Being Anti-Social Page 12

  Chapter Twenty-two

  I CALLED Erin, Sophie and Kimba and invited them to join me and Amber down Chapel Street that Friday night for my writing research. I would need their help to keep me focused because I know Amber. Kimba was just weeks from having a baby so she could not make it, but she appreciated the call and offered encouragement. Sophie was exhausted and could not think of anything worse to do on a Friday night. Erin was keen (she is a full fledgling writer after all), but had other plans so it was back to just the two of us; me and Amber.

  We settled at a table in the front yard of the church (irreverently converted into a pub) ready to observe life passing by. It was cold out even though I was rugged up for an arctic winter in a Gore-Tex coat reminiscent of the Michelin man while Amber was stylish in the standard for South Yarra: jeans, boots, blouse, leather jacket, no coat. She claims not to feel the cold and probably has the metabolism of a man.

  “The sounds of Chapel Street,” I said, tapping at my note pad.

  “People talking,” Amber offered.

  “That’s not very creative,” I said. “But I’ll add it to the list. We’re brain-storming so there are no bad ideas at this stage.”

  “It’s just white noise,” said Amber. “It’s all blending together to make one sound.”

  “I can hear heels tapping on the footpath, laughter, cars and music,” I said, writing it all down, impressed as the exercise was evidence of my writing credentials. “Okay, let’s do smell next.”

  “Perfume,” said Amber, “beer and cigarettes.”

  I paused. “It smells like Melbourne. Every city has its own smell—it’s a potpourri. Hey, that’s quite clever,” I said, and wrote it down.

  “Aren’t you supposed to describe the smell?” Amber asked. “That’s not really a description, is it?”

  “Not sure,” I said. “I’ll ask Erin for her professional opinion. Let’s move onto sight.” Then two guys sat down at our picnic bench to start up a conversation with an offering of free drinks, which we accepted, as the writing task was boring both of us.

  We spent a pleasant few hours with two quite civilized beings, albeit somewhat younger than our side of the weathered bench. Amber was in fine form as usual, captivating, and showing no resemblance to the woman who had, just a month earlier, made a declaration about marriage and babies to the absent Jake. But there was no suggestion at the end of the night to move indoors for a more intimate setting. We exchanged email addresses though, in accordance with Amber’s policy of never giving out her phone number, which applies specifically to guys met in bars no matter how good-looking, as was the case with the young pups, Ryan and Zach.

  Amber had quite a dossier on how she had met guys over the years, decades rather, and I urged her to join Erin and myself as writers. Amber’s advice on dating would surely help many—women and men—unlike the shallow musings of the journalist, Rudyard Wilkes. According to Amber, coffee shops are the most likely place for a productive interchange between strangers, followed by the fruit and vegetable section at the supermarket, jogging in the park, rock climbing, yoga and cold calls on the street as well, but then we are talking about Amber. She has had numerous dalliances with work colleagues, bosses and even clients, but her favorite pick-up was at the supermarket when approached for advice on choosing a capsicum. That is all history she says, for Jake is her man. It is worth noting however that she met Jake through the conman, Rudy, so the liaison is still speculative as far as I am concerned.

  We went back to my townhouse after Chapel Street, around 1AM, for a night cap and review of the evening. Amber was sleeping over—a final test for Jake to see if he would be suspicious or jealous or both.

  “You should check your email,” she suggested around 2AM.

  “What for?” I asked.

  “Zach might have emailed you.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” I said.

  We lingered on the edge of sleep for another hour then fell asleep on the sofa to be woken three hours later with a phone call.

  “Mother,” I whispered as I shuffled for the phone.

  “Better not be Jake,” Amber mumbled.

  It was Kenneth to announce that Violet Rose had made it into our world early, but without complication. Kimba was doing well, and everyone was overjoyed. The good news had us sobering faster than usual as we thought about presents for Violet. By 11AM, and a quick nap, we were ready to hit the shops. Amber checked for messages from Jake, and seemed disappointed that there were no jealous tirades and only a text message, ‘cu after footy LY.’

