The Real Thing

by Robert G. Barrett

  ‘Come here I’ll show you.’

  Norton got up and walked over as Reg swung open the cupboard door. Clinging to the inside was the biggest tarantula he’d ever seen. It’s furry, brown body was as round as a saucer and it’s pinky eyes on the end of their stalks looked as big as cherry pips. ‘Jesus,’ he exclaimed. ‘He’s a big bastard. Where’d you get him?’

  ‘Oh he’s been here for ages. Don’t hurt him, will you? He eats all the flies and moths.’ Reg gave the huge spider a nudge with his finger and it scurried into the cupboard and disappeared among the tins and jars.

  ‘I never kill spiders,’ said Norton. ‘Not like those dills in the city. Soon as they see one they can’t spray it quick enough.’ He took a sip on his can as Reg closed the cupboard. ‘I got a couple of huntsman spiders in my kitchen and you never see a cockroach in my place. And that ain’t bad for Bondi.’ Reg winked with approval. ‘I’ll tell you what’ continued Norton. ‘While you’re getting tea I might go and unpack my gear.

  ‘Righto. This’ll be about half an hour.’

  Norton yawned again and trudged into his bedroom. He threw the suitcase up on the bed and unzipped it. He put his T-shirts, socks and underwear in the dressing table and hung his jeans and shirt in the old wardrobe. He was about to put his shoes at the bottom of the wardrobe when a movement under the bed caught his eye. He reached down and pulled back the bed cover to find a monstrous great carpet snake curled up under the bed having a sleep. It was as thick as a fire hose and at least three metres long.

  ‘Hey Reg,’ he yelled, as he stormed back into the kitchen. ‘There’s a bloody great carpet snake under my bed. It’s gotta be a fifty metres fuckin’ long.’

  ‘Yeah, that’s Madam Lash,’ replied Reg, hardly looking up as he stirred the food sizzling in the wok. ‘She’s all right. She eats all the mice and cane toads.’

  ‘Oh she eats the mice and cane toads, does she? And what have you got down the back to eat any feral pigs you might have. A bunyip?’

  ‘No. No bunyips. But there’s a couple of yowies up in the hills.’

  Norton shook his head and went back into the bedroom to continue unpacking his gear, keeping a trepidatious eye on Madam Lash still curled up enjoying her late afternoon kip under the bed. Ten minutes later Reg called Les for tea.

  ‘Well fair dinkum Reg, that was absolutely beautiful,’ said Norton, running his finger round his dessert plate and sticking it in his mouth.

  ‘You like it eh?’

  ‘Oh mate, it was grouse.’

  Reg had cooked up a huge serve of sate beef, fresh, steamed local vegetables and brown rice. He’d followed this with strawberries and bananas, lightly fried, then sprinkled with shredded coconut and covered with ice-cream and Grand Marnier.

  ‘Not a bad life out here in the country, is it?’ smiled Reg.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ replied Norton. ‘I’ll be back here one day. You can stick that city. Though I gotta admit Sydney’s a top town and it’s been pretty kind to me, but.’

  ‘Yeah, you’ve got to go where your heart is Les.’

  Norton winked. ‘And I can just about smell Queensland from here.’

  They washed up the dishes and Les was yawning and rubbing his eyes constantly. When they’d finished he put his hand on Reg’s shoulder. ‘Mate,’ he yawned again. ‘I hate to be rude but I’m gonna have to go straight to bed. I’m about knackered.’

  ‘Go on mate,’ replied Reg. ‘You’re right, in fact I won’t be far behind you. Those few beers have made me tired, too. I’ll see you in the morning.’

  ‘G’night mate. Thanks for everything.’

  Norton trudged wearily off into his bedroom. He didn’t bother to switch on the light as he climbed out of his jeans and crawled straight into bed. He closed his eyes and lay there for a moment enjoying the perfume from the jacaranda tree as it drifted through the window. He was about to nod off when a noise from the end of the bed made him open his eyes. He peered at a movement in the gloom then switched on the bed lamp behind his head. Sitting on the brass rail at the end of the bed were two fat, grey possums, their tails curled up over their backs. They blinked at him with their huge, inquisitive, brown eyes.

  ‘Hey Reg,’ he yelled at the top of his voice, ‘there’s two bloody great possums in my bed.’

  ‘Yeah, they’re all right,’ came Reg’s voice from the kitchen. ‘That’s Sonny and Cher. They eat all the scraps.’

