Eat Me

by Linda Jaivin

  “Sure. We can perv on passers-by.”

  “And they,” she said brightly, “can check us out, too.” Carolyn plonked her patent leather backpack down on the next stool.

  Marc waved to the café owner. “Hi, Jean.”

  Jean waved back with a big grin. “G’day!”

  “How’d you know her name?”

  “I asked. I’ve come here a few times since it opened.” Marc tucked his skirt under him on the stool. He was in a particularly androgynous mood today.

  Carolyn observed him with barely concealed amusement. “You know, Marc, you’re almost too good to be a boy.”

  “Why do you insist on judging me on the basis of gender stereotypes? If I said something like that to you, you’d be ropable. As you should be. I try my best to use ambigenic language myself.”

  “Ambi-what?”

  “Ambigenic. Means nonsexist.”

  “Why don’t you just say nonsexist then?”

  “Because it’s negative, you know, it defines things in negative terms. Ambigenic is a positive word for the same quality. Uh, yeah, Jean, thanks, I’ll have a latte. And a slice of chocolate mudcake with cream. Ta.”

  “Same for me. You are so cute. Oh, don’t look so hurt, Marc. Although that wounded puppy expression of yours is actually quite adorable—your eyes grow very round and buttonlike, and you end up looking like a character out of Tintin. Sort of vulnerable and sweet.”

  “So that’s how you think of me, a cartoon.”

  “Sure,” she qualified, “but not just any old cartoon. A classy French cartoon. Things could be worse. I could think of you as Bart Simpson. Or Stimpy. Besides, on some level, you must think of yourself as a cartoon or you wouldn’t wear your hair like that.” Marc’s hands flew up to his pigtails and his mouth opened in an affronted O that exactly matched the round circles of his eyes. Carolyn burst out laughing. “That only makes it worse. So, back to what you were telling me—are you saying you have a crush on Madam Teacher?”

  “A bit worse than that. But I don’t know if I want to tell you now, Carr.”

  “Don’t be such a child.” She pointed out the window with her chin. “I think that boy standing outside with the guitar is looking at you.”

  Marc looked up. “Oh it’s Jake!” He waved him inside.

  “Marc. How ya goin’, mate?”

  “No complaints. Jake, Carolyn. Carolyn, Jake. That gig was sick, man,” Marc said admiringly. “You were so tight. The crowd totally went off.”

  “Oh yeah? Sometimes it’s hard to tell. I mean, sure, we could sense it and I think that’s why we were really cooking. You never know from gig to gig whether that’s going to happen, or whether anyone’s gonna come at all. It gets sorta depressing when you look out at the audience and there’s, like, one completely blotto dude about to pass out on the bar; two or three punters standing toward the back of the room with their arms folded on their chests, real icy-like; and a small pack of groupies who’ve come for the next band standing over to one side, chewing gum, and talking all the way through your set. It’s always nice to see a familiar, friendly, happy-vibe-giving face like yours beaming away out there.”

  “Oh, I reckon you had plenty of happy-vibe givers in the audience on Saturday. It was packed.” Marc indicated the stool next to him. “Join us for a cuppa?”

  “No, can’t. Got a rehearsal.”

  “Too bad. By the way, why are you wearing two different shoes?”

  Jake shrugged. “Long story. My personal life’s been a bit full-on lately. Tell you about it some other time.”

  “When’s your next gig then?”

  “Next weekend. Ever heard of Bram Vam? Punk poet and cult hero of the early ’80s?”

  Marc frowned. “Doesn’t really ring a bell. Then again, I was only a little kid back then. Why?”

  “And you call yourself an alterna-type,” Jake tsk-tsked and then laughed. “Actually, I only know about him cuz he’s my cousin. He’s been away from Sydney for about ten years. Even though he’s really old, like in his forties or something, he’s pretty cool. The reason he’s back is cuz there’s been this new interest in his books and stuff, and his publisher thinks it’s time for a comeback. So, like, he’s gonna do this next gig with us. See how it goes.”

  “Cool. I’ll try to make it.” Marc sounded enthusiastic. He liked the idea of supporting old people, especially when they were doing cool things. He was against ageism as well as sexism.

