Don't Call Me Ishmael

by Michael Gerard Bauer

  Prindabel stepped down from the lectern and Razza took his place. I shuffled a couple of steps closer.

  Barry Bagsley continued to glower at me while Razza read his petition, but when he finished, the first crack appeared. Barry Bagsley broke eye contact with me, shot a quick glance to his left and right and shifted uncomfortably in his seat.

  Bill Kingsley moved slowly in behind the microphone.

  I studied Barry Bagsley closely. Something was happening. Although he was trying to maintain a fierce glare, he couldn’t do it. His eyes kept darting to the sides, and once he twisted right around to take a fleeting look at the back of the hall. When he locked eyes with me again, his expression contorted and swirled through a range of emotions. And somewhere among all the arrogance, anger, defiance and threat, there were brief but unmistakable flashes of panic.

  Bill finished his reading.

  I moved forward and stepped up on to the small platform at the base of the lectern. The microphone hovered near my mouth. Barry Bagsley was squirming in his seat. His face looked like dough. He was still shaking his head at me, but there was no threat in it any more.

  Then I saw a hand reach across and settle gently on his knee. It came from the lady beside him. I hadn’t really noticed her before. She turned towards Barry Bagsley and leant in with a concerned smile. I could tell she was asking if he was all right. It had to be Mrs Bagsley, but it didn’t seem possible. It was hard enough imagining Barry Bagsley with a mother at all (surely he was thrown together in some dingy rat-infested laboratory) let alone one who looked … well … nice. I watched as she turned back and whispered something to the man on her right. Mr Bagsley? Why wasn’t he dressed in thongs and footy shorts, belching and drunkenly abusing the people around him? What was he doing in a suit and tie, smiling at his wife and squeezing her hand? I didn’t have time to figure this out. I had a job to do and I wasn’t going to let anything distract me.

  I pulled the microphone lower and leant forward.

  ‘Let us pray.’

  My voice filled the hall. It felt like it was coming from someone else, from somewhere outside my body. For the first time in my life I was standing in front of an audience and I didn’t feel nervous. I looked down at Barry Bagsley. He had pushed himself back in his seat, like he was feeling the thrust from a rocket launch. His head was still shaking from side to side, but so slightly that only I would have noticed. His lips were still forming words, but the only ones I recognised now were, ‘no’, ‘don’t’ and ‘please’. I looked into his eyes. The arrogance had gone. I saw nothing but fear and desperation. They were the eyes of someone who knew there was no escape.

  ‘Let us pray that Barry …’

  I spoke slowly and clearly, and when I said his name, Barry Bagsley slumped in his seat like a boxer who knows he won’t survive the next round. His eyes had changed again. Now they were dull, empty and defeated. It was a look that was familiar to me. I had seen it before, many times. I had seen it on Kelly Faulkner’s brother’s face and I had seen it on Bill Kingsley’s. It was a look that I had also worn.

  An uneasy silence crept around the gymnasium. Everyone was waiting for me to speak. I looked one last time at Barry Bagsley. I had been dreaming about this moment every day for the last week. Now it had arrived. I was about to get my revenge.

  I started my petition again. I wanted to do this properly.

  ‘Let us pray …’

  I had the harpoon in my hand.

  ‘… that Barry …’

  I drew it back and steadied myself.

  ‘… that Barry …’

  All I had to do was unleash it.

  ‘… that … barriers which separate us and keep us apart can be overcome and that we can learn to get along with each other.’

  46.

  HOT SPACE CHICKS GET NAKED

  Yeah, I know what I said. That I was going to make Barry Bagsley pay. That nothing was going to stop me. So what happened? Why didn’t I go through with it? Well, I guess Barry Bagsley’s mother had a lot to do with it.

  You see, even as I had Barry Bagsley in my sights and I was imagining my final victory, I couldn’t stop thinking about Mrs Bagsley and how embarrassed and hurt and sad she was going to be because of me. She just didn’t deserve it-neither did her husband. And neither did Miss Tarango, who was so proud of our debating team and who I would be letting down, nor did Brother Jerome, who would have the school’s big night ruined, nor did Mr Barker, who would be left with another mess to sort out. And they weren’t the only ones. There were all the families and friends who had come along and all the people who had worked so hard on the decorations and the flowers and the music to make the evening a success–did they deserve to have their night spoilt?

