Motel View

by Forbes Williams

  Sorry, I don't work here, I say. But try a couple of aisles over; maybe there.

  Most of all, though, I'm the compulsive trolley pusher. With the trolley I'm on home ground: confident, assured, a true pleasure to shop with. Denied it I'm miserable and bitchy, sulky, awkward; don't know where to put my hands. A shopping expedition should obviously only ever include one compulsive trolley pusher, though you can always be done with it and shop with more than one trolley.*

  The compulsive trolley pusher is a dreamy soul, poor with decisions or definite action, given more to simple practical tasks. Basically lazy, yet, paradoxically, a great need to appear useful. The loner who longs to belong. A warped sense of humour. Secretly impatient, compulsive trolley pushers are not often noted for their sensitivity to the feelings of others … sometimes they can be downright vicious. Perhaps a career in journalism … literary criticism?

  Allow me to illustrate. There are many stories I could tell you to do this, but one in particular leaps to mind. It's not an especially nice story, but then confessions rarely are … and it's a decade ago now anyway. A decadent story, then, concerning Sonya, who was my girlfriend at the time.

  Sonya was actually originally a friend of Jules, my sister. I met her at a party I'd been dragged along to to help bolster numbers; Jules introduced us early in the evening at my request to stop me leaving. I'd seen Sonya at school from a distance and thought she was pretty cute, but had never given it much thought beyond that. In general I held most of Jules's friends in contempt, and maybe assumed that she'd be a disappointment to meet. At that party, though, I was on the edge of things, not quite so cocky. When you're on your own you often give other people a better chance.

  We clicked immediately, that happy—and luckily rare—coincidence when two people meet for the first time and both just happen to be extra-relaxed and flirtatious. Close-up for the first time I realised she was actually quite good-looking with her brown skin, long hair; dark, half-asleep eyes … an hour later we were still huddled in the corner, already moving into intimacy; the end of the party found us lying together on the couch, lost in the long languid kisses teenagers so enjoy. They say kissing comes from addiction to a chemical in your partner's saliva, that teenagers are particularly susceptible. Giving up can be hell, and the only known cure is over-familiarity … in the dark on the couch, as I gently explored the inside of Sonya's small wet mouth with my tongue, I found myself fast becoming hooked on her saliva, and by the next day we were already confirmed as lovers, a relationship that seemed to meet with the approval of everyone except my jealous sister, who insisted right from the start that Sonya and I were not really suited at all.

  Sonya's parents were Iranian. Her father worked at the Railway Workshops even though he'd been a university lecturer back in Tehran; he was unable to get anything better because of his poor English. If anything her mother had more trouble. Like many immigrant children Sonya had another, almost secret, alternative Iranian name her parents always used and which I'm now ashamed to admit I forget. Beyond the language difficulties, the family still always struck me as a bit odd and I never felt entirely comfortable round at her house, even though up front everyone was friendly enough. One sister, Jeannie, was supposed to have some kind of eating disorder where she would only eat junk food. At the time it was all very serious, with family counselling and therapy, but looking back I feel a little more sceptical. Don't all teenagers have that disorder? Mind you, she was definitely overweight.

  About fifteen months after we'd started going out, Sonya left town to attend T Coll in Christchurch. I saw her in the holidays and on a couple of weekends, always with the same furtive, intense reunions, but not surprisingly I found myself unable to maintain the strength of feeling I'd had when she lived just down the road. Naturally there was a tendency when she was away to glance in other directions, though despite a couple of close calls I managed to avoid outright infidelity. But as time went by and my dissatisfaction with the long-distance relationship grew, adultery increasingly became an option, till I suppose it's fair to say I was actively seeking it, and when I finally found to my great surprise a willing partner in a vague friend of Sonya herself late one evening at a nightclub not long after the August holidays, I reached again, for the first time since that party spent on the couch with Sonya, that delirious state of new, uncharted love; new, untasted saliva.

