For a fourth-grader, my grammar skills were pretty good, but I wasn’t quite sure what part of speech ‘fucket’ was. Was it a noun—concrete or abstract? Or maybe an action verb? Or a helping verb? Whatever; I didn’t realise it was such a bad word and was really shocked at Sylvia’s response. And indignant. It wasn’t like I’d actually said it.
‘I just wrote it!’
‘It’s the same thing as saying it!’
‘But it didn’t come out of my bloody mouth; it came from my bloody hands!’
Bad call. Apparently ‘bloody’ in this context was swearing.
‘Oeuf! Go to your room and stay there until you learn it’s not all right to swear! Pest!’
‘But if dad says it, then he swears! Why is that all right?’
‘He’s an adult, he’s allowed to swear.’
‘Will I be allowed to swear when I’m an adult?’
Fair question, I thought. Seems she didn’t agree because she slapped me. You can’t win an argument with someone who’s hell-bent on having the last word (even if it’s only in the form of an imprint on the cheek). Well, she couldn’t keep me in my room forever, and in the end, I didn’t learn it’s not all right to swear; I just learned it’s important to whisper filth. And I used to whisper to Myron that Sylvia was a bloody fucketing bitch. Used to modify a noun, in this case definitely an adjective. My grammatical repertoire was expanding.
On this cruise two years down the track, with my extended ‘adult’ vocabulary, with what Evelina had taught me about sex a year earlier and from what I’d seen in the movies, I just knew there was the potential here for a shipboard romance with Reggie.
God knows, I tried to attract his attention. I wore my most flattering romper suits during the day, and my prettiest dresses, frilled bobby socks and patent leather Mary Janes to dinner. But it was all in vain. Apart from affectionately tousling my hair occasionally when he walked past me, Reggie didn’t really notice me. Fucket! It turned out to be a horrible case of unrequited love. I felt so unattractive. Still, I soldiered on doing all the things you do on a ship. During the day, I played deck quoits and deck tennis, swam in the pool, posed for the ship’s photographer and played board games with Myron. Night-time activities included dinner theatre, a mad-hatters evening, a fancy dress parade, and dreaming of Reggie. The days and nights were a blur, though. Sleep brought some respite from my suffering.
Finally, we disembarked in Singapore and indulged in four days of endless shopping. My parents became versed in the art of bargaining. They were on a roll. And at age eleven, I learned the value of retail therapy. Most of what we bought—cheongsams, Chinese pyjamas, fans, ashtrays, statues of dragons (all of life’s necessities)—came from one shop. Every time Joe successfully negotiated for a lower price (and the exchanges were easy, as the staff spoke fairly good English), he smugly and shamelessly confided, ‘See, that’s how it’s done!’ On the last day, as we left the shop, there was a lot of bowing on the part of the staff, and a heap of thank-yous.
‘Please, you come back soon, Ben,’ the manager said to Joe.
‘The name is Joe, and yes, we will come back one day.’
The manager then bowed again, smiled and said, ‘Ben.’
I asked Joe why this man called him Ben, even after he corrected him. Joe said it was a mark of respect. I didn’t question this because he was a know-all, so I assumed he knew everything.
We were now on our way to Kuala Lumpur and I was well over Reggie. Here, there was no shopping, just three days of sightseeing. On our last day there, Sylvia and Joe took Myron and me to a garden that housed a miniature replica of a torture chamber. Legoland Malaysia wasn’t built yet, so the torture chamber was probably the next best thing.
‘It’ll be educational,’ said Sylvia.
So for ten minutes, we walked through a cave-like chamber filled with a bunch of figurines graphically depicting every manner of ancient torture—people being disembowelled and decapitated. Eye gouging, burning, boiling, whipping, crushing, and water torture. All the stuff that an eleven and twelve-year-old really didn’t need to see. The only thing missing was a figurine of a car (or a chariot because it was ancient times) carrying a family of four, and with a trail of phlegm boomeranging between driver and rear passenger.
Educational, my arse. That night, Myron had a fitful sleep filled with nightmares, and I lay awake crying. I felt like such an ingrate because I didn’t appreciate any of it. And I swore I’d never go back to Kuala Lumpur just in case the authorities arrested me and tortured me for being a pest.
