by Tim Harris
‘It’s perfect!’ I said.
I paid the lady and took the unicycle outside. It was time to start my transformation. Then my worries would vanish.
I hopped onto the bike the same way I’d seen Mr Bambuckle do it. He always made it look so easy. It turns out it’s actually quite difficult. Especially when you’re wearing a backpack. And especially when you start rolling down a hill.
The pedals started to speed up as I wobbled down the slope of the main street. I was headed straight for the supermarket and there was nothing I could do to stop.
The automatic doors sensed me approaching and opened wide like a giant glassy mouth. I swayed in through the entrance and crashed into a pyramid of apples, sending them rolling across the polished floor.
‘Sorry,’ I said to the fresh produce worker, who was glaring at me. ‘Just trying to be like my teacher.’ I pointed to the unicycle.
‘Be careful, son,’ said the worker. ‘Good thing you didn’t land on the eggs.’
Eggs.
It gave me an idea. Mr Bambuckle was always cooking bacon and eggs in his frypan. It was something I could do to be more like him. It was something that could make me happy.
‘Thank you!’ I cried. ‘You’re a genius!’
The worker managed a nod of acknowledgement, before promptly slipping on one of the apples.
I got back on the unicycle and made my way over to the eggs. The wheel of the bike narrowly missed a stack of cartons, but I managed to pluck one from the top.
Gliding past the cold meats, I swiped a packet of bacon and balanced it on top of the egg carton. I also spotted some juicy beef sausages and added them to my pile.
I almost bumped into an old man who was choosing a new spatula in the utensil aisle. He turned and smiled at me. ‘What splendid entertainment these supermarkets provide nowadays.’
‘I’m not a performer,’ I said. ‘I just want to be like my teacher.’
The old man clapped. ‘Marvellous entertainment … simply marvellous.’
I spotted a frypan hanging on display and grabbed it. I put the bacon and eggs and sausages inside the pan with my other hand and steadied myself.
‘A worthy busker,’ said the old man, placing a coin in the frypan. ‘What a terrific show.’
‘He’s not busking,’ snapped a lady with grey hair, who had shuffled into the aisle. ‘He’s one of those promotional taste-testing fellows.’
The old man winked at me and spun a finger around his ear as if to suggest she was crazy. ‘She’s a mad one, my wife. Never did recognise good entertainment.’
‘I can hear you, fool,’ retorted the lady. She turned her attention to me. ‘Now, what samples are you offering today, young man?’
Balancing on the unicycle, I held out the frypan to show the lady I was a customer like her.
She scrunched up her nose. ‘Just a tip, young man … you may want to cook the food first, before offering it for tasting.’
Concentrating hard to maintain my balance, I finally lost control of the unicycle and wobbled towards the front of the supermarket. I tried to slow down so that I could pay for everything at the checkout, but I sped straight past.
‘Stop!’ cried a man working on the cash registers. ‘Thief!’
The automatic doors opened and I found myself hurtling down the main road of Blue Valley. I thundered past shop after shop, gathering speed as I rode out-of-control towards the river.
Nobody could have caught me if they tried. The wind rushed through my hair and my legs pumped like pistons. I leapt off the cycle at the bottom of the hill – just before the water – dropping the pan and food onto the grass as I crashed in a heap.
There is an old bridge down near the river that proved to be a good hiding spot. I was too scared to go back to the supermarket to pay for what I’d taken. Even if I explained what had happened, the staff wouldn’t believe me. Just like Dad never believes me when I say sorry for making mistakes. I didn’t mean to steal, so I planned to sneak back and pay for what I’d taken later.
I waited until I was sure nobody was coming, then I began to practise on the unicycle. I had to be a better rider if I wanted to be like my teacher.
I tried balancing on the spot, riding in tight circles, spinning around and making small jumps until I felt more confident.
After a few hours, hunger was making my stomach rumble like a V8 engine. It was late afternoon and I hadn’t eaten anything apart from a muesli bar and some leftover marshmallows earlier that morning. I took the matches out of my backpack and lit a small fire. Then I sliced open the packet of sausages and placed three in the frypan. Soon the beef was sizzling and popping, just like it did in Mr Bambuckle’s frypan. To speed up the cooking process, I used the knife to cut the sausages into bite-sized pieces.
