Don't Call Me Ishmael

by Michael Gerard Bauer

  ‘Moby Dick? What’s that got to do with it?’

  ‘That’s where he got Ishmael from. It’s the name of one of the main characters in the book–the narrator.’

  ‘What’s he like?’

  ‘My father?’

  ‘No – Ishmael – the person you’re named after.’

  ‘Oh yeah, right,’ I said, feeling like a dork.

  ‘Well?’

  ‘What … oh … I don’t know what he’s like. I’ve never read it.’

  ‘Really? You haven’t read it? How come? If I was named after someone in a book I’d definitely want to read it to find out what they were like. You know, see if I was like them. I can’t believe you haven’t read it.’

  Did I say I felt like a dork? Make that a double-dork.

  ‘I’ve read the first line.’ Oh, well done, Einstein. How’s that Theory of Relativity going? Got the first letter worked out yet?

  ‘The first line?’ she said, curling up her top lip and cranking my heartbeat up another notch.

  ‘That’s where the name comes in,’ I explained, desperately trying to perform CPR on what remained of my rapidly fading dignity. ‘Call me Ishmael. That’s how it starts. It’s the first line. Apparently it’s pretty famous. And that’s another thing I hate about my name. Call me Ishmael. For the rest of my life, I know that there will always be some clown who’s read Moby Dick, and when they hear my name, they just won’t be able to resist blurting out Call me Ishmael! like they’re the first person in the entire universe to think of it, and they’ll think they’re just so brilliant and hilarious.’

  ‘It can’t be that bad,’ Kelly Faulkner said sympathetically.

  ‘It is. Seriously, the next time someone comes out with that Call me Ishmael line, I’ll scream. I will. I mean it. The very next time I get a Call me Ishmael I’m just going to scream. I’m not kidding.’

  ‘I believe you,’ Kelly Faulkner said, holding up her hands and pulling one of those beautiful, daggy faces that just kill me. ‘Look, I’ve got to go. I have to find my little sister. She was in the Year Eight final-they lost, unfortunately. I’m glad I got the chance to thank you. I think it was really brave of you to stand up to those three boys like that and …’ She stopped mid-sentence and looked past my shoulder. ‘Do you know that guy?’

  I turned around. It was Razza. He was jumping about and shooting his fingers at me like he was one of the Wiggles. His mouth was forming the words You da man over and over again.

  ‘No,’ I said, turning back. ‘Never seen him before in my life.’

  Kelly Faulkner stared at Razza and wrinkled her nose. ‘But wasn’t he in your debating team?’

  I followed the line of her eyes. ‘Oh him,’ I said pathetically ‘Yes, I know him.’

  ‘Is he a friend of yours?’ Kelly Faulkner said, blinking her eyes in disbelief as Razz attempted his own version of the moonwalk and ended up colliding with a not-very-impressed woman carrying a tray of drinks.

  ‘Unfortunately, yes.’

  ‘What exactly is he doing?’

  At that particular moment Razza was staggering about and grasping his chest as if Cupid had just skewered him with a high-jump pole.

  ‘It’s difficult to explain.’

  ‘I imagine it would be.’

  ‘Unfortunately he suffers from a rare brain condition.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes, he doesn’t have one.’

  And then it happened. Kelly Faulkner laughed and her beautiful pale blue eyes melted my heart like ice cream in a microwave till all that remained was an awful empty feeling. That’s when I knew. Nothing would ever happen between us. I’d been kidding myself. It just wasn’t possible for eyes as beautiful as that to see anyone as ordinary as me. For the first time I didn’t feel like a nervous wreck in Kelly Faulkner’s presence. What did I have to worry about? ‘When you ain’t got nothin’ you got nothin’ to lose,’ Bob Dylan had wailed hundreds of times from my father’s CD. Well, no one had more nothin’ than me. I looked at Kelly Faulkner and said the first thing that came into my head.

  ‘Do you want to know a secret? That guy’s really a superhero.’

  ‘Is that right?’ Kelly Faulkner said, raising her eyebrows and looking impressed.

  ‘Yes, but the thing is, in order to keep his identity hidden, he has to pretend that he’s a complete drongo.’

  ‘He’s doing a wonderful job.’

