by Mike Stoner
With effort I pull my head back up and the bar and coloured lights mix in darting lines and blurry splodges. I close my eyes to steady my head. No more ganja. Not tonight.
Opening my eyes wide, the place steadies. I see him, the Liverpudlian, in a yellow Ben Sherman shirt, standing by the bar with his arm around a pretty young Indonesian girl. She looks nervous as he speaks into her ear. She smiles at what he says but tries to pull away. His hand is clasping her shoulder. He gives her a quick kiss on the lips that she tries to turn away from and he laughs. She laughs too, but it is forced.
‘Someone should tell her about his condition,’ says Marty as he knocks over Jussy’s king.
‘Fuck. You only won ‘cos I’m stoned.’ Jussy leans back against the balcony.
‘She’s probably already got whatever it is.’ Kim kicks my foot with his. ‘You still with us, Newbie? Looking a bit lost.’
I turn my head and I think my neck creaks. I look around to see if anyone can hear it.
It’s just the joint. It’s just the joint.
‘Not lost,’ I say, ‘just contemplating.’
‘Contemplating what?’
‘How I’m going to tell that girl he’s got a dose.’ I stand up and trip on one of the cushions. Falling back onto the low rail, Kim manages to grab my arm before I tip over into the river.
‘Stoned again. Sit down, man.’
‘Nope. Newbie New Me has a job to do.’ I take extra-large steps over the cushions to get out of my corner. ‘No more thinking without action. I’m doing action without thinking. I’m action man.’ I giggle as I put my hand on Julie’s head to make the last step away from our table.
‘What the hell are you on?’ she asks.
‘This man is not used to this extra-strength jungle grass.’ Kim laughs. ‘Got to watch this.’
I’m still giggling as I approach the Liverpudlian and the girl. No one, and I mean no one, dead ex-girlfriends and hidden split personalities included, tries to stop me.
‘Alright mate,’ I say in my best tribal English greeting.
‘Yeah. Alright.’ He pulls the girl tighter into his body. She smiles at me.
‘This your girlfriend?’ I ask, pointing my Bacardi and Coke at her. I look at the glass for a second and wonder how it got into my hand. I put it down on a low table next to us, where three backpackers sit.
‘Do you mind?’ I ask.
‘No. Go ahead,’ answers a dreadlocked male. What is it with dreadlocks and travellers? Perhaps I should grow some, or buy some. I giggle.
‘What’s so funny, mate?’ asks the man from Liverpool. Liver-poooool. Ha.
‘Nothing. Mate.’
‘You takin’ the piss or wha?’
‘No. I wouldn’t do tha, like. Wouldn’t wanna get in yer face.’ I jerk my head towards him on the last word and he flinches.
‘Fuck off.’ He moves the girl in front of him.
A human shield? From me? I laugh out loud. Shit. This grass works.
‘Hi,’ I say to the girl. ‘Apa kabar?’
‘Baik-baik,’ she answers. She says she’s fine. I get the feeling I’m freaking her as much as Ben Sherman.
‘How’s the spots?’ I ask Ben.
‘Spots? What spots?’ He absently scratches his crotch with his spare hand. The girl pulls out from under his arm and looks at what he’s doing.
‘Here spot?’ The girl points at the offending area.
‘No. No spot. Very big dick here. That’s all.’ Ben looks over the girl’s head at me, eyes narrowing.
Am I about to get into my first real fight? Giggle. I’m going to lose. More giggling. I’m also aware of Kim’s laughter somewhere behind me and the three backpackers inch their bums across the floor away from us. Rain has started falling in heavy, straight lines outside and the humidity has risen. Moisture fizzles on my forehead. Lightning and thunder break, one immediately after the other. Bright lights and drums.
‘This is all very dramatic,’ I say.
‘It’ll be fuckin’ dramatic when I split yer fuckin’ head open, eh?’
‘He has spot here?’ the girl asks me, still pointing at his crotch.
‘That’s what it looked like when I saw it dangling in the river earlier.’
‘It was you naked in river.’ She turns to face Ben. ‘I hear from friend. She say dirty English man naked in river today. Was you?’ She steps away and behind me. No more human shield. Shit.
