3. Rigmarole
He wasn’t afraid of them any longer, he knew that, but this waking nightmare he was a part of wasn’t being made any easier by knowing he had to be in the presence of this troika of arseholes. Before thinking about confronting them for any reason, Michael mused about laying low until the lay of this hallucinogenic land could be established good and proper.
As the herd thinned and Michael was able to access his locker – which he recalled was in a general area, yet required three attempts to get right, he got his books for the first three periods sorted, stacked the remainder in the cramped space, and deposited his bag in the storage room set aside for them. Taking a deep breath, he followed a sea of long-forgotten, yet oddly familiar faces to the room he had spent much of his time in 1987, and ambled towards the back of the mass so as to not sit where he was not supposed to. He remained silent amid all the cacophonous chatter that was accumulating as the sound of a flock of geese. A spare seat presented itself by the wall midway down the column of archaic, vandalised wooden desks and he precariously sat down at it. A fire alarm bell sounded, signalling the start of the school day, and as if on cue, the maths teacher Mr Wilson entered. The class fell silent and simultaneously stood up. Michael missed the first unified beat and followed suit a second later. A morning of the patently bizarre was continuing on, curiouser and curiouser.
Mr Wilson was a tall, tanned man in his 50s. Thinning blonde hair had gone grey at the temples, and squared wire rimmed glasses befitted the style of the time. On this particular morning, he was wearing shirtsleeves and a tie much like Michael’s father, in the same shade of beige. With him was an old wooden protractor fitted with a small nub of white chalk on the end of it. He carried an old style teacher’s roll and a pair of text books.
The teacher broke the silence with a cheery ‘Feel free to sit.’
The class did in unison. As was the routine, Mr Wilson went through the roll, checking off names as he went. There were 23 boys in this class, and on Wednesday March 17 1987, there was no absence from 1S.
What followed was a rudimentary first year mathematics lesson. On this particular day, the boys were taught the way to figure out the area of a circle. Keeping up with what he thought was the appropriate course of action, Michael took notes although he was learning nothing new. About a minute before the class ended, the world of Pi having been introduced with a bright enthusiasm by this veteran educator, Michael glanced at the previous days’ pages in his exercise book. His penmanship was entirely different on the earlier pages. On this morning, he wrote with an adult’s style – cursive and haphazard, but entirely legible to him. Understandably, his previous days’ writing had been far simpler; that of a child. The thought occurred to him that there was a disquiet between muscle memory and mental instinct.
For a second, he contemplated where the mind of his 12-year-old self was at this point, if it was in his 38 year old body, and in doing so, how he was reacting to being older, tireder, and thousands of kilometres away, 26 years into the future.
The bell sounded again; there was a scattershot rustling of paper and books, and as quickly as Mr Wilson had entered, he was gone. Balled up papers flew about in the disquiet minutes between lessons; there was abject pushing and shoving for reasons Michael couldn’t fathom, although he broke it down in his mind to the energy incarnate in the boys of early teens. He himself was jittery in his arms and legs, and a surge of energy in his chest like he had been throwing back espresso shots. Yet, he hadn’t. Michael was fully embracing the idea of waking up any minute now, but with every one of those minutes came a more sturdy realisation that waking up was not going to be an option.
Mr Sutton entered the room. Michael remembered him fondly – a man very much of the late ’80s in terms of hair and fashion; today for some reason he was decked from head to toe in varying shades of pastel green. His tie was thin and looked to be machine-knitted, and matched his hideous green shirt and pants. There was a single earring in his left lobe and the beginnings of what would doubtlessly become a superbly impressive mullet with time. There was a slow fading to silence, as this man in his late 20s had a way with the class that capitalised on the need among young boys to have relatable, impressive adult males in their lives as role models. Many of the boys looked at him with cloudy-eyed awe. Michael remembered doing the same thing. It amused him to know that this man who appeared no older than a kid to him would be in his early 50s in 2013.
The lesson proceeded without incident or hitch; it was a stock standard early English class where Mr Sutton introduced the idea of finding ‘theme’ in a book or a film; he did this by essentially correlating theme to moral, in that the lessons we learn from Pinocchio encapsulated the theme of that work: the dangers and risks of lying; how young people can be led astray and the importance therein of making the most of your parents care and love. It was nicely put. The class were asked to write down a selection of titles, books or movies, that had themes and what they were. The boys were engaged, and for a moment, Michael was again lost in the moment, not focussed on his predicament. The list he came up with were all older titles, as per the dictates of his own tastes, and it didn’t occur to him to write down titles that existed in what was the then-future.
