Not Meeting Mr Right Page 11

  'Al, if you're making excuses for his behaviour, it can only mean one thing.'

  'Do tell, Dr Dillon.'

  'He's just not that into you. I'm sorry, but all the signs lead to this conclusion. Actually, just one of the signs would be enough. No phone calls, no sex, no time for you. They all mean the same thing.'

  He was right. But how had my twenty-four-year-old brother become so articulate on the subject? It was as though he'd been workshopping it or something.

  'I've got to run Al, but Larissa asked me to give this to you.' He handed me a book. I looked at the title: He's Just Not That Into You.

  'What's this for?'

  'Larissa saw the author talking about it on Oprah and she hasn't stopped going on about it since. She thought you might like it.'

  Not only was my brother giving me counselling sessions, but his girlfriend seemed to be in on it too. I started to get upset.

  'Is the whole fucken family sitting around having conferences about my pathetic love-life? Are you all feeling sorry for me? Don't you know I love being single? I can read and pee in peace, and I'm never too tired for sex – singledom is something to be relished! My married friends all envy my lifestyle. And Mum's wrong, by the way – I'm not a lesbian!' I was on the edge of hysteria, and Dillon sensed as much.

  'Al, no-one's sitting around conferencing your lovelife. And I'm not sure why you mentioned your toilet and reading habits, but you asked me for my advice and I gave it to you. Larissa just sent the book because she read it and thought you might be interested in it. I thought it was probably a chick thing, but don't bother reading it if you don't want to. But that's it for me, I'm not having this conversation with you anymore.'

  Dillon wasn't angry, but he left soon after. He had one last look in my pantry first. He always did that, but I didn't mind – it was the first thing I always did when I visited Mum and Dad's place too.

  Once he'd gone, I sat down to think. I wept a little, because Dillon was right. Malcolm just wasn't that into me. Maybe I should read Larissa's book. Or maybe not. After all, he's just not that into you was not the kind of positive affirmation I needed. I decided to make Malcolm the bad guy. He's just not smart enough, he's just not good enough, and he can get fucked! That was better. 'They can all get fucked!' I shouted. Swearing off men altogether, I headed to the freezer to find some solace in what was left of the cookies and cream icecream. Being single meant you could eat the whole tub yourself without an audience judging you.

  And that was that. I was done with Phase I of my strategy. It had been a complete and utter failure. No more blind dates for me.

  fourteen

  Stick to the strategy

  I drove and parked in Abercrombie Street, where Boomalli Aboriginal Artists Co-operative used to be. Harry Wedge's paintings still added colour to the street. I'd always found his work eerie, and could never imagine one hanging in my little flat, but Harry was a Wiradjuri man, and I was proud of all his success in recent years, and glad that the new tenants hadn't sacrificed his political statements with the mission brown paint that covered the rest of the building.

  I met Peta around the corner at the Sutherland Hotel at seven pm. We played two games of pool, then headed over to our old campus at about eight for the Koori graduation dinner

  Country students came to Sydney to study for two-week blocks, four times a year. We called them 'block releasers', and we always had a good time when they were in town. Seems like all the partying Kooris in Sydney had to get together and run amuck too, in support of their cousins and friends' attempts to be educated in a flash white uni. Peta and I went along whenever we could, especially for the grad dinners. They were always fun, and made us remember what it was like to be students. Luckily graduation was only once a year!

  It started off as such a good night, catching up with old friends, dancing to local band the Koori Krooners. We all danced for what must have been two hours, then I sat down while all the aunties danced in a circle to the country and western tunes that reminded them of their youth and bush dances at local town halls. All I could see were skinny Koori ankles and flat Koori arses. It was worth a photo, and sure enough, Peta pulled out her fancy new digital camera and took a few.

  'They won't even be shame when they see themselves in the Koori Mail, eh?' I gave Peta a big grin.

  'No way. Blackfellas love being in Mail.' She took a photo, flicked her glossy ponytail and said cheekily, 'I know I do.' She walked off, flash-happy, and I didn't see her again until it was time to leave.

  At about eleven, I walked outside and spent some time with my old mate Tim on the balcony, then flirted with a couple of the first-year boys. They were so young I felt I was pretty safe – until I remembered what Dillon said about young guys' fantasies about older women. Then in one great swoop, we were all on the escalators, heading downstairs and off towards Chinatown. (I'd always thought the escalators looked out of place in the middle of a university building; it was like being in a shopping mall.) I remember seeing the big clock at Central striking midnight as we turned out of the tower and onto Broadway. Peta pretended she was Cinderella and said she'd turn into a pumpkin if she didn't get home soon.

  'Well, come here, 'cos I'm Peter Peter Pumpkin Eater,' said Tim. She just slapped him on the back, like a mate does. Tim had fancied Peta for years, but she wasn't interested. Truth be known, Tim was too nice for Peta. She liked the bad boys, and she knew with someone as lovely as Tim she'd chew him up and spit him out in no time flat. Tim's look of disappointment had become almost permanent when he was around Peta.

