Not Meeting Mr Right (10 page)

'Malcolm is a very busy guy. He works long hours,
home late, up early. He couldn't even stay at my place
because he had to be at the office before seven am.'
Dillon looked incredibly suspicious by this time.

'Alice, now please know I don't really want to ask
you this question, and as your younger brother I feel
uncomfortable doing so, and I'm only asking because I
have to, to get to the end of this conversation, but did
he
ever
stay over? Did you
ever
have sex?'

'No, like I told you ... he was very busy.' Even I knew
how pathetic this sounded.

Dillon shook his head. 'Al, no man is
ever
too busy
for sex! It doesn't matter how early we have to get up.
We won't sleep at all if there's sex on offer.'

'But his priority is his job! He's responsible for some
very important community initiatives.'

'I'm sure he is, but Al, don't you want to be a priority?
His
first
priority?'

'Yes, of course, but maybe he's just not ready for a
relationship.'

'Maybe he's not Al, but it sounds as though
you
are.
You need to think about what
you
want.' Dillon got up
and walked to the kitchen.

His advice was painful, but it all made sense. It didn't
sound like Dillon, though. It was far more measured and
considered than his usual 'just get over it' or 'move on'.

'But he kissed me. Why did he do that, then?' I sung
out after him. I wasn't ready to give up just yet.

'Maybe he liked kissing you, Al.'

'Not maybe – he did, I know that for sure.'

'Okay. So perhaps he gave you mixed messages.'

'Maybe I gave him some too. Maybe he's confused,' I
said sadly, as Dillon returned with the tub of ice-cream
and a single spoon.

'Al, stop it. You're being pathetic. Stop making excuses.
Cut him loose, cut yourself loose. Enjoy the freedom of
letting go.' Dillon was making me uncomfortable now,
with his new-age insights and psychological analysis.

'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.

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.