Welcome to Story Club

by Zoe Norton Lodge

  ‘Naa,’ said Kenny, ‘they’ll be right.’

  ‘Well,’ said my mother, after another pause, ‘I suppose that’s fine then.’

  My father arrived home. He was astonished to find Kenny there. It wasn’t our practice to have new guests for dinner.

  ‘All right then,’ he said once he’d recovered. ‘I’ll get another chair.’

  We sat down. Kenny reached across the table and grabbed a piece of bread. He folded it in half and stuffed it in his mouth. My mother stared at him.

  Dinner was served: lamb chops, some mashed potato, peas and carrots.

  Kenny grabbed his fork in his fist, stabbed his lamb chop with it and then sawed off a piece with his knife. The piece was too large for his mouth, but he got it in there. My father stared at him.

  When he got to the mashed potatoes, Kenny turned his fork over, dug it in like a spade and shovelled a lump into his mouth.

  My parents were now politely ignoring him.

  I was horrified and thrilled. I had assumed that if you used the fork incorrectly, you went to jail. I didn’t know you could eat bread without cutting it into four neat quarters.

  Kenny finished.

  He sat for a moment.

  ‘I better be going, I reckon,’ he said. ‘See you tomorrow,’ he said to me.

  He pushed his chair back.

  ‘Good night, Kenny,’ said my father.

  ‘Yeah, see youse,’ replied Kenny.

  ‘Thanks for coming,’ said my mother.

  ‘No worries,’ said Kenny.

  The next morning, as I was getting ready for school, which involved putting the lunch and drink bottle Mum had made for me in my bag and then looking for my chance to steal twenty cents from her purse so I could get chips and potato scallops instead, Mum stopped and looked at me.

  ‘I’m not sure you should play with Kenny any more.’

  I shrugged. ‘Why not?’

  ‘Well, you’ve plenty of friends. There’s Phillip and Steven and we don’t really know Kenny’s parents. I don’t really want you going to his place either. We don’t know them and I’d prefer you to play with children we know.’

  I went off to school. At ten, we make friends in a rush and we shed them in a morning.

  I was an obedient child and at ten, my parents knew everything and I did what I was told.

  I wouldn’t have said anything to Kenny. I just would have stopped laughing as much at his jokes. I would have stopped trying to sit next to him. At lunchtime footy, I would have fought him for the ball instead of shepherding off the others.

  The home Kenny visited was a class fortress. My parents were lower middle class – a terrible class to be in. Lower middle means everything you want you cannot have and everything you can afford you cannot stand.

  My home was full of traps for Kenny. He was finished long before he sat down to dinner. Polite lower middle class children would know when introduced to an adult to say, ‘Hello Mrs Valentine, how do you do?’ The mere fact that he could stay for dinner without having to contact parents suggested he was not one of us. And then he used a fork in a way not considered seemly since the Vikings.

  Kenny was never going to be allowed back.

  But in fact, it’s remarkable Kenny got through the door to start with.

  Years later, in some discussion about our nation, someone says to me, ‘Well, what would you know, do you have any Aboriginal friends, did you grow up with them, were there any at your school?’

  I sat back stunned. I didn’t answer because I was so busy remembering. Kenny’s big wide smile in a black face. Kenny’s loping easy athleticism – just like a Nicky Winmar or a Michael O’Loughlin. Kenny’s mum and his little brother. Black.

  I’d never noticed. I was ten. But my mother did.

  If I showed a picture of my childhood home, you’d say, ‘What a great place.’ And yes, it was. But, sometimes, it was no place like home.

  NIKKI BRITTON

  Nikki’s professional accomplishments are far less interesting than the time she performed with a travelling circus in Paris, out of financial desperation, and was gifted an excellent recipe for charred fennel by a Flemish chef. But, here we are. A trained actor and clown, Nikki plays Marlo in Channel Ten’s How to Stay Married and Fanny Durack in the online sensation Sheilas. Nikki’s theatre credits include 51 Shades of Maggie Muff and She Rode Horses Like the Stock Exchange and as a playwright, she was nominated for a Glug Award. Touring nationally and internationally as a stand-up comedian, Nikki has played iconic locations such as The Hollywood Improv, The Habitat in Mumbai, Just for Laughs Festival and Rooty Hill RSL.

