Tourist Traps
by
Kurt Ulmer
SMASHWORDS EDITION
Published by Kurt Ulmer Publishing on smashwords.com
Read my Shorts
Copyright © 2011 by Kurt Ulmer
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Disclaimer
This short story is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to persons living or dead is purely coincidental.
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Tourist Traps
There is one in every town. No, not the town drunk or the woman with a reputation. Although we have both, I want to tell you about our town funnyman. He is good at what he does and makes pocket money from entertaining unsuspecting tourists.
Trevor Cash, who should really go by the name Martin Cash, is a guide in a small tourist town in Tasmania, Australia. Trevor is in his early 60’s. He has been a tourist guide for quite a while and knows about people. He needs to understand people so that he can entertain them. Not everybody wants to be entertained. He has to pick the right target. Trevor had first perfected the art of reading people when he was a tourist coach driver.
I first came across him in the township of Zeehan on Tasmania’s West Coast in 1972. I was staying at the local motel when a busload of tourists arrived. They were on an “Under 30’s Experience”. There were 26 women and three young men, not counting the coach driver who was then in his late twenties. Quite a few single men, Zeehan is a mining town, and a few married hopefuls congregated in the bar. After two drinks, all the under 30’s left the bar.
I was breakfasting the next morning when the motel cook came out of the kitchen and sat next to me.
“Hope I didn’t keep you awake last night,” he grinned.
“There was a bit of something going on in the unit above me,” I replied.
“That was me with three under 30’s in me waterbed,” he confessed.
“Three?”
“Yes. This is what usually happens when the under 30’s stop here.”
“Good for you,” I said not knowing whether I should congratulate him, call him a dirty dog or be envious.
“Trevor was in the unit next to me,” the cook wanted me to know.
“Trevor?”
“The coach driver. He never has threesomes. He is a single man,” the cook chuckled. “One at a time. I call him revolver. Girls come to his unit like through a revolving door and because he is loaded.”
More like the male equivalent of a slut, I thought. But being a polite person I remarked:
“That explains doors opening and closing.”
“You’ll get a good night’s sleep tonight. The next tour is not till the 15th,” the cook said.
“That’s good to know. So Trevor is a real stud then?”
“Is he ever! By the end of day one, he knows the score. He knows which woman will be first and which one will be last. He understands women. They compete for him. It is unbelievable. I have been to parties where he is in the bathroom and the girls line up for him. I kid you not. He is like a ram. Keeps going all night.”
“And drives a bus all day?”
“Beats me how he does it. What’s more he is a married man with children.”
That was Trevor in his twenties. I saw him again as an older man. He was selling real estate and was very good at it, so I heard. He moved into our village. I guess he was semi-retired and helped out now and then when people from a cruise ship came into the village in four or five buses. Trevor showed them round the town and answered their questions. Most of these visitors were Americans. Many were middle aged woman, a few elderly widows and some elderly couples.
When “Love Boat” passengers come into the village, Trevor lures the older couples into his trap. The Americans are always good for a bit of sport as far as Trevor is concerned.
“Yous are from the Love Boat aren’t yous?”
“We sure are,” the sucker replies.
“On yer honeymoon, are yous?”
“Hell no,” the husband replies. “We’ve been married for 45 years.”
“Doesn’t show,” Trevor declares. “Yous gonna stay together then?”
“Sure will,” the gullible husband professes.
“I think the gentleman is having you on,” the wife hints and smiles
“Are you?”
“Never,” Trevor replies and looks for another victim.
Everybody laughs at the innocent fun. Trevor is a master at understanding people, especially women. None of the visitors have ever said an unkind word about him. I don’t know what his missus has to say about this elderly chick magnet. She keeps pretty much to herself.
Trevor has another bit of sport. His opening move comes after a sneaky look at names on visitors’ name badges. Ordinary names like Smith or Jones or Williams won’t do. He needs a Gilberthorpe or a Worthington, a Gillespie or Markgrunder or a Thistlethwaite. Harrington would be ideal. He needs unusual names and there is always at least one in every group. Trevor needs only one. The trick only works once.
He picks a man usually. Let’s say Trevor has found a man named Gilchrist.
“Gilchrist,” he says. “Gilchrist ……” Trevor strokes his chin and looks at the man and the others. “Gilchrist … now why does that name ring a bell?”
“Got it!” he declares with a triumphant index finger pointed upwards.
“Hah! Gilchrist. Do you realize that one of your ancestors was Barney Gilchrist?” Trevor announces. “Barney Gilchrist, the first Clerk of the Hobart District Criminal Appeals Court? But there is more to him than that, I’ll have you know.”
