by Anne Kennedy
In the semi-dark, ten or so teenagers also with buzzcuts and button-down shirts are seated at computer monitors bathed in red light. As I sit down at the one free monitor, my arms rub against my neighbour on each side, but neither of them looks up. I turn my head and see, up close, the ferocious computer-stare of my left-hand neighbour, and on the other side, the ferocious stare of my right-hand one. Their screens flutter with orange explosions as they shoot things. I get on with my task, which is of course to maintain my online presence in the absence of my phone and any decent free WiFi in the central city.
I tweet again about the Antarctica Awards and being humbled by meeting a group of spectacular artists. I feel sorry not to have a pic, but what can I do? Immediately my tweet is favourited by @fringefestdweller. I know Mandy isn’t going to be favouriting anything of mine any time soon, but what the fuck? I’ll return the favour. Then Linda Dent RTs me and replies, You rock @Janiceawriter! Yay!!! I reply, Thanks muchly for the RT @heartwriter, then attend to my housekeeping, retweeting people I think should be following me and unfollowing a couple of people who never like anything I tweet, plus retweeting announcements about people who’ve died and linking to a quite good article about how they’re planning for when we hit 450ppm and it should be 550ppm but that’s so frightening no one dares look at it and then everything stops because it’s too late. Scary stuff.
And then, just when I’m wrapping things up, Twitter gives me a surprise. Right before my eyes, Linda Dent replies to the link I’ve tweeted earlier about Environmental Gratitude, thus: Brilliant article! Shame we middle class peeps keep mucking it up @Janiceawriter!!!!!
I sit back hard in my chair, feeling as if I’ve been socked in the gut. Is she accusing me of being a self-satisfied, middle-class, carbon-footprint-stomping brat? I read the tweet again to be sure, don’t want to jump to conclusions, but yep, *we middle class peeps*, it says, clear as day. Breathing hard, I glance around me. My neighbours, with whom I am literally rubbing shoulders, must notice that their fellow internet user has just had a very nasty jolt. Surely they will break off from their gunning-down in order to offer me some solace. For all they know, I could’ve just found out about the death of a loved one, I could’ve got some test results confirming terminal illness. I’m sorry to report that my internet buddies keep their eyes trained on their screens, their fingers shimmying. So I set to dealing, on my own, with the shock of being accused of being a middle-class fossil fuels gourmand.
The confusing issue of my class is something I’ve had rubbed in my face many times over the years. I should be used to it. However, just because my parents went to university, it doesn’t make me middle class. Middle-class children have walls that remain upright in their houses. Middle-class children have Christmas trees and get presents on Christmas morning. Middle-class children go to two schools, three at most, and have their tertiary educations funded by their parents. Middle-class children do not spend a year in filth and squalor in a commune and then find themselves expelled from it for accepting a summons no one told them *not* to accept. Middle-class children do not need to leave a stepfather at short notice because they have been accused of accusing him of sexual abuse. Middle-class children do not drive around in the dead of night looking for places to deposit stinking black rubbish bags. Middle-class children have fridges. I rest my case.
Aware that my half hour in the internet café is ticking by, I reply to Linda Dent (noticing Linda has changed her profile picture to a cabaret-ish one of her doing open mic): Speak for yourself @heartwriter! I am staunchly and proudly a member of the proletariat. Around me, the teenagers play on. There is an air of surreal intensity. For a moment, I almost forget where I am, what planet I am on, *who* I am. I forget that the room is pulsing with electricity and that as a result the world is warming up. I forget I am going to Antarctica in the morning.
Linda Dent replies, Sorry @Janiceawriter didn’t mean to offend. Thought your parents were artists, yeah? I tap in quickly: Obviously you know nothing about art, class, or my childhood @heartwriter. Linda Dent replies: Never mind @Janiceawriter! Apologies! Onward. Mwa mwa <3 <3. I summon every fibre of my being to explain to Linda Dent my state: @heartwriter you have no idea. Then I go over to Facebook, as is my wont. The link is there too, of course. I edit my replies, because I have room now, adding ABSOLUTELY FUCKING before no idea. Linda Dent replies to my reply, Sooo sorry, Janice! I’ll delete my comment. Let’s go back to how we were before xx. But it is too late. I don’t care whether she deletes it or not. I go on to my friends list and unfriend Linda Dent with one sharp ping, feeling huge satisfaction when her smug, carbon-generating face melts from my page. I go back to Twitter and unfollow @heartwriter a.k.a. Linda Dent. Yuss!
