Bite The Wax Tadpole (29 page)

“So, how are you finding life at the top?”

“Okay. Sort of. New producer’s a bit of a bastard but. Still, early days...”

Rob leaned on his stick and gave him a professorial look. “There’s a bit of sage advice I always lived by. Think about it when the going gets tough. “A correre e cagare ci si immerda i garret”. Stick to that and you won’t go far wrong.”

With what he hoped was an enigmatic smile he limped towards the venue entrance.

A black clad waiter was standing smartly to attention by the door. As Rob passed he thrust a tray of drinks towards him.

“Cheers”, said Rob as he grabbed a glass of bubbly. He took a sip and was about to move on when he realised that the waiter was familiar and turned back.

“Gerry! What the hell are you doing here?” From what he had heard, Gerry was now writing for “Rickety Street”, “Home and Away” and “Neighbours”. Unless they’d started paying in Zimbabwean dollars there was no need for him to be moonlighting.

“Got an acting job”, whispered Gerry. “Pinter. “The Dumb Waiter””.

There was quite a long pause before Rob said: “Right, right. But... the dumb waiter is... in the play... well, it’s a dumb waiter, isn’t it? You know, one of those little lift things that ...”

He moved his glass up and down by way of illustration.

“I know that but this is the best I could do. You know, standing around, not saying much.”

“Brilliant. Right, I’ll...” He raised his glass and turned towards the door.

“Good luck with the award, eh?”

Inside, the guests were still milling around, tentatively hovering near their allotted tables. Rob consulted the seating plan. Who the hell were these people he’d been put with? He didn’t know any of them. There was a tap on his shoulder.

“G’day, Rob”, said Neil, holding out his hand.

Rob was shocked at how well Neil looked for someone who’d been sectioned when last heard of. There was a new light in his eyes and his seemingly permanent stoop seemed to have gone making him about a foot taller. And his manner, Thank god, didn’t seem to be that of someone crying out for revenge.

“Neil, matey. How’re things? You’re looking terrific.” They shook hands like a pair of steam driven pistons.

“Never better, mate, never better. Just wanted to Thank you for giving me the old heave-ho from “Rickety Street. Just what I needed, a few months in the nut house. Neurolinguistic programming and cognitive behaviour therapy. Fantastic. Should have done it years ago.”

“That’s brilliant. So you’re back writing now?”

“Bollocks to that, I’ve gone back to uni. Psychology over at Macquarie. Now then, fill me in on what exactly happened with the live ep.”

The evening progressed through entrees, several bottles of wine, the first of the awards and the usual satirical cabaret in which producers, funding agencies and the government’s policies on pretty much anything were mercilessly lampooned. The strangers at his table won an award for Best Corporate Video Script and one of the women shrieked as though she’d bitten by a cobra. The statuette, if that was the correct term, which they passed excitedly between themselves was, Rob supposed, meant to represent a pen nib but looked more like a cracked and deformed toe-nail. Perhaps the makers had got tonight’s event mixed up with the New South Wales Chiropody Awards.

The main course came along with more wine. Relaxation began to shade into tipsiness. He was trying to pull apart a bread roll seemingly made with two parts concrete to one part flour when Ken Field passed by and greeted him like a long lost limb. Ken had been the Network Script Executive when Rob had edited “Thompson’s Ferry” .

“Great days, mate, great days. Show was at its best when you were on board”. Rob agreed, naturally, but wondered if Ken still remembered sacking him. Rob had turned up for a meeting with toothache and Ken had taken a dislike to his morose attitude, apparently. He’d told the Script Producer he didn’t want people on board who weren’t team players and the next thing Rob knew he was clearing his desk. In the script game there was no appeal, no
second chance, no video referee. “Anyway”, said Ken with a matey slap on the shoulder, “ can’t stop, got to get to the gents. Bit of trouble with the old prostate.”

Rob took a glug of wine. “There is a god, then.”

“What was that?”

“That’s no good, then.”

“Nah. Anyways, good luck. Catch you later.”

More awards were awarded, more institutions were satirised in song and Rob’s tipsiness tipped over into the sort of inebriation he’d promised himself to avoid. More people came and slapped Rob on the back and asked him what he was up to and more drinks were drunk as more time passed and the moment for Rob’s category ticked ever closer. Not that he was that worried. Not this time. If he didn’t win it he didn’t win it. As simple and simplistic as that. “Prick!” was due out in paperback, “Another Prick!” was half written, he’d had some development money for “Bleak City” and the twins were healthy.

