The Real Thing

by Robert G. Barrett

  ‘Then the government could use that twently million to fight the heroin importers. They’re the cunts they should be after. Boost up the Customs Department. Educate the kids about the shit. Increase the drug squad, if it’s for that purpose.’

  ‘Jesus Reg,’ chuckled Norton. ‘That doesn’t sound like you.’

  ‘Yeah? Well try this for size. I reckon they ought to bring back the death penalty and hang the heroin dealers. You can get out of gaol Les but you can’t get out of a coffin. And don’t get it in to your head Les that I’m dirty on the cops, I’m not. They got a job to do just like anyone else and it can be a pretty shitty one at times, too. I know that. I’m just dirty on a stupid part of the law and the way they enforce it. That’s all.’

  Norton stared slightly in amazement at the fervour blazing in the little artist’s eyes. He sat on the lounge and took another sip from his stubbie.

  ‘Tell me this Les. When was the last time you saw anyone die from an overdose of smoking dope?’

  ‘Can’t say that I have.’

  ‘You ever heard of anyone breaking in to a chemist shop or robbing a bank to buy pot? You know of any sheilas working as prostitutes to keep themselves supplied with pot?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You ever seen anybody going through withdrawal symptoms because they ain’t got no pot?’

  ‘No. That’s ridiculous.’

  ‘The only thing wrong with pot is the greedy bastards that want to get rich from it. But — there’s a ready market there, and a big one, so you can’t really blame people for having a go.’

  Norton went to take a sip from his beer but changed his mind. He eased himself back in the chair and looked curiously at his mate sitting on the lounge slowly sipping on his stubbie. His straightforward answer to the drug problem impressed him with it’s obvious honesty and proletarian simplicity. For the life of him he couldn’t figure out why no one had thought of it before.

  ‘You know, what you say makes a lot of sense Reg,’ said Norton, nodding his head slowly. ‘But, if everybody had plenty of dope they’d all be gettin’ around stoned all the time. No one’d get nothin’ done.’

  ‘Not necessarily,’ replied Reg. ‘The pubs and clubs are always open but you don’t see everyone walking around pissed all the time. Most people like to have a drink after work or at a party; it’s, the same with pot, you don’t abuse it.’ He took another pull on his stubbie. ‘It’s a relaxant mainly, anyway. Christ there’s plenty of things you can’t do properly when you’re stoned, same as when you’re pissed. Like driving a car, using a typewriter or a computer. Jesus Les, your own common bloody sense’ll tell you that.’

  ‘Fair enough.’ Norton reflected into his beer for a moment. ‘But what about your health? You can’t tell me smoking’s good for your lungs.’

  ‘True. But like I say, you don’t abuse it. There’s idiots out there smoke two or three packets of cigarettes a day full of saltpetre and chemicals, and they wonder why they finish up with lung cancer and emphysema. Christ, you couldn’t smoke the equivalent to that in dope, you’d pass out: or end up getting a chat on with Buddha in a pub in nirvana.’ Reg finished his beer, stood up and pointed at the bong sitting on the coffee table. ‘But you can’t tell me a few cones of a night, filtered through water’s going to kill me. I’ve got a mate up the road turns his grandfather on every night and the old boy loves it — and he’s eighty.’ Reg paused for a moment. ‘Then again maybe you should lock him up in gaol, too.’ He went to the kitchen and returned with another two twist-tops.

  ‘I suppose what you’re sayin’s pretty right Reg,’ said Norton, taking one of the offered beers, removing the top and having a lengthy guzzle. ‘But what about if you start getting hooked on hard drugs?’ He let out a belch that made his eyes water slightly. ‘They reckon in the papers pot leads to heroin addiction.’

  ‘Oh arseholes.’ Reg shook his head, sat back down on the lounge and spread his arms out. ‘The only way kids get on to heroin,’ he said, looking directly at Les, ‘is when they’ve got to go to some pusher to buy a bit of smoke and some unscrupulous low cunt says — oh, sorry man, I got no green, but do you want to try this? It won’t hurt you and you can have the first taste for free. And the poor kid thinks, oh well, why not give it a try and the next thing, bingo! He’s hooked on the shit. And believe me Les, there’s no comparison between pot and heroin. It’s like riding a pushbike then getting into a Masserati. Only it’s got no brakes.’ Reg shook his head sadly. ‘I’ve lost some good friends in Sydney to the needle. Including a girl I was just starting to fall in love with — a young art student from Maroubra. Believe me Les, if there were no pushers, there’d be no smack. It’s as simple as that.’