When you’re an adult, 40 minutes can pass as you look out a window, thinking about a phone bill or the last conversation you had with someone. With the passage of time, time itself becomes smaller, quicker. As someone on the verge of adolescence, 40 minutes can stretch to the infinite. While many of Michael’s classmates felt that classes could stretch on into the ages, they were whipping by for Michael. He had shoes that were older than 12 years; he had memories that spanned decades, so he felt all but a pang of disappointment when the bell sounded again. He was just getting into exploring the idea that thematically, The Godfather was a metaphor broadly critiquing American capitalism.
It was remarkable how easily he settled in to the feel and routine of the morning. He had not given passing thought to much of his time spent at Wellings since he had spent time there. It had been 25 years, and as many since he had given the place much thought. But a process borne of routine had burned itself somehow into his subconscious, and it all came flooding back like as much trauma. It wasn’t, however, in the grander scheme of things, that traumatic.
The bell sounded again, Mr Sutton gathered his things and left in as fine a mood as he had when he entered, and the two dozen boys got up and collectively moved towards their science class. Michael again hung back – various boys had said one thing or another to him, engaging and pleasant enough in tone and content, but it was to him as much white noise: fleeting asides about football, cricket, G.I. Joe collectibles or whatever the latest fad was. Michael felt for a time that he was a part of the haze, wafting from one moment to the next as part of the breeze. Like being in a dream, except it smelled a lot worse.
He then felt a shove from behind, causing him to almost lose his footing. He turned to see what caused his near-fall… it was Cooper, Payne and Fenster smirking at him. Michael looked blankly back at them.
‘What?’ a suddenly indignant Cooper asked.
‘I’d ask you the same thing,’ Michael replied.
His retort was unexpected. Cooper had gotten use in these past two months of the new school year to Michael cowering in his presence and having no comeback at all.
‘You wanna start something?’ Cooper asked, taking a forced step towards Michael’s face.
‘I really don’t,’ Michael replied. This contest, as it was, would have been over before it began – it was all bluster and bravado on Cooper’s part, Michael knew it. But he was in no way experienced with fighting, and despite the fact that a pimply tit in front of him was arcing his back to no effect, Michael wanted no part of it. Adults don’t get in fist fights over stupid shit like this – mature adults at least. It wasn’t going to happen here, now. Not if Michael had anything to say about it.
Cooper got right in Michael’s face, close enough for Michael to see the small scattershot freckles on the young kid’s cheeks, and feel his hot breath. Then, as if on cue, an adult voice called out.
‘You boys! Move on!’, and the three antagonists bolted. Michael turned to see a rotund man in his late 40s, Mr McDougal, who as best as Michael could recall, taught German. He was almost a perfect circle, and it would have been fascinating to have Mr Wilson try to calculate his area. Pi to the power of ‘r’, squared.
Except pi would be pie.
Michael, amused by his own pun, mentally high-fived himself, turned and followed his 1S classmates to the science block.
It was a lesson in history as much it was of science. The teacher, Mr Bailey, was perhaps as old as sand and was wearing a lab coat for no conceivable reason. The science classroom, set up as a laboratory with six rows of benches, was festooned with the oldest, dustiest collection of props one could imagine, including a gruesome, ghastly collection of preserved specimen jars, filled with all manner of reptiles and other wildlife suspended in amber fluids. Mr Bailey’s hair was white and wiry, as if central casting had sent him up for the role of ‘mad scientist in potato chip commercial’. The flavours are so good, they’ll make you crazy!
The class was perfunctory, introducing these boys to the world of the Bunsen burner, minus the actual spectacle of seeing the thing lit. Mr Bailey spoke softly and stood with poor posture. Spittle projected from his lips when he talk, and his glasses were as thick as Coke bottle bases. Michael and his lab partner, a decent-natured ginger kid named Ross, took turns at handling their assigned bit of scientific wonder apparatus, seeing its component parts, and refraining from making jokes about its phallic nature (Michael was probably alone in this regard). They diligently took notes in their science books, which had pages in grids rather than ruled lines for some reason, and again, before he had a chance to think any time had gone by at all, the bell sounded and it was all over.
Michael couldn’t make head or tail of what was being said during recess. His classmates, and the rest of the year group milled about the outside of the old buildings in small clusters. There didn’t seem to be much order to it, but the year groups seemed to stay together, and there were decided cliques; Michael couldn’t determine what they were for the most part, aside from the more obvious ones – the kids who were smaller than average, kind of meek and out of their element had wasted no time and were playing some incarnation of Dungeons and Dragons.
The clearly dumb thugs were pushing each other about. The Chinese kids were sitting together and not making much noise at all, probably feeling more out of sorts than Michael was.
He himself was bewildered by it all, in what had turned out to be a few goddamned bewildering hours. His mother had packed him an apple with his sandwich, which he ate, and yet seemed to be the only one eating any fruit. Many of the kids had stocked up on chocolates and cakes from the school canteen; kids who would as adults look back on the school days and wonder why they got teased for being pudgy, lacking the cognitive dissonance to not wolf down that second sticky bun.
