by Les Zig
I sit in my booth, brave Nicole’s sullenness, and while I snack on a burger, I go through the last quarter of my book, observing Julie’s notes, but making my own and seeing that she’s right—that this section is self-contained and could stand alone as a story of a man trying to find not only his freedom, but self-empowerment from his circumstances.
When I return to work, Boyd’s standing in the corner—again. That doesn’t seem natural. He seems to be doing that more and more often. I stop by Ronnie’s cubicle.
‘Why’s he always watching us now?’ I ask.
‘Because he’s a Boydazoid,’ Ronnie says. ‘A freak.’ While he has his call list on his computer, he also has a small window playing a movie of a black man and a blonde having sex.
Sam rolls his chair across to Ronnie’s cubicle. ‘Says the man watching that on his work computer,’ he says.
‘Sex is natural.’
‘Context, Ronnie. Context.’ Sam spins around to me. ‘Heard we’re going to downsize—cuts or something.’
‘Really?’ I say. In terms of seniority, I’d be one of the first to go, although in a place like this, surely they’d dismiss people based on who converts the least of their calls into money.
Boyd approaches. Ronnie shuts the movie window as Sam rolls himself back into his cubicle, leaving me the only one doing nothing.
‘Everything all right?’ Boyd asks.
I nod.
‘Then perhaps you best get back to work.’ Boyd’s tone is flat—it’s the closest I’ve seen him to displeasure.
‘Sure.’
He waits until I’m in my seat making my next call before he goes back to his corner, but he’s hardly put a scratch in my mood. There are days when everything feels like it’s opening up, and everything that’s been a burden could fall away so the world can become new and exciting again.
When it hits five o’clock, I catch the elevator down to the ground floor, bouncing up and down on the spot until the elevator bings, the doors open, and everybody pours out, like champagne foaming from a bottle. Everybody around me is a shadow, a blot darkening the evening; everybody but me, shining and bright and stupidly effervescent.
But once I step from my office building I stop.
Amid the crowd at the nearest intersection waiting for the lights to change, their backs to me, are Lisa and Bobby, Lisa’s raven hair fluttering in the wind, Bobby in his Batman outfit, the hood pulled down, cape flapping behind him, his left hand locked in his mother’s.
Lisa turns—I don’t know if she knows I work here in my life post her, and her turn might just be restlessness, but I pull back into the embrace of my office building’s entrance and bump into the people who stream from the doors. My chest thumps so fast it’s almost a single steady beat.
The lights change and Lisa tugs on Bobby’s hand. He idles after his mum and now he casts a glance back over his shoulder and, through a part in the crowd between us, I’m sure he sees me. He still has that same serious expression and quirky half-smile that reminded me so much of myself as a kid.
Our eyes connect and I expect his face to light up, but there’s nothing—no recognition, not even curiosity. Perhaps he doesn’t actually see me. He keeps on walking until he and Lisa disappear into the procession of people.
I lean against the wall, feel the roughness of the bricks under my hand, as jagged as the scar that gleams from my right wrist. The sweat on my temples chills. This might’ve been coincidence—probably was coincidence. Why wouldn’t it be coincidence? Lisa liked to take Bobby into the city. We even used to do it together. But I can’t shake the fear.
‘You okay, August?’ It’s Boyd, his hand on my back.
I nod and head off but walk slowly, let people pass me, worried I’ll see Lisa again—maybe she’s stopped in a shop or cafe. Bobby loves sweets, and Lisa indulged him more than she should’ve—for as hard as Lisa could be on me, she was a pushover with Bobby. Or they might be at the station, since Lisa hated driving into the city with all the traffic. I search faces, and my heart jumps twice when I think I see her. The first woman is short and buxom like Lisa, but her hair is brown; the other is black haired, but that’s the only similarity. I tell myself I won’t be fooled again, but then I see another woman with a little boy, and even though the little boy isn’t in a Batman costume, there’s still that instant I’m sure it’s them before rationality asserts itself.
