Tigers on the Beach

by Doug MacLeod

  ‘So, you don’t have any suggestions?’

  Zebulon picks at his beard again, then brightens. ‘Why don’t you give them a tiger?’

  ‘A tiger?’

  ‘You know. Those big stripey cats that roam around Africa.’

  ‘I know what a tiger is, I just don’t know if a tiger would make them laugh. It would probably terrify them or even kill them.’

  ‘Not a real tiger, you muppet,’ says Zebulon. He tells me to wait a moment while he goes to the storeroom. He returns with two toy tigers. They are quite large and barely fit on the counter. I have to admit, they are the most impressive toy tigers I have ever seen.

  ‘They’re on special today,’ says Zebulon. ‘You can have them both for thirty dollars.’

  ‘But what’s funny about tigers?’

  Zebulon presses down on both of them. They make a roaring sound.

  ‘Pretty cool, eh?’ says Zebulon. ‘Could even be funny to some people. And you can keep your pyjamas in them. Do you reckon your parents would like them?’

  I shake my head. ‘I feel weird about giving toy tigers to my mum and dad.’

  ‘Thirty dollars a pair is a bargain. I must be bonkers for selling them so cheaply.’

  ‘But I don’t think my parents like tigers all that much,’ I say. ‘And even though your tigers can roar, that doesn’t make them funny.’

  Zebulon is still keen to make a sale. ‘Didn’t you say that your parents watch nature documentaries?’

  ‘Yeah, but only because Grandma does. She’s staying with us.’

  ‘Maybe your grandma would like a roaring tiger?’

  ‘No. My grandma doesn’t like anything.’

  Zebulon looks startled. ‘I’m sure you’re wrong about that.’

  ‘Seriously. She’s bad-tempered and she’s a cow and she’s driving us all crazy.’

  I look down at the various pieces of jewellery that are on display under the counter, and wonder which might appeal to Sam.

  ‘Please leave the store,’ says Zebulon quietly.

  I look up and see him looking stony-faced.

  ‘Just because I won’t buy the tigers?’ I say.

  Zebulon’s whole manner has changed, as if I have uttered something terrible. ‘You can’t buy anything in this store. Your money isn’t good here.’

  ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘You called your grandmother a cow. We do not speak ill of grandmothers on these premises.’

  Some nearby customers nod in agreement. This is obviously a rule of Purple Haze that I wasn’t aware of.

  I back away slowly. ‘Okay.’

  ‘Love your grandma,’ Zebulon says. ‘That’s an order.’

  ‘I’ll try,’ I say.

  ‘You’ll have to do better than that.’

  Zebulon removes the tigers from the counter and returns them to the storeroom. I look around at the customers, hoping to find one who is on my side. The Goths are looking at a deck of tarot cards. I make eye contact with the girl, which isn’t hard because her eyes are so big. She must go through a whole stick of eyeliner every time she puts her face on.

  ‘He tries to sell everyone those tigers,’ the girl says. I relax. She seems friendly, or at least fairly normal, for a goth. She doesn’t seem to be sinking into eternal despair. She’s more like a human panda. ‘But you’d better go,’ she adds. ‘You really blew it when you dissed your grandma to Zebulon.’

  I leave the store empty-handed, wondering if I am the last sane person on planet earth.

  That night I wait for a phone call from Sam, but it doesn’t come. All I get is an email from Ben Beacham. It’s one of those chain emails that I am meant to forward to ten people, and which will bring me luck. If I don’t do it, there is a dire warning that my brain will explode. I decide to risk it and not forward the email to anyone.

  I go to bed early, but remain awake in the darkness.

  ‘What are you thinking about?’ Xander asks.

  ‘Nothing,’ I say. ‘I’m just waiting for my brain to explode.’

  At midnight we hear a screeching noise outside. It’s bloodcurdling, like the cry of a witch. At first we think it might be Grandma, then we realise there is nothing human about this noise. Xander and I nervously pull on our shorts and go out to investigate.

  Everyone has left their cabins, including Mr Panozzo, our most recent guest. He’s a writer who has come here for peace and quiet. The screeching continues. Scared parents reassure their scared children that there is nothing to be scared of. Nathan locates the source of the noise. Grandma’s possum trap has been set up behind the pine trees, where no one has noticed. The trap has snared a koala, which we see in the light of Dad’s torch. I didn’t know that koalas could screech so loudly and terribly.

