Don't Call Me Ishmael (9 page)

There are certain queer times and occasions in this strange mixed affair we call life when a man takes this whole universe for a vast practical joke … and more than suspects that the joke is at nobody's expense but his own.

Herman Melville,
Moby Dick

Scobie's campaign to establish debating in the school had some success, particularly in Year Eight, where there were enough volunteers to form three teams. Unfortunately there was little or no response from Years Ten, Eleven and Twelve.

The last scheduled meeting was for Year Nine. On Wednesday at lunchtime James Scobie and I arrived at the meeting room early and waited.

I didn't really know if I wanted anyone to walk through the door or not. It was a real numbers game. If no one came I'd be in the clear, but I'd feel a bit bad for Scobie. If at least four other people showed up I'd still be in the clear, but then Scobie would have his debating team. If only two or three others turned up, Scobie would get his team and I'd be in it. What I needed was either a famine or a flood of volunteers. Just as that thought settled in my mind, Ignatius Prindabel peered around the doorway like a prairie dog on lookout duty and asked, ‘Debating?'.

When Scobie nodded, he stepped awkwardly into the room and sat down.

Ignatius Prindabel always reminded me of an old man, I guess because he was thin and kind of stoopy and his hair started too far back on his forehead. Sometimes I had the crazy thought that he was really a pensioner working undercover for the government, you know, like an ASIO spy checking up on teachers or a stooge for the drug squad. But what I could never figure out is why they would be using pensioners. Were they cheaper? Were they the only ones with the time to spare? In the end I decided it was more likely that Ignatius Prindabel was just a weird-looking kid like the rest of us.

As I added his name to the list alongside mine and Scobie's, I wondered what sort of debater Prindabel would make. There was no doubt that he was one of the smartest boys in Year Nine. He was a living, breathing search engine for facts, figures, and dates: he saved them up and treasured them like gold coins. His particular areas of speciality were maths, science and history. He rarely set foot into the realms of the unknown. Not only was Prindabel the type of person who flatly refused to think outside the square, he insisted on thinking in the precise geometrical centre of it. Ignatius Prindabel liked his world and everything in it to be as practical and predictable as a set square. If you could measure it, calculate it, prove it, define it, classify it, chart it, label it, dissect it, preserve it, place it on a timeline, stick it in a box or pin it to a board, then it found a home in the Prindabel universe.

I knew that cold hard facts would certainly come in handy in a debate, but the trouble was, I hadn't really ever heard Prindabel string together much in the way of conversation, let alone deliver a speech, and he seemed to get on better with a computer or a dissected rat than he did with people. In a world that Miss Tarango kept on insisting was limited only by our imaginations, Ignatius Prindabel always looked to me like someone in a straitjacket. Somehow, debating and Prindabel didn't exactly seem like a match made in heaven.

‘How come you're putting your name down for debating, Ignatius?'

‘I require more “social interaction skills”,' he said as if he was talking about some plant that needed more fertiliser.

‘Oh … right. And what makes you say that?'

‘My mother,' he said, as he pulled out a calculator and began stabbing in numbers.

Suddenly the door burst open. ‘Yo dudes, this the debating gig? Hey Scobster, your prayers are answered–The Big Z has answered the call! What? This all we got? No problem. Probably just as well we didn't get a big turnout. Wouldn't want it turning in to a mass debate eh? Mass-debate? Geez, you're a bit slow on the uptake, aren't youse? When do we start? What's the topic? Hey, Prindabel, my bro! Is it true that some hot chick asked you for a date and you said, “twentieth of July, 1969-first moon landing”? Man, is it warm in here or am I on fire?'

A lost and despairing expression clawed its way across Ignatius Prindabel's face. It was the same look that appeared
whenever Miss Tarango mentioned poetry. The new arrival was Orazio Zorzotto, more commonly known as Razz, Razza, The Razz, The Razzman or Zorro. Only Orazio himself ever used the name the Big Z. At least I could understand why Razza would turn up. Debating would help him with his goal of becoming either a politician or a stand-up comic. Obviously he had come to hone his public speaking skills.

‘Hey, Scobes, we'll be up against some chick schools, won't we? Yeah? Cool, I'm in!'

Then again, maybe the Big Z had ulterior motives.

A few moments later the large form of Bill Kingsley drifted into the room.

‘Is this the Chess Club sign-on?'

‘No,' Scobie said, ‘I think you'll find that was on Wednesday … the week before last.'

‘Close, Kingsley, but no cigar,' Razza said. ‘Did it take you all that time to find the room? Still, you're only a couple of weeks late. You'd think they would've waited. What is wrong with society today?'

‘What's this, then?'

‘Debating. Are you interested?' Scobie asked.

Bill Kingsley looked slowly at each of us. ‘All right,' he said, and sat down.

‘What!' This was too much for Razza. ‘You come to join the Chess Club and end up in the debating team? You
do
realise there is a bit of a difference, don't you, Kingsley?'

Bill Kingsley shrugged but made no effort to reply.

