The old FedEx delivery man was puffing at the top of the stairs, leaning on a crate, when Tadashi opened the door. Slapping the gadget in Tadashi’s hand, he waited for a signature.
Whatcha got in there, mate. A dead body?
He laughed as he carried the box over the threshold before setting off again after a flourish of his pen, whistling.
Tadashi got his three-tiered red toolbox out of the laundry—a housewarming gift from his mother, which he’d never used. He couldn’t wait to meet Mika. He struggled with the screws before using brute force to finally lift the top off the crate.
He found her cradled in plastic in a padded cell with her dismembered head staring out from between her knees. He unpacked the steel frame so he could gently lift her out and stand her up, supported. As he attached her arms and head, he was glad he’d not taken the budget option. Mika’s face was still and quiet, and she was so sweet. As he checked all her parts carefully for signs of wear and
tear, he was struck by how small and light she was. At a slim five-foot-seven himself, she was tiny against him. Her breasts were shapely but not over the top, the size of lemons. He hoped the clothes he’d bought her would not be too big.
She had a lot of flexibility, her skin was soft and there were no obvious joins between her head and torso. He posed her sitting with her legs crossed on the couch: lolling, watching TV, reading a magazine. She could rest her head on her arms. And her hands looked real. He’d always thought hands were the most beautiful part of a woman’s body: the way they expressed personality, their natural inclination to curling and softness, the way they could seduce with one quick stroke of the neck. He sat on the sofa and put her hand in his, shyly watching her face.
He thought she was probably tired from her journey and took her into the bedroom. Carrying her from room to room all day could get tiring so he would sit her on his office chair and wheel her around. But for now he sat her up against the pillows and smiled into her eyes, carefully arranging her legs so the knees were together. He had bought a new doona cover and sheet set for her, apple green and white, with a daisy-chain border. He tucked her in and brushed her hair. He would dress her in the morning. Her naked limbs fell into place as she slept.
When he checked in on her later in the evening he snuggled up to her back. She was nice to hug and didn’t take up much room in the bed. As he started to fall asleep, he wondered how he was ever going to leave his apartment, with this gorgeous girl always here, waiting anxiously, for him to return.
So we’re back in the now. Right here in the hotel with
youami33.
Or not. The clock next to the bed flashes 8.00pm. I’m not sure if it’s the right time. I smooth out my limbs on the hotel bed waiting. He’s taking ages. How far’s the nearest all-night chemist? Fuckadoodle, do they even have one in Newcastle?
Wrapped in combed cotton. The TV has cable and I pump through with the remote. Pausing to watch a bit of MaxTV. The top 13 film clips with a glitterball in them. I get bored after Bee Gees and Madonna and Laura Branigan and find the porn channel. Yes of course I am over 18. Or at least he is. Way. Over. I click though and bill it to the room. Settle in for an adult movie.
A man with an ugly moustache launches into a woman with a body as fake as her mustard tan. They are in a spa and her breasts jingle jangle. I just can’t believe anyone can get turned on by guys with mullets. As they start to pant and gasp and close their eyes I hear footsteps approaching.
I turn down the sound and prepare an I’m-so-over-it look. But they head on past.
You don’t watch pornos for the plots. In this one, a film director auditions women on his couch. The six actresses undress to reveal red g-strings. Which, coincidentally, they all own and decided to wear that day. They then go down on him one at a time. Then it is a free-for-all where they all turn into lesbians for a few minutes. Then it turns out he’s not a film director at all. But it doesn’t matter because all the babes are really horny. And he is so apparently gorgeous even with that hair they are happy to forego their acting careers. To be at the mercy of his incredible sexual prowess. Yeah right. Davo watches a lot of porn. His dad hides DVDs under the bed. But Davo sneaks in when he’s down the club. And all the women have no hair. Completely nude like little girls. There’s something about totally shaved women that just freaks me out. I know that’s what guys want. And all the girls at school do it. Or say they do. But Sarah told me that apparently you get so itchy when you shave down there. That you have to race to the toilets quite often. For a really good scratch.
I switch off the TV and head into the bathroom. He’s been gone hours now. Maybe he had to go home to feed his cats. I turn the spa on and add a shitload of bubbles. What’s with all the mirrors in this place. The harsh lights make my freckles spring out. 3D from my pale background skin. There’s no way he’s seeing my arse in this room. I must remember to walk backwards everywhere I go. Thank god for fluffy bathrobes. I feel like a rabbit shaking its booty. Grab a teeny bottle of JD and pour into my Coke before jumping in. I love these half-sized bottles. Really Layla-sized.
