Don't Call Me Ishmael

by Michael Gerard Bauer

  There was that one time, though, I guess I did stand up to Barry Bagsley … well, you know, sort of.

  11.

  INSIDE THE MINCING MACHINE

  It happened on the last day of first term. I was on my way home. I had just passed through the school gates and was about to turn down the long cement path that ran between Moorfield Creek and a row of six playing fields imaginatively referred to by everyone at St Daniel’s as ‘The Fields’.

  Normally I had no trouble avoiding Barry Bagsley after school. If he wasn’t tied up with rugby or cricket training, he always bolted from school on the final bell like an escaping prisoner. As a matter of survival, I made it my business to know as much about Barry Bagsley’s daily routine as he did. That way I knew when I could leave school straightaway, when it was wise to wait in the library (a place Barry Bagsley never voluntarily visited), what areas of the school grounds and playing fields to avoid and which route home I should take.

  On this particular day, however, even with all available intelligence at my disposal, I had taken only one step on the path alongside the Fields when I glanced up and saw Barry Bagsley and two of his mates fifty metres or so down the track. Luckily they hadn’t seen me yet. All I had to do was turn back and take the long way home. And this is exactly what I would have done if I hadn’t seen him.

  I recognised the uniform straightaway-the green and blue of my old school, Moorfield Primary. I’d missed him because he was so small–probably only in Year Three or Four–and the other larger boys had blocked him from my view. At first I thought it was some kind of game, because Barry and the other two, who I now recognised as Danny Wallace and Doug Savage, were tossing something between them while the little kid tried to catch it. Then I realised it was the boy’s hat, and if it was a game, he wasn’t enjoying it much because he was wiping tears from his eyes.

  Every atom in my body told me that this was one of those times when the sensible thing to do was to make myself small. A few backward steps and I would be out of sight. Then I could forget all about Barry Bagsley and his mob. But that was just it. I could forget about the rest of them, but I couldn’t get the kid out of my mind. I won’t he. I’m no hero. I wanted to turn around and run. I wanted to make myself small. I wanted to make myself disappear. The problem was, I had the terrible feeling that if I did, I might not ever be able to find myself again.

  I don’t know why, or what I thought I could do, but I found myself walking towards the triangle of grey uniforms and the small green-blue figure caught between them. I felt like a wooden puppet jerking and jumping as some madman operated the strings. It took every ounce of my concentration just to keep the movement of my arms and feet in order and stop them from tangling together and bringing me crashing to the ground.

  Questions tumbled around inside my head like lotto balls. What am I doing here? Have I gone completely insane? Do I really think I can help? Why are my knees hitting together when I walk? Is it possible for a heart to pound its way through a chest? How did that prayer go that Grandma swore never failed? Is it too late to get the hell out of here?

  ‘What d’ya know, it’s Fish-whale!’

  Well, at least I knew the answer to my last question.

  ‘Hey, Le Spewer, wanna play some Frisbee?’ Barry Bagsley laughed and sent a floppy blue hat with a large letter ‘M’ embroidered on it sailing across to Danny Wallace.

  The boy from Moorfield Primary made a half-hearted effort to catch it, but he had long since realised he was powerless. He looked at me with his red eyes and dirt-smeared cheeks as if I were just another tormentor.

  Danny Wallace tossed the hat back to Barry Bagsley.

  ‘What d’ya say, Piss-whale, you up for a game?’

  I shook my head.

  ‘What, you don’t want to play with us? I’m shattered. Hey, boys, I don’t think Manure here likes us. He doesn’t want to play’

  The other two laughed and pretended to be upset.

  ‘Why don’t you just give him back his hat?’ There it was. I’d said it. There was no turning back now. I had strapped myself to the conveyer belt and was headed towards the mincing machine.

  ‘Give back his hat?’ Barry said in mock horror. ‘But we were having so much fun, weren’t we boys?’ Danny and Doug smiled like gangsters.

  ‘He’s not having fun. Just give him back his hat.’ I could hear the grinding and gnashing of steel on flesh.

  ‘Well, Fish-whale, if you want him to have his hat back, why don’t you just come and take it?’