But it was the conversations that he couldn’t get involved in. Because they were kids, teenagers at most, every four words were punctuated with ‘like’, and the stories went nowhere all the while accompanied by wild arm gesticulating. It was about nothing – cartoons, characters; they spoke at length about commercials they had seen or characters they identified with, but nothing was said that had any interest to Michael at all. He did like the fact that someone mentioned an afternoon TV show called C’mon Kids, which surely had to be a sick joke, but strangely enough, wasn’t. Some of them told patently awful and transparent stories about girls they had supposedly ‘rooted’, but none of them seemed to have even the most elementary understanding of human biology, let alone the knowledge of what women responded to. Pimply, skinny, knock-kneed 13-year-olds with quavering voices, body odour and miniscule genitals were in all likelihood not high on the local girls’ ‘must have’ list. The first few ribald anecdotes amused Michael to a degree, but like all tall tales, they got old and dull very fast.
Michael wanted to take part, to be interested, but he didn’t have the energy to even feign it. This all flew in the face of the fact that he felt like he had Red Bull coursing through his veins.
Hormones and energy.
The bulk of the conversations were beyond inane to Michael’s sensibility, and the worst part of a bad headache was beginning to surface behind his eyes. It could have been stress, or it could have been close to anything else in the world. He thought for a second that it was the brain tumour he almost certainly had that was infecting his mind with such vivid images, sounds, tastes, smells and feelings. Maybe that was what all this was; he was the man who mistook his wife for a hat, but he instead he was the man who mistook the present for the past, the dead for the living, and fantasy for reality.
The situation was overwhelming to the point where he actually welcomed the idea of it being a tumour, perhaps one the size of a plum, so that it would kill him in short shrift and he’d be done with this craziness. Perhaps if it was the case, he could not worry about what he was a part of and just become a tourist in his own mind, exploring things as they were and becoming the sole director of this most languid and artistically uninspired cinematic dreamscape.
The bell sounded, and he and a small group of boys walked with purpose towards the school chapel, as it was fourth period Tuesday. Routine was important as could be imagined in a school environment, and the dull machinist whir of this first three lessons was about to become transformed to comparable fireworks by the languid sermonising he was about to be witness to. The aged Dr Williams led his collective pungent congregation in hymns that redefined ‘off-key’, and a sermon about how prayer and faith has always given solace and comfort to men throughout history. It was well-intentioned to Michael’s mind, but as boring as sand.
Dr. Williams concluded his sermon, led the boys in song again, then went on to make a request of the Almighty which Michael thought odd from start to finish.
They collectively bowed their heads and closed their eyes; Michael went along with it despite having not a spiritual thought in his entire being. Someone had tried to latch him onto Dianetics in LA, but he politely declined, figuring he wasn’t nearly lost enough to warrant sacrificing his sanity and income to the Scientology people.
‘Heavenly father,’ Dr Williams began, arms outstretched as if God was about to fall from a second floor window, ‘Grant onto us your loving guidance, despite us being unworthy of your love.’
Hold the phone…
‘Guard us and keep us from harm in these uncertain times; protect us, o Lord from those who wish us harm.’
What’s he on about?
‘We beseech you, Heavenly Father to grant us wisdom and strength; that we may live lives of righteousness and purpose, honouring your name and the sacrifices of your son, Jesus.’
Mm-hmm.
‘Through him, your love for us was so great that you were willing to sacrifice him, that he was willing to die for our sins…’
Yours, maybe.
‘For which we are so unworthy.’
There he goes again!
‘In the name of our Father, the son and the holy spirit. Now and forever more, amen.’
‘Amen,’ the congregation answered.
Who is unworthy?
Nobody seemed to notice this ecclesiastic guilt trip, and as the massive pipe organ began its piping and individual rows were dismissed in turn, Michael thought the whole thing odd. Odder than he recalled these sermons being.
Two teachers who looked to be in their early 30s were walking alongside Michael for a short spell. They hadn’t acknowledged him, for he was a student. They chatted amiably oblivious to the kid next to them. Michael embraced it, for they were engaging in adult, pointed conversation, which was a small miracle to hear. It was serious content from serious men, despite one of them wearing purple slacks.
‘Seemed a bit much, is all,’ one of them said, ‘that we’d be grateful for an undying love from the Creator, despite the fact that we apparently don’t deserve it.’
‘I know. Not sure what Donald’s been up to, but I have a pretty clean slate.’
‘THANK you,’ Michael piped in. ‘I thought I was the only one.’
The two adults glared at him. The mendacity! This kid wants to speak to us.
‘Get to class,’ spat the one not in purple pants.
Michael almost retorted, but then remembered where he was, who he was, and how he must have appeared on the outside. He nodded, and jogged off away from them.
