Читать книгу Drowning in the Shallows - Dan Kaufman - Страница 10

8

The danger of narrating a story is you always sound calm and rational, even when the opposite’s true.

Whether you’re a mild-mannered accountant or a whip-wielding dominatrix, you still make your own judgments and observations as if you’re sane and everyone else is nuts, as if you’re the voice of reason. Do psycho killers go around thinking they’re insane? Course not. Do bunny boilers and stalkers? They think they’re romantic. It’s this discrepancy between what we and everyone else thinks that causes wars and arguments.

Now did that sound profound or childish?

Either way, I’m getting off topic. What I’m saying is, regardless of how sane I might sound right now, I’m not as calm as I appear to be.

I’m not rational.

I just want to get smashed.

I’m at one of Susan’s rooftop parties and we’re all drinking mulled wine that was poured into a giant bucket (for those after a brief lesson, mulled wine is a combination of red wine, sugar, brandy, oranges, lemons, cinnamon, cloves and nutmeg, all of which are heated to a simmer – although some misguided fools boil it). The wine’s so potent I’m feeling it after just a few glasses, which might explain why I’m getting dating advice from Rick, a dysfunctional vegan by-product of hippies.

There’s a common myth that children always rebel, leading lawyers to have wild hippie children and hippies to raise the next generation of lawyers, thus completing the circle of life. It’s a cute but deluded theory. In real life, if you bring up someone with no discipline then there’s no way in hell they’re going to sit in an office from eight to six making someone else richer. They won’t even have the discipline to survive more than two semesters at uni, as Rick proves.

I don’t mean to sound harsh – he’s a lovely person (unwashed and misguided, but lovely) – but not the type you ask for sage advice. He’s the type who once thought he could earn a living playing pokie machines and who’s never lasted in a job for more than two weeks because he inevitably considers his bosses demonic meat-eating homophobic capitalistic pigs.

Which, in his defence, they probably are.

He’s the type to now tell me that Tori and I were never astrologically suited for each other because my moon is in Sagittarius while Tori’s is in Pluto, or something like that.

“And I doubt her relationship with that actor will last long either,” he says.

“Why? You don’t know when he was born.”

“No, but I’d love to know,” he says, eyes widening. “Can you ask her?”

“No.”

“It’s a pity,” he says. “But I was talking about him being an actor. They’re flighty – it’s their job to be flighty.”

Kettle, meet pot.

“They’re always meeting new people on set, and having to make out with different people in love scenes, and they always fall in love with whoever their new co-stars are. Relationships with actors never work out.”

You know … he might actually be right. In fact, the more I think about it the more obvious it seems – after all, Tori is high-maintenance and she doesn’t like to be neglected. How long could it last? A few weeks? Months at the most?

The relationship’s doomed.

“I could hug you,” I say to Rick, but he’s just seen someone new and is greeting them with a high-pitched “Hellooo …”

Temporarily stranded but perkier than before, I stumble off to get more mulled wine and arrive at the punch bowl at the same time as Steve.

“Great minds think alike,” Steve says, no doubt thinking he’s a great wit. I grimly smile and gesture towards the bowl to indicate he should refill his glass before I do. Ladies first, right?

Fuck, I’m as bad as Steve when it comes to bad jokes.

Steve slops the wine in his glass before standing awkwardly beside me.

“Great party,” I say lamely.

“Thanks mate. Seen Susan?”

Last I saw, she was feeling up a gym-built junior designer from work half her age.

“Afraid not,” I say.

Two attractive women (by this stage everyone’s attractive – after a few more glasses Steve will look a peach) come up, clutching their empty plastic cups eagerly, and Steve acts the gallant host by filling them up before asking where Susan is.

“Don’t know, sorry,” says one, who is tall, skinny and has dolphin earrings that suddenly give me a flashback, making me think of a mobile that hung over my cot as a toddler. I loved that mobile, which had blue dolphins that danced above me. I restrain the urge to reach out and swat an earring to see it swing – and to stick my thumb inside my mouth.

The other woman, who has a cleavage like the Grand Canyon, shakes her head. Perhaps I was a bottle baby, since I find myself drawn to her even more than the dolphins.

Steve looks perplexed, muttering he doesn’t understand how he could lose his wife on a rooftop.

“Maybe she went to the loo?” Ms Dolphins suggests.

I parasitically introduce myself as if attaching to an unwilling host – ok, maybe I do have self-esteem issues – but they seem happy to talk and we soon discuss what makes a good party.

Plenty of liquor, we decide, is a must, as is good music – Steve nods his head, acknowledging his contribution to tonight – but an excellent party needs something else.

