cemetary lights and Exit the Goon

2 chpts from BEATNIK CASBAH

ch 9-2 "Cemetery Lights"

It was time to start hitching and try my luck down south. Needing to get to Liverpool to begin thumbing where the interstate began, I got a train only as far as Flemington. If I got off at Liverpool without a ticket Railway police might hand me over to real coppers.. Being busted yet again for vagrancy would cause me to feel hatred for society and become maladjusted,. Flemington had no ticket collector so I got out and walked toward Liverpool. I carried an airways bag containing a thin blanket and a pound of pork sausages I intended to cook out in the bush. I’d pretend I was a real swaggie for a few hours.

 

The sun was setting and I felt cold. Shirtless and wearing only jeans and a denim jacket, I hoped no "mozzies" would bug me in the dark.

A police car prowled slowly by and caused the hair on my neck to crawl. I saw the cop take a long stare at me.

The cop spoke to the driver but they drove past and out of my sight . My tired legs ached and my feet were sweating in my thin socks. Taking a back street I walked for 10 minutes then came to a cemetery. It stretched as far as I could see.

 

Walking between graves t searched for a spider free wooden bench to sleep on but they were all made of stone. Mosquitoes whined around in the dark. They attacked so I waved a lot and continued on.

A sign read ‘Rookwood Necropolis --Anglican section’ Many graves were old and neglected so I sent telepathic vibes and chanted "om-manee-pad-me-hum" in case anyone was aware. I considered myself a mediator between heaven and the spirit ghosts who hadn’t made it through. But that’s another side of my insanity I’ll tell you about later. I only believed this stuff 10% of the time so it didn’t interfere too much with life.

 

A mist drifted in so I buttoned my jacket to get warm. Through the trees I saw a flickering light.. Careful to make no sound I reminded myself I had nothing to fear if there really were ghosts. They’d think I was OK and we’d have fun talking. Maybe I could help in some way. Creeping through shrubs I edged closer.. The flicker came from a campfire. It burned inside a wide tree stump and couldn’t be seen from the highway.

Voices emanated from three figures outlined by flame. The silhouettes passed around a large flagon .I crouched and listened.

Voice 1: "He sold everything to give things to his rotten missus the poor bugger. He worked his arse off for the rest of his life" (swigs from flagon and passes it)

Voice 2: "Never get married mate. It's for mugs. Love 'em and leave 'em I reckon."(spits)

Voice 3:"Who'd marry you anyway you pisspot b*****d?"

(stretches)

Voice 2 :( laughs and throws a branch onto fire.) "I've had me share, don't you worry"

Voice 3: "Yeah, from women at the Blind Institute."

Voice 1:" No mate, fair go. I saw him last night playing with Mrs. Palmer and her 5 daughters." (All laugh)

 

I squatted listening to check if they were dangerous. To feel safer; I felt around and found a strong thick stick. I'd pretend I had a sore foot and needed it for walking. I didn’t know how to announce my presence but I wanted the warmth of that fire so I sang loudly, and in a comical manner

"It’s lonesome away from your kindred and all

by the campfire at night, where the wild dingoes call.

But there's nothing so lonesome, morbid or drear

than to stand in the bar of a pub with no beer." I yelled, "Don’t worry: I’m not a copper!"

Voice 2 said,

"Jesus you scared the s**t out of me. Good song though. Come here and give us a squizz at yer."Voice one said,
"Yeah.Let’s have a Captain Cook at ya." Keeping the men on my left and the walking stick on my right, I smiled and came near the fire.,

"Can I get a bit warm? I’m freezing." Voice 2 was about 40, well dressed with rugged features.. Voice 3 was an old and smiled a lot. Voice 1 had a sheepskin coat and was very drunk. He passed me the flagon and said,

"Have a charge mate. Fog’s comin' in so yer better get some in yer." I took it and almost wiped the bottle mouth with my sleeve but it might seem insulting so I just glugged a mouthful, handed it back and asked,

"Youse want some sausages? I got some in me bag."