‘Walk!’ one of them shouted out from behind him. Michael never recalled there being such contempt, but perhaps when you hear nothing but contempt from adults in such an environment, it was to be expected and acclimatised to.
Michael felt contempt directed at him in more ways than just for his age when it came to the History class he was to attend next. The teacher, Mr Gunn was as ornery, condescending, and mean spirited as he recalled; festooned as ever in a safari suit. This time, today, it was a light beige, not dissimilar to the fabric of his parents’ bedspread. The man was older than he wanted to appear, probably in his late 50s or early 60s, but had taken the Reagan-like step of dying his hair a darker colour that didn’t occur in nature or would have been convincing to anybody who saw it.
Mr Gunn’s style in the class was lecturing. He knew all about that which he spoke, and speak he did – endlessly and with a rote-borne authority on the material. He was doing what passed as teaching about ancient Greece, its life, structures, politics and religion. If he didn’t have the full, unbridled attention of the class, he would open up a tirade of loud threats like a prison governor, and would loom threateningly over his charges when he quizzed them on the contents of the lesson he was delivering. He was, at the very heart of it, a product of his time, but his time was the 50s.
The boys were not engaged, they were afraid. They didn’t learn so much as acquiesce. Michael remembered it all too well.
‘Greek architecture from the period continues to this day, both in Australia and in other newer civilisations. Our founding fathers, early settlers et cetera aspired to be the creators of a great empirical civilisation like those of Socrates and Aristotle. You will see columns and proscenium arches in various buildings throughout the central business district of Sydney.’
All of which was true enough, but was delivered like a drill sergeant, losing all of its potential academic nourishment.
‘Michael Curtin!’ the old man spat.
Michael instinctively improved his posture.
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Can you name the three architectural systems, or orders of ancient Greece?’
Of course I bloody can’t, who could?
‘Well, no, sir.’
‘And why is that?’
‘I’ve not read anything about specific styles from the era.’
A smirk etched onto Mr Gunn’s face.
‘Perhaps if you did the assigned homework reading, you would know, Curtin.’
He stepped forward, looming over Michael’s small form, crouched at his desk. He smelled of old man, brylcreem, tobacco and instant coffee.
‘THE THREE ARCHITECTURAL ORDERS OF ANCIENT GREECE ARE DORIC, CORINTHIAN AND IONIC. YOU WOULD KNOW THIS IF YOU HAD DONE THE READING, MR CURTIN!’
If teachers were meant to have the academic equivalent of a bedside manner, this man was falling incredibly short of the mark. He was governing his charges with fear, which is the dumbest way in the world to encourage any kind of meaningful learning. Michael looked down at his hands on the desk, quivering as they were. He hated this old bastard.
The old bastard turned on his heel and went back to his recitation about the three orders, and mentioned a series of dates and places before scrawling the homework task on the board. According to his timetable, Michael was to endure a similar experience after lunch the next day. He had to give the man credit for one thing: there was no way he was showing up tomorrow unprepared.
The bell sounded, and all could feel the tension in the room lift. Two dozen pairs of shoulders relaxed at once and the pervasive mood was raised by a factor of ten. In a sharp, precise manner, Mr Gunn collected his materials and was out the door with mathematical efficiency. Michael felt bruised. He cast a look sideways, and found his classmate Ross looking at him with nothing less than complete sympathy.
‘He hates you!’
Michael nodded. He recalled being yelled at more than was either fair, needed or equal to his classmates. He could never recall why exactly he got under Mr Gunn’s skin, but there it was, plain as day in front of them all – the old man’s ire was at its peak.
Miserable old cunt.
The French lesson was a comparative walk in the park, led by the expat Englishman Mr Birch, whose name fitted his small, bird-like countenance. He took the boys through an instructive handful of elementary French fundamentals. Quelle heure est-il? Où est la gare? Je voudrais un café.
Michael had more than enough French in his vocabulary to add more to the lesson, but he was spent and was in no mood to impress anyone. His mind wandered to sex or chocolate or string quartets; he blinked, and then it was lunch time. It seemed to be an easy transition.
The routine for lunch was the same as for recess. The boarding students went to the dining hall for their mass-produced gruel (Michael had no way of knowing what was on the menu); the day boys sat on benches, or on the bitumen, or the stairs and ate; the luckier ones went to the canteen for pies and sausage rolls. The dialogue though, was not as varied. It was white noise like in the morning, only amplified by time, a searing midday sun, and made all the less agreeable when it was spoken through mid-chewed sandwiches and fruit. It was insubstantial, multiplied by heat, time and delivered through a pre-digestive filter.
Try as he might, Michael simply didn’t have it in him. He couldn’t take it any longer. He put the last mouthful of his cheese and Vegemite sandwich in his mouth, sounded a muffled ‘I’m going to the library,’ to his classmates and left their small square foot of bitumen.