The award for Rob’s category was to be presented by the Managing Director of a firm of solicitors specialising in media contracts and intellectual property so no doubt, thought Rob, the Guild would shortly be getting an itemised bill: eating canapés – 12 x $2.50; quaffing champagne – 3 x $5.30; breaking wind during cabaret – no charge. Rob’s attempts at indifference were self-deluding and his innards starting churning like a mill-race as the MC read out the nominations.

And then the MD was on his hind legs fumbling with the tackily gold envelope. Breaking the seal: $2.50; removing contents: $5.60; perusing contents: $15; reading out said contents: $25.

“And the award for the best script in the children’s C category goes to Rob Jones for “Old MacDonald Had a Pharmacy” Episode 26: “The Parrots Ate ‘Em All”.

Applause. Some cheers. Bloody hell, he’d done it. Not that it mattered a jot, of course. No, no, no, not at all. Still, he’d bloody well won. He got to his feet and Thanked the lord that he had his injury as an excuse for his unsteadiness. Leaning on the ebony cane, he made his slow and humble way to the stage. Crap, he should have written a speech.

The MD smiled broadly and held out the golden toenail. Handing over prize: $50. A photographer snapped them shaking hands before the MD retreated leaving Rob alone to face the faces facing him. They reminded him of sea-anemones bobbing gently on a reef. It was an analogy he could possibly use some time in the future but right now he needed a speech.

“Well, well, there’s a funny thing...”

A good start, said with all due humility and deference but, on its own, a little on the brief side. He held up the award as he’d seen them do at the Oscars, showing if off but, at the same time, clenching it as firmly as a life-belt. “Been a long time coming, this so Thanks to all the good people at “Old MacDonald’s”. Where are they?” He scanned the room shading his eyes like a shipwrecked sailor looking for a desert island. “ Ah, yes, up the back there.” He waved to them, using up another few seconds of his allotted two minutes.

“You know, Lincoln wrote the Gettysburg Address on the train on his way there. To Gettysburg, that is. I was going to do the same, well, not go to Gettysburg, of course, but, anyway, there was a bloke sitting next to me on the train watching Fawlty Towers on his laptop and laughing like a drain so... Odd, really, I should get a gong for Old MacDonald. I’ve only written one episode. I wrote 189 episodes of Rickety Street and lost count of all the other stuff I’ve done. Funny business, writing for television. Seriously funny. Not what I meant to do with my life at all. Is it what you all meant to do with your life? Seriously. It’s a bit like starting out to be a doctor and ending up with a first-aid certificate. Hemingway, I was going to be; Steinbeck; Dylan Thomas. In my craft or sullen art. That’s all bollocks, by the way. Dylan Thomas, the bohemian inebriate - that’s not easy to say after what I’ve drunk – working away in the still night, by the raging moon. No, he kept office hours, worked nine to five then went to the pub in the evening. Like a civil servant or... or a bank manager. Had a reputation at the BBC for...” He looked around conspiratorially and then whispered: “... being reliable. Shocking, eh? Which goes to show.... what? Oh, yes, that nothing, nothing in the writing game is what it seems. Yes, anyway, long way from Cwmdonkin Drive to “Rickety Street.” Long way. Bit off subject here, I think. Hmm...”

He paused, desperately looking for a link. Which was hard as he had little idea of what he was talking about. Just the usual bull, in fact. “Ah, yes, “The Wasteland”. You know “The Wasteland”? TS Eliot, brilliant. April is the cruellest month... fear in a handful of dust... Margate Sands something or other. Know what it was called originally? Can’t see any hands up. No? “He Do the Policemen in Different Voices.” Isn’t that just great? And “War and Peace” was “All’s Well That Ends Well.” “Moby Dick”? “Moby Dick” was “Ahab and the Giant Goldfish.” Perhaps I made that last one up. Point is, point is... things change. Which is fair enough. Writing’s a journey without maps. Did Graham Greene say that? Rather think he did. But it doesn’t matter a jot or even a tittle if you don’t have a map, not if you’re the one doing the navigating, if you’re the explorer, the trail blazer, the... whatever. Sure, you might take a few wrong turnings, get lost, find yourself in Woop Woop when you want to be in Woy Woy but you get there in the end. If you’ve any talent, you get there in the end.”

