No Neat Endings

by Dominic Carew

  ‘You are our best employee, McCarthy.’

  ‘Thank you, sir.’

  ‘There isn’t a person here who doesn’t see you as leadership material. And the clients, they have only the kindest words to speak.’

  ‘Thank you very much, sir.’

  Elliott, McCarthy’s boss, didn’t handle people well. Not without the grip of contracts and KPIs. Of hours billed, and letters settled. He would have much preferred to ignore McCarthy’s weekly disappearing act had it not begun to affect the bottom line. So it was with a sense of labour that he finally raised the issue.

  ‘I did want to talk to you about something, though, McCarthy.’

  ‘Oh yes?’

  ‘Mmm. I did.’

  Elliott ran a hand through his silver hair, awkwardly.

  ‘This business of not coming into work on Tuesdays. I just wanted to, understand, if I could.’

  ‘I’m sorry sir,’ said McCarthy, shaking his head. ‘It’s as confusing to me as it is to you. I go to sleep on Monday night, at eleven as always, and when I wake up it’s Wednesday morning.’

  ‘Are you taking medication?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘Because sometimes medication does that. Scrambles you around. Messes with the time.’

  ‘I wouldn’t know anything about medication. I’ve only ever taken paracetamol.’

  Elliott eyed McCarthy with a headmasterly frown. ‘Very strange,’ he said.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ said McCarthy. ‘I have a plan. I’m going to stay awake all night this coming Monday. I’m going to stay awake and see what happens.’

  And stay awake McCarthy did, worrying – his wont in tired hours – about his clients, his co-workers, the effect his problem was having on their lives. What if he couldn’t get Tuesdays back? What if he’d lost fifty-two days of the year, never to find them again?

  When he arrived at work the next morning, fatigued and faintly irritable, the strangest thing happened.

  ‘McCarthy! Where have you been?’

  ‘I’ve been sitting up all night, waiting to see what would happen.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘You tell me. What day is it?’

  His co-worker gave him a sympathetic look. ‘I’m sorry, Mac,’ she said. ‘I don’t know how to tell you this, but…it’s Thursday.’

  McCarthy lowered his eyes, looked about the floor for an explanation, a sign, anything to suggest that all was well, and normal.

  ‘Are you okay, Mac?’

  ‘Me? Don’t worry about me, Claire. Ha ha. I’m probably…well, I had a bad sore throat a few months ago, remember? It’s likely something to do with that. Yeah, the more I think, the more it’s just my sore throat flaring back up.’

  ‘You’re shaking, Mac. I think you need to sit down.’

  ‘Oh Claire, I’m fine. Nothing wrong here.’

  But something was wrong. Befalling McCarthy. Rocking him to the marrow. It wasn’t just Tuesday, and now Wednesday. It was time itself. Time had rinsed through him like water. In truth, he wasn’t surprised. He’d known this kind of thing would end up happening. He’d always been sceptical about the solidity of life. More often than not it seemed untethered, a thread of cotton shivering on the sleeve of a jumper, moments from blowing away in the wind. Perhaps this is why he’d shown so much concern for others: he’d known, in his heart of hearts, life was but a bad sleep away from unravelling.

  ‘I think I’ll pop out though, Claire. Just for a tick.’

  McCarthy backed out of the law firm, his briefcase gripped to his chest. The gazes of fellow lawyers, secretaries, an ill-at-ease Elliott, followed him to the lift bay. Everyone had stood up at their desks to watch poor McCarthy. He went into a lift and mashed the numbers with his fist. Level 7, 19, Car Park: what did it matter? Would they even be there when the door opened?

  Somehow, he ended up on the top floor, on the large outdoor roof terrace. In the wind and the morning sunlight. He stood there in the wind and looked about for the threads of his life. They were blowing away in the wind. The days of his youth, sliced up and ordered into packets of time, fell to pieces. Blew away with the screeds in his briefcase. He caught a couple. Shreds of time like paper in his fingers. Fluttering like feathers in the wind. It was 9:15 on Thursday morning. He was due to dial in to the Fletcher call. He had work to do, clients to care for. He steeled himself, farewelled those threads of life that had blown away and shivered back into the building.

  He pressed the button for his floor. The lift descended, whooshing through the shaft. When he emerged back into the office, he saw everyone had returned to their desks. Saw too they were all in casual clothes. With a feeling like hot glue at the back of his throat he realised, closing his eyes tight, it was therefore now Friday.

