Not Meeting Mr Right (12 page)

'Alice, can you answer that? You
are
rostered on this
week.' The sports mistress, who hated my guts because
I was young and gorgeous, suddenly felt the need to
remind me of my duties. But the phone ringing in the
staff room made me nervous – I was frightened to pick
it up in case it was Simon. If he'd managed to find my
home number, he'd have no problem tracking me down
at school. Just then my mobile rang.

'Sorry, I have to get this,' I said, waving it in the air.
The other teachers were pissed off with me: I hadn't
answered the phone in the staff room for three days.
I pretended to answer my mobile, but sent the call
straight to voicemail. Simon had already left three
messages that week and I was sure it was him again.
Mickey looked at me strangely.

'What's wrong?' he whispered. Even though Mickey
was a mate, I didn't want to explain to him that I'd
woken up next to a guy I had called Casper because
I didn't know his real name. Mickey never judged me,
though, so in the end I told him the full story and he
laughed till he cried.

'Why don't you just speak to him? It's obvious he's
into you. God, when's the last time you had a bloke
pay you so much attention? And you didn't even sleep
with him! Imagine if you had.' So he's into me is he? I
thought. Great, never the ones you want.

Of course, Mickey was right. It'd been an eternity
since anyone had paid me so much attention. But the
thought of Simon and his apartment made me feel
sick. Apart from the way he lived, I couldn't imagine
what he and I might have to talk about. I couldn't even
remember what we'd spoken about when we met – just
that I'd been teasing him and calling him 'Simple Simon'.
Whatever his line, it must have been good.

No sooner had I decided Simple Simon was
not
Mr Right than I received a letter from him in the post.
He didn't know my flat number – thank god that's not
listed in the phone book – but my postie must have just
put the letter in my box. Simple Simon was definitely
stalker material. I opened it cautiously, thinking that I'd
have to photocopy it at school the next day and send a
copy to Liza to use as evidence in case I mysteriously
went missing. Then I read it and was surprised:

You have a beautiful spirit, Alice, the kind of
presence other people want to be around. I feel
good about the world just because you're in it.
I can see how your friends draw strength from
you, because you are so sure of who you are,
and that's something most of us struggle with
every day.

The letter made me soft. I knew he was trying to flatter
me – but it worked. His words had a sincerity and a
charm that hadn't come through in the phone messages
he'd left. Maybe he'd been nervous when he called. I
knew I was like that sometimes, when I was ringing
someone daunting, deadly and desirable. The man was
only human; lily-white, but human.

In the letter, he said he wanted to prove that we had
a chance at 'something special'. But how the hell could
he claim all that from one drunken night at the pub –
and from what I could remember, not even a kiss? Of
course, there probably had been a kiss, but I'd been
so horrified at the state of his apartment that I'd sent
that memory to the darkest pit of my mind, never to
resurface.

A few days went by and I kept thinking of the letter,
reading and re-reading it between classes, at lunch, at
home. Then I weakened. I would give Simple Simon a
chance. He just
might
be Mr Right. He might be the
love of my life. He might even be a dynamo in bed, I
thought, if I could actually get him off the floor and into
it. He mightn't really live in that flat anyway; maybe he
was in transition. It certainly looked like a temporary
kind of set-up. There had to be an explanation for
anyone living like that out of choice.

I wanted a man to worship me and fill my life with
romance. Simon had only seen me at my worst and still
he was impressed. What more could a girl want? Was I
mad? What was I waiting for? I dialled his number.

My gut feeling was that the phone call was probably
a step in the wrong direction, but I had to be open to
all possibilities.

He answered, 'Simon speakin'. '

I stumbled, 'It's Alice.'

'Oh, hiiiiii!' He sounded as happy as a puppy whose
master has just come home from work and is going to
stroke his stomach. His enthusiasm at hearing my voice
was flattering.