  Norton shook his head for a moment before he switched off the light. ‘G’night Reg,’ he called out.

  ‘G’night Les. See you in the morning.’

  Carpet snakes under my bed and possums in it, thought Les, as he lay there and drifted off into sleep. What bloody next?’ He was asleep fifteen minutes before the grin disappeared from his face.

  After one of the best night’s sleep he’d ever had, Norton was up before six the following morning; it was deathly still and the dew was still sparkling on the fields and trees. The only sound was the distant chirping and crying of some unseen birds. Reg was still asleep so he quietly got into his training gear, had a cup of tea and went for an hour’s run along Friday Creek road. He topped this off with another hour of exercises then, after breakfast with Reg, decided he wasn’t going to make a move all day: not even a phone call. He wasn’t even going to start the car. Reg showed Les his studio — the dilapidated old shed out the front — and told him he was going to work on a painting all morning but after lunch he’d show him over the farm and take him down to the swimming hole at the back.

  Not wishing to disturb his little artist mate while he was at work Norton just sat quietly out the front listening to the birds, drinking the odd stubbie of Fourex and reading one of Reg’s books — something about a UFO conspiracy and the end of the earth, which turned out to be just an excuse for the author to go on a Bible-bashing rave.

  About one o’clock Les knocked up a huge pot of tea and a stack of juicy steak sandwiches swimming in thousand island dressing. After they’d finished eating Reg put on his sneakers and took him down to show him the swimming hole: or as Reg called it ‘his nine metre Olympic pool’.

  ‘It’s only about two hundred metres down the back,’ said Reg. He started leading Les along a small trail at the rear of the house. ‘But it’s hidden by all the trees and you can’t see it.’

  ‘Why don’t you get a chain-saw and cut ’em down?’

  ‘Yeah. I was thinking of poisoning them to tell you the truth.’

  ‘Get a bulldozer in and tar the lot over.’

  ‘Yeah, that’s not a bad idea. Might build a service station.’

  ‘What about a nice block of home units full of screaming ethnics. I hate trees myself.’

  ‘Oh so do I Les. They’re a pain in the arse.’

  ‘Yeah. Especially when they start making all that oxygen of a night. The noise buggers up me sleep.’

  The narrow, leafy trail meandered down through thickets of flowering lantana and underneath vine covered trees to a small sparkling creek that gurgled happily over the shiny river stones and old logs. A few metres to their left a small, picturesque waterfall tumbled down several metres of moss-covered granite boulders to form a beautiful shaded billabong about three metres deep and about eight metres across. Several trees grew around and over the billabong and from an over-hanging branch of the largest a length of knotted rope dangled motionless a metre from the still, shimmering surface. To add even more delight to the already colourful scene a number of fruit-bearing trees grew around the edges. It was so pretty Norton stood mesmerised: he was almost speechless.

  ‘Jesus Christ, Reg,’ he finally said. ‘This is like something out of the Garden of Eden. It’s unbelievable.’

  ‘You like my little nine metre pool Les?’ grinned Reg.

  ‘Like it? It’s bloody beautiful.’

  ‘Here have a mandarin.’ Reg reached up, pulled off one of the large soft fruits and tossed it to Les, who quickly peeled it and popped a portion in his mouth.


  ‘Mm. How sweet are these?’ Norton rolled his eyes with ecstasy savouring the nectareous juice.

  Reg sat on one of the rocks grinning. ‘There’s orange trees, apple, apricot, peach, banana. I even got avocado and guava — and those passionfruits should be on soon.’

  Norton spat out the last of the pips and started unbuttonng his shirt. ‘Fuck this,’ he said abruptly. ‘I’m goin’ for a swim.’ He stripped off the rest of his clothes and plunged naked into the pool diving straight to the bottom. ‘Whoa shit,’ he yelled, as he resurfaced and shook his head vigorously. ‘It’s bloody cold.’

  ‘Get’s a bit fresh, don’t it?’ called Reg.

  ‘Whoah, reckon. But it’s still good.’ Les dived down to the bottom again then climbed up the rope a few times, jumping back in and sending great waves splashing over the rocks at the edge of the pool. After splashing around happily a while longer he clambered out and stood on a rock next to Reg shaking the water out of his ear.

  ‘Mate, that was the grouse. Fair dinkum.’

