Look Evelyn, Duck Dynasty Wiper Blades. We Should Get Them.: A Collection Of New Essays (9 page)

“What’s at Port Arthur?”

“Its the ruins of an old prison.”

“Oh good. I thought we were going straight to Hobart but visiting prison ruins sounds much better than food and a shower.”

“We can eat at Port Arthur, “Geoffrey replied, “They have a cafe. If we go to Hobart first, we won’t have to time to get there before the prison closes and I will have to colour over it with purple. I know how long it takes you to shower.”

When I was growing up, my father had very strict water usage rules. If using the sink, under no circumstances were we to use the hot tap.  If using the shower, we were not to exceed three minutes. He would set a timer and if the water was still on when the buzzer went off, he’d barge into the bathroom yelling and turn it off. He was a bit of a dick. As the shower took a few minutes to warm up, we had to lather ourselves with soap and shampoo outside the stream and use the remaining sixty seconds to wash it off.  After my father left us, everyone took as long as they fucking wanted in the shower. Since then, my showers have extended to two, sometimes three, hours. I usually turn on the shower and make a coffee while waiting for it to get nice and steamy.  Then I get in and have my coffee with a cigarette. After enjoying the water for a while, I shave, brush my teeth, shampoo my hair and wash. In that order but the time between each varies. Then I enjoy the water for a while. Sometimes I try to drown a bug or see how much water I can hold with my arms crossed or hold my arms down with my fingers splayed to make the water run off the tips. My current bathroom has a television and coffee machine in it. I tried putting a bean bag in the shower but after a few months, the stitching rotted away and it burst so now I use a camping chair.

The Port Arthur Historical Site was an hour out of our way. Geoffrey suggested we continue our game of Number Plate People and I threatened to swerve into oncoming traffic.

“Let’s play ‘Science Fiction movies’ then. I’ll say a science fiction movie and whatever letter it ends with, you have to name a science fiction movie that starts with that letter.”

“Righto,” I agreed, “Star Wars.”

“No, I go first.”

“Okay.”

“Star Wars.”

“Really? Fine. Star Wars, The Empire Strikes Back.”

“No, you can’t use Star Wars twice in a row.”

“Are you just saying that because you can’t think of a science fiction film that starts with K?” I asked.

“No.”

“Fine, Spaceballs then.”

“That’s really more of a comedy than science fiction, but I’ll let you have it. Star Wars, The Empire Strikes Back.”

“Right, I’m not playing anymore.”

“Oh come on.”

“No. I wouldn’t have thought it possible ten minutes ago, but you actually managed to come up with a game more painful than Number Plate People.”

“Let’s play Animals then.”

“Do you name an animal and I use the last letter to name another animal?”

“No,” I make an animal sound and you have to guess what it is. I’ll go first. Araack!”

“That just sounded like someone yelling the name Eric. Is it Eric’s mother?”

“No, it’s Araack!, not Eric. I’ll give you a clue, it’s brown.”

“That’s not much of a clue. Most animals are brown.”

“Yes, but only one of them says Araack!”

“Is it a camel?”

“No.”

I give up then. What was it?

“Oh don’t give up yet,” Geoffrey moaned, “I’ll give you one more clue. It has long eyelashes.”

“That’s all I get to go on? It’s brown, has long eyelashes, and yells Eric?”

“Araack!”

“Right, well I don’t give a fuck what it is, it sounds dreadful.”

“It was a seal.

“It didn’t sound anything like a seal. Seals bark.”

“No, that’s dogs. Because you didn’t get it, I get to go again. Braaad!”

We arrived and drove through a tollbooth and into the parking lot just after 1pm. It was a nice day, warm with blue skies and a light breeze. There were quite a few tourists. Geoffrey consulted the brochure we had been given.

“What do you want to look at first? The prison ruins or the church ruins?”

“Where’s the cafe?” I asked.

Geoffrey consulted the brochure again. It had a little map on the back. He pointed to a building.

“That’s the gift shop and cafe,” he said, “but we should look at the ruins first. I’m not really all that hungry.”

“Really? You only ate two bags of apples. You don’t want a barrel of plums or a bucket of apricots to go with them? I’m going to get something to eat.”

We made our way up the steps of the building and entered through the gift shop.  I bought a black and white striped t-shirt with ‘Inmate of Port Arthur Prison’ written on it. Geoffrey bought a coffee mug and a fridge magnet.

The cafe had the IKEA tray system so we grabbed a tray each and made our way down the line. I had my eye on a cherry danish but the man in front of us took it.

“Good choice,” I said, “I was going to get that.”

The man turned and frowned. He had blonde wavy hair, parted in the middle, and was carrying a big bag.

“You can have it if you like. It’s burnt on the edges. I don’t like them when they are overcooked.”

He offered the danish to me.

“No, no. You enjoy your cherry danish. I’m sure it will be delicious despite the burnt edges.”

“I don’t mind.”

“I’ll have it then,” said Geoffrey. He took the danish.

The man with the blonde wavy hair and I both selected a slice of carrot cake instead.

“Snap.” I said.

“What?”

“Snap. You know, the card game.”

“No. Is it like Uno?”

“Not really.”

“It’s more like Go Fish,” Geoffrey interjected helpfully.

“No, it’s not,” I told the man with blonde wavy hair, “Don’t listen to him. He’s insane.”

“It’s for the same age group,” Geoffrey argued.

“Right, so by that argument, Slip’n’Slide is also similar to Snap?”

“I’ve never played Slip Inside so I wouldn’t know,” said Geoffrey, “Is it like Go Fish?”

“Are you serious? Slip’n’Slide. The long piece of yellow plastic that you put on your lawn, spray water on, and kids slide down.”

