Author: Doug Jacquier

It all adds up

/ Doug Jacquier / 36 Comments

This piece was written for the Six Sentence challenge, with the prompt word of ‘explore’.

The pedagogic method that Professor of Mathematics at H. R. Umph University, Archer Roman, used to awaken young minds and explore the hitherto unplumbed depths of their intelligence was to occasionally posit a trick question (hence his nickname of Fibbin’ Archie) and see how long it took them to cotton on.

The conundrum for his students was that he would do this randomly in amongst an otherwise world-class grounding in applied mathematics, which had become an almost obligatory pre-requisite to join the upper echelons of key scientific fields, such as computing, environmental science and the military (e.g. developing methods to kill people more efficiently).

On this particular day, Professor Roman (sporting his usual eccentric attire of trilby hat, kilt and Doc Marten boots) posited this problem to his rapt but anxious students: ‘What mathematical formula can be used to measure the likelihood of a politician lying at any given moment? Use all that I have taught you to reach your answer and provide proofs as to how you achieved it, by tomorrow.’

The wailing that evening from the student accommodation, fed by a constant stream of pizza and Red Bull, was akin to that said to emanate from the lower depths of Hell and one poor soul had to be restrained from hurling himself through a third-floor window.

The following morning a sorry parade of bedraggled and red-eyed students shuffled into his class, with the single exception of Teresa Green, a scholarship student (courtesy of the benevolence of the Max Factor Foundation) who clearly had experienced a refreshing sleep and was as bright-eyed and bushy-tailed as a vixen.

Professor Roman fixed on Teresa and said, ’You appear to have either given up or solved the problem’, to which she replied, ‘When x equals the degree to which the subject’s lips are moving, any value of x above zero is proof positive of the presence of mendacity’, and the width of the professor’ smile far exceeded the length of the other students’ faces.

Note: Sorry, but I couldn’t resist a pun on the name of one of the great mathematicians of all time, Fibonacci, from which Fibonacci numbers are derived. Fibonacci sequences appear in biological settings, such as branching in trees, the arrangement of leaves on a stem, the fruitlets of a pineapple, the flowering of artichokes, the uncurling of a fern, the arrangement of a pine cone, as well as the family tree of honeybees. They also do something very clever when it comes to tracing your genealogy back to where you started but I got lost somewhere in the seventh begat.

A gripping tale

/ Doug Jacquier / 37 Comments

This piece was written for the Six Sentence challenge, using the prompt word of ‘grip’.

‘Well, Lieutenant, do you think this is the work of Cornflakes Magee, the famous cereal killer, or does it have the telltale MO of the Handlebar Kid, or maybe even the shocking hallmarks of Electric Bill?’

‘No, Sergeant. This has to be the work of Jack The Gripper, as you should have been able to deduce immediately from the contents of that grip bag that he dropped in haste: alligator clips, stillson wrench, BBQ tongs, all the usual paraphernalia, including that dead giveaway of the hardened criminal, superglue.

Obviously your next question will be, ‘where is he now?’ and, again, I would have thought that would have been obvious, even to you, Sergeant; there’s little doubt that he’s found an undercover-in-plain-sight job in the film industry as what else but a grip, a lighting and camera guy.’

‘But, Lieutenant, surely he wouldn’t want the spotlight on him like that when he knows the heat’s going to be on.’

‘On the contrary, Sergeant, he loves the attention and may be working as the key grip, the head honcho.

But my hunch is he’ll be working as a dolly grip, in which case we’ll track him down in no time.’

The naif fisherman

/ Doug Jacquier / 29 Comments

This piece was written for the Six Sentence challenge, with the prompt word of ‘net’.

I’d been driven by my friends to an exhibition (not at a gallery but at the artist’s house or, more correctly, the artist’s parents’ house, a mudbrick two-storey faux-Gothic number nestled in a forest background), where the wine was served in pottery goblets made by a local ‘craftsperson’ who saw anything that would sit on a flat surface as hopelessly bourgeois, and the nibbles were vegan and indigestible.

Sibilant cutting remarks echoed through the faux medieval gallery, complete with its redwood refectory table that seemed to have been adzed by a blind drunk and chunky chairs that would require a backside like a mattress to endure for longer than five minutes.

