It's Not All About YOU, Calma!

by Barry Jonsberg

  I loaded one of those carts that always seem to get in the way when you’re a customer – you know what I mean; you’ll be coming around a corner, minding your own business, scanning the shelves in a desultory fashion and one of these behemoths will head straight for you, scattering small children and old ladies in its path. Anyway, I loaded it with baked beans and headed for aisle eight. Unfortunately, it was quiet in the store, so I didn’t get the chance to terrorise any pensioners. The front left wheel spun at crazy angles and the whole apparatus had an alarming drift to the right. It was all I could do to avoid crashing into grocery displays just asking for annihilation. Finally, though, I lumbered to a stop halfway along aisle eight and started unpacking and stacking tins of baked beans.

  I hadn’t got very far with this fascinating and skilled activity when there was a bronchitic cough behind me and a trolley slammed into my ankles. Has that ever happened to you? Trust me. It is the most painful thing in the world. Trolleys are designed that way. I imagine a boffin somewhere saying to a white-coated colleague, ‘Right. We have three standard wheels and the fourth is operated by a microchip programmed to randomly choose directions at right angles to the intended trajectory. We have the child seat that traps your fingers. We have a return trolley system that makes it impossible to remove a mating trolley without tearing a muscle and probably causing a hernia. What else? I know – how about positioning the front bumper bar so it causes permanent disability when rammed into ankles?’

  I hobbled to my feet, suppressing the temptation to scream a four-letter word beginning with ‘f ’ and ending with ‘uck’ at the top of my voice.

  A little old lady was beaming at me. She was vertically challenged to the extent that her wrinkled face just peeped over the trolley’s steering bar. It was unnerving.

  ‘I’m so sorry, dear,’ she said.

  ‘I suspect you are not as sorry as I am,’ I replied. ‘Might I also suggest that penitence is not generally accompanied by a wide grin?’

  ‘Pardon?’ she said.

  ‘What can I do for you?’ I asked, rubbing my ankles. The pain had subsided so it only felt like red-hot darning needles were being inserted into my Achilles tendons.

  ‘Where do you keep your condoms?’

  I forgot the pain instantly. Who wouldn’t? My jaw dropped a metre, and a range of replies raced through my mind. ‘On my boyfriend’s willie’ was the best, but I didn’t say it, and not just because I didn’t have a boyfriend. With an effort of will I cranked my lower jaw by degrees so it sat flush with the upper.

  ‘They’re for my grandson,’ she continued. ‘He wants knobbly ones that glow in the dark.’

  ‘Just possibly too much information,’ I said, ‘but if you come with me, we’ll try to find them.’

  I knew I was going to love this job. I’d only been working half an hour and it was well worth the forty cents I must have earned. If this was going to happen regularly I’d have paid them for the opportunity to work here. Imagine the material I would have for my writer’s notebook! If I had one. True, my happiness was dented slightly by the old lady ramming me with the trolley again in exactly the same place, but I no longer felt the urge to viciously strike her to the floor.

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ she said again.

  ‘If you’re so sorry,’ I said, ‘why do you keep doing it?’

  But there was no real anger in my voice. I left her happily poring over the merits of strawberry-flavoured rough-riders and limped back to the baked beans.

  I was debating the artistic merits of pyramid displays as opposed to the space-saving yet rather conventional rectangular stack system [who said this job wasn’t going to be stimulating?], when another customer behind me coughed and said, ‘Excuse me?’ I tell you, it’s an occupational hazard when you’re a shelf-stacker. People sneak up on you. If I’m ever going to pursue a career as a serial killer, then I’ll specialise in supermarket employees. It would be like shooting fish in a barrel. I got up and turned around.

  My father was standing there.

  Fact File

  Common name: Robert Harrison

  Scientific name: Baldus Shortarsius

  Habitat: This noxious creature is not, as one might reasonably expect, found under slimy stones, but is liable to appear in any environment when you least expect it. Prefers warm climates but is unable to provide for itself and thus attaches itself to any available host body, where it will cling unpleasantly and eventually empty the refrigerator.

  Mating habits: Despite its unprepossessing appearance, Baldus Shortarsius is apparently sexually attractive to deranged members of its own species. It mates and moves on quickly, effectively diluting its own gene pool. This is worrying since the pool was little more than a puddle in the first place.