  “Should it bother me that he’s not jealous?” she asked.

  “Jealous of what, who? Me?”

  “Shouldn’t he be worried that I might have been with someone else last night?”

  “But you weren’t.”

  “I know that, you know that, but he doesn’t know that, so he should be jealous, right?”

  “But wasn’t the purpose of the exercise to be sure he isn’t the jealous type? You don’t like jealous, remember?”

  She did not reply, but I could see her simple mind weaving all sorts of concerns out of nothing. Oscar is right, “There are only two tragedies in life: one is not getting what one wants, and the other is getting it.

  Erin and Sophie had been and gone by the time we arrived at the hospital late afternoon after a couple of hours of baby shopping at Chadstone. Kimba was tiring fast by then; Kenneth was working elsewhere in the pediatric ward, and Violet was asleep. We watched Kimba fighting sleep while trying to maintain a high-level of enthusiasm as she opened our pile of pink, mauve and white dresses of varying sizes, toys, photo frames and silverware. Then it was just me and Amber as Kimba fell asleep in a pile of pretty paper.

  We slinked home—Amber to Jake; me to mother and dad, who had also been to see Kimba and Violet hours earlier while celebrations were still in full swing. Mother had finished her latest round of chemotherapy, and she was flush with optimism despite how battered she appeared. Her hopefulness was infectious, and I believed it was time to put away fears of death and Shannon as host for Christmas, birthdays and beyond.

  I fell asleep during the national news and woke two hours later in a darkened room covered by a blanket and a beam of moonlight that came through the living room windows. It was around 10PM and I was ready for my kind of a Saturday night. I re-packed my overnight bag and drove home to my townhouse via the bottle shop.

  With a glass of merlot and a Cadbury Dairy Milk, I relaxed in front of a movie with my laptop to check emails. There was nothing from Zach and I felt foolish for thinking there might be. Kenneth had sent photos of Violet and Kimba, and there was an email from Erin asking about the Chapel Street research project, which was a distant memory. She offered to help with my assignment and I felt a little guilty since I was somewhat less gracious when it came to reviewing her manuscript.

  I found my notes from the previous night and took a minute to read the scant by-product of hours of research that began one night and concluded early the next morning on the day Violet was born. I wrote it up anyway, and added paragraphs on ‘sight, taste and touch’ based on knowledge and experience, and skipped ‘intuition’ as that was too difficult. By the time I was done, I had written a mammoth 204 words to describe Chapel Street on a Friday night. Certain that this was less than adequate (it is a way from a thousand words) I emailed my mere pickings to Erin and asked for help, not ready yet to give up on my dream of becoming a part-time, two-book writer of non-fiction. As Oscar says, “The only difference between a caprice and a lifelong passion is that the caprice lasts a little longer.”

  I checked my Inbox for emails from Zach then slapped my forehead for being moronic.

  Chapter Twenty-three

  MOTHER CALLED at the cracking of a Sunday dawn to state the obvious—that I was not there. I explained that I had woken during the night and could not get back to sleep so I returned home to watch a movie or two. I made no mention of merlot. Despite the rude awakening, I was pleased
that roles had restored and all was right with the world again.

  Since I was up early, I called Amber to inquire about the passive Jake, and was the first to learn of their engagement, after just nine months. Amber proposed and Jake accepted. This ruined my day because everyone was in love except for me: Amber and Jake, Lauren and Patrick, Jason and Stephanie, David and Gabby with each other and with Oscar, Kimba and Kenneth and baby Violet. Shannon and Toady were still in love, as were Erin and the Bobmeister, and even Sophie and Adam had momentary lapses of loving, but had Lucinda for all the other times. I was feeling tragic for as Oscar says, “Keep love in your heart. A life without it is like a sunless garden when the flowers are dead.”