My teacher often rode his unicycle when he cooked, so I thought it was time to do the same.
I hopped on the bike and found my balance, leaning over carefully to retrieve the frypan from the fire. I managed to grasp the handle and straighten up.
I was doing it. I was being Mr Bambuckle.
And yet something wasn’t quite right. I didn’t feel like Mr Bambuckle. He was always smiling. Maybe I needed to be even more like him to be happy.
Without warning, a piece of sausage popped and some burning fat leapt from the pan and stung my wrist. I jerked my hand and was thrown off balance. I waved my arm to steady myself, sending the frypan somersaulting through the air. The chopped-up pieces of sausage fell out of the pan and tumbled down like beef rain. They stuck to my clothes.
‘Great!’
I had enough money to buy a new outfit, so I rode back up the hill towards the shops on the main street. The bright signage of a clothing store became my target.
Before long, the smell of cooked sausages drew the attention of a pack of stray dogs.
Woof!
Ba-roo-roo!
Bark! Bark!
They were after me.
I pedalled as hard as I could, powering towards the safety of the shop.
One of the dogs jumped up and snatched a piece of meat from my shirt.
Woof!
‘Down, boy!’
A German shepherd bounded alongside me and grabbed another piece from my hip. The dog tilted me sideways, but I was becoming a better rider and managed to regain my balance.
Yip! Yip! Yip!
An orange chihuahua nipped at a piece of sausage stuck to my heel. It jumped up and tried to bite it off, though inhaled more of my sock than the meat. The tiny dog hung on stubbornly to my foot as I pedalled faster. It spun around and around like a fluffy toy in a washing machine.
Eventually, it let go and tumbled sideways, dizzy from its adventure, though chomping triumphantly on the sausage.
Bark! Bark!
A black labrador pounced on my back and licked some meat from my shoulders.
I was almost there. I leapt off the unicycle and carried it inside, scrambling through the door and closing it behind me, panting hard.
‘You’re popular,’ said the lady behind the counter, looking at me from head to toe and then outside at the dogs.
‘I need some new clothes, please.’
‘Is there a particular style you’re after?’
I thought of Mr Bambuckle. ‘Do you have any blue jackets?’
The lady rubbed her chin thoughtfully. ‘Actually, we do.’
A few minutes later, looking like a mini version of my favourite teacher, I rode my unicycle out of the store. My blue jacket sparkled in the sunset. A cream-coloured scarf kept my neck warm and trailed behind me. Surely, I would be happy now.
There was no sign of the dogs – who must have taken the bait and gone after my old clothes in the bin behind the shop – so I was free to ride back down the road to the bridge. I would set up camp for the night and work out what to do the next day.
I flipped a piece of bacon in my frypan early the next morning and balanced steadily on my unicycle. I was becoming an expert
Mr Bambuckle, though I still didn’t feel the way I’d hoped I would.
Something had been weighing on my mind. I hadn’t paid for the food and pan from the supermarket yet. In all the excitement of the previous day, I had literally wheeled around with accidentally stolen goods. Maybe this was why I wasn’t feeling happy. What would my teacher say? What would he do?
I packed up my things, stuffed them into my bag and rode up to the supermarket. The store wasn’t open yet, so I slid an apology note and some money – more than the amount I owed – into the mail chute and dusted my hands. I felt proud of myself. This must have been how Slugger felt when he put the money back in my tent. It was why Mr Bambuckle was always telling us about honesty. It’s the opposite of what Dad would have done. He would have laughed and congratulated me for getting free stuff.
The next problem I had was finding somewhere warmer to camp. The bridge was too cold and I hadn’t slept very well the night before.
After buying some more food from a convenience store, I rode further up the main street, heading away from the shops and closer to suburban streets. I had an idea.
The morning traffic was building up, so I sat down on the kerb and watched the cars as they drove by. Studying motor vehicles is one of my favourite pastimes, and this was a golden opportunity to do it.