  Friday. Already.

  How the weeks flew.

  The Problem

  I considered myself normal. Oh sure, I’d been around, had done some things, in work, at play; I’d had experiences. But among the rank and file of my fellow men, I sat in the middle somewhere. Not crazy. And yet, not naïve enough to be shocked by others. It was rare, therefore, these days to call a mate and say, get this, you’re not gonna believe this, something nuts happened.

  I wasn’t that kind of guy.

  But then, one night recently, I had a date with a girl named Ella. It stood out so starkly, in contrast to all the other dates I’d ever had or, likely, would ever have again, that I didn’t have a choice. I had to talk about it. ‘Major incident to report,’ I texted Tom and Jeb, ‘beer ASAP.’ I wasn’t putting it on. This date, it was strange; it left me, afterwards, very confused. About women mainly. About how women out there in Sydney were, like, totally cracked.

  Tom, Jeb and I had gone to uni together. All three of us were engineers. Nowadays, they joked about how lucky I was – free and single and unattached – but we all knew they were stoked to be married.

  ‘Single life,’ Tom said, as we took our seats in the beer garden. ‘You lucky fucker.’

  We sat down at a shiny metal table that clanked when you put your beer on it. On shiny metal chairs that rattled and scraped the pavers when you moved.

  ‘Hoo-wee,’ said Jeb. ‘What we wouldn’t do!’

  ‘Boys,’ I said, ‘please. You were single once.’

  ‘A lifetime ago.’

  ‘He’s right, Jim. You have to make allowances.’ They looked at each other. In the shadows of an oak tree, which sprawled overhead, its boughs older than our grandfathers. ‘But quick,’ Tom said. ‘We’ve only an hour. Who was this girl?’

  ‘Well,’ I said, taking in a breath then letting it out. ‘I matched with her two weeks ago.’

  They straightened up on their chairs. For a moment, they looked like they were back at uni, front row, their favourite class.

  ‘And by matched,’ Tom said, ‘you mean on Tinder?’

  ‘Uh, yeah. Pretty standard, actually. What happened was this. Sorry if I bang on, but I want to get it clear.’

  ‘Not at all,’ Tom said.

  I started telling the story. How Ella and I’d agreed to meet on Crown Street in a small bar. One with candles and good wine. And how she’d arrived right on time wearing a long black elegant dress.

  ‘Yes!’ Tom said, and he high-fived Jeb.

  ‘Don’t get so excited,’ I said. ‘Just hear me out.’

  ‘Sorry mate.’

  ‘That’s okay.’ I’d expected this kind of heightened response. There’d be more of it. ‘Well,’ I went on. ‘She had a nice way about her. A nice way of moving and she smelled really good. I fist-bumped myself, you know, in my head. But then, after she sat down at the table, I noticed it.’

  ‘What?’

  I took a swig of beer, then another, smaller sip, to keep my lips wet. ‘She was wearing a helmet.’

  There was a brief, hysterical silence.

  ‘A bicycle helmet?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Strapped to her chin?’

  ‘Yes,’ I said.


  ‘Go on,’ said Tom.

  ‘Well,’ I said, sipping more beer and pondering; unsure, even now, what it all meant. ‘At first I thought nothing of it. She’d ridden to the bar from her place, I guessed. She was flustered, maybe, had forgotten to take it off. Bound to remove it soon. But the first thing she said after sitting down was, ‘Do you have a problem with the helmet?’’

  ‘No way,’ Tom said. ‘She didn’t.’

  ‘She did. Let me finish.’

  ‘Sorry.’

  ‘So I said: ‘Why would I have a problem with the helmet?’ Only the words came out breathless, right? Like I’d over-thought the whole thing. You know how that happens sometimes when you’re nervous and you sound like a tool?’

  ‘Of course. Go on.’

  ‘She looked straight at me, for maybe ten seconds, all daggers. It was quiet and feeling pretty weird. The bar was nearly empty so everything seemed emphasised. She looked right into my eyes and then said, ‘If I wanna wear a helmet, I’ll wear a helmet. I don’t give a shit!’’

