Avoiding Mr Right

by Anita Heiss

  I walked off, pleased that Sylvia was so on the ball. But who was this poet Samuel with the double-barrel name? At least I was up to date with music, listening to Koori Radio, and I'd been heading to events at the Koorie Heritage Trust Cultural Centre for visual arts, but there really wasn't anything too coordinated for literature, or new media for that matter. I'd have to get Sylvia to do me a program for every art form, and be sure that I attended all the openings and launches we were invited to. I had a meeting with the Australia Council in August and I wanted to be prepared.

  I was surprised by the number of people in the pub for the reading. I wasn't sure if they were Melbourne poets or poets from elsewhere or just Melbourne locals, because they were all in black. They could easily have been musicians too, I supposed.

  'This is Samuel.' Sylvia introduced me. They seemed to know each other quite well.

  'Oh hi, you're Big Sam's son?'

  'Yeah, Dad wanted to be here but he's doing community stuff back in Brissy.'

  I was pleased that Sylvia had written me enough background information to know that there was a Samuel and a Sam Senior, otherwise referred to as 'Big Sam'.

  The reading started and I sat at a small table with Sylvia and some of her mates, near a group of men who didn't appear to be remotely interested in poetry. They looked like it might be their local hotel.

  When Sylvia read she spoke about the polluted winds of change. She seemed to have a big following. As one of the featured poets, Samuel read last. His material was about the urban environment around Brisbane's West End, and he ended with an insightful poem, a 'recipe' for Brisbane. I loved it. Whitefellas often expect Aboriginal writers to pen stories about place in a more traditional sense, even though many of us live in urban environments and have connections to country in those places as well. As the applause died away, I went to the bar to get drinks.

  'Hi,' one of the local-looking guys said as he stood at the bar.

  'Hi,' I said, and went back to listening to another all-dressed-in-black poet taking part in the open-mike section. I felt the guy staring at me, though, so I turned in his direction.

  'I'm hot, you're hot, let's make fire . . .' he said with a wink.

  'I'm hot, you're not, and you make me tired.'

  'You're good. Are you a poet too?' He turned to face me front on.

  'That's not poetry – that was a short response to a really bad pick-up line.'

  'Oooh, you're fiery, I like that.' His blue eyes twinkled at me. I had to admit, he was cute.

  'Are you enjoying the readings?' I asked.

  'Oh, I'm not a big reader.'

  'No, you're meant to be listening here, not reading – the writers do that.'

  He laughed and touched my arm.

  'Funny girl, can I buy you a drink?' He was seriously flirting with me, and I had to put an end to it.

  'Thanks, but I don't take drinks from strangers – you know with all that spiking stuff going on.'

  'Oh sweetie, no trouble there, I'm a cop,' he said, with his chest puffed out, proud as punch.

  'Hah! Then you may as well give up right now. This,' and I pointed back from him to me, 'would never work at all.' I walked away. Even if I weren't with James, there was no point in pursuing anything of any kind with a copper. I sat back down at the table as a slammer took the microphone.

  The cop came over to my table and planted himself next to me. I wondered if he had a gun strapped to his ankle, like in the old TV shows.

  'What are you doing?' I asked, a little amused by his thick skin and determination.

  'You must be an adverb, because you sure do modify me.'

  'You're an idiot!' I laughed. 'Any more cheesy lines up your sleeve?'

  'Oh, plenty . . .' and he looked up his sleeve. 'Is there a name behind that smile?'

  Sure enough, he made me smile. I couldn't help myself.

  'Mike,' he said extending his hand.

  'Peta,' I said shaking it.

  'Peta, I do believe you are beautiful.'

  'Mike, I do believe you are right.'

  'Okay, did someone turn on a fan, or is that you blowing me away?'

  'That's enough now. Stop it, I want to listen to the poets.'

  'Of course. You listen to the very exciting, engaging, not very good-looking poets, all in black.'

  'Look, I mightn't be a huge fan of poetry either, but I'm less of a fan of the boys in blue,' I said.

  'Well, I don't know why you feel that way, but I think we should have lunch or something to at least discuss your feelings.'

  'I don't eat lunch.'

  'Really?'

  'Let me rephrase that. I don't eat lunch with cops. Blackfellas don't eat lunch with cops.'

  'So, do you like stuffed animals then?'

  'Well, yes.'

  'Great, cos I just ate.'

  'Okay, so I don't like stuffed animals then.'

  'What about dinner, if you don't eat lunch?'

  'Don't you get it? A Blackfella dating a cop is like a Jew dating a Nazi. It just can't happen.'

  'I don't understand the problem.'

  'And that's the problem. Excuse me, I need to speak to my friend.' And I walked towards Sylvia, who was bringing one of the poets over to me.