Squeezing myself up from between my insensitive neighbours, I shoulder my way out from the curtained computer room. In the doorway, the attendant smilingly points me towards my fridge—as if I would forget. On the way out I dig for change and buy a pie from the warmer, which I eat in a few bites while storming up Lambton Quay, in a bit of a state, to tell the truth. But as I start to calm down a little, I decide that, when all is said and done, I should offer my deepest thanks to Linda Dent. Even though she is no doubt a blunt instrument when it comes to politics, I know that I am becoming all the stronger for having someone contest my socio-economic status in a public forum. Without that kind of unthinking dismissal of my identity, I would not be the writer I am today. My writing is born of the very need to assert my identity in the face of people like Linda Dent. So, thank you, Linda Dent, for all you’ve done for me. I really can’t thank you enough.
I continue through town, towing my fridge and vaguely looking for the group of artists with whom I will go to Antarctica, although I’m not sure if I want to run into them under the circumstances. From the clock tower on a bank building, I see it is half past eight, and despite the wind mucking everything up, you can tell night is a hair’s breadth away, and I am reminded of L’Heure Bleue, the first film in Rohmer’s 4 aventures de Reinette et Mirabelle, which I discussed with the attendant at the liquor store earlier in the day—the blue hour, the meeting place of day and night. At the end of Lambton Quay, I look back at the swoop; the light has gone a clear, glassy shade of blue-grey that delineates the edges of the buildings and curbs. The moment feels halfway between real and imaginary, distinct but heightened. When the moment passes—as it must, l’heure bleue is not really an hour but a second—it seems everything has been lifted, renewed, set going again. The future looks bright. I turn up Willis Street and into the full force of the wind.
As the evening begins its descent, I stop in the middle of the street and do a lightning quick operation on my manuscript. It does occur to me that I might be being too drastic with these cuts, but on second thoughts I still have my digital file, plus I can always write more. Down in Antarctica, I’ll no doubt have an avalanche of ideas, so I go ahead and pluck out some crots about the protagonist losing her apartment in her separation and being vulnerable to the lying wiles of a long-fringed boy. I happen to be outside a sixties office block with a mustard-coloured tiled foyer which has seen better days—tiles missing and everything covered in a veneer of grime. I fire my edit into a similarly decrepit designer rubbish bin and continue on my way.
My time flatting with Mandy was a spectacular period for a host of reasons: Mandy and I got on like a house on fire (in fact at one point there was a small fire, but that was an accident), I was *fancy free*, I was practising my craft, and I was generally fulfilling my dreams in life. I didn’t give a damn that I’d lost half the fifties apartment. I actually felt sorry for Miles, burdened as he was by possessions. After I’d set myself up at Mandy’s, I wanted for nothing. When I offered rent, Mandy refused, saying that that would make the arrangement too formal—she really was a sweetie—so I truly was living a non-materialistic lifestyle. Of course, one of the really excellent things that happened during this time was joining Book Club. I have big thank yous to make to that happy crew.
