Look Evelyn, Duck Dynasty Wiper Blades. We Should Get Them.: A Collection Of New Essays (3 page)

I attended a mediaeval gathering once but only because my friend Geoffrey needed a lift. People who participate in mediaeval gatherings don’t tend to own vehicles. I sat in my car the entire time to avoid being asked, “Whateth is this strange garb thou weareth?”

Adding ‘eth’ to the end of a word doesn’t make it mediaeval, it makes it stupid. After about an hour of watching Geoffrey leap out from behind trees and whack people with his sword, I wound down the window and yelled, “How long are you going to be Geoffrey?” and he yelled back, “That’s Sir Geoffrey, my goodeth fellow.”

I’m fairly certain nobody in mediaeval times said the word ‘goodeth’ and there is no way Geoffrey would have been a knight if he’d been born in mediaeval times. He’d be the one being whacked by knights for not growing enough potatoes and making up words. After a hard day’s work and several whackings, he’d lay down in the soil, cover himself with straw, and go to sleep imagining all the things he would do to the knights if he were a wizard.

All to their own though. Some people like to pretend they are knights or soldiers or wizards and some people like to pretend they need glasses. Or a beanie in the middle of summer.

“There’s no way I’m giving you my beanie to wear on your foot,” said Ben.

“I need it,” I explained, “I can’t walk all the way back like this. Not with only one boot. I could tie it on with one of your shoelaces. Take some responsibility, if you’d have asked me if I wanted to spend the day walking through hundreds of spider webs and falling into bogs instead of making it out to be something not horrible, I wouldn’t be here.”

It wasn’t even a nice beanie, if there is such a thing. It was grey, with thin green stripes, and the way he wore it with the saggy end hanging loose and rippled at the back made it look like a giant grub was eating his head.

I’m not a huge fan of beanies. Whenever I try one on, I look like I should be casting nets over the side of a fishing trawler. I only ever wear one when I am snowboarding and even then I can tell everyone is wondering what I am doing so far from my ship.

“Why are you even wearing a beanie?” I asked, “Is there a fishing village further up the trail?”

“It keeps the ticks out of my hair,” Ben replied.

“The what?”

He reached out and picked something off my neck, holding it up for me to see. “The ticks.”

“Oh my god.”

“You’ve got another one on your forehead.”

Having lived in cities most of my life, I’d never seen a real tick before that moment but years earlier I’d read a news article online, with accompanying graphic photos, of someone who had a tick on their eyeball. It had burrowed its way in fairly well.

I frantically ran my hands over my face and through my hair and ripped off my shirt. I don’t tend to take my shirt off in public, not even at the beach, so when I do, it looks like I am wearing a tight white t-shirt with nipple and a navel graphics. Against the stark background of my chest and stomach, the eleven ticks stood out like dog turds on a new IKEA rug.

“Are there any in my eyes?” I screamed, holding them open and thrusting my face forward for inspection.

Which is when another two hikers walked around the bend. They paused, took in the situation, then proceeded to pass silently while avoiding eye contact.

“I’ve got ticks,” I called after them as explanation.

“Just so you know,” said Ben as he started back the way we had come, “this is the worst hike I have ever been on.”

“Well yes, I suppose it would have to be,” I agreed, “If it was as dreadful as this every time you’d have to be insane to do it twice.”

“No, I meant hiking with you.”

Copywriting basically consists of taking something dreadful, putting it in a box with a shiny ribbon, and presenting it to someone. Any disappointment the recipient has upon opening the box is entirely due to their own high expectations and therefore their fault.

“Oh no, the box is full of spiders!”

“And? Your disappointment is entirely due to your own high expectations.”

“You told me it was a puppy.”

I once ordered a set of ‘Japanese Garden Lanterns’ online that had the description, “A centuries-old artform, these traditional Japanese lanterns are sure to take pride of place in any garden or patio setting. Add a touch of the exotic to your outdoor lifestyle.” I received a foot-long string of lights, powered by a single AAA battery, with four plastic lanterns each an inch in diameter. There was meant to be five lanterns but one of the LED’s was missing one. I doubt very much that Japanese people living centuries ago invited guests out to their garden to show off their foot long string of plastic lanterns.

“They’re beautiful Mr Yamaha, but is that LED missing a lantern?”

“Yes, I should probably wrap a bit of electrical tape around that LED so it isn’t so obvious.”

I wrapped a bit of electrical tape around the bare LED so it wasn’t so obvious and hung the string of lanterns outside on a branch. It wasn’t long enough to reach another branch so it hung vertically. Rather than adding a touch of the exotic to my outdoor lifestyle, it added a fair degree of disappointment. After  a few days, I hid it in a kitchen drawer. I should probably have returned it but that would have entailed printing out a shipping label or something.

The house to our right has approximately forty Japanese lanterns hanging in a meticulously sculptured Asian-inspired yard. Every time I glance in their direction, it’s as if the lanterns are saying, “Lol, you should have read the product specifications,” and sometimes, “Steal us.”

If I did steal them, I would have to hang them inside with the blinds permanently drawn but if I replaced all my furniture with a large rock and had sand brought in, it would add more than a touch of the exotic to my indoor lifestyle and I wouldn’t have to worry about poo on rugs. Visitors could draw concentric rings in the sand around the rock while I played them a song with my Kokorikok sticks.

“Your koi are getting large,” they’d say

“Yes,” I’d reply, gazing down from my little wooden bridge,

“I changed their food to a high protein mix recently that includes red krill. It costs a little more but they seem to like it. Any requests?”

