During the summer of ‘83 we were hot and we were bored. My
family had its holiday in September; the rest of the kids in my street went
away in August so there was often a hole in my life where kids I played with
were in Tenerife or Spain. Friendship, at this time, was based on availability,
which meant I ended up playing with kids I’d normally avoid.
Kevin was the boy I would avoid. Kevin scored high on the Thug
Spectrum. His favourite sport was ride by punching. He’d race past and land a
fist in your back. He’d play football with us and punch during a tackle to make
sure he won the ball. He’d kick, he’d throw stones, and he never lost at a game
as he changed the rules to his advantage. He’d boot footballs into the middle
distance come the end of the day, laughing about it as he went home and the
owner went on the walk to fetch their ball.
With no one else around we fell into each others company. That
summer we played war games, hiding cap-guns about our person and shooting each
other in Nazi accents. We made explosions, lighting caps by ant nests with stolen
matches. We used magnifying glasses to burn ants as they crossed the concrete,
then to burn worms and watch as they split open. We did all the things boys did
in England
There are only so many ants you can immolate though and we
soon ran out of things to do. We walked out of our street to the grass hill
behind and saw the huge Alsatian that lived on the street behind ours starting
to turn in circles as it sniffed the grass. This dog roamed around off the
leash, chasing cyclists, stealing footballs, barking at kids and being the
menace that childhood requires. It stopped circling and squatted for a long
time. We stopped in admiration of the size of the stool it was producing.
Shit
Kevin said it first. It was on the list of words not to say.
I said it, but at a lower register. Kevin had, in the past, threatened to tell
my parents when I had sworn. We approached this mountain of manure where flies
were already circling. It was roughly the size of a dinner plate, a rich ox
tail colour with peaks and slopes. It appeared to be breathing.
Kevin looked over at me and then at the mess.
Bet I can get closer
to it than you.
He dropped to his hands and knees and held his face about 20
centimetres above and inhaled. He rolled back clutching his throat gasping and
the burst into laughter. Laughter is the only lubricant a kids needs to do
something stupid so I crouched closer than Kevin and inhaled. I rolled away laughing.
Kevin upped the stakes by getting closer, so I got closer still. Within half an
hour we were both almost touching it, our noses a whisper from the wet mess. Kevin
took his turn, flies landed on his cheek. The heat haze from it gathered round
his head. His face was above it., nostrils widening when suddenly I remembered school
dinners.
School dinners were a rank affair. Piled masses of loose
meat and disappointed vegetables in a nondescript sauce. I had struggled
through a main and was now faced with a desert of raisin and sponge pudding
with custard. Sat beside me was Kevin who turned to me and shouted -
Watch this.
He reached for the salt and tipped it into my custard and
shot his hand into the air. The deputy headmaster turned and stalked towards us.
YES
Sir, he poured salt
into his custard.
The deputy scowled at me and pursed nicotine stained lips.
WHAT?
Kevin repeated it as I tried to protest and found my voice
had ducked out for a break.
THEN I SUGGEST THE
SILLY CHILD EAT HIS DESERT.
Kevin beamed as the deputy pulled a chair up and sat beside
me.
EAT.
I tried to speak and was silenced with a bellow that caught
the attention of every child in the dinner hall. I picked up my spoon and
pushed salted custard and raisins into my mouth until the bowl was finished. By
the time I had the last spoonful a crowd of kids were watching and laughing.
Kevin laughed the hardest.
I remembered this and my mouth flooded with the taste of the
custard. I reached out a hand, stared at the back of Kevin’s head, and with
custard on my mind I pushed.
I have occasional misgiving about what it must have been
like to have a nose mashed into that mess. I remember Kevin bolting upright
wiping furiously at his face fingers coming away smeared. I remember him
grabbing grass by the fistful and using it to clean himself. I remember the
retching sounds he made. I remember one piece stuck to his lower lip, hanging
there. Then I remember his eyes as he looked at me in fury. I remember, in the
realisation of what I had done, thinking that this might be a good time to cry.
Instead, I ran and the rest of the day was Huckleberry Finn time. I hid in the
blackberry bushes. I crouched behind walls. I kept on the move, ducking around
corners and skulking in shadows. I came home via the back door. I wasn’t in
trouble, there were no parents hammering at the door with their be-shitted
offspring screaming.
Days later Kevin found me and I got bruises and scabs. He
didn’t tell anyone why he was hitting me and I didn’t tell anyone what I had
done. To have done so would have increased his fury through embarrassment.
Time passed and I guess the smell faded. He’d shove me at
school. He’d punch me if I was in range of his bike. I know what salted custard
tastes like; he knows what dog shit tastes like. Hopefully there aren’t many
other people who know either flavour.
We didn’t play together the following summer, he sat on his
side of the street and I sat on mine and we likely both crucified more ants.
(enjoy it? why not tell a friend, claim your complimentary hug any time you're in Sydney)
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