FATTY 137.75kg (WORLD RECORD FOR A 16YR OLD?)
RAMBO 88kg
MAD DOG 83kg
BOGGO 67kg
VERN 60kg
GARLIC 58kg
SPUD 55kg
Vern then insisted on weighing the different parts of his body.
WEIGHT OF VERN’S BODY PARTS
Right leg 12.5kg
Left leg 7kg
Rear 45kg
Head 0.65kg
Right arm 18kg
Left arm 5.5kg
On this evidence one would have to conclude that Vern isn’t exactly what you would call a well-balanced person. In fact that could be conclusive proof at many universities that Vern isn’t even human.
Fatty looked a bit disappointed with not cracking the 150kg mark but cheered up when it was discovered that he was nearly 50kg heavier than Rambo.
19:00 ‘Um … whereabouts are we?’ questioned Garlic from the far end of the dinner table. The Malawian had paused with a massive fork, laden with chicken breast, two carrots and roast potato, just inches from his mouth.
‘You see!’ observed Boggo, pointing his dessert spoon accusingly at Garlic. ‘His mouth wanted to eat, but his brain had a question! He does it all the time!’ Boggo nodded his head slowly and said, ‘My oath to God, he’s a freak of nature.’
Vern thought this was hilarious and began sniggering deviously from his stool beside me. Everyone turned to look at him so he stopped sniggering, said, ‘Garlic!’ in a loud voice and then stuffed a large roast potato in his mouth.
Mom Dog took pity on Garlic and explained that the farm is situated 40km from Tzaneen and 75km from Phalaborwa. This didn’t resolve Garlic’s confusion because the only places he knows in South Africa are Johannesburg, Durban airport, and school.
Tuesday 7th July – Working Day
Swam in the water tank, drove a tractor (Mad Dog controlled the gears and I steered), shot rifles, chased baboons, picked about a million oranges and didn’t stop laughing at Mad Dog all day. Not bad for a hard day’s work on the farm.
After we had knocked off from our day’s labour, we each had to sign a form in Dad Dog’s office to say that we were temporary workers on his orange farm. It all felt highly official and manly to be working on the farm and signing employee forms. In fact my first full day’s work wasn’t nearly as bad as I expected. If the acting thing doesn’t work out I could always while away my days steering tractors, picking fruit and chasing greedy apes with Slapgat, Bakgat and Drollie.
Wednesday 8th July
9:30 Mad Dog waited until his mom and dad had driven off to Tzaneen for supplies before making his move. He unlocked his father’s office and sat in the black swivel seat behind the desk. Then he picked up the telephone and carefully dialled a number.
‘Watch this,’ he said.
He flicked a switch and the ringing tone sounded through the loudspeaker.
‘Who are we phoning?’ asked Garlic.
Mad Dog raised a finger to his lips to indicate silence and we waited for something to happen.
‘Hello?’ said a high-pitched boy’s voice that sounded oddly familiar. Mad Dog didn’t say hello back. Instead he said:
MAD DOG Runt, I hope you’re feeling strong because I want you to drop for fifty.
RUNT (In shock) Mad Dog! Um … look, I can’t do them now. My mom …
MAD DOG I don’t care what you’re doing to your mom! I want my fifty.
RUNT (Whining voice) But Mad Dog, it’s the holidays.
MAD DOG I don’t give a stuff. Now don’t make me come back to school and hang you out the window again! Because I will – I’ve got wheels now.
Pause.
RUNT Okay, I’ll do them.
MAD DOG And I want good ones all the way down with a horizontal back. None of that arse in the air stuff!
RUNT Okay. I’m starting now …
The sound of bangs and movement on the other side of the line. Then followed grunting, puffing, and Runt’s breathy voice slowly counting upwards from five. I wasn’t initially convinced that Runt wasn’t bluffing Mad Dog, but then we heard his elbows clicking repetitively and the mass hilarity started. We were rolling around on the carpet clutching our mouths while Mad Dog shouted menacing encouragement like an army general.
After Runt was done, he sounded on the verge of death and tried to quickly sign off but then Rambo jumped in and shouted:
RAMBO Sorry, Runt, that was just the warm-up. This is Rambo speaking.