My train’s gone and I have to wait for the next one, sinking onto a bench and taking a deep breath. This is not the way I should be reacting—not just because I saw Lisa. There are times I’ve fantasised about a chance meeting, and I’ve imagined every possible response I could employ—angry, indignant, noble, reasonable, and I could even wordlessly turn my back and walk on—but I know the reality is, if I did bump into her, I’d have no idea how I’d respond.
I pull out my phone and open my contacts with the intention of calling Gen, but it’s Julie’s name I swipe. This is silly. I’m overreacting. My mind too readily goes to a dark and cold place when Lisa, or any form of insecurity, pops up. It’s become a habit I know I need to break. And this was just a Lisa sighting. I want to hear Julie’s voice. I want it to wash away everything associated with Lisa. I need to be grounded back in the present.
‘Yeah?’
Not Julie’s voice. A man’s voice, but distinctly familiar.
‘Anybody there?’ Gruff. Confrontational.
‘I’m, uh … is Julie there?’
‘Oh, it’s you, man.’
He knows me but I have no idea who he is.
‘If you think you’re gonna take her from me, man, you’ve got another thing coming.’
‘What—?’
‘Fuck off.’
The line goes dead. The phone’s too heavy in my hand; the hand itself seems disconnected from my body. Noises from people scuffling by, snippets of conversation, and the horns from trains on adjacent lines are overwhelmingly loud and I’m sinking into a darkness that I can only escape by shooting to my feet.
I check my phone’s log to confirm I called Julie’s number. Of course I did. The guy responded to my query about her. He knew me. Who’d know me and also know her? Her professor? I saw him that time he came into Charisma’s after Julie, but we had no interaction, although she might’ve mentioned me to him. But outright hostility is hardly behaviour you’d expect from a professor—or at least not how I’d imagine they’d behave, all dignified and haughty. This was somebody possessive. Like an ex. Or a current boyfriend.
The next train arrives and I shuffle on. It’s even more packed than my usual train and I have to stand in the aisle, my face in the back of somebody’s head, somebody else pressing up behind me. It’s hard to breathe. I close my eyes. Smells strengthen. A cheap, abrasive perfume. Somebody’s body odour. Something sweet—maybe a hairspray or gel. Coffee. Lots of coffee.
Of course! The voice belongs to the guy who came to Julie’s flat when I was washing up and she was showering. Goatee! He was surprised to see me there, then begged off. Is he an ex? Or perhaps he’s a boyfriend. Julie and I never said we’d be exclusive—it’s been implied. But who knows with her? Although when I told her about Goatee, she was ignorant—or did she fake that?
I hate this. I can’t do this again. I tell myself to stay calm. This will sort itself out. I repeat that over and over, but there’s no assurance. At best, it helps to keep my head from overreacting to all the possibilities.
After I’ve gotten off the train and started past the community theatre, my phone rings. Now, an answer. But it’s not Julie, it’s Gen, with her usual nightly call.
‘Hey,’ Gen says. ‘How’re things?’
‘Okay.’
‘What’s wrong?’
She hears it—of course she hears it. She might even feel it. But now I feel childish, reporting to her. I’m not a teenager who needs their hand held through their first relationship. But that’s exactly what I need. It’s exactly what Gen’s done for me for so long.
&n
bsp; ‘August?’
‘I’m just …’
‘What? Talk to me, August.’
‘Just some things I need to think through.’
‘You don’t sound good.’
‘I’m okay.’ Then, I force it, firmly: ‘I am.’
Now Gen’s quiet. The phone beeps. I pull it from my ear. Incoming call from Julie.
‘Hey, Gen, can I call you back? Julie’s calling.’
‘Throwing me over for a pretty blonde.’ Gen sighs theatrically.
‘I’ll call you back.’ I end the call with Gen and accept the call from Julie. Then, guardedly: ‘Hello?’
‘Hey, August. I’m sorry about what happened.’
‘Who was that? An ex?’
Julie says nothing.
‘Or is he somebody you’re currently with?’ I say. ‘If he is, that’s okay.’
