by Les Zig
The single door opens to reveal an elderly lady whose head seems propped up by the neck of her vibrant purple turtleneck sweater.
‘I’m sorry, we’re not open,’ she says.
‘Sorry,’ I say, and I turn to leave, but stop myself. ‘I’m actually a writer, of sorts, and I was wondering if I wanted to put on a play, how I’d go about it? I don’t suppose that’s something you could help me with?’
The woman smiles. ‘Have you ever put on a play before?’
‘No.’
‘Have you written the material?’
‘Um, I’m still writing.’
‘I take it you don’t have funding or much in the way of financing?’
‘Ah, no.’ I lower my head. ‘It’s more of an amateur thing—it only involves three people and a couple of sets.’
The woman goes behind the counter and starts taking out flyers. ‘Perhaps your best bet would be to join our community theatre company,’ she says. ‘They meet every fortnight. They’re all volunteers, and they’re always happy to try putting something on for the sake of experience—of course, you’d need to pay for the theatre. But it’s a relatively inexpensive venture.’ She thrusts the flyers at me. ‘Have a look at some of our literature. My handout’s also there—I don’t have a business card, but my handout has my number and email.’
‘Thanks,’ I say.
‘Oh, and you are?’
‘August.’
‘Rhonda. Rhonda Creasy.’ She smiles, this big toothy smile. ‘You’re lucky you caught me here—I just dropped in to pick up some things. Must be kismet.’
‘Must be,’ I say.
I read the flyers on the train ride to work. A lot of the stuff Rhonda’s given me are flyers from old shows they’ve put on. There’s also a volunteer handout, with a questionnaire asking how I would be interested in getting involved, some profiles on some of the more established members of the theatre, and the schedule for the rest of the year with a number of corrections and additions made in red pen. I fold the flyers and stuff them in my pocket. It’s crazy to think about this as a possibility, but it’s also liberating to think that it could be possible.
I bounce into work, ready to tackle the day, but Ronnie accosts me to remind me about his birthday.
‘Drinks, Palladium, tomorrow night—right?’ he says.
‘I’ll be there.’
‘Bringing the little woman?’
‘As a matter of fact, she’ll be making an appearance.’
‘She probably should give me a birthday kiss.’ Ronnie says.
Sam leans over the wall of his cubicle. ‘I hope she’s had her shots,’ he says.
‘How’d last night go?’ Ronnie says.
‘It was a bit of a bust.’ I sit at my desk. ‘Hobnobbed with some professor who wants to read my book, then got in a bit of a punch-up. But all good.’
‘You didn’t?’ Ronnie says.
I put on my headset.
‘Did you?’
‘Nine o’clock, people!’ Boyd says, as he strides past. ‘Get to work please.’
About midway through the morning, I realise that I don’t have a gift for Ronnie so at lunchtime, I duck out to the nearest store, where I buy him a card, as well as a Star Trek Blu-ray box set of all the old movies. At Charisma’s, I scrawl a perfunctory message of congratulations in the card and sign it. As an afterthought, I add Julie’s name. It’s stupid, it’s corny, but I like that her name sits alongside mine. It feels natural.
‘You going to order?’ Nicole the waitress stands there, arms crossed.
‘You’re very sullen for somebody so young,’ I say.
‘My boyfriend, the prick—and by “prick” I’m sure you’ll get I’m not happy with him—didn’t come home until 3.00am last night. But I’m sure it’s okay. I’m sure it’s just a case of him hooking up with and banging his ex. I get paid minimum wage here, then from here I have to catch a train home, grab a bite, get five hours’ sleep, then wake up so I can go to my second job working nights at the local supermarket.’ Nicole barely takes a breath. ‘So excuse me for not being all smiles.’
‘Sorry—a ham and cheese focaccia and a bottle of water. To go.’
‘You order at the counter for takeaway.’
‘I’m sorry, I forgot, I’m in—’
Nicole growls under her breath, scribbles the order on her notepad, rips out the sheet, and slaps it on the table in front of me. I take out a twenty, leave it on the table along with the invoice, and when Nicole returns with my order, I push the money across to her as I get out of the booth.
