August Falling

by Les Zig

  ‘I was going to have one or two drinks, then go home,’ I say.

  ‘I’m still in the city. You know the university down the road from the cafe?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘I’m right there. I was about to leave. How about we catch up?’

  ‘Now?’

  Julie laughs. ‘Unless you’d prefer not to?’

  ‘No. Sure. Okay. Yes. That’d be great.’

  ‘How about we meet at Charisma’s in fifteen?’

  ‘What about the guy, the barista—’

  ‘I doubt he’s still working now. Fifteen?’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘Hey?’

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘Thanks for calling.’

  ‘Um, my pleasure.’

  ‘I’ll see you soon. Bye.’

  ‘Bye.’

  Julie hangs up and I lower my phone, unbelieving of what’s happened. I check the time: 6.18pm. It’ll take less than ten minutes to walk back to Charisma’s, but all I feel is that emptiness inside me. That nothingness. This is the first step. I don’t know what follows. I don’t know how it follows.

  I text Gen, tell her I called and that I’m off to meet Julie in fifteen minutes. I don’t expect Gen to respond immediately—since Oscar, it can take her hours to respond—but she does:

  !!! AWESOME !!!

  I stumble back to the table, pick up what’s left of my beer—half a glass—and sip from it. Sam and Ronnie look at me. My eyes must be wide and my mouth hanging open or something, because realisation hits them quick.

  ‘Damn it, you called!’ Ronnie says. ‘Didn’t you? She was probably freaked out, wasn’t she?’

  ‘She wants to meet me in fifteen minutes,’ I say.

  ‘This is why you’re single, Ronnie,’ Sam says. ‘Well done, August.’

  ‘Do I look okay?’ I pat my hands down my shirt to straighten it, then try to push my hair back out of my eyes.

  ‘You could do with a haircut,’ Sam says. He straightens my shirt and fixes my collar. ‘Not exactly dressed for a night out.’ He tugs on the length of my hair. ‘Do you ever tie this up?’

  ‘Do I look a mess?’ I say.

  ‘You’ll do fine,’ Ronnie tells me.

  I finish my beer, set the glass down, and rest my hands on my notebook. ‘Can one of you hold onto this?’ I ask.

  ‘I’ll take care of it,’ Ronnie says.

  ‘Don’t lose it.’

  Ronnie flicks through the empty pages. ‘You couldn’t afford to lose this, could you?’

  ‘Take care of it, okay?’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ Ronnie says. ‘But I expect a full report. Better yet, if anything happens, film it on your phone.’

  ‘Ronnie, do you try to be obnoxious, or does it come naturally?’ Sam asks.

  ‘Naturally, I think.’ Ronnie grins at me. ‘Have a good time.’

  ‘Yep,’ Sam says. ‘Have fun.’

  I finish my beer, set the glass down, and plunge back into the Palladium. There are so many people now, I’m constantly apologising as I ricochet my way through. I stop at the toilet to pee and check myself in the mirror—I’ll have to do as I am—then push my way through the second floor, almost fall down the stairs, then surge for the exit. Everywhere, there are groups—groups of guys, groups of girls, mixed groups, and couples, all talking, laughing, drinking, oblivious to anything but the night. Their chatter smothers me.

  There’s an urge to break through everybody, jump on a train, go home, and lie to the others that things didn’t work out. The idea whizzes through my head, fleeting but brilliant, exploding into countless tiny reasons why this isn’t a good idea.

  I spill from the Palladium and into the cold night.

  Julie

  6

  I enter Charisma’s as I’ve done every day this week for lunch, like my usual booth will be waiting for me. But every table and booth is occupied. The crowd’s different, too—consistently younger. Their energy pulses but splinters off me. The noise is unrelenting, voices bouncing off one another.

  ‘Would you like a table?’

  A waitress—not Nicole, but somebody older with an elaborate plait that runs down to the small of her back. She frowns, at first unsure if I’m staying or going, and then at my inability to answer her. Her name tag identifies her as Sylvia.

  ‘Can I help you?’ she asks.

  ‘Um, I’m waiting for somebody,’ I say, ‘and you don’t seem to have any tables.’

  ‘There’s a booth free at the back.’