  ‘Nursing Juliet’ copyright © Nikki Britton 2018

  Nursing Juliet

  by NIKKI BRITTON

  This story was originally performed at the event But At What Cost?

  As I lay there, stuck somewhere between the promise of what was to come and the hatred of what was, she held out an apple and, with that, a choice.

  For better or worse, apples have had quite the run in popular literature. Snow White was given the poisoned apple by the Evil Queen and narrowly dodged death; William Tell shot an apple off his son’s head in the days when pointing a firearm at your child could get you out of legal trouble; and Eve tempted Adam with the forbidden fruit in the garden of Eden and, in doing so, ushered in the fall of humanity, the concept of shame, and all that is bad with the world. Oops. Isn’t that just sooo Eve? *rolls eyes*

  We have rotten apples, apples of the eye, the Big Apple, Apple Bottom Jeans, an apple a day . . .

  There are twenty-seven references to apples in Shakespeare’s writings, including references to Pippins, Crabs or Caraways. I learned this as a teenager, when I was obsessed with Shakespeare, because I loved fitting in and being popular. I remember how proud I felt the day I realised I could recite every single line from A Midsummer Night’s Dream. It was coincidentally the same day my virginity installed a built-in wardrobe and bought some very heavy polished oak furniture, remarking, ‘Well, I’m not moving on any time soon. Better get comfortable.’

  The line from Romeo and Juliet ‘Thy wit is a very bitter sweeting’ refers to the bittersweet taste of some apples being like conversations with some arseholes. Although, when I first read Romeo and Juliet, as a fourteen-year-old, I didn’t clock the botanical references as much as the hormone-fuelled insanity that is often referred to as the greatest love story ever written. I certainly saw it that way at the time. I completely understood how two people my age could fall so desperately in love they would rather die than live without each other. Uff! More than understand it, I wanted it. I wanted to be Juliet. I mean, not the whole ‘Is he asleep or dead?’ mishap, but certainly the ‘I can’t live without your love’ bit. Even more so, I guess, the whole ‘Having the kind of beauty that has a dreamy guy propose to you within moments of meeting you AND promise to take YOUR name when you get married’ bit. Wow. Good times.

  I had attempted to acquire love in the past.

  In Year Four, I tried to seduce my dreamy new classmate, Leonard Adams, during a forty-five-minute game of Newcombe Ball. Newcombe Ball, if you’re not familiar, is like volleyball, but rather than digging or spiking, or indeed volleying the ball, you would throw it over the net . . . then someone else would catch it . . . then throw it back . . . then someone catches it . . . and so on. If you imagine a good game of volleyball had developed a dependence on heroin, that’s Newcombe Ball. So, despite all the action of the game, I had plenty of time to casually sing the chorus of what I had recently found out was Leonard’s favourite song – Soundgarden’s Black Hole Sun – in order to entice him into conversation and then cement our relationship as boyfriend–girlfriend.

  Nothing. So, I sang it again, a little louder.

  Maybe he was hard of hearing, or maybe he was so focussed on the intensity of what was really just throwing and catching over a net that he had blocked all distractions. Either way, I didn’t give up. The perfectionist within me detested t
he idea of failure. And I sang, but only its chorus, mind you, Black Hole Sun on a loop for the next forty-five minutes.

  In Year Six, I was still single. But I had matured. I didn’t need the inconstant affections of little boys. I had found a new love. A dependable love. A supportive love. A supporting pole, in fact; it kept up the roof of the wet-weather shed, but when you shimmied up it like a horny monkey . . . Wow! Feelings I didn’t understand and didn’t care to understand filled my pubescent body. I would spend entire lunchtimes up there, legs wrapped tightly around the hard metal, watching the boys parade their male-ness on the Newcombe Ball court below from my stimulated aerial perspective. Idiots!

