by Les Zig
Sam rolls his eyes at me. ‘Sexist much?’
‘It’s not sexist. Guys do, too. It happens. People change. They’re the people they are when they’re single, then they’re the people they are as half of a couple.’
‘I think we’re seeing why you’re single,’ Sam says.
‘I’m single out of choice. You don’t always have to be part of a couple. I’ve had several bad relationships in a row. I don’t have to jump into a relationship for the sake of a relationship. Why’re you single?’
Sam purses his lips. ‘Because I got tired of trying to find the right person and instead started investing in serendipity.’ He shifts in his chair and sips from his beer. ‘Have you ever considered people might change for the better?’
‘Divorce rates certainly wouldn’t suggest that—oh, shit. Sorry, August.’
I shake my head. ‘You’re right. People change. Lisa became domineering.’
‘Ooh, kinky.’
‘I mean she became, like … everything had to be done her way. If it wasn’t, we’d argue, and she wasn’t somebody who could ever agree to disagree. She’d try ram points home—even ring me over and over to continue an argument. She’d want to thrash things out until we came to some sort of agreement. It got to the point where I couldn’t be bothered with it.’
‘So, what? You kept your mouth shut?’
‘Yeah.’
I remember slinking around Lisa, stewing about what I could say, but knowing that an argument would unravel, and it not being worth it. The anger wouldn’t last anyway. And she was so great in other ways that it compensated—she was driven, she was structured, and she kept our home with everything functioning on top of a full-time job.
‘But you give a bit of yourself up each time you give in and keep your mouth shut,’ Ronnie says, ‘until you step out of the shower one morning, look at yourself in the mirror, and realise you really don’t know who you are anymore—you’re this mould your partner created.’
‘That’s beautiful, Ronnie,’ Sam says. ‘Beautiful. You should write Hallmark cards—give them to your partner when you want to thank them for a shitty relationship. Oh how I loved you, but now things have changed—’
‘—You make me want to shoot myself,’ Ronnie finishes. ‘Is that something you could arrange?’
Sam chuckles and lifts his glass in a mock toast.
‘That’s what my last relationship became,’ Ronnie says. ‘She wasn’t a bad person. It was just around me, she became a bitch. And I’m not a bad person, but around her I became a pain. Bad match. I’m sure you find people out there who complement you, make you better, make you want to be better.’
‘Don’t you wonder, though?’ The question tumbles from my mouth as I’m about to take a drink. ‘I know you can be bad for each other, but maybe one of you is bad for the other. They’re trying. You’re terrible. And that unravels them in the process.’
‘You seriously don’t think that’s what happened with Lisa, do you?’ Ronnie says.
‘I meant, like, hypothetically, you know?’
‘Are you sure?’
I don’t answer, because I know Ronnie doesn’t want to hear my answer. But I do wonder. Could I have been the cause of what became of my marriage? I want to tell myself no—and even the examples of skulking around and being mute to avoid starting an argument jump up—but I see myself and I’m sure that it’s a possibility.
I catch Ronnie and Sam exchange a sidelong glance, both reading my pensiveness.
‘This woman you’re with now is different, though, right?’ Sam asks.
‘She’s more like … what Ronnie said, where I can sit around and relax with her. She even seems to … I think she … She’s come from a background which I think makes her more empathetic to me and who I am. That’s something I don’t think Lisa ever understood. It could just be that things are free and easy because Julie and I are just starting out, whereas with Lisa we had a household to run.’
‘You don’t know how relationships will turn out,’ Ronnie says. ‘You don’t know how people will turn out. They should come with a warning label, like cigarette packets.’
‘That kills the mystery of getting to know somebody,’ Sam says. ‘The allure.’
‘Do you want mystery, or do you want foreknowledge that it all might go to shit?’ Ronnie asks philosophically. ‘Or would you prefer to go through the shit?’
‘You can’t go through life ducking shit. That’s part of growing. Getting hurt.’
‘Look who’s gone all new age. August, if you had your time over, would you still hook up with Lisa—’
‘No.’
