Not Meeting Mr Right (20 page)

'Well, I think he's a bigger fuckwit just letting me go.'

'I agree.'

***

My debrief with Mickey was much gentler. We met
in Giuseppe's pizza place in Darlinghurst. Mickey's
traditional country, he joked. He always made me
acknowledge 'the gay community whose land we
gathered on' each time we met in 'his' space.

'It sux, Al, and I am sick of it. We are both such
great, fantastic, unbelievable catches, and yet nobody
seems to be able to handle us. It could be that we're
so far developed and know exactly and intuitively what
is right in a relationship, people subconsciously realise
they don't come up to scratch and run for their lives.'
Mickey was very philosophical and theoretical about it
all, but I found his words comforting.

'They all suck, Al, no exceptions.' That was more like
the Mickey I knew, and he was as passionate about his
speech as he was about biting into his second piece of
Giuseppe's pizza.

'Maybe you're right. Truth and communication are
essential in a relationship, and most straight men are
liars, I've been told.'

'It sux, Al!' Mickey's favourite phrase was 'It sux'
and it near killed him at school not to use it. He let it
fly while we were out, though, and it always made me
laugh. It was such an eighties thing to say.

'Look Al, you need to remember that I, like most
normal
people, think highly of you, and know you are
worth so much more than a bloke like Prisoner Paul
– or any of the other cocksuckers out there. You are a
beautiful, intelligent woman with a giving heart. What
more could the prick ask for? You are way too deadly
for this shit.' Tears welled in my eyes, but I was laughing
inside: when whitefellas use the word 'deadly' it just
sounds ridiculous. But I felt better. Men did suck, and I
was worthy of great things. My new mantra would be:
Men suck and I am way too deadly for their shit.

'Now let's talk about me, Al. I've got men problems
too.'

'Of course, Mickey. What's happening on the man
front for you then?' It was good for me to change seats
and play counsellor for a while. Mickey burst into
tears, like a child who'd been told he couldn't have his
favourite dessert.

'What's wrong, Mickey? Tell me, what sux?'

'I'm sorry. I'm a bit depressed 'cos Tom told me this
morning that I was his life goal. I suddenly realised
that's what I've been for so many men in the past.' Tom
was Mickey's latest squeeze. They'd met at the Empire
Hotel in Erskineville and had been seeing each other
for about three weeks. He was much younger than
Mickey, but Mickey was hooked on the sex, and happy,
or at least he had been until now.

'Go on, I want to hear about this life goal business.'
And I did.

'I was something they wanted and strived hard
to obtain.' He took a sip of cheap chianti. 'You see,
I'm known to be unobtainable in my community, Al.'
Anyone as promiscuous as Mickey didn't seem that
unobtainable to me, but I didn't say anything.

'Anyway, once they've experienced me – maybe
they'd say
conquered
me – they always just move to the
next one – don't fucken mind me. No, forget Big Mickey.'
Mickey was always making reference to his penis size. I
had grown used to it and stopped asking him not to.

'That sux, Mickey.' It was the answer I knew he was
looking for.

'I am so over it, Al. I'm never going through it again.
I'm tired of the cling-ons, the users.'

'Why do you put up with that shit, Mickey? You're
nearly forty.' I was a little upset that he was in such a
state. 'You are gorgeous, sexy, smart, witty, loving,
generous, honest and kind. You're the kind of guy every
girl dreams of. You're just on the wrong fucken team!'

'Sweetheart,' and he turned all camp, '
you've
just
got the wrong plumbing for me is all. It sux!' He took
a longer sip of his wine. 'All I know is that life is full of
little challenges like Tommy Tzaziki and Paul the Prick,
and if there is a god, I can't wait to slap her face for all
this shit.' I spat my drink all over him as I laughed.

'Al, I think it's time to change our focus. I think our
mistake is that we're stuck on the idea of romantic love.
All I have to offer men is mystery and challenge, and
once that's gone, I hold no more interest or promise.
Maybe I should just do as the black widow spider
does ...'

'Sorry love, but you'd have to be a white widow
spider.' And we raised our glasses to cheers.

August arrived, and with it my twenty-ninth birthday
– and the realisation that my deadline for meeting
and marrying Mr Right was only twelve months away.
I needed to get back to the strategy. Peta often said
the quickest way to get over a man was in the arms of
another. It had always worked for her.