The paintings themselves were of the naif school (i.e. devoid of any talent for drawing or eye for colour), consisting of a cross between Alice in Wonderland and the Kama Sutra as seen by someone tripping on LSD, and the number of red dots on them indicating sales was testimony to the number of sucker fish caught in the artist’s net.

A growing susurration led to a focus on the stairway, from which reluctantly descended a fey young man with Jesus locks and wispy beard (it wasn’t quite the Second Coming but the beatific faces of the assembled multitude would have given you pause for thought).

Overwhelmed by the moon-faced adoration of the throng, he retreated upstairs (perhaps even to Heaven?), as those that hadn’t made it to the front of the crowd tut-tutted at the insensitive behaviour of those who had.

Once that it was apparent that the wine had run out, my friends approached me and invited me to gush over the precocious talent on display and, given that it was a long walk home, I proffered ‘The images I have seen today will haunt me until I resolve them more fully’, and they nodded sagely.

Blood brothers

/ Doug Jacquier / 28 Comments

This piece was written for the Six Sentence challenge with the prompt word of ‘shift’.

The longer the years stretched out, the sooner that Garth expected to receive the call that it was his turn to remove some heinous citizen that had escaped the clutches of the law and thus thought themselves not only free but invincible against any attempt to exact justice upon them.

Nonetheless, when the call came, it not only surprised him but terrified him that he might fail the Brotherhood that he had called upon in his own hour of need, after his son was left brain damaged from an unprovoked beating by a steroid-enhanced nightclub bouncer, who had walked free on a technicality.

Whatever the target had done, it was not for Garth to question his assignment; the Brotherhood had assessed the case and unanimously agreed that the deed needed to be done, although they left the timing and the methodology to the assigned terminator.

This particular criminal against humanity was a surgeon with a reputation for turning up in the operating theatre drunk and recently a woman had died on the operating table during a routine operation that he’d botched, only to see the profession close ranks and exonerate him and, most gallingly, have the Queen touch her sword to his shoulder and tell him to ‘Arise, Sir Gregory’.

Garth studied his quarry for several days to establish his pattern of movements, his family and friendship networks and the times and locations when he was most likely to be alone and settled on one of the doctor’s clandestine late-night visits to a high-class call girl.

The deed done, fittingly with a scalpel, Garth fancied a pint or three at his local pub and, when he entered, one of his cronies noted that he hadn’t seen him for a couple of weeks and he replied calmly ‘I’ve been on Knight shift.’

Sour kemo sabe

/ Doug Jacquier / 37 Comments

This piece is in response to the Six Sentence challenge, using the prompt word of ‘center’

As The Lone Ranger and Tonto came over a ridge, from a small ranch-house they heard a woman’s cry, shrill and piercing.

They galloped towards the ranch-house and before they could dismount, a woman ran towards them, clutching a small child and yelling ‘Help, help, my husband’s in town in Dead Center but he’ll be home soon, please save me!’ and ran back into the house.

The Lone Ranger followed and through her sobs she told him how she’d overdone the chilli in the chilli con carne, her husband’s favourite dish and now it was ruined, but he assured her he could fix it and headed for his saddle bags.

While they waited, the part-Appache woman took Tonto aside and asked why his friend wore a mask and Tonto replied, “Like to look good, get old, get crow’s feet.”

The Lone Ranger returned and stirred sour cream into the chilli con carne, tasted it and said “Works every time, you try it’ and relief enveloped her face when she did.

The Lone Ranger said ‘Our work here is done, Tonto’ and Tonto replied  ‘Yes, kemo sabe’ and the woman smiled as she waved them away, wondering how long it would be before somebody told The Lone Ranger that ‘kemo sabe’ was Appache for ‘horse’s backside’.

Thanks to Gary Larson for the ‘loan ‘of the last line.

Behind the scenes

/ Doug Jacquier / 34 Comments

This piece was written for the weekly Six Sentence Challenge, with the prompt word of ‘bowl’,

As many of you know, when I single-handedly won the war with Antarctica (quibblers may suggest that’s because I was the only one who turned up), I donned my dinner suit and danced with the penguins well into the night, only to have the producers of Happy Feet steal my thunder.

