And De Fun Don't Done (2 page)

Now it was business as usual; winter, football, a bit of graft at the club and plenty of time to pursue other interests. The boys got a good laugh out of Norton's Gold Coast tale, especially Eddie, but as life went on that soon became past tense. Then one Friday night at the club Les allowed himself to be shanghaied into going to the races
the following day with Price. Eddie managed to get out of it, so did George and Billy. But that particular night Norton hadn't been tap dancing fast enough, so he got lumbered into spending Saturday afternoon at Royal Randwick.

Norton didn't mind a bet at the TAB, but he hated going to the races; especially with Price. You went with Price and once he got a few drinks in him and a bit of a roll on you never knew what was likely to happen. This particular meeting was no exception to the rule. One of Price's horses got up at 5/2 by a short half head. Les wasn't all that confident so he only had $200 on it. Price, however, won a bundle; as did all the punters he'd tipped off. Les was $500 in front, but walking back to the members' enclosure Price bit Les for another $500 he had snookered away. Thinking it was for a bet or something, Les absently handed Price the $500 then watched horrified as his boss started rolling Norton's money into balls and flinging it to the cheering punters. Price probably thought Les had won a bundle too, and in the melee between the screaming punters, Price half full of ink and the AJC committee jumping up and down at Price's shenanigans, Norton knew his chances of retrieving his $500 were skinny to the point of collapsing from anorexia. To make matters worse, after the meeting Price dragged Les to a function at a nearby hotel where they were having a raffle at $250 a ticket to raise money to send a battling jockey's young daughter to America for a heart operation. First prize was three weeks in California, return trip with Qantas. Disneyland, San Francisco and Las Vegas. And if you didn't buy a ticket, whether you wanted a holiday or not, you were regarded as a mean, miserable mug. So rather than be classed as a mean, miserable mug Les bought two tickets. Price was astounded and Les couldn't quite believe his luck either when Gladstone Gander Norton won first prize.

Oddly enough, Les wasn't all that rapt in his win. Things were going quite well in Sydney; the football season was in full swing with some great games on TV to
settle back and watch in comfort and warmth. LA had been hit by an earthquake, along with San Francisco; there looked like being some massive summer race riots in LA; and everybody he'd spoken to who had come back from Disneyland said it was just a big Luna Park, only you queued up for about an hour to get on each ride. Still, Les had won the trip overseas and he couldn't get out of it; if he sold the ticket he'd look like Captain Mingy and if he didn't take the trip he'd look like an ingrate. Or both. Somewhat perplexed, Norton was figuring out his best plan of attack when about a week later an idea struck him.

Around eighteen months ago Tony Nathan the photographer had introduced Les to an American down at Tamarama Beach. His name was Hank Laurel and he came from a place called Siestasota in Florida, which was a coastal town on the opposite side of the state to Miami. His father was an art dealer; Hank was in Australia thinking of buying aboriginal art while doing some kind of photographic assignment on Sydney for a yank magazine to help pay for the trip, which was how he came across Tony. Hank was in his early thirties, about five feet ten, average build with thinning sandy hair and a lean, jowly face that reminded you a little of a grainy Gary Cooper. He was going to stay at Tony's flat for a few days, but Tony had some bird called Big Red coming round. So rather than have Hank get in the way while Tony played chasings with Big Red, Tony asked would it be okay if Hank stayed at Norton's place. Hank didn't seem too bad, for a yank, so Les said okay. Hank stayed at Norton's four days and nights and both Les and Warren found him to be a bit of a pain in the arse, but a tolerable one, and they kept getting a laugh because they'd bag the shit out of him and most of the time Hank never knew what was going on. Naturally the first thing they did was nickname the town Hank came from ‘Sepposota' and it still took Hank a while to wake that Australians called Americans ‘seppos'. Short for septic- tank: yank. Then, if they'd take him anywhere or anyone
called round, they'd introduce him as Laurel Lee. Hank thought this was because of the Southern general, Robert E. Lee. He'd never heard of Laurel Lee the singer. Of course everybody else had and thought it was a great joke. Hank being a yank, naturally this all went straight over his head. He'd clomp round the house in the boots and leather jacket he'd got in Mexico, oblivious to the insults the boys were heaping on him. Les and Warren wouldn't have poked so much shit at Hank, only he came out with the most ridiculous statement the first day he stayed there.

They'd all risen for breakfast around the same time and, when they'd finished eating, Hank lit a cigarette at the kitchen table and casually began tapping the ash into his coffee cup. Les and Warren looked at each other for a second or two before Les spoke.

