by Anita Heiss
'It's just that we don't want confrontation. We don't want to hurt women, not on purpose, anyway.'
'So he thought dumping me via email wasn't going to hurt me? It wouldn't have hurt me if he'd just told me the truth. It's not like he broke into my place. I would've been disgusted, but not hurt.'
'Geez, Al, how embarrassed do you reckon he was. Spread-eagled at the scene of his own crime. The bloke's a complete fuckwit. He knew it, and he wasn't going to be the one to point that fact out to you. You don't deal with fuckwits very well.'
'Well, I think he's a bigger fuckwit just letting me go.'
'I agree.'
***
My debrief with Mickey was much gentler. We met in Giuseppe's pizza place in Darlinghurst. Mickey's traditional country, he joked. He always made me acknowledge 'the gay community whose land we gathered on' each time we met in 'his' space.
'It sux, Al, and I am sick of it. We are both such great, fantastic, unbelievable catches, and yet nobody seems to be able to handle us. It could be that we're so far developed and know exactly and intuitively what is right in a relationship, people subconsciously realise they don't come up to scratch and run for their lives.' Mickey was very philosophical and theoretical about it all, but I found his words comforting.
'They all suck, Al, no exceptions.' That was more like the Mickey I knew, and he was as passionate about his speech as he was about biting into his second piece of Giuseppe's pizza.
'Maybe you're right. Truth and communication are essential in a relationship, and most straight men are liars, I've been told.'
'It sux, Al!' Mickey's favourite phrase was 'It sux' and it near killed him at school not to use it. He let it fly while we were out, though, and it always made me laugh. It was such an eighties thing to say.
'Look Al, you need to remember that I, like most normal people, think highly of you, and know you are worth so much more than a bloke like Prisoner Paul – or any of the other cocksuckers out there. You are a beautiful, intelligent woman with a giving heart. What more could the prick ask for? You are way too deadly for this shit.' Tears welled in my eyes, but I was laughing inside: when whitefellas use the word 'deadly' it just sounds ridiculous. But I felt better. Men did suck, and I was worthy of great things. My new mantra would be: Men suck and I am way too deadly for their shit.
'Now let's talk about me, Al. I've got men problems too.'
'Of course, Mickey. What's happening on the man front for you then?' It was good for me to change seats and play counsellor for a while. Mickey burst into tears, like a child who'd been told he couldn't have his favourite dessert.
'What's wrong, Mickey? Tell me, what sux?'
'I'm sorry. I'm a bit depressed 'cos Tom told me this morning that I was his life goal. I suddenly realised that's what I've been for so many men in the past.' Tom was Mickey's latest squeeze. They'd met at the Empire Hotel in Erskineville and had been seeing each other for about three weeks. He was much younger than Mickey, but Mickey was hooked on the sex, and happy, or at least he had been until now.
'Go on, I want to hear about this life goal business.' And I did.
'I was something they wanted and strived hard to obtain.' He took a sip of cheap chianti. 'You see, I'm known to be unobtainable in my community, Al.' Anyone as promiscuous as Mickey didn't seem that unobtainable to me, but I didn't say anything.
'Anyway, once they've experienced me – maybe they'd say conquered me – they always just move to the next one – don't fucken mind me. No, forget Big Mickey.' Mickey was always making reference to his penis size. I had grown used to it and stopped asking him not to.
'That sux, Mickey.' It was the answer I knew he was looking for.
'I am so over it, Al. I'm never going through it again. I'm tired of the cling-ons, the users.'
'Why do you put up with that shit, Mickey? You're nearly forty.' I was a little upset that he was in such a state. 'You are gorgeous, sexy, smart, witty, loving, generous, honest and kind. You're the kind of guy every girl dreams of. You're just on the wrong fucken team!'
'Sweetheart,' and he turned all camp, 'you've just got the wrong plumbing for me is all. It sux!' He took a longer sip of his wine. 'All I know is that life is full of little challenges like Tommy Tzaziki and Paul the Prick, and if there is a god, I can't wait to slap her face for all this shit.' I spat my drink all over him as I laughed.
'Al, I think it's time to change our focus. I think our mistake is that we're stuck on the idea of romantic love. All I have to offer men is mystery and challenge, and once that's gone, I hold no more interest or promise. Maybe I should just do as the black widow spider does ...'
'Sorry love, but you'd have to be a white widow spider.' And we raised our glasses to cheers.
twenty-five
I should be loved, cherished and worshipped
August arrived, and with it my twenty-ninth birthday – and the realisation that my deadline for meeting and marrying Mr Right was only twelve months away. I needed to get back to the strategy. Peta often said the quickest way to get over a man was in the arms of another. It had always worked for her.
