And De Fun Don't Done

by Robert G. Barrett

  'Don’t fall in love with me, darling, I’m a rambler

  Though you are the sweetest sweetheart in this world.’

  ‘Holy bloody shit!’ beamed Norton. ‘How good a track’s this?’ He listened for a few moments, tapping his feet and grinning, while he waited for a break in the traffic, then zoomed across the median strip, fish-tailed the T-Bird right towards Salmo and put his foot down. No worries at all. If you were driving in Australia. Norton was roaring down the wide open road to the fiddles and slide when he noticed not far in the distance a whole roadway full of huge American gas guzzlers coming towards him — rapidly.

  ‘Oh Ker-iste!’ he howled, his eyes like two big donuts as his face went white.

  There was no time to muck around. He tromped his foot to the floor, the T-Bird kicked back to first, and Les tore right, back across the median strip, the sump and diff scraping across the grass, before he bumped and banged his way onto the correct side of the road. The car landed and Les shoved his foot down again to beat the other approaching cars before eventually slowing down, his heart thumping against his ribcage in time to the drums and honky-tonk piano still pounding out of the speakers.

  ‘Bloody Hell! How close was that!’ he swore out loud again. At least I know what the scene from today’s movie is. Smokey and the Bandit Meet the Wombat from Down Under. The other traffic caught up and Les drove along looking straight ahead as if nothing had happened and not wanting to catch the eyes of any other drivers because he did feel like a nice wombat.

  ‘Yeah, that was Travis Tritt and “Don’t Give Your Heart to a Rambler”. You’re tuned to 88.5 WRIV. All country in the big country. And let’s put some more drive in your country and more country in your drive. Here’s Boy Howdy and “Thanks for the Ride”. It’s 11.15 and ninety-eight degrees on a steamy summer day in beautiful Siestasota Florida. Weatherman says more rain late this afternoon with possible thunderstorms.’

  The next track was even more twangy and country and being an old country boy at heart Norton dug it. He checked the numbers on the scanner and made a mental note to set the radio to that station when he got back to the condo. So after his initial brush with death on his first lone forage out on the highways and byways of America, Les settled down and cruised along past more walled estates, fast food outlets and small shopping centres, listening to country and western music while he kept his eyes open for the shopping mall. The tempo slowed down a little to a bit of ‘lonesome cowboy’ stuff by Alan Jackson and Confederate Railroad; but it wasn’t any worse than some of those wailing George Michael and Barbra Streisand pop ballads he had to endure at times back in Australia. Before long Siestasota Shopping Mall loomed up on his left.

  There were traffic lights and signs everywhere, built over a bay in the media strip. Les pulled into the left, waited for the lights then took a right into a parking area about as big as Kakadu without the lily ponds and the Magpie geese. Norton couldn’t guess how big the shopping mall was, it was just plain huge. Two or three storeys, brown coloured and modern, flags fluttering, cars and people everywhere, including police cars. He had very little trouble finding a parking space. He locked the T-Bird then walked through an entrance between a movie theatre complex and a couple of restaurants.

  Inside was much like the plazas and malls back in Australia, only bigger, busier, a greater variety of shops and possibly, because it was so punishingly hot and humid outside, better air-conditioned. Norton wandered along past the busy shops till he came to a rest area full of takeaway food outlets set round a kind of raised up dais with a green and white tiled fountain, surrounded with flowers, gurgling happily away beneath a wide sunroof. Near this was a coloured layout on a black background listing all the shops and facilities. Les walked over and checked it out to make sure he’d be able to find where he’d left the car and see where everything was. The mall seemed to be built around four department stores: W.C. Penneys and Sears Roebuck at either end of one arcade. Zeniths and Foleys at the end of the other and all the variety stores, restaurants and whatever set in between. Les gave it a good perusal, then, like any normal mug tourist with more money than sense, set off to see what he could find and how much he could spend; and waste.

