Every Lie I've Ever Told

by Rosie Waterland

  I’m not sure whether he didn’t ask me what I needed to get off because he was selfish, or if he’d watched so much porn that it just didn’t occur to him that my needs were even an issue. I suspect the latter.

  I asked him to leave. I kept the gelato.

  Porn really has broken the brains of men. (Okay, fine – NOT ALL MEN.) I’m a lot more outspoken these days about what I will and won’t accept in the bedroom, but the epidemic of Pornwashing out there means I’m bound to occasionally come across a dud who just does not know how to pleasure a woman. I like sex, so I just can’t beat those odds.

  But I’m not going to maintain a bald vagina, or pretend I enjoy getting jackhammered just because that’s the only way he can get his penis to work now. His weird porn habits are his problem, and I have enough to deal with already.

  Women currently have to navigate their way through a sexual universe of very, very confused dicks. It’s tough out there.

  Good luck to us all in our quest for orgasms.

  It took longer than I expected to get Tony’s body home from Austin. Although his friends there had confirmed it was him, he needed to be formally identified by a family member before his body could be released. He had cousins in Chicago who flew to Austin to complete the difficult task, before making the long journey home with him to Griffith.

  He died on July 7th, and because of the difficulty in getting him home, the funeral wasn’t scheduled until July 23rd. It was such an odd period of time. Like a grief waiting room. Constantly being on the precipice of exploding emotion, but having to keep it in a jar until the exact right moment. I could see the pain and adrenalin through the glass; I knew it was there. I would poke holes in the lid and let little bits out, but it somehow seemed like the worst was yet to come. The lid was going to have to come off. I knew it was coming. And I just had to sit with it.

  I went back to Sydney for a few days, to be with my sisters and to visit the apartment Tony and I had shared together. I thought it would make me feel closer to him, but it just felt . . . wrong. So wrong. My younger sister Tayla had taken over the lease after I went to Melbourne and Tony went to Austin, so a lot of the same furniture was there, a lot of Tony’s pictures were still on the walls, the hipster light fixtures he had bought from Kmart hung from all the ceilings. But it wasn’t the same. I think I had hoped to walk into that apartment and see the home Tony and I had shared. Maybe even see Tony, waiting for me on the couch with a glass of wine, ready to watch RuPaul’s Drag Race. But all I saw was something that looked the same, but wasn’t. Like visiting a place you loved as a child, and not being able to recapture its magic. It wasn’t our home. It looked like it from the outside, but the inside was hollow. It wasn’t our home.

  I was lost. Melbourne didn’t feel like right, and now Sydney didn’t feel right either. I had come to Sydney to chase down a warm, familiar feeling, but it wasn’t there. So I flew back to Melbourne, which felt just as wrong. I was starting to drift off into space, and I kept reaching out for Tony, but he wasn’t there to grab my hand. What was I supposed to do when he didn’t grab it? I had no idea, so I just kept floating further and further away. I shut myself in my apartment, and never left. Jacob would ask me if I needed him to come over, and I would say no. I didn’t want to talk to anybody anymore. I couldn’t risk the lid coming off. I just needed to be numb.

  More TV, more drinking, more dissociating. Not showering. Not changing clothes. Ordering food in. Never opening the blinds. Dishes piling up. Cat poo filling the litter tray. I knew I wasn’t handling things well, but I just figured I needed to make it to the funeral. That would bring closure. That would bring the release I’d need to smash the lid off everything and move on. After the funeral, things would be better. I just needed to make it to the funeral.

  Tony’s sister, Sarina, had asked me if I would give Tony’s eulogy with his oldest and dearest friend, Assunta. Initially, I was grateful for something to concentrate on, but soon found whatever writing talent I may have once had, had disappeared off the planet with Tony. My brain was broken. Closed for business. Not unlike my vagina when I first tried to put tampons in it. Everything completely locked up. I only seemed capable of watching TV and getting drunk. I certainly couldn’t think about Tony being gone, and definitely couldn’t write anything that would come close to summing up his entire, brilliant life.

