Odyssey In A Teacup

by Paula Houseman

  ‘—I had to try all sorts of things to score.’

  ‘Like, er, turning yourself into a walking minge, or a sad sack?’

  ‘I know how you girls judge a guy by what he’s wearing. So yeah, I used fashion, but it didn’t work for me. Being pathetic did. It wasn’t intentional, but it got results.’

  ‘It’s a bit harsh to suggest we’d knock a guy back based on what he was wearing,’ I said.

  ‘You think? You didn’t recognise me that night, but I doubt that asking if you were a regular was grounds for you to try to find ways to ditch me. It was about the way I looked.’

  ‘It wasn’t about the way you looked. It was about your histrionics!’

  ‘So ... you liked the way I looked?’

  ‘Well ... no ... not really—’

  ‘Aha! I rest my case. And, you girls can wear whatever you want; it doesn’t deter us.’

  ‘No, of course it doesn’t ... as long as you can locate muff somewhere under the layers!’ Maxi said.

  She was right. But so was Ralph. We still got dates; the boys didn’t care what we wore. And we girls were at the mercy of some seriously appalling fashion fads, yet we often rejected guys who wore the same things: tartan flares, high-waisted pants, bell-bottoms, elephantine shoulder pads, bouffy hair.

  ‘You’re fashion snobs!’

  ‘Maybe so,’ said Vette, ‘but I absolutely defend my—our—right back then to never ever date a guy who wore a safari suit, a Nehru jacket, or a cravat.’

  ‘I’ll grant you that. It was the costume of the sanctimonious.’

  ‘Yeah. Remember the night we fraternized with that lot?’ I asked the girls.

  Vette rolled her eyes. ‘Only the first half of it ... ’

  Vette’s mother used to mix with the priggish parents of these wearers and bearers, bourgeoisie boys with names such as Henri, Luc and Armand—respectively pronounced Onhree, Lyewk and Armon (silent ‘n’). Vette’s mum was so desperate for her to marry a Jewish boy, she insisted her daughter accept invitations to all the parties her friends’ sons were holding.

  ‘How do you ever expect to find a nice Jewish boy if you’re so picky and choosy and if you keep going to discos and dating goys?’

  The highfalutin Onhrees, Lyewks and Armons did not attend discos—no doubt, these nightspots were eminently unsyuitable. So, because Vette wanted to get her mother off her back, she caved in to her demands, and Maxi and I went along for the ride. The first party of theirs we attended was the last. We never got invited back.

  The host’s name was Gilles (pronounced Jeel—soft ‘J’). He hit on Vette from the get-go and kept plying her with brandy. Vette is a happy, giggly drunk—alcohol loosens her genteel straightjacket—so Maxi and I had a lot of fun observing her and laughing along with her. When she slid down the lounge room wall, landed square on her arse and rolled around in paroxysms of laughter (revealing her frilly, French knickers as her dress rode up), the Onhrees, Lyewks, and Armons got so hot under the collar of their Nehru jackets and safari suits, they asked us to please leave. Still, Jeel insisted on driving Vette home.

  ‘No way, dipsheet!’ yelled Maxi.

  If, God forbid, he fathered Vette’s baby, we would never forgive ourselves. So we prised her away from his grip and got her home safely.

  Vette could now laugh at the memory of that night, and she said, ‘I was grounded for two weeks for something I can’t even remember doing! But ... at least it got my mother off my back.’

  Lucky you. My mother wouldn’t have let up if I’d been in your place.

  And there she was—‘Sylvia’ encroaching on my entertaining trip down Memory Lane. Still, I loved the reminiscing. Exchanging our memories of those times helped defuse the many situations we’d got into, and affirmed what Mr Zero Kosta had said: ‘Life is a tragicomedy’. It was also a reminder of the real me. The downside of this was that it was also a reminder of how much I’d converted myself. But bugger that! Dealing with it could wait; I was enjoying myself. We swapped more stories then called it a night.

  The next morning after an early breakfast, we decided to spend the day by the pool again.

  ‘You girls haven’t been doing much swimming. Come on, come in with me,’ Ralph said after we laid out our towels.

  We agreed, and as I removed my beach dress Vette said, ‘Ooh, nice bikini.’

  ‘Picked it up after the hairdresser at the same boutique I got the green dress.’

