Don't Call Me Ishmael (4 page)

Miss Tarango might have won her battle with Barry Bagsley, but I was still fighting mine. Well, when I say fighting, it was more like I was cringing down at the far end of the trench while Barry Bagsley bombarded me with abuse. And to make matters worse, Miss Tarango's revelation about Moby Dick had provided Barry Bagsley with a whole new range of ammunition. Now his name-calling had taken on a decidedly nautical flavour.

‘Hey, Blubber Boy!'

‘Yo, Whale Dick!'

‘How's it goin', Fish Paste?'

But there was something even more troubling about Barry Bagsley. He was still burning with humiliation and resentment over the chair challenge. Not that Miss Tarango ever tried to rub in her victory. In fact, she never mentioned the incident again. At least I don't think she did-not intentionally, anyway. There was that one day when Barry was becoming
very restless and was swinging and swivelling in his chair as if he was on a show ride.

‘Barry, if that seat is uncomfortable for you, you're quite welcome to come and sit on the teacher's chair. It's padded.'

That's all she said. Some of Barry's crew laughed and made comments, but Miss Tarango ignored them and continued to look at Barry with such genuine concern that no one was sure if she had meant to be funny or was deadly serious in her offer. It didn't really matter one way or the other. The thing was, it worked. Barry Bagsley immediately deflated like a punctured balloon while Miss Tarango smiled as sweetly as a rose till you really believed there couldn't possibly be any hidden thorns there that you might need to be wary of.

The problem was, however, with Miss Tarango out of reach of Barry Bagsley's anger and frustration, he had to find a closer, easier target. This is where I came into my own. Not content with chewing up my name and spitting it out in mangled, barely recognisable blobs, Barry Bagsley began to expand his repertoire of torment into other fields.

These included, but were by no means limited to:

• moving or hiding my bag, pencil case, calculator, books, hat or any other possession he could get his hands on, so that my day became one tedious, neverending treasure hunt
  
• updating my homework diary with obscene drawings and suggestions, often involving Miss Tarango and whales
  
• leaving half-eaten sandwiches, sausage rolls and rotting pieces of fruit in my locker/desk/bag until everything I opened seemed to reek like a compost bin
  
• taking every possible opportunity to bump, push, jostle, shove, collide with, elbow, prod, dig, jab and shove me, so that I spent most of my lunchtimes careening around the playground and the school corridors as if I were trapped in some gigantic pinball machine.
  

All right, I know what you're thinking. Why didn't I stand up for myself? Why didn't I do something about it? But what would you suggest?

Threaten Barry Bagsley?

Look, Barry, I'm warning you, if you don't stop picking on me I'll make you listen to my father telling his how-Ishmael-got-the-name-Ishmael story.

Flatter him, perhaps?

Barry, Barry, Barry, you shouldn't be wasting your time just making
my
life miserable-you're so much better than that. Why don't you start a singing career? That way you can make
millions
of people miserable.

Appeal to his better nature, maybe?

Look, Baz old buddy, you're obviously a very sensitive and caring person. I think you would be great with animals. Have you ever considered working with orang-utans? Who knows? One day the orang-utans might even make you foreman.

Bribery, you say?

Look, B.B., have I got a deal for you. If you just leave me alone
you can have all my worldly possessions–three dollars seventy-five in loose change and my twenty-centimetre-diameter ball of used Blu-Tack.

Of course, I guess I could always plead with him while at all times maintaining my dignity:

Please, Mr Bagsley sir, please stop picking on me. Please, please, pretty please. By the way, would you like me to wash these feet of yours after I've finished kissing them?

Don't worry, I gave each of them serious consideration. But who was I kidding? Talking to Barry Bagsley was like trying to reason with an avalanche. You could say whatever you liked but you'd still end up being pummelled into oblivion. So I did nothing and I tried to convince myself that if I took him on, somehow I would be lowering myself to his level. Of course, the real reason had more to do with fear and the likely prospect of Barry Bagsley terminating my life with painful and extreme prejudice.

There was that one time, though, I guess I did stand up to Barry Bagsley … well, you know, sort of.

It happened on the last day of first term. I was on my way home. I had just passed through the school gates and was about to turn down the long cement path that ran between Moorfield Creek and a row of six playing fields imaginatively referred to by everyone at St Daniel's as ‘The Fields'.

