Desperate Husbands

by Richard Glover

Batboy starts the car, puts it into gear and then tries to move off. It’s our fifth driving lesson and things are not going well. The car does a couple of kangaroo hops and then shudders to a stop. He repeats the process another ten or twenty times. As his passenger, I’m developing the world’s slowest case of whiplash. He tries again. The key. The gear. The clutch. The shuddering stop. Our bodies are thrown forward into our seatbelts and then thumped back into our seats. Would it affect the boy’s confidence if I kitted myself out with a motorcycle helmet before our next driving lesson?

  Slowly we stall our way along a little-used dirt road in the bush. Every time we shudder to a stop all the cows stop grazing and look up, their big moon eyes staring at us. ‘Jeez Louise,’ they seem to be saying, ‘what is that boy doing to that car?’ They give a baffled shake of their large heads and, with what looks like a sigh, return to their grazing. In all their years chewing cud by this roadside, they’ve never seen anything like it.

  Maybe it’s genetics. I took the best part of a year to learn to drive, taught by a series of kindly stepmothers. Luckily, my father ran through wives with such speed I could exhaust the patience of at least a couple.

  Each stepmother would sit there in the passenger seat as I kangarooed down the driveway. Each time we’d stop, the relevant stepmother would turn and use her hands to describe what my feet should be doing. ‘This foot goes down as this one comes up,’ she would say, rotating her hands in opposite directions, like the wings of a dying seagull.

  ‘How can that be?’ I’d ask the stepmother. ‘Why can’t they make the car so that both pedals go in the same direction at the same time? It’s like trying to pat your head at the same time as you rub your tummy. It’s like they are trying to make it difficult.’

  And so I’d start the engine and try to split my mind in two—the right brain focusing on the right foot, easing it down; the left brain focusing on the left, easing it up; before finally, in my confusion, pulling both feet off both pedals and shuddering to a halt in a blaze of bad language. I’d then exit the car, slam the door and start screaming at the vehicle, much in the manner of Basil Fawlty in Fawlty Towers.

  In retrospect, it may not have been entirely my father’s fault that he went through quite so many wives.

  Finally I learnt to start the thing, only to find that this led inevitably to a series of fresh horrors. Such as learning to reverse—a kind of driving in which one turns the steering wheel in whatever direction seems most unlikely. Or reverse parking—a technique designed to ensure constant work for the panel beating industry.

  Back on the bush track, Batboy finally triumphs over both the dodgy clutch and his dodgy genetics and gets the thing into first. We motor along for some metres and our mood lifts. It is then the road starts to wind upwards and I am forced to break the news about hill starts.

  ‘So,’ I say, repeating the speech of the stepmothers, ‘you’ve got your right foot going down, the left foot coming up, and then at the same time you reach out with your hand and let the handbrake off.’

  Batboy stares at me aghast. ‘You’ve got to be joking. That’s three completely separate things at the same time. That’s just impossible.’

  We give it a couple of goes but get nowhere. The car shudders backwards and forwards like a dying hippopotamus. Even the cows turn away their huge heads in a moment of embarrassment and contempt. We sit in the stalled car, both of us staring ahead into the gathering dusk.

  It occurs to me that it would be less threatening if I went over the real road rules: not the ones taught in driving school but the road rules as practised by the appalling drivers you find in most Australian cities.

  Rules like:

  The light turning yellow means accelerate.

  Once you turn your hazard lights on, you have the unfettered right to suddenly stop or park anywhere you like.

  Once you overtake someone on the freeway, you should slow down straight away so they understand how you felt being stuck behind them.

  If female, it’s fine to put on your make-up while driving, including foundation, blusher, eyeliner and lip gloss. During tricky manoeuvres, such as crossing the Sydney Harbour Bridge, you may, however, like to go easy on the cucumber slices over the eyes.

  If male, remember your manhood is at stake every time the lights go green.

  A car with battered-in front and sides always gets right of way. The driver of this vehicle has proved that he is not easily deterred.

  If you are under twenty-five years of age, feel free to accelerate backwards out of your own driveway without looking. The music belting out of your sound system is considered warning enough.