I say it so quickly that I might’ve subconsciously prepared for this question a long time ago. But it’s obvious: no Lisa, none of the pain of the break-up, none of the agony of losing Bobby, none of the annoyance of that stupid job at Carpet Duke, and none of the mess I inevitably became.
Again, Ronnie and Sam exchange that glance. Ronnie’s heard most of my woes time and time again, and seen me at my worst; Sam just told me he’s glad I’m looking bright and hopeful and now, in the space of a minute, I’ve concerned them.
I lift my glass. ‘To new beginnings,’ I say.
They toast my glass, and we continue to drink and chat, breaking down the politics of relationships, Ronnie’s wisdom incisive and acerbic, Sam’s compromising and thoughtful. There’s no real framework—I know that now. Every relationship is not only its own entity, but has its own identity.
I check my phone periodically and at 6.50, I gulp down my beer—my third—as I get up. ‘Time to get going,’ I say.
‘Have fun,’ Ronnie says.
The bookstore is about ten minutes away, but it doesn’t help that I don’t know the way and have to stop and check my phone’s GPS. I’m also interrupted by Gen’s nightly call, which I decline. I send her a text telling her I’m on my way to meet Julie for a book launch. Gen sends back a single character:
I shunt the phone into my pocket and break into a jog until my throat burns and the beer bounces in my stomach. By the time I get there, I’m sweating, and my hair’s draped over my face.
Independent is a two-floor store in an old stone building, a HELP WANTED sign pasted in the window. The mustiness is thick and cloying, although it’s overwhelmed by chatter. People are packed in the promenade, and between aisles. I take a step back in the doorway and bump into a couple. I apologise, step aside and let them through. The man’s in a suit, distinguished in the way you’d expect a butler to be distinguished, while the woman’s black dress might be better suited to an evening dinner.
The door opens behind me again and I have no choice but to step forward. Several book displays loom in front of me—pyramids of books that are presumably bestsellers. Others sit on a carousel. I press forward, hopefully out of the way of traffic. More and more people come in. The crowd assimilates me. People frown. It’s suits and formal wear. Everybody’s too loud, but I don’t understand a single thing being said. It’s like being underwater. I heave for breath, spin. A refreshment table sways, littered with wine and beer, although I don’t see a single person with a beer. I turn but the bookshop veers. A hand closes on my shoulder.
‘You made it.’
Julie. Smiling. In blue jeans. And her leather jacket. She stands on tiptoes to kiss me. ‘You look flustered.’
‘I had to … um …’ I close my eyes, concentrate on the words I want to say. ‘I was gonna be late, so I ended up running here.’
‘These things never start on time—I should’ve warned you.’
‘It’s okay.’
Julie hooks her arm into mine and drags me towards the refreshment table. ‘Beer?’
I survey the crowd once more, everybody with a glass of wine. ‘I feel out of place—’
Julie’s already grabbed one—a green bottle that I see is a Heineken. ‘Be a rebel.’ She thrusts the bottle at me.
‘Thanks. What about you?’
‘I better wait until t
his is over.’
Sweepy approaches—Julie’s professor, who I saw that time in Charisma’s. His hair bounces around his shoulders and a wool scarf is draped around his neck not because he’s cold, but as a fashion accessory. He might be a World War I pilot about to enter his biplane. His suit is this awful pale aqua, or maybe it’s some putrescent shade of grey—it varies depending on how the light hits it, but it’s not a pleasing colour either way.
‘Julie, a moment please,’ he says, his voice clipped.
‘Don, this is August,’ Julie says.
My hand is swallowed in Don’s and crushed, and then his left hand encases me also to make sure I don’t escape. ‘August, a pleasure to meet you,’ he says. ‘Julie’s told me you’re a promising writer.’
‘Really?’
‘She’s very impressed, and she’s a good judge—a great judge. I’d be happy to read some of your work, give you an opinion.’
Behind Don, Julie gives me a thumbs up.
‘Maybe … when I’m finished.’
‘Don’t be silly! I’m happy to look at it in the same state Julie did. Oh yes, Julie. If you wouldn’t mind—everything’s ready. Perhaps we can get started.’