  ‘You don’t normally wear bikinis.’

  ‘No, it has been a while.’ I looked up and noticed the three of them exchanging knowing looks.

  ‘Why don’t you dive in, Ruthie?’ Ralph suggested, and he, Maxi and Vette started laughing. Ralph was alluding to a particular incident from my past, but his prompt also carried a subtle message. He knew I needed to dive into the cesspool. In a way, he had just nudged me in, although I couldn’t see it just yet.

  ‘It’s so much more fun when we take the piss out of you!’ I told him.

  ‘All’s fair in love and war.’ Ralph winked at me.

  ‘Yep, you’re not gonna sidetrack your way outta this one!’ declared Maxi.

  The genesis of ‘this one’ was in the summer that I turned eleven, when many Sundays were spent at The Schwartz Club. It was there I taught myself to dive. At first I only managed bellyflops, but diving in, getting out, diving in, getting out over and over paid off. Eventually, I mastered both a standing approach and a running dive on the pool’s diving board. I worked in concert with it to get the most amount of height, and execute a dive with minimal rip. I could have given the harpies a run for their money in the dive-bombing stakes. And I wasn’t afraid; it felt exhilarating.

  In an unflattering pair of red nylon Speedos and a rubberised, cream-coloured, bubble bathing cap with a strap under the chin, I dived until the skin on my fingers and toes was pruney. I didn’t care how my skin looked, nor did I care how I looked. I was aerodynamically configured to leap and plunge. Although, not so much fourteen years later in the summer after Reuben and I got engaged.

  Iris’s boyfriend at the time, Trevor, lived in a large apartment complex that had a pool, and he invited us over for a swim one Saturday. It was a hot day and the pool area was crowded. Wearing a skimpy bikini, I was aerodynamically configured to recline and strut. Not dive. Still, I took the plunge and managed to execute a perfect rip entry. I was thrilled I hadn’t lost my touch. But I lost my dignity. And then some.

  In ancient myth, Neptune was the god of the sea (known as Poseidon to the Greeks). He suffered from high blood pressure, presumably from elevated sodium levels (but probably also because of his antagonistic relationship with his dad, Cronus. Neptune was one of the children Cronus swallowed, then vomited back up). I suspect that when Neptune’s sodium levels and BP got dangerously high, and he needed to cut back on his salt intake and chill out, he hung loose in freshwater swimming pools. And because he hung loose there, he wanted everyone who entered his domain to also ... hang loose. Manifestly. Now all these years on, this immortal, dirty bastard was ripping the bikini bottoms off those of us who dared dive into the depths. For Neptune, it was like a Club Med holiday (which in its early days was hedonistic, scandalous and salacious. Its unofficial motto was ‘sea, sex and sun’). And his wife, the salty goddess Salacia insisted on accompanying him.

  Well, this time Neptune didn’t get me. I held my feet and legs extra-tightly together during the dive and my bikini bottom stayed put.

  ‘Hhha ... Ineptune!’ I silently taunted as I emerged at the shallow end so filled with pride and joy, my cup runneth over. And so it had. Manifestly.

  My jubblies had flopped over the top of my top. They hung out together, resting there like a pair of sun-cooked, fried eggs. Didn’t feel a thing, though. Didn’t hear a thing, either, because nobody said a word. And everyone acted like they didn’t see a thing because they all turned their heads away (no doubt casting sidelong looks all the while). I confidently strutted back to Reuben, Trevor and my towel
(Iris had gone to the toilet and missed the exhibit). Reuben cleared his throat and made several forward pointing gestures with his forehead, like a Wonga pigeon. I figured if he was prepared to act like one, I’d work with him and warble like one.

  ‘C-oo-OO-oo-oh. C-oo-OO-oo-oh.’

  This time he grunted at me. Huh? Do pigeons grunt? I looked a question at him. He then pointed with his finger, like most normal people do. I looked down.

  Fffuck!

  The only saving grace was that my breasts were still pert—(•)(•). That, and the fact that nobody was laughing. Except probably Neptune and his bitch of a wife, who was, in all likelihood, the perp. Would I ever learn that you just cannot outwit a god? Or a goddess, especially one who was probably foaming at the mouth because her trident carrying husband was exercising his middle prong a little too often outside of the marital seabed.