Very long pause.
RUNT Rambo!
MAD DOG Rambo!
RAMBO It’s no good having big pecs and biceps if you haven’t got the six pack to match so drop for fifty sit-ups.
Pause.
RUNT How do I know it’s really Rambo?
RAMBO Just the same way I know you spend way too much of your time staring at Milton!
RUNT Oh, hi, Rambo! Sorry, I didn’t know what was going on.
RAMBO Story of your life, buddy. Now stop pissing around and let’s hear those sit-ups. Feet raised six inches off the ground and no shamming!
RUNT Okay. Starting now.
And off he went again. Runt struggled quite badly with the final twenty and by the sounds of things may have injured his back. After he had completed his workout, Mad Dog and Rambo shouted congratulations at him and said they were doing this in Runt’s best interests. Then Boggo cleared his throat and said:
BOGGO Runt, you scrawny little piss drop, this is Lord Boggo speaking. But as always you can just call me Viscount Vagina.
Boggo sniggers at his own joke.
Pause.
RUNT Boggo!
BOGGO Now look, there’s no point in having great chest and stomach muscles if you run like a pregnant woman. So let’s see those knees up and running on the spot! Go!
Long pause.
BOGGO Come on, I wanna to see your commitment, Runt. Running on the spot. Go!
Boggo beeps his stopwatch and sniggers to the rest of us. There is no sound from Runt’s end.
Pause.
BOGGO Runt?
Pause.
RUNT (Quiet voice) Ja?
BOGGO Are you running?
Pause.
RUNT No.
BOGGO (Aggressively) Why the hell not?
Pause.
RUNT Because I’m not scared of you.
The line went dead.
RAMBO Some prefect you’re gonna make!
Boggo was seething. The more we mocked him, the more enraged he became. In fact I don’t think I’ve ever seen Boggo so angry. He paced around the room kicking the air and said if Runt were present he would shoot him in the balls with Mad Dog’s rifle.
‘That’s quite a small target to shoot at,’ said Fatty, but Boggo wasn’t in the mood for jokes.
‘In fact, I’d bet good money that Vern has more authority than you do,’ added Rambo, who was clearly loving Boggo’s public humiliation.
‘Twenty bucks!’ shouted Boggo and thrust out his hand.
‘Twenty bucks!’ echoed Garlic in alarm.
‘Twenty bucks,’ agreed Rambo and shook Boggo’s hand.
Mad Dog leapt up and began dialling again. The laughter and mockery subsided as an uncertain Vern stepped up to the desk and dramatically cleared his throat.
‘Make him run on the spot,’ whispered Rambo to Vern and thumped him on the back. Vern nodded and then furiously licked his lips.
The ringing tone at the other end of the line continued but there was no answer.
‘He’s playing cat and mouse,’ said Mad Dog.
‘Keep trying. We’ll eventually smoke him out,’ said Rambo.
Mad Dog tried again and this time a woman answered in an angry voice.
Vern said nothing and his face began to redden.
WOMAN Hello? Hello? Who is this?
Then Rambo jumped in.
RAMBO Good morning, madam. This is Oliver Tambo from the ANC. I was wondering if you would like to join our party?
Pause and
stifled Crazy Eight chaos.
The woman hung up. Boggo snorted dismissively and accused Runt’s mom of being a racialist.
Before the argument could continue Mad Dog shouted, ‘Follow me, buggers!’ and tore out the office, across the lawn and down towards the orange trees.
While Mad Dog, Vern, Fatty and I dug for worms among the orange trees, Rambo and Boggo settled their argument with a nasty fruit fight. Rambo won, although Boggo managed to thunder a ripe orange into the back of Rambo’s head, leaving his hair caked in orange juice. It didn’t take long for us to fill two tins with wriggling earthworms before Mad Dog led a charge towards the storeroom to find fishing rods and tackle. He then set off at a steady sprint for the dam with us once again galloping behind, desperately trying to keep up.
17:00 Mad Dog said the reason we didn’t catch any fish was because the water was too cold and Vern made too much noise thrashing about in the reeds.
