And De Fun Don't Done Page 11

  They reached the rocks, which turned out to be just an expanse of crumbly sandstone running out into the water and off into the distance. There was a concrete pathway and above this a few walled-off houses with cactus plants and the odd stumpy tree in the front overlooking the ocean. Hank rested his bike against the wall; Les did the same and without taking his clothes off jumped straight in the ocean to flounder around in the water while Hank floundered against the wall trying to get his breath back. Les flopped around, checking out a number of names carved in the sandstone. It was sort of nice, but it could have been a beach in Saudi Arabia it was that hot and the water so salty and tepid. Les would have killed for a cold, freshwater shower. A number of punters strolled past, taking in the sea breeze. There were definitely no fit- looking bikini girls like Norton was used to back at Bondi, and the politest thing Les could say about the men was that none of them looked like they were starving. In fact, surmised Norton, if a famine ever hit Florida they’d probably eat each other. After a while Hank looked like he was ready to leave, which meant Les had to go also. They mounted up, with Hank once more leading the platoon and Les bringing up the rear. They’d got about a mile or so with Hank wheezing and Les playing ‘splashies’ along the water’s edge, when Les turned around to see that Hank had got off his bike and was pushing it across the dry sand. Hello, thought Les. John Wayne’s horse has gone lame and he’s going to have to shoot it. He pedalled back and stopped alongside Hank.

  ‘What’s up?’

  ‘I want to go to the store.’

  Another trail led up from the beach, they followed that to the street then pedalled along till they got to the main road and a small shopping centre, stopping outside a mini-supermarket. Inside, the air-conditioning felt like the Steppes and there looked like millions of different brands of cold drinks. Les would have been content to keep going and have a drink when they finished, but he ended up with a bottle of something called Lime Gator- ade. When he got outside Hank had a can of Coke in one hand and a cigarette in the other. It was something Les had never seen or experienced before — getting some exercise and having to stop in the middle while someone had a cigarette. He drank his Gatorade and stepped back to escape the fumes.

  ‘That was a good ride,’ said Hank, very matter-of- factly. ‘I always knew I still had it.’

  ‘Yeah, you ride like the wind,’ said Les. ‘Only because your bike’s a lot better than mine.’

  Hank sucked in a lungful of smoke along with a supercilious smile. ‘You noticed, huh?’

  ‘How could I not notice? It was almost poetry in motion.’

  They eventually finished their drinks and headed back to the beach.

  They pedalled along, Les still ripping it up near the water’s edge and Hank plugging along further up towards the dry sand. The Coke and a cigarette seemed to have sparked him up a bit somehow; he was going a bit faster and Norton got this feeling Hank was planning something. Les was a few yards in front, after splashing through some more water, and was about to take off again when suddenly Hank tore past him in top gear like a man possessed. About fifty yards ahead was a pool of water a few feet wide that some kids must have dug. There were a couple of sandcastles on either side of the pool and a wall of sand around the edge a few inches high. Hank went for it. Hey, go killer, thought Les. Hank burst through the first wall okay and tore through the shallow water: Norton was impressed. With water spraying out on either side Hank got up on the pedals to crash through the opposite wall. He was going like a rocket too and looking good. But as he hit the other tiny wall of sand the front forks snapped, the handlebars dropped and Hank sailed over the front. He did a quick somersault and finally landed on his back in a tangle of arms and legs. He was lucky he didn’t break his neck. The bike fell back into the pool, the front wheel all buckled up and the back wheel still spinning like a wobbly roulette wheel. Norton screeched to a halt alongside Hank. Unlike the American’s, Norton’s face was jubilant.

  ‘Mate,’ said Les excitedly, ‘you did it. A full-frontal- wombat-with-tuck. That’s got to be one of the ballsiest things I’ve ever seen. You’re no yuppie, Hank. You’re a fuckin’ thrillseeker. What made you decide to do it? You made mine look pretty tame too, I have to admit.’

  ‘I didn’t try anything,’ hissed Hank. ‘The fucking front forks broke.’

  ‘What? Bullshit! That’s a Clive Masters Villawood.’ Norton looked astounded. ‘I don’t believe it.’

  No doubt about it, though, Hank’s bike had collapsed just like the ones Les read about back home. Hank’s $350 Italian Sports Racer was a lemon. Another Australian had shit on him. Hank was on his hands and knees, covered in wet sand, still trying to figure which way was up. Les laid his bike down and went to give him a hand up. As he did, Les couldn’t believe his eyes. The same fifty dollar bill was in Hank’s back pocket and had edged out. Les looked at it again, looked at the sky for temporary forgiveness then removed it the same as he did before and put it in his pocket as Hank rocked unsteadily on his feet.

