Being Anti-Social Read online

  In the month that followed, I came to understand addiction as the rabies vaccine had to be injected at specific times on days 1, 4, 7, 14 and 28 after the event. My life revolved around managing every perceivable cause that might stand in the way of me and my shot, and I treated each trip to receive it as a full-blown sick day. During that time, my calf turned yellow and green, from bruising not rot, while the fang imprints lived on as red holes.

  My story of survival and sheer determination to live was an inspiration—work colleagues, friends and even mother were amazed, and I confess I felt some gratitude toward my attackers for giving me that fleeting moment to stand victorious on the pedestal of life.

  Of course, my dear friends all had a contribution to make in an attempt to undermine the magnitude of my achievement. Amber said that this is why one should never exercise outdoors—she had warned me of outdoor pursuits often enough and perhaps now I would heed her advice. Kimba mentioned in an informative way only, not judging, that travelers should be sure to have the recommended inoculations before leaving home. Sophie suggested for future travel, I remain only within Australia excepting places with dingoes. Typically, Erin inquired as to what I had done to aggravate the dogs in this way (she remembers the German Shepherd from next door). The Bobmeister asked for a demonstration of my water bottle defense technique, and Adam suggested I contact Kipper to write a story on my adventure for his magazine. Kenneth remained discreetly quiet.

  As I glanced around that barbeque gathering at my clever friends, I thought of Oscar’s Algernon who fittingly said, “I am sick to death of cleverness. Everybody is clever nowadays. You can’t go anywhere without meeting clever people. The thing has become an absolute public nuisance. I wish to goodness we had a few fools left.” Then Erin tripped over her mangy mutt and fell face-first down three steps, spilling raw sausages over the lawn. I smiled.

  Chapter Ten

  ONCE a month on a Saturday, I must attend a board meeting. There was a time when these meetings were held during office hours, which was more appropriate since it is work and that is what one does during the working week. Then one fool of a colleague suggested that too much time was being lost in productivity with all twelve directors in a meeting for an entire day, and sometimes two days if disagreements dragged matters on as they tend to do. This absurd proposal was greeted with nods from the top end of the hierarchy while the lower echelon, myself included, scowled in the direction of the do-gooder. One lone voice spoke up in opposition, championing work-life balance with little regard for career progression or compulsion for currying favor with the CEO per the other fool in our midst. The matter was put to a vote by show of hands when a secret ballot would have been fairer and an entirely different result would have ensued. And so weekend board meetings became standard operating procedure or SOP as we call them in the business.

  I resent the surrender of my Saturdays, and although I try to keep it in perspective—it is only twelve days a year plus the annual retreat weekend—bitterness consumes me for the entire week leading up to the forfeiture. It is not just the day that is lost, but the night as well, for the same fool proposed that, as a reward for our sacrifice, the daylong board meeting should culminate at one of Melbourne’s finest restaurants. This means that board meetings, instead of concluding at 5PM as was the case in the good old days, now labor on right up until dinner at 8PM, and we are trapped then until midnight eating and drinking with people we, at least I, generally do not like. This ruins my Sunday as well as I am usually hung over and still bitter because of the lost minutes.

  Some colleagues have dared to excuse themselves from the dinners, but this is fraught with many dangers as much lobbying and maneuvering happens when alcohol and fake camaraderie is involved. Absentees are open slather. I have never missed a dinner.

  As mentioned, I do not particularly like any of my colleagues. As a matter of principle, I do not like the Marketing Director or the Public Relations Director—they are to be avoided at dinner like a coughing commuter. I tend to be in accord with the IT Director and the Projects Director because we understand that black is black and white is white. Our In-house Counsel turns everything into grey, as does the HR Director who believes everyone can be right and wrong simultaneously so there is never a solution from her on anything. No one understands the Strategy Director. As a matter of logic, I always support the CFO (my direct superior), and as a matter of good sense, I tend to agree with the CEO, CIO and COO, or stay silent. I have mentioned previously that I am not a systems-bucker and my objective at every meeting is to assist with its prompt winding-up from the minute it begins.