>
It’s worth giving a short history of Book Club here. A nicer group you’d never meet. Six wonderful women—oops, that’s a little presumptuous—five wonderful woman plus yours truly, brought together by a shared love of literature or at least chick lit. It was absolutely brilliant, but slightly problematic for obvious reasons. I’d not been a member of Book Club before (apart from attending their Christmas bashes) because I had an inherently unfair advantage over the others, seeing as I actually write the things. It would be as if Serena Williams joined her local tennis club. Or, maybe not Serena, but a top-seeded player, certainly a pip. Mandy had always been totally upfront about the issue of me and Book Club. We’re very honest with each other, no secrets. Book Club had put it to the vote more than once over its three-year run about whether or not I should be allowed to join. The members had collectively thought *not* because of my status. I completely understood. But that was then. Now, two things had changed: Mandy was the new convenor-slash-host, and I was living right smack in the heart of Book Club territory. As I explained to Mandy one evening during her BBC show, it’d be unfair for me to have to *go out* during the fortnightly meetings. Mandy murmured something about there being a bedroom, but when I pointed out how patently ridiculous it’d be for me to have to sit in my room during Book Club, she promised to see what she could do. I wasn’t even sure if I wanted to *be* in Book Club at this point. But apparently a flurry of emails ensued, and Mandy reported back a few nights later that the members had voted yes. The process hadn’t been plain sailing, though. Mandy stood on the rug with her arms folded threateningly, as much as anyone can be threatening in a dressing gown. There were conditions. Oh, here we go, I thought. I braced myself from the couch. But it turned out the conditions were nothing. My tenure with Book Club would last only for the duration of my residence at Mandy’s. Fine. It’s not as if there was an end date in sight. And there were three rules: 1. No alcohol at Book Club meetings. 2. Books to be decided by democratic vote and to be read by everyone. 3. No books written by members would be read by Book Club.
I chuckled, relieved, and realised I did want to belong to Book Club after all. ‘What do you take me for!’ I said. ‘Of course, yes, to the conditions. Yes, yes, and yes.’
Mandy unfolded her arms and smiled in a rabbity way and I smiled back—as a fully signed up, bona fide Book Club Member. It was a blast flatting with Mandy.
Mandy pointed to a paperback on the coffee table. ‘For tomorrow night.’
I probably looked sceptical at the idea of reading a whole novel at such short notice, because Mandy backtracked a bit. ‘Well, if you can manage it. You don’t have work, so …’
*Don’t have work*?
‘Mandy,’ I said. ‘I’m writing a novel.’
‘Of course,’ said Mandy. ‘I just meant, if you decide to read the book, you could. I mean, I have to be at the library at eight thirty for instance and—’
‘Fine, fine.’ I didn’t want to make a big thing out of this.
‘It’s Rule Number Two, that’s all,’ said Mandy, and went to bed.
Rule Number Two. That’s typical Mandy, I have to say. But, overall, she’s a total sweetie.
As the night was young, I picked up the novel from the coffee table and inspected the cover image, a half-dressed woman viewed from behind. I read the blurb on the back. It was about a clothes mender who gets into a complicated situation fixing an Irish costume. I can’t recall the title or the author now, but I remember thinking it sounded splendid. I have to confess, though, I didn’t end up reading it. I was a bit stoned and I slept in quite late next day. Seeing as I’d only just joined Book Club, I thought they’d let me off Rule Number Two on this occasion.
I’m going to set out exactly what transpired at Book Club because I think it’ll be of great interest and value to any persons who happen to go trawling through the Turnbull Library in the future with the aim of writing a literary biography of any of the members. You never know, maybe someone will write a biography of Charlene, Deb, Lydia, Liz or even Mandy. Perhaps I can provide some phenomenological material. But also, of course, I want to say a very big thank you in these pages to my outstanding Book Club pals. A nicer group of women you’d never meet. There did need to be some fairly instant changes made to procedure which I’ll discuss in a moment, but first some character notes on the participants whom, as I say, I already knew from parties:
Charlene: late twenties, single, sporty-looking, Ngāi Tahu, went to Queen Vic before it closed down and has attendant big ego, librarian but not stereotypical mousy type which would’ve been preferable, thinks working in the fiction section of Central Library gives her greater knowledge of fiction than other people, wrote MA thesis on agency in the bone people which no one ever hears the end of, agency this, agency that, brings homemade banana cake to Book Club, capable of arguing until blue in the face about things like agency, pet word: agency.
Deb: thirties, married, one kid, NZ-Chinese, social worker, petite, talks about husband ad nauseam, Jack this, Jack that, texts Jack every five mins, reads books to relax (!) after stressful job removing children from their families, skites about winning English prize at Wellington Girls’ College in the nineties, has absolutely no fucking idea about fiction, brings cheese board to Book Club and we’re not talking Countdown, owns house with Jack, pet word: Jack.
