Clara in Washington

by Penny Tangey

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Nothing at all?’

  ‘That’s right. I’m completely over New Year’s Eve. I never have a good time and I spend the whole night worrying that there’s a better party happening somewhere else. So this year Brad and I are staying in and watching Fawlty Towers.’

  Brad says, ‘You must think we’re so old and boring, Clara.’

  I wasn’t thinking that at all. I was thinking it would be nice to have Campbell to myself for an evening.

  As usual, Brad asks, ‘What are you doing today, Clara?’

  ‘I’m going to the Post Office Museum, actually.’ I’m proud of myself for having a plan for the day, even though it is obviously a dull plan.

  ‘That sounds great,’ says Emily.

  ‘Do you think so?’ I say sceptically.

  ‘Sure, I wish I could spend a month visiting galleries and museums.’

  ‘So you’re back at work?’ I ask.

  ‘Sure am,’ she says. ‘You’re lucky, Clara, really lucky.’

  I’ve been thinking of myself as an aimless loser, but maybe Emily is right. Maybe I am lucky to have so much spare time. Guiltily, I remember how much time I spend watching television when I could be doing improving activities. I remember Proudhon’s What is Property? sitting on my bedside table. I still haven’t got past the introduction. Sometimes I pick it up and press my face into the pages. The musty, damp-book aroma reminds me of Campbell’s room. But to get the most out of the work I should probably read it not just smell it.

  Campbell opens the door. I remember what we did last time and I feel a rush of warmth to my face. I’m nervous but Campbell seems completely calm and says, ‘Glad you could make it, Happy New Year!’

  ‘Happy New Year.’

  ‘What’s your mom doing tonight?’

  ‘Tony’s got tickets to some swanky bar. They were a hundred dollars and it doesn’t even cover drinks. It’s just the entrance, and there’s no particular entertainment.’

  ‘You’re better off here then,’ says Campbell.

  ‘Definitely.’

  Music drifts through from the lounge room at the end of the hall. ‘You’re a bit early,’ says Campbell. ‘Hardly anyone’s here yet.’ He swings open the door to the lounge room. Eric is sitting on the couch with his eyes closed. His face is very calm, and he doesn’t look so scary now.

  ‘Hi, Eric,’ I say. The music is loud and I almost have to shout.

  He opens his eyes. ‘I’m trying to listen,’ he says and closes his eyes again.

  ‘It’s his favourite band’s new album,’ says Campbell. ‘Come through to the kitchen.’

  In the kitchen Belle is vigorously stirring something in a bowl.

  ‘What are you making?’ I ask.

  ‘Gluten-free organic hash brownies.’

  ‘Yum,’ I say.

  ‘Do you want a beer?’ asks Campbell.

  ‘Am I allowed?’ I say.

  ‘Technically, no, but we won’t report you to the police.’

  Campbell and I sit down at the table.

  ‘You know,’ says Campbell, ‘you say that a lot: “Am I allowed?” You should cut back.’

  ‘Yes,’ says Belle. ‘The only question should be “Do I allow myself?”’

  ‘Exactly,’ says Campbell enthusiastically. ‘Although, of course, that assumes pre-existing freedom from the mind-control of the authorities.’

  ‘Yes, which for Clara is probably not the case.’

  ‘No,’ agrees Campbell.

  This reminds me of what Emily said but I’m not sure I like Belle and Campbell discussing me like this. ‘Well, why don’t you free me then?’ I ask.

  ‘We can’t free you,’ says Campbell. ‘You have to self-liberate.’

  ‘How am I supposed to do that?’

  ‘Lots of ways. Talking about ideas helps. But you should also become involved in direct action.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Protests, boycotts. Whatever you can do for yourself. It’s about not waiting for politicians or anyone else to do it for you.’

  Eric pokes his head into the kitchen. ‘Some more people have arrived,’ he says.

  Campbell goes out to greet them and I’m left alone with Belle.

  ‘Can I help?’ I ask Belle.

  ‘No, I’m fine,’ she says.