  Norton’s little piece of plastic worked like a charm. The shops were only too pleased to take his money and he managed to knock off about two grand in about as many hours. He bought four pairs of Levi 501s in different colours for about a third of the price in Australia. He got Nike Jordans and Reebok pumps for Eddie, Billy and George’s kids. Les must have bought at least twenty T- shirts with everything on them from the North Carolina Tarheels to Notre Dame the Fighting Irish to the Florida Gators. He bought caps for baseball, basketball and gridiron, even some for fishing and powerboat racing, plus some Harley-Davidson gear. Nearly all the T-shirts were for the team back home. But one he did get for himself. It was blue with a frozen margarita on the front and ‘Margaritaville’ written across the chest. That was Norton’s and there was no way they were going to get that off him. He got a pair of tan Rockports and some socks. Everything still seemed about a third of what it would cost back home, so Les figured the more he spent, the more he saved. After three trips out to the car, Les attacked the department stores. He got several button- down collar denim shirts, which were about a quarter of the price back home, and the quality seemed good. Les was curious how the yanks could make them so cheap. But under closer inspection they were made in either the Dominican Republic or Mexico. Yes, just like home, thought Les. He bought some striped, button-down collar shirts and ones with other colourful designs on and noticed these were all made in the US; though after sales tax they weren’t any cheaper. The service in the shops and department stores was something else. The staff were genuinely polite and obliging without the full-on, antiseptic McDonald’s blurb. They all seemed to love Norton’s accent and each purchase was followed by a pleasant smile and a, ‘You have a good one.’ I bloody well ought to, mused Les. It’s costing me enough bloody money.

  After his third trip out to the car Les was sitting in the food area, munching on three mini-hamburgers and a can of Mountain Dew. There were heaps of gooey, spicy things to eat, from tacos and slices of pizza to shrimp melts and chilli burgers. But what Les missed most was the Asian takeaways like back home. He would have given his left niagara for a Soya Sauce Chicken or a Gow Gee and Noodle Soup. But the mini-hamburgers were okay and he was saving himself for a decent feed over the other side of town. After the last mini-burger, Les decided on a nice cup of genuine American-style coffee then he’d sit back for a while and observe the heads on the seppos.

  He found a top little coffee shop called ‘Ernie’s Coffee & Tea’. Inside was coffee from all over the world and a small, open-air counter for takeaways, or ‘to go’, as the yanks like to say. There were two friendly women and a happy little guy all wearing red and white striped aprons. The little guy was gay with this cheeky, witty personality and you couldn’t help but like him. Les hung back for a while, making out he was choosing, while he listened to the guy and nearly cracked up at some of the things he was coming out with. Especially when one typically dilettantish yank, dressed like Gordon Gekko, came up and ordered coffee and muffins with raspberry jam.

  ‘Are those raspberries fresh?’ he demanded.

  ‘Yes,’ assured the little guy behind the counter. ‘I went out in my little bonnet and apron and picked them first thing this morning.’

  ‘Okay, well, I’ll take two.’

  Les ordered a flat white, which was absolutely delicious, and, still chuckling, sat down in the rest area to watch the American punters.