I kept the conversation as short as possible. We
arranged to meet for dinner and a drink in Chinatown,
because it was on a train line and he didn't have a car.
He asked if we could go on Thursday night because
it was payday. I deduced that it meant he lived from
week to week, and would never have any extra cash
for romantic spur-of-the-moment weekends away.
Already I was nervous, shaking my head at the thought
of having to play chauffeur and banker for a guy who
couldn't drive or manage money. Before we'd hung up
I'd already decided that Thursday night's dinner was
going to be a failure and Simple Simon wasn't Mr Right,
but more than likely Mr All-Wrong.

***

The next few days flew by. End of year exams were
keeping me busy. Thursday arrived and I wanted
to cancel, but that wasn't my style.
Always stick to
commitments or don't make them in the first place
was
a mantra my father had instilled in us as children. He
was really strict on meeting obligations, whatever they
were. Even so, there wasn't one minute fibre of my
being that was excited about the prospect of dinner
with Simple Simon, even if I could classify it as a date
to the girls.
My
Mr Right had certain criteria to fulfill
beyond simply worshipping me, and Simple Simon
hadn't fit any of them yet.

I re-read his letter, which I had taken to carrying
with me for regular self-esteem boosting. I did have a
presence people wanted to be around, and either way
we would have a nice meal together. I should at least
give him a chance.

***

At seven pm I sauntered into the Sutherland Hotel
in a black and white striped skirt and black tee. I
was wearing heels to add definition to my already
toned calves. Walking up and down Arden Street had
definitely helped get me into shape for summer – one
of the reasons I chose to live in the hilly suburb by the
beach.

I put on a smile and strolled over to the table where
Simple Simon sat in a black and white Treaty t-shirt,
rolling a cigarette. He was a bloody smoker as well.
As if the way he mumbled wasn't unattractive enough
without a fag stuck to his bottom lip.

'I need a drink, you want one?' I said bluntly. I knew
I sounded rude and unpleasant. I probably deserved to
be single.

'Hey Alice, great to see ya. Yeah, I'll have a schooner
of black beer. Ta.'

How could someone who'd written such a beautiful
letter be so inarticulate? I'd always thought the written
and spoken word were very different in the white world.
It's so obvious in their literature. Aboriginal writing is
closely aligned to the spoken word. We write like we
speak, and reality is, that's how our people read too.

And what was with the black beer? I thought only
old men drank that crap. At the bar, I ran through what
I knew about Simple Simon as I waited for our drinks.
Simple Simon: hangs out at Koori-oke, has a poster of
a Black boxer hanging over his bed, fancies me, wears
a Treaty t-shirt, and drinks black beer. If he thought
he was doing his bit for reconciliation by doing all this
'Black' stuff, he was sadly mistaken. Either way, I was
going to find out what his go really was. I ordered myself
a nip of Drambuie, checked to see he wasn't watching,
and threw it back, hoping it might help.

The barman shot me a sleazy but sympathetic wink
and smile that perked me up a little. I carried my G&T
and Simon's schooner of old-man's-beer back to the
table, where he was rolling another cigarette. Two
drinks later (plus the nips I'd skolled at the bar when
it was my shout), and Simple Simon wasn't looking so
simple anymore. He almost looked attractive, and I
realised I should probably stop drinking immediately.
Then he rolled yet another cigarette. I'd lost count how
many he'd sucked on since I arrived. The smell made
me ill. Before I knew it I leaned towards him. 'Do you
plan on kissing me tonight?'

'With an open mouth!' he laughed confidently.

'Well you can forget about having another cigarette,
then.'

He tossed the half-rolled cigarette into the ashtray
and grinned. We both knew I had the power at that
moment, and I grinned too. All of a sudden he
could
possibly be Mr Right and I was really looking forward
to that open-mouthed kiss. My short-term mantra for
the evening became:
No more alcohol for me tonight.

We staggered out of the pub, both very conscious
any time we accidentally touched, and headed into
the balmy night air towards Chinatown for dinner. I
sobered up a little over dinner, downing three Cokes
and some salt and pepper squid while he chewed away
on beef and black bean.

While the pub had given us time to exchange basic
information like preferred bands, football teams (he
loved Nokturnal and went for the Panthers) and the
like, we hadn't really talked about anything of substance,
and I still had a list of questions I needed to ask him. I
started with the most obvious.

