crammed Morris Minor. So, with bellies full of tea and mudcake, the group kicked back and soaked up the background music coming from the ancient AM radio. Only Sam could see the wetness in Ron’s eyes.

  “What’s wrong?” she asked.

  “It’s this song.” His voice quivered. “It was our wedding song.”

  “You and Nance?”

  “Yeah. Frank Sinatra — ‘The Way You Look Tonight’.”

  “Did you dance?” asked Sam, laying her hand on his arm.

  “All night, darling.”

  The time was 11.00 pm and the last of Burger Barn’s clientele were long gone. Inside the Morris, things had deteriorated into a slumber party.

  “I think we’re on, guys,” whispered Ron, stiffening in his seat.

  “What do you mean?” asked Veejay.

  “The lights inside the restaurant just flashed three times. I’m betting it’s some sort of signal.”

  “Cool,” replied Veejay. “Maybe this birthday isn’t going to be a dud after all … Sorry everyone, no offence.”

  “What do we do?” asked Dexter.

  “Just sit tight,” said Ron calmly. “Veejay, hand me the telescopic camera, will you. It’s in the bag on the floor there. Grab the walkie-talkies too.”