  Nathan tells everyone to stand back as he tries to calm the koala by making soft cooing sounds. Then he lifts up the cage and takes it to the nearest eucalyptus tree. We all follow him.

  Mum tries to reassure the guests. ‘It’s just a koala. See? Nothing to worry about.’

  Nathan’s theory is that if he opens the cage at the base of the tree, the koala will climb up the trunk, as this is its natural habitat. There is authority in his voice. It’s hard to recognise him as the shy Nathan that sweeps up after the possums. He’s good with animals. People relax when they realise that an expert is in control. But when the koala is released, it doesn’t climb the tree. Instead it climbs Mr Panozzo. The koala clutches at his striped pyjama pants. They begin to slip. Desperately, Mr Panozzo grasps the top of his pyjama pants with one hand and tries to shoo away the koala with the other. It maintains its grip.

  ‘I’m sorry about this, Mr Panozzo,’ says Nathan, ‘but it’s probably best if you let the koala have the pants. I don’t think he’s going to let go.’

  Two children burst into fits of laughter.

  ‘It’s not funny, children,’ the mother says.

  ‘Stop that,’ orders the father, even though he’s trying to stifle a laugh himself.

  ‘I am not removing my pyjama pants,’ says Mr Panozzo.

  ‘I’m afraid you may have to.’ Nathan takes charge. ‘Please, everybody, I think Mr Panozzo would like some privacy.’

  The group of holiday-makers turns away.

  ‘Go back to your cabins,’ orders Mr Panozzo.

  ‘But we want to make sure the bear is all right,’ says one of the children.

  ‘It’s not a bear, it’s a marsupial,’ says Nathan.

  ‘Please, everyone, return to your cabins,’ Mum says. ‘There is nothing to see here.’

  This is patently untrue, but people drift away. Mr Panozzo glares down at the marsupial gripping his pyjama leg. Dad races to fetch a dressing gown for Mr Panozzo to wear. With the look of a beaten man, Mr Panozzo lets go of his pyjama bottoms and wriggles out of them. Sure enough, the koala wanders off into the night, one of its claws still gripping Mr Panozzo’s night attire. The pants are never seen again. Dad helps Mr Panozzo into one of his old dressing gowns. It’s a bad fit.

  ‘I’ll be departing in the morning,’ says Mr Panozzo.

  ‘Please stay,’ Mum says. ‘This won’t happen again. You’ll be able to write your book in peace. It must be interesting, being an author.’

  Even Mum, with her powerful people skills, cannot charm Mr Panozzo. But she keeps trying. She asks him what his book is about, and he replies it is a guide to Australian holiday resorts. He’s probably lying, but Dad groans.

  Once the guests have returned to their cabins, Nathan, Mum, Dad and I wander back from the pine trees. Grandma is watching from her cabin doorway. Nathan is angrier than I have ever seen him. He steps up to Grandma and looks her right in the eye. ‘Your possum trap just caught a koala.’

  ‘It’s not my fault,’ Grandma says.

  ‘Of course it is.’

  ‘But I didn’t want to catch a koala. It’s a possum trap. It’s got a label saying so.’

  ‘Unfortunately, koalas can’t read,’ says Nat
han.

  ‘You shouldn’t have set the trap,’ says Mum.

  ‘I didn’t,’ says Grandma.

  ‘Then who did?’

  ‘Stanley Krongold.’

  Dad turns. ‘Krongold?’

  ‘I spoke with him at the store. He doesn’t like the possums either. He came and set the trap for me.’

  ‘Why on earth would you have anything to do with that man?’ Dad fumes. ‘He doesn’t have a decent bone in his body. He’s a liar, a conman, and he’s got an orange head.’

  Mum rests a hand on Dad’s back.

  ‘Go inside, Ken,’ Mum says. ‘I’ll handle this.’

  ‘Can I borrow the torch?’ says Xander.

  Dad is too muddled to ask why Xander needs the torch, and you should always ask Xander questions like that. He merely hands it over without a word.

  Mr Panozzo leaves without paying. He doesn’t touch the guest book. What would he write? A very nice place to visit if you want your pyjama pants stolen by a native bear.

  ‘Good morning,’ says Dad, as I enter the office. He looks as though he hasn’t slept.