  They sat in silence for a few moments as the news finished, quietly sipping their beers. Finally Reg looked up at Norton and smiled softly.

  ‘Anyway Les,’ he said, ‘I didn’t mean to bore you with all this talk about dope. It’s just, I dunno,’ he shrugged his shoulders slightly, ‘it’s just my opinion, I suppose, that’s all. Sorry mate.’

  Norton smiled back at his little artist friend. He could see the obvious sincerity and sadness in his melancholy brown eyes; especially when he mentioned the young girl from Maroubra.

  ‘That’s all right Reg,’ he said, reaching over and patting him lightly on the shoulder. ‘You’re not boring me. What you’re saying makes a helluva lot of sense. In fact I can’t figure out why the silly lookin’ pricks in the government haven’t thought of it themselves and done something like that.’

  Reg looked seriously at Norton. ‘You know why they won’t change the law Les?’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Two reasons. Firstly, there’s too many rich bastards, in and out of the government making too much money out of heroin to want to see their lucrative source of income dry up, or any fair dinkum pressure brought on to it. And secondly, political expediency.’

  ‘Political expediency. What’s that?’

  ‘Well, it wouldn’t matter who was in power. If Labor was in and they said they were going to do something along those lines I mentioned, the Liberal Party would start jumping up and down in the one spot, preying on people’s fears and saying they were going to turn us into a nation of junkies. On the other hand, if the Libs were in power and they said they were going to do it, the Labor Party would do exactly the same thing. Fair dinkum Les, they wouldn’t agree on the fuckin’ weather if they thought they were going to lose a couple of votes.’ Reg took a swig from his bottle, threw back his head and laughed scornfully. ‘Then you’ve got those sanctimonious, Bible-bashing wombats like the Festival of Light who think the only possible way you can have a good time is to be in a church with a Bible in one hand and a tambourine in the other, singing glory hallelujah seven days a bloody week.’ Reg shook his head again. ‘Shit, it wasn’t that long ago those bastards were burning people at the stake for having a root and walkin’ around laughing. You were in league with the devil — a witch. Even now they still want you to wear your “Reg Grundys” while you’re having a shower.’

  Norton couldn’t help laughing. ‘So what’s gonna happen Reg?’

  ‘What’s going to happen Les? Oh, they’ll just keep plugging on the way they’re going, till Sydney’s like New York and the gaols are full of people who’ve done nothing more than got caught with a bit of dope and every second kid’s got a criminal record. But one day Les, one day, a Prime Minister or a Premier or a leading judge will have a son or a daughter who’s a smack freak. Then they might wake up, and leave the poor pot smokers alone and concentrate on the heroin dealers. But until then . . .’ Reg held up his stubbie. ‘Cheers Les.’

  ‘Yeah, cheers Reg.’

  They finished their beers and Norton went to the kitchen returning with two fresh ones as the compere came on to announce the bands on this week’s Rock Arena.

  ‘I’ll tell you what,’ said Les, as he handed Reg a stubbie and sat back down on the lounge chair. ‘All this talk about dope’s co
nvinced me of one thing.’

  ‘What’s that?’ Reg leaned across and turned up the volume on the TV.

  ‘I might have a smoke myself — you gonna have one?’

  ‘No I’m right.’ Reg shook his head and smiled. ‘But go for your life.’

  Norton took a small portion of pot from the plastic bag and started mulling it up with a little tobacco in the bowl. Reg looked on with a slightly amused smile on his face.

  ‘I’ll tell you something about pot you probably won’t believe,’ said Reg, watching intently as Les packed a small cone, ‘but try this for size.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Marijuana can cure cancer.’

  ‘What! Oh don’t give me the fuckin’ shits.’

  ‘It’s a fact Les. You have to get it in its early stages, of course.’

  Norton smiled sufferingly at Reg. ‘You mean to tell me that if you’ve got lung cancer and you start smokin’ pot, it’ll cure it?’ He shook his head. ‘Fair dinkum Reg, you must think I’ve got a pumpkin for a fuckin’ head.’

