11. Media Whore
Being in casual attire at Wellings was as weird in his revisited youth as it was when it was all new. Uniformity was what they extolled, and to dress differently was as strange an experience as seeing a grandparent drunk. But he was not at Wellings, technically. He was standing outside its gates, impatiently, wishing again for his iPhone so he could while away the minutes between his arrival and the arrival of his plan’s expeditors. But he had no iPhone, all he had was his thoughts and a dog eared copy of Madame Bovary in the back pocket of his jeans.
It took a couple of days and a few phone conversations going back and forth. It was a challenge Michael hadn’t expected, that over the phone, one is taken a great deal less serious if one’s vocal pitch is higher. A kid ringing a news media office environment seldom gets his calls returned.
But it was by scouring the pages of The Sydney Morning Herald that he found the name he was looking for – education writer Jim Hankin. It wasn’t Hankin, specifically that he was looking for, but the sub-title of ‘education writer’. Hankin, as it turned out – turns out – went on to become the editor of a weekly entertainment magazine in LA, and being from the same city allowed the adult Michael and him to bond to a certain degree. Michael had been profiled a couple of times, they had enjoyed the occasional drink together, and had compared notes about how ‘the business’ was a tough racket. And how the Americans were so uptight about everything. Hankin was, in 2013, nestling quite comfortably into his 50s, and saw that his magazine’s future was not bleak in the new digital media age. But he didn’t care too much to expand his horizons and was willing to drift into insignificance in a very smooth pattern.
As it stood in 1987, he was all but a cub reporter, a few years out of university and had been lucky enough to have been taken on by the Herald as a cadet, and had winged his way into the education portfolio. Not a lot of news came their way, but when it did, it was his ground to cover it. The biggest story he’d been covering was part of a campaign by the Unsworth NSW government that had strict new laws about kids getting expelled from state schools – once you were out of one, you couldn’t go to another. They had brought in some well-known and unequivocally masculine faces for the TV ad campaign, including local Rugby league identity Roy Masters to implore the kids watching the tele that they needed to play by the rules at school.
The Herald’s, not to mention Hankin’s leftist bent and bone to pick with private education was the choice vehicle for Michael to mount his campaign to get his status and reputation restored at Wellings. He was going to crash through or crash – shame the place into taking him back or get expelled trying. Not that he either wanted, or needed an education there at the time, but there was a principal at stake, and he’d be buggered if he wasn’t going to take control of his destiny, delusion or coma fantasy. Whatever this was.
Hankin arrived at the gates with a photographer, who introduced herself as Liz. Michael was baffled as to how young and spritely 87-era Hankin was, but of course let nothing slip and did all he could to be cordial and respectful; treating the young scribe with the level of awe one might have reserved for major film stars or athletes. He even called him ‘Sir’.
Hankin’s questions were direct and matter of fact. A few establishing questions and answered had been taken care of over the phone, but he felt that asking them again, and in greater depth while at the scene of the alleged incident would add the necessary depth and seriousness to the piece.
‘Does it feel strange to be back here, to not be allowed in through the front gates, Michael?’
‘Not so strange as frustrating. I’ve got my parents’ investment and their concerns for my well-being on my mind. I also know that I’m in the right, so it’s sadder, really, than anything else. And I miss my friends as well,’ he lied.
Liz took some photos from various angles, all the while trucks and cars drove past the campus, occasionally tooting their horns to get the attention of the trio, not deducing that they were print media, not electronic, and unlikely to report the noise made by the twat behind the wheel of the Mitsubishi.
With the interview and photo op over, Michael shook Liz and Jim’s hands, and thanked them for their time.
‘I hope this does the trick,’ he said.
‘I’ve not met someone like you before, Michael. Most kids your age wouldn’t be so keen to get back to school under similar circumstances. It’s like an extra holiday,’ Jim replied.
‘There’s more than just time off at stake, Mr Hankin,’ Michael replied earnestly. ‘There’s a set of principles that need to be upheld. I’m doing this for every kid that’s felt they’re under the thumb of old people with agendas to prove.’
‘You could start a revolution,’ Liz said.
Michael scoffed. ‘That’s stretching it a bit, don’t you think?’
They parted company, and Michael turned to the leafy green front entrance, replete with the sign warning students to keep off the grass. Walking down the school’s administration walkway was Mr Gunn, slouched forward, old man’s hump forming on his shoulders. Michael looked at him, and then Gunn looked up and saw Michael looking at him from outside the gates. His walk slowed, a furrow formed on his brow.
Michael smiled and waved, nodding. Gunn almost waved back out of instinct until his inner crank got the better of him.
Just keep walking, motherfucker. You’re about to become famous.