“Play the one that goes ‘clack, clack, click, clack’. That’s my favourite.”

In Australia, jumping a fence and taking things from your neighbour’s yard is a generally accepted practice known as ‘Snow Dropping’. While the term covers potted plants, hose fittings and garden furniture, it mainly refers to clothing. Due to the warm climate, most Australians hang their washing outside on a clothesline overnight to dry. This cuts down on the costs of running a dryer and the savings can be put towards purchasing new clothes when you find yours missing in the morning. It is not uncommon to be driving through your suburb a few days later and see a neighbour mowing his lawn in your favourite jeans and t-shirt. With your lawn-mower.

I’m not sure why it is called Snow Dropping but giving a cute sounding name to a shitty act somehow makes it more acceptable. A copywriter probably came up with it.

“We love the new name, do you have anything to replace the term ‘child abuse’?”

“How about Snuggle Booping?”

“Perfect. Anything for ‘pointless travel involving spiders and ticks’?”

“Hmm, how about Clompily Plomping?”

“No, that sounds stupid, you’re just making words up now.”

The word ‘hike’ originally comes from the time when the husband would ride on a mule while the wife had to walk alongside. As the routes were unpaved and muddy, the wife would have to ‘hike up her skirt’. If she complained, the husband was allowed to hit her with a stick.

Women in the seventeenth century probably regarded the question, “Who’s up for a hike?” with the same horror I now do.

If I lived in the seventeenth century, I wouldn’t hit my wife with a stick or make her walk alongside my mule. I’d give her the stick and make her walk in front, waving it about to make sure there weren’t any webs. It can’t be that difficult to hike up your dress with one hand.

“I recognise that tree stump,” I told Ben, “It’s where you ate the Clif Bar.”

I’d sampled a small piece and it tasted like a little brick of sadness.

Ben grunted. He hadn’t said much on the return journey.

“That means only a few miles of sharp rocks to go,” I added in what I thought was an enthusiastic manner. Ben grunted again.

“I’m sorry about your beanie.”

There had been a minor scuffle a few miles earlier.

“You could probably stitch it back up and nobody would notice.”

Nothing.

“If you used the same colour thread it...”

Ben grabbed the beanie from his head and threw it into the forest. It might have been more dramatic had the angle of the throw not caused the beanie to catch air, like a frisbee thrown almost straight up, and return to land a few feet from where we were standing.

“That was lucky,” I said, slipping my bare foot into it.

Ben stared, “If I killed you out here, nobody would discover the body for ages. By that time, forest animals would have eaten most of you.”

“They’d have to beat the ticks to it,” I replied, “Besides, the hikers that passed us will eventually work out that they are not on a loop and come back this way. You’d have to quickly hide my body off the path and I doubt you’d be able to lift me, what with your Progeria.”

“I don’t have Progeria,” Ben lied, “and I wouldn’t have to lift you. I’d get you to leave the path with me and then I’d kill you.”

“And how exactly would you make me leave the path?”

“I wouldn’t have to make you. I know you like frogs so I’d say ‘there’s a pond just off the path up here, last time I looked it had about a hundred frogs. One was orange with white spots. Do you want to have a quick look?’ and you’d want to leave the path.”

I do like frogs but I don’t wear t-shirts with pictures of frogs on them or collect frog trading cards. It’s more of a, “oh look, a frog,” kind of thing. I would be more impressed by an orange frog with white spots but I’d probably still say “oh look, a frog.” Just quicker with a tinge of wonder. Regardless, I don’t believe I had ever mentioned frogs to Ben.

“When did I say I like frogs?” I asked.

“It’s not about frogs, that was just an example, it’s about making you want to do something, not making you do something.”

“You’d be better off saying it’s a shortcut back to the car,” I replied, “The bit about the orange frog with white spots was pretty good though.”

“Thanks. There actually is a short cut up here though, do you want to take it?”

“No.”

A couple of weeks later, Ben asked me if I liked the band Linkin Park. He had an extra concert ticket to “a really amazing band I think you’ll also like” who were playing that night. The band’s name, The Calling, should probably have been a red flag but I only realised something was awry after Ben and his girlfriend picked me up from my house. He was wearing a white shirt, slacks and leather business slippers, while his girlfriend was wearing an ankle length floral dress with some kind of weird doily thing around the neck.  The concert was at their church and Ben’s dad was the bass guitarist. The audience totaled maybe thirty people.

“They’re up late,” I said to Ben nodding towards his siblings. The youngest was four and also dressed in shirt, slacks and leather business slippers. I’d worn a red Pop Will Eat Itself tour t-shirt with the words Sample it, loop it, fuck it, eat it, and spit it out! written across the front. Ben’s mother gave me a Band-Aid to put over the word fuck. Ben’s grandmother was parked in the aisle next to me. She was paralysed from the neck down due to a severe stroke but could control her wheelchair with a rubber thing that went in her mouth. Whenever she had something to say, she’d pucker her lips around the control, rotate towards me, and mumble something unintelligible before rotating back. 

“What did she say?” asked Ben, leaning over.

“I’m not sure, but it might have been, ‘Please kill me’,” I replied.

The band finished playing Proud Mary and Ben’s dad approached the microphone.

“We’re going to take a quick five minute break now as Dennis has a cramp. Please help yourself to refreshments and chips in the foyer.” 

“You told me the band was like Linkin Park, ” I said to Ben.

“No,” he replied, “I only asked if you liked them.”