Don't Call Me Ishmael

by Michael Gerard Bauer

  The end-of-year assembly/mass/prize-giving/speech night/extravaganza thingy was always held on the Thursday night of the last week of school–with Friday being the first day of the Christmas holidays. Naturally everyone was expected to attend, and in a remarkable display of school spirit, nearly everyone always did. (Of course, the fact that those who failed to attend had to come to school the next day or face two weeks of afternoon detentions the following year might have had something to do with it as well.)

  As Mr Barker informed us, our job on the night was to read out the Prayers of Petition–you know, where you ask for all those really important things that will probably never happen, like world peace, the elimination of poverty and hunger from around the globe, freedom for all people and a premiership for the St Daniel’s First Fifteen. For days, the awful thought of speaking in front of well over a thousand students, teachers and parents kept exploding into my mind like an airbag in a Mini. That was, until the day Bill Kingsley presented his Study of Society oral. After that there wasn’t much room left in my mind for anything else but revenge.

  The Study of Society orals had been going all week, and Mr Barker’s limited patience and good humour seemed to be shrivelling up with each presentation. Our task was to Examine the Liveability of Your Suburb, and I had to admit that the standard wasn’t exactly world-class.

  Razza reckoned Prindabel’s talk was so boring it could have put coffee to sleep. Razza’s own talk, however, seemed based on the assumption that the liveability of a suburb was in direct proportion to the number of ‘hot chick schools’ that were within a one-kilometre radius.

  Danny Wallace’s talk was so short, Mr Barker said that his suburb ‘would appear to have the liveability of a morgue’. The highlight of Doug Savage’s presentation was his conclusion that his suburb was extremely liveable because ‘everyone living there was alive’, while Barry Bagsley expressed the bewildering opinion that ‘no one would be seen dead living in my hole of a suburb’.

  By the time it was Bill Kingsley’s turn to speak, Mr Barker was well and truly wired and ticking.

  It’s not that Bill Kingsley hadn’t done any work. In fact, he had probably done more work than anyone else in the class. He had been determined to show that his success in the debating finals wasn’t a fluke. I knew for a fact that every day of the previous two weeks he had spent lunchtimes and after school working in the library doing research and putting together a PowerPoint presentation. A couple of times Bill had even practised his talk on me. Now I’m no teacher, but I reckon it was definitely ‘A’ material.

  Bill started off well. He introduced his report and clicked up the first slide showing Criteria for Assessing Liveability. ‘First I will examine in detail the recreation and entertainment facilities that contribute to the liveability of my suburb of Carrington.’

  Then things went pear-shaped. When Bill clicked to the next slide, a photo leapt on to the screen of an enormous woman whose body was swallowing her bikini. Underneath was the caption, When the whale-watching season begins this summer, make sure they’re not watching you. Join Flab-Busters now!

  Those in the class who hadn’t yet gone into coma sputtered with laughter.

  ‘Quiet!’ Mr Barker growled.

  Bill quickly clicked to the next slide and a list of bus and train services appeared.

  ‘Kingsley, what exactly are you doing? Is this some kind of joke?’

  ‘No, no sir … I, I must have got the slides mixed up or something …’

  ‘Well, son, just get on with it, will you? Put us all out of our misery.’

  I looked to the back corner of the room. Barry Bagsley’s face was split in a smug grin while Danny Wallace and Doug Savage were sprawled on the desk behind him, stifling their laughter.

  Bill tried to continue his speech but now his slides were out of sequence and you could tell that his confidence was shaken. He pointed the remote control at the laptop in front of him. Click. An ad for Weight Watchers. Click again. An upside-down graph tided Population Growth for Carrington. Bill was flustered. He shuffled through his palm cards, and in the process spilled half on the floor. As he disappeared behind a desk to retrieve them, a mixture of groans and laughter poured down on him.

  Mr Barker held his head in his hands.

  Bill struggled to his feet and grabbed the remote again. Click. An ad for Jenny Craig. Click. A picture of the backside of a hippopotamus. Click. A giant bloated pig. Click. I’m not sure but … Click. Was that a …? Click. Click. Click. Click. Click. And Click. Criteria for Assessing Liveability.