  For the rest of the afternoon, I felt horrible. As soon as I got home, I rang Ralph and related the incident. Of course, he didn’t think it was an issue. No red-blooded male would.

  ‘No big deal. In indigenous cultures women have their breasts hanging out 24/7.’

  ‘I don’t bloody live in an indigenous culture!’

  ‘Hmm ... ’ There was an interminable silence as Ralph ralphulated. I kept quiet. I learned long ago that this process of his couldn’t be interrupted. ‘Okay. How about this? You know it was quite cool in the fifteenth century for women to flash their fun bags? It was actually regarded as a status symbol amongst the aristocracy.’

  ‘Okay. That works for me.’ It wasn’t the fifteenth century, but I liked the idea of being a Renaissance woman.

  I now said to Ralph, ‘Maybe you kept fishing in other ways after your fishing disaster, but I stopped diving in more ways than one after that diving disaster.’ I sighed. We had slipped into the hotel pool and were sitting on the tanning ledge. My friends were staring at me curiously, waiting for me to clarify what I’d just said. ‘Much as I liked your concept of the Renaissance woman, I haven’t been one.’

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE:

  INSIDE JOBS

  Maxi raised an eyebrow. ‘Meaning?’

  ‘Well ... look at my life. Renaissance women aren’t afraid to dive into things. They’re accomplished. Talented. They’re versed in so many areas ... like you and Vette.’

  ‘And you think you’re not?’ asked Vette.

  ‘Er, not really. What have I done? I’ve been a dental nurse, a doctor’s receptionist, I’m a mother—’

  ‘Yes, and look at the amazing kids you’re raising. Plus, you took yourself off to college when they were little, and you graduated as an interior decorator!’

  ‘True. But I didn’t really do much with it.’

  ‘Yeah, I don’t understand why you gave that up. You were really good at it,’ said Maxi.

  ‘You know why I gave it up; it was taking up a lot of my time. Reuben thought that the kids were too young, and they needed me.’

  ‘Yes, I know. But I don’t understand why you gave it up. Your kids were already at school.’

  I didn’t want to start defending my decision, or Reuben’s, but I thought back on that short spell when I was both a mother and part of the workforce. It made me smile.

  ‘I had some weird clients, didn’t I?’

  ‘Sure did. Good old Cyril—’

  ‘And let’s not forget Lance,’ Ralph interrupted.

  Lance Kirke had called me on a Friday afternoon asking if I could quote on refurbishing his apartment. I arranged to meet with him on the Monday morning. On the dot of nine on Monday, I rang his doorbell. When Lance opened the door, he was barefoot and wearing nothing other than a fluffy white towel wrapped low around his hips, with a telltale bulge only a few inches below the top of the towel. His blond locks were all wet and mussed and he had some beads of water on his hairy chest.

  ‘Come in, come in,’ Lance beckoned excitedly.

  I should have bolted or at least said I’d wait till he got dressed. But stupefied, I crossed the threshold.

  ‘I’ll show you ‘round.’

  I silently followed him from room to room, barely taking in anything.

  ‘Okay, so ... how ‘bout we sit in the lounge and you can tell me what you think?’

  What I think is you need to go and put some clothes on!

  I sat down on a brown leather armchair. The television to my left was on, but the volume was turned down.

  ‘Make yourself comfy, I’ll be back in a jiffy.’

  Lance must have heard my transmission. Or ... maybe not. When he returned a few minutes later, he was still wearing only the towel, but he was carrying a large spoon and a bowl of Froot Loops.

  ‘Want some?’

  Why? Is it laced? Was Lance like the serpent tempting Eve with that piece of froot? With a fear of ending up naked save for a matching fluffy white towel slung around my hips, and a little face washer on each breast, I resisted the temptation. ‘Er, n-no thanks.’

  Lance sat on the matching two-seater opposite me. It was hard to stay focused on what he was saying or even hear it (he munched loudly). He shovelled the last spoonful of cereal into his mouth, and then ... he upped the ante. Lance crossed his legs.

  I gulped. Just the week before, I’d seen the film, Basic Instinct. It was scary. Even scarier was the feeling that I now had a bit part in it—in that interrogation room scene. Lance, who’d put the bowl aside and lit a cigarette, had a big part in it. He was Sharon Stone.

