Moonlight with a Twist of Urchin
Hey guys, Culture here for another edition of Culture's Storytime… starring me, Culture.
This time I'm sharing a romantic yarn, though this one could be considered more of a loose
thread.
An unfinished tale, the suggestion of a possibility of something more…
But perhaps that's best left for you to determine for yourselves.
Indeed, you might quite rightly deem it a frivolous evening of playful flirtation with
an unspoken promise of discontinuity.
I was there and heck if I know, but it's always more obvious from an outside perspective.
So yes, this is a story, complete with beginning, middle, twist and end, but it's also a question
I'd love answered.
I call this tale "Moonlight with a Twist of Urchin".
Let's start with the beginning, shall we?
We can't all be Tarantino after all.
I received a message from my friend; let's call him Stinky Pete for no reason in particular.
He's having a party at his place near the beach, boys' weekend.
A couple nights down there drinking excessive amounts should knock some sense out of us.
It seems a ritual at my age: Remind yourself how alive you are by getting so hungover you
wish you were dead.
I guess that's why they call it "getting mortal."
Despite full-well knowing this, I was up for it.
I packed a bag with a couple towels and changes of clothes (because there's a 90% chance
I end up in the freezing water on a midnight dare) and got a lift down with a couple of
the guys.
The road trip is an interesting dynamic.
It's a balance of power between the DJs.
Every DJ has an opinion on what constitutes "good" road trip music.
Some want to belt out songs, others want a chill tune to accompany the scrolling scenery
and, of course, the head-bangers get their word in edge-wise.
They banter back-and-forth, fighting for control of the mystical AUX cord.
Reigning above the petty squabbles of the passengers is the driver, the last word on
what music gets played.
That's because they hold the ultimate card: "My car, my music".
And thank the heavens for that, because otherwise I'd be forced to sit through another 40
second medley of The Killers, Thirsty Merc and David Guetta.
The road trip also creates hype; suspense for the getaway ahead.
You start talking about who's going to be beer pong champion and who's going to end
up with their head in a toilet (Often, it's the same person).
In this particular case, the hype revolved around a new toy my friend had brought along:
A dog's shock collar.
Apparently inducing a mind-aching, stomach-churning hangover isn't enough to certify a weekend
well-spent, we also have to shock each other stupid.
He told us about him and his brothers taking turns using it, how funny it was, how surprisingly
painful it was.
Exciting.
Needless to say we were all keen to get there, down a couple shots and strap on the collar.
As we pull up to the beach house however, an obstacle to our otherwise perfect plan
appears: Dogs barking in the neighbour's yard.
Jessie and Blossom.
Stinky Pete says the names like they're curse words.
He thought his neighbours were away for the week, and it gets worse: His neighbours are
his Uncle and Aunty.
Suddenly the no holds barred weekend ahead of us just became a little more tame.
There'd be no late night music blasting, no drunken screaming, no nude runs down to
the beach.
If any of the above fell under the watchful eyes of his Uncle and Aunty it'd be reported
straight back to his Mum and that would be the end of that.
It's a visible dampener on Stinky Pete's mood, and we make an effort to cheer him up.
It'll still be a good weekend, we still have the house to ourselves and we can always
party further down the beach if we want.
Pete appreciates the effort and puts on a smile, pulling out his bottle of Bundaberg
Overproof Rum.
He says there's no car in next-door's driveway so we have some time before the prison
guards get back: Let's unpack as quickly as possible and get down to business.
The booze was quickly flowing, our spirits were high and we were ready to try out the
acclaimed shock collar.
This thing was no joke: With 8 adjustable levels of shock intensity and a remote control,
I felt we were in the presence of some primo pet control technology.
Of course none of us felt comfortable using the collar on an unassuming pet like Jessie
or Blossom; instead we turned its torturous capabilities on one another.
Pete had first honours, eager to put on an elaborate façade that would convince us the
shock collar wasn't "that" bad.