  But I was the professional writer. Tony had made sure of that. So I told Sarina and Assunta to send me their notes, and I promised to put something incredible together. I didn’t know how, since I could barely function enough to clean myself, but after everything Tony had done to push me into the writing career I had always dreamed of, the least I could do was put down the vodka, pull my head away from the TV and write something that would do his life justice.

  Then I started obsessing about the door. That damn door.

  The door was the last thing that I was ever annoyed at Tony about. Basically, the situation was this:

  Our Sydney apartment was at least fifty years old. At least. Our lovely landlord John sometimes told us stories about tenants he had in the 1960s and ’70s, so the building had been around a long time.

  So, the apartment, though lovely, was a very old design, and had a door between the living room and the hallway that led to the bedrooms. It was such an odd place for a door – if you shut all the bedroom doors and the living room door, you had basically just shut yourself into a bizarre closet-like space. And, the weird door opened into the living room, which got in the way all the time, so one day I finally decided that I would just take it down. I carefully unscrewed the hinges, placed them in a little plastic bag along with all the screws, and taped the bag to one side of the door. That way, it could easily be put back on if and when we ever moved out. John was a great landlord, and I didn’t want to damage the place in any way. I put the door into the backroom and didn’t really think about it again.

  Until.

  About six months later, I was living in Melbourne, Tony was in Austin, and my little sister Tayla had an inspection at the Sydney apartment. Within a few days, she got an email from the real estate agent, who wanted to know where the door from the living room was. Tayla called me.

  ‘Oh yeah,’ I said. ‘I took that down when I put those bookshelves in the living room. It was just getting in the way. But don’t stress – it’s in the backroom. Just email them and tell them that we still have it, and we’ll put it back on if we ever move out.’

  Tayla called me back five minutes later. ‘Rosie, it’s not in the backroom.’

  ‘Tayla,’ I responded, patronisingly, ‘yes, it is. You just didn’t look properly. I put it in there with a little bag filled with the hinges and screws taped to it. I don’t know how you could miss it. I mean, it’s a door.’

  ‘I wouldn’t miss it, Rosie. It’s not there. There is no door in the backroom.’

  Still I didn’t believe her. There is no way an entire door could just disappear. I demanded that she photograph the entire backroom and send me the pictures. She did. She also sent me a video, and I was sure she was giving me the finger just out of shot.

  There was no door in the backroom.

  ‘I don’t get it!’ I said to Tayla. ‘It’s a whole fucking door. What happens to a door? You know what? It has to be Tony. I bet Tony did something weird with it for some random Instagram photo or something. Let me call him.’

  I called Tony in Austin.

  ‘Sup mamasitaaaa!’ he said, answering the phone.

  I launched right into it. I was in no mood.

  ‘Hey, Tonz, remember how I took the door off the hinges in the living room to make more space for the bookshelves?’

  There was silence on the other end of the line. That was always the first sign Tony was fibbing about something – momentary panicked silence. I could imagine the exact look on his face.

  ‘Um . . . no? What door?’ he responded.

  FIRST MISTAKE. I knew he knew about the door, because we had had many conversation
s about the door, and he had talked about how much better the living room looked without the door, so telling me now that he doesn’t even remember the door was obviously a lie, because I knew he knew about the door. And he knew that I knew he knew. He was busted.

  ‘Tonz. I know you know about the door.’

  ‘I mean, I think, yeah,’ he stammered. ‘The door. That living room door, right? I can’t even remember if it was there or not when I went to Austin.’

  SECOND MISTAKE. He was freaking out now and doubling down on the lie.

  ‘Antonio. There are shelves where the door used to be, so unless the shelves were gone, there’s no way the door could have been there. Were the shelves gone?’

  ‘Um . . .’

  ‘Listen,’ I said, trying to play good cop now. ‘Did you maybe do something with the door? Like, use it for a photoshoot or something? Or let one of your friends use it for a production? I don’t care, Tonz, I don’t. I mean obviously the door is gone. But I just need to know. It can’t have just disappeared.’

  ‘Shit, Ro, I have to go! I’ll call you back!’

