Odyssey In A Teacup (2 page)

Ralph and I had each other’s back and our rare arguments were over minor things, although we did come to blows over a serious issue when we were five and a half. Ralph helped himself to some of my ice cream—and I lost it! I would give my cousin the ruffled, broderie anglaise shirt off my back, but
not my bloody ice cream.
I yelled at him, called him Ralph Shitface Brill! He cried, but then he hit back. ‘Well at least now
I’ve
got a middle name!
Na-nana-naa-nah!
’ I cried. Geez, who knew boys could be so bitchy?

Ralph’s mother, Norma, is my mother’s older sister. Unlike Sylvia, Auntie Norma is short and has wispy brown hair. But like Sylvia, she’s ‘well-upholstered’; although, Sylvia never considered herself fat: ‘The doctor told me I’m fleshy.’ She shared this fact with Myron and me when I was eight and I was learning about synonyms at school.

‘Fleshy is just a synonym for fat,’ I informed her. I didn’t know about political correctness back then, and I didn’t witness a whole lot of tact demonstrated at home. I got sent to my room.

Norma is married to Albie. Of German descent, Albie has pug-like features, is short, pasty-faced and bald (or maybe that should that be aesthetically disadvantaged, vertically challenged, Caucasoid, and follicularly impaired). He used to be fairly solid, but now he’s just plain ... fleshy. And like Porky Pig, Albie has a rampant st-t-t-tut-t-t-ter.

Where Norma’s a kind soul, Albie is
eine widerliche Scheiße
(an odious turd). He’s a brute, and for a long time Ralph was his whipping boy. Ralph’s mental acuity was his sword; albeit one that had a bit of a double edge. When Albie ripped into him with a stuttered string of invective, Ralph matched and mocked with a stuttered response. Not a great idea when you know the aggressor will retaliate with a ‘stuttered’ physical comeback: thwack-thwack-thwack.

Ralph is one of three boys. His two brothers also bullied him. Respectively six and three years older than Ralph, george and simon only deserve lower case initials befitting those with a Napoleon complex (Albie also suffers from small man syndrome, but he’s an
Arschloch
[arsehole] with a capital A). Still, Ralph staunchly and compassionately defended his brothers: ‘They’re only aggressive because they’ve got such über-small penises.’

And then there’s Louise. Three years younger than Ralph, she was a welcome ‘surprise’,
not
a mistake. Even so, she constantly whined (and still does). Ralph nicknamed his sister ‘Louwhiney’ from the time she started mewling.

As children, george and simon were stubby like their father and looked like pit bulls, and Louwhiney was a bit of a porker like Norma. But Ralph was the runt of the litter. He was the proverbial ugly duckling. Short and skinny, he had disproportionately huge teeth in a tiny, pale face, which was hidden behind thick, black-rimmed coke-bottle glasses (to correct a lazy eye). With his magnified eyes and his fine, mid-brown hair sticking out all over the place, he looked like a novelty Tweety Bird toilet brush. Ralph was also bookish, in contrast to his rugged and sporty brothers. That he could outfox them and his father with his smarts pissed them off no end. And bullies will stop short at nothing to get the upper hand.

When we were six, Albie’s brother, Kevin, gave Ralph a duckling as a pet. On the Sunday family gatherings at Ralph’s place, he’d put a little string around Daffy’s neck, and he and I would take the duck for a walk up and down the street. On Ralph’s seventh birthday, when he came home from school and went to feed Daffy, he couldn’t find him. Ralph wasn’t too worried because Daff always showed up sooner or later. And that he did. At dinnertime. Plucked. Roasted. À l’orange.
Happy Birthday.

Of course, this was Albie’s idea. Ralph was inconsolable.

‘L-l-let the b-b-b-boy have one of the d-d-drumsticks, Norma,’ Alfie barked. It was a supposedly magnanimous gesture.

Nice going, Dummkopf!

That night, Ralph went to bed emotionally exhausted and on an empty stomach.

He was a real trouper, and rarely complained about his lot. My family was equally dysfunctional, but where we were on easy street, Ralph’s parents had trouble making ends meet. We went on holidays to far-flung locations; Ralph’s family stayed close to home. Myron and I always got brand new clothes; Ralph got hand-me-downs—underpants included—from his Uncle Kevin’s son, Gavin (simon inherited george’s clothes but they were always too worn to pass on to Ralph). Cousin Gavin is only a year older than Ralph but about four sizes larger, so his clothes swam on Ralph. Today, it might look super cool to have the crack of your arse showing above your too loose, too low-slung jeans, but back then, it was kind of tragic. And we always heard the whispers—what a
nebbish
(poor thing)—amongst the relatives at our Sunday get-togethers.

