"He was just a little queer," she said. She smiled. Each corner of her mouth turned up. Suddenly. Briefly. Just like that and then it was gone... that smile.
People may have been excused for thinking that she meant he was slightly odd. A little unusual. You know, a funny little guy. Anyone who may have overheard her, the nice thirty something woman in her smart dress with matching shoes and bag, may have thought that she was being quite proper in her description, with her use of language.
I knew she wasn't.
She picked up the fine white china plate, from the crisp white tablecloth, with its small pastries and tarts, she offered it to me.
"If you know what I mean," she said. And there was that smile again. Sliding back into character. "Cup cake?" She raised her eyebrows as if in question. She looked down at the plate in her hand and then back at me and tilted her head as she pushed the plate in my direction.
I knew what she meant.
"Um... yes, thank you."
I didn't know what to say? I wanted to challenge her, reprimand her, if you like, but, somehow, she just moved on, as though nothing of any great importance had just been said.
I couldn’t help myself. "What do you mean by that?" I asked.
Her eyes widened. "Do you need a refill?"
"Oh... um." I looked down at my teacup, so did she. It was more than half full.
"Oh, right’o." She looked back up at me, now with the slightest sense of urgency on her face. "When you do then, Ms Till is manning the tea pots, over by the table by the window." She pointed with her right hand. "Okay?"
"Okay."
She took a step back and swept me along with a sweep of her left hand. She gave the deluded self assured smile of a Christian, or a conservative politician, on higher moral ground, with no need of any explanations. Then she looked away.
"Marnie," she said over my left shoulder, with all the gush and enthusiasm of a talk show hostess.
She didn't mean he was slightly odd, or even a little unusual, she meant he was small of stature and gay. She didn't mean it as a cheerful description, she meant it in the most derogatory way possibly, with her “news reader” English and her sickly sweet tone. She meant it as a put down, in that tone that, she is sure that we all think, is scented with lavender.
Or, at least, she meant it from a superior position, a position of normality, that straight people just naturally think they assume.
You see, I had challenged her, had pushed the point. I asked her about the artist's background, what made him who he is, questions she didn't want to hear.
The gallery was one of those white washed suburban establishments with everything in its place and a place for everything. White was the theme; maybe it was meant to infer purity, I think it radiated efficiency.
“So, what do you call this one?”
She cleared her throat. “Two young men playing leap frog.”
Was she delusional, or did she know exactly what she was doing?
The middle class may have accepted queers as a part of the vernacular, but they certainly didn’t want them hanging on their walls.
Nowhere in the glossy broacher did it mention the artist’s gay leanings.
“And the two men under the pier?”
“Fishermen.”
“Fishermen?”
“That’s what we are calling them in this exhibition.”
“Do many people fish at night?”
She looked at me with contempt. I wasn’t so much as raining on her parade, as shitting all over it.
“So, the artist’s background?"
“He’s Melbourne art school.”
“His orientation?”
“Modernist.”
I laughed, she couldn’t be serious. “No, I meant…”
“His work doesn’t allow for him to be married?”
“Well, not quite…”
“Quite?”
“I believe he is…”
“I don’t.”
“I see.”
“Are you expecting many people?”
“Yes. This young man will be very popular, I am predicting.”
“Family values?”
“It will be when I’m through with him.” She gritted her teeth noticeably.
“So how would you describe him?”
“Urbane.”
“Really?”
“I’d ask you not to mention…” She looked at me as though our unspoken truth would fill in the silence.
“Mention?”
She nodded her head as if in conspiratorial agreement. “Mention…”
I widened my eyes, I could feel it, I couldn’t help it.
She widened hers, I can’t speak for why.
We looked like two different rabbits with two different head lights.
“Mention what?”
"Any proclivities... beyond art."
"I see."
"I am pleased that you see," she said. "Is that all?"
"All." I laughed. "It is everything..."
"Wonderful." She turned on her heel and walked away.
Jayden Lusty feels like he has never been listened to all of his life. Oh, you know, it is the usual story, an absent father, Beau, a mother, Maddison, who can't cope, and who spends what little money she has escaping down the pokies. She dropped out of medicine, it’s been a single mother’s pension since then. No help from him. Her life didn’t turn out. And when she is home she is often sedated on booze, red wine is her drug of choice, $5 bottles from the local shop she buys on the way home from the pokies.
So, Jayden Lusty pinches spray cans from the local hardware shop and sprays the world with his unhappiness. It is a cry for help, the problem is that nobody cares enough.
Johnny Venice is a piano player, who sometimes moves pianos for friends, and friends of friends. He has a specialised trolley which allows him to move pianos on his own, if necessary. Uprights. Grand pianos are another deal altogether.