The deep rumble of a 1967 XR Falcon caught my attention. The car was painted dark red and the engine hummed, tuned to perfection by its owner.
Shortly after, a yellow Bugatti drove past. I couldn’t believe my eyes. It must have been worth a million dollars! Dad would have loved it. It disappeared around the corner and the traffic began to thin.
Feeling energised, I rode further into suburbia, scanning for somewhere to hide out for a while. It didn’t take me long to find what I was looking for.
I stopped outside a double-storey brick house with an enormous detached garage. The garage door was wide open and I could see it was cluttered with boxes, old furniture and tools. It was perfect.
Slipping inside, I looked around more carefully. Whoever owned the garage must have taken their car out for a while. There was a huge space in the middle where it belonged. Oil stains – some fresher than others – marked the concrete floor.
I wheeled my unicycle behind a chest of drawers and shifted a lounge away from the wall. It would make an ideal hiding spot. There was even a stack of folded blankets on an old office desk.
The splutter of an unhealthy engine startled me. A white Datsun 1600 rolled into the garage and I ducked down behind the lounge. I could hear the driver open the door and step out. Judging by the sound, whoever it was had high heels on.
A lady spoke, frightening me.
‘George, the car engine requires work …’
Phew, she was speaking on the phone.
‘Yes, yes … I know it’s an expensive job … It was my father’s car and I want to honour his memory with a full engine restoration …’
The lady walked towards the house and the automatic garage door closed, locking me in. But I didn’t panic. It was a safe, warm place to hide and I had enough food and water.
I made myself comfortable and stayed until morning.
When I woke up, I waited until the Datsun 1600 had driven out of sight before making my next move. I’d decided that to be more like Mr Bambuckle, to be happy in life, I needed a pet bird like Dodger.
After another muesli bar for breakfast, I rode into town and found the pet store. A teenage boy with pimples on his cheeks greeted me with a wave. ‘Good morning,’ he said, his voice breaking between low and high-pitched squeaks. ‘How can I help you?’
‘I’d like a pet bird,’ I said. ‘Do you have anything small and blue?’
The teenager’s voice wavered uncontrollably. ‘We only have one bird left – a large white one. A cockatoo.’
‘Well, I’ll take it,’ I said. ‘But I don’t need a cage.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Positive. I’ve got my jacket pocket.’
The boy raised an eyebrow and removed the cockatoo from its cage.
I paid at the counter and walked outside, feeling like the real deal. Nothing was going to stop me from becoming like my teacher. Now I would have to feel happy. I put the cockatoo on my shoulder and started riding back to my hideout.
‘Go to bed! Go to bed!’ The raspy voice of the cockatoo squawked in my ear.
‘Woah! You can talk!’
The cockatoo shuffled around on my shoulder, leaning forward. ‘Go to bed! Go to bed!’
‘But it’s not bedtime,’ I said.
‘Peanut butter bickie! Peanut butter bickie!’
‘Umm …’
‘Baby! Baby!’
The cockatoo’s randomness was hilarious. ‘I’m naming you Roger,’ I said. ‘You’re like a random Dodger.’
‘Roger, over and out! Roger, over and out!’ said Roger.
I rode back to my garage hideout, my new pet keeping me company. The door was open and I placed the unicycle behind the cabinet. ‘This is where we live, Roger.’
‘Caviar! Caviar!’
Before too long, the white Datsun 1600 drove back up the driveway, the engine choking and spluttering.
I ducked behind the lounge and whispered to Roger. ‘You have to keep quiet now.’
I could hear the lady step out of the car. She was muttering to herself. ‘Three thousand bucks for a leaky engine … there’s no way we can afford that kind of money …’
Before I could stop him, Roger squawked loudly. ‘Barbecue prawn! Barbecue prawn!’
‘Is someone there?’ said the lady.
I covered Roger’s beak with my hand. ‘Shh … don’t … say … a … word.’
An uncomfortable silence filled the shed. It was only disrupted when the lady’s phone rang.
‘George, yes … no … they want three thousand dollars to fix the engine …’
Her voice faded with her footsteps as she walked towards the house.