‘You’re fuckin’ dead, mate.’ Ben takes a step forward.
‘You dirty pig.’ She runs past him, down the two steps that lead out of the bar and into the rain. She disappears in splashes of mud up the path.
‘Well, you shouldn’t go spreading that stuff about. It’s not nice.’ I wink at him and giggle some more.
He looks undecided for a minute and takes another half-step forward. I’m waiting for someone to talk some sense to me, but Old Me seems to be sleeping and Laura has decided to stay deceased for this one. The others must be happy to sit back and watch New Me be some sort of witty hard-man TV hero. Oh, the irony: when you stop caring about yourself you become brave.
Never mind that the others won’t help. I’m an Action Man, all fuzzy hair and scars and real gripping hands, with no brain.
Ben’s arm goes back and his fist is balled. I start moving my arm up but it doesn’t want to move very fast. His fist is coming at me in a wide swing and I realise I should probably get out of the way, but nothing happens. My batteries must be on low. So I wait and my eyes close themselves. And I wait and I wait. I can’t be that stoned. Time doesn’t go that bendy, does it? Lightning flashes all pink through my closed eyelids. Thunder rumbles all around, shaking the wooden floor.
‘Not here in my bar.’
I open my eyes to see who, what and why. The barman has his arm hooked over Ben’s, holding it back. Ben is struggling to push him off, but the Indonesian is strong. His face is calm.
‘Not in my bar.’
There is another long-haired Indonesian guy standing behind the first. He looks as if he is doing nothing more than waiting for a bus.
‘OK. OK. Just let go.’ Ben yanks his freed arm back. ‘But this one here is fuckin’ dead next time I see him.’ He nods his head at me as he says this. My giggling has diminished into a smile. My eyes are jittering again and Ben is slightly out of focus.
‘Please pay your bill and leave,’ says the barman to Ben.
‘I ain’t payin’. Not if you’re kicking me out. You should kick him out too.’ His finger points at me. ‘He started it.’ The excuse of a small child. Ben’s turned into a small child.
‘No. You pay. You leave.’ The barman turns and nods at me. ‘This man helped Indah. She is my cousin.’
‘Well, I ain’t payin’.’
The barman steps between the two of us and faces Ben.
‘You pay your bill, please.’
‘No.’ He steps back. ‘I might come back here tonight and burn this fucking shithole.’
‘Pay your bill, please.’ Calm in the storm as lightning explodes over our heads.
‘Fuck you.’ Ben’s arm is pulled back again and then swinging in its wide arc. The Indonesian doesn’t move his feet, just leans back. The punch passes within an inch of his nose. He hasn’t even blinked. Ben still stands there, rebalancing his feet after a slight stumble at the punch attempt.
‘People like you disappear around here,’ the barman says calmly.
‘Right. And places burn down.’
‘People like you really disappear. One moment here, next day no sign.’ They look at each other in silence for a second. ‘Gone.’ All the bar is watching. Lightning flashes and the sound of rain almost drowns out the thunder.
‘Please pay.’
‘Fuck you.’ Ben turns, trips over the step from the bar as he leaves, lands in the mud, gets up and is gone down the path into the wall of rain, Sherman shirt instantly soaked. Applause from behind me.
‘Thanks,’ I say to the barman. I’m grateful
but also disappointed I didn’t get a beating. I wanted a beating.
‘It’s OK. He is an idiot.’ he picks up my drink and hands it to me. ‘We get many bule idiots here. I know where he stays. This place we are all close. Like family. You won’t see him again. Now please go back and enjoy tonight with your friends.’ With that, he and the other man, his silent partner, go back to the seats at the bar. The barman picks up the guitar by his chair and starts strumming. The other guy starts singing: ‘No Woman, No Cry’.
I sit back in my corner, arms stretched along the rails, feet out in front of me.
‘My hero,’ says Kim.
The other three laugh.
‘I need a joint after that,’ says Julie.
‘Yeah, that’d be nice,’ I say and lean my head out into the rain. It wallops my face like a power shower. The jungle lights up every few seconds, green trees flashing on and off under lightning that scratches the length of the sky. On and off. On and off. A filling river gathering speed below. Water pouring down my face and through my hair. On. Off.