  ‘So what do you want to do now, Hank?’ asked Norton. ‘My bike’s still going. Can I give you a lift?’ For some weird reason Les started singing an old Rolf Harris song. ‘Did you think I would leave you lying, when there’s room on my bike for two…’

  Hank’s eyes spun round, his whole body seemed to quiver. ‘I don’t need a goddamn lift!’

  Hank picked up what was left of his bike and began trudging back to the car. Les pedalled alongside him for as long as he could, offering his condolences, before finally heading back to the pick-up where he could have a good laugh in peace.

  Hank eventually arrived, scowled at Les, then threw what was left of his bike in the back and climbed in the front.

  ‘Where to now?’ asked Les.

  ‘Back to that goddamn bike shop.’

  ‘I should jolly well think so too.’

  When they got there the goddamn bike shop was closed. Till Tuesday. Norton thought Hank was going to go completely under this time, he was ranting and raving that much. Back in the car his face looked like an eggplant.

  ‘Can you believe that?’ he fumed, when he finally stopped shaking enough to light a cigarette.

  ‘No,’ answered Les. ‘It’s got me stuffed. I thought in America shops opened around the clock and it was all service.’ Les watched Hank dragging on his smoke. ‘Still, when it’s all boiled down, it does serve you right, mate.’

  ‘What do you mean, serves me right, you jerk? The fucking front forks on that sonofabitch snapped!’

  ‘Fair enough. But all’s I’m saying is, you shouldn’t have bought some fancy wog brand of bike.’ Les nodded to the back of the pick-up. ‘Look at mine. Roadmaster Star. Delaware Bike Company USA. I wouldn’t have bought it if it had of been some wog thing. While I’m here I’ll be buying American, mate. It pays dividends.’

  Hank sucked more smoke into his lungs and let it burst out again. It hadn’t been a very good day, either for the pocket or the ego. In fact, if they’d have taken every rotten day Hank had ever had and stacked them one on top of the other, it’s doubtful they would have made a day as rotten as this one.

  ‘So where to now, mate?’ asked Les.

  Hank sucked in some more smoke and hit the ignition. ‘Home.’

  ‘You’re the boss.’

  Norton didn’t say a great deal on the way home. There wasn’t much he could say. Though he did mention that if Hank wanted to go out for a drink somewhere that night Les would be only too happy to shout. Hank muttered something along the lines of he’d think about it. It had been a great day for Les. Watching Hank buy that shonky bike then go on his arse was almost as good as watching him get covered in shit. He was the original Sad Sack, no doubt about it, and no wonder his girl left him and he had no mates. But Les also had that condo, or whatever they called it, to check out. He doubted if Hank would want to go over there this afternoon, the mood he was in, so he’d have to leave that till first thing tomorrow. But Les would be there, even if he
had to go by pushbike or walk.

  By the time they got back to Swamp Manor Hank looked rooted, both mentally and physically. He had a sand rash across his chin, on his knees, down one shoulder and around his elbow. Les could see his arse and back was aching and though he tried to hide it Hank was limping when they got out of the car. He muttered something about Les calling over to his house at nine. Norton watched Hank limp off home with what was left of his bike under his arm and tried not to laugh. It was impossible. Norton guessed that if they did go out that night it wouldn’t be for very long.

  Norton got his bike from the back of the pick-up, found a hose near the front verandah and washed all the sand and salt water off it, giving himself a good hosing while he was at it. The sun was still high in the sky and, unlike Hank, Les was still raring to go. There was nothing to do hanging around Swamp Manor in the heat. Why not belt down to that supermarket, get some more exercise and a few goodies while I’m at it?

  Mrs Laurel had left the map on his bed in a large envelope with what looked like four travel books. Les spread the road map of Siestasota out on his bed. The place didn’t look all that big, just spread out, and the main roads seemed to be in some kind of grids. The bigger roads were marked with numbers: 301, 75, 41, 780. Where they’d gone diving and cycling was on a long narrow spit, the Gulf of Mexico was on one side and the mainland side was called Siestasota Bay. Les could pick out the bridge they went over: Hockney Point Drive. Main Street was down there and back to Tampa was that way. Uh huh, thought Les. Siestasota shouldn’t be hard to get around. Mrs Laurel marked where the house was and how to get to the supermarket. It only looked about two blocks away. Les got some more money, put on a sweatband, threw the map in his backpack and, wearing the same damp clothes, pedalled off towards the supermarket.