  Angela. My courtship with her was as brief as it had been with Sonya. At the end of that night at the club we went home to her flat, ostensibly to share a coffee, but after less than half an hour found ourselves together in bed anyway, a pattern I've found repeating itself since, as if we are all frightened that careful contemplation can only operate as an inhibitor of falling in love.

  Angela was definitely a step up. She was more confident and outgoing than Sonya, almost forceful in a way I found highly stimulating. Even better looking. And while sex with Sonya had taken a long time to get past the awkward and the ambivalent, Angela had no such hang-ups and took to her bed with a gusto that thrilled and inspired me.

  Did I call it adultery? That's all I intended: one night. Just something to whet the appetite, a small indiscretion; who knows—Sonya could've been doing the same thing up in Christchurch. How could I know she wasn't? How could she know I was? But one night became two and two four; four became a week. Each night I felt a little worse, a little more aware of what I was getting into, but never quite enough to make me stop. Angela was too desirable, too willing, too assertive.

  Slowly the boundaries shift. Am I going out with Sonya and having an affair with Angela, or am I going out with Angela and failing in my duty to call it off with Sonya? To you it may be obvious; I wasn't sure. Angela was the one who drove me crazy, but she had the advantage of actually being there. In reality I hardly knew her. Compared to her, Sonya was probably my best friend. How long would things with Angela last? How would I feel when I actually saw Sonya? Up till now our reunions had always been great.

  Besides, if I could possibly avoid it I didn't want to have to tell her at all. I just couldn't bear the thought of her crying, of hurting her. My dream was that she really was having an affair with someone, because then there'd be no worries. We'd part good friends, laugh at the way it'd worked out. I kept up the half-hearted love letters; tried to keep things with Angela low-profile till everything had been sorted out. It wasn't that easy when we met people we knew who naturally still thought I was going out with Sonya.

  For her part, Angela was unhappy with all the secrecy. The initial novelty soon wore off and increasingly it became an issue. As far as she was concerned I should ring Sonya up on the spot and break it off then and there. She was cynical about my reluctance.

  You wanker, you're just going to crawl straight back into bed with her the moment she gets back.

  No! Listen, Ange! And I'd right away give her a hug, start kissing her neck and shoulders. Don't worry about Sonya. Forget about her. Think about you and me. And as we caressed each other into the bedroom the concerns about Sonya would dissolve, and for a while Angela would forget it, meaning I could too.

  Somehow my parents found out and got me home on the pretext of something else. They too had an opinion.

  We like Sonya, my mother said. She's the nicest girl you've brought home. You'll look good and silly when this Angela waltzes off with someone else. What sort of girl is she anyway, taking other girls' boyfriends like that?

  Mum it's not like that. You don't understand.

  Have you told Sonya? Well?

  I'll tell her when she comes back for the summer, I said. It's only a few more weeks.

  Poor girl! My mother looked at me bitterly.

  I just don't see the problem, I said lightly. Everything's going to be fine, you'll see.

  My father looked up from his newspaper. What your mother's saying is shouldn't you sort things out with Sonya first, before you get into anything too serious with Annabel.

  Angela! And I know what she's saying; I'm not retar
ded! I softened my tone. Look, all I can say is I promise you on my honour I'll sort it all out the day Sonya gets back. Okay?

  My father's greatest weapon was his steady look, friendly but just that bit patronising. He nodded his head gently. It's your life, he said. You can do what you like. Just remember, so can everyone else.

  Jules was unreservedly pleased. She'd known all along Sonya and I weren't suited.

  I was getting scared you two were going to get married, she said.

  I looked at her in horror. No way, I said. No way.

  A couple more weeks passed. Sonya wrote that she'd be flying down the first Saturday of the holidays. Her family would be out of town. Could I pick her up from the airport?

  By this time I'd decided firmly in my mind that I would continue with Angela and break it off with Sonya. Because it was so close to her return, however, I thought it best if I waited. Since there was so little difference in time it was obviously more decent to tell her in person rather than on the phone or in a letter where I couldn't be there to comfort her. Meanwhile, I faithfully promised Angela I'd deliver the coup de grâce the day Sonya returned.