‘Sure. Excuse me.’
Julie disappears into the crowd. Don returns his attention to me.
‘You’re very young,’ he says.
‘I guess.’
‘You’ve had schooling with your writing?’
‘No, not really. Just something I do.’
Don nods as he takes that in—whether he’s nodding in scepticism or thoughtfulness I don’t know. ‘Ah, a man who writes from experience,’ he says. ‘Although you are young, but I did say that, didn’t I? Author Henry Miller’s advice was to write a million words before you can find your voice. You must be very confident, very self-assured, to have won Julie’s praise; she was unmerciful with my work.’
‘Her notes are very … detailed.’
‘They are! I would love your opinion of my book,’ Don says. ‘Not fiction, of course. But I’m interested in how it appeals to the everyman. I write from such a distance nowadays, separated by academia and time and simple life experience, but what better educator is there? You want to write, suffer. That’s the next best teacher.’
‘I’ve been doing that.’
Don chuckles heartily, although it’s only two syllables: Hahuh! ‘You can’t be suffering too much if you’ve taken my best PA away,’ he says. ‘Seems Julie’s always on the run.’
‘She says you’ve kept her busy.’
‘Don!’
A shrill voice parts the crowd to reveal a small, immaculately kept woman. Her navy dress seems to have been sewn onto her. Her short, cropped red hair sits on her head like frosting. Initially, she appears young, maybe no older than Julie, but as she nears—stopping only now and then to endure perfunctory exchanges with the guests—I see her make-up is heavy, and the subtle angularity of her eyes and tautness of her face as opposed to the looseness of her neck suggests she’s had plastic surgery, or at the very least botox.
Don finally releases the handshake so he can greet the woman. They share a light kiss, although I’m sure their lips never touch.
‘August, my wife, Rosemary,’ Don introduces me.
Rosemary reaches out with a small, exquisitely manicured hand, although I don’t know if it’s an attempt at a handshake or a gesture, like royalty would make to acknowledge the presence of a subject.
‘Rosemary, this fine fellow is August, Julie’s partner,’ Don says.
Rosemary pulls back her hand. ‘A pleasure,’ she says. ‘Donald, the chancellor would like to have a word with you before we begin.’
‘Of course.’ Don inclines his head to me. ‘Nice to meet you, August. We’ll talk again.’
Before I have a chance to respond, Rosemary leads Don away. I sip from my beer and intend to wander through the aisles to kill time, but they’re too packed, so I idle through the promenade, where people thin out around a pyramidal display of books, Don emblazoned across every cover with a half-smile, hands folded over his chest. The title is big and bold in black lettering: Discovering You, and underneath it in a cursive script, Rewriting God, Parents, and Yourself.
I flip the book over to read the blurb:
Stop. Think. Reflect.
We all have goals, dreams, and aspirations, but few of us ever attain any of them, let alone all of them. We become a victim of limitations programmed into us through upbringing, cultivated by environment, and simply predisposed through genetics. We become a readymade person who rarely questions whether there could be something better for us, that there could be something more.
A microphone whines. The chatter silences. A stately woman who has the bearing of a disapproving stork stands on a stage at the end of the bookstore. ‘If only I had one of these at school,’ she says, and is rewarded with a titter.
I go to return the book to the pyramid, but stop, frown at it, and file it under my arm.
‘For those of you who do not know me,’ the woman continues, ‘I am Chancellor Morrissey.’
She proceeds to talk about the university and Don as a lecturer, his qualifications, and the ‘lasting impression’ he has on every student he teaches, and how that makes him perfectly qualified to be the author of this book. I don’t know how genuine it is—there’s no reason for it to be disingenuous—but the response from the assembled throng is polite applause which barely raises a decibel when she introduces Don.
Don—typically—sweeps up onto the stage, embraces the chancellor, and kisses her on the cheek, then assumes his position at the microphone with a smile and a wave. A book with various tabs poking from the pages sticks out of his pocket.