  ‘Hi, Dad.’

  ‘Everything will be fine, Adam,’ he says. ‘Don’t look so worried.’

  ‘You’re the one who looks worried,’ I tell him.

  ‘No. I’m smiling.’

  ‘But it’s a sort of worried smile, not your usual one.’

  ‘I must try harder, for the sake of the business.’

  ‘Dad, a lot of kids at Samsara High have parents who are separated. The teachers keep telling us it’s no big deal.’

  ‘Your mother and I are not planning to divorce. We love each other and we love you boys. I promise.’

  I need comfort food. I pull out a packet of chocolate-coated peanuts from the charity box next to the till.

  ‘You have to pay for those,’ says Dad. ‘They’re to help the orphans in Sumatra or something.’

  ‘I will.’

  Dad takes a pack too. We chomp on chocolate peanuts.

  ‘These taste disgusting, Dad.’

  ‘Well, they’ve been here a while now. I told your mother we shouldn’t have taken that box.’

  ‘Maybe whoever left it has forgotten about it?’ I say. Dad shakes his head. ‘People never forget when it comes to money. Mark my words, we’ll have orphans from Sumatra banging on our door one day, demanding money or their chocolate peanuts back.’

  ‘I think I’ll have to spit this out,’ I say.

  ‘It’s a shame Stanley Krongold isn’t here,’ says Dad, chewing slowly. ‘You could spit it at him.’

  I spit the peanuts in the bin.

  ‘Why does he keep coming around?’ I ask.

  ‘He’s trying to wear us down.’

  ‘But he won’t, will he?’

  ‘Never. We are invisible.’

  ‘That would be cool,’ I say, ‘but I think you mean invincible.’

  Dad decides to spit his peanuts into the bin as well. I am proudly showing Mum my nearly finished Ponderosa website. I am trying to think of FAQs, but I’m struggling. I can’t think of any Qs, let alone ones that are FA.

  ‘Should I mention that there has never been a serious fire at The Ponderosa?’ I say.

  ‘No,’ says Mum.

  ‘What about, “There has never been a major disaster of any sort at the Ponderosa”?’

  ‘It might be better to focus on other things. Like the beach and the wildlife.’

  ‘I have described you as cheerful managers. Is that okay?’

  ‘Of course it is. Even if we’re not all that cheerful at the moment. It will pass.’

  Sam rings the next morning as I am beating doormats. I imagine that the doormats are Stanley Krongold, which makes my work easier. My pulse races so quickly that I wonder if it’s possible to have a heart attack at the age of thirteen years, ten months, three weeks, six days and sixteen hours.

  ‘How have you been?’ I say.

  ‘Good,’ says Sam. ‘You?’

  ‘I was afraid you wouldn’t call.’

  ‘I said I would.’

  ‘I know, but things haven’t been going that well for me lately. One of our guests had his pants stolen by a koala.’

  Sam laughs, even though I don’t think it’s funny.

  I explain about how my parents are arguing, and Grandma is making life difficult and Xander is worse than ever. Sam cuts in.

  ‘Do you still want to see me play the flute?’

  ‘Sure. Of course. I want to see you. Even more than the next Star Wars movie.’

  ‘The woodwind ensemble will be giving a concert this afternoon.’

  Sam tells me that they will be playing a selection of popular classics, including ‘Air on the G String’ by J. S. Bach. I laugh at the title. Sam groans. Apparently everyone laughs when they hear the title. The ‘G String’ refers to a string on a musical instrument. J. S. Bach did not, in fact, write a tune to be played on skimpy underwear. I tell Sam that I’ll be at the concert, if my assistant managerial duties permit, which I’m pretty sure they do.

  ‘See you, Adam.’

  ‘See you, Sam.’

  ‘Oh, one more thing.’

  I pray for Sam to tell me that she has been thinking about me a lot and that she has missed me. Instead she gives me the address of an elderly people’s home.