Michael had chosen the SMH for a couple of reasons. One, he liked it. His days in this past had rekindled his love for print media, a love for the solid, old fashioned broadsheet, and one that was well written and comparatively objective. Two, he knew that if he went to The Daily Telegraph or Mirror, they’d either not have taken him seriously, or transformed the story into some upper crust baiting piece of tabloid tall poppy syndrome; a handful of cheap shots directed at private education and in the process just get the AM talk back stations going on and on about how the other half lives. It would be fish and chip wrappers within minutes. But the thing that inspired him the most was the fact that the Herald was the kind of newspaper that would be read by the kind of people who sent their brood to Wellings. If Hankin did the job right, there would be calls from parents, calls from alumni, calls from other media. Michael’s case was fairly cut and dry, and if the image of the hallowed halls was in any way tarnished, by the Fairfax press no less, there would be gallant and swift efforts to save face. North Shore families of note would not stand for the kind of negative publicity that this kind of thing would stir up. Were his evil plan to play out, heads would roll.
*
The conditions of Michael’s suspension did not render him housebound for the entire time. Sylvia was clearly on his side, and Clive was too preoccupied with work to notice. But they were both flexible when it came to how he was spending his time while off campus. They allowed him to travel to and from school as was required, for either meetings or to offer the much-sought contrition. They also let him go to the corner store if they needed milk, and that clemency eventually extended to the Chatswood shopping precinct, which was as large on its own as most suburbs. So the minute the place was empty, lest he have to endure John Laws on the radio, or the likes of Good Morning Australia or ‘til Ten on the TV. The latter was a unique phenomenon, hosted by the TV personality wife of James Hardie – it represented the pinnacle of haughty, upper crust, capital P-Polite Sydney chat for stay-at-home ladies. If you owned a doyley for every bench top or seat, this was for you. Avoiding polite discussions about etiquette, Michael made tracks for the shops in what started out a directionless enough bout of time wasting, but eventually became a messianic quest for a decent cup of coffee.
As he walked in the direction of the shops, as he felt no compulsion to catch a bus when time wasn’t a factor, the weight of the situation was pressing again. He thought that he’d be no worse off if he just apologised and went about things in a direct manner. Doing what was expected of him. It would certainly be easier. His self-analysis was getting quite intricate – he noticed that once he started making efforts in one area, the weight of the general circumstance he was experiencing lifted. Then, he’d re-examine the monumental nature of what he was experiencing, and how remarkably petty it was to be focussing his energies on matters so insignificant. His moods went from elation to depression over the course of an internally narrated stream of consciousness paragraph.
He stopped walking, and looked down at his feet, which were submerged in a pile of fallen leaves. The weather was beautiful that day, the air perfectly still, the sun was warm but not hot. He held out his hands to the air in front of them, and for a moment contemplated the simple beauty that he couldn’t feel where the air ended and his skin began. A calming thought begat a calming tonic that then gently draped itself over his consciousness to thoughts of simple pleasures – sex, food, love, music, comfort, cocaine, and most pressing at this particular second, coffee. He inhaled a pair of somehow cleansing breaths, thought to leave his stresses and concerns behind him in this pile of leaves, and soldier on. He started walking again, self-remedied from his mental back-and-forth, determined to not stop until his caffeine jag was sated.
The first two potential cafés had been mighty letdowns. Sunshine Café even produced coffee from a picnic thermos with a hand pump, for Christ’s sake. The third, Chatswood Delights, looked to be his last hope at some quality java, lest he get on a train and head to Newtown or Bondi Junction. It was a hell of a thing, to think that coffee had devolved with the onset of instant granules and the fine art of it had become a skill lost with cobbling, candle making and blacksmithing. There were doubtlessly endless professional baristas throughout the metropolitan area, but Michael hadn’t the first clue where the high density Italian migrant populations lived in Sydney. Were he in Melbourne, he’d just walk down Lygon Street in Carlton. This was no longer his town.
Chatswood Delights’ menu board had options for coffee, rather than just ‘black’ and ‘white’. They offered lattes, mochas, flat whites, long blacks, piccolos and espressos. Milk was steamed and there was an actual barista behind the counter. Michael felt, for the first time in a long time, relieved and happy. He ordered a latte, placed the green $2 note on the counter and smiled when he was given $1.10 change. The waitress, a heavy set dyed brunette lady in her late 40s asked if he wanted something to eat, but Michael declined; his appetite had been waning these past days.
‘Take a seat anywhere you like, love,’ the woman said, smiling.
He shuffled to a spot by the window with Clive’s copy of the Herald. A moment passed him where he again thought about the ‘why’ of his situation. This of course led to the ‘how’, which habitually made his right index finger twitch and the first needles of a headache start pricking behind his eyes.
Too much.
The waitress shortly brought him his coffee. She smiled at him, he smiled back emitting a meek ‘Thank you’, and for a moment steeled himself, focusing on life’s positives. He looked at the cup, its white foamy contents tinged with flecks and stripes of brown. For a moment, he felt good again. With his latte in hand, its aroma more appealing than close to anything he’d experienced in his time warp, he felt all but tempted to pour the thing over his head and rub it like shampoo into his hair and pores. Were it the size of a bath, he’d have stripped down to his skinny, pale, naked self then and there, and fully immersed himself in it – second degree burns and public indecency ordinances notwithstanding.
He took a sip and was impressed. It was the first decent coffee he’d had, and to his 12-year-old lips and tongue, it was an entirely new sensation. Intellectually, he knew what flavours he was supposed to be imbibing, but the taste buds in his child’s mouth had never experienced this. It was quite the heady rush.