  “Catch ya.”

  “See ya.” Marc and Carolyn watched Jake lope down the street, dreads bouncing like springs.

  “Marc, that guy is a babe! Why didn’t you introduce me earlier?”

  “Sorry, Carr, but I thought you only went for women.”

  “I’m not that dogmatic,” she shrugged. “Whatever’s fresh and in season.”

  “Anyway,” he continued, a tad vindictively, “you’re not his type. Too young.”

  “What do you mean? I’m twenty-one. How old’s he?” Jean returned with their coffees and retreated to the counter, from which discreet vantage point she continued her interested inspection of Carolyn.

  “Twenty-two. What I mean is, he’s into older women.”

  “What is this young men and older women thing? A plague? Did you catch it from him?” Shaking her head, she took a bite of her cake. “Yum.” She chewed thoughtfully. “Have you ever thought about it though? What are we younger women supposed to do while you lot are off pursuing your mother substitutes? And what do you have against pert breasts and taut thighs anyway?”

  “Will you stop being so ageist? Two is not a plague. Besides, thirty-two is hardly a mother substitute for a twenty-two-year-old. Anyway, you know, you’re going to be thirty-two someday too. And, I might remind you, your girlfriend is thirty-two. I didn’t think you had anything against her body.”

  “What girlfriend?” Carolyn snapped. “That’s over. I caught her sucking face with a guy, in a public park no less.” Carolyn’s lower lip quivered. She looked away from Marc. “At least I think it was a guy. I didn’t really get a good look.” Something had been bothering her ever since Jake had taken his leave, but she couldn’t put her finger on it. “Some stupid gangly creature with lots of hair. It was dark. But I’d recognize her anywhere.” Lots of hair. Jake? No, couldn’t have been. Or could it? He was a very sexy boy. How could she!

  Seeing distress darken her features, Marc put down his latte and threw a nonsexually harassing arm around her shoulder. “Oh, Carr, I’m sorry. When did that happen? Why didn’t you tell me?”

  She shrugged off his arm. “Well, didn’t have a chance, did I? Did I hear you say, and what’s new with you, Carolyn?” she asked snippily. He looked so hurt that she was filled with regret. It wasn’t his fault. She was seeing Philippa later. She’d ask her outright: was it Jake? And then she’d watch her reaction. Carolyn reached over and patted Marc on the hand. “Oh, don’t mind me,” she sighed. “I’m just a big crabby apple at the moment. I don’t really want to talk about it anyway. I want to hear all about you and Madam Professor.”

  He gave her a searching look.

  “Really, I do. Every detail.”

  “It was all a bit traumatic, really. I’m sure I told you I asked her to go out for coffee with me last week, didn’t I?”

  “Yeah, but you never told me how it went.”

  “Well, it was funny. She actually seemed sort of shy at first. And I was really nervous, though I tried to hide it. Then we got talking, and I was asking her all about how she’d come to teach at the uni, and she asked me how I’d come to take courses in women’s studies. So that was all going really well. Like, I was beginning to feel like she was seeing me, you know, not just as a student, but, like . . .” He laughed, embarrassed.

  “A man?” Carolyn teased.

  “No, yeah, oh, you know what I mean.”

  “I do. A man.”

  “Anyway, I worked up enough courage to ask her out, like, really out. You know, for a Saturday night or
something. I was terrified she’d say no, and I’d be so humiliated that I’d have to drop out of her course.”

  “You mean, your male pride couldn’t handle the rejection?” Carolyn smirked.

  “No, I don’t have that kind of male pride. Be fair. Anyway, tell me women don’t angst out when they want to ask someone out?”

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah. Go on. Get to the good part.”

  “God, Carr, sometimes I wonder about you. Do you really think I suffer from a male pride problem? I mean, be honest. If you think I do, I’ll—”

  “You’ll what?” she challenged, trying to look stern.

  “I’ll, you know, try to reform. I’ll enroll in another sensitivity workshop or something.”

  “Marc.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Spare me your workshops and get on with the story.”

  Marc sighed. “Well, I thought I’d ask her to go and see Jake’s band. Tell me honestly, do you really think I’m hung up on male pride?”