A feeling I achieved something. I meant something. I changed something. You just have to do it and it’s done. It’s changed.
A beating would have been nice though. Knocked Old Me out for good.
But I do feel different.
I feel new.
On. Off.
I feel stoned.
I look back at her as I go through the crowd of people. She is perched on a stool at the bar watching me, smiling. I smile back and knock into someone. I turn to apologise. A blank face looks back at me from under short-cropped hair and round head stuck on thick neck. I apologise again.
‘Wanker,’ it says.
‘Sorry,’ I again say and turn sideways to slide through the gap between him and his friend.
I keep going; the urge to pee is suddenly stronger. I make my way through the packed pub like a timid pinball trying not to bounce off anything. I push my way into the toilets and queue while the smell stings my nose and men talk in swearing sentences about women and cunts and football. Finally I arrive at a slowly emptying bowl of urine.
‘There’s that twat who knocked your beer.’
I carry on peeing, pretending I’m not me. The man to my right has finished and leaves. Then the blank face is there, next to me. I cut my pee short and zip up. Which is just as well as the blocked urinal is close to brimming over. As I turn, Blank’s friend is waiting behind me. He knocks into my shoulder as I sidle past.
‘Later,’ he says.
I leave the toilets to laughter. My face is hot and my legs weak.
The crowd blurs past my watering eyes as I slalom my way back to Laura.
‘What’s the matter?’ she asks, throwing an arm over my shoulder.
‘Idiots in the toilets. I think we should go.’
My heart pounds and I’m angry at the way my body is reacting to aggression. I’m scared. I don’t want to be, but I am. I can’t stop it, the fear spills into my blood like an oil slick. It pollutes every vein, artery and vessel.
‘Do you want to go?’ She holds my face and kisses me.
‘No. Yes. Do you mind?’
‘Come on. Let’s go. This place is terrible anyway.’
Someone knocks into my shoulder and I stumble against Laura.
‘Sorry,’ says a voice in mocking high pitch.
There he is. I feel looseness in my bowels and legs. Why am I reacting like this? Strength should be filling my muscles, not leaving them.
‘Come on.’ Laura is off the stool and hooking her arm through mine. ‘Let’s go.’
The blank-faced man is pushing up against me so that my body has Laura pinned to the bar.
‘Nice girlfriend,’ he says. ‘Can I have a go? Then I’ll let you leave.’
My throat seizes shut and my brain is incapable of creating a plan. Somewhere in a recess I will myself to deal with this. Nothing comes. I manage to open my mouth, but that is all.
‘What’s your problem?’ Laura asks him, calm as a pond on a white-hot day.
‘Your boyfriend knocked my beer. He owes me a pint. Or something else.’ He winks at Laura, turns to his friend and laughs like a seagull.
‘You sad little cliché of a man,’ says Laura.
I almost smile at her balls, but instead grimace at the thought of where this might lead. ‘I’ll get you a drink if it’ll make you not be such a twat.’
It should be me making snappy comments, dealing with the situation. I’m struck dumb and useless like a garden gnome. Instead of being an Alpha I’m nowhere to be found in the Greek hierarchical alphabet of male. I’m less than Zeta. I reach in my pocket and manage to hand money to Laura.
‘I’ll pay for it,’ I croak.
My vision has become tunnelled as I focus on Laura asking and paying for a drink. My mind is cutting out Blank Face and friend. Thumping blood in my ears deafens me to words around me. Laura leaves the drink on the bar and pushes me forward, more knocking shoulders, seagull laughter, masses of people to get through. Finally out into the cold night air and two pairs of feet clipping along the road while traffic speeds around beside us. No talk. My eyes water in the winter air. Steam plumes from my mouth like a speeding locomotive.
‘Useless. Fucking useless.’ At last my mouth thaws. ‘I should have refused. I should have stood up for you.’
I stop. Laura walks on a few steps then turns back to me.
‘You are you, and that is why I love you. I don’t want a man who can stand up for himself in a fight. I want a man who knows all the little things that make me happy. And you know those things.’