  And what about my own family? How would they feel when they found out what I had done?

  But there was another reason why I couldn’t go through with it. It was that look on Barry Bagsley’s face, the one that I had put there, the one that reminded me of Kelly Faulkner’s little brother, of Bill Kingsley and of myself. I didn’t want to be the kind of person that made people look like that. No matter who they were. I can’t really explain how I was feeling when I returned to my seat and waited for the evening to come to an end. I knew I had made the right decision and I was glad that it was all over, but nothing I had done would help Bill Kingsley. As much as I tried to convince myself that the holidays might bring him some relief, I knew they would soon pass like the eye of the storm and then Cyclone Barry would return to wreak havoc again. I was still trying to work things out in my mind when I heard Brother Jerome wishing everyone a safe trip home, and then the gym disintegrated into a rumbling mass of noise and movement.

  I desperately needed some fresh air to clear my head.

  ‘Ishmael, are you feeling all right? You had me a little worried up there tonight.’

  It was Miss Tarango.

  ‘Yeah, what was that all about? Were you having a brain explosion? No, wait on, that’s a bit optimistic–maybe half a brain explosion?’

  I’ll let you guess who that was.

  ‘I’m fine. It was nothing. I was just … using pauses for dramatic effect–like you told us to, Miss.’

  ‘Is that right?’ Miss Tarango said suspiciously. ‘Well, you might need to work on that a bit more. Anyway, well done all of you–and not just for tonight. Now off you go and have a well-earned break and I’ll see you back, bigger and better, next year. ’

  ‘Yeah, see ya, Miss. You have a good holiday, too. Try not to get too lonely without us.’

  Miss Tarango clasped her hands on her chest, fluttered her eyelids and sighed. ‘Oh Orazio, how will I ever cope? It will be just devastating to have to lie on the beach day after day without even a single Year Nine English essay to keep me company. But you know me. I’m a trouper. I’ll struggle through … somehow.’

  That made us laugh. It also made us imagine Miss Tarango lying on a beach.

  ‘We could always whip up some practice essays for you to take with you?’ Razza suggested.

  ‘Don’t even think about it,’ Miss Tarango said as she unleashed her dimples at each of us, ‘not if you value your lives. Ciao, boys!’

  We watched as she threaded her way through the crowd. Some teachers made school worth coming back to.

  ‘Well, I’m off,’ Ignatius Prindabel announced bluntly. ‘It’s been … interesting. Gentlemen,’ he said, nodding at the three of us before departing.

  ‘I hate it when Prindabel gets all soppy,’ Piazza said, pretending to wipe a tear from his eye before turning his attention to the moping form beside him. ‘Well, Bilbo, tell me, what have you got planned for the holidays? Putting the finishing touches to the time machine? Darning up the holes in your Spidey suit? Taking a bus trip over to the Dark Side? Changing the bulb in your light sabre?’

  Bill shook his head gloomily. ‘Nothing much,’ he said without emotion, ‘just hanging around at home … prob’ly go to the pictures or something.’

>   I searched Bill’s face. The hero of the debating finals was nowhere to be seen. There had to be some way to bring him back again. But how?

  As usual, it was Razza who broke my train of thought.

  ‘Pictures? What’re you seeing?

  Bill shrugged his shoulders. ‘Star Warrior’s Quest–The Ultimate Evil I guess. I have to see that.’

  ‘Yeah, all right! The Ultimate Seagull. Is that out already? Sweet! Man, that’d be wicked. I’m there. So when are we going, Billy Boy?’

  I looked at Razza in disbelief.

  ‘It’s Ultimate Evil, not Seagull.’ Bill Kingsley said, screwing up his face.

  ‘Yeah, right, Evil. That’s what I said, Star Worrier’s Guest–The Ultimate Evil’.

  ‘That’s Star Warrior’s Quest.’

  ‘Yeah, yeah, whatever. So when are we going?’

  ‘I … I’m not sure … I was thinking of going next week probably … maybe Tuesday’

  ‘Great. Tuesday’s good for me. What about you, Ishmael? Are you in or what?’

  ‘Well, yeah … OK … sure … I mean, that’s if it’s all right with Bill.’