  A few days before each meeting, a white folder appears on my desk, which contains all the reports, proposals and plans to be considered at the Saturday meeting. It is clear that certain colleagues (the Marketing Director) feel obliged to submit something, anything, for every folder and so it is no wonder that our meetings schlep along as they do. These reports are supposedly of great importance, hence their inclusion in the white folder, when in truth a few underlings could probably deal with the issues better in a shorter period of time. It is a sad thing, as Oscar says, that there is so little useless information nowadays.

  We all know the marital status of everyone around the boardroom table thanks to gossip and innuendo, but also due to how tongues flail about late at night after bountiful consumption of the truth serum. This is how we came to learn the details of our CIO’s acrimonious divorce settlement, which allowed the cleverer ones amongst us to calculate the likely value of his salary package and assets.

  And even though I voluntarily imprison myself in my office, away from the tearoom, corridors of power, water cooler and trolley lady, I am not immune from insinuation, which is a favored pastime in our company almost to the extent that there is recognition for those who generate the most interesting tidbits. Jerome is considered supreme leader, hands down. It helps also that he works in Accounts which is said to be the most creative department in our company, and he knows how to breach confidentiality without appearing to do so. It is an art form.

  My secretary, Rachel, keeps me posted on my own personal life, which is much more interesting than the reality. It is common knowledge that my husband died and apparently, this is how I came to work here having resigned my previous employment to nurse Ben at home through his illness. Of course, Ben was not actually at our home at the time of his illness as our marital home was sold to settle the end of our marriage. According to rumor, I was pregnant when Ben died and miscarried shortly thereafter hence my bitterness, and an even juicier rumor has it that the baby was conceived without Ben’s knowledge, presumably while he was in a coma. This of course is all very interesting and perhaps it is proof that self-disclosure is better than silence, which only breeds conjecture and fantasy. I do not feel in any way compelled to correct the fable though, as it does not matter to me what irrelevant people might say. I am surprised though that no one seems to know anything of the divorce or Joshua.

  Most know about Rudy however, thanks to Jerome who felt compelled to scan Rudy’s articles and email them company-wide. This was somewhat discomforting for a while, but not as shudder-worthy as the time I sang Crocodile Rock on stage at a work Christmas party back when I was still sociable, relatively speaking. Of all the Monday morning slinks this remains one of the worst, or best, depending on which side of the café bar you were on at the time, and of course, I was alone on the wrong side.

  Board meetings usually begin as insipid, rather fake affairs with delegates speaking in respectful and supportive tones. Commensurate with the passing of time, voices rise until we have the first walkout and occasionally a teary run-out. The latter has not happened for a while since our resident crier moved onto greener, more civil pastures, and meetings have suffered as a result, in my opinion. The HR Director and In-house Counsel attempt interventions of sorts, to soothe frayed tempers and egos, but typically with little success. I steer well clear of all conflict, for as Oscar says, “Argume
nts are to be avoided: they are always vulgar and often convincing.”

  You should not have the impression however, that I say nothing at these meetings for I do prepare prudent comments to make at pre-selected junctures—nothing contentious or Erin-like ie immaterial or far-fetched, although in hindsight that looks like a good strategy. For the rest of the time, when I am not offering my valued comments, I slip in and out of awareness, returning only when I hear a C-level voice, in particular the CFO, my boss. For the rest of the time, I nod and make to-do lists, for example, grocery lists, holiday plans, Oscar quotes etc. I have not yet come unstuck during my two years on the board, but as you would expect from someone with my organizational skills, I do have a recovery plan—a serious family health crisis will have caused a temporary mental distraction. Ideally, a teary run-out should be included, but that would not be at all convincing. Erin says that such a lie (I prefer ‘strategy’) would likely bring bad karma and soon after its usage, a family member will be struck down with such a serious illness. I do believe in karma, since bad karma is the story of my life, but the likelihood is that I will never need to initiate the recovery plan so everyone is safe, although I continue to dream about Shannon’s tongue swelling to fill her mouth so she can no longer speak. I expect she would probably know sign language and start signing away like a pro, to the admiration of mother and everyone else.

