Being Anti-Social Read online

  I was well and truly in the zone when a hand appeared out of nowhere and grabbed my left buttock. Startled, I stumbled on the speeding conveyor belt and catapulted off the back onto the floor. I glanced up in time to see Amber strut away unable to contain her delight. Others continued with their cardio with more subtle shows of amusement. Only Rudy came to my rescue albeit he came with a smirk also.

  Rudy said he was a physiotherapist and wanted to check me over to be sure I had not suffered a serious injury. I had—my pride had deserted me with my former friend. I assured him I was otherwise physically fine, but agreed to join him for a berrie smoothie at the gym café. We passed Amber on the way and she pretended not to know me. She is a true friend for as Oscar says, “A true friend stabs you in the front.”

  I sat down at a table while Rudy arranged smoothies and a jumbo slice of gluten-free, sugar-free, yolk-free, fat-free, low-carb banana ‘cake’. Three forkloads in, Rudy confessed that he was not a physiotherapist at all, but a bricklayer. I commented on his smooth, callus-free hands and he explained this anomaly by saying he always wears heavy-duty gloves on the job, and has regular manicures, and added that he was not gay. Women like smooth hands and short nails, he said, throwing further light on his penchant for manicures. “You have nice skin,” he said then, stroking my forearm. I shoveled more fake cake and thought to respond by mentioning his biceps as is required by the principle of compliment-return.

  A freshly-showered Amber appeared then and sat down at our table. “That seat is taken,” I said. She laughed, introduced herself to my bricklayer, and helped herself to the cake and my smoothie. She called her latest love interest, and arranged for him to meet us at Giorgiou’s for pizza and merlot. The night ended the next morning by which time I was a disciple of the male manicure.

  Chapter Four

  RUDY turned out to be a fraud albeit a charming one. He was not a bricklayer, however he was a regular at the manicurist for reasons previously stated, and just like Alexis the cow, his toes were also perfectly clipped and groomed, but not painted. His hands were soft and smooth because he is the journalist, Rudyard Wilkes—named after Kipling, and known subsequently among us as Kipper, said with affection despite the ruse he had perpetrated on all of us.

  I dated Kipper for four months and saw no sign of the con in progress until hindsight bathed it in neon. And in retrospect, it is impossible to understand how I rationalized the absence of concrete-splattered, steel-tipped boots, and that Rudy never once rushed off early at night for the purported 4AM bricklayer starts. Un-blinkered, it all made perfect sense and I can now see him strolling into the office around ten to while away an hour at the water cooler before the hard work of deception began at his poisonous keyboard. I expect it was not hard work at all for he clearly enjoyed his job and all it entailed, and one might also expect to see a complementary background in the performing arts listed in his resume.

  Amber and Sophie had commented on his impeccable sense of style and love of shopping, and we thought this curious, expecting jeans, a singlet and flannelette then reprimanded ourselves for such blatant stereotyping. Sophie added that trades people had earned good money during the building boom and could charge what they wanted for their services with demand outweighing supply, and why shouldn’t a bricklayer know fashion labels just because he works a construction site.

  The shocking truth came one Thursday night while I was at the salon for my bi-monthly coloring. From the magazines on offer, I chose one for men—it was one Rudy the bricklayer/fashionista was likely to read, I thought, and that made me feel close to him. It was a light-hearted read, humorous, and I was already chuckling when I flicked to Lines that work by Rudyard Wilkes.

  The article, according to the opening paragraph, was based on actual research and readers could reasonably rely on the lessons contained therein. It certainly was a fun read—I laughed aloud, until the paragraph about a girl at the gym who had flown through the air off the back of a treadmill. My similar experience was still fresh in my mind, and if there was any humor intended in the story, I was not getting it. I found myself less engaged with the author as a result and back on the side of womanhood. The author had “rescued and repaired” the “fragile” woman from where she lay “splayed over the carpet like an unwanted rag doll” by pretending to be a physiotherapist. And since this deception had worked so easily at enticing his victim to the gym café for a berrie smoothie, the author/perpetrator had then switched his occupation to that of bricklayer to test for snobbery. I slapped the pages shut and gasped, loudly, it seems, as Tricky the stylist (his real name he claims), rushed to my side fearing the worst. My distress was apparent as my face and ears blended with my fermenting hair. I may have been hyperventilating when I reopened that dubious publication as if deadly mutant insects might fly from the pages in a full-on assault, literally as well as metaphorically.