  As Norton stood next to Reg wiping the water off his body with his hands, Reg began to laugh. ‘I’ll tell you what,’ he chuckled. ‘Those sexy hostesses at the Kelly Club’d get a bit of a giggle if they saw their big tough doorman right now. That waters a lot colder than you think.’

  Les glanced down at his dripping loins. ‘Shit,’ he muttered, ‘where’d it go? It was there a minute ago.’ Reg kept laughing. ‘Hey, don’t let that fool you,’ grinned Norton. ‘I’m a dynamite lover. You needn’t worry about that.’

  ‘Yeah. 200 pound of dynamite with a half-inch fuse. Here, have another mandarin.’

  Les got his clothes on and Reg took him back to the house via the dam which was built into the side of the creek a hundred metres or so up from the billabong. A length of black, plastic hose ran from the dam up to the water-tank where Reg showed Les a small diesel pump he used to keep the tank full at all times. Les got a couple of stubbies out of the fridge, and they sat on the veranda while the noisy little lorikeets returned for their evening feed of bread and honey. They were a bit more well-behaved this time and Reg didn’t have to reach for his water pistol, so they both sat watching them while the setting sun painted the sky with background colour.

  ‘I might go down to Sawtell tomorrow,’ said Les. ‘Have a surf and a bit of a hang on the beach for a while. You want to come?’

  ‘I wouldn’t mind,’ replied Reg, ‘but I want to stay here and finish those two paintings. I might come down with you Thursday.’

  ‘Suit yourself. Well, here come the bloody mozzies again.’ Norton squashed a monster on his leg. ‘We go inside?’ They finished their beers and went into the kitchen.

  Reg was conned into cooking tea again — braised beef with Hoi-Sin sauce and vegetables, followed by rockmelon, honey-dew melon and pawpaw balls covered with ice-cream and a few nips of Tia Maria.

  ‘You don’t live too bad for a struggling artist,’ mused Norton over his third dish of sweets.

  ‘I get by,’ replied Reg carefully. ‘I’ll tell you about it while we’re watching TV. You like “Minder”?’

  ‘Terry and Arfa? And Dave at the Winchester Club? You’re kidding Reg, that’s my favourite show.’

  They took their time washing up. When they’d finished Les got another two stubbies out of the fridge and they settled down in front of the TV. While they were waiting for ‘Nation-wide’ to finish Reg went to his bedroom and returned with a small plastic bag of marijuana and a bamboo bong, which he placed on the coffee table.

  ‘Like a smoke Les?’

  ‘I wouldn’t mind, but I’m that tired, I’d end up falling asleep and missing “Minder”.’ Norton picked up the bag of pot and examined it for a few seconds. ‘Looks like good dope.’

  Reg winked knowingly. ‘I’ve never smoked better.’

  He broke a piece off and started mulling it up with a little tobacco in a bowl. ‘You sure you don’t want a puff? “Rock Arena” is on later. It’s Midnight Oil and INXS tonight.’

  ‘Oils - Oils - Oils,’ chanted Norton.

  ‘You like the Oils Les?’

  ‘Oh yeah! They’re all right. That lead singer’s enormous.’

  ‘There’s a rumour going round that he’s thinking of running for parliament on a nuclear disarmament policy.’

  ‘Yeah, I heard that, too. I reckon if he does he’ll get some votes. The kids are rapt in him.’

  Reg winked. ‘Let’s hope it happens.’

  When he’d mulled up enough dope for about four little cones, Reg lit the first one, sucked it into his lungs, held it for a few seconds, then let it out with a look of great relish. After the fourth they settled back to watch TV; Reg didn’t say a great deal during ‘Minder’ but he was laughing like a drain at the gags.

  After Terry had knocked out his mandatory four or five villains and Arthur had conned a few punters out of their money Les got another couple of stubbies out of the fridge, and they sat talking while the late news was on. Reg had another two cones. A solitary mosquito got in the room somehow which Reg quickly dispatched with a short burst from a can of Johnson Protector.

  ‘So this is life on the farm eh?’ said Norton, as Reg put the fly spray down on the floor.

  ‘Yeah, this is it.’

  ‘You don’t look like you’re starving Reg. That kitchen and bathroom look the grouse. You must be selling a few paintings?’ ‘I sell a few, but I don’t get a great deal of money. Not for the effort I put into them.’ Reg smiled a little self-consciously and shrugged his shoulders. ‘So I grow a little bit of dope on the side.’

