‘Are you fulfilled?’ I asked.
‘Why?’ she replied. ‘Do you think I look fat?’
‘No. I mean, are you happy?’
‘Yes, of course I am. Why wouldn’t I be?’ she said.
And with that I had my answer.
So I was seriously thinking that I might stop thinking when suddenly God spoketh unto me again and my phone rang with a number that I didn’t recognise.
‘Hello,’ said a male voice. ‘Look, you probably don’t know who I am, but I’ve seen your work on the TV relationship show – you know, the one where your hair looked like a lounge chair – and I think you have a lot of talent. I’m just wondering whether you’d like to come in and discuss your future?’
It was a sign. It was definitely a sign. Fluffy had shown me the path to healing the hole in my heart and as a result the world was offering me at least a knife to open the oyster to see whether it held a pearl (or any other mixed metaphors).
‘Yes, of course I’d love to come and chat,’ I said.
‘Well, if you could do it tomorrow, that would be great as I fly out of the country at five.’
I hung up and knew it was clear that I had no choice now but to take the advice that Fluffy had so generously given. I knew it was a big decision not to think, and in case the whole thing failed, I knew the first thing that I had to do was back up any of my unsaved mental data. Luckily I hadn’t had many original thoughts over the past week, as I’d been on the treadmill of rehashed self-loathing and internal verbal abuse, so the backup was only three simple thoughts and I was able to write them on a Post-it note.
Thought 1:
Why do donkeys bray so loudly when they have such big ears? Wouldn’t you think that with ears that huge they’d only need to whisper?
Thought 2:
Why don’t sporting competitions, like the Olympic Games, have a normal person participating in each event? This way we could get a measure of how amazing the athletes really are. At the moment, in a running race, for example, we can’t get a measure of how fast the competitors are going because all the participants are going really fast. But we’d be able to measure the scope of the athletes’ true talents if we had a normal ‘Joe Blow’ in the race, missing the starting gun, running out of breath, and stopping to walk for a bit while he gets rid of a stitch. (N.B. While this approach would be productive in many sports, it is not advised for events such as aerial skiing, in case it leads to the amateur’s death.)
And Thought 3:
Why do we make such a fuss about accommodating the separate ‘hard mattress/soft mattress’ needs of each partner sharing a bed? Why don’t couples just have a completely normal mattress and then wear stiff or soft pyjamas to suit?
With the download complete, I guess that I now have twenty-four hours before my job interview and the possible meeting with my destiny. This in turn means that I have only twenty-four hours to lose the old me. I have twenty-four hours in which to cure the ache in my heart and learn how ‘not to think’ … and this, I imagine, will require an intensive course with Fluffy.
Waiting for Fluffy
To be honest, I was a little scared of Fluffy in the beginning because I wasn’t sure whether she was stoned or had mad cow disease.
I remember I ran back to the bananas but finally found Fluffy in Aisle Twelve reading the instructions on a box of tissues.
‘Hi, my name’s Gretel,’ * I said.
‘You know, I once had a ferret called Gretel,’ she replied, ‘but it got sucked up a vacuum cleaner.’
‘Well, I’m pleased to meet you,’ I said. ‘I understand that your name is Fluffy.’
‘Yeah, that’s right,’ Fluffy nodded. ‘I was named after the family’s pet cat, which my mother accidentally killed by confusing it with her slipper.’
At that particular moment I wasn’t aware that I was looking for a guru. I’m not racist or sexist, but to tell you the truth, I didn’t really think that a guru would come in the form of a slightly overweight, peroxided blonde who occasionally walks like she’s dislocated her hip but has probably just inadvertently put her G-string on upside down.
I don’t mean to be superficial or make myself sound like a cliché, but the simple fact is I had somehow assumed that if I ever decided to pursue a guru, he would be a bald man with a dot on his forehead and sultana-brown skin. You see, I’m white, and despite all our dick-swinging superiority, white people tend to secretly believe that people who are other colours are actually deeper, and spiritually more substantial. This is possibly because we also assume that the colour of their skin has made their lives more difficult and these struggles have in turn made them wiser. On top of this we whities also have a tendency to be lazy and greedy and harbour a desire to acquire all that we can with minimal effort, which as it turns out includes gleaning the wisdom of the wise without enduring the suffering that gave it to them. And thus the growing trend to follow pigmented gurus.
So, who would have thought I’d end up actively seeking the advice of Fluffy! But I remember that as I looked at her and listened I got very excited and suddenly found myself asking right then and there, ‘Are you working tomorrow? Because I’d like to hire you for a few hours.’
‘Um …’
‘I won’t ask too much of you.’
‘Um …’
‘And you might find it interesting …’
‘Well, I could take the day off, but, um, before I actually accept, I should probably interrogate and investigate you thoroughly. So, I mean, you’re not like a mass murderer or anything, are you?’
‘No.’
‘Oh, great. Well, that’s okay, then.’
I waited a moment for her to think of more questions (actually it took about eight minutes) and as I stood there on the edge of excitement I began to grow a little impatient.
