And De Fun Don't Done (46 page)

The beach was no great shakes. About 150 metres of coarse sand running either side of the steps to a couple of manmade headlands with a few small waves washing over a reef a couple of hundred metres out from the shore. It was overcast, with a blustery on-shore breeze; Les decided to brush the beach till the morning and have a swim in the pool. On the way back up the steps he thought he might ask the security guards if it was okay to use the pool now and what was going on upstairs? Sorry, mon. The pool's closed till the morning. And upstairs was a band and a female singer. But the two guards were alright, one even asked where Les came from and seemed a little interested when Les said Australia. Norton even got a laugh out of them when he assured them he wasn't an American and started taking off a whining, mid-west American accent almost to perfection. They enjoyed Les bagging seppos and it wasn't hard to see where the locals' sentiments lay when it came to American tourists. Les was almost tempted to start up a conversation with them about reggae music and cricket, but between his drunken slurring and their patois he thought he might just say goodnight and quit while he was in front. The two guards said they'd probably see him tomorrow night, there was another band and an open-air banquet in the gardens
next to the beach over to the right. Les thanked them and wandered off to the shopping arcade.

Apart from the staff, there was hardly anybody in the foyer when Les came up the stairs, especially for a Saturday evening. The shopping arcade, which held the usual shops full of rip-off clothes, jewellery and souvenirs, was completely empty. Only one shop was open and it was getting ready to close; the girl doing up the cash register didn't quite give Les a big cheerio when he walked in. The shop was a kind of chemist-papershop, selling chocolate, magazines, booze, aftershave, etc. Les was able to buy six cans of Diet 7-Up, a bottle of Sangsters Passionfruit Rum and a Bic lighter. Les had the right money so the girl didn't have to do too much; she still didn't smile, however, even if Les did. Fair enough though, mused Norton, as he walked out with his purchases. I suppose I am just another late-night drunk. They can be a pain in the arse at times.

Back in his room Les put the cans of 7-Up in the bath and the rum on a small table opposite the two beds. There was an ice container sitting on the table, he took it down to the ice machine and filled it to the brim. Back in his room again, Les thought it might be an idea if he had a long, cold shower and freshened up a little before he had another drink. The cold shower did the trick and feeling noticeably better he changed into his clean Emu Bitter T- shirt, turned on the radio and made himself a small rum and 7-Up, which tasted very, very nice indeed. With some reggae music playing softly in the background Les emptied the can of 7-Up in the sink, got a hanky from his bag and a safety pin from his shower kit, thinking if he was going to smoke that shit with no papers he was going to have to make a machine.

The bloke that showed Les how to make a machine was a country bloke called Lockie, who came to Sydney to play football and ended up doing two years over a truckload of hot bourbon. When he got out of the nick he stayed at Norton's place for a couple of days before he went back to Tamworth. One night Lockie got hold of
some hash and showed Les and Warren how they used to make machines in gaol for smoking dope. All they really were were throwaway bongs or chillums, and they weren't the most pleasant way of smoking pot or whatever; just a super quick way of getting out of it and which left nothing much lying around. But they definitely worked, as Lockie proved to both Les and Warren that night back at the house. Norton twisted the ring-pull off the can, flattened the can out a little so it wouldn't roll around then put an indentation at one end of the can opposite the hole you drank from. With the safety pin he made several small holes in the indentation then wet his hanky, wrapped it round the end of the can where the hole was, something like you would a jar, and tied it loosely underneath. And that was it. The idea was you sprinkled the dacca or whatever you had over the holes, lit it and sucked like mad through the straw hole, where the wet hanky cooled the smoke down slightly so you didn't quite cough your lungs up all over the place. When he'd finished Les looked at his handiwork sitting on the table next to the bottle of rum and give it a nod of grudging approval. Yep. I reckon that ought to do. Now, where's the 'erb, mon? He groped around under the bed, got it out and started crumbling some up into a saucer. Shit! This stuff is bloody stickier then I thought. I hope it'll burn alright.

Before long Les had a small pile of ganja sitting on top of the holes in the can; he held it up to his mouth and picked up the lighter. Les was about to thumb it when he stopped and looked at himself in the mirror. Shit! What am I doing? I'm not a mull head. I'm just a poor silly drunk. In fact, I'm that drunk, I don't know what I am. The face in the mirror suddenly grinned back. Yes I do. I'm a Norton. And this is my turf. Let's go. Les thumbed the lighter and sucked through the hanky.