  The time to turn on your indicator is after you’ve made a lane change; that way everyone knows you meant to make the shift and are not just weaving around aimlessly.

  If you are over eighty-five years of age, feel free to leave your indicator on permanently. When you finally turn left, it’s reassuring to know that other road users have had a full three hours’ warning.

  It’s OK to use the breakdown lane on the expressway to avoid gridlocked traffic providing you are driving a late-model BMW. Other road users should realise that, with a car like that, you’re a very important person and are late for a meeting more important than anyone else’s.

  It’s OK to park in a bus zone as long as you leave your windows open so everyone knows you’re not going to be long.

  It’s OK to go through a light just after it’s turned red, although you are legally required to glance quickly and guiltily into the rear-view mirror just to make sure the police didn’t see you.

  The bigger your four-wheel drive, the more right you have to ignore everyone else on the road.

  And never use a mobile phone while driving if you are also drinking a cup of coffee and smoking. Finish the cigarette first, as the ash could fall into your coffee, which might distract you from your call.

  I weigh up whether to tell him these real rules and decide against. He seems to have enough problems right now without facing up to the fact that his fellow road users are quite insane.

  After a few minutes’ more silence, contemplating the hill ahead, Batboy mentions our friend Locky. He’s a rice farmer down in the Riverina: the whole farm is completely flat, to the extent that he never has to use the handbrake. Locky simply pulls the ute to a stop, opens the door and gets out.

  ‘Maybe I could get a job down there,’ says Batboy, suddenly jettisoning all his complex career plans in favour of working somewhere flat.

  I ask him to imagine the conversations he’ll have in twenty years’ time. ‘So,’ friends will ask, ‘exactly why did you choose a career in the Australian rice industry? Was it through a desire to help the nation’s exports or a passion to feed the world’s hungry?’

  ‘No,’ he’ll be forced to admit. ‘The thing I really loved about the industry was the complete absence of hill starts.’

  Defiant

  Here at Bloke, we either

  solve problems or we deny

  their existence. We

  certainly never ‘sit with’

  them; that’s for girls.

  Ten ways to argue like a man

  Everyone knows that men and women argue in different ways but can they be catalogued? Using a notebook, a tape recorder and a mirror, I’ve made a start cataloguing the male side of things. The list that follows is scarifyingly honest and personally embarrassing. Care should be taken that it doesn’t fall into enemy hands. For example: Jocasta’s.

  There are no grey areas. Your relationship is either the best relationship in the whole world; or it’s a miserable farce. A wife should never attempt to suggest ‘there’s just one little thing that maybe we can improve’, because the man will spot exactly what she is up to. She is kicking the chocks from beneath the wheels of the whole cart, thus sending it hurtling downhill. Remember, it’s not what the wife is saying, it’s what she is implying: ‘What? You’d like me to fetch the salad? So you’re saying I’m lazy! That I do n
othing! Well, I’m happy to cook the whole meal. I’ll do it every night. On top of everything else. I’m surprised you’re obviously so unhappy with our life together. You sound like you want a trial separation. And that may not be such a bad idea. I mean, considering the way you’re talking.’

  Circular breathing. In traditional Aboriginal society, the didgeridoo can only be played by men. That’s because it involves circular breathing, in which one never pauses to draw breath—drawing air in from the side of the mouth as it is simultaneously expelled through the front. No wonder it’s saved for the men: it’s perfect practice for the male arguing style. The aim is to produce a constant stream of hectoring sound, thus preventing your opponent from ever slipping in a single word. Why not buy your bloke a didgeridoo this Christmas? You’ll be amazed to find he can play it perfectly, first go. It’s almost as if he’s been practising for years.

  Everything you say is about him. Your comment that ‘I feel tired’ is not just a general observation about the workplace, an ageing body and the end of the week. It’s a hostile surprise attack on him and the life you’ve set up together. Naturally, he will deal with it as such. Two hours later, lady, and you’re going to feel a lot more tired.