As he swayed and grinned stupidly, he was aware of a certain amount of embarrassed agitation in the audience. Throats being cleared. Glasses hiding faces. Eyes staring into the remains of dinner. There were others, of course, probably the more seriously pissed, who were grinning like sand dredgers.

“Time’s up”, the MC whispered out of the corner of his mouth as he feigned clearing his throat.

Rob looked behind him to where a clock counted down on a giant plasma screen with “Times’ Up” flashing in urgent red next to it in .

“You know, I’m going to ignore that. Bloody apostrophe’s been irritating me all night. Where was I? Woop Woop? Woy Woy? Oh, yes, journeys, maps. You don’t have to do much exploring with soap opera scripts. You get given a map, a set of directions and a sat nav. Turn left in 600 metres, turn right at the next exit, take the road to blandness. And if you do manage to write something you’re proud of, something of your own? It gets edited. It gets over-edited. The producer fiddles with it. The director plays about with it. The actors don’t get what you’re trying to say. The episode’s too long in studio so it gets cut. It’s too short so someone sticks in a few incongruous lines. It’s never what you hoped it would be. Bit like life, really. Bit like, a few years ago Coca Cola did this advertising thing, you remember, things go better with Coke. Seems that when they got it translated into Chinese it came out as “bite the wax tadpole.” Sort of captures life for me, really. Bite the Wax Tadpole.”

The faces in the audience were extremely fuzzy now but he could still recognise the bewilderment written on most of them. Which was hardly surprising as he no longer had any idea himself what he was talking about. Oh god... the underdone lamb and the over- done alcohol in his stomach had begun to react together and he felt nauseous.

“Right, well, Thanks very much.” He half-heartedly hefted the award and slunk away, slump-shouldered, stage left. It would have been far, far better if he’d ended the speech after “well, well.” Now the whole writing industry would think him a complete ingrate, biting the hand that fed, belittling their craft, showing his contempt for their work which, if nothing else, demanded commitment, stamina and courage. He’d never work again in the industry he never wanted to work in again.

Something acidic, volcanic, was travelling upwards from gut to throat and his legs wanted to move in opposite directions. He eased himself onto a chair at the side of the stage, half-hidden behind the sound equipment and half-wrapped in the heavy, dark curtains. Maybe no-one would see him here and he could die in peace.

“Hello, Rob. Congratulations. Great speech. I think. Really... you know...”

Someone was standing in front of him, leaning forward, head to one side as though choosing between tins of cat food on a supermarket shelf.

“Hope! Thought you were still in Rwanda.”

“I am. Well, not tonight, obviously. Just back for a few days.”

She sat down beside him on another chair half-wrapped in the curtains. “You won then.”

“It would seem so, yeah. So, how’s working for Medecins Sans Frontieres? ”

“Great, learning a lot. Keeping a diary.”

“Fantastic. Think I might come out and join you after that speech.”

“No, no, it was good. I know exactly what you meant.”

“Really? I thought Wittgenstein might have struggled a bit.”

The MC launched into another song, this one comparing the government’s attitude to the arts to Torquemada’s attitude towards heretics. Gerry passed by, silently proffering a bottle of wine. Rob shook his head. Water was what he needed. Sluice the alcohol through, send it down the porcelain passage to the harbour. And a taxi. Yes, he didn’t fancy the train. Be full of drunks.

“... the night, you know, when things went a bit...”

“Sorry, what did you say?”

Hope sighed. “You remember the live episode? Well, of course you do. I was trying to tell you something before we went down to the studio?”

“I have a vague recollection.”

“What I was going to say, to ask, was if you remembered Judy Bunn.”

“Used to be on Home and Away?”

“No, no, she used to teach English as a Second Language at Hornsby TAFE. Same time as you.”

He forced the jammed cogs in his brain to turn. It hurt. Judy Bunn... Judy Bunn... oh, god, yes, Judy Bunn.

“Blonde, bit of a hippy, came from Yorkshire. Which is why you had all these boat people running around saying “ee by gum, trouble ‘at mill.” What about her?”

“So you did know her?”

“Yes.”

“Very well?”

“Not really. Although there was this staff Christmas party and... oh, god!”

Hope smiled, lips slightly curled, eyes a little sad, demeanour a touch expectant, pausing in the way that characters in soap operas pause before they deliver the end of episode line.