Journey to the Sea by Alexander McCall Smith & Sarah Brown

Author:Alexander McCall Smith & Sarah Brown [Smith, Alexander McCall & Brown, Sarah]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Tags: Short Stories
ISBN: 9780091900694
Amazon: B0089WCLW6
Publisher: Ebury Digital
Published: 2005-04-06T17:00:00+00:00

DON REDONDO GOES SURFING WITH BOB DYLAN

BY CARELESS CONSTIPEDA, AS TOLD TO DREW KAMPION

IT WAS IN my eleventh year at Los Angeles Valley Junior College that one of the most bizarre encounters to date occurred in my long history of bizarre encounters with the Malibu beach bum, Don Redondo.

As some may know, Mr Redondo has been one of the major resources for my ongoing study of the anthropology of the sub-society called surfers.

Why I consider him such a resource is almost a mystery to me now; it seems he was helpful somewhere back there. What’s clearer is that I’ve become a resource to him; I’ve been taking groceries down to his ticky-tack beach bungalow for eight years now. How that started is a whole other story – best summarised, perhaps, by the phrase ‘psychophysical blackmail’.

Maybe I smoked too many double-enders or something, I don’t remember, but the guy had some weird kind of hold on me, that’s for sure.

Anyway, going back to this experience in my eleventh year (I’m in my thirteenth now and hope to graduate soon), I was carrying two or three bags of groceries from my car (a ’65 Triumph Spitfire) around the side of the house when I ran into Don. He was pulling his 13-foot rhino-chaser out from under the house. It was dusty and dirty and grangy beyond belief, and I almost warned Don not to tuck it under his arm, but then I noticed that he was dustier and dirtier and grungier than the old surfboard.

‘Eh, watchit, where yer goin’, Cornflake!’ It was a typical unceremonious greeting, peculiar to ageing watermen, I figured.

‘Uh, sorry, Don,’ I mumbled, though he really irritated me. ‘I was just bringing down the groceries.’

‘Whatcha think, beagle brain, I ain’t got eyes ’n ears? Puttim’ behint th’ sofer, will ya? I got cump-nee comin’.’

‘Why do you want me to put the groceries behind the sofa if you’ve got company coming, Don Redondo?’

‘Cheeze! Ya dumpflake, whatuf he’s got yer munchlies or brings a gangle of friends er a hungry date? Ain’t got enuf fer one of us let alonely six er nine. So g’wan ahead an stick it back there behint yer sofa and don’t be given the Don none a yer Nth degree!’

‘Okay, okay . . . sorry I asked.’ He certainly wasn’t mellowing with time, though he did seem to be fermenting. As I stuffed the bags behind the rancid sofa, I pondered whimsically whether Don might merely be going through a stage. Why couldn’t he just become another Malibu bag lady and push a supermarket cart around all day collecting flattened aluminium cans and Slurpee containers? Why couldn’t he find a utilitarian niche in the scheme of things and leave me to finish my Associate of Arts degree in relative peace? Why couldn’t he just get out of my . . .

These reveries were interrupted by a deep, hollow sound, like someone pounding on an empty oil drum. Don Redondo, as was his custom, had banged me on the head with one of his big, fat, grubby, clenched fists.

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