  The article continued with advice, for example, that men should not shy away from the traditional albeit trite lines like, “You’re gorgeous,” or “Has anyone told you that you look like Elle Macpherson?” Both lines came from Amber’s vast repertoire of pick-up lines (on which she could write a more accurate record than Kipper, and book-length, not just a mere article). Naturally such lines were successful because Amber is gorgeous and she does look like Elle Macpherson, but otherwise a mistake to impart.

  The author urged readers to tread carefully if contemplating poetry as this would only work on a certain type of woman and if delivered by a certain type of man (like Russell Crowe) in particular circumstances, “obviously excluding nightclubs”. Kipper then went on to give his readers a “practical, real-life” example that documented how Kenneth had wooed Kimba by sending her flowers, an Elizabeth Barrett Browning poem and a note that said, “Our souls have met, so should we. Let me cook you dinner. I do believe I love you. Kenneth (Pediatrics).” The Barrett Browning poem was also included in the article as, “an example of poetry for you Bogans out there, and you know who you are.” Rudy cited the poem as follows: “How do I love thee? Let me count the ways. I love thee to the depth and breadth and height my soul can reach, blah, blah, blah.” I gleaned from this that Kipper was not a fan of poetry or romance for that matter, contrary to his expert portrayal.

  Kipper added that old favorites like, “Do you come here often?” should still be used, but only if such usage offers an opportunity for the girl/woman to be clever or funny in reply. He then relayed (using fake names) how Adam had said this to Sophie at a nightclub to which she had replied, “Only when I’m thirsty”. Rudy suggested that the effectiveness of this approach depends very much on the woman and one should not expect a high success rate as corniness should be avoided at all times.

  The article concluded with a two-line paragraph about the author (fraud) and in larger font, Next month – moves that work. The trashy magazine fell to the floor as I covered my burning face with my hands, as if that might shield me from the shame. Strangely, I could only think of mother. Somehow, I found the courage to live having convinced myself that no one would ever know I was the subject (fool) in the article. I gasped again at the mirror as Cher stared back at me. Another unfortunate lesson—never delegate important decisions about hair to a stylist with asymmetrical bangs while one is not of their right mind. If only I could turn back time, forty minutes or so, or four months.

  At my urging, Erin coordinated an extended group Sunday barbeque to discuss a course of action regarding the conman Rudyard Wilkes. The cretin had gathered data for his story at a similar barbeque some months earlier, and while I was the primary target, we were all snared, welcoming him as we did into our sanctum only to suffer consequently by the will of his abusive, journalistic hands.

  Only Sophie shared my sense of betrayal and violation. Kenneth was thrilled to have his story in print as a guide to others who might find it useful. Adam thought the article was hilarious and was looking forward to the next issue, which he planned to buy. Amber was also amused, but disappointed Kipper
had not used her real name. Kimba, Erin and the Bobmeister could not understand the fuss since it was all “light-hearted, harmless fun,” and accurate, which did not lessen its obscenity. As Oscar says, “It is perfectly monstrous the way people go about nowadays saying things against one behind one’s back that are absolutely and entirely true.”

  I managed to avoid Rudy the conman pending seer advice from the barbeque gathering, and came away with two conflicting courses of action. The majority viewpoint was that Kipper was a nice guy and great fun, and no harm should come to him. Sophie believed the deception had violated the fundamental building blocks of any relationship: trust and respect, and at the very least, Rudyard, as she preferred to call him, should be severed, although not literally. She also suggested legal action to stop the publication of the next article, and asked about the likely content regarding ‘the moves’. Adam and the Bobmeister had leaned forward in their seats then, only to be disappointed for they would have to wait for the next issue like everyone else.

