The Darby Factor

The Darby Factor

A Hilarious Conspiracy of Bad Luck and Good Vibes

Greg Paten

The Darby Factor

Copyright © Greg Paten 2013

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

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A copy of this publication can be found in the National Library of Australia.

ISBN: 978-1-742843-76-6

Published by Book Pal

www.bookpal.com.au

Contents

Introduction

Chapter 1

Darby Himself

Chapter 2

Darby and the Washing Machine

Chapter Three

Darby and the Dog

Chapter Four

The Conference The Airport

Chapter Five

The Conference The Can

Chapter Six

Darby and the Hostie

Chapter 7

The Rotto Chronicles

Chapter 8

The Rotto Chronicles Darby and the Divot

Chapter 9

Darby and the Flare Or Darby and Us and the Whale and the Girl and the Stingray and the Flare

Chapter 10

Reticulator 2 The final Solution

Chapter 11

Darby at Dowerin

Chapter 12

Darby in the Driveway

Chapter 13

Darby and the Golf Day

The End-lude

Ssshhh!! Be very, very, quiet

Introduction

Hey, Kev, your shout!

Mick pushed the empty jug around the table in little circles to demonstrate that it was indeed someone’s shout but he didn’t really care who took up the offer.

No problem, mate - I’m on it.

Kev grabbed the jug and unwound himself somewhat unsteadily from the table and seat configuration that someone had obviously designed to prevent just such a move after a few jugs.

Where the hell’s Darby got to anyway?

Went down to the boat to see the girl off, I think.

Bloody boat’s been gone twenty minutes. Even Darby can’t get lost between here and the jetty, - can he?

I think he’s waiting to see the boat disappear over the horizon so he’s sure she’s gone.

As if in answer to their question, Darby’s whereabouts was revealed to everyone within a kilometre of the Quokka Arms right then.

A female scream – not the really terrified type of scream, - just the female version of Shit - type of scream, rent the air.

This was closely followed by the distinct sound of pushbike clatter. I don’t think there are very many different types or varying degrees of pushbike clatter - they, too, are all usually followed by Shit!

This clatter was.

No one at the table was seen to leap up to provide assistance, although a few did actually stand to peer down the path to where the commotion seemed to be centred.

Darby was on the ground - Darby’s bike was on the ground. Both were being fussed over by a nubile young thing with her bikini top clinging precariously to those it was supposed to contain. This sight did in fact draw some assistance from young male bypassers, although no one actually assisted Darby.

We simply looked at each other with the oft used expression that says to all of us, Darby’s done it again.

Beside the crowd of rescuers, Darby quietly sorted out which bits were his and which bits belonged to the pushbike and limped over to join us.

Bit of a problem, Darb?

Ah, not a catastrophe. Just swung out to pass the chick, got a bit close to the edge and the bitumen broke away on me. Wheel buried in the sand and it was arse over head and goodnight Dick. Didn’t know which way was up there for awhile till she bent over me and I recognized heaven, and I know where that is. Besides, I know which way the little fella points in these situations.

Yeah! She walked through here a little while ago. You just missed it."

Makes twice I’ve just missed it. Maybe I’ll get lucky on the third strike.

Christ, Darby. Why do these things just happen to you. I mean, must’ve been a thousand people ride over that bit of path, - and it breaks away just when you ride over it, - all fifty kilos of you.

Yeah! I said, I’m starting to believe in something I call ‘The Darby Factor’ You know, something like Murphy’s Law, - only you seem to have your own personal version of it.

Kev arrived back with more beer just as I said Gee whiz, Darby, - you could write a book about you.

All three looked at me. Mick poured the beers. It was left to Kev to voice all our thoughts.

G.P. You old wordsmith, you. Why don’t you do just that?

I thought about it for a swallow or two, then said

Darby, I reckon I can do something that might make you famous and me rich.

Darby was on it as usual.

Sure you can’t think of a way to get it the other way round?

I guess that was the moment the concept that became The Darby Factor was born.

Chapter 1

Darby Himself

The title of this chapter is, in itself, probably as misleading as anything I can tell you about Darby. The title itself reeks a bit of the brogue.

You see, Darby is not Irish. It just seems sometimes that he should be. The Irish have left a clear footprint on the Australian culture, - I think it was in the shape of a thong, with the words engraved on the sole, - You’re bloody lucky I’ve got a sense of humour.

