And De Fun Don't Done

by Robert G. Barrett

  By the time Les reached one end of the stalls the schooner glass was empty and he felt like the top of his head was going to blow off. Christ, he thought happily. That bloke at the airport was right again. The rum here is superlative. Better than that — it’s bloody beautiful. And how easy does it go down? A huge grin spread across Norton’s face. And even better: it’s bloody free. He looked out a window and smiled up at the sky. Fancy lobbing in the middle of this. I always knew you loved me, boss. And when didn’t you ever? Les went back to the Sangsters stand and helped himself to some mango rum this time. No one said a word; if anything they encouraged him so there’d be less for them to pack up. By the time Les had downed another three schooners his face looked like a big, scarlet, medicine ball and if someone had shoved a light bulb in his mouth it would have lit up. On top of that, Les couldn’t remember ever feeling so happy, or drunk. He filled another schooner glass and with the deck moving slightly beneath his feet ambled back into the reception area to watch the awards and do a bit of cheering for the local team himself. However, it was all over now bar the shouting and everybody was packing up getting ready to leave. Any food lying around inside was either help yourself before it got ditched or somebody beat you to it. What was still lying around looked good and smelled good, and pissed and all as he was, Les knew that a bit of food on top of all the booze wouldn’t go astray at all. With the utmost decorum, the big, redheaded Queenslander attacked.

  Rather than stumble drunkenly around from table to table, bumping into people and probably dropping food everywhere, Norton chose to rape and pillage the table closest to him. It was some catering firm from Ocho Rios, the staff were clearing things away and didn’t seem to mind at all when Les put down his drink, got a plate and fork and got stuck into what was left. First up was white fish fillets marinated in ortanique; a kind of orange and tangerine. The first bite almost brought tears of joy to Norton’s eyes. He had five pieces. Next was peppered shrimp with red beans and a ginger and coconut sauce. Les had two plates, but left room for some crab balls in chilli and naseberry. These did bring a tear to his eye and Les was a bit worried they’d ignite the rum roaring through his body so he had a bowl of Matrimony to cool off a little, which was orange segments and star apple pulp in cream. That was more than enough. Les belched quietly, wiped his mouth on the tablecloth then picked up his drink and went back outside.

  It was considerably more crowded now with the overflow from the banquet hall. Les found a spot at the end near a stall for the Negril Commodity Company, staffed by three pretty girls in white, gold and red dresses and enormous pink and green straw hats. Apart from them, however, it was all fairly conservative. Most of the women wore plain, pastel dresses, the men either coloured or white shirts tucked into their trousers with maybe the odd safari or sports jacket. Apart from Les and a couple of wide-eyed Japanese tourists holding a mango someone had given them like it was the Hope Diamond, the people were all Jamaicans. A reggae track came on that Les recognised, Bob Marley’s ‘Exodus’, and Norton felt like singing and getting down he was in that good a mood, then thought maybe it was best he didn’t; he was horribly drunk. But not that drunk that he couldn’t get another mandarin rum and fruit punch. With his fresh delicious clutched firmly in his hand Les went back to where he’d been standing and gazed happily into the crowd, still not believing his luck landing in the middle of a do like this and still not believing how drunk he’d got in such a short space of time. He took a large swallow and was smiling contentedly to himself when he heard a familiar English voice just to his right.

  ‘I see you managed to clear customs alright.’

  Les turned and blinked. It was the bloke from the airport. He’d freshened up noticeably and changed into a pair of neat, light blue trousers and a mauve silk, button-down collar shirt; round his neck a thin gold chain glinted in the light.

  ‘Oh, g’day mate,’ smiled Les. ‘How are you goin’ there? Hey, you needn’t talk about customs. You got through okay. I got stiffed for a bloody T-shirt.’

  ‘I thought you might have,’ smiled the bloke. He looked at Les curiously. ‘Have you been out in the sun or something?’

  ‘Out in the rum’d be more like it. Have a look at me, I’m marinated! Christ! You weren’t wrong about the local brew. It’s unbelievable.’

  The bloke shook his head slightly. ‘You’re stewed to the gills,’ he said.