  As this day approached I felt an ever-increasing weight in my chest. I tried to avoid Angela as I composed this-is-it speeches. What exactly did you say? How could you make it nice? My fantasy of the affair in Christchurch had blossomed; some days it dominated all my thinking. I imagined her getting off the plane and telling me right off about her new boyfriend. Did I mind? No! Although at times the fantasy was so real I almost felt jealous of the guy.

  The Saturday she was due to arrive my chest was so bad I could hardly swallow and I kept having to go to the toilet, only producing air when I did. I'd hardly slept.

  When Sonya came down the stairs from the arrival lounge she looked different from what I expected, as if somehow I hadn't quite remembered her the way she actually was. I instantly felt attraction. We kissed, went for the bags. I realised how silly it had been worrying about telling her now. It was obviously too soon; there'd be a more appropriate time later.

  In the car she talked non-stop, all excited about T Coll. She'd got top of her class in something. At home she was immediately romantic. I didn't have the heart to say no. If I'd said no that would have only aroused her suspicion. And now she had this good news about her prize it seemed cruel to ruin it. Beyond all that, I still clung to a thin hope she might have a confession for me.

  Make love to me, she whispered. I remembered that whisper, almost too soft to hear. When I'd first started out with Angela I'd thought of it as inhibited rather than seductive. Now I knew I'd only been kidding myself.

  We used her parents' bed. To try and somehow make it all right I kind of half-pretended it was Angela, told myself there was no choice. I owed this to Sonya. Angela didn't need to know anyway; there wasn't really a problem. Later in the day I would break the news.

  But I didn't. The first day passed, and I didn't manage to say anything. I spent the night at Sonya's. I knew Angela would be calling my flat, that she'd be worried about how things had gone. Now I'd failed to deliver on my solemn promise she'd be thinking the worst. I wanted to call her, to tell her everything was still on track and that I'd be back to her soon, but I knew if I did it could easily get messy; that it was best to wait until I'd got things properly sorted out at Sonya's end. On the other hand, I also knew Angela wouldn't wait indefinitely, that she was just the kind of impulsive person to find out where Sonya's parents lived and come round on a whim to check up. There was only one answer: I simply had to get it over with.

  On the Monday I finally called Angela anyway, at work. I told her I'd been sick and staying at my parents'.

  I rang your parents. They said they didn't know where you were. Your mother's a friendly bitch. Christ, Jack, I've been worried sick. What's going on? I could hear her starting to cry.

  Listen, Ange …

  Why did you call me at work? You know I can't talk here. Jesus you're a selfish prick.

  I'll call you later.

  Don't bother!

  Who was that? said Sonya, coming in from the hall.

  Mum, I said. She's not too well.

  Did you say hi from me? When are we going to see them?

  Yeah, soon. I bit my thumbnail. I could feel the weight in my chest returning. I'd been trying to make light of it all, trying to kid myself that somehow it would still work out without me having to hurt anyone. But now it was as clear to me as it had been just prior to Sonya's return. There was no way out.

  I made a final and absolute promise that the next day I would break it off. Sonya's parents were due back Tuesday evening. I'd have to be out of the house by then; basically I had to tell her before that. Then at least her parents would be there to comfort her. In a way it could almost work out well. I'd take some flowers round to Angela's and we'd make up in the best way possible. When she heard I'd finally done once and for all with Sonya I'd be able to win her round no sweat. Of course it was upsetting for her, the delay, but after all I'd gone out with Sonya for two years. A person deserves some respect.

  Because her parents were due back Sonya wanted to get everything in order. We spent Tuesday morning cleaning up the house—I came very close to doing it then—and then in the afternoon went out to the local Countdown to replace the food we'd eaten. It was three or four o'clock, something like that. I knew it would have to come soon. By now the pressure in my chest felt like it would stop me breathing.