  Problems must be either solved or denied. When you say ‘My boss refused my pay rise’, you may be asking for a bit of sympathy, a moment when the two of you ‘sit with’ your disappointment. Well, honey, you’ve come to the wrong department. Here at Bloke, we either solve problems or we deny their existence. We certainly never ‘sit with’ them; that’s for girls. Are you sure you asked for the pay rise in the right way? It may be your fault you didn’t get it. Have you considered doing it in writing? On the other hand, would you like me to just go and hit the bastard?

  The importing of extraneous materials. Some people when arguing say ‘Stick to the point’. Trouble is you’ll never win an argument that way. How to counter, for example, her stern observation that ‘Last night, you drank most of a bottle of wine, plus three beers.’ You could deny it (difficult, as the bottles are still there, sitting by the couch); you could apologise and promise never to do it again (demeaning and, besides, she’s not that credulous); or you could move the argument to fresh turf. As in the example: ‘Well, at least my uncle was never arrested for fraud.’

  Remember also, if drinking is the issue, that drinks are always spoken about in the singular but consumed in the multiple. ‘Why don’t you come over for a drink.’ ‘I thought I’d stay for a drink.’ ‘Well, maybe just one drink.’ Just as the word ‘sheep’ can cover anything from one animal to a whole flock, so, once the drinking starts, can the single ‘drink’ metamorphose into seventeen beers and three red wines. Yet, remarkably, at the end of the process, it becomes a single drink again.

  You’ve had ‘just one drink too many’. If only you’d left it at the seventeen beers and the two glasses of red wine, you’d have been fine. When have you heard a man admit the truth: ‘I planned to stay for five drinks, ended up having twelve and later realised this was nine too many’?

  Never say sorry. I’ll rephrase that. Say sorry all the time, but with a range of inflections and modifiers that prove your ‘sorry’ is about as sincere as a closing-down sale at a Turkish rug shop. Classics include: ‘I’m sorry…if you took it that way’; ‘I’m willing to apologise…if it makes you feel better’; or, a personal favourite, ‘OK, sure, I admit it, you’re right and I’m the worst person in the world’ (said in a voice so laden with irony that your vocal chords have trouble moving).

  Sigh. The idea is to let loose the sigh at precisely the right volume so it can be heard distinctly and yet is still covered by the principle of plausible deniability.

  ‘Sighhhhhh.’

  ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘That sigh?’

  ‘What sigh?’

  ‘You clearly sighed.’

  ‘I think you must be imagining things, my dearest.’

  Sulk. The real trick with sulking is to make sure it’s noticed. There’s nothing worse than putting in two or three days’ hard sulking only to have your partner assume you are merely a little off-colour. Remember, one’s aim is to hang around the house like a dark cloud, an evil smell or, if you prefer, some sort of creeping fungal growth. If your partner seems oblivious to what you are up to, try humming appropriate tunes such as ‘D.I.V.O.R.C.E.’, or Smash Mouth’s ‘Pet Names’ in order to draw her attention to the major sulk that is under way. Thus forcing the exchange:

  ‘Hmmmmmm.’

  ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘That sulking sound.’

  ‘What sulking sound?’

  ‘You’re clearly sulking.’

  ‘I think you must be imagining things, my dearest.’

  Play the martyr. If sulking’s not working for you why not try martyrdom? The trick is to paint your life as one of constant drone-like misery, thus making your partner feel guilty. Start with some menial tasks inside the house before moving outside in order to dig over the compost heap and then clean out a blocked sewage pipe or two. Try to cover most of your body in dirt and faecal matter before standing in full view of the window so she can see your dogged, saint-like behaviour. A halo of blowflies would help complete the intended tableau.

  The Final Word. With the help of the methods above, men can usually survive most marital arguments, despite being less verbally skilled than women. They—we—should always, however, insist upon The Final Word, which involves standing back and shouting: ‘I’m sick of arguing with you, you always win, and not because you are in the right, but just because you argue better.’ (Exit, down hallway, stomping.)

  Sad to say, but it looks like your bloke has won yet another argument.

  Up the mountain

  It’s been reported that over 1200 people have now climbed Mount Everest. Worse, a fair percentage have written a book about their experiences. These are not modest, wry books, such as those written by Sir Edmund Hillary. They are thumping, self-aggrandising tomes, in which the climber is always a self-sacrificing hero.