  ‘How will you cook them without electricity?’

  ‘They turned it back on. Campbell sorted it out.’

  ‘That’s great,’ I say.

  ‘Yes.’ She goes over to the cupboard and takes out a baking tray. ‘Campbell is great. Everyone thinks that. Like Eric. Eric and Campbell are very good friends.’

  ‘I know,’ I say. Is she trying to tell me that Eric has a crush on Campbell? I already know that, I’m not stupid.

  Belle is stirring the mixture again very hard, almost like she’s angry. I’m uncomfortable being alone with her.

  ‘I might go see what the others are doing,’ I say.

  Campbell is in the lounge room with a group of people I haven’t met before. He introduces me, and I instantly forget everyone’s names as usual. I sit on the couch and Campbell sits next to me. Our legs are touching all the way along, like they were at the Anarchist Collective meeting.

  Eric jumps up from the couch opposite. ‘I can’t hear a thing,’ he says and flounces into the kitchen.

  A girl with dreadlocked blonde hair says, ‘What does he expect? It’s a party.’

  ‘He’s super intense about everything he does,’ says Campbell, making it sound like a good thing.

  Bernard sits beside me.

  Drinking my beer, I’m starting to relax. ‘Are you an anarchist?’ I ask him.

  ‘Sure am.’

  ‘I didn’t see you at the collective’s meeting.’

  ‘Those meetings are all talk. I like getting out there and doing stuff.’

  ‘So how long have you been an anarchist for?’

  ‘About six years. I was a communist and then I learnt more about the communist dictatorships and I thought, that’s shit, and I became an anarchist.’

  ‘I’m not an anarchist yet,’ I admit. ‘But I’m trying. I’m reading Proudhon.’ Well, I did try to read a few pages this morning until I realised that Footballers’ Wives was starting.

  ‘I’m sure you’ll make it,’ says Bernard.

  ‘What’s the most fun thing about being an anarchist?’ I ask.

  ‘Probably the protests. We run around and do crazy shit.’

  Bernard goes to the kitchen to fetch us each another beer. Belle carries in the brownies and I have one of those as well. There’s a small heater on in the lounge room that is doing a surprisingly good job of heating the room, perhaps because there’s so many people crammed in here. In fact, it’s quite stuffy. I take off my coat. Campbell is still sitting next to me, talking to the girl with the blonde dreadlocks. She’s laughing a lot and touching his arm.

  Bernard tells me about his first raid on a battery chicken farm. I nod and try to look interested, all the time thinking about Campbell and the girl. Is he interested in her? But surely he wouldn’t crack on to her with me sitting right beside him. I’m supposed to be staying over tonight.

  Bernard puts his hand on my knee, at first to make a point but then he leaves it there, and starts moving his hand up and down.

  He says, ‘You’re very pretty, you know.’

  I’m jammed up next to Campbell, so I can’t move away. I nudge Campbell who looks across at me and smiles but immediately turns back to his conversation. Did he not notice? Or does he not care that his housemate is making a move on me?

  ‘It’s hot in here,’ I say. ‘I’m going outside.’

  ‘I’ll come too,’ sa
ys Bernard.

  ‘No,’ I say firmly. ‘I’m fine on my own.’ I pick up my coat and scarf.

  A door in the lounge room opens out to the back veranda. The night air is sharply cold but it’s exactly what I need. I walk around the veranda to the bench seat under the kitchen window and sit down.

  I hear voices in the kitchen; it’s Belle and Eric. Someone is doing the dishes in the sink near the window.

  I can hear what they’re saying quite clearly.

  ‘She’s not dumb, Eric,’ Belle says.

  ‘Come on!’ cries Eric.

  ‘No, she’s not, she just doesn’t think like us yet.’

  ‘It’s the same thing. She’s got the brains to work it out, but she doesn’t. That makes her dumb.’

  ‘The thing that I don’t understand,’ says Belle, ‘is why Campbell’s prepared to spend so much time on her.’

  ‘Exactly! Although Campbell will do anything for a pretty face.’