Razza leant over from his desk and placed a friendly hand
on his shoulder. ‘Look, you're into all this science-fiction UFO space crap, aren't you? Well, tell me … is it possible that maybe sometime in the past some of those weird alien dudes might have beamed you up to their mother ship and removed your brain to study but like, accidentally dropped it or stood on it or something? Or perhaps, you know, they just took your brain completely and they replaced it with something else, like maybe a sponge or a block of wood or some weird alien sludge? Or maybe they dissected you to examine all your body parts but when it came to putting you back together they got your brain and your bowel mixed up, you know what I mean? Think, Kingsley. Try to remember. It's very important. Do you recall flashing lights at all? Little green men? An empty feeling in your head?'

Bill Kingsley just stared back but said nothing.

‘Orazio, we haven't got much time, so if you don't mind we might get started?'

‘Just trying to help,' Razza said, holding up both hands towards Scobie as if to show that he was unarmed. Then he flopped back in his seat, where he began to quietly drum out a frantic beat on the lid of his desk while his legs bounced around like pistons.

‘Well, it doesn't look like anyone else is turning up,' Scobie continued, ignoring the manic performance beside him, ‘so we're it. Congratulations, you've been selected for Year Nine Debating Team One.'

Razza leapt from his seat. ‘Oh my god. I can't believe I made the top team. Oh my god. OH-MY-GOD!' Razza
gushed. ‘I would like to thank the Lord, my parents, my dog Mitzy, my pet cockroach Filthy and all the little people I had to trample over to get here. But most importantly, I'd like to thank everyone who didn't show up for the meeting. I love you guys–I really couldn't have done it without you. Thank you … thank you … thank you …' And with that Razza slumped forward on his desk, seemingly overcome with emotion.

I must admit, I couldn't help smiling a bit–that is, until I saw the complete lack of reaction from anyone else in the room.

‘Continuing on,' Scobie said cautiously, while fixing Razza with a steely glare, ‘on these sheets I'm giving out, Miss Tarango has put down everything you need to know about debating, as well as the dates and venues for the first four rounds. You will note, that in order to go on to the semi-final and finals, we will need to win at least three of our first four preliminary debates.'

‘Piece of cake, what with Billy Boy here firing on all cylinders–how can we lose?'

Scobie again ignored Razza and went on.

‘I don't suppose any of you have debated in competition before? No? Well, I have for the past two years, so basically I will be your coach. Miss Tarango will also help out when she can, but she'll have her hands full with the Year Eights. As you can see, our first debate is in just over three weeks. We should have the topic on Monday. Also, this Saturday, they are running an all-day debating workshop for Year Nine teams at
Moorfield High. Ishmael and I are going, and if anyone else can attend, that would be good.'

‘Sorry,' Prindabel said, ‘… scouts.'

‘What about you, Kingsley?' Razza asked politely. ‘That doesn't clash with your Victims of Alien Abductions meeting, does it?'

‘No, I'm going to the pictures. Mega
Lord of the Rings
marathon-all three parts, back to back–goes all day.'

‘That's great,' Razza said encouragingly. ‘If we ever get the topic
That hobbits are stupider than dwarves
, you'll be our main man. Hey, Scobie, will other schools be there at this workshop thingo, you know, like chick schools and stuff?'

‘I would imagine so. Everyone's invited,' Scobie replied patiently.

‘Cool. I'm there. The Razz will be
in
the building!'

‘All right, we'll schedule a meeting for next Tuesday at lunchtime in this room, if that's not a problem with anyone.'

‘Pop that down in your Star Fleet commander's log, Kingsley, so you don't forget. Oh, and Kingsley, my man, it would be lovely if you could aim to get there at least somewhere within the same light year, OK?'

‘Finally,' Scobie said, waiting for Razza to look his way, ‘I'd just like to remind you that debating is all about teamwork. And that means working together, supporting and helping each other and presenting a united, cohesive front.'

With James Scobie's words ringing in my head, I looked around at my fellow debaters.

Orazio Zorzotto had circled all the girls' schools on his
sheet and was now in the process of giving each of them an RBR (Razza Babe Rating) out of ten. Ignatius Prindabel had covered the back of his handout with mathematical computations and was secretly plugging numbers into his calculator. Bill Kingsley had half-finished a doodle of a spaceship and was now gazing ahead dumbly as if he were having some vague but unnerving recollection of flashing lights and little green men.

Go team!

The debating workshop at Moorfield High that Saturday could have been a very useful and informative experience. However, it turned out to be just another step along the road towards my ultimate and most extraordinarily thorough humiliation.

It was the day I first saw Kelly Faulkner. Not that she noticed me, of course. I was just one of the thirty or so students and a handful of teachers that showed up for the workshop. But I noticed her, and unfortunately Orazio Zorzotto also noticed me noticing her.

‘Hey, Leseur, stick your tongue back in–you're starting to dribble.'

It was the lunch break. Orazio and I were waiting outside a classroom for Scobie, who was still inside, deep in conversation with one of the presenters from the morning session.

‘What?'

‘Come on, you can't fool the Razz. You've been perving on that weird chick in the red T-shirt all day,' he said, jerking
his head towards a group of girls clustered under a tree.

