Pushed from the Wings: An Entertainment

By Ross Fitzgerald

Teetotal hypochondriac hero, Grafton Everest is overweight, indolent, indecisive and gets on badly with most of his fellow academics at tin pot Bowen University. He'd prefer spending most of his time in bed. If things seem bad, they only get worse when Grafton discovers that his old high school teacher recruits graduates for national security work. And with the Free Enterprise World Symposium coming to Bowen he needs Grafton, who suddenly finds himself up to his neck in clandestine operations involving everyone from the Premier down. There’s missing nuclear waste somewhere and Bowen campus is awash with radical splinter groups and terrorist cells, all seemingly hell-bent on apocalyptic action. They’re nutty enough to give political correctness a bad name.

"The good Doctor, Ross Fitzgerald, has invented a 16-stone, hypochondriac, degenerate creep, Grafton Everest." - Steve J Spears

"Grafton Everest is a wonderful creation whom I would place without question in the ranks of Philip Roth’s Portnoy and Kingsley Amis’s Lucky Jim." - Barry Humphries

• Language: English
• Publisher: Ross Fitzgerald
• Release date: Nov 22, 2013
• ISBN: 9780987325327

Ross Fitzgerald

Ross Fitzgerald (born 1944) is an Australian academic, historian, novelist, secularist, and political commentator. Author of 36 books, in 2009 Professor Fitzgerald co-authored "Made in Queensland: A New History", published by University of Queensland Press and also "Under the Influence, a history of alcohol in Australia", published by ABC Books. In 2010 Professor Fitzgerald published "My Name is Ross:An Alcoholic's Journey" and "Alan ('The Red Fox') Reid", both published by New South Books. In 2011, he co-authored "Austen Tayshus:Merchant of Menace", published by Hale & Ironmonger, Sydney, and "Fools' Paradise: Life in an Altered State", published by Press On/Arcadia in Melbourne. Emeritus Professor of History and Politics at Brisbane's Griffith University, he was also the Queensland Chair of the Centenary of Federation. His books include five works of fiction: "Pushed from the Wings: An Entertainment"; "All About Anthrax"; "Busy in the Fog: Further Adventures of Grafton Everest"; "Fools' Paradise: Life in an Altered State" ; and "Soaring". Fitzgerald currently writes a regular column for The Weekend Australian and reviews for the Sydney Morning Herald, The Weekend Australian and The Canberra Times. He appears on ABC Radio, ABC Television, and Channel 7 in Australia.

Book preview

PUSHED FROM THE WINGS

An Entertainment

Ross Fitzgerald

Illustrated by Moir

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2013 Ross Fitzgerald

This is a work of fiction.

Like History, all characters

and events are make-believe.

This book is copyright. Apart from any fair dealing for the purposes of study, research, criticism, review, or as otherwise permitted under the Copyright Act, no part may be reproduced by any process without written permission. Inquiries should be made to the author.

Ebook published in 2013 by Chris Griffith

National Library of Australia Catalogue Card no. and

ISBN 0 86806 242 1 (casebound)

ISBN 0 86806 243 X (paperbound)

ISBN 978-0-9873253-2-7 (e-book)

For more information about this eBook, or to provide feedback about the publication, please contact the author at [e-mail] or visit www.rossfitzgerald.com.

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‘Grafton Everest is a wonderful creation whom I would place without question in the ranks of Philip Roth’s Portnoy and Kingsley Amis’s Lucky Jim.’

Barry Humphries

'The art of fiction is

lying like the truth'

Daniel Defoe

1. OLD BOY

Grafton Everest examined his cock. It was the second time he’d been unfaithful since the marriage. He scrutinized the knob and scrotum, then standing on the bed, spread his ample arse, looking backwards into the mirror for telltale signs. Everything seemed in order, but there was a pimple on the inside of his right thigh and his arsehole was sore. Can you catch anything from a blow-job? Grafton wished he knew. Wished that through all that formal edu­cation he’d gathered in some pertinent facts about the body. Another article on herpes in The National Times had got him think­ing. It’s worse than syphillis and gonorrhoea, and there still doesn’t seem to be any cure. No one’s safe.