  Of course, what else would he say? It was as if we were caught in some ancient ritual where the lines and roles were always the same. What could I do? What could I say? Maybe if I were Wolverine from X-Men I could release the steel blades from my knuckles and slice Barry Bagsley into a pile of human onion rings. But wait, I don’t have any super powers, do I? That’s right, I forgot. I can’t even bend steel in my bare hands or breathe out a tornado or turn people into ice just by staring at them. I can’t even entangle them in a spider’s web that squirts from my wrists. No, I guess I would just have to rely on the power of my enormous intellect to conjure up a devastating retort.

  ‘Come on, just give him back his hat,’ I bleated. Brilliant! I could tell Barry and his sidekicks were wilting under the barrage of my inspired words.

  ‘What’s the matter, Fish Dick? Here’s your chance to be a hero. You’re not scared, are ya?’

  I said nothing. I did nothing. I was being ground and mashed into pulp.

  ‘I tell you what. If you give us your hat to play Frisbee with, I promise I’ll give the kid his hat back.’

  No he wouldn’t. I knew it and he knew it. Probably even Danny, Doug and the kid knew it. But I was so deep inside the mincing machine now, I had no choice but to hold on and wait until I was spat out the other end. I pulled my hat from my bag and gave it to Barry Bagsley.

  ‘Great, two hats to play with–double the fun!’

  I watched as my hat sailed across to Doug Savage, who plucked it casually from the air.

  ‘Come on, you said you’d give it back,’ I moaned impressively.

  ‘Oh no, I must have been lying. I’m going to burn in hell! Save me! Save me!’

  Barry Bagsley has a fine sense of sarcasm. If only he could use it for good rather than evil.

  They continued to toss the hats around. The Moorfield boy didn’t try to stop them. Neither did I. What was the point? What if I did manage to catch one? What would happen then? Finally both hats ended up back in Barry Bagsley’s hands.

  ‘This is getting boring. You still want your hat back?’ he said to the kid, who nodded without enthusiasm.

  ‘Well, here ya go, then.’

  Barry Bagsley rocked back like a discus thrower and with a thrust of his arm sent the hat sailing high above the little Moorfield boy’s head, over the embankment and down into the stagnant creek. ‘Oops,’ he said, placing his hand over his mouth. ‘It must have slipped. I’ll try to be more careful this time. Your turn, Blubber Boy.’

  We all watched my grey felt school hat rocket right across the creek and lodge high up in a tangle of lantana. Danny and Dougie applauded and cheered. Barry Bagsley doubled over with laughter. Where were those retractable steel blades when you needed them?

  ‘Don’t worry, mate,’ Barry Bagsley shouted back at the Moorfield kid as he swaggered off with Danny and Doug, ‘Fish–whale’ll get ya hat. He loves the water.’

  The Moorfield kid and I didn’t speak as we edged our way down the bank to pluck his soggy hat from the green slime of the creek. And there were no words either as I struggled through the rasping lantana to retrieve mine. When we finally scrambled our way back up to the path, the awkward silence continued to hang around us.

  ‘Well, I guess I showed them, huh?’

  The Moorfield kid kept his eyes to the ground.

  ‘Yep, I reckon they’ll think twice before they try something like that again.’

  The Moorfield kid looked down at the pat
h, where dark splotches of water fell from his hat.

  ‘They should really consider themselves lucky, you know. Usually in situations like that, I lose my temper, turn green, expand to ten times my normal size and destroy everything in my path.’

  The Moorfield kid lifted his head slightly and looked up at me.

  ‘Yeah, that’s right. It’s a bit of a bummer, actually. But recently I’ve taken one of those anger management courses because I was a bit worried I might really hurt someone. Besides, do you know how embarrassing it is to walk home with your school uniform and underpants in shreds?’

  The Moorfield kid’s lips moved a little.

  ‘Last time Mum went ballistic’

  The Moorfield kid spoke.

  ‘Did she turn green?’

  ‘No … a lovely shade of crimson, as I recall.’

  The Moorfield kid smiled.

  ‘Look … don’t worry about those guys, all right? They’re morons. They haven’t got enough brains to even appreciate how stupid they are. I’m Ishmael, by the way. Not according to that lot, of course, but they have this problem with names–particularly mine. Apparently they use up all their short-term recall just remembering to breathe. What’s your name, then?’

