And De Fun Don't Done (15 page)

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.

‘Yeah, he's a funny bludger alright, that Steve Martin,' said Norton. ‘A comic genius just like Woody Allen. And a good family man too.'

Hank's eyes spun briefly towards Les like he was denouncing him. ‘He's not a comic genius. He's not even in the same realm as Woody Allen!'

Les had to think for a second. ‘Shit! Did I say that, did I? I'm sorry. I was just voicing an opinion. It won't happen again.'

‘Steve Martin's not a comic genius.'

‘No, you're right. I was completely out of order. In fact, when I think about it, Steve Martin's a complete and utter arse. He's about as funny as spending three days on a swamp with Norman Bates.'

Hank glared suspiciously at Les. ‘Who?'

‘A bloke I know back in Australia.' Les watched as Hank got up to remove the video and thought how lovely it would be to boot him straight up the arse. ‘So what are we doing… knackers.'

Hank sat back down and finished his cigarette. ‘There's a bar on Main got a band. We'll have a look there, then I have to take a trip across town. I'm not having a late one. I got things to do tomorrow.'

Les nodded through the fumes at Hank. ‘Suits me. I want to have a look at that condo tomorrow. Get it out of the road early. What time do you want to get going in the morning?'

Hank seemed to look a little oddly at Les. ‘Around nine.'

‘Give yourself time to have another three-bagger.'

‘What?'

‘That'll give me time to have my bags packed.'

Hank shook his head. ‘We'll go and have a look at the place first.'

Norton immediately sensed Captain Rats was playing some weird game of cat and mouse with him. Go along with it though. It's only for one more night. ‘Yeah okay. I'd hate to think I was moving into some dump — especially after this.' Hank's expression didn't change as he sucked on his cigarette. ‘Oh, before we go any further, I reckon you would have used a bit of juice and that today. So here's another fifty bucks.' Les pulled out his
wedge and handed Hank the freshly ironed fifty dollar bill. ‘There you are, mate. Straight out of the bank. And you needn't worry, there's plenty more where that came from.'

Hank almost snatched the crisp, shiny fifty out of Norton's hand. His eyes spun round as he looked at it, almost as if he was examining the serial number. This time he put it in his front pocket. Bugger it, Les cursed to himself. I'll have a hard time getting it out of there. Oh well. For a second Les thought Hank was going to say thanks. Instead, he stubbed out his cigarette and got to his feet.

‘Let's go.'

‘Okey-doke.' Norton dutifully fell in behind and tailed Hank out to the pick-up, laughing quietly to himself as he watched Hank trying not to limp.

Norton didn't say much as they were driving along; there wasn't a great deal he could say. Holding a conversation with Captain Rats was like trying to talk Hitler into changing his battle plans. He was the greatest know- all Les had ever come across, even for a yank. There was no doubt about that. Now you weren't even allowed to have an opinion when he was around. Les was still curious, however, as to just how big a prick he actually was. While they were driving along Les thought he'd give Hank a kind of ‘travelling ink blot test'. They sped in and out of the traffic, past the houses and shops, before stopping at another set of lights. As they did a shiny maroon car pulled up alongside. It had tinted windows, lots of chrome and the way it was chopped off at the boot reminded Les of an overblown Volvo.

‘Gee, that's a nice car,' said Les. ‘I wouldn't mind getting one of those to run around in while I'm over here.'

Hank moved his cigarette and leaned over to see what Les was looking at. ‘You call that a good car? It's a pile of junk. Every jerk from out of state drives round in one of those.'