Lydia: thirty, Pākehā, serial monogamist, trust lawyer, no kids, grey face, bony arse, knows absolutely zilch about fiction, doesn’t even care about fiction, went to Queen Margaret College and has attendant big ego, lives in downstairs flat of parents’ house and pays no rent, never brings food to Book Club, pet phrase: current boyfriend.
Liz: forty, Pākehā, married with two kids, built like a netballer, on maternity leave from job teaching high-school English, talks about baby Chloe ad infinitum, Chloe this, Chloe that, texts home ad infinitum, reads novels to relax, knows absolutely nothing about fiction, brings homemade quiche to Book Club, pet word: Chloe.
Mandy: Whom you already know, plus makes sushi for Book Club.
Me: Whom you already know! Brings wine to Book Club.
All in all, a vibrant, eclectic little outfit, as you can see. I even noticed we were all different shapes and sizes so would be good cast together in a film, able to be distinguished at a glance. My first meeting began with hugs and shrieks as each member arrived at the top of the fire escape. They asked, one after the other like sheep, why there was a fridge in the corner of the living room, and we all had a laugh about that. At eight on the dot, we sat down on the L-shaped couch, at least Charlene, Deb, Lydia, Liz and Mandy did after a bit of musical chairs. I ended up sitting on a stool opposite. I didn’t mind. The group launched into pre-book chitchat, a general lowdown on the fortnight just passed which mostly constituted discussion about husbands, babies and boyfriends. If you didn’t have a husband, baby or boyfriend *currently*, there wasn’t a lot you could contribute, not that I minded in the least. I did not mind. I realised, though, that the venue was good because at Mandy’s there were no babies, Jacks, boyfriends, parents or MA theses which could be fetched and consulted at any moment. We started on the food which was pretty good, I have to say, and I was quite hungry, so I sat back and worked my way from the cheese board to the sushi while listening to the talk. A few tears were shed, something about a husband who sounded like an absolute prick, a kid who’d been bullied at school, a kid who *was* the bully at school but not the corresponding bully (that would’ve been awkward). All in all, with the food and the crying, I began to refer to Book Club in my mind as Cook Blub from here on in.
Although I had an unfair advantage, I was determined not to use it for my own gains, otherwise Cook Blub just wouldn’t function. However, it was clear that some changes to policy were sorely needed, and as an outsider with a fresh perspective, I did seem to be the right person to implement them. The first and most obvious thing was to switch from herbal tea to wine. Whoever heard of a book club without wine? When I jokingly said wine was the who
le point, the others tittered and I thought I’d won my case right away, but objections followed based on breastfeeding and having to go to work in the morning. Charlene even opined that a clear head was necessary to think deeply about a book. I didn’t think a glass of Merlot was going to interfere with *agency* greatly. It looked like we were sticking with tea, but after I’d cracked open a bottle I’d purchased earlier at the liquor store (where I’d had a conversation with the shop assistant about La Règle du Jeu, during which it had occurred to me that even if the characters in French New Wave cinema were sometimes uneasy it was on no account a cinéma malaise, rather their unease was confident and cool, and French people had no trouble with the suspension of disbelief, whereas in New Zealand cinema there was always a feeling of, *This is us in a film, don’t we look funny?*). I digress. I noticed the members of Cook Blub seemed to have no trouble getting down a sip or two of the wine purchased from the lover of French New Wave cinema. Within ten minutes the bottle was empty and things were a lot more fun than they’d been at the beginning of the sesh. With some ethanol in everyone’s system, I moved that Cook Blub officially adopt wine rather than cranberry tea as its drink of choice. Deb, who seemed to be the cheapest drunk and that was saying something, seconded the motion, and there were ragged but unanimous ayes. Thus wine was instituted as a Cook Blub routine. I was pleased because I didn’t want to be the sole provider of beverages, especially seeing as the others were clearly better off financially than me with their professional jobs, their houses, husbands and parents. If I’d been able to bludge off anyone, perhaps I would’ve thought differently, and maybe I too would’ve been able to read novels to relax.