  THIRD MISTAKE. He did not call back. He was avoiding me, I’m sure in an attempt to buy time and come up with a story.

  I messaged him for days about that damn door, even though I knew from his first panicked response that he was never going to tell me anything. In the end, I was just begging him to tell me something, because the mystery of the whole thing was driving me crazy. I NEEDED TO KNOW.

  After a tortuous dinner with Jacob, in which I forced him to listen to an hour-long analysis of the door conspiracy being spearheaded by Tony from the other side of the world, Jacob told me I really needed to let go of the door. And I did, mostly, but the mystery continued to eat away at me.

  And in the days I was meant to be writing the eulogy, my obsession with the door came back with a vengeance. What had Tony done with it? Did he throw it out to make more space? Did he give it to someone? Did he use it for some convoluted photo on Instagram? Is the backroom of the Sydney apartment the storage equivalent of the Bermuda Triangle? Had the door simply . . . disappeared?

  The door is what I thought about instead of Tony’s life, which I was meant to be condensing into the most beautiful and moving thing Assunta and I would ever read.

  That damn door.

  The night before my sisters and I were going to drive to Griffith for the funeral, I still hadn’t written a word. I spent the night on Rhiannon’s couch, playing with my nephew Mohammed and avoiding doing what needed to be done. The funeral was still two days away, but Sarina and Assunta obviously needed to read what I had written before then, so that any changes could be made. He was their family, and this was for them – they needed to see what I’d written. I knew I couldn’t arrive in Griffith the night before the funeral without having it done, so I sat in Rhiannon’s living room, frozen in fear until 4am. Then I started writing.

  It was done in less than two hours; it flowed out of me, even though I didn’t want it to. It was both the hardest and easiest thing I’d ever written.

  When I was done, I sat for a long time, staring at my desktop. I couldn’t believe there was a file on it that said ‘Antonio Sergi – A Eulogy’.

  ANTONIO PAUL SERGI: A EULOGY

  To be read by Assunta

  Antonio, T-Buff, Tonz, Tony, T, was born here, in Griffith, on December 16th, 1986, to his incredibly loving parents, Pat and Maria. The baby of the family and a star from the very beginning, his three older siblings, Frank, Sarina and Joseph, were pushed out of the spotlight the day he arrived. Antonio was not meant to be anywhere but centre stage, and without even trying, the spotlight was always his.

  He was a heartbreakingly gorgeous little boy, with huge brown eyes and an infectious laugh that he carried with him into adulthood. Leave him alone for five minutes and he would be performing to an imaginary audience – usually some dramatic scene from a movie in which he’d play all the parts. Or he’d be starring in a concert, with Sasha the family dog forced to sit front row. Obviously, Tony knew that to be front row at one of his many concerts was an honour that Sasha was lucky to have.

  As well as a passion for performance and a charisma that had the capacity to light up any dark space, the other quality that shone through in Tony from an early age was his kindness. His absolute generosity of spirit when it came to the people he loved. It’s unusual for a child so young to be so selfless, but Antonio was just beginning a life in which he would give his love freely, to anyone who needed it. His heart would only grow bigger as he did, and this was never more clear than in his ability to make every friend he had feel like the most important person in the world. Actually, as Tony would say (usually while holding a crystal) – not just the world, but the universe.

  From primary school, right through to high school, he was forming lifelong bonds. He was unique, even back then, and those like myself, who found friendship with him so early on, knew how lucky we were to have him. There was nothing quite like having an emotional conversation with T-Buff about Sarah Michelle Gellar’s brilliant performance on Buffy the night before. And we would usually have that conversation while wagging at Maccas instead of going to PE. And his love of television did not stop at Buffy. Antonio may be one of the only people on earth to become so invested in The Real Housewives of New Jersey that it would actually make him cry. You always knew, when he said he was going to his room to ‘watch his stories’, that he was going to be emotional for at least a few hours. But as invested as he was in every reality TV show he could find, Antonio always said that his own life would make a better one. And he was probably right.