  I watered the remnants of plant life in my front courtyard then called mother for advice on winter annuals. She recommended pansies, lavender and petunias, and in the background, I heard Shannon suggesting cacti. Thank the good Lord I had left like a thief in the night and missed her post-church morning visit. On the way home from the hospital after seeing Kimba and Violet, I would stop by the garden shop to symbolically replenish my spiny heart.

  Kenneth was holding his little girl when I arrived, as if she was the last panda cub to be born, while Kimba smiled on. The intensity of the absolute completeness in the room was overwhelming, and aggravating my self-indulgent preoccupation with my own perceived hardships.

  Erin arrived then with a mega box of donuts and more brilliant news—she had a publisher interested in her book. Yahoo, I thought, what a great day. Oscar says, “Anyone can sympathize with the sufferings of a friend; it requires a very fine nature to sympathize with a friend’s success.”

  I peered into the box of donuts and thought of Cam the personal trainer and the food diary I would not complete then I thought of Oscar again. He says, “Between the optimist and the pessimist, the difference is droll. The optimist sees the donut; the pessimist sees the hole.” It occurred to me then that my sole hardship seemed to be that my garden was dead. Mother had swum free from the jaws of death, and everyone I cared about—friends and family—were on the happy train albeit with me left behind on the platform. As I imagined myself standing forlorn at the train station like Virginia Woolf not long before she killed herself, Violet started crying. It was an extraordinary sound and reminded me of a doll Shannon had as a child, until the day I cut the chord from its back to stop the wailing. The punishment had been worth it.

  Amber blessed us with her presence then, entering the room with a fluttering hand first to draw attention to a diamond-encrusted ring finger. All that remained was for Sophie to arrive announcing that she and Adam had finally found a way to live together in perfect harmony, but of all my friends, Sophie is the most reliable, and had no news to share when she arrived. Instead, she looked like any other normal person feigning happiness. I checked my watch—phase III of the Sophie-Adam cycle was in effect so we had just weeks before the cataclysmic event that would herald phase IV and misery for all. Relative calm would follow then for several months until irritations resurfaced.

  Erin was rummaging around in her handbag then pulled out a sheet of paper. She waved it at me with a smirk.

  “What’s that?” I asked.

  “Your assignment,” she replied.

  “Oh,” I said. “No need to worry about that today.”

  “Yes,” said Kimba enthusiastically. “Let’s hear it.”

  Erin smiled, unfolded the single page, and started reading as everyone settled in with a donut and anticipation. Beam me up, Scotty, I thought to myself.

  “Chapel Street is alive as its name suggests,” Erin began and raucous laughter broke out.

  “How can a street called ‘chapel street’ be alive?” Amber asked, hiding behind a flashy hand so that masticated donut did not spray everywhere.

  “That is a very good point,” added Erin, “since a chapel is a quiet place of worship.”

  I said nothing.

  “Let’s move on,” Erin said when the laughter subsided, which took some time. “Chapel Street is one of Melbourne’s premier districts for shopping, dining and entertainment with a myriad of shops from upmarket fashion designers at the South Yarra end to old fashion pawnbrokers towards the Windsor end.”

  “That’s not bad,” said Sophie. “Get that off the Internet did you?”

  “Do you mind?” I replied, offended at being out-ed. “That would be plagiarism.”

  “Chapel Street was named after the first church in Prahran, which was eventually demolished. The only surviving church was built in the 1850’s and is now a pub from where I write this article.”

  Blank faces stared at me.

  “What?” I asked.

  “That’s all very interesting,” Erin explained. “But it is just facts and you’re supposed to be using all five senses to describe a scene.”

  “I’m setting the scene,” I answered.

  “Go on,” said Amber, “I’m loving this.”

  “Don’t you think you’ve had enough of those donuts, Amber?” I replied. “Just because you’re engaged, again, doesn’t mean you should be letting yourself go.”

  “More,” said Amber, ignoring me. “Tell us more, Erin.”

  “The sounds of Chapel Street include heels tapping on the footpath, chattering, cars, and music emanating from the church, nightclubs, bars and passing vehicles. Perfume and aftershave mingle with cigarettes and Souvlaki to form a particular potpourri that is the smell of Melbourne.”