  When I ask Dad if I can take the afternoon off, he tells me that if the guests keep leaving, we can all take the afternoon off. Twenty silver-haired ladies and two bald men sit on plastic chairs, awaiting their afternoon’s concert. The Park Lake nursing home is about to be entertained by Il Gattopardo Pazzo. The five musicians sit at their music stands on a small stage. Sam waves to me, the only person in the audience who is under eighty. I give her a little wave back. Sam’s tights are blue. I think I like these even more than the red and black ones, and definitely more than the green ones. I’m certainly getting to know my tights. As the musicians tune their instruments, the little old lady seated next to me asks who I was waving at. I tell her it’s Sam. The lady asks me if Sam is a boy and if I am gay. She must see my look of surprise because she immediately tells me she has a gay grandson and she likes him the best of all her grandchildren. He comes to visit more than all the others. Mind you, all the others are in juvenile detention, so that figures. I tell the lady that I’m reasonably sure I’m not gay although I think my little brother is, and that Sam is actually short for Samantha, the beautiful red-haired girl on the stage. The lady tells me that Samantha is a beautiful name. She adds that her own name is Ethel. I tell her that’s a beautiful name too, and she chuckles, shaking her head.

  ‘It’s bloody awful. It makes me sound like a chemical,’ she says. ‘Why do so many old ladies have such flipping horrible names? We sound like minerals or nasty organs of the human body.’

  I tell Ethel that my name is Adam. She asks if I’m named after the first man in the bible. I explain that I’m named after a cowboy on a TV show. Ethel thinks this is funny. She says that if she could be named after a character in a TV show she’d like to be called Flipper, after the famous dolphin. Ethel may be a bit crazy, but I like her.

  Their tuning done, Il Gattopardo Pazzo starts its first number, ‘The Entrance of the Queen of Sheba’. Ethel taps her foot and nods happily. Sam looks fantastic as she plays her shiny silver flute, even though it dribbles from time to time. The Queen of Sheba takes quite a long time to enter, and some ladies nod off. But they wake up when everyone claps. I ask Ethel how she knows the tune so well. She tells me that she was around when it was written, two hundred years ago. And she chuckles again.

  ‘Turkey in the Straw’ is next. It goes over better than ‘The Queen of Sheba’. Rico the ensemble leader says the audience can get up and dance if they like. Ethel wants me to dance with her, to make all the other ladies jealous, especially Agnes, whom she hates. She forces me to my feet. There’s a thirty-centimetre height difference between us.

  ‘Relax and follow me,’ she says.

  Eth
el reaches up and places her left hand on my right shoulder. She places my right hand on her left shoulder. We then clasp together our other hands and hold them out, rocking to and fro.

  ‘You’re doing very well,’ she says.

  ‘I feel a bit embarrassed.’

  ‘Don’t.’

  Other couples join in. There is laughter as a lady tries to get a male orderly to dance with her. The ladies encourage him and he finally gets to his feet. It’s as if the ladies have turned into children. They’re as happy as can be, dancing to ‘Turkey in the Straw’, even though crutches sometimes get in the way. The music finishes and we return to our seats. I see Sam smiling at me.

  The next tune is J. S. Bach’s ‘Air on the G String’. It makes me realise that J. S. Bach is a genius, even if he’s lousy at naming his tunes. It’s a sweet, sad melody. The mood in the room changes. Everyone looks reflective.

  ‘This is the music I want for my funeral,’ says Ethel.

  I tell her it’s a good choice. I’d like it for my funeral too.

  ‘I also want “Da Doo Ron Ron”,’ she says.

  ‘Why?’ I ask.

  ‘Just in case people get too sad.’

  After they’ve played, the five musicians join their audience for tea and pieces of Swiss roll served on paper plates. Xander will only eat Swiss roll if the spiral goes anti-clockwise. I give Sam a friendly kiss. Her lips feel odd. Sam explains that I’m kissing her embouchure, the shape her lips have to make so she can play the flute. I say it’s the first time I’ve ever kissed a girl on the embouchure. Ethel overhears and bursts out laughing, as if I’ve said something funny. Maybe I have? Even though the elderly ladies liked the concert, I can tell that Rico is not happy. He’s having some quiet words with the skinny emo girl who plays the oboe.

  ‘That’s Trisha,’ Sam says. ‘She’s a bit of a loony.’

  I wonder if Sam is telling me this because she doesn’t want me to pay too much attention to Trisha. Sam doesn’t need to worry. Trisha is easily twenty years old, which means she’s as old as some of my aunties. She also plays the oboe, which is nowhere near as sexy as the flute.

  ‘Trish is in love with Rico, the bassoon player,’ says Sam.