  Jeb and Tom’s mouths dropped open. They punched each other’s shoulders. I hadn’t realised earlier, but they wore the same outfits. White office shirts and black slacks. Also, they had the same five o’clock shadows and, like me, close-cropped mousey blonde hair. I’d always hated this about Sydney. How groups of friends looked like copies of each other. It was so, I don’t know, uncool.

  ‘I don’t give a shit?’ Tom said.

  ‘Verbatim,’ I said.

  ‘Man,’ said Jeb. ‘What happened next?’

  I looked around at the beer garden. The scores of tables, the barbecues in the corner where you cooked your own meat on Thursday nights. Things had a strange cast to them. It was late summer and the air was orange from the dusk and chairs and tables and the big old tree seemed hunched away from me in the twilight, as if I’d done something wrong. But I’d done nothing wrong. I’d gone on a date, that’s all, with a girl in a helmet!

  I put an elbow on the table and a hand on my hip. ‘So we’re sitting there,’ I said, ‘Okay? Not saying anything. She’s unfolded her arms by now and is kind of relaxing into her seat. I didn’t know what to expect, or say, or do with my hands. Then, all calm-like, she just went, ‘Should we get a bottle of wine? I’m thirsty.’

  ‘Now, I admit, I was thirsty too. I could’ve smashed two bottles, and some beer. And maybe a scotch. That said, I didn’t want to share one with a girl who was wearing a helmet to a date. I’d have preferred to start on glasses, at least to see how the convo went. Of course, I didn’t say this. I just nodded, tried to be agreeable.’

  ‘What choice did you have?’ said Jeb. I knew he was going to say that. It’s what I would’ve said. It’s what I thought.

  ‘Exactly,’ I said. ‘So I nodded, yeah? And a waitress came over, about to take our order. But then she looked at my date, noticed the helmet and said, ‘Ah, you can’t wear that in here.’ My date,’ I said, sipping my beer, ‘didn’t like this very much.’

  ‘I bet,’ said Jeb.

  ‘She shook her head, looked up at the waitress and smiled. ‘Can I have a word in private?’ she said, and then she got up from her seat and walked the waitress to the bar. Out of earshot.’

  ‘Who is this chick?’ said Tom.

  ‘Now the waitress,’ I said, ‘initially, was stiff as a board. But after, like, a second, she softened up. Then she put her hand on my date’s shoulder and they laughed!’

  ‘Are you serious?’

  ‘Yes. They laughed, as if they were best mates. They talked for a bit, then she came back over, sat down and said, ‘I ordered the sav blanc. It’s supposed to be really nice’.’

  ‘What did she say to the waitress?’

  ‘That’s what I wanted to know. I wanted to ask why she’d been allowed to continue wearing the helmet. Why she was even wearing the helmet in the first place. And who, exactly, she thought she was. But instead I said, ‘Sav blanc? Yeah. That sounds good.’’

  ‘Weak,’ said Jeb.

  ‘I know.’

  It was weak. ‘That sounds good?’ No, it really doesn’t. Not if you’re wearing a helmet.

  ‘Anyway,’ I went on, ‘she likes that I’ve approved of the wine at least. She sees a possible connection maybe, brightens up, says, ‘Are you a fan of sauvignon blanc, then?’ I say, ‘I don’t mind it,’ and she says, immediately, like she’s been waiting to ask, ‘Do you like red wine or white wine the most?’ ‘I like white wine,’ I say. I quickly add, ‘And red,’ in case she has a hang up about either. ‘I like both types.’ ‘Sure,’ she says, leaning forward, ‘but you must have a favourite.’ ‘No. Not really,’ I say and at this she narrows her eyes and peers at me, as if I’ve just run over her dog and reversed back over it. And she’s got her helmet on all the while.’

  ‘You can’t catch a break.’

  ‘You’re telling me. As you might guess, I’m pretty freaked right now. I ask her to please excuse me while I pop to the toilet. My date’s worn a helmet to a bar and doesn’t look like taking it off. Not the end of the world, maybe, but I’m sure you both understand my need at this point for a breather, to process things, so I can get back out there and carry on.’

  ‘Absolutely,’ said Jeb. ‘I’d do the same.’

  Of course he would. All three of us would do the same. And our other mates too. I looked down and noticed my beer was empty. ‘Boys? Another round?’

  ‘I’ll go,’ said Tom. ‘Don’t dare proceed until I get back. Discuss the weather only.’

