Being Anti-Social

by Leigh K. Cunningham

  I did some research on dating younger men, none of which was at all surprising or concerning. Younger men are flighty because they are too young to know what they want from life (I did not care—I was not looking for a relationship let alone a groom). When they grow up, they might change their mind on prior declarations about children—too bad, I figured, for there was little chance of having a child inside this withered womb. At least Zach had an established career, which gives some semblance of dependability and perhaps maturity also—I did not wish to spend my weekends at the zoo visiting our adopted spider monkey or at Luna Park skipping our way through the Mr. Moon gateway on our way to the roller-coaster.

  I checked emails and instant chat again. There was one from Amber declaring her hobbies as fashion, looking great and having sex with Jake. “Meaningless nonsense”, I replied, and “no one likes a boaster”. Erin wrote that writing was her hobby, which I challenged of course because it is much hard work, but she said she really did enjoy every minute of it. Sure you do, I thought. Sophie was at least honest enough to admit that she had no hobbies because there was no time as a working mother, which was not entirely true, as grandmother Cairnhill does all the mothering chores for Lucinda. Kimba was the only one of us with legitimate hobbies. She likes gardening, bush walking and calligraphy, which is all true—she does all of these things. I replied stating that I also had several hobbies—Thai cooking, wine appreciation and I had enrolled in a course to learn Spanish, which I had not done as yet, but planned to. My rude friend, Amber, replied, asking if I had meant to write “Thai eating, wine drinking and sex with a Spanish boy.” I gasped.

  “What do you mean ‘boy’?” I asked, suspecting she knew about Zach.

  “Why else would you be learning Spanish?”

  “For cultural and educational reasons,” I replied. “Do I need to explain culture to you, Amber, Miss fashionable, don’t-I-look-great, sex fiend.”

  “When was the last time you cooked something?” Sophie chimed in.

  “She made rum balls at Christmas,” added Kimba. “And they were lovely too.”

  “See, there!” I replied.

  “Well you certainly do appreciate merlot,” Erin said.

  “Yes I do, and I always read the labels while I’m drinking—that’s appreciation.”

  “It’s a wonder you can read anything while you’re drinking,” Sophie replied with a, “Hahahaha.”

  “We should do a wine appreciation course while we’re in the Yarra Valley,” Kimba suggested.

  “Our brilliant minds are in sync again, Kimba; my thoughts exactly.”

  “Should we be encouraging her to drink more?” Erin asked.

  “What are you suggesting, Erin? That I have a drinking problem?”

  “Do you?” she asked.

  “No I do not!”

  “Don’t you drink alone at home every night?” Erin replied.

  “So? I live alone. Of course therefore I would be drinking alone. Hya!”

  “Could you go two weeks without a drink?” Sophie asked.

  “Of course. Not a problem.”

  “I’ll bet you the two hundred dollars you owe me that you can’t,” said Erin.

  “Deal.”

  “Starting right now, Mace, so put down that glass,” Erin ordered.

  “Starting from Saturday,” I replied. “I’m going out Friday night.”

  “Who with?” Amber asked.

  “In winter?” added Sophie. “You’re going out in winter?”

  “Yes I am going out in winter and with a male companion for your information.”

  “Who?” Amber pressed. “A Spanish boy? Is that why you’re learning Spanish, which you will start and quit—the boy and the lessons. Hahahaha.”

  “Yes, hahahaha to all of you, and none of your business, Amber. I’m signing off now as I am deeply offended, and you are not my friends, except you Kimba – you are my only true friend.”

  “We love you, Mace,” said Kimba. I smiled, poured another glass and checked for movies. I would need to drink up before Saturday.

  Chapter Thirty

  I BOUGHT a new shirt and jacket for my dinner with Zach, and why I felt compelled to make such an effort is a mystery. The jeans were new also because my old favorites had shrunk, which happens a lot to women in their forties, the girl at the store assured me—it’s the Omo effect. I did not have time to think about the night ahead, or to be nervous, because my work day was filled with drama. Firstly, my loyal and devoted secretary, Rachel, presented me with a letter I did not want to receive and I refused to accept it. She could not resign; I would be lost without her. Working for Thomas, she said, required danger money given the number of objects that hurtled through his doorway toward her desk, or on a good throw day, at her person. “I will get you danger money,” I said. “How much? Name your price.”

  “It’s not just about money,” she replied.

  “What then? You love working for me, don’t you?”

  She laughed. “It’s the physical injuries,” she said showing me the stapler-induced bruising on her arm. “I can handle his moods.”

  “Why don’t you keep his door closed?”

  “I tried that, but he just gets up and opens it again. He prefers to yell at me, rather than call or email as you do.”

  “There’s a lot to be said for email,” I replied, and that is true even for short distances. “I’ll get maintenance up here. We’ll put one of those sliding locks on his door so you can lock him in, you know, like the ones they use to lock kids in their bedroom.”

  “I don’t think people do that.”

  “They don’t? They must, otherwise children would be free to roam about the house.”

  Rachel smiled. “You’re right. I would miss working for you. You have such an interesting grasp on life.”