He trusted me with the remote control, knowing that I wouldn't dare break his commands
for fear of having the favour returned to me 10-fold when my turn came.
The lowest level is a simple beep and vibration, a signal that would be enough to correct my
behaviour.
But apparently some dogs out there need a high voltage shock to get the message, and
this was the setting that fascinated us, a veritable Brain's Trust.
Pete took it quite well, knowing what to expect, but the other boys were less composed in their
reactions.
Now, it was my turn.
The collar consists of two metal prongs that stick into your neck awkwardly, tensing the
muscles beneath pre-emptively for the shock ahead.
The remote was turned up to 8 and at the press of a button my mind went on to autopilot.
All conscious thoughts were pushed out and replaced with a repetitive message of disapproval
for the stimulation I was experiencing.
My body convulsed in part, my hands instinctively reached for the collar and took it off.
Only then did I manage to laugh along with the other guys, who must have found my expressions
during all of this very amusing.
A loud KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK on the door suddenly caught our attention.
Pete peeked out the window: In all the frivolity we hadn't noticed a car had pulled in next
door.
We stashed the collar away and turned down the music somewhat in a futile attempt to
hide how ludicrously drunk we were.
Stinky Pete answered the door: It was his Uncle.
He cut an intimidating figure in the doorway.
He looked like the kind of stern ex-army guy that'd give a kid a smack across the backside
for back-talking him.
"Having a party, Pete?"
He well knew Pete was having a party.
Pete said yes.
"Your Mum know about this, Pete?"
He well knew Pete's Mum had no idea about this.
And he also knew that every time he repeated Pete's name that Pete would swallow, his
Adam's apple bobbing up then down.
Pete said no.
His Uncle breathed in deeply through his nose.
"Well then…
I won't tell if you don't."
Pete's Uncle winked at him and pushed past into the living room.
It turns out his Uncle is a pretty chill guy when his wife isn't around, unbeknownst
to Pete.
"It's just me and the girls down at the moment," his Uncle explained, "so don't
worry about your Mum chatting to her sister."
He introduced himself to the rest of us (though this man needed no introduction at this point)
and saw fit to make himself comfortable in the middle of our party.
There was some hesitation at first: It felt a little like he was chaperoning us to the
school dance.
But my mind quickly changed on that point after he threw back a couple Skittle bombs
with us and insisted on trying the electric dog collar.
Somewhere in the midst of the growing insanity of the night, my enteric nervous system decided
that perhaps rum, tequila and gin don't mix.
I sought fresh air, escaping out the back of the property and onto the beach with one
of my friends.
He was just as soused as I was but played hero all the same by looking after me as we
walked towards the headland.
As we talked about who-knows-what, we noticed a group of people about our age sitting around
a fire in the sand.
There's not much to see up near the headland but it's plenty isolated and as such draws
kids from all over the area.
In any other mental state I would have found it far too awkward to join these strangers
in what appeared to be a quite tight-knit gathering, but as it was I plonked down next
to one of the more hairy attendees and introduced myself.
I think I shook his hand in the way a used-car salesman does, smiling but with deceit underneath.
Except instead of trying to con him into giving me his money, I was pretending to be sober.
Why I felt this was necessary is beyond me, as previously explained: I was drunk.
Maybe I thought I'd come off as cool, or in control of my actions, or at the very least
willing to put in some modicum of effort.
He was very laid-back, introducing me and my friend to the rest of his rag-tag gang.
One girl in particular caught my eye, let's call her Moonlight.
She was incredibly cute, had a gorgeous smile and a tendency to play with her hair when
she talked.
The first time I got her to laugh made my heart leap, and she locked eyes with me.
Lacking any semblance of "chill", I immediately moved to sit next to her.
Moonlight was day-dreamy; she could get lost talking through her own thoughts.
I liked that.
Much better than someone who has nothing to say.