There were no banquets organised for me at the Park Hyatt, but Dannie, Liza and Peta threw me a surprise birthday dinner at a local Italian restaurant. Dannie and George, Liza and Luke (who'd been around since Bianca's wedding but still wouldn't commit to anything more than two weeks ahead), Arnie and Cindy (she'd broken the one year record with Arnie), Dillon and Larissa, Mickey and Tom (who was obviously getting another chance), and Peta with a guy she'd met at a conference that week. And me. Just me. No-partner me!
'What? You couldn't ask anyone so that I had a date as well? You couldn't hire me a bloody escort?' I asked Peta, but loud enough for the whole table to hear. I couldn't believe that after everything I'd been through, they had managed to organise my birthday dinner so that I was the only one without a partner at the table. Were they being heartless? Stupid even? Were they too scared to set me up with someone for fear of failing, again? Or was I just being ungrateful? Perhaps they believed I was capable of being a happy single among a roomful of happy couples. God knows, I'd once been okay with it.
'Open your pressies, Alice.' Larissa was trying to break the tension and handed me her gift. I could tell it was a book. It wouldn't want to be a self-help-dial-aman- how-not-to-be-single-forever kind of book, or I'd throw it at her. Luckily, it wasn't.
'Wow, just what I wanted – Aria's Leo Star Guide. This will see me through till the end of the year. I love it, Larissa, thanks so much.' I could see her and Dillon breathe a sigh of relief that she'd made a good choice. I started reading out the forecast for the rest of the year: 'Health: You will take more interest in your wellbeing this year, Ms Leo. More exercise, less of the finer things. It's okay to indulge sometimes, but everything in moderation. You may even think about losing something from your diet all together.
'If Aria thinks I'm giving up the gin and tonic she's wrong. I think it's the vegetable juices I'll do in moderation.' Everyone laughed.
'Work: Your work situation might also provide you with some social opportunities in the next twelve months, Ms Leo, so be open to playing a little with your work colleagues. All work and no play makes Ms Leo another star sign, and you don't want that.'
Maybe that meant I would have to find a different place to work. There was nothing happening on the social front at St Christina's. I hadn't thought of a change of career as part of my strategy before, but maybe it was something I should consider.
'Relationships: The next twelve months promise to bring you better responses to your attempts in the relationship sector of your life, Ms Leo. You will be sexier and more attractive to men. You need to be aware when someone is interested in you, though, and don't be closed off to potential partners who mightn't normally make their way into your heart.'
***
With Aria's words still in my thoughts, I had my annual birthday dinner with Mum and Dad the next night. Takeaway Chinese and a homemade birthda
y cake. It was a ritual. No-one mentioned Paul. I'm fairly certain that Dillon had been doing some counselling before I arrived.
'How to Be a Sex Goddess. Interesting choice, Mum. What made you pick this for me?' She'd given me a guide on how to be a sex goddess 'with or without a man'.
'The young guy in the shop suggested it when I told him you needed help finding a man. Unfortunately, he was gay, so he wasn't interested in taking you out. I invited Cliff tonight, too, but he wasn't very interested either. Said he had something on in Erskineville.'
I rolled my eyes and started flipping through the book. It did have some good tips. 'Listen to this one!' I said, and read it out loud: 'Treat yourself to expensive jewellery. A goddess deserves a Gucci watch!'
'A teacher's wage would never go that far, Mum, but I'm looking forward to reading the tips for workingclass girls.'
***
I woke to the sound of the garbage truck picking up and dumping down bins below in Arden Street. 'Damn, shit, I forgot!' I had a rare day off, and had planned to sleep in. I raced out of bed and downstairs in less than five seconds and heaved the bin down the path, looking like something the cat dragged in. I was in my ratty old pyjamas and had thrown on dark sunglasses to hide the panda eyes I had from not taking off my make-up before I went to bed.
'Morning,' one of the garbos smiled at me, offering a surprisingly gentle hand with getting my bin down the three steps from the property to the footpath.
'Oh, I'm sorry, I forget every week.'
'I know, that's okay. Shouldn't your husband do this?' I tilted my head pathetically, as if to say, 'Yes, he should!' This guy was familiar; I tried to place his face.
I should be loved, cherished and worshipped I watched my bin being emptied into the orange truck and was surprised when the garbo took the bin back up the steps for me.
'Wow, chivalry's alive and well at the local council these days, then?'
'It's part of our professional development.' He grinned, showing a dangerously beautiful set of white teeth. I had a fleeting flashback to Paul.
'What? To help damsels in distress?' Was I flirting with him?
'No, to help damsels in pyjamas in public.' Shit, I was in my pjs and hadn't even brushed my hair. God knows what he must have thought.
'Thanks, mate!' I sounded blokey all of a sudden.
'It's Gary.'
'Gary,' I repeated. Then the penny dropped. 'You're Shirt Guy!' I pointed my finger at him like an idiot.
'Sorry?' He looked down at his fluoro-yellow, council-issued shirt, puzzled.
'Oh, I've seen you in a really nice shirt, at Cushion.' I remembered how rude I'd been to him last time. 'God, I'm so sorry for being rude that night, I was a bit—'
'Drunk?' and he laughed.