  ‘You don’t smoke it you bloody great red-headed wombat. You make tea with it and drink it and go on a grape fast at the same time. The dope eases the pain and the grape juice cleans out your system and somehow or other the two combine and it flushes the cancer cells from you body. It takes about a month but it works. We tried it on some old people who had the ‘Bengal lancer’. They would’ve kicked the bucket for sure and they’re as good as gold now. Silly, isn’t it? We had to break the law to ease the agony they were in and save their lives.’

  ‘Yeah?’ said Norton, holding a match over the cone as INXS started “Stay Young”. ‘I dunno Reg. I think at times you tell me anything.’

  Reg was right about his dope though: it was sensational. INXS never looked so good and when Midnight Oil ripped into ‘I Don’t Want To Be The One’ Norton thought Peter Garrett was going to jump straight out of the TV set and land in his lap.

  About 8.30 the following morning Norton was sitting in the kitchen having breakfast with Reg. He’d been up since six, had a run, done some exercises while Sally looked on in amazement, and now after two bowls of muesli and fruit he was moving steadily through a plate of bacon and eggs. Outside it was another glorious spring day. The sun was streaming down from a clear blue sky, a light north-west wind was sighing softly through the tops of the trees, and the only sounds were the cries of the various birds as they hung momentarily in the breeze.

  ‘You sure you don’t want to come down the beach for a while?’ asked Norton. He finished the last egg and started spreading a piece of toast with mango-and-orange marmalade.

  ‘No. I’ll get these paintings finished today,’ replied Reg. ‘I might come down tomorrow.’

  ‘Fair enough. You want me to bring anything back from the shops?’

  ‘Yeah. Grab half a dozen date-rolls. Unless you fancy wiping your Khyber with newspaper.’

  ‘No thanks. Any particular brand you fancy Reg? Lady Scott? Sorbent?’

  ‘I don’t care Les. Kleenex’ll do.’

  ‘Righto.’

  They finished breakfast and started washing up. As Les was drying the dishes a huge Cape York cockatoo landed on the ledge outside the kitchen window. With its spiky black crest and bright red face it reminded him of some of the punks that hung around the Cross. It sat squawking softly at Reg.

  ‘Hey look at that,’ said Norton, ‘an old Cape Yorker. Shit I haven’t seen one of those since I left Queensland.’

  ‘Yeah, they’re grouse, aren’t they?’ Reg took a piece of leftover toast, spread a little jam on it and handed it through the open fly screen to the big black parrot. It took the toast deftly in its claw and started chewing. Norton put his hands on his hips and stood there grinning.

  ‘Did I tell you I used to have one of those for a pet?’ said Reg.

  ‘No,’ replied Norton.

  ‘Yeah. Had him for nearly two years. Taught him to talk and everything, even used to do impersonations. James Cagney, W.C. Fields, Gough Whitlam, Dame Joan Sutherland. Unbelievable what he could do.’

  ‘Fair dinkum?’ Norton watched amused as the big, black bird chewed away at the piece of toast. ‘What happened to him?’

  ‘Oh, I was goin’ bad and I ended up eating him.’

  ‘You ate him?’ Norton looked at Reg incredulously. ‘What did it taste like?’

  ‘Turkey.’

  ‘Turkey?’

  ‘Yeah, fair dinkum Les, that parrot could imitate anything.’

  Norton shook his head slowly and continued wiping up. ‘Leave me alone, will you Reg?’

  With the washing-up out of the road and his stomach full Norton threw his overnight bag and a pair of flippers on top of the banana chair in the boot. He was keen to get going so he said a quick goodbye to Reg, told him he’d be back late in the afternoon, gave Sally a rub on the belly, got in the car, and with Mental As Anything’s ‘Too Many Times’ blaring through the stereo, motored happily towards Sawtell.

  Sawtell is a sleepy little town about twelve kilometres south of Coffs Harbour. There’s a nice old pub, a friendly RSL and a wide palm-tree-lined, flower-filled median strip that runs down a few hundred metres or so of the neat little shops that form the main street. An expanse of golden sand runs from the grey headland at Trapdoors to Sawtell Island; this is divided by an ancient surf club roughly two-thirds the way along the beach towards the island, which when it’s on is one of the best surfing spots on the north coast.