Johnny is moving a piano for his buddy Ryan. Ryan has a new woman in his life, Stella, who he is trying to impress with his organisational skills. Johnny has done something he never normally does, he and Ryan have gone out partying before they move a piano. The piano has to be moved Monday morning from Stella's place, an unmarried piano player and cat lover and, as I have already said, Ryan's new girl. Stella has bought a new piano, which is being delivered Tuesday. Her existing piano is a loaner from her old aunt, Bammy, the woman who instilled Stella's love of piano in her, and it is to be returned to Bammy once it has been extricated from Stella's apartment.
Jayden has been picked up numerous times for tagging, not because he is particularly stupid, because he isn't that, he has just never received very much guidance in life. The police have warned him that they will come down on him heavily next time he is caught.
Mother Maddison got pregnant at 15 when Lachy Gunstan told her that this isn't the way you get pregnant. Maddison wondered what the point of it was, as it hurt like hell, but Lachy Gunstan seemed to understand the point of it, even if he did pull the strangest faces when it was seemingly over.
It wasn't as if Maddison was stupid either, but she was bought up by the devoutly religious Carol and they just didn't talk about things like that. Carol's answer to everything was, "I'll take you to church to pray."
And of course, Lachy said he would stick by her,
"It's me baby too, it’s a part of me and I'll love it and care for it."
And, of course, he didn't, after sleepless nights of Jayden howling, and all those shitty nappies and...
"Sorry Mads, I've got to go and find meself."
Maddison had a series of no hopers after Lachy, all of who had no interest in Jayden. So, Maddison neglected Jayden to please her men.
"He's moiy mein, and I's love 'im." She said this about Roberto, Carlo, Scotty, Chook, Ganger, Panga and Slugger. "Ioy can't helps it, if I'oy don't lyke being on me own, it’s the way I'ym made."
Roberto, Scotty, Chook and Slugger, left her with little sluggers of their own. Maddison struggled with 5 boys. There was a ten year gap between Jayden and the next boy, so Jayden always felt a bit like an only child.
Johnny and Ryan did too many party treats the night before and Johnny got so ragged, as he put it, he made a pass at Ryan. Ryan was good about it last night, but he is a bit tetchy about it in the cold, hard, hungover, light of the day. Ryan only grunts when Johnny says, "Good morning," when he picks him up.
Maddison had met up with Pablo at the pokies Sunday night and she was still, shall we say, entertaining him early Monday morning when Jayden wanted to know what food there was in the house.
"Mum?" No answer.
"Mum!" No answer.
"MUM!"
"Don't come in."
"What's for breakfast?"
"Whatever you can find?"
"I can't find anything." No answer.
"Where are the boys?"
"Aren't they there?"
"No."
"Oh… that are at Grammies."
"I'm going out." No answer.
Johnny and Ryan pull up at Stella's place, which turns out to be an Art Deco block of flats, painted white with black window frames.
"Is this the place?"
"Yep," said Ryan.
"So, which is, um, er, what's her name again?"
"Stella."
"Which one is Stella's place?"
"401."
"Are you saying her place is on the 4th floor?"
"Yes."
"Jees Ryan, you never said it was on the 4th floor?"
"Didn't I?"
"Nah, mate."
"So?" says Ryan.
"So," repeats Johnny.
Jayden slips the cans of spray paint under his jacket and exits the shop. He has always worn oversized clothes, as a way of protecting himself ever since Maddison's man Carlo exposed himself to Jayden.
"I'y don't believe Carlo would do that," slurred Maddison. "He was a man's man, if you know what I mean." Maddison made an oomph gesture with both her arms.
Jayden didn't know what that meant at the time, but he said, "Don't worry." And Maddison never wanted to discuss it again.
The oversized clothes were ideal for hiding stolen spray cans.
"So, point me to the lift," said Johnny. "Let's check it for size."
"Um, er," said Ryan.
"Come on, the lift, show us where the lift is?"
"There's no lift…"
"What the fuck…"
"But there are really wide stairs."
"From the fourth floor," said Johnny.
"Yeah," said Ryan.
Jayden headed to the city, to meet up with Hatchet Ruby, but jumped from the tram when the ticketing inspectors got on, putting him out in Carlton. So, he walked a bit, heading to the CBD.
"Hi Ryan," said Stella. She held the door open, standing half behind the open door.
"Hi Stell," said Ryan
"Right on time, Boo," said Stella.
Boo, mouthed Johnny.
"Like I said I would," said Ryan. He had that idiot grin on his face that even Johnny's mouthing of the name Boo failed to remove.
"This way gentlemen," said Stella. She opened the door to reveal that she was probably wearing her best dress and shoes, with her hair and makeup done.
Johnny looked her up and down. Stella blushed. "It's not every day I get gentlemen callers.”
"Jees, Ryan, you never mentioned that it was a grand."
"Didn't I?" snapped Ryan.
"Nah, mate, I assumed it was an upright."