I was embarrassed. 'Yes, it was one of those days.' I extended my hand, 'I'm Alice.'
'Gotta run, there's an old lady in a housecoat and rollers I have to help at the top of the hill. She might get jealous if she knows she's got competition.'
As the truck pulled out from the curb, Gary-the- Garbo threw me a wave. Was he flirting with me? Or did he think I had a useless husband who couldn't even put the bins out? Did he actually feel sorry for me?
Back in the warmth of my flat I thought about what I'd do with the rest of the day, and decided to lie in bed and read my latest self-help book, How to Avoid Mummy's Boys – a gift from Larissa, of course. I really should've been going for a walk, but the exercise-guilt passed before I'd read the first three pages. Soon I dozed off again. It was a gentle reminder of the joys of singledom. Sleep and reading! It made me think of Dannie, going without both, and I felt lucky.
***
In the evening I ran a long, hot bath and added a few dozen droplets of lavender oil. I slid into the tub, placed a face cloth over my eyes and lay back, relaxed, plugging the tap with one big toe to stop the hot beads of water that fell every so often. All I could hear then was the toilet running. I needed a plumber in to look at it; one more reason why it would be handy to have a bloke around, of course. Most men can just fix stuff like that.
Until I found Mr Right, I'd just have to get Dad over to look at the loo for me.
twenty-six
I will be kind and compassionate to all the white people I meet today
Gary-the-Garbo's sympathy spurred me on: it was time to get back to my strategy for meeting Mr Right. I consulted the list on my fridge. Phase II was attending professional gatherings. Time to call in Peta, my expert on the conference circuit. She'd only just returned from her last trip. We met at Cushion as usual for cocktails and a catch-up. When I arrived she was sitting outside, facing the beach, but with her head in a magazine, already halfway through a Manhattan.
'So where have you been this time?' I asked. 'I hope you're not working too hard?'
'I've been at a conference in Canberra on improving Indigenous literacy, facilitated some workshops, was great stuff, really inspiring. Met some interesting men, too. Seriously, Alice, if you really want to meet someone, you'll have to get on the conference circuit – it's like a dating agency on the road. You're guaranteed a shag if you want one, you just need to be discreet.'
'I'm not looking for a simple shag, Peta, I'm looking for a commitment to a lifetime of shags!'
'Whatever! I just think you need to start with one night of lust and romance before planning an eternity of them.' She headed inside to the bar for another cocktail. It looked like it was going to be a big night. I peered in through the glass doors to see who or what was on offer. A few local rugby players drank beers, a gaggle of women celebrated someone's birthday, a couple sat huddled on a couch looking out the large windows towards the sea. One guy stood alone at the bar, and we caught each other's eye. He raised an eyebrow and smiled, lifting his beer to suggest 'Cheers,' and then I saw it: a wedding ring. Most men in bars were jerks, just looking for that one-night shag, even if they had someone to go home to anyway. In my books, that was just being greedy.
Peta had started me thinking: I really did need to get out of bars. I needed to be among professionals who shared an interest in the things I did. I was always receiving invitations to events run by history associations, but I never went. I'd heard they were full of old whitefellas. Then again, my dad was an old whitefella, and he was the 'deadliest man on the planet' as Mum always said. I decided that as part of Phase II of the strategy I would attend some professional gatherings and see what they offered a single girl.
A week later an invite arrived for a function celebrating a local historian's forty years of service in the eastern suburbs. I was excited about the prospect of meeting new people, even new white people. I should probably have more of them in my life anyway, I thought, do a bit more for reconciliation. I laughed out loud at that thought. My mantra became: I will be kind and compassionate to all the white people I meet today.
***
Walking down the narrow hallway of the heritage-listed building, I tried to seem confident, even though I didn't know a soul. I signed the visitors' book, got my name tag and looked around. The room was already full of whitefellas huddled in little groups chatting and being very civilised. There were no brown faces in sight. I found the self-serve bar, poured a generous glass of wine and strolled around the edges of the room, looking at old framed black and white images of Bondi Beach from times gone by. No wonder history was boring to Aussie kids if this was the best a local history association could do to present it. I kept walking slowly, hoping that someone might recognise me, but who would? I'd never attended any of these gigs before – what was the likelihood of anyone knowing me? I would have to make conversation with a stranger, there was no other way. At least everyone here had something in common – a passion for history.
I looked around the room and saw one young, groovy, academic-looking guy come in alone. Not much taller than myself, in jeans, white shirt and dark blazer, he looked interesting, even shaggable. That's the only thing you can really tell about someone from first glance. How
we look communicates a lot about how we feel about ourselves and this fella was well dressed and groomed: he had good self-esteem and took care of himself. I didn't want to seem too obvious by approaching him straight away, so I thought I'd slowly make my way around the room and bump into him accidentally a little later. That would give him a chance to approach me if he was having reciprocal thoughts.