  ‘Mr Kingsley, were you on some kind of hallucinogenic drug when you put this presentation together?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘Well, son, you’ve had weeks to get this sorted out, but you’ve obviously wasted your time daydreaming as usual. Now if you want any sort of grade at all, I suggest you start immediately or I will have to fail you for being unprepared. Do I make myself clear?’

  Bill turned off the computer and continued his talk, but his voice was just a droning mumble and he made no effort to sort out his palm cards as he drifted from one unrelated point to another. Finally, when he was less than halfway through, he flipped through the remaining cards and shook his head hopelessly. ‘That’s about it, I guess,’ he said, and sat down.

  Mr Barker squeezed the skin on his forehead, scribbled a letter on the bottom of Bill Kingsley’s mark sheet and circled it with a flourish. Even from the other side of the room I could tell it was a ‘D’.

  After the lesson, as everyone escaped to lunch, I stayed at my desk.

  ‘Hey, Ishmael. Whatta you doing? Having a party with all your friends?’ It was Razza. ‘Earth to Ishmael. Can you read me?’

  ‘Bill was prepared. He had that speech perfect–Bagsley stuffed it up on him.’

  ‘Then Kingsley should tell someone–tell Barker.’

  ‘You know he wouldn’t do that.’

  ‘Then we’ll tell him.’

  ‘What good would that do? Bagsley would get in trouble, get some more detentions, and then they’d find other ways to make Bill’s life hell. And the teachers won’t have a clue what’s going on.’

  ‘Then what do you want to do?’

  ‘I want to get him–I want to make him pay big time,’ I said through clenched teeth.

  ‘Sure, but how? I mean, you’re not thinking of doing anything stupid, are you?’

  ‘What? Like putting a contract out on him? Slipping a horse’s head into his bed?’

  ‘Yeah, well, I was just joking about that stuff. You know me, right, always kidding. Look, Ishmael, I think you’re letting this get to you too much. Why don’t you just forget about all this crap? Bagsley’s just not worth it.’

  ‘No, you’re right, he’s not … but Bill is. There’s gotta be something we can do to help him.’

  Razza looked at me and for the first time I could remember his face seemed serious. ‘Leave it with me.’

  ‘But what can you do?’

  ‘Haven’t got a clue–yet. But you know what they say, the Razzman works in mysterious ways.’

  Actually, I had no idea that they said that (or for that matter, who ‘they’ were) and I was about to point this out when Barry Bagsley bounded through the door, wrenched open the lid of his desk and scooped up a football. It wasn’t until he turned to leave that he even noticed there was someone else in the room.

  ‘Well, well, if it isn’t Le Spewer and Zit-arse. What are you girls up to?’

  Neither of us replied.

  ‘What’s the matter, Or-arse-i-hole? You’ve always got plenty to say. You look a bit upset. Don’t tell me you wet your bed again last night?’

  ‘No way!’ Razza said, looking genuinely horrified. ‘I haven’t done that for weeks. I’m cured. I have total control of my bladder. Now I only wet the bed when I want to,’ he said proudly.

  Barry Bagsley stared at Razza like he was from outer space. ‘You’re an idiot, Zorzotto, you know that.’

&n
bsp; Razza smiled. ‘You think so?’ he replied pleasantly, while holding Barry Bagsley’s stare. ‘It’s hard for me to know. I’ve heard that the individual is not the most reliable judge of their own sanity.’

  They remained locked together for a few seconds, then Barry Bagsley shifted his eyes to me. ‘And what’s your problem, Manure? You’re not crying about Billy Kingsize and his piss-weak presentation, are you? It’s his own fault. You heard Barker, he just wasn’t prepared. Shocking.’

  ‘He was prepared,’ I spat back, ‘but someone got at his work.’

  ‘Really? Well, I’ll tell you what you should do, Manure. You should find that someone and have a word with them.’

  ‘I am.’

  Suddenly it felt like some line had been crossed, some step taken that couldn’t be taken back.

  ‘Is that right?’ Barry Bagsley said, moving closer and tossing the football from hand to hand. ‘And what exactly are you saying then?’

  ‘Leave Bill Kingsley alone.’

  ‘Well that’s a beautiful thought, Manure, but the tricky question is, how are you going to make me?’