  At the back is right—it’s at the very rear of Charisma’s, in a corner that gets the least light, is cold (or maybe it just feels cold), and is opposite a small hallway that leads to the toilets. But it’s quieter here.

  ‘Would you like a drink?’

  ‘I’ll wait for my friend.’

  ‘No problem,’ Sylvia says. ‘If you need something, just shout.’

  I lean back against the wall, and wish Julie were already here, because then I could dive straight into this. It’s been so long since I’ve had to think about how to approach a date. Gen whispers in my head to be myself, but that’s easy for her. She was always the confident one. Sam would be self-assured—I’m sure of that; Ronnie would be leery. They’d all be something. Everybody’s something. All I am is confused.

  Someone comes in and I sit up straight, but it’s a short man. Will Julie even see me when she comes in? When I came in, I was sure Charisma’s was full; this booth had been out of eyeshot. Or Julie mightn’t even come in. She might wait outside, by the door. We didn’t specify. Surely she’ll come in and check. That’s logical. Isn’t it?

  I pull my phone from my pocket and start to type a text, but that’s when she does come in. I start to get up, to wave to her that I’m here, but my left thigh thumps into the underside of the table, knocking the salt and pepper shakers over, and spraying salt across the table. The table shudders, like a big gong that’s been struck, and I fall back into my seat as my thigh burns with pain.

  Sylvia’s leading Julie this way, so I right the salt and pepper shakers, brush the excess salt into my palm, and throw it over my shoulder. My thigh’s gone numb. I want to get up and stretch it, shake it back to life, but Sylvia and Julie are almost upon me.

  ‘Here we are,’ Sylvia says.

  I’m unsure of the etiquette. Get up and greet her? Kiss her on the cheek? Shake her hand? Sit where I am? Is that rude? If I stay here, do I thrust my hand across the table when she sits down? No, that’s silly; that’s something I’d do if I were meeting a friend, or a business acquaintance.

  ‘Hi,’ Julie says.

  I start to scramble from the booth but Julie holds out a hand. ‘No, don’t get up,’ she says, and eases into the booth opposite me.

  ‘Would you like a couple of menus?’ Sylvia asks.

  Julie purses her lips. ‘Sure, I haven’t eaten. You?’

  ‘Uh, no,’ I say.

  ‘And a drinks menu?’ Sylvia asks.

  ‘I’ll have a beer,’ Julie says. ‘A glass—whatever’s on tap.’

  ‘Of course. And you, sir?’

  ‘I’ll have a glass, too. With beer in it.’

  Julie laughs, unaware that wasn’t an intended joke.

  ‘I’ll be right back.’ Sylvia heads off.

  ‘I’m really glad you called,’ Julie says. She’s wearing a faded leather jacket, and a beige scarf, which she unwraps from her neck. ‘I was wondering if you’d be one of those guys who had an arbitrary waiting period before you called.’

  ‘No.’ Heat works up over my torso, and my shirt’s too tight around my neck, so I unbutton the top two buttons. ‘I’m clueless.’

  She laughs again. That smile washes all the worries from her face until there’s no concern, no inhibition, nothing but an almost childlike delight. But she’s not a child. She might pass for only twenty from a distance, but now that she’s closer, I see that she’d have to be about as old as me, with small lines about her eyes, a maturity about her fa
ce, as well as an underlying gravity—or maybe that’s just another of my extrapolations.

  ‘So, August?’

  I nod.

  ‘And your sister’s Gen—as in Jenny?’

  ‘Genevieve.’

  ‘August and Genevieve?’

  I nod again. ‘Priddy.’

  ‘Pretty?’

  ‘Priddy—double D.’

  ‘I’m plain old Julie Hall.’

  Nothing plain about you, I almost say, and don’t know whether it’s another missed opportunity or a groan-worthy cliché.

  ‘August and Genevieve Priddy—that’s exotic,’ Julie says.

  ‘We’re actually twins, too.’ Something trickles down the side of my head—sweat, a solitary bead. It’s so hot in here. ‘Me and my sister, that is.’ My teeth clamp down to stop myself cringing.

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Dad was Welsh, and Mum was Italian. I was named after Mum’s grandfather, and Dad liked the name Genevieve. They had a thing for being grandiose.’

  ‘Had?’ Julie grimaces. ‘Sorry—that’s personal.’