The first toke didn't go down too bad; it never burnt his lungs, he didn't start coughing everywhere and the ganja tasted okay, quite sweet, not unlike the hash Lockie had that night. Nothing much happened as far as getting stoned, though. Oh well, shrugged Les and loaded the
machine again. Bong number two was a little livelier, but definitely no great hosanna. Elvis didn't come floating down out of the sky and Mickey, Donald and Goofy didn't start dancing round the room. Les waited a few moments then loaded up again. The third one did the trick. Les took a sip of his drink, sat back and the first things he noticed were his body currents and the electricity inside him starting to vibrate and the music picked up, then it all went weird, like he was looking at everything through a prism. Not realising how drunk and tired he was, Les hadn't given the first two tokes a chance to sink in. One probably would have been enough. Now he had three good ones rocketing around inside his brain like a nuclear reaction and it had barely just been detonated over ground zero. Oh yes, Norton nodded to himself. This stuff works alright. And I think it's a bloody creeper too.

The Jamaican ganja crept up on Les alright. His fingers and toes looked to be miles away and everything appeared to intensify and slow down; just to open and close his hand seemed to take five minutes. Everything was now some kind of virtual unreality and it was all happening in slow motion. He slowly swivelled his head around towards the tiny radio between the beds that was now starting to sound like a pair of Bose speakers. Some reggae track faded out and the DJ's deep voice rolled in, announcing the next track as ‘Name Dem Out' by Daddy Shark. The singer started rabbiting away at a hundred miles an hour in a rap-patois that was totally incomprehensible and undecipherable, but Les was certain he could understand every word he was saying.

‘Name dem out. Daddy Shark name dem out.'

‘Remember Charlie Chaplin name dem Rastafarah.'

That was enough for Norton. Next thing he was on his feet and boogying around the room with his drink in his hand like a man possessed.

He danced his way down to the balcony, stepped outside and stood in the dark, moving loosely to the music coming through the curtains behind him while the
nuclear reaction in his brain sent thoughts and ideas spinning everywhere. There was no moon or stars and not much to see except one massive grey cloudbank being blown towards the low silhouette of the mountains to his right. Then the weirdest thought hit Les. It was like he'd been there before; this bizarre feeling of déjà vu. Les could see the pirate ships, the slaves in the sugar fields, the women walking round in their crinoline dresses, holding parasols above their heads to shade their faces. Les knew he was drunk and well and truly out of it, but this feeling was too strong to be imagination. There was something there for sure. Some kind of bond going back hundreds of years. A funny little tingle went up and down Norton's spine and goosebumps began to pepper his arms. He stared into the darkness for a while as more wondrously crazy thoughts exploded through his mind then went back inside.

The reggae coming from the radio seemed to be filling the room and sounded pretty good. Yet Les couldn't help but think. Shit! How would a good stereo go now and a few of my tapes? Absolutely sen-bloody-sational. He took a sip of rum and 7-Up and stared at the funny- looking bloke in the mirror as more fascinating thoughts and perceptions swirled round inside his head. Well, it's all very nice grooving around in here thinking as if I'm the Dalai Lama. But. There's a band playing right on my doorstep and this pot and booze has got me just about knackered. I reckon I ought to go check out Mo' Bay on Saturday night because in about two hours I'm going to crash. Les took another sip of drink and winked at the bloke in the mirror. The bloke nodded back. Yes, a jolly good idea. He rolled himself into a pair of jeans, got some money and things together then laughing away at absolutely nothing drifted out the door.

