Читать книгу Social Distancing - Michael K Freundt - Страница 4

Sammy Locke, fiftyish, a little overweight and with a slightly acid disposition, stood naked in front of the full-length mirror and frowned. He never thought he’d be this shape but even as he looked at the disturbing image little flippits of justification buzzed his brain like flies. He didn’t look so bad…for his age. He turned sideways and checked the profile; Ah-oh! He looked straight ahead again and then looked down.

“Darling,” said his wife Prue, in bed with secretary glasses and a good book, “relax your shoulders and stand up straight.”

“What?” said Sammy.

“Relax your shoulders and stand up straight,” she repeated with that sing-song tone that still made his toes curl.

“I am!” he barked.

She ignored that, as he knew she would, and she returned to her book of love, death and roses in Dorset in 1943. He let his shoulders drop and pushed them back a bit and let out a lung-full of air as he let his head drop, chin on chest, just like his Uncle Clem had always said (“If you stand naked, relaxed and look down and can’t see your dick you have a weight problem.”) He sighed.

“So what can you see?” came the voice from the bed.

“My big toes.”

“On the end of size twelve feet.”

“At least I can see something.”

“I think you’re missing the point,” and she giggled her mean little giggle.

He turned and faced her. “So what do you see?” he asked matter-of-factly.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean what I said; what do you see?”

“I see my husband, naked and looking a bit silly.” The supercilious smile on her face almost made him give up but he wanted a serious response from her. This was important despite the fact that she was right.

“I want to know what you see; what you feel: Revulsion? Excitement? Boredom?”

“Sammy,” said Prue, putting her book down with an air of sharp impatience straight from the Comment pages of the daily paper “women don’t respond to nakedness as men do.”

“So I keep being told. I want to know what your response is.”

“Well, Sammy, to be frank; annoyance.”

“No, no, noooo”, wailed Sammy flapping his arms like a penguin.

“Well, what then?” shouted Prue, her impatience and annoyance on the brink of hostility.

“Yesterday Sylvia showed me her photos from the BBQ last weekend; you know Sylvia’s photos, she asks you a question about lawn fertilizer just as you’re taking a bite from a charred chop and then as you scramble for a retort, she takes a shot and calls it arty and spontaneous. Well, there was the back of this old bloke in one of them, someone I didn’t recognise so I said ‘who’s that’ and she looked at me like I was a fool and said ‘that’s you’. I was knocked for a six. Wide arse, hairy layers of neck lard and hair that looked like an old toilet brush.”

“Darling, photographs can be very misleading.”

“Everybody else looked the way they look so that must be the way I look.”

“So that’s what this is all about.”

“Now don’t go and analyse this as if it’s some sort of mid-life crisis. I’ve had my mid-life crisis remember. What did you feel the first time I asked you out?”

“What?”

“When I asked you out all those years ago; did you feel excited? Expectant? Flattered?”

“I felt relieved.”

“Relieved?!”

“Yes. I knew you were interested; for weeks you’d been acting like a puppy without a bone and finally you got up the courage to ask me. So, yes, I was relieved.”

“So you were expecting me to ask you?”

“I hoped you would, yes.”

“Really?” and a crooked smile played upon his lips until he caught a sight of himself in the mirror and the smile scurried away like a rat down a hole. “But that was then. This is now. Now look at me. I’m a parody of someone I thought I’d never become.”

“What? Oh this is ridiculous,” said Prue.

“Do you actually see somebody in the street or on television and think, ‘Gee, he’s hot, I really fancy him? Mm. Do you?”

“No and I don’t think women in general think that either.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“They don’t. I certainly don’t.”

“But you recognise beauty when you see it, don’t you?”

“Of course.”

“And what about a beautiful man?”

“I don’t find men beautiful. ‘Beautiful’ is rather a wet word to describe … beauty in a man.”

“What word would you use then? ‘Interesting’ I suppose. How academic of you.”

“No,” retorted Prue forcefully cutting off his new self-ignited line of argument, “I would not use the word ‘interesting’…I’d…”

“‘Hot’ then,” interrupted Sammy.

“That’s a man’s word.”

“For what?”

“‘Sexy’.”

“What’s the female word then? Mm?

“‘Attractive’”

“O.K.,” said Sammy with a challenge in his tone as he climbed onto the end of the bed, “name me a man you think ‘attractive’.”

“Christopher Reeve in Sleuth,” said Prue with some pride at her memory not deserting her at a time like that.

“But he was gay,” shouted Sammy incredulously.

“The character was, yes, but Christopher Reeve, the actor, was not and the look of him, was indeed ‘attractive.’”

“Why are women always attracted to gay men?”

“I was attracted to the straight actor, not the gay character,” retaliated Prue. “I know Christopher Reeve, the actor, is straight. You know Christopher Reeve is straight.”

“No I don’t. I’ve never met the man.”

“Don’t be pedantic,” said Prue as she got off the bed and stood and looked him firmly in the eye. “Where has all this come from? What’s been on your mind? Has somebody said something?

“No no no,” said Sammy to the air as if an answer lay there as yet undetected.