Yeah! That’s Darby all right, - as Irish as he never was.

Darby is not a big man. In fact, Darby is quite a small man. That description, however, relates only to his physical appearance. Every other aspect of Darby is bigger than life, - or at least bigger than any life I’d ever imagined.

Darby is about five foot five in the old money and weighs in at about fifty five kilos in the new. He is somewhere around fiftyish in years in anyone’s currency. His friends call him Darby Schwartzeneger. And the little big man has a way with a one liner that can curve a conversation before you know it’s even bent.

I’ll diversify here to ask you if you ever wondered why the most unfortunate happenings seem to happen to some people with unfortunate regularity. You know the type, - if you had to cross a back street of Birdsville in the off season with one of these people, it’s best to keep a good degree of separation, because destiny would decree that right at that moment the Leyland Brothers would sweep into town with brake drums full of the Simpson Desert and take out all before them.

Not unlike the Leyland Brothers, Darby himself is adventurous. Darby loves to do things. Darby loves nature, - which is also a good thing because Darby, being the only person I have ever known with a heart bigger than his entire body, wouldn’t step on an ant. This trait alone has probably averted a spate of nasty accidents, because Darby is one of those people you’d rather not wander about Birdsville with.

Darby seems destined to live with a degree of luck that most of us would never wish for. Someone once said of him If Darby didn’t have bad luck, - he’d have no f---ing luck at all.

Yeah! That’s Darby all right.

Darby lived a Spartan life, alone, in a little cottage in the hills, - the alone-ness and the Spartan-ness being the result of an unsuccessful marriage and a more unsuccessful divorce. Darby’s cabin is an idyllic spot, deep in the stands of majestic Karri and Jarrah, that nature spent a long time growing, - no doubt just to make a home for Darby. Darby bought his home from a family that had lived there for twenty years, incident free. Soon after Darby moved in things, - just things, - began to happen. The septic system turned traitor, - the hot water wasn’t, - the pump didn’t, - and the area was hit by the worst storm since settlement, the eye of it centered squarely on Darby’s castle.

Bad luck you might think. Depends how you look at it, because when Darby was in trouble, his friends rallied. This obviously led to some frequent and prolonged rallying I can tell you. Ah yes! Darby is responsible for bringing together the diverse group of people that became almost a family in itself. This has led to the also diverse, almost bizarre adventures and happenings that became our lives.

I’ve tried to unravel Darby’s origins but haven’t had a great deal of success. The closest I’ve come was during a relatively serious interview from which I gleaned a few quotes.

I was born at a very young age, in a small town, just outside of Wedlock---Now I can’t vouch at all for Darby’s parentage. All I can rely on is some gossip I’ve heard at times around the traps. In the time I have known him, I have heard him referred to as ‘ poor bastard - an unlucky bastard - a little bastard - a silly bastard - silly little bastard - an unlucky poor bastard - that bastard - a little prick, - and a wanker.’

Most of these seem to point to the fact that his claim may be true.

I don’t know anything about the last two.

Darby is an amazing man in all his stature. He has a touch of salt and pepper sprinkled through his hair and moustache that befits the wit and the wisdom that makes the man. During his eventful (I have no doubt about that) life, he has been somebodys son, - someones husband and somebodys father. He has been a wanderer, a welder, a salesman, supervisor, a manager, and a bankrupt, a friend, and a lover - the last he claims not as often as the others.

Darby is one of those rare people who claims to be an expert in no particular field, though, at the same time, a master of many. He has roamed the land, - the deserts, the mountains, and the plains, - always gaining something and always giving something. To the best of my knowledge Darby doesn’t have an enemy in the world, - well, apart from the Labor party and the tax office. He has enriched places, people, and projects everywhere, yet at the same time not enriching himself materially. I suspect Darby gives more than he takes from any given situation.

Then again, the lack of any material gain whatever may just be attributable to ‘The Darby Factor’ You know ‘what the world giveth – the factor taketh away’ Or the government. And that brings us to another aspect of Darby.

Darby is a liberal. In fact, Darby’s political leanings are so far to the right he makes Ghengis Khan look almost upright.

Darby even once had lunch with Bronwyn Bishop - and enjoyed it. (Personally I think he enjoyed it because she was the only person Darby has had lunch with who was shorter than him - well, without the hair anyway.) But after working tirelessly for the party during one particularly disappointing election defeat,