Voice 1 said,

"Oh you beauty!. These mugs are too stupid to eat."

Voice 3:" Hey don't go puttin' s**t on us. You bloody never eat nothin’." He looked at me and winked,

"You see young feller: this bloke is a poor old pisspot and we have come here to force him to go to an AA meeting."

One stood up as if to fight and shaped up to Three. They sparred for a while then collapsed on the ground laughing. Two made a grill out of a bit of wire. One arranged my sausages on it and put it on the fire. He dropping some in the embers until Three took over the job. We watched the snags sizzle and pop. I said

"You got a great campin' spot here. It's beautiful." Two asked,

"How come you're roaming around in the dark anyway?" I told them about the cop car I'd seen and how I was heading for Adelaide, my vagrancy, about the funny blokes in Adelaide gaol like Yorky and Jimmy McLean. We told jokes, ate sausages, finished the two flagons and fell asleep.

 

In the morning I asked if they lived in the cemetery. Well dressed Two said,

"I just come here sometimes to make me wife jealous. She thinks I'm off painting the town. Old Bluey (points at voice 3 usually stays at the city mission: but he likes it here best.. And Bob (voice 1) lives with his old mum. He comes here when she’s angry at him. She's a wowser who don’t drink."

As I was leaving, Two said,

"I'll show the young bloke the way to the road then get more grog and come back."

Old Bluey sang,

"and don’t dilly-dally on the way……I’m getting’ thirsty." Walking back with Two I asked,

"How come he's called Bluey? He ain't got red hair. Does he like to bung on a blue?"

Two answered,

"Matter of fact he does but he used to be a boxer. He was going to the Berlin Olympics in 1936 but his parents wouldn’t let him go because they were Jewish. You look up Cohen in the record books and you'll see he was featherweight champion in '35. They called him Bluey 'cause he always wore blue trunks in the days when fighters only wore black or white."

At the highway we said goodbye and as he walked away he yelled back,

"Thanks for those grouse snags mate!"

"Cool man. No worries!"

 

Next evening I got dropped off 20 miles past Crookwell. A storm blew up out of nowhere and trees swayed, thunder rumbled and the sound of the wind was a hundred bunyips imitating a dozen banshees. The only time I could see was when lightning flashed. I huddled underneath a roadside picnic table trying to pretend I was Buddha to warm up. It didn’t work. The table top was made of logs and I swayed left and right trying to dodge rain dripping through cracks. It was hard work and I was cold and wet. The night dragged on. I would have moved on in hope that ahead would be better shelter, but I couldn't be sure if there was any. The last road sign had said "Yass 28 miles".

 

Every hour I'd stand and stretch and deep breathe to warm up. I'd read the way Tibetan monks in snow kept warm but about 4 am I gave up and began to jog toward the future. .

"It couldn't be worse than this," I told myself but lightning made me worry I'd be struck and die alone by the road side.

 

"Please don’t let me die alone" I said to god. Dying alone and unloved was my 2nd worst fear. The first was to drown. I thought I'd better get protection from the lightning bolts that may be about to destroy my fast walking self. If god is a square (like the fundamentalists think she is) then she may shoot me with electricity and pretend it was an accident. I said to God,

"Please don't zap me with lightning. I DO BELIEVE IN YOU."

Speed walking along in the rain enlightenment did come unto me in the form of awareness. God was not a woman. If she was then she’d be too compassionate to lightning smoke my skinny arse. So then I knew the Old Testament god was definitely a male dude.. I said,

"If you are a chick then please save me from this bloody rain." Then lo--the rain came pouring down even harder then before and I knew I'd made a big faux par and was completely insane from the night of unending wetness.

 

At sunrise the rain stopped and I got a lift into Yass. After drying my clothes and socks in a bush land park I bought new shoes from a charity shop and hitched straight through to Adelaide in a day and a half.