  ‘I tipped that.’ Norton paused for a moment then burst out laughing. ‘So. You’re a rotten fuckin’ dope dealer eh?’

  ‘Oh yeah,’ retorted Red, ‘I’m a regular Terry bloody Clarke.’

  ‘How much do you grow?’

  ‘About a dozen or so plants. Last year I ended up with about two kilos of dope. I made just over a thousand dollars on the side.’

  ‘Phew!’ Norton let out a long, low whistle. ‘Jesus, Reg,’ he laughed, ‘you’re the original Coffs Harbour connection. I hope I’m safe staying here.’

  Reg took another pull on his stubbie. His face turned slightly more serious. ‘If I wanted to Les I could make heaps — but I don’t believe in it. I give most of it away or swap it for food or favours.’ He nodded towards the kitchen and bathroom. ‘Like the plumber or the carpenter. It’s just that the stuff I grow’s that good everybody wants it, so I just sell a little bit to some friends in Sydney, look after them and they’re happy. I tell the Taxation Department I’ve managed to sell a few paintings, pay a little bit of tax and they’re happy, too. I only go on the “jam roll” every now and again, the Department of Social Security thinks I’m a reasonably solid citizen and they’re happy as well.’

  ‘And you get a free smoke and you’re happy.’

  ‘That’s about it in a nutshell.’

  Norton finished his stubbie the same time as Reg took the empties out to the kitchen and returned with two fresh ones. ‘I suppose you’d be pretty safe on your farm, too,’ he said, settling back on the old lounge chair. ‘Not much chance of you getting busted right out here.’

  ‘Don’t you believe it.’

  ‘What? Surely the coppers wouldn’t come out all this way just to pinch you for a dozen lousy plants.’

  ‘Yeah? Pig’s arse.’ Reg’s voice started to rise. ‘I’ve only got to get dobbed in by one of those bloody old concerned citizens and the drug squad’d be out in here in five minutes. Four dirty big coppers tipping my place upside down, one of them’d probably give me a belt in the mouth just for fun. They treat it like a half-pie joke but they lumber me up in front of some brandy-sodden, gout-ridden, old magistrate, charge me with possession, cultivation, smoking, supplying. They throw in whistling in the pictures and square-dancing in a roundhouse, and the beak, who’s only interested in getting his thousand a week and getting home to his bottle of Johnnie Walker, gives me twelve months. I�
�d have to do it in bloody Grafton, too.’

  Norton screwed his face up slightly and looked at Reg. ‘That doesn’t happen, does it?’

  ‘Are you kidding Les?’ Reg was on his feet now gesticulating with his hands. ‘A friend of mine in Sydney, Franz Horvath — he’s a poet. Some old sheila dobbed him in for having ten plants on his sun deck. The beak gave him three months in Long Bay; he wasn’t out there a fortnight and these old lags beat him up and pack-raped him. He’s a cripple now— for what?’

  Norton looked at Reg a little incredulously: he could just imagine what would happen to his little artist mate if he had to do a year in Grafton gaol. ‘But that’s just plain fuckin’ stupid. I mean, they spend all that time and effort pinchin’ blokes like you for having a bit of pot and Sydney’s full of heroin. I oughta bloody know, I work at the Cross and I live in Bondi. It’s everywhere.’

  ‘That’s what shits people like me Les. The coppers — thanks to the stupid bloody politicians that run the State — are filling the courts with people for having a few plants in their backyard or a couple of joints in their socks and while we’re all in there wasting time and the taxpayer’s money another ten kilograms of heroin hits the street. We’re just easy marks, that’s all and it helps fill their charge sheets. It’s bloody ridiculous.’

  ‘You’re right you know Reg.’ Norton took another swig from his stubbie then shrugged his shoulders slightly as he spoke. ‘But what’s the answer?’

  Reg looked at Norton for a few moments before he said anything. ‘The answer Les is that simple it gives you the shits.’ He put his beer on the coffee table and sat back down on the lounge. ‘There’s at least 200,000 people smoke dope in New South Wales, right?’

  ‘Oh easy,’ replied Norton.

  ‘Well, why not give them a licence to grow say ten plants a year and charge them a hundred bucks for it. That gets all the so-called evil dope smokers out of the road in one go, it stops the trafficking in marijuana and the state government cops twenty million dollars a year for its trouble.’

  Norton nodded his head slowly in approval. ‘That makes a lot of sense Reg. Go on.’