  There were an odd-looking lot. Mostly whites, with big heads, big guts and big arses. If they weren’t eating ice creams, they were chewing pizza or hot-dogs with their heads once again stuffed in a plastic bucket of soft drink. They nearly all wore Elmer Fudd caps, shuffling around with their hands in their pockets and their shorts hanging down round their fat arses. Families would walk past, Mum, Dad a
nd the kids all wearing matching floral or checked outfits. Then Les noticed the parochialism in the clothing. All the T-shirts either had something to do with Florida on the front or Siestasota or the United States. This struck Norton as a little odd. You’d barely see locals walking around Sydney wearing Sydney T-shirts, or Bondi Junction wearing Bondi Junction T-shirts. Maybe in the football season you’d see a few with ‘Roosters’ or ‘Parramatta’ or whatever on the front. And you’d rarely see an Australian walking around Australia with ‘Australia’ splattered all over his T-shirt or jacket. Australians went more for T-shirts from other countries; either as souvenirs or to let their friends know where they’ve been. Maybe you were judged as a ‘pinko commie faggot’ if you didn’t walk around the US wearing a T-shirt with ‘USA Basketball’ or ‘I Love America’ on the front and a flag stuffed in your date. And they all seemed to have these sing-song voices like they were reciting poetry. ‘Hi there. How are you? You’re looking really great. I love your hair.’ Hickory-dickory-dock. The-mouse-ran-up-the-clock. ‘Ahm leavin’ on vacation tomorrow. We’re goin’ to awrheegon. Bekkie-Sue wants to see her folks.’ Little-Bo- Peep-has-lost-her-sheep-and-doesn’t-know-where-to- find-them. But it was their skin. That was the thing that had been sticking in Norton’s mind from the time he got on that plane in Los Angeles. It was smooth, sort of oily- looking, and they all looked as if their faces were covered with Glad-Wrap. Even the freaky-looking kids about fourteen and fifteen running around with their Elmer Fudd caps jammed on their heads back to front. Les stared and sipped his coffee. It was fascinating, boring, humorous and ridiculous all at the same time. The yanks all ate takeaway food, had takeaway bodies and lived takeaway lives. All wrapped up and ready to go. Have a nice day. Miss you already. Then two security guards walked past doing their rounds, wearing guns, clubs, handcuffs and bullet-proof vests. Ahh yes, thought Norton. Welcome to America. You have a good one, and freeze, motherfucker, or bang-bang-bang, I’ll shoot.

  Les finished his coffee and drifted back towards the car. He still had St Almonds to visit yet, and he hadn’t even put a dent in his VISA card. As he walked past another sports store he noticed a bookshop. He had nearly finished his P. J. O’Rourke, so he thought he might go in, have a bit of a browse around and maybe pick up something else to read. There was a plentiful variety of books and even these were cheaper than in Australia. He was looking through a few novels when he noticed a section entitled POETRY. For some reason Les drifted over. Right at the very front was a book of poems by Elizabeth Norton Blackmore. Hello, Norton smiled to himself. What have we got here? It was only a fifty-page book, called The Great Poets, and on the light blue cover was a painting of Blackmore wearing a white, buttoned to the neck, dress. Norton’s smile got wider when he noticed she had red hair and a fairly square jaw. Inside were more photo plates from old paintings of England and one of old Moulton Norton wearing frock coat and breeches. A bit of a tingle went through Les when he noticed old Moulton had red hair, red muttonchop sidelevers and a red moustache. The small book was $15.95 plus tax, Norton paid cash and flicked through it as he walked out to the car. Although Les was somewhat excited coming across a book of his alleged ancestor’s poems, it was too hot to sit reading it in the carpark, so he laid it on the seat next to him, intending to read it over a few drinks back at the flat that night, and proceeded to St Almonds Circle.

  It was about a twenty-minute drive and in the daytime the place did look very Double Bayish; mainly restaurants, boutiques and up-market men’s shops and other souvenir or knick-knack shops all set in an uneven circle, or radiating from it around the park just down from the bridge. Les recognised Reggae Mambo’s and got a parking spot near the shop where Hank put the letter under the door. It was oppressively hot as usual when he got out of the air-conditioned car and Les cursed himself for starting to get used to it as he flicked some sweat from his eyes. Shit! This is getting to be tough going. But when the going gets tough, the tough go shopping. Where to first? I reckon these shops round here, then I’ll work my way back.

  The shops were all nicely air-conditioned, the staff were friendly and the quality of the clothing was good. But a bit of a rip off. Some neatly patterned silk shirts caught Norton’s eye, until he turned over the price tag. One hundred and ninety-nine dollars plus tax. Yeah, that’s all you need, mused Les. Two hundred bucks for a shirt and either some drunk rips it off your back in a fight or some dopey sheila walks past you in a bar, waving a cigarette around, and burns a hole straight through it. He ended up buying some T-shirts with tropical fish and manatees on the front and a Johnny Rebb cap made out of blue denim. The rest of the stuff didn’t turn Les on all that much. It was nice, but just a bit too pricey, even for this mug tourist.