  Since I am considered ‘unfriendly’ by my colleagues, I am not disturbed each day with phone calls, instant chats, text messages or drop-ins. I communicate with colleagues by email only. My secretary, Rachel, is the exception, and not just because she sits outside my door. She is a rare individual who seems to understand me, and like Erin, is unoffendable with thick skin and a back covered in metaphorical duck feathers—a perfectly formed individual in my opinion.

  Erin claims, despite my protestations to the contrary, that I do in fact care what others think of me, and I only pretend not to care as a barrier, or for protection, but honestly, I do not care. I do not care because I am anti-social, or I am anti-social because I do not care—that is the real quandary, the answer to which is my life’s new pursuit. I care what Kimba thinks of me, and Kenneth, Adam, the Bobmeister, David, Jason, dad, my friends I suppose, and the CFO because he approves my bonus. I do not care what Shannon thinks, and I act like I do not care what mother thinks when she frowns or shows her disapproval, but I do believe, if I am being honest with you, I do care.

  Chapter Eleven

  KIMBA and Kenneth were thinking about adopting a toddler from an orphanage in Brazil or Malawi, not because they have given up on plans for their own blood offspring, but because they are not yet ready to leap back into those grief-stricken waters, and well, this is the sort of thing they do. You would not expect such a noble pursuit under discussion amongst friends would result in a walkout, but it did.

  It was Amber’s birthday and we were enjoying lunch at Southbank, just the five of us—no partners or children. The Yarra River flowed past us as we sipped crisp, chilled chardonnay under the clear, bright blue of a perfect autumn day.

  Then, as is her way, Erin said something controversial which set Sophie off on one of her rants. I do not recall the exact words that so inflamed my loyal friend, but Erin’s view on the orphan adoption was that the starving children of the world are best left to die with their mothers because the mother-child bond should not be broken, no matter what.

  I heard Sophie perfectly however, because her voice was raised. “You think it is better for a child to die than have chance of a good life with adopting parents?”

  “Yes, I do,” Erin replied. “You can’t take a child away from its mother just because you think it might be better off somewhere else.”

  “But the child is going to die otherwise!” Sophie yelled some more. “Don’t you care that a child will die?”

  “So if you were poverty-stricken, Erin,” Amber added, “you would rather see Maggie die than give her a chance of a happy life with someone else?”

  “You’re not a mother, Amber—you don’t understand,” Erin replied. “I know that if someone tried to take Maggie away from me, even if it was to save her life, then you would be inflicting a worse pain on her. We live, we die and that is that.”

  “So you think children born into dire family circumstances, with drug-addict parents who don’t care that their babies have cockroaches running around in their nappy, deserve that life?” Sophie asked, a little calmer.

  “No, they don’t deserve that life at all…”

  “Well, what the hell are you talking about, Erin!” Sophie yelled, less calm, and rising from her chair at the other end of the table.

  “I’m talking about vigilantes who think it is okay to take children from their mothers just because they’re poor.”

  “And dieing,” I added.

  “I’m not talking about abused children,” Erin continued. “There are laws to protect them.”

  “And the laws don’t work. Trust me, I know,” said Sophie. “Abused and neglected children need much more than what the law can offer, much more.”

  “Erin,” said Kimba softly. “There are millions of children wandering the streets looking for food.” She touched Erin’s hand gently as she spoke. “Someone needs to care about them, and not just leave it to the authorities.”

  “Look, I’m just saying that people need to think carefully before taking children from their mothers, no matter how tragic the circumstances.”