  ‘Nobody does it better.’

  She pushed up her bottom Hp and nodded thoughtflüly. ‘I’ve never seen a real live superhero before. How come you know his identity?’

  ‘Well, I shouldn’t really be telling you any of this … but I’m his sidekick.’

  ‘Wow, pretty impressive. So you guys go round solving crime, rescuing babies from burning buildings, saving damsels in distress, regular stuff like that?’

  ‘We do what we can.’

  ‘And I suppose that you have cool costumes like Spiderman or the Phantom?’

  ‘Not really–neither of us can sew.’

  ‘That’s a shame. Any super powers, then? You know, to help you combat all those evil villains?’

  ‘Well, I don’t have any personally, but he has the power to talk people to death … and I know from personal experience that his jokes can make you want to throw yourself under a train.’

  ‘Impressive. And does he have a name–like a proper superhero name, I mean?’

  ‘Sure. He’s the Razzman.’

  ‘The Razzman, eh? Not bad. And what about you? What’s your name?

  ‘Sidekicks don’t get to have cool names.’

  ‘That doesn’t seem fair.’

  ‘Comes with the territory.’

  Kelly Faulkner gave me a knowing smile. As I looked at her I thought that there ought to be a law against anyone being that beautiful, especially around people like me. Perhaps it comes under cruelty to dumb animals.

  ‘Well, I really better go and let you guys get on with saving the world. Thanks again for helping Marty out. Hey, you know, after what you did, maybe you should apply for a promotion from sidekick? I could write you a reference.’ She held her hand up near her face and wiggled her fingers. ‘See ya.’

  She didn’t have time to leave, however, before Razza came bounding in and leapt on me like I had just scored the winning goal in the FA Cup Final. ‘How you doing?’ he said to Kelly Faulkner at the same time as he was half-strangling me. ‘I’m the Razzman.’

  ‘I know,’ she whispered, glancing around furtively, ‘but don’t worry … your secret’s safe with me.’ Then she zipped her lips, locked them with an imaginary key and disappeared into the crowd.

  I stared at the big empty space where, moments before, Kelly Faulkner had been standing. It matched the one inside my chest.

  41.

  THE KING OF DROOL

  ‘You rescued her little brother from Bagsley and his mob?’

  Razza and I were waiting for Mrs Zorzotto and he was gawking at me like I had two heads.

  ‘I think “rescued” might be pushing it a bit.’

  ‘Mate, doesn’t matter what you think. It’s what she thinks, and I’m telling you, you’re in. You saved her little brother,’ he repeated, almost in disbelief. ‘You’re a knight in shining armour. That’s gold, mate–chick-winning gold! You are in, you are definitely in!’

  ‘Look, I didn’t have a clue it was her brother, and anyway-they chucked our hats into the creek. Some rescue … some hero.’

  ‘Don’t you get it? That’s even better–that makes you a nice guy who goes around helping complete strangers, sacrificing himself for others. Chicks love that corny stuff.’ Razza beamed at me like I’d just won Lotto. ‘Man, I’m telling you, you are 50 in! No wonder she was drooling all over you.’

  ‘Drooling? You’re mad.’

  ‘It’s true. You can’t fool the Razz. I’m the King of Drool. It’s what I do … and I recognise drool in others.’

  ‘O?, you can stop right there. I think I’
m going to be sick.’

  ‘I’m just saying that on the outside she looked all cool, but on the inside she was all drool.’

  Another disturbing image flashed in my mind. It was time to put a stop to this before it got out of control. ‘Look, Razza, she just wanted to thank me, that’s all. She’s probably forgotten all about me already, so let’s drop it, eh? And there was no drooling, all right? Kelly Faulkner doesn’t drool. She was just being nice. She can’t help but be nice. She is nice. She was born with an excess of the niceness gene. She probably just felt sorry for me. That’s all. I’m nothing to her and nothing’s going to happen. And you know why? Because she’s perfect and she’s got a personality, for god’s sake. Compared to her, I’m a lump of wood. So I’ve got no chance with her, OK? Do you understand? No chance. Zero! Zilch! Can I make it any clearer to you than that?’