“Well, what then?”

“You’ll think me silly,” said Sammy and Prue understood this to mean ‘Are you ready for this? Because I’m going to tell you anyway.’

“Just tell me.”

“I don’t feel attractive. You don’t think I’m attractive. People see my backside in photos; they don’t think I’m attractive.”

“I’m your wife; you have a strong circle of friends; you’re a success at your job; you don’t need to be attractive.”

“Everybody needs to feel attractive. How can I fondle you in the mornings if I feel you don’t think the fondler is attractive?”

“I have no complaints, Sammy.”

“Yes, but how do you feeeeeel?”

“This is silly,” said Prue as she headed for the bathroom. “I’m getting ready.”

“No, you’re not,” cried Sammy as he raced to the bathroom ahead of her, “I’m first because I want you to shave my shoulders.”

The party was everything he expected because it was peopled by people he expected to be there. The Macintyre’s and the Flemings made the usual foursome and talked babies and the cost of child care; Harry Dart and his quiet wife, Sue, stood politely listening to Terry rave on about birds and the Lawrence’s & Co. made a little theatrical circle of their own, with Prue among them, as Hedley Lawrence played the fool and told jokes and stories he’d told thousands of times before but always with an air of ‘please don’t challenge me on this because if you pull me up I won’t know what to do and could very well cry.’ And his entourage laughed as whole heartedly as they had done on the first occasion he’d told any particular story; whenever that was. And Sammy himself was quite apt at joining in with any of the above especially with Terry. He had quite a respectable knowledge about birds and had stumped the old codger one day by mentioning that he’d seen a Zitting Cisticola in the suburbs of Brisbane. But today he was lifeless; trying desperately to pass the time by helping the hostess, Janet, Terry’s wife, with the BBQ. But there was one bloke he’d never seen before who was in the process of making the rounds from group to group like a nomad looking for a site to settle and put down comfortable roots. Sammy caught his eye for a moment, the man smiled and Sammy looked away. He asked Janet about him and Janet said he’d come with the Flemings; Sue Dart thought he’d come with Barbara Worley, one of the Lawrence’s Co., a visiting relative from Adelaide she thought.

It was while the chop munching and sausage chewing were in full swing on the boarded patio that he saw his chance to introduce himself.

“Hi there,” said Sammy wiping his greasy hands on a paper napkin.

“Hello,” said the stranger and right from the outset Sammy Locke felt like he was standing on a slightly wobbly floor not quite sure which way it was going to tip albeit ever so slightly. Was there a flaw in the floor? What? he thought. It was the way he said “Hello”, like Sammy was a long lost friend, (like “Oh, H’ll-oh”) but more as if the last time they’d met Sammy had been caught doing something very naughty, (like “Well, Helloooh”) It made Sammy think that he now had a memory problem to worry about.

“Oh, we’ve met before?” asked Sammy as he shook the man’s hand.

“No,” said the man quite honestly, “I don’t think so. Have we?”

“Er…no, not that I remember,” stumbled Sammy, “it was just your greeting seemed so…so familiar,” and he laughed his embarrassed little bleat.

“Oh,” laughed the man self-knowingly. “I’m always being called to account for my over familiarity. It’s got me into some terrible trouble in the past although it can have its own compensations.”

“Oh? In what way exactly,” asked Sammy because it seemed as if that’s what the man wanted him to ask.

“Well, sometimes over-familiarity can breed, shall we say, more over-familiarity. If you know what I mean.”

“Yes,” said Sammy. “Of course.” And with no idea what this man was talking about he bleated his little string of bleats again.

“I’m John. John Wilemshaw,” smiled the man with a smile that Sammy could only describe as ‘attentive’. And it was then that Sammy realised that he was still holding the man’s hand. Shit!

“Oh!” he almost yelled and pulled his hand away only to realise that that must’ve seemed very rude. “Oh sorry”, so he grabbed the man’s hand again and shook it. “John! Yes, John. I’m Sammy Locke. I’m very pleased to meet you.”

“And so am I,” replied John in such a calm and pleasant way that only made Sammy’s behaviour seem more clumsy and strange.

“Can I get you a drink?” said Sammy attempting to take command and compensate for his bumbling behaviour and to forestall the colour he could feel rising in his cheeks.

“No, let me,” said John confidently taking the lead and he turned to go then turned back again “Red?” he asked as he began to walk backwards keeping his eyes on Sammy as he went.

“Er…yes. Red it is.”

“Thought so. Don’t go away.” And he eventually turned before he reached a plastic toy tricycle and hurdled it like a dancer.

Sammy stood there surprised to be feeling nervous. Yes, nervous. He felt really strange and he was reminded of his first school social and pushy tall Jill Tiller (the girl who didn’t seem to have any breasts) who waltzed with him round and round the town hall ballroom until they nearly threw up. He did that, he remembered, to make Raelene Eckersley jealous. Christ! He hadn’t thought about Raelene Eckersley for decades. Where did that memory come from? What was wrong with this man? His responses seemed to catch Sammy off guard and his smile was almost audacious. If Sammy thought about it too much he might even think the man was…

“Here you are?”