‘Why is it such a lonely business?’

Grafton adjusted his red nightshirt and pulled the sheets back up. He looked at his paunch, felt heavy with fatigue. The episode with Glenda had occurred on Friday — already it seemed aeons away. He lifted the selector, switched on the evening news. It was the same sorry miscellany: Iwasaki tourist resort at Yeppoon in Queensland bombed again; volcano erupts in Equador engulfing an entire village; a majority of black nations to boycott Olympic Games at Seoul; more scandal with the Bicentennial; the snake charmer, Norman the Great, was eaten today by his ten-year-old python, in front of an audience of a hundred and fifty; American troops reinvade Iran. Disasters merged into commercials: the land of your dreams at Little Waspley; an orgiastic chocolate bar called Sux. Grafton usually entered competitions during the breaks, but tonight — waiting for himself to appear — he was composing a letter. Grafton liked seeing himself on television; it made him feel real. (For that matter, so too did a blow-job.) Filming the commen­taries did get him out of bed, and shaved, showered and dressed into the bargain. When the news team came at lunchtime, Janet got them to take different shots of the house. Her house, Grafton reminded himself. Before the marriage Grafton had hardly enough money to buy a Vegemite sandwich. He loved being a prophet of doom: ‘Channel 12’s political commentator, Dr Grafton Everest, predicts the end is in sight for the Premier Mr Hagan. The Nor­wood by-election will go to the Liberals. A change of leadership is imminent.’ Now, observing himself, Grafton admired the pin­striped suit he’d worn for the occasion. ‘At least people are begin­ning to listen to what I say,’ he announced to Che, the slim chocolate-brown Burmese, who lay just out of reach. ‘I’ve come a long way.’ He rubbed the reluctant cat behind her ears. ‘Yet why am I so bored? Why are there so many gaps between anything that matters?’

Grafton’s Sunday night offering lasted the usual ninety seconds. ‘It doesn’t last long, does it?’ Grafton asked rhetorically. Already he had disappeared into a clip of the purple jacarandas at New Farm Park.

‘How did I look?' Janet — a willowy 180 centimetres — stood by his ruffled bed, with the cane breakfast tray he had given her for their second wedding anniversary.

Unlike his chronically dissatisfied self, the equitable Janet was never bored, almost always enthusiastic, her life filled with projects that actually interested her. ‘Fine, just fine my love,’ she said. ‘You sounded very knowledgeable. And the house looked grand.’

‘I don’t feel very well,’ replied Grafton. ‘I’ve got such terrible sinuses, I can’t get any air in.’

‘Oh well,’ said Janet, fluffing his pillows, ‘some food will fix you up.’

‘Why am I so unhappy?’ he pleaded.

‘The heat’s getting you down,’ said Janet gently.

‘Is that what it is?’ he responded, not entirely convinced. ‘I can’t write. Why can’t I?’

‘I don’t know my love,’ she replied, unperturbed. ‘Perhaps you expect too much.’

‘I need another holiday,’ persisted Grafton. ‘I’m thinking of going to Melbourne again. For a rest.’

‘What a good idea,’ Janet said brightly. ‘While you’re away I can weave. And you can visit your mother. It’s ages since you’ve seen her.’

Grafton winced. He usually got asthma when he thought of Avis. It was she who had taught him the dangers of breathing. ‘Don’t get too excited,’ he said severely. ‘I haven’t gone yet. Anyway, I might be needed at the University. You never know.’

They ate their dinner — lemon chicken, snow peas and plenty of boiled potatoes — watching a repeat of Sha Na Na. ‘Teen Angel can you hear me,’ bawled the television. ‘Teen Angel can you see me. Are you somewhere up above. And are you still my own true love.’ Tears swam in his eyes.

‘Most of my past is a blackout,’ he mourned. ‘What a terrible life I had.’

‘I like going back into history,’ affirmed Janet, passing him a large second helping. ‘It puts life in perspective.’