  ‘Pissed as a fart,’ agreed Norton. ‘And it’s partly your fault. You sell the bloody stuff.’ Les winked and raised his glass. ‘You ever thought of sending a tankerload to Australia? Fill the Exxon Valdez and wreck it just off Bondi. Where I love. Left. Live. Shit! I’m nice ’n’drunk.’

  ‘Do tell! One would never have guessed.’

  Les introduced himself and said he was staying at the resort for a while and he’d be in Jamaica for a couple of weeks. The bloke said his name was Nigel, he was in the hotel on business and he was staying on the other side of Montego Bay at the Royal Caribbean Hotel and Beach Club.

  ‘So you don’t mind the local rum?’ said Nigel easily. He had a kind of half smile on his face when he spoke to Les, as if he found him likeable enough, no rocket scientist, yet not your average yobbo Australian tourist.

  ‘Oath!’ said Norton emphatically.

  ‘Have you tried the local dacca?’

  ‘The ’erb, mon?’ said Les.

  ‘That’s the one,’ nodded Nigel.

  ‘No I haven’t.’

  ‘Do you want to?’

  Les blinked for a moment then looked evenly at Nigel. ‘Yeah, righto. Why not?’

  ‘You got ten bucks US on you?’

  Even in his drunken state Norton was a little dubious. Nigel didn’t seem the type to be hanging around places, flogging ten dollar deals of pot. ‘Yeah,’ nodded Les.

  ‘Well give it to me, and I’ll send someone over.’

  ‘You’ll send someone over.’

  ‘That’s right. Hey Les, I’m no dealer. But I know a chap here who’s got some. I’ll fix it up for you.’

  ‘Okay,’ shrugged Les, he slipped a ten out of his pocket and gave it to Nigel.

  ‘Stay here. He’ll be over in about five or ten minutes.’

  ‘You coming back?’

  ‘Maybe,’ said Nigel. He gave Les a wink. ‘I do have to work, you know. Not like some.’

  Nigel disappeared through the banquet hall doors, leaving Les staring at the floor. Well, what’s going on? Have I scored some puff, or have I been conned for a broody hen by some shit-pot, pommy hustler? More than bloody likely. Oh well, who gives a stuff? I reckon I’ve had a hundred and ten dollars worth of food and drink here this arvo. Les took another slurp of his drink and swayed a little to the music.

  About five or six minutes ticked by and a skinny Jamaican about thirty drifted out of the crowd and up to Les. Apart from a goatee beard he didn’t look like a rankin or a hood. He wore a blue peaked cap, a white Bonds type of T-shirt with ‘Marlin Club’ on the pocket, and baggy, stone-washed jeans. With his hands in his pockets and this dreamy expression on his face he looked like a Jamaican Maynard Krebbes.

  ‘Hey mon,’ he said quietly. ‘I got suntin’ for you.’

  Les held his hand out in front of him like he was going to shake the Jamaican’s. The bloke palmed something into it and by the time Les emptied his hand into his own pocket and took it out again the bloke had disappeared into the crowd. Well, how about that, thought Les, taking another sip of rum. Looks like I got a bit of puff after all.

  The crowd was starting to thin out now and most of the stalls had packed up, taking what was left with them. Not that Les needed any more to drink for the time being; as well as the rum hitting him, now he was starting to notice he’d had hardly any sleep the night before, and if he was going to have a sniff around later on he’d better ease up. Les also didn’t want to be walking around with a pocketful of dacca either. He finished his drink and went back to his room.

  The face staring back at Norton in the
bathroom mirror looked like it was going to explode any minute and should be sitting on a park bench with either a bottle of metho or a flagon of cheap brown muscat; definitely not tarting it up in some classy hotel. Christ, he thought, as he slopped some water over his face then swallowed a glassful. Another two bloody weeks of this and I‘ll go back home embalmed from the inside out. Les slopped some more water on his face. Anyway, let’s see what I got for my ten bucks. He walked into the bedroom, flopped clumsily on the bed and emptied out his pocket.

