The RAZZ

Chapter 8

© surmon 2008

Close Encounters

(or stupidly trying to ‘go’ where no man has 'gone’ before)

I called Tats from Perth to tell him what happened and ask for some advice on what to do. He started laughing and couldn't stop. It was costing me a fortune on the phone for his laughter therapy so I hung  up in disgust. While trying to think about what I should do, I whiled away some time trying to put the piano together with glue and nails. I was hoping  it might pass inspection -  at a glance -  but it was obvious that a blind man with a dull white stick could spot the trouble from 500 metres away. There was no way I wanted to be around when the owner lady got back.

Then the doctor from the rest home rang to tell me that she was due for release within 24 hours.  I had to vamoose, and no mistake. I rang a couple of removal companies to try to get onto a job that was going back my way but the first job and possible ride I could get was almost a week away, and no guarantee of either.  My financial resources wouldn’t stretch to accommodate me more than one night in a cardboard box, so I had to go, plan or no plan. As luck would have it, shortly before the end of the said 24 hours, I had a plan – I decided to hitch a lift home.

Walking out on the highway that leads to the magical world of the rest of Oz, I thought things didn’t look too bad at all. As I peered back into the west, I could see a string of semis heading my way. I was certain to get a lift with one of them. Sure, for three days or more, I’d have to put up with a truck driver and his collection of shit-bad country and western, Neil Diamond and Status Quo tapes, sure I’d have to read his stick books and not embarrass my self by barring up, sure I’d have to sit in the armpit-smelly roadhouses and be the butt of a few jokes, sure I’d have to stay awake every friggin’ second of the journey to make sure he didn’t steer us off the road or headlong into one of his 10-4 good buddies, but, a lift is a lift. And with that convoy of diesels headed my way I’d have a lift in no time at all.

It was actually even less than that.  Before the trucks caught up to me, a bloke with a car towing a horse trailer pulled over and asked me if I was headed east and wanted a lift.  I nodded. So he stopped the car and got out to chat to me, probably to check me out, but I didn’t mind. A car ride with someone closer to my age would be better than a truck lift.

The bloke said his name was Hughie and that he was moving East to set up a gardening business. He was taking himself, two fat dogs, a bag of onion seeds and a horse float full of manure to Victoria. I pointed out to him that the place was already full of fart gas and horse shit but Hughie was doing a “life change” thing. He was trying to put himself in the “centre of his personal universe” and felt that it lie eastward. I had started to suspect that Hughie was a shovelful short of a load and that he should put himself in a place where they do frontal lobotomies as a matter of course but, I told him my story, shouting out quite a lot of it as the convoy of trucks roared by us and disappeared into the east.

When we figured that we each weren’t bank robbers or violent botty-bonkers, we decided to start on our big adventure.

The first difficulty I had was that the two fat dogs wouldn't let me inside the car. They sat on the back seat and snarled and snapped if I went anywhere near the car.  The only place I could travel was in the horse float - with the manure.

As I stood by the float, I looked up the road to where the convoy of trucks had by now disappeared from sight and signal. I looked westward, but they had closed the gates back there. No truck, trolley, rickshaw nor tricycle was coming my way for I don’t know how long. I was stuck.

It wasn't all that bad in the horse float. The manure was pretty soft and dry on top; it turned out to be fairly comfortable and I sort of got used to the smell. Hughie and I had agreed that we had good weather for the trip but it turned out to be too good for me. It got very warm in the horse float and the manure started to compost a bit.  I almost blacked out a couple of times from the fumes and had to hang my head out the window to revive my self.

The night was OK because the manure held the heat but, after the second sunny day on the road, I had to ask Hughie if he wouldn't mind travelling at night for the Nullarbor crossing - so that the manure wouldn't spoil in the heat. That seemed reasonable enough to Hughie, whose powers of reasoning obviously need a can or two of spinach, so we cooled our heels on a shady verandah - while the car and trailer sat in the sun - and set off at dusk to tackle the Nullarbor.

Travelling at night was much better except the fumes still made me a bit drowsy and I slept through a toilet break. Somewhere near the middle of the night I woke with a nagging urgency to commune with nature but to catch Hughie's attention to ask him to stop wasn't easy.  He was busy getting the most out of his registration fee by driving all over the road, both sides of it as well as the shoulder.

Eventually, I succeeded in tossing a large, solid lump of manure over the roof of the car and landing it on the bonnet. Anyone would think Hughie was asleep by the way he reacted. He slammed on the brakes so hard that the load of manure shifted to the front of the trailer and buried me up to the nuts. I dug myself out while trying to explain to the near hysterical Hughie my need for this emergency stop, then I set off in the dark to find a suitable tree while he tried to drag the two fat dogs out from under the front seat. They were both jammed tight in there. It seems the sudden stop caught them by surprise as well.