There were no banquets organised for me at the Park
Hyatt, but Dannie, Liza and Peta threw me a surprise
birthday dinner at a local Italian restaurant. Dannie and
George, Liza and Luke (who'd been around since Bianca's
wedding but still wouldn't commit to anything more
than two weeks ahead), Arnie and Cindy (she'd broken
the one year record with Arnie), Dillon and Larissa,
Mickey and Tom (who was obviously getting another
chance), and Peta with a guy she'd met at a conference
that week. And me. Just me. No-partner me!

'What? You couldn't ask
anyone
so that I had a date as
well? You couldn't hire me a bloody escort?' I asked Peta,
but loud enough for the whole table to hear. I couldn't
believe that after everything I'd been through, they had
managed to organise my birthday dinner so that I was
the only one without a partner at the table. Were they
being heartless? Stupid even? Were they too scared to
set me up with someone for fear of failing,
again
? Or
was I just being ungrateful? Perhaps they believed I was
capable of being a happy single among a roomful of
happy couples. God knows, I'd once been okay with it.

'Open your pressies, Alice.' Larissa was trying to
break the tension and handed me her gift. I could tell
it was a book. It wouldn't want to be a self-help-dial-aman-
how-not-to-be-single-forever kind of book, or I'd
throw it at her. Luckily, it wasn't.

'Wow, just what I wanted – Aria's
Leo Star Guide
.
This will see me through till the end of the year. I love
it, Larissa, thanks so much.' I could see her and Dillon
breathe a sigh of relief that she'd made a good choice. I
started reading out the forecast for the rest of the year:
'Health: You will take more interest in your wellbeing
this year, Ms Leo. More exercise, less of the finer things.
It's okay to indulge sometimes, but everything in
moderation. You may even think about losing something
from your diet all together.

'If Aria thinks I'm giving up the gin and tonic
she's wrong. I think it's the vegetable juices I'll do in
moderation.' Everyone laughed.

'Work: Your work situation might also provide
you with some social opportunities in the next twelve
months, Ms Leo, so be open to playing a little with your
work colleagues. All work and no play makes Ms Leo
another star sign, and you don't want that.'

Maybe that meant I would have to find a different
place to work. There was nothing happening on the
social front at St Christina's. I hadn't thought of a change
of career as part of my strategy before, but maybe it was
something I should consider.

'Relationships: The next twelve months promise
to bring you better responses to your attempts in the
relationship sector of your life, Ms Leo. You will be sexier
and more attractive to men. You need to be aware when
someone is interested in you, though, and don't be closed
off to potential partners who mightn't normally make
their way into your heart.'

***

With Aria's words still in my thoughts, I had my annual
birthday dinner with Mum and Dad the next night.
Takeaway Chinese and a homemade birthday cake. It
was a ritual. No-one mentioned Paul. I'm fairly certain
that Dillon had been doing some counselling before I
arrived.

'
How to Be a Sex Goddess
. Interesting choice, Mum.
What made you pick this for me?' She'd given me a guide
on how to be a sex goddess 'with or without a man'.

'The young guy in the shop suggested it when I told
him you needed help finding a man. Unfortunately, he
was gay, so he wasn't interested in taking you out. I
invited Cliff tonight, too, but he wasn't very interested
either. Said he had something on in Erskineville.'

I rolled my eyes and started flipping through the
book. It did have some good tips. 'Listen to this one!'
I said, and read it out loud: 'Treat yourself to expensive
jewellery. A goddess deserves a Gucci watch!'

'A teacher's wage would never go that far, Mum, but
I'm looking forward to reading the tips for workingclass
girls.'

***

I woke to the sound of the garbage truck picking up
and dumping down bins below in Arden Street. 'Damn,
shit, I forgot!' I had a rare day off, and had planned to
sleep in. I raced out of bed and downstairs in less than
five seconds and heaved the bin down the path, looking
like something the cat dragged in. I was in my ratty old
pyjamas and had thrown on dark sunglasses to hide
the panda eyes I had from not taking off my make-up
before I went to bed.