  I confronted Rudy after dinner one night at an exclusive and horrendously expensive restaurant, which I proposed. He would pay, and in some small way, it would compensate me for my trauma.

  The evening together was perfect in every respect. I listened and empathized as he lamented the toughness of his day laying bricks in the hot sun. His anecdotes were particularly delightful, of co-workers, fellow “tradies” and how he would never get used to the early mornings, but the camaraderie made it all worthwhile, and the job satisfaction—apparently there is no career more rewarding than seeing a family home rise up from the dirt, “from these bare hands”, beautifully manicured hands. I complimented him on his career choice, and for being able to make a difference in the world, as I gorged my way through a black truffle risotto. I gulped my way through the 2003 Chateau Pichon-Longueville Comtesse De Lalande as if it was merlot from The Liquor Barn. Rudy winced and I sculled some more. He encouraged me to pace myself, no doubt with dollar signs flashing in his eyes. I suggested we order a second bottle. He hesitated, but was more enthusiastic when I said it would be my treat. After dessert, petite fours and an exquisite Port, I excused myself for the bathroom, caught a taxi, and went home.

  Rudy called an hour or so later, quite miffed. “Do you have any idea how many hours I need to work to pay for that dinner?” he asked.

  “As a bricklayer or journalist?” I replied.

  He was silent initially, but quickly regained composure to suggest I was being unreasonable—his article was harmless, a bit of fun, and although a little devious, it was without malice, and as such, I had no basis for such an over-reaction—this from a man proffering advice to other men on women. He mentioned then, in his defense that no one would even recognize me in the article for it was entirely anonymous. I said goodbye, preferring Sophie as a sage as she is a divorce lawyer, then cried for hours through a tub of chocolate chip from Ben & Jerry’s, and a bottle of merlot, which do not blend well I learned the following morning. I cried all of Sunday as well, and looked forward to Monday morning and a distraction.

  I started Monday morning at the café bar and was pleased to come across Jerome from Accounts who always had a great weekend-after story since he frequented Acland and Fitzroy Streets in St Kilda. As usual, he had me laughing as I sipped away on cheap, corporate coffee, forgetting the trauma of my weekend and break-up with Rudy. Then following the standard interlude in between tales, he asked me about my bricklayer, how and where we had met.

  “Why?” I asked, curious and innately suspicious.

  He smiled, with a pitying shake of the head, and said, “I think you know why, sweetie.” He placed a consoling hand on my arm allowing it to settle for a time as if transferring new strength into my sorry frame. “Never mind,” he said. “It happens to the best of us. You’ll get over it.”

  “It does?” I asked, amazed that such a deception could be so common.

  “Well, not the public humiliation, but break-ups do. Chin up, Mace, notch it up to experience.”

  “Experience,” says Oscar Wilde “is of no ethical value—it is merely the name given to our mistakes.”

  Chapter Five

  I HAD an awful dream. Jason was being eaten alive by a rare, black shark the size of a mini bus. A sinister-looking stranger had pushed him off a wharf into an inlet just because he wanted to see someone being eaten alive. Jason thrashed about, gripped in the sharp vice below the flat nose of the shark. He was yelling obscenities at the stranger, even though I have never heard him swear. In the next scene, I was at a nearby town relaying the horror to the locals. They offered to help me get even with the stranger, and so our vigilante pose marched up to the inlet. When the black shark reappeared, we pushed the stranger into the water to meet his karmic fate. Afterwards, the black shark was caught and cut open. Pieces of the stranger were removed and displayed on the boardwalk, but there was no sign of Jason and I was left to hope he had escaped, unlikely as it was.

  The dream was very real, so I called Jason to arrange lunch—an occurrence as rare as a black shark, but I needed to see him alive, uneaten. I expected Jason would be too busy, but he simply said, “Sure, when?”