After another pensive sip, he exhaled and felt strangely content. The moment was still, and but for the dull hum of traffic and the Billy Joel song on the radio, silent. Between his coffee, his newspaper and the general sense of calm he felt, he considered that should he be faced with this late 80s purgatory for a while to come, perhaps this could be a ritual; a means by which to keep him sane, to keep his faculties in order until the universe righted itself, or until whatever karmic lesson he was supposed to learn was properly registered.
He then turned to the pages of The Sydney Morning Herald, Wednesday, April 8, 1987. He glanced at Column 8, figuring his little tantrum to Jim Hankin would go no further than an amusing anecdote in paragraph form, to be enjoyed by the intelligentsia going to Wynyard or Town Hall stations. But there was no mention of it. He looked at the index to see if there was a dedicated ‘education’ section, but alas, not on a Wednesday. Perhaps he had made no impression at all, or Hankin’s journalistic ear was deaf.
Then, shockingly enough, blazoned across the top third of page 5, Michael saw his young face. In Liz Christian’s photo, there he stood: his hair slightly disheveled; his arms folded; his left eyebrow arched and a look of obstinate frustration on his face. Next to the picture, there was a bulky article, perhaps 500 words detailing his mini crusade.
He shifted in his seat, and nervously knocked his coffee, spilling much of it.
‘Shit,’ he pronounced. His waitress looked in his direction, as Michael stumbled for napkins.
‘I got a little excited, can I have another one?’ he asked.
She smiled, and nodded, re-addressing the barista. Michael took a breath, set the tan-soiled napkins aside, and re-focussed his attention on the article. He read, holding his breath.
Elite school suspends student for being ‘too smart’
By Jim Hankin, Education Writer
STANDING outside the wrought iron gates of Wellings Grammar in Wahroonga on Sydney’s upper North Shore, Michael Curtin finds himself the victim of what he calls ‘an intellectual witch hunt’.
Michael – 12, of Chatswood – had been an average student, but decided ‘…of (his) own volition’ to improve his academic standing.
‘My marks hadn’t been that noteworthy, I really wasn’t invested in school, so I decided to turn it all around.
‘My mother always tells me that it’s never too late to turn over a new leaf, so that’s what I did.’
A thin, well-presented boy of average height, Michael is staggeringly articulate, intellectually well beyond his years, and conveys someone passionate about his cause.
It was after submitting an essay containing the word ‘agrarian’ that Michael found himself in the cross hairs of his History teacher.
According to Michael, currently the subject of what the school calls an ‘informal suspension’, his use of more academic language in an essay on life in ancient Greece drew the attention of his teacher, Mr Leonard Gunn, who deemed it suspicious and suspected plagiarism on Michael’s part.
‘I wrote that Aristotle was in favour of agrarian ideas, the nobility of tilling the soil,’ he said.
‘The thing is, I only used it to flavour the essay, which was pretty basic stuff about peasant life – nothing too interesting, so I decided to go above and beyond the parameters of the topic.
‘A few days later I get summoned to the Deputy Principal’s office, and there’s Mr Gunn and Mr McAllister in this bizarre kangaroo court set up, where they put me on the spot to use ‘agrarian’ in a sentence.
It was at this point that Michael decided not to yield to what he calls ‘fascist reactionaries’.
‘I’m not one for the pop quiz, and I’m nobody’s dancing monkey.
‘They could have trusted in my abilities, but the school seems to pigeonhole students of age or background as being capable of X, Y or Z, and rising to the intellectual occasion beyond that is held in suspicion, if not contempt.
‘So I gave them a short, emotionless spiel about Ian Sinclair and how his protectionist leanings in rural and regional Australia suggest agrarian socialism, which is quite contradictory to the free market philosophies of the Liberals.’
It was this answer that threw both staff members, who were – according to Michael – lost for words at that point.
‘I essentially had them over a barrel, so I dropped the mic and walked out.’
(When asked, Michael clarified this phrase as one which alludes to ‘freestyle’ competitive rap singers in America, then uneasily noted that the reference was, perhaps ‘… a tad obscure.’)
The Year 7 student claims there had been a run of ‘bad blood’ between him and his teacher, which he initially thought was simply an issue of a generation gap, but has revealed itself as being more personal, and what Michael claims is vindictiveness on Mr Gunn’s part.
‘It’s a bit rich that I have to take a leave of absence because some bitter geriatric with tenure makes a false accusation and looks like a fool in the process,’ Michael said.
‘I just want to get back to work; my parents are shelling out a fortune for this circus.’
Neither Mr Gunn, nor a school spokesperson could be reached for comment.
Picture: Liz Christian
*
Michael was impressed. He thought it was a nice piece: punchy, direct, evocative. Jim did a good job. He’d have preferred Liz had fixed his hair, but it was one of those things he’d have to endure until the hair care industry grew beyond gels into moulding clays. Michael shifted in his seat, smiled, and went back to the story and read it over again.
The waitress returned to the table, replacing the spilled coffee with a new one. She picked up the sodden napkins and looked at Michael.
‘Will there be anything else?’
‘I’d love a thick slice of cheesecake.’