  ‘All right? Why wouldn’t it be all right? What’s the problem? You don’t mind us tagging along, do you, Billy?’

  A flicker of life blinked into Bill Kingsley’s confused eyes. ‘No … I … that’d be fine … yeah, good … great.’

  ‘It’s a done deal then. Oh man, Star Warrior’s Quest! I dig that Star Warrior dude.’

  Finally Bill Kingsley creased his brow and asked the question that had also been bouncing around in my head. ‘But I thought you hated space stuff?’

  Somehow Razza managed to look stunned and hurt at the same time. ‘Where do you get these crazy ideas from, Billy Boy? You know you’ve really got to stop performing those cranial probes on yourself. What are you on about? Me? Hate? Man, I’ve been hanging out to see Star Warrior’s Quest–The Ultimate Evil. I’m a Star Warrior’s Quest freak. It rocks. It’s fully sick, man. I’m a regular Questie–a certified Quest-head. I’m a space nut. I’m telling you, my brain is filled with nothing but space!’

  ‘So which one’s your favourite, then?’ Bill asked suspiciously.

  Razza looked perplexed. ‘My favourite what?’

  ‘Favourite Star Warrior’s Quest movie. Mine’s Star Warrior’s Quest-Assassins of the King, but a lot of people reckon Star Warrior’s Quest–The Scroll of Sorrow is better.’

  Razza nodded his head thoughtfully and bit his lip. Then he tapped his fingertips together before giving his considered response. ‘Actually, the one I prefer is Star Warrior’s Quest-Hot Space Chicks Get Naked. You may not be familiar with it. It only enjoyed a limited release, but it does have a strong cult following, and while I admit that the plot and dialogue leave a little to be desired, I feel that the cinematography–particularly the use of close-up-is breathtaking.’

  Bill Kingsley stood with his mouth open. Finally he recovered sufficiently to respond. ‘Don’t tell me you haven’t seen the first two parts of the Star Warrior’s Quest trilogy?’

  ‘All right, I won’t tell you, but you’ll probably work it out for yourself when I have to ask you a million questions during the film. Do you think it could lessen my viewing experience?’

  Bill shook his head, overwhelmed by Razza’s ignorance. ‘ The Ultimate Evil is the final part. You won’t have a clue what’s going on. You won’t know anything about Zabattaan and the lost Orb of Morglard Blarkon. You won’t even know why Kraakon has to get the last Delfini Sun Sword in order to stop the Tempest of Vermatton from being unleashed. And you’ll have no idea about the Mucallion Death Crystal or the Oath of Enlightenment or the Scales of the Seventh Serpent.’

  Razza tilted his head towards me and spoke from the corner of his mouth. ‘What language is he using now?’

  ‘Look, it’s pointless seeing the last Star Warrior’s Quest if you haven’t seen the first two.’

  ‘And I suppose you guys have both seen them?’

  Bill and I nodded together. ‘I’ve seen them heaps of times. I’ve got the special edition DVD box sets at home-with three hours of extra features.’

  Suddenly Razza’s eyes lit up and he slapped his forehead. ‘Well, that’s it! Bilbo, you’re a genius. Why didn’t I think of it?’ he said, grinning madly at our uncomprehending faces. ‘It’s obvious–Star Warrior’s Quest movie marathon this weekend-at the Hobbit’s house! Whatta you say, Billy Boy? Are you ready to fire up the old DVD player?’

  ‘Well … yeah … yeah, sure … OK … why not?’

  ‘Woohoo! You da bomb, Billy! You-da-Bomb!’

  ‘Bill, you sure that’s OK? Maybe you’ve got other plans or something. Razza can always rent the movies out himself, you know.’

  ‘No, it’s fine … I’ll have to check with Mum … but that’s no problem … really … it’ll be fine … if you guys want to come over … it’ll be great.’

  ‘Sure it’ll be great. Come on, Billy Boy,’ Razza said, throwing his arm around Bill Kingsley’s broad shoulders. ‘We have to plan this thing to within a millimetre of its life. Ishmael, we’ll give you a ring when we’ve got all the details sorted out. Geez, this is gonna be a big operation–two movies plus three hours of special effects. We could be talking sleepover here, B.K.’

