Ishmael and the Return of the Dungongs

by Michael Gerard Bauer

  Bill, Scobie and I exchanged a few secret glances. For once in his life Ignatius actually seemed to be holding his own against Razza.

  ‘You know what I think your problem is, Prindabel? You’ve got too many calculators stuck up your arse to appreciate the subtleties of language. It’s like Miss said-poetry is condensed, man – it’s compressed. You gotta study it, look at it closely, to really dig it.’

  Ignatius appeared to consider this point seriously. ‘Perhaps you’re right-a second reading may be in order.’

  Razza eyed Ignatius with suspicion then pushed the poem across to him. For the next couple of minutes Prindabel peered closely at the sheet before him, every so often raising his eyebrows, pushing out his lips and nodding thoughtfully. Finally he laid the poem carefully on the desk.

  ‘Orazio, I think I might have been too rash in my judgment. I may have underestimated your special talent.’

  ‘All right, now we’re getting somewhere …’

  ‘Yes,’ Prindabel said solemnly, ‘this isn’t just crap. This is crap of the highest order – crap distilled to its purest form.’

  ‘What!’

  Razza looked desperately around for backup. None came. He tried to speak, but Ignatius was like a man possessed.

  ‘You know, when they finally discover the gene for crap – I predict it’ll be this poem.’

  ‘What are you talking about, Prindabel?’

  ‘I can’t make it any plainer, can I? Your poem … is … gold-medal crap. I don’t know how else to say it.’

  Scobie glanced across at Ignatius. ‘Blue-ribbon crap?’ he put forward helpfully.

  ‘Academy Award-winning crap,’ Bill chimed in.

  ‘Top shelf crap,’ Ignatius added.

  And so began the inaugural St Daniel’s College crap-a-thon as Bill, Scobie and Ignatius bounced ideas around the table.

  ‘The Rolls Royce of crap.’

  ‘A-grade crap.’

  ‘The quintessence of crap.’

  ‘Premium-quality crap.’

  ‘Cutting-edge crap.’

  ‘The crap that other crap aspires to be.’

  ‘The pick of the crop crap.’

  ‘Crap’s crap.’

  Then, when all the suggestions seemed to have dried up, Scobie raised his finger and showed a neat row of tiny white teeth.

  ‘The crème de la crap!’ he said triumphantly and Bill and Ignatius nodded their approval.

  Razza just stood there like road kill. Then he did the thing I’d been dreading. He turned to me. ‘Ishmael … What do you reckon?’

  ‘Well … Razz … It’s just … I just think … It’s not that it’s … you know … There’s nothing really … but you might need to … you know … Well …’

  While I stumbled on, Prindabel scribbled something on a sheet of paper and held it up. It said: Translation = It’s CRAP!

  There was a stunned silence. The unthinkable was happening – Ignatius Prindabel was out-razzing the Razzman. It was like a prize fight, and the undisputed champion was now swaying on the ropes with bleary eyes.

  ‘You talk about crap,’ Razza said. ‘Well, I’ll tell you what’s crap, Prindabel …’

  It was the moment of truth. If the champ was going to avoid an upset, then now was the time to produce the killer punch. Razza’s eyes flicked around to everyone at the table, then they carefully lined up Ignatius.

  ‘You’re crap – that’s what’s crap!’

  Ignatius let Razza’s barb sail harmlessly past his chin and then turned casually to Scobie. ‘Did you know that if you put a group of monkeys in a room with computers and keyboards and leave them there for eternity, it’s a mathematical fact that eventually, just by chance and the laws of probability, they’ll end up producing the entire works of Shakespeare?’

  Razza groaned loudly. ‘And your point is, Prindabel?’

  ‘No point, really,’ Ignatius said, turning to face Razza. ‘I was just wondering how many minutes it would take a baboon with a crayon to come up with your poem.’

  Razza went to speak but instead snatched his poem from the desk and stalked from the room.

  Ignatius locked his hands behind his head, put his feet up on the desk and rocked back on his chair smiling crookedly at us. ‘You know what?’ he said happily. ‘I’m beginning to really like this poetry stuff.’

  13.