  Dear God in Heaven, it’s Monday, you’ve had your rest, now please play your part and keep Lance’s legs together so that I don’t have to see his big part. Please keep Lance’s lance under cover!

  God must have heard me. Though Lance occasionally cocked his head to the right to see the Bugs Bunny reruns showing on TV, he didn’t move. And for too long, I couldn’t. I sat there mute like his television as he was telling me about his vision for the apartment. Finally, I found my voice.

  ‘Er, okay. I’ll consider all your thoughts’—none of which I’ve heard—‘and get back to you with some pricing.’ I got up, said, ‘Stay there, I’ll see myself out,’ and was out the door. I never called Lance and I never heard from him again.

  The four of us laughed, and then Maxi turned to Ralph.

  ‘Hey Brill, I noticed you deflected attention away from the mention of Cyril.’

  We all knew why. Ralph reddened, shook his head and braced himself.

  Cyril Runyon had called me to discuss revamping the living area of his rambling federation house. It was a month or so after my episode with Lance. Unlike Lance, who’d obviously just stepped out of the shower when he greeted me, Cyril was wearing clothes, but he looked like he’d just stepped out of a gangster movie. Short and wiry, he had thin, dark hair plastered down with Fudge, bushy black caterpillar eyebrows, a long pockmarked face and a small mouth, which was about the same width as his nose.

  ‘Mind if I smoke?’ he asked, as we sat down opposite each other at a yellow drop flap table abutting one of the walls in his kitchen. He had already taken me through and shown me the lounge and dining rooms.

  Yes, I do mind! ‘No, that’s fine.’

  He offered me a cigarette; I shook my head. I don’t smoke but I should have taken one. It might have calmed me. Already, I didn’t have a good feeling about this meeting.

  ‘So,’ said Cyril as he puffed out a cloud of smoke. ‘I’m very organised.’

  Because you’re a member of an organised crime group?

  ‘I’ve got a pretty detailed brief here,’ he said as he reached into a thick envelope. ‘I’ll run you through with it.’

  ‘What?’ I froze, waiting for him to pull out an ice pick.

  ‘I said I’ll run through it with you.’ He held up the A4 piece of paper he’d whipped out.

  I breathed a sigh of relief and concentrated on what he was saying. Cyril knew what he wanted: lots of red and black, and lots of lace and velvet. I think he was asking me to decorate a brothel. I imagined him as a minor
capo within the Mafia—his role, to oversee the prostitution branch. And I imagined his name was really Cirillo Rugnetta and that he’d anglicised it to put the FBI, CIA, KGB, Mossad, ASIO, Interpol—whatever—off the scent.

  Cyril intruded on my thoughts. ‘Better if I hand it to you and we can go through it point by point.’

  He slowly and deliberately slid the page across the table and stared at me as he blew smoke rings. I looked down and caught my breath.

  Jesus! This was not a brief. It was a de-brief.

  The page that held his ideas was his letterhead, which was a spooky reproduction of a ceiling panel of the Sistine Chapel—Genesis, chapter 2. Only this repro was frescoed in Hell! It depicted the hand of God printed in the top right corner and pointing towards the bottom left of the page where Adam would have been. But Cyril had substituted a picture of himself for Adam. In a very clear, deep-etched shot, save for the red cushions he was reclining on, Cyril was buck naked, right hand cupping his goolies, left hand extended upwards to God’s hand. In spite of my revulsion, I couldn’t help staring at the image.

  Cyril was over sixty years old and not particularly well preserved. His skin was like old cowhide (a cow that had spent way too much time in a sunny paddock without SPF30). And without his clothes, it was obvious that he was not exactly buff. Despite his thinness, he had droopy little moobs (man boobs) with pronounced, cherry-red nipples. Did I really need to know this about him? If this was how God created Adam, it explained how and why mankind was primordially screwed.

  It was so ridiculous, I actually started to feel calmer. No way could this nutter be Mafioso, and if he was, they should have him taken out for sheer stupidity. Jesus, what the fuck did I do in this or another life to magnetise these weirdos?

  I kept staring at the page but didn’t really see Cyril’s typed words beyond the freaky image, which eclipsed them. I told him I was probably not the right person for the job. But Cyril didn’t give up easily.

  Smiling at me, he put his hand back in the bulky envelope. ‘A little incentive,’ he said.

  Shit, for sure he was going to pull out an ice pick this time!