‘Ladies, gentlemen, thank you all for joining me tonight for this momentous occasion—the publication of my first book,’ he says. ‘This book has been something I have worked on, assiduously, for a number of years—not necessarily in committing the words to the page, but gestating within my head. Yet despite this, despite this process that was organic and evolutionary, almost entirely unwittingly—for want of a better word—I was gradually drawn in by the question of not whether I could write a book, but whether I should write a book.’ He rolls his eyes so overdramatically, it’s clearly done for everybody to see. ‘Just what we need—another book from an academic, or as my wife sometimes refers to me, an acadumbic.’
The crowd laughs appreciatively.
‘Whilst my reputation may be vaunted within my classroom, privately my wife is subject to my endless doubts, my constant forgetting of where things are, my pleas from the computer as I call out across the house, “What is that word I want? You know the one!”, only to have her patiently respond, “Read me the sentence in context, dear”. Another reason I questioned whether this was a worthwhile undertaking—it’s one thing to lecture students, it’s quite another to sit there and articulate concepts and premises that seem beyond articulation into simple, digestible terms. Or perhaps my struggle with that endeavour is a sign of my budding senility.’
His speech unwinds, eliciting more and more laughs as it becomes more and more self-deprecating, his wife painted as a patient martyr, always at his disposal, always ready to rescue him from his failures. He mentions others—the faculty, as well as friends who supported him and acted as a sounding board, but there’s nothing about Julie.
He finishes by beginning to read a passage from his book about different forms of growth—spiritual, emotional, and intellectual—and qualifies them in a psychological context. The crowd breaks into thunderous applause when he’s done. Julie nudges her way through them, her face mottled, grabs me by the arm, and hauls me towards the door.
16
The night’s cold washes away the effluvia of the bookstore—or maybe it’s the effluvia generated by the people who’d assembled. I have to skip to keep up with Julie as she hurries along, passing an assortment of cafes and restaurants and other shopfronts.
‘Hang on,’ I say. ‘
Hang on!’
Julie shoves her hands in her pockets. ‘That bastard,’ she says. ‘Do you know how much work I put into his book?’ She sees I still have my beer in hand and snatches it from me. She takes a swig from the bottle that almost finishes it off. ‘I basically edited it for him. All that shit he said about his wife, that was me. That bastard.’ She lifts the bottle, finishes what’s remaining, and dunks it into a bin we pass. ‘I didn’t expect to be exalted or anything, but a little thank you would’ve been nice. It’s not a lot to ask, is it?’
‘Why didn’t he?’
‘Because …’ Julie’s jaw clenches. Then she explodes with a sigh. ‘Because who am I to be thanked?’
‘It doesn’t matter who you are. If my book got published, I’d thank you in the acknowledgements.’
‘You say that now. Wait until it happens.’
‘I would. In bold, too, so you stood out from everybody else.’
Julie looks sidelong at me, knowing she’s being mollified, but isn’t totally won over.
‘If you want,’ I say, ‘we can go back and I’ll rough him up.’
‘You’d really do that? You’d rough him up?’
‘I would, at the very least, give him a stern glower. From across the room. When the people between us parted.’
‘That would show him.’
‘You bet. Hey!’ Don’s book is still tucked under my arm. I pull it out and hold it up. ‘I didn’t pay for this. I was going to, but you dragged me out of there so quickly I totally forgot.’
‘Keep it. Maybe it’s some form of karmic repayment.’
‘I’m sure your help was worth more than one lousy book,’ I say, shoving the book into my jacket pocket.
Julie sighs again. ‘I need a drink.’
It’s not long before we pass a doorway from which music blares so loudly it almost knocks us onto the road. Two behemoths with thick beards and tattoos stand in front of the door. I think it has to be a bikers’ bar, or something equally as threatening. Julie grabs my hand. I try to tug her onwards, but she yanks me through the door into immediate darkness and a furnace of heat. She shoves her way through shadowy figures until we reach a crowded bar. She has to lean forward and shout into the ear of the bartender to order and, shortly, he’s back with two glasses of beer. Julie hands money over to the bartender and leans back on the bar as she picks up her beer.