Mr Smith: Hold the Phone
With care born of years of painful experience I raised the eyelid covering my left eye, at the same time making a concerted effort to restrain the eyeball located therein from being propelled from its socket by the throbbing headache lurking behind it.
After several minutes of groping beside my bed I located a screwdriver and used same to lever my tongue from the roof of my mouth. Raising myself to a sitting position, I attempted to locate the source of the most annoying ringing noise which was emanating from something within my immediate vicinity. I realised I was sitting on the telephone and, with some difficulty, engaged in a course of action vaguely similar to answering the Electronic Speaking Trumpet.
“What?”
“G’day Smith, Bill here. I’ve decided to give work a miss today. Fancy a beer?”
“Time?”
“About 8.45 on a sunny Sunday morning. Well, what do you reckon?”
“Hold on while I wake up.”
I stumbled to the bathroom deeply troubled by a seeming lack of depth perception. Peering at the all too ugly apparition in the mirror revealed that this phenomenon was due to being deficient in the open eye department to the tune of one. Immersing the Smith dial in a basin of cold water caused the other eye to open and I once again observed my Humble Habitat in its usual abhorrent aspect. I returned to the Bell-o-Phone.
“What’s on, mate?”
“Struth Smith, have you got it together yet? I asked if you’d fancy a beer. I’m not working on the house today and I’ll be free from about lunchtime. What do you reckon?”
My poor aching bonce was starting to clear a little. The disembodied voice at the other end of the Annoy-o-Phone was none other than William “Battery Leads” Norton, the only person I know who can force Norton Commandos to run more than 14 minutes and 27 seconds without exploding and whose company is Very High Indeed on the list of Things Which Make Life Bearable For Smiths.
“You bet! As it so happens, I vaguely recall winning a couple of draws of the tucker raffle at the Sydney Junction yesterday. Hang about while I check the fridge.”
l left Mr Norton screaming into a piece of unresponsive plastic several kilometres away whilst I inspected the Smith larder. Even I was surprised by the contents of the Elmer Fudd Hotel. There was a pair of frozen chooks, a large tray of meat, a box of assorted vegetables, the best part of a case of Tooheys’ Top Fermented Tipple and a dozen bottles of bitter lemon.
Now, I operate under Smith’s First Law of The Acquisition Of Alcohol which states that the quantity of alcohol purchased at the closing of the bar is in direct proportion to the quantity of alcohol consumed during the course of the evening. Basically, this means that the more inebriated one becomes, the more booze one tends to purchase. Since I am an avid consumer of the juniper extract, the presence of the Bitter Lemon could mean only one very dangerous thing — there was a bottle, perhaps two, of Gordon’s Gin somewhere upon the premises. I headed for the grog cupboard. Therein was the Gin. Three bottles. I returned to the Bells and Voices Box.
“Bill, stop yelling and listen. There’s plenty of tucker and some grog here. Let’s indulge in a small cook-up. There’s a topside roast and some vegies that’ll make a beaut chilli stew. There’s some steaks, snags and chops and I can knock up some fried rice, some pasta, a bit of salad and some steamed vegies to go with that. We can do the right thing and over-indulge to buggery. After all, this is a consumer society. Let’s consume!”
“Struth! I’ll be there about noon and I’ll bring some beer. It’s bloody difficult getting any information out of you, Smith.”
“That’s because I’m generally busy gathering data. See you at lunchtime. And ring a couple of the others. Let’s make it a general invite.”
I was starting to feel better for no specific reason although the prospect of a few recuperative libations in the company of Mr Norton was certainly having a therapeutic effect, albeit psychological.
Now however, it seemed about time to eat, wash and dress in the manner befitting a Smith about to repeat part of the previous evening’s excesses. Throwing the necessary hen fruit, pickled porcine intercostal muscles and Tom Arter (the Matchless motorcyclists’ vegetable) into the old cast iron pot, I adjourned to the bathroom to complete the morning ablutions while the Fast Breaking Food cooked itself.
Now as you will be aware, there is something about running water which causes involuntary actions with the human body. Yes, the sound of running water causes, sometimes at considerable distance, persons to enter a numeric sequence into the input of Ring-o-Chat. It took about 38 seconds from when I climbed into the shower until the Ameche Interface started rattling. Fortunately I had foreseen this eventuality and the tool in question was sitting next to me. It was Col “More Stuff” Grogan. He addressed Poor Undressed Me in his usual complimentary fashion.
“G’day Cockroach, what’s on?”
“Mr Norton and several others are coming over for eats at about lunchtime. Grab your various relatives and head over here. Bring some beer and bread.”
“No worries. John “Tokyo” Tickover’s here. I’ll bring him. Is it raining over your way?”
“I’m in the shower.”
“Good. I’ll plug the phone into the light socket. See you at tucker time.”
I dropped the phone post haste (as opposed to Australia Post Haste which is, as you may know, a contradiction in terms) since one can never be too careful when dealing with Mr Grogan. His company would also be, as usual, most welcome and most enjoyable.
Following the shower I dressed in the Smith uniform (ill-fitting T-shirt and often re-stitched jeans over ill-fitting and often restitched body) and repaired to the kitchen to eat the now-cooked Fast Breaker and prepare the tucker.