  “You’re ridiculous,” said Sophie who stood then and left without her handbag. She would have to return after an undignified absence, or walk home.

  I did not follow her on the walkout—it was Amber’s birthday, and Kimba was a little upset since the entire discussion started because she hoped to adopt a needy child.

  When Sophie re-appeared, she gave me one of her incriminating glares that said, ‘Why didn’t you follow me with my handbag so I didn’t have to crawl back here looking like an idiot?’

  Sophie sat down again since I did not get up, and more champagne had arrived. The sorry matter was pushed aside because Amber had spotted Rudy walking past us with three friends. She yelled out to him like the drunken lout she is, which she can get away with because of the way she looks.

  Melbourne is a city of four million people—what unfortunate luck it was to cross paths again with Rudy the conman in this way (although his office is nearby). It was my turn then for incriminating glares—at Amber firstly then at Rudy as he dared to accept the invitation to partake of our champagne.

  I thought to do a Sophie walkout as my so-called friends embraced Rudy like a cousin just returned from the war. He nodded in my direction with a broad smile. I turned away, had to, for he was looking good, and this I did not wish to acknowledge. His hands were perfect.

  I pretended to be in a riveting conversation with Sophie who was still smarting, and did not like Kipper anyway because of the betrayal. Amber was doing a fine job asking all the questions I would ask if I was at all interested in the life of a shyster, or anyone else for that matter. Now and then Rudy would call out to me. “How’s work, Mace?” and “How’s your family, Mace?” I answered with a nonchalant “Fine” then returned to the self-imposed suffering that comes from spending one-on-one time with Sophie. I longed for entry into the world at the other end of the table where smiley happy people laughed and frolicked in the afternoon sun.

  After a few drinks, Rudy and his friends left to continue their walk to the MCG for the evening match.

  Amber waved a napkin in my direction.

  “What’s that?” I asked.

  “Phone number for Jake—Kipper’s friend.”

  “Jade? What kind of a name is that?”

  “It’s Jake, and you should talk,” Amber replied.

  “I thought you said you were only going out with ugly ones now.”

  “Ugly? Why would I go out with an ugly guy? Look at me,” she said fluttering a flamboyant hand over her stunning frame.

 
; “That’s what you said.”

  “When?”

  “Forget it. You’re not worth my energy.”

  “It’s my birthday, Mace. Try to be nice.”

  “Hey!” yelled Erin. “We should all go out tonight. It’s been ages since we went clubbing together.”

  “Good idea!” said Amber. “There’s a new club down Chapel Street.”

  “Count me out,” I said.

  “Mace! Come on! It’s my last birthday in my thirties—we have to celebrate,” Amber replied.

  “I’ll go if Kimba and Sophie go,” I replied, utilizing a foolproof strategy as (a) Sophie and Kimba never go clubbing and (b) it deflects responsibility for the decision to others.

  “Sure,” said Kimba. “A night out with friends is just what I need right now.”

  “Oh, what the hell!” said Sophie. “You’re right—it’s been ages.”

  I was stunned into silence and clubbing, but at least at a club you cannot hear people talk.

  I do not dance and friends that try to entice me onto the dance floor, knowing I do not dance, should know better.

  Erin on the other hand, loves to dance, and she does so with no natural rhythm and too much free will. Yes, she is having a great time, and yes, so are those around her, and true, she is not the only one out there looking like a fool, and sure, no one seems to care, but all the same it is not something I need or want to see.

  I used to dance once, when I was with Ben. And in fact, Ben used to dance much the same way Erin does, and I loved to watch him. We all did. So why then is it not okay for Erin to dance in this way now, while it was perfectly okay when Ben did, years ago? Is the difference Ben v Erin? Whatever Ben did was okay, but whatever Erin does, even if it is the same, is not. Or is the difference me then v me now? Is it because I am anti-social now, but was not back then? Perhaps my anti-socialness is not a birth defect after all, but a recent state or perhaps the decay had already begun when Ben was alive.