These days, I moonlight as creative advisor to a host of entertainers and world figures but confidentiality agreements mean you mustn’t breathe a word of what I tell you, except for the divine and unpretentious Lady Gaga, who’s happy to admit that I came up with the idea of the meat dress.

When President Obama invited me to the White House to thank me for my previously unsung role in designing his first election campaign (yes, I could), I enthralled his other guests with my playing of the Star Spangled Banner on a musical saw and delighted them with my stories of when I used to sit in for Charlie Watts occasionally when the Rolling Stones were on tour.

Few people know I was an old friend of Fred Astaire’s and that I was invited to deliver the eulogy at Fred’s funeral; not only was there not a dry eye in the house, when I bounded onto the coffin and tap-danced to ‘Top Hat, White Tie and Tails’, soon the whole wake had a fascinating rhythm.

And then of course there’s my writing, including my uncredited role as script advisor for Titanic, Star Wars and Saving Private Ryan (the stories I could tell about what really went on in those landing craft between takes will have to wait for another day.)

Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to prepare my acceptance speech for the Oscars, where I’m to be presented with a Lie-Time Achievement Award, otherwise known as the Hyper Bowl.

Alternative justice

/ Doug Jacquier / 33 Comments

This piece was written for the Six Sentence story challenge, with the prompt word of ‘alternative’.

The magistrate for the far-flung region of Beyond The Black Stump, Joseph ‘Cocker’ Mamie was known for dispensing the kind of judgements that bordered on frontier-style but were always begrudgingly accepted by its citizens as justice, even if a little bit rough and ready.

So when Walter (Wally) Numbskull (playing the part of Cassius) allegedly stabbed Kevin (Big Kev) Knucklehead (playing Julius Caesar) with a real knife during the Scrubby Creek Shakespearean Theatre Group’s latest production, justice had to be done, even if the size and depth of the injury to Big Kev’s beer gut was largely negligible.

When Wally appeared before ‘Cocker’, he asked Wally if he had anything to say in his defence, which was akin to asking an alcoholic if he’d like another beer and Wally cheerfully explained the circumstances leading up to this charge of ‘causing grievous bodily harm’.

‘Yer ‘Onner,  when me and Big Kev got these parts in the play, we agreed that he’d wear a couple of sheepskins around his guts during his performance, so the stabbing scene would look more fair dinkum* but on the night he forgets to wear the padding, doesn’t he, and here I am accused of a heinous offence.’

‘Cocker’ paused for a moment before saying “Wally, you’re obviously technically guilty as charged but in light of the fact that both you and the complainant are clearly mentally incapable, I’m going to take an alternative route and put you on a Good Behaviour Bond, on condition that you shout* the bar at the pub until 6pm this evening. Court dismissed and mine’s a single malt whisky.’’

Australian slang decoder

* Fair dinkum – true, real

*Shout – buy a drink for another person or a group. Similar to a round in other cultures.

Seasonal Variations

/ Doug Jacquier / 31 Comments

This piece was written for the Six Sentence challenge, with the prompt word of ‘season’.

Barnaby took an elastical approach to the Ecclesiastical wisdom that to everything there is a season; the advent of 24/7/365 sports coverage meant that somewhere north or south of the Equator someone, somewhere, was getting obscenely rich by entertaining the obscenely poor.

He was a great believer in seizin’ the day, irrespective of the carpers seeking D&M moments to achieve their fulfilment, rolling up their peace in their yoga mats and strolling in their leisure wear through the supermarket of life.

This devil-may-care approach to the seasons worked less well in his gardening pursuits, where the green shoots of his sweet corn didn’t take kindly to the first frost and the tomatoes boiled on his unshaded vines in 40C+ week-long heat waves.

Sailing seas ‘n’ oceans was his holiday of choice in the main and he pursued the eligible ladies on board with a passion; he was especially fond of widows who had some grass.

When his progeny came to visit he was only too willing (in fact overwilling) to provide them with the benefit of his accumulated wisdom, especially the males, who dreaded conversations beginning with ‘See, son, ..’

And he delighted them (so he imagined) with his culinary skills, when in fact most of his concoctions were barely edible but his family had learned to cope over thyme (especially Basil and Rosemary) as they lived out the dictum that for every bad meal there is a seasoning.