  Well, maybe. But why can’t someone put the same exciting spin on ordinary life. Staying at home. Looking after kids. Holding down a job over decades whether you enjoy it or not. Now there’s heroism. Now there’s self-sacrifice.

  If only someone could write it up a little…

  Many believe they’ve taken on an impossible feat, but Tracy and Steve Sweetbreath are adamant it can be done. Their aim: to live in Brisbane and raise two kids while avoiding bankruptcy, illegality or frothing insanity. Now in their early forties, the two of them believe they’re at least halfway up the mountain.

  ‘But that doesn’t mean you can stop and celebrate,’ says Tracy Sweetbreath, panting heavily as she hauls ten bags of shopping up her treacherously steep front steps. ‘Some days, we really try to push forward. We make an assault on the mortgage; or search for a new approach that will take us around the Valley of Death that is my job. But most of the time it’s a matter of just plodding forward. Trying not to drop your bundle.’

  Tracy pauses, struggling to find her keys, while maintaining her hold on the shopping. ‘Oh, for a team of Sherpas,’ she jokes, grimacing as the plastic bags cut into her hands.

  Tracy is aware that a dangerous storm could suddenly blow up, right out of nowhere, most likely in the form of Rowan, the Sweetbreath’s teenage son. ‘At the moment, we’re trying to navigate our way through one of the most difficult sections of the whole ascent: the teenage years. There are sudden storms and many hidden pitfalls. There are also sections where everything gets very glacial. It’s pretty hard to keep everyone on the same track.’

  Inside the house Steve Sweetbreath is at base camp, preparing a meal of chops, potato and broccoli. ‘Part of the problem,’ he says, ‘is that the ascent begins quite gently. You take on a house and a job, and for a while you score promotions and pay rises. You feel like you’re getting somewhere. Th
en, sometime in your late thirties, the slope just becomes a whole lot steeper. You feel you’re getting nowhere. Or even tumbling backwards. But by then you’re committed to the climb.’

  Steve throws some chops in the pan. ‘I’ve had a few tumbles myself, as has Tracy. At certain times one of you will take a fall, drop down into some terrible dark abyss. And you just hope your grappling hooks are strong, and that you’re tied to your partner in a way that holds. Quite a few times we’ve pulled each other out of the crevasse.’

  From Steve’s vantage point at the cooktop, he spots an argument building between Rowan and Tracy, the two of them standing at the doorway to Rowan’s room. ‘Classic hormonal storm,’ observes Steve. ‘Look how quickly it’s growing in intensity. Tracy’s tired from a day at work, battling uphill, virtually carrying her boss, year in and year out, and Rowan’s suffering a testosterone blizzard. I’d go over and help but, frankly, it’s too dangerous. No way do you want everyone standing on the same slippery slope. Better if I stay over here until the worst of it has passed.’

  Will the climb get easier from now on?

  ‘In some ways, yes,’ says Steve. ‘But your body starts to tire after the first forty years. And, as you plod on, you spot climbers who haven’t made it. They’ve succumbed to the grog, or impatience, or rage. You see them bogged, unable to move forward.’ Steve’s voice drops to a pained whisper. ‘I’ve even heard tell of those who leave their families and jobs and take up mountaineering or solo round-the-world yachting. It’s sad.’

  Over at the doorway, Rowan’s hormonal storm has passed and there’s a flash of smiles all round.

  ‘No gain without pain,’ grins Tracy. ‘People say we are heroes but we’re just doing what we love. Pitting ourselves against incredible odds.’

  Steve agrees. ‘On the positive side, Tracy and I have started giving motivational lectures. We’ll have a roomful of people—say a conference of mountaineers or round-the-world sailors—and we’ll just try to motivate them. A lot of them are amazed at our stories. These are people who’ve done challenges that last just a few weeks; at most a couple of months. They can’t imagine sticking to one challenge over seventy or eighty years. Sometimes, when I’m telling our stories, I can see their eyes gleaming with excitement, realising how unchallenged they’ve been by their lives of endless mountaineering and drab adventuring. And it’s those moments, I think, which make it all worthwhile.’