‘You deserve better, you know,’ I say.
Nicole’s face softens, but then she squares her shoulders and her eyes close into slits. ‘You think you’re better than me?’
‘No—’
‘You’re happy now, so you can give me advice?’
‘I’m—’
‘How often did you skulk in here, brooding, like you’d throw yourself off a bridge if there was one handy?’
‘I did not.’
‘Right. Now you’ve hooked up with somebody, you’re happy and can condescend to the rest of us.’
‘I didn’t mean—’
‘What’s it like in your world? Is it all sunshine and does it shower rose petals? Do you step outside and follow the rainbow and feel all warm and gushy and loving? You know what I’ve learned? Shit don’t last. So you remember that when your world blows into some unimaginable crapper. Remember that’s the advice I gave you.’
‘It’s not really advice—’
‘Whatever.’ Nicole snatches up the invoice and the twenty. ‘Thanks for the tip.’ She begins to storm away, but then spins back. ‘It is a tip. Right?’
‘Definitely.’
The moment I step from Charisma’s, I squint up into the sun as it shines through breaking clouds. Then I shiver. Like Julie shivered this morning stepping out of the shower. I start back to work. Nicole’s right to one extent: so many things don’t last. Some things aren’t meant to, though—like appliances. They have a finite lifespan. But other things are meant to evolve—or devolve. It’s not a matter of lasting, but changing.
Still, when I return to work I can’t shake Nicole’s admonition, so random and so angry from the rest of the day. It’s more disturbing than the dismissiveness of Don’s wife Rosemary last night, and that hoon who punched me, and for the rest of the afternoon I’m troubled by an unease in my midriff, a squirminess that corkscrews into my stomach like I’ve eaten something bad—this sense that something’s wrong that I can’t identify.
Come 5.00pm, Ronnie pops out of his chair and rubs his hands together. ‘Who’s for a few drinks?’
Sam grabs his jacket from where it’s slung over his chair and puts it on. ‘Would love to,’ he says, ‘but I’m reserving my big night for your birthday tomorrow.’
‘August?’
Usually, I’d say no and scuttle off home. Now I feel like saying yes. But I’m also wondering if Julie and I will be doing anything tonight—we haven’t planned anything, but with new couples, these things are implied, aren’t they?
‘I’ll probably reserve myself for tomorrow, too,’ I say.
Ronnie then looks over to the corner: Suzi. Her lithe form doesn’t so much rise from her chair as unwind. Her leggings are tight, and her singlet exposes her rounded, toned shoulders. Every movement is graceful, like she’s in concert with some unseen force. Immediately, I think she must do Pilates or Tai Chi. She casts a glance towards us. Ronnie looks away. Sam snorts.
‘Ask her,’ he says.
Ronnie’s face brightens. ‘I should get to know her in a group setting first—like my birthday. Get her comfortable with me. Let her get to know me.’
‘Let her get to know you?’
‘You’re right—that’s stupid. But at least let her get comfortable with me. Asking her for drinks is an overreach.’ Ronnie looks around. ‘Well, I’m sure somebody around here is interested in a drink—I’ll see you both tomo
rrow.’
As I drift out, catching a packed elevator with everybody else, I message Julie: Anything on for tonight? I walk slowly from the office building, waiting for a response. But by the time I’ve reached the station, I haven’t heard anything. I sit on a bench for two trains, but still hear nothing. I think of the way Nicole shot me down—this feels like an extension. It’s stupid. I’m so stupid. But after getting hurt, hypersensitivity becomes the new normal, which is never good when your previous normal was sensitive anyway.
I finally jump on a train. I know I’m over-feeling this. But that’s also young relationships. There are expectations—and one of those expectations is that your other half will respond promptly and want to do things with you. I think back to the early days dating Lisa, and can’t recall being needy or clingy, and don’t like that those things have formed now. But those things, I now realise, are because of Lisa—because she cheated. I always assumed Lisa didn’t answer because she was busy, until I learned she didn’t answer because she was with some other guy. Who knows what people are doing when they’re not responding?