"Like you, mate, last night, hey?" said Ryan.
"Watcha mean by that… mate?"
"Nothing…"
"You must have meant something?"
"Don't worry, let's just get this moved," said Ryan. "You still want to move it, dontcha?"
Johnny gazed at Ryan, unsure.
Ryan stepped towards Johnny and said in a low voice. "Don't fuck this up for me mate."
"Yeah, sure," said Johnny. "Come on, um, let's make a start."
Jayden couldn't help but notice the pristine white wall of the block of apartments across the road from where he was walking.
"Jesus," he said. He could feel his lower lip curl out as he contemplated what he saw. He tilted his head to one side, and then the other side. It was like a fresh canvas glowing in the morning sun.
Johnny and Ryan struggle to move a grand piano from a fourth story apartment.
"I don't know, Ryan," said Johnny.
"Come on mate, I promised her," said Ryan. "And I let last night slide, when I probably should have clocked ya."
"I was out of it," said Johnny. "I can't be held responsible."
"Bullshit!" said Ryan quietly, trying not to let Stella hear. "You don't do anything you don't want to just because you are on the gear…"
"I didn't know…"
"Don't give me that."
"It's true…"
"Whatever! You owe me today."
"What?"
"You know it's true."
"What are you talking about?"
"I shoulda made it real clear I'm not, I'm not…"
"Everything okay, boys," Stella's voice chimed in the back ground.
Ryan gave a full stare to Johnny.
Johnny exhaled. He wasn't at all sure any of this was possible.
"Well?" said Ryan.
"We'll just have to go slow along the balcony to the stairs," said Johnny. "We'll think about the stairs when we get to them."
"Everything is okay, Stell, don't you worry about that," said Ryan.
Jayden stepped over the Japanese garden so that he was right in front of the big, white, blank wall. He pushed his hand down over his crotch, such pristine painting spaces always gave him a bit of a chub.
Jayden pulled a can of black spray paint from his oversized jacket. Jayden's tag was an abbreviation of Jayden is here, it seemed like the most appropriate for him as he was never really sure that anyone else cared if he was there.
Johnny and Ryan drop had the grand piano on its side on the trolley, tied on with multiple elastic straps. They struggled at the front door.
"I think we have to go keys first," said Johnny.
"No, we should go curve first," said Ryan. "It is the shortest."
"That's precisely why we should go keys first," said Johnny. "Get the largest part through…"
"Everything okay?" asked Stella.
"Yes," said Ryan.
"No, this way," said Johnny. "Here. This way around. Come on…"
"I'm really not sure…"
"Here, you get on the outside and I'll push, and you guide it."
"Hang on wait, I'm not in pos…"
"What?"
"Just… a moment."
"Say when," said Johnny. A moment later. "I can't hear you."
"Yeah, okay… um… wait, wait, wait…"
"Everything okay." Stella's voice trembled.
"I'm going to push, now."
"I'm not sure I have it."
"Pushing now."
"Oh, I thought you meant…"
"Oh…"
"OH NO!" Ryan's voice cried out.
Jayden had just completed his JIH, to a near perfect example, and he was standing back admiring it, mesmerised by its beauty, when he heard the voices above him. Jayden was startled back to reality by Ryan's shrill exclamation. He looked up immediately.
Margo sat with her legs crossed on the outdoor seat in the garden just beyond the raffle table and the cake sale. She wore quite a short yellow skirt and a red blouse with a chunky yellow plastic necklace. She had bare white legs, muscular and long stuffed into red stilettos; legs, while they no longer looked young, they looked purposeful and capable. She wore her customary jungle red lipstick, but now that she was of the age where she denied grandchild, as much as she used to deny children, she was no longer in the habit of making that O shape with her lips when she spoke. Her fingers twitched now that she had quit smoking, as if she no longer had a purpose for them.
Her lifelong friend, Chanel, took the seat next to her. “Margo,” said Chanel.
“Why is everything about sex now a days,” Margo asked suddenly.
“Darling, I’m sure that isn’t true.”
“Really, mention anything, anything at all.”
“Australia is burning…”
“Sexy firemen, big hoses.”
“Floods.”
“Divers in skin tight wet suits.”
“Global warming?”
“Stripping down to get cool. Sweating skin, bodily juices.”
“Margo? Me too?”
“You too?”
“World famine.”
“Selling children cheap to paedophiles.”
Margo raised her shoulders and widened her eyes, and made jazz hands as if daring to be questioned.
“Justin Trudeau.”
“Come on, all night darling, who wouldn’t want to go all night with Justin Trudeau.”
“Emmanuel Macron.”
“Come to mummy.”
“Donald Trump.”
“Getting pissed on in a Russian hotel room by a fat pig with a small peepee.
“Boris Johnson?’