  Bill Kingsley shook his head as he let himself be swept away in the avalanche of Razza’s enthusiasm. I wasn’t worried, though. He’d survive. The smile on his face told me so.

  ‘Now, we’ll need food and lots of it. You have to watch your diet, Big Guy, so I’ll be in charge of catering. We’ve got to make sure we cover the three basic food groups–pizzas, chips and ice cream. No whinging. It’s for your own good.’

  ‘You da boss,’ Bill Kingsley said.

  Razza staggered back in amazement. ‘You got that right, big fella! Now let’s go find your mum and get the ball rolling. Catch you later, Ishmael.’

  ‘Yeah, see ya guys … and Razz … don’t get too carried away, OK?’

  ‘Carried away? Moi?’

  Razza wheeled Bill Kingsley around. The last thing I heard him say as they headed off was, ‘Now, Billy Boy … about the beer and strippers …’

  I heard a strange noise come from deep within Bill Kingsley. It took me a moment to realise that he was laughing.

  Razza looked back at me, flashed that deadly smile and gave me the thumbs up.

  They were right all along. The Razzman really did work in mysterious ways.

  47.

  HANNIBAL LECTOR’S MUM

  As I watched Razza and Bill kingsley disappear into the crowd, I knew nothing would ever wipe the smile off my face.

  ‘S’pose you thought that was funny’

  I turned around. The smile was wiped off my face.

  ‘I wasn’t trying to be funny’

  The eyes that met mine sizzled with anger. They belonged to Barry Bagsley. ‘I knew you wouldn’t have the guts to go through with it,’ he said, spitting the words at me.

  I didn’t bother arguing with him. I had seen his face from the stage. We both knew the truth.

  ‘I just want you to lay off Bill Kingsley that’s all.’

  ‘If I were you, I’d be more worried about myself. Maybe you got away with it for tonight, but there won’t be anywhere to hide next year.’

  He was right. But it didn’t matter. I’d had enough of trying to make myself small. I didn’t want to be the invisible boy any more. ‘I won’t be hiding,’ I told him.

  We stood facing each other in an awful silence. I wouldn’t have been surprised to see a tumbleweed roll between us.

  ‘Barry-there you are! I’ve lost your father completely. He’s vanished off the face of the earth. Probably melted somewhere in that suit of his. Oh … I’m sorry–didn’t see you there,’ Mrs Bagsley said, turning towards me. ‘Hello.’

  It was like coming face to face with Hannibal Lecter’s mum.

  ‘Hi.’

  But how did Hannibal end up with a mother like t
hat? She was too young, too … good-looking … too bright and bubbly. When she smiled her face lit up like one of those people on an info-commercial. At any minute I expected her to try to sell me some revolutionary exercise machine to help tighten my non-existent abs.

  ‘Barry, where are your manners? Aren’t you going to introduce me to your friend?’

  Luckily Mrs Bagsley was looking at me, so she didn’t see her son grimace like he’d been hit in the face with a steel frying pan.

  ‘He’s not …’

  Mrs Bagsley turned her dazzling smile on her son.

  ‘Urn … this is … he’s … Ishmael.’ Barry Bagsley said my name like he’d been forced to swallow poison.

  ‘Ishmael? What a lovely name. Quite unusual.’

  I don’t know if it was because his mother was so friendly or whether it was because of the look of horror that was deepening on Barry Bagsley’s face, but for once I decided not to run away from my name.

  ‘It’s from Moby Dick-the novel. The narrator’s called Ishmael. I was named after him. It’s a long story.’

  ‘How interesting,’ Mrs Bagsley gushed, before something caught her eye. ‘Barry, look, there’s your father-near the back. You’re going to have to rescue him from Mrs Armbruster before she chews both his ears off. I’ll meet you both at the back door-no need for all of us to suffer,’ she said with a wink. ‘Ishmael, it was lovely to meet you. I don’t get the chance to talk with many of Barry’s friends–most of them don’t seem to be that chatty. Perhaps you could arrange with Barry to come over sometime during the holidays. You’d be very welcome.’

  Barry Bagsley looked like he was about to bring up his lower intestine. I thought I’d give him a hand.

  ‘Sounds great.’

  ‘Well, you two sort it out. But Barry, be quick. I don’t think your father can last much longer.’