‘That was a close call, Roger,’ I said. ‘But I don’t think we can stay here anymore. You’re too noisy.’
‘Pancake! Pancake!’
‘Shh, keep it down.’
The lady didn’t return to the garage, but she left the door open.
‘Before we go,’ I said to Roger, ‘I want to take a quick look at that engine …’
I clicked open the bonnet and scanned the motor. Something wasn’t quite right with the cylinder head. Perhaps there were other problems as well?
A toolkit at the back of the garage caught my eye. I felt a sudden thrill of excitement – the Datsun’s engine presented the kind of challenge I was ready for. Now that I was like Mr Bambuckle, I could do anything. ‘This could take a while,’ I said to Roger. ‘Let’s get to work.’
I pedalled down a quiet alleyway behind the shops on the main street. I figured it would be safer to sleep somewhere where Roger could make noise without getting us arrested for trespassing.
I stopped at the back of the bakery and sat down. Two concrete stairwells formed a barrier against the weather. A couple of flattened cardboard boxes and a plastic bag stuffed with clothes lay between the stairs.
‘This will do for tonight, Roger.’
‘Brussels sprouts! Brussels sprouts!’
I sat with my back to the wall and pulled an apple from my bag. I still had plenty of money left. With the shops nearby, food wouldn’t be a problem.
‘Excuse me …’ said a gruff voice. ‘What are you doing in my spot?’
I looked up to see a bearded man staring down at me. He was wearing grimy clothes and stank like he hadn’t had a shower in months. Despite his rough appearance, he had a kind face.
‘What do you mean “your spot”?’ I said.
‘This is where I live,’ he replied.
‘You live behind the bakery?’
The man nodded and pointed to the flattened boxes. ‘That’s my bed.’ He paused, noticing Roger on my shoulder. ‘That’s a fine bird you have.’
>
‘I … I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘I didn’t realise this was your home.’
The man looked me up and down. ‘What’s a kid like you doing in a place like this anyway?’
‘I’m running away,’ I said.
The man sat down next to me. ‘And why would a kid like you be running away?’ His voice was coarse, though sincere.
‘I’m running away because I need to change. I want to be like my teacher. I figure if I’m like him, my life will be better and I won’t be unhappy all the time. Though, to be honest, I thought it would have worked by now. I’ve done everything I can to be like him … but I kinda miss my mum and dad …’
The man allowed a thoughtful silence to pass between us before he spoke again. ‘You got a name, kid?’
I thought about Mr Bambuckle. Perhaps having a name like his was the final step in my transformation. ‘Yes … yes, I do. It’s Mr Bloombickle.’
I half expected a magical change to sweep over me with my new name. But it didn’t.
‘What’s your name?’ I asked.
‘Oli,’ said the man.
‘Nice to meet you, Oli,’ I said, and we shook hands.
‘Let me tell you something important, Mr Bloom bickle,’ said the man. ‘Running away doesn’t solve anything. Trust me, I should know. About six years ago, I ran away from my problems because I thought it would help. You know what? It didn’t. It only meant I let other people down … and I let myself down too.’
Another long silence hung in the air.
‘I haven’t seen my family or friends in all that time … and not a day goes by that I don’t regret it.’
‘Why don’t you go home now?’ I asked.
‘I’m too scared. As time passes, it becomes harder to go back to what you had. You don’t want to be running away at your age, Mr Bloombickle. Not when you’ve got your whole life ahead of you.’
Oli reached into his pocket and pulled out a broken piece of cracker. He fed it to Roger.
‘Popsicle! Popsicle!’
‘He certainly is a fine bird.’
I thought about what Oli had said. Maybe he was right. Running away at my age was a selfish thing to do. I needed to tackle my problems head-on, just like I did with the Datsun engine. I realised that’s what gave me real happiness – helping other people. I was only thinking about myself when I ran away. My parents would be worried sick. I knew deep down they loved me, even if Dad had a strange way of showing it. I also had a teacher and classmates who would be missing me. Running away had been a bad decision. Now it was time to go home and make things right. I had to be a better version of Vex Vron, not an imitation of somebody else.