  He went past the house where he bought the bike in the first place, got onto another road, then onto some monstrous one that led in the direction of the supermarket. It was still dead flat with vacant lots, an orchard here and there, a few stores, a couple of Texaco garages and not much else except housing estates or homes with ‘old glory’ or the odd Confederate flag flopping on a pole outside in the non-existent breeze. There was no one around, no buses, no other bikes, just huge cars and trucks all coming at him on the wrong side of the road. The footpath was deserted and almost as big as a road. Les stuck to it but the traffic roaring past still put the wind up him and he wasn’t looking forward to the day he’d eventually have to hire a car and get in amongst it. After a while Les realised why Mrs Laurel had given him that odd look when he said he didn’t need a car to get to the supermarket because he had a bike. He’d been pedalling like mad for over twenty minutes and it was still nowhere in sight. A block, or one of those grids on the map, was about five miles long. But it was all easy going, Les enjoyed the exercise and you didn’t have to worry about pedestrians. Finally the supermarket, called Kash ’n’ Karry, loomed up on Norton’s left; all he had to worry about now was crossing the road. Every road at the intersection looked about twenty lanes wide, jammed with cars going everywhere they shouldn’t, and there was no way Les could figure the lights out. He pressed the ‘Walk’ button, but you’d have a beard down to your knees waiting for it to change. Evidently pedestrians in Florida were regarded as some sort of feral pest. Rather than take his life in his hands, or grow old waiting for the lights, Les got off his bike, chanced a break in the traffic, then holding it with one hand sprinted like Gunsynd across to the supermarket.

  It might have been just another suburban shopping centre by Florida standards, but compared to anything in Australia it was huge. There were video stores, clothing shops, drugstores, other shops and an endless array of restaurants and fast food shops all set round a parking lot that would have held the Solomon Islands. Huge, overweight Americans, wearing shorts, T-shirts and Elmer Fudd caps were either getting in or getting out of huge, overweight cars or walking round the shaded part of the shopping centre stuffing themselves with hot-dogs and ice creams or with their faces jammed in what looked like plastic buckets full of soft drink and ice. There was a bike rack outside the supermarket with three or four bikes chained to it. Not having a chain and wondering if there might be someone in Siestasota who needed his old pushbike more than he did, Les took it inside and leant it against one wall next to a drink vending machine.

  Inside, the supermarket was equally massive and air- conditioned enough to make snow. The staff, wearing candy-striped shirts, tiny red bowties and red Elmer Fudd caps, were all smiles and looked ridiculous. A can of soft drink cost thirty-five cents in the machine; Les found a dime and a quarter, got a can of Grape Crush and joined the other shoppers moving along aisles long enough and wide enough to hold the South Australian Grand Prix. The aisles were stacked floor-to-ceiling with an unending variety of food and just about anything you wanted. Now what do I need? mused Les. Just some cereal, milk, orange juice, maybe some sliced ham and something to make a salad. Norton found the cereal section and stood there blinking like Scotty had just beamed him down to the wrong planet. Forget about your simple old soggies like Corn Flakes and Rice Bubbles. Sure, they were all there. But what about something with bran in it? Certainly. What would you like?

  Double Pecan Bran, Grape Bran, Wheat Bran, All Bran, Some Bran, Oat Bran, 30% Bran, 50% Bran, Raisin Bran, Nut Bran, Multi Bran, Raisin Crisp Bran, Raisin Nut Bran. Cinnamon Nut Bran, Blueberry Bran, Crunchy or Non-crunchy Bran, Almond Bran, Banana Bran, Triple Bran, Organic Bran. Bran Bran, the baker man, stole a pig and away he ran.

  Milk? Well of course you’re going to need milk. Slim Fast, Vitamite Imitation Low Fat, Lactoid, Liquid Coffee Mate, Mocha Cooler, Irish Cream, Hazelnut, Amaretto, Half ’n’ Half, Light ’n’ Lively, Vitamin D, Multi Vitamin, 1% Low Fat, 2% Low Fat, A-Plus, Non-Fat, Acidophilus.