‘I didn't know you smoked, Hank,' he said, with brittle politeness.

‘That's right,' answered Hank. ‘And I don't eat tofu either.'

Les and Warren looked at each other, barely able to keep a straight face. It was a toss up who was going to belt him first. Warren spoke.

‘Well, I don't know about fuckin' tofu, Hank,' he said, ‘but if you don't piss off with that cigarette I'll jam this piece of toast, along with that cigarette, right up your arse.'

‘You heard him, Marlboro man,' added Les. ‘If you want to smoke, out the back. If you don't like the idea, you know where the front door is. And the bus stop's just down the road.'

Hank kind of looked at the boys in disbelief. Being an American, he probably thought he was doing the two Australians a favour by staying there. But the boys had very abruptly put him in his place and told him that if he didn't like the idea he could fuck off. He wouldn't be missed. He muttered something under his breath then clomped out the backyard and finished his cigarette. Hank took his place after that, realising he was staying
there as a favour to Tony, not as a guest of honour. He didn't smoke in the house and he didn't bother coming on with the ‘macho man — outlaw from the South' shit any more. But after his ‘tofu' statement the boys couldn't help but rubbish him and America all the time and treat him like a wombat on wheels in general.

The funny thing was, the more the boys would treat him like shit the more he used to pal up to them. Maybe Hank was into self-flagellation or sadomasochism. Or maybe he was just a sucker for punishment. One night he even seemed to believe it when Warren told him that God made Americans just for Australians to poke shit at.

Hank went back to America, but he always kept in touch. Warren had a word processor in his room and replied to his letters now and again. But for every letter Warren would send, Hank would send six, plus a couple of T-shirts occasionally, or a baseball cap. Hank always said in his letters though that if ever the boys wanted to come to America they were welcome to stay at his place. His family had heaps of money and he owned two big houses not far from the beach.

Around the same time Les won his trip to America another letter arrived from Hank and Norton got an idea. He couldn't get out of this trip to the States but he wasn't at all keen on going to LA. What about a trip to the South? After meeting Crystal Linx and hearing her talk ‘suthin' and listening to all that Zydeco music, the idea had entered Norton's head. And New Orleans, Baton Rouge and all that was more or less just up the road from Florida, according to the map Les had been studying. Plus another place that had been playing on Norton's mind for a different reason altogether wasn't far from there either. And the bloody movie had just come up on TV the other night, making it almost an offer Norton couldn't refuse. So Norton got in touch with a mate of his who was a Qantas flight attendant and, following his friend's advice, went to the Qantas Travel Centre at Bondi Junction, where he quite legally and properly changed his flight to a three-week open ticket to the
United States. He'd arrive at Tampa, Florida, then fly out around three weeks later with a four-day stopover in Hawaii. It cost Les roughly an extra $500 with his travel insurance. He rang Hank in Siestasota to say he was on his way. Hank sounded happy as all get up over the phone and said he'd pick him up at Tampa Airport. All Les then had to do was fix up his visa and pack his swag. Which was how Norton found himself in Warren's car with his VISA card, $7000 US in traveller's cheques, a couple of bags and on his way to catch the Qantas 1.55 p.m. Thursday flight to Los Angeles.

Naturally, being the school holidays, the air refuellers put on a strike, so Norton's flight was held up half an hour and instead of flying non-stop to LA they'd be stopping in Fiji to pick up fuel. But the girl at the desk assured Les he'd still get there on time for his connecting flight to Dallas, Texas, and the next one to get him into Tampa, Florida, at midnight Thursday their time. He had plenty of time for a cup of coffee before the plane left so he and Warren found a cafeteria where you got your own, a table next to the window and sat down for a bit of a mag before Norton left. Les had said all his goodbyes the night before at the club. All he really needed was a lift out to the airport. Three weeks in America wasn't as if he was going off to join the French Foreign Legion for ten years.

‘Well, what do you reckon, Woz?' smiled Norton. ‘I leave here Thursday arvo, fly for about twenty-four hours or something and still get there Thursday night. Not bad, eh?'

‘Yeah. Terrific, Les.' Warren looked evenly at Norton. ‘Just remember what I was saying, though. I reckon Hank's a bit of a nut. Some of those letters he sent me were weird.'