'Morning,' one of the garbos smiled at me, offering a
surprisingly gentle hand with getting my bin down the
three steps from the property to the footpath.

'Oh, I'm sorry, I forget every week.'

'I know, that's okay. Shouldn't your husband do this?'
I tilted my head pathetically, as if to say, 'Yes, he should!'
This guy was familiar; I tried to place his face.

I should be loved, cherished and worshipped
I watched my bin being emptied into the orange
truck and was surprised when the garbo took the bin
back up the steps for me.

'Wow, chivalry's alive and well at the local council
these days, then?'

'It's part of our professional development.' He
grinned, showing a dangerously beautiful set of white
teeth. I had a fleeting flashback to Paul.

'What? To help damsels in distress?' Was I flirting
with him?

'No, to help damsels in pyjamas in public.' Shit, I was
in my pjs and hadn't even brushed my hair. God knows
what he must have thought.

'Thanks, mate!' I sounded blokey all of a sudden.

'It's Gary.'

'Gary,' I repeated. Then the penny dropped. 'You're
Shirt Guy!' I pointed my finger at him like an idiot.

'Sorry?' He looked down at his fluoro-yellow,
council-issued shirt, puzzled.

'Oh, I've seen you in a really nice shirt, at Cushion.' I
remembered how rude I'd been to him last time. 'God,
I'm so sorry for being rude that night, I was a bit—'

'Drunk?' and he laughed.

I was embarrassed. 'Yes, it was one of those days.'
I extended my hand, 'I'm Alice.'

'Gotta run, there's an old lady in a housecoat and
rollers I have to help at the top of the hill. She might get
jealous if she knows she's got competition.'

As the truck pulled out from the curb, Gary-the-
Garbo threw me a wave. Was he flirting with me? Or
did he think I had a useless husband who couldn't even
put the bins out? Did he actually feel sorry for me?

Back in the warmth of my flat I thought about what
I'd do with the rest of the day, and decided to lie in
bed and read my latest self-help book,
How to Avoid
Mummy's Boys
– a gift from Larissa, of course. I really
should've been going for a walk, but the exercise-guilt
passed before I'd read the first three pages. Soon I
dozed off again. It was a gentle reminder of the joys
of singledom. Sleep and reading! It made me think of
Dannie, going without both, and I felt lucky.

***

In the evening I ran a long, hot bath and added a few
dozen droplets of lavender oil. I slid into the tub, placed
a face cloth over my eyes and lay back, relaxed, plugging
the tap with one big toe to stop the hot beads of water
that fell every so often. All I could hear then was the
toilet running. I needed a plumber in to look at it; one
more reason why it would be handy to have a bloke
around, of course. Most men can just fix stuff like that.

Until I found Mr Right, I'd just have to get Dad over
to look at the loo for me.

Gary-the-Garbo's sympathy spurred me on: it was
time to get back to my strategy for meeting Mr Right. I
consulted the list on my fridge. Phase II was attending
professional gatherings. Time to call in Peta, my expert
on the conference circuit. She'd only just returned from
her last trip. We met at Cushion as usual for cocktails
and a catch-up. When I arrived she was sitting outside,
facing the beach, but with her head in a magazine,
already halfway through a Manhattan.

'So where have you been this time?' I asked. 'I hope
you're not working too hard?'

'I've been at a conference in Canberra on improving
Indigenous literacy, facilitated some workshops, was
great stuff, really inspiring. Met some interesting men,
too. Seriously, Alice, if you
really
want to meet someone,
you'll have to get on the conference circuit – it's like a
dating agency on the road. You're guaranteed a shag if
you want one, you just need to be discreet.'

'I'm not looking for a simple shag, Peta, I'm looking
for a commitment to a lifetime of shags!'

'Whatever! I just think you need to start with one
night of lust and romance before planning an eternity of
them.' She headed inside to the bar for another cocktail.
It looked like it was going to be a big night. I peered in
through the glass doors to see who or what was on offer.
A few local rugby players drank beers, a gaggle of women
celebrated someone's birthday, a couple sat huddled on
a couch looking out the large windows towards the sea.
One guy stood alone at the bar, and we caught each
other's eye. He raised an eyebrow and smiled, lifting his
beer to suggest 'Cheers,' and then I saw it: a wedding
ring. Most men in bars were jerks, just looking for that
one-night shag, even if they had someone to go home to
anyway. In my books, that was just being greedy.