  Razza stared at me seriously and slowly nodded, ‘Yeah … I reckon you’re definitely in.’

  My only hope was to change the subject, preferably to one that really interested him. ‘Anyway, what about you? You never told me what happened with you and that blonde girl.’

  ‘Oh her. It’s over,’ Razza said casually.

  ‘Over!’

  ‘Yeah, it was good while it lasted, but you know, I think it was time to pull the pin.’

  ‘Good while it lasted? You’ve only spoken to her twice. What happened?’

  ‘Well, there was a bit of a problem.’

  ‘What kind of a problem?’

  ‘Irreconcilable differences.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Irreconcilable differences … you know, things that just can’t get worked out … like with Mum and the old man,’ Razza said, shuffling his feet and kicking at a stone.

  ‘But what irreconcilable differences could you have after only speaking to her for fifteen minutes?’

  ‘Well, it appears.’ said Razza thoughtfully, as if he were a doctor diagnosing a rare condition, ‘that I like me … and she doesn’t.’

  ‘Oh … right. I can see how that could lead to problems in the relationship. Sorry.’

  ‘No worries. Probably for the best,’ Razza said philosophically. ‘I was starting to feel trapped-you know, tied down? Our … relationship … was becoming … well, predictable. I need my freedom. You hear what I’m saying?’

  I nodded and Razza continued grandly.

  ‘Sure, we had our good times-the laughter, the tears-but I think we both realised it was time to move on. Besides, it’s not right to selfishly restrict myself to one chick and deny all those other gorgeous babes the pleasure of my company’

  ‘You’re a real humanitarian, do you know that?’

  ‘No, please, don’t embarrass me. I’m just one little person trying to make a difference.’

  ‘You’re way too modest.’

  ‘Yes, I know,’ Razza said, sighing and shaking his head regretfully, ‘ but it’s my only failing.’

  Just then Mrs Zorzotto pulled up across the street.

  ‘Look, Ishmael, I still think you should go after that Kelly chick,’ Razza said as we headed towards the car. ‘Why don’t you find out her number and give her a bell? What have you got to lose?’

  ‘Nah, forget it.’

  ‘I could help you, you know–give you the benefit of my vast experience.’

  ‘Geez, that’s a tempting offer,’ I said. ‘Imagine, the King of Drool in my corner. What an honour. Kelly Faulkner would be like putty in my hands.’

  ‘Exactly!’ Razza shot back enthusiastically as we jumped into the back seat of his mother’s car.

  At home that night I made up my mind about a couple of things. Firstly, I decided, despite what Razza might think, it was time to put Kelly Faulkner back where she belonged, back where impossible things could happen–in my fantasies and daydreams. She really wasn’t the kind of person who could exist in the real world … not in my real world, anyway. The second thing I decided to do was ask Dad if I could borrow his copy of Moby Dick.

  ‘Aaarrrgh, me hearty,’ he said, rolling his eyes crazily, ‘ye be seeking the white whale!’

  I wasn’t, though. I be seeking Ishmael.

  42.

  THE REAL DEAL

  Reading Moby Pick wasn’t quite as straightforward as I thought it would be. For a start, when I asked Dad about borrowing a copy, he insisted that I had to read the ‘real deal’, not the ‘kiddies’ version’, as he put it.

  The real deal turned out to be a thousand pages of small print-six hundred pages of story, plus another four hundred pages of notes and commentary that, thankfully, my father said I could afford to skip. I’m here to tell you, if you want to know anything, and I mean anything, about whales and whaling, then check out Moby Dick. It is the whale heads’ bible.

  I started it that night after I got home from the debating finals. I held the book like a chunky brick in my hands. Somehow it made me feel like there was a connection between Kelly Faulkner and me. I turned to the first page. Call me Ishmael, it said, and I waded in like I was heading out to sea.

  I have to confess that at times it was a pretty hard slog. I reckon Miss Tarango would have a thing or two to say to old Herman about editing-there’s only so much a person needs to know about the history and techniques of whaling or the workings of whaling boats or the bone structure and internal organs of whales themselves. Still, if I’m ever on Who Wants to Be a Millionaire and Eddie asks a question about the average weight of blubber found in a fully grown sperm whale, I’ll be laughing, right?