'Why do you sleep on the floor in your living room
when there's a bedroom with a bed in it?' Did that
sound as logical a question to him as it did to me?

'Well, I like watching telly in bed of a night. Ya know,
I can lie on the mattress with a bottle of Coke and
packet of chips in front of SBS and have a party for one.'
He was a bundle of contradictions – the least likely SBS
watcher in the world. Then again, they did screen a lot
of European soft-porn films. I hoped his definition of
'party for one' was different to mine.

'Right, well, I hope you don't mind, but I wanted a
cold drink and went to your fridge. There was a pot with
green liquid in it. What was it?' I couldn't wait to hear
this explanation.

'Oh that, that's just the juice from the spinach I boil.
It's really good for you.' Yeah, that'd wash down the
month-old spag bol in the fridge, too, I thought, but
I continued with my interrogation. I wanted to get to
the bottom of what really made Simple Simon tick and
what made him think we'd have a future together.

'What were you doing at the Covent Garden Hotel
the night we first met?'

'I like hangin' out there with my people,' he said,
without looking me in the eye.

'What, the wannabe singers and lonely hearts?'

'No, the Kooris. I'm Koori, can't ya tell?' He seemed
a little surprised I hadn't understood him.

'Sorry, you're what? Koori? How?' It's not like he was
sporting a deadly tan or anything. In fact, he looked
almost albino. Identity's not about skin colour, of course,
but there are definitely identifying characteristics that
most Blackfellas can pick up with their Koori antennae.
Language, an understanding of shared concepts and
experiences, family connections,
something
– anything
that lets you know the other person is one of your kind.
Simple Simon didn't have any of it. He wasn't Koori,
he couldn't be. I wasn't finished with him, though, and
carried on playing the detective.

'So who's your mob? Where are you from?'

'Yeah well, not sure yet.'

Here we go, I thought.

'I only found out six months ago that my great-greatgrandmother
was Aboriginal. I'm still trying to trace
the family tree, so I'm not real positive right now who
my people are. I know I'm a Williams. So, I'm Koori
too, like you eh?'

How dare he! 'Mate, you ain't nothing like me.' (My
own language began to deteriorate as well.) 'Your greatgreat-
grandmother being Aboriginal a century ago
doesn't translate into you being Koori. And a Williams?
From where? You want to be sure which Williamses
you reckon you belong to before you start spouting off,
or you'll end up on that bony white arse of yours.'

Simple Simon, Mr All-Wrong, was the latest in the
Johnny-Come-Lately-family-tree spreading through
the country. If he were smart, he'd just shut up. But on
he went about 'feeling out of place all his life', 'always
feeling different', and 'family secrets'. It was a common
story, of course, but others had more dignity, didn't
assume their identity until they were actually sure who
they were. I was dying to tell him he'd felt out of place
all his life because he was a deadset weirdo and a loser.
It had nothing to do with Aboriginal heritage. Why
should we all cop the blame for him being a dickhead?
He started rolling another cigarette but I didn't care
now. That disgusting wannabe-Koori tongue of his
wasn't getting anywhere near mine.

'I'm doing the course in Aboriginal Studies at TAFE,
too', he blurted out, and I did everything possible not to
sing out 'Whoopee.' I was always fascinated how many
wannabe Blacks and do-gooding whites went to college
to learn what it means to be Aboriginal. Most of them
never had and never would actually live it – just read
about it, write about it and get glassy-eyed about it.

'So what's with the Anthony Mundine poster?'

'Yeah, well I'm real proud of my brother boy. He
stands up for what he believes.'

Brother boy?
BROTHER BOY?
If he started on about
'gubs' I'd have to do something drastic.

'And what do
you
believe Simon? What would
you
stand up for? What racism and discrimination have
you
experienced as a six-month-old lily-white Koori
that could give
you
the passion that Anthony has? Did
you
have to deal with taunts and stereotypes based on
your
race growing up? Did
you
ever get called names
because of
your
skin colour?'