The venue for these torturous gatherings rotated on a weekly basis: Ralph’s place, our place, Uncle Isaac’s. Isaac, Norma and Sylvia’s brother, is married to Miri. Polite and reserved, Isaac is five years older than Sylvia, and two years younger than Norma. He and Sylvia are similar looking, with their height, blond hair and blue eyes, but Isaac is fairly trim. Miri is typically Slavic in appearance, with a wide forehead, round face, and high cheekbones. She’s short and rotund, and has dark brown hair. Isaac and Miri have three daughters—Mary, Betty and Zelda. Mary is the same age as george, Betty is the same age as simon, and Zelda is the same age as Louwhiney. The two older girls resemble their father in looks and build, but Zelda is built like Shamu, only with an attractive face (like Miri’s).

On the Sunday gatherings at my home, my two best girlfriends, Maxine Mayer-Rose and Yvette Klein (Maxi and Vette), would join us. The kids hung out in the backyard and if it rained, we played board games, marbles or charades on the large front verandah, which was undercover. The adults usually huddled in the lounge, smoking, the women gossiping and the men telling jokes. Notwithstanding the different nationalities, they’re all Jewish and except for Albie, they all speak Yiddish. When the gossip was a little too scandalous or the jokes a little too risqué, they switched from English to Yiddish, which we kids didn’t understand. Because Yiddish and German sound similar, Albie could understand, and be understood.

One particular Sunday when it was our turn, the get-together was relocated to Ralph’s place because it was Albie’s birthday. I was allowed to bring Maxi and Vette. On this warm, breezy summer’s day, the adults sat on the back porch. The men set up folding chairs and a makeshift table—an old door, minus the handle, resting on a trestle. The women covered it with a couple of tatty cream-coloured, embroidered tablecloths, and brought out plates of food. Norma had made white bread sandwiches (Vegemite, cheese and tomato, mortadella and tomato, and just tomato). Sylvia had baked three Betty Crocker packet cakes (chocolate fudge, chiffon, and ginger), and Miri contributed potato chips, party pies, sausage rolls, cordial, bottles of soft drink, beer for the men, and champagne for toasting (where my family was comfortably off, Miri and Isaac Neuman were loaded).

The older cousins, who had long since opted out of these gatherings, were there as well. They sat with the adults. Maxi, Vette, Ralph and I were now fifteen—too young to sit with the olds; too old to sit with the small fries. So after loading up our paper plates with food, we positioned ourselves in the far back corner of the big, level yard on one of the few patches of grass that wasn’t dead. Louwhiney and Zelda shared a picnic blanket just next to the porch. Everyone was happily stuffing their faces. For once, there was quietude and harmony. No eruptions of laughter after a joke, because no one was telling any. No oohs and aahs from the women after a juicy bit of gossip because no one was spreading any. Albie suddenly broke the silence, startling everyone as he yelled across the yard to Ralph.

‘Boy, you can t-t-t-take the B-b-bantam for a s-s-spin.’

Seemed Herr Birthday Boy was in an unusually good mood. Ralph was thrilled to bits. He had longed to ride Albie’s precious Bantam motorbike since he’d had a taste of the experience about six months earlier. He disappeared into the shed in the other far corner of the yard, very carefully wheeled the bike out and proudly mounted her. He took off slowly. Hard to believe that he’d only ever ridden the bike once before, because in no time he looked like a pro. With a couple of tatts, a Wyatt Earp handlebar moustache, an Amish beard, a short (or long) ponytail and a leather jacket, Ralph could have passed for a Hells Angel rookie. Sitting astride this Bonsai Harley, though, he hardly looked the part with peach fuzzed cheeks, spiky hair, Gavin’s oversized T-shirt and loose, sunshine yellow seersucker short shorts. But he had the attitude. He also had a captive audience for a bit, although once he was cruising smoothly, no one paid him much attention.

As Ralph zoomed round and round the yard, Maxi, Vette and I skirted the fence so as not to get run over, and made our way to the porch to top up our plates. Apart from the puttering and vrooming sound of the bike, there was general silence as adults and children were once again focused on shovelling food into their mouths. But as I moved to the south end of the table that held the drinks and paper cups, I heard Uncle Isaac whisper,
‘Oi! Nisht gut!’
That’s Yiddish for ‘Oh! Not good!’