  After the dream, I thought a lot about our bizarrely functional upbringing, even with Shannon being a part of it. Our parents never argued. There was no conflict, major trauma or serious illness. The most dramatic incident was when David fell off the side of a cliff while hiking with Jason. He broke his leg and Jason ran five kilometers for help. David repaid him some years later when Jason broke his ankle playing soccer and added a bout of diarrhea to his woes. For four days, David waited by his side ready to piggyback Jason to the bathroom whenever the sudden urge arose. It was a risky undertaking I had thought at the time.

  Dad never raised his voice, and did not say much at all other than confirmations and affirmations, for mother was the talker and did enough for both of them. He always had a smile though, and a newspaper and a grey cardigan he would not part with, even when the threads had pulled to such an extent it resembled Berber carpet.

  Mother did raise her voice, but only to bring order to school mornings, and mostly at Lauren who was always last out of bed. Mother always wore an apron in the kitchen; a fresh, clean one every day, adorned with vegetables or herbs. It is a clear memory to see her in the kitchen in her apron before school, packing lunchboxes and directing traffic as if she could anticipate every single move we would and would not make. I believed then that she had ESP and bionic eyes, as she would remind me not to add sugar to my cereal just as my little hand would reach the bowl when it seemed completely safe to do so. Dad was allowed to put sugar in his tea, and I would sometimes urge him with my eyes to steer his spoon in the direction of my bowl. He never did.

  Lunchboxes were child-specific with different colors, and stick-on cartoon characters tailored to our individual preferences. David was Batman and Superman, Jason was Wile E. Coyote and the Road Runner, Shannon was Snow White and Cinderella, Lauren was Yogi Bear and Boo Boo, and I was Charlie Brown with Lucy and Linus.

  Even the lunchbox contents were tailored for each child with different fillings, drinks, snacks, fruit, or no fruit for dissidents like Lauren. It was all homemade, even the drinks. In hindsight, the lunchbox assembly line was evidence of much caring and patience when discipline and authority would have insisted on uniformity. But knowing mother, it was probably about control, and not wanting the tuck shop ladies to see our heads in the queue.

  I see my family and all the extensions seventeen times a year, for birthdays, Christmas, mother and father days. If not for an occasion, I do not go home and I understand the same can be said of David and Jason. Shannon goes home just about every morning and Lauren is always there. I often ponder whether I should drop in for no reason at all, like Shannon does, or if it is fair to say I am too busy and do not want to. As Oscar says, “When one pays a visit, it is for the purpose of wasting other people’s time, not one’s own.”

  Shannon and mother can talk
for hours without concentration or effort. I cannot, and in any conversation with mother, I am always in wait for an aside to which I will be certain to take offence and then it is on. I do not know who is the chicken and who is the egg, and who is first to raise the ire of the other, but someone is making an omelet.

  Jason was late for lunch and a little stressed, but by the time he had removed his pinstriped jacket and handed it to the waiter I could see signs of a calmer man. I admired and longed to possess such a trait as I tried to calculate how many life hours, years, I had lost dragging baggage around for days, months, instead of letting it go. He made it seem easy—just remove a piece of clothing and take a breath.

  As dictated by the art of conversation (non-controversial entry points and burning issues tendered only after adequate overtures) we talked for two courses on common ground—the finance industry, developments and gossip, albeit it is like Jason has been bull running in Pamplona while I have been shopping at K-mart.

  I am not sure how Alexis the cow came to infiltrate our discussion, but I had consumed several glasses of wine by then. My loathing of her was no secret to my friends, but I had never mentioned it to Jason directly. At family barbeques, it was probably quite obvious. I had a lot to say, and rambled on in a semi-conscious state aware that at any minute Jason would take offence and defend his wife before storming off insisting I never speak to him again. He spun the stem of his wine glass while my tongue languished out of control then at last, the unsolicited diatribe ended. “Is that it?” he asked. I nodded. He nodded.