“Oh, you mean the Splash’nRide’?

“What the fuck? Who calls it the Splash’n’Ride?

“That’s what the one we had was called.”

“You must have had a cheap Chinese knockoff then, the real one is called Slip’n’Slide. Where’d you get it?”

“I’m not sure. Maybe Target. Can you pass me one of those Splades please?”

Further up the line, I added a cheese sandwich and a bag of chips to my tray. Geoffrey selected a banana to “mix things up a bit.”  I have no idea what the man with the blonde wavy hair added because Geoffrey and I were busy arguing whether the plastic spoons with a built-in fork were called splades or sporks. We paid for our meal and made our way outside to eat on the balcony. Wasps hovered near an open bin by the door so I carried on a bit and we sat at a table towards the back. I’m not a fan of wasps.

Once when I was young, my family drove up the coast to stay at a beachside town called Kalbari during summer break. We rented a cabin at the Kalbarri Caravan Park. On the beach, there was a small shack that rented out snorkeling equipment so my sister and I hurriedly searched through bags for our swimming outfits. My father walked around with his hands on his hips, nodding and commenting on what an excellent choice in accommodation he had made.

“Look, ceiling fans. Very nice. The ceiling appears to be bowing here though, and there’s a stain in the middle that looks wet.”

He reached up on tippy toes and poked the wet spot with his finger. His finger went straight through, opening a hole about an inch in diameter. Wasps poured out of the hole. Thousands of them. The room looked like yellow and black static. Everyone was stung multiple times but my father took the brunt of the attack. After he was released from hospital, my mother had to drive the car home because my father couldn’t open his eyes due to the swelling. It was the third worst holiday I have ever been on.

The man with the blonde wavy hair sat a few tables down from us. He smiled and raised his spork with a bit of carrot cake on it as way of a salute.

“They’re not European wasps so you don’t have to worry,” he said.

“Sorry?”

“Those are just normal wasps. There’s a lot of wasps about today but I haven’t seen any European wasps.”

“What’s the difference?” Geoffrey asked, seemingly quite interested, “Is there a noticeable size or colour variation?”

The man with the blonde wavy hair seemed pleased at this engagement.

“They’re the same colour but European wasps are smaller than normal wasps. They look more like bees. A man came to our house and hung European wasp traps on the trees in our backyard because our neighbour’s had a nest of them in their shed. I looked in one and it was full of dead European wasps. We’ve got lots of European wasps in Tasmania but those,” he indicated towards the bin, “are just Yellow Paper Wasps. They won’t kill you.”

“Well that’s good to hear,” said Geoffrey, ‘You certainly know a lot about wasps.”

“That’s because I’m a wasp scientist,” said the man with the blonde curly hair, “that’s my job.”

“Really?” I asked, “Why didn’t you put the traps on the trees yourself then?”

Geoffrey kicked my leg under the table.

“It’s a valid question,” I continued, “Had you run out of your own wasp traps? As a wasp scientist, it might be assumed that you’d have an abundant supply.”

“So,” said Geoffrey, attempting to change the subject, “you live around here then? That must be nice.”

“Apart from all the wasps of course,” I added, “You’ll probably be on top of that though once you get some more traps.”

Geoffrey kicked me again.

The man with the blonde curly hair nodded, “Are you from the mainland?”

“Yes,” Geoffrey answered, finishing the last bite of his banana, “Adelaide. It’s a shithole.”

Adelaide isn’t a shithole. It has some nice bits. It’s the people that live in Adelaide that ruin it. Seen as a kind of joke by the rest of Australia, Adelaidians spend a lot of their time trying to convince themselves, and other Adelaidians, that they are not a joke and are actually fairly damn awesome. This means dressing in the latest European fashions, even just to visit the supermarket, and pretending they spend a lot of time in Melbourne and Sydney. Adelaide is more like a large village than a city. A village where the idiots outnumber normal townsfolk a hundred to one and they all wear G-Star and Diesel. The tourism slogan for Adelaide is, It’s Heaps Good.

I wish I was making this up.

We left our trays on a counter near the bins, dodged a few wasps, and wandered down a grassy hill towards the ruins. Behind us, the man with the blonde wavy hair finished his meal and carried his big bag back inside the cafe.

“I’ve never met a wasp scientist before,” I said to Geoffrey, “I certainly learnt a lot.”

“He seemed harmless enough,” Geoffrey replied, “You have to expect Tasmanians to be a little odd. They don’t have much to do apart from growing apples so they probably get a bit bored and make up stories to sound more interesting. Stand on top of that rock and l will take a photo.”

When I was nine, I told a kid at school that I was having a birthday party and he could come if he wanted. It was nowhere near my birthday, I just made the whole thing up. The kid was kind of a bully and I thought that by inviting him, he would direct his attention towards others. Word quickly got around and, cornered by the lie, I confirmed to around twenty kids that yes, I was having a birthday party and yes, they could come. I was enjoying the attention at this stage. To add realism, I provided each a sheet from a pad of party invites with my address and a date set weeks in the future figuring this would give me enough time to think of a way out of the whole thing. I forgot all about it until the first guests arrived. My father was watching cricket on television while my mother was out doing the weekly shopping. 

“I’ll stand next to it,” I said to Geoffrey, “there’s no point standing on it. People are watching.”

“Just stand on it. ” he replied, “How is standing next to a rock even remotely interesting? We should make it our theme.”

“Our theme?”

“Yes, the theme of our holiday photos. We stand on a rock in every shot. Oh, no...”

“What?”

“We should have got a photo standing on the rock shaped like a boot.”

‘Yes,” I agreed, “and the round one.”