Normally I had no trouble avoiding Barry Bagsley after school. If he wasn't tied up with rugby or cricket training, he always bolted from school on the final bell like an escaping prisoner. As a matter of survival, I made it my business to know as much about Barry Bagsley's daily routine as he did. That way I knew when I could leave school straightaway, when it was wise to wait in the library (a place Barry Bagsley never voluntarily visited), what areas of the school grounds and playing fields to avoid and which route home I should take.

On this particular day, however, even with all available intelligence at my disposal, I had taken only one step on the path alongside the Fields when I glanced up and saw Barry Bagsley
and two of his mates fifty metres or so down the track. Luckily they hadn't seen me yet. All I had to do was turn back and take the long way home. And this is exactly what I would have done if I hadn't seen
him.

I recognised the uniform straightaway-the green and blue of my old school, Moorfield Primary. I'd missed him because he was so small–probably only in Year Three or Four–and the other larger boys had blocked him from my view. At first I thought it was some kind of game, because Barry and the other two, who I now recognised as Danny Wallace and Doug Savage, were tossing something between them while the little kid tried to catch it. Then I realised it was the boy's hat, and if it was a game, he wasn't enjoying it much because he was wiping tears from his eyes.

Every atom in my body told me that this was one of those times when the sensible thing to do was to make myself small. A few backward steps and I would be out of sight. Then I could forget all about Barry Bagsley and his mob. But that was just it. I could forget about the rest of them, but I couldn't get the kid out of my mind. I won't he. I'm no hero. I
wanted
to turn around and run. I
wanted
to make myself small. I
wanted
to make myself disappear. The problem was, I had the terrible feeling that if I did, I might not ever be able to find myself again.

I don't know why, or what I thought I could do, but I found myself walking towards the triangle of grey uniforms and the small green-blue figure caught between them. I felt like a wooden puppet jerking and jumping as some madman operated
the strings. It took every ounce of my concentration just to keep the movement of my arms and feet in order and stop them from tangling together and bringing me crashing to the ground.

Questions tumbled around inside my head like lotto balls. What am I doing here? Have I gone completely insane? Do I really think I can help? Why are my knees hitting together when I walk? Is it possible for a heart to pound its way through a chest? How did that prayer go that Grandma swore never failed? Is it too late to get the hell out of here?

‘What d'ya know, it's Fish-whale!'

Well, at least I knew the answer to my last question.

‘Hey, Le Spewer, wanna play some Frisbee?' Barry Bagsley laughed and sent a floppy blue hat with a large letter ‘M' embroidered on it sailing across to Danny Wallace.

The boy from Moorfield Primary made a half-hearted effort to catch it, but he had long since realised he was powerless. He looked at me with his red eyes and dirt-smeared cheeks as if I were just another tormentor.

Danny Wallace tossed the hat back to Barry Bagsley.

‘What d'ya say, Piss-whale, you up for a game?'

I shook my head.

‘What, you don't want to play with us? I'm shattered. Hey, boys, I don't think Manure here likes us. He doesn't want to play'

The other two laughed and pretended to be upset.

‘Why don't you just give him back his hat?' There it was. I'd said it. There was no turning back now. I had strapped myself
to the conveyer belt and was headed towards the mincing machine.

‘Give back his hat?' Barry said in mock horror. ‘But we were having so much fun, weren't we boys?' Danny and Doug smiled like gangsters.

‘He's not having fun. Just give him back his hat.' I could hear the grinding and gnashing of steel on flesh.

‘Well, Fish-whale, if you want him to have his hat back, why don't you just come and take it?'

Of course, what else would he say? It was as if we were caught in some ancient ritual where the lines and roles were always the same. What could I do? What could I say? Maybe if I were Wolverine from
X-Men
I could release the steel blades from my knuckles and slice Barry Bagsley into a pile of human onion rings. But wait, I don't have any super powers, do I? That's right, I forgot. I can't even bend steel in my bare hands or breathe out a tornado or turn people into ice just by staring at them. I can't even entangle them in a spider's web that squirts from my wrists. No, I guess I would just have to rely on the power of my enormous intellect to conjure up a devastating retort.

‘Come on, just give him back his hat,' I bleated. Brilliant! I could tell Barry and his sidekicks were wilting under the barrage of my inspired words.