I turn into my street. Wind rustles through the trees until the trees themselves seem to be chattering. I can imagine them shivering, lamenting being left out in the cold, the sadness in their faces.
‘I mean, that’s not okay. I’d hate it. I … like … you. But my ex cheated on me. I don’t want that happening again. I couldn’t deal with it. Not again.’
‘August, he’s nobody like that—it’s complicated. But there’s nothing relationshippy between us.’
I arrive at my place and start up the stairs. The bass from the neighbours’ music falls over me, a scratchy blanket to welcome me home. I can’t hear voices though. I imagine them on the couch, potbellied and unwashed, sharing a bottle of scotch—no, a bottle of bourbon.
‘There’s nothing romantic, sexual, or anything like that with him, August. He’s somebody I work with—I worked with.’
‘He’s the guy who came to your flat.’
‘When?’
‘That day you took me to see your Aunt Zoe—you were showering while I washed your dishes.’
‘That was him?’
‘You didn’t know?’
‘I honestly didn’t.’
I fish my keys out of my pocket, fumble with them before I get my door unlocked. My description of Goatee was brief, and she could’ve assumed the caller had the wrong place.
‘You there?’ she asks.
‘Yeah.’
‘I was occupied, my phone was on a chair, he answered it. I’ve ripped into him, believe me. I’m sorry, August.’
I’m inside now and close the door behind me, but stand in the dark. The dark’s comforting now.
‘August?’
I stumble across the room, almost trip over the coffee table, walk into the armrest of the couch, and bang my hip against the kitchenette counter.
‘August?’
I open the fridge. Its internal light highlights me, blinds me, like a helicopter spotlight. I blink at the beer.
‘I like you, too.’
I stop in the act of reaching for a beer. Now I do feel like a teenager, all warm and hopeful, and I smile—I can’t help it. It breaks out. I like you. Hardly the most romantic or binding declaration, but right now filled with immeasurable promise. I close the fridge and retreat to the couch.
‘So there’s nothing with this guy? I’d rather know after what happened with my ex—’
‘August, he’s up there with tomatoes for me.’
I smirk. Everything seems normal again. Well, mostly.
‘I’ll see you tomorrow at my professor’s launch?’ Julie says. ‘I don’t think I’ll be able to catch up beforehand, but we can definitely do something afterwards. What d’you think?’
‘Sure.’
‘Seven o’clock. The bookstore’s called Independent, on—’
‘I know it.’
‘I’ll see you then, okay?’
‘Okay.’
We say our goodbyes and I call Gen back, but don’t feel any need to go into my Lisa sighting. Gen detects I’m more upbeat, and leaves it at that.
Then I try getting back to work on my book—the first three quarters, at least, but the new continuation point is foreign to me. What I’m going to need to do is go back and reread it from scratch. I put my laptop aside, open the satchel, and again read the final quarter, now seeing the possibilities Julie saw that it could be a one-act play.
I read it deep into the night, taking notes, then separate it as a computer file and begin revising, working into the early morning and pausing only to make a sandwich. I should check out the community theatre, although I don’t know what putting on a play would entail—the hire of the theatre is probably straightforward, but I don’t know how I’d get actors, or audition them, or direct them should I get them. Still, it’s an exciting prospect, something entirely new that divides me from the life when I originally wrote the piece.
It’s 2.15am by the time I go to bed and as drift off to sleep, my mind vacillates between my play and Julie.
15
I wake bleary eyed and just want to get through the work day, get to this launch, but also get home, because I’m eager to work on my play. I pause at the toaster, and despite the tiredness, I feel something I haven’t for such a long time: direction. It’s not just about surviving the day, but having stuff to look forward to.
That doesn’t make work any more enjoyable, with Boyd continuing to watch us, but at lunchtime, I scoot to Charisma’s and do some writing in my notepad, before rushing back to work. Boyd relaxes his vigilance over the afternoon, which unfolds in typical fashion—chatter between our attempted solicitations. When five o’clock comes around, I lean back in my chair and wonder what I should do with myself to kill time until the launch.
Ronnie powers down his computer. ‘What’re you doing?’