  Appearance: Short, stumpy and follically challenged.

  Toxicity: Close contact is not fatal, though debilitating symptoms might persevere for years. Best avoided, unless wearing full body armour.

  Status: Unfortunately, not extinct.

  We eyed each other for what seemed an age. He was trying to smile, but it was more like a smirk. I don’t know what my expression looked like, for obvious reasons, but I suspect ‘glacial’ might approximate. The frozen food section was generating more heat than me.

  ‘Hello, Calma,’ he said finally.

  ‘What can I do for you, sir?’ I said.

  His eyes flickered away and he gave a little wave with his hands, a pathetic gesture of helplessness. He tried the smile again.

  ‘Is that all you can say to me?’

  ‘I’m working, sir. If you need help to find products, then I am employed to assist. If not, I must ask that you allow me to return to my task.’

  He ran a hand through his thin hair, unconsciously smoothing a few errant strands over his bald patch.

  ‘Aw, come on, Calma. Give me a break. I just need a few words. That’s all. Is that too much to ask? A few words with my own daughter?’ He put his hand on my arm and my flesh shrank from his touch.

  ‘Please remove your hand, sir, or I will be forced to call security.’

  He let me go and even took a step backwards. Out of the corner of my eye I noticed Candy standing at the end of the aisle, watching. A small part of me was surprised she was capable of movement. Only a small part, though. The overwhelming majority of my attention was fixed on the slight figure of my father. My gaze didn’t flicker. I was staring him down.

  ‘Perhaps we could talk when you’ve finished your shift?’ he said. ‘Please, Calma.’

  ‘I don’t finish work until five in the morning,’ I lied. ‘And then I have to get straight back to my family. Now, if you’ll excuse me . . .’

  I don’t expect you to believe me, but what happened next was a complete accident. I grabbed the rail of the cart and swung it around. My intention was to glide effortlessly back into the bowels of the warehouse section. But the front wheel had other ideas. Instead of executing a perfect arc, the cart juddered and slammed into my father’s groin. The sharp metal edge of the leading rail landed, with sickening accuracy, on the family jewels. A fleeting, disbelieving look passed over my father’s face and then he doubled up, emitting a high-pitched scream. I have no idea, obviously, what it is like to have your testicles propelled into your throat, but I can’t imagine it’s very pleasant. Certainly, the writhing, groaning form in front of me didn’t appear to be having the time of its life. All colour flooded from his face and he groped, in a kind of shutting-the-stable-door-after-the-horse-has-bolted fashion, at his nether regions. The groaning took on an even higher pitched quality, like a sharp knife skating across glass. I could see the whites of his eyes, which were bulging and developing an interesting red crosshatch.

  For a moment, I felt sorry for him. It quickly passed.

  ‘If you have damaged this trolley, sir, you may have to pay compensation,’ I said.

  He didn’t say anything – the act of getting air into his lungs was proving difficult enough. Anyway, Candy
had suddenly appeared, a look of alarm plastered on her face. She had stopped chewing and I worried that the shock of seeing one of her customers felled like an ox might cause the gum to get stuck in her windpipe. I’m not sure if I could have coped with two people writhing on the ground.

  My father eventually stopped behaving like a gaffed fish and brushed aside Candy’s expressions of concern. He assured her it was entirely his fault, and I was in no way responsible. Finally, he limped out of the store, maybe to take up a new career as a soprano. I didn’t know, and frankly I didn’t care.

  Candy was reluctant to accept my explanation of the incident – a deranged customer, with premeditation and malice, hurled his testicles against my trolley. But there wasn’t much she could do. After all, the customer had accepted responsibility.

  I tell you, between the condom-buying granny and the do-it-yourself attempt at circumcision, I was having the time of my life. And things got a whole lot better when I took my break.

  I don’t know why I went outside. Maybe it was because the Crazi-Cheep staffroom was another example of cost-cutting measures. I’ve seen better appointed fridges at the local dump. Anyway, a breath of fresh air never goes amiss.

  Jason was standing at the corner of the building having a cigarette. Twenty minutes later we’d arranged a date.