‘But you were calm. You handled it.’ My hands run through my hair. ‘I nearly pissed myself, for god’s sake.’
She puts her arms around my waist. I pull them off.
‘But I want to be able to deal with shit like that.’ I think I’m going to cry. ‘I wimp out. I can’t even function. Fuck.’
I’m walking in a circle around the pavement. Car lights shoot back and forth beside us. The sound of engines and wheels on tarmac are like thunder.
‘And that’s not your fault. It’s human. You couldn’t help it. Your body shut down. Just instinct is all it is.’
She takes me by the arm and leads us back home. Every step brings to mind a different possible solution to what has happened, a different possible outcome; a punch here, an elbow there, a man standing next to his beautiful girlfriend being applauded, a head smashed into a urinal, a knee to a groin followed by a clever one-liner. But I am not a movie script, I am not a hero, I am me. I cannot cope with Alpha males. I cannot think quickly enough to deal with an immediate problem. I have a safety cut-out and a spine made of ice cream. I am Ice-Cream Boy. I am soft and soggy and that night I cannot make love, no matter what words, what affection, what tenderness comes from her body. It doesn’t matter to her. I know. She loves me. I am sure. But I want to be more for her. She deserves so much more.
VICTIMS OF
ECONOMY
‘O ur sister was raped.’
I take a mouthful of juice and swill it around my teeth. I look from Fitri to Benny, who is chasing an ice cube around the bottom of his glass with a straw.
‘That is why she is not here,’ says Fitri.
I swallow my juice but my mouth still feels dry.
‘Where is she?’ I ask.
‘In Singapore. With my mother.’
The silence is uncomfortable, at least for me. Benny has upended his glass over his mouth, and after a stubborn moment of hanging on, the ice drops. Fitri sips on her nearly full glass.
‘I like mango juice,’ she says.
‘Me too,’ I say.
‘That is why we hate Indonesians. Because of what happened.’
‘Why do you stay here?’ I ask.
‘My father has good business here, he says. He cannot have business the same in other countries.’
I can feel the floor through the beanbag; it’s hard on my bottom. I wiggle and try to think of a w
ay to lighten the moment.
‘But rape isn’t bad compared to other things that happened.’ Fitri examines her juice. ‘They used things on my friend’s sister.’
‘Perhaps we shouldn’t talk about this now, Fitri.’ I look to Benny, who is now crunching his ice.
‘They put things in her.’
Fitri: fifteen, a child, still wearing her school uniform, knowing such things. I want a cigarette.
‘Fitri.’ Her father stands at the door. ‘This is not conversation for an English lesson. Come, the lesson is over today. Children, let’s go for noodles.’
I am relieved but also disappointed. Fitri needs to talk to someone. I stand and say goodbye to the kids.
‘No. You come too. Meet in front. I will bring the car around.’ Charles walks off around the pool with his head down.
‘Cool,’ says Benny, ‘I’m hungry.’
‘You greedy monkey. This is two dinners tonight.’ Fitri stands and comes to my side. She looks at my face and smiles.
‘Do not be afraid. They are good noodles where we go. My father is not angry with you.’
‘I’m not…I’m not afraid,’ I say, but she and Benny are leaving the games room ahead of me. I wonder how she sees I am afraid before I realise I am. There is something blunt and angry about Charles today. He must be wondering why Fitri is talking to me about her sister and rape.
I follow them to the waiting car, where Charles sits behind the wheel, cigarette hanging from his lips, squinting through the smoke straight out the windscreen. Benny climbs in beside him. Fitri and I get in the back. We all sit in silence as the gates are opened by security who check the road first, guns over their shoulders, then nod for us to drive out. It is a silent drive. Ten minutes later we pull up in a restaurant car-park under a flashing neon noodle sign.
Inside are bright white lights and white tables with red napkins and chopsticks laid out. Charles orders wine and two cokes. We order dishes. I’m not sure what I’ve ordered, but it looks like something with thick noodles and vegetables.
We eat. Charles says nothing. I talk to the kids about school. They ask me if I know anyone famous. Have I met Boyzone? Who is my favourite actor? James Stewart, who is that? What is my favourite film? Did I like The Matrix?