“Ah?” Margo stopped mid sentence. She laughed. “Yes. Well.” She could feel her eyes widen at the same ratio as her mouth making an O grappling for an answer. She exhaled. “You have me there.”
“How long has it been, Margo?”
“What!”
“How long has it been?”
“Two thousand and god damn two, darling.”
“Darling…”
“I know… I need a fuck, or another bottle of gin.” She laughed self-consciously. “I know that.”
Margo turned and stared straight at Chanel. "And if it is the gin, I might just do myself a mischief with the empty bottle."
"Margo!" exclaimed Chanel.
Chanel looked down at Margo’s twitching finger. “You need a cigarette, I’m guessing, not a man.”
“Have you got one?”
“You know I don’t smoke.”
“Desperate does as… um… it does.” She pulled her hands apart, sick of her own twitching fingers. “Or however that saying goes.” Margo laughed self-consciously.
“Even Boris is looking good, I’d guess,” said Chanel.
Margo laughed out loud, it just seemed too ridiculous. “Even if he was the last man on earth.” Margo shook her head slowly.
“The very last peepee…”
“I’d go lesbian before I’d do that,” said Margo.
“I’m sure the lesbians would love to hear you being so flip.”
“I once knew a lesbian who looked a bit like him, actually,” said Margo. They used to call her Bob.”
“Bob?”
“Oh, it had something to do with how good she was at… um… bobbing for apples.” Margo smiled at the dim memory.
“Apples?”
“There were no apples involved, darl.”
“Oh… OH!”
Margo laughed. “I haven’t thought about that in years,” she said. “My uni days.”
“How many millennia is that ago?”
“More than I care to think about now.”
“So… you and Bob?”
“No, darling, not… Bob.”
“Not Bob?”
“Oh darling, that was too many drugs and a life time ago. Dear God…”
“Are you using the term ironically?”
“Of course, darling, is there any other way to use it,” said Margo. “My uni days, not even this century… not even this hundred years. Cruel is the hand of time.”
"What do you remember of your uni days?" asked Chanel.
"Oh, dear God…"
"Irony?"
"Oh darling, you know it is..." Margo laughed, her laugh turned into a cough, she wheezed and cleared her throat as her eyes watered. "Good thing I gave those up."
"Just in the nick of time, I'd say."
"It is just a silly expression we are all lumbered with. Dear god, the only thing religion does for us, gives us an expression which pertains to nothing we believe."
"None of us?"
"Oh really, none of us for sure," said Margo. "We just can't shake that childhood indoctrination."
"I think you are right," said Chanel. "We were brainwashed from an early age…"
A young male waiter walks up with a tray of wine.
"Oh yes please," said Margo. She took a glass for herself and Chanel.
The waiter nodded his head and headed off to serve other guests.
"Him," said Margo. She sipped her wine and nodded her head in the direction of the waiter.
"The waiter?" asked Chanel quizzically.
"My uni days." Margo sips her wine. "There was Marcus." Margo can't stop herself from smiling. "Who bore more than a passing resemblance to that waiter."
"That waiter?"
"That's what I remember from my uni days. Really, freedom. And everything being an adventure. And Marcus, and his sports car, and his beautiful smile."
"I'm confused," said Chanel. "I thought it was Bob."
"Christine."
"Christine?"
"It wasn't me and Bob… it was me and Christine, and Marcus was a friend of Christine's."
Chanel was gazing back at Margo with her mouth open, as though she was waiting for her brain to catch up.
"Bob and I paired up in my psychology tutes, when we were both too slow to pick anyone else. You know, last to be picked on the sports teams…"
"Oh yes, I remember it well."
"Bob turned out to be a darl, and we are still friends…"
"Why have I never heard about her before now?"
"I don't see her very often now a days, but occasionally."
"But Bob liked her girlfriend's butch, so she was never interested in me, not in that way. Christine was a friend of Bob's…"
Chanel shook her head.
"Are you keeping up?"
"Yes, so far."
"Christine liked me and pursued me and she took me on a few dates…"
"Date dates?"
"Yes…"
"And you were all at uni together."
"Yes, but only Bob and I had classes together."
"And I thought I could…" Margo could feel her eyebrows rise at the memory. "But even after a bottle of Pimms and half a bag of weed I found that I still couldn't. Apparently, I am just not built that way. And when it came to the crunch we were all down at Somers at Christine's parent's beach house and Christine and I were alone in a bedroom and we got to that point where it was all going to happen… and…
Tap, tap, Tap.
"Marcus…"
Tap, tap, tap.
"Who…"
Tap tap tap. The president was tapping the microphone on the lectern on the stage "Ladies and Gentlemen thank you all for attending the garden party this afternoon."
Chanel made big eyes at Margo.
"It has been a glorious afternoon and I am sure you have all enjoyed the day," said the president.
"I always thought was gay," whispered Margo.