The suds won’t stop rising. They’re floating above my head. A santa beard out of control. I take a swig but get a bit scared that I’m gonna flood the place. And have to be rescued while I’m naked. I can’t even see the door now. I won’t know when he comes in. I press my toes against the hot jets and finish off the bottle. The chemical smell of the water fights the citrus of bath gel. The sweetness of the Coke speeds my brain up. I wonder what he looks like with no clothes on. And whether he will do all those gymnastics I’ve just seen. And whether it will hurt and whether his nipples are really sensitive. And whether I will act different tomorrow when I wake up. And whether mum and granny will notice.
Sarah says that having sex is like having a carrot up your bum. But I think her grasp of female anatomy is pretty out there. And I have no idea what a vegetable up there really feels like. I could probably ask dad. Hello, too much information! My fingers are like wet dried apricots so I towel down and robe up.
I get into bed eating peanuts and then a chocolate. I’m over bad porn and switch back to 80s classics on MaxTV. God, minibars rock. And who can believe how bad the clips were back then. They didn’t even know how to do real animation.
I call granny and let her know I’ll be getting a taxi from the station. Eleven tomorrow morning. She’s a night owl and always answers first ring.
I text mum like I always do when I’m in Newcastle. Careful with my thumbs as the spirits have caught up with me:
all good @ grannies C u sun night can u pick me up from statn?
Praise the Lord for at last bringing on the rain, we’re still on water restrictions here, and now I won’t need to carry buckets for a while but the thunder has made all the dogs bark and I can’t get to sleep, and I’ve let Rusty in, otherwise he stands at the flywire door with his nose resting for hours, passive resistance, the Gandhi of dogs, so he is keeping me company in my bedroom as the rain slams in sideways, and he’s curled like a cashew on his favourite pouffe that we brought back from Marrakech, it’s made from camel hide, is camel coloured and has camels on it, and he loves the smell and sits with his nose gently touching different spots, with one eye on me, and does that slow blink that dogs do when they’re happy, and I do the slow blink back because it’s always catching, and say
Good boy
every now and then and I feel sorry for him because he’s meant to be Layla’s dog but she doesn’t really play with him any more, and it would be good if the human race was more like dogs, because they are so grateful for every little thing.
When I look at that pouffe it always reminds me of Geoff and Morocco and that camel burger we had, it was like lamb but
surprisingly fattier, you wouldn’t think there’d be much but skin and bones on a camel, and they fried it up in bread for us and the little butcher had a camel’s head sitting on the bench advertising the type of meat he sold and its face was elongated and looked friendly as if it might start talking, like something out of
Sesame Street,
and I found it hard to eat while it watched me.
It was a time when I thought I was in love, and waking up in Marrakech to eat figs with Geoff when we were dreaming of making a baby, and then the stirrings of Layla on the plane home and moving into this house when I was pregnant and every box was a mammoth effort, and I thought the baby would come early with all the bending and twisting and turning, and we arrived with all my furniture and nothing much of Geoff’s, except his cooking utensils, and he was so tender back then he made me chicken soup during those months of constant gagging, and he even took some time off until I was back on my feet and I remember thinking that all you really need to be happy is time together with no pressures, so now I can’t help wondering when that love of ours started to leak out and why I didn’t notice until it was almost gone, almost gone, and when I lift my head from the pillows I can smell the beautiful lemon myrtle in the garden, and I miss him most when it rains.
The room’s still dark next morning. Industrial strength curtains. A knock on the door brings sad wrinkly croissants and bitter orange juice. The bed is warm on only one side. He left singing my name. Fuckadoodle, what’s the story.
I leave crumbs in the sheets and shove on my jeans. Slouching down the lift and through the lobby. Past receptionists too fake to even smile. No-one notices me. The fugitive.
Out on the boulevard the river looks grey. The fishermen crouch hovering between land and water. A family of four wiggles on bikes to the cafe. A Saturday morning routine. For scrambled eggs with bacon and vegemite toast and babyccinos and double shot soy lattes.