‘Ah, if it will make you feel any better,’ I said, ‘I can tell you a few other things about myself. Um … sometimes I dream that I’m awake and so I wake up really tired. Ah, I wear long thin crucifix earrings dangling from my ears, not because I’m a Christian, but because the elongated vertical cross somehow makes me look slimmer. And … I suffer from envy – you know, like when I look out my bedroom window at the beach and see two young lovers happily jogging together, I secretly hope they’ll trip over. Um, what else, oh, I was in the recorder section of the school orchestra for four years, and I mimed my participation and never once played an actual note. Oh, and I always try to arrange first dates at dusk because that’s the time when I look best (due to the fact that the sun is going down and it’s starting to get dark, but no one’s turned on the lights yet). And … um, what else? Oh, I recently ran over a pigeon on the road. I thought it would move out of the way, but in retrospect it probably thought that I would slow down. And, um, I try to be nice at all times but I find it very exhausting. And last of all, ah … I was once paid to be an artist’s model in Italy. The artist spent weeks and weeks painting my portrait and not letting me have a look. When he’d finally finished he let me take a peek at his work, and he’d painted my head as a fish.’
Fluffy was silent and another long pause followed. I started to jiggle and finally said, ‘So, Fluffy, have I left anything out? Is there anything else that you’d like to ask me?’
‘Um, actually, Gretel, yes there is. Do people with big eyes see more?’
9
‘Fluffy, do you think my bum looks like it’s dropped?’
‘No, I don’t think that your bum looks like it’s dropped. I just think your legs might have got a whole lot shorter.’
First Day of the Rest of My Strife
Today is the day after yesterday morning when I met Fluffy, and today is therefore the day of both my internship with Fluffy and my job interview. My plan this morning is to simply do God’s bidding, hang out with Fluffy for a few hours, absorb all that I can, change my perspective, change my life, get rid of the ache in my heart, create a whole new me, and get the job this afternoon.
&nbs
p; Fluffy is due at my place at nine but I don’t hear a peep from her until eleven when she rings to ask me for my phone number. When I tell her she says thanks and then calls me back.
‘Hi. Sorry, just ringing to tell you that I’ll unfortunately be late because I slept in. You see, I kept being disturbed by an annoying sound, and I’ve just realised it was my alarm clock.’
She arrives forty minutes later. When she arrives she’s on foot. When I ask her why, she replies that she forgot to bring the car. And then she says, ‘You know, I really like your wig,’ and I have to tell her that I’m not wearing one.
It’s been twenty-four hours since I last saw Fluffy and now she looks quite different. Either her boobs have got bigger or her head has shrunk. She appears to have had a boob job. Not just a boob job, but an enormous boob job. I don’t know where to look or what to say. She doesn’t mention it. I don’t mention it. I don’t know what the protocol is with boob jobs. Are you supposed to mention them? I guess it’s a bit like wondering whether to tell someone they’ve got a bit of scrambled egg stuck in their moustache – except if you follow that analogy through, it means that someone would have planned and paid to have the egg in their moustache. Yes, actually, forget that analogy because now I’m wondering whether, where bosoms are concerned, it’s actually rude not to mention their enhancement and to act like I haven’t noticed. I mean, aren’t people getting their bosoms enlarged precisely so that people will notice? But then again maybe I’m supposed to notice the bosoms but at the same time think that they’re real.
Finally I say to Fluffy, ‘I don’t mean to be rude, but why does your head look so small today?’
‘Because,’ she replies, ‘your head is a muscle and if you don’t use it, then it shrinks.’
We look at each other for a moment longer. I decide that Fluffy hasn’t had a boob job and has just placed inflated balloons in her bra. I look at her and as I do I begin to get the distinct impression that she doesn’t remember where she is, or who I am, or perhaps even who she is. It’s honestly like watching a blackout. But then I realise this emptiness, this silence, this apparent vacuum are all just the signs that Fluffy is thinking.
‘Um, like, do you need me to do anything with your … you know?’ she asks, finally breaking the silence. ‘Oh, um, what do you call them? Um, sounds like … um, oh what are they? You know, kids?’
‘No, they’re both out at the moment and I’m actually doing a bit of research, so what I’d like to do is just tag along while you have one of your normal days.’
‘Okay,’ Fluffy says and then she suddenly turns and starts running.
‘Where are you going?’ I call after her.
‘Back to my house’ she replies, ‘because on a normal day I’d have the car.’
So I run along behind her.
We finally stop at a huge house and I learn that it belongs to Fluffy’s father, who I also learn owns the local shopping centre where Fluffy happens to work and that’s why she can take a ‘fully sick day’. We get in the car, with me in the passenger seat and Fluffy, and her small head and enormous bosoms, behind the wheel like three testicles jammed in a sandwich bag. As we sit in the car Fluffy immediately apologises for the fact that the car is a convertible because she knows ‘how bad they are for your hair’. I tell her that we can actually put the roof back up if she’s concerned. And she says, ‘No, that’s why they call it a convertible.’
‘But,’ I say, ‘if you could only take the roof down and never put it back up, wouldn’t you call the car an incontrovertible?’
‘No,’ Fluffy replies with a wag of her finger. ‘No, if you’re a really good driver, then you can definitely reverse in it.’