  The place was barely coming to life when Norton pulled up outside the surf club at ten and got his gear out of the boot. A movement of brightly-coloured butterflies drifted lazily in the warm breeze as he walked down the lantana-lined path to the beach. The sun was sparkling brightly, almost blindingly, on the crystal-clear, turquoise ocean. Jesus, how good’s this? he thought. He whistled softly to himself while he unfolded his banana chair and placed it on the almost deserted beach a hundred metres or so down from the surf club. He spread his large frame on the banana chair, oiled up his slightly freckly body, then lay back and relaxed, not a care or a worry in the world.

  After an hour, or so rivulets of sweat were starting to course down Norton’s face and body, dripping off the banana chair and on to the sand; the water started to look more inviting than ever. There was a good wave running, so he decided to go for a surf. He took off his shorts, grabbed the flippers out of the overnight bag and trotted down to the water’s edge. The water was beautiful, not even the slightest chill. He plunged in and started back-stroking out to where the waves were breaking over a small sand bank directly in front of the surf club. He splashed around for over an hour picking up wave after wave, sometimes going left, sometimes right. He skimmed across the long, smooth green walls while the waves peeled off behind him in a gently breaking cascade of gleaming, white foam. A flash of several black fins, not far away, startled him momentarily. He trod water waiting for the next set, but as the fins went lazily up and down in the water, Norton realised they were only a school of grey dolphins. No worries about sharks, he thought happily. Eventually they drifted in and started surfing the sand bank alongside him.

  ‘Hey, piss off,’ yelled Les, grinning hilariously. He splashed water at the one closest to him. ‘I was here first.’

  The twenty or so dolphins took absolutely no notice of him. They, too, started picking up waves, singing and calling to each other, surfacing and blowing water out into the air. Some-times they leapt right out of the surf to land with a thundering splash in a wonderful display of nature at its best. It was almost as if they were putting it on for his benefit — Les was in another world. Jesus, he thought as he watched the magnificent creatures swimming gracefully and happily around him, how can those fuckin’ Japanese slaughter them like they do. He shook his head sadly then spat in the water with disgust.

  A wave suddenly loomed up much bigger than the rest. It looked like it was going to dump but Norton picked it up and with his hands out in front of him, dived straight down
into it. It winded him slightly but with several powerful kicks of the flippers he was able to stay with it poking his head to the side and getting a gulp of air every now and again. He decided to beach it. Kicking strongly and with his hands straight out in front of him clasped one on top of the other, he put his face down and let the wave speed him into the beach. He was feeling great, holding his breath. The water rushed alongside him. He felt as though he could have gone on like this forever when, just as he neared the beach, he came to a shuddering halt, colliding with someone or something in the surf.

  He rolled over in a clumsy sort of a sommersault then stood up in the almost waist-deep water to see he’d just knocked over a girl. She had probably been standing there enjoying a bit of a splash around, when Norton had come through like a runaway express train. Now she was on her backside, kicking and spluttering around wide-eyed trying to get her breath back and wondering what the bloody hell had happened.

  ‘Jesus I’m sorry love,’ said Norton sincerely, as he splashed clumsily over to her and helped her to her feet. ‘I should’ve been watching what I was doing. I’m a nice goose. Are you all right?’

  At first the girl didn’t say anything. She just stood there. Norton held her elbow. She held her ribs, rolling her eyes around, spluttering. Finally she wrenched her arm away from Les.

  ‘You bloody near killed me. Oh, my ribs.’

  Norton’s face started to colour slightly. ‘Look, I’m really sorry love,’ he said, feeling quite stupid. He stood next to her: he was almost twice her size. ‘Come on, let me help you up to the beach.’ He removed his flippers with one hand and, with the other, helped her as gently as he could to the shore where she sat down on the wet sand. Kneeling next to her Norton checked her out.

  She wasn’t half a bad sort. About 160 centimetres with straggly, curly blonde hair, that dripped water everywhere, big China-blue eyes, a cute little pink mouth and a cute little nose, with a number of freckles spread over it like hundreds and thousands. She had a good, full body and was wearing a blue and yellow swimsuit that plunged down in the front and was cut up at the side just enough to reveal what needed to be revealed to make most men look twice. Les guessed she would have been in her early twenties.