The ride is quiet. Faces look despondent around me—people going home on a Friday, and to what? It should be uplifting to know that the weekend is ahead. But I guess those people are out, having a good time, making the most of life away from work. These people are recognising the cycle of their lives—that it is a cycle, and that relief is temporary.
As the train pulls into my station, my phone vibrates and relief and excitement pulse through me. But it’s Gen. Before I accept the call, I take a deep breath.
‘Hey,’ I say.
Following a moment’s silence, Gen says, ‘Oh, you actually answered! I thought you’d be out with Julie.’
‘I haven’t heard from her.’
‘Everything okay?’
‘Yeah, sure.’
I try to keep my tone upbeat. Gen has a sensor for any shifts in my mood and I’ve never exactly hidden them. I’ve never meant to play on her sympathy, but sometimes I haven’t been able to help myself; now I’m determined not to give any indication that anything’s going on.
‘We gonna do this dinner next week?’ Gen asks.
‘Sure,’ I say.
‘You’re sure everything’s all right?’
‘Positive. Don’t stress.’
‘Good. Monday night?’
‘Monday night,’ I say.
We say goodbyes as I start up the stairs to my place. The neighbours are arguing, and they have some heavy metal music on with lots of drums and guitars screeching. I let myself in, turn on the light, and have just finished making a sandwich and am grabbing a beer when I do get a message from Julie:
Sorry!Sorry!Sorry! Work’s been shit. You home?
Yep, I write back. I pause, as a rush of feelings overwhelm me—relief, excitement, joy, and a whole load of other things that make me think I’m hopelessly desperate. I write, Want to come over? then delete it, and write instead, Want to do something? then delete it, and write instead, What’s up? and then delete that, sending only the Yep unaccompanied.
Julie responds immediately: Okay if I come over?
Of course, I write, then hear Ronnie’s voice in my head, telling me I’m too eager, that I’m too needy, so I delete that and write, Yep again, and then decide I’m not being needy but enthusiastic, so rewrite Of course and send that.
Be there soon, Julie tells me.
I’m too impatient to work on anything, and when I hear a car outside, I rush to the window—sure enough, Julie is pulling up. Now the relief is tangible, my whole body loosening until my breath comes easily. That’s not natural—even for me. I unlock and open the door, then sit on the couch.
The night Mum and Dad died, Gen was in the kitchen, making dinner—she often and uncomplainingly took on those responsibilities—while I kept checking the window, growing anxious that Mum and Dad were late home from work. Over the next forty-five minutes, Gen assured me with a range of possibilities—held up, car trouble, traffic, and a number of other things. But then I could see she was beginning to grow concerned. We tried calling them, but the phone kept ringing out. An hour later, a police car pulled up.
The door opens and Julie traipses in, dark crescents under her eyes. I get up, and she throws her arms around me. I hold her, run my hand up and down her back, feeling today’s been a good day for understanding my anxiousness. I don’t have to be this way—not as long as I work at it.
‘You okay?’ I say.
‘Things get to me sometimes,’ Julie says. ‘I’m sure you know what that can be like.’
‘Do you want to talk?’
Julie waves her hand, as if it’s not worth discussing.
‘Can I get you something to drink?’ I say. ‘Or eat? I just made myself a sandwich.’
‘Sure—nothing fancy.’
‘Beer?’
‘Not tonight—a water’s fine.’
I make her a ham, cheese, and lettuce sandwich, and bring it and a glass of water to her as she sits on the couch. She nibbles at the sandwich. I extend my arm out across the headrest of the couch, and she leans into me and quietly finishes her sandwich. I hate seeing her so hurt and vulnerable. I don’t want her to feel that way. And I like that I can be the stable influence for her, like she has been for me.
‘How’d things go with Don?’ I ask.
‘I gave him your book,’ she says. ‘He said he’ll read it—and he will. For as scattered as he can be about other things, he does what he says he’ll do.’
‘That’s great,’ I say, ‘and I appreciate it, but I meant how was he with you after last night?’