  As strong as his school friendships were, though, Antonio was not the type of guy to pick friends over family. Family was everything to him. He was a best friend and confidant to all of us. It’s no surprise that Tony was asked to plan most family events and MC at pretty much everybody’s weddings and birthdays – he was the favourite of every person sitting here today. Tony was the person in the family you would call. The person who would listen. His brain was like a computer when it came to the personal details of all of our lives. Who in here hasn’t called Tony at some point, and talked to him for an hour about that random person who’s been annoying you, because you know that Tony’s the only one who is completely up-to-date with every detail of the drama? Who hasn’t had him over for late-night pizza to talk about a break-up, always when you were both meant to be dieting? Those nights, filled with endless laughter, are now memories we can cherish always.

  Every woman in Tony’s family was his sister. Every man his brother. His nieces and nephews, whom he loved even more than Buffy, were like children to him. Francesca, Joseph, Marissa and Patrick were the magic in his life. His mother, Maria, shared a bond with him that is rare to find between mother and son these days. They were still going on date nights to the movies just this year. Hearing the two of them giggling together was to hear true love.

  And Antonio’s heart was just so filled with love. They say that we each have only one soulmate. Not Antonio. Antonio has left behind more soulmates than anyone ever has. We were all the great loves of Antonio’s life. From his family the day he came home from the hospital, a tiny newborn, to the new friends he was making just weeks ago in Austin, Tony had this incredible skill – he made everybody feel like they were his best friend. His soulmate.

  Antonio made you feel like his heart was filled with love just for you. And that’s because it was. Antonio Sergi’s heart was infinite. It could be filled with love, and then filled again and again and again. He loved each person sitting here today like only a person with an infinite heart could. There was space in there for all of us.

  To be read by Rosie

  Antonio was also an unstoppable force. Something about him was electric. And he always knew it too. He knew his life was going to be bigger than Griffith. He knew he was going to explore the world and live his dreams. He had grown up watching the three TV channels Griffith had to offer, and he was going to e
nd up on one of them. So at just eighteen, he moved to Sydney on his own, and started at drama school.

  His skill for comedy made him an immediate star. His obsession with Saturday Night Live and Tina Fey meant he schooled us all in improv before we even knew what it was.

  This is also, unfortunately, the time when Tony finally, after a lifetime of hoping and trying, had to accept that he was a really, really bad singer. I loved him, but I have never met someone whose level of desperation to be able to sing was only matched by how terrible he was at it. That did not stop him, though. There can’t be one person in this room who hasn’t heard him belt out a very unique version of ‘Part of Your World’ from The Little Mermaid. Tony secretly confessed to me, just before his tonsil surgery a few months ago, that he was praying that when he woke up, he’d have a flawless singing voice. He also confessed that may have been the main reason he asked his parents for the surgery in the first place. Antonio was never going to give up on a dream.

  Drama school was also where Tony began to grow into an adult. His spectacular sense of style began to take shape. Let’s be honest – nobody will ever rock a crystal necklace, a bow tie and an old ’80s blazer from Maria’s closet quite like Antonio Sergi. He never had a hair out of place, and his ability to fall into a model pose whenever a camera pointed in his direction was unmatched. He didn’t have the beard yet when I first met him, although I have to say I agree with his nonna on that one – it just hid his beautiful face.

  When drama school ended, most in our class let their acting dreams go, in favour of seeking out a ‘grown-up’ life. Not Tony. He was determined, and he knew his path. He went on to more intensive study of drama, turning his diploma into a Bachelor of Arts degree. He then went on to obtain a Masters in Media Arts and Production from the University of Technology in Sydney, and the University of Texas in Austin. And Tony didn’t just graduate – he kicked arse. His Masters degree, a very rare thing to get anyway, came with a High Distinction average and a grade point average of 4.0. That’s basically like the Academy Award equivalent of grades. Antonio had found his calling – he was brilliant at producing. It can be seen in some of the work he created over the last few years, from his beautiful short film about his Aunt Julie, which was selected for a film festival, to his creation of his Rosie Runs videos. I may have hated him for forcing me to exercise, but those videos – entirely his creation from the initial idea to the final edit – have now been seen by over two million people.