  We headed to the Covent Garden Hotel for some Koori-oke. The Covent was packed with every lonely heart, wannabe singer and block releaser in Sydney. Lots of alcohol-induced energy and an almost unhealthy competition for the mike prevailed. I didn't want to sing, although, as usual, everyone was urging each other on. After my fifth Sambuca, I couldn't help myself when Helen Reddy's 'I Am Woman' was announced and no-one owned up to it. The MC called for someone else to volunteer, so why not me? 'Hear me roar' all right – right down to Darling Harbour and beyond, I'm sure. Scary stuff, singing, when you're not really any good at it. The best part, though, even if most of the audience thought I was tone-deaf, was when I replaced the words 'Till my brothers understand' with 'Till them gubbas understand' and the place went up with a roar. The Blacks outnumbered the whites, which was normal during block release weeks, and one thing I'd learned over the years was know your audience.

  'Nice one, sis. Can I get you a drink?' Some guy I hadn't seen before was suddenly at our table, being friendly, calling everyone sis and bro and buying rounds. He was white, and a bit drunk, but he seemed harmless enough.

  'Sure, gin and tonic.'

  ***

  I will never drink again! My head was pounding. Where was I? And why did it smell so bad? I held my breath and moved my eyes from side to side, trying to figure out where the hell I was. It mightn't be the side effects of twelve Sambucas that caused the nausea, I decided. I appeared to be lying on a foam mattress on the floor of an indoor garbage tip, with the resident caretaker. What the hell?!

  My first reaction was to check I was fully clothed. Thank god, shoes and all. No penetration of any kind likely to have occurred. I noted that the caretaker was shirtless and had one hand strategically squashed down the front of his jeans, but at least they were still on. I was grateful for that small mercy. His upper body was blinding white; I doubted it had ever seen the daylight, let alone the sun. He was so white he was almost fluorescent. I decided to call him Casper because I couldn't remember his real name. There were faded green tattoos on his arms, cheap and dated looking, but I couldn't read them.

  What had I been thinking? No one-night stands under ANY circumstances – it was on my list. Peta, Dannie and Liza would be appalled. I needed to get out of there fast.

  I eased myself off the no doubt bug-ridden mattress and onto the floor, then looked around for a bathroom. I needed to empty the champers, gin and Sambuca from
my full bladder immediately, and I would've killed to be able to whack some toothpaste in my mouth. I had to walk through a bedroom to get to the bathroom. There was a bed with no-one in it, piles of clothes scattered throughout the room and trackie daks hanging by one leg from the pelmet above the window. I was confused. Why hadn't we slept in the bed? Had I woken up in a squat? Was this building condemned?

  There was an Anthony Mundine poster above the bed. Was 'The Man' meant to inspire Casper during sex? I didn't want to think of Casper naked, so I let go of the thought quick smart.

  From the next room, I heard him moan, and stopped dead in my tracks, hoping he wouldn't wake. When I was sure he was still sleeping, I stepped into the bathroom. It had no door and it smelled worse than a public toilet. Straining my thigh muscles, I squatted to pee without touching the porcelain.

  Searching in the cabinet for some toothpaste, I found a toothbrush wrapped in toilet paper, a onekilogram tub of Sorbolene and three half-empty jars of Metamucil. No wonder the bathroom had a lingering odour. I squirted what was left in an old tube of Colgate onto my finger and pushed it across the front of my teeth, enjoying instant morning-breath relief. I swished some water around in my mouth and spat into what must have been the filthiest sink in Sydney. Assuming I was still in Sydney.

  Peering around the doorway, I noticed Casper was still protecting the family jewels, but had changed hands. I just hoped he didn't start having a party-forone while I was still here.

  I was hanging for a Coke, so I tiptoed over to the kitchen, passing a table holding a computer, a statue of the Virgin Mary and some plastic yellow flowers in a cracked glass vase. When I opened the fridge an odour worse than sour milk gushed out, and I nearly puked on the spot. Taking a step back I saw what looked like spag bol in a huge stainless steel bowl. The mould across the top and the smell seemed to indicate it had been cooked some time ago. There wasn't any Coke or juice, just some dark green liquid in a saucepan. Frustrated, I gave up on the drink and moved on: I had to get out of there before Casper woke up, then find out where I was and get back to Coogee before the morning heat set in. There's nothing worse than a hangover on a hot day.

  I found my bag and ran a comb through my hair, then took one last look at Casper before I made my getaway. He was sleeping in the foetal position, now, with a smile on his face. I hoped to god he wasn't dreaming about me – or if he was, that I was at least fully clothed.

  I legged it out the door and into a stairwell that stank of cat's piss. I gagged. Where the hell was I? I held my breath, then sprinted down the stairs and charged out into the street, where I almost collapsed from lack of air. I shut my eyes and listened for anything that might give me a hint of where I was and which direction I should head in. I heard a train and was thankful: if I followed the tracks, I could at least get to Central.