Shout

/ Doug Jacquier / 7 Comments

This piece was published on StereoStories .

Marysville Hotel, Victoria. 1977

By the time I met the Australian rock legend Johnny O’Keefe in 1977, I was working as a roadie for a middle-of-the-road pub band. They played the classic hits that suburban and country audiences wanted to hear. Hardly rock and roll heaven but it was work. The band’s career highlight came when they were booked to back the legendary Johnny O’Keefe at the Marysville pub.

As the band travelled to Marysville, everyone was excited to be working with a household name, albeit someone who had long been considered a has-been. Johnny had presented the TV shows Six O’Clock Rock and Sing Sing Sing in the late 1950s and early 1960s. He was more of my older sister’s era but everyone knew about Johnny and his music, as well as his psychiatric issues, his car crashes and his battles with drugs and alcohol. The tsunami of the Mersey sound and US West Coast rock swept over him in the mid-60s and his career never recovered.

As the band was setting up, Johnny’s manager arrived and, handing out sheet music and a running list, said there would be no rehearsals or sound check. I remember him using the phrase “it’s not rocket science”. Which was just as well because the lead guitarist was the only one who could read music and he would signal and mouth the chord and key changes as needed during the show.

The place was packed, including a large contingent of men with slicked-down ducktail haircuts and women with wide skirts supported by half a dozen starched white petticoats. In country towns history lives.

The band had worked their way through their usual sets and now it was time for Johnny. The only spotlight the pub had was trained on him as he made his entrance, resplendent in his tailored red suit. Our lead guitarist intoned: “Ladies and gentlemen, the king of Australian rock and roll, Mr Johnny O’Keefe!” and the crowd rose as one as he launched into a strangely stiff and unwild version of The Wild One.

As he progressed through all the old hits like She’s My Baby, I’m Counting on You, Move Baby Move and She Wears My Ring, I could sense an uneasiness in the crowd. Like me, they seemed to be thinking “Well, he’s here but he isn’t” but they were tempering their disappointment out of respect for The King and what the tickets had cost them.

There was the usual fake finish and the crowd played their part in demanding more. He was going to finish with his famous call-and-response hit, Shout, allowing the audience to vocalise their devotion.

And that was when disaster struck for me and for Johnny. He was half-way through the famous opening sustained holler of ‘We-e-e-e-e-e-e-ll’ when his microphone died.

With no time to find the fault, I ran to the stage, grabbed the protesting lead guitarist’s microphone and trailed the lead out to Johnny, who was standing motionless and impassive in the middle of the floor, staring a thousand yards into the distance. As I handed the microphone to him, scarlet from head to toe, I said lamely ‘Sorry, Johnny’. As I looked into his vacant and unresponsive eyes he mumbled ‘That’s alright, mate’.

I scrambled back to my desk, praying to the God of Roadies that everything would work out and it did. “W-e-e-e-e-e-ll, you know you make me wannna shout …..”

After the standing ovation and the refusal of more encores, Johnny’s manager bundled him into a car and they sped off into the night. Within a year, in 1978, Johnny was dead from a drug overdose, at the age of 43. And the Marysville pub burnt down in the Black Saturday fires of 2009. But they’ll both be alive as long as I live.

The rescued quarter pig

/ Doug Jacquier / 34 Comments

This piece was written for the weekly Six Sentence challenge, with the prompt word of ‘quarter’.

Every evening I’d see my neighbours out walking their dogs and I decided I should get one as well, so one Saturday I went for a country drive to see if there were any signs out advertising new litters.

I was having no luck but then I spotted a sign reading ‘Unusual Pets For Sale’ and pulled into a farm, finding an old man sitting in his rocking chair on the porch.

After the usual pleasantries, I asked if he had any dogs and he said “No, but how about a three-legged, two-headed chicken” but I declined.

“No? Then what about this feller then” and he whistled up a one-legged pig supported by a contraption with wheels.

Anticipating my question, he said “That pig saved my son from drowning once and we thought it would seem ungrateful to eat him all at once”.

Now my rescue pig, Quarter, and I have become the talk of the neighbourhood as we stroll on our afternoon walks.