We sailed back to Singapore, where we did a bit of sightseeing and a bit more shopping. We then reboarded for the journey home. The voyage was uneventful until we passed Christmas Island, which was in the throes of a cyclone. Calm waters turned feral … for three days. The boat was pitching violently and we were hurling heftily. We spent most of the time confined to our bunks. Our cabins didn’t have en-suites so we had to use the communal bathroom across the hall. Myron lay on the top bunk and moaned, while I moaned on the bottom bunk. On occasion, I watched as a waterfall of vomit cascaded from his bunk, splattered and pooled on the floor next to my favourite pink Oomphies slippers. We chucked in the cabin, in the hallway, on the floor of the bathroom. Sometimes, we made it to the bowl. I even felt too sick to feel pity for the housekeeping staff.
We subsisted on Dramamine injections and, courtesy of our steward, Fu, dry crackers and water. But Myron really shone on day three when he spewed his shark’s fin soup in the middle of a dining room full of people. My time in the sun came the next day.
After our first real breakfast, Joe took us up to the top deck for some fresh air. Although it was smooth sailing once again, my world was still rocking, and within two minutes on deck, the urge to heave overcame me. Joe roughly shoved me to the side of the ship. I honestly thought he was going to throw me overboard as a sacrifice to the gods, rather than chance another humiliating incident like the day before. Instead, he yelled, ‘Over the side, over the side!’
Rarely the obedient child, this time I happily hung my head over the railing and threw up (or down, depending on how you look at it). Who could have known that four crewmen were suspended on a platform cleaning the side of the ship? One unfortunate sailor ended up with a vomit beret. The rest of my chunder painted a variegated abstract pattern—like a Jackson Pollock—down the ship as it plunged five floors into the sea. I’d horked two boiled oeufs, eight buttered toast soldiers, a grilled tomato, one bacon rasher, and some orange juice.
When we entered Fremantle Harbour a day later, the earth was still swaying on its axis (not rotating). As we stood at the railing waiting for the ship to dock, at Sylvia’s urging, Myron and I went and thanked Fu for tending to us during the rough days. And as an afterthought, I asked him why the store manager at the shop where we’d got all our bargains would call our dad Ben, even after he corrected him and said his name was Joe. Was it, as Joe decided, a mark of respect? Fu looked a little taken aback, then started laughing so hard I thought he’d shit his pants. When he managed to come up for air, he said, ‘Aw, Missy Lootie ... ha ha hee hee ho ho ... in Chineeese, ‘ben’ mean sitoopid.’
CHAPTER THIRTEEN:
WEDDING DAZE
We all laughed when I finished telling Reuben the story, but then he looked deflated. I felt guilty for taking the wind out of his sails—his surprise was a lovely, romantic gesture. But I was also a little annoyed because, like Sylvia and Joe, he was making decisions for me. Then I felt guilty for feeling irked.
Reuben shrugged. ‘Oh well, I guess Surfers it is.’
‘Maybe we can fly to Noumea?’ I tried to compensate a little, maybe somehow meet in the middle (flying was okay; I never needed another vomit bag after that trip).
‘It’d be too expensive. Cruises are the most economical way to travel overseas.’
Reuben was an accountant and was very prudent when it came to money matters. Meanwhile, Joe tried in vain to be equally prudent as he gripe
d about the mounting cost of the wedding—back then, the bride’s parents were the ones who footed the bill for the whole thing.
Sylvia bit back. They snapped at each other over the next five weeks. It was like living inside a Pac-man maze. When she assumed the pac-mantle, he was like Clyde (the egotistical ghost who tends to retreat), and when he assumed the pac-mantle, she was like Blinky (the bad-tempered, bossy ghost). They took turns trying to bite each other’s head off—waka waka waka. Nothing new, except that it was probably the only time Joe fought honestly (a man with all guns blazing instead of a sniper). And as the day drew closer, just when I thought things couldn’t get any worse, the best man, Reuben’s closest friend, Norbert, arrived from New York. It was five days before the wedding.
Norbert was short, stocky and fair-skinned. He had oily, wavy, oily black, oily hair. Oily. A receding hairline made his forehead appear very large. His thick black handlebar moustache warehoused small particles of whatever he had just eaten (and just plain whatever), and he ate with his mouth open (ecch). Norbert’s manner was as oily as his hair. He licked his lips a lot (ecch again) and he had the habit of audibly sucking in air between his bared, clenched teeth whenever he saw a woman he fancied, which was pretty much every woman (ecch one more time). He even tried this one on Sylvia when she came into the lounge all dressed up for the Friday night dinner at Greta and Rudy’s. Oh ... ECCH∞ (= ECCH ad infinitum). She found this flattering. Oblivious to his creepiness, she thought Norbert was a good catch. ‘He’s Jewish and he’s a lawyer!’