Now, I'm not the sort of person to boldly 'go' out in the bush where no man has 'gone' before with everybody - the still-spooked Hughie and the two fat dogs - looking at me, so it was important that I found a decent tree which was a bit hard to find on the Nullabor Plain. I had only been searching a minute when I heard a strange whistling noise coming from overhead, a loud thud and loud, spine-chilling screech and a couple of yelps from Hughie's direction.

I rushed back to the road see what could have made him scream like that. When I got to the car Hughie, almost paralysed with fear, was standing next to an object that was sitting on the road in the glow of the headlights. It looked like a big, green garbage bag.

‘I didn't hear a garbage truck go by. Where did this come from?’ I enquired of Hughie.

He looked at me with a strange expression on his face and pointed his trembling finger up at the stars. I figured Hughie had blown his resistors so I decided to look in the bag to find some clue to its origin. I ignored the eerily glowing words 'USS Starship Enterprise' stencilled on the side of the bag as I undid the thermo-bionic coupling around its neck and peered inside.

All I could see was a strange collection of old rubbish. Empty packets of Little Vulcan Cotton Buds For Pointed Vulcan Unrealistic Ears, dozens of old plastic au-go-go earrings with psychedelic patterns on them, empty cans of Klingon Repellent, bone dry whisky bottles and a well-thumbed copy of "Everything You'll Ever Need To Know About The Warp Drive Plasma Thrust Motor, Mark Five."

I took out the book and started to flip though it, with a feeling of detached interest. Going back to the flyleaf, I scanned the hand-written inscription and, the hairs on the back of my neck and top of my head started to prickle. I looked at Hughie to see his white face and trembling finger both pointed upward. I let my eyes follow the trembling digit which was mutely indicating the big, dark hole that had now appeared in the stars directly above us, as though something had blotted out a universe or three. Suddenly, I felt a weird tingling sensation all over, as though my body's molecules were separating and zipping up in the air.

‘Help, Hughie. I think my molecules are separating and......’ But Hughie and the fat dogs were too busy checking out the bitumen underneath the car and clacking their teeth like nervous castanets as the garbage bag and I shimmered into translucence, and disappeared.

The next instant I found myself standing on a low dais, which was one of five in a very strange room, still clutching the book while shedding little lumps of horse manure onto the floor. The pins and needles sensation faded and a short, square-looking man wearing a tartan Tam O'Shanter stepped out from behind a console as tall as he, and growled at me with a pathetic imitation Scottish accent.  ‘Och, Aye an' r-r-rattle me spor-r-rin. Mor-r-r-re gar-r-r-rbage back than I thr-r-rew away!”

And before I could move he’d snatched the book out of my hand.

‘Och, laddie. I've been luikin' for-r-r that wee manual, thank ye kindly. An' that's a mighty unusual aftershave lotion your-r-r spor-r-rtin', spor-r-rt. Sor-rta r-r-reminds me o' sumpin'... but I can’t think what for-r-r the moment. Never-r-r mind, just pick up that bag an' follow me, laddie - I'll be r-r-right behind ye!’  He squirted the words at me and then propelled me through doors marked “USS Enterprise level 13, Door 84”, down corridors with names like “USS Enterprise Quantum Way” and “Star Fleet Boulevard”  and past portholes labelled “USS Enterprise Looker-outer#7” and etcetera.

‘Where am I?" I enquired of the Scots terrier snapping at my heels.

‘In the engine r-r-room, Laddie,’ he replied tersely. ‘Dump that bag, and open that manual at the War-r-rp Dr-r-rive Car-rbu-rettor-r-r page. I think you’d better-r-r stand ooter my way, laddie.  You’ve got a mighty danger-rous smell aboot yer that makes me wo-r-r-ry aboot thr-r-rowing a spa-rrk in your-r-r dir-r-rection.

I was starting to feel confident enough to hazard a guess at where I might be.  ‘Are you Scotty...?  I asked gently.

‘Och, Laddie. I'm a wee bit testy, I’ll admit,  but I'll feel better-r-r when the War-r-rup Dr-r-rive is A-Ok again."

‘Is this the USS Enterprise...?’ I asked, trying a more direct approach.

‘Is Ur-ranus pointed to the deck, ye pillock?’ snapped the truncated Celt with dry wit. ‘Now git ooter me way while I check the plasma injecto-r-r-rs!’