  Barry Bagsley stood a metre from me, his face hard and cold like concrete. Then his hands shot forward as if he was going to throw the football into my face. ‘Boo!’ he shouted at the same time. I grimaced and jerked my hands up. He laughed and spun the football on one finger. ‘You haven’t got a prayer, Manure,’ he said cheerfully before underlining his claim by poking my chest in time to each word. ‘Have–not-got–a-prayer.’

  I watched as he strutted from the room. My hands were cramped into tight fists. My fingernails stabbed into my palms.

  ‘I doubt if he’ll mess with us again,’ Razza said knowingly.

  44.

  EVERY LOST BATTLE

  That weekend I read the final chapters of Moby Dick. When I gave the copy back to Dad, he insisted that I had to see the video of the movie-the old one starring Gregory Peck as Ahab.

  On Sunday afternoon, I watched the final dramatic battle unfold on the screen. I saw a fearsome Moby Dick destroy the Pequod and send her crew to their deaths. I saw Captain Ahab trapped in a tangle of harpoon ropes, lashed to the side of the great white whale, striking out in anger and hatred to the very end, even as the massive beast dragged him to a watery grave. And finally, when all seemed lost, I saw Ishmael bobbing on the surface of the ocean gasping for air–the sole survivor of Ahab’s quest for revenge. I was right–he was nothing like me.

  I had a strange dream that night. It started off at school. At first I was in a normal class, but somehow it turned into some sort of a swimming pool, only I still had my school uniform on. Then I heard someone calling out my name. I turned around and there was Barry Bagsley. He had Bill Kingsley by the hair and he was pushing him under the water. He smiled at me and held Bill under. I yelled at him to let go but he just laughed. I tried to hit him, but he ducked out of the way and laughed even more. All the time Bill’s arms were thrashing and air bubbles were boiling to the surface.

  Then Barry Bagsley puffed up his cheeks and began to sink down into the water, taking Bill Kingsley with him. I screamed at him to stop, but he kept the same stupid grin on his face as he disappeared below the surface. I was desperate now. I leapt on Barry Bagsley and wrapped my arm around his throat. I didn’t know if I was trying to pull him to the surface or strangle him. But it didn’t make any difference. I gulped in some air before I was dragged underwater.

  As we sank deeper and deeper, I squeezed Barry Bagsley’s throat with all my might and struck his face, but it didn’t bother him at all. He just laughed and repeated over and over, ‘You haven’t got a prayer. You haven’t got a prayer,’ as bubbles streamed from his mouth. Then it became really weird. Barry Bagsley turned into some kind of mutant fish and slipped from my grasp, so I grabbed Bill Kingsley by the arm, but he started to blow up like a balloon, only he got heavier instead of lighter. He was dragging us both down. Everything became colder and darker and my lungs burned like they were on fire. The last bubbles of air were escaping from my mouth.

  Then I woke up.

  I didn’t sit bolt upright in bed like people do in the movies when they have nightmares, but I did shudder a little from the effort of making myself wake up, and my heart and lungs seemed to be fighting each other to see which could be the first to break out of my chest. I checked the clock. It was well past midnight.

  I lay awake for hours after that, staring at the ceiling. I couldn’t get Barry Bagsley out of my mind. I thought about my life since I had met him. I relived over and over every insult, every push and shove, every taunt, every sneer, every arrogant laugh, every spiteful trick, every put-down and every lost battle.

  It was quite a while before I eventually got back to sleep that night. By the time I did, my mind was made up. This had all gone on too long. Barry Bagsley was finally going to pay for everything he had done.

  Not only that, but I had worked out exactly how and when I was going to deliver the bill.

  Part 5

  Delight is to him–a far, far upward and inward delight-who against the proud gods and commodores of this earth, ever stands forth his own inexorable self.

  Herman Melville, Moby Dick

  45.

  THE TRADITIONAL END-OF-YEAR ASSEMBLY/MASS/PRIZE-GIVING/SPEECH NIGHT/EXTRAVAGANZA THINGY

  The night of the traditional end-of-year assembly/mass/prize-giving/speech night/extravaganza thingy was hot and humid. This didn’t surprise me at all, because the night of the traditional end-of-year assembly/mass/prize-giving/speech night/extravaganza thingy was always hot and humid. Apparently it was some kind of meteorological law.