  I turned left out of the building and looked back. It was grouped with five or six more exactly like it alongside, all seventies designs, and depressing. I gathered they were housing commission. Shopping trolleys littered the front entrances, and laundry was draped from one balcony to the next, with the odd body passed out on the front doorsteps. No-one can tell me there's no correlation between money and happiness. The high rates of suicide and depression among people living in public housing are a perfect illustration of how socio-economic status affects self-esteem, the way we live and interact and essentially, how happy we are. Noone could be happy having to sleep on steps. Mind you, Casper wasn't doing much better, I reminded myself, yet he had seemed pretty happy lying there.

  The sun was already hot. It was early December and the summer promised to be a scorcher. My legs were sweaty in jeans, but I was grateful I hadn't worn a skirt. At least I didn't look like a sex worker on my way home after a long night.

  Everything was so bright, but I couldn't understand why. I realised I didn't have any sunnies on and there weren't any in my bag. Why would there be? I'd gone out drinking and dancing on Friday night, no need for them. The glare and the hangover and the heat and the nausea grew worse and worse.

  'Thank god!' I said out loud as I saw a train station up ahead. At least I was on the right track, so to speak, but then I saw the sign: 'Blacktown'. I was almost an hour's train ride from the city.

  I immediately harassed the drink machine near the ticket window for two cans of Coke. It kept my change but I didn't even care, I was so desperate for the effects of caffeine.

  To my sheer joy, there was a newsagent-cum-drycleaner- cum-key-cutter who also sold eight-dollar sunnies. I spent five minutes deciding which looked best and donned a big black pair that made me look like a blowfly. They hid me perfectly from the sun and the outside world at the same time.

  I bought a ticket to Central, sat down, and began dreading the trip home. I felt sick, and wary of the train journey itself – I'd been influenced by all the stories on the news about gang violence in the western suburbs and assaults on trains. My motto had always been 'If I can't drive there, I don't go.'

  There was an announcement that my train was approaching, so I skolled the last of the second can of Coke. I boarded, found a seat facing forward (I hate travelling backwards), and eyed all the others in the carriage as we slowly pulled out of the station. I was relieved no-one sat next to me – I knew I reeked of stale grog and second-hand cigarette smoke. A good blast of deodorant probably wouldn't have gone astray either.

  I pondered the name 'Blacktown' and where it had come from. I remembered a woman I studied with at uni who was from Blacktown, the Dharug mob. She reckoned it used to be called 'Blackstown' or 'the Black Town' because that's where Blackfellas settled after Governor Macquarie made the first land grants to Aboriginal people in New South Wales, around 1820. As a history teacher I really should have known precise dates, but I was just too tired. I wondered how many Kooris actually lived in Blacktown now, and where they all came from. Western Sydney has the highest population of urban Aboriginal people in the country. God knows they're not all living in Coogee, though if they were, that'd be cool. I wouldn't have to deal with all those pain-in-the-arse backpackers by myself then.

  As we travelled station by station, suburb by suburb towards the city, two suspicious-looking guys entered the carriage. Were they suspicious or was it just that they were wearing baggy jeans, the ones I always wanted to pull up, the ones that show off expensive undies? Was it because they had shaved heads and little goatees? Was I buying into a stereotype created by the media? Who the hell was I to be casting judgements? I was no doubt fulfilling some stereotypical notions of Aboriginality myself right then, sitting on a train from Blacktown, in the same clothes I'd been wearing the night before, reeking of alcohol and body odour. I hate that, always having to be aware of fulfilling other people's fantasies of who I am or am not. I soon forgot the two guys and was drifting off into self-analysis when my mobile rang. At least I hadn't lost my phone as part of the misadventure. I'd already lost three in as many years.

  It was Liza.

  'Hey, Alice, where are you? If I didn't know better I'd think you were on a train. What's that noise?' I couldn't begin to tell her I'd strayed so far from the strategy that I'd ended up in Blacktown with a bloke called Casper. She'd flip her lid for sure. I was embarrassed, ashamed and disappointed in myself. I'd gone from swearing off men altogether to ending up on the floor with one in one mad rush.

  'Are you organised for Bianca's kitchen tea this arvo?' I'd forgotten all about the kitchen tea. I couldn't go, there was no way. I had a severe hangover, and no idea when I'd get home. I increasingly hated the married and soon-to-be-married, as it was becoming overwhelmingly obvious to me that I'd never be either – by thirty or forty or fifty years of age.

  'I'm not going.' I was adamant. No correspondence would be entered into. Or so I thought.

  'There's no way out, not for you, Alice. You have to go. She's your school mate. I don't even know why she invited me. I'm actually your friend if we want to be particular about it, not hers. I could probably get out of
it, but you can't. Bianca doesn't strike me as the kind of woman who would ever forgive you if you didn't show. And Dannie will be there too – she'll be furious if you don't turn up.'

  I looked at my watch. It had just hit nine am. 'Fine. I'll pick you up at two – but I'm not staying long, okay?' I sounded like a bitch, but I was just so tired. I needed to lie down. 'What about a present?' I asked. Thankfully, Liza had it all under control.