By now I was reasonably satisfied about which dream I was in but the desperate need to exercise my bodily functions made its presence felt again. As I was an obvious hindrance to the caber-tosser, I picked up something to read and went looking for the little boy's room.

I wandered along dozens of corridors without catching sight of a toilet or even a sniff of a little yellow trough lolly when a thought occurred to me - not once in Star Trek, either the series or the films -  did anyone go to the loo. Maybe humans of the future don't need to “go” and toilets are obsolete. That would be sad for them, not having somewhere legitimate to hide when the washing up was being done, but it was even sadder for me. I was of the twentieth century and bursting to “go”! Without knowing how I arrived there, I found myself back in the transporter room.

Necessity breeds ingenuity, and I didn't watch all those Trek episodes of for nothing. I set the co-ordinates on the console and jumped on the little round dais just in time to feel the pins and needles. In a flash I was back on earth, re-integrating in the glow of Hughie’s car’s headlights.

My sudden re-appearance didn't do Hughie and the fat dogs any good. They had crawled cautiously out from under the car in my absence but now made a flying dive back there, leaving bits of skin and hair on the bitumen and pointy parts of the car’s underside .

‘I'll be alright after I utilise the services of a bush,’ I shouted under the car to Hughie, and tucking the manual under my arm.... oops - the friggin' manual. Oh well. It may come in handy out here in the bush, with no dunny paper handy, an’ all.....

With considerable haste I selected the nearest bush, settled myself and started to sigh loud and long when, blast it all, I felt that strange pins and needles sensation again. The friggin’ haggis catcher had located me with the friggin’ transporter beam!

‘Don't beam me up now, Scottie!’ I yelled, as my molecules oscillated, "I'm taking a cr-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-......!"

“-a-a-a-a-ap!”. Upon my inopportune arrival in the transporter room, my anger was exceeded only by my embarrassment at the new mess I'd left on the floor.

‘I've hear-r-rd of folks gettin' tr-r-ranspor-r-rter sick, Laddie, but this is r-r-r-ridiculous! An' ye've got no r-r-right to go sneakin' off wi' me War-r-r-rup Dr-r-rive manual. Pull yesel' together-r-r, feller-r, an' clean up that mess. We've got wor-r-ruk to do!'

Hijacked by Atilla the Highland Heathen and I’d kacked in my drawers. I gathered myself together as best I could and followed Scottie back to the engine room where he gave me the job of handing him the tools as he worked.

‘Atomic fr-r-rapping gangler...no, not that!...not that!!...that!!! Aye! Ye daft mongr-r-rel. Now the Polar-r-rity R-rrever-rsing Doohickey....not that!....not that!!....and it's not that either-r  ye r-r-rattle br-rained twer-r-rup!!!’

By the time he said “twerp” Scottie had fairly got his ire up and let fly at me with the last object I handed him. Being used to that sort of thing I quickly ducked out of the way and the gadget whizzed harmlessly by, removing only a smidgen of my left ear and a small tuft of hair. I heard the thing smash into a control panel behind me.

‘Now look what ye've made me do, you ter-r-restr-rial picar-r-roon. Ye've busted the fuel gauge!’ whinged the tartan Tartar.

‘Get a grip on yourself, Scottie,’ I replied firmly, ‘That doohickey didn't hit the gauge; it missed it by a planetary parsec.’ Stabbing my finger at the dial I said:  ‘This gauge was obviously already broken.’

‘That's not a doohickey and that gauge was not br-r-roken!’ snapped the contrary little Celt. ‘That gauge is....’ he moved over to the panel and tapped the gauge. ‘It's not br-roken, laddie - it's saying the tanks are empty....we've r-r-r-run ooter-r fuel! That’s what’s the matter-r-r with the war-r-rup Dr-r-rivve!’

‘So, where's the next inter-galactic fuel stop?' I enquired in the absence of an apology.

‘Thir-r-rty light year-r-rs f-r-rom her-r-re!’ Scottie wailed.

‘Then use what’s in those emergency jerry cans over there.’ I suggested, pointing to a pile of canisters marked “emergency fuel supply”.

‘Empty.’ Sobbed the poor engineer, ‘I used the last one to fill up the outboar-r-rd on the space dinghy for a nuclear fission trip last week. The Captain will mur-rder-r me for this. I'm done for-r-r!’

I picked up the empty jerry can and took a sniff at the spout. It smelled familiar. ‘Is this fuel hard to get?’ I enquired.