  Mum dropped me off at the school gates. Normally the end-of-year do was a family affair, but Mum had a charity dinner she couldn’t miss and Dad was babysitting Prue, who was running a temperature. I told her it was probably brain fever, from overuse. Prue said if that was the case, it was a condition to which I was permanently immune. Never tangle with a near-genius–even a sick one.

  Anyway, I made the long trek from the entrance to the school gymnasium and followed the stream of people inside. At the front of the rapidly filling hall was a large stage draped in house banners and school colours and loaded down with huge clumps of flowers. Throughout the hall, hundreds of programs fluttered under flushed faces like nervous moths about to take flight. There was only fifteen minutes to go before the evening kicked off.

  Miss Tarango, who was in charge of the readers, was standing to the right of the stage searching the crowd. I stepped back behind a large banner at the side of the hall. I really should have reported in by now. But I had my own searching to do. I was on the lookout for a too-familiar sprout of blond hair and a defiant swagger.

  It wasn’t long before I found what I’d been looking for. Barry Bagsley entered the gym with a steady flow of latecomers and stopped for a moment just inside the door to speak with Danny Wallace. A lot of people were still milling around chatting and trying to find seats. I drifted towards the back of the gym and waited. When Danny Wallace finally moved away, I slipped my hand into my pocket and headed in Barry Bagsley’s direction. I felt like a hired assassin. By the time Barry Bagsley turned my way I was standing right beside him.

  ‘Well, if it isn’t Manure, the creature from Le Sewer. What’s your problem?’

  ‘I just came to tell you that you were wrong,’ I said as calmly as I could.

  ‘Wrong? What are you crapping on about now?’

  ‘The other day-something you said–you were wrong.’

  ‘And what was that?’ Barry Bagsley said with a curled lip.

  ‘Well, you said that I didn’t have a prayer. But you’re wrong. I have got a prayer. Here,’ I said, pulling a folded piece of paper from my pocket and handing it to him. ‘I even made a copy for you.’

  ‘What is this shit …?’

  But I didn’t wait around to hear any more. I left Barry Bagsley with his face screwed up in a sneer and headed towards Miss Tarango, who w
as now waving at me a little frantically.

  I don’t remember much at all about what happened while Prindabel, Razza, Bill and I waited for the signal from Miss Tarango to move on to the stage. I’m sure there were the usual welcoming speeches and ceremonies, but all I had on my mind was what I was about to do. I spent most of the time staring at my reading. It wasn’t the one that Mr Barker had helped me write. This was one I had composed all by myself. It was the one that I had just handed to Barry Bagsley, and it was the same one I was about to read to the entire school. I let my eyes drift over the words. They seemed so simple, so harmless–just marks on a page. I read them to myself for the hundredth time.

  Let us pray that Barry Bagsley can learn to let other people be themselves instead of bullying them and putting them down all the time.

  I felt a hand on my shoulder. It was Miss Tarango’s. Soon we were climbing up the steps to the rostrum and lining up behind the big lectern.

  I looked around the packed gym. Three large banks of chairs stretched to the back wall-a wide middle section and two narrower sections at the sides. It didn’t take long to find Barry Bagsley. He was sitting about halfway back, almost dead centre. He didn’t look happy. In fact it was one of those occasions when the expression ‘bristling with anger’ was right on the money. His eyes had turned into dark slits and his mouth was a quivering snarl. I’m sure it was only my imagination, but he looked like he was growling. If he’d been a dog the Council would have declared him dangerous and had him put down on the spot.

  The amazing thing was, even though I knew that Barry Bagsley wanted to rip me limb from limb, I didn’t care. I was going to get my revenge and there was no way he could stop me. After all, what could he do? Stand up in front of everyone and tell me to shut up? Climb up on the stage and crash-tackle me? Take me out with a burst of machine gun fire? No, he was powerless. I had Barry Bagsley right where I wanted him.

  Prindabel was the first to step up and deliver his petition. I didn’t hear a word he said. My eyes were locked on Barry Bagsley. He was shaking his head slightly and glaring at me while his lips seemed to be forming words. I didn’t need an interpreter. I got the message loud and clear. It went something along the lines of Don’t do it, Manure. Don’t even think about it, or I’ll tear your head off and insert it up your backside.