  Something to put on your lettuce, tomato and cucumber? No worries, mate. Peppercorn Ranch, Honey Dijon, Honey Sesame, Caesar, South-Western, Catalina, Blue Cheese, Chunky Blue Cheese, Cucumber and Onion, Mexican Pepper, Louisiana Cajun, Russian, Country French, Honey Mustard, Paul Newman — how did he get here? thought Les — plus others, and all in Lite, Low-Cal, Oil Free and Cholesterol Free. And if you wanted something to slop on your chops or sausages there were at least three million kinds of sauces, from Texas Best to Tennessee Sunshine, Hickory Smoke to Bayou Shrimp.

  Orange juice? Why drink plain, boring old orange juice? Why not Orange Cranberry, Orange Strawberry, Orange Banana, Orange Banana Blueberry? Apple Cranberry, Grape Apple, Apple Chantilly, Guava Cranberry, Raspberry Cranberry, Mountain Cherry. White Grape, Dark Grape, Pink Grapefruit, White Grapefruit, Prune Juice, Clamato. You don’t want fruit juice? Try some cordial. Stompin’ Banana Boy, Fruity Bubble-gum, Bop- pin’ Betty, Forest Fruit Punch, Hawaiian Fruit Punch, Juicy Blue. And as for that Lime Gatorade Les got down the beach, here it was in every flavour on the planet — plus it came in Low Cholesterol, Low Fat, Low Sodium, Low Salt, how low can you go? Power Burst and Gatorade Lite. Norton was going to buy some bread and butter, but when he saw two signs in front of the half-mile long butter cabinet saying, ‘Whipping Butter’ and ‘I Can’t Believe It’s Not Butter’, he went into a tailspin. Beam me out of here, Scotty, for Christ’s sake.

  Norton finished up with a packet of Corn Flakes, a carton of plain milk, orange juice and a packet of Hickory Smoked, US Prime Georgia Ham Steaks. Something called Buffalo Wings caught his eye so he thought he’d indulge in a carton of those from the hot food bar and another can of Grape Crush, which Norton got into while he sat outside in the heat and checked out the punters. The Buffalo Wings turned out to be chicken wings in some kind of hot orange sauce that felt like liquid sugar soap. He ate most of them, turfed the rest, then pedalled back to Swamp Manor.

  The orange juice was pretty good and Les was glad he bought two containers because in the heat half the first one went down in one go. The ham was quite tasty too. Les made a sandwich thick enough to chock a Neptune bomber, washed it down with some of Mrs Laurel’s
delicious coffee, then feeling more than contented retired to his sumptuous quarters.

  After a lengthy shower Les found he was a little more tired than he expected, which he put down to the sun and heat on top of two fairly long bike rides. Plus one monstrous ham sandwich sitting in his stomach. While he was getting cleaned up Les had a bit of a think; but there wasn’t all that much to think about. With any sort of luck he’d be out of Swamp Manor in the morning and the earlier the better. So if he didn’t have a late night it wouldn’t worry him all that much. Just as long as they went out somewhere for a while and had a few drinks. Les figured Hank wouldn’t be feeling all that chipper either, though he wouldn’t admit it to Les. But they’d go out — especially with Les paying. Wonder where we’ll go this time, thought Les, as he ironed a pair of jeans. Bet we don’t go to Club BandBox. When he finished his jeans, Les ironed the dampness and wrinkles out of the fifty dollar bill he snookered off Hank and slipped it on top of his wedge. S’pose I got to give the poor bludger something for letting me stay here, he chuckled quietly. Before long Les was looking and smelling okay in his jeans and a white, Emu Bitter T-shirt. He left the lamp on in his room but stopped for a moment at the front door of the house. There was a light on in the loungeroom and light coming from underneath a long wooden sliding door in the far wall, plus the sound of a TV. Les figured that would be Mrs Laurel’s bedroom, which was why he didn’t see all that much of her. She’d have it air-conditioned and probably stay in there as much as possible to keep away from Boofhead. Les mightn’t miss Swamp Manor and Hank, but he’d miss Mrs Laurel. She was a real sweetie and had a ton of class. When I get a car I might call out and see her, bring her a little present. Next thing Les was knocking on Hank’s door. He heard a voice grunt something and let himself inside.

  Hank was seated on the lounge, wearing the usual chatty jeans, an unironed yellow shirt and sneakers, smoking what was probably his two hundredth cigarette while he watched the last minutes of some old Steve Martin video on his stuffed-up TV. He didn’t acknowledge Norton’s presence so Les carved a space through the cigarette smoke, sat on the lounge opposite and watched the video finish. An incident in another Steve Martin film Les had seen, not the one Hank was watching, made Les chuckle. It was about a fireman with a big nose or something.