“Mm?” Suddenly the man, John, was in front of him again. “Oh. Thank you,” said Sammy, taking the glass of red wine. “Cheers,” he added and he drank from the glass. He almost drank half of it in one go.

“You must’ve needed that,” said John and there was that smile again.

“Yes, I do,” replied Sammy eventually. “Are you sure we haven’t met before,” added Sammy louder and more forcefully.

“Positive,” said John. “I would’ve surely remembered meeting someone like you.”

“What?” said Sammy as his face darkened. Was this man taking the piss?

“Oh, don’t misunderstand me, Sammy,” replied John almost laughing and lightly grabbing Sammy’s arm. “I meant it as a compliment.”

“Oh,” said Sammy, not sure if that was true. And then Sammy laughed: a sort of ‘I-don’t-know-what’s-going-on-here-can-we-please-rewind’ kind of laugh.

“Sammy, I’m sorry,” said John, grabbing Sammy’s arm again. “It’s just my manner. I can’t help it. I’m just a big flirt when it comes to people I fancy.”

“I beg your pardon?” said Sammy, not sure what else to say.

“I’ve been flirting with you,” he explained as if to a boy who didn’t quite get the answer to two plus two. “I certainly didn’t mean to embarrass you.”

“But I’m straight,” said Sammy, incredulously wondering what possible signs he may have failed to display.

“Oh, I know,” replied John enthusiastically. “But I’ve never let the truth get in the way of a good flirt.” And John laughed his warm throated laugh. Sammy was stunned. “Oh, come on Sammy surely you’re not going to say that you haven’t had someone flirt with you before.”

“Not for about twenty five years and usually it’s me who used to do the flirting.”

“What do you mean ‘used to’?”

“Well, it’s not something I do much of these days,” said Sammy as he looked around at the picnicking crowd checking that their conversation could not be overheard.

“Oh come on. Everyone needs a good flirt every now and again. It’s good for the soul.”

“And do you do this to everyone you meet?” asked Sammy feeling the conversation was getting a little too general.

“No, not everyone. Only those I find attractive.”

And Sammy laughed through a big smile like a schoolgirl on a date. “You’re incredible. Ever get punched in the face?”

“Never.”

“Really?”

“Well, it’s hard to get angry over a compliment wouldn’t you say?”

“Yes, but I bet there’s a lot of homophobes who’d take offence.”

“I’m not arbitrary with my flirting, Sammy. There’s a bit of science involved.”

“What do you mean? You look for signals from your prey before you hone in for the kill?” said Sammy as cheerfully as he could.

“Sammy, you make it sound as if ‘the prey’, as you call it, is destroyed. Quite the opposite, they’re up-lifted; they’re praised, they’re glorified…”

“…they’re fucked,” interrupted Sammy, in a conspiratorial tone and they both laughed at the daring of their conversation.

“Not always,” added John through his laughter, “and only if they want to.”

“So, tell me,” continued Sammy feeling strangely excited by the line of conversation, “what’s your success rate?”

“You mean how many times does flirting lead to sex?”

“Yes,” replied Sammy, “as a percentage.”

“It’s about 50/50.”

“Really? That high?”

“But I don’t do it for sex.”

“No? Then why?”

“It’s fun. Aren’t you enjoying the conversation? I am.”

“Well…yes, I suppose,” said Sammy, not sure where an admission of pleasure might lead.

“There you are then. A legitimate ice-breaker. You can be guaranteed that the next time we meet, conversation will literally fall out of our mouths because after today no subject will be taboo.”

“Hang on a minute,” said Sammy again not liking the veering from the personal to the general and to an almost academic tone, “if sex isn’t your prime motive then are you inferring that sometimes sex has been a surprise to even you?”

“Most certainly.” And John lent closer to Sammy and almost whispered, “and they’re the best of all.” And the two men laughed and laughed; John very comfortably, Sammy not.

But Sammy’s curiosity wasn’t satisfied and so he then delved further into the personal. “So what is it about me that you find attractive?” And the moment the question left his mouth the boldness of it staggered him. He guffawed and said “I can’t believe I just asked a bloke that question.” And the two were set laughing all over again. But John was eager to answer.

“Well, you see Sammy; I’m not at all into youth, or teaching. As a homosexual man – it’s an adjective not a noun by the way – I’m a lover of men. Not boys, teenagers, not even footballers. I like men; sensible, grown-up, stylish, fun-loving, confident and intelligent …with a little bit of hair on the body.”

“I’m surprised you’re as sober as you are,” said Prue from the passenger seat in the car on the way home some hours later. “I expected we’d have to call a cab.”

“I really didn’t drink that much.”

“You spent a lot of time with that cousin of Barbara’s.”

“Yeah we got on fine. He’s an amazing bloke.”

“What does he do?”

“Have no idea.”

“So, what did you talk about?”

“This and that.”

“It must have been very amusing ‘this and that’.”

“It was.”

“So you had a good time then?”

“I had a lovely time, thank you.” and he reached over and ran his hand up her inner thigh.

“Good.”

“Good.”