"It has all been for a very good cause," said the president. "As you will all agree."
"And?" whispered Chanel urgently. "Not gay..."
"So, it has come to that point in the program where we are going to draw the prizes for the raffle. So I will hand over to…"
There was a drum roll. "Marcus was my saviour," Margo said loudly over the timpani.
The president turned to the secretary of the organisation, and as he did everything fell silent, just as Margo said, "Marcus was NOT gay," with such an emphasis on 'not' that no one was left in any doubt as to what she meant.
Everybody turned to look at Margo. The elderly secretary was by this stage at the microphone. "Thank you." She cleared her throat loudly into the microphone. "Margo." She pursed her lips and looked daggers from the stage.
Great grandmother Ethel de Bouvier Wessaxon, was at a loss with what to do with her life once her beloved husband Willian de Bouvier Wessaxon died rather suddenly at 90 years of age.
“Oh, my dear, so unexpected,” said Cordelia Bradshaw-Smith.
“Death cannot be said to be unexpected at 90,” slurred Ethel. She kept herself well medicated during the initial days of grief. Ethel kept herself well medicated most of her life.
“Oh, my dear, reality is for the poor to suffer,” replied Ethel once when she was questioned about her vices.
The investment company dear William used to cheat unsuspecting investors out of their life savings was sold off, leaving Ethel with more money than she could spend if she lived until she was one hundred, which she fully intended to do.
“Oh daaaarling, I want my letter from Liz, we were born on the same day, I deserve at least that much.”
"Well you'll have to give up the booze and the fags," said her son Jarrod.
"Nonsense, I have the constitution of an ox, my dear."
So, with no real purpose in life, she took to travelling the world. Now great grandma Ethel was a lush, no one denied that, she lived on a bottle of Cointreau and a carton of fags per day as she transversed the globe.
“I’m going to spend the summer on the continent, and afterwards I’ll decide what to do from there,” she told her Jarrod.
"I worry about you mum."
"You have more worries than me with that bitch wife of yours spending all of your money."
"MUM!"
"Well, its true darling," said Ethel. "I'm just glad I won't be here to witness it."
Ethel was straight forward, no nonsense. She would be described as lacking a filter. Ethel was funny, nobody laughed more at Ethel’s jokes than Ethel herself, although everyone laughed with her, as I said, Ethel was funny.
"What makes a queen scream twice?" said Ethel. She couldn't stifle her grin.
"I don't know," replied fat gay David. Ethel could only start seeing fat gay David again after William died. William couldn't abide shirt lifters, as he called them.
"Fuck them... in the…" Ethel cleared her throat... and started to laugh. "Then wipe your di…" Ethel laughed some more. "Your d…" The tears rolled down Ethel's face. "Wipe your…" Ethel couldn't finish.
"What darling?" said Xavier Camden-Moggs Ethel’s best friend?
"Your…" Ethel laughed some more.
"Oh daarl, spit it out," said fat gay David.
"You've said that before," said Xavier Camden-Moggs.
"Usually followed by not on my face," said fat gay David.
"Wipe your dick on his curtains," Ethel blurted out. She cried with laughter.
"Oh Ethel!" said fat gay David.
"I remember when I had a dick," said Xavier Camden-Moggs. She chuckled.
Ethel had many friends all over the world, she set about seeing them all after William died.
Xavier Camden-Moggs lived in Hawaii, and had done so for many years. "Nobody looks sideways at some bare-foot sun damaged old hag in a sarong over here."
So her place was the first stop.
“Oh, Xavs, you are so lucky living here with this climate.”
“Eth,” replied Xavier Camden-Moggs in her baritone voice. “If you lived on cake every day, you’d soon think cake was nothing special.”
"I'd rather grow tired of gold than tin though, my dear."
"Yes, of course you are right," said Camden-Moggs. "But it is the first thing EVERYBODY says…" Camden-Moggs eyes were as wide as her boredom was deep.
"Well, I'm sorry for being SO predictable."
"Oh Eth, it is me, I'm a cranky old cunt now a days. Perhaps, I need some more pills?" She reached for one of the many pill boxes on the coffee table.
"Shall we pop on our bikinis," said Ethel. "And go down the beach and pick ourselves up a life saver…"
"Oh daaaarling, you are such a scream," said Camden-Moggs in her baritone voice.
"Don't worry hun, my days of picking up lifesavers are well behind me."
"My days of being a life saver are exactly the same."
The two women laughed.
"Champagne, darling?"
"Oh lovely, darling…"
"I always wash my hormones down with a glass of bubbly this time of the morning."
Ethel popped into London, her old stomping ground in the 1950s. She hadn't seen Georgia Jones since before she was married, just cards at Xmas.
"It's been soooooo long," said Georgia. "And we have both got sooooo old."