  ‘This is so good,’ said Jeb, as we watched Tom weave his way through the tables to the bar. ‘I’ve never heard anything like it.’

  ‘I’m glad you’re having fun.’

  ‘Oh, cheer up mate. You’ll get hitched soon enough and crave these kinds of experiences.’

  ‘Is that what you do, Jeb? Pine for your single life, all those years ago?’

  He thought about this, his eyes roaming the garden, with the women chatting excitedly and the men hunched forward over tables, their heads close together. I waited for him to answer, but he didn’t.

  ‘Gonna be sunny this Sat,’ he said, as Tom returned holding three schooners up like a trophy, pursing his lips as he put them down. He had the air of a man about to hear the best news of his life. They both did. The fuckers. We sipped our drinks in quiet for a minute. Savoured the taste. I was looking down at my feet, feeling their eyes on the top of my head. I said, ‘Are you guys ready?’

  And they said, together, ‘Fucking oath!’

  ‘Where was I?’ I said, scanning my memory. ‘The bathroom. Right.’ I looked back up at them. ‘I’m now in the bathroom. I splash my face with water and dry it with a paper towel. Then I go into a cubicle and sit on the toilet with the lid down.’

  ‘Man, you were freaked, having to splash your face with water. Sounds like a movie!’

  ‘Wouldn’t you be, though, Tom?’ I asked. ‘Think about it.’

  He shrugged. ‘I guess.’

  ‘Yeah, you would be. But listen to this. ‘Cos it gets even better. I’m sitting on the toilet, right? Taking five and before I know it my phone’s in my hand and I’ve opened Tinder. Call it a reflex. I don’t know. I’ve opened it for whatever reason and now it’s open I go into her profile and look at her photos. She has long, lovely brown hair. It’s great. This girl has great hair. So, I think. Why’s she wearing a helmet? Does she have something wrong with her? Epilepsy. Cancer? An eggshell skull? And as the possibilities swirl around in my head, I glance down at the bottom of her profile and see the words ‘active zero minutes ago’. You guys wouldn’t know this but on Tinder, that means, active now.’

  ‘What? She’s on Tinder too. Out in the bar?’

  I nod, draining half my beer.

  ‘I don’t get it,’ said Jeb.

  ‘Dude,’ Tom said. ‘She’s active. So she can see that he’s active.’

  ‘That’s right,’ I said. ‘She can see I’m on Tinder too. She’s probably thinkin
g I’m in the toilet messaging other girls, lining up other dates. I feel like writing to her, ‘Hey don’t worry. I’m actually looking at your profile,’ just to head her off. But then, something crazy happens.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘She messages me.’

  ‘On Tinder?’

  ‘Yep.’

  ‘What does she say?’

  ‘She says, I can’t believe this guys, but she says, ‘You probably wanna know why I’m wearing a helmet.’ She pauses. Then writes, ‘Yes?’’

  ‘Fuck me.’

  ‘Fuck me,’ said Tom.

  ‘I know! I have, like, no idea what to say to that. Part of me wants to pocket my phone, walk out there, sit down in front of her and go, ‘Sure. Tell me why you’re wearing a helmet.’ But that part only exists in my head.’

  They laugh.

  ‘I begin devising a response anyway, something lame that starts, ‘Um, hey Ella…’ but before I come even close to finishing, she writes to me again: ‘You probably think I’ve got cancer. Or some stupid shit like that.’’

  ‘She writes that? Actually that?’

  ‘Uh-huh. And I don’t reply. What the hell do I say to it? Luckily, I don’t need to. ‘Cos she follows it up with, ‘I don’t.’’

  ‘That’s a relief,’ said Jeb.

  ‘She’s going to live,’ said Tom.

  ‘‘The truth is,’ she writes, ‘I don’t have anything wrong with my head or my hair or any other part of me, thankyouverymuch, but if I’m gonna go on a date with a guy #pig emoji# he’s gonna get to know me as a person #heart emoji, book emoji, rainbow emoji# and not as some chick with awesome hair or nice legs!’’

  ‘You cannot be serious. Have you still got the message?’

  ‘Word for word. It rocked me so hard I’ve memorised it. Here,’ I said and passed Tom my phone. ‘I screen-shotted all of ‘em.’

  He scrolled through the messages. ‘Is this all good?’ he said, quoting one of them, shaking his head in disbelief. ‘Am I making myself clear?’