I walk along past the boarded up shops. Heading for Newcastle station to get a taxi. The walk is longer than I remember. Newcastle is a city of stomped-on dreams. The main pub juts into the water. So drunks can fall in on Friday nights. Everything here is about routine. Chinese
on the lazy susan with granny at the Swan Lake. It’s honey prawns every visit. Sticky, sickly, sweet. Smothered in sesame seeds. Or Saturday lunch of watery vegie soup. Buttered bread in halves. Potatoes and cold roast lamb. Heading down to the Sporties at 2pm to play the pokies.
Dad hates routine. It’s because he grew up here. He says he likes to change the order he does things every day. It helps him feel alive. He never works exactly from recipes. So that each dish is always different each time he makes it.
It’s quiet at the rank until a driver chucks a U-ey. Taxi drivers love me. I don’t know whether I remind them of daughters or first girlfriends or what. I used to like it when drivers were stuck in those little plastic booths. That protected them from crazies with knives. It meant I didn’t have to talk to them. But no such luck now. My cabbie’s face haunts his rear-vision mirror to see if I’m listening. Eyes on me, eyes on the road. Back to me. The whole way he doesn’t take a breath. Pretty much a one-sided conversation. Like he’s doing his own podcast to the universe.
—Have you ever been to Google Earth on the World Wide Web?
He says World Wide Web like he’s the first person to use those words. With big capital letters as if he discovered it. I stare out the window. At the parade of furniture shops and DIY outlets. Harvey Norman as big as the moon.
—It’s amazing, you can look down at any house in the world. Right down into people’s backyards! My son put me onto it. You type in the place like
Hamilton,
see, and then you fly to it, zooming in down to street level. It’s all
out of focus and then you’re right in there. Have you been to that website?
He waits.
—No.
It’s all I can manage to say those two letters. I watch the locals queuing for the burger drive-thru. Obese kids play in the yellow and red playground while parents order fries for breakfast. Mum never takes me to get fast food. So I grab the chance whenever I can. I think about stopping the cab for a hashbrown. My stomach growls but granny will have made porridge.
—I could even spy on you, you know. You can see people in their backyards, having a barbie, hanging out the washing, watering their gardens, feeding the dog. I looked up all the addresses of houses I’ve lived in over the years, and there have been lots. Some aren’t even there any more. It was amazing. Next left?
—Yep.
We drift past the new retirement village at the end of granny’s street. The block used to be bush when I was a kid. I would ride my BMX grinding the dirt. Or try to find tadpoles in the creek. Now there are 60 brick cottages. And granny makes us promise that we’ll never send her there. Ever. She talks about the old people who live there as if she’s not old herself.
—Say you’re going to a particular street in Belmont, as we are. I could type that street right into my computer and get it up. And with the new GPS navigation systems you’re never lost because you can type in any street name in the world and the computer will tell you how to get there. What number are you? 34? So never sunbathe nude
in your backyard or people might be able to zoom in and spy on you! That’s 45 dollars thanks.
The thought of him peering at me in my backyard. I just don’t want to go there. I hand over all the money I’ve been saving for christmas holidays.
Before I even knock granny welcomes me. With the usual
cuggle.
She exclaims that I’m taller than her. I have been since I was 10. She’s made me porridge with salt and lots of brown sugar even though it’s hours since she’s had breakfast. We sit in the small sunroom that granddad built out the back. It’s granny’s favourite spot in the house. It gets so hot even in spring I can hardly breathe. But she doesn’t seem to notice. She’s always wearing a thin cardigan. When dad calls on warm days he gets her to hand the phone to me. Says,
Make sure she’s got the airconditioner on.
But she turns it off again when I’m not looking. Every day she works her way through the stack of magazines she gets from the library. We look out over the rosemary and lavender bushes. Planted to cover the graves of various pets. Granddad’s ashes are buried out there too. He has a yellow rose bush that continues to fight the drought. In soil as dry and cracked as his skin the day he died.
Granny starts yacking to me about her maltese terrier Buffy. Who sits on my lap. Panting in the sun. Ears all perky. As if she understands the conversation.
But I need space to hear my thoughts today and don’t listen. I’ve heard this one before. I look down at sparkly blue toenails and wonder about my
youami.
I didn’t even find out his real name. Why did he just leave me there like that?
Was there something not quite right about me?
Did I do something to scare him away?
Was I too tall, too fat, too thin, too smart, too hairy, too sweet, too knowing, too sexy, too talkative, too self-conscious, too angry?
Too fucking alive?