  Even though Christmas was still weeks away they already had all the decorations up in the supermarket, and the whole time we shopped a guy kept interrupting the music to tell us they were taking orders for turkeys. The place was unexpectedly busy and I had trouble controlling my temper with everyone else pissing about. I even thought of just leaving without saying anything. Would it matter in ten years?

  In the end I was brutally quick and efficient. The pressure had finally become so intense I thought doing it might relieve it. I spoke in a low voice, but fast and to the point.

  Listen Sonya. We have to talk. It can't go on like this. I can't go out with someone in another city. It just doesn't work. I'm sorry, Sonya, Christ knows I'm sorry, but there's no other way. I remember clearly she had a pack of chocolate biscuits in her hand. The whole time I was talking she kept looking at that pack of biscuits. I felt disgusting. There's something about food that can make a situation seem almost too sad to bear, like a kid dropping their ice-cream in the sand. That always gets me. That's how she looked to me then. I kept thinking of her poor sister Jeannie; somehow she seemed relevant in the context of the chocolate biscuits.

  As soon as I'd finished I wanted to take it all back, to say No, I'm joking, Sonya, I love you and only you—that was how I felt—but of course it was too late. You can't re-head a victim of the guillotine.

  I kind of knew already, she said. About Angela too; I know about that. She looked up from the biscuits but I made sure she couldn't meet my eyes. I didn't know what to say.

  The strange thing is we shopped on as if nothing had happened. I kept pushing the trolley, Sonya selecting the goods and crossing them off her list, if anything with even more careful deliberation than before. Here I'd just poured out this almost rabid confession only a moment earlier and it was like it had never even happened. Maybe she did have a lover in Christchurch. Either way, she was taking it far better than I'd expected. I felt like I'd finally been cleared of suspicion of some terrible crime. At last I could be free of guilt. Thoughts of Angela swamped over me, fantasies of the reunion to come.

  I'm not usually the allergic type—maybe a bit of hay fever as a child, nothing more—but something sure got me that day. Some grain-dust or pollen, some evil spray, who knows—I was getting some stuff weighed, right in amongst the Produce—but whatever it was I started sneezing, uncontrollably, every five seconds or so, woosh, another one, on and on. Short little sneezes. My nose was running and my eyes watering; there were tears running down my face.

  Bless you, s
aid the woman at the weigh counter. Oh! Bless you!

  Are you okay? said Sonya.

  Listen, I think I've got to get out of here, I said. Like right now. I was still sneezing.

  Okay, but call me.

  I will, I said.

  Promise me. Jack?

  I promised, sneezed. I gave her a quick hug.

  And say hello to your parents! she called after me.

  I had just enough money for some tissues, and a brief, furtive phone call to Angela. Things were exactly as I'd imagined. We arranged to meet at her house, right after she finished work.

  * There are many potential shopping-personality clashes, too many to supply an exhaustive list here. Suffice to say that marriage guidance counsellors increasingly recommend pre-marital shopping as a useful test of compatibility. As the canny shopper would say, it pays to shop around.

  MIRACLE OF THE FLOOD

  In the main Mall atrium the shoppers sit listlessly, dull-eyed, silent. They look tired and in need of lunch. They look sad. Maybe they met an old flame in there, maybe it's the muzak reminding them of the airport lounge. Perhaps they're waiting for a crazed gunman to arrive with a semi-automatic.

  You could offer them a bit of chocolate—that's what they need—a cheery greeting wouldn't hurt. They'd probably ignore you, people usually do. They think you must be from the Animal Liberation Front, that if they talk to you you might kidnap them, that the chocolate is really poisoned. People fear slow death more than death itself. Most naturally opt for the gun.

  It's just that sometimes the bastard doesn't show up.

  REMEMBER ME TO YOUR DAUGHTER

  In the carpark a woman is carrying several large bags of shopping to her car when suddenly one explodes into flames. She's not hurt, luckily, but after she throws it to the ground the burning bag rolls into the side of someone's Merc, damaging the paint on the driver's door. Of course all her shopping is destroyed.