CHP 9 PT 3 travelling light

I went to see Laurie and Joe. They’d moved from Henley to their family’s market garden at Para Hills. The boys hated their new suburb but Laurie had use of his dad’s car and had a girl. In fact he was the boyfriend of a hooker. We drove to Hindley Street one night to pick her up after work. Laurie went into a club to

 

"Collect some money a punk owes my chick, man. Nobody messes with my little hootsie tootsie." I was jealous of his cool new lifestyle. I’d been better at getting girls than Laurie and now he had a gorgeous hooker who seemed to love him!. It wasn’t fair!

I saw Laurie Spezzano a week later but he had a life of his own and we drifted apart. Sadly I never saw my best friend again.

 

In 2004 I wrote to him from Sydney. His sister Maria told me brother Joe had died of cancer in the 80s and Laurie had disappeared in '76 and not been heard of since. They filed a missing person report but to no avail. He was last seen with a pal named Karl Wessel. I'd love to hear from anyone who knows what happened to Laurie. He'd be 63 by now. I worked in department store sales and in a few factories then in July ‘64 left Adelaide forever. I got a ride from a truckie heading along the Western Hwy to Dimboola in Victoria. I'd never gone that way. At Dimboola we had a beer and said goodbye.

 

It was 4 pm so I began walking out of town. Around 6 the sun was setting when a truck full of drunks sped past. One yelled,

"Long haired poofta!" and threw a bottle at me. I gave them "the finger" before I even thought. The truck skidded to a stop 100 metres away. I thought they'd back up and beat the s**t out of me so I looked for bush to hide in but both sides of the road was swamp. It looked deep. I ran along the winding road hoping the country would show me a hiding place. The truck didn't seem to be following so I slowed to a walk.. I peered up the road praying I'd not see them coming when a gunshot rang out and a bullet splashed in the nearby swamp. I ran for 50 metres then stopped to listen. I heard a shout to my left.

"Can ya see him?"

Another yell came from where I thought the truck had stopped.

"Get the bugger!"

Another shot rang out but I saw no splash. I thought I'd better find a hiding place and hope they got sick of looking for me. Now it sounded as if the shouting was all around me. Another shot banged out. The sun had gone but there was a half moon and I could make out the road's dotted line and see a large tree on a small moss covered bit of ground 3 metres to my right. I rolled up my trouser legs and tip toed across swamp. My shoes filled with cold water but now I had an island refuge. It was too dark for them to see me so I squatted behind the tree and calmed my nerves. A voice called out

"I got one. Come and help us." Torch light shone through trees on my right so I hunched down low to make a smaller target.. Another shot went bang. It sounded like a .303. A voice shouted,

"OK .That's enough! Let's go."

 

I stayed still for ten minutes until I heard no more sounds. Then slowly, one by one, creatures of the swamp began to chirp and croak and call .Thankfully I heard no more humans. I waited there on my island another 5 minutes then tippy toed back to the road, wrung out my wet sox, took off my shoes and followed the white line in the moonlight. An hour later I got a lift. I felt very lucky. Later I realized those blokes were probably hunting wombats or pigs. Maybe that first shot near me was just them having some fun with the "long haired poofta".

The rest of the trip was less dramatic.

 

Back in Sydney I got a job pushing a wheel barrow full of wet cement along a narrow plank and tipping the cement into a hole. The 6 foot plank bounced up and down with each step. Doing it without falling into the pit took great determination. I noticed another young man digging another hole that later I’d probably have to fill.

 

He looked the way a real hippie should, with a headband tied around his forehead and his long black hair blowing in the wind. Although laboring in a trench, he wore a long sleeved clean white shirt that was unbuttoned and the breeze ballooned it out from his torso. His whole being seemed to proclaim regally,

"Here works a free soul who is strong, wild and untamed." At lunchtime I casually moved near where he was relaxing on a mound of earth. Completely buggered, I flopped down on the grass and stretched out on my back.