Peta had started me thinking: I really did need to
get out of bars. I needed to be among professionals
who shared an interest in the things I did. I was
always receiving invitations to events run by history
associations, but I never went. I'd heard they were
full of old whitefellas. Then again, my dad was an old
whitefella, and he was the 'deadliest man on the planet'
as Mum always said. I decided that as part of Phase II
of the strategy I would attend some professional
gatherings and see what they offered a single girl.

A week later an invite arrived for a function
celebrating a local historian's forty years of service in
the eastern suburbs. I was excited about the prospect
of meeting new people, even new white people. I
should probably have more of them in my life anyway, I
thought, do a bit more for reconciliation. I laughed out
loud at that thought. My mantra became:
I will be kind
and compassionate to all the white people I meet today
.

***

Walking down the narrow hallway of the heritage-listed
building, I tried to seem confident, even though I didn't
know a soul. I signed the visitors' book, got my name
tag and looked around. The room was already full of
whitefellas huddled in little groups chatting and being
very civilised. There were no brown faces in sight. I
found the self-serve bar, poured a generous glass of
wine and strolled around the edges of the room, looking
at old framed black and white images of Bondi Beach
from times gone by. No wonder history was boring to
Aussie kids if this was the best a local history association
could do to present it. I kept walking slowly, hoping
that someone might recognise me, but who would? I'd
never attended any of these gigs before – what was the
likelihood of anyone knowing me? I would have to make
conversation with a stranger, there was no other way.
At least everyone here had something in common – a
passion for history.

I looked around the room and saw one young,
groovy, academic-looking guy come in alone. Not
much taller than myself, in jeans, white shirt and dark
blazer, he looked interesting, even shaggable. That's the
only thing you can really tell about someone from first
glance. How we look communicates a lot about how
we feel about ourselves and this fella was well dressed
and groomed: he had good self-esteem and took
care of himself. I didn't want to seem too obvious by
approaching him straight away, so I thought I'd slowly
make my way around the room and bump into him
accidentally a little later. That would give him a chance
to approach me if he was having reciprocal thoughts.

I attempted a sexy saunter, feigning interest in the
black and white photos, and soon found myself next to
two greying men in suits laughing that deep belly laugh
that old men do. I quietly mumbled my mantra:
I am
daunting and desirable and determined. I will be kind
and compassionate to white people. I am daunting ...
Before I knew it I was being introduced to Suit #1,
who described himself as 'a descendant of the first
people of the area'. I was fairly sure he didn't mean he
was Gadigal – he would've just said so if that were the
case – but I asked him anyway, giving him the benefit
of the doubt: 'So you're Gadigal, then?'

'No, don't know
that
family. I'm a descendant of the
Colllinses – you know the Colllins family, that's Colllins
with three
el
s. There's a park named after us.'

I refrained from commenting about the family with
the misspelt name and got straight to the important
details.

'So you're a descendant of the first family who were
given
a land grant after the local Aboriginal clan, the
Gadigal, were
dispossessed
of their land, then?'

Both men laughed that belly laugh again, as though
I were a child who had said something cute but
meaningless. They were starting to piss me off. I tried
not to raise my voice, but continued, 'Seriously, this
is
a history association – surely you recognise
all
history
and not just that which serves the coloniser?'

'Of course, you are right, Miss ...?'

'Aigner – Alice Aigner. I head up the history
department at St Christina's.' They both seemed a little
surprised, but impressed. They still hadn't guessed I was
Koori, though. Probably never even met one before,
not knowingly anyway.

Suit #1 continued, 'We here at the Eastern Suburbs
Local History Association recognise Australian history,
Aboriginal history and prehistory as well.'
My blood started to boil. I could feel the colour
move right up my neck. Was there steam coming out of
my ears? The mantra about being nice to white people
was gone.

'What Aboriginal history? Everything that happened
post-invasion is
Australian
history. Aboriginal people
didn't dispossess themselves, they didn't poison their
own watering holes or place themselves on governmentrun
reserves and church-run missions. The colonisers
and settlers – the so-called
Australians
– did that
.
That'
s
Australian
history. And as for prehistory, what the hell
does that mean?' I knew what he meant, but wanted to
hear him say it.