  Despite all that, I still got caught up with the story, and just like Ishmael, his strange friend Queequeg and the rest of the crew of the Pequod, I found myself drawn into Captain Ahab’s mad quest for revenge against the white whale, which had reduced his personal leg stockpile by fifty per cent. By the time I was halfway through, one thing was obvious to me: I was nothing like this Ishmael. Sure, we both had pretty weird friends, but apart from that, as Dad would say, we were as different as ‘chalk and cheeseburger’.

  Now don’t get me wrong. It’s not like I expected us to be identical twins or anything. It did dawn on me that being a fourteen-year-old boy still at school and living in the twenty-first century might tend to make me slightly different from a grown man on a whaling boat in the eighteen-hundreds. I just thought that maybe there might have been some similarities between us. But was there a Barry Bagsley clone on board Pequod whose life’s ambition was to make Melville’s Ishmael feel like a loser with about as much backbone as a jellyfish? Uh-uh. Did the other Ishmael ever suffer anything remotely embarrassing like fainting when he came face to face with his first whale? Absolutely not. Did he ever have to deal with something totally humiliating like, say, a stray harpoon dropping from his whaling britches just as he was about to perform a sea shanty for the crew? Not a chance. Did he ever find himself slipping on whale oil or tripping over loose rigging, and in trying to break his fall, discovering to his surprise that he had accidentally groped Captain Ahab in a way that could lead to charges of sexual harassment or, worse still, an audience with the plank? No way Jose!

  You see, the plain truth was, unlike me, the Ishmael in Moby Dick wasn’t a loser at all. He certainly wasn’t cursed by Ishmael Leseur’s Syndrome. He didn’t even have a last name–I guess that’s what saved him. No, the further I read into the book, the more I was convinced we had nothing in common whatsoever. But there was someone else on board the Pequod who I could relate to. Maybe I hadn’t lost my leg to a great white whale like he had, but I understood what it was like to have a part of yourself torn away and I also knew how much you could grow to hate whoever or whatever it was that had taken that part from you. I knew all about that, because every time Barry Bagsley taunted me and ground my name into the dirt, and every time he paid out on Bill Kingsley and I did nothing, it felt like there was much more of me missing than just a limb. But was I really like Ahab? Did I crave revenge like him? Would I really like to hunt down Barry Bagsley and harpoon him and make him suffer
for what he had done?

  You bet.

  And that feeling continued to spread inside me like a virus. Not that I’m blaming Herman Melville at all. It wasn’t reading about Captain Ahab that made me feel that way. It was because back at school, Barry Bagsley was increasing his attacks on Bill Kingsley. It seemed that every time Bill opened his desk or locker he would be confronted by some cruel image–a sumo wrestler, a blimp or the ‘before’ shot from a weight loss ad–along with some scribbled insult. As fast as he tore them down and slung them in the bin, new, more outlandish ones would replace them. And it wasn’t just the pictures and drawings. Bagsley and his friends now made pig-grunting noises whenever they passed within earshot.

  What really stoked the fire for revenge that raged in my belly was that after every taunt, Barry Bagsley would smirk in my direction as if he was daring me to do something about it. I wanted to do something, I really did. I tried to convince Bill to let Mr Barker know what was going on, but there was no way he would be in it. ‘Great, then I’d get to be a dobber as well,’ he replied miserably. ‘Look, Bagsley will get sick of it after a while. Forget it–I’m fine.’

  He didn’t look fine though, and Barry Bagsley’s campaign showed no signs of relenting. As we crawled towards the end of the school year, Bill Kingsley began to wear the desperate look of a wounded beast hounded by a pack of wild dogs.

  43.

  WIRED AND TICKING

  It was the second last week of Year Nine, and things weren’t exactly going swimmingly. Besides the continuing disappointment of Barry Bagsley’s name failing to turn up on the Ten Most Wanted List, I also found myself buried under an avalanche of exams and assignments. Then, just to add to my joy, Mr Barker informed the members of the Year Nine debating team that we would all be ‘volunteering’ to be readers at the traditional end-of-year assembly/mass/prize-giving/speech night/extravaganza thingy. Wonderful. Now I could be embarrassed and humiliated on a grand scale.