  ‘It’s okay. They died in a car crash just before Gen and I turned eighteen.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  I hold up my hands, as if to say, What’re you going to do? ‘Gen was good; she got us through it.’ My mouth’s dry. I could really do with that drink.

  ‘My mum died from cancer when I was twelve. I never knew my dad.’

  We’re quiet. The whole of Charisma’s seems quiet, although the bustle’s still there, but now it’s subdued. It’s darker, too, or at least it feels that way. Mood—that’s all it takes. It totally colours the world around us.

  Julie laughs. ‘Way to start a date, huh?’

  I give a short laugh, then clear my throat. ‘So, you’re studying?’

  ‘Nursing.’

  ‘Are you … I mean, you’re … mature-aged?’

  ‘Not too mature, I hope.’

  ‘So is this a life-change—’

  ‘It’s a change from what I was doing. I’ve never had time or money previously. But it’s what I’ve always wanted to do. I want to get into palliative care. Probably because of what happened with Mum and … my aunt who I grew up with had a stroke several years ago …’ Her mouth twists into a humourless smile. ‘Let’s take the conversation away from morbidity. Yeah, I’m studying, but I also work as a PA for one of the professors. You actually saved me in a way, because this guy is such a lech. Not that that’s why I agreed to meet you. But it’s a bonus. He’s nice enough, he really is—in his way—but he’s all hands and suave and sophisticated.’

  That must be Sweepy, who came in with her on Tuesday. Although I guessed he wasn’t her boyfriend, it’s still a relief to have that confirmed.

  ‘He’s married, too,’ Julie says.

  ‘Not that that stops many people nowadays.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Why do you work for him then?’

  ‘Helps pay the bills, and he’s harmless—I can handle him.’ Julie lifts an arm and mock flexes. ‘He’d be lost without me. He’s the most disorganised, scattered man I know. What about you?’

  ‘I don’t think I’m disorganised or scattered.’

  Julie chuckles and pats my hand. ‘I meant about work.’

  ‘Oh.’ Of course. ‘I work in a call centre.’

  ‘A call centre?’

  It’s not difficult to see how unimpressive that sounds, especially compared to her studying nursing, working as a PA and building a life for herself, while I cold-call trying to drum up money.

  ‘I used to work in a Carpet Duke,’ I say, ‘as a sales clerk. Not that that’s what I really wanted to do either, selling carpets and rugs and stuff, although I was bizarrely good at it, like, unnaturally good to the point I was worried that I’d found my calling in life.’

  ‘Selling carpets?’

  ‘And rugs.’

  ‘So you have a gift.’

  ‘I think maybe it wasn’t so much the carpets, but that when I get nervous I start to talk too much—like when I tried to chat to you—and it becomes this one eloquent but rambling discourse. It helped when I was selling. Not that anybody noticed—at work, at least. Don’t know about outside work. You haven’t noticed, have you?’

  I thrust my hand out to indicate her, and strike the salt and pepper shakers, knocking them over again. Julie opens her mouth like she’s going to laugh, then sets the shakers right. She brushes the spilled salt into her hand, and tosses it over her shoulder.

  ‘No,’ she shakes her head, face earnest, ‘I haven’t noticed at all.’

  ‘I think I was nervous there all the time,’ I said. ‘Because …’ I swallow, and tell myself to take it slow, to think about what I’m going to say. ‘Because expectations there were high.’

  ‘At a Carpet Duke?’

  ‘That’s nobility right there.’

  ‘So, tell me, why Carpet Duke? What exactly is a Carpet Duke?’

  ‘The guy who started the business, Titus—’

  ‘Titus?’

  I nod. ‘Titus Kinley. He’s like this drill sergeant who’s always going on about how important presentation is and how there’s no time for procrastination—’

  ‘No time for procrastination?’

  ‘That was one of his favourites. He’d grab you by the arm and tell you, “There’s no time for procrastination!” He was like a caricature of the driven boss. Anyway, he wanted something majestic.’

  ‘So, Carpet King, Carpet Queen—too high in the monarchy?’

  ‘It had to be majestic, but quirky. Sorta worked when he franchised it, because he had that stupid logo all ready to go. We used to have people ring up or come in calling us “Carpet Duck”.’