  But when I read Romeo and Juliet a few years later I realised, with a fourteen-year-old’s hindsight, that those had been silly, childish attempts at love. Juliet was loved without effort. When Romeo simply looked upon her ivory skin and damask cheek, he fell more deeply in love with Juliet than with life itself. Zoinks. Clearly, my romantic life wasn’t panning out the way my young ovaries hoped it would. So, I would become her. With the unwavering commitment of a zealot teenager I would become the image of the virginal, teenage ingénue (or as close to virginal as I possibly could after my brief friction with the supporting pole). I would change myself from the chubby, hair-crimping girl of primary school to the lithe, graceful, balcony-posing teenager Shakespeare had immortalised. I would become this thing people called beautiful.

  Looking back, my genetically husky voice, stocky build and early onset puberty meant I would most likely never become that impossible balcony sylph, begging the night to enfold me so I could be reunited with my love – unless the same person who went on to put Russell Crowe in Les Mis was casting an amateur-drama production of R+J, and even then trying to squeeze my new boobs into a dainty frock would be a challenge. And these days I am far more aware of who I actually am and who I might be cast as. There are far more interesting, gritty, hilarious and authentic roles to aspire to. I mean, not quite enough of these roles for women just yet, but we’re working on it. And one day, they will write the role I was born to play: Woman who eats hot chips and watches videos of people falling down. *Bowing* Thank you. Thank you all.

  But back then, I wanted so much to be loved. And to be loved you must be beautiful.

  A scan of 1996’s Most Beautiful Women list serves up a stunning variety of skeletal heroines to aspire to. Posh Spice and Princess Diana and the sunken eyes and sharp collarbones of Gwyneth. Fat was bad. And diets were in. And you could and should change your look to become desirable. Because then you would have power. And boys would fall in love with you.

  Watching what I ate became healthy eating, which became just eating fruit and veg, which became just eating fruit and veg three days of the week and nothing for the other four, which eventually became only eating half an apple a day for eighteen months. Turns out, an apple a day keeps the doctor away, but only half an apple a day will really fuck your shit up. I remember looking in the mirror at my bony little body, which puberty was still trying to squeak a hip out of, and burgeon a breast from, clawing at myself and crying at how hideous I was. Resenting with fiery hatred that I was a woman. That was the day I stopped eating altogether. No apples. Nothing. I would never be Juliet if I didn’t get stricter.

  A few weeks later, with a depleted immune system, I contracted encephalitis, which is acute inflammation of the brain. I spent three months in bed, in and out of consciousness. Every day, my nanna would come and sit next to me, and gently ask if I would like an apple. Every day I would decline, and she would sit and hold my hand with patience and love. And the next day, the same routine: she would ask, and I would decline.

  There is a nurse in Romeo and Juliet, and she is far wiser, more compassionate, funny and warm than the co-dependent Juliet. She deals with the heaviest of issues with sensitivity, humour and love. She is not a symbol of desire in the play. But through her, we see the world for what it is and how it can be made better. It is not the insipid ingénue manufactured by the wet dreams of young men for centuries who will change this world; it is bold characters like the nurse who will save us from ourselves, from our own narrow-minded, self-flagellating, ever-fixed thinking.

  After three months of my nanna offering me the choice to eat and to live – or not – I still don’t exactly know why, but I sat up in bed and I ate the apple. I ate the fruit I had forbidden myself for so long, but which had been made sweet again by my nanna’s love. I am sorry, Shakespeare, but in my opinion, that is a far better love story than yours.

  These days I am so grateful I am a woman. I have big strong thighs that can jump and squat and kick and dance and squeeze a lover. And run, if I’m forced to. And boobs so big I can motorboat myself. And a big delicious arse that will cushion my body as I sit gently by the people I love, and the young women I don’t even know yet, waiting for their worth to be determined by more than what they look like in the eyes of a skewed society. Waiting for them to love themselves enough to eat the apple.

  JORDAN RASKOPOULOS

  Jordan is Sydney’s premiere erudite renaissance transsexual. She’s best known for her work as the lead singer of The Axis of Awesome, her TEDxSydney Talk ‘Life Fright of the Shy Loud – Living with High Functioning Anxiety’ and for making the suggestion that Australia Day should be moved to the eighth of May, because May 8 sounds like ‘Mate’. She’s a dynamite jammer for Sydney Roller Derby League and spends much of her spare time being a lush queer.