‘I’m really not very well,’ Grafton announced as an advertisement for Flash Nappy Wash appeared. ‘My piles are playing up again.’

Ignoring his complaint, Janet enthusiastically expounded the benefits of the weaving workshop she was completing.

‘What’s for pudding?’ Grafton asked glumly.

‘One of your favourites,’ she answered meticulously. ‘Bavarian cream.’

Over coffee and camembert Grafton read her the letter:

The Principal

Forest Hill Boys High

Prahran,

Victoria. 3181

Dear Principal,

As an old boy of the School, I would like to pay a visit when next I am down in Melbourne. I am hoping you can arrange this as I intend writing an article about my formative days at School. This will comprise part of a planned extensive study of Educational Experience in Australia.

I look forward to receiving your reply.

With kind regards,

Grafton Everest (Dr)

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‘I’ve done all right,’ Grafton remarked, more to the cat than to Janet. Propping his sixteen stone up in bed and looking out the window at their lush landscaped garden and swimming pool below, he tickled Che under her chin. ‘I’ve got a PhD. I teach at University. I appear on TV. And I’m still only thirty-seven. The best years of my life are ahead.’ The Burmese didn’t seem impressed. She wagged her long proud tail, waiting to escape.

‘My arsehole’s really hurting,’ he whined. ‘What do you think I should do?’

‘I’m not a doctor, my love,’ said Janet, removing the breakfast tray and passing him a Callard and Bowsers. ‘But why don’t you try to get in tune with the natural order of things?’

‘Do you think it’s dangerous?’ asked Grafton.

‘It’s distressing, but it’s not dangerous,’ comforted Janet. ‘I’m sure it’ll be all right in the morning . . . Especially if you get an early night. If you don’t mind, my love, after I tidy up and put the dish­washer on I’ll go downstairs to work on my loom.’ Kissing him lightly on the cheek, she switched off the bedroom light.

‘I’ve got to go to Bowen tomorrow,’ lamented Grafton to the cat. ‘How will I ever make it?’

He glanced furtively at his cock and thought of Glenda. Surely it’s a bit early, even with my luck? There were still no obvious blemishes. Grafton said his prayers and switched the light back off.

2. KNOW NOTHING. NOTHING TO KNOW

‘Socratic interrogation allows one to strip away the false conceit of subjective knowledge.’ Grafton glanced up from his hand-printed notes to survey the sea of uninterested faces in front of him. The lecturer fanned himself. Christ, this heat. And the humidity! It’s almost impossible to talk, let alone think or write. Bearded Profes­sor Dreighton, the other member of the political theory teaching team, and recently deposed Chairperson of the School, was asleep in the back row. An extreme conservative, Abe Dreighton wrote incomprehensible neo-Aristotelian political philosophy. A cigarette — still alight, but soggy — hung distended from his lips.

‘Socratic ignorance . . .’ Grafton looked at his students — a mishmash of the bored young, incompetent old and amateur agita­tors who had made up Bowen since he arrived. From the CAE at Warrnambool, Grafton reminded himself — heroin capital of Aus­tralia and the coldest place in Victoria. He shuddered. I’m for­tunate to be here, that’s the awful truth. In this economic climate, there’s no jobs anywhere. He paused, wistfully thinking of Janet and Che and his large bed at home. ‘Socratic ignorance is clearly contrasted with Platonic certainty.’ At Bowen Grafton always dealt in dichotomies; it simplified things so that his students could understand. Enveigled to enter University in order that the Institu­tion could continue to exist, they copied down the contrast word for word. ‘He constantly asked questions, but gave no answers. Socrates was wise enough to know that he knew nothing. This is because essentially there is nothing to know.’ Not a murmur came from the class.

‘No answers are to be found in the world of space and time. There are no answers,’ announced Grafton. ‘Socrates was right on the ball about that. He wrote nothing. Not a line! That’s why I specialize in the early writings of Socrates.’

He smiled weakly, but the joke provoked no response.