  Julie laughs. That’s good. She’s laughed a bit throughout this, and it’s not forced. I begin to relax. Humour’s always my key to finding any sort of peacefulness—or at least the facade of ease.

  ‘Anyway, I left that … for a variety of reasons,’ I go on, ‘and my friend Ronnie got me a job at the call centre where he works.’

  ‘Is that any more exciting than selling carpet?’

  ‘Nope. Although it has its days when you ring somebody and they play you; it’s funny when it’s not frustrating.’

  ‘Like what? What’s a story about being run around?’

  One hundred stories that I could’ve volunteered five seconds ago evaporate under the pressure of a simple question. That’s what I get for commending myself.

  ‘Um …’ I wrack my memory for any story—it doesn’t have to be one of my own—but nothing comes to me.

  That I’ve drawn a complete blank is obvious. It would probably be about the time most dates might excuse themselves to use the bathroom or make a call and simply not come back. But, instead, Julie frowns.

  ‘I thought that stuff was outsourced?’ she says.

  ‘Mostly, but not all of it. Our office works for various local fundraisers and raises money for charities and causes. It’s just something I began doing recently—to pay the bills.’

  ‘I know that feeling well enough. So that’s what you want to do?’

  ‘I’m sorta … finding myself, I guess. Clichéd, I know.’

  ‘Okay. Five years. Where do you see yourself?’

  She’s driven. Of course she is. She’s studying, working, has always known she wants to get into nursing. Maybe this isn’t a good match. I have nothing equal to offer—at least not in terms of purpose. I could talk about my book, but that leads to a conversation about being stuck, and doesn’t look any more hopeful. Anyway, what sort of line is being a writer, anyway?

  ‘I don’t know.’ I run the right cuff of my shirt across my brow and see Julie’s eyes catch the scar. I bring my arm down abruptly. ‘I … don’t …’ I shrug. ‘Sorry, it’s pathetic.’

  ‘You’re at a crossroads—that’s okay. The things I want to do, I’ve always wanted to do, but life got in the way. That’s what life does. But I’ll still do them, even if I
have to do them when I’m a little old lady with a cane.’

  ‘Like?’

  ‘Climb to Everest Base Camp.’

  ‘That might be hard with a cane.’

  ‘Don’t care. Walk the Camino de Santiago—I read about this eighty-year-old who did it. Can you believe that? His wife passed away and he decided to take the pilgrimage in her honour. My aunt and I used to talk about doing it, but yeah, she got sick. I’d still like to do it, though.’

  ‘That’s … something.’

  ‘I want to see the pyramids, see the Sphinx—I can knock both those off at once. Go see those Easter Island heads; you know those things?’

  I nod.

  ‘I want to see the aurora borealis—you know that?’

  ‘The northern lights. That’s in the Arctic, though, isn’t it?’

  Julie excitedly points a finger at me. ‘I want to visit the Arctic, too.’

  ‘My sister’s partner is a travel agent—if you ever need one.’

  ‘I might. I will. I’ve got a whole list of places I want to see, to experience.’

  ‘Like your bucket list.’

  ‘This is like my fuck-it list—fuck it, I want to do these things. Sorry—I hope you don’t mind the occasional profanity.’

  ‘The occasional profanity and I are acquainted.’

  Julie laughs again. ‘I want to do these things—not just talk about them, but actually do them. Eventually. Inevitably. I’ve never gone anywhere. I’ve never had the chance. You?’

  ‘Um, no. Well, interstate. Once. But that’s it.’ I don’t tell her that interstate was to the Gold Coast for my honeymoon. ‘And it wasn’t anything special.’

  Sylvia arrives with our beers and menus. ‘I’ll give you a few minutes to think about it,’ she says.

  ‘Thanks.’

  We scan our menus. I gulp from my beer, while Julie sips from hers. I’m going to have to pace myself, or I’ll run out of beer before Julie, which’ll leave me having to wait for another, or having to order another before her (if she even has a second)—either way, I’ll look like a drunk.

  ‘I just started grabbing lunch here …’ Julie lifts her head from her menu and points at me. ‘You come here for lunch, too—I’ve seen you.’

  ‘I work up the road.’ It really is too hot in here. The sweat beads on my forehead.