  It looked like three squashed up licorice allsorts bound in Gladwrap, only a dark, almost chocolate brown. Les opened one up and the sweet, pungent smell hit him straight away, and when he rubbed some between his fingers it was almost as sticky as tree sap. Well, well, well, Les smiled to himself. It looks like pot, feels like pot, and it sure smells like pot. In fact, I’d say if it ain’t, it’s that close it don’t make no bloody difference. Les rubbed his fingers again and sniffed them. In fact, I don’t remember ever seeing stuff like this. Close maybe. Still, there’s only one way to find out if it’s any good. Smoke it. Les sat on the bed thinking for a moment and then rolled the ganja back up and planted it under one bed. Well, if I’m going to organise that, I can have a walk and maybe a swim at the same time. He got a towel from the bathroom, locked his room and wandered off down the hallway.

  The sun was setting and it was almost dark now. There was a door on the right past the TV lounge, Les took it and came out onto a fairly spacious entertainment area. There were white chairs and tables, a bar set against the wall to the right and a dais with a small stage in front. The speakers and musical instruments suggested it was set up for a band. Soft lighting played through the palm trees, indoor plants and flowers and everything overlooked the pool and beach below. Apart from some of the staff roaming around it was empty. Les took a set of stairs to his left, which led down through more flowers and palm trees to the pool area.

  The pool was about fifty metres square at the shallow end then angled off to a deep end about the same size; built out into the shallow end was a bar and concrete stool where you could swim up and have a drink if you so desired. All around this were white banana lounges and chairs and tables with what looked like huge, thatched umbrellas above them made from palm trees. Everything was set among manicured lawns, tropical flower gardens and more palm trees.A food servery, which was closed, sat on one side of the pool. Les had a quick look around. There was no one about except for a few staff cleaning things or tidying up. Les followed the pool to a set of sandstone steps leading onto the private beach. There were two security guards standing next to some chairs and tables at the top of the stairs having a cigarette; Les gave them a smile and a wave, they nodded slowly back.

  The beach was no great shakes. About 150 metres of coarse sand running either side of the steps to a couple of manmade headlands with a few small waves washing over a reef a couple of hundred metres out from the shore. It was overcast, with a blustery on-shore breeze; Les decided to brush the beach till the morning and have a swim in the pool. On the way back up the steps he thought he might ask the security guards if it was okay to use the pool now and what was going on upstairs? Sorry, mon. The pool’s closed till the morning. And upstairs was a band and a female singer. But the two guards were alright, one even asked where Les came from and seemed a little interested when Les said Australia. Norton even got a laugh out of them when he assured them he wasn’t an American and started taking off a whining, mid-west American accent almost to perfection. They enjoyed Les bagging seppos and it wasn’t hard to see where the locals’ sentiments lay when it came to American tourists. Les was almost tempted to start up a conversation with them about reggae music and cricket, but between his drunken slurring and their patois he thought he might just say goodnight and quit while he was in front. The two guards said they’d probably see him tomorrow night, there was another band and an open-air banquet in the gardens next to the beach over to the right. Les thanked them and wandered off to the shopping arcade.

  Apart from the staff, there was hardly anybody in the foyer when Les came up the stairs, especially for a Saturday evening. The shopping arcade, which held the usual shops full of rip-off clothes, jewellery and souvenirs, was completely empty. Only one shop was open and it was getting ready to close; the girl doing up the cash register didn’t quite give Les a big cheerio when he walked in. The shop was a kind of chemist-papershop, selling chocolate, magazines, booze, aftershave, etc. Les was able to buy six cans of Diet 7-Up, a bottle of Sangsters Passionfruit Rum and a Bic lighter. Les had the right money so the girl didn’t have to do too much; she still didn’t smile, however, even if Les did. Fair enough though, mused Norton, as he walked out with his purchases. I suppose I am just another late-night drunk. They can be a pain in the arse at times.