  THE ALLURE OF L’AMOUR

  I must admit, I did feel a little sorry for Razza. At the same time I was secretly pleased that Prindabel seemed to have successfully blown the whole crazy poetry idea out of the water. By lunchtime the following day I had pretty much convinced Razza that as ‘wicked’ as his plan was, it was time to let it go.

  I blame Miss Tarango for putting it back on the agenda.

  ‘Hi, boys. How did the debating meeting go?’

  I glanced at Razza. ‘We kind of had to cancel it, Miss. We’re trying again another time.’

  ‘Oh, too bad. You know, I’m counting on you boys to lead the way again. You really put debating on the map at St Daniel’s last year. We’ve got enough takers for four teams in Year Nine now, and the new Year Eights seem super keen.’

  There was a pause as Miss Tarango scanned the playground and asked a passing boy to ‘pop’ a bit of paper in the bin for her.

  Then the human rip returned.

  ‘Miss … you know what you said in class … about those dudes in Shakespeare’s time sending love poems?

  I had a sickly feeling in my stomach. Someone was making balloon animals out of my lower intestine. ‘Razz … what’re you doing?’

  ‘Just asking Miss about poetry, all right? I mean, Miss … just say a guy today wrote a cool poem and sent it to someone he really really liked … do you reckon she’d think that was pretty wicked or what?’

  Miss Tarango’s eyes narrowed. ‘Orazio Zorzotto – you sly dog-don’t tell me you’ve fallen victim to the allure of l’amour?’

  Razza scrunched up his face.

  ‘Have you been king-hit by Cupid, Orazio? Bitten by the love bug?’

  ‘Me? Nah, no way, Miss – him.’

  He was pointing at me. A trapdoor had dropped open in the bottom of my stomach and all my balloon animal insides were sliding into my bowels.

  Miss Tarango’s eyes zoomed in on me. ‘Ishmael? Is this true? Have you abandoned me for another?’

  My cheeks couldn’t have burned more if I’d spent the night with my face wedged in a sandwich maker. I didn’t think it could get much worse, but then Razza opened his mouth again and my personal life came pouring out of it like gravel from a tip truck.

  ‘Yeah, ‘fraid so, Miss. See, Ishmael’s got the hots bad for this Kelly chick. He thinks she’s perfect and everything. Only trouble is, she’s sort of got this male model himbo boyfriend Brad, so what we figured was, if we could just write one of those love poems you’ve been talking about, she’d dump the Bradster and be all over Ishmael like sauce on a sausage roll. Is that a wicked plan or what?’

  My life was flashing before my eyes like the highlights reel for World’s Worst Disasters Caught on Video. I examined the bitumen between my feet and wondered how long it would take me to claw a hole deep enough to bury myself in.

  ‘Orazio,’ Miss Tarango said, ‘would I be right in guessing that this “wicked plan” is your “wicked plan”?’

  Beside me Razza was nodding enthusiastically.

  ‘And what about you, Ishmael?’ Miss Tarango said, turning to me. ‘What’s your take on all of this?’

  ‘I don’t think it’s such a great idea,’ I said.

  What I really wanted to tell her was that, as an idea, I’d put it right up there with ‘Hey, let’s strike a match and see if we can find that massive gas leak’.

  ‘He’s just chicken, Miss. I even wrote a poem for him. It was awesome, but he won’t use it-reckons Kelly wouldn’t go for it or something. He’s mad.’ Razza paused, then clicked his fingers. ‘Hey, Miss, maybe you could help us write something? Yeah, you’d
know the kind of stuff that’d work, ’cause after all, you’re a chi … I mean … you know … ’cause you’re a gir … Well … you’re a … You know … You’re a …’

  Miss Tarango’s face set hard like porcelain and she held Razza firmly in her sights. ‘Careful now, Orazio,’ she said, ‘three strikes and I guarantee you’ll be well and truly out.’

  Razza swallowed. ‘Well … you’re like a … a female woman … and everything …’ he said, forcing a smile.

  ‘Ummmm … Well, I guess I can let you live … this time,’ Miss Tarango said as her dimples reappeared right on cue. ‘However, as for helping you write a declaration of affection for a young lady in poetry form, I think I might be out of my depth. But Ishmael, if you do decide to go ahead with this “wicked plan”, my only advice is, just be honest and sincere-be yourself – and don’t do anything you’re not comfortable with, even though some people we know, not mentioning any names, Orazio Zorzotto, might be very persuasive and persistent.’