'History before the British settled Sydney Cove, of
course!' He was unashamedly adamant.

'You mean history before the British
invaded
Sydney
Cove, don't you? Or is it regarded as prehistory because
in your eyes nothing
apparently
happened here for the
tens of thousands of years before that?'

'Why do you keep saying
invasion
? It was
colonisation.
Someone would have colonised Australia
eventually. Better the Brits than the frogs, don't you
think?' This was Suit #2's intelligent contribution.

'
Invasion
was what happened in 1788 when the
boats arrived,
mate
, and
colonisation
is the process
that followed. You should really get up to date with the
terminology. And for the record, at least if the French
had colonised us, we'd have better food and fashion!'

I threw back the last of my wine, mentally blaming
white people for making Blackfellas
have
to drink. They
drive us to it. They make us need to escape their narrowminded,
in-denial, racist, imperialistic bullshit.

As I made my way out the door, I spotted a lecturer
I'd had at university, a staunch lefty unionist. Ruby
Timberton seemed to remember me too. We made
eye contact, both shrugging our shoulders, as if to say
neither of us belonged. I was happy for her to stay, but I
was already tired of being the thorn in everyone's side. I
couldn't have managed another exchange like the one I'd
just had with the Suits, and didn't even want to chance
it with the good-looking fella I'd seen earlier. Ruby's
stomach might've been stronger and her skin must've
been thicker than mine, or maybe the discussions
would never be as personal for her – she was white.

I drove home along Campbell Parade, wondering if
I would ever meet a man I could respect as an equal.
He would
definitely
have to have a good mind, share
my passion for history, have a sense of humanity
and appreciate the everyday wonders of life. I hadn't
realised how important it was to me until now. Even at
the most 'civilised' of events, I had somehow managed
to get into an argument – but only because these issues
were basic, everyday concerns for me, and completely
non-negotiable.

***

'Integrity is so much more important than romance,
isn't it?' I asked Mickey twenty minutes later, as we sat
on stools at the Cushion Bar. I needed a drink after my
latest attempt at meeting Mr Right, and Tom had just
dumped Mickey
again
, this time apparently forever.

'I just want a nice bloke, Al.'

'And you're different to everyone else
how
?'

'I keep sending telepathic messages out to the
one who is supposed to love me. Problem is he never
messages me back.'

'Perhaps you should try text messages, then.' I
was trying to be funny, but Mickey just frowned and
continued.

'Sometimes I feel like I have to be a different person
before anyone will find me attractive. It sux, Al. I don't
want to be a different person. I want someone to love
me just the way I am.'

'I'll drink to that.' I raised my glass to Mickey's and
we sat silently for a minute or so. Then I spotted Garythe-
Garbo at the bar, and suddenly felt thirsty again.
'Be right back, Mickey!'

I made my way towards Gary. 'Hello!'

He turned and smiled but I wasn't sure he knew who
I was. I extended my hand. 'I'm Alice, you probably
don't recognise me with clothes and make-up on. Oh,
that sounds bad, doesn't it? What I mean is I live in
Arden Street and you helped me with my bin. I was
in my pyjamas.' I sounded like an idiot. No wonder he
laughed.

'Yes, I know who you are, Alice. How are you?'

'Just unwinding after a tough day is all.'

'Another one? Perhaps I should steer clear, then?' He
was funny. I liked his humour.

'No, you're safe at the moment. So what about
you? Quiet drink with the boys?' There were few men
actually in the bar.

'Sister's birthday.' He motioned to a woman near the
far doors. 'That's Liesl, we're just having a drink before
dinner. She didn't have a bloke to take her out, so I am.'
Thank god! I wasn't the only one then.

'Better go, or knowing my sister she'll have us
married off in no time,' Gary said with a wink.

I suddenly felt better, and walked back to a depressed
Mickey thinking how much I loved the Cushion Bar.
They had great happy hour cocktails to loosen the
inhibitions, lots of young fellas to perv on, hardly any
backpackers to cringe at, and staff who flirted when
required and, judging by the full jar on the bar, were
tipped well, too. Best of all, it was an easy crawl home
afterwards.