  ‘Stop, Warhammer Time!’ copyright © Jordan Raskopoulos 2018

  Stop, Warhammer Time!

  by JORDAN RASKOPOULOS

  This story was originally performed at the event It’s All a Game

  Those who know me know that I am a massive dork. I subscribe to most flavours of dorkdom. I play video games. I’ve delved into many dungeons, defeated countless dragons. I have a passion for the Stars, both Wars and Trek. I even sport a tattoo of the Tardis on my leg.

  But my greatest passion is for Warhammer. It’s the one where you painstakingly paint armies of model soldiers and put them on a table, along with fake grass, buildings and tiny trees and use dice and tape measures to fight little wars. I love that shit.

  I’ve loved it since I was twelve years old. I remember persuading my mum to buy me my first models and paints. I remember her handing over the credit card, and whispering to the guy at the store, ‘It’s better than drugs.’ How wrong you were, Mother. At least drug addicts don’t have to worry about where they’re going to store all their unpainted heroin.

  For more than twenty years I’ve done little wars with tiny mans. I’m really good at it. I’m good at painting too. The best thing about that is that all those painting skills were completely transferrable. When I began transitioning I was delighted to discover that I was also an eyeliner wizard. Eyeliner witch? Even I struggle with pronouns sometimes.

  I dabble in both flavours of Warhammer. There’s ‘Warhammer’, which has a fantasy setting, so knights, goblins and elves. And there’s also Warhammer 40,000, or 40k, which has a science fiction setting, so knights, goblins and elves IN SPACE!

  I travel to tournaments and conventions all over the country and, when I’ve had the opportunity to tour internationally with my band, I’ve often brought a Warhammer army with me. I meet up with nerds from the internet, find a hobby store and throw down over some Warhams.

  In 2014 I met up with a man named Carl in LA. Carl runs a popular Warhammer 40,000 podcast called The Independent Characters.

  Carl and I became friends over the internet and we decided to meet up. We had a great time and during the game we chatted about tournaments and conventions and pretty soon were making a plan to meet up in 2016 at one of the world’s premiere Warhammer events – the Las Vegas Open. Yeah, there’s a big Vegas Warhammer tournament.

  So we made that plan and the plan grew; more of our international Warhammer friends jumped on board and soon enough there was a great big group of us meeting up in Vegas.

&n
bsp; There was one snag. None of them knew I was transitioning and the convention passes, hotel rooms and flights all had to be booked months in advance. So I found myself having to come out to my Warhammer friend from the internet long before I’d planned to come out to most of my real-life friends.

  I logged in to Facebook and sent a message to Carl:

  ‘OK, dude, I’m about to book this in but before I do there’s something I should probably let you know. I am transgender and I’m five months into hormone treatments. It’s still a secret right now but it won’t be in February. So, basically, what I’m saying is that I will be presenting and living full time as a woman by the time of the LVO and I kinda need to know that you’re cool with that.

  ‘I hope it’s not a problem but please let me know if it is. Cause if it is we’re probably both gunna have a shitty weekend.’

  Carl replied:

  ‘OK so first of all I don’t care.

  Second of all if you’re joking that’s fucked up . . .’

  I know right, what a dude. So, it was cool, Carl was cool and I was going to Vegas, baby. This was going to be my first international trip with my brand new female passport. I was excited and nervous, especially about those backscatter X-ray machines. You know the ones, where they take a picture of your naked body through your clothes with science? I dreaded having to explain why I had a dick to an airport person. Luckily I breezed through customs with little more than a firm pat down.

  Vegas was fun though. I travelled there with a friend from Sydney, Warren, and I secretly enjoyed the number of times people thought we were a couple. ‘Oh you guys here on your honeymoon!’ ‘You sure you two don’t want a room with a king-sized bed?’ ‘Are you guys newlyweds?’ ‘You taking the lady out somewhere nice for dinner? How ’bout a show? You wanna see Cirque du Soleil?’

  My response was generally, ‘No, Warren and I are just mates . . . Not mates . . . we don’t mate – we’re Australian . . . Mate means friend, we’re friends . . . I used to be a boy, we are in this city to participate in a miniature war games convention . . . we have no time for your cirques du soleis.’