“Scandal,” Grand Canyon says. “We need someone to get so drunk they do something wrong …”

“Like grope the host,” Ms Dolphins says.

“Or have an affair with them,” I say.

Steve looks uncomfortable.

The music changes; the Beatles’ Day Tripper starts.

“I love this song,” I say, and Grand Canyon shakes her head wildly, creating a mild tremor amongst her cleavage as she says, “Yeah!”

There’s a lot of brandy in this mulled wine.

Nodding her head to the music, she starts singing …

“She was a daaaaay tripper …”

She hits me hard on the bicep, motioning to me to sing along.

Jesus, we only just met.

“One way ticket, yeah …” she continues.

Then again, it would be nice to nestle, maybe even nap, snugly within those nurturing breasts.

“It took me sooo long to find out – and I found out …”

Oh, what the hell.

“And I found out!” I join in.

◆

Only 40 minutes later Grand is grinding against a man sporting a gold Rolex while I stare forsakenly.

And to think I was ready to set up camp.

After all, she was smiling at me, laughing at my jokes, she caught me staring at her breasts and didn’t seem to mind …

We even sang a duet.

I’m done.

There aren’t any other women to home in on – Ms Dolphins left and an older, elegant lady declared she’s a lesbian who will never go back to cock – and Steve is still not peachy enough.

I trudge off towards the elevator when Susan calls out to me.

“Don’t tell me you’re leaving,” she slurs.

“Afraid so – but it was a great party.”

“Without even saying goodbye?”

“Well, you looked so engrossed talking to …”

I have no idea who she was talking to.

“Oh, I wanted to get away from them. They’re Steve’s friends …” She rolls her eyes. “Don’t go yet. Talk to me for a bit.”

She grabs my arm and pulls, leading me towards a quiet corner of the rooftop. There’s a large padlocked metal box that she sits down on, and I plonk down beside her.

“How are you?” she asks, putting her arm around me.

“Good …” I say warily.

Even if I were attracted to her, she’s my editor and has a suspicious husband prowling this very rooftop, but … I do like her feminine smell, and the feel of her next to me is comforting …

“How are you?” I ask.

“Not good,” she says bluntly. “I need to leave.”

“Leave what?”

“Steve. I’m not happy, mate. I don’t know how much more I can take.”

Oh.

“I’m sorry.”

She pats me with her hand.

“Oh, it’s alright. I’m glad you came.”

A shadow looms in front of us – and we turn to see Steve staring at us oddly. Susan rapidly takes her arm off me.

“You’re still here,” Steve says to me.

The stupid comment I made earlier about having an affair with the host comes to mind.

“Susan caught me just as I was leaving,” I say as light-heartedly as possible.

“You alright?” Susan asks Steve.

“I’m fine,” he says, before walking away.

“Thanks again for inviting me,” I call out.

Susan watches as he moves out of view before putting her arm around me again.

“I really need a new boyfriend,” she says.

At that moment the shadow reappears, or at least a thin sliver of it, and Susan’s arm stiffens.

Here’s another way to liven up a party: by getting thrown off the roof by the meathead host.

“You know, I really ought to be going now,” I tell Susan, loudly enough so that the shadow can hear.

◆

What would have happened if Steve hadn’t turned up?

I’m heading through Kings Cross, it’s past 10:30 at night, and part of me almost wishes he hadn’t interrupted. I mean, nothing could ever happen between me and Susan, but now that her arm is gone, and I don’t have someone close to me …

Well, I miss it. I miss the warmth of having a woman next to me.

I …

I don’t know. I’m not feeling like myself at all.

I’m a little down, and a little drunk, and …

I’m on the main strip now, past The Bourbon and the chemist and the dodgy kebab shop, and there are leather-clad bikers chatting near their Harleys, some teenagers from the burbs talking loudly and drunkenly, as well as a few raggedy looking prostitutes who are smiling at me, at everyone, and one of them catches my eye. Actually, on second glance there’s something about her, something almost alluring – perhaps she would like me? – and I smile back and she takes a step forward and I feel a charge of excitement but …

What the hell am I doing?

I keep walking, away from her, quickening my pace.

I still feel that charge though, and there’s a strip club ahead called The Love Machine, and the touter tells me to come in, saying the girls are great, and as I hesitate he grabs my arm and I’m about to be swallowed by that forbidden entrance when I think, for the second time in minutes, what am I doing?

Ignoring the bouncer’s protestations, I shake him off and escape, hearing him call after me, then insult me (does he think that would change my mind?), and now that I’m safely away I can’t help thinking …

What did I have to lose?