"You know William hated to travel…"
"William hated everything," replied Georgia. "But let's not mention him again. Come on, there is a bar just near here."
"You are talking my language," said Ethel. "Good to see somethings never change."
"Fuck me, Eth, what else are we supposed to do at this age, I ask you?"
"Get a cat?"
The two women laugh loudly.
Georgia put two glasses of Cointreau on the rocks down in front of them. "So Eth, tell me everything," said Georgia. "How's you gorgeous son, Jarrod."
"Oh such a disappointment," said Ethel. "Still with the bitch wife."
"Oh."
"I so wanted a gay son," said Ethel. "But it wasn't to be."
"But you have a lovely grandson," said Georgia.
"Yes, yes, I do it is true," said Ethel. "Lovely Cooper, he's growing into such a handsome boy. And he's been in all of his school musicals, so there is hope for him yet."
"And you darling, what are your plans?"
“I’m off to squat over a mirror on a prayer mat in India, to find my…"
"Inner self."
"Inner self, yes. That and some meditation."
"Sounds grand," said Georgia.
Ethel arrived in Mumbai on Air India. It was hotter than even she expected. She, of course, had her hipflask of booze, which she sipped from regularly.
She had on a sheath dress, and had many scarves to wipe the sweat from her face. She was met by Abdul, who she thought was rather handsome. She was tempted to tell him she had no knickers on, but she thought better of it.
"Is it always this hot, Abdul?"
"Oh yes, I'm afraid it is."
They jumped in Abdul's Hindustan Ambassador and he drove her to her hotel. Abdul saw her swigging from his alcohol flask in the revision mirror.
"That probably doesn't help…"
"It's lemony," said Ethel. "It's like fruit, only liquid."
"Even so, it is probably not a good mix with the heat."
"I don't know what I'd do without it now."
"Very good miss," said Abdul.
It was hot in the morning and Ethel found she couldn't eat. "Just a liquid brekky for me."
Ethel made it to Miss Goswami's meditation session early.
She got her mat and sat at the front of the class. She was light headed. It was the humidity and the heat. It was probably the lack of proper hydration if we are being real.
Miss Goswami had just started her soft chant. Ethel was having trouble keeping her eyes open. Maybe those extra shots weren't such a good idea.
The room whited out. Oh, dam it, were Ethel's last words.
Miss Goswami saw her latest pupil fall forward face first until she lay face down on the floor.
"Miss Ethel," Miss Goswami said.
Ethel didn't move.
"Miss Ethel?"
Nothing.
Miss Goswami got up and quickly made her way to Ethel face down on her mat. She took Ethel's wrist and checked for a pulse.
Ethel had made provisions in her will for just such an occurrence. She was to be cremated first, and her ashes were to be transported back to Australia. She wanted it to be easy on everyone, and she could never understand the hang up with bodies so many people had.
So accordingly, her body was taken to the city mortuary and she was cremated in one of Mumbai's antiquated furnaces. The problem was that Ethel was 100% proof, and the crematorium exploded taking out the two workers in attendance and the temple next door, which no doubt would have amused Ethel no end being a lifelong atheist.
“Where was the god you so feverishly prayed to that day?” she would have asked. No doubt she would have been laughing at her own words.
Now that's an exit.
Ethel always said she liked to make a grand exit. "Leave them guessing," was one of her favourite things to say.
The explosion left a lot of people guessing.
“Mum, this is very early to be up?”
“Early to bed, early to rise, Norman, and the lord makes you healthy, wealthy and wise.”
The phone wrings
“Now…” She looks at her watch. "I wonder who that could be?"
“Sunday morning, who else would it be,” says Norman.
“Hello… yes… this is Norma... oh yes… yes, yes… happy to… I’m leaving soon… it is for the children after all… I have 10 chil’n myself.”
"Chil’n," said Norman.
"You're my chil’n, the last of my chil’n," said Norma almost mournfully. "My stay at home child."
"With my mother?" said Norman.
"Yes, with me, Norman, with your old mother."
Norma found love late, and children even later. And by the time she had popped out the tenth one, she was getting on in age.
"But mother," said Norman. "What if I go out in the world and find me my wife, my equal, my yin to her yang?"
"A good marriage is not a pairing of equals," says Norma. "It is not a guaranteed road to happiness, my boy."
“A good marriage is not about equals?”
“No, somebody has to be in charge.”
"It is a road, though," begs Norman.
"A good wife, is a child late in life. Better than a wife. A change of life baby, he is born to take his mother to old age, being her constant companion until she dies, so she is never alone."
"Oh mamma." Norman was exhausted by this conversation.
"It is her compensation," said Norma. "For all of the hard work she put in raising ten children."
"Compensation, for all the other children?"
"Yes," said Norma. "My compensation."
“But… what about me?”
“I’ll look after you, you will want for nothing.”