  “Good then. I’ll organize the danger money and a lock for Thomas’s door. Agreed?”

  “OK,” she said, “but I’m not sure you can actually lock someone in their office.”

  “Leave that with me. I’ll take it up with HR and they can talk to Thomas. Just make sure that bruise stays fresh and purple for evidence. Give it a few pinches if you have to.”

  “That’s nice, Mace. Thank you.”

  “They’ll have to take action, and locking him away seems like a good solution for everyone.”

  “It might make him madder.”

  “It won’t matter if he’s locked up. Anyway, Thomas has no balls so I doubt he’ll make a fuss.”

  “He doesn’t? Serious?”

  “Well, he does have a pair, speaking from experience, but they’re only for decoration.”

  That was one crisis averted then Jason called unexpectedly—Alexis had found inspiration in her own inventiveness and decided a private investigator was in fact a good idea. From this exercise, she came to learn about her sister and husband, and so there was a rather mad cow running rampant through our family threatening to take Jason to the cleaners, which had nothing whatsoever to do with cleanliness, but a state of financial ruin. Jason was furious because he had indirectly paid for the services of the private investigator whose report and photographs would devastate his amicable divorce plans. He was even more livid that the cow was claiming 50 percent of all his future earnings, infinitum, which she would not get away with, he said, as she had not contributed an iota to his successful career. She had also told the two tins that Jason was a bastard who had deserted them at a crucial time in their lives, and which desertion would affect them forever into their teenage and adult lives. Despite all of this, Jason was glad to be rid of her and happier with Stephanie even if it meant he would only own the clothes on his back at the end of it all.

  If by some stroke of injustice she was to win the war, I suggested to Jason that he retire from investment banking and take up a position cooking burgers at McDonalds as 50 percent of those earnings would not buy another pair of Jimmy Choos, ever. He laughed, thought it was a genius idea, but did not believe it
would be necessary, as he had hired the most successful divorce lawyer in Australian history, a real piranha, he said.

  Jason had also been to see mother and dad to discuss his marital issues. I had no idea he had such a relationship with his parents, and this left me feeling like the odd one out, again. Mother was not looking well, he said. She had a dry cough and was having difficulties breathing. David and Gabby were concerned, and had urged her to see her doctor for further tests, but she said she had had enough of doctors and claimed it was just a winter cold. It reminded me that I had unconsciously ceased with my impromptu drop-ins, which I resolved to resume Saturday morning after my date with Zach since that would be the first day of my temperance and that would make mother very happy. Maybe I would even discuss my date with her. I would try.

  And of course, all through the day there were emails from Amber trying to find out details of my date. She does not like not knowing, and I enjoyed her torment.

  The new jeans were very deceptive and I was looking rather good for July especially with the enhanced redness of my locks courtesy of my new hairdresser, Akilles. Akilles is without exception the rudest person I have ever met (Thomas and myself included), but a perfect hairdresser for he said nothing during my appointment other than short, sharp, terse condemnations, which left me in no doubt that my presence at his salon was an inconvenience. This kind of treatment was in demand for the salon was thriving with many others prepared to spend $300 to feel like chewing gum on a shoe. It was money well spent for I came away looking like much more than my real value.

  I arrived fifteen minutes early at Tokyo Teppanyaki. I always like to be first as I feel this offers an upper hand. I do not know why. Amber believes the person who arrives late, having kept the other one waiting, has the upper hand, but I would rather be sitting in the warmth of Tokyo Teppanyaki, relaxed and sipping on a beverage than running about at the last minute trying to be late. Lord Henry in Oscar’s Dorian Gray was always late on principle; his principle being that punctuality was the thief of time. This has never made sense to me, as the person who arrives late is the real thief.

  I was surprised that Zach was already there when I arrived, and looking a million bucks, like myself. Zach is not the kind of guy who immediately stands out in a crowd, but he is attractive in a manly, understated, brooding kind of way, much like Eric Bana, but younger. I would guess that he is about five inches above my five feet four, which is a nice differential—not too little, so that he feels inferior, and not too much, so that we look odd.

  Zach ordered a drink—a beer, and we relocated to our stools around the grill. He seemed nervous, leaning forward into his beer perhaps for protection or inspiration or to avoid eye contact.

  “Are you nervous?” I asked.

  “Yeah, I am,” he said with a nervous laugh, and ran a spare hand through his dark, wavy hair. “Are you?”

  “Only about catching the rice bowl,” I said with all honesty. “The last time I was here with my so-called friends, they tipped the chef to not pack the rice in tightly and to throw it rice side out.”

  “Nice friends,” he said and laughed more calmly.

  “The rice was everywhere—in my hair, all over my clothes, on my eyebrows and it stuck like, well…like wet rice. It looked like a rather severe case of dandruff. Anyway, I wore a shower cap to bed that night, to keep the rice in place, and the next day I went and visited them all with my rice hair just to remind them of their childish prank. I visited Erin last, and made her pull every single grain out of my hair with a pair of tweezers, one by one, and she had to serve me drinks and food while she did it.”

  “Is that your real color?” he asked, pointing at my hair with his eyes.

