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Snap, Crackle, and Hop
(for Ophir)
Pat Dixon
1
“Hammie, how much trouble can a Yank get into visiting Australia?” That’s what Kathleen McDonald, my fiancée, had said when I indicated I had a few reservations about going Down Under on my own to see some of her homeland and, not incidentally, meet “The Parents.”
Katy spoke to me from our couch, where she lay resting—with a full cast on her right leg, a short “walking cast” on her left ankle, a sling to support her sprained left shoulder, and a large gauze pad covering the fifty-odd small stitches in her forehead.
“I’ll be well enough to travel in a week or two, and I’ll meet you at my folks’ place. Because of my injuries, my ticket can be changed without any loss, but yours would take a $400 penalty to change—b’cause we’re still just ‘partners’ an’ not yet espoused types.”
I admitted that this was a major consideration, given the fact that we were both grad students who lived on what we made working two part-time jobs each. However, after seven years in Irvine, California, I had a strong aversion to any place that grows eucalyptus trees, and after ten minutes’ worth of research, I had an even stronger aversion to her natal land—which had more poisonous snakes per capita than any other place on earth. The great white sharks and the salt-water crocodiles of Australia did not appeal to me either, but, truth be told, I planned to avoid all contact with the beaches, woods, and swamps Katy was so fond of. And I had told her.
“Hammie,” she said with a sweet smile on her pink lips and in her green eyes, “do you want to ask your mum or dad for the money to change your ticket?”
Since she already knew that my parents had already paid three-fifths of the amount for both our tickets, she already knew that I did not desire to hit them up for any additional amount. Reluctantly and with what I hoped looked like a good-natured smile, I shook my head and said that she was right—as usual.
During the long flight I made copious notes on my laptop for the fifth chapter of my dissertation—“The Mask behind the Mask of the Poet’s ‘Second Self’ in La Fontaine’s Contes et nouvelles en vers.” And, between naps and trips to the restroom, I read three trashy mystery novels I’d bought at the airport before take-off. The only real unpleasantness had been the hassle during check-in when my passport and driver’s license were being looked at: they seemed to doubt that a young “normal looking” man named Ibraham Hassan had been born in St. Louis, Missouri, U.S.A., and they insisted on x-raying my shoes, camera, computer, and person—while three large dogs sniffed me thoroughly. I don’t know for a fact that the pilots, stewards, stewardesses, and the sky marshal were “tipped off” about my ethnicity, but I had a vague impression that, throughout the flight, I was being scrutinized with more concern than any of my fellow passengers were. But then I’ve grown accustomed to this kind of attention and have learned to take it, as we say in St. Louis, “in stride.”
When we cleared customs in Sydney, I was pleasantly surprised to experience none of that sort of paranoia. And I met with a similar nonchalance on the part of the people who rented me a new tan SUV. Not a blink or a stammer while they verified I had a current driver’s license—just a polite explanation of the insurance options and genuinely friendly responses when I asked for road maps and directions for getting onto the best highway to Sophy Springs, home town of Katy’s folks, a fourteen-hour drive away.
“Have a nice stay, Mr. Hass’n,” said the cheerful young man as I left their parking lot.
“G’day, mate!” I said over my shoulder.
2
It had seemed like an excellent plan at the time.
After a dinner of truly excellent lamb in the restaurant of a small hotel where I had taken a room, I told the desk clerk my destination, said I planned to get an early start, and asked him what sights of special interest might be ahead of me on the highway. He thought for about twenty seconds and then named several, indicating that almost everyone who had the time should make a little detour to visit a small beryl mine where uncut gemstones could be bought for amazingly low prices—and, yes, they did accept my type of credit card. It would be about five miles off the main highway, but, thought I, it would make a nice little gift, perhaps, for Mrs. McDonald. Foolishly, I had not remembered to bring either of “the folks” a present from the States.
And so, up and dressed for adventure, I checked out and was on the road by “half seven.” Around 8:40 a.m., I saw the sign for the turn onto a gravel road. It amused me to observe the local fauna, or some of it, leap up in a startled way as I sped down the rutted single lane, the sun low in the sky before me and a huge cloud of dust visible in my rear view mirrors. I still have no idea what species of ‘roo I was disturbing, but I was amused to designate them “wallaby wannabees.” I wished them no harm, of course, for they, as Katy says, are God’s creatures, but I did sound my horn a few dozen times to announce my presence to any late sleepers among them.