Squinting and staring into the yard, Isaac seemed to be speaking to no one in particular. I followed the direction of his gaze.
Oi! Nisht gut,
all right!

Seemed that as Ralph relaxed and the ride got easier, he got ... harder. And this wasn’t the worst of it. As he stopped riding and put his foot down on the ground to steady himself, his ‘packed lunch’ (nuts and wiener) dropped out the side of his Gavin-shorts ‘n’ Gavin-Y-fronts. Hell, this is not good in any language! But still straddling the bike, Ralph was smiling broadly.

Really? Ralph! How can you not feel that? Oh, Ralph!

‘He’s farkakt,’
whispered Uncle Isaac, meaning ‘he’s screwed.’ Even more so because Albie heard and also turned to look.

‘Gottfluch es, d-d-dummer T-T-T-Trottel!’
he said through gritted teeth. This means ‘God damn it, s-s-stupid n-n-n-nincompoop!’

‘SHIT A BRICK!’ screeched Maxi. This means ‘shit a brick!’

Oh, Maxi.
That got everyone’s attention. Everyone’s
.
They all turned to look.

‘Jesus,’
Vette whispered, and averted her eyes. She lapsed into silence like the rest of us. And the silence got more silent. The wind died, the leaves stopped rustling, and a cloud passed in front of the sun as if to stop it from seeing. Even nature was mortified.

Ralph looked down and saw that his ‘boys’ had joined us outside and were swaying in the not-breeze. His face turning tomato-red, he dropped the bike and bolted for the house with his tail between his legs, and both hands cupped around everything else between his legs. No one moved or spoke. And like everyone, I was immobilised, dumbstruck, horrified. Yet, at the same time—and I’m ashamed to say this—I wanted to laugh because one of The Beach Boys’ hits was playing in my head, oombopbopping about good vibrations and excitations.

I suspect george and simon heard the same song in their heads—God knows the void between their ears was big enough for them to hear it bouncing off the sides and echoing in quadraphonics—because they started to laugh. Bad call but also a good one, because it galvanised me into action—I was up like a shot, stopped dead and glared at them.

‘At least he’s got ‘em,’ I spat out.

A verbal kick in the balls that they didn’t have. Still, it must have hurt. Tweedledee and Tweedledum-arse, bully-boys who were essentially cowards, cowered.

I ran through the house and found Ralph in his bedroom. He was lying on his bed curled up in the foetal position under a threadbare blanket. I nearly knocked over a bucket full of vomit next to the bed. The smell was so strong, I felt like adding to it. But this wouldn’t have helped Ralph, who was sobbing, and I so wanted to comfort him. The level of humiliation he’d experienced cut deep. At first, I didn’t know what to say or do. Stroking his head and cooing didn’t make much of a difference. Then I instinctively put my hand on his shoulder and oh so gently said ... ‘Nice tackle.’

Ralph stopped crying and turned to look at me. A slow smile spread across his tear-stained face. The boy rallied! It was a defining moment, where I not only came to understand a man’s depth, but my counselling skills were born.

I had to draw on them at times in my relationship with Ralph. While life at home for me was not exactly a barrel of laughs, life with Albie, george and simon would have been a nightmare. Yet in spite of Ralph’s trials, he didn’t go off the rails. Not to my mind, anyway. Certainly, he was severely traumatised when Daffy ended up swimming in orange juice, and the beatings left their mark. And although he didn’t turn to crime, drugs or alcohol after the bike incident, Ralph’s weird behaviour got weirder. He gave this a name.

‘I have obsessive-compulsive personality disorder.’

‘How do you know?’

‘Because I do things obsessively and compulsively.’

Ralph went from not checking anything to obsessively and compulsively checking everything twice. Twice. He became fastidious. He also craved symmetry. He needed to do things in pairs and was fixated with even numbers. This seemed to gain a foothold when he asked me to come into the city with him to help him choose a pair of Jockey low-rise briefs.

‘They’re not a fashion item, they’re just underpants. Why do you need me?’

‘You’re better at gauging size, and I need them to fit
perfectly
.’ Perfectly understandable.

We stood in the Harris Scarfe underwear department on the Saturday morning, sizing up the briefs. I selected two possibilities; Ralph grabbed them both and headed for the counter. The salesman took Ralph’s hip measurement, agreed that these were the right size and watched patiently as he counted out and then recounted his pocket money (what he earned from his paper run less what he gave to Norma). He came up short both times and then looked at me.