  While we were chatting, I noticed Mike leave and momentarily wondered which venue he was going to next, but we'd decided to eat at the pub, purely for convenience sake. To my disappointment there was an unusual number of English-inspired dishes – like bangers and mash, ploughman's lunch and shepherd's pie. I ordered the shepherd's pie and wondered if Joe could do it as a fusion dish sometime using roo mince instead of beef.

  ♥

  When I got home Shelley was asleep on the lounge. I left her there and went to get some water from the fridge. There was a postcard from her parents, who were opal mining in Lightning Ridge. I smiled when I read it because they asked about me too – Shelley must have told them about me. It seemed she had a much better relationship with her folks than I had ever had with mine.

  I went back into the lounge room, shook Shelley awake and waited to make sure she got off the sofa, because I knew she'd sleep there all night if left be. I dragged my weary feet into my room, tore my clothes off and collapsed on the bed.

  I closed my eyes and I immediately find myself on a British Airways flight landing at Heathrow and I'm amazed at the size of the airport. As an astral traveller I don't have to wait at customs or at the baggage carousel and in no time I'm queuing outside Madame Tussauds.

  'I hate queuing,' I say to no-one in particular, and an Australian tourist with a harsh Aussie twang says, 'Me too, love, but you know us, we're so easygoing and laid-back, no worries, eh?' I look at her 'I've climbed Ayers Rock' T-shirt and attempt to fly away, but I don't know how to. I haven't been in control of it before. Sometimes I'm on a plane, for long-haul flights, and sometimes I'm on a magic carpet, except it's the magic Aboriginal flag.

  I'm being hurried into the museum as if they know I don't have much time and I'm drawn to a waxed figure of Leonardo DiCaprio and I ask a stranger, 'Can you please take my photo with him? I'm a huge fan.'

  The Australians I have been desperately trying to avoid are posing next to Kylie and for some reason Charles and Camilla, but I can't understand why – after all, we should be a republic already, don't they know that?

  Next thing I know I'm kneeling in St Paul's. I've never been in a Church of England church before, only Catholic churches with Alice and Aunt Ivy, and I'm imagining Prince Charles and Princess Diana's wedding and that meringue dress she wore. I could never understand why she married him. She was so gorgeous, he was so not gorgeous. Kneeling now I feel compelled to pray for her spirit and memory. And I say a prayer for James because I think I should, and I pray to St Christopher the patron saint of travellers, just like Aunt Ivy said she'd pray for me when I moved to Melbourne, to make sure I got home safely.

  I'm tired of flying, but I'm not sure why – I'm not actually doing anything physical to make it
happen. I hail a black cab anyway and it's quite roomy, but expensive, and I wonder how I'm going to pay for it.

  I don't really know where it is I want to go, but the driver takes me to Earl's Court, saying, 'You're Australian, aren't you? So this is where you probably want to be.' He goes on, as much to himself as to me, 'I can't understand why they'd travel across the world to hang out with other Aussies.'

  'I agree totally – please keep driving,' and I'm not even concerned about the meter because I'm figuring whatever budget paid for my airfare will pay for ground transport also. But then he's gone, and so is the cab. I'm just floating, saying, Don't stop, don't stop, to whatever is keeping me in the air, in the atmosphere, in the universe, because I'm still not sure how all this works.

  'STOP!' I shout as I see the Victoria Palace Theatre and the Buddy Holly Spectacular Show. I have to go. I'm wearing black-rimmed Buddy Holly glasses and I look hot! In the foyer I see James and I wave, surprised, because we've never had the same taste in music, and then I see Mike the copper and wonder if he's stalking me, and Lee from the fundraiser, too, and they're all wearing the same glasses and they walk in with me and we celebrate the 1500th performance together and then I have sex with one of them to the tune of 'That'll Be the Day'. I'm not sure which one it is because I don't open my eyes, but I hope it's James so there's no jealous rage to deal with. Neither of us takes our glasses off the whole time and the frames keep knocking against each other. Then I have a little baby boy and he comes out of the birth canal wearing the same glasses and it's all just too ridiculous and I desperately need to escape the absurdity and as Don McLean's 'American Pie' serenades me, I find myself entering a pub called Ye Olde Something-Or-Other and an arm reaches out to stop me as I work my way through the crowd. The arm belongs to a tall guy with sandy hair. He's cute, but the music is so loud it's too noisy to talk, and his cockney colonisers' accent is already grating on my ears, so I think it's a good idea if we just dance and while we're moving to music I've never heard before I'm thinking why do people even try making small talk with virtual strangers when trying to dance at the same time. So we don't talk, we just dance, and I sing along to the music, making up the words to the songs. Back at the bar, he tells me his name is Jason and he's clearly interested as he pushes the hair from my face and puts his arm around my waist, claiming me, as some young rugby players enter the bar.