And it wasn't that she talked over me, it's that I was so enraptured by her ideas that
I didn't feel the need to speak except maybe to put forth a prompting question, spurring
her further.
The group's conversation became a murmur in the background as Moonlight and I chatted.
I became very aware that this was like a scene out of one of those films where all the teenagers
go on camp and discover themselves and end up playing instruments around the fire while
they talk about life, the universe and everything; Except in our case the others were seeing
if they could spit beyond the dune a dozen metres or so away.
But in our little bubble, we were perfectly content.
It was getting late and Moonlight wanted to get home.
I was more than a little disappointed, until she asked if I'd walk her back.
Of course I would.
I told my friend where I was heading off to, having sobered up enough to be responsible,
and Moonlight and I headed off back down the beach.
Having left the comforting warmth of the fire and having lost my beer jacket, my hair stood
up on end.
Moonlight moved closer with her unzipped hoodie and pulled it around me.
Take that, stereotypical gender roles.
We walked quietly like this, in peace, all the way back to the shore behind her place.
Her place looked familiar though.
The house next to it was lit up, music blaring and sprightful yelling emanating from within.
Her place had two dogs in the yard, barking at the commotion next door.
Jessie and Blossom.
I thought the names to myself like they were curse words.
I thought they were the "girls" that Stinky Pete's Uncle was down at the beach with,
but of course he must have meant his daughters.
I know his Uncle is cool with drinking and improvised electroshock therapy, but something
tells me he'll be less cool about a guy cosying up to his daughter.
But no harm no foul, right?
I just needed to say goodnight to Moonlight, get her number and chat to her later.
Unfortunately on the back balcony of Stinky Pete's house, a couple of the guys had noticed
us.
"Lovebirds!
LOVEBIRDS!"
They yelled frustratingly loudly.
Go find your own lovebird, I thought.
Luckily they couldn't see us very well in the dark.
I just needed to get out of sight before Pete or his Uncle walked out to see what all the
ruckus was about and- oh, oh, there they are.
Right there on the upper balcony.
"LOVEBIRDS!"
They join in the call.
Most definitely they can't really see us, or I doubt Pete's Uncle would be so exuberantly
calling out.
I turn to Moonlight whose hand is covering her face in shame.
"Oh my god, my cousin and his stupid friends are down here," she says.
"And your Dad," I say.
She looks at me quickly.
We move behind a bluff nearby and I explain the situation to her.
"I'm one of your cousin's stupid friends."
We're silent for a moment, and then I can't help but laugh at the situation.
She pushes my shoulder playfully.
"It's not funny!"
That makes it even funnier to me.
She explains how psycho her Dad got last time she was caught with a boy.
The vein on his neck had bulged out like one of those squishy mesh ball toys.
I thought that was a bit of an overreaction considering she was plenty old enough to make
her own choices about-
Wait, how old was she exactly?
It hadn't come up in conversation.
I ask her.
She's 15.
I was 18 at the time.
Uh oh.
I had been blindly chasing the moonlight and stepped right on a sea urchin.
And she knew I was 18, I had talked about going to uni.
She says she's "almost" 16.
Ergh.
When you have to explain that you're "almost" a certain age, it means you're definitely
too young.
No 40 year old has ever had to explain "I'm almost 41" to justify their actions.
She snuck out the bluff on the other side and I waited a little before sneaking out
after her.
I returned to the party which at that point consisted of Pete, his Uncle and the 2 other
guys swapping stories.
I joined the circle, the others completely oblivious that I was the one they'd just
been shouting at like lunatics.
I didn't get to chat to Moonlight again.
We never swapped numbers, and I left the next day while she was out of the house.
Sure she was too young, and we definitely weren't in the right place to pursue anything,
but there's still a lingering regret there.
I'm still friends with Stinky Pete however, and he's planning another trip down to his
beach house soon.
Who knows, maybe his neighbours will be there again… see you all soon!
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