boy. He stopped listening altogether after he heard the words ‘Sprigley here insists he’s totally lacking in ammunition’.
‘I see,’ said Mr Trench, nodding thoughtfully. ‘Thank you.’ He put the phone down and turned to Jack. ‘Well, then. According to the intelligence I’ve just received, there are two commonly accepted markers that indicate whether a boy is, in fact, on the path to being a man. One: the testicles begin to enlarge. Two: the target acquires what’s known as “pubic hair”.’ He paused. ‘So. Sprigley. Any testicular enlargement to report? Any “pubic hair” on the radar?’
‘Negative, sir. I mean, no . Sir.’
‘Well, let’s not abandon hope. You’re sure to experience the opening salvos of “Operation: Manhood” sooner or later.’
‘Well, if Ms Porter says so.’
‘Ms Porter? No, she wasn’t available as it happens.’
Jack frowned. ‘Then … who were you talking to just now?’
‘Good question. I could hear some vacuuming going on in the background, so it might have been one of the cleaners.’
So it’s worse than my private business being discussed with the Sex Ed teacher , thought Jack. It’s being discussed with the cleaning staff. The younger of whom, according to Jack’s sister, Hallie, sometimes bought alcohol for the Year 11s and hung out with the Year 12s, trading school gossip.
Mr Trench regarded Jack for a moment. ‘I can see you’re concerned, Sprigley. And perhaps quite rightly. So what if I were to suggest something that might help you advance the front line, so to speak?’
Jack had a feeling things were about to get even weirder.
‘Manhood, you see, is not something that just happens . It’s something that has to be taken charge of. There’s a whole army of male sex hormones lying idle within you, Sprigley. An undisciplined rabble just waiting for a general to marshal them into action. It’s you who must lead the charge. You must act like a man in order to become a man.’ Mr Trench peered over his glasses at the papers on his desk. He picked them up and shuffled them nervously for a moment. ‘Now, I see from your file that you might be … well, let’s say, “lacking a strong male influence”. Your father, I gather he – ?’
‘Yeah,’ said Jack. ‘When I was eight.’
There was silence for a moment. ‘And … what did he do?’ Mr Trench looked down at the paper again. ‘“Peter”.’
‘He did the weather report on the local news,’ said Jack.
Mr Trench frowned. Jack couldn’t tell if he was trying to offer sympathy, or if he was just disappointed that Jack’s dad hadn’t been a policeman or firefighter or a tank commander or something.
When he was very young, Jack thought his dad actually controlled the weather – that the forecast he read out at the end of the news each night was a heavenly pronouncement. That he had the power to clear the skies or summon the rain or hurl down thunderbolts like a god. The story had passed into family lore: a little in-joke that had briefly lifted the mood at the funeral.
Then Jack had made the mistake of mentioning it on camera during Bigwigs , and the producers had run the clip over and over whenever they needed a contestant sob story. It didn’t matter how many workplace challenges he led his team through; every time they played that stupid clip, it made him look like a dumb kid who believed his dad had superhuman powers.
‘Terrible business,’ said Mr Trench, after a pause. ‘But what makes the situation all the more tragic is the way this “modern” world denies young chaps like yourself a clear-cut path from boyhood to manhood. That’s why I founded the Lionheart Tigerwolf Self-Discovery Adventure Camp. Haven’t looked back. Every month we go off camping in the Woodrose State Forest – sons, fathers, grandfathers – and hunt and fish and wrestle and just generally get in touch with our inner animal.’
‘Lionheart Tigerwolf?’ said Jack. ‘That’s a lot of
‘I see,’ said Mr Trench, nodding thoughtfully. ‘Thank you.’ He put the phone down and turned to Jack. ‘Well, then. According to the intelligence I’ve just received, there are two commonly accepted markers that indicate whether a boy is, in fact, on the path to being a man. One: the testicles begin to enlarge. Two: the target acquires what’s known as “pubic hair”.’ He paused. ‘So. Sprigley. Any testicular enlargement to report? Any “pubic hair” on the radar?’
‘Negative, sir. I mean, no . Sir.’
‘Well, let’s not abandon hope. You’re sure to experience the opening salvos of “Operation: Manhood” sooner or later.’
‘Well, if Ms Porter says so.’
‘Ms Porter? No, she wasn’t available as it happens.’
Jack frowned. ‘Then … who were you talking to just now?’
‘Good question. I could hear some vacuuming going on in the background, so it might have been one of the cleaners.’
So it’s worse than my private business being discussed with the Sex Ed teacher , thought Jack. It’s being discussed with the cleaning staff. The younger of whom, according to Jack’s sister, Hallie, sometimes bought alcohol for the Year 11s and hung out with the Year 12s, trading school gossip.
Mr Trench regarded Jack for a moment. ‘I can see you’re concerned, Sprigley. And perhaps quite rightly. So what if I were to suggest something that might help you advance the front line, so to speak?’
Jack had a feeling things were about to get even weirder.
‘Manhood, you see, is not something that just happens . It’s something that has to be taken charge of. There’s a whole army of male sex hormones lying idle within you, Sprigley. An undisciplined rabble just waiting for a general to marshal them into action. It’s you who must lead the charge. You must act like a man in order to become a man.’ Mr Trench peered over his glasses at the papers on his desk. He picked them up and shuffled them nervously for a moment. ‘Now, I see from your file that you might be … well, let’s say, “lacking a strong male influence”. Your father, I gather he – ?’
‘Yeah,’ said Jack. ‘When I was eight.’
There was silence for a moment. ‘And … what did he do?’ Mr Trench looked down at the paper again. ‘“Peter”.’
‘He did the weather report on the local news,’ said Jack.
Mr Trench frowned. Jack couldn’t tell if he was trying to offer sympathy, or if he was just disappointed that Jack’s dad hadn’t been a policeman or firefighter or a tank commander or something.
When he was very young, Jack thought his dad actually controlled the weather – that the forecast he read out at the end of the news each night was a heavenly pronouncement. That he had the power to clear the skies or summon the rain or hurl down thunderbolts like a god. The story had passed into family lore: a little in-joke that had briefly lifted the mood at the funeral.
Then Jack had made the mistake of mentioning it on camera during Bigwigs , and the producers had run the clip over and over whenever they needed a contestant sob story. It didn’t matter how many workplace challenges he led his team through; every time they played that stupid clip, it made him look like a dumb kid who believed his dad had superhuman powers.
‘Terrible business,’ said Mr Trench, after a pause. ‘But what makes the situation all the more tragic is the way this “modern” world denies young chaps like yourself a clear-cut path from boyhood to manhood. That’s why I founded the Lionheart Tigerwolf Self-Discovery Adventure Camp. Haven’t looked back. Every month we go off camping in the Woodrose State Forest – sons, fathers, grandfathers – and hunt and fish and wrestle and just generally get in touch with our inner animal.’
‘Lionheart Tigerwolf?’ said Jack. ‘That’s a lot of
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