‘Apart from the fact that Socrates was born and that he was put to death, we know nothing empirical about the philosopher. Socrates is a myth,’ he revealed, peering at the clock. There were only five minutes to go. ‘But he’s a myth that can affect one’s life. In the world of space and time, Nothing Matters Very Much, as the Vedanta says. Socrates tells us that what matters is to be true to what he called the inner voice. The daimon wasn’t conscience,’ Grafton con­tinued. ‘For Socrates it was the infallible voice of God.’

‘Was the guy on drugs?’ asked a thin, vacant-eyed youth who looked like he’d recently been shooting up.

‘Of course he wasn’t,’ Grafton crossly replied. ‘He had nothing in his blood but blood. Along with St Joan, and possibly Jesus, Soc­rates,’ Grafton said reverently, ‘was one of the greatest mystics of all time.’

‘You don’t say,’ said the lad, open-mouthed.

‘I think that’s a pile of crap,’ cried a yellow-haired punk-rocker, her dark eyes glazed. Anyway, they reckon St Joan was a man’. A flat right breast half hung from her shirt. The rest of the group were impervious.

At least you’re thinking, Jackie,’ replied Grafton. ‘If you still read, may I suggest you peruse Plato’s early dialogues. The key to them,’ he confided, ‘is to find out Socrates’ first name.’

‘That’s a joke . . . Another joke,’ he explained. ‘Next week’s lec­ture will be about Socrates’ trial. It’s the second last for the semester.’

Grafton sighed, closed his lecture pad, took one last look at the crowd of intellectual pygmies in front of him, and ponderously walked to his room. Why doesn’t anyone care about standards. Soon we’ll be scouring the geriatric hospitals for students. Already Bowen boasted a seventy-five-year-old woman who wore a brace. In the School of Human Studies no one fails. Human Studies! It’s so hot it’s a wonder anyone produces anything. And it’s still not even summer! How does Janet continue to weave, he wondered, and be so goddamm cheerful and efficient?

What am I doing here? he cried. What have I done to deserve this? Grafton flicked on the fan and fell on his desk in despair. His office looked a very temporary affair. Unfilled entries for the National Bank's Free New Zealand Kiwi Holiday littered his desk. Apart from wads of memos, Kleenex, committee meeting agenda and competition forms, the only reading material in the room was The Last Days of Socrates.

Glenda entered without knocking. Wearing an Army disposal jungle outfit, reminiscent of the late sixties, she conspicuously held a well-worn paperback of Trotsky’s The Permanent Revolution.

‘That’s a cop-out’ the student announced, taking off her camouflage combat jacket. ‘Saying Socrates knew nothing, and that there’s nothing to know.’ She was a pale plump girl with a face like a pumpkin. A ‘Leave Me Alone’ badge and a tiny red flag were pinned to her chest.

‘What does it matter?’ inquired Grafton.

‘It denies revolutionary possibility. It’s Queensland we’re living in you know. Not Victoria or New South Wales. This is a fascist police state. Things have to be changed here — by radical praxis. What a gross man that Boss Hagan is. He’s repression personified,’ she continued with distaste. ‘And a minion of the mining trans­nationals.’

‘It’s not really my fault,’ responded Grafton.

‘How did you know I was sleeping with my father?’ she asked slyly. ‘How could you tell?’

‘Intuition. It’s a gift of mine. I’m particularly interested in incest.’

‘Did you . . .?’ Glenda asked with wide clear eyes.

Grafton shook his head. ‘But it almost certainly would have been healthier if I had.

‘Thin walls have ears,’ he added in a whisper, gesturing to the partition that separated him from Dr Knox, a Northern Ireland sociologist who specialized in witchcraft. ‘He’s trying to get some­thing on me before he retires.’ Grafton looked again at the student, putting a fat finger to his lips. ‘I’ll meet you at the usual place, by the bridge.’

Bowen had been built adjacent to a state forest. Pupil and instruc­tor walked separately through the main campus, past the Human Studies Building — constructed in 1978 in the belief that the eight­ies would produce