  ‘Marty.’

  ‘Well, Marty, unless you want to play another round of Fetch the Hat from the Creek, I suggest we both go home. Which way are you headed?’

  We walked to the end of the Fields together sharing stories about Moorfield Primary before our paths divided. ‘O?, see ya, Marty … oh, and if you ever need any help getting your hat thrown in the creek again, I’m your man, all right?’

  ‘OK … thanks,’ he said, and smiled shyly.

  And that was the story of how I stood up to Barry Bagsley and his minions, rescued an innocent victim from the jaws of death and stopped the destruction of civilisation as we now know it. You’d think I would have been pretty pleased with myself, but walking home that day all I could think of was Barry Bagsley’s grinning face and all I could feel were my knuckles aching on my clenched fists. It seemed like razor-sharp steel blades were straining to break through.

  Part 2

  I will not say as schoolboys do to bullies–Take someone of your own size; don’t pommel me! No, ye’ve knocked me down, and I am up again; but ye have run and hidden.

  Herman Melville, Moby Dick

  12.

  GEEK-SEEKING MISSILES

  On the first day of the second term a new boy arrived at St Daniel’s.

  ‘Thank you, everyone, if you could just stop what you’re doing and listen here now. We have a new class member joining us today. This is James–James Scobie. Now I’m sure that you will all make him feel very welcome here at the college.’ Miss Tarango’s last words were spoken more like instructions than a statement of belief. “When we got a good look at James Scobie, it was pretty obvious why.

  It’s not that the new boy was the Elephant Man or anything. In fact, he wasn’t that different from anyone else, but he was just different enough to put him right in the danger zone–not so different that he could expect sympathy, but different enough to make Barry Bagsley’s eyes light up.

  To begin with, James Scobie was small and a little too neat. His hair was parted perfectly on one side and swept back from his forehead like a wave poised to break. The lines left by the comb’s teeth were as clear as shoe prints on the moon. As for his clothes, it was as if his grandfather was his fashion guru. His socks were pulled all the way up and turned down at the top so that they matched exactly. His shirt was tucked tightly into his shorts, which rode high up over the little mound of his stomach. Apart from that, his skin was pale and looked as if it could be bruised by a strong breeze.

  Yet all of mat was noted quickly by the class and passed over. The thing that really held our attention was James Scobie’s face–or rather, what he did with it. The face itself was nothing special–a bit chubby maybe, a smallish nose, a little too pink around the cheeks perhaps, but otherwise everything was where it should be. It’s just that every so often James Scobie would screw up his mouth and twist it to one side till his eyes were swallowed up in a wrinkled squint and a hooded brow. Then his mouth would straighten and his face would lengthen as his eyes popped open like that kid from Home Alone. Then the whole process would be repeated on the other side of his face. While this took place James Scobie’s nose wiggled back and forth like he was trying out for the lead role in the remake of Bewitched.

  The first time it happened, the class was taken by surprise. The second time, a shiver of laughter rippled through the room, but was cut off before it could grow by the hard edge in Miss Tarango’s voice. ‘As I was saying, I have no doubt that all of you will do your best to make James welcome, just as we would want to be welcomed if we were starting in a new school.’

  Miss Tarango’s eyes scanned the classroom and smiles dropped off faces like flies from a bug zapper. I glanced around at Barry Bagsley. He was staring at James Scobie like a kid who had just been given the Christmas present his parents had pretended they couldn’t afford. I felt bad for James Scobie then. I knew what he was in for. Everything about him was a living, breathing ‘Kick Me’ sign. He might as well have come to school with a target painted on his chest.

  I still feel bad about this. As I sat there looking at James Scobie I thought my life might be better, that maybe James Scobie might take some of the heat off me. I know, not very nice, but you can’t help what you think. The other thing I thought was that with all the attention he would get, James Scobie would be a dangerous person to be around.

  ‘Now, I’ve checked James’ timetable, and Ishmael, you and James are doing mostly the same subjects, so I’ve appointed you James’ official buddy.’

  But …

  ‘See that James knows where he is going and make sure you introduce him to his teachers, all right?’