“Except a life…”
“You will have a life, a very lovely life… with me.”
“But, I might want more.”
“Like what?” said Norma. “What do you want?”
“I might want a wife…”
“Oh, sweetheart,” said Norma. “Look at your brother, Caleb, and the trouble he has had…”
“I might want children.”
“Overrated darling, overrated.”
“You had 10.”
“So, I know what I am talking about.”
“What about…”
“No more talk about it…”
“…me?”
“You don’t want to disappoint your mamma?”
“No, mamma.”
“You don’t want to be a disappointment?”
“No mamma.”
“After all the things I have done for you.”
“All the things…”
“My life has been devoted to you kids.”
“I know mamma. You have been devoted to us kids.””
“Now, be a good boy,” said Norma. “I’m stiff, I wonder if I slept funny? I need my back rubbed. Rub your mamma’s back like a good boy.”
“Yes, mamma.”
“And a bath, I’ll need a bath run when I get home.”
“Yes, mamma.”
“Before I cook you your Sunday lunch.”
“Yes, mamma. You always have a bath after Sunday lunch.”
“We have a lovely life, don’t we Norman?”
“Yes.”
There is silence.
Norma picks up her cup of tea and takes a chug. She pulls a face and puts it down again.
“Can you cut up that beef and put it on a slower simmer for a stew for lunch.”
“I get to cook Sunday lunch,” says Norman. “Welcome to my life.”
“Add the veggies once the meat…” Norma stops mid sentence, she puts her hands on her hips and tilts her head at her youngest son. “Oh Norman. Be happy. The good lord helps those who help themselves, you know.”
“No one is helping me.”
“Anyway, I told the vicar’s wife I’d be at the church soon,” said Norma. “So, I have to go get ready.”
Norman calls his brother Dylan.
“Are you going to help look after mum?”
“What time do I have, Norm. I start professional basketball this year.”
“Surely, you have some time?”
“I’m looking at overseas if this year goes well.”
Norma appears back in the kitchen. “Gotta go.” The front door opens and closes.
“Hello.”
“Oh look, Marion is here,” says Norma. “I can’t stop, I’m due at the church.” She looks at her watch. “Well, now.”
“I need to talk to you, about mum?”
“What about her?” asks Marion. “There is nothing wrong, is there?”
“Nothing wrong?” repeats Norman. “Just my life?”
“What’s wrong with you?”
“I’m stuck looking after mum,” says Norman. “Do you think you’ll be able to help some time?”
“Oh Norm, I’m raising children. I’m a mum myself. I don’t have enough time in the day as it is.”
“But it’s not fair that I take on all the responsibility.”
“You are here, Norman,” says Marion. “It’s easier for you.”
“I know you all think that…”
“Oh, I know. Of course, of course,” says Marion.
“What? Tell me. I’m open to any ideas.”
“I have to pick up Luke and be at Sam’s football club for a bbq lunch, and I don’t have time to go home, I’ll just have a shower here.”
“I can’t do anything…”
“Perhaps, brush up on your time management skills.” Marion’s voice trails off as she leaves the room.
Marion pulls her blouse over her head.
Norman reaches into the fridge and selects a white paper package.
Marion slides the white shower curtain closed and turns on the water.
Norman stands at the wood block in the kitchen and slices the beef up in anger with a large knife. The point of the knife pieces the red meat over and over.
The pot simmers on the stove.
Marion appears at the kitchen door. “See you Normo.”
“What we talked about,” says Norman.
“Gotta go,” says Marion’s voice from the front hall.
Norman picks up his phone and punches in a number. He speaks to his sister Lila.
“I’m a mum, Norman,” says Lila. “What time do I have to look after mum?”
The thing that upset Norman more than the refusal, was Lila’s annoyed tone at Norman even asking.
“You get free accommodation,” says Lila. “I wish someone would do that for me.”
“Mum would.”
Lila laughs. “Oh Norman. I’ve got to go.”
The basement was cool, it was Norman's favourite place. Norman wasn’t sure if it was real hair, or horse hair, but he liked the feel of it against his skin. The dress smelt of his mother’s perfume, which he found off putting the first time, but now, strangely, he found it comforting. He liked the way he looked in the mirror.
"You can call me 'fish lips' and I'll call you 'the goose is cooked', and we can meet for a champagne tonight to toast the new year."
"At that place we discussed by the beach?"
"Yes, by the beach. Wear a white carnation in your lapel, and I'll wear hot pants with knee length boots."
"So, the dress is casual."
"Oh yes, very casual."
"We can drink until we fall down..."
"You read my mind."
“And then we can drink some more.”
They both laugh.
The roof deck is deserted ostensibly. A flat concrete deck with a red brick waist height wall. The air is fresh, the sky clear with stars, the sound of waves can be heard in the distance.