  'Last drinks,' a burly barman shouts to signal the end of the night. The music stops but my ears continue to ring.

  'How long are you here for?' Jason asks.

  'Not sure, playing it by ear.' I'm lying, I have no idea how many days or weeks my night's sleep could translate into.

  'Wanna catch up again before you leave?'

  'Sure.'

  'Can I have your number?' He's never going to be able to call me, of course, because it's a dream, but I reach into my bag anyway and grab a business card. He holds it up and reads it aloud: 'Peta Tully, National Aboriginal Policy Manager, DOMSARIA' and he looks at me, then looks at the card, then looks at me again, obviously confused, and says out loud, 'Are you an Aborigine?' As if I'm a leper or some other highly contagious patient with a debilitating disease. I'm shocked and pissed off. One minute I'm gorgeous and worthy of dining with, and let's face it, he's a bloke, so I'm assuming I was shaggable as well. The next minute, I'm a thing, an 'Aborigine', like I'm illegal or even an alien being. I snatch the card from his hand.

  'You won't need that now, will you?'

  Wake up, wake up, I tell myself, but no, I'm not in my cosy bed in sheltered St Kilda, I'm still in Ye Olde Racist Arsehole Pub somewhere in London. I try to get away from him but the bar is cramped with 'last drinks' customers ordering three pints and four tequila sunrises, like I'm back in the eighties at a local RSL at home.

  'You do realise that if it weren't for my people, your people would still be in shackles.'

  'If it weren't for your people, my people would never have been in shackles in the first place,' I correct him. 'Do you think we shackled ourselves and then your mob came and let us out? Can you see how illogical that is?'

  He looks at me like I'm some freak. I walk off, my card in hand, and my dream a nightmare. How could one word on a piece of cardboard make someone change their mind so quickly about another human being?

  I leave the pub and walk into the cold English air and as it hits my face I wake up, agitated.

  ♥

  'It happened again last night.'

  'What did?' Josie asked. She sucked hard on the frozen fruit at the bottom of her smoothie as we walked along Acland Street.

  'I astral travelled.'

  'No way. Where to this time, jetsetter?' Josie was ready for another sexy story, but I didn't tell her about the Buddy Holly stuff, just skipped straight to the exchange with Jason.

  'I went to London, saw a show, took a black cab, had my photo taken with Leonardo DiCaprio at Madame Tussauds and then got in a blue with a racist arsehole in a tragic English pub where the barmen were fat and the music was too loud. I hate the English and I don't want to ever go back there, let me tell you.' I was almost shaking as I remembered it.

  'It was a dream, Peta, it doesn't mean that's what all the English are like. Sometimes you can be slightly irrational.'

  'Is that right?'

  'Yes, that's right. Have you told this to Alice or any of your other friends back in Sydney?'

  'No, they've got plenty going on up there. They don't need to know absolutely everything about my life here.' Seeing as Liza and Alice were walking together and I assumed they were catching up without me, I felt that it was okay if there were some elements of my new life that I just kept here in Melbourne. I'd thought it was something that Josie and I could share, until she decided I was irrational. Maybe I was.

  'So should we go to the Elephant and Castle for lunch, then?' Josie couldn't help stirring me. There was nothing more English than the Elephant and Castle chain of pubs in Victoria.

  seventeen

  The stalker cop

  'Greetings and salivations,' the voice said down the mobile line.

  'Who is this?' I had no idea who I was talking to as I walked along Collins Street towards the office.

  'It's Mike, we met at the very exciting poetry reading a few weeks back. I've moved you up to the top of my "to do" list.'

  I thought back to Samuel's words about dreamtime tabernacles and whitegoods sales, and then it registered: it was the cop.

  'Well, take me off your "to do" list. And how did you get my number? You must have tracked me down illegally – that'd be right, different rules for you fellas, eh? You can do whatever you want. Well, I don't have warrants or a record, and I didn't even give you my last name, so you must have done something really underhanded to find me.'

  'Oh yes, very illegal and underhanded. I'm from the FBI – the Fine Body Investigators,' he mocked.

  'You're all so untouchable, aren't you? Why don't you go and punch a protester, or better still maybe try and lock up a criminal for a change?'

  'Ooh, you're a fiery one, aren't you? I like it, it's sexy.'

  'I'm hanging up. You have no right to be calling me. And how did you get my number? Tell me, or I'll . . .' I was sounding slightly irrational, and I knew it. He was probably harmless. It was just a phone call, after all, and his lines were quite funny.