  But, but …

  ‘I’m sure you’ll be in good hands, James. Ishmael will be there to help you if you have any trouble.’

  But, but, but …

  ‘And luckily there’s a spare desk beside Ishmael, so you two can sit together during Homeroom and English lessons and get acquainted. How’s that?’

  But, but, but … but it was too late.

  James Scobie waddled down the aisle and sat in the seat next to me. We nodded at each other without speaking.

  ‘O?, everyone settle down and get yourselves organised and we’ll read the notices shortly.’

  James Scobie reached into his bag and took out a pencil case and his student diary. He placed the diary in the centre of the desk, studied it closely, twisted his mouth and then straightened the diary slightly. He then removed three pens and a pencil from his case and laid them down one at a time before adjusting them delicately with his spidery fingers until the tips were in perfect alignment. Next he drew out a ruler, and, after a number of attempts, placed it parallel to the pens and pencil. Finally he opened the first page of his diary and pressed it neatly back. The long fingers of his left hand moved for the pens. He selected a blue one, removed the cap and scrunched up his face. Then he replaced the cap with a click and returned the pen to its position on the desk.

  The new boy sat back twitching his nose like a rabbit, then leant forward once more. His hand hovered over the red pen before settling on the black. He picked it up and slid off the cap. The pen lingered over the diary like a scalpel over a patient. James Scobie twisted his neck, stretched out his arms, straightened his shirt, made a minor realignment of his ruler, fiddled with his tie, patted down his hair gently, screwed up his face and poked the tip of his tongue between his lips. He tilted the diary to a minute angle. Then he tilted it back. Then he … left it where it was.

  Finally he hunched forward on the desk and looped his left arm around till it looked like it might dislocate and, with his hand rotated almost backwards, rested the point of the pen beside the word ‘Name’ in his diary. With his face writhing and his tongue popping in and out like a moray
eel, James Scobie began to write. When he’d finished, what was left on the page was a string of large, loopy letters that teetered backwards at an alarming angle and were virtually indecipherable.

  When I looked up, I discovered that Miss Tarango and the rest of the class were also mesmerised by the new boy’s behaviour. I shot a look at Barry Bagsley. His eyes were almost popping from their sockets. I half-expected to see a trickle of saliva running down his chin. There was no doubt that my ‘buddy’ was a prime target. Barry Bagsley had already locked in the coordinates and slipped off the safety switch. Soon he would be launching his geek-seeking missiles. No chance of a smart bomb here.

  13.

  THE BEST VIEW OF THE ICEBERG

  As the class began to make its way from Homeroom, Barry Bagsley’s big head, with its mop of blond hair, lurched in beside me.

  ‘Hey Piss-whale, got yourself a new girlfriend, I see. You make a gorgeous couple-Rat Boy and the Creature from Le Sewer.’

  With that Barry Bagsley gave my shoulder a friendly shove that stopped just short of dislocation before striding off, confident in the belief that he was still the king of observational comedy.

  James Scobie watched him leave the room and stared at the empty doorway for a few seconds before turning to face me. ‘Friend of yours?’

  ‘No.’

  An expressionless face gazed back at me and two small, dark brown eyes drilled into me like … well … drills. After some uncomfortable seconds, James Scobie twisted his mouth to the side till he looked like a plasticine figure that had been smudged by a thumb, then turned away and continued to pack up his books.

  My first lesson after Homeroom was Study of Society with Mr Barker in Room 301. It was James Scobie’s first lesson, too. And it was Barry Bagsley’s first lesson. Not good. Because he took so long to pack up his gear, Scobie and I were the last to arrive. I glanced hurriedly around the room.

  There was one spare seat in the back left-hand corner right in front of Barry Bagsley and Danny Wallace. Yes, I could sit there–if I had a brain the size of a pimple. There was an empty desk in the middle of the centre row. Getting better. And finally there was a space beside Bill Kingsley in the far row, right up the front near the teacher’s desk. Perfect. After all, Miss Tarango didn’t say I had to babysit James Scobie every lesson, did she? Of course, I wouldn’t abandon him completely. I’d make sure he knew where he was going and help him out if he needed it, but after that it was every man for himself. I had enough trouble of my own with Barry Bagsley–I wasn’t about to make things worse.