Ever the troublemaker

I presented my pass to the awkward looking volunteer manning the door of the BMW Edge Theatre. He seemed puzzled that I should want to go inside to watch the next event and asked me if I was really sure if I wanted to. I told him I did. He shrugged, scanned my pass, and I walked through the door and into a wave of kid stink.

It was a year since I had been around so many children and I forgot just how much they smell. In small packs they’re fine, but en masse, they reek, offending nostrils with a sour playdough odour. I decided to move to the front of the theatre in the hope I could avoid the worst of it. I found a gap about mid-way through the first row. It’s an odd sensation sitting in on the Schools’ Program. I’m not used to being around that many people who still have hope and joy in their lives.

The teachers continued feeding their children into each row of the theatre, until they reached the first row. They seemed hesitant to let their young wards sit next to me. I was glad I had shaved my moustache off a few weeks prior to the festival, as it would only amplify the creepiness of the one adult male sitting next to a group of kids. After all, there are only ever three responses to a moustache:

Your mum – “Shave it”
Your girlfriend – “Shave it”
Everyone else – “You look like a sex offender”

One teacher conceded and ushered some kids in next to me. A small Indian boy sat down, sizing me up with the blunt perspective of the young. He asked if I was a teacher and I told him I wasn’t. Then he asked what I did for a living. I explained that I was a writer. He sat on this thought for a moment before asking what type of books I wrote. I informed him that I haven’t written any books, only articles, columns, and comedy. Without missing a beat he said “Oh… so you’re not a real writer. Just an unemployable guy with a keyboard”

My grandmother’s words falling out of the mouth of an 8-year-old.

I did the only mature thing I could think of and crossed my eyes while poking my tongue out at him. My vision uncrossed to a teacher with crossed arms and a crosser face. She sent me to the ‘sin bin’, a space up the back of the theatre where I found myself grouped with a chubby kid who habitually crammed his fingers into his ears, taking far too much joy from licking the tangy wax off his finger tips. He proffered a stubby finger tipped with his head excretion that I politely declined. He seemed pleased that I said no and contentedly sucked at his own goo. I can’t believe after all these years I’m still sitting at the back of the classroom, ever the troublemaker.

On the stage, Andy Griffiths and Ursula Dubosarsky delighted their audience by discussing the international language of comedy – farts. All the kids were terribly excited at the prospect of reading more books about bottom burps. Perhaps this was a sign. Maybe I could find work writing about bums and the noises they make. While I sat there thinking of a title for my first big book about bums, I failed to notice the event had finished and the school children had mostly left. The Indian kid walked past me grinning. “Say hi to Centrelink for me”

I wanted to exact revenge against his smug remark, instead I smiled, knowing that in a few years the horror of puberty would be punishment enough.