  “Oh, will you stop? I regret saying anything.”

  “All right, all right. We were out, right? Things were going really well. We went to the Sando a bit early to have a drink, and it was amazing how we just clicked. There wasn’t any of that awkwardness of the first, uh, date? God, what a funny word . . .” Marc’s voice trailed off. He looked around the café to make sure no one he knew was there, and lowered his voice. “You know,” he ventured after a long pause, “that I was a virgin, don’t you, Carr?”

  Carolyn’s eyes widened, and her jaw dropped. “What do you mean was?”

  Marc suddenly felt embarrassed. Maybe he shouldn’t be telling anyone this. Helen was his teacher, after all. And that book had come out causing a huge stir about a teacher who’d merely put a hand on the breast of one of his students. Marc had taken a very dim view of the whole affair. Of course, this was different. Or was it? He didn’t want Helen to get into any trouble. Helen. Helen. He had a vision of the softness of her full breasts and sexy tummy, of his hands parting her thighs. His tongue worried a tiny piece of mudcake that had taken up lodgings next to a molar.

  “What do you mean was?” Carolyn repeated. “Did you really do the thing with her, or what?”

  “Jeez, you’re crude sometimes, Carr.”

  “Who made the first move?”

  “Uh, I suppose she did.”

  “So who made the first move?”

  “Uh, I suppose he did.”

  Chantal leaned forward, one elbow on the bar, her beaked nose extended toward Helen as if she were an eagle who’d just spotted a small furry creature with the words midafternoon snack tattooed on its forehead. “Well? Do go on, darling. You know how I hate suspense.”

  Without taking her eyes off Helen, Chantal ferreted in the bowl of nuts for a cashew, which she sucked up between russet lips, russet being the new color for autumn. Russet looked particularly good on her now that she was a brunette.

  Helen rotated her glass and studied the swirling malty liquid. She noticed how she’d managed to get her own lipstick on nearly every part of the rim. How did Chantal manage to make just one single, perfectly formed smudge? She looked around the lower Oxford Street pub to make sure that no one she knew was there. It was late afternoon. Not many people were in the pub. A couple of less-than-super model types who’d tripped over their platform shoes coming into the place sat smoking cigarettes, sucking up red drinks through black straws and giggling in the bartender’s direction. An intense young man animatedly recounted some story to a beautiful woman his age. She appeared utterly uninterested, her eyes scanning the room with a rude restlessness. A roughhead in a flannel shirt sat a few stools down from them, brazenly studying Chantal from her perfectly coifed head to her shiny patent toes.

  Chantal, meanwhile, was studying Helen. She adored her friend. She wasn’t, however, altogether sold on her taste in men. Rambo with a garnishing of nuns and David Letterman she could understand. But truckies? And now baby feminists with lime green pigtails?

  Then again, at least Helen had the guts to get out there and jump in the fray. Chantal certainly didn’t lack for offers, and often from the very sort of urbane cowboys she most fancied. But she was simply not overly keen to take them up. And she’d made up the slave story, as Julia had suspected. For some reason that she couldn’t quite fathom, the longer the period of her sexual abstinence continued, the easier it seemed. The others never quite believed her when she told them, so she’d given up trying to convince them. Besides, it was more fun telling stories.

  Helen’s voice recalled Chantal to the present. “We went to this pub, right? So, of course, the first awkward thing we have to face is, who pays for the beers? I mean, the obvious thing is, I shout this round, you shout the next. But I had this feeling, like, I’m older and I’m working and financially secure. You’re a student and poor. So I should pay. On the other hand, what exactly were the roles we were playing? Teacher and student? Woman and man? Just friends? Besides, automatically assuming I should pay would patronize him in the way women have traditionally been patronized—and subsequently disempowered—by men, right? If he paid for me, then, of course, there’s the old problem about men paying for women. Of course, we could’ve each paid for our own, but that would have been, I don’t know, so terribly un-Australian or something. Anyway, when the beers came, he pulled out his wallet and said, ‘I’ll get this round, you can get the next,’ so that took care of that conundrum.”