  Back in his room Les put the cans of 7-Up in the bath and the rum on a small table opposite the two beds. There was an ice container sitting on the table, he took it down to the ice machine and filled it to the brim. Back in his room again, Les thought it might be an idea if he had a long, cold shower and freshened up a little before he had another drink. The cold shower did the trick and feeling noticeably better he changed into his clean Emu Bitter T- shirt, turned on the radio and made himself a small rum and 7-Up, which tasted very, very nice indeed. With some reggae music playing softly in the background Les emptied the can of 7-Up in the sink, got a hanky from his bag and a safety pin from his shower kit, thinking if he was going to smoke that shit with no papers he was going to have to make a machine.

  The bloke that showed Les how to make a machine was a country bloke called Lockie, who came to Sydney to play football and ended up doing two years over a truckload of hot bourbon. When he got out of the nick he stayed at Norton’s place for a couple of days before he went back to Tamworth. One night Lockie got hold of some hash and showed Les and Warren how they used to make machines in gaol for smoking dope. All they really were were throwaway bongs or chillums, and they weren’t the most pleasant way of smoking pot or whatever; just a super quick way of getting out of it and which left nothing much lying around. But they definitely worked, as Lockie proved to both Les and Warren that night back at the house. Norton twisted the ring-pull off the can, flattened the can out a little so it wouldn’t roll around then put an indentation at one end of the can opposite the hole you drank from. With the safety pin he made several small holes in the indentation then wet his hanky, wrapped it round the end of the can where the hole was, something like you would a jar, and tied it loosely underneath. And that was it. The idea was you sprinkled the dacca or whatever you had over the holes, lit it and sucked like mad through the straw hole, where the wet hanky cooled the smoke down slightly so you didn’t quite cough your lungs up all over the place. When he’d finished Les looked at his handiwork sitting on the table next to the bottle of rum and give it a nod of grudging approval. Yep. I reckon that ought to do. Now, where’s the ’erb, mon? He groped around under the bed, got it out and started crumbling some up into a saucer. Shit! This stuff is bloody stickier then I thought. I hope it’ll burn alright.

  Before long Les had a small pile of ganja sitting on top of the holes in the can; he held it up to his mouth and picked up the lighter. Les was about to thumb it when he stopped and looked at himself in the mirror. Shit! What am I doing? I’m not a mull head. I’m just a poor silly drunk. In fact, I’m that drunk, I don’t know what I am. The face in the mirror suddenly grinned back. Yes I do. I’m a Norton. And this is my turf. Let’s go. Les thumbed the lighter and sucked through the hanky.

  The first toke didn’t go down too bad; it never burnt his lungs, he didn’t start coughing everywhere and the ganja tasted okay, quite sweet, not unlike the hash Lockie had that night. Nothing much happened as far as getting stoned, though. Oh well, shrugged Les and loaded the machine again. Bong number two was a little livelier, but definitely no great hosanna. Elvis didn’t come floating down out of the sky and Mickey, Donald and Goofy didn’t s
tart dancing round the room. Les waited a few moments then loaded up again. The third one did the trick. Les took a sip of his drink, sat back and the first things he noticed were his body currents and the electricity inside him starting to vibrate and the music picked up, then it all went weird, like he was looking at everything through a prism. Not realising how drunk and tired he was, Les hadn’t given the first two tokes a chance to sink in. One probably would have been enough. Now he had three good ones rocketing around inside his brain like a nuclear reaction and it had barely just been detonated over ground zero. Oh yes, Norton nodded to himself. This stuff works alright. And I think it’s a bloody creeper too.

  The Jamaican ganja crept up on Les alright. His fingers and toes looked to be miles away and everything appeared to intensify and slow down; just to open and close his hand seemed to take five minutes. Everything was now some kind of virtual unreality and it was all happening in slow motion. He slowly swivelled his head around towards the tiny radio between the beds that was now starting to sound like a pair of Bose speakers. Some reggae track faded out and the DJ’s deep voice rolled in, announcing the next track as ‘Name Dem Out’ by Daddy Shark. The singer started rabbiting away at a hundred miles an hour in a rap-patois that was totally incomprehensible and undecipherable, but Les was certain he could understand every word he was saying.

  ‘Name dem out. Daddy Shark name dem out.’