Monday, October 12, 2009

Post 299ine - The Cheese Sandwich Epic Part 3hree



"Have you ever punched anyone?"

His name was Tad and he didn't like me. When we first met, I had gently asked if he was named after the band Tad, in what I thought was a simple, easy gesture of musical knowledge from 1ne edgy loner to another. He looked at me as if I had sent his 1stborn down the river in a basket of reeds. Tad was the same age as me, but looked much older, to the point where I wondered if he was just bluffing, if he failed Grade 1ne or something due to emotional problems or an inability to colour in isometric shapes. If I'd said isometric shapes, he'd have presumed I was gay, and I felt through all the time I knew him, he really wanted to punch me. He didn't like foreigners, and he definitely didn't like being a foreigner. He probably didn't even like the band Foreigner, and thought they should have stayed in their own country. Even a simple question during an otherwise unremarkable game of Truth or Dare, petering out of the dying embers of a midnight bonfire would give him an opportunity to chide and jibe. Of course, I didn't realise he had designs on my missus, and those designs didn't mean he created Vicki's style of flannel shirt. Give him an inch, and he'd take an isometric triangle...cos he wasn't good at maths...or making lists really...

"Broke someones nose last week," I said, shrugging and sipping the remainder dregs of my Coca-Cola, relieved that unlike in Scotland, buying a Coke wasn't an excuse for strangers to jump out of bushes and demands "2wos on yer can man..."

"He did," said Vicki, nodding and putting her arm around my shoulder. "Broke someones nose!"

Tad eyed me coolly and evenly and then shrugged. I think for a moment I had his respect, but it was fleeting, and he stormed off, kicking some bark while he took up this new information, only returning after realising his Mum wasn't around to pick him up. What it was with Penguin and bark I have no idea, but it was everywhere, as prevalent as the sea breeze, the old fashioned sense of community, and the way every couple in the shop would smile amiably at strangers, but not at each other, part of an interconnected maze of terraced houses with men pushing lawn mowers on the weekend, so they never had to have a conversation about feelings...

Her name was some lost to time old fashioned name like Doris or Edith or something. All I knew about her was she was really good at sewing. I knew this because my happy pants, or my alleged happy pants, never even cracked a smile compared to hers, which ended up in the Advocate, our local paper. There she was, smiling an awkward smile in a space filling article on page 12elve next to a story about Paul Keating being vain. That was really I knew until the fateful October day when I was standing in the library reading an overlong and overly detailed war history which my history teacher scathingly referred to as "male", when Doredith came bowling up to me nervously, said she liked me, and then ran away before the "ked" syllable had even had chance to form...

"Did she...did she just swoon?" - the only swoon verifier around was a kid who was about to be expelled for blowing up a science block who didn't know was swooning was, so he shrugged and walked off looking at me strangely. I had never made anyone swoon before, let alone someone with the ability to the knock up a cardigan in an afternoon. Still I had a girlfriend, and the girl at school that I actually liked told me Doredith had lumpy arms, and shook her blonde mane sadly as she told me that. I tried to ask if that was some weird Australian term, but apparently it was literal, she just had big lumpy arms. Maybe from all the sewing. And that would have been that, I would just have let her down gently and simply and accepted it was the only time in my life anyone would swoon in my direction that wasn't suffering heatstroke, if it wasn't for her fired up, medium sized but very angry boyfriend, demanding that since his lumpy arms cardigan knitting local celebrity what the hell was her name again girlfriend had just dumped him for...well me as it turned out. Given that all this happened in the space of about 2wo minutes, I might not be giving the chaotic nature of the day the verbal clarity it deserved, but suffice to say I had gone from quite blamelessly reading about Churchill to being in my own battle. My fists were unaccustomed to the spirit of the Blitz, but fight I had to, for 1ne simple reason...

"Wait," said Tad, round the bonfire. "I'm confused, were her arms really lumpy?"
"Shush Tad," I said, wagging a finger in his direction. "You are distracting me from my story..."

I had managed to somehow convince at least some of the school population that, rather than being a street where the most heated battles were fought over "Mock Wimbledon", we were a hardcore Ayrshire palace of violence. Dreghornesque in fact. Well I did know a drug dealer at school, and I had a knife pulled on me in Kilwinning, so ya know, I had some street cred. And a hat from Urban Hype that made me look a bit eccentric. My problem was, during a playfight that I got dragged into, someone had said I punched "like a rainbow" - as I found out, this didn't mean I punched like Bungle, but punched in a strange camp arc, arms swinging blindly. It wasn't the most cogent metaphor in the world, but it definitely hurt. And to be honest, I couldn't punch at all. My previous attempts had been horrific, from the time I was 10en where I put my fist on someone jaw and just sort of lamely pushed, right up to the apparent rainbow room efforts of 2wo weeks ago. So I had to fight, but it was just going to be embarrassing. All the hard work, the trip to Zeehan where I won everyone over with stolen Steven Wright jokes and sardonic quips, all the banter, all the social climbing, all the standing around on the tennis court looking moody, even having not only a girlfriend, but a stalker and a girl who swooned over me with lumpy arms....

"Then I broke his nose," I said, shrugging. I took a sip of my can of Coke, threw it on the bonfire, and let all the goodness that comes from an act of violence at that age wash over me. Oh yes, Scotland represent, who's the man? I carefully omitted that I was actually terrified, he had charged, tried to put me in a headlock, I had blindly put out a benny fist in panic and somehow managed to subdue the charging nerd - dangerous bouncer sized Maori if anyone asks - with a reckless knock to the schnoz that left him needing attention from the school nurse. All in front of about 7even people who really hated him and liked me and who instantly turned it into a vicious boxing triumph. What did it matter - see that edgy climbs out the window loner over there? He's a bit tasty...stay away from him. Tad bristled visibly from underneath a floppy mess of hair and tried to look indifferent...but he couldn't help himself...

"And then what happened?" he said. Damn it, he's hooked on every word. Look at him listening intently...

"Got suspended," I said, puffing out my pigeon chest. "And then I had a cheese sandwich..."

The peak of my social life, as they, was coming...

2 comments:

Kath Lockett said...

Ah yes, all good violent outcomes for justice end up with a cheese sandwich afterwards....

Superman was a dead man without his jaffle maker.

Miles McClagan said...

Just trust me, it will all make sense at some random point around post 307...