Huh? How can a lawyer be a good catch?
Sylvia tried to inflict Norbert on Vette, but kept him away from Maxi-the-‘nice’-girl. Norbert had other ideas, though. Myron had stashed a copy of the football magazine and he’d shown the centrefold spread to Norbert. After that, Norbert hit on Maxi at every opportunity. And opportunity presented itself many times because the little oily man stayed at our place. Sylvia had insisted (and Maxi and Vette were often over lending moral support. I insisted).
Just after Reuben and I had got engaged, he moved out of his family home and into a poky studio flat. Norbert would have had to sleep on the couch if he’d stayed there. And because Greta and Rudy had sold their home recently and moved to a small apartment, there wasn’t enough room for the boys to stay with them. So Sylvia arranged for Reuben and Norbert to stay with us for all but the night before the wedding, when Reuben, Norbert, Ralph and Myron (who was also a groomsman) planned to share a motel room.
The big day finally arrived and I woke up feeling punch-drunk after a fitful sleep. My bridesmaids, Maxi, Vette and Iris all turned up at ten, at the same time as the hairdresser. By one o’clock, the girls were coiffed, made up and in their bridesmaid regalia—full-length, cobalt blue satin dresses fitted to the waist and flaring out into a full skirt. The dresses had a sweetheart neckline and big puffy sleeves. In place of flowers, they’d carry a short white staff with a big, cobalt blue bow.
As I stood there admiring my beautiful attendants, Maxi started looking around frantically.
‘What’s wrong?’
‘I can’t find my flock.’
Iris and I laughed, but Vette, who had been quieter than normal, groaned.
‘Hey ... Bo Peep. What’s up?’ Maxi asked her.
‘Er ... nothing. Nothing.’ She shook her head.
She was paler than normal and I was getting concerned. ‘Vette?’
‘It’s nothing, really.’ She looked stricken.
‘Vette!’
‘Oh, okay. Your mum caught me on the way out last night and told me she’d organised for me to be Norbert’s partner. She said it like it was a good thing, like she was doing me a favour, even!’
‘Oh, I’ve had it! That woman has hijacked my bloody wedding from the start. But this is the last straw.’
‘No, don’t!’ Maxi grabbed my arm as I was about to walk out of the room. ‘Don’t get into an argument with her. She will spoil your day. She’ll carry on about the sacrifices she’s made for you, about how much they’ve spent on the wedding, on your education, on your extra-curricular activities, on your medical and dental bills over the years ... you name it. And … how ungrateful you are.’
‘She’s right, Ruthie. It’s okay. I’m sorry I said anything. It’s your day; I don’t want to cause problems.’
‘But I want you to have fun.’
‘Then I say we keep our mouths shut,’ Maxi said. ‘But we take our places at the bridal table as per the original plan: Vette’s with Myron, Iris is with Ralph because of the height thing, and I’m with Norbert. I can handle the lizard. I grew up with Uncle Ernie, remember.’
‘But she was at the venue yesterday afternoon to put the place cards out.’
‘So? Vette will sit where mine is and I’ll sit where hers is. Sylvia won’t make a scene. She’ll be too worried about keeping up appearances.’
‘Hmm ... it might spoil her enjoyment.’ I smiled. Maxi smiled. Vette smiled.
‘Well, I’ve got an even better idea,’ Iris said wickedly. ‘Sylvia’s not the only one who’s taken the shine off what should be one of the best days of your life—the lizard has too. How about I pair up with him? “Because of the height thing”. It’s called karma, darlin’.’
Maxi, Vette and I whooped and rubbed our hands with glee. Iris was about four inches taller than Norbert (five, with heels). He didn’t suck in air between his teeth when he saw Iris. He actually avoided her.
The colour came back into Vette’s cheeks and we all now felt light and happy as they helped me into my bridal gown. It was virginal white silk crêpe de Chine with a three-foot train, a scoop neckline and an empire waist. It had chiffon Juliette sleeves that had three rows of small, embroidered daisies on the cuffs. The headpiece also had three rows of small, embroidered daisies with a two-tier veil attached to it. Sylvia had chosen my bridal bouquet of gardenias and baby’s breath with a cobalt blue ribbon. I settled on black suits for the boys. Reuben would wear a white shirt and cobalt blue velvet bowtie, and the groomsmen would wear baby blue shirts with black velvet bowties.