  Impressed? So you bloody should be. Want to know the secret of my success? Okay. For those of you out there who can’t get a guy to eat out of your hand, take the following as an instruction manual.

  Jason: Hi! How you doin’?

  Calma: Good. How are you? [Gorgeous, mouth-watering sex-on-a-stick, that’s how you are.]

  Jason: Great. I’m Jason, by the way.

  Calma: [I know. Trust me, I know. ] Pleased to meet you, Jason. I’m Calma. [Don’t make any jokes. Please. Don’t be the worst of all possible worlds – a sex-on-a-stick dickhead.]

  Jason: This your first evening at work?

  Calma: Yes. [Do you have a girlfriend? If you’ve got a girlfriend, I’m enrolling in the nearest nunnery first thing in the morning.] Do I detect an English accent, Jason? [Or am I losing control of all my faculties in your presence?]

  Jason: Yeah. Guilty as charged. I’m a Pom.

  Calma: Don’t worry. We’ll let you off, provided you commit no further offences in the next twelve months. [Too early to risk a joke?] Are you in Australia permanently, Jason, or on holiday? [Because if you want to stay we could drive into town, get married and start a family immediately.]

  Jason: My parents moved to Australia twelve months ago, just after I finished my A levels in England. I’m having a gap year before I go to uni here. I guess that means we’re staying.

  Calma: Great! [Why did I say that? Does it smack of over-enthusiasm?] Do you miss England? [Do you have a girlfriend you spend all your time writing to?]

  Jason: Football, mainly. What you call soccer.

  Calma: Really? I love soccer. [Never seen it – is that the one with the round ball?] What team do you support? [Like I care. Just keep him talking.]

  Jason: Liverpool.

  Calma: They’re great. Fantastic team. [Who?]

  Jason: You reckon they’ve got their tactics sorted?

  Calma: Absolutely. [‘Sorted’! Whaaat?] Really talented. Classy players, every one. [You could be getting in deep crap here, Calma.]

  Jason: Well, not all of them. Obviously, when the team’s on song, you won’t find a sharper forward line or a more solid midfield anywhere in the Premiership. It’s consistency, though. Too many players drifting in and out of games, not backtracking enough when opponents hit us on the break. And that’s another thing. We get exposed by pace on the wings. It’s all very well having a solid central defence, but if they’re drawn by the overlap you’re always going to be stretched out of shape, particularly with a sweeper system, rather than the conventional 4–2–4. As for zonal marking – well, it’s a load of bollocks. We need to get back to man-to-man.

  Calma: I couldn’t agree more! [I couldn’t understand less. ]

  Jason:We seem to have forgotten Bill Shankly’s immortal words: ‘Football isn’t a matter of life and death – it’s more important than that.’

  Calma: Perhaps we could discuss this further on a date? [Who could forget old Bill . . . oh, shit!]

  Jason: A date?

  Calma: Er . . . yeah. Why not? How about Friday? [Where’s a bolt of lightning when you need it? Or a large hole in the ground?]

  Jason: Friday? Yeah . . . okay.

  That’s the point at which you exchange phone numbers. Got it? It works every time. I swear.

  From: Miss Moss

  To: Calma Harrison

  Subject: Iambic tetrameter

  Calma,

  Let’s start with basic rhythm and rhyme. Use iambic tetrameter [four beats to the line, remember] and a straightforward abba rhyme scheme. The key is to use enjambment [run-on lines] to avoid rhythmical monotony. For this first exercise, I’ll let you choose the subject matter.

  Have fun!

  Miss Moss

  Song for Vanessa

  I used to walk in crowds alone

  And though I spoke and slept and ate

  To mimic life, to ease the weight

  Of grief, it failed. I was a phone

  That can’t connect, a hollow shell.

  The world flowed by me while I stood

  And watched how others saw the good

  That living brings. I stumbled, fell –

  But then you caught me, touched my pain

  By being there with friendship’s kiss.

  The truth, I know, is simply this:

  You taught me how to live again.

  Chapter 6

  Vanessa gets excited

  I couldn’t wait to tell Vanessa. I was tempted to call her when I finished work, but it was two in the morning and I couldn’t be sure of a warm response. It would have to wait.