Now, I don’t know why people bitch about cooking. I really enjoy knocking up largish quantities of food for the enjoyment of myself and anyone else who happens to saunter by at the time. It’s good fun and, as anyone who knows my culinary exploits at all can tell you (and probably will), everything I cook tastes great with beer. Of course, the Big Trick with cooking is juggling all the operations so that all the tucker becomes ready at the same time and you don’t crowd yourself out of the kitchen in the process.
Well, I forced down the morning repast (much against the body’s desires) and turned my hand to the eats in question. It took about an hour (and a couple of stiff gin and tonics) to get the chilli stew on the boil, boil up some pasta and some rice, knock up a Greek style salad, throw some bits and pieces in the steamer for later and chuck some spuds and stuff in the stove for baking when the time became right. I was just about to start work on the cheese sauce for the pasta when that familiar tinkling once again accosted my suffering lug’oles.
“Hello telephone.”
“Smith, my brakes aren’t working right. Could you have a look at them this arvo.”
One of the very bad things about actually knowing something about brakes is that one is always being asked to look at the filthy, smelly things. In this case it was an Old Friend Of The Family doing the asking. How could I refuse?
“Sure thing Carol, but I’m having a few people over for lunch so it’ll have to be after that. You’re invited. Ask a few people if you like.”
“No worries, I’ll bring the kids.”
Carol’s kids are a pair of lovely young women of 18 and 21 who brighten up most proceedings as, indeed, does Carol.
“Good thinking mate. A couple of flagons of Drayton’s Rich Port wouldn’t go astray either.”
“No worries, see you then.”
I hung up the handpiece and returned to the cheese sauce. That damned cheese smell must carry because the bells started again.
“Yep?”
“Smith, we’re not playing this arvo. Fancy a drink or several?”
It was Robert “Bass Buster” Baillie, bass player extraordinaire of The Witchdoctors.
“Funny you should mention it. I’m having a few people over for lunch and such. Why don’t you come over here?”
“I have to go out for lunch but I’ll come over after that. Should I ask anyone else?”
“Is your brother there?” (I was referring to John “Slidewinder” Baillie who is a very good little guitarist).
“I’ll bring him. Need anything?”
“Nope. Anyone else you can think of is welcome. Bring some beer and some cardboard munchies.”
“OK. We’ll see you around two.”
Back to the cheese sauce, which, this time, finally made it to Warm When Needed stage. At last I could put my feet up. The Trivia Transmitter had other ideas and the bells started again.
“Yep?”
“Is that Mr Smith?”
“Yep.”
“Well, I met you at the Delaney last night.”
The Smith brain reeled. The voice was female.
“Yep?”
“You probably don’t remember me but you told me to ring you if I ever felt that way inclined.”
“Yep. I don’t remember. Yep, I tell most people to call me which is why I’m having a hell of a lot of trouble with this phone today. I don’t mean to sound rude but I really turned it on last night and the memory of the evening’s a bit hazy if you get my drift.”
A burst of laughter at the other end of the line told me I had acted in the normal Smith manner the previous evening.
“I’ll refresh your memory. You’d been playing the harmonica with the band and when you came off the stage the lead singer called out for someone to buy you a drink. I asked what you wanted.”
It all came back to me in a highly embarrassing clarity.
“And I asked you for a schooner of 1976 Taylor’s Cab Sav.”
“And I bought it.”
“Oh dear!”
“Well Mr Smith, are you free today?”
“Yep, but the rest of the week I’m $120 per hour. Seriously, I’m having a few people over for lunch. Why don’t you come over for a few drinks and some bullshit. And an apology or two.”
“Alright. I have your address. Be there soon.”
I remembered now. What had I done right? And how can an ouwardly intelligent woman (well, that’s how I remembered her) possibly countenance meeting me face to face? (Little pun there).
As I pondered this there came a knock at the doorbell -it’s a little reluctant to work is the old doorbell and requires some gentle persuasion such that one detects the wallop before the Avon anthem.
I opened the door to none other than the young woman with whom I had only just finished conversing.
“Strutharama, that was quick. Where did you call from? The corner phone box?”
“Got it in one, Smith. And I happen to have a drinkie-poo or two here for us.” She produced a couple of excellent bottles of red from her bag.
“Remember what we talked about last night?”
I strained the Puree Of Brain that passes for the Smith thinking equipment.
“Yep. As I remember we discussed red plonk, motorcycles, Oz science fiction, Chrysler automobiles, C.J. Dennis, Greek tucker, beer, sex, slide guitars, brakes, barrelhouse piano players and westerns, but not in that order. And, as I recall, you’re a mechanic.”
“A fair summary.” She was wearing that smile that females put on when they think they’re on a good thing. I couldn’t remember whether this was meant to be a good omen. It wasn’t last time.
She looked around at the Smith hovel. “Like the house. Ordered chaos. When does everyone arrive?”
“About an hour and there’s bugger all order here.”
She grinned again. “About an hour, eh?” How about taking the phone off the hook so we can drink this stuff undisturbed.” She nodded toward the phone, which was ringing again.
I laughed as I answered the device for the last time that morning. I reflected that it was indeed fortunate that I hadn’t disconnected the damned thing after the first call. After all, it was shaping up to be a good day, despite the pain.
That’s all we can ever hope for.
By Peter Smith, Two Wheels, January 1988