Norton cruised up the hallway then took a left into the TV lounge on one leg, almost like Charlie Chaplin. Whether Les was paranoid about people looking at him didn't make any difference, they were anyway; it was a while since anyone had seen an entrance like that. He
opened the door and floated out into the entertainment area landing softly among the chairs and tables like Peter Pan. There weren't that many people around, twenty at the most, mostly Americans in casual gear with their wives and girlfriends or whatever. Naturally they all stopped what they were doing and looked at Les. Norton didn't take that much notice. All he knew was that if he didn't sit down soon he was likely to drift off into the night sky and start singing ‘The Banana Boat Song', thinking he was Harry Belafonte. There was an empty table almost in front of the small stage set up in front of the bandstand. He drifted over to it and sat down, dropping his room key on the table. Some sort of light, reggae-disco music drifted out of the speakers. It sounded pleasant enough and seemed to melt in with the surroundings. Les sat staring ahead as the ganja spread through him some more and thought that any second now and he was going to melt into the chair. From out of nowhere an apparition in black and white appeared at his table. Hello, thought Les. This is it. I'm being asked to leave. The T-shirt and joggers. I knew it was too good to be true.

‘Good evening, sir. May I get you something?'

Completely Chinese-eyed, Les looked up at the waiter. It was bloody Harry Belafonte. No, his young brother. ‘Banan… banana. Banana daiquiri please.'

‘Certainly, sir.'

The waiter left with Norton staring blankly after him. What did I just do? Order a bloody banana daiquiri? I'm not a yank. I'm an Australian. I want a Vegemite one. I do? No, I don't. Shit! I don't know what I want. Les sat staring in front of him trying to figure out what he was thinking about, when the waiter returned and placed a huge, fluffy, white drink in front of him full of tiny pink umbrellas, pieces of fruit on toothpicks and other junk. He looked at Norton's room key and offered him the receipt and a biro. Hello, what's this? thought Les. He wants an autograph. He thinks I'm an aussie cricketer too. Hang on a minute. Norton began to sense this giant,
enormous brainstorm arriving and forming in his mind. I can charge the drinks to my room. I'm a bloody genius. He took the biro and hesitated for a second. How many Ts in Norton? There's only one, isn't there? Yeah, right there is. Les signed the receipt and the waiter smiled. As he was about to move off Les handed him some monopoly money.

‘Thank you, sir,' he smiled again.

Well, what about that? How clever am I? Charge it to my room. I'll bet there's not too many people round here would have known how to do that. Les glanced around at the other drinkers, convinced they were all staring at him. Probably the lot of them. Christ! That shit's worse than I thought.

Norton settled back in his chair and mellowed out into the music and the night and took a sip of his drink. It was unbelievably sweet and delicious. He took another sip, a bigger one, and started thinking again and laughing to himself. Bloody hell! What's wrong with this? I'm pissed, stoned, sitting back in a top hotel waiting for a band to come on, and I got two weeks or more to go. I got plenty of pot, all the grouse rum I can get my hands on and a heap of chops to spend. He took another slurp of his drink. Shit! I could think of worse places to be. Like freezing to death back in Sydney. In a Florida gaol. Stuck with Captain Rats back at Swamp Manor. Instead, I'm in Jamaica drinking daiquiris. I think I'm in front somehow. Les was sipping his drink, laughing and thinking to himself how lucky he was, when there was movement on stage. Four men in white tuxedos got behind some drums, guitars and an electric piano. The lead singer on bass guitar eased up to the mike and smiled out over the small crowd.

‘Good evening, ladies and gentlemen,' he crooned. ‘We're the Tego-Tones. We'd like to play for you for a while, before our lovely singer comes on to entertain you. Jamaica's own princess of song, Melanni Mystique. Thank you.'

The lead singer nodded to the others and they slipped
easily into some well-rehearsed, middle of the road, West Indian type of music. It was nothing spectacular, but it sounded pretty good to Les and if he closed his eyes he could imagine there were twenty up on stage instead of four. The music surrounded him, some notes hung in the air, others just seemed to drift off into the night sky. He ordered another two daiquiris and mellowed out some more, not thinking about a great deal in general; any thoughts he did have seemed to drift off into the night along with the music. After all the shit that went down in Florida Les couldn't believe how peaceful and relaxed he now felt.

Eventually the band stopped and the lead singer started up on some spiel that ended with, ‘… and now would you please welcome on stage, our very own Melanni Mystique.'

There was a ripple of applause and a slender woman, somewhere in her mid-twenties, stepped out onto the small stage. She wore white slacks, gold high-heels and a red, black and gold lame top. Her hair was bobbed short over a pretty face with full red lips and a pearly white smile that seemed to sparkle in the light.