  ‘Me, Miss? I’m just trying to help.’

  ‘Yes, well, no disrespect, Orazio, but maybe you could consider seeking out a more experienced and mature male perspective on these … affairs of the heart.’

  Razza considered this suggestion for a moment then said excitedly, ‘Hey, I know. We could ask Mr McCracken for help.’

  ‘Oh god, no!’ Miss Tarango blurted out, then sort of froze. ‘Well … no … What I mean is … There’s nothing wrong with Mr McCracken … He’s a fine teacher, of course … It’s just that you might need someone who’s a little less … well, a little less … Look, it’s just that I think you might be better off with someone with a little more … a little more … Well … you know … someone that’s … Someone who … Someone with … Well … Someone else.’

  It sounded like Miss Tarango had been taking lessons at the Ishmael Leseur School of Eloquence. I wasn’t quite sure what she was getting at about Mr McCracken, but I knew why Razza thought he would be the man to see.

  McCracken taught Maths and Economics and had quite a reputation at St Daniel’s. For a start, he drove a customised ute that dripped with chrome and he played rugby for the State. His real claim to fame, however, in the eyes of the boys of St Daniel’s, was the fact that every school function he attended he was accompanied by a different partner and each one could have been plucked right off the catwalk. As far as Razza was concerned, there was only one way to describe Clinton McCracken – ‘Legend!’.

  ‘Well, anyway boys, I have to get back to food-fight patrol – some of the natives are starting to get restless. So good luck, and Ishmael, don’t worry too much about those male-model Fabio types, OK? They’re usually not what they’re cracked up to be … believe me. And this … Kelly, is it? … Well, if you really like her, then she must be something special, so if old what’s-his-face hopes to hold on to her, he’d better have a lot more going for him than just looks. But you know what? My money’s on you. I’ve got a feeling there’s plenty of smart girls out there who’d find you pretty special too.’

  ‘Thanks, Miss.’ I knew she was probably just saying that to make me feel good, but the thing is … it made me feel good.

  ‘Hey Miss, what about me? What do you reckon chicks think about me?’

  ‘You, Orazio?’ Miss Tarango said, holding her chin and curling her mouth to one side. ‘Well, you tell me. Do you honestly think there has ever been a female of the species born who could resist the magic and magnetism of the Zorzotto charm?’

  Razza hesitated for a moment and then broke into a super-sized smile. ‘I doubt it, Miss. I seriously doubt it.’

  Miss Tarango shook her head slowly and laughed. There are some sounds that they should bottle and give to sick people. ‘You guys just crack me up,’ she said, and turned to leave.

  Razza and I were both smiling and watching her walk away (perhaps a little more closely than we should have been) when she stopped and spun round. ‘Hey, I just had a thought. If you did decide to go ahead with the poem thing and you really needed some help, you know who you should see?’

  Razza and I performed a dual head shake.

  ‘Mr Guthrie.’

  We watched for a second as Miss Tarango wove her way across the playground. Then we turned to each other.

  ‘Pele?’ we said, screwing up our faces.

  14.

  NYUK! NYUK! NYUK!

  Unlike the Brazilian soccer star generally rated as the world’s greatest ever footballer, Mr Guthrie was better known as an English/Geography teacher and Year Ten boarding master. He looked more like a trainee hippie, though. It was probably the dreadlocks that did it. The nickname ‘Pele’ stuck after his famous performance in last year’s inter-house soccer tournament.

  The lunchtime competition had been organised to celebrate the World Cup, with each of St Daniel’s eight houses fielding a six-man team made up of one student from each year level plus a teacher. Our team, the Charlton House Chiefs, made it to the final thanks mainly to our house master Mr Kryneborg, an ex-A grade player. The other thing we had going for us was the flair of our Year Nine representative Orazio Zorzotto.

  Our opponents were the Radley House Rockets. They were in the final because they had the strongest team and because their teacher representative was Mr Hardcastle, the St Daniel’s sports master. It was difficult to miss Mr Hardcastle. He was stocky, with a chest like an over-sized granite boulder, a neck thicker than his number-three blade head and muscles that wrestled each other for space. When you added to that the tact of a wild boar, the sensitivity of a pile driver and the people skills of a rodeo bull, you had a man whose idea of getting in touch with his feminine side was pointing out when someone was ‘acting like a girl’.