  Then Les found this shop that looked more like a big grass hut stuck out in the jungle. The windows were full of artificial palm trees, toy monkeys, lions and tigers and other oddities. It was called ‘Jungle Jennies’. Canned laughter was coming out of some hidden speakers, lights were flashing on and off and as you walked in the door, a sensor alarm set off the most lecherous wolf-whistle imaginable. Inside were all manner of novelty things from T-shirts to hats, drinking mugs to whoopee cushions. Walking around the shop was an attractive, dark-haired woman in black leotards carrying a monkey in her arms; the way it had its arm round her neck and she was petting it you would have sworn the thing was real. Norton browsed around for a while, wondering what he was going to waste his money on, when he saw them and just stopped dead in his tracks. They were sitting in front of a jukebox that was playing Bill Hayley and the Comets’ ‘Shake, Rattle and Roll’. The All Star Frog Band. Five little green plastic frogs, counting the lead singer, up on their own little stage with their own little light show. They were like those plastic flowers and Coke tins on legs that you put in front of a set of speakers and they move in time to the music. Only these were five frogs about six inches high, and they were going for it. The lead singer made Mick Jagger look like he was going in for a hernia operation. Norton, being a man of discerning taste and vibrant wit, was absolutely fascinated.

  ‘How much are they?’ he asked the girl behind the counter.

  ‘Forty-seven dollars, plus tax.’

  ‘Give me four,’ said Les. ‘No. You’d better make that half a dozen.’

  While the girl was getting them together Les sprung another tasteful little item among the novelty ashtrays and things on the counter. Another little green frog. This one was rubber, with a huge grin across his face, his little arms and legs spread apart and this giant, monster cock sticking out in front. On the box it said, ‘Genuine Florida Horny oad’.

  ‘And give me six horny toads too,’ said Les.

  ‘You got it,’ said the girl. ‘And, might I say, you’re a guy that knows what he wants.’

  ‘That’s me,’ answered Les, still looking at the massive wozzer on the little frog. ‘I’m a class act, sweetheart.’

  Absolutely delighted with his purchases, Norton strolled back to the car and placed them in the boot along with the rest. Now, what about that nice feed I promised myself? he thought. Though I’m buggered if I’m all that hungry in this heat. I might have a snack at that Reggae Mambo’s. It looked half alright. There was a shaded, vacant table out on the footpath. Les ordered an O’Doulls, which he demolished rather smartly, so he ordered another one plus a Lime Garlic Grouper Cozumel and a side salad. This turned out to be a fillet of grouper, marinated in lime and garlic, sprinkled with cracked black pepper, grilled and served with more garlic mayonnaise. It was pretty good, so was the salad and the coffee after and it wasn’t a bad way to finish the day, sitting in the shade, watching the seppos walking or waddling past. Satisfied with his day’s effort, Les left some money on the table and drove home to more fiddles and slide.

  Back at the estate Les noticed the same skinny black guy he’d seen earlier working on a lawnmower outside the caretaker’s shed. He stopped the car, got out and walked over.

  ‘G’day, mate,’ he sai
d pleasantly. ‘How are you goin’ there?’

  The black caretaker looked up from what he was doing, looked at Les, then kind of blinked around him, seemingly a little mystified at someone actually giving him the time of day let alone being pleasant. Norton had noticed everybody on the estate appeared to act a little self-important and probably treated the caretaker just like a caretaker. And a nigger one at that.

  ‘How am I going?’ he replied. ‘I’m doing just fine, thank you.’

  ‘Good on you,’ said Norton. ‘Listen, mate, I was wondering if you might be able to do us a bit of a favour?’

  ‘Sure. I’ll see what I can do.’

  ‘Well, I’ve bought a whole lot of T-shirts and junk and I need a box or something to put it in, so’s I can send it all back home.’

  ‘Hey, where’s home, brother?’

  ‘Australia,’ said Les.

  ‘Australia. Shit! I thought that’s where you might have bin from.’ The black guy stood up and had a good look at Norton through his sunglasses.