  ‘That’s true. And he’s always liked them a bit doe-eyed. Remember this time last year it was Leah.’

  I am frozen to the bench but then filled with rage and humiliation. I consider storming into the lounge room and telling Campbell what they said, making him defend me. Then I remember that I’m overhearing a private conversation. I’m the one doing the eavesdropping, I’m the one doing the wrong thing.

  I should leave. I stand up and peek into the kitchen. Eric is standing at the sink. Belle is facing the other way, chopping something at the table. I look straight into Eric’s deep brown eyes and he smiles at me for the first time ever.

  I wake up and have no idea where I am. Then I remember. I’m in Campbell’s room, and he’s in the bed next to me. The bed is warm but my breath is coming out in puffs of white cloud into the room.

  I have a terrible headache. I lie on my back staring at the ceiling trying to work out if it’s only when I move that it hurts. But no, there is a constant dull throbbing. When I move my head the dull pain turns into a sharper, needling pain.

  I slowly turn to the side and look for the glass of water I put beside the bed last night, which I knew I’d need this morning. Why couldn’t I have used that sensible foresight to stop myself having that last beer?

  I sit up and drink most of the glass of water. It refreshes my dry throat. I try to imagine it flowing to my head and bathing my brain in healing moisture.

  My phone is beside the bed. I check the time. It’s only eight o’clock.

  I lie down. Thoughts about last night pop randomly into my head. Eric and Belle’s conversation, Bernard’s hand on my knee, the blonde girl, who turned out to be Campbell’s cousin. As I remember I start to wake up properly. This is bad, I should stop thinking and go back to sleep. Maybe if I sleep for another couple of hours I will wake up refreshed.

  Then I remember. The centre. It’s Thursday and it’s still open on New Year’s Day.

  ‘Shit. Shit.’

  Campbell stirs. ‘What?’ he says.

  ‘I’m supposed to be at the Women’s Centre.’

  ‘Whoops,’ he says and shuts his eyes again.

  ‘It’s serious,’ I say. ‘I’m supposed to be serving breakfast.’

  I start getting dressed. I can’t find my T-shirt, then I see Campbell is lying on it. I tug it out and he groans.

  ‘Jesus, Clara.’

  It’s 8.15. All this rushing around is a waste of time. Even if I leave now breakfast will be over by the time I get there.

  I call Tiffany.

  She answers, sounding as fresh and bubbly as always.

  ‘It’s Clara,’ I say.

  ‘Hey, Clara, is everything okay?’

  ‘Yes, but I’m so sorry that I didn’t come this morning. I forgot about it. And now I’m in Capitol Heights and it’s too late. I’m so sorry – I’ve totally stuffed up.’

  ‘Clara, calm down,’ says Tiffany.

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ I say.

  ‘Clara, it was fine. Brad and Emily are here and it’s fine.’

  ‘I’m just so sorry,’ I say again and this time there’s a catch in my voice.

  ‘You need to calm down,’ says Tiffany. ‘It’s okay.’

  ‘I could still come now,’ I say.

  ‘There’s no need,’ says Tiffany.

  ‘Do you still want me to come on Tuesday?’

  ‘Of course. Why wouldn’t I?’

  ‘Because I’m unreliable.’

  ‘Don’t be silly. I’ll see you then, okay?’

  ‘Okay.’

  I lie back down on the bed.

  Campbell puts his arm around me and murmurs, ‘Go back to sleep.’

  There’s no way I can sleep now.

  My head aches.

  I hope Brad and Emily are okay on their own. Emily will do the toast and condiments and Brad can do the oatmeal. That should be all right for one morning.

  Tiffany didn’t seem too worried. She did sound slightly annoyed when I kept apologising though. I wonder if that’s the kind of thing that Emily was talking about.

  Chapter Eleven

  Be realistic: demand the impossible.

  Poster slogan from Paris student rebellion, 1968

  Campbell and I are going to a meeting about Inauguration Day. Walking along the street, I want to take Campbell’s hand, but I’m not sure how he’d react.