Suddenly, I regret to say, one of them, like a giant bunny, suddenly appeared in the road in front of my vehicle, darting out of the brush or bush or whatever it is. He—she—it hopped along the side the gravel road ahead of me, going in my direction. I realized that I was very rapidly overtaking the beast and prudently applied the brakes so as not to come too close to it—and then it crossed right in front of me, and I felt cold in my neck and numbness in my face when I heard the loud whump-ing sound and saw the poor thing propelled through the air.
Thankfully, my vehicle stopped short of the beast. As a teenager, I had once run over a raccoon in Ohio and had nearly been moved to tears for months after that whenever I thought about how I had not only killed but had crushed and torn up the body of a beautiful, perfect little living thing. When I told Katy about this event and my reactions to it, she smiled and called me “tender hearted” and later, at night, called me her “tender man” before we went to sleep.
I descended from the now dusty SUV to see the fruits of my foolishness. Before me on the rough gravel lay the body of a large kangaroo, perhaps four feet long from its heels to the top of its head. Dust from my careless speeding caught up with us and hung faintly in the air, some settling and some blowing beyond us, down the deserted lane.
I could detect no breathing, but I saw no blood either. I felt “prickly,” as if I had just had a close brush with death myself—as I often do on the freeways of southern California. My breathing was labored, and I had to take several deep breaths with conscious effort. For a moment I almost felt on the verge of tears again, even though I am now almost thirty-five years old.
I walked around the perfect little animal, nearly half my weight, perhaps, and more than two-thirds my height. I looked at its narrow shoulders and narrow snout, its long feet and ears, its dull once-beautiful eyes, its long heavy tail. It, too, had stood erect on two legs and had been carefree on this warm, sunny morning. And I, in my thoughtless carefreeness, had altered the course of its life.
And then, like a vehicle with an automatic transmission, I felt my mood shift. I needed to be practical. Had I damaged the rental vehicle? A brief glance at it told me I had not. The McDonalds were expecting me, their future son-in-law, and time was passing even as I stood, immobilized by my tender heart, near this creature. Should I move the cadaver from the lane and proceed to the beryl mine, hoping to purchase a gift for my future mother-in-law? At the least, I decided, I must move the poor little beast from the lane so that no other vehicle would strike and desecrate its body.
Feeling sorrowful and somewhat ashamed, I picked up the ‘roo’s little shoulders and dragged it towards the gravel lane’s shoulder, planning to take it at least fifteen or twenty feet into the bush—partly so that it would never be disturbed by anyone, but partly, too, so that no evidence of my “crime” would ever be seen by anyone else. And then, as I paused to catch my breath, another thought crossed my mind. A wicked thought.
I pulled the ‘roo over to my rental vehicle and propped it in a sitting position against the front bumper. Its eyes were open, and it looked almost alive in that position. Then I got my camera out of its heavy canvas case and walked back to the front of the SUV. After taking five photos of the creature, I suddenly got an even more wicked idea.
I was wearing the “adventure gear” that Katy had bought for me, special for this trip. Sturdy shoes, khaki socks, khaki shorts and shirt, khaki hat, aviator sunglasses, and a roomy khaki vest with dozens of small pockets and hiding places for hundreds of odds and ends. First I took off my hat and sunglasses and put them on the ‘roo. Then I took a couple of photos of it sitting there, looking, as we used to say in high school, tres cool. Then I pulled off my multi-pocketed vest and slipped this garment onto the animal and fastened four of the snap fasteners in the front, over its chest and belly. Proud of the effect and nervously amused as well, I again walked five or six paces down the lane and snapped half a dozen more photos.
With the sixth of these, I caught a faint sense of motion through my viewfinder. I looked up, my mouth dropping open. The creature was—stirring. My hands, still gripping my camera, fell almost to my waist, and I took one step forward. The kangaroo suddenly was fully awake and in motion. Before I could take a second step, it made two, three, four great leaps and disappeared into the bush on the right side of the gravel lane, dropping my sunglasses with the first hop and my hat with the second. Perhaps fifty yards away, it appeared for a brief second—still wearing my khaki vest—and then it disappeared again, for good. I began to laugh in relief: I hadn’t murdered the poor thing after all. Then I began to laugh, too, about the joke I’d played on myself—I’d given it a vest that had cost my dear Katy nearly a hundred dollars.
3
Fortunately I had left the keys in the SUV’s ignition when I had gotten down to inspect the animal. Unfortunately, as I discovered a short while later at the beryl mine—after eating a delicious mutton sandwich, drinking a nice cold cola, and picking out a pretty little gem for Katy’s mom—when I had dressed that morning, I had put my cellular phone, my booklet with personal addresses and phone numbers, and both my passport and my wallet with all my credit cards, my cash, and my driver’s license into three of those fasten-down pockets of my new vest.