‘What's the matter, Fish Dick? Here's your chance to be a hero. You're not scared, are ya?'

I said nothing. I did nothing. I was being ground and mashed into pulp.

‘I tell you what. If you give us
your
hat to play Frisbee with, I promise I'll give the kid
his
hat back.'

No he wouldn't. I knew it and he knew it. Probably even Danny, Doug and the kid knew it. But I was so deep inside the mincing machine now, I had no choice but to hold on and wait until I was spat out the other end. I pulled my hat from my bag and gave it to Barry Bagsley.

‘Great, two hats to play with–double the fun!'

I watched as my hat sailed across to Doug Savage, who plucked it casually from the air.

‘Come on, you said you'd give it back,' I moaned impressively.

‘Oh no, I must have been lying. I'm going to burn in hell! Save me! Save me!'

Barry Bagsley has a fine sense of sarcasm. If only he could use it for good rather than evil.

They continued to toss the hats around. The Moorfield boy didn't try to stop them. Neither did I. What was the point? What if I did manage to catch one? What would happen then? Finally both hats ended up back in Barry Bagsley's hands.

‘This is getting boring. You still want your hat back?' he said to the kid, who nodded without enthusiasm.

‘Well, here ya go, then.'

Barry Bagsley rocked back like a discus thrower and with a thrust of his arm sent the hat sailing high above the little Moorfield boy's head, over the embankment and down into the stagnant creek. ‘Oops,' he said, placing his hand over his
mouth. ‘It must have slipped. I'll try to be more careful this time. Your turn, Blubber Boy.'

We all watched my grey felt school hat rocket right across the creek and lodge high up in a tangle of lantana. Danny and Dougie applauded and cheered. Barry Bagsley doubled over with laughter. Where were those retractable steel blades when you needed them?

‘Don't worry, mate,' Barry Bagsley shouted back at the Moorfield kid as he swaggered off with Danny and Doug, ‘Fish–whale'll get ya hat. He loves the water.'

The Moorfield kid and I didn't speak as we edged our way down the bank to pluck his soggy hat from the green slime of the creek. And there were no words either as I struggled through the rasping lantana to retrieve mine. When we finally scrambled our way back up to the path, the awkward silence continued to hang around us.

‘Well, I guess I showed them, huh?'

The Moorfield kid kept his eyes to the ground.

‘Yep, I reckon they'll think twice before they try something like that again.'

The Moorfield kid looked down at the path, where dark splotches of water fell from his hat.

‘They should really consider themselves lucky, you know. Usually in situations like that, I lose my temper, turn green, expand to ten times my normal size and destroy everything in my path.'

The Moorfield kid lifted his head slightly and looked up at me.

‘Yeah, that's right. It's a bit of a bummer, actually. But recently I've taken one of those anger management courses because I was a bit worried I might really hurt someone. Besides, do you know how embarrassing it is to walk home with your school uniform and underpants in shreds?'

The Moorfield kid's lips moved a little.

‘Last time Mum went ballistic'

The Moorfield kid spoke.

‘Did
she
turn green?'

‘No … a lovely shade of crimson, as I recall.'

The Moorfield kid smiled.

‘Look … don't worry about those guys, all right? They're morons. They haven't got enough brains to even appreciate how stupid they are. I'm Ishmael, by the way. Not according to that lot, of course, but they have this problem with names–particularly mine. Apparently they use up all their short-term recall just remembering to breathe. What's your name, then?'

‘Marty.'

‘Well, Marty, unless you want to play another round of
Fetch the Hat from the Creek
, I suggest we both go home. Which way are you headed?'

We walked to the end of the Fields together sharing stories about Moorfield Primary before our paths divided. ‘O?, see ya, Marty … oh, and if you ever need any help getting your hat thrown in the creek again, I'm your man, all right?'

‘OK … thanks,' he said, and smiled shyly.

And that was the story of how I stood up to Barry Bagsley and his minions, rescued an innocent victim from the jaws of
death and stopped the destruction of civilisation as we now know it. You'd think I would have been pretty pleased with myself, but walking home that day all I could think of was Barry Bagsley's grinning face and all I could feel were my knuckles aching on my clenched fists. It seemed like razor-sharp steel blades were straining to break through.