  But it wasn’t just Mr Hardcastle’s intimidating physical presence that drove the Radley Rockets to the final. It was also his passionately held personal philosophy, which was summed up in the oft-repeated phrase, ‘losing is for losers’. Another favourite mantra was, ‘I don’t know the meaning of the word fail’. The first time he said that in PE it prompted Razza to suggest to me (a little too loudly as it turned out) that Mr Hardcastle probably didn’t know the meaning of the word ‘brain’ either. That was when Mr Hardcastle taught Razza the meaning of the word ‘push-up’.

  On the day of the big match, Mr Hardcastle and the Radley Rockets were at full strength, but Charlton House suffered a major setback – our star player Mr Kryneborg was away on a school excursion. A replacement teacher had to be found. That’s where Mr Guthrie came in. At first it didn’t seem too bad. After all, at least Mr Guthrie was young and looked pretty fit. But when he ran out on the field that day, I can’t say our spirits exactly soared.

  It wasn’t just because Mr Guthrie’s shorts looked like hand-me-downs from Andre the Giant or because his socks were bunched like ankle warmers on top of his no-name joggers or because his ropy dreadlocked hair was held back by an Amnesty International headband or even because he was wearing a T-shirt featuring a photo of the Three Stooges on the front with the words Nyuk! Nyuk! Nyuk! scrawled on the back. No, it was more the fact that during the pre-match drills, the ball seemed to bounce off or roll right past him every time he tried to control it. Razza, who was decked out from head to toe in his best AC Milan gear, spent most of the warm-up shaking his head.

  By kick-off time, a big crowd encircled the field, with the Charlton and Radley supporters packing the grassy terraces on opposing sidelines. Miss Tarango joined us wearing a red Charlton House Chiefs T-shirt and carrying two balls of red crepe streamers.

  ‘Show us your pom-poms!’ Barry Bagsley shouted from up the back.

  Unfortunately for Barry, the only things Miss showed him were her detention book and the way to Mr Barker’s office.

  Just before the match started, Miss Tarango addressed the Charlton boys sternly about being ‘good sports’ and not getting too ‘carried away’ with our support. She called for what she described as a ‘bit of decorum and class’. I think it might have had somet
hing to do with the fact that the Principal, Brother Jerome, had just taken up a position beside her.

  The scene was set. Scobie and the Charlton seniors launched into our war cry, and it wasn’t long before both houses were trading chants and the teams were lining up for the kick-off. Mr Barker, the Deputy Principal, was the referee. There would be no disputed calls. He checked with both teams and blew the whistle.

  The Chiefs were playing a kind of one, three, one formation with Razza as our lone attacking forward, followed by a three-man midfield, and Mr Guthrie as our last line of defence. I have to say this for Mr Guthrie, although he seemed to have all the style and athleticism of an intoxicated giraffe, you couldn’t bag his effort. Whenever someone appeared about to break through or take a shot, he always managed to get some part of his body in the way-often painfully – and although he seemed to spend a lot of time sprawled on the ground, it worked.

  The other thing you couldn’t help noticing about Mr Guthrie was that he was enjoying himself. When he wasn’t getting tangled up with Radley players and shaking his head and smiling in disbelief at how he had managed to stop another raid, he was encouraging and congratulating everyone around him – even the opposition. This, of course, was in stark contrast to Mr Hardcastle, who was charging around like Godzilla with a migraine barking orders so furiously that the big veins in his neck stuck out like garden hose.

  As for Razza, within a few minutes of kick-off he’d succeeded in turning himself into Radley House’s public enemy number one. This was partly because he was the obvious danger man, but mostly because of his tendency to fling himself dramatically on the pitch and call for a penalty every time an opposition player strayed within a metre radius of him. This finally came to an end when he backed into Mr Barker without realising it, performed a swan dive that even the Russian judge at the Olympics would have given a perfect ten and lay writhing on the ground clutching his ankle and moaning, ‘Do something, ref – I’m being hacked to pieces out here!’

  Mr Barker did do something. He gave Razza a yellow card and five minutes in the sin bin.