‘What? I wasn't perving at anyone.'

‘If you say so.'

‘And she's not weird,' I shot back, perhaps a little too quickly.

‘Woo … Sorry, didn't mean to pay out on your girlfriend.'

‘Girlfriend! What are you talking about?'

‘Look, don't get me wrong. I don't blame you. She is
kinda
cute in a … freaky sort of a way. It's just, she's not my type, you know.'

I didn't really know, but I guessed that Razza's type would be someone along the lines of Britney Spears or Paris Hilton. You know, the sex-goddess next-door type.

‘You should go and chat her up.'

Oh yes, that'll happen. What a terrific idea. I could just wander over and say, ‘Excuse me. My name is Ishmael Leseur … Yes, I agree, it
is
an interesting name … did you know it's also the name of a debilitating syndrome? Anyway, I thought you might be dying to leave all your friends and join a complete stranger in a conversation. Or, on the other hand, you and your friends might prefer just to stare at me like I'm a slobbering three-headed zombie before dissolving into hysterical laughter while at the same time pointing and using what Miss Tarango refers to as “apt descriptive phrases” like “complete loser”, “absolute dork” and “brain-dead moron”.'

‘Look, Razza, I don't even know what you're on about. I haven't been
looking
at anyone, I don't want to
talk
to anyone, and I'm not
interested
in anyone, OK?'

‘Really? Then how about telling me the Four Steps of Effective Rebuttal.'

‘What?'

‘The Four Steps of Effective Rebuttal. Go on-we just had a talk on them.'

‘What's that got to do with anything?'

‘Well, it's just that the speaker-dude in there only mentioned those steps about a zillion times
and
put them up on the OHP. So unless you had your mind completely fried by some babe in a red T-shirt during the whole talk, you'd have to remember them, wouldn't you? So come on, lover-boy, I'm waiting.'

‘This is stupid. I don't have to do this!'

‘Can't
do it, you mean. Look, I'll make it easy for you: just give us a couple of the steps … they don't even have to be in order … how about one, then? Oh my god. Don't tell me you can't even remember one? This is worse than I thought! Quick, help me pluck this arrow from your heart before it's too late!'

Suddenly Razza had both hands on my chest and was wrenching at my shirt. ‘Arrrrrrrrrrrrgh! Curse you, Cupid!'

‘Rack off!' I said, finally struggling free. ‘I bet you can't even remember them yourself.'

Razza froze immediately, stood to attention and then droned out the steps like a programmed robot. ‘First-say what the opposition said. Second–say why they are wrong. Third-say what your team says. Fourth-say why you are right.'

‘So I wasn't listening. So what?' I mumbled as I tucked my shirt back in. ‘What does that prove?'

‘It proves to
me
, Ishmael my man, that at the very time when you should have been burning into your memory fascinating information from the world of rebuttal, you were in fact,' and here Orazio leant uncomfortably close to my ear and whispered as if he was sharing a delicious secret, ‘logged on to the website of luuuuuurve!'

‘You're mad,' I said, pushing him away. ‘You realise that, don't you? You should be locked up. They shouldn't let people like you into the community with normal people without strict supervision.'

Razza cleared his throat, thrust out his jaw and spoke to an empty bench in front of him. ‘Ladies and gentlemen,
chair
, I give to you the Four Steps of Effective Rebuttal. One–my love-struck colleague Ishmael said that I was mad. Two–my randy associate is wrong, because he has no medical training and therefore is incapable of making such an outlandish diagnosis. Three–I say my besotted teammate is just accusing me of being mad in order to cover the fact that he has the terminal hots for a certain red T-shirt girl but doesn't want to admit it. And four–I am right, because if anyone is qualified to make such a diagnosis it is I, because I am the Razzman, and the Razzman is the doctor of luuuurve!'

I looked at the beaming face before me. I wanted to kill him … slowly.

‘I pretty much reckon that'd be game, set and match to me, Ishmael old pal. And just in time. Here comes our fearless leader.'

Finally some sanity.

‘Herr Scobie, I am sorry to report that I no longer think that Comrade Leseur here is fit to be a member of our party. He hasn't taken any notes from the morning session, and under intensive cross-examination I have discovered to my horror that he doesn't even know the Four Steps of Effective Rebuttal. I'm sorry, but his mind is just not on the job. He's being a fool to himself and a burden to society. What on earth do you think has got into him, Herr Scobmeister?'

Scobie looked at me then turned to Razza. He squinted and twisted his mouth to one side. At last, Orazio Zorzotto was about to be put in his place.

‘Probably spending too much time staring at that girl in the red T-shirt?' Scobie replied.

Razza thrust both arms into the air and threw his head back. ‘Woo–hooo! Yes! The Scobster slam–dunks it in one! You da man, Scobie baby. You–da–MAN!'

Orazio Zorzotto danced around me, poking me in the ribs and messing up my hair. Looking back, I realise that I should have killed him then while I had the chance. Once the jury had all the evidence, I probably would have got off with a few hours of community service.