‘I know,' agreed Les, ‘I read a couple. But like I said, Woz, it's a soft landing. It's not like I'm stuck in the middle of nowhere, trying to find a cab and a hotel. I got a bloke picking me up at the airport, a place to stay and he'll probably show me around.' Norton shrugged. ‘And if he gets too punishing I'll just piss off. I'm not short of chops.'

‘Yeah, I suppose that makes sense,' nodded Warren.

‘Besides, who wants to go to LA and fuckin' Miami? This Siestasota could be alright.'

‘You mean Sepposota,' chuckled Warren.

‘Yeah, right.' Norton had to laugh. ‘Poor bloody Laurel Lee. He could be an awful Beechams at times, couldn't he?'

‘Reckon. We soon pulled him into gear though. Christ! Didn't we used to put some shit on him?'

‘The outlaw from the South.' Norton shook his head, reflected into his coffee for a moment then looked evenly at Warren. ‘I've only met a few yanks, Woz, and you've been there a couple of times. They're not all as dopey as him though, are they?'

‘No. But there's some weirdos over there. And they all think they're living their lives on TV.' Warren smiled at the puzzled look on Les's face. ‘Ahh, don't worry about it,' he said, raising his cup of coffee. ‘Have a good time. Get over there and give 'em heaps.'

Norton raised his coffee cup too. ‘How about I just do my best to give Australians a good name?'

‘Knowing you, Les, you'll probably put all that good work Paul Hogan's done back about twenty years. Or more.'

‘Get out, you cunt. They'll be rapt in me.'

They had one more coffee each then it was time to go. Les thanked Warren again for running him out to the airport; Warren wished Les a safe trip and a good time, saying he'd see him in about three weeks. They shook hands and the next thing Norton was through the security check and seated on Q Flight 21 to Los Angeles.

Despite all the joking with Warren, Les wasn't all that keen on his holiday in America. Anybody else taking their first trip overseas, armed with plenty of money, would probably be jumping up and down in the one spot. But not Norton. He was quite happy to see the rest of the winter out squirrelled away in his nice warm house at Bondi. Americans he'd met, with their loudmouth, know- all attitude didn't turn him on at the best of times, and the
bloke he was going over to meet wasn't a close friend by any means. The closest thing to a wrap you could put on him would be to class him as a tolerable, possibly likeable dill, who had been the object of their derision and who was repaying Les a bit of a favour. Oh well, thought Les, at least the other part of the trip he had planned could be interesting; if he went through with it.

Norton was still a bit lucky though. The two seats alongside were unoccupied so he had plenty of room to spread himself out. After they were airborne and he'd finished some orange juice and a bit of a snack he'd been served Les had a rummage through his overnight bag. He was travelling fairly light. Just his travel documents, two Cherry Ripes, a couple of magazines, a Walkman and six tapes he had made up, and a book,
Parliament Of Whores
, by an American writer, P.J. O'Rourke. Les figured it might be a way of boning up on a bit of American culture. Norton wasn't a great reader at the best of times, but he knew after the last book he read this would be a snack. The book he'd finished was called
The Holy Blood and the Holy Grail
. Billy Dunne, of all people, had insisted he read it. It was a documentary; a 600-page brain crusher written by two professors and a journalist. Les had to get Warren's dictionary to understand half the words in it and it almost gave him headaches at times reading it. Once Les got into it, though, he could hardly put it down and towards the end he even left a couple of parties to go home and finish it. The authors had written the book almost by accident. The journalist had started off trying to find out how, at the turn of the century, this unknown French priest, getting around $20 a year wages, had managed to build a huge library almost as big as a castle, a mansion for him AND his servants, pave all the roads and rebuild half the houses in the small village where he lived in the South of France. And live a lifestyle comparable to Michael Jackson. It turned out he was blackmailing the Vatican because by deciphering the headings on old gravestones when he had nothing to do, then digging up the floor in an old church, he'd found out
what actually happened to good old Jesus Christ when he was supposed to have died on the cross. Evidently J.C. baby kicked on a bit longer, knocking out about half a dozen kids around France and Spain before he decided to trip upstairs to see his dad. The priest didn't kick on all that much though. Even though he'd never had a day's sickness in his life, and was renowned for his health, he died mysteriously at thirty. The journalist and the two professors had found out the little priest's secret and had written a fantastic book about it. Though not such a fantastic book if you were a Catholic or a priest, thought Norton when he finally finished it. Les settled back and began flicking through P. J. O'Rourke; and Les was right. After the other one, this was like reading a Little Golden Book. Though a hell of a lot funnier.