‘What do you mean what am I doing?’
‘You’re usually first out the door.’
‘Going to a thing with Julie tonight.’
‘Ooh,’ Ronnie’s act of being impressed is vastly overdone, ‘a thing.’
‘Got a couple of hours to kill.’
Ronnie frowns for all of an instant. ‘Come on, then.’
‘What?’
‘I’ll kill some time with you. Sam?’
Sam blinks—a picture of a cruise ship sits on his screen, along with a map of all the ports where it stops.
‘Beer?’ Ronnie asks.
‘Sure, why not?’
I see now a flaw in my planning—my satchel. It’s not something I want to lug around the whole night, and definitely not something I want to risk misplacing. I open my desk drawer, shove the satchel in. There’s a lock but I have no idea what happened to the key—I don’t recall it ever being given to me. Still, although the satchel should be safe, I feel trepidation about leaving it behind.
Ronnie, Sam, and I end up at the Palladium. It’s not that busy and while Ronnie orders a jug of beer, Sam and I grab a little table in the corner on the bottom floor. It’s growing dark outside and the streets thin with people while traffic ambles by. The same scene during the day would seem lively, or bustling. The disruption to my routine leaves me uneasy. I scan the Palladium, see mostly people who’ve probably stopped off for a quick one or two after work, although there’s a younger group, made up of two couples, who look so relaxed. But that’s just what I can see on the surface. Drinking. Laughing. One of the guys leans in to his girlfriend and kisses her; she nuzzles her face into his shoulder. His arm snakes around her back.
‘How’re things going with this girl you’ve met?’ Sam says. ‘Sounds like you’re moving fast.’
‘No. Well, yes. I guess.’ I shrug. ‘Is that bad?’
‘There are no rules.’
‘What if there were?’
‘Then things would be boring.’
There are rules, though—not written ones, but rules of common decency, of respect, of affection. Even marriage vows are, in fact, a set of rules—not that they mean anything, not really. But they’re guidelines to how you should play, to avoid hurting people, or getting hurt.
‘I’m glad,’ Sam says.
‘Glad?’
‘When Ronnie first brought you to work, all I saw—no offence—was this cloud, this blackness, like, really, a black hole.’
‘Thanks.’ I almost slump back in my chair, deflated by how I must come across to other people.
‘It’s okay—Ronnie said you’d had it rough. It sounded shit from what little he did tell me, but now I get something different from you.’
I lean forward.
‘Hopefulness, maybe. I don’t know—is that right? Whatever it is, it’s good to see you out and about. I’m happy for you.’
‘Thanks,’ I say, a little bit uncomfortable with Sam’s sentiment.
Ronnie comes over with the jug of beer and three glasses held precariously in one hand. Sam relieves him of the glasses and sets them on the table. Ronnie pours the beers.
‘So, what’s this thing with Julie?’ Ronnie asks.
‘A book launch—a professor she’s a PA for wrote a self-help book,’ I say.
‘Ooh, get to hobnob with some snobs. So how is Julie? Is she good?’
‘Is that question meant to have a double meaning?’
‘Maybe.’
‘Ronnie,’ Sam says, ‘your ability to be a pig is astounding.’
‘Just curious. You should bring her Saturday night.’
‘Saturday night?’ I ask.
‘To my birthday,’ Ronnie says. ‘Did you forget?’
‘Forget what?’
‘Ha. Ha.’
‘I’ll ask if she’s free,’ I say.
‘Tell her.’
‘A partner likes to be asked,’ Sam says.
‘You do things together,’ Ronnie says. ‘Anyway, it’s a good measure.’
‘Of what?’ I ask, like Ronnie might have some bit of wisdom I’ve overlooked.
‘What sort of relationship you have—if it’s high maintenance, and you constantly have to be attentive to her needs, have her interests overrule yours, have her choices overshadow yours, or if she’s low maintenance, and is happy to go along with things, sit around, have a chat, that sort of thing. Of course, she might be low maintenance, but change now she’s in a relationship. Lots of women do.’