The RAZZ - chapter 15

© surmon 2009

Sad Movies

The outcome of the college gig had the wonderful effect of bringing Ronnie and myself closer together. I found that she had a wonderful capacity to laugh with me, or even near me, instead of at  me. It's a subtle difference but an enormous one nevertheless. I could tell the difference.

We agreed to go to the drive-in together in her car the next night. I was nearly beside myself with excitement.

We spent the rest of the afternoon in each other's glorious company. I found it difficult to control the urge to completely engulf Ronnie but I managed to keep my gross physical urges under some restraint that afternoon. Saturday night seemed like a long way off and it was, in fact, the longest 24 hours in my life.

When I got home later that evening I was starving. The groceries that survived the Great Food War didn't make for a sustaining picnic and it was with some mild concern that I arrived home to find a slightly intoxicated Tats sitting at the kitchen table, staring at a microwave oven. In the first place it wasn't switched on; and in the second place, the fact that we had one was news to me.

"Got it at the pub." Tats slurred proudly.

"They were selling these things there? Or did you win it in a raffle?" I asked.

"Nah." he drawled. "Some bloke I know sold it to me. Fifty bucks. Brand new. Bargain. Got everything in it — even the round plate inside — hope I didn't smash it on the way home. Switch it on and we'll heat up a pie."

"Is this thing 'hot', Tats?"

"It will be when you switch it on." he said with a suspicious-sounding guilty giggle.

The thing didn't look exactly brand new to me. It looked new, but slightly used. I stretched the cord over to the wall, plugged it in and switched it on. The light in side came on and I noticed a remarkable thing. The oven seemed to be occupied. I opened the door and pulled out a large ceramic dish absolutely full with a large, dressed chicken in a roasting bag.

"This is hot!" I yelled at Tats.

"Well, use a tea towel to hold it," He drawled, still grinning.

I sat down, feeling slightly stunned.  I was no use talking to Tats in the condition he was in. In a strange was I was hoping that, at the least, he didn't steal it. That would somehow make it better. I've never received stolen property before. I looked at the chicken. It seemed relatively fresh. The thing was probably pinched in the last 12 hours. I didn't know what to do.

At last, after much thought, I decided to use the phone.

"What are doin',"called Tats as I headed down the hall.

"Nothing. Just stay there." I called as I dialled the number. The phone rang at the other end and was answered.

"Yes. Hello." I slowly replied. "A-a-h, Ronnie, how do you cook a chicken in a microwave oven?".

-----

I couldn't get the thing to brown. It was an unhealthy white colour and Tats didn't like the look of it and said he wouldn't touch it.  I told him to go and watch TV while I finished it off. When he'd disappeared I whipped the chicken out of the oven, plastered it with Vegemite and shoved it back in for a quick 'browning' burst.

Tats loved it. He gobbled it up, spreading brown chicken fat from arsehole to breakfast time, and sat with a satisfied look on his face, his elbows on the table and greasy-vegemite-covered hands in the air. In my own way I, too, enjoyed the illicit spoils, wiping my hands and face and smiling as I thought of the person who was missing out on this juicy fowl.

There was a knock on the door. It was a pizza delivery bloke who had the number of the house next door on the docket but got thrown off the scent because there was a police car parked out front of the neighbour’s joint. I sent him back next door and got on with the cleaning up and dreaming about the next night.

The following morning I went to the local shopping centre to buy a microwave cook book and bumped into the next-door neighbour who was picking out a new microwave oven for himself.

"I thought you'd already have one of those things?" I said.

"We did," he replied,  “but some mongrel knocked it off yesterday afternoon. With my dinner inside it! It's a bloody good thing I was insured up to the hilt for the oven but the flamin' chicken wasn't. Cost me twenty-six bucks for pizzas for dinner but I think I might be able to claim some of that back if....."

I didn't hear much more of what he said. I was saying goodbye, checking myself for traces of tell-tale chicken fat and making tracks towards the door. The cook book could wait but Tats was going to get an earful — for whatever good that would do.

It did no good. Tats pointed out that the man was so well covered by insurance that it was a waste of his money if he didn't have something knocked off every now and then. I could sense that he felt slightly guilty, though, and left it at that. Anyway,  I wanted to spend most of my time thinking about going to the drive-in with Ronnie.

Later, that evening, she picked me up in her little Morris Minor and, with great expectations, we headed off to the venue and settled down for the night. Some of us settled down too well. In anticipation of a romantic fun-filled evening we had taken a few drinks along with us, one of these I had opened and sitting on the dropped-down door of the glove compartment. I then proceeded to relax by putting my feet up on the dash above the compartment.

It was a bit cramped in there —  cosy, I suppose you could say — but imagine my surprise when, as I tried to make a romantic move towards Ronnie at a particular slushy part in the evening, my foot slipped off the dash, knocked over the drink and became lodged in the glove compartment. I panicked with embarrassment and brought on a cramp in my leg that guaranteed I was going to be jammed 'cosily' between the seat and dash until I calmed down.

I couldn't calm down. Ronnie, who was a little annoyed at first about the spilt drink, started to get the giggles. In an effort to exhibit some sang froid I tried to laugh along with her but my heart was not in it. I was stuck fast and needed some help. I was fighting the cramp so hard that I'd jammed the machanism that moved the seat back and try as she might, Ronnie could not budge it. There was only one thing to do — ask for some help. She left me, scrunched up in the front seat, to seek the assistance of one of the drive-in security guards. In a few long, long minutes I could hear her returning with someone, talking and laughing - at my expense, I fumed. What about the laughing 'with' me business?

More surprises — the great, grinning security guard turned out to be none other than Piggy Sullivan! My heart sank and my body went limp with embarrassment. My muscles relaxed and my foot simply fell out of the glove-box and dropped to the floor along with the rest of me. I felt just like a pool of red jelly as Piggy leaned on the door and laughed till the tears ran down his cheeks. Then he started to fart as his body shook with his gleeful spasms. That made him laugh even harder and drew the attention of the people in surrounding cars who wound down windows and stared with questioning expressions — what's going on? What did we miss?

Piggy disappeared into the distance, alternatively giggling and farting, leaving me to reconstruct my pride with my feet firmly flat on the floor and the love of my life quietly sitting next to me wearing a Chesire Cat-like grin that she tried unsuccessfully to hide. It wasn't till later, when she also unsuccessfully tried to smother a laugh and make a noise like Piggy that I saw the funny side. That ordeal was like a trial by fire for me but I came through smiling and was invited to spend the following weekend with her at the coast. My head reeled and I remembered very little of the rest of the evening  — or the next week, for that matter.

o-0-o

To: Chapter 16, Murphy the Surphy