  Neither of us has said anything for the last couple of blocks. I’m trying to think of the silence as companionable but, as usual, I’m wondering if I should say something.

  Campbell finally says, ‘Bernard seemed quite interested in you at New Year.’

  I laugh nervously. ‘Yeah, well, I wasn’t interested in him. Too much beard.’

  Campbell doesn’t reply, so I ask nervously, ‘Are you mad at him?’

  ‘No! Why would I be?’

  ‘Well, he is your housemate and I’m your . . .’ I trail off, not wanting to say girlfriend, because I’m not sure if I am.

  ‘Bernard can do what he likes and so can you.’

  ‘Bernard has too much beard,’ I say quickly.

  ‘He’s a really nice guy,’ says Campbell.

  ‘Do you want me to go out with him?’

  ‘I didn’t say that. He’s a nice guy, that’s all.’

  An hour later I’m walking back to the train station alone. Nothing was decided at the meeting. Derek from the Eastern Seaboard Socialist Libertarians made a speech about why the DC Anarchist Collective should join the protest but the group was divided in opinion. Half the people wanted to protest, and the other half wanted to have a peaceful presence. Someone suggested any action should be celebratory to tap into the public mood. Eric booed.

  Eric made a speech saying that after September 11 anarchists stopped acting for fear of alienating and upsetting people. All that did, according to Eric, was stifle the momentum of the movement. He said anarchists can’t afford to pander to the collective mood because that’s exactly what anarchists are against. Everyone should be thinking as an individual, with their own individual moods, not as a faceless mass of joy, despair or triumph.

  Campbell clapped a lot when Eric was talking and shouted ‘That’s right’ a few times. He is now completely in support of protesting the inauguration.

  I was hoping that we might go out for dinner after the meeting, but Campbell went back to Eric’s house to discuss how to get more DC anarchists involved.

  So I’m going back to the apartment to spend another evening watching television. I hope Tony’s not there.

  I’m at the cafe drinking a coffee and pretending to read What is Property? by Proudhon while I’m actually watching Campbell. He’s so charming to the customers. People light up when he speaks to them.

  This coffee is not good. Despite Mum’s best
efforts (well, it was a pretty token effort actually) the coffee has not improved at all. Of course, I would never say that to Campbell.

  I’m getting bored of looking at the same page of What is Property? so I open a newspaper on the table to the letters to the editor section. There’s a series of letters about guns being banned in DC.

  ‘So, Clara, what’s in the news?’ says Campbell as he sits down at the table.

  ‘Not much. Stuff about guns.’

  Campbell leans across to look at what I’m reading. ‘What do you think about that?’ he asks.

  I know what’s happening. Campbell is trying to trick me into reasoned discussion. That’s how he sees it. But what will actually happen is that I’ll make a comment and then I’ll feel stupid when Campbell proves in a few sentences how facile and simplistic it was. So instead of answering his question I reply with a question of my own. ‘What do you think? As an anarchist, I mean.’

  ‘I’m against laws,’ he says. ‘The government shouldn’t tell people what they can and can’t own.’ He says it like it’s incredibly obvious. ‘Do you want another coffee?’

  ‘Okay.’ I don’t really want another one, but it’s an excuse to sit here a bit longer, in the same room as him.

  As he’s walking away I say, ‘Hey, but.’

  He turns back. ‘But what?’

  ‘Guns kill people.’ I’m not quite sure what I mean by this, but I know that you can’t be free if you’re dead.

  ‘So does the state,’ he says. ‘The government wants to have a monopoly over the use of violence so that we can’t fight back.’

  I don’t say anything but I don’t agree.

  When I arrive at the centre the following Tuesday I apologise to Brad and Emily for missing breakfast on New Year’s Day.

  Emily says, ‘I’m just glad you had a good night.’

  I say, ‘Yes but . . .’ I was going to say that it’s no excuse, and that I shouldn’t have let them down, but I stop myself. Instead I say, ‘It was mainly fun.’