Right near the front of the deck are two folding chairs, and a table. One of the folding chairs is occupied.
He takes tentative steps towards the man in the folding chairs. "Fish lips?"
"Goose? Sit down."
"Oh Carl, you were right about this place."
"Champagne?"
"Oh yes."
"My secret place. I'm glad you like it, Eric."
"I love it."
"Nobody knows you are here. Hidden in plain sight."
"On top of the world."
"Did you have trouble finding it?"
"Not at all." Eric takes the chilled flute of bubbles. He holds it out in mid air. Carl chinks his glass against it.
"To us."
"Yes, to us."
"My goodness, you wore a white carnation."
"I thought it was de rigueur."
"Indeed. Lovely."
"No hotpants, though."
Carl laughs. "Shorts and boots though," he says. He holds his legs out straight. "I'm just lucky it is a warm night."
"Camel coloured work boots." Eric raises his eye brows.
"It is the best I could do."
They both exhale at the same time, as they relax into their chairs and gaze at the expansive sky.
"It has been a hell of a year," says Carl.
"A hell of a year."
"End of the decade."
"And good riddance to it too. So pleased."
"So pleased."
"If it had gone on for much longer, I was going to throw a rope over a beam..."
"You and me both, mate. We could kick each other's stools, simultaneously." Laugh. “If you’ll excuse the expression.”
"Do you think that is even possible?"
Shrug. "You never know until you try."
They both laugh.
“Oh, could you imagine.” Carl points his toe of his right foot and makes the perfect punt kick. He holds his hand above his head immediately afterwards, letting his tongue hang out, jerking his hand upwards, letting his knees give way. “At precisely the same time…”
“With precision.”
“It would leave people wondering…”
“Gasping.”
“Oh, what fun,” says Carl. “It almost makes me want to do it.”
“Oh, you and me both. Such mystery.”
“As we both fall to the floor like two bags of shit. Kerthunk.”
“Kerthunk. Kerthunk.”
They both laugh hysterically.
"Two bodies, two stools, do you think they would ever work it out?"
"Not a chance. Not a hope in hell."
"They say that's where you go, you know, when..." Carl makes a slashing motion across his throat.
"Oh, they say a lot of things, now don't they."
“So many fucken things.”
They laugh again.
Carl holds out the bottle. "Champagne?"
Eric holds out his glass. "Does a bear shit in the woods?"
Carl laughs as he pours the champagne. The champagne froths up over the rim of the glass. "It’s a boy!"
Eric sips at the rim of the glass to stop it flowing over. "So this place?"
"This place?" repeats Carl.
"How come we get to sit up here and enjoy this wonderful view?"
"Oh," says Carl. "It's mine."
"The roof deck?"
"The building."
"The building?" repeats Eric incredulously.
"I had an old lesbian aunt who had no kids and she left it to me in her will," says Carl. "I was her favourite, for obvious reasons."
"Wow!" says Eric.
"And I had the good sense not to sell it," says Carl. "It is my superannuation."
"Lucky you."
"More champagne?" asks Carl.
"Jesus, I'm getting giddy already."
"I'll take that as a yes."
They both laugh as Carl fills their glasses.
"So, new year's resolutions?" asks Carl.
"Not to throw a rope over a beam," says Eric. How about you?"
"Oh, you know, the usual, be happy."
"How could you not be with this?"
"I know. You'd think. But it is just things. And things don't make you happy."
"They must give you a certain kind of happiness?"
Shrug. "Maybe. I don't know. You get used to them, and then they don't mean so much," says Carl. "I could be sitting up here alone, what kind of happiness do you think that would give me?"
Eric glances sideways at Carl, their eyes meet momentarily. "Still, it doesn't give you misery, I am sure."
"No, not misery, no, no."
"It's been one hell of a year, a shitty government re-elected, criminals running the world, climate change bush fires, floods, volcanos, who knows what is coming next?"
"Oh… probably a pandemic."
They both laugh.
"I think it has been hard for everyone."
"Hard for everyone."
"It is, of course, the 24 hour new cycle, because without that we'd have ignorant bliss, and we'd all be happier."
"Imagine switching the world off just for a time."
"We invite it in, we are hypocrites really deep, deep down…"
"Yeah, maybe not so deep down."
There is the sound of car horns.
"Hey, what's the time?" Carl looks at his apple watch, as Eric looks at his.
"A minute to go," says Eric.
"30 seconds," says Carl. "The end of the year."
"The end of the decade," says Eric.
"Drink up says Carl."
"To us." They chug their champagne down and slam their champagne glasses down on the table.
Car horns toot in the distance.
They step to the edge of the deck. "Happy new year," says Carl.
"Happy new year.
"Shall we dance?"
"Yes, let's dance.
Carl wraps his arms around Eric and they hold each other tight, as fireworks lights up the sky above them.