‘It sur-re is Laddie. You can’t pull it out of yer bum, you ken! It’s one of the rarest substances known. And it costs mor-r-r-re than a pr-r-r-r-etty plasma penny per-r-r-r tumblerrr-r-r-r . We’r--r-re cur-r-rsed with an old fashioned, twice super-r-rceded War-r-rup Dr-r-rive Mar-r-rk Five Motor-r-r that still uses the stuff and ye can only get it from one planet in the entire galaxy!’

‘Well, if my hooter is telling me the truth, I reckon I know where you can get a whole truckload of stuff that smells just like this, ‘ I said smugly. I know horseshit when I smell it.

‘Ye wouldn't be slippin' a slug in a poor-r-r old feller-r-r's spor-r-rin, would ye, laddie?’ he said, tilting his head, aggressively at me.

I shook mine, solemnly, with the dourest expression I could muster..

‘No? You’r-r-re not?” Scotty said with a jutting chin. “Then if that’s the case, we’rr-r-r-e saved, ye bonny wee Pr-r-rotestant. And if you have saved us, I’ll...  I'll give ye.... well, I'll give ye somethin' in gr-r-r-ratitude - something ver-r-ry pr-r-recious. That’s all  I’ll say.’

Something ver-r-r-ry precious, I thought. Maybe in the future the value of things is reversed. Like, if horseshit is rare and valuable, then perhaps gold is worth very little or nothing at all.  So  maybe.....  maybe the old crofter is going to give me six tonnes of worthless future gold. ‘Follow me, Scottie,’ said I. ‘I'm right behind you. To the Tr-r-ransporter room and pr-r-r-ronto!’

When we both materialised in front of the car Hughie let out a silent scream that stretched his mouth so much he couldn't whistle for weeks. The fat dogs pooed themselves and they all three leapt back to their hiding place.

‘There,’ I said proudly to Scottie as I showed him the horse manure, ‘Is that your fuel, or not...?"

Scottie felt the stuff, sniffed it, tasted it. ‘It's fuel alr-rreet...glor-rious fuel. Ther-r-re’s just enough her-r-re to get us back to ear-r-rth in the late twentieth centur-r-ry to save the whales, reforr-r-rest the Amazon and bung up the hole in theo zone layer before we skip across to Washington DC and fill up the fuel tanks with more hor-r-r-rseshit,’ he shouted and threw himself lovingly on to the heap of manure. ‘So that's why ye smelt so familiar-r in the fur-r-rst place,' he crooned.

The late twentieth century? I considered showing him the calendar in my diary to save him a pointless round trip but I confess that the thought of eight or ten tonnes of gold and diamonds gave me lock-jaw on that subject. So I just told Scottie he could have all the manure, with my compliments. Hughie didn’t utter a word of protest. He'd thrown himself back under the car so hard he'd clouted his head and was in a daze.

I helped Scottie load the manure on board his ship. Imagine my surprise when we were met in the transporter room by the captain and the crew. They were all very grateful that I had helped them on their quest to boldly go and all that, and when Scottie had the warp drive ticking over again they tried to persuade me to stay on as an engineer's apprentice.

I declined the job offer but accepted their gifts gratefully, including the engineer's 'ver-r-ry pr-r-recious' pr-r-r-resent. He gave me a warm, sweaty handshake and a sniff of the cork from his hip flask. I should have guessed.

The others were equally as generous. Bones McCoy gave me a bottle of 'McCoy's Liniment For Bruises Sustained When Your Starship Enters A Meteorite Shower', Captain Kirk gave me a piece of bark off the ship's log, but when Mr Spock put his hand on my shoulder all I could think of was his Vulcan neck-lock and an unconscious trip to the junket mines of Alpha Centauri and no future with that beautiful girl that I hadn’t even kissed back on earth. So I panicked. Thinking quickly I yelled out, ‘Look out. There's a Klingon...  ’

They lost about thirteen of their crew, two cameramen and a wardrobe assistant as they blasted away with their phasers set on “Deep Fry”. In the mayhem and blood-letting, I set the co-ordinates on the console, leapt onto a transporter dais and shimmered down to earth.

By the time I got Hughie out from under the car he looked like 50 kilos of raw hamburger patty decorated with teeth and two bulging eyeballs. I put him on the back seat to bleed on the dog blanket, chucked his two petrified pooches in the horse float and drove on till dawn without further incident. During the rest of the night, we came across a white rabbit with a fob watch, the Loch Ness monster, a family of Yeti having a picnic with a Yowie and Bigfoot, Luke Skywalker with a tin man and fire hydrant on wheels, the Blob, King Kong, and Godzilla.  But I wasn't going to stop the car again unless it was something out of the ordinary — like a property developer with a social conscience.

o-0-o

To: Chapter 9 -  Music that soothes...