  I laughed. “Oh, no, I pay for this.”

  “What’s your real color?”

  “Well, it has been a while since I last saw it, but it used to be a mousey brown color.”

  “Mousey brown?”

  “You are familiar with the mouse I take it? Cute, little ears, long tail?” He nodded. “Well it’s that non-descript kind of color.”

  “I’ve only ever seen white mice.”

  Stuart Little, I figured. “You’ve never seen a brown mouse?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Never mind,” I said. “It’s a light brown color—a color pretending to be a color when it really is nothing. Anyway, you’ll never get to see it, so don’t worry about it.”

  We ordered and I went for the usual package: miso soup, spring rolls, prawns, scallops, Teriyaki chicken, Kobe-style steak vegetables and rice, plus we ordered a bottle of Semillon—not merlot because I actually prefer white wine with Teppanyaki.

  “It’s good to see a woman with a healthy appetite,” he said. “My last girlfriend would only order a salad and grilled fish then spend the night staring at my food wishing she could eat it.”

  “Is that the same girl with the shoe fetish?”

  “No, different one, although the lettuce-eater was also a shopaholic—that’s all she ever wanted to do. I couldn’t think of a worse way to spend my day off than traipsing around a busy shopping centre with a girl.”

  “Me either. But you must shop sometime,” I said. “You have nice clothes.”

  “Once a year with my sister and that’s it—she picks everything out, I try it on, I buy it. It’s all over in a couple of hours.”

  “What about you? Do you like shopping?”

  “Only for a particular purpose, and never just for something to do, and I always go early, before the crowds. I hate crowds.”

  “You’re not like most girls,” he said. “You don’t obsess about shoes, you eat like a man, no offence, and you don’t like shopping. What about football, do you have a team?”

  “Tigers,” I replied—this was the only team I could remember from the two games I had watched.

  “Are you serious?” he asked. “That’s my team!”

  Who would have thought? Rudy came to mind then, and for the first time, I appreciated his ruse from the perspective of perpetrator rather than victim. I wondered how long and how well I could maintain the deception.

  The kimono-clad chef proceeded to chop, toss and pour marinade with the flair of a cocktail juggler. This was another advantage of Tokyo Teppanyaki for a first date—free entertainment and there was someone in front of you, an effective threesome, for any lull in conversation. Apart from the chef, it is also perfectly acceptable to strike up a conversation with the person next to you on the grill square, but this was not something I would ordinarily do unless I was truly desperate for a diversion. There was no need for such interventions as I had not had reason to resort to my first strategy for the dull lull, which is my ‘when in peril’ list of topics for discussion. For example, tell me about your childhood—this can kill an hour or so, and the night, and the prospective relationship, but if you need to resort to the ‘when in peril’ list, there probably is no prospective relationship.

  “Do you want to go to a game sometime,” he asked (back to the football).

  “Sure,” I said. “An afternoon game I could do.” I would need to do a lot of research before then to appear informed and genuine. I would add it to my new hobby list, as a replacement perhaps for Thai cookery as that was a little ambitious in hindsight. I was still committed to wine appreciation though, which reminded me then to read the Semillon bottle, which was already empty. Zach assumed I was hinting at ordering another one, and he did, which elevated him in my estimations. He was quite an excellent date, although he might have thought the second bottle would lead to opportunity. He would be disappointed for I am a seasoned drinker, but not an alcoholic as Shannon would suggest.

  “So why would you want to go out with someone my age?” I asked.

  “You’re not that much older than me,” he said.

  “Eight years—that seems a lot to me.”

  “I don’t think so, but anyway, my friend Ryan suggested it. You remember Ryan?”

  “He suggested you da
te older women?”

  “Yeah—it works for him. He reckons he’ll never go back to younger women now.”

  “Why?”

  “Women our age, late—early thirties, are looking for a husband and father. Older women are often divorced and the last thing they want is another husband or more kids. Mostly, Ryan says, they don’t even want to live together; they want to keep their own place and have their own space. Is that right do you think?”

  “From my perspective, it would be. So the main reason is because you and Ryan don’t want to get married or have children?”

  “Well, we don’t want to hear a girl talking about babies after three dates, and younger women can be pretty needy, not independent like older women.”

  I ordered a banana fritter for dessert even though my intestines were imploding. It was all interesting research for a new chapter in my modern-day matchmaking book.

  “So what is the main attraction then?”

  “Older women are more confident and don’t tend to have so many body issues.” The banana fritters arrived at that very moment and he smiled. “I’ve never gone out with a girl who eats as much as you,” he said. “It’s good to see. Do you like Italian?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “Pizza?”

  “Yes please,” I replied.

  “So you have no problem with carbs?”

  “My favorite food group. What else about these older women types?” I asked, since I was now enjoying the category.

  “Ryan says they’re more interesting, not giggly or silly, and they have a good attitude.”

  “So why then does he break up with them, which he must, I’m guessing since he’s apparently single?”

  “Different interests mainly, but that can happen with younger women too. One woman was really possessive, but other than that, he said his experiences with older women have all been really good.”