The photographer arrived around two o’clock. He decided to shoot inside because it was a bit windy outside. It was also a bit windy inside.
Joe Blow shrugged and gave me a what-can-you-do? look. ‘I’m nervous.’ It was the first time he’d ever offered an excuse.
The girls thought it was a hoot; I no longer felt light and happy. It suddenly hit me ...
It was Sunday. Sunday!
Except for the bride and the mother-of-the-bride, everyone was laughing, which made for happy snaps. The photographer was pleased. With the photo-shoot over, I was at the front door when Sylvia called out to me.
‘Where are your glasses?’
‘In my room, where they are staying.’
If she was giving me a dirty look, I couldn’t see; didn’t care. A bride should not wear glasses. A bride may wear contact lenses, but I couldn’t wear mine anymore. A few years earlier, I’d overworn them and abraded my corneas. Anyway, I didn’t need to see clearly. Joe would lead me to Reuben; Reuben would lead me round the dance floor; for me, it didn’t matter that the photographer was out of focus, I only had to be in focus for him; and nobody needs twenty-twenty vision to eat what’s in front of them or to toss a bridal bouquet backwards.
The vintage Rolls wedding cars had arrived. Jesus! I should have insisted on having a say during the planning. Vanilla colour ... and goddamn vanilla smell!
The foundations were shaking.
I reminded myself we were only going from A to B—a purposeful journey. And thankfully, there were a whole lot of distractions between A and B: cheers, jeers, whistling, waving and tooting from spectators.
At point B, we gathered at the entrance to the synagogue for a few more snaps, and then the bridal march began.
‘Where are your glasses?’ I asked Joe.
‘I don’t want to wear them.’
Talk about conceited!
Without his bifocal
s, Joe couldn’t see far or near very well. Not even twenty seconds inside the synagogue as we turned into the aisle, he knocked his knee on the edge of a pew.
‘Shit!’ He said this out loud.
Foundations shaking harder—framework trembling.
Then, under the chuppah, the very old cantor got carried away, and swinging his arms out on a high note, he hit Sylvia in the head with his prayer book (this was actually a high note for me). Other than that, Reuben and I got hitched without a hitch. The photo session after the ceremony was held in a sheltered section of the Adelaide Park Lands. The session wrapped up earlier than expected.
‘Would you like to drive around for a bit to kill some time?’ the chauffeur asked.
Drive around? What ... purposeless driving, vanilla car deodoriser, windy day, open driver’s window? ... Think again, buddy! I got a little hysterical and aggressive over this suggestion. Framework now wobbling badly.
We ended up going straight to the reception venue and just hung around there, waiting. I was bored. Married for two hours and I was already bored. Not a good sign.
The guests arrived and more photos were taken of Reuben and me, of us with the rest of the bridal party, of us with our parents, and us with the extended family—aunts, uncles and cousins (including Zelda, who had kept her distance from me since her wedding). The rest of the evening was a hazy blend of food, music, dancing, speeches, a sea of faces, of saying ‘cheese’ on the dance floor, at the table, during the cake cutting. I was going through the motions, but for the best part, I was absent from my own wedding. Like God.
Some moments stood out, though. Joe taking an antihistamine at my insistence; me telling him he could fart to his heart’s content only while the band was playing aloud; the initial panicked look on Norbert’s face when Iris sat next to him at the bridal table; Sylvia’s obvious consternation when she saw Iris paired with Norbert, Maxi paired with Ralph, and Vette paired with Myron; a docile, cowering Norbert (Iris takes no prisoners); and Albie’s toast not being too much of a disaster—I was adamant that all he could say when he raised his glass was, ‘Here’s to Sylvia and Joe, the parents of the bride’. He only got stuck on p-p-p-p-p-parents and b-b-b-b-b-bride. So a four-second toast took eight (I was counting—one-one thousand, two-one thousand, three-one thousand ... eight). And I didn’t need to worry about the double-act. When Albie got to the podium, Ralph was nowhere to be seen (Myron later found him lying bare-arsed in the back seat of Albie’s car over Maxi-the-centrefold, her hem wrapped around her ears, her legs wrapped around Ralph’s waist. ‘Just for old time’s sake,’ she told me afterwards. ‘He knows how to work the love button now!’). But the most memorable part of the evening was the bouquet toss.
Odyssey In A Teacup Page 15