‘Oh. He was apologetic,’ Julie says. ‘Said the event got to him. He’s a liar. I don’t care, though. It’s not worth stressing over selfish people. He’s a means to an end. Can we go to bed? I’m tired.’
‘Now?’
‘If that’s okay?’
‘Sure.’
Within minutes, we’re lying in bed, naked, cuddling. Julie’s fingers run idly up and down through my chest hair. She feels small in my arms, and quiet—although I don’t know how quiet feels. But she does. Like that effervescence and energy that’s been uniquely her has dimmed almost to the point of being extinguished.
‘I want to help you,’ I said.
‘Some things just are what they are, aren’t they?’ she says.
‘I’m sure, but you’re always propping me up, always assuring me. I want to be able to do the same for you.’
‘It’s …’ Julie’s voice trails off, and she sniffs. I wonder if she’s crying, but when she speaks, there’s no tremor in her voice. ‘I feel sometimes, with the stuff that’s happened to me in my life, like I’m running, and it’s right behind me, right on my back, ready to overtake and crush me.’
‘You’re stronger than that, though—to get this far in your life like you have,’ I say. ‘I envy you.’
‘You shouldn’t envy me.’
‘Look at the life you’re making for yourself, despite everything you’ve gone through. It’s amazing.’
Julie scrambles up onto me and pecks me on the lips. ‘You’re sweet to say that. You still don’t know me.’
‘You know enough about me and you’re still here.’
Julie cups my face between her hands. ‘You see your anxiousness as a weakness, but it helps you be sweet and sensitive. That’s not a bad thing. For a man, it’s a good thing.’
She pecks me once more, and then lies beside me. I hold her tighter, and wait for her to say something, but whatever dialogue we were sharing is closed. I stroke her back, determined to hold her and comfort her until she drifts off, but I’m sure it’s me who falls asleep first.
17
I stir in bed, and my eyes flicker open to the sight of Julie yanking her jeans up her legs.
‘Sorry,’ she says. ‘Aunt Zoe time.’
I sit up and blink. ‘Want me to come?’
‘You sleep some more,’ she says.
‘You okay? Af
ter last night, I mean.’
‘Momentary lapse,’ Julie says, latching her bra. ‘It happens. Sorry—’
‘You don’t have to apologise.’
‘Looking back will kill you. Move forward, move forward,’ Julie clambers onto the bed and straddles me, ‘move forward.’ She kisses me. ‘But thanks for being there for me.’
‘Anytime.’
Julie strokes my cheek. ‘I …’ She exhales, and I’m sure what she says next isn’t what she originally intended: ‘I have your friend’s birthday tonight, right?’
‘Yeah.’
‘What time?’
‘Six or so. I can wait until you’re done with your Aunt Zoe.’
‘I’ll meet you there—Palladium, right?’
‘Yep. You sure?’
‘Totally. Afterwards, I want to talk to you, too.’
‘About?’
‘Stuff—we’ll talk later. Sleep! I’ll let myself out.’
She springs up and almost bounces out of the bedroom. Moments later, I hear the front door open and close, and then her car start. I close my eyes as I listen to her car drive down the street, then flip onto my side.
Yesterday’s apprehension about not hearing from her is now so unreal that I can’t imagine I ever felt that way. I’m glad it turned around and I was able to be with her. Lisa never needed me—not really; she was so strong and independent and hated showing any vulnerability. Julie’s equally strong (if not more so) and independent, but I’m thankful—in that heroic way only men can idolise themselves—that she does have these lapses, so I can be there for her.
Through the morning, I toy with my novel, writing pages that I’m happy with. I’m tempted to message Julie, but know that’s seeking approval. But then she messages me: Aunt Zoe really tired today—what’re you up to? I tell her about my pages and she responds, Great! I break for lunch (another sandwich), take a forty-minute walk around several of the blocks that surround my place, then come back to work on my play. Too many of the scenes are an internal monologue. I need to work out how to communicate those to an audience who aren’t reading a narrative. The task keeps me not only occupied, but enraptured for the next several hours, until a text from Ronnie around five o’clock rouses me: You better be on your way!