We then spend thirty-five minutes on a roundabout because Fluffy doesn’t know how to get off. During this period I have the time to notice that the car is sporting white ribbons.
‘Fluffy, why have you got wedding ribbons on the car?’
‘Because,’ she replies, ‘everyone you pass always waves and smiles if they think that you’re driving a bridal car.’
Three Minutes Later
‘So, do you have a boyfriend?’ I ask.
‘Yes. His name is Pong.’
‘Oh. Why is your boyfriend called Pong? Is it because he has multi-ethnic genealogical heritage?’
‘No, it’s nothing as simple as that,’ she says. ‘It’s actually because he smells.’
‘Do you love him?’ I ask.
‘Oh, what is love?’ she replies. ‘He drinks too much and gets pissed as a mute … and it makes his penis go placid.’
We Arrive, We Park, We Sit
We arrive at the mall. We park, but we don’t actually enter the shops immediately ‘because that way you save a lot of money’.
Four Minutes Later
We’re in the middle of a long silence, during which no one but me appears to be uncomfortable. Then Fluffy suddenly speaks and I find myself even more uncomfortable, while Fluffy is thrilled to bits.
‘I know,’ she giggles. ‘We should take a photo of ourselves, but first we should do a makeover!’
And so it came to be that we entered the mall and I tried on clothes, largely at my own suggestion because Fluffy didn’t want to see me ’til I was ‘ready’, so she covered her face with her hands and kept on bumping into things.
I noticed this and I also couldn’t help but notice that when Fluffy stood too close to the heat of the light fittings, both of her balloon boobs popped.
The White Choker Looks Fab!
‘Wow. That white choker looks amazing,’ Fluffy says as she recovers from the explosions on her chest and sneaks a peek at me through her fingers.
‘Do you really think it looks amazing?’ I ask. ‘You don’t think it just looks like I’m wearing a neck brace?’
‘Oh, yes, it looks exactly like you’re wearing a neck brace, so whenever you wear it out people will be kind to you.’
Fluffy stares at me again. ‘You know,’ she says, ‘I think you’d look better if you were wearing a hat that looked like the crashing waves of the sea.’ Strangely enough we don’t have access to a hat that looks like the crashing waves of the sea, so we settle on a pair of earrings that are so massive they pull my earlobes down to my shoulders and make me look like I have two spare heads.
‘And now I just need some cosmetics to make me look beautiful before I leave for my interview,’ I say.
‘Oh!’ screams Fluffy. ‘I didn’t realise you wanted to look beautiful! That’s going to take absolutely hours! We’ll have to make do with an emergency rescue.’ Then Fluffy hurls some foundation on me like she is throwing a mud pie, adds some blue eye shadow and what look like false eyebrows and then sets her completed work with hairspray. When she’s finished I look like a cake decoration.
We Decide to Have a Snack
We decide to have a snack before we take the photo, in order to give me strength for the interview, but it’s difficult for us to find a venue that suits Fluffy’s particular dietary requirements – i.e. doesn’t sell food that ‘used to have a face’. Finally we go to a sushi outlet where Fluffy orders prawns because ‘even though they do have faces, they look just like their bums’. After the meal Fluffy suggests a toast, taps her glass and it shatters, so the waiter cheers us up by ‘doing some fire-eating, but without the flame’ (because of the volatile flammable situation with our hair and makeup).
Fluffy then tells me that she was in an elevator once and the elevator phone rang.
‘So what happened then?’ I asked.
‘Nothing,’ replied Fluffy. ‘It just rang … and then it stopped.’
I Have to Fly
‘I should probably get going,’ I say, ‘because I have to fly interstate for that job interview.’
‘Oh, but we haven’t taken the photo yet,’ squeals Fluffy.
And so we huddle under the table, where the light is somewhat dimmed, and Fluffy proceeds to take the photos on her phone.
‘Oh, dear,’ she says
as she checks the first shot. ‘You look really shithouse! Maybe if we pulled your hair back tightly, it would give you an instant facelift.’
We take some more shots, I say I have to go, Fluffy looks at the shots and starts crying.
‘Don’t cry,’ I say. ‘We’ll meet again.’
‘Oh, that’s not why I’m crying,’ she says. ‘It’s the photos. You look exactly like a wombat that once got caught in the exhaust pipe of Pong’s car.’
Two Minutes Later
‘Do you want a lift?’ says Fluffy.
‘No, I’ll catch a cab thanks,’ I say. ‘I need to prepare for the interview and I think I want to be alone.’
‘Oh, I feel like being alone as well,’ says Fluffy. ‘So, maybe I should come too?’
As I get in the cab, alone, Fluffy tells me through the window that I’m fabulous ‘with a capital Flab’ and then wishes me luck and says, ‘Break an arm.’ Then she leans towards me and whispers gently in my ear, ‘Oh, before you go, I should probably tell you one more thing that could really help you today.’
‘Yes?’ I say, curious for an interview tip.
‘If your shoes get tight during the flight,’ says Fluffy, ‘you can put panty pads in them for extra comfort.’
The Night my Bum Dropped Page 17