I explained my problem to the old gentleman at the mine’s shop, and he agreed to accept my sunglasses in exchange for the sandwich and cola and advised me to speak to the local police when I arrived at the next town, about an hour down the highway towards Sophy Springs. I did so. Except for the tags on my suitcases and a copy of the vehicle rental agreement, I had nothing in my possession that identified who I was. The police there were very polite and professional, but I was certain that I sensed they were a bit skeptical when I explained what exactly had become of my passport and other identification—as well as all means of paying my way.
“Perhaps you think I am some sort of terrorist?” I said impulsively, attempting to laugh. My tone sounded unnatural to my own ears, for my throat was suddenly dry and tight. I sat down in the large wooden armchair beside a large wooden desk.
The desk sergeant laughed easily and said, “O’ course not. What would be y’r tahgit? An’ b’sides, they’re all fah more compost mensus’n you ah.”
His two officers grinned at his wit. My face suddenly felt unnaturally warm, and I imagined that my color had deepened four or five shades.
“I’d like to phone the American embassy,” I said hoarsely. “Do I have the right to make a phone call in your country? Do I have any rights here?”
The three of them grinned, looked at each other, and again laughed. My breathing was becoming labored. My chest felt tight. My vision began to blur. My nose began to run.
I attempted twice to clear my throat. I sniffed and wiped my hands across my nostrils and then across the sides of my dusty new shorts.
“I am a U.S. citizen. I have done nothing wrong!”
“Ah y’ heah t’ visit anyone, young fellah? Maybe they c’n straighten all this out f’ y’ in a jiffy,” said the sergeant, patting my on my left shoulder. My heart sank. I felt my pulse beating in my neck—heard my pulse drumming in my ears.
“I’m on my way to see—Mr. and Mrs. Brian McDonald—in Sophy Springs,” I said numbly. “I—they’ve never met me, never seen me. I—I am engaged to their daughter, Kathleen—Kathleen McDonald—Katy.”
“An’ where is this Kathleen, y’r fiancée, now, young fellah?”
My jaw muscles began to cramp. I felt suddenly very warm. I sensed that I was doomed—I had admitted to taking—to taking—one of their women. Now they knew I was worse than a terrorist—and they had the names of two prime witnesses to my guilt. I pictured them taking me far out into the bush—into the outback—with the wallabies and the vipers and a hundred species of ‘roos of all sizes—making me dig my own grave—making me stand in it as they pumped me full of lead—and then they would pour gasoline—petrol—on my warm corpse and toss in a match—and the black smoke would be visible for miles, but no one would notice—or care—and my poor Katy and my poor parents would never know—my parents who, I was certain in my heart, secretly disapproved of Katy—and our lifestyle together.
“She—she’s back in Irvine—Irvine, California. She—she was injured while we were climbing a rock face in—in Colorado—during a vacation break from—school. She’s—she will be coming here to join me—in a week. Maybe two weeks.”
My head slumped forwards, and I stared numbly at the dark, scuffed boards of the police station floor. I felt myself perspiring profusely and felt ashamed of that fact.
4
“Somebody heah to see y’, young fellah. Try to pull y’rself t’gethah,” said the cheery voice of the sergeant. “An’ y’ might want t’ give y’r face a bit of a wash up first.”
He pointed to the door of the lavatory that was down a little corridor leading to some small cells. I looked up at him but didn’t move.
He shrugged. “Suit y’rself, then.”
I wondered vaguely if there would be some mockery of a trial first. Would they invite the whole town to my execution—or would it be a “private affair”?
I took a deep breath and felt that I had resigned myself to my fate. I straightened up in my seat and squared my shoulders. Then I marched to the lavatory and “gave my face a bit of a wash up.” And ran my fingers through my dusty hair, giving it a semblance of a part.
“Mr. Hass’n, meet Mr. and Mrs. McDonald, y’r intended’s folks,” said the sergeant when I returned to his office.
“Hey, Ibraham,” said the tall florid man with thinning gray hair and pale blue eyes. He extended his right hand, then patted my shoulder. “Call me Brian.”
“Welcome t’ the family, Hammie luv!” said the short portly woman. “I’m May. Bry an’ me, we got here as quick’s we could, aftah th’ sergeant here rung us up. Y’ look all done in, luv. We’ll give Kate a ring t’ assure her y’ made it okay, get a good supper in y’, an’ yore’ll be right as the ol’ rain by tomorrah mornin’!”
Then the dear woman threw her plump arms around my aching neck and planted a big wet kiss on my trembling lips.
Two weeks later, when Katy arrived, she pointed out that developing my film would have removed any doubts as to my veracity—had anyone ever had such doubts.