We returned, showered and once again we feasted.
Amazing how nearly a week has gone by in what feels like a matter of hours. Tomorrow we have our big sleep-out in the bush and then on Friday we leave for home. Perhaps I really should be a game ranger if the acting thing doesn’t work out?
Thursday 9th July
ONE TO REMEMBER
15:00 Dad Dog dropped us off at the gate of the game farm.
‘Watch out for the leopards,’ he said. ‘It’s breeding sea-son.’ He then gave us a wicked smile and roared off back towards the farmhouse. We carried piles of blankets and charcoal, a cool box stuffed with food, marshmallows, jerseys, coats, beanies, long socks and a bag of strange things that Mad Dog thought we might need. Mad Dog, as always, was dressed in khaki and carried his rifle.
16:00 At last our host announced that our camping spot had been found. We dropped our heavy loads and collapsed onto the dry grass where we lay for some time basking in the glow of the warm afternoon sun.
‘Follow me!’ shouted Mad Dog and he galloped off into the bush, barking loudly. Rambo and Garlic lifted the groaning Fatty to his feet as he wailed, ‘Is this meant to be a holiday or boot camp?’
16:30 We found ourselves gathered around what looked like an abandoned well. Garlic peered down into the darkness and asked, ‘Aren’t these wells meant to be lucky?’
‘Not if you fall in headfirst,’ snapped Boggo as he stretched his hamstrings on the wall.
‘How deep is it?’ blurted Garlic.
‘Nobody knows,’ said Mad Dog mysteriously.
‘Could be haunted,’ said Fatty, peering suspiciously into the darkness.
‘What’s down there?’ demanded Garlic again, his eyes wide with curiosity.
‘The bar,’ said Mad Dog, as he felt around the inside of the well.
‘What are you doing now?’ asked Garlic.
‘Bingo!’ shouted Mad Dog and held up the end of a rope that he immediately tied to his left wrist. He then began pulling something extremely heavy out of the well.
Fatty helped Mad Dog haul the package over the lip and down onto the ground.
The bad news was that maggots had eaten away at the box and two six-packs fell out of the package while it was being winched up. The good news was that something had gnawed away at most of the cigarette carton. This was only bad news for Mad Dog, Boggo and Rambo, who say they like smoking.
‘Still,’ said Mad Dog after Rambo and Boggo’s thorough inventory, ‘we got 36 beers and 26 cigarettes.’
‘That’s what I call a party,’ said Rambo.
‘Follow me,’ said Mad Dog and off we ran, leaving Vern peering over the edge of the well and Garlic demanding to know how Mad Dog knew there was booze down there.
17:00 Mad Dog made the bonfire and allowed Vern to set it alight. Vern strode forward with his tongue out and a full box of matches at the ready. I’m not sure if he was already drunk from his first sips of beer or whether he was nervous, but he made a terrible hash of lighting the fire. First the matches kept blowing out in the wind and then he fell over and scratched himself on the wood. Eventually, he was striking about ten matches at a time and throwing the ball of flame at the pile of sticks. Mad Dog came to his rescue and soon we were standing around staring at the flames with the last rays of the sun filtering through the trees and thorn bushes around us.
The night closed in and the half moon blazed away in glossy cream and yellow. The beer went straight to my head and I found myself cackling uncontrollably at Rambo’s impression of The Glock falling off a ski lift and onto his wife. I was so merry that I even forgot to say no when Rambo handed out the cigarettes.
‘Do you realise,’ I said after some silence, ‘that the last time we all sat around like this, was the exact minute before the Mad House was busted.’
‘That’s powerful!’ said Fatty.’
And then we began to relive the old times. From the very beginning when we first met each other over two and a half years ago. First it was Vern wetting his bed, then Fatty’s moment in the chapel and nightswimming and Vern running away and coming back. Then it was Julian and Bert and Gavin, the weird prefect under the stairs. Finally, it was my friend Gecko who should have been sitting here with me, laughing at how wild and crazy things seemed back then.