  I smiled, waiting for praise. There was nothing forthcoming. “What’s wrong with that?” I asked.

  “Where to begin?” Erin said with a sigh.

  “It just doesn’t work,” said Sophie. “And it’s kinda boring.”

  “I like the potpourri thing,” said Kimba.

  “But wait,” said Erin. “There’s more.”

  “I think that’s enough for one day,” I said snatching the page from Erin. “Clearly you lot have no appreciation for genius.”

  “Maybe you need to rethink the writing gig,” said Amber.

  “I’m writing non-fiction,” I said. “I don’t need all that description stuff anyway.”

  “Just as well,” said Sophie to more laughter.

  “I’ll rewrite it for you if you want,” said Erin.

  “Thanks, Erin. That would be excellent,” I replied, searching the box for a donut. “Who ate all the donuts?” I yelled.

  Kimba handed me what was left of hers, but I knew she was not the culprit. I glared at Amber. “So when’s the wedding, Amber?”

  “Next year sometime,” she answered. “Probably March.”

  “Are you going to do the whole traditional wedding thingy?” I asked.

  “Thought I’d wait and read your ‘anti-wedding ritual’ book first. How’s it progressing?”

  “Slowly,” I said.

  “Started?” Sophie asked.

  “Nope,” I said, and this was apparently very amusing.

  “How’s the personal training coming along?” Amber asked.

  “Yeah, good, thanks.”

  “Started?” Sophie asked.

  “Yes I have,” I replied smugly.

  “You exercised in a non-daylight savings month?” Erin asked, disbelieving.

  “That’s fantastic, Mace, well done!” said Kimba.

  I smiled and made a mental note to call Cam the personal trainer to arrange my first real session.

  “Well that’s enough love for me today,” I said. “I’m off to do some gardening.”

  “Gardening?” said Sophie and more chuckling followed.

  “How about a late lunch instead?” said Amber, “to celebrate my engagement and to reward you for giving us all a good laugh. What about a nice fettuccine marinara down Lygon Street?”

  “That sounds like a plan,” I said. “What about your fiancée?”

  “I can still have lunch with friends whenever I want. Jake is not the jealous type.”

  “Anyone else?” I asked. It was a yes from Erin (her kids we
re at a party at the zoo), a no from Sophie (things were rocky at home, of no surprise to anyone) and a no from Kimba for obvious reasons.

  “What about your garden?” Erin asked.

  “It’ll still be dead next weekend,” I said. “I might ask mother to do it. It’s important that she feels needed.”

  “Mace, the pure and simple truth is that you don’t do anything for yourself,” said Sophie, laughing.

  “The pure and simple truth is rarely pure and never simple,” I replied, quoting Oscar. “Anyway, enough of this—it’s time for lunch,” I said, “and perhaps, a lovely merlot.”

  “Do you have cable?” Erin asked with a bolt of trickery.

  “Of course not,” I replied. “However, you will be the first to know should that ever happen, Erin.”

  Chapter Twenty-four

  I HAD my first work-out with Cam the personal trainer in the first official week of winter, to turn a prior lie into a truth. It was the worst possible night to break with a meritorious tradition for it was dark, rainy, windy and very, very cold. I did not want to go and Rachel was responsible for ensuring that I did. Apparently, it all made me a little cantankerous.

  When I informed Rachel I was not going due to work stresses, she referred to the list we had pre-prepared two days earlier, on Monday when I had Monday morning commitment syndrome (which is why Monday is always the busiest day at the gym), also known as the PWGW (post weekend gorge work-out).

  “If you are stressed,” she read, “exercise is the best thing for you, not merlot.” It was less convincing then, just two hours before my rendezvous with Cam the personal trainer.

  “What else do you have?” I asked.

  “Cam the personal trainer might be the perfect guy for you.”

  “That’s not on the list,” I replied. “And not likely anyway, thank you, Rachel.”

  “How can you be so sure?”