 

''Hi man," he said, glancing up from his newspaper. In his hand he held a thick sandwich. My empty stomach recoiled in remembrance of what it must be like to bite. Perhaps my jaw dropped at the sight of that sandwich or maybe the bloke was aware I had no lunch, but he reached behind and got a newspaper wrapped bundle. He held it out for me to take. Inside were three more thick sandwiches just like the original.

"Have a couple. You can’t do hard yakka on an empty stomach." He smiled with no teeth missing and said,

"I'm Alex. I like your taste in clothes. "

He gestured at my black jeans and long sleeved white shirt. We were the only blokes working on the site that weren't wearing navy work shorts. After work we rode the train back to town and he invited me to stay at the Erskineville house he shared with University students.

"You can pay rent when you get your first pay packet O.K?

I readily agreed. That night I met the students: two snooty girls and another bloke. They didn't seem glad to see me. Maybe they thought I was an uneducated idiot with no personality or they didn't like having a stranger living amongst their possessions.

Next week we all went to an Arts department party at the University of NSW. I felt out of place with all the boozing art students and left as soon as I realized none of the girls were interested in me. A week later, after work, Alex told us

"Get washed and dolled up. We're off to the theatre. It only cost 3 pence to get in because they ask at the door for a silver coin donation…and 3 pence is a silver coin ain't it?" he laughed. But later we gave a whole 6 pence at the door.

That night I saw my first stage play

 

 

CHP 9-4 "Exit the Goon"

Totally ignorant of the art of stage production I thought the set tactile but the acting amateurish compared to a movie .We were in the Genesian theatre in Kent Street and 33 years later (1997) I appeared there as one of the silly servants in Shakespeare's "Taming of the Shrew." One night during the play I’d been dragging Petruchio’s boots off his feet when, like all good tyrants, he placed his foot on my a*s and pushed. I went for extra laughs and stumbled head first along the stage and (zoom) right out into space. Fortunately I landed on my head and the front seats were empty. Of course, in character as usual, I never missed a line and made it look part of the comedy. The audience loved it and director (Helen Robinson) said,

"Good stuff Cass. Do it like that every night."

Back in ’64 I felt a surreal excitement travelling in the 6 am darkness out to my suburban work site in those dusty old Sydney carriages. Adelaide trains never ventured underground. Here in Sydney workers got on board in drab work clothes and snatched sleep in the time it took to reach their job. Were they the true yogis, trained to conjure slumber in short spurts? Did they (like me) ever miss their station, wake up at lines end, take the day off and rejoice in the freedom?

 

I loved BBC radio comedy but Alex was fanatical about the Goon Show. The Goons dominated his conversation and he couldn't go half an hour without imitating Eccles or Neddy Seagoon. He had tapes of every broadcast and all of Peter Sellers and Spike Milligan’s LPs. The album, "Songs for Swinging Sellers." was the cleverest comedy I’d yet heard.

I found Alex’s speech patterns fun and joined in with my own, but after two weeks of nothing else, I was saturated by the overkill. . We collected our fortnightly pay packet from the Water Board and Alex and I shouted our housemates to the movies. We chose a double feature. English pop star Adam Faith in a comedy about a fake Loch Ness monster was the first. It was called, "What a Whopper." I'm not sure if my housemates had slipped me a drug , either for fun or to see if it would bring me out of my shell, but I felt that movie with all my senses. Never had I been so aware of visuals, soundtrack, subtleties and deep meanings within a film. After interval came Peter Lorre and Vincent Price in the horror movie send-up "The Raven." The colour was so mind blowingly intense I wondered why the producer hadn't featured the new colour technique in publicity.

 

After we returned home and everyone retired I realized I’d had enough of the Goon Show house. Silently, I packed my little airways bag and (without having paid the rent owed} snuck out of their lives. Down the road at Erskinville station a thin young koori girl with a limp invited me to sleep on her couch on the condition I bought groceries. Discussing and reading her large collection of paperback novels I stayed until, on the fourth day, her big strong koori boyfriend came to visit. He made it clear I was no longer a house guest. I never saw her again.

--------------end of chpt--------

Author's Note

EARLY DRAFT ONLY