The Somerton Man Movie Deal

It happens. Someone says someone is writing about the Somerton Man and before you know it the email rings from a movie agent in Sydney, an American, and he wants to come up to cow country and spin a deal with the writer.

Me.

He, the Yank, is a fat little man in a sharp suit and snappy straw hat. His driver waits in the airport limo, windows closed, aircon on full bore, radio playing Uptown Funk. He’s lighting a raggedy looking cigarette.

That’s Looseleaf, he’s a local lad. Grows his own.

He looks over at me and waves. Mate!

.. then blows smoke.

The fat man is George. We meet at the front door, shake hands and go sit out on the deck, the Border Ranges blue in the distance. A dead cow just over the fence, ripped up by the wild dogs, it’s been there for six days and nobody wants a nor-easter kicking in and bringing the stink into the house. The bloke who owns it is competing in a rodeo up in Townsville.

George asks.

‘So who’s the dead guy at the end of the book?’

‘The bloke they were all chasing.’

George takes notes.

‘Who was they?’

‘Everyone.’

George looks at me, ‘you Aussies are real smart guys, aren’t you?’

‘Didn’t think you’d notice.’

‘So who’s everyone?’

‘FBI, CIS, NKGB, Mi5.’

‘Sure you didn’t forget anyone?’

A kookaburra laughs and a large huntsman spider slowly approaches George’s right shoe, reaches it, climbs over it, reaches George’s sock and heads on upwards inside his trouser leg. This does not go unnoticed by the interviewee.

‘Who’s the babe?’ I mean there is one, isn’t there?

‘A nurse.’

George adds more notes. Mutters to himself.

‘We’ll need cleavage and hair colour, high heels.’

‘This other guy, Boxballs, where does he fit?’

‘Boxhall, he’s in it up to his nose, couldn’t lie straight in bed.’

‘Ladies’ man?’

That gets a laugh. Alf’s nickname was the Wombat, like he eats roots and leaves.

‘Who else gets top billing?’

‘A Russian, a Yank, couple of poms and a blonde.’

George’s face lights up.

‘Who’s she.’

‘Joy.’

‘Love it,’ says George, writing hard. ‘Her and the Wombat, did they ever ..?’

‘Nah, mate, there’s no sex in this book, it’s a work of literature.’

Suddenly George screams, jumps to his feet and swats frantically at his right trouser leg.

‘What the FUCK is that?’

‘A male huntsman spider having lunch, if you can get to a hospital in less then ten minutes then the bite may not be life threatening.’

‘Where’s the nearest one?’

‘Lismore, 30 kilometres away. Looseleaf should remember the way if he’s not too whipped.’