  I slept like the dead. I tell you, there’s nothing like stacking the old baked beans to guarantee uninterrupted zees. I woke at midday and luxuriated for a while in the memory of my conversation with Jason. My little slip of the tongue had been a godsend. For all I know, I could have continued gibbering about soccer, getting absolutely nowhere. Clearly, Jason liked the direct approach, the ‘I’m a modern type of girl, unafraid of taking the initiative’ scenario. Good job I had blundered into it.

  That set me thinking. Maybe he had rung already. I leaped out of bed and threw on a daggy blue T-shirt with a cartoon crocodile in a deckchair on the back [fashion icon, me!] and raced into the kitchen. The Fridge was sitting at the table, drinking coffee. She obviously wasn’t expecting me to appear at such a pace, because she spilled a fair amount down her front.

  ‘My God, Calma,’ she said. ‘Is your bed on fire?’

  ‘Has anyone rung for me?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Phone? You know, the lumpy device with buttons, over there on the wall?’

  ‘How was your first shift at work?’

  ‘Masterly. I’m on my way to becoming CEO of the entire organisation. Has anyone rung?’

  ‘Like who?’

  ‘Like anyone. Like someone saying, “Hello, can I speak to Calma Harrison, please?” That sort of someone.’

  ‘No. Who were you expecting to ring?’

  ‘Me? No one. No one at all. Why would I be expecting someone to ring? Nothing on the answering machine, then?’

  The Fridge looked at me over the rim of her coffee cup.

  ‘What’s going on, Calma?’

  ‘I saw the poisoned dwarf at work last night.’

  ‘The poisoned dwarf?’

  ‘You remember. Little runt, head like a cue ball and face like a baboon’s bum. You used to be married to him. Goodness, how soon we forget!’

  ‘What did he want?’

  ‘To talk.’

  ‘And did you?’

  ‘No. I rammed him in the gonads with a substantial warehouse
cart and that seemed to stop the conversation dead in its tracks.’

  ‘Unfortunate.’

  ‘Yes. Where’s a one-tonne ute when you need it?’

  I cut the banter and rang Vanessa. I got her out of bed. Can you believe it? She hadn’t been working until the small hours. She’d probably hit the sack at nine-thirty and I was still up before her! Her mum got her to the phone. Vanessa’s voice was thick and heavy with sleep. Mind you, even at her most awake she does a remarkable impersonation of someone just roused from six months’ intensive hibernation.

  I arranged to go over to her house.

  Brushing off further questions from the Fridge, I showered and slung on my new denim skirt and red EMILY THE STRANGE T-shirt. Yellow glasses and I was ready. Vanessa lived a few minutes walk from my place, so I was in her front room before I could even build up a decent film of sweat.

  Vanessa’s mum was a person in a permanent state of frenzy. She looked as if she was expecting a homicidal maniac to appear out of the woodwork at any moment. Her eyes darted everywhere and her feet twitched in a fight-or-flight agony of indecision. Maybe that’s why Vanessa turned out the way she did, as a reaction against parental influence. I have to say this about Vanessa. There’s not much that gets under her skin. The world can be falling apart around her, and she still keeps calm. It’s one of the things I like most about her.

  ‘Hi, Mrs Aldrick,’ I said cheerily.

  She reacted like an SAS squadron had abseiled down the walls and crashed through the window. A look of terror stamped her face, as if I’d brandished a machete under her nose. Her eyes skimmed the ceiling and probed the dark recesses under the couch. It was like cornering a wild jungle beast.

  ‘Hello, Calma,’ she said finally. ‘Vanessa’s in her bedroom.’

  And she scuttled off, possibly to cower in the corner of the garden or maybe do a little ironing. Mrs Aldrick kept a tidy place. Even the cockies wiped their feet before they came into her house.

  Vanessa was sitting up in bed, in the lotus position, her wrists balanced delicately on her knees, fingers making an O. Her eyes were closed in an annoying, ‘I’m so relaxed, even the corners of my eyes don’t crinkle when they’re shut’, fashion. I’d been in this situation before. Vanessa was so deep in her transcendental trance that nothing would rouse her until she was ready. Loud coughs, a low-flying jet plane, an earthquake measuring six on the Richter scale – none of these would have any effect. So I sat on the edge of the bed and waited.