Of course, the unsuspecting tourist knows nothing about Barney. But now everybody is hooked. Trevor continues:
“Mind you Barney did not start out as a clerk of the court. His nickname was Trotter Gilchrist. And of course you want to know why?”
Trevor then tells them about Barney Gilchrist, the butcher from Liverpool, transported to Tasmania for seven years for having meat that wasn’t his to sell. He had priors as well. As soon as Barney had served his term, he opened a butcher shop in Hobart. Barney was up to his old tricks again. He was charged with stealing a horse and selling it as beef. Barney had made a big mistake. It was the magistrate’s horse and an even bigger mistake: Barney had kept the hide. He was arrested, charged and tried.
The Magistrate found him guilty but was taken aback when Barney said:
“I will appeal.”
“On what grounds you impudent scoundrel?” the Magistrate replied.
“Prejudice. It was Your Worship’s trotter. Clearly you should have disqualified yourself from sitting.”
“Ah! Not just a scoundrel but a smart scoundrel. I note that you have previous, shall we say acquaintances with the law?”
“Minor matters, Your Worship. Mere bagatelles,” Gilchrist contended.
“I take it that you can read and write Mr. Gilchrist?”
“That is correct Your Worship.”
“I guess you know that the Appeals Court won’t be sitting for a while?”
“I do. There is no one to preside and no clerk,” Gilchrist replied.
“I have a proposition for you. Let us suppose I find you guilty as charged. I record no conviction and pardon you on two conditions. That you pay me for my trotter and that you accept the position of clerk in the Appeals Court.”
“I accept but insist that the horse be valued at a knackers’ yard price. It was an old and lame horse as Your Worship well knows.”
“Agreed,” the Magistrate said. “And I keep the hide.”
“Done.”
Trevor then pauses for the dramatic ending:
“And so, Trotter Gilchrist, your ancestor Mr. Gilchrist, is the only man ever in the world to be arrested, charged, convicted, pardoned and rewarded with a well paying position for flogging a dead horse.”
Mr. Gilchrist is a good sport and has a good laugh as he puts his notebook and pen away. Trevor Cash, who should be calling himself Martin Cash, explains more about our town and keeps visitors entertained with facts, figures and myths.
So if you ever do a tour in Tasmania with Trevor Cash as your guide, be a good sport and play along. Don’t spoil it for the others. Smile. You’ll be the only one who knows that someone is about to fall into a tourist trap.
Martin Trevor Cash, for that is his full name, has a famous ancestor. Martin Cash, the notorious but likeable Martin Cash, bushranger. He was a gentleman bushranger and by many accounts popular with the ladies. One evening, it had been raining heavily all day, Martin was drying his pants by the fire in the kitchen of a country mansion. He had lovely company of course. And since he had his pants off already…..
The master of the house, who by the way was the Governor of Tasmania, surprised the pair. He recognized the bushranger. Martin, rather than making a quick getaway, dressed calmly, kissed the kitchen wench good-night and wished the Governor a good night. It had been raining all day and the Governor’s trousers had been drying all afternoon. You guessed it. Martin took the Governor’s dry pants. Ever since that day, Martin became known as Pants Cash. Don’t tell Martin I told you so.
It is this little story that I keep in reserve when I take unsuspecting tourists for a walk around our town. In twenty years of walking with tourists, I have only had one opportunity to tell the Martin Cash story. It was worth it, believe me. It was a real pleasure leading a Cash into a tourist trap.
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About the author
I have one grandfather who was a builder. My other grandfather was a stonemason and my father was a traditional blacksmith. Both my grandmothers had cooked for a living, one in a hotel and the other for well-to-do people. A career in construction or perhaps engineering or catering would have been an obvious choice.
Instead, I spent 20 years in business and in mid life retrained myself. I chose to work with my hands as my father and grandparents had. I become a renowned woodcraftsman and founded with my wife an art and craft gallery in a Tasmanian tourist town. After 20 years there, we followed our children to mainland Australia to retire on Victoria’s Bellarine Peninsula. I took up writing seriously in 2003. Working with their hands, creating and shaping materials has occupied my forebear. From stone, to iron, to wood. Now I spend my time putting pen to paper. The medium is getting softer.
Now that we have gotten to know each other a little, you might want to read more of my short stories?
You’ll love the stories in “Read My Shorts”. Just follow the link for a collection of ten Australian short stories that aims to make you laugh, a little scared, think and smile. https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/49629