Rambo’s voice grew softer and he told Mad Dog about Simon’s mental breakdown. Mad Dog wasn’t convinced about the whole thing and said it didn’t sound like the Simon he remembered. He exhaled a cloud of cigarette smoke into the flames and said, ‘I played cricket with that guy like every day – he’s as hard as nails.’ He didn’t buy the story about Simon’s dad either and said that Simon never really bothered about whether his dad came to his cricket matches or not.
‘Maybe,’ said Boggo as his finger rose skyward, ‘maybe he’s got an Oedipist thing going with his old man!’
‘You mean Simon’s gay?’ gasped Garlic in alarm.
‘Bullshit!’ shouted Mad Dog and leapt to his feet like his mother had just been insulted.
‘I’m not saying he’s gay,’ said Boggo, looking panicked. ‘I’m just saying the whole thing is suspicious.’
‘What’s suspicious?’ demanded Mad Dog as he calmly picked up his rifle.
Boggo’s eyes darted nervously between the gun and Rambo, who lay relaxed and thoughtful up against the tree trunk. Boggo stammered, ‘Hey, don’t get me wrong, Mad Dog. Simon’s a legend – like the best guy ever. But you had to be there to see it – he was like weird.’
‘Ja, well, I wasn’t there to see it, was I!’ retorted Mad Dog with sudden ferocity. We all fell silent. It wasn’t just that Mad Dog was holding his rifle and looking dangerous, we’d reached a point where we had relived all the old stories worth remembering and now only had new and more interesting ones to tell. Somehow Mad Dog seemed threatened by our new stories and was unwilling to find joy and laughter in any event that he hadn’t been a part of. For the first time I can remember the Mad Dog felt like a stranger among us. It was as if he could no longer understand, nor wanted to understand that we were now different somehow. There was no way of telling him that school wasn’t the same as before, and the marauding chaos has been replaced with something older and safer.
Eventually, Mad Dog finished cleaning his gun and packed it away, but the more he drank, the more depressed and bad spirited he became. With tears of frustration rolling down his cheeks, he gave us each one final rib-shattering bear hug before passing out next to the fire and snoring like a chainsaw. There was more silence now than speaking, and gradually everyone buried themselves under their blankets and drifted away.
I lay on my back and gazed up at the sky. It didn’t take long for those ever charging thoughts and visions to fly into view. I saw Amanda lying in her bed with those beautiful locks of red hair cascading over crisp white pillows. I saw myself running from above and then flying from below. I saw vivid colours and bright yellow lights flashing and then disappearing. And then a feeling of great stillness overcame me and I closed my eyes, but I swear I could still see the stars.
<
br /> Monday 20th July
HOME AT LAST
Thankfully, Mom’s fury about my father secretly pouring his life’s savings into Frank’s pub seems to be over. Mom reckons she’ll reserve judgement until she’s seen the place for herself, although she still hasn’t ruled out divorce should this business venture go the way of most of the others. The grand opening is scheduled for Saturday the 1st of August. Let’s hope the place looks a little less like a funeral parlour or I might become just another sad story youth from a broken home.
Dad is hardly around any more and spends most of his time working at the pub or sawing wood in his garage. He reckons Frank is going all out and has even imported two handmade Swedish pool tables and a state of the art jukebox from Japan.
I’m ashamed to admit that my toes curl when I think of Dad and Frank’s pub.
Wednesday 22nd July
My best-ever report card arrived. Apart from the dodgy E for Maths, the rest was enough to drive my father straight to the liquor wholesaler where he bought large amounts of cheap champagne at a discounted rate.
VIKING’S REPORT
Overall, a fine semester for John Milton. In fact, I am happy to report a complete rejuvenation amongst his year group and, as a result, a far happier house environment all round. While this may be largely attributed to new leadership and tighter disciplinary controls, one may point to an improved attitude amongst the third years as a contributing factor.
John has returned mostly fine academic results, Mathematics notwithstanding. Since the boy has indicated a tendency towards a career in the performing arts, this should not be cause for alarm, although it remains a nasty scab on an otherwise unblemished and impressive academic effort.
Spud - Learning to Fly Page 20