  “Do you think,” Chantal suggested gently, “that you might have a tendency to overanalyze situations?”

  “I don’t know.” Helen frowned. “Maybe I do. It’s probably something of a professional hazard, analyzing the power plays within every situation, particularly those involving gender politics. I suppose now that you mention it. . . . Do you really think it’s a problem?”

  “Not particularly,” Chantal hadn’t intended to interrupt the flow of the story. “What happened next? But first, what pub were you in, what were you wearing, what was he wearing, etcetera? You know, darling, I’m a visual sort of person, I need these details.”

  “The Sando, in Newtown.”

  “Don’t think I’ve ever been,” mused Chantal. “What’s it like?”

  “The core crowd is pretty young and crusty, so there’s lots of torn clothing and T-shirts and dreads and blue hair and people getting up to dance on the bar, that kind of thing. I was wearing that long black crinkly skirt that I bought with you and that low-cut maroon top. He had on his baggy black jeans and a Luscious Jackson T-shirt. He had tied his pigtails with small green bows.”

  “I know Luscious Jackson,” Chantal said. “We featured them in a round-up on women in rock called ‘Girl-sounds.’ ”

  “That’s right,” Helen enthused. “He’d actually read that piece.”

  “He reads Pulse?” Chantal asked, surprised.

  “I told you he wasn’t your typical boy,” Helen replied smugly. “It came up in the conversation. We just got talking about all sorts of things—somehow we went from the position of women in the rock industry, to land rights, to the way the Communist revolution failed the women of Cuba, stuff like that.”

  Chantal smiled and blew a smoke ring. “Sometimes, Helen darling, you are such a cack.”

  “What do you mean?” Helen looked hurt.

  “Don’t take it the wrong way. It’s just the things you talk about with your young men.”

  “Man. Singular.”

  “Sorry, I interrupted. Do go on.”

  “Well, I really was getting off on his enthusiasm for everything. And how seriously he took issues that, well, I take seriously. I was just feeling really amazed at how easy it was to talk to him, and how much we had in common. You know, despite the, uh, age difference.”

  “Which is, exactly?”

  “Eleven years.”

  “What’s eleven years between friends? Julia doesn’t let that sort of thing bother her.”

  “Yes, but I’m not Julia. She looks twenty-five.”
<
br />   “Helen, darling, you’re not going to have another crisis about your looks, are you? First of all, I can’t afford another shopping expedition this week, and second of all, you’ve just seduced what sounds to me like a very dishy young man. So just get on with the story.”

  “ ‘Seduced.’ Jesus Christ. What have I done?” Helen suddenly whimpered. “He’s my student. I could lose my job.”

  “No use crying over spilt seed.” Chantal shrugged. “Besides, didn’t he make the first move?”

  “Yes, I suppose,” Helen paused.

  “How’d it happen? But hold on a tic.” Chantal signaled to the woman behind the bar. “Could I’ve another one of these?” she said, holding up her glass. “And another Coopers for my friend.”

  The rough-head in flannel saw his opportunity. “ ’T’s on me,” he blurted out with a leer he considered his most winning smile.

  “Thanks, but no.” Chantal smiled minimally in his direction, then addressed the woman at the bar in firm tones. “It’s on me.”

  “No worries,” nodded the woman.

  The man suddenly got up and left. As he walked away, he spat out the word bitch under his breath.

  Chantal rolled her eyes at Helen. “You’re better off with the young and innocent ones, darling,” she commented. “They haven’t yet been molested by life. Sweeter on the tongue and gentler on the mind. But do go on.”

  “Well, his friend’s band finally came on, and by then it was really crowded, and we were sort of pushed up close together. You know, funny thing, I thought I saw Philippa across the room at one point, but it was pretty hazy with smoke; and then the woman I thought was her disappeared, and I figured it was just someone who looked like her. Must ask her if she was there. Don’t see why she would be. The Sando isn’t her sort of haunt, I wouldn’t think. Anyway, Marc was standing directly behind me—he said I should stand in front because I was shorter and he could see over me. At one point, the movement of the crowd pushed him dead up against me. We were on our third beer, and when it happened again, I, uh, well, I leaned back on him.”